City of the Sun

by Juliana Maio

  Mickey listened carefully. Although Guibli criticized the Zionists for being ineffective and disorganized, he didn’t condemn their dream of a Jewish state. “Do you believe that Eretz Israel is no fairy tale?” Mickey asked, eliciting a smile from Guibli, who recognized the quote from Theodor Herzl, the founder of the Zionist movement.

  “It is not reasonable to expect that a Jewish state could be founded under the current restrictions imposed by the British,” he said, “but this is a long conversation for which I’m afraid I don’t have time right now.”

  “One last question,” Mickey asked, knowing he was stretching his welcome. “Putting aside the temporary freeze, who normally decides who gets a visa to Palestine and on what basis?”

  “Under the latest White Papers, the British authorities will leave that decision to the Jewish Agency and the General Federation of Jewish Labor. After the freeze is lifted, who gets in will depend on which Zionist faction yells the loudest. Sometimes preference is given to those who can bring capital, and sometimes it goes to those who can milk cows, shovel dung, and do strenuous labor. It’s all about building a country.”

  Erik Blumenthal had something all the Zionist factions would want, Mickey thought—unique expertise in a new frontier of science.

  “If you’re interested in the matter, I’d be happy to refer you to some colleagues of mine who are much more knowledgeable about this than I am,” the lawyer offered.

  “That would be very helpful,” Mickey said.

  “Now, if you will …” Guibli had pushed his chair back, indicating the meeting was over, when a knock on the door interrupted them and the secretary tiptoed in, handing the lawyer a note.

  “Outrageous!” Guibli exclaimed upon reading it, his face flushed with anger. “Sir Miles Lampson is trying to suspend unilaterally the Egyptian Parliament! This is what you should be writing about, my friend,” he ranted. “British imperialism!”

  CHAPTER 33

  Located on a limestone spur, with massive walls and protruding towers, the fortress of the Citadel was one of the world’s great monuments to medieval warfare. It was only fitting that this was where Kesner would plot with Sadat against the English.

  Kesner arrived early at the appointed place inside the Citadel and looked around as he adjusted the Polish uniform cap on his head. A soft breeze brushed his face and he took a seat on a ledge overlooking the city while he waited for Sadat. Situated at a high altitude, the Citadel was said to have the freshest air in Cairo. Legend had it that Salah al-Din, the warlord who built it, chose the site after hanging pieces of meat all over the city. While everywhere else the meat spoiled after a day or two, in the Citadel area it remained fresh for almost a week.

  Peering down the thirty-foot walls, Kesner surveyed the chaos that was Cairo. Why could it not be more orderly and clean? He cringed. With Churchill having panicked and sacked all of his top military men, Rommel might get here in a few weeks. The PM was making a big mistake by making both the army and the RAF of the Eighth Division report directly to his new commander in chief for the Middle East, Admiral Sir Cunningham. The eyes of the world were now on El Alamein, and what a splash Rommel would make when he took the British stronghold and marched toward Cairo. Kesner hoped dearly to get his hands on Blumenthal before then. Following the American spy had yielded nothing so far. Either he suspected he was being tailed or Abdoul’s men were incompetent. Kesner needed to search the American’s apartment, but he had to find a way to get past that impossible bawab.

  A bell sounded inside the barracks, and Kesner spotted Sadat rounding the corner, clutching a large envelope. He stood up and stretched out his hand to greet the lieutenant. “Good morning, Herr Sadat.”

  Sadat shook hands briefly and took a quick look around before opening the manila envelope. Getting right down to business, he withdrew a file and handed it to Kesner.

  “These are the plans of the Kasr el-Nil barracks next to the Museum of Antiquities and some photos I took from the bridge,” Sadat said, his voice calm and firm. “The British have been unloading crates from the river, and if you look closely you can see the markings. I’ve enclosed a guide telling you which markings relate to what: tanks, shells, aircraft ammunition, food, and so on. They’ve been stocking up.”

