Whiskey? No, don’t try the whiskey here. This is just a small place, there is seldom anyone comes here who would want a good whiskey. A cognac, perhaps. No? Well, I must think. I am sure you have had Calvados: that is the first thing an American does in France: he goes to a bar and orders Calvados. And always he is disappointed, but always. . . . Ah. I know. Try an anise pure. All right? Deux, Louis. You see, they know me here. Everyone in Marseilles knows Georgie. And in Nice and Cannes and Antibes. Well, to your good health.

How do you like it? Not bad, is it? No, no, I will pay. Please, no argument. I am always glad to meet an American, and my brother here tells me that you have been very kind.

Well, yes, I like him, too: he is not very clever, but he has a good heart. I am the clever one in the family. I don’t boast, it is so. We were seven children, and I am the one who supports the family. The only one who has ever made money. Me, Georgie. Every week I send money, not as much as I wish, because I have now a wife and a little boy of my own. Besides, I am saving money. I save money in American dollars. I am a citizen of France, but there is no money like the American money. Now, how is that, the French are so careful and meager with spending and saving, and the money is worth so little—and the Americans are always making the grand gestures and spending much, and their money is stable? Curious.

Sometimes I cannot believe it is me who has this good suit and shoes and hat, this good apartment and business. I have to take out my passport and reassure myself. Georges Ben Shem Tob. It is really me. Maybe my brother told you something, how we lived in Morocco?—You understand his French?— The nine of us lived in one room where the only running water was what dripped from the walls. My father was paralyzed and couldn’t work, so it was very hard. We lived like the poorest Arabs. We would starve only for the Jewish communal office supporting us. Each week they gave us flour and oil and two of those old, big, round silver coins—what are they called?—I forget. Never mind. I have been away a long time. In fact, I have not been back in twenty years. This brother here was a baby when I left. He’s a big baby now, what do you say? He can take care of himself, yes; but, ah, all the time in fights. I am glad that he is going now to Palestine.

Excuse me, Israel. Eress Israel, I know that. You must excuse me, I am very ignorant. I have never gone to school, only to the heder when I was a boy; and to read Hebrew I have forgotten, and to read the Christian languages I haven’t learned. Anyway, I am glad that we can go now to our own country. Of course, I am a citizen of France, and it’s all right for me, but those others in Morocco—bad, very bad. Because, you know, the people of French Morocco are not by right citizens of France. No. Spanish Morocco? Well—that’s right, yes. Franco has said that the Jews of the old Spanish blood in other countries can become citizens of Spain by just making the oath; I remember when he did that. It was like a bomb to the Moors, a slap in their face. A curious man.

Listen, I’m going to tell you something. You know what’s the first thing an Arab does if he doesn’t have to spend all his money? He buys his wife a golden bracelet. And the last thing he sells, when he needs money, is that golden bracelet. That’s his bank account, on his wife’s arm.

Another one? Please, it’s nothing. I am very happy. The Americans have always been good for me. I did much business with the Americans; we trust one another. Anything an American wants, I always help him to get it. I have letters—I’ll shew you. . . . You see? You know Mr. Hopkins from Detroit? I think he must be a very important man there. Admiral Coffey, you know Admiral Coffey? A very gracious man.

To your good health. To Eress Israel.

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So . . . the golden bracelets. Well, what happens now? Who does the Arab buy it from, this bracelet? The Jewish goldsmith. And where does he sell it? Also the Jewish goldsmith. So now I tell you something. The Arabs are not buying bracelets now: they are selling. And why? Only for one thing, to buy rifles. The Arabs in the East do not gain the victory in Israel, the Arabs here are furious. They want the French to go and the Spanish to go. And the old leader, Abd el Krim, he is escaped, you know; he’s in Egypt. And the Grand Mufti, he is in Egypt, too. La-la! Trouble, trouble. And they do not want to let go the Jews. In this case the French are not at fault, they cannot show favor to the Jews openly, because for every Jew in the French colonies, there are ten—twenty—Moslems, maybe more. And if a Jew in Morocco goes for his passport, who is the clerk? An Arab. He puts away the passport somewhere, and what can be done? Nothing. That’s why the Jews must go away at night in the aeroplanes. And in the aeroplanes you can take but a little, and so only some can go.

No, I tell you, only one thing. Someday— maybe not now or tomorrow—but someday —the President of Israel must send to the King, the Sultan, and say to him like this: “See, you are a ruler and I am a ruler, yes? Let us make an agreement. Let go the Jews, like the King of Yemen did. How much do you want?” That’s the way to do it. Because it is unpossible—you say “unpossible”? Oh, impossible, thank you—it is impossible for the Jews to go on like this. If one has any tiny disagreement with an Arab, quick goes the Arab to the police, to the court—and who is the judge? another Arab—and he says, “This Jew said: ‘—the Sultan!’” Right away they send him to the prison.

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Do you know why I save my money? This one here, my brother, even, doesn’t know, but I’ll tell you. I’m going to buy a car and take it over to Morocco and act like a rich man. I will say that I want to bring my mother and my brothers and sisters—my father is dead—back to France for a visit. Oh, only for a visit. What can they do? I am a citizen of France. The Arabs won’t remember me when I was a child, a dirty little child there, before I ran away. They won’t dare to put their hands on my head. You know what I mean? No, you don’t know. See, the Arabs believe that if one of them can put his hands on a Jew’s head the first thing in the day, all that day he has good luck. So one morning, very early, I was helping my father back from the synagogue, because he had a paralysis and it was very hard for him to walk. And an Arab, a drunken Arab—or maybe he’d been smoking teef— came into the street, and he came over to my father. He brought down his hand on my father’s head with all his might, and he yelled, “Ya Ya-hood! My hand on your head!” And my father fell down, and the Arab was so drunk, he fell down, too, and they lay in the street.

When I saw my poor father lying there, trembling, I became like a crazy person. I took out my little knife and I began to stab this Arab, and crying and cursing him. Many times since then I try to think: did I stab him twenty-seven times or thirty-seven times? No use. I don’t remember. But I was just a small boy. How did I get the courage? And I even dragged and tumbled the Arab into an alley. This brother here says that I even got my poor father home, too, but I don’t remember. Only that I was afraid and ran away. It was a great scandale, but they never found out who did it. And I never went back.

But now I’m a citizen of France and I don’t care.

To your health. To Eress Israel.

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