TANGIER 1940S & 50S DAVID ARDITTI For Nina Translated and edited by Sarah Ardizzone; Design and production by Carole Courtillé, Atelier Dyakova

With special thanks to Sarah Ardizzone, Carole Courtillé, Sonya Dyakova, Nina Kidron, Helen Thomas and Gemma Wain for the book, and to Ann Bone, Myriam Cherti, Katy Hepburn and Paul Thompson for the exhibition 1940s & 50s David Arditti

tabletwo productions – London Drawings for Friends These drawings were originally penned as eleven graphic letters to my lifelong friend, Giorgio Segre. They were inspired by shared memories, as well as some animated conversations about our childhood in Tangier, and they were sent between 2003 and 2004. Giorgio was living in Lausanne at the time, and terminally ill. Personal as they are, my sketches also describe the colonial experience of growing up in Tangier during the two decades prior to Moroccan independ- ence. And so, in December 2008, four years after I sent them to Giorgio, the letters were included in an exhibition at the British Library, ‘Moroccan Memories in Britain’. (The exhibition was based on an oral and visual archive of three generations of Moroccans migrating to and living in Britain.) With this book I hope to share my correspondence with a wider circle of friends, as a way of carrying on the conversation. Please indulge any narra- tive shortfalls; these letters were never intended to be read in quick succession, but I trust they might communicate something of daily life in Tangier in the 1940s and 50s. So how does the book work? Well, my original French explanations are an integral part of the letters themselves. Sarah Ardizzone has translated freely from them for an English readership, producing an introduction to each drawing, which is in turn complemented by selected picture details overleaf. The story of how my family came to be in follows in a biographical section at the end.

Setting the Scene In 1923, Tangier – whose identity had been shaped in part by the rivalry of colonial powers carving up the North African continent – was made an international zone by statute, and later a free port. Responsibilities were granted to a number of major European powers, effectively installing a French administration and establishing a rotating chairmanship of each of the signatories to this arrangement: Great Britain, France, Spain, and later Portugal, Belgium, Italy, Sweden and the Netherlands, with a consular representation from each country. The official languages of the administration were French, Spanish and Arabic, heard on the streets alongside the colloquial Maghrebi Arabic and Berber. The local Jewish community spoke Haketia – a version of Ladino, comprising Castilian Spanish laced with Arabic words and intonations, which had evolved amongst those who had fled Spain and the Inquisition, and moved south to Morocco. Some communities had their own post offices, schools and hospitals. There were Jewish and rabbinical courts as well as Moroccan Koranic schools and tribunals. Goods came in and out of the port without concern as to their destination. Contraband cigarettes and liquor, bound for the French coast, left at night in ex-Royal Navy fast launches. Down at the judo club, customs officials performed martial arts practice alongside crewmembers from these smuggling boats, capturing the cavalier spirit of the city as a free port. In 1940, the international statute was revoked when Spain occupied Tangier, taking over its administration. But the statute was restored at the end of the Second World War, and Tangier became a boom town. Morocco fought for and gained independence from France in 1956, and Tangier was integrated into the newly independent Morocco. The Gang (‘La Bande’) There were three in our gang: Giorgio Segre, a refugee from Mussolini’s Italy, with his dog Pilou; León Ebidia, aka ‘Bibi’, a Moroccan Jew who was older than us and wore long trousers; and me, David Arditti, from England. Our gang greeting was: ‘Hello Johnny!’ The streets where we lived defined our boyhood territory. Beyond them a landscape of sand dunes provided a vast playground, as well as forming a wasteland that was home to scarabs, lizards and lovers. Tangier itself was a place of transit for many Jewish refugees whose families moved on to Canada, Venezuela and Brazil as soon as the war was over. In 1940 the international territory of Tangier resounded with Fascist slogans: Cara al sol! Arriba España! (Facing the Sun! Long Live Spain!) The invasion was a peaceful event, announced one Sunday morning in June by the soft sound of soldiers, shod in espadrilles, marching through the city. Overnight, the peseta displaced the Moroccan franc, Spanish became the official language, and life went on as before – except for the rounding up of Spanish Republican refugees. Top l e ft Giorgo, with Pilou his dog, and a grey Frejus with derailleur gears · Me and my green Raleigh with encased chain and three-speed gear · Bibi and his single-speed black Hercules with rod brakes.

Right, below the Thepaisa , a low-ranking Spanish soldier, was a symbol of the occupation by Franco’s troops. With his shaved head, gaiters and shabby espadrilles, he calls out: ‘Ep-O! Ep-Arro!’ (‘Left, Right! Left, Right!’).

