Jerusalem: The Biography (68 page)

The Jerusalemites next found two artillery officers, who also refused the honour but offered to inform headquarters. The mayor then came upon Lieutenant-Colonel Bayley who passed the offer on to Brigadier-General C. F. Watson, commander of the 180th Brigade. He summoned Major-General John Shea, General Officer Commanding the 160th Division, who galloped up on horseback. ‘They’ve come!’ cried the mayor’s group, waiting on the steps outside the Tower of David.
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Bertha Spafford, the American Colonist, kissed the general’s stirrup. Shea accepted the surrender in the name of General Allenby, who heard the news in his tent near Jaffa where he was talking to Lawrence of Arabia. But Mayor Husseini had one surrender left.
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ALLENBY THE BULL: THE SUPREME MOMENT

The guns were still booming when General Sir Edmund Allenby rode down the Jaffa Road to the Jaffa Gate. Inside his saddlebag, he kept a book entitled
Historical Geography of the Holy Land
by George Adam Smith, a present from Lloyd George. In London, the prime minister was elated. ‘The capture of Jerusalem has made a most profound impression throughout the whole civilised world,’ he declaimed in a rodomontade a few days later. ‘The most famous city in the world, after centuries of strife and vain struggle, has fallen into the hands of the British army, never to be restored to those who so successfully held it against the embattled hosts of Christendom. The name of every hill thrills with sacred memories.’

The Foreign Office telegraphed Allenby to avoid any kaiserine grandiosity or Christ-like pretension as he entered the city: ‘STRONGLY SUGGEST DISMOUNTING!’ The general walked through the gate, accompanied by American, French and Italian legates and watched by all the patriarchs, rabbis, muftis and consuls, to be greeted by the Mayor of Jerusalem who for the seventh time surrendered the city as ‘many wept for joy’ and ‘strangers greeted and congratulated each other’.

Allenby was accompanied by Lawrence of Arabia, who had just survived the greatest trauma of his life. In late November, on a solitary recce behind enemy lines, he had been captured at Deraa in Syria by the sadistic Ottoman governor Hajim Bey who, with his myrmidons, had subjected the ‘absurdly boyish’ Englishman to a homosexual rape. Lawrence managed to escape and seemingly recover but the psychological damage was profound and, after the war, he described feeling ‘maimed, imperfect, only half-myself. Probably it had been the breaking of the spirit by that frenzied nerveshattering pain which degraded me to beast level and which had journeyed with me ever since, a fascination and terror and morbid desire.’ When he reached Aqaba after his escape, Allenby summoned him just as Jerusalem fell.

Lawrence, eschewing his Bedouin gear, borrowed a captain’s uniform for the day. ‘For me,’ he wrote in
Seven Pillars of Wisdom
, ‘my appointment in the ceremony of the Jaffa Gate’ was ‘the supreme moment of the war, the one which for historical reasons made a greater appeal than anything on earth.’ He still regarded Jerusalem as ‘a squalid town’ of ‘hotel servants’, but now he bowed to the ‘mastering spirit of the place’. Naturally, the diarist Wasif Jawhariyyeh was also watching from the crowd.

Allenby was nicknamed the Bloody Bull for his force, dignity and stature – ‘the last of the paladins’ – and even Jemal Pasha admired his ‘alertness, discretion and brains’. An a mateur naturalist, he knew‘ all there was to know about birds and beasts’ and had ‘read everything and quoted in full at dinner one of the lesser known sonnets of Rupert Brooke’. He had a cumbersome sense of humour – his horse and his pet scorpion were both named Hindenburg after the German military supremo – but even the fastidious Lawrence worshipped the ‘gigantic, red and merry’ general, who was ‘morally so great that the comprehension of our littleness came slow to him. What an idol that man was.’

Allenby climbed the steps to the platform to read his proclamation about ‘Jerusalem the Blessed’, which was then repeated in French, Arabic, Hebrew, Greek, Russian and Italian – carefully not mentioning the word that was on everyone’s mind: Crusade. But when Mayor Husseini finally handed over the city’s keys Allenby is supposed to have said: ‘The Crusades have now ended.’ The mayor and the mufti, both Husseinis, stalked off angrily. However, for the millenarian American Colonists, it was different: ‘We thought we were witnessing the triumph of the last Crusade,’ said Bertha Spafford. ‘A Christian nation had conquered Palestine!’ No one could share Lawrence’s thoughts for, as he listened to Allenby, he imagined himself a few days earlier: ‘It was strange to stand before the Tower with the Chief listening to his proclamation and to think how a few days earlier I had stood before [his rapist] Hajim.’

