by Juliana Maio
Except for the occasional sounds of a passing automobile or the crying of a street merchant below, the apartment was generally quiet, especially at this time of the day. It was located on the third floor of a six-story building that was nestled in a small residential street. Allegra kept a lovely home, rendering it cozy with elaborate oriental rugs spread over white marble floors, while the many crystal vases placed on hand-embroidered doilies adorning the antique furniture gave it a gracious feel. Gauzy curtains billowed in the breeze that blew in from the open balconies, letting in the delicate fragrance of the climbing jasmine in the backyard. But it was the spicy aromas that wafted in from the kitchen that captured Maya most, the reassuring smells of home cooking, even though she was not a great aficionado of these strange dishes. After their horrendous escape through Europe over the last fifteen months, she grew to appreciate the soothing feeling one gets from living within the protective walls of a family home. She folded her legs underneath her, rolled her head back, and closed her eyes. She wanted to have a home of her own one day. There would be a man there, of course, her one big love, who would cater to her every whim, and on whose shoulder she could rest her head while they talked about the future. She’d be giddy with happiness. It was an impossible dream now.
“The Luftwaffe dropped seventy-four thousand tons of explosives over England in less than sixty days!” Erik stated as he scribbled some notes on the magazine, breaking the silence. “How is that possible? That would mean about eighteen-thousand bombs.”
Maya responded with a shrug.
He looked up and considered her for an instant before putting the magazine down. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t be talking about bombs. Are you still having nightmares about Poitier, sister?”
“Sometimes,” she said, “but I’m fine.” She wasn’t. He was referring to the bombing that had hit the farm where they were staying after they’d fled Paris. The raid had killed the farmer’s youngest boy, who had stayed in the barn with Erik, tending to the geese, refusing to go to the basement of the main house when the first air-raid siren blasted. When the boy had dashed outside seeking a safer shelter, he’d been killed right in front of Erik. They couldn’t even make sense of the boy’s body afterward. Maya had been haunted by it ever since.
Erik picked up the guidebook on the coffee table and flipped through the pages. “Why don’t you tour the city?” he said. “I know you’d like that.”
She shrugged again. This was the only response he deserved or would get from her. Though she was dying to see the pyramids, she’d be damned if she showed him any sign of wanting to visit the city. It was certainly not her idea to come to this part of the world, and he knew her feelings very well. He never took her wishes seriously. When she’d suggested that they travel by land rather than crossing the Mediterranean, he had vetoed her on the spot, not trusting that their visas would hold up under scrutiny when they reached Syria, which was controlled by Vichy France. She had secretly hoped that something bad, but not catastrophic, would happen during their voyage to prove her right. And it did. Three days of wrenching seasickness befell them, and she was its worst victim.
“You can smile, sister,” Erik teased. “Remember, we’re a team.”
She made a tiny movement with her shoulder, her eyes still averted. Yeah, they were a team, that’s what he’d been saying since they went on the run after the Nazis arrived in Paris. Erik’s relationships within the scientific community had provided the contacts that enabled them to escape, while her role had been to serve as the family’s link to the outside world—she was basically the courier in the family.
But she had a brain, too, a good one, and she wished he’d realize that she was no longer the same immature girl who, at thirteen, had been expelled from summer camp for sneaking into the boys’ cabin in the middle of the night. She hadn’t actually done anything bad—she and her friends had just sashayed around the cabin provocatively in their nightgowns during the surprise visit. The camp had promptly sent a telegram to her parents in Düsseldorf, but Erik, alone at home, had intercepted it and driven all the way to Berchtesgaden to pick her up, mercifully hiding the truth from Mutter and Vati.
Maya’s relationship with her brother was complex, and she had to admit that she was partly to blame for this. Normally outspoken, she was often timid around him. It wasn’t just that he was eight years older; he had been her pillar of strength and steady comfort all during her growing up years. He was the one who comforted her when she had nightmares as a child, the one who hovered over her homework after school, and the one who served her dinner, letting her babble on about her day, while Vati and Mutter were performing at one concert or another. He was even the one who gave her the talk about “the facts of life” when she turned eighteen.
Maya unfolded her legs and crossed one over the other, annoyed at having to wear trousers since her one summer dress and two skirts were dirty. Slacks were practical, but they were hot, uncomfortable, and ugly, and she couldn’t understand how they had ever come into fashion. A girl with nice legs ought to be able to show them off.
“Now listen to this,” Erik said as he flipped a page in the travel book:
Cairo is often referred to as “Paris by the Nile.” The Ottoman Khedive who ruled here was so dazzled by his visit to Paris that he attempted to replicate the City of Light here, and he hired European architects to do it. The boulevards are built in the grand Parisian style of Haussman, and cafés and shops in the European style abound.
“Sister, I insist that you take some time to explore this city,” he said as he put the book down.
She leaned in and picked it up with a heavy sigh. She thumbed through it before settling on a quote. “Metropolis of the universe, garden of the world, and anthill of the human species,” she read with theatrical flair. “So Cairo is an anthill, according to a famous fourteenth century philosopher. Now that’s really arousing my interest!” She tossed the book back on the table. “It’s unbearably hot and muggy in this stupid city,” she said. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and flipped it back and forth to fan her neck. When the loud voice of the building’s concierge was heard calling outside, “Monsieur, monsieur, where are you going?” she rushed over to the window.
