City of the Sun (3 page)

Before descending the wrought iron spiral staircase to his master bedroom, he passed through the living room, which, like the rest of the boat, was decorated with crystal chandeliers and ornate Louis XIV oak furnishings with gold inlay. It was too gaudy for his taste, but houseboats were hard to come by. He was lucky to have found it, and at a reasonable price. Usually the second homes of wealthy Cairenes who charged a small fortune to rent them, dahabiehs offered an escape from the smells of the city and a respite from the suffocating heat of the summer months. They were in high demand by the Allied brass who had been pouring into Cairo since Rommel swooped into Libya last February to rescue Mussolini’s army.

For Kesner, the dahabieh, free of surrounding steel structures, was a perfect place from which to launch his radio transmissions to Tripoli, the Libyan capital, and conduct his clandestine activities in the seclusion he needed, notwithstanding the presence of British officers on houseboats nearby. Twice daily, at 9:15 and 4:15, the American Embassy radioed its secret bulletins to Washington. The Abwehr had long ago cracked America’s code, enabling him to monitor their daily exchanges of information about Allied activities and military strength. This was one of his best sources of information. Unfortunately, today he’d have to miss the morning American communiqué as he had to leave early for Alexandria. But first he needed to send a message to his contact at the Abwehr confirming that he’d received the photo of the Jew. His radio room was in the bowels of the boat and was always impossibly hot. He would shower afterward.

He drew back a velvet curtain on the far side of the bedroom, revealing a locked, reinforced wooden door that opened to a small storage room. He kept its only key on his person at all times. Once inside the room he removed the lid of a large mahogany chest that held a phonograph and pressed a hidden catch near the turntable. The top of the device lifted up, revealing a stepladder into a claustrophobic hole.

At the bottom of the ladder was a small folding chair next to a radio transmitter. He switched on a tiny lamp and shut the lid above him, sliding the iron deadbolt as a precaution. His only means of escape would be through a hatch that opened into the river. He turned on the transmitter and tapped out his message to Tripoli over several short intervals, taking care not to stay on the air too long lest his signal be picked up. He signed off, Schwarze Hund.

Ten minutes later Kesner was showered, his wet hair parted in the middle, and was buckling the wide brown belt of a Polish officer’s uniform. It was his disguise of choice whenever he left the boat, and it served him well. He’d convinced his RAF neighbor that he was a captain who, like many men of influence, was avoiding being called up. This was an easy lie to trade on—the Polish army was too disorganized to form combat units, let alone track down wayward captains. Kesner put on a black three-corner cap and fetched the photo of the Jew from his dresser. The man was in his early twenties and was smiling for his passport photo. His round nose and fat lips were dead Jewish giveaways. On the back, the words
Erik Blumenthal, Copenhagen, 1936
were written in pencil. “I’m looking forward to meeting you,
Herr
Blumenthal,” Kesner said.

CHAPTER 3

Maya exhaled as she started down the street, unsteady on her legs. She could still feel the boat rocking under her feet, but at least her stomach had settled down. She needed to unwind from what was already a very long day even though it was only a little after two in the afternoon. After passing through customs in Alexandria, she and her family had unexpectedly been whisked away to the train station and sent off to Cairo along with hundreds of other refugees. German planes had been dropping heavy bombs on Alexandria and it was no longer a safe place to stay. And now, here she was in the suburb of Heliopolis, some twenty kilometers from Cairo.

She wished she could have seen more of Alexandria. She had read so much about the city’s glorious past. Her brief impression of this onetime mecca for philosophers and writers was of a city in total chaos. The second she’d set foot there she was assaulted by a barrage of images glaring in the white light of the sun—British and Allied soldiers streaming by, men on the docks frantically loading and unloading endless crates of merchandise, and brazen street vendors risking their lives as they dodged between cars hawking their wares. The cacophony of wailing ambulance sirens, the honking of horns, the squealing of tram wheels, and the piercing incantations of the Muslim call to prayer still rang in her ears.

