Gosh! I got so busy describing Benghazi that I forgot to tell you about my first day on the job. Early on the morning of September 30, 1954 after taking off from Cairo, we flew across the dessert for several hours and landed on a small airstrip. No sign of a city – just brush, rocks, and a road leading off into the distance. There was no one to meet me but I spotted a man who looked like an American, went up to him and said: “I’m the new secretary at the American Legation but I don’t know how to get there. Could you help me?” He looked startled. “You are? I’m Consul General Lionel Summers and this is my wife. We’re here to see our daughter off on her honeymoon. The State Department didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Well, here I am” I said, trying to look bright eyed and bushy tailed. Apparently this man was my new boss.

Mr. and Mrs. Summers bundled me and my luggage into their car and we set off for Benghazi. After driving for about an hour I somehow got the impression they were taking me to my apartment. After we arrived, he parked the car on a side street, and we walked through a door, climbed some inside stairs and entered what appeared to be an apartment building with shops on the first floor.

The apartment was gorgeous with high windows overlooking the Mediterranean. It was full of lovely furniture, beautiful paintings and other elegant appointments. I was overwhelmed and began raving about how beautiful it was. Wouldn’t you know? Shortly before I left D.C., I had seen the movie Three Coins in the Fountain. You may remember it’s about three young women who live in Rome, work at the American Embassy and, in true Hollywood fashion, share a spectacular villa. I was astounded at how much this apartment resembled that villa and I went on and on about this wonderful coincidence.

Mrs. Summers must have realized my confusion as she gently said to me: “My dear, this is our home. You’ll be staying with us a few days until your apartment is ready.” My mistaking the official Legation Residence for my very own apartment was only the first of a string of faux paws I would make over the years. Foot in Mouth disease is not an auspicious beginning for life in the diplomatic service.

I stayed with the Summers for a couple of days while workmen got my apartment ready. It was one of two flats on the second floor over the Legation offices. It too overlooked the Mediterranean but it was considerably simpler than the boss’ place with standard government furniture and very little in the way of art and “appointments.”

My first day at work, the Monday following my arrival, I dressed early and hurried down the stairs to take up my new duties. Envision the layout of the Legation offices: It was an “L” shaped building with its main entrance at the corner of the “L”. A broad staircase wound up from the lower lobby to the second floor. Directly across from the foot of the stairs was the receptionist’s desk and my office was entered from the lobby just in front of the receptionist’s desk. To enter my boss’ office, all visitors had to pass first through my office.

As I excitedly bounced down the stairs that first morning I became acutely aware of a crowd of men squatting around the walls of the lobby. Each wore the Libyan traditional costume of baggy white pants and shirts, sandals, rather worn looking vests, and red “tarboosh” which is a short fez. However, what remains most clearly etched in my mind were the crossed bandoleers over their chests and the ancient rifles slung over their shoulders.

I carefully made my way between their ranks, entered my office and hurriedly closed the door. You would have thought a naked movie star had just walked by from the way they all leered at me. I later found out that women were never seen in public without being totally covered from head to toe in a “baracan,” that long blanket-like garment peculiar to Libyan women.

Shortly thereafter Mr. Summers arrived and with a great fanfare he ushered the men through my office – once again with much leering – and into his office. He shut his door and I could smell cigar smoke as it seeped under the sill. There was much talking – all in Arabic of course, and after about a half an hour the door opened, the men filed past, once again looking me up and down as they departed the building.

Mr. Summers stepped out of his office, stood beside my desk, and with much gravity said: “Miss Moore, those men are Sheiks from the different tribes of the desserts. They have come here today to bid for you.” I nearly fell off my chair. The look of shock on my face must have delighted him as he almost had a heart attack laughing. He was pulling my leg, of course. He was at the end of his tour of duty and would be leaving within the month. While it was true the men were Sheiks or chieftains of the various Bedouin tribes around the city, but they had come to pay their respect to the American Counsel General (and probably get a free cigar) on the occasion of his departure. It just happened to coincide with my first day on the job – a memorable beginning for my first tour of duty in the Foreign Service.

Lionel Summers, like many other career diplomats had an extensive Foreign Service background which went back at least two generations. His mother, who lived with the family, was an elegant, dignified, silver haired, old-world dowager. As a young Russian woman in Moscow she had married an American Foreign Service Officer assigned to the Embassy. When the Russian revolution broke out Mr. Summers’ father remained inside the Embassy to burn the classified records while his mother fled with him in her arms. If I remember correctly, she said she walked across Russia carrying him to safety.

The Summers’ daughter, the one they had been seeing off at the airport the day I arrived, married a junior British diplomat and they were leaving that day for not only their honeymoon but also for their next assignment. While I don’t remember the details of that posting, I heard later that they had been assigned to Shanghai. It’s also not unusually to find the off springs of Foreign Service families marrying diplomats of other nations.

Working in the Legation in Benghazi

My job wasn’t very strenuous – mostly final typing of classified documents. My new boss, Roger Davies who arrived about a month after I did, preferred to draft his own reports on the typewriter. I was responsible for encoding and decoding classified messages. To do that “secret” work I locked myself in the “safe room,” took the code books from the vault and converted the typed words into gibberish using a One-Time Pad. The “safe room” was small and stuffy with one barred window – which could be opened, thank goodness – overlooking the interior courtyard. In the courtyard was a big metal garbage can where I burned the classified materials once I was finished with them. It was a pretty primitive system. I also had the night phone in my apartment and once a week I drove the Jeep to the airport to meet the diplomatic courier and give him the pouch of classified materials.

