care of us?
The little saint I once visited in Normandy captured my mood when she wrote: “I get tired of the darkness all around me. The darkness itself seems to borrow, from the sinners who live in it, the gift of speech.
I hear its mocking accents: ‘It’s all a dream, this talk of a heavenly country, of a God who made it all, who is to be your possession in eternity!
All right, go on longing for death! But death will make nonsense of your hopes; it will only mean a night darker than ever, the night of mere non-existence!'”
Why keep this scrap in my wallet?
I must have written down this quote a long time ago. Can it count as a prayer? I know it by heart.
In that context, attending the First Mass tomorrow leaves me quite indifferent.
I’m glad for Fran... – for Fr. Yusuf. (I can’t get used to calling him that.) The first priest ordained in Cairo since the liberation will offer Mass for the first time. It’s an achievement for him and for the Bishop, after so much suffering. They turned a former prison into a seminary, he told me.
I will be polite with God. But I hope He won’t mind if I don’t stay very long after the ceremony.
In fact, I’d rather leave Cairo tomorrow afternoon.
There is work to be done. It’s no secret that all must gather in Casablanca for the next decisive step in this war. Africa and Asia are liberated. But most of Europe is still occupied – and what of America? Doesn’t Casablanca mean White House? In which case, I bet the ships won’t aim for Lisbon but, via Cuba, for Washington.
While I’m here, the only question I find relevant is my responsibility in the war. Is there anything I could have done to prevent its outbreak, or at least to lessen its impact?
I lived in Egypt nearly two years, which I counted as the happiest in my life. And yet, when the horror begun, I was caught off guards.
These twenty-four hours in Cairo may be like a porthole through which I glance at what I used to be.
A young convert; a woman in love; a professional; a dancer; a bit of a thinker at times; a swimmer; a nun? – and eventually a...
No, this is too painful.
Why did the fairytale end so wickedly?
I feel like Captain Nemo, the submariner in the sci-fi story: after twenty thousand leagues under the sea, could I breathe the air of happiness past? Would my lungs and brains bear it? Could I ever meet up with the young and happy woman I once was, up on the surface?
Would we recognise each other?
If I look at her across the estuary of life and the gulf of war, if I try and remember how she felt, what she wore and how she spoke, it will be through my older lenses. I will project on her my broader experience, and my jadedness.
Can I resurrect her?
REGINA | 70