Odette summoned her husband, but by the time he arrived, Alice Cattaui Pasha was dead. Mr. Harari began reading the Hebrew prayers of mourning, the Psalms and supplications the pasha’s wife had known only too well, since she had been reciting them from that day in 1908 when she had lost the child of her heart, Indji.
At last I found Edith and the pasha’s wife, though it took another journey to another city, another continent, to commune with a branch of the Cattauis. In the spring of 1969, Stephane Cattaui, the pasha’s grandson, married a young Harvard-educated woman named Maria Livanos. The lavish wedding in New York recalled the Cattaui opulence of old. Guests flew in from Europe, and the bride wore a tiara from which flowed a twenty-foot train. The tiara sat on Maria’s head, affixed with a turquoise pharaonic-era bracelet first worn by the pasha’s wife in Egypt in 1922 at the opening of King Tut’s tomb. The bracelet had been a gift of Fouad, the sultan and ruler of Egypt who was about to become king.
Maria came from a family with its own fabled past—a distinguished Greek shipping dynasty—but as she listened to her husband’s lyrical stories of Cairo, she realized that she had to find a way to preserve the memory of the Cattauis. She began to systematically organize the thousands of photographs, documents, letters, newspaper clippings, and mementos the Cattauis had taken hurriedly out of Egypt and stashed pell-mell in cartons and boxes. She put together photo albums and sorted through the treasures retrieved from Villa Cattaui—sets of old china, silverware, gold-rimmed glassware bearing the distinctive Cattaui initials, even odd pieces of jewelry, like the diamond-and-ruby-studded pin Alice Cattaui Pasha had worn as lady-in-waiting to Queen Nazli.
After Stephane became ill and died, the task of preserving the Cattaui legacy was left entirely to Maria.
Yes, she told me, when we first spoke by telephone—she knew all about the pasha’s wife and Indji, about the pasha and his library.
Would I like to come see for myself?
The invitation was irresistible: At last, I would find the Cattauis. I was going to learn about the library and the key and all that Edith had held dear. Within weeks, I had arranged to fly to Switzerland and to Maria Cattaui’s residence.
The handsome chalet nestled in a village overlooking Lake Geneva seemed an improbable place for a memorial to a noble Egyptian-Jewish family, but that was in effect what Maria had created: a shrine in honor of the pasha and his wife.
Here were the delicate monogrammed dishes and gold-rimmed plates and cups and saucers and glasses and sets of silverware that Alice had used to serve the visiting dignitaries who had gathered week after week at Villa Cattaui. There in the foyer was the bust of old Yussef Cattaui Pasha. On the wall were illustrations of the various Cattaui palaces, one more shimmering and dreamlike than the next, and all bearing wonderfully exotic addresses—Shoubra, Khas al Dubara—addresses that conjured up a life of pleasure and absolute luxury, of all-night soirees with members of the royal family. In the albums were newspaper clippings along with photos going back to the nineteenth century—of young Cattaui and of Alice before she was even married, and then looking so formidable as lady-in-waiting standing next to the pasha, or attending functions with Queen Nazli.
And there were the dozens of portraits of Indji—Indji as a child, Indji as a pampered little girl, Indji as a young woman in white holding a rose. Even out of Egypt, the Cattauis had remained obsessed with her and had sought to preserve her memory.
As I wandered through the house, browsing at the statuettes and objets d’art taken from Cairo, I suddenly noticed the lock—the massive wrought-iron lock. It was embedded in a large glass door that led to the living room. I thought: how strange that the Cattauis had chosen to take a lock with them out of Egypt, along with their most precious possessions.
I imagined the Cattauis in their final days in Egypt, packing whatever seemed important and necessary. But then, at the last minute, someone had decided this lock was also indispensable, and they’d taken the trouble of having it removed from the heavy wooden door where it was ensconced, unable to stand the thought of leaving it behind.
Seeing it made me tremble: Was this the lock to the pasha’s library? Where was the key?
There had indeed been a key once upon a time, my hostess informed me. Maria vividly remembered an ornate fantastical key that had accompanied the lock from Cairo. She had seen it and held it in her hand. But it was lost; it had been missing for years.
And then, it was as if the Messiah had come. Surely, he must have been there, in that corner of Maria Cattaui’s chalet, when I spotted it—the library, the pasha’s library. Mom’s seemingly mythical haven was real and situated in this house overlooking the Mont Blanc. There were all the books—the books that she had loved, the books that she had borrowed, the books that she may have helped acquire, the books that were the apogee of her arrogant years, because after them nothing much had mattered.
