Without a Country

by Kulin, Ayse

  “The German government is sending an official to the university to investigate all of the émigrés.”

  “Investigate? Investigate what, exactly?”

  “Arthur was about to tell me when you came in. Either he doesn’t want to worry Dagmar or he thinks it’s too sensitive to discuss openly.”

  “All I ask is that we don’t have to move again.”

  “Elsa, please don’t invent something new to worry over.”

  Elsa bit her tongue. She gazed out the window and left Gerhard alone with his thoughts. In Beşiktaş, they got off the tram and hailed a cab to take them the rest of the way home.

  After they had thanked Madame for waiting up, and softly closed the door behind her, Gerhard turned to Elsa and said, “We won’t be going anywhere, darling. Not for a long time. Our children are going to grow up here, in Turkey.”

  “Thank you, Gerhard. I don’t want to nag. I just hate not being treated as an equal.”

  “If Arthur tells me anything more about this spying business, I promise to pass it all on to you, word for word,” Gerhard said.

  A week later, the chancellor’s office distributed questionnaires in German to all the émigré professors. The German consulate, which had sent the forms, demanded that they be completed in full. Professors were expected to provide their full names, their religions and lineage, and the religions and lineages of their parents, spouses, and in-laws. They were asked to list the regions, cities, and universities in Germany where they had lived and worked; their academic titles and degrees; their areas of expertise and fieldwork; and finally and most importantly, the professors were required to classify themselves as “Aryan” or “non-Aryan.”

  As soon as Gerhard finished reading the form, he went straight to the chancellor’s office.

  “What is the purpose of these questionnaires?” he asked.

  “The university is not responsible for them. The German government is having a report prepared on German professors working abroad. The consulate asked us to distribute the forms, and we have complied. You can decide for yourselves whether or not to fill them out.”

  “Something is rotten about this. I bet what they really want is to replace us with their own, hand-picked fascist professors.”

  “Their wishes are not ours, Professor. We signed five-year contracts, and we will honor them. If both sides are satisfied, the contracts will be extended. As far as we are concerned, these forms change nothing.”

  Gerhard believed the chancellor, but he knew the German regime would stop at nothing, and that included sowing poisonous seeds of Nazi ideology in the minds of Turkish youth.

  Ankara, Ankara . . . Cure for All Ills

  Elsa had just completed the final stitch of the sweater she was knitting for Susy when Madame Saryan came upstairs and informed her that she had a phone call. Gerhard never called her on Madame’s phone. Feeling a little anxious, she ran down with Susy in her arms and snatched up the mouthpiece dangling from a long cord. It was Peter’s school. They wanted her to come immediately and pick up her son, who had vomited in the classroom.

  Elsa found herself in a quandary. It was Fatma’s day off, so she couldn’t leave Susy at home. And just two days earlier, while she and Madame were chatting in the kitchen, Susy had found a tube of Madame’s lipstick and drawn on her sitting room wall. How could she ask her neighbor to look after Susy so soon after that? Elsa took a deep breath, smiled, and looked at Madame guiltily.

  “Okay, okay. She can stay,” Madame said.

  “Wanna go with you, Mama,” Susy said.

  “You can’t come with me, dear. I have to get your brother and take him to the doctor. Stay here with Madame and wait for us. And be a good girl.”

  “No. Wanna go with you.”

  “Do you want the doctor to poke you with a needle, too?”

  “Enough, Susy. You’re staying here with me,” Madame said in Turkish.

  “No!” Susy said in perfect Turkish. “I don’t like you now, Madame.”

  “Why not?”

  “You won’t let me wear makeup.”

  “Today I’ll let you. But only for today.”

  “Lips and fingernails?”

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you so much, Madame,” Elsa said. “You’re so kind to us.”

  “Off you go! Your son needs you.”

  Elsa dashed upstairs, changed her clothes, grabbed her handbag, and ran down to the street. She climbed the hill to the main avenue and, when there were no cabs in sight, walked the rest of the way. She would take Peter to the university clinic. Her husband would know what to do. What if her son had typhoid? Gerhard had been talking at dinner about a recent outbreak. He’d told them not to drink any water without boiling it first. Could Fatma have given Peter unboiled water when she wasn’t looking? No, Peter had probably eaten unwashed fruit from a street vendor.

