Dreamers of the Day

It was an impossible task. Within a few years, Lawrence would know that he had failed, but he didn’t then—not that day in Gaza.

After standing for hours in the sun, the crowd outside had grown restive. The noise we were begi

“I can’t read these mobs,” he admitted, over the muffled chanting outside. “Sometimes it seems they’re just enjoying the excitement, but this looks serious.”

“How long will they keep us here?” Clementine wanted to know. She was clearly concerned for her husband’s safety, and with good reason.

“I think they only want to look at Winston,” said Lawrence.

“The longer we wait, the more I shall deteriorate,” said Winston. He looked pasty and drained, now that he was offstage, so to speak.

“What are they chanting?” I asked.

“ ‘Cheers for Great Britain,’ ” Lawrence said, lying so smoothly it was evidently meant as a joke. “ ‘Cheers for the minister.’ ”

I heard Sir Herbert’s grim chuckle. “ ‘Cut their throats,’ ” he translated. “‘Down with the Jews.’ ”

Lawrence excused himself and stepped in front of the rest of us. For a moment, he stood before the entrance, physically still, as though gathering himself. Then he pushed open the double doors with a powerful two-handed shove.

He probably expected this to attract the attention of the mob, but no one saw him. The lack of notice would have been comical under other circumstances, but what had been a noisy demonstration was fast becoming a genuine riot.

Just beyond the door, two Palestinian policemen were swinging lead-loaded staves at whoever came within striking distance. Across the square, reinforcements had arrived on horseback and their officer shouted his intention to force a passage for us. At his order, the mounted police drew sabers and spurred their horses straight into the crowd. They might as well have tried to ride down a brick wall. Strong brown hands seized the horses’ bridles and pulled the riders out of their saddles. One of the two chants was begi

Thompson stepped outside and stood behind Lawrence. They exchanged a few words. Just as I was wishing that Karl had insisted I stay in Cairo, Thompson fired his pistol into the air.

Clementine cried out. I clutched at my heart, startled witless.

Fearsome, long-nosed, and keen-eyed, the Gazans turned our way. A moment later, the shouted rhythmic chant again became “Aurens! Aurens! Aurens!” Men rushed toward him, alight with excitement. Smiling easily, Lawrence accepted their joyful greetings and salaamed in return.

They didn’t want to see Churchill, I thought. They were waiting for you.

The same thought must have been in his mind, for Lawrence became the courtier once more. Turning toward the door, he stood aside, ushering forth Mr. Churchill with a courtesy and humility that clearly told the crowd, I wish you to treat this man with respect and as my own guest. Holding up his hand, he received silence and spoke a few soft words. The chanting resumed, but this time the name “Shershill!” was taken up without its customary “À bas!”

Winston stood in the doorway, beaming like a chubby choirboy. I thought the cheers would never stop, but when he judged the time was right, Lawrence made another small sign. The crowd parted for us, and the dignity of our little procession was unmarred all the way back to the official carriage.

Backed by Lawrence and Thompson, Churchill climbed up to the vestibule platform to receive the town’s farewells. The train whistle tooted. The locomotive began to pull. A company of Arab horsemen raced the train and stayed beside it for nearly a mile before we drew away.

From Gaza on, our progress to Jerusalem was repeatedly interrupted by crowds that choked the railroad tracks. Sometimes civic delegations wished to present a petition to “Shershill.” Sometimes mounted Bedouin simply wanted to lay their eyes on the great men who rode the train. Everywhere Lawrence was greeted with the enthusiasm we had witnessed in Gaza, and in the days that followed, he was welcomed “home” by tribal leaders, high and low, and by absolute rulers of remote lands with names like Zakho and Jeziret ibn Omar. Grand or humble, when they arrived, their affection and respect for Lawrence were plain to see.

So I am inclined to accept their reckoning of the man. They knew “Aurens.” Mr. Aldington and later historians did not.

With the window glass gone, we had the creosote-scented breeze in our faces, dust and cinders flying into our eyes. The gentlemen urged Clementine and me to sit with our backs to the engine, but I declined. I wanted to see what we were headed toward and didn’t mind the soot.

Naturally I missed Rosie and wondered how she and Karl were doing. It was unquestionably wise to have left her in Cairo, but she would have loved the trip to Jerusalem—apart from the riot, of course. I could easily imagine her stretching up from my lap to face the wind—ears flying, nose to the world as we steamed through dun-colored desert valleys dotted by long black Bedouin tents, crisscrossed with military roads, and knobby with the tumbled fragments of ancient masonry. Everywhere I looked I saw broken columns and walls, or the curving hint of a small amphitheater, or ruined mud-brick huts, or the crumbling tower of a castle. And in between each shard of civilization: sheep, and scrub, and stones, stones, stones.

It was well into the evening when we crossed the plain that has been the high road of conquest for five thousand years, whether “Egypt struck from the south or some cauldron boiled over in the north,” as Jeremiah put it. And there at last was the Mount of Olives, glorified by the lingering brilliance of a golden sunset, its own purple shadows veiling hills that rose and retreated, height upon blue height.

Only a few years before, Kaiser Wilhelm had confidently expected to win his own rung on Palestine’s long ladder of absentee emperors. In anticipation of that day, he had caused his eastern imperial palace to be built on Olivet. The war, however, hadn’t gone his way after all, and now the kaiser’s royal residence was called simply Government House, where the British civil administration of Palestine was lodged in Teutonic splendor.

Young Britons, smartly uniformed, snapped to attention as we passed beneath the imperial eagle of Germany carved into the main gateway to the palace grounds. Inside was a courtyard, open to the platinum moonlight but surrounded by roof gardens that would give it shade in the next day’s sun.

We were ushered past the door of one vast, ornate room, and our attention was directed to a sign, in German and on gold, proclaiming it “The Kaiser’s Bedroom.” Across the hallway, and only slightly smaller, was “The Kaiserin’s Bedroom.” Those accommodations were reserved for such honored guests as Winston and Clementine, but I was shown to a lovely room, small and beautifully appointed. There I rejoiced to find a telegram placed on the night table in anticipation of my arrival.

ROSIE MISSES YOU STOP BEARING UP BRAVELY STOP LOTS OF WALKS AND SAUSAGE STOP K STOP

Smiling, I washed the grit of travel away, and smiling still, I gratefully received supper on a silver tray, delivered to my room by a nice young man. After di