The contents of the original Bibliothèque Cattaui, many of the sixty thousand volumes Yussef Cattaui had collected over his life, had largely been sold or auctioned off, and yet—miraculously—hundreds upon hundreds, even thousands, of his collection of first edition, leather-bound volumes had been saved, rescued from the library in Cairo, transported to Switzerland, and brought here to be lovingly arranged and displayed by Maria on shelves that seemed to reach from the earth to the sky.
Here were the collected works of the Goncourt brothers and Flaubert, of Zola and Guy de Maupassant and Proust’s Swann’s Way. There was the collected poetry of Gerard de Nerval and the plays of Molière. The Temptation of Saint Anthony. Germinie Lacerteux. Victor Hugo’s L’Art D’Être Grandpère—The Art of Being a Grandfather. The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.
As I fingered each volume, I felt a need to remove them from the shelf and hold them. I kept asking myself: Was this a book Edith had purchased for the pasha’s library? Was this a novel she had selected? Had she leafed through this collection? Had she enjoyed that anthology? Brushing over the soft leather jackets, I felt as if I were touching my mother’s hand, exactly as I had as a little girl, when she would not let me go, she would not let me go.
· BIBLIOGRAPHY ·
Books: Fiction and Nonfiction
Aldridge, James. Cairo: Biography of a City. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1969.
Benin, Joel. The Dispersal of Egypt’s Jewry. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004.
Cattaui, Georges, ed. Marcel Proust: Documents Iconographiques. Preface and notes by Georges Cattaui. Geneva: Pierre Cailler, 1956.
Cooper, Artemis. Cairo in the War, 1939–1945. London: Penguin Books, 1989.
Hughes, Pennethorne. While Shepheard’s Watched. London: Chatto & Windus, 1949.
Lababidi, Lesley. Cairo’s Street Stories: Exploring the City’s Statues, Squares, Bridges, Gardens, and Sidewalk Cafes. Cairo: American University Press, 2008.
Lambert, Phyllis, ed. Fortifications and the Synagogue: The Fortress of Babylon and the Ben Ezra Synagogue, Cairo. Montreal: Canadian Centre for Architecture, 1994.
Mahfouz, Naguib. Palace Walk. Translated by William Maynard Hutchins and Olive E. Kenny. New York: Anchor Books, 1990.
Miller, Avigdor. Rejoice Oh Youth: An Integrated Jewish Ideology. Union City, NJ: Gross Brothers Printing, 1962.
Mostyn, Trevor. Egypt’s Belle Epoque: Cairo and the Age of the Hedonists. London: Tauris Park Paperbacks, 2006.
Sacks, Oliver. The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. New York: Touchstone Books, 1970.
Salinger, J. D. Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction. Boston: Back Bay Books, 1955.
———. Franny and Zooey. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1955.
Schmitt, Eric-Emmanuel. Monsieur Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Koran. New York: Other Press, 2003.
Sinoue, Gilbert. Le Colonel et l’Enfant Roi: Memoires d’Egypte. Paris: Editions Jean-Claude Barres, 2006.
Stadiem, William. Too Rich—The High Life and Tragic Death of King Farouk. New York: Carroll & G
raff Publishers, 1991.
Sutton, David. Aleppo: City of Scholars. New York: Mezorah Publications, 2005.
Sutton, Joseph. Aleppo Chronicles: The Story of the Unique Sephardim of the Ancient Near East; In Their Own Words. New York: Thayer, Jacoby, 1988.
Newspapers, Magazines, and Websites
Associated Press. “Shepheard’s Hotel Is Reported Ruined—Americans, Escaping Through Mob, Tell of a Flaming Up, Possibly from Grenade.” New York Times, January 27, 1952.
Daniel, Clifton. “Farouk Asserts his Kingship.” New York Times, February 17, 1952.
Kaufman, Michael. “Two At Columbia Indicted in Sale of Cocaine.” New York Times, December 2, 1973.
Oudiz, Albert. “L’Ecole de Mon Enfance: Moise de Cattaoui Pacha, Souvenirs d’une Enfance Studieuse et Heureuse.” [The School of My Childhood: Moise Cattaui Pasha, Remembrances of a Studious and Happy Youth]. Reproduced on HSJE (Historical Society of Jews from Egypt).
