by Moris Farhi
And so, no sooner had we celebrated VE-Day than I began to seek ways of tracing Bilâl.
It was a horrendous time. Every day brought further monstrous details of the extent of Nazi atrocities committed against European Jewry. People began to use a leaden word, genocide, oratorically, as if they had just coined it. But I think they all felt – I am sure everybody did – that they lacked the imagination to conceive of what it really meant.
Months passed.
I kept drawing blanks.
Naim and Can, with whom I was in regular contact, fared no better with their inquiries in Turkey.
Ester bombarded with petitions the various authorities who dealt with Jewish survivors and displaced people. But none of her family had been traced. It seemed probable that if Fortuna and the rest had really found asylum in Skopje, they would have been deported to extermination camps despite their Turkish passports.
Given this grim prediction, all we could do was hope that Bilâl had found sanctuary at Mount Athos. But of course we knew, deep down, that, like Ester, we were indulging in make-believe.
Eventually, we decided to direct our inquiries to Greece. But that was easier said than done. The resistance groups, the communist-backed EAM-ELAS and the centrist-royalist EDES which, since the early forties, had carried out a guerrilla war against the Germans, had now turned against each other. And although British troops were trying to establish some sort of peace, chaos ruled.
Inevitably, we turned to my father for help. Since he had been very fond of Bilâl and, indeed, had admired his bravery, he promised to pull some strings.
Months later, we received a comprehensive report.
According to unimpeachable sources in Greece, Bilâl and Marko had succeeded in contacting Fortuna. But they had been observed by an informer, who had duly alerted the Germans. When the Gestapo had arrived, Fortuna and her family had created a distraction to help Marko and Bilâl escape.
Marko, as we knew, had made it as far as the Turkish border.
Fortuna and her family had been arrested and deported to Auschwitz in March 1943 in one of the early transports. (There had been nineteen from Salonica, carrying almost the entire Jewish population of the city.)
Of Bilâl’s fate, there were conflicting versions. One report stated that he had been shot while running away; another, that he had been taken into custody and had either died under interrogation or been deported. But deportation could not be verified. Though the transport lists were usually compiled meticulously and included all the names of the deportees, there had been occasions when persons, either too ill or too badly tortured, were added without anybody bothering to amend the register. A third version mentioned that a youngster who fitted Bilâl’s description had been spotted jumping off a precipice – the old town had numerous such drops – and had never been seen again. Curiously, the youngster’s body had never been recovered. But since in those days hungry dogs scavenged like hyenas, this had not been considered unusual.
Heart-broken, I relayed this report to Naim, Can and Pepo.
Three days later, Naim and Can telephoned to tell me that Ester had killed herself. As if re-enacting the defiance of the boy who had jumped off the precipice, she had thrown herself from Galata Tower, the Genoese edifice that dominated Istanbul and served as a fire-watch station.
A week later, I received a parcel from Pepo. It contained the copy of a text of some sixty pages written by Bilâl. Pepo and Ester had found it in Bilâl’s room while clearing it out after my news about the boy who had jumped off the precipice. It was addressed to his parents and written as a valediction in case he didn’t come back. He had finished writing it the day before he and Marko had left for Greece.
I read it, then immediately telephoned Pepo. One of the people he worked with told me he had left his job as well as his flat.
Alarmed, I telephoned Naim and Can. They told me they, too, had received copies of Bilâl’s text and were trying to find Pepo’s whereabouts. But he had disappeared.
We have never been able to trace him.
I have a recurring dream. I meet Pepo in our regular çayhane in the shadow of the Blue Mosque. He tells me Bilâl is alive. Has to be. Or there is no meaning to life.
4: Selma
Half-Turk
1 January 1943
Darling Bilâl,
Everybody thinks you’re dead. I don’t. I did for a while. But that was because I just accepted what other people said. I don’t any more. I’ve been thinking about it for months. How can you be dead? – you’re still a boy. And we love each other. Death doesn’t touch young love. Besides, there’s no proof! You’re on some crazy adventure, which is typical of boys your age, and that’s all there is to it.