Middle right There were other friends in our gang: Hesi (Hans Guttman) left for the USA where he was renamed ‘Gerry’ – his father, a furrier by trade, later managed the Rex Cinema on the ; his cousin, Leo Wieselman, had a sports shop on Rue Goya; Bondi (Andre Sipos), nicknamed ‘Cipote’ (‘Cock’), was a Hungarian refugee whose father was a painter and decorator; Kurti Reisz, Giovanni Farkas and Giovanni's younger cousin, Andrich, who was always crying; Milou Sadoul, whose mother managed the Café de la Grande Poste on the ground floor of the building in which I lived, and a beach café during the summer. Milou’s father taught us carpentry and joinery at the École Professionelle on Saturday afternoons.

Bottom right In the garden of the Mendoub’s Palace was an ancient rubber tree with stooped branches. It set down roots that created a series of arches.

Bottom left The map indicates where members of the gang lived and (top left) the Bazar Arditti on Rue du Statut, near Place de France, as well as some local landmarks: the post office, bank, police station, law courts, bicycle shop, schools, and the vacant lot commandeered for school sporting purposes.

Though not within the area shown by the map, the Monopole du Tabac (tobacco warehouse) and the grand villas on the Charf Hill could be found to the south-west. Directly west was the road to the Puente Internacional (International Bridge), leading to Spanish Morocco via the Caves of Hercules and the Diplomatic Forest (site of family picnics, and where dignitaries used to go wild boar hunting in the previous century).

Middle left A Moroccan chivvies his donkey: Arra‘ Lihoud! ’(‘Onward, Jew!’)

The Beach (‘La Plage’) Tangier was peaceful but isolated during the war years. Travelling in or out was difficult and required visas. The beach was the focus of our summer holidays. We enjoyed three months before school started again in October, by which time we were blackened by the sun. Beach huts were erected for the summer months in the space between the balnéaires (cheap restaurants) and changing cubicles. They were privately owned by Europeans, and a black American who called his place Uncle Tom’s Cabin. On days of levante, when a fierce easterly wind made bathing impossible, we could still swim a few miles away, at Les Grottes d’Hercule (Caves of Hercules), diving into the Atlantic rollers. The gentle westerly breeze of theponiente was, by contrast, bliss. Top l e ft A sun-kissed Giorgio and me.

Top right The stronglevante .

Middle right The beach huts and cheap restaurants: Apolo, Estrella del Mar, Sultana and Corsica. The grand beach restaurant was called Le Balnéaire des Hôtels Associés.

Below centre, from right to left Uncle Tom · Public showers for bathers · The beach vendor calls out in heavily accented Spanish and French: ‘Potato crisps! Once you start you just can’t stop!’

Middle left The more gentleponiente .

Health Care (‘La Médecine’) If hospitals were a microcosm of the international statute of Tangier, then the medical services – including pharmacies and private doctors – were a reflection of the ways in which the different communities overlapped. The Arditti family was part of the English community, but we attended the French hospital. Our general practitioner was Dr Anderson, a Scot, although we sometimes called in Dr Decrop, a Frenchman. Dr Cappa was Italian and there were also a number of Spanish doctors. Dr Danilo Coen was an Italian Jew, and Dr Many was a Moroccan Jew who had been medical adviser to the sultan. The Institut Pasteur clinic, beneath the eucalyptus trees, was where everybody went for their smallpox vaccination or, if bitten by a dog, for the big injection in the belly against rabies. Photographs of horrible conditions (leprosy, syphilis, elephantiasis and various tropical diseases) lined the walls, and a gloomy light filtered in through the window. There was a pervasive smell of ether. Within the family, mothers resorted to traditional remedies. Aspirin was our analgesic. For open wounds, there were sulphonamides (antibiot- ics had yet to reach Tangier). Boils and carbuncles were treated with hot compresses and squeezed when ripe. Digest­ive problems were tackled with enemas of warm soapy water, Dr Decrop’s motto being ‘water in, water out!’ Top l e ft Giorgio and me, in the wars.

Top right A description of some of the hospitals: the British hospital, run by the Tulloch Memorial Scottish mission; the Benchimol Hospital, run by the Jewish community; the Italian hospital, established in the wing of a sultan’s palace, which also housed the Italian school – in the playground were bold fascist slogans of the Mussolini era: Vedere! Credere! Obedere! (Look! Believe! Obey!); the Spanish hospital, built later and located behind the Spanish Legation – designed like a Franciscan monastery, it was run by nuns from that order.

Right, below hospital map Aside from the doctors as featured, there were various other medical personalities: Madame Fauraz, midwife; Sagues, radiologist and pilot of a two-seater Leopoldoff biplane; Bernard, GP, who drove a Citroën Traction Avant; De Benedetti, ophthalmologist; and Pichery, optician.

