City of the Sun

by Juliana Maio

  Mutter would have been horrified by this rift, Maya thought, too agitated to fall asleep. She tossed and turned, trying to find a good position. But sleep still did not come. Her mind was restlessly replaying the events of the day and churning with the innumerable other anxieties that haunted her relentlessly.

  Finally, she sat up and looked at her watch. It wasn’t quite midnight. She wondered if Mickey was awake. It had taken some doing, but she’d managed to talk to him a few times since their first date. She would cheerfully offer to do errands, such as taking Allegra’s unbaked cakes and breads to the baker’s oven, fetching the mail at the post office, and picking up the children from school. These ventures provided her with the opportunity to place a call to him, and the excitement of sneaking into telephone booths in strange places was becoming intoxicating. He was a breath of fresh air in her life—her secret. His quiet strength and gentle sense of humor never failed to calm her down. And why not indulge in some momentary pleasure? She would be leaving Cairo soon. There had been some kind of complication with their papers, but everything was back on track now, and the tension in the house had eased somewhat.

  Maya quietly slipped out of bed and went into the living room, where the telephone was located. She dialed Mickey’s number and smiled when he answered.

  “Hi, it’s me,” she whispered, biting her finger. “I hope I’m not waking you up?” She couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to call Mickey while everybody in the house was asleep—at least she hoped they were.

  “No, not at all,” he said in a groggy voice. “I was just thinking about some of the people I interviewed today. Pretty boring stuff. What about you? Did you go to synagogue today?”

  “Yes, I went. It’s our holiest day, the Day of Atonement. It’s the only time I go. It was boring, too. Everything was in Hebrew and I don’t understand a word of it. I just like it at the very end when they blow the shofar.”

  “What’s the shofar?”

  “It’s a ram’s horn. They blow it at the end of the service in long, powerful bursts. It always gives me goose bumps.”

  “How come?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a strange, shrill sound. It’s very plaintive. It makes me cry. It’s hard to explain. It goes straight into my heart.”

  “In many parts of the world sound is considered to be the primal vibration. People who meditate also use it in chanting to tune up their nervous systems.”

  “How come you know so much about Eastern religion? You’re Catholic.”

  “Many layers!”

  She laughed out loud, then immediately covered her mouth with her hand. “Don’t make me laugh,” she whispered. “I’m going to wake up the whole house.” She sat on the arm of the sofa, the phone very close to her ear. “Mickey, I read in the paper that the Germans have crossed into Egypt.”

  He sighed. “They got in awhile back. It only just made the papers now.”

  “What’s really going on? Do you know? I hear the Allied Eighth Army is very overstretched. Please tell me.”

  “Rommel’s troops are even more overstretched, and they’re undersupplied.”

  “So … what else?”

  “I don’t know … Just rumors.”

  “Like what? Wait … sshh!” She suddenly turned around, thinking she’d heard a sound. But all was still. “Tell me.”

  “A lot of men are deserting from the Allied Eighth Army. They’re losing faith in their High Command. I don’t blame them. But I think that the Allies can stop the Germans at El Alamein. There’s an impassable sand depression there, Rommel won’t be able to outflank them. Don’t lose hope. The Germans are starting to make some bad decisions. But let’s talk about what’s really important. When can I see you again?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. My parents are scared; they’re making plans to go to the Sudan. A cousin of theirs is already there. I don’t want to go, but I have to.”

  He did not say anything for a long while. “Mickey, are you there?”

  “I’m here … I just wasn’t expecting this. Is there anything I can do for you? You know, I have excellent contacts with the American Embassy here.”

  “There is nothing you can do really. But let’s not talk about that now. Tell me one fun thing that you did today before I hang up.”

  “I rode a donkey for the first time. He farted loudly when I mounted him.”

  She laughed. Her eyes quickly surveyed the room, making sure no one could hear her. “Did that make you happy?”

  “It made me embarrassed. But if you want to know what made me happy, it’s hearing your voice. That makes me happy.”

