An Imperfect Lens

by Anne Richardson Roiphe

  She should have insisted that the soldiers let Louis come into the house with her; she needed him now, and he was not here. Please, please, Mama, come back; silently she chanted the words over and over as if words had power, as if words could change the way things were, as if she were not alone in the house. What had happened? Had Jacob done something in Jerusalem? Had her father angered someone at the Committee of Public Safety? She could hardly sit still, rushing from the window to the chair to the table and back again. At last she reminded herself, I am not a child. She used all her strength and pushed away fear. Her father would find a solution. The misunderstanding would be cleared up. Her mother would return soon. And then, as she soothed herself, steadied herself, she thought of Louis, his arm extended to help her out of the carriage. His eyes, black and alert, looking at her as if he had known her all his life, as if an ocean had not separated them until just a few months ago. She thought of all the things he knew and would teach her. She saw herself in his laboratory in Paris, looking at the oven, the gas tubes, Monsieur Pasteur himself greeting her. She thought of him next to her in the train from Marseille, and then, despite all, she put her head on the pillow and stretched out on the divan. She considered her luck in meeting him. What if the cholera had broken out in Istanbul or Athens instead of Alexandria? Soon she was humming her favorite aria from La Traviata and feeling drowsy as well. But then she remembered her father, her mother, the empty house. When would her mother return? She became uneasy as she sat up straight in a chair, as if someone, something dangerous, were in the shadows. Where was her father?

  ROBERT KOCH WAS staring at his drawings. It was frustrating to have come so close and then to have to pack up and leave because the disease itself seemed to have departed. Dr. Koch sat down in his chair and rubbed his hands; sometimes they cramped in a painful spasm when he had been working too long. He looked through his papers. A diversion might help his fingers. He cleaned his glasses and then cleaned them again. He would have to go down to the Nordeutscher steamship company and book passage. He felt weary. He knew a good deal of traveling lay ahead. A man prefers his own home to all others, and in this Dr. Koch was no exception. He shuffled through his papers and found one that had slipped between two others and one unnoticed up until now. It contained an early record written by Gaspar Correa, under the title Lendas da India.

  “. . . a high mortality observed during the spring of the year 1503 in the army of the sovereign of Calicut was enhanced by the current small pox besides which there was another disease, sudden-like, which struck with pain in the belly so that a man did not last out eight hours’ time and an outbreak in the spring of 1543 of a disease called moryxy by the local people, the fatality rate of which was so high that it was di ficult to bury the dead. So grievous was the throe and so bad of a sort that the very worst of poison seemed to take e fect as proved by vomiting with drought of water accompanying it as if the stomach were parched and cramps that fixed in the sinews of the joints and of the flat of the foot with pain so extreme that the su ferer seemed at point of death; the eyes dimmed to sense and the nails of the hands and feet black and arched.”

  LAYLA STARTED OUT for the hospital with the handkerchief that held the little Ganesh in her apron pocket. She was holding her suitcase by its worn straps. It was an old, battered leather bag that had been given to her by her uncle who had traveled to Mecca one year and had no intention of ever leaving his bedroom in his sister’s house again. She had taken the coins that Este had pressed into her hand, but would not have thought that she should use them to pay for a donkey to carry her there.

  She was crossing rue Rosette when a donkey boy with a shirt that flapped over his torn shorts called to her. “Ride, ride,” he said.

  She shook her head and kept on walking, although the weight of the suitcase made her walk slowly and pause every now and then to regain her strength. The boy stood in front of her.

  “Let me pass,” she said to him.

  “Don’t be unkind,” he said. “I’ll take you for free.”

  “For free?” she said. She looked at him carefully. She had heard of girls being taken and sold to slavers, or sold to the brothels where they would be locked in rooms and given opium until they lost their minds. She said, “No, no, thanks, I can make it myself.”

  But the boy didn’t move. “See,” he said, “my donkey likes you. He wants to carry you through the city. My donkey is very wise and he knows a good girl when he sees one.”

  She tried to suppress the smile that came to her face, but only partially succeeded. The boy moved closer. She could smell him. The sweet, heavy smell from his sweat, the cod he had had for lunch, the leeks that covered it. She noticed he had good teeth. Her arms were tired. “All right,” she said. “But go right to the European Hospital. I am on an important errand.”

  The boy helped her mount the donkey. He put her suitcase in a pack at the donkey’s side and he walked along beside her. “There, isn’t that better?” he said.

  It was better. She was riding along, listening to the clop of the donkey’s hooves and the sound of the boy talking to her about some dog he had lost and she heard the muezzin’s call and she felt the heat of the day on her neck and she saw that her blouse was wet with perspiration and stained brown from the dust. That was all right, she felt that she was lucky and that her luck would hold.

