by Juliana Maio
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the delicate fragrance of jasmine. Why was it that everything in Egypt smelled better than anywhere else? Somehow the fragrance of fruits, vegetables, flowers, coffee, and spices were magnified a thousand fold. She closed her eyes and took another deep breath, and then one more. When she exhaled, she found a sense of lightness inside her. She needed to let God into her heart again. She’d become so tight inside that no light could enter.
Mutter used to say that God revealed himself as light, and that one could see that light at the moment a person expired. In her final days, she’d asked Maya to look for this light when she died, but Maya never saw it. They learned about Mutter’s passing through a call from the hospital, and circumstances dictated that they leave Paris at once. Erik arranged for her burial, but there was no time to plan a funeral. For many days and nights afterward Maya looked for some reassuring sign that Mutter had successfully made the journey to God’s light, but she never found one. Nor did she see her mother in her dreams. She was just gone, leaving behind only memories. Is that what one is reduced to after death? A memory? A picture on a piano? And on whose piano would Maya’s picture rest when she was gone?
I cannot let the past hold me, she told herself as a familiar, dull, aching feeling started to spread through her stomach. No! She must go forward and be grateful that she and her family were safe; grateful that they had not been one of those Jewish families that were arrested and herded into the Velodrome d’Hiver stadium to be shipped, she later learned, to internment camps all over France, in cattle cars built by the Vichy government.
Now she must focus on the good things and fill her mind with sweet thoughts. She brought back the memories of the goodnight kisses her mother would carefully place in the middle of her forehead when she returned late after a performance. They were the best of kisses—light, and tender, and perfect, and even though Maya was usually asleep, part of her was awake enough to capture them. So with the help of God’s light and the memory of her mother’s kisses, Maya hoped that here in the City of the Sun, she would find the strength to no longer cry over what she had lost and even to allow herself to dream about the future.
She lit up a cigarette and wiggled her toes, happy with the fuchsia color she’d chosen for them. She spread her fingers and admired them as well. Her fingernails matched nicely with her skin color. She knew she was being shamefully shallow but couldn’t deny the tickling pleasure spreading inside her, warming her like a log burning in a fireplace. Here she was, just being a normal girl.
She started flipping through the pages of the guidebook and stopped to study a picture of royal palm trees and lotus pillars sunk into tall grass. Ezbekieh Gardens, read the caption. Located in the heart of Cairo, the garden, one of many that punctuated the city, was created by the former chief gardener to the city of Paris.
Ah, Paris! She sighed, putting the book down. As much as she hated to admit it, she was still in love with the city. Despite her humdrum job as a typist at an insurance company, the three years she’d spent there were the most exciting of her life. The City of Light had awakened her senses and intellect. But now it had broken her heart. Why had so many Frenchmen turned their backs on the Jews?
Her thoughts drifted to Jean-Jacques, her ex-boyfriend, who was always clad in black, giving impassioned speeches, presenting himself as the champion of the underdogs, but who actually never did anything about the very things he talked about. The American was right—he was a poseur. She smiled and pulled Mickey’s letter from her pocket to read it again.
Dear Maya,
I must have made quite an impression the other day. What kind of journalist displays that kind of ignorance about the very subject he’s supposed to be writing about? The fact that I may have been distracted by the cleft in your chin is no excuse. Forgive me. I was just trying to look smart. Actually, I’ve just gotten started on my research, and I have lots to learn. Thank you for opening my eyes to the situation facing the Jews in the other North African countries.
I took the liberty of reading your book. Maybe it’s my unflagging American optimism, but when faced with my own imminent death, I hope I won’t feel as detached as Pablo does, especially from the woman I love. If your friend Jean-Jacques sees Pablo as a hero, I’d think twice about a guy like that!
Now, since you’re a curious girl, and I’m the kind of guy who’s always looking for answers, why don’t we get together and solve some of the problems of the world over dinner? I promise I won’t try to impress you. How about it? I would love to see you again.
Your uncle will not tell me how I can reach you, so please call me. Telephone: 40434
Mickey Connolly
(Ace reporter)
I shouldn’t have been so tough on him, she thought, acknowledging how judgmental she could sometimes be. In fact she should have praised him for being open enough to write about the Jews in the first place. She wondered what made him choose the subject and wished she had asked him that.
His American accent had caught her by surprise when he ordered his beer. It reminded her of Sherri, her roommate from boarding school, who was from Chicago. But it was his eyes that had sucked her in. How embarrassing. She remembered them perfectly—framed with thick, dark lashes, they were vibrant green with sparkling flecks of yellow. They were the eyes of a lion, alert and electric, but at the same time, they had a softness about them. She thought him handsome with his black mane of hair, though his nose was slightly too big for his face and his lower lip sometimes turned down in an arrogant curl. As a dresser, he was horrible! He’d not only been the most casually dressed man in the room but surely the worst dressed, with his yellow tie that clashed with his blue shirt, which did not go at all with his bottle green blazer, which he never should have chosen in the first place. Nonetheless, she had to admit that she did find him appealing. Beyond the accent and the eyes, it was the ease with which he spoke and his straightforwardness that attracted her. Above all, she liked the air of freedom he exuded.
