Serenade for Nadia

by Zülfü Livaneli

  “I can’t worry about what happened before I was born. And what happened before the Republic is certainly not my problem. I’m a Turk and my duty is to defend this country.”

  “No offense, Necdet, but I’d rather you were the kind Turk who rescued our ancestors than the kind of Turk you are.”

  “Is that how you thank me?”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, Necdet. It’s better if we just never talk about this again. Thank you very much for everything you’ve done.”

  He looked at me anxiously to see whether I was making fun of him or not.

  I put out my hand and touched his arm. I felt like drawing close to him. But the uniformed arm remained impassive.

  “Necdet,” I said. “I can’t repay you for what you’ve done for me and Kerem. I thank you with all my heart. Please give my greetings to Oya and to the children.”

  He paused for a moment as if he didn’t know what to do. He was upset that I’d reminded him about the tainted blood remark.

  “If only you knew,” he muttered between tight lips.

  “What are you talking about, Necdet?” I said.

  “You don’t know anything. You follow the latest trend without thinking.”

  “Who, Kerem or me?”

  “No, you and your friends.”

  “Which friends?”

  “Your ‘intellectual’ friends.”

  “Necdet, I don’t understand what you mean, who are these friends and what don’t we know?”

  He spoke with the weary expression on his face of people who are continually explaining the same thing.

  “You go on and on about the Armenian question without realizing whose game you’re playing.”

  “Necdet, I’m just talking about my grandmother.”

  “Well, why don’t you talk about your maternal grandmother?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “It’s got everything to do with it, but it doesn’t suit you.”

  At that I lost my patience.

  “Necdet, please, stop talking in riddles! What happened to my grandmother, what don’t I know? Come on, tell me what happened? Why are you so angry?”

  The vein in his temple was throbbing and his jaw was clenched.

  “All right then, come back in and sit down,” he said. He took my shoulders, propelled me toward the chair I’d just left, and sat me firmly down. Then he sat and leaned back in his chair.

  “The thing that you don’t know,” he said, “Is this country’s recent history, what happened in the past, what happened to us…”

  “Then tell me, I’m all ears!”

  “People are always talking about the Armenians as if they’re the only ones who suffered in this country, as if they’re the only ones who were killed.”

  “I’m only talking about grandma. I don’t have anything to do with any trend…”

  I shut up when I saw the impatient expression cross his face. After all there wouldn’t be any point in what I was going to say.

  “Why do you ignore the suffering of the Balkan Turks, the Anatolian Turks, the millions of people who died or were driven from their homes? When the Western powers were breaking up the Ottoman Empire, everyone in this country suffered. Armenians, Greeks, Jews, I agree, but no one talks about the five million Ottoman Muslims who also died. Isn’t that unjust?”

  “All right, I hear what you’re saying,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t remember my grandmother.”

  “But it prevents you from remembering your maternal grandmother!”

  “Why should it?” I said. “And besides, what happened to my maternal grandmother?”

  We hadn’t had the chance to see very much of my grandmother Ayşe because she lived quite far away, in Antakya. We saw her only once every couple of years during our summer vacation. I remember her as a warmhearted woman who didn’t speak much and had an air of sadness about her. My grandfather Ali was like that too. They were like kind and generous strangers who treated us very well. I remember that she had very fair skin and a broad, almost Asiatic face, and that he was a taciturn man with a dark complexion and sunken cheeks who smoked one cigarette after another.

  Their house was only a few miles from the Syrian border; it was always much hotter there than it was in Istanbul, and the food my grandmother made was much too spicy for me. Except for one dish called oruk, which was made from cracked wheat and ground beef. It was delicious, and it was one of the few things she made that I could eat, so she made it for me all the time. The garden was full of pomegranate trees, and my grandmother used to squeeze pomegranate juice for us. I remember one day my grandfather picked a pomegranate that weighed almost a kilo, and maybe I remember it because it was one of the few times I ever saw him express pure joy. When we left, our car would be loaded down with jams and pepper paste and pomegranate juice, and jars of very hot red pepper.

  “Or was our mother’s mother Armenian too?” I asked.

  “No,” said my brother. “She was a Crimean Turk. And our grandfather was, as you know, from Antakya.”

  “Well, what is their story?”

  “I’ll tell you,” he said. I never thought that what he was about to tell me would shock me so much. As I listened to my brother I realized once again that I’d never really known the people I thought I knew. What a strange country this was, every household had a secret, a story.

