by Juliana Maio
“Never used a PPK, but my father keeps a Browning in the house, just in case.” He took the weapon and ejected the cartridge cylinder, spun it quickly, and clicked it neatly back into place.
“The trigger is stiff, and I guarantee you the recoil will be pretty snappy,” she warned.
He whistled, impressed with her knowledge.
“My ex-husband collected them, along with a wide variety of women,” she volunteered, closing the desk drawer and straightening her blouse. “He left me for a rail-thin brunette.”
Behind that tough exterior was a broken heart, Mickey saw. He started to mumble, “I’m sorry to …”
“Don’t fret about it. I’m better off,” she stopped him.
He handed her back the gun. “Thanks, but I’m not a COI agent, and I like to take my showers unarmed. What I do need, though, is a phone line to Jerusalem. I want to talk to a professor at the Hebrew University who wrote an article about recent advances in quantum physics—‘Jew science,’ as the Nazis call it. I gather their physics and chemistry departments are world renowned. I bet Erik Blumenthal is—”
There was a knock and the door quickly opened wide. “Oh, Mr. Connolly. I didn’t know you were here.” It was Kirk. He looked worn out. “I’m glad to see you, though. Did you tell him about Niels Bohr?” he asked Dorothy.
“I didn’t have a chance.”
“Donovan spoke to him yesterday. Dr. Bohr has relocated to the United States, at least for now. He said Erik Blumenthal has polio.”
Mickey looked at Dorothy with an “I told you so” smile. He’d guessed from the photo there was something wrong with his legs. He turned to Kirk, encouraged.
“What else did he say?”
Kirk exchanged wary looks with Dorothy before answering. “In the last letter Blumenthal wrote to him, he promised to send Bohr the paper he’d been working on, but he never did.” Kirk started to leave. “Dorothy, when you’re done, I’d like to talk to you. Ambassador Lampson has gone.” He was about to close the door behind him when Mickey called out.
“About the fighting in the desert, sir,” he glanced hesitantly at Dorothy, who glared back—he’d better hold his tongue. “Is everything all right?”
“It will be.” Kirk winked and exited.
“Sorry that with all the excitement we haven’t had a chance to talk about Blumenthal,” she said as she sat behind her desk. “Interesting news. Erik is traveling with an older man and a young woman. His father and wife, we presume. We’re looking further into this.”
“Interesting,” Mickey said, but before he had time to muse on this, she continued.
“I did hear from the LICA folks in New York. They’re sending me a list of all the past members of their Cairo branch.” She picked up a note. “I’ve also received a message from the UK General Electric that Mr. Nissel is not interested in talking to anyone from the press.”
“Maybe I can change his mind,” he shrugged. “I’ll get his address from the Jewish community center.” He knew that most Jews were registered there.
Later in the day, Mickey headed home, feeling tired and discouraged. He had phoned the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, but the professor he was looking for was now teaching at Princeton, and no one there had heard of Erik Blumenthal. They had suggested he try the Daniel Sieff Research Institute in Rehovot, a new advanced research facility established by Chaim Weizmann, who was the Hebrew University’s founder and was also the president of the World Zionist Organization. Mickey had left the embassy curious to learn more about Weizmann, and Dorothy was going to get the COI agent in Tel Aviv to poke around the Rehovot institute for him. She was taking his new lead seriously.
When he arrived at his building, Hosni, his bawab, took a good look at his purple and swollen eye and prescribed: “Vitamin E oil, mixed with two or three drops of the milk of the jenny, the female donkey, and a bit of honey. Three times a day.” He also gave him a note from Hugh inviting him to join in an evening promising women and alcohol galore. Mickey smiled, but he was too despondent to do anything tonight. As he neared his apartment door, he heard the phone ring. He raced to open the door, but the key got stuck in the lock. When he finally freed it and was able to unlock the door, he rushed to the phone, but the line went dead just as he picked up the receiver. Damn it.
He didn’t have to wait long before the phone rang again.
“Pronto,” he found himself saying.
“Pronto? Don’t you say ‘hello’ in America?” a voice teased.