  She arrived at the school out of breath and in a mild panic. Poor Peter had been quarantined in a room all alone. When he saw Elsa, he jumped up and flung his arms around her. He was a bit pale and smelled of vomit, but he looked well enough.

  “We’re going to hop into a cab and go and see your father. We need to have some tests done.”

  “Is it typhoid?”

  “We’ll know after the tests.”

  “Mom, will I die if it’s typhoid?”

  “Of course not! Peter, how could you even say such a thing?”

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying.”

  “Your eyes are wet.”

  “I must have a bit of dust in my eye.”

  Elsa took Peter’s hand and led him to the principal’s office, where she called the university and asked to speak to her husband. Only when she insisted that it was an emergency did they agree to get him for her.

  “Bring Peter straight here,” Gerhard said. “It doesn’t matter if he vomited on his school blazer. I’ll be waiting in my office.”

  “Frau Schliemann, Peter won’t be allowed to attend class again unless you bring a report confirming he doesn’t have typhoid,” the principal called out as they were leaving his office.

  During the cab ride, Peter felt nauseous, and they had to pull over twice. Although he heaved on the side of the street, nothing came up. The driver clucked under his breath, but at least he didn’t throw them out of his cab, as Elsa had feared.

  Gerhard was waiting at the main entrance of the university. “Go to my office and have a seat,” he said to Elsa. “I’ll bring Peter there when the tests are done.”

  Sitting at Gerhard’s desk, Elsa listened to the tick-tock of the clock, which was telling her she’d been waiting for a mere twenty minutes. Gradually, the question drumming in her mind drowned out the clock and even the beat of her own heart: What would she do if Peter had typhoid?

  She reached over and picked up the phone.

  “Yes?” a woman’s voice said.

  She gave the operator Madame’s phone number.

  “Hello?”

  “Madame, it’s me, Elsa. You are good?” she asked in halting Turkish.

  “I should be asking you that. Is everything okay?”

  “They are doing tests. If Peter has typhoid, what will I do?”

  “You’ll take care of him until he’s better. He might not even have typhoid.”

  “Is Susy upsetting you?”

  “I’m managing. Don’t worry about us.”

  “Madame, how can I repay you?”

  “With a tube of lipstick and a bottle of nail polish,” Madame said.

  When Gerhard’s assistant, Necmi, stepped into the room, Elsa ended the call.

  “Hello, Mrs. Schliemann,” Necmi said. “There’s only one test left. We’re waiting for a fecal specimen.”

  “A what?”

  “You know—a stool sample.”

  “A stool?”

  “Forgive my language, Mrs. Schliemann. They need your son to shit.”

  “Ah, I see. Mr. Necmi, what will happen
if Peter has typhoid?”

  “He’ll be put on a liquid diet for a while to protect his intestines. He’ll lose some weight, but he’ll recover over time. You’ll need to separate his dishes and utensils from the rest of the family’s. Oh, and disinfect your house every day.”

  “Could he die?” Elsa’s voice was trembling.

  “Die? No! Professors and their families don’t die from typhoid. That only happens to patients whose families are too ignorant to know how to care for them. Elsa Hanım, are you crying? Believe me, there’s nothing to worry about. And I have some good news to take your mind off this. Atatürk’s just invited Carl Erbert, the famous director, to come to Turkey and open a theater department. It won’t be long before you Germans outnumber us Turks.”

  “But Peter’s typhoid—”

  “Your son hasn’t even been diagnosed with typhoid. There’s no need to be so worried. What about the Olympics this summer? Are you going to go to Berlin?”

  “The Olympics? Mr. Necmi, if my family went to Germany, they’d—”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot. Please forgive me.”

  Elsa was rescued from the well-meaning assistant by Gerhard and Peter.

  “Is it typhoid?” she cried.

  “I doubt it,” her husband said. “But we’ll have to wait until tomorrow for the analysis of the stool sample. The blood test results will be ready in about an hour.”

  “If it’s not typhoid, what is it?”

