City of the Sun Page 6

  Around the corner was the Jewish community center with a line of people running more than two blocks in front. They were a sad and bedraggled group—mothers with babies, crying children, elderly men, and whole families, dragging along their piles of suitcases and knapsacks. From the babble of languages, it was clear to Mickey that they were from all over the Mediterranean basin and beyond. They all had the same resigned and weary look, knowing this would not be the end of their troubles.

  So these are the “displaced,” he thought, imagining the horror of fleeing one’s home without knowing when you might return, if ever. It made him think of a photo he’d seen, of Polish Jews lined up at a train station waiting to be taken to the Warsaw Ghetto, a place closed to the outside world. It had been buried on page sixteen of the New York Times, whose owner was Jewish.

  Mickey headed straight to the front of the line and squeezed inside the center. The lobby was swarming with people, their clatter reverberating off the walls. A husky, cross-eyed security man blocked his path—they were too busy to talk to a reporter, but Mickey was able to convince him that a “well-placed” article in the Foreign Service Journal could attract financial support from American Jewish groups. The man relented and asked him to wait.

  A few minutes later, a jovial man with a receding hairline and a bulging stomach that was perfectly framed by the black suspenders he wore over his collarless shirt came out to meet him. He introduced himself as Jacques Antebie, head of the Refugees Aid Program and undersecretary of B’nai B’rith, the umbrella organization for all their charities. He said that though they usually did not like to attract publicity, he was pleased that their relief efforts were of interest to their friends in America. He took Mickey’s elbow and led him away.

  As they made their way through a maze of hallways to his office, the man proudly explained how they had established over a hundred relief centers in the city, not only for Jews, but for all those in need. “Mitzvahs. Charity is ingrained in us, monsieur,” he said.

  “Do you keep a record of all the refugees you house?” Mickey asked as they rounded a corner into a long corridor.

  “We try to, but it’s a struggle to keep it up to date.”

  Mickey decided to plunge ahead. “I’m trying to get in touch with a man who would be very helpful for my story. I think his ordeal will resonate with the high-powered readers of this journal. Would you be able to check the name Erik Blumenthal for me?”

  “Blumenthal?” Jacques exclaimed. “That’s an Ashkenazi name.”

  “Ashkenazi?” Mickey asked.

  Jacques stopped and raised his eyebrows. “In America you’ve got a lot of Jews with names like Goldman, Steinberg, Rosenthal. All Europeans, mostly Russian, German, or Polish. Those are the Ashkenazi Jews and they speak Yiddish, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here we have Spanish- and North African-sounding names like Messiquas, Farghalis, Salamas. Those are the Sephardim. Like me,” Jacques said, the side of his thin lips curling into an indulgent smile. “Many of us still speak Ladino, the ancient language of our ancestors in Spain before we were expelled in 1492.” He waved his finger and added, “Not to confuse you, but Levi and Cohen are common names in both groups.” He resumed his march to his office. “And where is this Mr. Blumenthal from, exactly, if I may ask?”

  “Germany,” Mickey answered. “He recently arrived from Istanbul. Perhaps he wants to settle here.”

  “That would be very unusual,” Jacques said. “German Jews generally don’t like it here. We have very, very few of them in Cairo.” He made a gesture with his thumb and index finger emphasizing how few. “Maybe it’s our sun. I’ve been in charge of our refugee program for the last seven years and I don’t think we’ve had any German refugees since a small number arrived in Port Said in ’38. They were in transit to Palestine. We gave them food and clothing and some medical supplies. Anyhow, I’d be happy to check this fellow’s name against our lists.”

  “Palestine?” Mickey repeated. “Could you help me get in touch with one of the Zionist organizations here?”

  “We don’t have any,” Jacques said. “Why should we? Egyptian Jews are not interested in a Jewish homeland. We are very happy here. This way, please.”

  When they reached Jacques’s office, a lanky young man was leaving, a pile of documents in his arms and the look of a deer in distress on his face. Jacques introduced him as his aide, George Zétoun, and explained the situation to him.

  “Blumenthal,” the man remarked. “A Schlekht?”

  “What’s a Schlekht?” Mickey asked.

  “I’m sorry. It’s not a very nice name for the Ashkenazim,” Jacques interceded. “It means ‘disgusting’ in Yiddish. The Ashkenazim are very different from us, I’m afraid.”

  “Different good or different bad?” Mickey asked, directing his question at Zétoun.

  “Well, not very good,” Zétoun confessed, his ears reddening, apparently uncomfortable with his own prejudice. “They have different customs. We think they don’t have much … how can I say? Savoir-faire? Manners? You should watch them eat. Even the educated ones, they will always be peasant stock. If my sister brought one home it would be as bad as marrying a gentile.”

  “But we should not generalize, should we?” Jacques said. “Come, can I offer you some tea?”

  Mickey absentmindedly nodded yes. His mind was stuck on the words “peasant stock,” which was just how Detroit’s longtime Irish residents described newer immigrants.

  No wonder there wasn’t much of a German Jewish community here: They were not very welcome. So what was Blumenthal doing here?