A grin spread over his face. “Maya!” he said.
CHAPTER 18
With al-Banna free, more acts of terrorism can be expected against Jews. In a joint statement yesterday, Rabbi Haim Nahum Effendi, the Chief Rabbi of Cairo, and Simon Cattaoui, the president of the Jewish community, urged Jewish shopkeepers to close their businesses next month on the anniversary of the Balfour Declaration, as a precautionary measure.
Erik read aloud from today’s newspaper, his feet propped up by pillows as he lay reclining on his bed. He finally glanced up at Maya, who was standing at the doorway, shaking her head, while Vati, his back turned, was bowing silently in prayer, facing the window.
Of course Maya was interested in learning about the extremist group, but this was not the time. She had just stopped by to say good-bye to her brother and father on her way out to her secret rendezvous with the American journalist, and she was impatient to extricate herself. She’d planned the whole outing carefully. She was to meet him at Groppi’s, a coffee house in the center of town, and had carved out the whole afternoon on the pretext that she was visiting the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. What she didn’t bargain for was that the entire family would be home today because of a school holiday. She had to get out of the house before some crisis or another made her escape impossible.
“This is horrible,” Maya said, crossing her arms and discreetly peeking at her watch. “Why is it that wherever we go we find bad news for the Jews?”
Erik stared at her, stone-faced for a moment before continuing, “Last year’s bombing of two synagogues, killing three and seriously injuring fifteen, and the looting of Jewish stores on Kasr el-Nil—”
“Joe never told us about that,” Maya interrupted. “He just said a few bombs had been placed in Jewish homes.”
“Egyptian police and British infantry troops have committed to placing additional security at the gates of Haret el Yahud, the Jewish quarter, to guard against a repeat of last year’s violence by youths demonstrating against Jewish immigration to Palestine,” Erik went on.
He was reading excruciatingly slowly, and Maya grabbed the paper from him. She didn’t have all day. “Let me see this.” She scanned the rest of the article, which went on to explain how the 1917 Balfour Declaration was a sore point for both the Jews and the Arabs. The Jews felt that the British had gone back on their promise of allowing a Jewish homeland in Palestine, and the Arabs had immediately denounced it as invalid.
“Read out loud,” Vati suddenly demanded, turning around.
Maya froze at the sight of her father. It wasn’t just the prayer tallis that he wore over his shoulders, but now, like the orthodox Jews, he’d wrapped the long leather straps of a tephilim around his arm and head and positioned its little black box on his forehead. Only loosely observant, he must be feeling so desperate now to dive into religion this way.
“Go on,” Vati grumbled.
Maya pressed her lips together, trying to smile, camouflaging her shock, and with a soft voice started to read:
The Brotherhood, which was begun in 1928 by Hassan al-Banna, then a young teacher, has developed into a political force with five hundred branches in Egypt and a growing network in neighboring Arab countries. Its membership is estimated at half a million, with an equal number of sympathizers.
She looked up. With the wave of his hand, Vati urged her to go on. “Their popularity is not only due to Egyptian nationalism, but to the medical clinics and the social and educational programs they run.�
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“A small group of fanatics!” Erik snorted, recalling Joe’s dismissal of the group. He sat up and started to rise.
“Not so fast,” she warned, rushing toward him. But it was too late. Erik had already twisted his foot, his leg too weak to withstand the pressure of his weight. Thankfully, he fell back on the bed before anything worse happened.
“Will you stop being so stubborn and use the crutches Joe gave you?” Maya reprimanded. “And keep them close to your bed.” She walked to the corner and handed him an old set Joe had once used when he broke his foot. Erik shrugged.
“I want to know why Mr. Levi played down the truth about these extremists,” Vati stated.
“And why it’s taking so damned long to get our papers,” Erik added.
Maya looked at Erik. He had aged five years in the last five weeks. The uncertainty and delay were taking their toll on him. “Just think how much you will miss Allegra’s cooking!” Maya said lightly, trying to cheer him up.
“Aren’t you supposed to go to the city today?” Vati asked Maya.
“And it’s getting late,” Maya said.