There were also a number of pharmacies: Ruhl (British), opposite the Minzah Hotel; Levy (French), Place de France; Mollo (also French), Rue des Siaghines; and a Spanish or Gibraltarian pharmacy, also in the Siaghines.

Bottom, left to right The doctors: Danilo Coen (Italian) · Cabanié (French) · Decrop (French), with a photo on his desk of his daughter Toutoune · Many (Jewish) with his tiny two-seater Rosengart · Cappa (Italian) · Anderson (Scottish) with his Fiat Topolino

Middle left Traditional home remedies: For earache, a spoonful of warm olive oil poured in the ear, which was plugged with cotton wool · For any ailment, cod liver oil floating on the surface of orange juice to make it more palatable (but there was no disguising the revolting taste) · In case of a fever, confined to bed with a hot water bottle, plenty of books and comics, and vegetable or chicken broth (the chamber pot under the bed was for throwing up).

Let’s Go To The Movies! (‘On va au ciné?’) There were fleapits in the Medina (the old walled part of the city) with uncomfortable wooden seats and a carpet of peanut shells on the floor. The grander cinemas were part of the development of the New Town. We viewed the films – which were all dubbed into Spanish during Franco's occupation – while sucking sweets and aniseed pastilles, eating spirals of black liquorice, or chewing on Chiclet gum bought at the bakal (corner shop) nearest to the cinema. Another attraction of the New Town cinemas was using homemade catapults to flick dried chickpeas from the upper circle onto the stalls below. Our screen fare consisted mainly of Westerns such as The Lone Ranger; comedies featuring Charlie Chaplin or Laurel and Hardy (known locally as ‘El Gordo y El Flaco’ – ‘the Fat One and the Thin One’); the adventures of Tarzan (this was the heyday of Johnny Weissmüller’s Tarzan, daring swimmer and wrestler of crocodiles) or the escapades of Zorro; and horror movies with Fu Manchu, Dr Frankenstein, Dracula and the Mysterious Doctor Satan. The horror was often chopped into three episodes, each cut occurring at a highly dramatic point to make sure the audience would come back the following week. Another popular American film of the time was Road to Morocco with Bob Hope, Bing Crosby and Dorothy Lamour. Top l e ft Giorgio and I hailing the hero at the end of a Western.

Map of fleapits (Medina) & grand cinemas (New Town) The Alcazar and Capitol were at the foot of the hill leading to the Kasbah; the Cine Americano, off the , was past the Spanish post office; the Rex was by the Grand Socco, at the main bus station; the Paris, Goya, Mauritania, Roxy, Alhambra and Lux were all in the New Town.

Right middle The Teatro Cervantes (built in 1913) stood on its own: a true Spanish theatre, both for its architecture and its live programme featuring Spanish Zarzuela operettas or plays by touring companies from Spain.

Bottom left A chickpea catapult – only for use in cinemas with an extra tier of seating, such as the Mauritania, Paris, Rex and Goya.

The Lycée Regnault We were educated at the French lycée, which, during the war, identified with Vichy and Marshal Pétain. The Francoist Catholic church ran the Spanish school. The Italian school was associated with the Mussolini regime. Boys and girls were separated in primary school, but not at secondary school age. Classes were from 8:30–11:30am and 2:30–4:30pm, with two breaks. Primary school went from eleventh to seventh form: we were aged six in the eleventh form, seven in the tenth form, and so on. Our copybooks had to be covered in blue paper, with a label stuck in the top right-hand corner. Our equipment included a slate and sponge. Desks were double-seated, and the inkwells were filled from a large kettle of indigo-blue ink that had been boiled from ink stones. A Moroccan helper, or chaouch, performed the daily round of filling the inkwells during class. The olderchaouch , with his green eyes and yellow complexion, was kind and serious. Another, with dark mischievous eyes, always made us laugh, causing riotous behaviour. We would stand on a dais when called to the blackboard to be tested on our homework, to recite, to write out the teacher’s dictation, or just to wipe the blackboard clean. The punishment for bad behaviour was being made to stand in the corner, with one's back to the class. Top l e ft Giorgio and me, with our satchels.

Top middle The headmistress, Mademoiselle Havre, would sometimes ring the bell.

Map of the school The numbers on the map refer to the following places: 1 – infants’ room; 2–6 – boys’ classrooms; 7 – headmaster’s office; 8 – entrance door for pupils; 9 – girls’ classrooms; 10 – playground, and flagpole for the daily singing of the French anthem; 11 – toilet block; 12 – small playground and sandpit (for high jump practice); 13 – vacant lot for ball games.

Bottom right Monsieur Caraillon, whose voice was gravelly with age and wine, and Mademoiselle Remy (later Madame Lewithus), who went on to run a school in Lima but retired to Tangier, where she lived in my parents’ block of flats.

