City of the Sun (8 page)

She moved away and started to unbutton her shirt. She removed her watch and placed it inside a sock under her cot, where she kept a dozen other watches. She had worn them all strapped tightly along her arms when they’d traveled and now by reflex she passed a hand along the bare skin where invariably the bands would pinch her too tightly and leave red stripes. She had pawned her mother’s fur coat for them. The watches were easier to carry and far easier to sell. She had gotten this idea from a Polish refugee in France.

As she continued undressing, she sat down on the bed.

The lovely strains of Beethoven’s
Für Elise
filtered through the ceiling as a budding pianist on the floor above diligently practiced the piece. She brought her feather pillow up to her face and inhaled the scent of its freshly laundered case. In the distance, she could hear the sounds of cars and trams. People were coming home for lunch. It all felt normal, safe, like life used to be. She felt tears rush to her eyes.

“Stop it,” she said, softly slapping her cheek. But her tears welled, ready to break into sobs. “Stop it,” she insisted and slapped her other cheek, this time harder. Crying was not an option. “Stop it, stop it, stop it,” she snapped, disgusted with herself for allowing
this moment of weakness. When she heard a light knock on the door, she sat up and composed herself.

It was Allegra with a towel. “The bath is ready,” she said with a perfunctory smile and quickly turned on her heels.

Maya impulsively seized her hand. “Thank you so very much for your hospitality, Mrs. Levi.”

The woman averted her eyes and abruptly freed her hand. She toyed nervously with the hand pendant hanging from a gold chain around her neck, an amulet against the evil eye. “Please, don’t,” Allegra pleaded and quickly moved away.

CHAPTER 7

Mickey sat at the breakfast table while the radio played softly in the background and the brilliant, buttery morning light came in through the open shutters. The sounds of shopkeepers opening their stores wafted from below. He wrote down the name Simon Cattaoui. It had popped up in several of the documents in Dorothy’s file. A senator as well as a wealthy landowner, Cattaoui had been serving as president of Cairo’s Jewish community center for the last fifteen years.

Dorothy had opened her report by claiming that the Jews probably had more influence here than anywhere else in the world. This was no overstatement. Not only did they own most of the banks and dominate a variety of businesses, from railroads to retailing to real estate, but Egyptian Jews also held important posts in government and were advisors to the king. They were abundantly represented in journalism, medicine, and law. Mickey noticed numerous
bey
and
pasha
titles on Dorothy’s list of Cairo’s wealthiest Jewish citizens, but he also found many “Sirs,” indicating that the English honored them as well.

Most of the Jewish population in the country, which totaled eighty thousand, was born here. A tiny fraction dated way back, but the majority traced their ancestry to the huge wave of immigration after the Suez Canal was built and the push for modernization began after 1869. They came mostly
from neighboring countries—Greece, Italy, Turkey, Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria, Lebanon, and Syria.

Mickey took a last bite of his toast, which was smothered with a thick layer of his favorite pomegranate marmalade, and jotted down 22 rue Magrabi—the address of the Jewish community center, which ran a highly effective system of self-government for the community and regulated a wide range of affairs that touched on virtually every aspect of Jewish civil life. As he suspected, they also conducted an extensive web of charitable activities ranging from helping the elderly to providing dowries for less fortunate Jewish girls. He found no specific formal aid structure for refugees, but an organization this powerful and far-reaching should have a hand in assisting them. Mickey would make it the first stop in his investigation.

“Monsieur Miiickey,
s’aalam alekoum!
” the building’s bawab greeted him as he came out of the elevator. The Arab was polishing one of the dozen colossal pink marble columns that decorated the foyer of the art nouveau building. He put his rag aside, wiped his hands on his light blue galabeya, and opened his arms. “You are up early. Life is good,
insha
’
Allah
.” The Arab grinned from ear to ear, his long, curly lashes framing his sparkling dark eyes.

“Life’s great, Hosni,” Mickey replied. “Just great.”

“Tsk, tsk,” the bawab reprimanded, waving his index finger.
“Kolo Kawayes.”

“
Koulo quiece
. All is well,” Mickey repeated.

“Kolo-Ka-Wayes
,
”
the bawab corrected his accent, a game they had played since his arrival. Mickey was eager to get going, but he repeated the phrase until he said it to the Arab’s satisfaction, knowing Hosni would not relent.

“Bravo, Mr. Mickey!” he finally enthused, offering him an olive
from a small dish on the desk as if rewarding a well-trained dog. Mickey popped it into his mouth. “Where are you going this glorious morning?” Hosni asked.

“The Jewish community center, and I’d better hurry,” Mickey said. “It’s near the Ismalia Synagogue, right?”

“Around the corner from it,” Hosni said. “Please give my greetings to my Jewish brothers,” he requested, bowing his head and placing a hand on his heart.

The luxurious apartment complex known as the Immobilia building where Mickey was staying was only a fifteen-minute walk from Ismail Pasha Square, the epicenter of the social and business lives of the elite. A stone’s throw from the beautiful Ezbekieh Gardens, the Ismalia Synagogue stood well within this fashionable area of town. It was the largest structure on Magrabi Street and stood next to the Turf Club, one of the most exclusive social clubs in the capital. The palm tree motifs on the synagogue’s façade evoked a mysterious and ancient Egyptian quality, and Mickey would not have known it was a Jewish temple were it not for the carving that framed the top of the imposing pink stone entry columns, where a large Jewish star was displayed. Perhaps the architect had wanted to remind the world that Moses had once been a prince of Egypt.

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?