  She felt herself blushing. “Goodnight,” she said.

  She remained motionless for a minute as if to seal the sound of his voice inside herself, before tiptoeing back to her room and slipping under the covers.

  “I heard everything,” Lili said, turning over and covering her head with her sheet.

  CHAPTER 22

  “I’m Mr. Connolly from the Foreign Service Journal. I’d like to speak with Mr. Nissel, please,” Mickey said, taking his hat off when the engineer’s servant opened the door of the imposing two-story Victorian house. “The American Embassy has sent me on a special inquiry.”

  “Etfadal, men hena. Please, this way.” The soft-spoken Egyptian led him into the living room.

  Except for a large Persian rug and two upholstered armchairs, the room was devoid of furniture. It was littered with cardboard boxes and stacks of books. A dozen or so oil paintings leaned against the walls—mostly of palm groves along the Nile and other typical Egyptian subjects. The community center’s files had indicated that Nissel had moved twice in the last three months, and Mickey wasn’t surprised that the man had not settled in yet. He paced the room while he waited, holding the gray fedora that he now wore whenever he wanted to present a more polished appearance, and stopped to examine a handsome book about famous bridges that sat on top of one of the stacks. As he flipped through the pictures he found a bookmark at a page displaying a sprawling red suspension bridge. Tblisi, Georgia. 1928. Hans Nissel was credited as the engineer. Mickey heard hushed voices coming from the other side of the door and closed the book.

  “Dr. Hans Nissel,” a middle-aged man with sunken brown eyes and eyebrows that spread like butterfly wings introduced himself. He was followed by a junior version of himself, his teenage son, Mickey assumed. “What can I do for you, Herr Connolly?” Nissel asked curtly in his heavy German accent, without offering Mickey a seat.

  Mickey apologized for showing up without an appointment, but the matter was important. “This is sensitive information, sir,” he started, “but the American Embassy has asked me to locate a German Jewish scientist and his family, who, like you, have escaped the Nazis. They have just been approved for an American visa,” he said. He went on to explain that because of his own research for an article on Jewish refugees, the embassy had engaged him in this inquiry.

  “It’s my understanding, sir, that you have recently arrived in this country,” he continued, aware of Nissel’s growing stiffness, “and the circumstances of your own arrival might be of great help to us in finding the family we’re looking for. This is a humanitarian—”

  Nissel cut him off sharply. “Considering America’s policy toward Jewish immigration, I’m surprised the matter is so important to your embassy.”

  Mickey realized it would take some doing to reach this man, and as much as he hated it, he had to expand the lie. “Sir, my understanding is that President Roosevelt is personally sponsoring the resettlement of a number of Jewish refugees despite the State Department’s policies. We are offering assistance to a family in need, and you, sir, can be of great help by providing us with some details from your own experience.”

  “I can’t imagine I can help you,” the engineer declared. “Every person’s escape is different.”

  At this point the son began to speak to his father in German, and a spat ensued. Nissel silenced the boy and with a glacial gl
are, turned to Mickey and declared: “My papers are in order. I do not want any problems. I wish you good luck with your search.”

  This was one tough cookie. Mickey softened his approach. “If you could be so kind …”

  “The war has taught me not to be so kind,” Nissel interrupted. “Please, I wish to be left in peace. I think I have made it clear that I do not wish to speak about my affairs to anybody.” He extended his arm, showing Mickey to the door.

  The son argued again with his father, but in vain, and stormed out of the room. It was clear that Mickey was not going to be able to shame this man into helping him. He apologized for the intrusion and bid him good-bye.

  Frustrated, he stopped in front of the house to light a cigarette, wondering how Nissel could be so callous about the fate of his fellow refugees. So much for the reputation Jews had for banding together. He took a long drag on his cigarette. As he started walking away from the house, he spotted Nissel’s son across the street, polishing his bicycle. He stomped out his cigarette on the ground and started toward him.

  “Nice bike,” Mickey said. “I love Fongers. I used to have a cruiser myself.”

