One of the great surprises of the last couple of years was hearing from members of the Dana clan. My grandmother Alexandra’s family, the Danas of Alexandria and Cairo, had been largely unknown to me. Rachel Dana, whose father, Edgar, was Alexandra’s brother, proved to be a remarkable resource. She had vivid memories of my grandmother and how excited she was when Edith became engaged to a wealthy, handsome older man, my father, Leon.
I had a wonderful encounter with Odette Harari, who had worked as the companion to the pasha’s wife in her later years. Mrs. Harari provided extraordinary insights into the character of this grand lady who had so haunted my mother. I found Mrs. Harari’s memories of Madame Cattaui blind and alone in Villa Cattaui simply haunting. I am so grateful to her son David Harari for helping to arrange a meeting between me and his mom. They helped so much with this book.
Milan: I have depended on the memories of my remarkable cousin Salomone Silvera for both memoirs. Salomone had re-created the world of my father on Malaka Nazli Street for Sharkskin, and he gladly shared with me the glimpses he had of my mother arriving at the house as a timid and frightened young bride, who was clearly not used to my dad’s ways. My memoirs have brought me closer to Salomone and his wife, Sally, who sadly passed away as I worked on this book. I am also indebted to Davide Silvera, his youngest son, who was such a delight and who shares my intense interest in our family’s quirky history. Enrico Picciotto, Salomone’s friend who also spent the War in Egypt, was able to share delightful stories of those years when the Nazis had taken over Italy, and he and his family had found a safe haven in Cairo. My most enjoyable research was done at fine Milanese restaurants in the company of Salomone and Enrico.
London: In the course of one magical evening at the Wolseley, Sir Ronald Cohen offered thoughtful insights into the Egypt of the Fouad era that helped shape my research into The Arrogant Years. I so enjoyed getting to know him and his wife, Sharon Harel, and delighted in their vivacity and intellectual spark. Sir Cohen, of course, is the Egyptian-Jewish expat extraordinaire, and it was touching to see how connected he remains to our shared heritage. I also benefited from the help of their friends Guy Naggar and his wife, Marion. Ronald’s and Guy’s thoughts about Fouad persuaded me that Egypt in the 1920s and 1930s had been an even more liberal and tolerant society than it was under King Farouk. Their sweetness and encouragement gave me the confidence to proceed with my undertaking.
Cairo: One of my most important accomplishments of recent years is that I have made friends, true friends, in Egypt, and in the process I have reclaimed, bit by bit, corners of my parents’ beloved city. I would like to cite Hind Wassef, owner of the Diwan bookstore, perhaps my favorite destination in Cairo. I have never felt as heady or fulfilled as when I have spoken at Diwan, and I consider its owner one of Egypt’s most gracious and promising citizens. I am also indebted to Samir Raafat, one of Cairo’s most eloquent, thoughtful, and charming intellectuals. I cherish my bond with Samir: He is surely one of the most knowledgeable people on this vanished Egypt I love so much, and his research has simply been breathtaking.
I am grateful to America’s former ambassadors to Egypt, Francis Ricciardone and Margaret Scobey. Mr. Ricciardone helped open the doors for me in Egypt. And I shall never forget the gracious evening that Ambassador Scobey arranged for me at the Embassy, where I met people who would prove invaluable as I pursued my research for The Arrogant Years.
Professor Yoram Meital, of Ben-Gurion University, was a wonderful resource in explaining the Fouad era to me. As we sat in the courtyard of the Marriott Zamalek sipping drinks and enjoying the pleasant surroundings, Professor Meital, an expert on Egyptian Jewry who was visiting from Israel, shared with me stories of Hoda Shaarawi and made me understand how pivotal the episode when she tore off her veil had been in transforming modern Egypt. I realized that for a brief, exhilarating period in the 1920s and 1930s Egypt had been a place of tolerance and progressive ideals for women and men both. These values were, of course, crushed by the Revolution of 1956 and decades of rule by the generals, and now, sadly, the veil has returned to Egypt.
