City of the Sun

by Juliana Maio

  Fuad said something in Arabic and spat.

  “One of the men you met in the cell with Ali was their leader,” Sami said.

  Mickey turned around. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Their plane is to take off at 6:35 promptly, five minutes before the normal mail plane departure from Suez,” Sami explained. “This way they can fly in plain sight and not arouse suspicion.”

  Mickey looked at his watch. “But it’s already 6:40.”

  “There’s a chance they may be delayed because of the strong winds last night,” Ibrahim said. “They probably have to clear a lot of debris from the runway.”

  Wind rushed through the open windows as they raced down a grade that seemed never to end. Ibrahim never slowed for rocks, encouraged by the cries of Fuad in the back with Sami, who wanted him to go even faster.

  “We want to get there, not get wrecked,” Mickey yelled. His face lit up when he spotted what looked like a runway near the remains of a Roman temple at the bottom of the hill. He squinted, urgently scanning the valley, but there was no plane in sight. A feeling of utter despair began to settle over him. However, just as they approached the bottom of the hill he heard an unmistakable roar, and as they drove past the only standing wall of the temple he saw it.

  “A plane!” Mickey exclaimed as he spotted a small trimotor aircraft. Two men were in the open cockpit, but he couldn’t tell who was in the enclosed cabin.

  The pilot was revving the engine to nearly full throttle before turning onto the makeshift runway, a smooth field barely three hundred yards long that crossed the road and ended in a ravine. On the other side of the gully was a rock wall, an impossibly short distance for the plane to take off from. Yet the pilot was obviously prepared to do just that as he gunned the engine up another notch.

  “Turn around!” Mickey yelled at Ibrahim, but as he did, he heard gunshots. Were they being fired at?

  Ibrahim slammed on the brakes, and as he skidded into a U-turn, the Plymouth almost hit a Jeep that was hidden between the dunes, its two front doors wide open.

  “Turn around!” Mickey ordered, grabbing the wheel from Ibrahim, who had frozen rigid.

  As they turned, a figure raced onto the runway, arms outstretched, trying to block the plane as it rolled into takeoff position. It was a woman. A Bedouin man with a limp was chasing her, a rope hanging from his hand.

  “Maya!” Mickey shouted at top of his lungs, jumping up from his seat, shouting desperately though he knew she was too far away to hear him. “Maya! It’s me, Mickey!”

  “She’s going to get killed!” Sami shouted when an arm with a pistol emerged from the cockpit and began firing.

  The Bedouin stopped in his tracks and then turned tail, hobbling away as fast as he could.

  “Get out of the way,” Mickey yelled at Maya as the car raced toward the plane. “Get out of the way.”

  From the backseat Fuad started shooting at the aircraft, while Sami, eager to get in on the action, lurched forward and grabbed Ibrahim’s pistol.

  Mickey held his fire. “Are you crazy? Stop shooting. We’re too far away,” he screamed. “We need our ammunition.”

  The clicks from Fuad’s gun told the story—he had already emptied his weapon. Maya had run right in front of the plane, her arms waving. She fell to the ground, but quickly stood up again as the trimotor slowed and veered to the right and then to the left as the pilot tried to avoid her, but she valiantly followed its every move.

  “Don’t, Maya. Get out of the way!” Mickey screamed again. “It’s me, Mickey!”

  Though she was still a good fifty yards away, this time Maya turned her head toward them, but at that moment a shot was fired from the cockpit, and she fell to the ground.

  Mickey felt a cold sweat come over him. “No!” he screamed. He began firing at the plane wildly.

  “Not yet!” Ibrahim screamed. “Ammunition. Ammunition!”

  Mickey stopped and breathed a sigh of great relief when he saw Maya curl into herself and roll away from the airfield.

  The gap was closing as the Plymouth raced forward, and Sami carefully fired several shots at the plane’s front tires. The aircraft started to zigzag, provoking congratulatory cries from Ibrahim and Fuad. Mickey fired at the cockpit, but a stream of bullets answered back, shattering the car’s windshield.