Not that she had seen much of Cairo either, but it seemed
that pandemonium ruled there as well, with perhaps fewer soldiers but more animals—camels, donkeys, sheep, and goats all over the streets and sidewalks. At least here in the suburbs, there was calm and quiet.

A siren suddenly screamed in the distance and she immediately felt agitated, but she calmed herself down.

“Everything is fine here,” she reminded herself but her eyes darted about all the same. Above on a balcony, a maidservant was pinning laundry to a clothesline while a large matron in the street below balanced a basket on her head as she went about her business. Across the street, two men in European suits were talking animatedly, and a boy next to them was walking his bicycle. It all seemed so very normal. She relaxed and slowed her pace, focusing her attention on the beautiful villas that peeked out from behind the lovingly tended rose gardens that bordered the street. How long had it been since she’d strolled down a pretty street in the sunshine by herself? She stopped and sniffed the air. She detected the scent of jasmine and looked around, but she couldn’t find any among the shrubbery. Just then, she heard a woman’s voice calling her name.

A girl in her late teens was running toward her, trying to steady a platter and the canister she was carrying. Maya frowned, perplexed. She had just arrived here and did not know a soul. How could the girl know her name? She figured it was a mistake and resumed her walk.

“Hoohoo, Maya!
Attendez moi
, wait up!” the girl insisted.

Maya turned and waited.

“I’m Lili. Joe and Allegra’s daughter,” the girl said, panting and breaking into a brilliant smile as she approached. “They said you went out to stretch your legs wearing a blue scarf on your head. I must have just missed you. You’re Maya, yes?”

Maya nodded as she stared at the girl. Her wavy black hair was nicely coiffed and her eyes were heavily traced with black kohl à la
Cleopatra; she was the very picture of femininity with her red dress and matching red lips and nails.

“I would hug you, but …” Lili indicated her full hands. So she leaned in and kissed Maya on the cheek. “I’m very glad you’re here. I like your name.”

Maya shrugged. “It’s short for Marianna. I hope you don’t mind sharing your room with me.”

“Not at all,” Lili laughed. “We’ll have fun together. It’ll be like having an older sister.” She flashed another dazzling smile.

“Can I help you carry …” Maya looked down at the platter, unable to identify the dish.

“It’s a cake in your honor,” Lili quickly said. “Made with honey and almond paste. It’s called
konaffa
. It’s my favorite. I’m on my way to the baker. We don’t have an oven at home. Why don’t you come with me? I just have one other errand but it won’t take long.”

“Sure,” Maya said, lifting the cake platter from the girl’s hands. She was certainly more than appreciative of what Lili’s family was doing for hers, but she was feeling so drained from her travels that she cringed at the thought of having to make conversation. And this girl seemed particularly chatty.

“How was your journey from Alexandria?” Lili asked. “It’s lucky they found you a place on the train with all the evacuations.” She linked her free arm around Maya’s.

“We’re here now. That’s what matters,” Maya said, taken aback by the girl’s instant familiarity. “I hope we won’t be taking advantage of your hospitality for too long.”

Lili stopped walking and tilted her head reproachfully as she faced Maya. “Don’t say that. We’re here to help one another.” She again linked her arm around Maya’s and resumed walking, but not before adding in a low voice: “I know everything about you, you know.” She put her index finger against her lips, indicating Maya’s secrets were safe with her.

Maya felt uncomfortable. She did not know how to respond, and how could the girl glibly say she knew
everything
about her?

“Oh Youssef,” Lili cried out as an Arab in a gray robe came out from one of the villas, his goat in tow. “The milk man. The rascal skipped our house today. I’ll be just a minute,” she promised before rushing toward the man.

Maya could overhear the two quibbling in Arabic, though it seemed that Lili was not fluent as now and then she needed to throw in a few words in French. After gesturing dramatically, the Arab kneeled down and began milking his goat into Lili’s canister.