  Mickey spent the next few days traipsing through the refugee shelters set up by the Jewish community center on the long list Jacques Antebie had given him. He must have visited at least thirty of them. So far, nothing had panned out, and he wished he had better news to give Dorothy. He jumped out of the tram, flustered and cursing the unpredictable Cairo traffic. He was half an hour late for his meeting with Dorothy and rushed to the Shepheard’s Hotel on the grand avenue of Ibrahim Pasha Street. He hoped she had waited for him. He quickly perused the patrons on the hotel’s renowned white wicker terrace, but Dorothy was nowhere to be seen, so he raced up the stairs to the lobby, two at a time, pushed his way through the massive oak door, and hurried into the Moorish Hall.

  Covered by an enormous colored glass dome that was supported by tall lotus pillars like those found in the ancient Egyptian temples, and adorned with imposing palm trees over white marble floors which contrasted with the rich burgundy wall panels, the Moorish hall was the heart of the hotel. Women in stylish hats conversed quietly with men in uniforms on overstuffed, quilted chairs around small octagonal wood tables. It was all so tasteful, but best of all, it was marvelously cool here. He could see why some argued that the Shepheard’s rivaled the pyramids as Cairo’s most famous landmark. The colonial den had accommodated some of the most famous names in history and many heads of state during its hundred years of existence.

  Searching for Dorothy, Mickey walked across the hall to its very end, from which swept up a magnificent staircase, flanked by tall ebony caryatids. She wasn’t there either. His gaze turned to the adjacent saloon doors of the Long Bar from which raucous laughter could be heard, but he knew the bar was off-limits to women. Straightening his rumpled bottle green blazer and smoothing his hair, he inquired at reception and was told that Miss Calley had phoned in with a message that she was running late. Perfect. He had a few minutes to collect himself and returned to the Moorish Hall.

  “This is the only table available at this time, sir,” offered the maître d’, impeccably dressed in a black suit with a white handkerchief peeking from his vest pocket. He showed him to a banquette next to a young woman engrossed in a newspaper, her chin propped up on one hand. Without bothering to look up, she slid an inch away.

  “Sorry, miss,” Mickey said as he sat down next to her and asked the maître d’ to have the waiter bring him a Stella beer. As he spo
ke, the girl turned to him and stared as if surprised to find him there. Their eyes locked for a few awkward seconds. He wasn’t quite sure what color her eyes were. They could be blue, or green, or even violet, but they were light and alive, yet at the same time contemplative, almost somber. He sensed some troubling uneasiness in them.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  The girl blushed slightly and shook her head before turning her attention back to her paper. He studied her for an instant. Though her hair was pulled back in a matronly bun with a few rebellious strands hanging loose, and she wore no trace of makeup except for the faint rose color on her full lips, she was a stunner. Especially appealing was the smoothness of her complexion and her milky pale bare arms. While some men could not see beyond breasts or legs, Mickey was a skin man.

  The girl suddenly turned toward him again and gave him a cursory smile before folding the paper and fetching a book from her purse. She seemed nervous as she crossed and uncrossed her legs before opening her book.

  Mickey looked away. He had business to do and felt agitated himself. He took out the community center’s refugee shelters list and thumbed through it. It was as thick as a book and of course did not include the Red Cross, the Red Crescent, or dozens of other makeshift aid organizations that had mushroomed all over the city. Hotels, schools, synagogues, mosques, churches, retirement homes, hospitals, and even brothels had been turned into relief centers. And not just for the Jews; it seemed that all of Europe was flocking here. All he could do was to approach the search in a systematic way, and he started marking off the places he’d visited today, scribbling notes about each while he still remembered.

  As he wrote, he noticed that the girl was sneaking sidelong glances at him. With her hands crossed over her lap and her shoulders hunched over, there was nothing in her body movements that could be construed as flirtatious. She had put down her book and was looking at the newspaper’s society section. She seemed restless.

  The waiter walked over and carefully placed Mickey’s beer on the table. “A Stella for monsieur. And you, mademoiselle? Another citron pressé?”

  The girl sat up straight and answered in perfectly accented French. “Non, un verre de champagne, s’il vous plaît.”

  “It’s bad luck to drink champagne alone,” Mickey said. He raised his beer and took a swig directly from the bottle.

  “Cheers,” she said, raising her hand as if she were holding a glass.

  “I’m glad to see your mood has brightened,” he said. “When I first walked in and saw you reading the paper, I thought you were going to cry.”

  “It’s the war,” she said, “but since nobody around here seems to notice it, I’ve decided to forget about it too, at least for an hour.”

  There was something going on behind her pretty face. He put his pen down. “I can’t figure it out,” he said, turning toward her. “When I first arrived in Cairo, I wasn’t sure what I was witnessing. Good God! The wolf, or let’s say the Desert Fox, is practically at their door, yet they refuse to acknowledge it. They just bury their heads in the sand.” He passed his fingers through his hair to push a lock away from his eyes and extended his hand. “I’m Mickey Connolly. I’m a reporter for the Detroit Free Press.”

  “I’m Maya,” she said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you. Are you writing about the war?”

