reach into my money bag once again. This was too much for him; he
could not resist. In a tone of voice which made it seem that any
payment for the coffee was simply impossible, he handed me the five
francs: "I also give these to you!" Ever so slowly and in a way that
would not diminish the pleasure of this scene, I took back the
money, put the coins in my bag, and answered him: "So, I give in to
your kindness, and I accept your present. I thank you. Live long and
well! May Allah bless you and your house for your noble generosity
towards all foreign guests!"
Since we didn't want to hurry and thereby lessen the great
effect of our departure, we slowly stood up and watched the
expression on his face. Acting as if he wanted to keep us there, he
held up his outstretched arms. His mouth gaped open. Upon his face
lay an expression of confused dismay, one which bordered on outright
shock. He was speechless, uttering neither word nor sound. To make
up for lost time, the horses fell into a trot. When we came to the
next curve in the road where we looked back, the man still stiffly
stood there in the same spot. What followed was whole-hearted
laughter-even the Arabic coachman joined in the fun.
The rest of the trip provided a lot of historical points of
interest, which at the time seemed to have no connection to the
former events. In Ain ed Dirwe, there is a beautiful hewn-stone
fountain where the 8th chapter of Acts describes how the Christian
Apostle Phillip converted and baptized the Ethiopian Queen Candace'
royal treasurer. Farther on, we came across the ruins of Beth Zur,
the "house of rock," just southwest of Jerusalem. Chapter 15, verse
58 in the Old Testament Book of Joshua notes the importance of Beth
Zur in the time of the Hebrew hero Judas Maccabeus. Chapter 3, verse
16 of The Book of Nehemiah also cites its history.
A half hour later and perhaps 400 steps on the left-hand side of
the roadway, we came to the large stone structure of Abraham's
Cistern, more commonly called "Abraham's Well." At this place, we
still had a lot to keep us thoroughly busy. Regarding this famous
site, I offer one of my wife's photographs. There in the corner, I
am sitting on the edge of the Cistern, clothed like an Arab-except
for my bare head. Forward and to the right, is the Arabic Donkey
Driver, whom I will introduce later on.
Before reaching this place near the city, imagine long ago when
there were vineyards and gardens that even in olden times had a
reputation for their good fruits. For example, it's said that this is
where Moses' military scouts visited Hebron's Brook of Eschcol and
cut the gigantic cluster of grapes which they carried back to the
camp of the Israelites as a proof of the fruitfulness of the land
(Numbers 13: 23). From here to the city, it takes only a half hour.
In earlier days, whenever I traveled to Hebron, I called on my
venerable and extraordinarily agreeable old acquaintance, Jew
Eppstein. Since he comes from Germany, he speaks German exceptionally
well. Regarding the local hatred of Christians which every German
assumes to be the case, he very weakly subscribed to that prejudice.
Since I was following Mustafa Bustani's travel plans, today I was
unable to visit Eppstein. By stopping at a Jew's place, Mustafa would
have forever damaged his reputation.
So we drove on, arriving at the address of one of his business
friends, a place that had enough room to accommodate the horses and
carriage. Was it also possible for him to accept my wife and me?
Fortunately, he was a man who was among the few broad-minded,
tolerant believers who live in Hebron. After some hesitation, we were
taken in- but separate from Mustafa and his son. For us, there was a
small, four-cornered room that had no windows. In order to have
light, we had to leave the door open, which also let in the stinky,
filthy air from the farmyard. If we were bold and daring enough, we
could sit upon the room's single piece of furniture, a straw mat.
After spending a half hour in there, someone brought us an old
pitcher of stagnant water that was not drinkable.
When we sought answers to our questions, we could learn nothing
more than this: due to the fact that we were Christians and not
Muslims, this was the only kind of water that he was permitted to
offer us. Besides, no one else would be permitted to drink from our
pitcher, because it would now be considered "unclean." So, this was
the hospitality of a so-called "tolerant" Muslim. How would we have
fared with one who was intolerant? I asked Mustafa Bustani to come to
our room. He came and brought along Thar. He apologized. The man
told him that we had been well taken care of-befitting our social
standing. We informed Mustafa that we now preferred to go to Jew
Eppstein's.
