With the Arabs in Jerusalem
237
pletely white at the end. A large, pyramid-shaped black hood
rose above his head, and at times seemed to overshadow him.
It magnified both his face and stature, so that even while sitting he seemed a towering figure. His deep brown eyes, seemingly calm, glowed with dormant fire. Beloved by Jew, Arab,
and Christian alike, he was one of the last of the old-time
shepherds of the Church who guarded his flock with a paternal hand.
I bent over and kissed his hand, told him who I was, and
explained that I had brought my suitcase to the monastery
for safe-keeping.
"Parov yegar, dughas. Welcome, my son," he said. "You
come at a bad time. It is a time of tragedy and bloodshed."
"I hope it will come to an end soon, Your Beatitude," I
said.
He shook his head. "Passions are too deep, and the peacemakers . . . they talk, but do little else. Why could not
Jerusalem have been spared? Why could not war have been
kept away from the Holy City? Our properties outside the
Old City are destroyed or seized; the income to support our
church, our monastery, school, library, and the Armenian
refugees who are streaming into the Vank, has been stopped.
What are we to do? . . . Nobody knows what will happen
after the British leave. We can only wait and pray."
An attendant brought in a tray of oriental candy and demitasse, and placed it on a mother-of-pearl table before me.
I heard a sudden commotion outside the door. A scout
rushed in, breathless: a group of Arabs were trying to force
their way into the monastery! Hurrying with the Patriarch to
the window, we saw the Arab gang milling about the entrance, wild disorderly hoodlums armed to the bursting point.
They were banging away at the iron door of the monastery
with their rifles, screaming to be allowed entrance.
"They say they will shoot their way in," the scout reported.
"Asdvadzim, Asdvadzim!" My God, my God!" The Patriarch raised his hands in supplication. "Assor vertchu tchika?