  “It’s an old one, but it races good,” the youngster said without looking up.

  “I hope I didn’t offend your father. I don’t blame him for not trusting strangers. Escaping from Germany must have been a nightmare.”

  “He’s suffered a lot. Even here in Egypt. Shortly after the war started he was interned by the British because he was German.”

  “But you’re Jewish.” Mickey frowned.

  “They interned all Germans, without distinguishing between Jews and Nazis,” said the youth, who stopped buffing the bike for a moment. “Still, my father should be helping you.”

  Mickey folded his arms. The boy was eager to talk. “When did you and your family arrive in Egypt?”

  “In the spring of ’39. By boat to Alexandria from Trieste, Italy.”

  Mickey was surprised the Nissels had been here for two years. “Why did you choose Egypt?” he pursued.

  The boy glanced up toward the house to ensure that no one was watching and continued, “My father was an executive with the Berlin power company, an engineer, and he had many international contacts. We were on our way to Haifa in Palestine, but a business acquaintance in Alexandria warned him not to go there, because of the problems with the Arabs, and convinced him he could make a better life here. He found a good job very fast with the Egyptian public works ministry. Then, after six months came the war, the internment, the bombing of Alexandria. We arrived in Cairo four months ago. He was lucky to get a job with the UK General Electric.”

  “Yes, indeed. The city is full of refugees without work.” Mickey said. The boy was talking and Mickey decided to take his shot. “When you arrived in Egypt, did you turn to anyone for help?”

  “Yes, of course. He-Haluts, a Zionist group in Alex.”

  “But I was told there were no Zionist organizations in Egypt,” Mickey said.

  “Well, there were then,” the youth said. “They no longer exist. It’s because of the Islamic extremists who have been attacking Jews. Everybody’s scared, and last year the president of the community thought it best to shut down all Zionist activities. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to finish what I’m doing.”

  Mickey thanked the boy and started looking for a taxi. He wasn’t very familiar with Maadi, a new suburb that was popular with the city’s well-to-do expatriates, and he followed his nose to the center of town. Why had Jacques Antebie misled him about the Zionists? Was he trying to protect Simon Cattaoui? Were they embarrassed that their desire to avoid confrontation might seem cowardly? Maybe the Zionist organizations were gone, but that did not mean there were no Zionists left here. They must have gone underground, he thought. In any event, if the Blumenthals were heading to Palestine, they would need both entry and exit visas from Egypt. Help from the Turks would not have been enough, and Zionists within and outside of Egypt would have had to be involved. He needed to talk to Donovan.

  The center of town was very crowded because of a street fair and it was nothing short of a miracle that Mickey found a taxi. A very pretty avenue lined with bushy trees linked Maadi to Cairo, but Mickey barely paid attention as his thoughts were on Maya the entire ride back. He wondered if her parents were bitter like Nissel. Would they oppose her dating a non-Jew? It did not seem to bother her. She had told him during a phone call that none of her boyfriends had been Jewish. Being away at school since age fourteen had allowed her to develop values that differed from those of her family, causing no small friction. He understood what she meant, having himself developed a very different view of the world from that of his father, who believed that college was a waste and that writing for a newspaper was for sissies. His only constant advice to Mickey had been to get a job with a good pension.

  The cab arrived at the American Embassy in no time, interrupting Mickey’s reveries. Mickey got out and reached for his wallet but could not find it. He patted all his pockets. No wallet. How could that be? He had used it last to pay for the taxi to Nissel’s house. Mentally he retraced his steps, and it dawned on him that he had been pickpocketed on the crowded streets of Maadi.

  “I’m sorry. I can borrow money from a friend inside. I’ll be back in a flash,” he told the driver while standing outside his rolled-down window.

  “You have American chewing gum?”

  “I don’t, habibi. Lucky Strikes?” Mickey offered as he reached for his cigarettes.

  The driver shook his head. “Next time. My gift to the American people!” He touched his heart and sped away.

