by Kulin, Ayse
“But didn’t you say we’re German?”
Gerhard took a deep breath. Nationality, ethnicity, culture, religion . . . how to explain the complexity of identity to a six-year-old? The next question came while he was still thinking.
“Did Hitler get mad at us for not fasting on Yom Kippur?”
Gerhard went over, picked up Suzi, and sat back down with his daughter on his lap. “Suzi, most kids your age might not understand the answers to these questions,” he said, “but you’re not just any kid, and I’ll do my best to explain. What does it mean to be a German, a Turk, a Jew, a Christian, a Muslim? Who is Hitler, and what is he doing? Listen carefully and ask questions. But if it’s too much, tell me, and I’ll stop.”
It was way past Suzi’s bedtime when she slid off her father’s knee. Things were starting to make sense. But as she was leaving the room, she turned and asked her father one last question.
“Dad, can I choose my nationality and my religion?”
“Yes, but there’s no hurry.”
“Should I wait until I’m eighteen?”
“I’d wait until your twenties, at least. Do you already have an idea?”
“Yes. But I need to think about it some more.”
“That’s good. Anything else?”
“Yes. Send Hanna away! I can look after things until Mutti comes home.”
“You’ll need to grow up a bit more first,” Gerhard said. When Suzi was gone, he puzzled over her antipathy toward Hanna. The woman never mistreated her. And if anyone did dare to hit headstrong Suzi, they would get as good as they gave.
For Suzi, it seemed as though her mother would never come home. She missed Mutti terribly. Although her father was around in the evenings, he was always in a bad mood. Peter was in love with Hanna, which was gross and meant he no longer played with her or helped her with her homework. Plus, Madame was away on the island of Kınalıada, nursing a cousin who’d had surgery. There was nobody to take Suzi to visit her German friends in Bebek. Fatma used to cheer her up, but now, because of horrible Hanna, Fatma left as soon as her work was done. Suzi’s only friend in the world was Demir. She would always have dinner with him and his family when her father was out. One time, after an outbreak of lice at Demir’s school, he turned up with a completely bald head. He looked so funny that Suzi had laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks. But when he held out a matchbox full of lice eggs he’d collected, Suzi thought he was the handsomest boy in the world.
“You’re sure my dad will get rid of her?” she asked.
“Even if he doesn’t, he’ll make her cut all her hair off.”
“She’ll be really ugly then. Do you think I should put the eggs in her hair while she’s sleeping?”
“Nah, what if she wakes up and catches you? Come up behind her when she’s sitting in the kitchen and act like you’re stroking her hair.”
“No way!”
“Well, then, act like you’re pulling her hair.”
“Okay! And I’ll put some eggs on her hairbrush, too.”
That’s how Demir went from being Suzi’s playmate to her partner in crime. They grew so close that when Elsa finally did come home and tried to keep them from seeing quite so much of each other, Suzi lit a candle at Madame’s church and prayed for her mother to go away on another trip.
Hanna
When Hanna settled into the Schliemann home for the second time, she found it was a far more agreeable place than before. The family had recently gotten a telephone. With the man of the house at work and the children away at school, Hanna was free to sit for hours on end, chatting with her friends, chiefly Siranus, the salesclerk in her husband’s shop. Siranus was one of her two spies in enemy territory. The other was Rebeka, the sister-in-law who shared Hanna’s hatred for their mother-in-law.
On this particular morning, Hanna had learned from her first call that Moiz, who was still legally her husband, hadn’t yet found another woman. Siranus swore up and down that if he had, she would know about it. Hanna, however, had her doubts. After all, Moiz was a good-looking, charming man, and his drapery shop was swarming with women all day long.
Her second call was to Rebeka, who told her that the Benhayim family planned to use Hanna’s infertility as their legal grounds for divorce. Hanna nearly screamed. Why was she still being blamed? She was the one who had visited specialists, midwives, and traditional healers. Everything was normal. It was obviously her husband’s fault, not hers. There were new tests just for men—that’s what the doctor had said. If Moiz had agreed to those tests, they might even have been able to cure him. The man was an idiot.