She read his note one more time. He sounded like a passionate man, which pleased her. Though initially offended that he’d invaded her privacy by reading her book and making himself privy to her personal underlinings, she was also flattered that he’d invested the time to do so.
Perhaps she should allow him to take her out, she thought, not for dinner, but for drinks or possibly lunch. With the war, secretaries were a scarce commodity, and she could probably finagle another day working for Joe at the Shepheard’s. She could meet him that day. This would be her little secret, and a girl does need to have secrets, she told herself.
“My father just came home from work,” she heard Lili announce as she bounded up the stairway.
Maya quickly shoved the note into her pocket and extinguished her cigarette, waving the air around her to dissipate the smoke.
“You look happy,” she said to Lili, who emerged beaming, a mischievous smile on her face. It looked as if she, too, had a secret.
Lili didn’t reply and kept her silly grin as she removed a curler from the top of Maya’s head and ruled her hair “almost dry” before rolling it back and pulling up a chair next to her.
“So?” Maya asked.
“So … I met the man of my dreams,” Lili said.
“In the last five minutes?”
“No, yesterday at the tennis tournament,” Lili gushed breathlessly. “I didn’t want to tell anyone. I was afraid to jinx it, but he just called me.” She suddenly grabbed Maya’s hand, squeezing it tightly in excitement. “I knew it!” she cried out. “I knew he felt the same way I did from the moment he laid eyes on me. I swear it’s true!”
Maya took a deep breath. She found Lili annoyingly immature, living life’s everyday ups and downs far too intensely, but her enthusiasm was undeniably contagious, making the air around her lighter and happier. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know too much. His name is Fernando and he is very handsome. Dark and tall and maybe a little dangerous!�
� She laughed like a ten-year-old. “His family moved here last week from Zamalek. He’s just joined the sporting club in Heliopolis. I’m telling you, he’s the one!”
“What did he say to you?”
“He and his friends are having a mixed-doubles match tonight, and he just lost his partner. He asked if I was free. These were his exact words. I know, Maya, we barely talked,” Lili protested in expectation of her skepticism, “but it’s true. Love at first sight exists. We both felt it.”
“I’m not sure I believe that. It seems a bit fast to me.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“In love? That is a big word.” Maya shook her head, as she reflected on how to answer. “I’ve had a few boyfriends, but I never said ‘I love you.’ None of them was the one.” She insisted on making that clear.
“Why is it that if you can know right away if someone is not the one, you can’t know right away if someone is?”
“You can’t be sure at just a first impression. You have to get to know him.”
“I know how I felt, and that’s all I need to know,” Lili stated. “I think he is my destiny.”
Maya was about to respond, but what was the point?
“Come, maybe your mother will let me set the table,” she said as she stood up and started down the stairs. “Can you cook as well as she does?”
Lili laughed as she followed. “Not one dish. Why should I learn? My mother-in-law will teach me how to make my husband’s favorite dishes.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Maya heard Erik’s voice booming from the drawing room.
It was very unlike him to speak up this way, and she scurried in, finding him leaning against a chair, face-to-face with Joe.
“There isn’t much to tell,” Joe told him.
“There is nothing to tell,” Allegra shouted from the kitchen next door.
“About what?” Lili asked as she selected a grape from a silver bowl on the table.
“I heard on the radio that there has been a fire in a synagogue in Alexandria,” Erik explained. “They suspect it was an act of arson by the Muslim Brotherhood. Their leader just escaped from prison.”
“What’s the Muslim Brotherhood?” Maya asked.
“A small group of religious fanatics,” Joe tried to reassure them.
“The Nazis were once a small group of fanatics,” Erik shot back.
“There have been a few incidents here and there,” Joe admitted. “Some bombings of Jewish houses to show sympathy for the Palestinian Arabs. They believe that the Jews here are working with Jews in Palestine, which is absurd.”
“I’ve seen them distributing pamphlets at the university, Papi,” Lili said. “They’re saying that all Muslims must come together under one Islamic state and throw out foreigners.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Joe said. “Imagine suggesting that all Europeans band together. Ha! Look at Germany attacking its neighbors. Let me tell you, the Egyptians look down on other Arabs, like the French on the English, the Spaniards on the Portuguese and so on. Uniting all Muslims is not possible. They are trying to make an issue out of Palestine because it’s much easier to manipulate people if you have an outsider to blame for your problems.”
“Is the movement big?” Maya inquired.
Allegra appeared at the doorway in her apron, holding a knife. “It’s a very small group of crazies. Can we please discuss this at another time, when the children are not in the house?” she demanded. “They are already very upset with the news from Europe. There is no reason to scare them about danger here. The Muslims in Egypt will never turn against us.” She moved back into the kitchen.
“She’s right,” Joe agreed. “It is not the Jews, it’s the imperialist English, with their drinking and cavorting, who are the real enemy in the eyes of these extremists. They target us because we work closely with the British. But how can we not be friends with the English? They are protecting us from the Nazis.”
