On behalf of Mr. Edgar Berebi, I am publishing the amazing and well written third part of the “First Night in America '' May 1962 that will be soon available in portuguese and also in this facebook page.

Sami Douek

Part 3 The first night in America

May 24 1962

It was still only 9pm when we got the situation under control with my father.

My brother who was 8 at the time and 3 years younger than me was complaining of hunger … we all hoped that my father’s cousins who we believed were heading to us from Brooklyn would arrive with food or at least some fruit. This illusion of an imminent meal prevented us from accepting a night sleep with comfort.

My parents were fine as long as they had their Gitane cigarettes. They had spent the better part of whatever money they had in Paris to insure they had a continuous and permanent flow of cigarettes in New York.

We all headed down to the second floor to confer with my Uncle Momi, my Aunt Fofo and my 2 cousins. We knew they were in the same situation. We found my Uncle Marco there and I assumed my aunt Isa was still in her room taking care of the baby.

My father decided that since he was the only one who spoke English , he was the one to head down and find us something to eat.

My father took whatever dollars they had between them , 6 dollars and a few coins and he put it in his pocket and stuffed whatever French francs they still had and put it in his wallet…just in case the grocer took francs or we would run into a wandering money changer in the lobby.

He told me to come with him and we headed down.

At the lobby a clerk who already looked sleepy in preparation of his Night Shift was sitting behind the desk. He was a thin young man that was sporting a meager goatee, sloppy hair, a green t-shirt and sounded like he was smuggling marbles in his mouth. He looked at us and said something in English with a lot of

“ Hoh , Hey and Huh”.

My father meekly uttered to him,

"Where Sanweeeech ___Yes ! "

"hey! ___No ___Huh hoh _No sanweeeech " the clerk answered.

"sanweeech___Yes !!"my father said again.

The clerk pointed to his desk

"Heh , Here ,huh __no __Sandweech

"which I took to mean his desk did not hold sanweeech or he did not have a sanweeech in his pockets…I mean sandwich.. 

It took a while and with growing frustration and hand gestures my father established that we were looking for a place to buy some sandwiches.

The clerk , in order to bask in his newly found importance, now stood with a military bearing…faced the entrance and with a continuous slow low voice spoken with "hoh huh hey " mingled in for good measure. And using his outstretched arm and open hand , started to tell us where to find sandwiches, first by pointing in the direction of the entrance and then he must have pointed to each and every cardinal point and twist of the compass looking a bit like Tonto giving directions to the Lone Ranger , as to where he can find the buffalos.

My father had long given up trying to understand any of the words. His face was now a twisted grimace as he attempted to decipher the secret code which was within each movement of the man’s hand and arm.

I pulled at my father and said in French "I got it ,we were to go out and head away from the hotel ". Which at the time seemed like a statement of sheer genius.

I was anxious to leave the hotel and see the neighborhood. The HIAS man said our neighborhood was like Montmartre .. a bohemian village neighborhood full of artists and musicians.

Since my reference to everything in my life now was American movies, I felt I already knew this neighborhood !! Well sort of ! I had seen it at least 7 times in the movie where Jerry Lewis was a Martian visiting earth and visited a bohemian neighborhood.

The first store we encountered was right next door. It sold commercial safes …which me and my father admired with intensity. I was thinking…where in the world can you walk on the street and window shop a store that sells safes. In Egypt my grandparents had a safe in the bedroom, not anywhere as big as those but other than that I’ve never seen one in anyone else's home. America was either very rich or full of thieves.

We now headed in random directions in the belief that sooner or later we would find something .

The streets were dim and full of dark alcoves and alleys, but unlike our first night in Paris, here in the heart of the American Bohemia was not a single pair of lovers…not a single pair cuddling like they do in the doorways of Paris.

I remember that first night of exploration in Paris. Much to thé dismay and shock of my parents there were couples necking everywhere. This was alien to my parents' sensibility of decency and decorum and I think they may have given me a hit or two on the back of my head… like it was my fault or a warning shot of sorts to keep in mind.