  Ibrahim slumped forward, blood gushing from his neck, his foot still on the accelerator. The Plymouth swerved wildly. Mickey grabbed the wheel, but it was too late. A second later, it sideswiped the plane, knocking its wheels askew and causing it to skid on its belly until a wing dipped to the ground, stopping it for good. Mickey fought to get the car under control as it sped toward the ravine, pulling hard on the emergency brake, but to no avail. Fuad screamed and Sami prayed. Mickey braced himself as the car spun sideways, rolled over, and crashed, landing on its side.

  He found himself under Ibrahim’s dead body, groggy but alive. His head was pressed against the dead man’s back. The Egyptian’s body had cushioned the impact, probably saving his life. His head pounding, barely able to breathe, he tried to push the man away, but was unable to extricate his left arm. He finally rolled the body far enough away to sit up, but became alarmed when he found his own shirt soaked in blood. Had he been shot, too? No, it was Ibrahim’s blood. He heard groaning behind him and the creaking sound of the door opening. He turned his head, gasping at the pain in his neck, and saw Sami climbing out. Fuad was pressed against the window. His eyes were open and blood dripped from his forehead and lips, but he was able to move his head. He grunted. He was alive.

  “Maya!” Mickey shouted and tried to open the door, but it was stuck. “Help me get out,” he called to Sami.

  The youth staggered back toward the car and forced the door open. “I’m bleeding,” he complained, ready to faint.

  “I know, I know, but you have to get me out,” Mickey cried.

  With great effort, Sami freed Mickey’s arm and pulled him out before falling backward onto the rocks. He was bleeding from his cheek and was woozy from the accident, but he was okay.

  “The driver,” Sami said, a tremor in his voice. “He is dead!” He began to cry. “Where is my pistol? I need my pistol.” He sobbed.

  Mickey had no time to attend to him and turned toward the plane. Flames leapt from the tail of the cabin. He scanned the side of the airfield for Maya and saw with relief that she was safely on the ground. He searched the car and found his gun. He rushed toward the plane, but stopped when he saw a man’s legs dangling from the open cabin door before the rest of his body became visible. Someone was lowering him to the ground. He collapsed on the runway. There was no sign of life in the cockpit.

  “Erik!” Maya screamed from the bowels of her gut.

  “Stay where you are,” Mickey yelled at her. As he ran toward the fallen man, someone jumped out of the cabin. The Nazi. Mickey could see his face clearly and immediately recognized him though he’d been dressed as an Arab when he’d escaped the ambush. Mickey raised his gun and aimed. He was only forty feet away, but the German dropped to the ground to avoid being hit. He grabbed Erik around the waist and pointed a gun to his head. “Toss me your gun or I kill him,” he warned.

  “How far do you think you can get?” Mickey asked, keeping his gun trained on the Nazi.

  “Toss me your gun or I kill him,” the Nazi repeated.

  “Everyone is looking for you. Surrender. At least you’ll live.”

  “Maybe. But they will never get him alive.” The German cocked his revolver. “Give me your gun,” he yelled before suddenly swinging his pistol to the left and firing at Sami, who had run to Mickey’s aid, hitting him in the leg and shoulder.

  Maya started to shout, demanding her brother’s release, but Mickey kept his focus, his eyes not leaving the spy for a second.

  “Throw me your gun,” the German yelled again, his pistol pressing against Erik’s temple. “If we can’t have him, neither can you.”

  “Please, Mickey, throw him your
gun,” Maya pleaded.

  Mickey searched desperately for a solution. He knew the Nazi would kill Erik if he had to. Black smoke billowed from the ravaged hull of the plane as flames licked the fuselage. The tail of the trimotor broke off, releasing a geyser of orange and black plumes of smoke. The acrid smell of fuel filled the air. The plane would go up any second. He had no choice but to try to buy time.

  “Throw it to me,” the Nazi threatened.

  Mickey lowered his gun and hurled it at him, but so forcefully that it flew past the German and skidded into the grass.

  The spy raised his gun and aimed at him. He smiled, but before he could pull the trigger, a body came crashing down on top of him, knocking him and Erik to the ground.

  “Vati!” Maya shouted.

