50
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
He stood up as I approached. The two police made their
complaint. Sergeant Fattah stared at me for a moment impassively, and then sat down and began to write. He wrote for
ten minutes in slow Arabic characters, proceeding from right
to left, asking questions as he scribbled. The police nodded. I
had said nothing up to this time, and finally ventured: "All
I wanted was to take a picture of a beautiful mosque."
"In a few minutes we will finish," Sergeant Fattah said politely. He left for a moment and returned with three plainclothesmen. They took positions on either side and behind me.
Then they rearranged themselves, studying my face from every
angle. I felt history was repeating itself. Back in the days with
the Bund and the Christian Front, anti-Semitic thugs would
similarly study me to determine if I were Jewish.
"I am a Christian American," I found myself saying.
"You may smoke if you wish," said Sergeant Fattah. "In a
few minutes we will finish."
Another culprit was pushed in—a cross-eyed man, barefooted, dressed in a filthy nightshirt. Still another was brought
in—limping, with running eyes; he was shunted to one of the
other desks. A third, dressed in a semi-military costume, was
yanked in by his scruff, and stood cowering. At least, all three
got action, for they were taken away at once.
"What are you going to do with me?" I finally asked Sergeant Fattah.
"In a few minutes we will finish." It was the third time he
had said it.
"I would like to telephone our embassy," I said.
"Yes, you can telephone. I will take you to a telephone."
Led by the sergeant and followed by my two policemen, I
crossed a room teeming with police and wretchedly dressed
men and women under arrest. We finally arrived in a dungeonlike cubbyhole under a staircase. Painted black up to the
height of my shoulders, it was a damp, filthy hold smelling of
sweat, with no ventilation except a tiny barred window high