A Week of Agony: A Consul Is Murdered
281
"BECAUSE I AM AN ARAB SPY"
THE battering of the Jewish area in the Old City continued mercilessly. The second anniversary of Abdullah's
coronation as king of Trans-Jordan was approaching, and he
wanted to be crowned king of Jerusalem on that day. The
Arab Legion redoubled its efforts. Into the Old City, into an
area comprising about ten city blocks, they poured barrage
after barrage. Those trapped inside sent desperate calls for
reinforcements. At night they shot red smoker rockets as distress signals. I saw five go up in one night! The Arabs saw
them too, and kept the cannonading going without respite.
One evening I visited at the home of some Jewish friends
—Shulamit Marash and her mother. The electricity was off.
and light came from candles. One window of the apartment
had been cemented with brick, save for a ten-inch space on
top for ventilation. "A bullet came through that opening the
other night," Shulamit said, and pointed to the chipped wall.
At ten o'clock the electricity suddenly came on. A bulb
dimly lit the room, and we snuffed out the candles for later
use. Radios blared out all over the neighborhood. "Excuse
us," Shulamit said hurriedly. She and her mother ran frantically around the house, and her mother put on water to boil.
In another pot she dumped shriveled vegetables, a small piece
of meat, a large beef-bone, and so prepared stew. The little
radio brought in gay music from Tel Aviv. The electric light
alternately grew brighter, then dimmer. At about eleven
o'clock it flickered uncertainly and went out, and the Marashes settled back in the candlelight dusk. It was nearly midnight when I groped my way out of the door. My battery
flashlight was dead. Matches were precious. I walked to the
Pantiles, after twice undergoing inspection near the Jewish
Agency building.