An Imperfect Lens (28 page)

The chief rabbi arrived at the British consulate with the five men at his side. They had formed an ad hoc committee for justice. As the British consulate understood, they represented a formidable strength, in numbers and influence in the Alexandrian community. What they wanted was not so very difficult to arrange. The city, so recently recovered from riot and war, was in need of peace. The British were most anxious not to upset vast numbers of the populace. They understood that Alexandria could be ruled only gently, with wiles rather than whips. They did not want to inflame the Jews. These Jews had friends across the city. But they could not set a precedent of toleration for spies. It was agreed that Dr. Malina and his wife and daughter were to be immediately deported to a destination of their own choosing outside the British Empire, and that their son, under surveillance in Jerusalem, would be sent to them in one piece in due time. The rabbi would have preferred the charges to be dropped entirely and Dr. Abraham Malina, a beloved and respected man of medicine, restored to his work, but he was a realist. The arrangement he had negotiated was the best possible under the circumstances. It involved no public trials that would inevitably stir up feeling against the Jews who had lived among the populace for so many years. It involved no hangings, no executions, no newspaper reports. No word of treason in Alexandria would threaten Jewish communities in the Alsace. It was better this way.

14

DR. MALINA WAS being held in a cell in the British compound. He was chained to a chair. He could tell from the light that came from the small window far above his head that the hours were passing. He used the chamber pot and then placed it as far from his body as he could. There was a small chair in the room, but no bed, no blanket. He had been interviewed once already. He had denied the charges. He was not a spy, he was a doctor who practiced both at his home and at the European Hospital. He was held in high regard by his colleagues. He was a member of the Committee of Public Safety. He was, it was true, a Jew, a fact he did not deny, would never deny, but, he thought, irrelevant to the charges. This will be cleared up momentarily, he thought. This is a mistake that will be corrected. Certain of his innocence, he was certain that his freedom would be returned to him soon. He had only to be patient, to wait for the matter to be straightened out.

Despite his determined optimism, he understood that the reasonable world could disappear in an instant, and in the courts of the English who were the rulers here, an Egyptian man might be thrown on the dust heap as if he were worth no more than a chicken in the marketplace, his feathers plucked, his innards discarded, and an Egyptian Jew was in an even more precarious position. There were heavy footsteps in the hall. He heard the approach of a guard before he saw him, and for an instant he was afraid he would be shot or his throat cut right there. But the soldier simply opened the door, observed his prisoner, and shut it. As the day continued, he was brought some murky water, which he would not drink, and through the little window the heat came, and with it the flies and other insects attracted to the darker places. He allowed himself a few moments of profound sorrow. “Have pity on me,” he called to the universe in a silent meditation that was perhaps a prayer and perhaps a little boy’s wish. He rocked back and forth on his heels, overcome by a deep dread for the future of his family. What would become of his wife and daughter if he were no longer here to protect them? And then, out of exhaustion, he fell asleep on the hard chair.

THE PLANS WERE made in haste. They were facilitated by the authorities. The assistant rabbi himself went to the ship and booked the passage. The departure was set for the day after next. The lawyer Florent and the chief rabbi both were brought to the prison, where, in a small room with a scratched wooden desk, all was explained to Dr. Malina.

“My medical instruments?” he said.

“If you can pack them in two bags, you can take them,” said the lawyer.

“I have done nothing against the British Crown,” said the doctor. There were dark circles under his eyes. His beard was unkempt. His legs were weak. He needed water, his throat was parched. His bald spot seemed to have increased during the day of his incarceration.

“I know,” sighed Florent.

“We don’t doubt you,” said the chief rabbi. “But so far the papers have not printed the story. These things, you know, they can bring trouble to the whole community. We need to keep the peace.”

“At my expense,” said Dr. Malina.

“Ah,” sighed the rabbi.

“It is the only way to save you,” said the lawyer. “And your son,” he added.

“But my house, my money, my bond papers, my rugs, my chairs.”

“It’s a small price to pay for your life,” said the lawyer. “Your wife has agreed. You will sail the day after tomorrow at dawn on the
Romulus.
You will dock in Trieste and travel by train to Freiburg. Your wife says you have relatives there.”