  “Your son has confessed to getting macun—you know, that Turkish toffee on a stick—from the street vendor in front of his school. Even worse, on a dare from his friends, he ate five of them. To act like such an idiot at his age . . . I wonder who the boy takes after?”

  “You’ve always been the genius in the family, so I suppose you must mean me,” Elsa said.

  Gerhard gaped at his wife. When had she become so sensitive? Had he been neglecting her? It’s true that he and the other émigrés worked long hours. But they were dedicated scientists determined to give back to their host country. He didn’t think he deserved to be snapped at.

  The blood test was negative, but they still needed the stool sample results for confirmation. Peter stretched out his legs and slumped in his chair. Elsa rested her hand on his forehead. At least he didn’t have a fever.

  “Why don’t you go home now?” Gerhard said. “Peter can spend the night at the hospital here. He’ll be well taken care of. It’s probably a good idea to keep him and Susy apart right now, anyway.”

  “I’m not leaving him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. What about Susy?”

  “Madame can look after her.”

  “Elsa, please be reasonable. I’ll stay here with Peter. You don’t even have a change of clothes with you. And there are no extra beds or private toilets in the patients’ rooms, either. Please.”

  “I’m his mother!”

  “And I’m his father—or at least I assume I am.”

  Elsa glared at him. He went to her and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll bring Peter home tomorrow as soon as we know the results. If it is typhoid, though, we’ll have to take precautions. I might even suggest that you take Susy to the von Hippels’ for a few days. I’m sure she won’t mind. Nothing would make her happier than playing with their little Arnt all day.”

  “Arnt’s so much younger than she is.”

  “Yes, but they play so nicely.”

  Elsa finally relented. She knew she shouldn’t inconvenience Madame for much longer, and she wondered how Susy was doing. Gerhard promised to call the second the test results came back. Before she left, she softly kissed Peter, who’d fallen asleep, on the forehead.

  When she rang Madame’s doorbell, it was nearly six o’clock. The door swung open, and Elsa took a step back in horror. Beaming at her in delight was Susy, dressed in a velvet turban and skirt that, even pulled up to her neck, still trailed across the floor. Her eyelids were painted green, her eyebrows penciled black, her lips and nails a vivid red. Elsa groaned at the thought of how long it would take to restore her daughter’s face to its cherubic innocence. She thanked Madame, and together they stripped the protesting Susy of her turban and skirt. By roughly tugging the girl’s arm every few steps, Elsa was able to get her home and seated at the dressing table. Nearly half an hour and a quarter tub of Pertev Cream later, her work was done. Elsa decided to send Susy to bed a little early.

  “But I’m not tired, Mutti.”

  “I don’t care. It’s your bedtime.”

  Susy dragged a chair over to the dresser, climbed up, got the Art Deco clock, and carried it over to her mother in both hands. “Look, Mutti! When the long needle is here and the short needle is here, it’s bedtime.”

  When had her little girl learned to tell the time? She was only three years old!

  Gerhard was sitting on a hard chair next to Peter’s bed, thinking over what his wife had said. Something about him being the family genius, which would make her the idiot. And recently she’d said something about wanting to be treated as an equal. What had he done or failed to do? He thought himself a considerate man, but if he’d somehow hurt the feelings of his own wife, perhaps he was doing something wrong?

  Maybe Elsa wasn’t happy in Istanbul. She never complained, but, truth be told, he realized now that he hadn’t made any serious efforts to discover her true feelings. He’d been focused on his success at the hospital and the medical school to the exclusion of all else, even his family. He, too, was a stranger in this country, and he was determined to earn the respect and appreciation he had once known in Germany. His patients, their families, and his students—with a few rare exceptions—were not the problem. It was the chancellor and the deans.

  Together with Professors Nissen, Liepmann, and Igersheimer, Gerhard had been working miracles at the hospital. Thousands of patients passed through their clinics every day. Most were too poor to pay, but wealthier Turks, too, had stopped seeking treatment abroad and instead came from across Turkey to be cared for by the German doctors everyone was talking about.

