292
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
had been a quick conquest. I was taken to the commander's
room—bare, except for maps on the walls, and a desk on which
a candle burned. The windows were bricked up. The commander was a Jew from Czechoslovakia.
"Where are you going to cross over?" he asked, in English.
''What route would you recommend?" I asked.
He laughed. "We don't know of any. We don't make a
practice of walking over."
"I'd like your advice on a route I'm thinking of taking," I
said. Together we went to a wall map. I ran my fingers along
a deep narrow valley separating Deir Aboutor from a French
convent on the other side, and leading to Sylwan village, the
new headquarters of the Arab military since their ousting from
Osborne House.
"I intend to hide on these slopes till night, then follow a
footpath through the valley to Sylwan village," I said.
"You will also find some Arab houses just below us on the
slopes of Deir Aboutor."
"Are they deserted?"
"They look deserted, but we assume the Arabs arc using
them as outposts. At night you'll also have to be careful of our
own patrols," he warned: "Very careful. They prowl everywhere."
"I'll watch myself," I promised. "I'm ready. It will soon be
dark."
The commander turned me over to an assistant—a husky
young sabra who spoke broken English. We waited until dusk
and then my guide took me to the edge of the Jewish lines.
Below us the land dipped sharply into the narrow valley that
I hoped would afford me a temporary hiding-place.
"Shalom," he said cheerfully.
"Shalom," I replied, using the Hebrew word for peace,
which is also the universal greeting among the Israelis.
Lugging my bag