Dr. Malina said nothing. They would begin again as paupers. He turned to the rabbi. “Is there no alternative?”

The rabbi shook his head.

“I do not know,” he said, “if I have the strength.”

“You do,” said the rabbi. “For the sake of your wife and daughter.”

Florent said, “I’m sure they need good doctors in Freiburg.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Malina, “they will welcome me with open arms.” His tongue was bitter. His heart was bitter. His anger was great.

“You are still a young man,” said the chief rabbi. “God will protect you.”

The prisoner shrugged. The rabbi had no sense of irony. Dr. Malina understood that he had no choice. His future had been decided.

“You will stay here for two nights and then you will be escorted to the boat as soon as dawn breaks on the following morning,” said the lawyer.

“In chains?” said Dr. Malina.

“They will remove the chains,” said the chief rabbi, “I will see to that.” Abraham Malina was returned to his cell to pass his last two nights in Alexandria, a city his family had lived in for over three hundred years, in solitude.

ESTE WAS SITTING in the drawing room as still as a rabbit on the path hearing a strange rustling from a nearby bush, when her mother rushed up the stairs. She embraced her daughter. “Pack,” she said to her. “We are leaving the day after tomorrow. Everything must fit into two bags for each of us.”

“Papa?” asked Este.

“Papa will meet us on the ship. We board the ship at dawn.” Lydia was composed. There were no tears in her eyes.

“Hurry,” she said, “we must take what we can.” Lydia explained to Este that false charges had been brought against the family. They had no choice. “Be brave,” she said to her daughter.

Este was not afraid. She believed that in all the confusion it would be possible for Louis to marry her, for her to live in Paris. She believed that in the midst of this calamity, providence had done her a favor. The soldiers guarding the drawing room moved back. It had been agreed the women could take what they needed. As Este rushed about her room, picking up those things that she loved the most, the red skirt, the yellow blouse, the necessities, and folding them as flat as possible into a bag, she considered how to tell Louis where to find her. There was so little time. Lydia opened the safe and lined her suitcases with bank statements as well as the funds that she had tucked under her chemises, saved for a special purpose, that would now be needed. She took her sewing kit and sewed the gold coins that Abraham had collected in a cigar box into the hem of her dress. She went in the kitchen and brought Este some of the soup that remained from the night before, that night when they had no idea, when everything seemed normal, as if it would continue forever, the sounds of the muezzin, the cries of the donkey boys, the midday heat, the smell of the sea when the dawn came.

Lydia moved about her house, the house she was about to leave behind forever, with determination, with speed. She packed a small drawing of her mother in a jade frame. She left the frame behind. She packed the necessities for Abraham, his favorite tie, his best shirt, the jacket with the ivory buttons. She packed Jacob’s letters. She packed his commendation from school for excellent work in Greek. She would wear her pearls and her earrings, and she hid her gold bracelet in a handkerchief. “What will become of you in Freiburg?” she said, looking at her daughter.

“Don’t worry, mother,” said Este. “I will be fine, wherever we are.”

“We will need coats in Freiburg,” said Lydia. “Heavy wool coats with fur collars.”

“I have always wanted to see snow,” said Este.

“How lucky, then,” said Lydia, “that we are going north.”

“I can’t wait to see Paris,” said Este.

“Maybe if we are settled, we can take a trip to Paris in the spring,” said Lydia.

“Sooner, I think,” said Este. But Lydia was not paying attention.

Later, Lydia sat down on her bed. Exhaustion had come over her. “I need to say good-bye to my sister. She will tell my friends so they do not think we left without a thought of them,” she said. She rushed to her table to find her stationery to write to her oldest friend. In her mind she made a list of those they would be leaving. The list was long. She couldn’t find writing paper in the disorder of the room. It was still light outside. This day seemed endless and yet too short. “Este, maybe the soldiers will let you out. Go to the neighbors, tell them we are leaving. Tell them we have done no wrong. Go to my sister now, and tell her we sail the day after tomorrow and will go to Freiburg.”