  “I was,” he said, “but like you, I’m taking a break from it. Censorship is making real reporting impossible. Not that I want to put a frown on your face, but the truth is that the situation is ten times worse than they’re letting on. Not surprising, since the High Command wouldn’t know how to fight their way out of a paper bag. But never mind, you and I are celebrating now, and everything is just dandy.” He raised his beer bottle in a toast and saw a trace of a smile at the corners of her lips.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” he offered.

  “You do look American!” she teased.

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  “To America!” She raised the flute of champagne that the waiter had just brought.

  He clicked her glass with his bottle and took a generous swig while she sipped her champagne, but he caught her grimacing at the taste.

  “So … what’s the latest scandal in Cairo’s society?” He pointed to the paper.

  She laughed apologetically. “It seems that husband-hunting is every girl’s obsession right now.”

  Mickey leaned in closer and read out loud. “‘Lucette Sapriel, Denise Harari, Mimi Wissa, Yvette Zarb. These ladies have now been transformed into Mrs. Makepeace, Mrs. Guysales, Mrs. Spider, and Lady Toplofty.’ Wow, the most coveted prize these days appears to be a British officer. Oh, shucks,” he snapped his fingers. “Guess I’m out of the running.”

  She smiled again, her eyes revealing a hidden glow. He noticed how perfectly her cheekbones were carved. “Do you have a cigarette, by any chance?” she asked.

  Mickey patted his jacket pocket. Empty. “I’m out,” he said. “Gave ’em away. Professional hazard. It seems everyone loves American cigs around here.”

  “I’m curious, Mr. Connolly, why would someone leave the comfort and safety of America to come here in these dangerous times?” She put her elbow on the table and held her chin in the palm of her hand, looking right at him and waiting for his answer.

  “It’s not really that interesting,” he said, polishing off the last of his beer.

  “Tell me.”

  “Another beer and champagne,” he called to the waiter. “No, make that two champagnes.”

  “Tell me,” she repeated, looking at him expectantly.

  Their eyes locked for a long moment.

  “Well, if you really want to know,” he finally said, leaning a little closer to her. “Before joining the Detroit Free Press I worked at another paper for four years, writing obituaries and whatnot,” he offered. “I realized it would take another ten years to get high enough on the ladder to be allowed to do anything meaty enough to write home about. By then I would be one of those sad men with a big belly and graying hair, wondering who stole his life. So I quit and here I am. Anything else you’d like to know, miss?”

  “I’ll work up a list!” she laughed. “I have to warn you, I’m a very curious girl. I even thought about becoming a journalist myself at one time, though it would have been easier had I been born a man.”

  “Now, that would have been a shame!” He flashed his best grin. “But there are women journalists, you know.”

  “Women here don’t really work—that is, if they want to find a husband,” she said, accepting the fresh glass of champagne the waiter had brought.

  “Are you looking for a husband?”

  “Not me! I wouldn’t know what to do with one! Cheers!” She took a good sip.

  “I gather you’re not from around here. French?”

  “Almost. I’m from Syria, a French colony. And you, if you’re not writing about the war, what are you writing about?” she asked in the same breath, indicating the notebook he’d been working on.

  “I’m doing a story on the Jewish community in Egypt that I think our readers back home would find interesting. We have a large Jewish population in Detroit, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” she said, lowering her eyes. “And what are you going to say about the Jews here?”

  “That they have it pretty good,” he casually said. “Compared to the Jews in Europe, I’d say that the North African Jews are in pretty good shape.”

  “I see,” she challenged, “and what exactly do you know about the situation of the Jews in Algeria or Tunisia or Morocco?”

  “Well, I said compared to Europe,” Mickey said defensively. He thought he was just making an innocent comment. “I know from the massacre of Jews in Iraq last June that things are bad for them there, but—”

  “Iraq is not part of North Africa,” she cut him off. “Are you aware that the French colonies in North Africa are implementing Vichy’s policies, only ten time
s worse? They are all Pétain’s cohorts,” she said with disgust. “We’re not just talking about work restrictions and confiscation of property. Do you know that three hundred Algerian Jews have been placed in labor camps for opposing the establishment of a Judenrat, and more than five hundred have been sent to concentration camps in the south of the country?”

  “What do you mean by concentration camps?”

  “I mean they are being interned. Put behind barbed wire. Families broken up. Mothers crying, children lost. In Tunisia, Jews are forced to live under the same rules, and they have heavy financial penalties. In Morocco, the German army has turned synagogues into military storerooms. Why don’t you write about that?”

  He was taken aback by the look she gave him. “I’m really focusing on the Jews of Egypt, and—”

  “But you just made a casual generalization about the Jews in North Africa that was entirely incorrect,” she interrupted again. “You can’t say such things in your article.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound glib, but the focus of my article is how the Jews here, in Egypt, are thriving. They’ve become an integral part of the infrastructure of this country. The government would never hand them over to the Germans like the other countries did.”

  “That’s your American optimism,” she said, straightening her posture. “I’d love to continue this conversation, but I’ve got to run. I’m sorry to have been so adamant. It’s just that so little of this is covered by the press, and you in particular are in a position to …”