A Week of Agony: A Consul Is Murdered
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dashed to the first olive tree, taking cover behind it. It was a
young tree, its trunk no more than eight inches thick. Certainly I was wider. My rear and front protruded, but there was
nothing I could do.
The sniper—or snipers—found me. Bullets now whistled
through the tree, tearing branches and leaves, sending bits of
both showering on my head. I pressed tighter against the tree,
breathed in short, rapid gasps to keep my chest expansion at a
minimum. But I could do nothing to pull in my back side.
Where were the snipers—on the windmill, or the Old City
wall? If I knew, I could protect myself better by shifting my
body accordingly.
A bullet which I didn't hear tore a twig that bounced off my
right shoulder. I was sure now that I heard a dull thud on the
other side of the trunk. Perhaps I imagined it. But suppose a
bullet pierced the eight-inch trunk and lodged inside me. The
idea was highly distressing. Equally distressing were the first
violent symptoms of an attack of diarrhea, induced by fear.
The spasms grew in violence and became almost uncontrollably painful.
"They won't get me like a sitting duck. I'm making a break
for it. The snipers can't get me while I'm running unless they
have a machine-gun."
About one hundred feet to my right there seemed to be a
long, rectangular hole. It might have been a deserted trench.
It looked like a coffin. Bent over with pain, I dashed across the
rough ground and threw myself into it, safe. It was lined with
dead branches, rocks, and tin cans. . . .
After a while—after I had given the sniper plenty of time to
think he had got me—I dashed behind a tree. I skipped my
way back—from tree to tree—into the waiting arms of two
Jewish sentries. "We have been watching you," one of them
said.
"I hope you didn't see everything," I said. "I was really
frightened."
"We saw everything. We were looking through binoculars."