338
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
derground synagogue of Yohannan ben Zakkai (reputedly
standing for two thousand years), and twenty-six other synagogues, were buried under the rubble.
I came down the stairs. In the basement I found the Legionnaire who was liaison with the press.
"I'd like to walk through the Jewish quarter," I said. "Will
you let me?"
"You will not only get lost, but it will not be safe for you
to go alone. I will get someone to go with you."
Accompanied by an English-speaking Legionnaire, I began
my tramp through the desolation. A horde of looters, including numerous children, shuttled in and out of the Miscab
Ladach Hospital carting booty on their heads, or loading it on
donkeys and homemade wagons. We followed the mob from
street to street, penetrating deeper into the ghetto. They were
carrying away everything that was left intact: chairs, tables,
scraps of clothing, earthen jars, tile, bedsprings. A woman carried a huge wooden box over her head. I saw two children
weighed down under a washbowl, followed by another youth
with a large basket on his shoulder. The ultra-orthodox Moslem women gathered the loot with their black veils religiously
drawn over their features. Legion soldiers were everywhere—
not to prevent looting but to preserve law and order among
the wild beggars and thieves of the Holy City.
Climbing over the mountains of stones, I looked upon the
pitiful sight that was once the glory of Hurvath Synagogue.
A particularly thorough job of demolition had been done
here. On one wall, left partially standing, was a plaque with
the Ten Commandments. Only this remained to warn a reckless world and an impotent UN of the words of the Law:
"Thou shalt not kill; Thou shalt not steal; Thou shalt not
take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will
not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain. . . ."
Sheets of the holy scrolls were strewn all over the rubble. I
rescued a small roll of parchment, burnt and discolored from
heat, and tucked it inside my shirt.