There was, from one end of the corniche to the other end, a variety of street vendors that offered food items. We, of course, never ate everything that was available; that would have been impossible! The dora (corn) grilled on charcoal was a must. And ice cream was always on our menu.

Whenever we could, we talked aunt Rachel into coming with us; if we succeeded, she took us to El Chami. Since she paid, we sat down and ordered a cup of ice cream. I can’t find the words in the English language to describe this ice cream; El Chami (which simply means The Syrian) used only the best and freshest ingredients, if you ordered, say, frawla (strawberry), that’s what you got; he also added pieces of fresh fruits and nuts. Aunt Rachel once ordered milk (cream and milk) and gave us to taste, we went bananas over it, for it included mastic, it had a divine taste and stretched when you bit into it. Some other flavors, such as chocolate and pistachios, also had mastic, but you paid extra for that.

Other merchants: Soudani (peanuts) were roasted right there and served hot in a paper cone.

Tin beshokou (cactus pears) were peeled and the luscious fruit quickly consumed; you could eat 5 or 6 without even realizing it; Fola loved it.

Termes (lupin beans in brine) were bought and eaten as we walked.

Colorea was sometimes purchased if we got really hungry(!). Colorea is a round confection of dough with sesame on it; the merchant gave you a packet of salt mixed with spices to dip your colorea in it. If you could afford it, he also sold wrapped pieces of cheeses or even hard boiled eggs. In addition, that individual sold rosquettes; again, it is a round baked item and it differed from the colorea in that it was smaller and harder. The call of that vendor was: Semit, ka’hk, we beid; semit means colorea which is really a Greek word, ka’hk means rosquettes, a French word, finally, beid means eggs. That same merchant sometimes sold shtangel, a delicious long salty and sweet treat; I believe that shtangel is of German origin, and the man actually used the term shtangel.

I’ll mention one last item (but by no stretch of the imagination have I covered all available victuals), leb (roasted seeds) such as pumpkins and sunflowers were purchased hot and continually cracked and eaten as we walked; that of course was possible only when our jaws were not otherwise busy munching on something else!

You would think that after a day at the beach, and a long walk on the corniche, we would fall into bed. Not so. The moment we went to bed, Michel, Robert, and myself talked our heads off. “Silence les enfants.” (Be quiet children). “Ca suffit les enfants.” (Enough children). These adults admonishments only brought tittering and a moment of silence; thereafter conversations resumed as if nothing happened. Only when the sandman wended his way to our bed did we finally shut our little mouths!

After Linda, Vita, and their sons left for Israel, we had more room; by then, the house was occupied by Nina, Victoire and their families. But it was still a tight fit. Eventually, we enjoyed the hospitality of Rachel and Daniel. But here again there was a problem, Daniel had a temper, and his explosions were legendary.

The alternative was to rent two rooms in a house, or in a pension (roughly equivalent to a bed-and-breakfast). We would have had our own rooms with comfortable beds and the required privacy. We would have seen the rest of the family on a regular basis, and would have joined them in their activities. It would have been the best of both worlds. But my father claimed he couldn’t afford it. But the cost was affordable even if it was for two months and during the high season. The reality was that my father loved his in-laws (we have seen that when he had surgery, he went to Alexandria), and would have hated to come on week-ends, and during his two-weeks vacation, to anonymous rooms, rather than being among family.

This was an average day. After having breakfast by aunt Linda, we headed to uncle Maurice home. There were always fruits waiting for us. After we topped our breakfast, we headed for the beach. Uncle Maurice had a car with a chauffeur, and we all piled in there and headed to Stanley Bey.

The first order of the day was to change into our bathing suits and go swimming. Once in the water, it was near impossible to get us (my cousins, Robert, and myself) out. Only the demands of the stomach forced us out of the sea.

Lunch was the main meal of the day, and aunt Rachel woke up early to ensure that we get it on time. When it was ready, the two servants took the food to the car, and the chauffeur headed again to Stanley Bey. In the cabin we had foldable tables which were opened as soon as the food arrived. We then all sat down and tucked in. After our swim, we were ravenous. The adults then sat down to talk and/or play cards. Us children walked around Stanley Bey, went fishing, or simply went for another swim. We rarely played in the sand.

Often there were extra guests, and we occupied the spaces of adjacent cabins. Mostly, those cabins sat unused; the owners were wealthy and were probably vacationing in Europe. We had so many people that often roving photographers suggested a picture. We have as a result a few pictures showing quite a few friends and relatives.

When we came back home, we played board games. Our favorite was monopoly which at the time was a new game, indeed a very recent invention. By the evening, it was time to take a long walk along the corniche.

So what was it about Alexandria that made it so unique?

Alexandria was designed by the Greek architect Dinocrates who followed the orders of Alexander the Great. It was built over the rests of an old village, Rhakotis.

For close to a thousand years, it was the capital of Egypt. But when Islam came to Egypt, the conquerors established a new city as their capital, El Fustat, later to become known as El Kahira (Cairo).

