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Authors: Juliana Maio
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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the Foreign Service Journal could attract financial support from American Jewish groups. The man relented and asked him to wait.
A few minutes later, a jovial man with a receding hairline and a bulging stomach that was perfectly framed by the black suspenders he wore over his collarless shirt came out to meet him. He introduced himself as Jacques Antebie, head of the Refugees Aid Program and undersecretary of B’nai B’rith, the umbrella organization for all their charities. He said that though they usually did not like to attract publicity, he was pleased that their relief efforts were of interest to their friends in America. He took Mickey’s elbow and led him away.
As they made their way through a maze of hallways to his office, the man proudly explained how they had established over a hundred relief centers in the city, not only for Jews, but for all those in need. “ Mitzvahs . Charity is ingrained in us, monsieur,” he said.
“Do you keep a record of all the refugees you house?” Mickey asked as they rounded a corner into a long corridor.
“We try to, but it’s a struggle to keep it up to date.”
Mickey decided to plunge ahead. “I’m trying to get in touch with a man who would be very helpful for my story. I think his ordeal will resonate with the high-powered readers of this journal. Would you be able to check the name Erik Blumenthal for me?”
“Blumenthal?” Jacques exclaimed. “That’s an Ashkenazi name.”
“Ashkenazi?” Mickey asked.
Jacques stopped and raised his eyebrows. “In America you’ve got a lot of Jews with names like Goldman, Steinberg, Rosenthal. All Europeans, mostly Russian, German, or Polish. Those are the Ashkenazi Jews and they speak Yiddish, no?”
“Yes.”
“Here we have Spanish- and North African-sounding names like Messiquas, Farghalis, Salamas. Those are the Sephardim. Like me,” Jacques said, the side of his thin lips curling into an indulgent smile. “Many of us still speak Ladino, the ancient language of our ancestors in Spain before we were expelled in 1492.” He waved his finger and added, “Not to confuse you, but Levi and Cohen are common names in both groups.” He resumed his march to his office. “And where is this Mr. Blumenthal from, exactly, if I may ask?”
“Germany,” Mickey answered. “He recently arrived from Istanbul. Perhaps he wants to settle here.”
“That would be very unusual,” Jacques said. “German Jews generally don’t like it here. We have very, very few of them in Cairo.” He made a gesture with his thumb and index finger emphasizing how few. “Maybe it’s our sun. I’ve been in charge of our refugee program for the last seven years and I don’t think we’ve had any German refugees since a small number arrived in Port Said in ’38. They were in transit to Palestine. We gave them food and clothing and some medical supplies. Anyhow, I’d be happy to check this fellow’s name against our lists.”
“Palestine?” Mickey repeated. “Could you help me get in touch with one of the Zionist organizations here?”
“We don’t have any,” Jacques said. “Why should we? Egyptian Jews are not interested in a Jewish homeland. We are very happy here. This way, please.”
When they reached Jacques’s office, a lanky young man was leaving, a pile of documents in his arms and the look of a deer indistress on his face. Jacques introduced him as his aide, George Zétoun, and explained the situation to him.
“Blumenthal,” the man remarked. “A Schlekht ?”
“What’s a Schlekht?” Mickey asked.
“I’m sorry. It’s not a very nice name for the Ashkenazim,” Jacques interceded. “It means ‘disgusting’ in Yiddish. The Ashkenazim are very different from us, I’m afraid.”
“Different good or different bad?” Mickey asked, directing his question at Zétoun.
“Well, not very good,” Zétoun confessed, his ears reddening, apparently uncomfortable with his own prejudice. “They have different
A few minutes later, a jovial man with a receding hairline and a bulging stomach that was perfectly framed by the black suspenders he wore over his collarless shirt came out to meet him. He introduced himself as Jacques Antebie, head of the Refugees Aid Program and undersecretary of B’nai B’rith, the umbrella organization for all their charities. He said that though they usually did not like to attract publicity, he was pleased that their relief efforts were of interest to their friends in America. He took Mickey’s elbow and led him away.
As they made their way through a maze of hallways to his office, the man proudly explained how they had established over a hundred relief centers in the city, not only for Jews, but for all those in need. “ Mitzvahs . Charity is ingrained in us, monsieur,” he said.
“Do you keep a record of all the refugees you house?” Mickey asked as they rounded a corner into a long corridor.
“We try to, but it’s a struggle to keep it up to date.”
Mickey decided to plunge ahead. “I’m trying to get in touch with a man who would be very helpful for my story. I think his ordeal will resonate with the high-powered readers of this journal. Would you be able to check the name Erik Blumenthal for me?”
“Blumenthal?” Jacques exclaimed. “That’s an Ashkenazi name.”
“Ashkenazi?” Mickey asked.
Jacques stopped and raised his eyebrows. “In America you’ve got a lot of Jews with names like Goldman, Steinberg, Rosenthal. All Europeans, mostly Russian, German, or Polish. Those are the Ashkenazi Jews and they speak Yiddish, no?”
“Yes.”
“Here we have Spanish- and North African-sounding names like Messiquas, Farghalis, Salamas. Those are the Sephardim. Like me,” Jacques said, the side of his thin lips curling into an indulgent smile. “Many of us still speak Ladino, the ancient language of our ancestors in Spain before we were expelled in 1492.” He waved his finger and added, “Not to confuse you, but Levi and Cohen are common names in both groups.” He resumed his march to his office. “And where is this Mr. Blumenthal from, exactly, if I may ask?”
“Germany,” Mickey answered. “He recently arrived from Istanbul. Perhaps he wants to settle here.”
“That would be very unusual,” Jacques said. “German Jews generally don’t like it here. We have very, very few of them in Cairo.” He made a gesture with his thumb and index finger emphasizing how few. “Maybe it’s our sun. I’ve been in charge of our refugee program for the last seven years and I don’t think we’ve had any German refugees since a small number arrived in Port Said in ’38. They were in transit to Palestine. We gave them food and clothing and some medical supplies. Anyhow, I’d be happy to check this fellow’s name against our lists.”
“Palestine?” Mickey repeated. “Could you help me get in touch with one of the Zionist organizations here?”
“We don’t have any,” Jacques said. “Why should we? Egyptian Jews are not interested in a Jewish homeland. We are very happy here. This way, please.”
When they reached Jacques’s office, a lanky young man was leaving, a pile of documents in his arms and the look of a deer indistress on his face. Jacques introduced him as his aide, George Zétoun, and explained the situation to him.
“Blumenthal,” the man remarked. “A Schlekht ?”
“What’s a Schlekht?” Mickey asked.
“I’m sorry. It’s not a very nice name for the Ashkenazim,” Jacques interceded. “It means ‘disgusting’ in Yiddish. The Ashkenazim are very different from us, I’m afraid.”
“Different good or different bad?” Mickey asked, directing his question at Zétoun.
“Well, not very good,” Zétoun confessed, his ears reddening, apparently uncomfortable with his own prejudice. “They have different
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