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He let me consider this until I could admit I’d understood his point: “Then maybe the next army won’t destroy it.”
The corners of his long mouth turned up, but the real smile was in those tired eyes, already lined at thirty-two. “The present city has survived six hundred years,” he said. “That’s the longest stretch on record.”
The morning after that conversation in the courtyard, I rose from the wreckage of my illusions and returned to Jerusalem. I was determined to experience the city with the tolerance Lawrence demonstrated to me, and even now, I am glad I accepted his challenge.
On second sight, the Via Dolorosa did indeed seem sanctified—if not by the footsteps of the Savior then by those of generations of pilgrims who, according to their many faiths, strove to follow in the way of their Lord.
I returned as well to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. That Jesus rose, I dared not doubt; that He did so there, I could not believe. Even so, decoration that had seemed tawdry and preposterous the day before now charmed me as exuberantly imaginative. Instead of pointless gee-gaws, I saw the devotion of long-dead craftsmen. I did not even begrudge the modern laborers the hashish that made their employment merry.
No longer driven from the city by my own outrage, I slowed down enough to visit the Garden Tomb, a quiet and unadorned sepulchre hewn from the living rock some 250 yards north of the Damascus Gate. This was the true site of Calvary and the Tomb, according to some. I withheld judgment, but found the place conducive to and worthy of contemplation. Like Saint Thomas’s, my doubts withstood more evidence than my sister’s happy faith had required. Still, standing there where someone—if not Jesus—had met eternity, I was able to admire those who had not seen and yet believed.
If my mood improved after that second day, poor Sergeant Thompson’s patience was stretched thi
Our isolation allowed the sergeant a chance to vent his frustration to a sympathetic ear, for my ambling explorations were in stark contrast to those of Mr. Churchill’s breathless ministerial tour. Sometimes accompanied by his wife, usually interpreted by Lawrence, always guarded by Thompson, Winston was being quick-marched through a series of receptions and ceremonies. His agreed-upon schedule was punctuated by sudden demands for additional appearances and speeches, which Sir Herbert urged him to make and which Thompson argued against without success.
“I’m never given any notice of a change in plans,” the sergeant complained. “There’s no opportunity to inspect the site. Even when I have matters in hand, he’ll hare off on his own.”
Churchill might begin his duties with a public event: laying a wreath at a military cemetery or visiting some dignitary or other. Next he would attend a series of private talks with Arab or Jewish factions, during which he hoped to allay the fears of the former while encouraging settlements by the latter. You can imagine the tension, walking that sort of diplomatic tightrope. Often, while walking between venues, Winston would veer away to get a better look at something that had caught his painter’s fancy. Thompson tried valiantly to keep him in sight, but within seconds his charge might suddenly turn and disappear down an alley, leaving his bodyguard nothing to do but dash after him and fume.
You might think it easy to keep an eye on a person as resplendently British as Churchill in Jerusalem, but that small city teemed with humanity of all kinds. Shrouded Arab women, white-turbaned Muslim mullahs, Greek priests, Italian monks, and robed Bedouin in kuffiehs joined fashionable French tourists, ragged water carriers, shouting street vendors, store owners, British soldiers, American businessmen, and earnest pilgrims—all these milling amid the beggars, the lepers, and the blind crying, “Baksheesh!”
And the streets through which all these people shuffled and pushed and shopped were so narrow! Once I saw a small boy hop across a lane from one second-story window to another; without much effort, he could have doubled the leap and not risked a fall to the pavement. In Thompson’s eyes, every building concealed a sniper and every alley an ambush that would take Churchill’s life. “I will never get that man back to England alive!” he said despairingly.
Though Winston’s wanderlust was a constant worry, my own caused no one such distress. After exploring the nooks and cra
I turned off on the Jericho Road—the way by which David (may have) fled from Absalom—and walked through fields scrubby with thistle but fragrant with wild garlic, thyme, and mint. When I reached the base of the Mount of Olives, I looked back from the place where Titus (assuredly) massed the Tenth Roman Legion for his assault on Jerusalem, and where Flavius Josephus found the words of Lamentations tragically apt:
How solitary doth the city sit, that was so full of people!
How she is become as a widow!
She who was great among the nations,
and a princess among the provinces,
How she has become a tributary,
and weepeth sore in the night.
Sobered, I was in the right frame of mind to visit the Garden of Gethsemane, on the western slope of Olivet. This hillside orchard had escaped the repetitious razing and rebuilding that buried old Jerusalem beneath so much rubble. Of all the places mentioned in the New Testament, it is thought to be the most likely to have been visited by Jesus. It was certainly visited by my sister, Lillian.
Within the garden walls, behind an iron fence, grew eight olive trees of undoubted antiquity. The circumference of their trunks approached thirty-five feet, and after thousands of seasons their branches were fantastically twisted. While I visited, smiling brown-robed Franciscan monks escorted visitors to the (genuine) bedrock where the disciples (might have) slept and to the spot where Judas (reportedly) gave the kiss of betrayal.
In the middle of the garden, however, I was astonished to come across a modern tomb with a wholly unexpected inscription: “Adeline Whelan from Washington was buried here in 18 75 .” Seeing my surprise, a young monk explained. “That good lady paid to have a well dug and a fountain built. The well supplies water to moisten this holy ground so that we may cultivate flowers.” And as I was leaving, an elderly Franciscan handed me a bouquet, along with some leaves from the ancient olive trees. The leaves I later carried home to Ohio as a remembrance of his faith, if not my own.
From Gethsemane, I walked onward to Bethany. In my time, the town was an unexceptional huddle of dust-ridden houses surrounded by the blue-flowered borage that carpets Mount Olivet. Was this truly where Martha did housework while Mary sat at the feet of Jesus? I have no idea, but I was glad that the Gospels recorded that homely scene. After walking through sand and pebbles, over cobbles, and up stone stairs, I could appreciate how soothing and refreshing it would have been when a woman bathed the Lord’s feet and anointed them with balm. It put me in mind of the way Mrs. Motta ministered to me when I was ill, and I blessed the memory of her kindness.