Her husband prided himself on the vigor with which he performed his marital duties. He’d loved to boast that his extended family had been producing a minimum of five children a year for the last seven generations, at least. The men of his family were all fertility gods, so there was no reason for him to submit to testing. Or, Hanna had thought, you’re just terrified of being proven wrong.
Hanna kept Rebeka on the phone as long as she could, trying to extract every last drop of information. Sadly, the Benhayim family had already made up its collective mind. Hanna would be known to them forevermore as “the barren bride.” She was so indignant that, after she placed the receiver back on the hook, she kicked the leg of the sideboard, stubbing her big toe.
She was making a soothing cup of coffee when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Good day. This is Ernst. Ernst Hirsch. Is that you, Hanna?”
“Yes, it is, Herr Hirsch. How can I help you?”
“I had arranged to meet Herr Schliemann this evening at our usual haunt, the meyhane in Moda. Unfortunately, my mother-in-law has just been taken to the hospital. No, nothing life-threatening, but it is serious. A heart spasm. Could you please call Gerhard and tell him I won’t be able to meet him this evening? I’ve tried the university several times, but the line is always busy. I’m leaving now for the hospital. Thank you so much, Hanna.”
That’s all I need right now, Hanna sighed. At her first attempt, the switchboard operator told her that the number was busy. She tried again after she finished making her coffee. Busy. And once again after she’d drunk it. Busy! She was still trying to get through when Suzi emerged from her room and gave Hanna an evil stare. The little girl was the spawn of Satan himself. She was supposedly home with a sore throat, but Hanna decided she was probably just playing hooky so she could be a pest on Fatma’s day off.
“I’m trying to get through to your father, but the line is always busy.”
“Ask Peter. He’ll call for you.”
“He’s spending the night at a friend’s in Bebek. What was that boy’s name? Walter?”
“Did he get permission from Father?”
“Of course he did,” Hanna said. She wasn’t about to fall into the trap of admitting she had allowed it.
“I’m hungry. I want my lunch.”
“Go and wash your hands first.”
When Hanna turned around, Suzi stuck out her tongue as far as it would go.
“If you keep doing that, one day you won’t be able to get it back into your mouth.”
Wide-eyed, Suzi took a step back. Did Hanna have eyes in the back of her head? Maybe she was one of those jinn Fatma always talked about.
Suzi obediently went to the bathroom and washed her hands.
“Don’t forget to wash your face, too!” Hanna called. “You’ve been playing with those watercolors again, and you’re all grubby. When will you learn to act like a proper little girl?”
“And when will you learn to act like a—” Suzi stopped before she could say “proper lady.” Hanna was standing in the doorway.
“I washed my face. Now I want my lunch,” Suzi said. She followed Hanna into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
Hanna had been too busy talking on the phone to prepare anything. She began opening cupboard doors and completely forgot about the promised phone call.
When Gerhard reach
ed Koço’s Meyhane, he looked around for Hirsch, then asked a familiar waiter about his friend.
“I haven’t seen him today.”
The waiter showed Gerhard to a table in the back without a view of the sea.
“The usual, sir?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you.”
The waiter came back with rakı, water, ice, cheese, and toasted bread. Gerhard decided to wait for Hirsch before ordering any meze. It wasn’t until he had finished his second double rakı that he became truly alarmed. It was going on nine. He asked the waiter if the restaurant had a telephone and was led to a back room, where he was introduced to the proprietor. He dialed Hirsch’s number. There was no answer. He asked the proprietor to check that evening’s reservations list. Apparently, Hirsch had originally booked a table for three, later changed it to two, and then cancelled altogether earlier that day. How odd! Why hadn’t Hirsch let him know? Gerhard called his own number, but there was no answer there, either. He considered walking over to Hirsch’s house, but what was the point? If Hirsch wasn’t answering his phone, he must not be at home.
Admitting defeat, Gerhard returned to his table. He’d been looking forward to some wise counsel and cheerful camaraderie. Well, having traveled all this way, why not enjoy another glass of rakı? A little tipsy now, his mind began wandering.