  My grandmother had been born and raised in the Crimea, and was an adolescent at the outbreak of World War II. The Crimean Turks were one of a number of groups that had been severely oppressed by Stalin. Thousands of them were killed during the collectivization, the intellectuals were all arrested and executed, and thousands died of starvation when their food was confiscated. By the time the war started, half of their population had either died or been deported to Central Asia. So when the Germans invaded Russia the Turkish government persuaded them to fight on the German side. Even though Turkey was neutral, the government was terrified Russia would invade and did what they could to support the Germans against them. So they helped organize the Crimean Turks into what was called the Tatar Legions that fought under German command. Many of them had actually been conscripted into the Red Army and had been captured by the Germans. They were in prison camps and really had no choice but to do what the Germans told them. But when the tide turned and the Germans began to retreat they had no choice but to flee their homeland with their families. The Soviet NKVD sent special units to arrest and execute any Crimean Turks who were suspected of collaborating. Entire villages were being rounded up and sent to Siberia. So they left with the German army and were settled in northern Italy.

  “So our grandmother was with them?”

  “Of course, I’m telling you her story. When she was a young girl she and her family fled with thousands of Crimean Turks in fear that they would be massacred as soon as the Red Army arrived.

  “When the Allied forces entered Italy they had to move again, and were settled in the region of Ober Drauburg near the River Drava in Austria. But their troubles didn’t end there. When the British army entered Austria they were taken prisoner and this time transported to the Dellach camp. They thought that as British prisoners they’d be safe and that they might be allowed to go to Turkey and start new lives there, but unfortunately it didn’t work out that way.

  “In 1945 the camp commander received orders from London that all the inmates were to be sent to the Soviet Union. The British were going to hand them over even though they knew it meant they would be shot. The Crimean Turks pleaded and begged, but to no avail. Then, when they realized that there was no escape, that there was nothing they could do, three thousand of them decided to commit suicide rather than be sent back. They all jumped into the icy river, the women first, holding their children by the hand, and then the men. The remaining four thousand were loaded into cattle cars, the doors we
re nailed shut and the train was sent on its way.”

  “You mean, our grandmother was among them.”

  “Yes, in the train with her mother and father. Several of her relatives had died after jumping into the river. But they had reason to hope. They’d heard that because all the rail lines and rail bridges into Eastern Europe had been destroyed, they were going to be sent through the Balkans to Turkey, and then through Turkey to the Soviet Union. Conditions on the train were inhuman; there was no ventilation and little to eat or drink. It took days to reach Turkey, but as they neared the border their spirits rose. They were sure that the Turkish government would take pity on them. That they’d let them free, or turn a blind eye and let them escape. After all, the Turkish government had encouraged them to fight the Red Army. But no, the Turkish soldiers assigned to guard the train wouldn’t even allow them to open the doors to get some air.

  “Over the next few days, conditions on the train deteriorated and people were starting to die. They begged the soldiers to help them, to at least let the most ill go free. The soldiers were sympathetic but they were under strict orders and there was nothing they could do.

  “Our grandmother didn’t give up on trying to convince the soldiers to help them. She focused on one soldier named Ali who seemed to be the most sympathetic.”

  “Would that soldier be our grandfather Ali?”

  “Let me tell the story. As they neared the Soviet border they began begging the soldiers to at least shoot them rather than let them be shot by the Russians. Then, one winter morning, they reached the border crossing next to the Kızılçakçak reservoir. The Turkish soldiers got off, and the train began moving across to the Soviet side, where Russian soldiers stood waiting. At the last moment, the people in one of the carriages managed to break open the door, escape, and jump into the reservoir. The Soviet soldiers stopped the train as soon as it was on their territory, opened the doors, herded everyone out, and then lined them up and shot them right then and there, within sight of the Turkish soldiers who’d been guarding them. As for the people who jumped into the lake, they all drowned. And that was the end of the Tatar Legions and their families.”

  “But what about our grandmother?”

  “Well, this is the interesting part. Our grandmother was one of the people who jumped into the lake, but a soldier dove in after her and rescued her.”

  “You mean our grandfather!”

  “Yes. Ali from Antakya. He rescued a young girl, brought her to Antakya and married her, taking out a false identity card for her in the name of Ayşe.”

  “Why a false one?”

  “Because if the government had found any survivors they would have sent them to the Soviet Union.”

  “Necdet, is this all really true?”

  “Yes, unfortunately every word of it is true.”

  “And what happened to her mother and father?”

  “They were shot at the border.”

  “That means both of our grandmothers concealed their true identities. So many secrets in one family. It’s hard to believe.”

  “That’s exactly the point. Just about every family in Turkey has secrets like these. A lot of people aren’t even aware of their family secrets. When the Empire collapsed people fled here from the Balkans, the Caucasus, North Africa, and the Middle East, and there were also soldiers fighting on nine different fronts. It was inevitable that millions of families would be affected.”

  “Well, but we call them all Turks.”

  “We don’t use the term solely in reference to the Turks from Central Asia, we also use it for all the people who fled here because nowhere else was safe. It refers to all the people who came together to build a new nation and a new life.”

  “But don’t you think that the Crimean Turks were betrayed by our government. Just as the Armenians were betrayed?”

  “Well, yes, but I’m a soldier, it’s my duty to serve and protect the state, not to question it. Both the Crimean Turks and the Armenians made the mistake of siding with an invading army, and they paid the consequences for that.”