Este hugged her mother, who felt frail in her arms. She had dark circles under her eyes. She was not crying, but Este could feel that the tears would come soon.

She did not tell her mother that she had already sent the maid to her aunt’s. She had to tell Louis where to find her. She went downstairs with her shawl on, ready to leave for the hospital. The two Egyptian policemen at the door stopped her. “Mademoiselle, you cannot go out,” one said. The other put his hand on her arm in a way that was not polite, had in it a hint of contempt. His hand rubbed her arm in a way that alarmed her.

“Go back upstairs,” said the first officer.

“This is my house,” said Este. “You are my guests.” This made the second soldier laugh, a not very pleasant laugh.

Este retreated back up the stairs. How was she going to tell Louis that they were going to board a ship and leave Alexandria so suddenly? Would he come to the house? Would he try to find her tonight or tomorrow while she was still there? Why were the soldiers holding her and her mother in their own house? What were they afraid might happen? What nonsense. As she returned to her mother in the drawing room, she stepped into her father’s study. She picked several of his medical books and carried them to her bag. She unpacked her clothes and replaced them with his books. She made several trips up and down the stairs until she was satisfied that almost everything her father would want was in her bags. She sat down and opened a book. She stared at the drawings of the human body that were marked with Latin names.

AS THE DUSK settled in, the lamps of the cafés were lit, and the tide was high. On the promenade you could hear the waves as they splashed across the jetty. Louis, who had waited impatiently to hear from Este, walked to the Malina house. The door was now shut. There was a dim light in the drawing room. The curtains were still down, casting a strange shadow across the window frame. A man’s figure came to the terrace and then retreated. Louis knocked on the door. It was pulled open suddenly by a British soldier. Behind him stood two men from the Egyptian police force. “I am here to see Dr. Malina,” Louis said.

The men did not open the door wider or invite him in. A British soldier appeared suddenly. He spoke to him in English. “Go away. You cannot enter.”

Louis understood. “I need to see Madame Malina, important business from the French mission,” he said in French.

The soldier shook his head. He didn’t speak or want to speak this language. Between the men’s shoulders, Louis saw that papers, pictures, and lamps remained in disarray on the floor. “Whatever you are looking for,” he said, “you will not find.” The soldier looked blank. “I must insist you let me in. I will return with the French consul if you refuse me.”

The Egyptian policeman translated for the soldier. “He wants to come in.”

“Can’t,” came the reply.

“This is not possible,” said Louis, who then shouted up the staircase, “Este, Este, come down.”

She heard him and came to the top of the stairs. Another policeman pulled her roughly back into the drawing room. The door closed. Louis pounded on it again and again. At last the Egyptian soldier who spoke French opened the door. “Monsieur,” he said, “you are not able to see anyone in this house. Go home before you, too, are arrested.”

There was no possibility of telling Dr. Malina of his desire to marry his daughter if they wouldn’t let him into the house. He went back to the laboratory and reported his failure to his friends. Roux suggested that they do indeed go immediately to the French consul. Edmond changed his shirt to a clean one he kept hanging in the back of the laboratory. “We are Pasteur’s representatives,” he said. “The ambassador will call for help. We’ll force the door open. How dare they treat French citizens this way? They’ll regret it.”

Louis was silent. How could this be, and what was it that had happened? How could an innocent man be taken away, suddenly, in the middle of the day? He knew that Dr. Malina was innocent because Este was innocent, and he knew that as strongly as he knew anything in the world, the names of the known chemicals, the reactions of hydrogen to oxygen, the earth moving around the sun. As they stood in the street waiting for a cab, the smell of hashish floated by, hung for a moment, a heavy perfume in the air. Roux put his arm around Louis as if to steady his friend, who was not so much unsteady as stunned. This was a puzzle that he could not begin to unravel.

The French consul was dining out, the Frenchmen were informed. His wife was at home, but would not see visitors. Where was the consul dining? “I cannot say,” said a servant.

“You must not say,” said a man who suddenly appeared at the doorway and introduced himself as the consul’s secretary. “Make an appointment,” the man added in a less-than-friendly tone.

Roux explained that the three were the scientists with the French mission and needed to speak to the consul urgently.