Dreamers of the Day

by Mary Doria Russell

  Smelling of cigar, Winston gazed over my shoulder. “I’d heard,” he said, awestruck, “but if I hadn’t seen it myself…”

  “And if the war had continued another year?” Sir Herbert suggested quietly, just behind me.

  “He might have ruled the East,” Winston agreed. “By 1919, that little man could have marched to Constantinople with all Arabia at his back.”

  Outside, Lawrence stepped down onto the platform. The crowd fell silent again and moved back, to make a space for him. Somewhere in the distance, we heard a goat bleat. A child at the edge of the crowd piped a request and was lifted onto his father’s shoulders. When Lawrence turned, the crunch of coarse sand beneath his sandals was audible. He held out one hand toward us, his face serene and eyes seraphic. “Come along,” he said, twitching his fingers in invitation. Casual as could be.

  We looked to Thompson, who shook his head but shrugged helplessly, then nodded. One by one, we descended the three steps and followed Lawrence in the eerie quiet as the crowd made way for us. Many reached out to touch him, murmuring “Aurens!” as he passed.

  Across the square, the door of the ramshackle public hall swung open to reveal a gathering of tribal chieftains and municipal officials, sweating and perfumed. A great cheer went up when Lawrence was glimpsed through the battered entrance of this jerry-made building, but he stepped aside, deferentially waving Winston and Sir Herbert ahead with a low sweep of his hooded arm. Clementine and I followed; with a slight movement of his eyes, nothing more, Lawrence reminded us to remain at the back of the room. Thompson took up his post just outside, looking as though he just dared the crowd to start something. And there he stayed, formidable and unmoving, as Lawrence had instructed.

  I don’t really remember much of what Winston said in that meeting hall. My eyes were on Lawrence, who contrived to make himself a wren again, even in his resplendent robes. Standing to one side and a bit behind, eyes downcast, he repeated Churchill’s speech first in Arabic and then in fluent French—the real stuff, not Thompson’s kind—when someone in the audience requested it.

  This done, he conveyed the concerns and comments of the gathered dignitaries. No matter what they asked or said, Winston produced nicely phrased political pleasantries, and though the meeting took the better part of two hours, he uttered nothing of substance. What, after all, could he say that was both honest and unlikely to spark renewed passion?

  In the back of that stifling room, yearning for fresher air and somewhere to sit, I suddenly realized that, though Winston held their national aspirations in his own pudgy hands, this might have been the first time he’d met with any Arabs. As far as I knew, not a single individual who actually lived in the region had attended the Cairo Conference, even as an observer. Last week, in private, Winston and his Forty Thieves had sealed the fate of everyone here and of generations to come. Public meetings like these were just for show.

  In Versailles and in Cairo, I think it’s fair to say, Lawrence did his best to represent the people of the Middle East, but he was just one man, with conflicting loyalties at that. His self-imposed mission was to balance internal imperial interests with international politics, and both of those with the expectations of millions who themselves had competing interests. Arabs, Lebanese, and Djebel Druses. Syrians, Kurds, and Armenians. Native-born Jews and European settlers. Turks, Persians, and Mesopotamians. Egyptians, Palestinians, and a thousand Bedouin tribes. All of these, and more, wanted something that usually involved taking land from someone else.

  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 beginning to notice increased when the door was opened just long enough for Thompson to lean inside. He made a sign to Lawrence with a finger drawn across his throat and jerked a thumb toward the train. Lawrence lifted his chin. The next ten minutes were devoted to flowery farewells, during which time competing chants developed in the town square. Free at last to leave, we gathered our things and converged on the doorway, but Thompson held us inside, closing the door behind him. The mood outside had turned ugly again, he reported. Fights had broken out. Some Palestinian policemen had arrived on the scene, but their presence seemed to have made things worse.

  “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 beginning to dominate. Cut their throats! Cut their throats! Cut their throats!

  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. Ev
erywhere 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 dinner I got into bed and read the telegram over and over, smiling all the while.

  I awoke full of energy, ready to see the city in daylight. I would be on my own while we were in Jerusalem. Lawrence and the other gentlemen were busy with matters of state, of course, and Clementine gracefully made it understood that she had no interest in accompanying me on my explorations. Mumma might have taken this as a snub but truth be told, it was fine with me. After nearly two weeks of continuous company, no matter how beloved or remarkable, it would be nice to have a few days when I answered only to my personal desires for rest or meals or walks.

  “Don’t bother hiring a guide,” Lawrence advised at breakfast. “Since the war ended, Jerusalem has filled up with American and English tourists,” he added, which was just what Karl had said about Cairo. “You’ll overhear as much as you can bear.”

  And I had, in fact, brought along my own guide: my sister Lillian’s spirit. Before I left my room, I’d reread several of her honeymoon letters, telling of her walk along the zigzag path of the Via Dolorosa to the Holy Sepulchre. Here, in Jerusalem, my sister’s faith had been strengthened and confirmed as she and Douglas—newlywed and much in love—retraced the Savior’s path. I meant to follow in Lillie’s footsteps as she had followed those of Jesus. In so doing, I hoped to find a ford through the river of carping questions that lay between my sin of pride and my sister’s shadowless belief.