So my New Year resolution: to write to you. I need to be in touch with you. Most of all, I need you! Since I don’t know where you happen to be, this will be one continuous letter or something like a diary. When you get back – do you realize it’s almost four months since you left for Greece? – you’ll know what’s been happening here. And what’s been happening to me.
As far as I can tell, the belief that you died spread from Handan Ramazan – that religious Muslim girl who lives next to the bakery, plays the kanun and was Gül’s friend. Apparently she told the police – they’re still investigating your disappearance – that some time in the past Gül had told her that she’d seen your death in her mind the way she’d seen Rιfat’s mother die in the Erzincan earthquake. Some proof!
I still keep going to the window expecting to see you at yours. I bless the day we moved opposite you. You have such a beautiful smile. It makes the world seem safe to me. Your eyes, blue as Atatürk’s, bring the sky into my heart. I so miss you these days when every minute is dark. Isn’t it ridiculous we never dared say hello all that time we crossed paths going to school? Shyness is not a virtue. (Maybe in those days you had eyes only for Gül. I know from Rιfat you had a crush on her. Apparently she was fond of you, too. I should be jealous, but I’m not. You love me now.)
Let me bring you up to date.
Remember the new tax the government was planning? To slap on so-called black marketeers, profiteers, warmongers etc – meaning the non-Muslim minorities. Well, it’s happened. It became law in November. It’s called the Varlιk and it’s worse than anything anybody had imagined. It’s assessed not on a person’s earnings but on the wealth the assessing committee deems he has. But these committees are not made up of experts. They’ve been specially concocted from finance ministry officials and arriviste entrepreneurs – all of them declaring themselves ‘pure’ Turks – to target non-Muslim businessmen and hit them as hard as they can. Two weeks ago, they published their lists. Most of the people slated are Jews, Armenians or Greeks. My father calls this tax ‘a slow death’. He says it aims to dispossess the minorities and drive them out of the Turkish economy.
And there is no right of appeal.
The sums imposed are so astronomical that only a few will be able to pay. Borrowing would be impossible – who’d have anything left to lend? Payment must be immediate – by 4 January. There’s a period of grace until 20 January – that’s in twenty days.
I’ve hesitated to mention this. But I don’t want to hide things from you. In order to meet his tax demand, your father sold his shop. He received a fraction of its value.
Take care.
I love you.
See how easily I said I love you. Girls are braver than boys.
15 January 1943
Big gathering here last night.
Many Jews, Armenians and Greeks, including the parents of Naim, Can, Selim, Musa, Zeki, Aşer, Yusuf.
Also a few Dönme. Particularly Rιfat’s father, Kenan Bey. (But not Rιfat’s grandparents. Unlike their son and grandson who are proper converts to Islam, they practise Judaism secretly. And though the whole world knows this, they still avoid Jewish company in the hope that everybody will think they’re Muslim. But their sham hasn’t helped them. The Dönme – or rather t
he false Dönme – have been harshly taxed, too, though not as mercilessly as other Jews. Apparently in Rιfat’s grandfather’s case, the fact that Kenan Bey is someone important in agriculture helped to reduce the sum the authorities had originally assessed.)
Some non-Jews were present too: Handan’s parents. (And Handan.)
And a chain-smoking, curt man, Ahmet Poyraz, a professor of literature who, apparently, teaches everywhere from the university down, including the American College.
Several gentlemen whom I’ve never seen, whose names were barely mentioned, but who, I gather, are Masons.
Sadly, not your parents. Your mother, ever since you left, keeps to herself. Your father was working – he’s taken a job as caretaker of a timber-yard. Still trying to pay off his Varlιk.
In fact, the gathering was all about the Varlιk. (Handan and I stayed and listened. These days we count as adults.)
Everyone agreed that the country needs to raise money. Both the Allies and the Axis want us to join forces with them and get into the war. We have to avoid that. We can only do so if we have an army strong enough to safeguard our neutrality. Moreover, we have to tackle the food and fuel shortages – they’re getting worse day by day. So we definitely need to find some money. But not by fleecing the non-Muslims!