Right away, Thar was determined to accompany us. His father
didn't object. As much as Mustafa wished, he couldn't do otherwise.
Now that he was already there, he pointed out the necessity of the
meeting and the visit; this situation placed a demand upon him, but
these matters didn't obligate his son. Thus, he was thankful that we
wanted to take Thar with us. First of all, Mustafa suggested that he
go to the Arab who had wanted to sell the saddle. It was on account
of this saddle that he had made the journey, so it was readily
understood that this matter had been settled earlier. At this time,
my wife spoke up: "Since it is Friday, are you allowed to buy and
sell?" Mustafa answered: "In this case, yes. We don't live here, so
we are considered passers-by and customers who can't wait."
My wife reasoned further: "After all, we too are part of the
hospitality reserved for passers-by, courtesies for those who can not
wait. Why are Muslims pliable when it comes to making money, yet
harshly inconsiderate whenever it comes to showing love and kind-
heartedness to those same foreigners?" Mustafa Bustani pleaded his
case: "According to Islam, hospitality belongs to those who are
virtuous, and no one is released from this obligation." She pressed
him further: "Also when it comes to other religious faiths?"
Unequivocally, he answered her: "Yes, this is true for Christians,
Jews, and heathens."
She pressed him for more: "If the residents of Hebron then
claim to be Muslims, yet they don't practice this commandment, how
then can they be true confessors of the Prophet Mohammed?" Our
friend conceded: "Arguably, no one can answer this." Here, I joined
in: "On the contrary. Our Thar has already answered. Earlier today,
he spoke with the Ferik-Pasha."
The boy had been listening to us. When he now learned that he
had answered a question that his father believed to be unanswerable,
he felt very important: "Yes, that's correct. I always know more
than other people! Thus, our cook and her husband always call me
'The Chosen One.' Effendi, please tell me what I said." I recalled
his description: "Figuratively speaking-but not without reasonable
cause-you labeled Hebron's inhabitants as Canaanites."
"Oh yes. I always have reasons. Only on the surface are they
Muslims-on the inside, they will always be Canaanites. In the process
of refinement during Moses' time and that of Islam, they have been
passed by, and now they are at the bottom of the barrel. Effendi, now
I remember that I was the first to figure this out. I haven't
forgotten the history of Moses' time, nor the origins of Islam. So,
just how do we actually identify all the Palestinian people in
Canaan? They go by these names: Hittites, Jebusites, Girgashites,
Hivites, people of Arka, Amorites, Sidonians, Phenicians, those in
Zemar, Arvadians, Hamathians, and all others dwelling in Zidon. You
will probably not retain this information." I agreed: "Here is my
notebook. Please write them for me."
From the inner pocket of his vest, he took out a small notebook
and gave it to me. I was happy to see what it contained. What he had
recorded was quite accurate and concerned fairly serious things. I
noted the eleven names, then gave the small journal back to him.
Right away, he began to read through the list, as if he were
memorizing the words. In the meantime, his father went to the
innkeeper, expressing our thanks for the hospitality. When he
returned, we went in search of the owner of the saddle.
The trader picked it up and showed it to us. Without announcing
the cost, he explained that he would sell it for a price that I would
judge to be fair- not excessive. The object was really magnificent,
and according to him, a bargain. Mustafa made the initial mistake of
saying that I was the buyer, not he. Immediately, the Arab explained
that he wanted nothing to do with me, a so-called infidel. It would
be a sin to sell a Christian this saddle which a Muslim Pasha had
owned-so, we must leave without achieving our purpose.
Mustafa Bustani was extremely outraged at this kind of
treatment. Nevertheless, we were calmly determined to put this
incident behind us. Mustafa wanted to accompany us to the Burial Site
of Abraham, yet here too we had no luck. In every narrow and dirty
alleyway through which we traveled, people looked at us with hostile
eyes. Since we wanted to avoid running into danger and being
mistreated at the hands of these people, we simply had to turn around
at certain places and stations. On such an important occasion as
today and as a Muslim, Mustafa Bustani should have felt ashamed to be
leading two Christians to this holy site.
Never before had I personally experienced such intolerance.