In Egypt , a couple doing such an indecent act would have drawn a crowd. Public affection was unheard of… dating had a social protocol and if a young dating couple were observed necking…In an attempt to save the girl and uphold the social fabric …the righteous would take action against the unfortunate couple.

The woman would have called her names and searched for weeks to find her parents. The girl now would have been ineligible for marriage to any of their sons, ..since her family was stained for generations ….thé women would have savored the gossip for weeks. The men, on the other hand, would be talking among themselves about the boy… his obvious good looks, astonished at his power of persuasion and his charm ….to have convinced a girl to kiss him in the dark in Egypt was manhood.

I am not exaggerating.. well ! Maybe, I am just a teeny weeny bit !!!

I cannot stress enough how conservative the social structure of even the most modern Egyptian Jews was .

Egyptian Jewish culture would clash with the coming cultural flood of American liberal life of the 60’s in one form or another. This clash would last for most of our lives. It would cause great rift , great resentment with lasting hurts and cover us with invisible scars … It made many of my generation of Egyptian Jews seek therapy.

I still tell my cousins and friends that our parents could not help themselves. It was what they were. They were a product of thé social structure that they grew up in with beliefs that were profoundly ingrained in them, with social norms that had its own tradition, rituals , protocol and heresies.

Just to show you I’m not exaggerating one bit.

In an incident that still sends the chill of embarrassments up and down my spine .

7 years later ,I was walking in the park that was across my home while holding the hand of my girlfriend.

To my dismay , my mother comes from the shadows, runs to me and , thank God, in French yells at me,….."if your father sees you doing this filthy thing he will kill you” ……..and then walks away. Never mind , I had dated my girlfriend for over 2 years . My girlfriend had celebrated high holidays at our house twice .. I was now entering college and I was old enough to qualify for the honor of getting killed in Vietnam.

I don’t remember exactly how I explained this outburst from my mother to my puzzled girlfriend. I must have reassured her with some excuse that was less embarrassing and far more believable…..like I forgot to take out the garbage ….or this was just an example that insanity was rampant in my family.

My greatest fear half a century later is that I will run into my old romance one day and she, with a sly look on her face, will say to me ," just so you know , before we broke up ,I became a French major.”

How I did not grow up to be Norman Bates , only God in his Grace knows !!!

Anyway we continued on our search

And there it was !!! Shining in a flood of light from Above .. a silver beauty

.. An American icon … in the form of a free standing stainless steel diner , the soda shop , the legendary and 100 percent American malt shop .

Nothing like it existed in Paris or Alexandria .

Here in front of me was the temple of American youth… This undeniable fact was bonafide, certified and sanctified by numerous American movies. This is where they all gathered. Where Johnny B Good played guitar like ringing a bell. Where they rocked around the clock and twisted the night away. Where a boy and girl,tête à tête, can share an ice cream soda with 2 straws . Where they would decide to put on a Broadway show using only household items and a barn.

This was where every girl was pretty and nearly every boy was above average.

It was beautiful !!

.. Here it was !!! on my very door steps , just 2 blocks from the Broadway central hôtel.

I stepped inside of it with religious reverence. It was what I hoped would be an essential element of my American life to come .

Yes ! There was the mirror facing a counter that had a row of round swivel stools with red leather, the dispenser of soda lined the opposite side, the jolly fat man with the single creased white hat was there too .

But there were no teenagers dancing , no teenagers at all sharing a soda .. just a few frayed men smoking cigarettes and drinking from a cup, talking loudly above some now dirty dishes. This picture of commonality, this joyless panorama was hard to bear ….. now , I was really in serious doubt that I landed in America !!

My father stood squarely in front of the cash register, took a deep breath, put both feet together with the précision of a German general …..and with what resembled the ritual of a sacrificial offering at the alter of a pagan god …..placed the money on very top of the cash register with both hands.

