306
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
duties. I was left to my own resources. It was unbusinesslike
and unmilitary, but it was the Arab way of doing things.
As I left Major Tel's office, I came upon Nassib Boulos, the
string correspondent for Life magazine, whom I had previously met at the Public Information Office.
"What are you doing here? I thought you were with the
Jews."
I tried to avoid answering, but he grabbed my arm. "When
did you come here?"
"An hour ago. I have already seen Major Tel and he asked
me to stay."
"I shall talk to him . . . and to you, later," Boulos said in
a threatening voice.
Since Major Tel wanted me to report the news—and obviously had in mind the imminent surrender of the Jews in
the Old City—I knew that I would remain unmolested at
least until then. I put Boulos out of my mind. At the moment
I was eager to learn what had happened to the Armenian
compound in the bitter fighting for the Old City which I'd
seen from the Pantiles roof. I hastened toward the Vank,
walking up Via Dolorosa and past restaurants that made my
mouth drool. I stuffed myself with a brunch of fried eggs,
salad, cheese, jam, bread, coffee; at another shop I had two
helpings of two kinds of pastry, more coffee and a whole
pitcher of water. Thus fortified, I demanded to see the Patriarch. But military bureaucracy had set in. An Arab Legion
soldier and a half dozen Armenian guards stopped me at the
entrance. When I was finally ushered into the presence of the
Patriarch, I found him a changed man.