  “How long have they been unloading?”

  “A week.”

  Kesner flipped through the file. Sadat had done an impressive job organizing the material. He lingered for a moment on another photograph.

  “That one was taken inside the barracks,” Sadat explained. “It’s quite small compared to the military garrison here at the Citadel. I’ve drawn up a rough list of the regiments at Kasr el-Nil, but it may be incomplete.”

  “You’ve done a magnificent job, Herr Sadat. Cigarette?” Kesner offered, pulling his cigarette box from his pocket.

  Sadat shook his head and cast a nervous eye over his shoulder. “Our men are ready to move into action at a moment’s notice. We will do whatever we can to support Rommel’s advance and disrupt Allied resistance. We are preparing transport and storing away weapons and explosives in private houses. We’re still working out our plans for capturing strategic locations, but we know the radio tower will be our first target.”

  Kesner studied Sadat for a moment. Passion burned in the young man’s eyes, yet he never lost his professional demeanor.

  “You know that your life is at stake should you be caught?” Kesner finally asked.

  “My men know the stakes. If we win, we will be statesmen. If we lose, we will be hanged as criminals. Allah will decide. All I know for certain is that there is more explosive power in our ideas and beliefs, Herr Kesner, than in all of your bombs.”

  “I’m glad you are on our side,” Kesner said.

  “You can count on our full cooperation,” Sadat continued, “but we will need something in return.”

  Kesner cocked his head. Could this idealist be looking for a bribe?

  Sadat pulled another document from the envelope. “This is a declaration of Egyptian independence. We want the führer to sign it. Hitler, and only Hitler, will do.”

  “Don’t you trust us, Herr Sadat?”

  “We need a guarantee of independence in exchange for our help,” Sadat declared, his face impassive. “The Egyptian people have suffered too often from British half-truths and unfulfilled promises. We won’t take the risk of that happening again.”

  “But how in the world will I get the document to Hitler?”

  “I’m sure you will find a way,” Sadat replied, thrusting the paper into his hands. “I think two weeks will give you enough time to get it to Berlin and back.”

  Kesner almost threw the letter back in Sadat’s face. Who was this cocky, dark-skinned little weasel to make demands of the führer? But he kept his cool. “Come, come now. Let’s be reasonable. Germany is a dangerous journey away. What about Rommel? It would surely be easier—”

  “Hitler,” Sadat replied without blinking. “If you want our help, it must be his signature.”

  Kesner swallowed hard and slipped the document inside his green jacket. Payback will come later. “I’ll see to it immediately,” he said with a tight smile and took Sadat’s arm, leading him away. “But as I am going to extraordinary lengths for you, I hope you are willing to reconsider our request that you help arm the Brotherhood.”

  “Hassan al-Banna is an autocrat who wants an Islamic state. There is a fundamental incompatibility between us. Arming him would be sowing dragon’s teeth.”

  Kesner stopped walking and faced Sadat. “You are mistaken, my friend, and you are being pigheaded. You must put your differences aside for the sake of Egypt and become allies in fighting the common enemy.”

  “Why should I ally myself with a man who uses violence against his own people?” Sadat spat, his face red as he lost his composure for the first time. “We had reliable witnesses at the rally for Nahas Pasha. They saw with their own eyes men from the Brotherhood deliberately start the rioting, not the E
nglish. This strategy will only result in greater repression against all Egyptians.”

  “Please, I understand your distress, but I beg of you. Right now nothing matters more than the liberation of Egypt from the British.”

  Sadat shifted his gaze, his eyes revealing inner turmoil. For a moment, Kesner thought he was reconsidering. “Get our declaration signed first, and then we’ll talk. Until then, I will not consider any alliances. Good day, Herr Kesner,” Sadat said over his shoulder as he strode away.