“Go, go,” Erik said. “Enjoy.”
She blew Erik a kiss and wrapped her arms around her father. “I’ll bring you back some chocolate truffles.”
She hurried down the corridor and locked herself in the bathroom. She hastily applied some of her new red lipstick, but in her rush to add mascara to her lashes, she poked herself in the eye. Now it was tearing up, and her black eyeliner was running. Calm down, Maya. Get a grip on yourself. She cleaned her face and straightened the black sleeveless turtleneck she wore over her gray skirt, hoping that the American wouldn’t notice she’d worn this same outfit when she’d first met him, though today she’d added a belt for panache. As Mutter used to say, “A well-chosen scarf, belt, or brooch turns drab into dazzling.” It was all in the accessories. She thought about adding Mutter’s hairpin, the only talisman she still retained, but dismissed it since this would mean returning to the bedroom and being questioned by Lili about why she was wearing makeup.
She examined herself one more time in the mirror, surprised that she cared so much, and was about to exit when she heard Allegra softly singing as she passed by. Allegra’s repertoire consisted mainly of Ladino songs whose lyrics were recipes for Sephardic dishes. This was how recipes were passed down from generation to generation. Maya had been taken by surprise once when what she had assumed to be a love song turned out to be a recipe for eggplants.
All was quiet now, and Maya stuck her head into the hallway. No one. She tiptoed toward the front door and heard Joe’s voice coming from the living room. She froze. She didn’t want to risk facing him either. What if he offered to drive her to the museum?
She liked Joe and he’d been nothing but hospitable, but he had not expected to shelter her family for so long, and Erik and Vati were not the easiest of guests. His four boys were crammed into one bedroom and were always quarreling. The Levis must be getting weary of them, especially with Allegra’s pregnancy, and probably feeling resentful about not being able to invite friends and family over to the house. Joe seemed very concerned about attracting unwanted attention. He’d coached Maya ad nauseam about the ways of life in Syria in the event a nosy neighbor questioned her. As for Allegra, she was usually aloof and as tightly wound as a coiled spring. But there were occasional bursts of kindness, like this morning when she’d surprised Erik at breakfast with blintzes.
Maya took a deep breath and didn’t let it out until she reached the landing, carefully closing the front door behind her. Freedom! She raced down the stairwell, but had barely reached the ground floor when she heard Lili calling after her.
“Maaaaya, wait up!”
Maya squeezed her eyes shut. Now what?
“My dress is ready,” Lili exclaimed, breathless when she caught up to her after flying down the stairs. “You must come with me to pick it up at the tailor’s. My parents won’t let me go downtown alone, and they’re both busy.”
“I’m on my way to the museum,” Maya said firmly, peeved at Lili’s demanding tone. “We have to do it another time,” she added.
Lili was stunned that her request was being denied. Her face metamorphosed into that of a spoiled child, her lower lip turned down. “Please, pleeease,” she begged. “It can’t wait. I must find a shawl for my dress.” And then, eyes lowered, she confessed in a whisper: “I just found out that Fernando will be at the B’nai B’rith ball. I have to look perfect. What if I can’t find a wrap I like?”
Maya was nonplussed. Lili was such a child. There were still another ten days before the big fund-raiser soirée on King Farouk’s yacht, plenty of time to find the “perfect” shawl for Lili’s “perfect” dress. The girl had to learn to accept “no.” Maya looked her squarely in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Lili, but not today.”
Lili didn’t say anything and cracked her knuckles. Then slowly opening her mouth, she pronounced in all innocence, “This time you should wear a fichu. The wind will mess up your hairdo.”
Maya’s resolve began to melt. She was unable to suppress a smile. These Egyptian Jews had the most quaintly endearing way of speaking. Though their French was impeccable, they used so many archaic words that she sometimes hardly understood them. “Around our neck and on our head we wear not a fichu, but a foulard (a scarf),” she corrected Lili once again.
“I know,” Lili replied with a sad smile. “And I shouldn’t keep pronouncing my Hs. I keep forgetting H is silent in French. It’s very difficult remembering it all.”
