The Storyteller of Casablanca (57)

We broke the final day’s fasting in the traditional way with a glass of milk and some dates, but that was just the beginning. Nina and I helped Kenza bring out one dish after another and set them on the low table in the middle of the room. Then everyone tucked in. We ate and ate until our bellies were filled with all the good things Kenza had cooked. First of all we ate bowls of hrbil, a sort of sweet and creamy porridge made with cracked wheat, and then m’semmen pancakes with honey and preserves. Next came the lamb dishes. The family had bought a lamb from the butcher and had given a proportion of it away to the poor so that they could have a feast too, which is another tradition at the end of Ramadan. There was a big platter of rather strange-looking bits of grilled meat and Nina told me these were chunks of the lamb’s liver and heart wrapped in fat from the animal’s stomach. I didn’t find the thought of that very tempting, but I politely ate a small morsel and said how delicious it was because I didn’t want to hurt Kenza’s feelings. What I did really love, though, was the special lamb tajine she’d made with figs and almonds in, and so I had two helpings of that. Once we’d cleared away the main course, Kenza brought out trays of beautiful sweets and cakes and, even though I thought I probably wouldn’t be able to manage another thing, I ate one of each kind: a pistachio and rosewater ghoriba; a gazelle horn pastry filled with almonds and cinnamon; a sweet and sticky slab of caramel studded with nuts and seeds; and a sugar-dusted ma’amoul stuffed with dates. By the time Papa came to fetch me home at the end of the feast, I was very full and very sleepy.

I slept deeply and woke late, my dreams of flying through the air with Nina and Felix in a hot air balloon having been disturbed by the sound of excited voices floating up the stairwell. I got out of bed and shoved my feet into my leather slippers, then went downstairs to see what was happening. And that’s when I discovered the second amazing thing.

Annette was shrieking with joy so shrilly that I had to put my hands over my ears. Maman seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time. And Papa was waving a sheaf of papers triumphantly above his head. When he caught sight of me, he tousled my hair and gave me a big kiss. ‘Guess what, ma puce? Our papers for America have finally come through!’

I had some very confusing feelings when I heard that. On the one hand it’s what we’ve been waiting for all these months and it means we can escape from the war and begin our new lives on the other side of the world. On the other hand, the thought of leaving behind Nina and Kenza and Felix and Miss Ellis and Mademoiselle Dubois has made me feel completely devastated.

I looked at Papa and Maman and Annette, who were all so happy, and I tried to make my expression as excited as theirs. But I felt a huge emptiness inside and tears sprung into my eyes. Luckily, I think Papa and Maman assumed they were tears of happiness as I didn’t want them to think I’m ungrateful for everything they’ve done for us. I couldn’t help but feel that the world was ending, though. And while I know there will be a new beginning, right now there’s more grief than gladness in my heart.

So I thought I would come up to my room and write this down in my journal, to try and get my thoughts in order.

But it hasn’t helped much yet. I still feel pretty confused.





Zoe – 2010

The children at the refugee centre recognise me now and look up from their drawings to ask what book we’re going to read today. I’m pleased to see their pictures aren’t only of the brutality and trauma they’ve witnessed: one little girl is busily colouring in her picture of the lazy grasshopper and the hard-working ant, and her sister proudly shows me a drawing she’s done of the Wisest of Cats – an African folk tale I read to them the other day from one of the new books.

They all loved that story. It concerns a very small cat who realises he needs a bigger, stronger friend to look after him. He tries the other animals, one by one, but discovers that the zebra is scared of the lion and the lion is scared of the elephant. Then he finds that the elephant is scared of a man who carries a gun. So the cat goes home with the man, thinking that he has at last found the biggest and strongest friend of all. At the man’s house, though, his wife comes and takes the gun from her husband, giving him a kiss, and the cat realises that the woman must really be the strongest one of all if she can disarm a man so easily. From that day on, the Wisest of Cats stays in the kitchen with the woman because he knows she will keep him safe. When I’d finished reading, I looked up and saw that Madame Habib and some of the other women had been listening too and they were all smiling as I put the book of fables away.

But today I tell them, ‘We’re not going to read a book this afternoon. However, I do have a story to tell you. It’s in here.’

The children gather round, curious to see what’s in the holdall I’m carrying. There are little gasps and murmurs of amazement as I unzip it and bring out Kate’s Bear Paw quilt.

The children touch it carefully, reverentially, stroking the softly padded blocks, tracing the outline of the design. The colours of the quilt glow against the stark grey of the breeze-block walls and the cement floor.

Once everyone’s had a chance to examine it closely, I drape it over the stacks of boxes that form the shelves of our embryonic library and the children settle themselves, cross-legged on the floor, as I begin to tell them the story of the Bear Paw design and the part it played in communicating a difficult, dangerous journey to those who sought to escape fear and oppression and follow their dreams to a better life.