The Automobile Club of Egypt

KAMEL

I held out, refusing to confess. I put up with the incessant beatings until I had no idea of what was going on around me, until I could no longer stand up on my own and had to be helped along. It was odd. The men who were beating the shit out of me were the same men who were helping me to get up and supporting me as I walked. Their faces bore expressions of perfect normality, as if they were just doing the sort of routine work that required no particular concentration. They would throw me down on the cell floor, and I cannot describe how it felt as I hit the ground. Every part of my body hurt. The cell was tiny, with only one small window about a foot wide. It was winter, the floor was tiled, I had one threadbare blanket and insects crawled around everywhere. Meals were just two pieces of bread and some indeterminate stew. The toilet was a bucket unemptied for hours so that I could smell my own excrement. They had taken care to put me in a cell next to where they tortured the detainees, and I could hear the screams reverberating all night long, my heart ready to break as I listened. Sometimes, I lost control and shouted and cursed, banging my hands on the walls until, finally spent, I sank back down to the ground. I knew that my protests were in vain. After a few days, I developed a terrifying obsession: What if they decided to torture me like that…would I be able to bear it? No one, no matter how true to his cause, would be able to endure such torture for an extended period. My resistance would crumble, and I would confess to everything or else I might even go mad.

The investigator called for me again. This time, however, the agents did not beat me up. The investigator smiled and asked me with a sneer, “Have you wised up yet, Kamel?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to tell me all about the organization.”

“What organization?”

“Stop playing the fool, my lad!” he shouted as the agents started hitting and kicking me and I screamed. The blows stopped suddenly, and the investigator laughed.

“By the way, we have a most entertaining little performance for you to see. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

He gestured to the agent by the door, and he rushed out. A few minutes later I heard commotion and shouting. The door opened, and agents brought in a short man, badly beaten up, with blood caked all over his swollen face. I recalled having seen him before; he worked at the Club in fact. The Upper Egyptian woman who had been brought in was screaming, and the agents slapped her.

The investigator continued, “This is Samahy, who works as a waiter at the Automobile Club. He caused a lot of problems for us, so we’ve invited him and his wife, Zahra, to stay with us until he wises up.”

Samahy gave a snarl, which led to his being hit again.

“Samahy, my lad!” the investigator said. “Your wife, Zahra, has complained to us that you’re not fulfilling your husbandly duties. What do you think about us getting some of our rough Upper Egyptian soldiers here to help out in that department? I think she’d like that.”

The woman let out a nerve-shattering scream, and Samahy could not stop himself lunging at the agents, which only ended up with his getting another good kicking.

“Don’t play the coquette with us, Zahra,” the investigator sadistically cajoled her. “I’ve got a good strong Upper Egyptian guy here who can satisfy you. Strip her and take her to Abd al-Samad. He’ll give her one and, Samahy, you can watch and learn how it’s done.”

The woman screamed even louder, and Samahy shouted, “Shame on you, you heathens.”

The investigator made a gesture, and the agents dragged Samahy and his wife off. I could not hold myself back.

“You’ll pay for this!” I shouted.

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” the investigator smiled. “We’re protecting the throne and defending the country.”

“Torture is a crime punishable by law.”

“The law,” he said, “is something you study at college, my lad. You graduate and then you have to forget it. Let me tell you, Kamel, that if you were in my shoes you’d do exactly the same.”

“I could never,” I retorted, “be a criminal like you lot.”

The agents gave me another round of kicks, and then the investigator said calmly, “Now, I would counsel you again to start talking. When did you join the organization?”

“I don’t join organizations.”

“All right, Kamel.” The investigator shook his head. “I’m trying to help you here, but you won’t help yourself.”

That was a signal to the agents to set about giving me another beating, after which they returned me to my cell. I felt like I had hit rock bottom, used like a laboratory animal. Everything they did was directed at extracting a desired result. The spectacle of Samahy and his wife both screaming was seared into my memory, and I kept reliving the scene in my mind, replacing Samahy’s wife with Saleha. What if they were to do the same to her? I put all my strength into not falling apart. That night, for the first time, the voices and torture stopped, no more screaming to be heard. Had one of the detainees died? It was quieter than I had ever known it there, and I fell into a deep sleep.

The following day, there was a slight improvement in my treatment. They emptied the slop bucket twice and gave me more food, disgusting as it was. The investigator called for me again, but this time he was wearing a smile, and I was astonished at how those bastards’ moods could swing from one extreme to the other.

“Mr. Barsoum, your lawyer,” he said in an affable tone, “would like to speak with you.”

He gestured toward a stocky man, who introduced himself, “I am Gameel Barsoum, a lawyer. Mrs. Aisha Hamama has retained me to defend you. With your agreement, naturally.”

“Good to meet you.”

Gameel then asked the investigator, “Could I speak to him outside?”

The investigator gestured toward the door.

“As you like, Mr. Barsoum. I’ll give you half an hour.”

I followed Gameel out of the room, and we stopped in the middle of the courtyard, where he heaved a sigh of relief.

“It’s safer here,” he said. “His office will be bugged. Listen, Kamel. We don’t have much time. Speak to me. I’m your lawyer, and I need to know the truth.”

I recounted everything in detail, from joining the Wafd cell and the organization up to my arrest.

“Have you confessed,” he asked me in a serious tone, “to membership of the organization?”

“No.”

“Well, don’t even think about it.”

“They have beaten me up to within an inch of my life.”

“I know, and we’ll get that corroborated tomorrow during the questioning. Anwar Bey Makki, head of state security, is interested in your case and has taken personal charge of it.”

“What do you think they’ll do to us?”

“Actually, there are two investigations in the Automobile Club. The striking workers have been arrested and are also being tortured. The second investigation is that of the organization of which you are accused of being a member. I must inform you that your case is a difficult one, with rather dangerous implications.”

“Has Prince Shamel really been thrown into prison?”

“He has been released. But his having been held three days while the investigations took place is a dangerous sign. Prince Shamel is the king’s cousin and could only be sent for trial by order of the king. The fact that the king had his cousin thrown into prison will only serve to make the investigators and the judges deal more harshly with this case.”

I looked at him and said nothing. I was thinking about my ordeal, wondering how this nightmare would end, when I would be able to go back to my home, my own bed and my books.

As if he could read my thoughts, Gameel smiled sympathetically and said, “Whatever we do, I expect the directorate to try you in court. At that point, I will do whatever I can to get you out.”

The next day, Gameel came to the interrogation with me and, pointing out my injuries, demanded my release, but I was ordered to be held for another two weeks.

On Friday, I had my first visit from my family. I tried to hold myself together. I told them that I felt optimistic and that I would soon be released, but their eyes told me they knew I was lying. My mother managed to keep her composure but then broke down crying. I was moved by Mahmud’s teary eyes and Saleha’s loving and sympathetic glances, Aisha’s prayers and Mitsy’s sad smile. I went back to my cell feeling slightly uplifted, comforted to know that I was no longer entirely alone in the hands of those bastards. At the very least, my family knew where I was and would be able to glean information about what was happening to me. But how was it all going to end? Was I nearing the end of the tunnel? Would I ever see the outside world again, or would I spend the rest of my years in prison?