Alexandria has two main harbors, the Western harbor and the Eastern harbor, the oldest one.

Alexandria is unbelievably long. If you have the time and the stamina, you could walk from one end of the city to the other end. You would start at Fort Quaitbey and end at Montazah. However, since we are talking of a stretch of 20 kilometers, you would be well advised to do it by taxi, preferably starting at Montazah, this would allow you to go along the beach. Better still, hire a hantour (a comfortable carriage pulled by one or two horses). When you negotiate the price, remember that the original amount agreed upon is null and void once you arrive at your destination! Make allowance for that.

Midan Ahmed Orabi leads to the magnificent seafront promenade known as the corniche (26th of July Street). It runs around the south side of the Eastern harbor. The corniche (and corresponding stretches of the beach) is divided into sections; I am thereafter referring to those sections as stations since they more or less corresponded to the stops of the streetcar (the streetcar is called tramway in Egypt, and that is the name I will be using).

Some of the names of these stations: Eastern Harbor, Anfushi, El-Shatby, Ibrahimia, Cleopatra, Sporting, Glym, Sidi Gaber, Rushdy, Stanley Bey, San Stefano, Laurent, Sidi Bishr (subdivided into 3 stations: Sidi Bishr No. 1, and so on), Assafra, Miami, and Agami.

The above stations included cabins which were rented by the year. In most stations the cabins were directly on the sand, but some stations were quite luxurious and had many levels, thus you were far away from the sandy beach. For instance, Stanley Bey (where uncle Maurice had his cabin) had three levels above the beach. Standing on top, the beach and the sea looked quite minuscule. The overall structure was magnificent; I never again had the opportunity to see anything resembling it.

A cabin really is nothing more than a wooden structure; you used it to store your lounge chairs, tables, and clothing. As well, it served as a changing room to put on your bathing suit, and eventually get back into your street clothes when ready to leave. Its main advantage was that you could spend the whole day at the beach in great comfort.

Since the demand for cabins far exceeded the supply, the rent was high, and the bribes paid to secure one were even higher. For a place like Stanley Bey, substantial bribes were not enough, you had to be well-connected.

Who uncle Maurice knew that facilitated the transaction, I do not know, nor would I have cared since I was a child and my main preoccupation was to enjoy myself.

An important feature of Alexandria was its tramway. It was a sight above the Cairo tramway. In Cairo, it was opened on both sides, and the conductor had to hop on the platform to collect the fare. In Alexandria, you had enclosed cars (same as a train). It was certainly a more civilized way to travel; and Alexandrians made sure to remind us at every opportunity how much more civilized their city was.

The tramway is really cheap and runs frequently, but I would only recommend it to the adventurous tourist – or if you speak Arabic. Keep in mind that the first car is harim (for women) only. Women can board any car they want, but if alone, they’ll avoid the mixed cars. Men can only travel on the mixed cars.

The late president Gamal Abdel Nasser was born in the district of Bacos in Alexandria.

A third grandmother? Not exactly. Gamila (which means beautiful) was aunt Renee’s mother and therefore the grandmother of Micho, Gasti, and Viviane. However, throughout my childhood, I did consider her as an additional grandmother; it was never just a case of calling her nonna out of respect.

Gamila has been widowed at a relatively young age (yes, the same story seems to repeat itself) and was left to care for her six children. Her children were (not in the precise order of their birth): Albert, Margot, Leon, Beba, Renee, and Isaac. I don’t know much about Renee’s siblings, i.e. who they married, how many children they had, etc. Even if I knew, my story, of necessity, must be restricted to the immediate family; otherwise my recitation of those past events will be interminable. However, for reasons which will quickly become apparent, I do make an exception for Margot.

The family was of a Halabi origin. You may remember that I previously told you  that Halabi make good businessmen. Gamila’s sons were no exception. Early on, Albert, Leon, and Isaac started their own business; and, yes, you guessed right, it was in the schmati business. In time, Albert left to go to Israel, and Leon and Isaac carried on with a business which, as time went on, proved to be more and more profitable. Their business activities were not confined to Egypt; I understand that they had business relations with Europe, notably Italy, Switzerland, and England.

Gamila’s sons supported her; and she had her own apartment on Rue Zankaloun. Gamila lived with Margot and her family, namely, her husband Maurice (you probably clued in by now that this was a popular name among Egyptian Jews), and their two sons, Roger and Claude. Maurice was British and, of course, spoke an impeccable English.

I refer to this day to Roger as my cousin, although technically he was only a cousin by marriage. But no matter, for me Roger was a brother, a cousin, and above all a friend the like of whom you only meet once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky.

Roger was intelligent, witty, steadfast, and honest to a fault. When my other cousins abandoned me for the fair sex, Roger was always there for me. With few exceptions, I could count on finding him in his apartment on Rue Zankaloun; and from there we went for long walks in the Ramleh and Ibrahimia area. And while we walked, we talked, and talked, and talked some more.