Perhaps something terrible had happened to Hirsch? Everyone knew Hitler had stepped up his efforts to intimidate German émigrés. His emissaries and spies were in Turkey to compile files and to advocate for the dismissal of not only Jews, but also suspiciously devout Christians, Marxists, and even liberals and Social Democrats. Had Hirsch somehow become tangled up in this web of intrigue? No, that was unlikely. It was an open secret that Turkish officials were more amused than alarmed by the files forwarded to them by the Nazi government. These clumsy attempts at character assassination had included the so-called exposure of a “radical Marxist activist” whom everyone knew to be an apolitical botanist. Then there had been the Nazi claim that Alexander Rüstow, the chair of economic geography and history, and who had recently coined the term “neoliberalism,” no less, was a Communist.
It was all so ludicrous! How could the Nazis misjudge the Turks so badly? Everybody knew that the steady erosion of Ottoman sovereignty had been such a blow to Turkish pride that the founders of the republic had preferred to negotiate away territory rather than accept the slightest encroachment on Turkey’s independence. The current Turkish government was not about to allow a German dictator to set hiring policy at its universities.
As Gerhard nibbled on cheese and gulped down rakı, his thoughts turned to Hirsch’s personal life. Hirsch and his wife had argued several times in front of Gerhard. Each time, it was Holde who provoked the fight and Holde who refused to be placated. Hirsch had even telephoned Gerhard after their last dinner together to apologize. Everyone could see how unhappy Holde was in Turkey, but of course, she wouldn’t be able to return to Germany even if they broke up. Holde was quick-tempered and independent, the kind of woman who would lash out, particularly if she felt trapped. They must have had another fight. Yes, that would explain why the reservation had been changed from three people to two. But why hadn’t Hirsch come on his own? Gerhard took another swallow of rakı and decided to order something more substantial to eat.
If only Elsa were here. Nearly three months had gone by. After the long wait for a ticket, the train she was finally able to board was requisitioned for troops and supplies not far from the Swiss border. The passengers had all been sent back to Zurich. Train travel was becoming impossible throughout much of Europe, so an intermediary had arranged a berth on a cargo ship sailing from Italy. Then, days before her scheduled departure, her father had died. Elsa had stayed for the funeral and was now reluctant to leave her mother on her own. Sometimes Gerhard worried that his wife would never return.
His grilled fish and salad arrived, and the waiter refilled his glass. Gerhard was dimly aware that he should stop drinking. But the warm sensation was so pleasant. God bless the man who invented rakı! The invasion of Poland, the death of his father-in-law, the pressures of work, the mysterious disappearance of Hirsch and, worst of all, the absence of his wife . . . if he didn’t have cause to drink now, when would he? He smiled at the memory of that long-ago night when he’d had to spend the night at a hotel. Elsa had been so furious with him! Oh, how he wished she were here now. The smile faded, and he whispered, “I miss you, my darling. The loneliness is unbearable. Come back before I start climbing the walls.”
When a taxi finally deposited Gerhard on Grenadier Street, it was well after midnight. He stumbled up the stairs to his apartment. The key wouldn’t go into the hole. He poked at the lock over and over. The automatic lights went out in the stairwell. He pushed the button and tried the lock again. The lights went out. Again. He’d just gotten the key level with the keyhole when his head started spinning. He leaned forward, hands pressed against the door for support. The door swung open, and he tumbled onto the floor. There was a woman, leaning over him, her long hair tickling his nose. Blond hair, like Elsa’s. Elsa? No, she was away. An arm under his head, pulling him up . . . a woman with sweet-smelling hair. Soft hands, like Elsa’s, a woman, leaning closer, her breasts near his face, pulling him up, but down she comes, on top of him now, lips against his. Oh, this is nice . . . Elsa . . .