Abdel-Hamed Osman, a young Egyptian with deep ties to the Jewish community, took me personally around Sakakini. Together, we found my mother’s alleyway, surely one of the most moving experiences I have ever had. He was so gentle and understanding that I was reminded of what my family always missed the most about Egypt: the loving kindness, the intense humanity. Finally, I have been so touched by Carmen Weinstein, the indefatigable head of Cairo’s dwindling Jewish community. Ms. Weinstein has continued to work so hard to preserve whatever she can of Jewish culture in Egypt. Her work getting Egypt to refurbish and, in effect, rebuild the venerable Maimonides Synagogue in the Jewish Quarter was a miracle worthy of Maimonides himself, as is her simple regular outreach to the remnants of our aging Jewish population.
America: George Rohr and the Jewish Book Council played a profound role in my ability to realize The Arrogant Years. In one blissful night in Jerusalem, George handed me that miraculous prize he had established in honor of his father, Sami, which enabled me to travel freely and work as I needed. I came to treasure his gentle counsel and encouragement, and he emerged as a wonderful friend. Then there was the miracle of the Jewish Book Council itself—the organization headed by Carolyn Hessel that now dominates the Jewish literary world in America. Carolyn has been my personal guardian angel. Filled with love and enthusiasm, she would not rest until I fulfilled the promise of the Rohr Prize and was well on my way to working on this companion volume. The Council—with Carol Kaufman, Naomi Firestone-Teeter, and Miri Pomerantz Dauber—functions like a family, and they became my family.
Through the Rohr Prize I have met many wonderful people who helped with this undertaking. Jonathan Sarna of Brandeis University was able to shed light on a period in my family’s history that I had always found puzzling—the mystery of my ancestors, the Laniados of Aleppo, and their embrace of the false messiah Sabbetai Tzvi. Professor Sarna offered me a new way to look at my flawed relatives of old, persuading me to be more compassionate. He is a font of knowledge and one of the nicest people on this Earth. Yossi Klein Halevi of Israel and Brooklyn told me captivating stories about being a young member of the Jewish Defense League. It was in the JDL that he met someone from my old Syrian community, a young man named Joseph Hannon; I am so grateful to Yossi. Joseph Telushkin has been such a caring and amiable force among the judges as well.
I adore Nessa Rapoport’s enthusiasm, sweetness, and terrific insights; she is a national treasure. I am also indebted to Daisy Maryles and Rela Mintz Geffen, also of the Rohr Prize judges panel, who approach their task with so much love.
I am honored to have come to know two other Rohr Prize judges: Deborah Lipstadt of Emory University, whose work continues to shake us and surprise us, and the soulful Ruth Wisse of Harvard University. Finally, I cherish my bond with Sam Freedman and Ari Goldman, both of Columbia University.
My family helped me with much of my research. César, my oldest brother, conjured up key episodes in my family’s past and was very generous in sharing with me his own memories and perceptions of our mother. His wife, Monica, culled together hundreds of family photographs taken over the years. My nieces, Caroline and Evelyn, were intensely supportive, each in their own intensely gracious way; they are very dear to me.
My sister, Suzette, was able to fill in details about my mother before I was born, including summers in Ras-el-Bar and in Alexandria; I appreciated her meticulous and detailed rendering of vacations at the Villa LaLouche. I am grateful to her and her son, Sasha, now a talented physician.
My book required me to take a journey deep into my own past, back to the women and men of the Shield of Young David, my childhood synagogue, whose name I translated as the Shield of Young David. I wish to express my regard for Marlene Ben Dayan, who once sat with me in the women’s section of our little shul in Brooklyn. I benefited from Marlene’s keen mind and terrific memory. In between cooking lessons, whe
re she taught me to prepare some favorite dishes of my childhood, it was blissful to sit in her magical kitchen near Ocean Parkway and reminisce about our shared past. Marlene and her husband, Avi Ben Dayan, were always so hospitable, and I turned to them again and again in this difficult undertaking, appreciative of their insights into the world of Syrian Jewry caught, like me, between the traditions of old Aleppo and the temptations of modern New York.
I enjoyed being reunited with one of my favorite childhood friends, Celia Weinstein née Garzon. It was wonderful to share memories with her of her mother, tender Madame Marie, and I was reminded of why my mom had so loved the Garzon family and of how she had found in Celia’s mother a haven from the brutish, new American culture that neither woman fully understood.
