I sip my glass of tea again, thinking about his words and feeling pretty awful. The life I’m leading is so very privileged. I’m growing more and more aware of that every day I spend here. I have my own problems, that’s for sure, but that still shouldn’t stop me from trying to help those whose problems are even greater than mine.
‘Does Ismael have any family here in Casablanca?’ I ask. ‘A wife and children?’
Monsieur Habib shakes his head. ‘No. He’s on his own, as far as I know. But that’s probably a good thing. It’s far worse for women and children to be refugees. They become so vulnerable. They are in a minority, Alhamdulillah, because when you do come across them their stories are the worst of all.’
‘How do you know this?’ I ask him. ‘Did you read about it somewhere?’
‘There is no need to read about it, Madame Harris,’ he replies, and his expression is filled with sadness. ‘Such refugees are all around us. But we don’t usually open our eyes and ears wide enough to see and hear them. It doesn’t take much to seek them out, though. My wife volunteers at a project offering support to women and children who have fled their homes in other countries and become stranded in Morocco. If you wanted to, I could take you there one day to see for yourself what life is like for them.’
‘I should like that very much indeed. Perhaps there’ll be something I can do to help?’ I fish out an old till receipt from Grace’s changing bag and write down my phone number on the back. ‘Please would you arrange it with your wife and let me know?’
He takes the slip of paper from me and looks at it a little doubtfully. Then he raises his eyes to mine again. ‘I will do this for you, Madame Harris. But only if you are sure you want to. Once you have heard their stories, it is hard to see the world in the same way ever again. I’m afraid it can be a rude awakening, hearing what mankind is capable of doing to our own.’
I think of something Josie wrote in her journal. And I say to him, ‘But if we leave out some of the important bits of the truth – or choose to ignore them – then surely we are living a lie? And that is no way to live at all, is it?’
He nods, still a little reluctant, and puts the folded slip of paper in his pocket. Then I stand, thanking him for the tea, and take my leave.
‘Au revoir, Monsieur Habib.’
‘Adhhab bisalam. Go in peace, Madame Harris,’ he replies.
But there is no peace in my soul whatsoever as I walk home, mulling over the hypocrisy of the words I’ve just said to him, and wondering what Josie would have to say to me about the lie I am living every day if she were here with me now.
Josie’s Journal – Saturday 12th April, 1941
Nina and I were on our way home from the library yesterday when who should come cycling by but Felix. We shouted and waved, having not seen him for a few weeks. He stopped for a chat and we showed him the books we’d taken out – two Agatha Christies translated into French （she is Nina’s latest favourite author）， and Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers, which Mademoiselle Dubois has had on order for us for ages and which had finally miraculously arrived despite everything being in such turmoil in France.
Felix said he liked the look of Death on the Nile as it seemed to be about the desert and he’d like to go to Egypt one day when the war is over to see the Pyramids and the Sphinx. I invited him to come back with us for tea and we could all start to read it together. But he said regretfully that he had something to do, so could he come another time? Of course, I said, or maybe we could come and visit you one day because Nina and I both agreed that we’d like to see the bakery and maybe try some of the traditional Jewish challah that I’d told her about from Paris days. He didn’t seem too keen for us to do that, though, and said it was nicer coming to my house, where there was the courtyard and Kenza’s cooking.
I asked him quite nonchalantly if he was going to the Parc Murdoch and whether he’d seen anything more of Miss Josephine Baker recently, but he just laughed and said he’d heard she was keeping company with the Pasha of Marrakesh these days.
Then he cycled off with an air of some importance.
I’ve heard on the radio that the Germans have driven the English back in Libya, although they haven’t been able to recapture the port of Tobruk, which the English have been defending fiercely. Both Radio Maroc and the BBC seem to agree on that point, so it probably really is true.
Maman has joined a committee run by Madame Bénatar to help refugees. More camps have been set up and they need things like medicines and help with organising their Permis de Séjour like we did when we first got here. Maman says it’s good to give something back, even if we probably won’t be here much longer. She’s getting a bit annoyed with how long it’s taking to get our American visas sorted out, given how much time Papa spends at the consulate. I was tempted to say that she should ask Mr Stafford Reid why that might be, because I’m beginning to suspect that Papa is proving to be quite a useful link in some sort of secret communication system and so it probably suits Mr Reid that our visas are taking such a long time to come through. But perhaps Papa hopes that by helping them he is ensuring that we can get out when the time is right, and also that his secret work will ensure a warm welcome awaits us in America. I’d like to be able to ask Papa whether my deductions are correct, but I know he wouldn’t tell me. A secret is a secret.