  “But what about the women and children?”

  “Maya…”

  “Yes, you’re right, there’s no point in us arguing about this.”

  As the young officer waiting at the door took me back to the main gate I was still reeling from what I’d heard, but I was thinking more about the file I’d seen on my brother’s desk. It was a yellow, official file, marked TOP SECRET, with MAXIMILIAN WAGNER written underneath.

  CHAPTER 8

  I got a taxi right away, but even though the traffic wasn’t at its worst, it took me an hour to get to the hospital. The sky was overcast and threatening more rain or sleet or snow, and as we drove along to the sounds of arabesque music from the driver’s radio, I kept worrying about what kind of reception I was going to face when I got to the university. How much had the gossip been exaggerated and twisted as it passed from person to person, and how many people had heard by now? I was also still digesting the story I’d heard about my mother’s mother, and wondering what it was about Wagner that had everyone so worked up.

  The hospital was, as always, very crowded. Throngs of worried, desperate relatives, sick children, frail old men and women, victims of accidents and fights, people in pain waiting hours to be treated. Everyone looked poor and desperate and unhealthy. That is, it wasn’t only the patients who looked unhealthy, but the friends and relatives who’d brought them as well. These were the people who been forgotten, betrayed and left behind by the system. Anyone who could afford private insurance went to one of the sparkling fancy new hospitals that had sprung up in recent years. It was only the poorest who had to come to crowded, grimy, dilapidated public hospitals like this. The doctors and the staff were dedicated and talented and did the best they could, but they were fighting a losing battle with ever-diminishing resources and an ever-increasing patient load. The paint was peeling and there were patches of damp on the walls and ceilings. The equipment was antiquated and supplies and medications were in short supply. And it didn’t look nearly as clean as a hospital should.

  These, I thought as I looked around, were the people the politicians claimed to care about and represent whenever there was an election. But as soon as the politicians came to power they immediately went about filling their own pockets and enriching their friends. Even the so-called religious parties were no different. They’d spend a fortune to repave roads in wealthy neighborhoods, but the hospital wouldn’t even get a new coat of paint.

  I took the elevator up to the third floor and told the nurse behind the desk that I was there to see Filiz. She paged Filiz, who, within a few minutes, came clicking down the hallway in her high heels. She kissed me on both cheeks then brought me to her office and offered me tea.

  “So,” I asked, “How is he today?”

  “He’s doing quite well. He was able to eat breakfast this morning. His respiration, pulse and blood pressure are back to normal, but he still has a bit of a fever. We’re still waiting for the results of his chest x-rays.”

  “Good, I’m very glad to hear that.”

  And indeed I was genuinely glad. I’d grown fond of the man.

  “He’s been asking for you all morning,” said Filiz with a mischievous smile, “He’s very anxious to see you. How did you bewitch the man in such a short time? If he were a little younger, I’d say…”

  “For God’s sake Filiz, don’t talk nonsense,” I said. “Can I see him?”

  “But you haven’t finished your tea…”

  “I don’t want any more.”

  As we walked down the corridor she tried to get me to tell her more about Wagner. I just told her that he was the rector’s guest and that I’d been assigned to show him around. She gave me a look that said she thought I was being evasive. I insisted that this was all I knew, and in fact that was the truth. Well, not quite. I did know a bi
t more than that, and perhaps I was being evasive, but I really didn’t know why.

  As we made our way down the corridor, I was struck by Filiz’s confidence. Even the way she walked exuded self-assurance and control. We’d been friends for years, but I usually met her in different settings where she was just an ordinary person. But here, where everyone was feeling anxious and out of place, she was part of a small elite. She was one of the people with answers, one of the people whose knowledge was sought, one of the people who could give orders that would be obeyed immediately.

  He was in a small, dingy room with three other men. He was in the bed nearest the window, in a hospital gown with a drip attached to his arm. He looked pale and his hair was tousled, but his face lit up when he saw me.

  “Ah, it’s you. I was worried I’d never see you again.”

  I smiled.

  “Why, professor?”

  “I thought you might be angry with me after all that trouble I caused you yesterday.”

  “No, professor, I wasn’t angry, but I was a bit annoyed because I didn’t understand what was going on.”

  Filiz left and I pulled a chair up next to the bed.

  “How are you feeling, professor?”

  He smiled but his voice was a bit weak.

  “Fine, not bad. I slept through the night.”

  “You slept through the day too.”

  He continued sheepishly. “Yes, I vaguely remember. In that motel room, wasn’t it? When I woke up I was half naked.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I ask you if it was you who had undressed me?”

  “You asked me and I said yes I had.”

  “I apologize.”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for, professor. If I’d left you in that state you would have died.”

  “Most probably…You saved my life.”

  After that there was silence. The room was filled with that awkward silence between two people who don’t know what to say to each other. I realized that we were avoiding each other’s eyes. Whenever our eyes met, one of us looked away.