  Outside the back entrance to the hospital, the Arab girl dismounted from the donkey. The boy put his hands on her waist to help her down. There was no one on the narrow street. “One kiss,” asked the donkey boy. “Just one, for the ride.” He smiled at her.

  “One kiss,” she agreed.

  He pushed her against the side of the building and took his kiss. She did not find it unpleasant, and held her face forward for a second kiss. The boy felt her breasts under her blouse. “Ah,” he sighed, “we could have such fun together.”

  “No,” said the girl. “I have to go.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Later, maybe,” she said.

  “Now,” he insisted.

  The donkey stood placidly by, waiting to be run again. Inside the hospital, someone was pouring water on the floors and the water was seeping out toward the door, around which a puddle had already gathered. The boy put his hands all over the girl’s body and she twisted and turned, more in pleasure than in despair. He pulled at the strings of her apron and it fell to the ground. The handkerchief in her pocket fell into the mud. The loosely wrapped Ganesh followed.

  “Look what you’ve done!” shouted the girl. How long had the Ganesh been floating in the slop by the door before she noticed it? She picked it up, checking its small trunk, its tiny tusks, and its long tail. All were in place. She wrapped it again in the now-soiled handkerchief.

  “Wait for me,” she said to the donkey boy, and entered the hospital. She asked the woman with a bucket of water washing down the floors the way to the Frenchmen’s laboratory. She pointed. Layla knocked on the door. She entered. “Louis, Louis?” she asked in a soft, shy voice.

  “Me,” said Louis, pointing to his chest.

  She handed him the handkerchief and the drenched Ganesh that lay within it. “From my Mistress Este,” she said.

  The name Este was all he needed. He clasped the handkerchief tightly. He understood. It was a message.

  “What has happened?” he asked.

  The Arab girl shook her head. She spoke no French. She left, and Louis took the Ganesh out of the handkerchief and held it in his hand, cradled it in each palm. It meant more to him than the watch of his grandfather that had been given to him on his graduation from the École Normale.

  “Let’s see,” said Nocard. Louis opened his hand.

  “She sent you a toy?” said Emile.

  “No,” said Louis. “It’s not a toy.” He turned his back on his friends. He didn’t want to talk about it. This was a private matter.

  THE JEWISH COMMUNITY in Alexandria had existed long before Muhammad mounted his horse and rode into th
e clouds. It had arrived with the first boats from the Mediterranean ports, carrying bolts of cloth and barrels of iron ore to the continent of Africa, to the upper Nile, to the far edges of the empires of military men who pulled along behind their battles, traders and scribes, scholars, and holy men. The Jewish community in Alexandria was well aware of the exiles and burnings and disasters that had befallen their brethren elsewhere. Although they themselves had survived the centuries with only an occasional burning of their homes and businesses, they were always anxious to please whatever new ruler took the throne.

  The chief rabbi had always believed that emergencies would arrive and help might be needed for members of his congregation. He had carefully won the respect of the Coptic archbishop at the cathedral in the rue de L’Église, who was enjoying studying the Talmud in the chief rabbi’s study on Tuesday evenings. He had managed to persuade the vicar of the Latin Patriarchate of the Cathedral of St. Catherine to join him in a campaign for orphans of the Arab quarter. He had befriended a wealthy member of the Church of England whom he had met at the home of a congregant whose daughter had married an Englishman. The two men were both interested in Greek drama and had formed a group to read the plays in their original language. The Minister of Health had a son who had married a Jewish girl. She had converted, of course, and now attended the Armenian church, but her father-in-law would be willing to assist, or so the chief rabbi assumed.

  LYDIA ACCOMPANIED THE chief rabbi on his rounds. She was left in the vestibule of the archbishop’s residence to stand and wait. She was at last ushered into the room where the prelate sat on a purple cushion placed on a high wooden chair carved with flowers and berries. She curtsied before the archbishop. He said nothing to her but waved her aside. She was sent back out into the hallway. Then the chief rabbi hurried out, and they climbed back into the carriage and went on. In the home of a wealthy congregant she was sent to the kitchen for a cup of tea. In the residence of the Coptic priest a little boy offered her a sweet while she waited on the front steps. When they visited the German consulate, she was asked to speak about her husband’s virtues as a doctor and a father. She spoke with simple sincerity. She told the assembled attachés that her husband responded to all who needed him and that he would be a good and loyal citizen wherever he lived. She told the men sitting in front of her that her cousin lived in Freiburg. She spoke of his innocence of the accusation. He had never conspired with his son to bring harm to the authorities in Alexandria. She wept as she spoke. The chief rabbi was fluent in German and translated as well as improved her words. She was sent back outside to wait in the carriage while the men talked and talked. At last the chief rabbi, looking pleased with himself, emerged from the building. He ordered the carriage back to the synagogue, where he told Lydia to wait on the steps. The sun was hot on her head. She felt dizzy. Meanwhile he went into his safe and withdrew the necessary funds.

  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.