Page 111 - Jewish Book Annual Volume 18

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F
i n e m a n
— H
e n r i e t t a
S
z o l d
a s
W
r it e r
9 9
me. Besides, I was sufficiently influenced by the prevailing
mood, still hanging over Jerusalem since the pogrom days,
to want to propitiate any Arab I met.
He rose at once, again kissed my hand while I protested
I was an American, and was about to withdraw, when I
stopped him and told him I too had a favor to ask: 1 had
not seen the Mosque of Omar, would he show it to me?
He wrote his name on my card, and it was agreed I'd come
on a Sunday. His face was all aglow. He withdrew to the
door, turned, raised his hand to his lips and his forehead,
and disappeared.
Not for a moment had he been anything but my peer—
not a trace of the suppliant.
This was written at the end of a hard day’s work, by a woman
of sixty. “What a pity,” she wrote in her diary, “that I can’t live
hard and write hard, too . . . ” She still had another quarter
century of hard living to do. What a pity she did not take the
time, toward the end, to write her autobiography, the inner
story of that valiant life. It would have been a great human
document, and great literature.