And said, " Sanweeech.”

But before I can think .. “Oh .. no .. not again!”

The heavy set man with the creased hat and the black mustache said something in English with an accent so heavy it could never be camouflaged by any other language …including Eskimo.

There was no mistake !!!

None whatsoever … the mustache and the accent gave it away.

My father looked at me with a look as if to ask me " did you hear it ?” I’m sure the thought crossed his mind that maybe everyone in America spoke a bit strange.

My excitement .. took hold of me and I yelled out

, “…Ellaniki? Ellaniki. !!!!greek grec !!?”

Alexandria was in many ways a Greek city. I had Greek neighbors and friends. I went to Greek movies, listened to Greek music, went to Greek restaurants with my grandparents, and went every 2 weeks to St Catherine where théy showed movies to kids my age.

Naturally I had learned to speak a few words and could decipher words using my knowledge of French , Arabic , ladino and Italian. ..

My father was now talking to our first American in Greek !!

I could make out that his first name was Stavros which came as no surprise to me…half of the Greek men that were friends of my father in Alexandria had a black mustache and were named Stavros. ….The other half had black mustaches and were named George, but I cannot swear to it .

I tried to make out what they were saying with little success, but I did listen to their hands and understood whatever it was, it was intense and emotional.

Let me explain !.. ..I came from a Mediterranean culture which expresses their emotions not only with their voice ( often loud ) but also with their hands. In Egypt that was true of every group…it was universal.

Let me give some examples.

The most important in conversation was

Putting all 5 fingers together in your right hand into a small peak pointing up ….holding your upper arm next to your body and moving your lower arm in a slow pumping action while speaking low and slow. That was done to illustrate

1) you were giving advice and the person should pay attention …

2) be reasonable, do it my way ..

3) You were trying to make a point so wise that it would change lives and the political structure of the world.

Doing the same gesture but upside down … like you were using all 5 fingers to put a small seed into a small receptacle … denotes , I’ve put it in your head so please understand , you idiot!! …but said in a nice way.

If you use both hands in a more outstretched manner, a bit quicker and much louder…

1 ) you are telling them they are not listening…

2) their stupidity has overwhelmed you and you are so pissed.. that you need both hands to call them now a total idiot … but again in a nice way

Then the iconic hand twist … bringing your almost cupped hand level with your face and giving a clockwise twist. … This gesture can convey a variety of emotions such as finality, a change of mind ….twisting the plot or if done with both hands ….just screw you !! But just a little less of a nice way…. I mean screw you is just that .. screw you !!

If you use your open hand to tap your heart, that is a sign of welcome, brotherhood, affection, thankfulness and kindness.

However …If you tap your open hand really hard in the middle of your chest and do it really fast that was ….mild grief.

This gesture is also used in a really big argument or tragic grief … where you use both hands slapping your chest alternating with your face numerous times with an appropriate wailing sound.

There is also the upwards movement of the arm at the elbow toward the face with the back of thé hand facing the listener that denoted …

Enough all ready !!!

And should not be confused with the hand twist or the Italian gesture that requires that you place the other hand at the half of your arm while performing the maneuver.

If you hit your brow hard enough to dislodge your eyes ….it denoted you recognized you just did something really stupid. This gesture should be looked at as trying to wake your brain from a stupor.. and not to be confused with the .. absolute demented self punishment of the double hand slap to the chest and face

Then in listening there is covering the cheek on your face which denotes concern. ( use by men is optional)

The covering of your mouth with your right hand to denote sadness. And if you use both hands it’s horrible. ( use by men ,also optional )

if you make a fist and gently beat your chest in the rhythm of a heartbeat ..without thé Hebrew , Kadosh kadosh. Kadosh …it denotes that you are suffering with the story teller.

