Damascus: Jewel of the Orient
395
the Arabic Club: to train Arab youth for the leadership of tomorrow, to build a confederation of Arab States which will
earn the respect of the criminal English, the immoral French,
and you Americans who are helping the Jews. Some day you
will
be
sorry."
Herr Doktor Imam had spoken and I took my leave.
A NIGHT IN DAMASCUS
ONLY kismet could have led me to a tiny restaurant-tavern
on the bank of the Barada River. The place was native, but
the customers were largely non-Arab. It was a small, stuffy
dive, the tables covered with red-checkered cloth, the floor
filthy and buzzing with flies. Behind the counter was a wellweathered but otherwise still serviceable Arab girl. The waiter
—an oily character with a skin the color of faded wrappingpaper—was also the proprietor. The place smelled of rot and
evil. Here I struck a friendship with Stefan Meyer, which
opened strange new vistas for me. A thin, colorless youth, with
watery eyes and hollow cheeks, Stefan was drinking native
beer, and complaining to the proprietor in English.
"You are right," I said. "The beer here tastes like warmed-up
dishwater."
"I have imported but it costs much more," the oily man
said.
"Nothing is too good for a German. Bring us two bottles
of the best."
"Ahh, an Amerikan."
"Yahwohl! but one who loves the Germans and the Arabs."
The oily one brought the beer. "Bring another glass, sadiqi,
my friend, and join us in our toast: "To the great German
people! To the great Arab people!"
When Stefan had finished his bottle and was in an expansive mood I plied him with questions. By this time I had made
sure he "knew" about me: that I had been a member of the