His name was Gamal Abdul Nasser. I’d never heard of him before, but he was about to destroy my perfect childhood world
Photos: AP Images
As told to Leah Gebber by Mrs. Bella Sharer
ASa young girl, I would sit next to my father under the ornate ceiling of the Ben Ezra Synagogue in Cairo, and when everyone stood up, I’d inspect my white Shabbat shoes. My father’s voice would ring out as he bid for the honor of placing the silver crown atop the sefer Torah before it was returned to the aron kodesh. And then he would lead me to the bimah and lift me into the air. I would grasp the silver keter and stretch and stretch and set the crown in its place.
This was my world, a world that was lost.
A kitchen filled with women: mother, grandmother, aunts, and cousins. The sound of rice poured onto the table and the chatter as so many pairs of arms shot forward to check the grains for infestation, fingers moving, rice sliding over the tabletop and into a glass container. Great crates of tomatoes being skinned and pushed through sieves to make tomato sauce and the smell of vinegar and sugar as the seasonal produce was pickled.
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