The Last Exodus
335
who set off the gunfire—to give the soldiers an excuse to fire
into the mob?
Arab Legion officers are rushing among their men, shouting
orders. They block the mob from fleeing back to the ghetto.
There is considerable yelling, hitting, fighting back as the
people are jostled to and from Zion Gate, to and from the
ghetto. They are like fish struggling inside a net. Above them
the screaming of women rises clear to the darkening heaven.
God, am I going to witness a massacre? I swear I'd fight on
the side of the Jews and die with them—not because they are
Jews but because now I'm an Armenian. I can't forget what my
people suffered under the Moslem Turk.
Order is finally restored. I'm amazed that this could be
done. These Legion soldiers are amazingly well disciplined!
My hat is off to their commander, Glubb Pasha! In the meanwhile many packs have broken open, spilling the pitiful contents to the ground. These have been trampled upon and
kicked around. Two cans of something—I cannot see, for it's
getting dark—rolled down the square toward me. Bits of
clothing, books and trinkets are strewn around. Women and
men repack their bundles, dragging them when they are too
heavy.
An elderly woman is trying to lift her pack to her shoulder.
It looks too heavy for her. She is trying to put it on her head,
but can't lift it that high. She's now leaning it against the
wall, inching it up, hoping to get under it. The weight is too
heavy ... no one is helping her . . . she can't make it, and
falls down with it. She remains on the ground, her legs
sprawled, a bewildered look on her face. The pack has rolled
down beside her.
These bookish old Jews amaze me. Here an aged rabbi is
standing off by himself beneath the towering walls. Under his
arm is a round bundle, containing all his belongings. With his
free arm he is holding a holy book, reading, and swinging his
head from side to side. Perhaps he was reciting the Kaddish,
the memorial prayer for the dead. Could anything be more