Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year 5719, was approaching. I was 19, a college student in Aix-en-Provence, spending six weeks to polish my French before beginning formal studies in Paris. A friend in Los Angeles had given me the name of a Jewish family in Aix. Although not observant, they provided information about the time and place for New Year's services.
With some difficulty I located the narrow street and looked for signs of a Jewish synagogue, a Star of David or a menorah. A nondescript pale yellow building occupied the designated address, and I wondered if I had made a mistake in writing down the number. I knocked softly and the door opened a crack. A man with a kippah (skullcap) peered out and asked what I wanted. I said I was an American student. He examined me carefully, then opened the door a bit wider and let me pass before locking the door behind me. I felt like I was entering a speakeasy. Inside was a low ceilinged room, crowded with perhaps 100 wooden chairs. A small Ark holding the Torah scroll sat on a table at the front, and worn black prayer books were scattered on the chairs.
Most of the people milling around appeared to be Algerian. This was September 1958, a time of extreme political instability in France. DeGaulle was endeavoring to extricate his country from the failed Algerian War, and a referendum to vote "Oui" or "Non" was scheduled in a week. Violence had been predicted, and we Americans had been warned not to go to Marseilles the day of the referendum. As I scanned the unfamiliar faces and found an empty seat, I sensed a high level of anxiety. People were dressed in dark somber clothes and no one spoke above a whisper. I had grown up in Los Angeles, a city with a large Jewish population and many synagogues. New Year's in LA was a time of joy, reunion with friends and family. Congregants dressed in their best, greeted each other warmly, hugged and kissed. Here the air was thick with uncertainty, conversation was muted, and people shook hands guardedly. These Jews had gathered to celebrate the New Year, but behind locked doors. I smelled fear.
Women and men sat separately. They chanted the service in a French-accented Hebrew I couldn't follow. I gave up reading the prayers and tried to connect on a visceral level, but the oriental Sephardic melodies were unfamiliar. In my mind I heard the "S'hma", the call to prayer, from my early childhood in Perth Amboy, New Jersey, where we attended services in a small Conservative shul. I pictured my grandfather being called to the Torah, receiving the honor of reciting the blessings, his long blue and white tallit (prayer shawl) trailing from his broad shoulders. As a Jewish child I had felt safe and protected. I had never been chased and called "dirty Jew". In Aix-en-Provence in 1958 I wondered if we were in any actual danger, or if being an Algerian Jew engendered a certain level of well-justified paranoia.
Three months later I anticipated my winter holiday in Turin, Italy. I was taking the overnight train from Paris to visit the Altissimos, whose son Renato was living with my parents in Los Angeles as an exchange student. My French had improved markedly since Aix. I had been living with a French family in Paris for two months, pursuing my studies and falling in love with the city.
I found a seat in the second class railroad car, stowed my suitcase, and settled down for the 12 hour journey to Turin. A middle aged couple entered the compartment. She was slender with a dark chignon and sad eyes, while he was heavy set with a small moustache and olive complexion. After organizing their luggage, he sat down next to her. They barely glanced at me and proceeded to read Le Monde. I immersed myself in a Balzac novel for one of my classes. The compartment was silent except for an occasional whispered comment by the husband to his wife. After a couple hours we arrived at the Italian border, and a passport control official entered. The husband nervously withdrew their passports from his jacket, averting his eyes. I located my dark green passport with the gold embossed United States seal and passed it to the agent. He studied my photograph and asked the purpose of my visit ("les vacances", I said with a smile). The agent smiled broadly and responded, "Bonnes vacances!" ("Have a good vacation"). He scrutinized their passports for a long moment, then returned them with no comment.
After he left the compartment, the husband leaned toward me. "Vous etes Americaine?" he asked hesitantly. Yes, I responded, I'm an American. I told them I was a student in Paris, en route to Italy for winter vacation. I asked where they were from and where they were headed. He put his arm protectively around his wife, and they stared at me. After an extended pause, the husband told me they were from Alexandria, Egypt, travelling to Genoa. "Comment vous appelez-vous?" he asked, and I said "Frances Leipziger." They looked at each other again, conferred in a whisper, and then the husband asked in a hushed voice if I was Jewish. Yes, I'm Jewish. Another sotto voce communication passed between them. The husband then leaned half way across the compartment and murmured that they too were Jewish.
Although it was close to midnight, the compartment lightened perceptibly. The husband removed his jacket and spread a small blanket across his wife's lap. Their rigid posture softened as they relaxed into the seat cushions. He took her hand and squeezed it gently. He smiled as she took out some oranges and chocolate and offered them to me. They seemed unusually interested in America, wanted to know all about Los Angeles - the climate, the cost of housing, the Jewish community.
I was pleased that my French was up to the task and answered their questions as accurately as I could. Eventually there was a pause. I asked them why they were going to Genoa. The wife glanced at her husband and spoke to me for the first time. "We are refugees. We had a good life and a beautiful home overlooking the sea. In two days we had to leave; it wasn't safe for Jews in Egypt. We abandoned everything and we are emigrating to America, to Houston, Texas." Refugees - the word evoked black and white newsreels from World War II, ragged skeletons in DP camps. She was smartly dressed in a wool suit, and he sported a silk tie.
Her voice was bitter as her mournful eyes bored into mine. She spoke deliberately, and I stared at the deep dark circles under her eyes. She recalled their magnificent home in Alexandria, the view of the sea, lush gardens, balmy air. "I loved my garden where I grew many flowers. Our house was always scented with flowers." She leaned forward, momentarily animated, alive with the memory of the colorful blossoms.
Her husband broke in, asking questions about Texas. He had heard positive things - the climate was mild, somewhat like Alexandria. The Jewish community was sponsoring them and would help them to get settled. He had learned there were many business opportunities, the city was booming. He was looking forward to their new life.
She was looking backward. Her melancholy was palpable, and the weight of it oppressed me. She leaned toward me, took my hand, stroked it and said, "La vie est dure, Mademoiselle." (Life is hard).
© 2007 Fran Schwartz
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Updated 03/12/2007(rge)