Allenby then marched out of the Jaffa Gate and remounted Hindenburg.
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‘Jerusalem cheered us mightily. It was impressive,’ wrote Lawrence, but the Ottomans were counter-attacking with, Lawrence noted, ‘an accompaniment of machine-gun fire with aeroplanes circling over us continually. Jerusalem has not been taken for so long nor has it ever fallen so tamely before.’ In spite of himself, he felt ‘shame-faced with triumph’.

Afterwards, recalled Lawrence, there was a luncheon at General Shea’s headquarters, which was spoiled when the French envoy Picot made a bid for France to share Jerusalem. ‘And tomorrow, my dear general,’ he told Allenby in his ‘fluting voice’, ‘I’ll take the necessary steps to set up civil government in this town.’

A silence followed. Salad, chicken mayonnaise and foie gras sandwiches hung in our wet mouths unmunched while we turned to Allenby and gaped. His face grew red, he swallowed, his chin coming forward (in the way we loved) whilst he said grimly: ‘The only authority is that of the Commander-in-Chief – MYSELF!’

Lawrence flew black to join Faisal and the Sherifian Camel Corps. The French and Italians were allowed to share guard duties at the Sepulchre, but the Church was, as always, locked and unlocked by its hereditary Nusseibeh.
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Allenby placed Indian Muslim troops on guard at the Temple Mount.

After an audience with King George V in London, the white-suited Weizmann arrived in the Holy City with his Zionist Commission, assisted by Vladimir Jabotinsky, a bombastic nationalist and sophisticated intellectual from Odessa where he had organized a Jewish militia to resist pogroms. Allenby’s advance stalled just north of Jerusalem. The Ottomans were by no means finished in Palestine, and it took him almost a year to muster his forces to relaunch his offensive, so Jerusalem was a front-line city, crowded with British and colonial troops preparing for the big push. Jabotinsky and Major James de Rothschild helped recruit a Jewish Legion to serve with them, while the Sherifians, under Lawrence and Prince Faisal, keenly awaited the opportunity to capture Damascus – and spoil French ambitions.

Jerusalem was tawdry and freezing; its population had shrunk by 30,000 since 1914 to around 55,000; many were still dying of hunger and malaria, tormented by venereal diseases (the city was patrolled by 500 teenaged Jewish prostitutes); there were 3,000 Jewish orphans. Weizmann, not unlike Lawrence, was astonished by the squalor: ‘anything done to desecrate and defile the sacred has been done. It’s impossible to imagine so much falsehood and blasphemy.’ But, like Montefiore and Rothschild before him, he now twice tried to buy the Western Wall for £70,000 from the mufti. The money would pay for the rehousing of the Maghrebi Quarter. The Maghrebis were interested but the Husseinis prevented any deal.

Jerusalem’s deputy police chief, the assistant provost marshal, newly appointed by Allenby, was a great-nephew of Montefiore who would have been appointed chief if he had not been Jewish. ‘There is a great prevalence of venereal disease in the Jerusalem Area,’ reported Major Geoffrey Sebag-Montefiore, who deployed guards around the Holy Places. He raided bawdy houses, which were usually full of Australian soldiers, and had to waste much of his time investigating cases where soldiers were accused of sleeping with local girls. ‘The brothels in Jerusalem are still giving considerable trouble,’ he informed Allenby in June 1918. He moved them into an allotted area, the Wazzah, which made policing easier. In October he wrote, ‘there’s been trouble keeping Australians out of brothels. A squadron now provide a picquet [patrol] for the Wazzah.’ Major Sebag-Montefiore’s reports usually read: ‘Venereal Disease is rampant. Otherwise nothing of note to report.’

Among the cafés at the Jaffa Gate, Arabs and Jews debated the future of Palestine: there was a capacious breadth of opinions on both sides. On the Jewish side, this extended from the ultra-Orthodox who despised sacrilegious Zionism, via those who envisaged Jewish colonies fully integrated across an Arab-ruled Middle East, to extreme nationalists who wanted an armed Hebrew state ruling a submissive Arab minority. Arab opinion varied from nationalists and Islamicist fundamentalists who wanted Jewish immigrants expelled, to democratic liberals who welcomed Jewish aid in building an Arab state. Arab intellectuals discussed whether Palestine was part of Syria or Egypt. During the war, a young Jerusalemite called Ihsan Turjman wrote that ‘The Egyptian Khedive should be joint king of Palestine and the Hejaz,’ yet Khalil Sakakini noted that ‘the idea of joining Palestine to Syria is spreading powerfully’. Ragheb Nashashibi founded the Literary Society, demanding union with Syria; the Husseinis set up the Arab Club. Both were hostile to the Balfour Declaration.