There were other teachers, too: Monsieur Noé, whosebête noire Rachid, the only Moroccan pupil, was caned regularly in front of the class; Madame Herlaut, whose husband was wounded in the First World War (he had a wooden leg, and taught physics at the secondary school); Monsieur Dufour coached us for our secondary-school entrance exams – Aoua! (Scary!) – he could be kind on occasion, allowing Sidney Azagury to take time out when he threw a fit if he couldn’t get the answer to a maths question.

Bottom left As the chaouch fills the inkwell, the teacher’s voice reverberates: ‘Clown! Go and stand in the corner!’

Middle left The school kit: Copybook, with requisite cover and label · A satchel for copybooks, textbooks, pencil box, slate and gym kit (shorts and espadrilles) · The slate had a wooden frame with a sponge or rag tied to it · The slate pencil was held in a metal sheath, which was usually chewed flat · The pencil box contained penholders and nibs (Sergent-Major was the best brand), pencils, a rubber and a pencil sharpener.

Street Sounds (‘Les bruits de rue de Tanger’)

Sounds of the day The conversations of the Moroccan women (orfatmas ) were punctuated by ‘Aouillis! Aouillis!’ (‘Would you believe it?’). The wooden clogs they wore in the street made a distinctive dragging noise over the paving stones as they headed to work. Newspaper boys shouted the titles of the daily papers, the knife sharpener blew a pan flute, the mender of pots and pans called out, and mourners chanted in funeral procession. On Friday, a holy day, there was the sound of French army marches, played by the ceremonial guard accompanying the Mendoub (the Sultan’s representative and Governor of Tangier) as he made his way to the Grand Mosque. Passers-by would fall in step. There might be an old Junkers aeroplane flying low; or the fiercelevante rattling windows and slamming doors; or the howling of a stray dog trapped by the chato de la perrera (dog-catcher), a Moroccan with a bloodstained rag hiding his missing nose. The story was that a dog had bitten it off, but more likely it was tertiary syphilis.

Sounds of the night Drifting off to sleep wasn’t easy, as my bedroom was close to a fronton Jai Alai (Basque pelota court). I could hear spectators laying bets: their screams drowned out the slamming of the pelota against the wall by players with names such as Quintana, Barinaga and Onaindia. At three in the morning the first muezzin calling from the top of a minaret was quickly echoed, as all the mosques summoned the faithful to prayer. These were real voices unamplified by loudspeakers, which were still to come. During Ramadan, the street watchman rattled the metal shutters of the bakal or banged on them with his club, to tell the sleeping shopkeepers that it was time to wake up for the last meal before dawn. In times of celebration, the strains of music from a wedding procession accompanied the bride as she headed towards a new life. She would be seated on a donkey and hidden under a silk-covered structure, whilst being followed by a band playing ghaytahs (wooden double-reed instruments) and tambourines. More relaxing was the gentle rhythm of the surf, and the slow putt-putt of a fishing-boat engine heading for the tuna catch along the Azilah coast. Daytime

Top l e ft Giorgio listening at the window; me in my pyjamas.

Right, from top to bottom The old Iberia Junkers plane flying low on its way to Madrid · The ceremonial guard · A homemade cart, hurtling down the steep, uneven pavement of Rue Molière · The steamroller clanking uphill along Boulevard Antée.

Bottom, from right to left Clogs as worn by the fatmas · A deliveryman shouts ‘Balak!’ (‘Watch out!’) as he drags a cart with a fridge · The fish-seller yelling ‘Pescadooo!’ as he walks into town carrying baskets of fresh fish bought at the fishermen’s nets.

Bottom left A funeral procession, the mourners chanting praise to Allah: ‘Allah La Il Allah, Mohamed Ras Ou Llah!’ They are bearing aloft a rough, open coffin, and a body swaddled in coarse linen.

Left, bottom to top The knife-sharpener and his pan flute, and the screeching and sparks of steel grinding on stone · Newspaper boys yelling ‘Dipiche!’ (La Dépêche Marocaine) or ‘Diario Spaniia’ (El Diario España) or ‘Tangier Gazette!’ · The green lorry collecting rubbish, and the rubbish collector blowing his brass horn.

There were many other sounds to be heard on the street: the barquillero, seller of wafers – ‘Son De Canela!’ (‘Made with cinnamon!’); the seller of roasted nuts – ‘Avellanas Y Almendras! Hay Altamuces!’ (‘Roasted peanuts, almonds and lupin seeds!’); the rag-and-bone man calling ‘Comprat Cosat Viejat!’ (‘We buy old stuff!’); the mender of pots and pans – Ayoun‘ Pompone! Pompone Latats, Ollats!’ (‘We mend pots and pans!’).