Actually, it was always the opposite case; I had been guided to the
inner sanctuary, although I never went inside. Mustafa asked someone
about the importance of today, so now we learned that this was both a
birthday celebration and a commemoration of the expulsion of Ishmael,
the eldest son of Abraham. Sarah had insisted that her husband banish
his servant-maid Hagar and their son Ishmael to the desert. Now, we
better understood the source of our inhospitable treatment from the
bigoted saddle-merchant and from the mosque's fanatical officials.
The commemoration of their national ancestor's exile had
absolutely doubled their existing abrasiveness. Jews were put on
notice that they were not allowed to be seen-and the same was true
for me. Given the fact that my wife was with me, this could easily
have been taken as an act of defiance which would have heightened
hostilities rather than minimize them. Thus, I had to give Mustafa
Bustani my word that I would now go straight to Eppstein's home and
eat at his house. I was to avoid the city streets, following only the
outlying paths to Jew Eppstein's house. There were still two sites
that we wanted to visit: Abraham's Oak of Mamre and the Sacred
Heights of Hebron. As I've mentioned, the latter route is
approximately 400 hundred paces from the road to Jerusalem. So we
set the exact time when we would stop the carriage and leave Mustafa
and Hebron behind us, thereby starting our journey to Eppstein's
place. At the agreed upon time, we parted company. Thar was
exceptionally happy that he was allowed to go with us. Without
further words from his father, I didn't overlook the evident trust
that his father had placed in me.
With all of his most generous hospitality, my brave and old
friend Eppstein received us into his home. What is most commonly
known as the home's "best room" was ours. It was a relatively airy
room that was located on the flat roof top. In my wife's journal,
wherein she happily noted such details, she wrote the following
lines: "It was a very hot day. We were given a beautiful, cool, domed
room that had two broadly curved arches. Three of the walls had
windows, and the door was on the fourth. Conditions there were simply
splendid. The room's furnishings consisted of two beds. To the side
of one was a reconditioned couch with three antique pillows; next to
it was a table with four wooden chairs. The other had a white-
ruffled canopy bed. In the corner was a water pitcher that probably
dated to the time of Christ. The walls were tinted with a bluish
white-wash. A brass wash-service sat upon one of the chairs. I won't
say a word about the pictures on the walls. We were served excellent
Hebron wine, a bottle of which cost one franc. We dined on food that
had required a great deal of preparation, all of which certainly was
worth the effort." Considering the generous hospitality that we had
received, we didn't need to send for the food that Mustafa Bustani
had brought along. Those items were packed away in our carriage and
would come in handy when we turned towards home.
In the course of the meal, Eppstein told us about today's big
Children's Fitness-Festival, a birthday celebration in honor of the
boy Ishmael. The children were drawn to the city's open spaces, where
they were invited to take part in all kinds of peaceable and war-like
games; adults were lining up to help supervise them. Since so many
stories are told about the expulsion and the injustices that were
sustained, no person from another faith should even want to be a
bystander. When Eppstein heard that we had the intention of riding
to the Oak and on to Abraham's Well, he immediately advised us to
cancel those plans. There could be trouble if a procession of
children were to pass by these holy sites.
Filled with indignation, Thar yelled out: "Keep our distance?
Flee? That is never the case with us. As for Effendi and me, we fear
nothing. Regarding the Mrs., she too is not afraid, because I have
told her that I'm a hero, and she can always call upon me in a time
of need. Chuckling to himself, Eppstein considered how this child
could have such self-esteem: "A hero?" With that remark, he came
down on the wrong side of the boy. Thar rose from the table, came
towards him, and answered that question: "You laugh at me? I will
not tolerate that. My name is Thar, and woe to you if I should ever
take revenge against you."
Jew Eppstein kept on joking: "Well, would that be really bad for
me?" Thar was irritated: "So, you continue to laugh at me? Mind
what you say! In truth, I'm just eleven years old, but in all of
Jerusalem there isn't a single fourteen year old that I haven't
wrestled to the ground!" Still smiling, Eppstein pressed further: "Do
you also consider me to be such a fourteen year old?"
"No. Well then, how old are you?"
"Let's say sixty."
"For all I care, it's the same to me if you're a hundred. Now
pay attention!"
Thar quickly slipped behind him, forcing his arms behind him.