Although later he became a chemist, in my opinion, he could have made a good psychologist. He managed to extirpate from my mind the notion that girls were a menace!

When my cousins had a party, it took place in the apartment on Rue Zankaloun. Gamila, Margot, Maurice, and Claude reluctantly vacated the premises for a few hours. Uncles, aunts, and above all my cousins, urged me to go to one of those parties, but they proved unsuccessful. Roger though managed to get me into the lion’s den! He said: “Come to the party on your own terms. Dance, eat, and drink only if you wish. Interact with the rest of the crowd or ignore them. The choice is yours.” As we shall see in the next section, I did go to parties, and did live to tell the tale.

When they left Egypt, nonna Gamila went to Switzerland to rejoin her two sons, Leon and Isaac. Maurice, Margot, and their two children went to England. There Roger studied to be a chemist. In time, Roger married a fine Jewish Egyptian young lady, Mireille.

Life takes its own twists and turns; and as it happened, Mireille and Roger immigrated to Canada and settled in Montreal where my wife Norma and myself were living. Of course, when time permitted it, we got together; and our two children loved to play with their three children. Eventually, though, we moved to Ottawa and lost touch.

The years have gone by and all of Gamila’s children have now passed away.

In 2001, I had the privilege of having in my home, for 6 months, the youngest of Roger’s children, Esther. She used this opportunity to talk to me at length, and reconstruct the early years of her dad, and the vaunted life Jews had in Alexandria. I also inquired about her family’s life after I had left Montreal.

I wish this story had a happy ending. But we don’t decree the events of our lives, much less the ending. Roger was stricken with cancer and passed away in June 2001. He was only 64. I still grieve over the loss of such a dear friend.

Source

Dale Carnegie http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dale_Carnegie

Aunt Linda must have cut a formidable figure for a young child. She was a big woman with a forceful personality. I remember my mother telling me many times that she had un coeur d’or (a golden heart). And so she did as I would later discover.

When we came to Alexandria, we stayed in her house on Rue Naga Hammadi. Since she was the person in authority, and I was a somewhat rebellious child, I did – when she no longer intimidated me – challenged her. She tolerated it until the day when I asked her to change the menu; she was getting repetitious. She told me in no uncertain terms that she didn’t need advice from a brat like me; indeed, if I didn’t like her food, I could eat at the restaurant. There was never again any friction between us after that!

Many years later, as she was getting ready to leave for Israel, I told her how delicious and varied her food was, and what an ingrate child I was. A much delayed apology which earned me a big hug.

Her husband, uncle Vita, was also in the schmati business. He was a born salesman who knew many languages and could sell the proverbial refrigerators to the Eskimos.

Vita and Linda were the Romeo and Juliet of our family. They exhibited a tender love towards each other. Linda would call Vita ya batti (my duckie), and he in turn would shower her with gifts.

During the summer, on top of all her work, Linda managed to prepare a variety of mezzes (appetizers) for her husband, children, and guests (us).

They had a large balcony which easily accommodated a table, a canape (a hard couch surrounded by cushions), and chairs.

In the evening, out came the ouzo and the mezzes. Uncle Vita sat on the canape, drank his ouzo, ate the mezzes, and related in his inimitable way his dealings with his customers. He also had an endless supply of jokes; as the evening progressed, and more ouzo was ingested, the stories became more and more risque. The anguished cries of “les enfants,” (the children) were ignored. The only children here were their son Michel, Robert, and myself. And we loved it, more so when Nisso was in Alexandria; the expressions these two exchanged would make a madame blush. Ultimately, the ouzo was blamed for all lapses in language. And speaking of languages, the tongues served here were an earthy Arabic, French, Ladino, Italian, and Greek; all of which were rich in swear words. When it came to Greek, Vita translated but left out the bad language, all of a sudden aware that there were children nearby.

If only you could witness one of those evenings, you would understand why the Jews were so joyous when they departed from Egypt 3,000 years ago; and why they were so sad when they were forced to leave in the mid-20th century.

Linda and Vita had five children. The oldest Ninette was known by her nickname of Nina (which is also a name in its own right); next came Joseph, then Gilbert, Victoire, and Michel. Michel automatically became Micho; however, for the purpose of this narrative, I will still call him Michel in order that he not be confused with the other Micho.

This Michael was 3 months older than me, and accordingly became a friend as well as being my cousin. We shared experiences, stories, and the occasional mischief. The most amusing incident was when Michel shared his knowledge about the birds and the bees. I didn’t believe a word of it, but Michel assured me that such and such couple were doing “it.” Nothing doing. Finally, he had to call the adults to the rescue. Only when my mother confirmed the whole thing, did I accept that these “strange” acts were indeed happening “out there.” As we shall see in the next section, in sexual matters, I was two steps behind my contemporaries.