On 20 December 1917, Sir Ronald Storrs arrived as military governor of Jerusalem – or, as he put it, ‘the equivalent of Pontius Pilate’.
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ORIENTAL STORRS: BENEFICENT DESPOT

In the lobby of the Fast Hotel, Storrs bumped into his predecessor, General Barton, in his dressing-gown: ‘The only tolerable places in Jerusalem are bath and bed,’ declared Barton. Storrs, who favoured white suits and flamboyant buttonholes, found ‘Jerusalem on starvation rations’ and remarked that ‘the Jews have as usual cornered the small change.’ He was enthused by his ‘great adventure’ in Jerusalem which ‘stands alone among the cities of the world’, yet like many Protestants he disliked the theatricality of the Church
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and regarded the Temple Mount as a ‘glorified union of the Piazza San Marco and the Great Court of Trinity [College, Cambridge].’ Storrs felt he was born to rule Jerusalem: ‘To be able by a word written or even spoken to right wrong, to forbid desecration, to promote ability and goodwill is to wield the power of Aristotle’s Beneficent Despot.’

Storrs was not the average Colonial Office bureaucrat. This imperial peacock was a vicar’s son and Cambridge classicist with ‘a surprisingly cosmopolitan outlook – for an Englishman’. His friend Lawrence, who despised most officials, described him as ‘the most brilliant Englishman in the Near East, and subtly efficient, despite his diversion of energy in love of music and letters, of sculpture, painting, of whatever was beautiful in the world’s fruit’. He remembered hearing Storrs discuss the merits of Wagner and Debussy in Arabic, German and French, but his ‘intolerant brain rarely stooped to conquer’. In Egypt, his catty barbs and serpentine intrigues earned him the nickname Oriental Storrs after Cairo’s most dishonest shop. This unusual military governor set about restoring battered Jerusalem, through a motley staff that included:

a cashier from a bank in Rangoon, an actor-manager, 2 assistants from Thomas Cook, a picture-dealer, an army-coach, a clown, a land-valuer, a bosun from the Niger, a Glasgow distiller, an organist, an Alexandria cotton-broker, an architect, a junior London postal official, a taxi driver from Egypt, 2 schoolmasters, and a missionary.

In just a few months, Storrs founded the Pro-Jerusalem Society, funded by the Armenian arms-dealer Sir Basil Zaharoff and the American millionaires, Mrs Andrew Carnegie and J. P. Morgan Jr. Its aims were to prevent Jerusalem becoming ‘a second-rate Baltimore’.

No one was more delighted than Storrs by the titles, costumes and colours of the city. He initially became friends not only with the Husseinis
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but also with Weizmann and even Jabotinsky. Storrs thought there was ‘no more gallant officer, no one more charming and cultivated’ than Jabotinsky. Weizmann agreed that Jabotinsky was ‘utterly unJewish in manner and deportment, rather ugly, immensely attractive, well spoken, theatrically chivalresque, with a certain knightliness’.

Yet Storrs found Zionist tactics ‘a nightmare, reflecting the Turkish proverb: “The non-crying child gets no milk”.’ The Zionists soon suspected that he was unsympathetic. Many Britons despised Jabotinsky and the Russian Jews swaggering around Jerusalem in paramilitary khaki belts, and considered the Balfour Declaration unworkable. A sympathetic British general handed Weizmann a book – the Zionist leader’s first encounter with the
Protocols of the Elders of Zion
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– ‘You’ll find it in the haversack of a great many British officers here and they believe it,’ warned the general. Not yet exposed as a forgery, the
Protocols
was at its most plausible, with Britain backing Zionism and Bolshevik Russia apparently dominated by Jewish commissars.

Storrs was ‘much more subtle’, observed Weizmann. ‘He was everyone’s friend.’ But the governor protested that he was being ‘pogrommed’ and that these obstreperous ‘samovar Zionists’ had nothing in common with Disraeli. When the governor told the prime minister about Arab and Jewish complaints, Lloyd George snapped, ‘Well, if either one side stops complaining, you’ll be dismissed.’