Bethlehem and Jericho
343
"Egyptian volunteers leaving. Arab Legion no like Egyptians."
"And where is Captain Zaki?"
"Him going back to Egypt today. I go also."
"Which way are you going?"
"By Bethlehem, Hebron, Gaza. . . . We meet Moustafa
in Bethlehem."
Moustafa! So he was alive! I had to see him before I went
on to Amman.
I hurried with Musa to the taxi terminal. He was supposed
to meet Zaki and his companions at nine. We had a leisurely
breakfast and were on hand at ten. Zaki showed up with
Ismail and three others at about eleven—the usual margin in
most Arab appointments. Zaki was more surly than ever. I
resorted to a time-honored device, flattery,
"You are looking very well this morning," I said to Ismail.
He beamed with pleasure, and giggled. "How nice your uniform looks on you, how neatly pressed and well-fitting. . . ."
Zaki turned a jealous glance on me. I decided I had gone
far enough and broached my desire to accompany his men to
Bethlehem.
"It is military territory. You are an Armenian and also an
American. It is not safe for you, and it is dangerous for us to
be with you."
Ismail took up my side, and eventually won. Zaki decided
finally that I could come along.
"Let me wear your wrist watch till we get to Bethlehem,"
he said, blandly.
"Perhaps I shall give it to you as a gift after we arrive safely
there," I replied, and we let the matter rest there.
Our vehicle was a new English army half-truck, driven by a
young Arab who had picked it up (undoubtedly it was stolen
property) at a bargain. He had decided to make a living as a
trucker and—at the same time—learn how to drive. We
leaped on board and had hardly moved fifty yards when we
had an accident. The smashed taxi-fender was hardly worth