Aunt Linda was one of the most organized person I have ever met. What the French call “Administrateurs Extraordinaires.” The kind of person that have the potential to run a big corporation and make the big bucks. Her family comprised 7 persons, during the summer, when we came, she catered to 10 people. On top of that, she occasionally entertained. And through it all, she managed to make it look easy. Truly a remarkable woman.

Uncle Vita was a somewhat lax dad. When he scolded his children, he put his hand on his mouth so that they couldn’t see him smile. Aunt Linda therefore had to be the drill sergeant. But don’t be fooled here. There were no “toughs” in this household. In matters of discipline, Vita and Linda followed a simple formula: Lots and lots of love and gentle persuasion. And their children became the kind of adults that I was always proud to call my cousins.

The impact of parents on their children is truly remarkable. Because Vita and Linda loved each other so much, each of their children can lay a claim on a touching love story.

Nina married Victor (AKA Toto) and both were tied by strong bonds throughout their lives.

Joseph married Rosette and they gave a new meaning to the term “a deep love.”

Gilbert married his sweetheart Esther (AKA Esty) and both are an example of the perfect couple; the kind you can use as a case history in a psychology textbook!

Victoire married the love of her life, Benjamin (AKA Benny). But there (for reasons I won’t get into) the sweet brew of love turned bitter.

Michel worked as a sailor. He was good-looking, the “knock ‘em dead” type. In England, he met a tall and gorgeous girl, Carol; she fell in love with him and followed her heart which took her from England to Israel. Carol easily integrated in the clan, for, in addition to the Queen’s English, she, like her monarch, spoke a fluent French. Of course, in time, she added Hebrew.

After Egypt, all the family immigrated to Israel except for Victoire who went to France.

Aunt Linda and uncle Vita passed away sometimes in the early ’70s.

Sadly, Victoire died in her forties.

Nina who lived close to Haifa passed away in 2007 at the age of 84. By then she was a widow, having lost her beloved Toto a few years back. Nina kept in touch with us at all times. She gave us the latest news on the family. Because of that, Gilbert – in jest – called her, “Le Ministre des Affaires Etrangeres.” “Minister of Foreign Affairs.”

Gilbert and Esty spend their time travelling and spoiling their great-grandchildren (the way they did it with their now grown-up grandchildren).

Michel and Carol share their time getting acquainted with Europe and helping in the upbringing of their beloved grandchildren. Michel undertook and completed the enormous task of preparing a family tree; thanks to him we now have a ready reference when we need to verify facts (or relationships) related to our family.

Joseph – the only cousin that does not live in Haifa – resided in Holon (near Tel-Aviv). In 1996, he lost his beloved Rosette to cancer. In time, he met a Romanian dentist; and they both travelled extensively. She also eventually passed away.  Joseph eventually died in 2011 at the great age of 87.

When he was a young lad, his dad used to tell him in his heavily accented Arabic (he emigrated from Poland), “you Maurice will be a gazmagi (shoe repair-man)!” A weird psychology no doubt intended to spur him to do well in life. But it was certainly not conducive to lift his self-esteem. A child development expert would cringe if he heard that.

But Maurice did very well indeed, surely no thanks to nonno Michael’s reverse psychology!

I am proud of all the members of my family, but in my mind, oncle Maurice holds a very special place. He was an astute and self-confident businessman. He always tried to expand his horizons. God knows he had his flaws, but his attributes far outweighed his shortcomings. He was generous to a fault, hospitable, and always willing to help financially or otherwise. I know that dad had, over the years, long talks with him about his business and other matters. Nisso was comfortable with Morsi (his nickname) and consulted him when he had a difficult business decision to take.

Morsi was in the schmati (textiles and clothing) business. His company was located in the old section of Alexandria, and I understand he had one or more partners, and at least two salesmen. He also had one other employee. All were treated well by Khawaga Maurice, and received generous bonuses when there were holidays.

Early in his career, uncle Maurice moved into a house on Rue Hehia. From that point on, his business took off. Being a superstitious person, he never consented to move out of his apartment, this despite the fact that it was too small, and over time became grossly inadequate for his growing family.

Maurice was a firm believer in the teachings of Dale Carnegie (I believe his books were the first self-help books). If you’re from my generation, you will instantly recognize the name; if not, let me give you a tip, read his books, his advice is still relevant today.

Dale Carnegie (not to be confused with Andrew Carnegie, an industrialist and philanthropist extraordinaire) was a writer who was born in 1888 and died in 1955 at the age of 66. He has to his credit many books which to this day remain unmatched in the advice they give.

Maurice had (the French translation of) two of his books; he had read them, reread them, and his annotations were all over the books. He quoted them the way some people quote the bible. To make a point he would often say, “Carnegie said this or that.” Thereafter, it would have been futile to argue with my uncle, for him, it was heresy to contradict the great man. The books in question were: – How to Win Friends and Influence People. (His favorite). – How to Stop Worrying and Start Living.

When he had the time, he would gather us (his two children and myself), ask questions to test our knowledge, and then do his best to educate us. His two sons made it clear that they didn’t want to be enlightened; school was more than enough, thank you very much. I suspect that it was more a case that nobody is a prophet in his own country. Whatever the case, Morsi was left with only one willing student, me.