My cousins Rachel and Pico Hakim and their daughter, Rosette, were embracing and helped me as much as they could. They were so gracious and I love them dearly. Lily Halawani, my mom’s niece, offered valuable insights into Edith as a young girl and gave me a vivid picture of my mother’s bond with my grandmother Alexandra, conjuring the two walking arm in arm through the streets of Sakakini.
Desi Sakkal, founder of the website HSJE (Historical Society of Jews from Egypt) was wonderful as usual, answering any questions I had on the topic that, like me, he finds most interesting on this Earth—our lost Egyptian heritage.
Fortune Cohen—whom I had known as Fortuna Eddi as a young girl—was able to piece together for me the story of her late sister Gladys, whom I had loved so much in the women’s section and found so moving. I was struck by what a sober, thoughtful, and purposeful woman Fortune had grown up to be, and I was deeply appreciative of the memories she proffered about her sister, one of my favorite people behind the divider.
When I began to research my mother’s years at the Brooklyn Public Library, I discovered a group of people who reminded me of why Edith had loved the library so passionately and so much. I was moved to rediscover Rabbi Sam Horowitz and touched that le gentil petit Ed Kozdrajski, “Sweet little Ed Kozdrajski,” and his wife, Maureen, both returned to their old stomping grounds to meet with me. Stephen Akey was especially kind to invite me back to the catalog department, and provided me with a detailed look at the work of a cataloger. Together, we mourned those who were no longer with us. Looking around those careworn desks, I wanted to cry out: Please let me stay here and work among you, in the place where I feel closest to Edith.
It was such a delight to find some of my old classmates from the Berkeley Institute, now the Berkeley Carroll School. Wendy Gold, who had been my closest friend when I was a student there, tried hard to conjure up memories of our ninth-grade class and what it was like to live through the changes that 1969 and 1970 wrought, not simply for us at Berkeley but for any young girl coming of age in that turbulent period. It was lovely to reconnect with her, and I found Wendy as thoughtful as when we’d shared a classroom so many years ago. Betsey Raze, she of the vivid mind, see-through blouses, and edgy views, struck me as more gentle than I’d remembered her—still filled with verve but softer somehow than that year when I eyed her with a mixture of admiration and envy. Betsy helped me piece together essential elements of that time. I enjoyed meeting up with Susan Weber Soros, whom I found ensconced in a magnificent town house and gallery on the West Side—home of the Bard Academic Center she had created as a center for the study of decorative arts. I couldn’t help feeling wistful, realizing as we spoke that I had felt much more at one with those charming young girls of Berkeley than I had previously thought. I was able to contact my old headmistress, Mrs. Miller, and have some exchanges with her. She emerged as thoughtful and insightful. Finally, I much appreciated the efforts of Berkeley Carroll itself to dig out my records and help me piece together details from that lone year I spent within its gates.
I was also delighted to discover another Cattaui in America: Florence Sutter, the pasha’s great-great-granddaughter, had moved to the Washington area and she showed up one evening at one of my readings. She struck me as such a thoughtful and sensitive young woman, and since that chance encounter, she and I have corresponded occasionally on this illustrious family of hers. She tried to help me as much as she could, as did her mom in Paris, and I appreciated their insights very much. Ed Adler, a Vassar alumnus, helped with some crucial memories of the period as well.
There were also several personal friends who helped in my being able to tackle The Arrogant Years. Janet Davis and Karen Merns accompanied me to Cairo on what proved to be a seminal trip for my research. Janet has been such a kind and sensitive friend, and I was so moved when she insisted on returning with me to my childhood home on Malaka Nazli Street. Karen’s energy and enthusiasm were critical in getting me to undertake this final, crucial piece of research, and I am deeply grateful to her as well. Joann Lublin, my colleague at the Wall Street Journal, where she is a dazzling and indefatigable reporter, was there every step of the way, offering me the support and psychological courage I needed to persist and encouraging me when I was faltering. I am not sure what I would have done without Joann; she is a remarkable journalist and person.
