Our Dicey Encounter with the Egyptian Army

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A month or so before our Swan Cruise ship slipped into the vast harbor of Alexandria, a gang of Islamic extremists had invaded the resort area not far from the pyramids and killed a number of tourists. Germans, as I recall. The idea was to break the back of Egypt’s then highly successful and lucrative tourism industry in an attempt to weaken and then overthrow the dictatorship of Mubarak.

We even got a call from our travel agent telling us that we could opt out of the trip, if we wished, with no penalty.  But they noted that the US State Department had issued no formal warning. So we decided to live dangerously.  So did most everyone one else in the hundred or so of the roster, who, it turned out, were primarily classic, stoic Brits. Even though the British government had issued an alert, cautioning its people about the hazards of traveling in Egypt, these hardy folks weren’t about to be intimidated by a bunch of radical Muslim Arabs blowing up places. 

So we all sailed out of Athens on this 18-day tour of a lifetime into Mediterranean history, complete with books and lectures. We had pretty much forgotten the mayhem at the pyramids, until our last port of call. As we marched down the gangplank at Alexandria, it seemed as though we had entered another world, another century. Half-naked men wearing only loincloths sitting crossed legged, smoking pipes and selling stuff. Women in full religious garb. And in the midst of it all was this modern truck loaded with teenagers all in the uniform of the Egyptian army. They, presumably, were to be our protectors.  Perhaps personally sent by Mubarak. Each was armed with a rifle. Many of them seemed confused about how to hold their weapon, or, God forbid, use one. They, a bakers dozen of youngsters in khaki, were to be our constant companions during our stay in their homeland. To guard us from the terrorists.

While waiting for something to happen, they were mostly directing traffic away from us. But their presence made a difference. We felt relatively secure in this strange, embattled land. People moved out of their way. Cars dodged us. I wasn’t sure who was in charge but the uniforms helped keep order.

And it worked pretty well. They protected us as we visited the great museums in Cairo, had lunch at the Hilton, and so on.

Then we headed out to the pyramids. Everyone posed for pictures on a camel, climbed around the religious relics, bought souvenirs. Did all the pyramids things. At dusk we were told to get back on the buses and head to the ship in Alexandria. “So far so good'" said one of my Brit friends and we headed north. As darkness fell and we were speeding past those so “terrorist ridden” resorts, I heard a cracking sound near the bus ahead of us.

“What was that?!,” said someone. “Was it a shot?”

My God, I thought, is this my worst nightmare coming true?

The stoic British couple started talking about the long, happy life they had lived together. My thoughts were a little more desperate. I ran to our driver.

”The troops, the soldiers, where are are they?,” I asked our driver, who had pulled up behind the stopped bus ahead.

“They went back to the barracks for supper. They don’t work nights”. My heart palpitated.  Here we were in the blackness of this road to Alexandria, naked of any protection.

“It’s okay,” The driver said in broken English. 

“The first bus has engine trouble and is backfiring.  We’ve called for help and they’re on the way.”

We sat there for about an hour, and then we were on our way again to the Alexandria harbor and then on to the fresh air and sanctity of the Mediterranean Sea, wondering whether the soldiers, our so-called protectors, had a good dinner and were tucked into their beds by their drill sergeant.

I can’t help but wonder what these, “boys”, (our protectors) are up to now, as revolution, mass murder and mayhem prevail in that once magnificent Land Of the Pharaohs.   

Politics and Yom Kippur Don’t Mix. Or do they?

           My magnificent mother, whose lifetime in Cleveland literally spanned the 20^th century, (born in 1898 at 30^th and Orange, died 1989 at Mt. Sinai Hospital), was a tough, independent and lovely woman.

          Although she was a member of The Temple and often turned to Rabbi A.H. Silver, a personal friend of the family, for advice and comfort, she was more a pragmatist, and fatalist, than a religious Jew.

          When her husband William Weidenthal, publisher of the Jewish Independent, died in 1931 at the depth of the Depression, she was left, in her 30’s, with twin five year olds. She courageously (or perhaps stoically) told her friends, “It was meant to be”, and plunged ahead, without complaining, doing what was necessary to maintain a stable family.

          She took over the Weidenthal Co., our printing and publishing plant on Bolivar Rd. (just west of 9^th St.) and successfully ran it for a number of years. She insisted years later that she was no feminist. She left the kitchen and got into business because, “I had no choice”.

          Mother was by nature a serious Republican. She Disliked FDR and the New Deal with a passion. (It should be noted that in pre-depression days, much of the Jewish political establishment in Cleveland was Republican).  As a loyal son, I stood by her, and the cause.

          When Alf Landon the colorless governor of Kansas was nominated to challenge FDR in Cleveland Public Hall in 1936, I was excited about it and determined to do my part for the family.

          I recruited two friends at Coventry School, went down to the printing plant and printed out posters declaring LANDON FOR PRESIDENT.  Then we walked over to the Landon headquarters at the Hollenden Hotel, scooped up as many sunflower buttons we could fit in our knickers pockets and then headed back to the Heights.

          We were naively certain that our campaign efforts would swing Landon for Ohio, or at least Cuyahoga County.  As it turned out, it was a landslide for FDR. 
 Among my young Jewish friends who by now were almost entirely New Dealers, I was a rebel with a lost cause.

          In 1940 it was Wendell Willke, the One World idealist from Indiana who captured my allure. I was taken by his world view, and mother, now owner of Evelyn Wayne, a children’s store in Shaker Heights, continued her dislike for FDR. (Among other things, she resisted posting an NRA sign in her store window, as dictated by Washington.) When it was announced that Willkie would be coming to Cleveland for a campaign appearance at Public Hall, there was no doubt that I would be there.

          The situation got dicey when Grandma Kolinsky, an observant Jew, discovered that Willkie was coming to town on Yom Kippur. Her grandson, she declared at the dinner table, would not attend a political rally on the holiest of holy days. (It had been my habit to walk her to and from the synagogue on Superior Rd. up from Mayfield each year on the High Holy days, which complicated the problem.)

Courtesy of the Minnesota Historical Society

Wendell Willkie, Republican presidential candidate, campaigning with Harold Stassen in 1940.

        Over her protests, and somewhat guilt stricken, I rode the street car down to the terminal where the man from Indiana had arrived on his campaign train. I raced alongside his open car up Euclid Ave., down Ninth St. to Public Hall, where he gave a stirring speech in front of thousands of enthusiastic Gentiles and one Jewish teen-ager from Cleveland Heights, who thought he was cheering on the next president of the United States. Sadly, no such luck.

        Again a landslide for FDR. No hanging or pregnant chads. And no one even thought about asking for a recount.

Why They Believe (As translated from The New York Times)

  When God, in his infinite wisdom, created man, he did a pretty good job, although it took a while.  He obviously paid special attention to our brains, that turn out to be different from all other animals.        

  Of particular note is the amazing ability of humans to ask the question “why?”, and that is where the trouble began.

  We had to know why the sun is orange and hot, why the wind blows, why flowers bloom, thunder rocks our souls, etc.  And the wise men of their day set out to find answers.  At first they assigned names to all these events and attributed the events to things they call “gods” with all kinds of Greek sounding names.

   Then science came along during the enlightenment and started finding explanations for many of these unnerving mysteries, and we felt better and dropped many of the god words.