Night-time

Anti-clockwise, from top left Pelota players · The first muezzin · Tuna boats · A street watchman during Ramadan · A wedding procession.

(‘La rue des Siaghines’) Rue des Siaghines is the arterial road connecting the Grand Socco (the main marketplace, outside the ramparts) with the port, via the Petit Socco (the square in the heart of the Medina). It houses the Grand Mosque and the Spanish Catholic church, along with several hotels, cafés, banks and department stores. At the top of the hill is the Sunday open-air market, as well as the covered markets for spices and dried fruit, meat and poultry, fish, fruit and vegetables; while downhill takes you towards the railway and coach stations, and Avenue d'Espagne. Money changers were a feature of Rue des Siaghines. They sat on high individual pulpits, rattling their piles of coins to attract attention. The street was also lined with small shops and artisanal workshops. The narrow side streets leading off it, towards the Medina, contained synagogues, the Spanish post office, banks, small shops, a textile market, jewellers, watchmakers, pharmacies and brothels. From consulates to private dwellings, the old city walls encompassed all the activities and edifices of a thriving town. Top l e ft Giorgio and I pretending to be punters, with Giorgio handing over the money and me counting it out.

Top right Various landmarks are labelled on the map: Mirador (a paved area with decorative old cannons, as well as benches for enjoying the view); Grand Mosque; Fuente Nueva (the Mellah or Jewish quarter); Cine Americano; Spanish Post Office; Petit Socco (the main square), with Café Colon and Café Central; Pâtisserie La Española; Bank of British West Africa; Spanish Catholic church; Bata (a shoe shop); Galeries Lafayette; Au Grand Paris (department store); Papeterie Lebrun (stationary shop); Ravella (a watchmaker).

Middle At the top of the street, Jewish money changers sit on high stools at raised desks, set up on the pavement, offering to exchange any currency under the sun (rates are chalked up on a board).

Bottom left The student is asking for a copy ofBouvart et Ratinet: a maths textbook with tables of logarithms, essential before the widespread use of calculators – and still in print!

Bottom middle Ravella, the bald and large-headed Italian watchmaker, inside his tiny shop.

Bottom right Jews, led by Rabbi Yamin, head for the synagogue at 7am.

The Corner Shop (‘El bakalito’) The traditional corner shop was usually owned and run by Soussis – these were Berbers from the Souss Valley, often from the hill village of Tafraoute. It was a family business involving several generations of men, all living together within the shop and sleeping on a mezzanine platform. Hardwork- ing and thrifty, they would take turns to go back to their wives and children in their home village. The young ones learned the business as deliverymen, and by serving behind the counter. Those more senior generally saved up to buy another bakal and eventually retire to the Souss, where they could afford a comfortable home. Thebakal sold everything you might need: from tinned fish, seasonal fruit and household goods to cigarettes, chilled drinks and basic stationery. If there was no time to go to Macca, the Italian baker, you could also buy bread at the bakal. Local papers in Spanish and French were stocked alongside the national newspapers Le Petit Marocain and L’Echo du Maroc. Some bakals, for example Abdelmalek on the corner of Boulevard Pasteur and Rue du Statut, sold cigars, foreign newspapers and even perfume. You could buy L’Equipe, if you were following the Tour de France, or Marca for commentary on football in Spain. Our corner shop, known as Bakal de la Grande Poste, was on the corner of Boulevard Antée and Rue Núñez de Arce. Giorgio’s bakal was at the corner of Rue Goya and Rue Jeanne D’Arc, opposite Erola, the stationers. Top l e ft Giorgio and I enjoying sweets at the bakal.

Right Casa Sport and Favorite were Moroccan cigarette brands. You could also buy American brands such as Camel and Lucky Strike. Le Chariot and Spanish Cerillos were matches.

Below centre, right A block of ice is cut to size on the pavement with an iron bar · Segui Supplies made the ice and delivered it to the bakals in their lorry.

Below centre Household goods: Soap, bleach, clothes pegs · Spirals and sticks of liquorice · Cinnamon or mint-flavoured chewing gum.

Below centre, left Chilled drinks were stored in a large ice cupboard. Segui delivered sparkling water in siphons, and lemonade in bottles sealed with a glass ball.

Bottom Champion cyclists Fausto Coppi and Gino Bartali climb the mountain pass, Col d'Izoard, two hours ahead of the peloton!

