Das Arabische Buro: der Grossmufti
405
"Tonight I'm having supper with Said Abdullah Harb," he
said. "His real name"—he laughed—"is Herbert von Furst!"
When we arrived at the tavern-restaurant, I found a handsome, blond, blue-eyed German sitting before a bottle of
cognac. Behind his chair was a pair of crutches. Cognac glass
in one hand, he stretched out the other in greeting:
"Join me for supper," he said loudly. "Solid food disagrees
with me."
A Jewish bullet had caught von Furst, and his leg had been
amputated.
"My bad luck was when the Jews didn't shoot me in the
head. Believe me, I'm finished with these Arabs. I hate it
here. I was a hero when I was fighting from Jaffa to Jerusalem
for them, but now that I'm a cripple they tell me to------" He
paused. "When they took me to the hospital for a blood transfusion I wouldn't let them put Arab blood in me. I asked for
American, English, French, any Aryan blood. They had to
take me to another hospital and I almost died on the way; but
I have all Aryan blood in me now. Those Arabs fixed me in
another way. They stole my suitcase. I had gold and jewelry of
all kinds which I had taken from Jews. They stole everything
—the thieves!"
He swallowed another cognac. Stefan was matching him,
glass for glass.
"There is nothing for me to do. I must drink. I leave the
government hospital at 10.30 a.m. I put my foot in one
restaurant, then another. I drink and I smoke, drink, and
smoke again. Again and again. But I will change," he confided, "when I get married."
"Who is the girl?" I asked.
"The daughter of a very rich, high Syrian official. I do not
want to many, but I must. I don't want to walk on a crutch
the rest of my life. I want a new leg, which is very expensive.
My father-in-law has promised to buy me one, so that when I
marry I will have a new leg, a wife, money, a house, a job."
"What kind of a job?"