The Storyteller of Casablanca (39)

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.

I’m going to ask Kenza if she can show me how to make ghoribas and then we can take them to one of the refugee camps. That should help cheer people up a bit.



Kenza’s Recipe for Ghoribas: (Makes about 50 small cookies)





2 eggs plus 1 separated egg


? a tea glass of sugar

? a tea glass of melted butter

3 large spoonfuls of honey





4 tea glasses of flour


(Sift the flour with 1 teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda and 1 teaspoon of cream of tartar) A pinch of salt

Zest of an orange

In a big mixing bowl beat together the 2 eggs plus the white of the separated egg (keep the yolk aside for later) and the sugar. Add the butter, honey and orange zest and beat some more. Then carefully mix in the sifted flour until the cookie dough comes together, soft enough to be rolled into little balls between your hands. Put the balls of dough on to a buttered tray and brush with the beaten egg yolk. Bake in the oven for 10–15 minutes.





Josie’s Journal – Tuesday 29th April, 1941

Maman had organised a meeting at our house this morning for ladies who were interested in supporting the work of the Committee for Assistance of Foreign Refugees. As its director, Madame Bénatar was coming to address them and I’d been looking forward to seeing her again. There was also going to be a representative of the Jewish community, who had been invited to come along and speak about some of the challenges people are facing, stranded in Casablanca trying to escape from the Nazis. Maman asked Annette and me to be on door-opening duty and welcome the guests as they arrived because Kenza would be busy with the refreshments.

Madame Bénatar arrived early and she was just as kind and intelligent as I’d remembered her to be from the evening of the dinner party. Then the other ladies began to arrive and Annette and I were kept busy answering the door and showing them upstairs to the drawing room. It was almost time for the meeting to begin, and all the ladies were sipping mint tea and eating Kenza’s honey cakes, when there was one more knock on the door.

Annette answered it and I heard her say, ‘Oh! I’m very sorry but my mother is busy at the moment so she can’t give you any money. Please could you come back tomorrow, perhaps?’ I looked to see who she was talking to and there on the doorstep stood a very poor-looking woman with a black headscarf pulled low over her face. At Annette’s words, she lifted her head and the shawl slipped back a bit. I think Annette and I both winced when we caught sight of her eyes, which were completely swollen and sore-looking, almost shut tight apart from a sticky ooze, which was attracting the flies. It looked so painful it made my own eyes prickle in sympathy. The lady started to say something, when I heard my own name being spoken by someone standing in the street behind her. I was surprised to see it was Felix. And then I realised that the poor woman with the terribly sore eyes was his mother, whom I remembered from the refugee camp.

‘Hello, Josie,’ Felix said, catching sight of me over Annette’s shoulder. ‘My mother has been invited to come and speak at the meeting.’ He looked quite ashamed and embarrassed because he’d heard what Annette had said.

I felt so terrible then that we’d tried to turn her away, assuming she was a beggar going door-to-door to ask for help. I reached out and took her hand in both of mine and said, ‘Madame Adler, it is such a pleasure to see you again. Please come in and Annette will show you upstairs. In the meantime, Felix, I hope you’ll join me and Nina in the courtyard for some lemonade?’

That gave Annette time to realise her mistake and I could see that the penny dropped because she also shook Madame Adler’s hand and apologised for not having recognised her straight away, then led her away to the meeting.

Felix, Nina and I sat by the pomegranate tree and had our own tray of refreshments. It felt a bit awkward at first. We chatted about the weather (getting hotter) and the war (getting worse). On Radio Maroc there’d been reports of a German victory at Halfaya Pass, close to the Egyptian border, and the bombing of Saint Paul’s Cathedral in London; on the BBC there’d been reports of more unsuccessful German attacks on Tobruk and the news that Saint Paul’s Cathedral had been damaged in German bombing raids but was still standing, which was a symbol of British defiance against the Blitz.