The School Playground (‘Les joies de la recré’) Instead of a rousing rendition of ‘La Marseillaise’, the day started with the entire school assembled around the flagpole to sing an anthem to Marshal Pétain! During break-time, as well as the usual playground antics, some games reflected a more local colour. For example, we collectedchromos , which were cigarette cards or cards found inside sweets and chocolate bars. These boasted pictures of cars, footballers and film stars. Playground gamblers would lay a chromo face down on the ground and take turns to flip it with the sharp upward movement of a cupped hand. Thechromo was yours if the flip was successful. ‘Target’ was played with apricot stones, collected when in season. A stiff piece of cardboard was decorated and pierced with holes of varying sizes and ratings. The player aimed a stone from his stash and, if successful at getting the stone through one of the holes, won one or more stones, according to the difficulty rating of that hole. A miss meant losing the stone to the owner of the board. In ‘Corta Terreno’ (‘Turf Wars’), a square was drawn in the sandy ground and divided into two. Two players competed for ownership of the land and took turns to toss a penknife into the opponent’s territory. A toss was successful if the knife stayed upright and defined a new boundary. The teachers, with arms folded behind their backs, paced up and down the playground in a diagonal sweep, putting on a show of authority and discipline as they supervised us. Top left Saluting the flag.

Top middle and top right Flipping chromos · During the chase of ‘It or Had’, pouce – a raised thumb – was a signal for a pause or truce (usually called when you were about to be caught).

Second line Target practice, played with apricot stones · A new haircut earns a surprise slap · The knife lands upright in Corta‘ Terreno’.

Third line Coded injunctions are shouted in Spanish to make the throw of the marble more difficult · Spinning tops · Girls skipping to the tune of Spanish ditties.

Bottom left Leapfrog, involving calls in Spanish: ‘Menastro!’ (‘Landing!’); ‘La Muda!’ (‘last one!’).

Bottom right The teachers pacing in their diagonal line.

Shopping for Food (‘La compra’) Shopping was an occasion for interaction with local people. Vegetables, fruit, meat and fish were farmed, reared or caught by Moroccans and sold at market. There were also European grocers and bakers for the well-to-do. Charcuterie, olive oil, pasta and Parmesan cheese, for example, were purchased from Furlan’s – the Italian grocer who had a stall in the covered market. Thebakal was a reliable source of staples, such as sugar bought in pyramid loaves; these came wrapped in blue paper and were broken into smaller chunks at home with a hammer. Sunday was the big market day at the Grand Socco, and there were storytellers as well as food sellers. It was also the place for the celebration of Muslim festivals: Ashura, Eid el-Mouloud, Eid el-Kabir, Eid el-Fitr. Next to the spice and olive stalls at the Grand Socco, you could buy seasonal vegetables and fruit. The bargaining tactic was to move away on hearing the price, which the stallholder would duly lower so as not to lose the sale. Lettuces were washed at home in permanganate in summer. There were carrots, leeks, celery, tomatoes, potatoes, sweet potatoes, oranges, mandarins, apples, pears, quinces, Muscatel grapes, melons, cherries from Azrou, custard apples, fresh figs, and small bananas from southern Morocco and the Canary Islands. Fish was haggled for at the covered market opposite the Spanish School. A noisy crowd of stallholders, their voices ricocheting off granite surfaces and amplified by the lofty hall, would shout out their wares: prawns, squid, rascasse, sole, tuna, swordfish, sardines, cod, whitebait, mussels and crabs. Everything had to be sold by the end of the afternoon, as there were no fridges. Top left Giorgio and me, with our purchases – I am already snacking on my provisions. Macca’s, the Italian baker on Rue Sanlucar, also did Spanish bread; the French boulangerie, Hermann, did home deliveries; Cazeaux & Devoize sold French and Moroccan wines; whisky, gin, port and sherry could be bought at Saccone & Speed.

Middle right Meat was bought at Businelli, run by brothers Toni and Aldo Ramasciotti, on Rue du Statut, between the Café de Paris and Abdelmalek the newsagents.

Bottom right The watermelon seller cutting into the fruit to prove its ripeness.

Bottom left Poultry and eggs were sold by countrywomen who sat on the kerb, at the entrance to the covered market. A few hens, their legs tied, would be displayed on a cloth alongside piles of eggs.

The Prickly Pear (‘Chumbo’) The fencing around small farms and dwellings in the countryside is traditionally provided by cactus trees, which serve as an ideal barrier against stray animals and intruders. The delicious shoot of the wild cactus tree is covered in tiny, almost invisible prickles, which make it difficult to pick (the sting can last for days). This fruit, known as chumbo, is sold along the route from the countryside leading to the market place; it is prepared or opened up by the seller. Never touch a chumbo on the cactus plant, we were told, because of the prickles. Never eat a chumbo from a street vendor, or you might catch dysentery or cholera. The flesh of a ripechumbo is orangey-red, juicy and gorgeous. The true forbidden fruit! Top left Giorgio and I hopping in agony, victims of a wild cactus tree.

