North Africa: 'Dangerous Beauty'

Here is a letter written just nine days before the Invasion of Salerno, Italy.

Sept. 7, 1943

Dearest Marie,

In the previous letter I described to you in general terms the type of people who are natives in this part of the world. In this letter I will try to picture for you the life in a nearby town and other interesting facts that I have learned since I wrote the last letter.

Picture if you can an old but well-built city with large buildings and almost modern architecture—the architecture of the Moslems. Here and there throughout the town are countless sidewalk cafes and wine gardens. Antiquated French street cars rattle along on the left side of the road dragging along behind an open car crowded to overflowing with a mixed group of people. Everywhere one hears the babble of mixed French, Algerian, Morroccan, Spanish, English languages. Odd smells issue from every corner—some of them reminding you of stale wine and others of rotten food and fermenting grapes, all mixed with the smell of salt water. Put yourself in that type of town in the next few paragraphs of this letter.

We were driven to town in an army vehicle through a countryside covered with grapevines and bountiful with fruit. Here and there, we avoided collision with lumbering Arab carts, some drawn by burros, and others by scrawny, ill-fed horses or mules. On each side of the road small shade trees beautify the road. Small Arab children dressed in rags shout and yell “Me want cigarette.” while holding their fingers in the form of a V for victory.

Finally you can see the skyline of the city ahead. Here and there a building towers above the rest but all of them are built of a pink or white clay or brick; and on reaching the city limits the stench and smell of the slums hit one square in the face.

In our troop we drove to the American officers club where we had a bite to eat. One must be very careful not to eat or drink of the native food for very obvious reasons. After that we walked down the streets just to observe. Native women wrapped in white with one eye showing walk quickly along taking care not to disclose their faces. Now and then one of them will show her face—most times very ugly but often pretty but always tattooed on the forehead, cheeks and chin.

French Jews operate stores much like our Jews on Wells Street at home. Soldiers of all nationalities and every conceivable uniform pass along the streets. Finally we got tired of walking and sat down in a sidewalk café of a very good hotel.

A sidewalk café is a marvelous place since you can sit and watch the crowds go by. I know that you would enjoy that very much. So we ordered our drinks (I took beer because I couldn’t tell the waiter what I wanted) and then sat and watched the crowds go by. Like all port towns, but especially a war port town, this one has the scum of the earth. French foreign legion soldiers, Free french, English, American soldiers and sailors pass by in an unending parade. Here and there a beautiful french woman passes by leading a french dog and exquisitely dressed in modern American clothes; and walking beside her a native woman dressed in white. Then you will see a native Arab man with pants whose crotch almost drags on the ground. The story behind the pants with the drooping crotch is as follows:

The natives believe that Mohamed will be incarnated again and will be born of a male. Consequently they wear their pants like that so they can catch him before he hits the ground.

As we sat there a native acrobat performer put on an act for us. Actually he was a contortionist. A crowd of people gathered about to watch. Beggars by the hundreds, young and old, passed by with hands held out. Meantime a blind man passes selling postcards which we cannot send. On the corner a native fortuneteller with sand and a stick plys his morbid trade. Honey what an interesting and picturesque town. Vino, vino plenty vino. But don’t drink it. Dangerous beauty, ugliness, sordidness, filth, quaintness and everything disgusting is present here. Will tell you more in my next letter.

John