Read Online City of the Sun by Juliana Maio - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Juliana Maio
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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effective system of self-government for the community and regulated a wide range of affairs that touched on virtually every aspect of Jewish civil life. As he suspected, they also conducted an extensive web of charitable activities ranging from helping the elderly to providing dowries for less fortunate Jewish girls. He found no specific formal aid structure for refugees, but an organization this powerful and far-reaching should have a hand in assisting them. Mickey would make it the first stop in his investigation.
“Monsieur Miiickey, s’aalam alekoum! ” the building’s bawab greeted him as he came out of the elevator. The Arab was polishing one of the dozen colossal pink marble columns that decorated the foyer of the art nouveau building. He put his rag aside, wiped his hands on his light blue galabeya, and opened his arms. “You are up early. Life is good, insha ’ Allah .” The Arab grinned from ear to ear, his long, curly lashes framing his sparkling dark eyes.
“Life’s great, Hosni,” Mickey replied. “Just great.”
“Tsk, tsk,” the bawab reprimanded, waving his index finger. “Kolo Kawayes.”
“ Koulo quiece . All is well,” Mickey repeated.
“Kolo-Ka-Wayes , ” the bawab corrected his accent, a game they had played since his arrival. Mickey was eager to get going, but he repeated the phrase until he said it to the Arab’s satisfaction, knowing Hosni would not relent.
“Bravo, Mr. Mickey!” he finally enthused, offering him an olivefrom a small dish on the desk as if rewarding a well-trained dog. Mickey popped it into his mouth. “Where are you going this glorious morning?” Hosni asked.
“The Jewish community center, and I’d better hurry,” Mickey said. “It’s near the Ismalia Synagogue, right?”
“Around the corner from it,” Hosni said. “Please give my greetings to my Jewish brothers,” he requested, bowing his head and placing a hand on his heart.
The luxurious apartment complex known as the Immobilia building where Mickey was staying was only a fifteen-minute walk from Ismail Pasha Square, the epicenter of the social and business lives of the elite. A stone’s throw from the beautiful Ezbekieh Gardens, the Ismalia Synagogue stood well within this fashionable area of town. It was the largest structure on Magrabi Street and stood next to the Turf Club, one of the most exclusive social clubs in the capital. The palm tree motifs on the synagogue’s façade evoked a mysterious and ancient Egyptian quality, and Mickey would not have known it was a Jewish temple were it not for the carving that framed the top of the imposing pink stone entry columns, where a large Jewish star was displayed. Perhaps the architect had wanted to remind the world that Moses had once been a prince of Egypt.
Around the corner was the Jewish community center with a line of people running more than two blocks in front. They were a sad and bedraggled group—mothers with babies, crying children, elderly men, and whole families, dragging along their piles of suitcases and knapsacks. From the babble of languages, it was clear to Mickey that they were from all over the Mediterranean basin and beyond. They all had the same resigned and weary look, knowing this would not be the end of their troubles.
So these are the “displaced,” he thought, imagining the horror of fleeing one’s home without knowing when you might return, ifever. It made him think of a photo he’d seen, of Polish Jews lined up at a train station waiting to be taken to the Warsaw Ghetto, a place closed to the outside world. It had been buried on page sixteen of the New York Times , whose owner was Jewish.
Mickey headed straight to the front of the line and squeezed inside the center. The lobby was swarming with people, their clatter reverberating off the walls. A husky, cross-eyed security man blocked his path—they were too busy to talk to a reporter, but Mickey was able to convince him that a “well-placed” article in
“Monsieur Miiickey, s’aalam alekoum! ” the building’s bawab greeted him as he came out of the elevator. The Arab was polishing one of the dozen colossal pink marble columns that decorated the foyer of the art nouveau building. He put his rag aside, wiped his hands on his light blue galabeya, and opened his arms. “You are up early. Life is good, insha ’ Allah .” The Arab grinned from ear to ear, his long, curly lashes framing his sparkling dark eyes.
“Life’s great, Hosni,” Mickey replied. “Just great.”
“Tsk, tsk,” the bawab reprimanded, waving his index finger. “Kolo Kawayes.”
“ Koulo quiece . All is well,” Mickey repeated.
“Kolo-Ka-Wayes , ” the bawab corrected his accent, a game they had played since his arrival. Mickey was eager to get going, but he repeated the phrase until he said it to the Arab’s satisfaction, knowing Hosni would not relent.
“Bravo, Mr. Mickey!” he finally enthused, offering him an olivefrom a small dish on the desk as if rewarding a well-trained dog. Mickey popped it into his mouth. “Where are you going this glorious morning?” Hosni asked.
“The Jewish community center, and I’d better hurry,” Mickey said. “It’s near the Ismalia Synagogue, right?”
“Around the corner from it,” Hosni said. “Please give my greetings to my Jewish brothers,” he requested, bowing his head and placing a hand on his heart.
The luxurious apartment complex known as the Immobilia building where Mickey was staying was only a fifteen-minute walk from Ismail Pasha Square, the epicenter of the social and business lives of the elite. A stone’s throw from the beautiful Ezbekieh Gardens, the Ismalia Synagogue stood well within this fashionable area of town. It was the largest structure on Magrabi Street and stood next to the Turf Club, one of the most exclusive social clubs in the capital. The palm tree motifs on the synagogue’s façade evoked a mysterious and ancient Egyptian quality, and Mickey would not have known it was a Jewish temple were it not for the carving that framed the top of the imposing pink stone entry columns, where a large Jewish star was displayed. Perhaps the architect had wanted to remind the world that Moses had once been a prince of Egypt.
Around the corner was the Jewish community center with a line of people running more than two blocks in front. They were a sad and bedraggled group—mothers with babies, crying children, elderly men, and whole families, dragging along their piles of suitcases and knapsacks. From the babble of languages, it was clear to Mickey that they were from all over the Mediterranean basin and beyond. They all had the same resigned and weary look, knowing this would not be the end of their troubles.
So these are the “displaced,” he thought, imagining the horror of fleeing one’s home without knowing when you might return, ifever. It made him think of a photo he’d seen, of Polish Jews lined up at a train station waiting to be taken to the Warsaw Ghetto, a place closed to the outside world. It had been buried on page sixteen of the New York Times , whose owner was Jewish.
Mickey headed straight to the front of the line and squeezed inside the center. The lobby was swarming with people, their clatter reverberating off the walls. A husky, cross-eyed security man blocked his path—they were too busy to talk to a reporter, but Mickey was able to convince him that a “well-placed” article in
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