398
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
I had photographed with Moustafa. Fadhil Bey had told me
I was the finest photographer in the world. "Sit down with
us, please," he said.
He was on his way to Baghdad. I introduced Stefan.
"Ahh, a German. Finest of the Europeans. Let us drink to
the Germans."
We raised our glasses of arak. We ordered more arak, and
hors d'oeuvres. Then roasted pumpkin-seeds and chickpeas,
which take the place of American pretzels and potato chips.
"Let us drink to the few good Americans like our friend
here," Stefan said. "I met him only today, but he's one hundred per cent."
"I know him from Jerusalem. He's two hundred per cent—
one hundred Arab, one hundred German," Fadhil Bey put in,
raising his glass.
"We leave Truman out of this toast. He's a Zionist," I said.
"Let's wish him the first place in hell," Fadhil Bey roared.
"Ahh, how Hitler was misunderstood in Europe," he resumed,
after the arak had scorched its way down our throats. "He was
a great man, a very great man. He was an enemy of our enemies, therefore our friend. He died, unrecognized, misunderstood."
"He should have been born Moslem. Then he would have
been appreciated," I said.
"Heil Hitler," Stefan burst out, sentimentally.
"A toast to the memory of the great German fuehrer,"
Fadhil Bey said.
"Heil Hitler!"
"May he come to rule again!"
"Heil Hitler!"
My head reeled. Where was I—in Berlin? What year was
this—1938? Was Hitler really dead? I recalled that the Arab
with whom I was sitting had taken part in the abortive 1941
Nazi putsch in Iraq. Caught by the British, he had been imprisoned in South Africa, had escaped, and eventually had
been made military commander in Jerusalem by the Grand