He explained to me the principles of supply and demand, the intricacies of the world of commerce, the stock market, the ins and outs of importing and exporting goods, and a host of other matters related to the financial world. He also talked of the incomprehensible opposite sex. Later, he expressed concern when I told him that, as yet, I didn’t have a girl-friend. This at the age of 13!

The fly in the ointment was that he explained many things to me before I was ready. Later, Nisso would expound on those topics, and he did it at the right time.

For instance, to this day, I have to think for a moment when faced with the concepts of importing and exporting merchandise.

And, no, uncle Maurice is not responsible for my confusion regarding the opposite sex. It’s apparently a malady that affects all the males in the world!

Uncle Maurice, unlike the rest of his family, was not a strong swimmer. As it happened, one day when he was in the sea, he found himself in difficulty. No members of the family, nor indeed anybody else, was around. He was getting tired and was swallowing water. His situation was getting worse and worse, and eventually he lost consciousness. The ever alert lifeguard quickly noticed that a swimmer was drowning. He, and another lifeguard, jumped into a boat, and in no time reached my uncle. As soon as they reached the shore, they administrated first aid and succeeded in reviving him. Maurice had just used his first life and from that day on recognized that God has given him a second chance. The two lifeguards received from my uncle a substantial monetary gift. For me, the lesson was quite simple: A human life hangs from a thread, and never, ever, should we take even one day of our lives for granted.

Aunt Renee, his wife, came from a Halabi family, meaning that they originated from Alep, a part of Syria that is rather different from the rest of this country.

I have, early on, provided you with the attributes of a Halabi woman. Don’t refer back to that section! Tante Renee was a sweet, sensitive, and patient person; she was, lucky for all concerned, unlike you typical Halabi female.

Because of circumstances outside her control, she was never mistress in her own home. She found herself in a household run by her sister-in-law and mother-in-law. The ironic thing was that her position was envied. “Renee never had to put her hand in hot water.” “Renee brought her children into the world and, thereafter, never had to do anything for them.” “Renee has a telephone, a car with a chauffeur, two servants, a beautiful cabin at Stanley Bey, and enough money to fulfill all her wishes.”

The sad thing here is that nobody asked Renee if that’s what she wanted. Nobody asked her if she was happy.

I know next to nothing about her life in Italy where they settled after Egypt. However, I can safely surmise that her artificial world in Alexandria had left her totally unprepared to face the vicissitudes of life after the second exodus.

Maurice and Renee had three children. Michael, the oldest, was 3 months younger than me. He was rarely called by his real name, Michel; rather we all called him by his nickname, Micho. His brother Gaston was 3 years younger; here again we all used his nickname, Gasti.

Micho and Gasti are an integral part of my childhood, and are associated with many wonderful memories. But I also had other cousins in Alexandria who meant a lot to me.

After their two boys, my aunt and uncle decided to try a third time in the hope of getting a much desired daughter. They were not disappointed; this time, it was finally a banouta. Bent means girl in Arabic, and banouta is an endearing term for bent. Needless to say, our new cousin, Viviane, was much loved and coddled. She is 8 years younger than Micho.

In Italy, the two brothers of aunt Renee were in business in both Italy and Switzerland. Uncle Maurice was asked to join them and he did. But he was a fish out of water. He has lost all his business contacts, the oxygen of any businessman. Worse still, this was another universe; the Egyptian approach did not work here. He was dealing with Europeans who conducted their business in a manner that was totally different from the Egyptian way.

The whole family with the exception of Gasty – who immigrated to Brazil – stayed in Italy.

In 1967, uncle Maurice was felled by a cerebral hemorrhage. He was in his early sixties.

Michael died of cancer in the late ’90s, he was in his early sixties. Shortly thereafter aunt Renee passed away. She was too ill to be told of Michael’s passing, thus she never knew that her beloved son had predeceased her.

Viviane became a successful businesswoman, and  is now retired.

In Brazil, Gaston – who always liked to keep busy – is semi- retired.

I have previously talked of Rachel. To recapitulate, she had been widowed at a young age. She was also childless, but her nieces and nephews filled that gap. She was an amazing administrator (of the household) and a superb cook. Had she been born 70 years later, and with the benefit of education, she could have been a chef.

Uncle Maurice and aunt Renee opened their home and hearts to her, and she became a member of their household. Their generosity was amply repaid for she became an asset to this young family.

While she was respected, and never wanted for anything, she also worked very hard. On top of cooking for the family, supervising the domestic help, and helping with the upbringing of her nephews and niece, she also had to contend with the fact that uncle Maurice loved to entertain; and neither he nor his guests would have consented to eat any food besides what Rachel had cooked. Add to that complex equation the fact that she cooked in an impossibly small and dark kitchen, and you will understand that she welcomed with open arms the man who would eventually become her second husband.