Erik kept silent. Maya knew her brother wasn’t so sure that the English were really such good friends of the Jews.
“I found some new war magazines for you,” Joe said to Erik, opening his attaché case, happily changing the subject. “Here we are. The Navy, Review, and Blighty. Lots of fighter plane stories for you. You don’t know how hard it was to find these.” He handed the magazines to Erik, who began flipping through the pages immediately.
“And you, my dear,” Joe turned toward Maya. “I don’t know what you do to men, but my boss keeps asking when you’ll come back and help us again in the office, and he told me that the American journalist came again yesterday asking about you.”
“What American journalist?” Erik asked, confronting Maya.
“Nobody!” she said. “Just some American who found a book I left at the Shepheard’s Hotel.” She quickly moved away lest Erik detect the flicker of excitement she felt upon hearing that the American reporter had been asking about her.
CHAPTER 17
Mickey was surprised to find liveried marines standing guard at the embassy gate, where a number of chauffeured cars sporting Union Jacks on their fenders were parked. Dorothy came out to meet him in the reception area, which was crowded with British officers.
“I wish you’d call before barging in,” she said, looking frazzled. Traces of her normally perfect lipstick were caked on her lips. “I told you not to come more often than you usually do.”
“It’s only my second time this week,” Mickey retorted, trailing behind as she strode toward her office. “Why didn’t you return my calls the last two days? I think I may have a lead. I need to use the embassy phone to call Jerusalem.”
Dorothy stopped in her tracks and looked away, biting her lower lip. She seemed conflicted, and Mickey could see the wheels turning in her head.
“What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is that I think that from now on you should be more discreet,” she snapped, resuming her stride down the corridor. “There’s a back door to these offices from the PX. Give me a ring when you get there and I’ll unlock it for you.”
“Something happened?” he asked, trotting to keep up with her.
“Nothing. Just precautionary, that’s all.” She turned and noticed his black eye. “What happened to you, anyway? Fell off your horse?”
“It’s a long story.”
They entered her office and she practically slammed the door behind them. She leaned against it and looked at him intently for a long while. “Swear on the most important person in your life.”
“About what?”
“This is not the time for you to display your journalistic prowess, Connolly. Swear that I can trust you.”
He slowly walked closer to her, holding her gaze, his right palm raised toward her. “I swear on my mother’s grave I won’t say a word to anybody.”
She sighed and went to pull a cigarette from the pack in her purse. “Tobruk has fallen,” she finally said, her voice cracking on the last word. Her hand shook as she lit up.
“Oh, God.” Mickey sat down hard on the chair across from her desk.
“It’s likely that most of the South African Second Division are dead,” she added dully. “Thousands. They fought hard, but the Germans bombed the Allied troops without mercy. General Klopper eventually surrendered, after destroying all the fuel and water reserves in the town. I’m sure you understand the gravity of this news.”
Mickey nodded. He understood perfectly well.
A small coastal town in Northern Libya, Tobruk had been staunchly defended by the Allies as the German advance continued east toward the Egyptian border. The town had been under siege for months, cut off by land from the rest of the Allied lines, though the Royal Navy had continued to supply it by sea, but at a terrible price. The route, known as the “Spud Run,” was plagued by German Stukas that regularly destroyed supply ships as they unloaded. Still, High Command wanted to keep this toehold in Rommel’s flank to prevent him from concentrating all his forces on Cairo, and unt
il now it had been a thorn in his side.
“Who are all those people in the reception hall?” he asked.
“Ambassador Kirk has been in meetings with the British ambassador, Sir Miles Lampson, and members of the British military. It’s been nonstop since yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Mickey’s head jerked up. “I thought it just happened. How come nobody … the press—”
“Forget the press, Connolly,” she interjected, annoyed that by now he still hadn’t learned that the press was the last to know anything. “It will be announced at tomorrow’s briefing. Sir Miles is making plans to evacuate the women and children from the city, and he’s already made arrangements to transfer the gold reserves to Khartoum.”
“Wait a second,” Mickey said, getting up from his chair. “Isn’t this a bit premature? Aren’t there other Allied outposts between Tobruk and Cairo?”
“A few. Mersa Matruh is the next one. About three hundred miles west of here.” Mickey swallowed hard and sat down again. That’s where Hugh was probably headed.
“And the old Desert Fox will slice right through it,” she continued under her breath.
“Don’t say that,” Mickey reproached her. “What are we doing about this?”
“Churchill is sending reinforcements. They’re going to sound the bells in Westminster tonight, as if it were a funeral. They’re calling it a catastrophe.”
“It’s not over yet,” he assured her. “Perk up, Dorothy.”
“I’m just blue today. Let’s not talk about it anymore,” she said as she walked over to her desk and pulled a revolver in its shoulder holster from the drawer. “I forgot to give this to you. All of our COI agents have one.” She weighed the pistol in her hand, serious. “This is a German Walther PPK, a Detective Special. It holds six rounds. Supposedly the agents of MI5 don’t even bathe without it.”
“So the Brits do bathe?” he asked.
“This is not the time to be funny, Connolly. You ever used one of these before?”