  Suddenly Mickey panicked—Blumenthal’s picture! It was in his wallet.

  “Congratulations, Connolly! You were right all along.” Kirk said, stepping out of the embassy car that had just arrived. He patted Mickey on the back. “Erik Blumenthal is going to Palestine,” he announced in a low voice. “He’ll be joining the staff of the Sieff Institute.”

  Mickey walked with Kirk through the front reception hall, enjoying the fuss that came with the greeting of an ambassador. He was feeling pretty important himself, now that he’d cracked a big piece of the puzzle.

  As they entered Dorothy’s office, Mickey was feeling as if he’d grown half a foot taller.

  “Oh, God, here you are,” Dorothy gushed. She clicked the cradle of the phone back and forth hurriedly, trying to salvage a connection. “Hello? Hello? Mr. Donovan? Hello?” It was too late. She hung up. “Shucks! I had Donovan on the line. You just missed him, sir,” she said to Kirk, while giving Mickey a thumbs-up and grinning like a proud mother. “Donovan was very pleased with your breakthrough.”

  “It made sense,” Mickey said, shrugging off the compliment.

  Kirk patted him on the back again.

  “Donovan was a little surprised, frankly,” Dorothy continued. “But obviously Erik Blumenthal could be important enough to the building of a Jewish state that top-level Zionists would want to find a way to get him there. Our COI guy back there has no leads yet.”

  Mickey took a seat on the rattan chair across from Dorothy’s desk. “I’ve learned something interesting about Chaim Weizmann,” he started. “Of course he’s well known as a champion of Zionism, but did you know that he is also a scientist? In fact, he studied at the Polytechnic in Berlin, the very same university Erik Blumenthal attended.”

  “Weizmann could never get involved in this,” Dorothy objected. “He’s a statesman, and it would be political suicide for him to risk alienating the English. They hold the key to his dream of a Jewish homeland in Palestine, and he would never risk losing their goodwill over one man, no matter how important.”

  “I agree,” Kirk added. “But other highly placed people could be involved. David Ben Gurion has openly challenged the White Papers.”

  Mickey was only half listening as a sheet of paper on Dorothy’s desk caught his attention. He pulled it toward him when he saw the word LICA in bold capital letters.


  “Is this the list of the LICA board members?” he asked.

  There were a dozen names on it, including those of publishers, doctors, lawyers, and other professionals in Cairo and Alexandria. “Yvette Cattaoui?” He frowned upon finding that name. “Is she related to Simon Cattaoui?”

  “She’s his sister, and she’s the number-one lady-in-waiting to Queen Nazli, Farouk’s mother,” Dorothy answered.

  “Wow! The queen’s closest confidante is a Zionist activist!” Mickey crossed his arms. “I wonder how she felt when her brother forced her out of business.”

  The shrill ring of the telephone made everyone jump.

  Dorothy grabbed it. “Yes, it’s Miss Calley.” She did not say anything except a few “rights” and “uh-huhs” for a long while.

  “He’s here. I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him. Jacques Antebie,” she mouthed at Mickey. “Just checking if we need anything,” she said, her hand covering the mouthpiece.

  Mickey waved urgently for her to hand him the receiver. She hesitated, but he snatched it from her.

  “Bonjour, Jacques. Mickey Connolly. Yes, I got a hold of Hans Nissel, thank you. But I’m a little confused. Why didn’t you tell me there had been Zionist organizations here in Cairo until recently?” he asked sharply.

  “Ancient history. And they were never very significant,” Jacques protested, his voice booming over the telephone. “We were talking about the present situation.”

  “Tell me, was there a connection between the Egyptian Zionists and LICA?”

  “No,” Jacques replied. “The Zionists fight to help Jewish immigration to Palestine in order to create a Jewish state, while LICA fights against anti-Semitism everywhere and helps Jews resettle all over the world, not necessarily in Palestine.” He cleared his throat and added, “Some members of LICA were Zionists, but most strongly opposed it. This created a lot of friction within the group, but again, this was a while ago.”