Raafat, Samir. “Dynasty: The House of Yaccoub Cattaui.” Egyptian Mail, April 2, 1994.
Sabato, Rabbi Haim. “Our Exodus from Egypt, 1957 Version.” Hamodia Story Supplement, Passover 2007. Hamodia: The Daily Newspaper for Torah Jewry.
Archival Material
The Black Record: Nasser’s Persecution of Egyptian Jewry. American Jewish Congress, 1957, New York.
· ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ·
As readers of my first memoir The Man in the White Sharkskin Suit learned, illness has shadowed me since I was a child, and early on I came to appreciate what the French call the bon docteur, that marvelous creature who knows how to diagnose and treat a malady and uses instinct as much as scientific knowledge in the way that he or she approaches a patient. The idea for The Arrogant Years came in part from my encounters with such physicians. In recent years, both my husband and I faced the threat of major illness, and in my case doctors constantly talked about sequelae. Because of my bout with Hodgkin’s at age sixteen, I was told that I was still paying the price—and could expect to keep on paying. That is how I became interested in the notion of sequelae—the aftereffects of a major malady that are more subtle, that aren’t even visible and yet are still devastating.
I remain, above all, grateful to the physicians and institutions who have watched over us. The inimitable Dr. Larry Norton, a deputy physician-in-chief at Memorial Sloan-Kettering, was anxious that I work on this book, even as illness struck again and I had lost both the will and faith to do very much. Each time that I went to see Dr. Norton for a checkup, he would ask about my progress with The Arrogant Years, and he gave me the confidence I needed to apply myself to it. Dr. Monica Morrow briskly, efficiently, and with breathtaking competence took over my case so that I could work. Finally, there was John Gunn, Memorial’s chief operating officer, who has helped oversee an extraordinary institution that has been, for better and for worse, a part of me since I was sixteen. I am profoundly grateful to him for the access he offered. And, of course, Dr. Burton Lee remained a friend and medical counselor throughout my recent ordeals, exactly as he’s been since I came to know him when I was a terrified teenager faced with a shattering diagnosis in the spring of 1973. Dr. Lee has been the ultimate bon docteur, and while no longer with Memorial he is to my mind a grand and indelible piece of it.
I am so fond of all of them and the miracles they perform day and night.
I also wish to pay tribute to my husband’s doctors. The book couldn’t have been completed without my husband or his doctors. Dr. Michael Grasso, formerly of Saint Vincent’s—a truly blessed place that no longer exists—was a force of nature in attending to Feiden. Dr. Grasso applied his wondrous energy and talent to my husband’s care during a time of unspeakable darkness. I have tremendous love and regard for him. Dr. Robert Motzer, of Sloan-Kettering, graciously agreed to become his oncologist, and each appointment showed me what a careful, thoughtful bon docteur he is. Both are remarkable men and I am not sure what we would have done without them. My internist, Dr. Jerome Breslaw, has watched over me so carefully these many years, and I am indebted to him and his entire practice, including his wife and office manager, Maddy, and their assistant, Maryann Cunningham. Dr. Ronald Schwartz helped me to make this book my priority.
Two people were central to the writing and editing process: my agent, Tracy Brown, and my editor, the sublime Lee Boudreaux. Tracy was the first to recognize the importance of the story of the lost Jews of Egypt. With his guidance I embarked on one memoir, then another, telling this story of exile and loss through the framework of one troubled family—my own. I have always trusted his literary judgment and have found him to be a superb sounding board when it comes to figuring out what makes a book work.
Lee Boudreaux devoted herself tirelessly, hopelessly, and completely to editing this manuscript. I felt at times as if she understood me better than anyone I’d ever known—which I suppose is what makes her such an amazing editor. I had a sense that I was in the hands of someone who didn’t simply grasp what I was trying to say but also knew what I had failed to say, and I found her insights and her edits of the manuscript illuminating and ultimately transformative. Lee’s enthusiasm is surely one of her great gifts.
Neither The Arrogant Years nor Sharkskin would have been possible without Ecco and Daniel Halpern. Publisher, poet, and lover of the Levant, Dan has turned Ecco into a literary treasure-house. Long before the world became riveted by Egypt and events in the Middle East, Dan and his staff had recognized the region’s importance as a source and setting for literature. I must also give special credit to Abigail Holstein, the gifted associate editor who helped to shepherd both of my books; Abby is a wonder—creative as well as efficient, with a magical ability to pull a manuscript together.
