Seven Days in a Small War

(10 of 11)
Sidon. It is hard to tell ancient ruins from modern ruins. The historian, Eli, does not mind seeing damaged stones: "Children, yes." Dan, an artist in civilian life, says that he could never paint any of this. His hair is totally gray, but he looks younger than Eli. He rarely speaks. In the dust beside a crushed house, a 1-mil coin marked PALESTINE and dated 1942 is found. When it was used as currency, the whole world was at war. One wonders who preserved the coin in Sidon.

Above the city, on a high hill, stands a ten-story | statue of the Virgin holding the baby Jesus. A metal halo is riveted over the Virgin's head. One can enter the monument at the base and climb up inside it. Dan hesitates at the top because the protective wall has been shot away. This was a recent P.L.O. position. An antiaircraft gun was set up there. Below the Virgin, the Israeli army mills. "I hate war," says Dan, out of the blue.

In Tyre at last, inquiries are made at Israeli headquarters whether anyone knows where Colonel Azmi's family might be. The commander suggests that the Greek bishop would have some information; it is believed that Azmi's wife and son Samer lived with the bishop for a time after the colonel was reported killed. The bishop says no; he thinks that Mrs. Azmi stayed with a Roman Catholic priest for a while. It is so. The priest says that she and Samer lived with him two weeks, but that they left two days ago to stay with friends. He provides an address.

The apartment house is in a shady alley. Two women come to the door and appear friendly but apprehensive. Yes, Samer and Mrs. Azmi were there in the building, but they are gone now. They have moved to a town outside the city, which they name. Later it is discovered that there is no such town on the map.

An Israeli captain suggests the probable: "You will never find the boy. First, no one is absolutely sure that Azmi is dead. The burned body they discovered was only assumed to be his. So the woman will be waiting for him, and she will want to stay clear of strangers. Second, her husband was a well-known leader. She probably fears for her life. You would be looking for the kid forever."

Still, one pokes around Tyre a little while longer, peering foolishly into the faces of four-year-olds.

There is one last place to see: the roof of the bunker where Samer and Colonel Azmi were encountered last September. At the time, this roof was a room, an office, with straw walls, a straw roof, furniture and people. Over there stood the colonel's Swedish modern desk, disproportionately large and stylish. Red fake-leather chairs were positioned with their backs to the walls on two sides of the office. On them sat a dozen of the colonel's men—his inner circle perhaps. None spoke but the colonel, though all nodded approvingly at his harangue.

He never let up for a minute. It was America that brought on all this trouble. It was America that gave help to the Nazi Begin. America the warmonger . . . while the peaceful P.L.O. sought only to regain the land that was rightfully theirs, and so forth. He was a first-class haranguer, the colonel. He had the eyes for it and the fists. He could thrust his body forward like a cannon or draw back his chest in open innocence, a gesture embellished with a why-me? look. Just when you thought he was vulnerable to the point of