  I’ve told you so much, so I shall confess to you as well that when I was still teaching and lived in Little Italy among my Catholic students, I often envied them their Roman rituals. Conducted as they were in a dead language, such ceremonies could invite a mood of awe while concealing the logical fault lines and scriptural inconsistencies that blared out at me when worshipping in English. Perhaps if Latin chants had crowded out my questions, I’d have found it easier to move away from the mundane and toward the glory of God’s presence. Yet Lillian sat at my side during the services we attended, and she was never troubled by the sermons that made me want to argue. Even as a child, she could always quote a bit of Scripture to settle any question I had. As a grown woman, intelligent and knowledgeable, she devoted her life to the Gospel. Lillian had no need of Latin obfuscation to shelter her from doubt.

  As the sun rose, I stood at the gate beneath the kaiser’s eagle, wearing my navy sport suit and my sturdiest shoes. Bethany was close by, a village on the southeastern slope of Olivet. There, Jesus visited his friends Mary and Martha, and raised their brother Lazarus from the dead, and cured Simon the Leper, but I would explore the town on another day. My destination that first morning was the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which everyone agreed should be seen in eastern light.

  There was, however, an additional consideration dictating an early start. You see, the shrine itself was held in joint tenancy by Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholic, Armenian, and Coptic Christians, but the influence of the Prince of Peace had proved insufficient to facilitate development of an orderly schedule. Between ten A.M. and three P.M. each day, clergy of each sect vied to make their processions to all the holy places within its confines. These events sometimes overlapped acrimoniously. Over the centuries, civil authorities had found it necessary to post guards there to referee the fistfights. I’d already experienced as many riots as I cared to attend, thanks all the same, and meant to get to the church by eight.

  There are three ways down the Mount of Olives. I chose the most direct—a natural continuation of the Jericho Road and an easy two-mile walk downhill to the city. This was said to be the very path upon which our Lord traveled during his triumphal entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, and it was easy to picture the two vast crowds of people on that morning nearly nineteen hundred years earlier. One had streamed out of the city to meet Him, moving upward with shouts of “Hosannah!” The other had assembled in Bethany the previous night and now poured down the hill, ready to testify to the great miracle at Lazarus’s grave. Halfway down, the two streams of jubilant followers met and became one, shouting, “Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!”

  When Jesus traveled this path, the people carpeted His way with rush mats and palm branches; the road I strode was broad, well paved, and suitable for automobiles. For a short stretch, it descended into a slight declivity and all vistas were lost. I leaned into the hill, climbed to reach a smooth ledge, attained it, and then—Jerusalem! The whole city burst into view, its yellow limestone gleaming in the dawn. Sunday school dioramas and pious paintings made its most prominent features familiar. The Tower of Hippicus, the onion domes of Saint Mary Magdalene, the Mosque of Omar, the crenellated walls, the great city gates…

  I know I should have wept to see it, or thought of some sublime psalm, but really? “It’s so small!” I blurted, then looked around to see if anyone had heard me.

  No one was nearby, but no one would have been surprised, for mine was hardly a n
ovel reaction. Even Lillian, I recalled, had felt a bit disappointed upon her first sight of the Holy City. “Its size is much less than the importance our imaginations have bestowed upon it,” she wrote. “The entire city would fit comfortably within the municipal limits of a small Ohio town.”

  Seen from the Mount of Olives, Jerusalem appeared to have no streets at all. Rather, it seemed a compact mass, nearly solid from center to edge. On more careful inspection, thin lines of shadow delineated individual buildings, every one of which was topped with as many as six circular stone knobs, low and broad and painted white. Add the famous and impressive domes, as well as those of less prominent mosques and churches, and the overall effect was that of an enormous mushroom colony.

  Of course, there is a difference between a tourist and a pilgrim: one comes to see the sights, the other comes to visit sites. A tourist takes in the Grand Canyon, the Eiffel Tower, Niagara Falls. Nothing particularly important happened in those places; the wonderment is visual. Pilgrims travel to Jerusalem because they wish to stand in the very place where the Deity stayed Father Abraham’s hand from his sacrifice of Isaac; where Kings David and Solomon ruled; where the Savior walked and died and rose; whence the Prophet rode his mighty steed to heaven. I had come here as a pilgrim, not a tourist, so I shook off my dismay and walked with renewed fervor toward Saint Stephen’s Gate, joining the morning throngs that converged on every passage into the city.

  Before we could pass within the walls, we were greeted by the usual beggars crying, “Baksheesh!” As Lillie wrote in 1906, “Millennia of history have left one thing at least unchanged, and that is the misery of lepers.” Dozens of them sat propped against the stone wall that morning, and a more distressing spectacle cannot be conceived. Before medical science discovered a treatment, lepers quite literally fell to pieces. Limb after limb broke down, becoming shapeless first, then lost altogether. Faces could become so knotted with lumpish lesions as to resemble a bunch of grapes; in some poor wretches, the features were scarcely discernible.