  The enraged spy hoisted the old man up by the collar and whipped him with his pistol before training his gun back on Mickey, who had started toward him.

  “Father, Father,” Erik moaned as he knelt over his father, who lay on the ground, breathing heavily.

  Suddenly the airplane’s raised wing split in two and burning metal exploded everywhere. The Nazi bent over to grab Erik, but with his last gush of energy, Viktor Blumenthal rose up and sank his teeth into the German’s hand. The gun fell to the ground, and before he could retrieve it, Erik was able to sweep it out of his reach.

  The spy lunged for it, but Mickey was too fast. Animated by a hatred so pure he didn’t know he could harbor such a thing, Mickey flew at him. An animal now, he rolled on the ground with the fiend, biting, kicking, punching, scratching, and choking. He went for his eyes, his hair, his balls, barely feeling the blows he received in return. He finally straddled the spy and picked up a rock and smashed him in the face again and again and again, until he felt someone grab him by the shoulder.

  “Stop, Mickey, stop,” Maya said, sobbing. “He’s already dead.”

  The Nazi had stopped moving, his mouth frozen open in a silent cry.

  CHAPTER 47

  While Erik stood solemnly over their father’s burial site, Maya looked for the heaviest and prettiest stone she could find and placed it on the grave, next to the flowers she’d brought. She had no idea what the tradition of placing a stone on a grave meant, but as she bid her final good-bye, she told Vati that her love for him would be as enduringly strong as this very rock. He would forever live inside her, along with Mutter. How sad it was that Mutter and Vati, so inseparable in life, ended up being buried on different continents. One never knows what turns life can take, but one thing is certain: We are born alone and we die alone. And in between there is that thing called life, a certain reality that exists on a certain plane and seems real to our mortal eyes, but who knows what lies beyond that?

  Maya turned her head and saw Mickey waiting for them in front of the taxi that would take them to the station where they would catch the train to Cairo. He waved gently to her. He’d stayed behind, wanting to give Maya and her brother some privacy. Mickey had been a rock for her. He didn’t say much; he just listened and from time to time found the right words to comfort her. Gradually they’d filled in the gaps about each other’s true identities. Erik had come clean as well, telling her about his work—bomb and all, though he seemed truly surprised and disturbed to learn that he had been the subject of an international manhunt. The US government was now promising them safe passage to America and would be taking care of all their needs once they arrived. It didn’t matter where they went. She was just glad she would be going there with Mickey.

  “I’m ready to go whenever you are,” she said quietly to Erik as she slid up next to him, still limping from the gunshot wound to her thigh.

  Erik stared blankly in front of him and began softly reciting a short prayer in Hebrew. There were tears on his cheeks. She was so deeply moved that she started to cry herself. He turned to her when he was finished and embraced her.

  “Thank you for praying in Hebrew, Erik,” she whispered. “You know how much this would have meant to him.”

  They stood for a long moment, rocking in one another’s arms. She’d never felt this close to her brother before.

  “Let’s go,” he finally said.

  Not knowing when, if ever, she would be back, she took a long last look at the cemetery. Erik had chosen Vati’s plot well; it was situated on the outskirts of the city of Suez, on a green mount with olive trees, and it had a beautiful view of the canal. With a little imagination, one could see all the way across the Sinai to the Holy Land. Like Moses. So you could say that Vati had made it to the Promised Land after all.

  She took her brother’s arm and they walked back to the taxi, leaning on each other for support. Mickey hurried to them and first helped Erik settle into the back of the cab before circling around and seeing that Maya was comfortably seated next to her brother. He smiled at her sweetly as he caressed her cheek and carefully closed the door for her.

  “Onwards and upwards,” Mickey said as he slid into the passenger seat and the cab driver took off.

  She gazed out the windows, riding in silence. There were dark clouds in the sky, and it started to rain. It always surprised her that it could rain in Egypt. She wondered if it was also raining in Cairo, which was inland, far from the coast. The American Embassy had offered to put them up at the Shepheard’s Hotel, but she preferred to stay with the Levis, at least for a few days. They, too, were in mourning, and she longed to be in the warmth of the family and to cry with them. She wanted to visit Léon Guibli’s grave as soon as possible and pay her respects. He also lay underground now, just wrapped in a sheet like a cocoon. No caskets were used in Egypt, which had shocked her.

