Return to Jerusalem
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had driven in to buy gasoline and was prepared to give us a
lift to Jerusalem. We gladly accepted his offer. Of the Green
Shirts, we could locate only Sammy and Ismail. We left the
others behind and set off.
WE ARRIVE AT THE TOMB CITY
HALF WAY to Jerusalem the road was marked by ancient
olive groves, the trees gnarled like an octogenarian's hand.
Between the trees a farmer ploughed with a camel—the skirts
of his gallabiya pulled above the knees and tucked into a
sash around his waist, revealing his loose underwear. The
plough was of wood, as in the days when Abraham first
trudged over these fields. Down the road came barefooted
women with enormous bundles of brushwood balanced on
their heads, overshadowing their faces. Walking with her
mother, a little girl balanced a large kettle, black with soot, on
her head. In the shade a group of men lounged, gossiping and
smoking, their donkeys dozing behind them. In the fields,
the women worked. This was the Arab world.
We reached a hilltop: below us spread a deep-green valley.
A sparkling stream wound its way around a tiny hamlet
in the foothills. In the distance rose the spires of Jerusalem.
To our right were the four kibbutzim composing the Kfar
Etzion block. As we stopped to rest, a truck laden with volunteers drove up, and we heard the latest news. It was bad. The
Arabs were being pushed back gradually from their New City
positions. The rich Arabs and most of the Arab leaders had
already fled Jerusalem. "The deserting cowards!" Moustafa
exploded. The Arabs lacked heavy guns and there was disunity
in the leadership since Abdul Kader el Husseini's death.
We moved into Jerusalem. I had come here for the first
time only three weeks before. The city had changed radically.
Its heart had been plucked out, its life-throb silenced. It was