Since I moved to Rhode Island 2 decades ago from New York, I had very little chance to speak or listen extensively with my hands. Because of that , I am no longer fluent in the language with its various dialects such as Italian , Egyptian or Greek and may have forgotten other examples

All the while our Greek friend was making sandwiches ..he was using strange square slices of bread … scooping in what later my Aunt Fofo would identify forensically as chicken salad , tuna Salad , sliced roll turkey , some thinly sliced cheese , coleslaw, macaroni salad , slices of pies and multiple little cartons of milk.

As I watched him putting our meal together I was struck on how white it was…never In my 11 years of life had seen an entire meal in white served to a healthy person ...barely a hint of color. It looked like our food in America was doomed to be pale and probably tasted just as pale …..leaving me to wonder how can any civilization survive that served food without a flake of pepper, not a bit of pickled vegetables ( torshy ), green or sweet onion, a stuffed vegetable, a wedge of lemon ….and no olives to clean thé palate between flavors.

There were dozens of sandwiches. The absence of cold cuts was noticeable. I assumed because my father asked him to forgo pork.

All the sandwiches were folded in wax paper with the dexterity of a Japanese origami master, two full boxes. The man looked at the money, took 2 dollars and the change and said something that sounded like French.

“Un spécial sel” special salt. A phrase that puzzle us for months

Naturally I was given the heavier box to carry so my father could continue smoking his cigarettes.

Stavros said something with a smile in a long Greek sentence to me which I did not understand, a language he assumed that I was as fluent as my father was. I suddenly realized my father was proficient and effortless in Greek. That realization detached me from my present joy .

It brought a dark and painful cloud in my very being. I thought I was going to have an asthmatic attack which I had not experienced since leaving Egypt but I held firm. Instead I moved myself into a quiet anger that was all too familiar, an anger that was not in me all the while we were in Paris. Everything became muffled with images and thoughts of the hurts and the years of betrayal to my mother by my father, one that he ,not only inflicted on my mother but both of them had cavalierly inflicted in different ways upon my brother and me. I realized much later in life that those numerous asthmatic attacks in Egypt were childhood panic attacks .

.. I now grew somber and quiet. I hoped that my father would notice this change in me and he would realize his fluency in Greek may have brought it on. It would be my small revenge.

I had hoped that he would feel like a thief that was caught red handed, but if he did, he gave no notice. Walking back I did not say a word. The wonderment left me.

We got back to my uncle’s room. We put the boxes in the only place that was without freshly unpacked clothes or bodies …the floor.

My uncles , aunts and cousins now encircled the two boxes , all looking down into them as if they were looking into the well of good wishes. I could have sworn there was a soft glowing light coming from the boxes that rose up to their faces and an angelic choir somewhere singing softly a long and drawn out

"Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaa".

They all marveled at how much a few dollars could buy in America .

My father now told the tale. Explaining to all in mostly Arabic all about Stavros and how he befriended him. Stavros was also a refugee who sympathized with our first night in America. Stavros came to America after the war with his brother ( who was probably named George ). Both worked hard to buy the diner, saved to send money to Greece and in a few years brought to America the rest of the family.

My father never mentioned the Greek he spoke so well and with quiet glances to me signals for me to add nothing to his tale.

Today , I believed it was because he may have pocketed the remaining 4 dollars to buy cigarettes or he feared that I would make a remark on how bad his English was and reduce his leadership status with the group.

I stayed in my own private world and said nothing. There was a new life ahead !

Later that night , sharing with my brother one of the bed as we had done in Paris, I turned to him

and said, "Papi speaks Greek perfectly.”

He just said … " Ho !! "

To be continued…



Copyright 2022 Berebi

I am not a writer or A grammarian at all , I do the best I can If it offends ..don’t read it.. it’s a outline for a book , I hope I can write with editing help .. in the style I want .. a story of memories ,journey’s, and the struggles to overcome

It’s the way a 11 year old boy saw the changes in his world .. defined , measured and shaped by the references of his past experiences

Sent from my iPhone