Sometimes in 1951, she was introduced to a widower, Daniel. He had a good position with a brokerage firm. His house was huge: 2 large dining rooms, a sitting room, an imposing entrance, 3 bedrooms, and a large kitchen with a window. From the sitting room you stepped onto a large balcony overlooking an Alexandria streetcar station and an open market; you could spend two solid hours there and never get bored. Finally, Daniel’s late wife was a very particular person, thus the house was tastefully furnished, well maintained, and kept impeccably clean.

Daniel was intelligent and attractive. He could talk about many topics, and was very witty. However, by his own admission, he had a quick temper.

While my aunt was getting a catch, he was getting the jewel in the crown! Nevertheless, none of them leaped blindly; they went out together, and got to know each other. When finally there was a meeting of minds, Daniel proposed to Rachel and she consented. But there was one more formality: obtaining the consent of uncle Maurice! As it happened, Robert witnessed this unusual scene.

Maurice, Rachel, and Daniel started with small talk; eventually Rachel informed Maurice that Daniel had proposed to her, that she liked him, and that she was requesting his permission to get married! Maurice, of course, readily consented. The way was opened for a farah (wedding).

I know you’re shocked, and so am I. Here is the older sister having to obtain the approval of her younger brother before she can get married. But keep in mind that this was Egypt in the 1950s. Maurice was the only male in the family, and it would have been unthinkable for her to marry without his consent. Finally, the whole thing was essentially a formality, a matter of following the accepted custom in such a case.

The marriage worked well. Rachel delighted in her new status and home, and oncle Daniel was over the moon with his wonderful new wife. From that point on, when we went on vacation, we stayed in their home.

But, alas, it was not to last. A few years later, the Jews of Egypt embarked on the second exodus.

Rachel and Daniel went to Israel, and there they settled in a town near Haifa. At the onset, like all immigrants, they were given temporary housing; later the Souknout (Jewish Agency) provided them with a small apartment with a geared-to-income rent. Uncle Daniel was provided with a job: light gardening in the homes of well-to-do families. For a man who held a responsible position in Alexandria, and lived in a splendid house, this was a fall from great heights. But what could he do; here the Egyptian saying applied: Ma’alesh ya zahr; an approximate translation: Never mind, I accept what life throws at me. When everything was said and done, there was a bright side: At least Jews now had their own state which automatically accepted them and extended all the help it could.

In the meantime, another drama was playing itself out in Alexandria. Uncle Maurice had a visa to immigrate to Italy; there, his brothers-in-law were conducting business in Italy and Switzerland, and they needed him. All was fine, he could go there with his family; but there was a problem, what to do with his mother? She had no visa to go to Italy. The only choice for her was to go to Israel and live with her daughters. But here again there was a major difficulty; nonna Bida had zero documentation. There was therefore a big scramble to obtain the necessary papers. Bribes were paid right and left; and there came a day when an “official” birth certificate and an apatride laissez-passez (the equivalent of a passport for a stateless person) were issued for Victoria R. Before she knew it, my grandmother was on a ship taking her to Italy; and then a second ship that took her to Israel.

Aunt Linda was living in an impossibly small house, but she had no choice but to take her mother in. In time, when aunt Rachel was given her own apartment, she took Bida in. Later on, when we came to Israel, my grandmother came to us for extended periods, but her official residence in Israel remained by Rachel and Daniel.

Uncle Daniel passed away a few years later at the age of 62; by then, he was a heartbroken man.

My beloved nonna passed away in 1967, she was in her late seventies or early eighties.

Tante Rachel was not left alone. Two nephews and a niece lived in Haifa. As well, a lot of help was extended by one of Daniel’s daughter, Renee. Renee has lived with aunt Rachel back in Alexandria and was greatly helped by her. She (Renee) was therefore glad to return the favor. At our end, in Canada, we did our best to help financially; Robert, Flora, and myself send what we could afford.

Aunt Rachel died in the mid-’80s. She was in her early eighties. With her passing, our family lost a beautiful soul.

To talk about the magic that was Alexandria, what better place to start than to introduce the relatives who made our holidays unforgettable. As it happens, most of my maternal family lived there. So, let us go and meet them one at a time.

Nonna Bida

In the course of this narrative, I had numerous occasions to talk of my beloved grandmother, mostly though in the context of her long winter stay in our house. Here, my reminiscing is in an Alexandrian context. I am also recapitulating some of the previously mentioned details.

My grandmother was widowed at a relatively young age. Since she had only one son – all the rest were daughters – it was a given that he would support her, and that she would live in his household. In effect, she shared her time between our home, and her son’s house.

There is a difference in the memories I have of her in Cairo, and the ones in Alexandria.

From an early age, in Alexandria, she took upon herself the responsibility of making my stay as agreeable as possible. Actually, let’s call things by their name, she spoiled me! Because of this, she was accused of favoring me. But I doubt that; she was a loving person capable of loving all the numerous grandchildren God had blessed her with. Love cannot be measured, or at least it should not be.