With a jerk and a squeeze, Eppstein ended up sitting on the ground-
where previously he had stood. Naturally, this was the result of the
boy's quickness and the way he managed to take the man by surprise.
Even so, the boy had physical powers that exceeded the usual strength
of an eleven year old. With a satisfied nod to Jew Eppstein, Thar
returned to his place at the table: "At first, you laughed from
above-now you laugh from below!"
"Tell me now, where did you develop such knack and quickness?"
Thar answered: "From the Lions Club."
"What is that? How and where?"
"It's in Jerusalem. We boys have four clubs where we can
practice. The Lions Club meets in front of the western Jaffa Gate.
At the northwestern Damascus Gate, you'll find The Elephant Club.
Just outside of Stephen's Gate, The Hippos play. The Whales claim
The Pool of Siloah as their practice grounds. As you know, these are
strong and noble animals. With their speed and the power of their
leaps, The Lions triumph, just as I've done here. As you already
know, The Elephans trample together. The Hippos run with their heads
linked together; in this way, the strongest roots himself to the spot
while the others collapse inward. The Whales do battle only in the
ocean. One ducks under the opposition, and with a mouth full of water
he spews it into the air, just like whales do. Therein lies the
victory! I'm a member of all four clubs; and to this day, no one has
beaten me. Hey, do we want to work together like Hippos?
Thar lowered his head and prepared to ram Mr. Eppstein, but he
immediately stepped to the side and called out: "Leave me in peace. I
am not one of those beasts! I only wanted to warn you about today's
dangers-never considering that I would be treacherously ambushed.
Should I contact a reliable rent-a-donkey business for the trip
you're planning?" I answered: "Yes. Preferably one that does not
Mr. Eppstein was glad to help: "There is only one, so I'll ask
him to come. It saddens me to acknowledge that today is such a Day of
Hate. I'm sorry to say that your wife was only permitted to see the
outside of the mosque. I have always said this, so I'll continue to
repeat it: If the faith of these people were pure and noble, then
they would not find it necessary to keep others away from their
shrines."
He excused himself and sent for the donkey-lender. Thar pulled
out his notebook and thoughtfully recorded this quote from Mr.
Eppstein. For him, those words seemed important enough to remember.
In a short time, the donkey-driver arrived and heard our requests. As
our photograph shows, he looked Moorish, but he seemed to be good-
natured and not a person to inconvenience us. He had no horses
whatsoever; not even one donkey was available. On account of the
festival, all animals had been reserved ahead of time. However, there
were three mules that he could lend us. We could honestly say that
they were only suited for pulling a cart, not for riding. One of them
had an especially stubborn temperament, but we had to be thankful
that these dear animals were still available. So we closed the deal
with this merchant and asked that he bring the mules without delay
Whenever a Middle Easterner, and particularly a donkey-driver
promises to turn up without delay, this may mean that he will arrive
one or even two hours from then. Yet this fellow was true to his
word; in just thirty minutes, he showed up. He claimed that he would
have come even sooner if he hadn't found it necessary to clean the
animals before he delivered them to us. I don't care to describe
them, so I'll simply confess that the sight of them was no minor
fright for us.
They consisted of skin and bones. For well over a month, they
had neither seen a washing, a scrubbing, nor a curry-comb. What was
supposed to pass for a saddle and strapping was a sheer hodge-podge
of things that didn't fit. The lady's saddle was such a boldly sad
afterthought of improvisation. In light of the donkey-driver's
freethinking and artistic invention, I paid him an extra baksheesh-an
act for which he solemnly assured me that I had his everlasting love,
loyalty, and devotion.
Needless to say, we wanted to provide feed for the poor animals.
They fed on everything edible, including all the bread that we found
in Eppstein's house-and still they were not full. The prettiest parts
about them were their names. Mine was called "Guewerdschina," which
means "dove." Naturally, I managed to pick the one that seemed to be
the most ornery-and it proved to be true. In both a good and bad
sense, we would have quite an experience with this one. After we
paid the rental fee, mounted our mules, and prepared to ride away, it
became evident that Guewerdschina didn't want to go along. She would
not budge from her space.
