238
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
Amen on, Amen on gookan!" Is there no end to this? Every
day, every day they come!"
I heard the crack of a rifle shot, another, then a third. The
Arabs were attempting to shoot out the lock.
From the posture of supplication, his arms raised heavenward, the Patriarch suddenly brought his hands together. He
clenched them tight into two massive fists, then in a mighty
rage of wrath he shook his fists at the hoodlums. And in that
act of defiance he symbolized the defiance of the entire
Armenian people toward the brutality of the Turk, the tyranny
of the Nazis, the intrigues and betrayal of those who regarded
us as weak and spineless because we were not of the AngloSaxon race and did not sit in the councils of the chosen. In the
Patriarch I saw an Armenian people fighting its oppressors, its
betrayers, it tormenters.
The Patriarch was no longer the disturbed cleric of a few
minutes ago. He was a fighting man, in full command, the
leader of his people, the guardian of his church. He wheeled
around to the scout: "Go tell them that I forbid anybody to
enter. They may try to shoot down the door if they wish, but
as long as I am here they will not desecrate our holy Vank,
they will not spill Armenian blood. They will not enter!"
I have seldom seen anyone, let alone a Patriarch, so enraged. There was little for me to do but stand by, fascinated,
and watch the bolt of lightning smite the Arab. How could
one help but admire this man of courage and fortitude? Surely
our commanders at Musa Dagh must have been fighters of
equal rank. . . . The storm was over. Into the palatial reception room there came again the calm of a sanctuary. "It's
the lawless brigands who are the troublemakers," the Patriarch said to me. "The decent Arabs fear them, and that is one
reason why most of them have fled from Jerusalem. If I let in
one, a hundred will follow, then a thousand. They would
plunder our Vank. ..."
On that bitter note, I left him and returned to Deir
Aboutor.