“Now, we just need to go to the baker’s,” Lili said when she was finished. “It’s around the corner. There is a boy I like at the bank, next door to the baker’s.” She winked, then turned serious as she scrutinized Maya’s face. “Do you really have to wear a scarf? It’s not as dusty here as in Cairo, you know.” Without much ado, she set the milk pail on the ground and removed Maya’s scarf. Using her fingers, she then combed Maya’s hair forward.

How presumptuous! Maya was flabbergasted that the girl had the audacity to play with her hair.

“You’re so pretty!” Lili said, staring at Maya as one would study a work of art in progress. “Why are you hiding your face? And your hair … What color is it, exactly?”

“Brown, I guess,” Maya said, trying hard to retain her composure.

“No! It’s auburn. It has a lot of gold,” Lili declared. “So thick and soft; you’re lucky. You must squeeze some lemons into it and sit in the sun. In no time your hair will have a beautiful golden luster. I guarantee.” She started adjusting Maya’s hair again. “You know, I’m very good with hair and makeup.”

Maya shook her head free. This girl was really going too far. “Please, I’d like my scarf back.”

“Really? Scarves are for old ladies.” Lili reluctantly put it back on Maya’s head.

It dawned on Maya that Lili might actually be embarrassed to be seen with her. Did she really look that frumpy? Even so, how superficial this girl was! She couldn’t wait to return to the apartment but realized that Lili would not be able to carry both the cake and the canister full of milk. She’d have to accompany her, at least to the baker’s. As she walked, she softened—this was the least she could do.

Despite the racket of the Metro next to them, life in Heliopolis seemed to have much to recommend it. The streets were clean and exceptionally wide, and unlike Cairo, except for a few horse-drawn carriages and donkey carts, there were very few animals on the street. Here the road belonged to cars. Pedestrians had their own broad sidewalks lined with stores sporting brightly colored canopies. The signs and street names were written in French first, then in Arabic, and the buildings were tall and built in the European style, but with Islamic architectural elements, which lent them a unique charm. Lili informed her that the neighborhood boasted many restaurants and ice cream parlors, three cinemas, an amusement park, and a sporting club as good if not better than the one in Cairo. Lili was in fact an active member of the tennis team and was proud to point out that Egyptian Jews had won gold medals in fencing and canoeing at the ‘36 Olympics.

Maya admitted to having no interest in sports, but Lili still offered to take her to the sporting club. “They have a great swimming pool, and who doesn’t like swimming? Besides, you never know who you will meet there,” she said.

“The baker’s is right there,” Lili announced as they turned onto a large avenue framed with beautiful Moorish arcades that housed numerous stalls and stores. “My parents told me that both your father and mother were musicians? Do you play any instruments yourself?”

“Just the piano,” Maya answered, “and not that well.”

“You’re being modest, I can tell. I’m so impressed by anyone
who can read sheet music. I can’t even sing.” She grinned at Maya mischievously. “But I can dance! Chattanooga choo-choo!” she sang while gyrating her hips. “I’ll take you dancing. It will get your mind off …” She didn’t finish her sentence as she paused to admire a cream-colored silk nightgown with an Empire waist hanging in a store window. “I’d love that so much for my trousseau,” she said wistfully. “But I imagine I need to find my groom first.”

Maya was barely listening. Her attention was turned to the dozens of open burlap bags of spices at the shop next door. What colors! What smells! What an array! She didn’t know what half of them were. The vendor, an Arab with a white turban and a gray galabeya, the traditional Arab robe, came out and started speaking to Maya in French.

“
Mademoiselle, je peux vous aider
?” the man asked.

“Leave her alone, Tareq,” Lili warned the vendor. “She does not want anything from you.”

“
Quel dommage
! A pretty girl like her! Say hello to your mother.”