As Gerhard rolled onto his side, he gently pulled an arm off his chest. What! Whose arm? Elsa was in Zurich. He sat up in bed. She was lying next to him, face turned away, blond hair spilling across the pillow. Oh no! Not Hanna! This wasn’t a dream. Hanna was in bed with him. He closed his eyes and opened them. He slipped out of bed and realized he was naked. When had he gotten undressed? He couldn’t even remember getting home. He scooped his shirt up off the floor and held it in front of him as he ran to the bathroom.
“What have you done?” he hissed at his reflection. He wanted to shout it at the top of his lungs, but knew he mustn’t wake the children. The children! He pulled his robe off the hook, wrapped it around himself, and went back to the bedroom. She was still there.
“Good morning.”
“Hanna, what are you doing here? Get out of my bed. Get out of my room. Now.”
She stretched and yawned. Propping her chin on her hand, she said, “Oh, I get it. You don’t remember a thing. Is that it, Gerhard?”
“Get out, Hanna. I don’t want you.”
“That’s not what you said last night.”
“We’ll talk about last night later,” Gerhard said, yanking her by the arm. “Go to your room. Before the children wake up. Get going. Now!”
Looking a little frightened, Hanna retrieved her nightgown from the floor and walked toward the door. Turning around with an injured look on her face, she said, “Peter’s not here anyway. He stayed at a friend’s last night.”
Gerhard sank onto the bed. What had he done? What had he done? At least he wouldn’t have to face Peter at breakfast. He had a splitting headache. And his stomach was churning. He stretched out on the bed and tried to remember. He’d been lying on the floor, in front of the door, looking at the ceiling. And then? It all came back to him in fragments. That’s where it started. On the floor. He’d never forgive himself. Gerhard sat up in bed, heart racing. It would never happen again. Never.
He got up to go to the bathroom. The door was locked, and he could hear running water. Hanna must be taking a bath. Passing the door to Suzi’s room on the way to get a glass of water, he considered looking in on her. No, let her sleep. He needed to bathe, to get clean again, to scrub it all away. If I were a Catholic, I’d go to confession, he mused. I might even feel less guilty. Gerhard, you idiot! You’ll live with this for the rest of your life. He drank a glass of water and put the kettle on.
“I’m done. The bathroom’s all yours,” Hanna announced from the doorway of the kitchen.
“Both the German and Turkish languages have a formal form of ‘you,’” he said. “Please use it. And address me as
Herr Schliemann from now on.”
“Jawohl, mein Herr!” Hanna said, extending her right arm in the hideously familiar salute.
Gerhard rushed to the bathroom. He stepped into the tub, which still smelled of scented soap, and stood under the cold water, shivering, for a long time. As he was reaching for a towel, he spotted Hanna’s underwear on the floor. It was pink. Had she left it there on purpose? He pushed it behind the laundry basket with the tip of his toe.
He’d deal with Hanna later. First, he needed to call Hirsch and find out what had happened the night before. If only his friend had come. If only he hadn’t been all alone in the meyhane, drowning his sorrows. Hirsch had better have a good excuse!
Hanna’s Ploy
Elsa’s journey would be long, with the possibility of delays and unexpected transfers, but she was finally on her way home. Gerhard and the children were counting the days.
Another member of that household was also counting the days.
Gerhard, who had taken to shutting himself in his study and who rarely spoke or looked up from his plate at meals, had just finished having dinner with Peter—who rarely looked at anything but Hanna. Suzi had been invited to Demir’s house again.
“Why didn’t the Atalays invite you over, too?” Gerhard asked Peter.
“Suzi is Demir’s friend, not me.”
“That’s what I’m asking. Why aren’t you friends with Demir?”
“I don’t like playing out in the street. And I don’t want to play with my little sister, anyway.”
“You didn’t used to mind. Tell me the truth. Did Demir not invite you, or did you not want to go?”
“I didn’t want to, Dad. I need to practice. I have a violin lesson tomorrow. Besides, Suzi and Demir are little kids.”
“It would be nice if you spent more time with our neighbors” was all Gerhard said.
“Okay, Dad.”
Peter stood up. “Let me help you, Hanna.” He took the stack of plates she was carrying. She picked up a jug of water, and they walked to the kitchen together.