IN THE midst of this growing turmoil, I had a personal problem. If, despite Moustafa's confidence in Allah, the forces of war should turn against us, what would I do with my suitcase, packed with my precious notes and the invaluable film record of my experiences so far? My suitcase was stored in our arsenal, where my bloodthirsty friend kept vigil; if the Jews forced us to flee, it would be lost. I decided the safest place for it would be the Vank, the Armenian monastery in the Old City, which was built like a fortress, and whose sanctity had always been respected.

One morning, therefore, I trudged over with it, gave it into the keeping of an Armenian family, and took the opportunity to pay my respects to the Patriarch, spiritual shepherd of some ten thousand Armenians in Palestine. I was ushered up a narrow flight of steps to his reception-room. It was large, rectangular, thickly carpeted, lined with upholstered chairs. On the walls were stately paintings and photographs of the princes of my church. Here one seemed to rise above the tumult outside and step into a calm and reverential world.

I faced Guregh II Israelian. He was a short man, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, with a long, patriarchal beard that was black in the upper portion, graying toward the tip, and completely white at the end. A large, pyramid-shaped black hood rose above his head, and at times seemed to overshadow him. It magnified both his face and stature, so that even while sitting he seemed a towering figure. His deep brown eyes, seemingly calm, glowed with dormant fire. Beloved by Jew, Arab, and Christian alike, he was one of the last of the old-time shepherds of the Church who guarded his flock with a paternal hand...

...I heard a sudden commotion outside the door. A scout rushed in, breathless: a group of Arabs were trying to force their way into the monastery! Hurrying with the Patriarch to the window, we saw the Arab gang milling about the entrance, wild disorderly hoodlums armed to the bursting point. They were banging away at the iron door of the monastery with their rifles, screaming to be allowed entrance.

"They say they will shoot their way in," the scout reported.

"Asdvadzim, Asdvadzim!" My God, my God!" The Patriarch
raised his hands in supplication. "Assor vertchu tchika? Amen orr, Amen orr gookan!" Is there no end to this? Every day, every day they come!"

I heard the crack of a rifle shot, another, then a third. The Arabs were attempting to shoot out the lock.

From the posture of supplication, his arms raised heavenward, the Patriarch suddenly brought his hands together. He clenched them tight into two massive fists, then in a mighty rage of wrath he shook his fists at the hoodlums. And in that act of defiance he symbolized the defiance of the entire Armenian people toward the brutality of the Turk, the tyranny of the Nazis, the intrigues and betrayal of those who regarded us as weak and spineless because we were not of the Anglo-Saxon race and did not sit in the councils of the chosen. In the Patriarch I saw an Armenian people fighting its oppressors, its betrayers, it tormenters.

The Patriarch was no longer the disturbed cleric of a few minutes ago. He was a fighting man, in full command, the leader of his people, the guardian of his church. He wheeled around to the scout: "Go tell them that I forbid anybody to enter. They may try to shoot down the door if they wish, but as long as I am here they will not desecrate our holy Vank, they will not spill Armenian blood. They will not enter!"

I have seldom seen anyone, let alone a Patriarch, so enraged. There was little for me to do but stand by, fascinated, and watch the bolt of lightning smite the Arab. How could one help but admire this man of courage and fortitude? Surely our commanders at Musa Dagh must have been fighters of equal rank. . . . The storm was over. Into the palatial reception room there came again the calm of a sanctuary. "It's the lawless brigands who are the troublemakers," the Patriarch said to me. "The decent Arabs fear them, and that is one reason why most of them have fled from Jerusalem. If I let in one, a hundred will follow, then a thousand. They would plunder our Vank. . . ."

On that bitter note, I left him and returned to Deir Aboutor.