254
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
doorway. Instinctively I put the suitcase in front of me. Then
I laughed, for I was facing the two French police cowering in
their refuge.
"Mon Dieu! My God! What kind of a war is this?"
A few minutes later I was at the "Y." Father Donigian was
waiting there—a disconsolate figure resigned to the life of a
priest marooned for the duration.
"You might as well stay here," I said. "You'll be better off
here than any of us in the New City. At least you'll eat well,
and the Arabs won't dare bomb the 'Y.' "
I was partly right. The YMCA was built like a fortress, and
had been declared an international security zone, operated by
the International Committee of the Red Cross. It was also
the residence of the four-power United Nations Palestine
Conciliation Commission. Despite its neutral position, however, it was struck by numerous bombs from the Arab side.
Few caused permanent damage. None of its refugees were
killed or injured. The "Y" was better stocked than any of the
Jewish institutions, but the food was doled out carefully,
served only to YMCA personnel, the refugees, and United
Nations and Red Cross officials.
I walked out feeling lonesome. I knew hardly any Jews, and
had only just met the correspondents at the Pantiles. I missed
Moustafa and the friendship of my Arab cronies. The average
Arab is an extremely sociable human being, capable of great
charm and lasting friendship. "I wish I had made a Zionist
out of Moustafa," I thought. "The Jews would have gained a
fine ally." I walked through the spacious gardens, a haven
filled with roses and luxuriant flowers, and after walking down
an adjoining street, I leaned against a square column of
masonry, marking the boundary of the Armenian Church of
the Nazarene, and looked down Julian's Way in the direction
of the Jewish machine-gunners.
So suddenly that I gasped for breath, a bullet shattered
against the masonry scarcely two feet from my nose. I spun