Ghena Glijanski, formerly of Ecco, was both editor and psychologist extraordinaire. I am certain that I could not have written this book without her kindness, talent, encouragement, gentle counsel, sweetness, and editorial spark.
I depended on sources in many countries to research The Arrogant Years—the story that I wished to tell was in the hearts and memories of people who had been dispersed to the far corners of the Earth.
Switzerland: It was in a serene mountain village overlooking Mont Blanc that I found the magical Maria Cattaui, who proved to be so essential in helping me locate the keys to the pasha’s library—and to my mother. Maria was the kindest hostess imaginable. She welcomed me into her house and gave me access to its treasures, notably the books and photo albums of the Cattaui clan, which she had lovingly collected and preserved. She is simply a magnificent person and I was fortunate to meet her through a dear mutual friend, the late Congressman Steve Solarz. Solarz was an extraordinary supporter and well-wisher, and simply a wonderful human being, and many of us miss him terribly.
Yussef “Sousou” Makar, an old friend of the Cattaui family, was so generous with his time and ideas. He was also one of the most loving people I have ever known. He exhibited such passion, whether he was showing me the frayed, old patient roster of his late father, a top surgeon at L’Hôpital Israélite, or escorting me and my husband to dinner in Cairo’s venerable Automobile Club. He also offered fascinating insights into the community of expatriates that found its way to Geneva and Lausanne—people who had left Egypt with their fortunes, yet felt every bit as lost as my family in the world beyond Cairo.
It was also my honor and privilege to meet Ahmed Fouad II, the son of the late King Farouk. I found him to be a gentle and thoughtful person, so sad about what had happened to his beloved country. As he spoke, I kept thinking how much my father had loved his father, and what a magical place Farouk’s Egypt had been.
Israel: Thousands of Egyptian Jews found a home in Israel after they were forced to leave Egypt, and it was there that I located individuals able to help me reconstruct much of my mother’s early life. Chief among them was Sarah Naggar Halawani, who was able to direct me to my mother’s alleyway and helped me recapture the world of Sakakini and the Alley of the Pretty One, down to how the coffee
tasted in the afternoon on the balcony and how it felt when that marvelous breeze blew in from the Sahara every evening. Sarah was so generous with her memories, and so vivid in her descriptions, that I found myself brought back to Edith’s world, able to picture Mom as a beautiful young woman, proudly walking to her job as a teacher at L’École Cattaui.
Avi Nesher, the Israeli (and American) film director was a wonderful friend, encouraging me to get cracking on The Arrogant Years. I loved his passion and enthusiasm and when I was faltering, he urged me to focus on finishing. I value the friendship I have enjoyed with him and his wife, Iris; he is such a towering talent, such an extraordinary filmmaker, and I feel honored to be in his orbit.
My sister’s childhood friends, Maggy, Etty, and Eva Wahba, were invaluable to my research. Maggy Wahba was so kind to share with me her impressions of my mom. Suzette had always adored the Wahba sisters and saw them as her own family. And I came to love them, too; they gave me a window on this vanished universe we had once shared.
I found Nimet Cattaui, granddaughter to the pasha and his wife, residing in a nursing home in Ashdod. She dressed with extreme simplicity and shared a small room with another woman, but I did notice one sign of her family’s former greatness—over her small cot she had hung the photograph of Yussef and Alice Cattaui Pasha on the occasion of their fiftieth wedding anniversary in Cairo. Nimet was incredibly dignified despite her difficult circumstances. How far she had come from Villa Cattaui… Yet she managed to conduct herself with such grace. She was exceedingly kind to share with me her memories of the pasha and his wife, and that lost glittering period in old Cairo.
Rabbi Moshe Garzon, my friend Celia’s younger brother, proved extraordinary in helping me pull this book together. He was so kind and hospitable, as was his wife and family, and I have enormous affection for them.
France: I was able to interview several members of the Cattaui family in Paris. I am very grateful to Michel Alexane, Nimet’s son and the pasha’s great-grandson. It was Michel who led me to his mother in Israel and offered me insights into this magical and storied family. In charming encounters at the Café de Flor, Indjy Cattaui-Dumont, the pasha’s magisterial granddaughter who was named after the tragic and mythical Indji, offered me many colorful stories about her upbringing in Villa Cattaui.
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