“Vati!” Her father was aimlessly shuffling down the street, head down, carrying his dead wife’s violin tightly pressed against his chest. “I can’t believe he got out.” She was exasperated. “We’re going to have to lock the doors!”
She flew down the stairs to the lobby where the bawab (the doorman) pointed her to the right. Around the bend she found her father a few feet away, facing a wall with the violin at his feet, his lips moving in prayer, oblivious to the passersby around him. An intellectual and a secular man, this was very unlike him, and Maya didn’t know what to make of it. She softened as she noticed how loosely his clothes draped his body. His blue eyes were pale and lifeless, and he seemed to have shrunk. What happened to the strong and ebullient Vati who played four-handed piano with her?
As if aware of her staring, he turned toward her.
“I don’t know why, but I’m itching like mad,” he complained loudly in German as she approached him.
“Shh,” Maya whispered urgently. “Speak English, remember?” She’d reprimanded him many times about lapsing into German. An incident in France had almost cost them their lives, and even here, they did not want to risk drawing attention to themselves. She really would have to lock him up.
“I forget sometimes,” he apologized. “But I’m thirsty for an orange soda,” he claimed and began pulling her toward the grocer at the end of the street, a daily routine now for them. She picked up the violin and ran her nails over his back to soothe his itching.
It was rare for him to acknowledge his memory lapses. Maya was convinced that the blow to his head he’d received four years ago had permanently affected his mind. He had resisted the SS guards when they had thrown him into a garbage truck filled with other Jews and hauled them throu
gh the streets of Frankfurt. They had made him wear a sign around his neck saying, “I am garbage. I am a dirty Jew.” He’d been a broken man ever since and was becoming increasingly less lucid. Just last week she’d seen him stand up, take a few graceful steps, and bow, as if to an audience.
“Maya,” Vati said after a few steps. “The violin. Can I carry it myself?”
She stopped and turned to her father. All he had left to show for his sixty years of life was a violin. She suddenly regretted having become so annoyed with him for leaving the house. She pressed her fingers to the corners of her eyes, ashamed of her selfishness, and squashed any remnants of resentment.
“Of course,” she answered, kissing the violin and handing it back to him.
As they approached the apartment building they saw Erik come limping out of the gate toward them. How could he have climbed down the steep, narrow staircase by himself?
Her brother had just turned twenty-four when he’d contracted polio, a cruel birthday present. From the onset he’d made it clear that he didn’t want to be fussed over, quickly silencing any expressions of pity or even concern. “I’m not crippled,” he’d insisted, “just inconvenienced.” Though he was stoic, their escape after Hitler took Paris had been especially hard on him. They’d spent nine insufferable months hiding from Vichy police in a tiny apartment outside Bordeaux in the unoccupied south, followed by ten weeks in an attic, where the ceiling was not even high enough for him to sit up. Having his legs immobilized for so long must have caused more damage to his joints than all the walking he later endured when they trekked across the country to catch the train from Lyon to Istanbul. Through it all he never, ever complained.
How could Erik ever understand that his stoicism only exacerbated the chasm that had started to grow between the two of them when they left Germany after the schools and universities closed their doors to Jewish students? As Maya watched him struggle along, his right leg dragging painfully behind him, his face gaunt, and his cheeks sunken, she felt sorry, not just for him, but also for herself and all the dreams she had lost. Her life was over before it had even gotten started. Worse yet, Erik’s heroic reaction to his polio had taken away her right to scream about the unfairness of it all.
When Erik reached them, he did not scold Vati. He did not need to. His eyes did it for him as they reproachfully met their father’s. Vati acted as if he hadn’t noticed and without a word started toward the apartment, leaving Erik seething behind him. Maya did not say anything either, but she caught up to her father and accompanied him, wrapping her arm around him protectively.
When she reached the apartment, Allegra was standing in the doorway, a concerned look on her face. A handsome woman by all standards, even with her six-months-pregnant belly, she had changed into a bold green dress for lunch and wore a gardenia in her chignon, which seemed at odds with her hesitant demeanor. Her gold bracelets jiggled as she put her right hand on her hip.
“Everything’s fine,” Maya reassured her, her arm around Vati’s, Erik in tow.
“We have hot water now,” Allegra said, showing them in. “I’ve run a bath for you.”
Maya barely started to mouth the words “thank you” before Allegra disappeared. More of her aloofness, Maya thought before retiring to her room that she shared with Lili. A cot had been set up for her there, while Erik and Vati had been given one of the boys’ rooms.
Once alone, Maya took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as she looked over the room. It struck her as particularly pretty today. She noticed how the soft yellow of the walls perfectly matched the trim of the white satin quilt that covered the bed. There seemed to be more face creams, lipsticks, and perfume bottles on top of the mirrored vanity than usual, and there was a new swath of sheer white fabric lying next to the Singer sewing machine in the corner.
She carefully opened the antique French armoire to retrieve her robe, tucked among Lili’s dozens of brightly colored dresses, which reflected the girl’s effervescent personality. Living for her tennis matches and dance contests, Lili had the world in the palm of her hand. With a father that called her endearing pet names like mesh mesh, meaning apricot, his favorite fruit, and ayouni, meaning my eyes, how could Lili not feel lucky in life? With pangs of envy, Maya quickly closed the closet.
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 a
nd 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.