My houseboy Mohammed cooked and cleaned and did the laundry. I don’t know where he learned how to cook western-style food as he was probably no more than 16 or 17. Since I had never had a servant before, it was a learning experience for both of us. It’s impossible to live in a place like Benghazi without a houseboy especially if, like me, you also work all day. Since there were no supermarkets, shopping took a lot of time as each market stall specialized and it was necessary to go from shop to shop. Also the language barrier was formidable as I spoke neither Arabic nor Italian. Luckily Mohammed spoke some broken English.

One day after a particularly delicious lunch, Mohammed asked to speak about a personal matter. As I recall, loosely translated he said something like: “Madam, I look after you but I do not have anybody to look after me. My family lives in a village near Tripoli but I live here by myself. I want you to help me buy a wife.” He went on to explain that if I gave him a raise, he would save the money and soon he would have enough to buy a wife. I asked him how much a wife would cost and he said about $100. Apparently, he had an uncle in the village who could negotiate for him.

I was quite intrigued with the whole idea and said I would help on one condition; that he keep me informed on how the negotiations were going and introduce me to his wife after the marriage. And so I began to learn about Bedouin weddings and what constitutes the bride price in Libya. Mohammed said he would need money for some goats for the girl’s father, money for candy for the children of the family, and, of course, “Milk Money.” When I asked about that item he said it was for milk the girl’s mother had given her when she was a baby. He also mentioned he would need to rent a camel to ride to the girl’s village on the day of the wedding, when he would “capture” the bride and take her back to his own family's tent.

Later I found out that there were other customs not quite so benign. For instance, to prove the girl was a virgin, the groom's mother or aunt would go into the bride’s tent before the marriage was consummated and deflower the bride with her fingers. She would then present the bloody rag to the waiting wedding guests to prove the girl’s virginity. I’m glad I didn’t know about that part at the time we negotiated the price.

Several months later Mohammed introduced me to his bride. When she uncovered her face I could see she was just a little girl of about 13 or 14. She was very shy and quite pretty but I was stunned at how young she was. However, I also knew by then that she was well within the age range for Bedouin brides. Mohammed’s younger brother, a boy of about 5, also lived with them. I arranged for my mother to send clothes that my younger brother had outgrown to share with the young family.

Meeting the King and Queen

Ambassador Tappan’s wife wanted to meet Queen Fatima so she and the wife of the Wheelus AF Base Commander Rollen Anthis prevailed on their husbands to arrange for a flight to Tobruk. In 1955 a round-trip, prop plane trip was not possible in one day so it was necessary to overnight in Benghazi. Sally, wife of my boss Roger Davies, had also been invited to go along on the trip so she planned a dinner party that first night.

Sally invited me to the dinner too. In fact both Sally and Roger treated me more like a younger sister than just Roger’s secretary. After dinner I blurted out how much fun I thought it was going to be to meet the Queen. Without a second thought the Ambassador’s wife invited me to join them. I was delighted. I’m sure had there been more than one secretary at the Legation, I would never have been asked.

After a 7am take off, we flew east for several hours practicing our curtseys in the aisle of the airplane. Since none of us had ever met a Queen before, we were unsure of the proper protocol. Air Force planes are not very fancy having bucket seats along the sides and since we had to wear parachutes during the entire flight, we were also concerned about wrinkling our dresses. After landing at the El Adem Royal Air Force airdrome (i.e. dirt airstrip), we were met by an ancient Rolls Royce. With its torn upholstery, blistered paint, and balding tires it appeared to be on its last legs. Nevertheless, I was impressed having never ridden in a Rolls before.

In the distance we could see a small two story building perched above the emerald-green harbor that overlooked the dusty village of Tobruk. What we first thought was a hotel turned out to be the King’s Palace! As we pulled up to the front door we were met by a young woman and several male servants all outfitted in identical long white cotton robes, red cummerbunds and red “tarbooshs.” Being Sudanese, the very black skin of these men – complete with tribal scarification along their cheeks and chins – made them pretty scary looking.

After being shown into the Queen’s sitting room by her Lebanese Secretary, the woman who had met us at the front door, we were welcomed by Queen Fatima. About 40, she was quite attractive with dark hair, olive skin and black eyes. She was dressed in a black, western-style dress and seemed at ease and gracious. While she could speak some English, she preferred to use an interpreter as she was very shy and afraid of making errors. The Secretary spoke excellent English.

After our careful curtsies, we soon began chatting away. Although I don’t remember what we talked about, on such occasions, it’s best to stick to safe topics like “the weather.” The Queen asked if we wanted to wash up before lunch. Because it had been such a long, hot trip, we eagerly said “Yes!” In her bathroom, I was amazed to see the King’s “PJs” and robe hanging on the back of the door beside her night gown – just like in anybody’s bathroom. I don’t know what I expected but it was kind of disconcerting to see their toothbrushes on the wash stand.

As we walked back through her bedroom I noticed her dressing table was covered with beautiful bottles of cologne and perfume. In keeping with an old Arab custom to perfume the guests’ hands before a meal, the Queen offered each of us a drop of Cabochard by Gres perfume. Years later when I lived in Paris I bought some because I remembered how much I had liked that spicy aroma when I was first introduced to it in her bedroom.

While I don’t recall what we had for lunch but I do remember lots of silverware, many changes of plates, and those scary Sudanese servants passing the serving dishes. I also remember vividly that after lunch, when we were back in her sitting room, the chatting was interrupted by a servant who announced that the King would like to meet the visitors. This was very unusual as men and women do not mix in Libyan society. Shortly thereafter he entered and we were each introduced. Once again we got a chance to practice our curtsies.

Like his picture, he did indeed appeared elderly and frail. As I did mention before, the great tragedy of Queen Fatima's life was that she had not been able to produce an heir. In fact, this is what had brought her to the attention of the Ambassador's wife. As I recall, the Air Force had flown the Queen to Europe several times to visit various fertility clinics all to no avail.