A Week of Agony: A Consul Is Murdered
283
was no profiteering, no hoarding. Except for some children,
there wasn't a single well-fed Jew in Jerusalem. Everyone was
as hungry and unwashed as his neighbor.
I tried the YMCA. Again, no luck. No one knew how long
the siege would last, and "Y" officials held strictly to their
policy of doling out food only to those entitled to it. I stood
in front of the reception desk.
"I'm hungry," I called out aloud. "What is a man to do?"
A figure came toward me. It was Mr. Siraganian, an Armenian missionary who had once been with the Bible House of
the British and Foreign Bible Society. When the Haganah
had broken into the Society building in Jerusalem, Siraganian
had sought refuge in the YMCA with his aged mother.
"These are bad times," the missionary said.
"Very bad. How I wish I had stayed with the Arabs. Right
now I'd be eating shish-kebab, and pilav with yoghourt. How
I could eat kebab—the whole lamb, head and all, I could eat
at one sitting."
"You must be very hungry," Siraganian said, visibly
touched.
"In twenty-four hours I have had only a piece of matzoh.
Is this the way for an Armenian to look, especially an Armenian from America? Ahh, how I wish I were back home."
"Indzi hed yegou. Come with me." Siraganian said, quietly.
Together we went down the stairs to a large basement.
Siraganian looked around furtively, then went straight to his
mattress, laid on the floor, and from beneath the pillow took
out a half loaf of bread.
"I had saved it against worse days," he said. "You may have
it."
I could not refuse. I had come here for food, and here it
was! I offered him that useless medium—money—in gratitude.
"