  Their fame had long since spread beyond the walls of the university. When Professor Nissen gave a public lecture, the hall filled with doctors from Istanbul’s private hospitals, as well as academics and thousands of students from outside of the medical field.

  And along with doctors, hundreds of women had attended a similar lecture given by Professor Liepmann, the chair of gynecology.

  Professor Igersheimer had received a standing ovation when he told his students, “If you continue to study this diligently, you will make some major discoveries within a few years. In the field of medicine, the sun will rise once again in the East.”

  But even as the professor spoke, a Turkish doctor had leaned over and whispered into Gerhard’s ear: “We’re kidding ourselves. The Turks could never produce an Einstein.”

  At the time, Gerhard was outraged. But now, as he looked around his son’s hospital room, at the peeling, shabby walls and the rusty bed frame with its sagging mattress, he had to admit he knew what the doctor meant.

  The deficiencies at the clinics and laboratories still hadn’t been addressed. The administrators resisted appeals for things as basic as a fresh coat of paint. On the other hand, Gerhard knew that Turkey was still feeling the effects of the 1929–1933 financial crisis. Foreign trade had fallen and tax revenues were down. Resources were scarce. Even so, Turkey was a proud and unbowed country, and Gerhard was glad to have come here. He had to admit to himself, though, that his work was beginning to wear him down.

  The test results arrived in the morning. Peter didn’t have typhoid. Instead of rejoicing, Gerhard started worrying. What was wrong with his son, then? Too many sweets could cause nausea, but the severe stomach cramps and uncontrolled vomiting suggested something more serious. He went into Peter’s room and looked at his son, who was still asleep. Against the white sheets, the poor boy looked as fragile as a slender, dry branch. Gerhard
didn’t have the heart to wake him up. He walked to the head surgeon’s office instead. Before he called Elsa, he wanted to consult with Eckstein, a pediatrician based in Ankara.

  It was Gerhard who, at that meeting in Ankara nearly three years earlier, had recommended Albert Eckstein as head of the pediatric department in the teaching hospital then being built in the capital city. Eckstein had accepted immediately and had since become something of a legend. In addition to reorganizing the pediatrician clinic, Eckstein had personally treated the children and grandchildren of everyone from Ambassador von Papen to civil servants of all levels and wealthy provincial landholders. He and his wife, a fellow doctor, had traveled to the remotest villages of west and central Anatolia to conduct a demographic and statistical survey of childhood disease.

  When Gerhard was put through to Eckstein’s office in a mere fifteen minutes, he couldn’t help wondering if his friend was also responsible for the health of the switchboard operators’ children. Having successfully made an appointment for Peter, Gerhard asked the chief surgeon’s secretary to reserve a sleeping car on the train to Ankara.

  Rubbing his hands together, he smiled. A trip to Ankara would be good for the whole family. And he would be able to spend time with Elsa.

  Turk! Be Proud, Work Hard, Trust . . . and Scheme

  At eight o’clock in the morning, the Schliemanns got off the train and into a cab that took them straight to Eckstein’s consultancy. After a thorough examination, Eckstein concluded that Peter had suffered a particularly ugly bout of food poisoning, probably compounded by some kind of food-related allergy or intolerance. Gerhard blamed the dyes in the Turkish taffy, but he and Elsa agreed to write down everything Peter ate and note any reactions to certain foods over the coming weeks.

  Eckstein’s assurances had lifted everyone’s spirits, and there was nothing to stop the family from enjoying the sights of Ankara for the rest of the day. Their first stop was the manmade lake in Youth Park, where they rowed in circles in a pair of rented boats. Next, they strolled toward the main square, Kızılay. Gerhard was stunned by the progress that had been made in just a short time. The saplings were taller than him now, and the sycamores were high enough to cast a shadow. Not a single vacant lot remained on the main boulevard. Reaching the square, they sat down on one of the benches encircling the ornamental fountain and sampled the famous mineral water sold at a nearby stand. Spotting a monumental granite wall across the street, they ambled over for a closer look at the freestanding figures in the front and at the bas-relief of Atatürk flanked by four naked youths on the back. The children clambered up onto the pedestal, which was emblazoned with the words: “Turk, be proud, work hard, and trust.”