Middle How to eat a chumbo: 1 – Get rid of the prickles; 2 – Cut the ends off; 3 – Make a north–south incision; 4 – Allow the skin to unfold, forming a base for the fruit.

Bottom right Chumbo vendors line the way leading to the market. The fruit is laid out on a hessian mat, with a bucket of water nearby for sprinkling on the fruit to keep it cool or for rinsing the knife.

The Long Road to Tangier My story begins with my paternal great-grandparents, Moshe Arditti and Djamila (née Mordoh), who lived and died in nineteenth-century Izmir, in what is now Turkey. We know that Moshe’s father was called Ephraim, and that Moshe was a buyer on behalf of a dried-fruit trader. Moshe and Djamila had six children, including my paternal grand­father David Arditti, who married Reina (née Saul). David, whom we called Papuli, showed an early talent for trading in antiques. He would sail across to the numerous islands in the Aegean, or ride up into the hills of Anatolia with a mule loaded with cooking utensils. These, he bartered for Iznik ceramics from peasants’ homes. A dashing presence – tall and broad-shouldered, with piercing blue eyes – on one occasion he attracted bandits, who robbed him of all his chattels and tied him to a tree. When he was eventually rescued he made his way to the nearest village, where he found that the police had summarily dealt with his captors: they were hanging from a tree. After less dramatic expeditions, he would ride home with his stash of antique pottery, which he sold on to agents of the British Museum. As the Ottoman Empire disintegrated, the future lay to the west. Papuli and his younger brother Rabeno set sail for London, while two other brothers went to Paris. They all established shops, selling Middle Eastern carpets, rugs and antiques. Papuli’s business started at the corner of Cleveland Street and Tottenham Street, on the ground floor of the family home where he and Reina raised their two sons, Maurice and Albert. Meanwhile, Rabeno became known as an ace mender of antique carpets, and sealed his reputation when the Victoria and Albert Museum asked him to repair its prize piece, the Ardabil Carpet. With the family settled in London, Papuli went on buying trips to Morocco. My father, Maurice, recalled joining him as a schoolboy, during his long summer vacation. They rode from town to town on horseback, buying up the remnants of the spice trade in the form of Venetian textiles and brocades. The challenge was to reach the next destination before sunset, when the gated walls of the town would be locked for the night. The Venetian textiles were later sold at the new shop on Marylebone Lane, where Papuli went into partnership with both his sons. The textiles and brocades were displayed alongside fine carpets, which in those days arrived by the boatload from the Middle East. Papuli had a reputation for bringing good luck to a cargo, and was always the first dealer allowed into the hold when a ship moored at the East India Dock. Another source of carpets and antiques was the weekly Caledonian Market, together with the stalls that lined York Way. Papuli and my father would drive the length of the market in their horse and cart, eyeing up the wares before doing deals on their return trip.

Marylebone to Tangier During those foraging excursions to Morocco, Papuli had fallen in love with Tangier and its port: its setting reminded him of his youth in Izmir. So when, in the 1920s, a town house became available, as did a small farm on the outskirts in Bubana, he snapped them up. Leaving his two sons to run the Marylebone shop, Papuli took his share of the business in goods, antiques and carpets, which were shipped to Tangier and put in storage. Now in his late fifties, Papuli lived and worked on the farm, where he dowsed for water and dug a well, grew melons and corn, kept cows and set up a milk-delivery business. He rode his white horse, Coco, into town, and kept a Ford Model T. Lord Bute, an English property owner with an extensive portfolio of buildings in Tangier (including the warehouse where Papuli had storage space) was impressed by my grandfather’s art merchandise, and offered him the lease on a shop in the best street in town: Rue du Statut. Papuli found himself back in the antiques business, and melons were soon being displayed in a corner of the shop amongst the fine Persian rugs and Chinese vases. Without the time or energy in his retirement to run a thriving business as well as a farm, Papuli offered his two sons the running of the shop. This meant moving to Tangier. My father accepted, and we left our flat at 70 High Street, Marylebone, for colonial life in Morocco. When our boat pulled into Tangier in 1936, I was two years old, my sister Lydia four.