  The insolence of this man! The audacity! Kesner wanted to wring his neck but forced himself to take a deep breath. Very well. He would have to humor Sadat now, but he would not forget this affront. Although he was beginning to dislike dealing with Samina, he would entrust the document to her. She was well acquainted with the Swiss undersecretary who was leaving for Berlin this weekend. For the money that he was paying her, she had better not give him any trouble.

  CHAPTER 34

  Maya woke up with a start, sweating and whimpering, her ears ringing from the sound of airplanes droning overhead and the high-pitched whistling of falling bombs. She’d been dreaming of the time she’d come home one summer to find her mother crying in the dark because the neighbors did not want her “Jew car” in the street anymore, but in her dream, her mother was hit by a falling bomb and shredded into a million pieces just as she’d reached her. Maya sat up, disoriented until she heard Lili snoring softly next to her, and slowly slipped back between the sheets, her heart still racing.

  After two consecutive nights of air-raid alarms in Heliopolis, it was no wonder that her nightmares about Poitier had returned. But why was she now dreaming about her mother’s agony over the escalation of anti-Semitism? Could it have been because of the Jewish newspaper Joe had brought home? The headline screamed 30,000 Jews Killed in Kiev, and on the front page there was a photograph of German soldiers pointing their rifles at the heads of a Jewish family kneeling before an open pit. In his eyewitness account, the reporter had described how, before the execution, the grandmother was tickling a cooing baby in her arms, and the father was stroking the head of his ten-year-old son while the mother looked on with tears in her eyes. He’d written about how the other family members had kissed each other and said their farewells as an SS man stood near the pit with a riding crop in his hand. There was no weeping or screaming, no complaints, no pleas for mercy. Rifle shots were fired in quick succession and the bodies fell into the hole like dominos. A few weeks earlier, similar executions had occurred in Kovno, Lithuania, with no opposition from the locals.

  They are killing the Jews, Maya agonized as tears rolled down the sides of her face and dripped onto her neck. She didn’t wipe them away. She needed to let them flow. She was crying for the Jews, for Vati and Erik, and for everything that was wrong with the world and with her life. She cried for Mickey and their aborted romance. They hadn’t even had a month to savor each other. She cried because she knew he was in love with her, and he was right to say she would forever wonder what they had lost. Yes, it was love that had burst forth that night on the boat. She did not know how else to describe it.

  She had called the press office at the American Embassy, which confirmed that Mickey was affiliated with the Detroit Free Press. That much was true, but she wondered what kind of secret he was involved with and hoped that he was safe. The Levis had assured the family that their new passports were on their way. It couldn’t be soon enough for her, because she couldn’t endure much longer being in the same city as Mickey without seeing him.

  “Lili,” Maya whispered. “Are you awake?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Poor Lili, she had fallen off her bicycle two weeks ago. She’d suffered a broken foot, rib, and wrist, and had been stuck at home ever since. Even that couldn’t dampen her spirits. She was still the same effervescent girl she’d always been and actually seemed to enjoy being read to, manicured, spoon fed, dressed, and bathed by Maya, who became her primary caretaker, as well as her go-between with Fernando, passing on the love letters they secretly exchanged.

  “Lili!” Maya called again, louder this time.

  “Leave me alone,” Lili grumbled and turned over.

  Maya sat up. She would get a glass of milk to help her get back to sleep. Unfortunately, she couldn’t turn on the light because blackouts had been imposed on Heliopolis due to its proximity to the airport. She fumbled around the nightstand looking for the lighter she’d put there, almost knocking over the pretty hand-painted glass vial of lotus flower essence that Mickey had entrusted to Joe as a gift for her. Ay, ay! There was no escape from this man. How did he guess that she loved this scent? She cautiously opened the bottle and inhaled the sweet fragrance of the dark yellow oil before dabbing a few drops on her neck. What was she doing wearing his perfume? Did she want to plunge further into melancholy? Disgusted with herself, she put the bottle down and fumbled again for the lighter.

