250
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
tal candy. Simultaneously the Armenian lad appeared around
the corner, waving a huge key, followed by an old woman with
a crinkled face. My suitcase had been entrusted to her by the
family I had left it with, who had since fled to Beirut, I found
my suitcase under the bed, beneath a pile of blankets. I dashed
out.
"Gaghatchem, soorj mu. . . ." Now it was the old lady
who offered me coffee!
Back to Jaffa Gate we raced! The Armenian youth explained to the guards that I was an American who had to get
to the Consulate immediately. The Arabs, rifles in hand, refused to budge. The Armenian turned to me:
"They are saying that the fighting has already begun. You
will be shot. Both by Arabs and by Jews. You will be drilled
with holes on both sides of your body. Your body will lie exposed and no one will venture to get it for burial. I think they
are right."
"Please tell them if my hour has come I shall know it very
soon. If it has not, I shall emerge alive."
The Arabs understood, for this was the philosophy of Oriental fatalism. They stood aside, and I dashed out, with my
suitcase as a shield. It is odd how in moments of stress one
reverts to the experiences of childhood. I recall that in moments of great anxiety Mother used to say: "Asdvadz medz
eh. Anor tzukeh. God is merciful. Trust in Him."
"Asdvadz medz eh.'" There was absolutely no one else you
could appeal to at such a moment. I kept repeating the phrase,
while dodging, ducking, crawling across ruined streets and
back alleys, a hail of bullets resounding all around me—and
dragging the infernal suitcase containing, among other things,
most of the cash I had brought! I reached Julian's Way, the
lower end of which was in the heart of the battle area. It had
to be crossed. I did not know whether Jewish or Arab machineguns controlled it, but that detail was immaterial as I rested
for a minute, then dashed wildly across the upper end of the
street, into a doorway. I crawled from door to door until I