Settling into Tangier We lived on the third floor of a five-storey block of flats, built in 1930 and inhabited by French, Italian, Swedish and Jewish-Moroccan tenants. The usual constellation of amenities – bakals and cafés – could be found at street level, while the roof terraces, with their individual washhouses, were for hanging out the laundry. We were a fifteen-minute walk from the centre of town and Father’s new shop. Our daily contact with Moroccans was with servants in the home, staff at the shop, and labourers on Papuli’s farm, as well as shopkeepers and stall- holders on market days. The roles adopted by shop staff were myriad: Mohammed and Hmido worked in Father’s shop, but Mohammed had also been a labourer on Papuli’s farm; Hmido, who was an artist and the window dresser at the shop, was often asked to take us children on walks in the countryside. Both would come to help in the home if something heavy needed lifting. I was close to Himo, our servant at home from day one. There was an interruption when she married one of the fish salesmen who walked the streets with two baskets, calling out ‘Pescadooo! ’ And further breaks when she had babies. As soon as her latest offspring was old enough, Himo would return to work with the baby strapped to her back. Himo lived in a bidonville or slum, where her accommodation consisted of dried-mud floors, with walls and a roof of flattened tin; she had no sanitation except for a communal water fountain.

Speaking in Tongues At home, when Father was around, English was spoken, laced with a few words of ancient Spanish – not the pure Ladino, but Turkino, which is the language of the Jewish people from Turkey. My sister and I quickly adopted French as our everyday language, since we attended the French lycée. We also picked up Spanish, thanks to the community of Republican refugees from the Spanish civil war. Himo had worked in French households and spoke that language well enough to sing French nursery rhymes. Batsul, a Berber woman from the Rif mountains, worked in Papuli’s town house and picked up Turkino as her sec- ond language. Mohammed could handle Spanish or English customers at the shop, but didn’t speak any French, whereas Hmido the artist could commu- nicate in French and pidgin English, which made us laugh on our walks. We absorbed basic Arabic words, which we in turn used in pidgin fashion.

English or Jewish? Father, who was the first-generation son of Turkish–Jewish immigrants, and had been born in London, resolved any confusion around his own identity by aligning himself firmly with English culture. He did this by boasting a cockney origin, claiming to have been born within the sound of Bow Bells, and by rejecting what he deemed to be Eastern, and therefore foreign, tastes such as garlic or coriander. Meals were dull and involved eggs and bacon for breakfast, as well as traditional English Sunday lunches – nothing remotely Moroccan. This put Mother, who would have preferred to stay faithful to her kosher upbringing, under horrible pressure. She loved garlic and coriander, as they recalled her own childhood in Macedonia. We associated with the British ex-pat community, went to Christmas lunches at the only English restaurant in town (run by a Jewish family from Gibraltar), and listened in respectful silence to the king’s speech (would he stammer?). Mother organised tea parties for her friends, baking scones and bringing out her best silver tea set. On Empire Day we flew the Union Jack at the shop and from the balcony of our flat. We were instructed to remind everybody at the French lycée that we were English (‘ ... passport to hand, and don’t mention being Jewish!’). There was one concession to local custom: weekend drives to local beauty spots always included a stop at a Moroccan café for mint tea. Mother’s conflicting loyalties were stretched by Father’s family ties. Maurice’s sister, Aunt Rachel, had by arrangement married Uncle Abraham, in a deal which must have been brokered by Papuli. In exchange for taking on Aunt Rachel, Abraham was made a partner in the running of the antiques shop. The son of a rabbi, he had a brother and four sisters, all faithful observers of Jewish customs. On Uncle Abraham’s side of the family there were large, boisterous gatherings for all the festivals of the Jewish calendar, as well as weddings and circumcision parties. We were always invited, but attended, if at all, without Father. The fun of such occasions, filled with much singing and great food, was marred by them being a source of tension in our home.

The Second World War Father’s Englishness was given full rein during the Second World War, when he overtly served the Allied cause and edited the Tangier Gazette. This was a daily paper produced in three editions (English, French and Spanish), containing up- to-date information supplied by the intelligence branch of the British Consulate, as well as local news. I could boast at school of my access to the latest number of German planes shot down by the raf, or taunt French boys who were known sympathisers of Pétain and Vichy. Such one-upmanship increased after the D-Day landings, prior to which the atmosphere was more subdued: we knew that the French Consulate held lists of Jews in readiness for the Final Solution.

Inspiring Teachers From an early age I drew caricatures of family members, and entertained school friends with satirical sketches of our teachers. My first mentor was Monsieur Gerofi, the art teacher at the lycée, who later became the curator of the Forbes Museum of Tangier. Another mentor was my judo teacher, Fred Davis, who was also an artist and an architect. He had worked with Le Corbusier on the Unité d’Habitation in Marseille. He was instrumental in guiding me to architecture, which I went on to study in Paris in 1956.

Back to Marylebone I moved to London in 1962. After twelve years in architecture I retrained as a traditional acupuncturist and set up practice in 1976. From my treatment room in Marylebone I can see the back of 70 High Street, which I left almost eighty years ago. Limited edition of 200 Published by tabletwo productions, 2014 www.tabletwoproductions.com isbn 978-0-9930801-0-4 Copyright © David Arditti All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission from the copyright holder