Arthur Gelb, the éminence grise of the New York Times, its former cultural czar and managing editor, has been simultaneously father, friend, protector, adviser, and editor. It is not simply the help he provided on both books—he was extraordinary with Sharkskin—but his actions as a friend when I was ill. It was Arthur more than anyone who shook me out of my confusion and lethargy and persuaded me to do what I must to seek out the bons docteurs who proved so essential to my recovery. He is a national treasure and I owe him and Barbara, his wife, so much.
Jack and Isabel Biderman of Southampton consistently offered words of encouragement. They are both very dear to me.
As I worked on the chapters of my college years, it was wonderful to rediscover Laurie Wolf. Now married to Eli Bryk, a talented New York orthopedic surgeon, Laurie still had that spark and enthusiasm I had found so endearing when I’d first known her. How marvelous it has been to come together with her and Eli and their six amazing children, who with their sparkle and sense of fun always make me think of a family out of Tolstoy—one of his iconic happy families. Jacki Bryk, Laurie’s youngest daughter, became my literary assistant and has worked energetically to help market both Sharkskin and now The Arrogant Years through social media.
In Sag Harbor, Canio Books is one of the most fascinating literary spots in the Hamptons. Its owners, Maryann Calendrille and Kathryn Szoka, are great women who have done so much for the cultural scene on the East End. Both have been tremendously supportive of me and my undertaking and, like their store, they are nothing short of wondrous. Romany Kramoris of the Romany Kramoris Gallery has been a wonderful, joyous friend, first of Sharkskin and now The Arrogant Years. Lynda Rosner at the Sag Harbor Variety Store on Main Street, was such a loving force, always offering words of support and reassurance.
Rabbi Rafe Konikov of Chabad of Southampton gave me a haven where I could pray and think and remember my parents. He and his wife, Chani, have created such a special place at 214 Hill Street. They are both exceptional people who have worked so intensely to create a Jewish community of faith and hope and religious observance in the Hamptons.
The Arrogant Years is filled with religious lore, and I turned to Rabbi Rafael Benchimol of Manhattan Sephardic Congregation with questions about the meaning of obscure fasts or other historical events. He always offered thoughtful insights—as when he told me the story of Rabbi Tsadok, the holy man of ancient Judea, whose passion for fasting I found of critical importance in shedding light on my mother. Whenever I found myself stumped by a religious question, I turned to Rabbi Benchimol and was always impressed by his sensitivity and knowledge. And in these years when my husband and I have been under the shadow of illness, he has been much more than a rabbi—he has been a caring friend and counselor, as have members of the synagogue, such as Leah Iny, Kim Amzallag, and the sublime Stella Issever. These women were the essence of tenderness and caring.
Whenever my world seemed darkest in the last couple of years, I sought out Rabbi Benchimol and Manhattan Sephardic for sustenance and strength.
Robert Thompson, who took over as editor-in-chief of the Wall Street Journal when it was acquired by News Corp., was deeply gracious in blessing this undertaking and allowing me to go work on this book. I am utterly grateful. I am especially indebted to Alix Freedman of the Journal for granting me the crucial leave that I needed for The Arrogant Years. Alix, who has shattered many dividers herself over the years, has been an extraordinary supporter and friend. Joe White, my editor, has been a sensitive and important force throughout the process. Jim Pensiero and his assistant, the wonderful Theresa Pfeifer, helped with the intricate logistics of my leave and made it possible and manageable: I am so grateful to them. And in tech support, Sylvia Burgos and Willie Bennett were invaluable and rescued me time and again.
In the more than two years that I worked on The Arrogant Years, no one was more marvelously supportive than Grace Edwards, my teacher at Marymount and then at Hunter College. Her gentle critiques were crucial in shaping this manuscript. Lewis Frumkes, the head of Hunter’s newly created Writing Center has been such an important force over the years. I am grateful to him and to Hunter’s president, Jennifer Raab, for establishing a center with the potential to mold and encourage promising authors of different ages, backgrounds, and venues. My classmates Chuck Beardsley, Vicky Myers, John-Paul Nickerson, and Janet Davis offered insightful critiques, which were always filled with such tenderness and love.
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