City of the Sun by Juliana Maio Page A

had been her pillar of strength and steady comfort all during her growing up years. He was the one who comforted her when she had nightmares as a child, the one who hovered over her homework after school, and the one who served her dinner, letting her babble on about her day, while Vati and Mutter were performing at one concert or another. He was even the one who gave her the talk about “the facts of life” when she turned eighteen.
    Maya unfolded her legs and crossed one over the other, annoyed at having to wear trousers since her one summer dress and two skirts were dirty. Slacks were practical, but they were hot, uncomfortable, and ugly, and she couldn’t understand how they had ever come into fashion. A girl with nice legs ought to be able to show them off.
    “Now listen to this,” Erik said as he flipped a page in the travel book:
Cairo is often referred to as “Paris by the Nile.” The Ottoman Khedive who ruled here was so dazzled by his visit to Paris that he attempted to replicate the City of Light here, and he hired European architects to do it. The boulevards are built in the grand Parisian style of Haussman, and cafés and shops in the European style abound.
    “Sister, I insist that you take some time to explore this city,” he said as he put the book down.
    She leaned in and picked it up with a heavy sigh. She thumbed through it before settling on a quote. “Metropolis of the universe, garden of the world, and anthill of the human species,” she read with theatrical flair. “So Cairo is an anthill, according to a famous fourteenth century philosopher. Now that’s really arousing my interest!” She tossed the book back on the table. “It’s unbearably hot and muggy in this stupid city,” she said. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and flipped it back and forth to fan her neck.When the loud voice of the building’s concierge was heard calling outside, “Monsieur, monsieur, where are you going?” she rushed over to the window.
    “Vati!” Her father was aimlessly shuffling down the street, head down, carrying his dead wife’s violin tightly pressed against his chest. “I can’t believe he got out.” She was exasperated. “We’re going to have to lock the doors!”
    She flew down the stairs to the lobby where the bawab (the doorman) pointed her to the right. Around the bend she found her father a few feet away, facing a wall with the violin at his feet, his lips moving in prayer, oblivious to the passersby around him. An intellectual and a secular man, this was very unlike him, and Maya didn’t know what to make of it. She softened as she noticed how loosely his clothes draped his body. His blue eyes were pale and lifeless, and he seemed to have shrunk. What happened to the strong and ebullient Vati who played four-handed piano with her?
    As if aware of her staring, he turned toward her.
    “I don’t know why, but I’m itching like mad,” he complained loudly in German as she approached him.
    “Shh,” Maya whispered urgently. “Speak English, remember?” She’d reprimanded him many times about lapsing into German. An incident in France had almost cost them their lives, and even here, they did not want to risk drawing attention to themselves. She really would have to lock him up.
    “I forget sometimes,” he apologized. “But I’m thirsty for an orange soda,” he claimed and began pulling her toward the grocer at the end of the street, a daily routine now for them. She picked up the violin and ran her nails over his back to soothe his itching.
    It was rare for him to acknowledge his memory lapses. Maya was convinced that the blow to his head he’d received four years ago had permanently affected his mind. He had resisted the SS guards when they had thrown him into a garbage truck filledwith other Jews and hauled them through the streets of Frankfurt. They had made him wear a sign around his neck saying, “I am garbage. I am a dirty Jew.” He’d been a broken man ever