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Show 208 of the Old City. At the end of the street I waited for the steamy traffic, then crossed with the turbaned and yamikahed"rai>d indeterminate crowd. Together we made our way up the steps and through Damascus Gate and into the early-morning carnival: the barker at the newspaper kiosk calling out the headlines in a dozen languages, deals being struck over watches and razor blades and travelers' checks, cripples and beggars and policemen watching it all from the walls. The further I traveled into the Old City the noisier and more congested it became. The narrow cobbled streets constricted and became covered, smells replaced signs, and across the Via Dolorosa I waited in line with veiled women and Israeli soldiers to buy hot bread. A little further on, at the fruit market, I would fight to pay for a banana. Everywhere the air was thick with smoke. My last stop was a confectionary on "The Street of the Chain." Unlike the other shops this one was never crowded (who buys candy at a quarter to seven in the morning?), and a bell tinkled when I opened the door; out of the back came a small weary man to hold up his hand above the counter and say in careful Yiddish-accented English, "I know, you wish to buy from me a Hershey bar." It cost more than the bread and the banana together but there was no bargaining here; I paid the old man's price and left without Shalom, the bell softly tinkling, the sun filtering through the cracks between the buildings. One last turn and I was on the steps leading down to the vast open courtyard cleared by Israeli bulldozers. At the bottom I |