Everyone also agreed that the Varlιk is doomed to fail. Since only a handful can pay what’s demanded of them, the nation won’t be able to raise the money it needs and the problems will get worse.
Wednesday is the last day of grace. After that, properties, household goods and personal belongings of those who can’t pay in full will be confiscated and sold to make up what’s owed. Even then, vast sums will remain unpaid. These will have to be worked off with what they call ‘corporal industry’ in labour camps. For once bribes, influential friends, under-the-counter deals won’t help. Nazi-lovers and their lackeys – the masterminds behind this catastrophe – want to show Hitler that Jews and ‘undesirables’ aren’t having an easy time here.
The next problem they discussed was what would happen to the dependants of those sent to labour camps. How would their wives, children and elders survive without a breadwinner?
At that point, Handan’s father, Üstat Vedat – strongly supported by his wife, Adalet Hanιm – took charge. (Handan says her father likes being addressed as ‘Üstat’ because it’s the equivalent of the European term, ‘maestro’, which is what the professor of music, Zuckmayer, calls him. Zuckmayer, you’ll remember, is one of the many Jewish refugees from Nazi Germany given asylum in Turkey.)
Remember how the Ramazans intimidated the neighbourhood with their stern ways? How they seemed to shun fun? How Adalet Hanιm – and, since Gül’s death, Handan – cover their heads whenever they go out? How people mocked their piety because when surnames became obligatory they chose to call themselves ‘Ramazan’ after the most important Muslim holiday? And the rumours that once or twice Üstat Vedat had clashed with Atatürk on religious matters but had escaped rebuke thanks to his music?
Well, you should have heard this otherworldly Üstat Vedat. When he summed up the gathering’s feelings, he spoke like a prophet. ‘Racial and religious prejudices are not aspects of the Turkish character. They are European diseases. It’s our sacred duty to save our minorities from this tax.’
And, in a few minutes, the gathering produced a plan.
Communities everywhere will be asked to give a portion of their food to all those left in penury by the tax. Masons and their brethren will raise money to pay for rents, heating, education, etc. There’ll be hardship – for everybody – but their minorities will survive.
I love you.
16 January 1943
A postscript to the other day’s meeting. I forgot to mention how deeply people love and respect your father. It was Pepo, Pepo, non-stop.
Üstat Vedat, it turns out, served in the War of Independence and had heard that your father did, too. (Did you know your father was at Sakarya at Atatürk’s command post?) And – this will amaze you – Adalet Hanιm, too, is a veteran. She was one of those legendary women who strapped shells on their backs and carried them from one battlefield to another.
That’s not all. Somebody then revealed that Ahmet Poyraz was a veteran also. He was even decorated!
You should have seen how these disclosures melted the formality between Üstat Vedat and Ahmet Bey. They’re so different, these two men. The first is officious, ponderous and pious; the other, impatient, fiery and irreligious. You’d never think they’d ever get beyond the basic courtesies. That said, they’re also very alike. For instance, they’re both very modest and get embarrassed when people praise them. Moreover, like Üstat Vedat, Ahmet Bey, too, has had clashes with Atatürk – over political matters, in his case. Yet both mourn Atatürk’s early death deeply. (Strange to think there are people who didn’t see eye to eye with Atatürk. Somehow that makes him more human – and more perfect.)
Here’s an anecdote they told about Atatürk and your father. (Did you know Atatürk regularly employed him?)
