246
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
"I'm going to the Armenian quarter in the Old City," I said
casually.
"Come back quickly. There will be heavy fighting. Stay with
me today or you will be killed." It was just like Moustafa—my
great big growling guardian Arab.
Taking my knapsack, I left Deir Aboutor. British sentries
were gone from the Government Printing House, and the noman's street by the railway station was utterly deserted and
eerie. It was here that Arabs had often ambushed Jews. The
British post at the entrance to the German colony was deserted. Only the sandbags and rusty coils of barbed wire remained. My trouser cuff caught, and I bent down. "What a
perfect mark for a sniper—Arab or Jew! I'll never know
which!" flashed through my mind.
I walked up the fine macadam road toward the Public Information Office. The danger was now from the Jews who,
I felt, would shoot at anyone crossing from the Arab side. I
pulled out a small American flag and held it at arm's length,
hoping the Arabs from behind wouldn't be able to see it.
Haganah sentries, after carefully checking my Jewish Agency
pass, allowed me in. I hurried quickly to the Pantiles Pension, directly opposite the Public Information Office. Deserted by its owners, the Pantiles had been appropriated by
American and British correspondents as their residence. An
American flag flew over it from a rough flagpole. I located
Carter Davidson, of the Associated Press, who was recognized
as spokesman for the correspondents.
I identified myself and explained that I was getting material
for a book. Could I stay with them?
Davidson was cordial, "Sure, we have room for you. Move
in any time."
I had come at the right moment. A few minutes later, I
climbed with the correspondents into one of three waiting
cars, and off we went to Government House, residence of Sir
Alan Cunningham, British High Commissioner for Palestine.
He was to depart from Palestine today with the