Whether it was Cairo or Alexandria, Bida made herself useful. She cooked, supervised the domestic help, and assisted in the upbringing of her grandchildren.

Victoria had a proverb(s) for virtually all of life’s circumstances. She also had numerous stories. In subsequent parts, I will provide you with some of her proverbs and stories.

When she baby-sat us (my cousins Michael and Gaston, Robert, and myself) we would ask her to tell us some ma’asot (it means happenings; they are actually stories with a moral). And she did it willingly. Of course, since she didn’t know an infinite number of stories, some of those tales were repeated over and over again. And we loved it, for she had always a way of changing the nuances every time.

Another treat was when an Arabic movie was broadcasted. We would all gather around the radio and followed the movie. We would hear the dialogues, the singing, and the voice of the announcer quietly describing the action. He would for instance say, “she just opened the door and …” or, “you should see Samia Gamal dancing, truly she is in a class of her own.” At the end of the movie, he would urge his listeners to go see it; and my grandmother, most of the time, did just that. There was a charm in a broadcasted movie that cannot be duplicated in a telecasted one.

I said that nonna Bida spoiled me. Let me tell you of a scene I made when I was 8. Really, the incident is a testimony of the love of a grandmother for her grandson rather than a matter of merely spoiling him.

The previous week, I had gone with aunt Rachel and my cousins to the cinema. Before the movie, they showed a trailer of the upcoming program. No less than “Lassie Come Home” was coming. I made a mental note of the day and time, and was determined to see it as soon as it came out.

On that fateful day, I woke up and announced that I had to see that movie pronto. Fine, we could all go and see it tonight. Nothing doing, I had to attend the matinee. Here was the whole family ready to head to the beach except for aunt Rachel who was busy preparing the lunch. Who the hell was going to take me? Faced with a hysteric child, Bida volunteered.

Consider the following: The cinema was not air-conditioned; during the evening, the exit doors were opened, but during the day, it was hot as hell. Few people bother going for the matinee. How exciting can a doggie movie be for my grandmother? To add insult to injury, she neither understood English nor could she read the subtitles in Arabic or French.

But she did dress, put on her habara (the wrap-around) and spent the afternoon in a stifling theater, instead of at the beach.

Her stay in Cairo was one where there was little friction with the other members of the family. She occasionally had a tiff with Fola, but almost never with Nisso. Not so in Alexandria.

Maurice’s house was small; there was his wife, Renee, 3 children, Rachel, Bida, and 2 servants. Therefore, tension and occasional scenes were inevitable. Add to that the fact that uncle Maurice was stressed since he run a demanding business, and you can appreciate that the household, at times, could be quite strained.

A comparison of the life of my two grandmothers is called for.

Victoria did not have any financial responsibilities. Indeed, uncle Maurice gave her a generous spending allowance and any money she needed for clothing and other items. Yet, once her husband passed away, she never had a home she could call her own. She had to adapt to various family circumstances, not always an easy thing.

Helene had a huge apartment that she shared with only two other people, Angele and Joseph. She had a lot of freedom as to how to run her household, it was her own domain. Yet, her financial plight was the stuff of nightmares. How often did she cry when again and again she could not balance her budget and had to buy her food on credit?

During most of my life, I considered nonna Bida as being the lucky one. Today, I realize that both – in different ways – had a hard life (after they lost their spouses). If I learned anything, it is that life is never easy. We all, in one way or another, travel down a rocky road.

During one of my walks, I came across a bouza shop. It was like a coffee house except that bouza (more on that drink later) was served. This one catered almost exclusively to carters. The men there were in the light transport business; they each owned a two-wheelers pulled by a donkey. The shop has provided them with a large parking space to park their carts and donkeys.

Bouza was served on a large clay plate with a depression in the middle (more or less like a soup plate). The drinker brought the vessel to his mouth and slowly drank the bouza; when finished, he expressed his delight with the superior bouza. He was also sure to order a second and probably a third serving of bouza.

But more than the men looked forward to their bouza. At a certain point, one or more donkeys started braying; this was the signal the men were waiting for. They took the bouza to the donkeys and they (the donkeys) drank it with gusto!

A parking area filled with donkeys; grown-up men drinking bouza and sharing it with their donkeys; what more can a child ask for? And indeed I loved the bouza shop and walked by whenever I had a chance.

Before I go any further, let me explain what bouza is.

There are many ways to prepare bouza. The method commonly used today in Egypt follows.

Coarsely grounded wheat is mixed with water and a dough is prepared. The dough is then cut into thick loaves which are baked very lightly. Some wheat is set aside to germinate, dried in the sun, and coarsely grounded. It is then mixed with the bread loaves and soaked in water in a wooden barrel. Some bouza from a previous brewing is also added. It is then left to ferment for 24 hours at room temperature, passed through a sieve to remove the solid material, and diluted with water as required. You now have a 24-hour bouza.