The day before King Alexander of Yugoslavia – quite a nasty ruler, by all accounts – came on a state visit, the protocol-masters suddenly realized that they didn’t have any Yugoslav flags for the bunting. So Atatürk asked your father to produce several dozen overnight. Your father gathered every adult he could find, seized every sewing machine in town and somehow procured the dyes and the necessary lengths of silk. By early morning, he had the flags ready and hanging. The king duly arrived. But, as luck would have it, no sooner had the procession left the railway station than it started to rain heavily. To your father’s horror, the dyed sections of the flags began running and, within minutes, the standards were criss-crossed with coloured squiggles. Your father braced himself for Atatürk’s fury. He was duly summoned. To his surprise, Atatürk greeted him warmly and congratulated him for helping heaven to deflate a despot. Thereafter he and your father indulged in some raki and praised ‘perversity which, on occasions, gladly dispenses justice’.
Had you heard this story before?
Love to you.
20 January 1943
Today is the deadline for the Varlιk. My father came home with just one doughnut. In the morning he had finalized the sale of his business and had paid whatever he had received – peanuts; that’s what’s happening: people are having to sell for peanuts – to the tax office. Since all our goods are waiting to be auctioned, the doughnut, he said, was all we had – and that only because İbrahim, our street vendor, had given it to him. Then he and Mother gave the doughnut to me. I insisted we must share it. They forced me to eat half of it. The other half is for tomorrow – also for me.
I never imagined food could taste so bitter.
During the night, I heard my father cry. He kept wishing he were dead. Then, after he went to sleep, Mother started crying ...
Why aren’t you here? I need you! I need to be strong for Mother and Father. I need you to give me hope.
22 January 1943
Yesterday most of the Jewish men followed the old routine and went to work. Or rather, they went to the shops and offices where they used to work before they’d either sold them or where they’d been made redundant. They walked the streets in the freezing cold, shared the few cigarettes they had and watched the trams go by. Then when they would normally have finished work, they returned home.
Today they’re staying in, waiting for the bailiffs or the police. No one we know has been able to pay his tax in full. So everything they own will be sold. Crowds have already gathered in prosperous neighbourhoods. Vultures! You can see them drooling. Some are acquaintances who were friendly only yesterday. Who’d have thought there’d be so many scavengers? Soon, many of them will get rich. People are now confirming what my father said from the very beginning: that the Varlιk’s real objective is the transfer of non-Muslim wealth – what there is of it – to ethnic Turks.
In a few days the deportations to the labour camp will begin. To Aşkale, in t
he east, near Erzurum. A place where apparently it’s harsh winter nine months of the year. Father thinks he’s bound to be sent there. Mother and I are tearing out our hair. That would kill him.
I’m meeting Handan this afternoon. She’s invited me to tea. She must have sensed how scared and miserable I am.
By the way, yesterday, our street – the non-Muslims in our street – received their first food parcels. Donated by Muslim neighbours, Masons and ‘people who wish to remain anonymous’. Üstat Vedat, Kenan Bey and Ahmet Bey were personally in charge. That’s the real Turkey, the real Turkish spirit. They’re the real Turks, the true Muslims!
Love you.
26 January 1943
The bailiffs didn’t come. We have to wait our turn.
As for my afternoon with Handan ... Wonderful and terrible. Wonderful because she’s the most open-hearted person there is. Terrible because ...
I wasn’t going to talk about it, but I must ...
You see, at some point we started talking about Gül. Handan loved Gül and still misses her a lot. In the end, she got so upset she couldn’t talk any more. So she gave me her diary to read.
The diary has a section about you that made me very unhappy. So I told her about us and how we had never dared declare our love. Then I asked to borrow the diary because I wanted to re-read the section referring to you and decide what to do. Being an angel, she agreed. I’ll copy the section for you. That’s like betraying a secret, so don’t you go and tell Handan. But then how could you? You’re not ...
No! I won’t believe it!
Here’s the section:
The day Gül was found frozen to death on a park bench as if she’d been a homeless person sleeping rough, my father told me he’d taught me everything he knew about the kanun, that henceforth I had to play with my own heart instead of his which, though adequate, was getting barnacled, and that if my heart was as good as he and my mother believed it to be, I would surely surpass him before long. To hear from the greatest virtuoso of our time that I, barely eighteen, had mastered an instrument which, for centuries, had been kept out of women’s reach, was like being told Allah was walking by my side.