It was January seventh, a holiday among the Greek churchmen, and a day for visiting among all Christians. We had our shoes off, and were sitting on a divan, when the guests began to appear. They were all men, of course. Shukry stood erect in the center of the room, and bowed low to each guest as he appeared. The visitor returned his bow. There was no hand-shaking. After the greeting each arrival slid out of his slippers, and squatted on the long divan. When all were firmly seated everybody said “Naharak saeed” (“good evening”), and bowed again to everybody else in turn.
If the newcomer were a priest, Shukry’s small brother slid forward to kiss his hand, and ran back to some out-of-the-way corner. After all the greetings had been given, each guest was served with cigarettes and a tiny cup of coffee. Visitors who attended the same church as Shukry broke into a lively talk with him. Others—the Greek priests especially—sipped their coffee in absolute silence, puffed at a cigarette, and, with another “Naharak saeed” glided into their slippers and departed.
Later in the day we went to call on all the Christian families in the village, finally stopping at the Kawar home. The former mayor, dressed in faranchee clothes, with a broad white vest, sat cross-legged in his white stocking-feet, a fez perched on his head. He talked long and pleasantly of things American, then wrote me four letters of introduction to friends in towns I meant to visit.
“Without these letters,” he explained, “you would not dare to stay in Gineen or Nablous; for my friends are the only Christians there, and those are very bad towns. My friends in Jerusalem and Jaffa—if you ever get there alive—may be able to find you work.”
CHAPTER XI
THE WILDS OF PALESTINE
The sun rose clear and red the next morning. It was the best sort of day for continuing my journey. The teachers set out to accompany me to the foot of the Nazarene mountains. They struck off through the village as the crow flies, paying no attention to the run of the streets. Down through the market, dodging into tiny alleys, under covered passageways, through spaces where we had to walk sidewise, they led the way. Where a shop was in the way they marched boldly through it, stepping over the merchandise and even over the squatting keeper, who returned their “good morning” without losing a puff at his cigarette. On they went, stopping for nothing, straight up the wall-like slope of a tall hill and out upon a well marked path that led over the brow of the hill.
At the foot of the mountain they paused. To the north rose a snow-capped peak. Between the hills, to the west, peeped the sparkling Mediterranean. Eastward, as far as the eye could see, stretched a wall of mountains. We could see a dozen villages, tucked away in long, narrow valleys clinging to steep slopes, or lying bent over sharp ridges like broken-backed creatures. Shukry named these villages for me, and many of them were places I had read of in the Bible. The teachers pointed out a tall peak far across the trackless plain, which they said rose above the bad town of Gineen, where all Christians were hated. Then, bidding me good-by almost tearfully, they turned back up the mountain pass.
Late in the afternoon I passed through a country that looked like a garden, with graceful palms and waving pomegranates, and perfumed with the fragrance of orange and lemon groves, which covered the lower slope of the peak that had been pointed out to me. Back of the garden stood the bad town of Gineen. When I appeared among its people I met with scowls and curses. A few stones from a group of youngsters at a corner of the bazaar rattled in the streets behind me.
My letter was addressed in Arabic. The squatting shopkeeper to whom I showed it scowled at me long and fiercely, but finally called a passing-boy, and, mumbling a few words to him, bade me follow. The urchin climbed up the sloping street, made several unexpected turnings, and pointed out a large house surrounded by a stern-looking wall. Then he scampered away as fast as he could go.
I clanged the heavy knocker again and again, until the sound echoed up and down the street. But, receiving no answer, I sat down on the curb. A well dressed native wandered by. I showed him the letter. He glared at it, muttered, “Etnashar saa” (“Twelve o’clock at night”), and went on his way. From time to time visitors paused at neighboring gates or house-doors, and, standing in the center of the street, lifted up their voices in mournful wails, and the doors were finally opened to them. Beggars came past, wailing longer and more mournfully than the others; nor did they stop until a few bread-sheets or coppers were tossed out to them. Bands of women, whose faces were covered, drew up in a circle around me to talk about me and to fill me with the creepy feeling one might experience at a visit of the Ku-Klux Klan.