  She found it and tried not to step on the army uniforms scattered all over the floor. They’d just received a new batch, and with Lili unable to sew now, they were her responsibility. She tiptoed into the corridor, where an oil lamp had been placed, and saw that the door to Erik and Vati’s room was open. That was odd. They both liked their privacy. She peered in and flicked on her lighter. Erik was in bed, but her father’s bed was empty.

  Worried, she searched the apartment, room after room, even the balconies. “Vati? Vati?” she whispered anxiously. Could he have gone to the roof? Sometimes Sayeda slept there on hot nights. She ascended to the rooftop, but there was no sign of him and she went back downstairs.

  “Erik, Erik.” Maya shook her brother awake. “Vati is gone,” she cried out. “Gone!”

  “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul,” Erik read aloud from Vati’s bible from the backseat as they drove though the deserted streets of Heliopolis in Joe’s car, searching for him in the dark. Joe’s headlights weren’t much help because they had been painted blue due to the blackout.

  “He was reciting this psalm over and over last night before he went to sleep,” Erik said.

  “Are you looking for some hidden message?” Maya snapped. If Erik and Vati had been on better terms maybe this wouldn’t have happened. “Where can he be?” she agonized as she tried to peer into the darkness.

  “Vati! Vati!” she called out of the rolled-down window.

  “Why would he have taken his violin?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know.” Maya bit her lip.

  “He’s been sleeping with it,” Erik admitted.

  “And you’re telling me that now?” Maya said.

  “I told you I was concerned.”

  “He left his watch in his shoe the other day, and Sayeda found his shoe in the shower,” Joe said.

  Maya sighed, upset she hadn’t been told these things and worried that she had been too involved in her own problems to notice her father’s unusual behavior. “He’s losing his mind,” she concluded, crestfallen.

  “Allegra couldn’t understand what he was talking about this morning,” Joe added, scraping a curb he had not seen in the darkness.

  “Do you think we should go to the police?” Maya implored.

  “Let’s think about this rationally first,” Erik said.

  “I am!” Maya snapped back again, biting her index finger.

  “The bawab said he heard some noise around midnight,” Erik said. “How far could he get in two hours? He must still be here in Heliopolis. He will be safe.”

  “Unless he walked into the desert,” Joe corrected.

  “Oh, God,” Maya lamented, imagining the worst. “If he’s lying unconscious and there’s a wind, he’ll be buried alive.”

  “This is not what I call rational thinking,” Erik remarked. “There is no wind.”

  “Now, now,” Joe said, brushing the curb again.

  “Shh,” Maya admonished, at the edge of her seat. “
I think I heard something. Listen. Stop the car, please.”

  Joe turned off the ignition and they sat silently. They heard nothing but the intermittent chirping of crickets.

  “What are we going to do?” Maya cried. She closed her eyes and made a promise to God that if they found Vati, she would never again complain about him or her brother.

  “Wait,” Erik commanded, just as Joe was about to start the car again. They could hear the faint strains of a violin in the distance. “It’s Chaconne in D minor!”

  “Vati!” Maya exclaimed, jumping from the car and running toward the music.

  She found her father standing on a bench in a lovely park of palm groves, next to the Americana Theater, with the moon and the stars as his audience. He didn’t stop playing when he saw her. In fact, he didn’t even acknowledge her. She stood in front of him, tears running down her cheeks, waiting for him to finish. Waves of emotion swelled inside her.

  “Bravo,” she cheered when he stopped, drying her tears with the sleeves of her shirt. “That was beautiful.”

  “Have you seen my wife, Hanna?” Vati asked, still standing.

  “Come down, Vati,” Maya offered her hand.

  “Perhaps Berta will find her. You know how much she and Hanna like one another. They love to sing together.”

  Berta was Vati’s younger sister. She’d died long ago. “Maybe they are together now,” Maya said, pulling on her father’s leg and realizing he was wearing two pairs of trousers. “Come now.”

  “You’re so sweet,” Vati said, but he still wouldn’t climb down from the bench. “I bet your parents are proud of you, miss.”