Here she was trilling her Rs, like the locals did in their flowery, singsong accent! Maya’s resolve continued to melt. Lili could be so annoying, but she was certainly well meaning. Maybe there was time to both go shopping and meet with the American.
“Can you keep a secret?” she asked.
It turned out to be a good thing that Lili was accompanying her on her foray into the city. The metro to the Ghamra station was a forty-minute ride, after which they had to take a tram, changing twice before arriving at Midan Soliman Pasha, the heart of the shopping district. Maya would never have found it by herself. After leaving Heliopolis, camels and donkeys had gradually given way to fancy cars, and cotton galabeyas had yielded to linen suits as they passed through the last of the Arab neighborhoods and arrived in the center of town.
“The museum is just ten minutes away, off Midan Ismail Pasha, the largest square in Cairo,” Lili said as she fought her way through the mostly western crowd.
Except for the épicerie and the flower shop in Heliopolis that had closed up in the aftermath of Tobruk, it seemed that people had taken again to the streets in droves. Lili, eager to prove her gratitude, pointed out various landmarks on their way, taking seriously her role as guide. She showed off the colossal stone statue “The Reawakening of Egypt,” which the Egyptian people were very proud of, and which Maya had noticed outside the train station when she first arrived. Lili then gushed about the Ezbekieh Gardens, behind the Shepheard’s Hotel, where every year she and her brothers celebrated the Jewish holiday of Purim in masks and costumes. The opera house came next, and she explained that it was modeled on La Scala and built by an Italian architect, like many of the buildings here. Finally, the tour wound up in Ataba Square, Cairo’s main commercial venue, which was home to the city’s central food market, post office, and fire station, as well as the Sednaoui department store. Lili said that she personally preferred to shop at Shemla or Cicurel, where they were headed next. Maya drank it all in.
Maya had never studied architecture, but she knew the difference between the Italian Renaissance buildings with their arches, domes and classical columns, and the French Baroque style with wrought iron balconies, richly sculpted surfaces and strong curves. And then there were the unmistakable art deco buildings, with their flat rooftops and etched glass windows and doors. Added to this eclectic mélange were structures with strong Islamic elements. But one thing they all had in common was an ab
undance of ornamentation, whether it was Egyptian motifs such as lotus flowers, palm leaves and scarabs, or European ones, like medallions, angels, and garlands. There wasn’t a single door, window, or façade that didn’t have one form of embellishment or another.
Maya turned and smiled at Lili. She liked it here. “I can’t believe I’m just seeing this now,” she said, eyeing the arcaded boutiques along the streets, which reminded her of the Rue de Rivoli in Paris. And what of the open-air terraced café across the avenue? With its small round tables and green wicker chairs, it reminded her so much of the bistro where Jean-Jacques had kissed her for the first time. She still reddened at the thought of their brazen public kiss. A far cry from her first kiss at sixteen, when she’d insisted her boyfriend put a handkerchief between their lips.
“Groppi’s is across the square,” Lili said, linking her arm with Maya’s. “Come, my tailor is on the other side, just down the avenue.”
Made of shiny black satin with a thick, mustard yellow beaded trim that followed the plunging V of the décolleté, Lili’s dress for the B’nai B’rith ball was truly beautiful, and she looked ravishing in it. However, since finding a matching yellow wrap proved impossible and Lili rejected every black shawl they saw as boring, she settled on a red bolero, which she would wear with a red flower in her hair. At the time of payment, she surprised Maya with a gift—a magnificent, shimmering aqua scarf of sublime softness that she’d seen Maya admire. She’d insisted on underlining Maya’s eyes with black kohl. This way her eyes were alive like never before, attracting everyone’s attention because their hue took on every one of the shawl’s blue and green shades, depending on the light.
“Wait,” Maya said as they approached Groppi’s red-and-green awning as the clock tower across the plaza rang three o’clock. She had tried wearing her new scarf around her neck, but her outfit was so dull that she decided instead to tie it around her waist as a belt, letting it drape over her hips. “What do you think?” she asked, suddenly feeling very nervous. “I need a new skirt.”