For a 48-hour or 72-hour bouza, fermentation will be allowed to carry on for 2 or 3 days. Note that it should not exceed 3 days, for beyond that, it becomes an alcoholic drink, and drinking alcohol is forbidden to Muslims.

Back to the bouza shop. I am reasonably sure that the bouza the men (and donkeys) drank was a 72-hour bouza.

In time, many of the men and the owner got to know me. I was often asked to share their bouza. The owner even went as far as offering me a small serving of bouza bebalash (free of charge). But whether on the house or not, I had no intention of taking them (the patrons and the owner) up on their offer for many reasons, not the least of which was because the donkeys had drank from the same vessel!

One day I passed by the shop, exchanged salamat (greetings) with the patrons and carried on. I had just arrived at the end of the street when I heard a big commotion. I ran back to the shop and witnessed a strange – for a child – scene.

A jack (male donkey) was determined to mount a jennet (female donkey) it fancied. But since both donkeys were hitched up to their respective carts, the laws of physics precluded that; but the jack was at this time beholden only to the laws of biology!

The men came running and tried to control the jack before he caused great damage; first two men and then three tried to hold the beast down, but it was out of control. Another man then filled a bucket with cold water and threw it on the jack’s head (the equivalent of a cold shower!). It took three buckets for the jack to calm down; finally resigned, it let out a long and plaintive cry.

When the dust finally settled down, one man said jokingly to the owner of the horny donkey, “I told you not to give him so much bouza!”

When I asked for explanations, they provided them, while taking my young age into consideration. What they said, I no longer remember; but even if I did, rest assured that it is not printable!

* * *

This brings to an end my years at 12A Rue Khantaret Ghamra; the special memories associated with the home of my early years. But it is certainly not the end of my narrative regarding Egypt. There is a lot more to come. I am not going to Italy yet. My next stop is much closer: Alexandria.

Sources

1) Al Ahram Weekly. No strength in numbers. Egypt’s rapid population growth is crowding up development. Maged Osman (The writer is Chairman of the Information and Decision Support Center, the Egyptian Cabinet) http://weekly.ahram.org.eg/2006/794/sc6.htm

2) Cairo’s Population

www.mapsofworld.com/cities/egypt/cairo/population.html

3) SpringerLink. The protein nutritive value of bouza and its ingredients. S.R. Morcos, S.M. Hegazi, and S. El-Damhougy. Food Science and Nutrition Research Department, National Research Centre, Dokki, Cairo, Egypt, September 4, 1974.

www.springerlink.com/content/t2714p6177v32767.pdf

4) www.californiastatehorsemen/enviro/ENVIRO-poop.htm

I don’t need to tell you that I never purchased koshari or drank a’ressous from street merchants.

And then there were the buskers. Sword and fire swallower, trained monkeys, acrobats, and mechanical piano. They put on their act and passed the hat. The one I loved the most was the aragoz (puppet show), if he was good, I put some coins in the hat.

Some of these guys catered to gamblers. Two that I remember are el talat war’at (the three cards) and the three cups and the dice. In the first, you put down your bet and you’re shown three cards, you choose one and the man urges you to keep an eye on it; he then puts the cards face down and move them around rapidly, you’re then asked to point at one card, if it is the one you picked, you win an amount equivalent to your bet, if not, you lose your bet.

In this “casino” as in all others, the house always wins. The man on occasion will let the gambler win, specially if there is a big crowd around, but ultimately, gambling does not pay – at least for the gambler.

In the second, you have 3 cups and one dice. You’re asked to place the dice under one cup and closely watch that cup; the man then moves the cups rapidly; where is the dice? Sometimes you win, mostly you lose for this (like the first one) is a con game.

You’ve heard the stories of the poor little boy playing football (soccer) in the street with his friends; he shows exceptional talent, is noticed, and eventually becomes a star. Egypt has such stories, except that the kids are not even playing with a real ball, they can’t afford one. Instead, they use a kora shorab; it’s an old sock inside of which has been placed another old sock, and again another one, until it approximates the size of a small ball; the whole thing is then sewn together. Voila, you have a kora (ball) shorab (sock)!

As you walk through Cairo, sooner or later, you will come across a fight. It could be an innocuous scuffle with the combatants easily separated, or it could be a vicious one with the pieces of the galabiyas flying in the air. There are always Good Samaritans who take it upon themselves to break the fight; but here again it could get problematic. The peacemaker can get hit and finds himself involved in the fight!

Fights often happened in cafes. You have a group of men discussing a given subject; a difference in opinion may be taken in stride – or it may not. You can then have a fight with tables and chairs flying in the air. If you’re there at that time, get out quickly!

Half of the fights were about children. “Your son accused my wife of being a whore!” “Your daughter told my son that I am a pimp!”

Here again there were campaigns asking the people to use their common sense. They were reminded that these were children, sometimes as young as 7 or 8. They listened to the wisdom broadcast on the radio. and agreed with it. Egyptians do have common sense, but they get carried away by their emotions.