I now applied all of my equestrian skills. The Donkey Driver
himself gave it his best effort, and Eppstein's servants did the
same-but all their efforts were in vain. They knew the stubborn
nature of this dumb animal, so they were sure that it would rather
die than take just two steps from its spot. What was I supposed to
do? Like the Donkey Driver, should we too just walk along beside her?
No! Once again, I mounted the mule and ordered the Driver to lead
Guewerdschina. Of course, she followed him. Once we had left the city
behind us and we had reached open fields, I had hoped to convince her
to ride on-and I partially succeeded. Kind words and caressing didn't
help at all, and whipping the animal accomplished even less. So I
tried something with my thumb; from the side of "the dove," I pressed
hard between the first two vertebrae. She shot forward and obeyed me
for a little while, but not for long. I was convinced that I had to
experiment from a new angle. During the entire journey, I agonized
about what I should do with this contrary beast.
From the time we left the gardens till we reached the Oak of
Abraham, a half hour passed. It's said that The Oak of Mamre
originated during the time of the first patriarchs. This is an
exaggeration. It belongs to the genus Quercus ilex psudo-coccifera,
which has a base circumference of approximately ten meters. At the
height of four meters, this tree begins to fork and to form immense
boughs. For the most part, the tree is already beginning to die as it
branches out.
As early as the sixteenth century, this tree was venerated;
anyway, it has a considerably different age-and it probably will not
stand much longer than it already has. It belongs to the Russians who
established a hospice here and built an observation tower; from its
height, one can see all the way to the Dead Sea. For just a small
fee, the key to this tower can be fetched inside the hospice. I sent
Thar inside and asked him to bring me the key. After he did that
errand, he brought me a cord that he had found.
While he was showing the rope to me, he said: "This is for your
dear Guewerdschina. I want you to use this when you ride her away
from here." I had my doubts about that: "Do you think you can make
her move from this spot?"
"With no trouble at all."
"Well then, do you have some kind of remedy?"
"Yes, it works every time."
"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?
Sly as a fox, he winked at me and laughed; his gorgeously white
teeth glistened as he answered: "It's because I wanted to double your
delight, and the cure can only be doubly pleasing when it follows
prior turmoil. Watch this!" He took the middle of the rope and
firmly tied a knot around the tail of "the dove," so that both ends
of the cord hung down-then he climbed onto the saddle. We wanted to
start out on our trip to Harem Ramet el Chalil, to the Sacred Heights
of Hebron. My wife sat upon her mule, and I climbed onto the one
that Thar had been riding. Now, we simply had to wait and see what
the boy was going to do. The donkey driver handed him both ends of
the rope, which he calmly held in his hands. "Now, watch how quickly
this works," he said. "Make room; I'm riding on ahead."
We moved to the side. He goaded dear Guewerdschina. She swished
her ears and waggled her tail, but she took no steps forward. He
struck her, but that did no good. He screamed at her and slapped his
feet into her sides-all to no avail. So he pulled on both ends of the
rope. With that trick, the mule's tail flipped up and onto her rump.
Thar then wrapped the cords around her belly and tied a knot, thereby
firmly stretching the ropes in a way that they could not release
backwards. Guewerdschina was visibly startled. Nothing like this had
ever happened in her lifetime. Like the wings of a windmill, she
flailed her ears. She also wanted to whisk her tail, but that
couldn't happen. At this point, she let her ears droop down as she
contemplated her troubles. To this spirited annoyance, the boy added
a rambunctious swat. This caused "the dove" to turn her head to the
right, trying to look behind her-but she saw nothing. So she turned
to her left and tried to see what was behind. In spite of her
tremendous efforts to move her tail so that she could see it, she
couldn't.
"Now she's unbearably worried!" laughed Thar. "She thinks her
tail is gone. She believes that some frightening thing is behind her.
Now she will run for all she's worth!"
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Guewerdschina let out a
bone marrow-jarring hee-haw. She cringed and arched her back like a
cat. She lunged to the right and to the left-then with sudden haste,
she shot straight forward, as if she wanted to charge beyond her own
head. It required a very good rider not to fall off; Thar
effortlessly stayed in the saddle. Laughing heartily, we followed him
as fast as we could. In light of the tragically comical, apprehensive
demeanor of mules, it really was impossible to keep a straight face.