  But what’s the difference, really? Dust to dust. She just found it so hard to accept that one could disappear from the face of the earth like that. One day we’re here, one day we’re gone. We’re truly just a fleeting memory. The thought saddened her but at the same time she was glad to be acutely aware that life had to be seized. And hers was waiting for her. She turned her head and looked at Mickey’s back, catching his profile and admiring it. Just then, Mickey turned and addressed her and Erik.

  “I spoke to Ambassador Kirk earlier,” he said. “It won’t be long for your visas to arrive. He has already started the paperwork.” He winked at Maya, which gave her a warm tingle all over, like a caress traveling down her spine. Their eyes met and they smiled at each other, but she noticed Erik looking at them, making her blush and avert her eyes from Mickey.

  “I hear that the new general, Montgomery, is doing a fine job rousing up the troops,” Mickey said as he turned farther to face Erik.

  “Let’s hope this one can lead the Allies to victory,” Erik said before turning his gaze to the window.

  Maya was barely listening, lost in her thoughts about her father again. Who would put flowers on his grave?

  “I heard that over eight hundred artillery guns were firing at the German lines early this morning,” Mickey continued. “Apparently the noise was so great that the ears of the gunners bled.”

  His comments drew no response. Neither she nor Erik wanted to talk. She wished Mickey would stop trying to make conversation.

  “Are you okay back there, Erik?” he asked after a little while. “Your neck? Not too stiff?”

  “Not at all,” Erik answered, before turning to Maya and smiling at her. He covered her hand with his, gazing at her tenderly. He squeezed her hand gently. The gesture carried more meaning than a thousand spoken words. She squeezed back. She loved him too.

  “Want to wave hello to your friend King Farouk, Maya?” Mickey said after a long silence. “We’re passing one of his palaces.” He pointed with his chin toward her window. “Erik, did she ever tell you that the king fancied her?”

  “Oh, please!” Maya said, wishing he’d stop.

  But she knew he couldn’t. He was just too excited about going back to Cairo with both the scientist and his girl. A double victory.

  “The train station is around the corner,” the cab driver said.


  As they reached the station, they found people in the street kissing and dancing, while cars were honking their horns in celebration.

  “What’s going on?” Mickey asked.

  The cab driver shrugged and rolled down his window. “What’s going on?” he shouted in Arabic to a man standing nearby.

  The man shouted back in reply and made a shrugging gesture.

  “Big victory for the Allies at El Alamein,” the taxi driver said, turning to Mickey.

  Mickey stared at the driver for a second and then let out a gigantic whoop of joy while Erik and Maya turned toward each other, too dumbfounded to say anything.

  Aswan, Port Said, Luxor, Minya, Alexandria, Cairo. Loudspeakers were blasting train arrivals and departures in Arabic, French, and English, as Maya, Mickey, and Erik entered the station. All around them sailors were throwing their hats into the air and people were buzzing with excitement about the victory at El Alamein. Big band music started playing over the loudspeakers.

  “Wait here,” Mickey said, dropping their luggage. “I’m going to buy the tickets.”

  “Only two,” Erik said. “I won’t be going to Cairo with you two.”

  “What do you mean?” Maya asked, taken aback. She glanced at Mickey.

  Erik looked at his sister with a calm smile. “I’ve been thinking about it long and hard,” he said. “I’m going to take the train by myself to Kantara and on to Tel Aviv.”

  “But everything has been arranged,” Mickey said, exchanging nervous looks with Maya. “Ambassador Kirk himself will be meeting you at the train station.”

  “I can no longer be involved in research that can be used to kill people. I’m sorry,” Erik said to them. He turned to Maya. “It started back in Paris when I calculated the destructive potential of an atomic bomb based on my work.”

  “But the Germans might win the war if they build the bomb first,” Mickey protested.

  “There must be death during war,” Maya added. “Twenty million people died in the last war. Nothing matters except stopping Hitler.”