by Moris Farhi
I became so ecstatic, I forgot I was the daughter of pious parents who expected decorum from their only child and retorted that I would celebrate their faith in me by playing one of Neyzen Yusuf Paşa’s most difficult compositions. To my great joy, Father offered to accompany me on the oud. Mother, whose singing is compared to that of the bulbul, our people’s favourite songbird, declared that she, too, would join us. (I always thought my parents would have preferred a son instead of me to carry on their musical traditions. Are they changing their minds?)
It was at that moment that Rιfat came looking for Gül.
The fact that while I was savouring the happiest moment of my life, my dearest friend, Gül, had shut her eyes for ever will always haunt me. (When I mentioned this to Rιfat as an example of life’s contrariness, he quoted Mahmut the Simurg, his storyteller hero. That it’s not Life that’s contrary, but Death, that Life always succours life, that every time a sapling is felled, Life plants a hundred acorns ...)
It’s three years since Gül died. She once told me that despite my religious upbringing – or because of it – I have a golden soul. That I know love is what clothes the living and the living are those who are about to die and, but for people like me, they would die unclothed – and nothing can be more humiliating than that. How true that is I don’t know. But, certainly, I will always clothe her with my love. Yet I can’t forgive her for abandoning me even though, these days, I have a better idea of the desperation that pushed her to shut her eyes.
These days I want to shut my eyes, too.
Did Gül see her own death? Did she see it as deliverance? Did it frighten her?
She wanted to save everybody. ‘But’, she would say, ‘Death tolerates no interference.’ Is that why she embraced it like a dutiful wife?
Now, all the deaths she foresaw are happening. Millions are dying everywhere in this Second World War. Millions of Jews are burning. And that nice boy, Bilâl – killed somewhere in Greece. (I never admitted this, but I think the vision that decided Gül to kill herself was Bilâl’s death. One day when we were watching Bilâl kick a ball around with her brother Naim, she turned to me and wailed, ‘How many deaths can a person survive?’)
Of course, it could also have been the fate of the Jews. Because a few days before she died, she said, ‘Even in Turkey, where they lived happily for centuries, my Jews will be persecuted.’
She meant the Varlιk, of course.
Well, I want to save the world, too. Her Jews are my Jews, our Jews, the Turks’ Jews. Persecution can be defeated.
It’s me again: Selma.
Are you alive or dead? Do I love a boy who, like a good Jew, is trying to save lives in order to save the world? Or is there something wrong with me, as Mother thinks, because I cling to the belief that you’re alive, that you’re my strength, the strength I need in order not to panic? (What Mother thinks doesn’t bother me. There’s something wrong with everybody, we all know that.)
But the question remains: am I in love with a ghost?
1 February 1943
Still no bailiffs. They’ll come on the sixth. They’re waiting for a member of parliament from Ankara who wants my father’s collection of Ottoman calligraphy. It’s quite valuable. Mostly antique. Written on parchment, cloth, tiles and ceramic plates. Passages from the Koran, sultans’ seals, verses from famous poems all expressed in wonderful geometric shapes. In fact, the MP has been trying to buy the collection for years. Now, he’s sure to get it for nothing. God only knows the bribes that must have greased the bailiffs’ hands. As Üstat Vedat says, the Varlιk has brought out the worst and the best in the Turks.
15 February 1943
Sorry I haven’t written for a while. I kept asking myself what is the sense in writing to someone who’s gone and died?
Is death prettier than I am?
I’m a decent person, I think. At least, I try to be good. I also have a nice body. I’m not being vain. That’s what girls in my class say. And boys are always eyeing me. (They hardly glance at Handan, who’s very pretty, but thin as a needle and flat-chested.)
You’ve never seen my body. Don’t you want to? Wouldn’t you like to touch me? Kiss me? Do I sound like a Jezebel? Sometimes after seeing a film – I don’t go to the cinema any more, we don’t have the money – I used to cry because I wanted to be touched and kissed like they do on the screen. Didn’t you feel like that too? Don’t you want to touch and kiss me?
Is death more attractive than I am?
I’m ranting again. You’re not dead.
It was your birthday the other day. So happy birthday! If you’d been here I would have given you a kiss.
The bailiffs came. Sure enough, Father’s collection went for less than a glass of water. Our home is empty now. Except for one mattress – mine. That’s where Mother and I sleep. They confiscated hers because the police came to take my father away just when the bailiffs were here and the bailiffs said my mother would no longer need a conjugal bed.
Father is in detention now – in a warehouse, we’ve been told – waiting for the train that will take him to Aşkale.
Bilâl – they’ve taken away my father!
God knows what they’ll do to him!
Will he ever come back?
And if he doesn’t – what will I do? What will Mother do? What will happen to us?
Sorry. No hysterics. I promised my father – no hysterics.
We’re fine. We’re all right.
Food parcels come regularly. Once a week. Incredibly generous. I think people take food out of their own mouths to give to us.
Rιfat has taken to delivering our allocation. He stays a bit and we talk about Gül and, of course, you. He’s very fond of you because you’re the only one in Naim’s gang who was nice to him. He’s grown into a hefty boy. He still wrestles. I tell him he should challenge Naim, who’s a weakling by comparison, and take over the gang. ‘I won’t impose myself on anybody,’ he says. A very decent boy.
School has turned into a pig. If I could, I’d stop going. But I promised Father I’d be top of my class and show those who call me ‘half-Turk’ that when it comes to following in Atatürk’s footsteps, I’m better than they are.
Were you around when these labels, ‘half-Turk’ or ‘half-citizen’, were coined for Jews and non-Muslims? Now we hear them all the time – at school, too. Not just from classmates – actually, except for a few bullies, my classmates are all right – but also from some of the teachers. The history master, Metin, for example.
Remember those caricatures that depict Jews as gigantic fat men with thick eyebrows and large hooked noses, carrying sacks of loot and mocking the poor? They started publishing them last year when you were still here. Well, this vomit, Metin, having heard that Father was going to Aşkale, showed me one of these and asked whether it looked like ‘the man who sired me’. Fortunately, Father had told us what these caricatures are based on. So I told Metin, ‘This is the sort of thing the Nazi paper, Der Stürmer, publishes to spread anti-semitism. Had Atatürk been alive, he would have smashed the hands that drew them!’ Metin smiled, but he was furious. I’m sure he’ll fail me next exam.
Imagine anti-semitism in Turkey ... I’m so scared, Bilâl!
The Germans have surrendered in Stalingrad. Will that change things? Might it save my father?
Love is hope. My love for you is my hope.
24 February 1943
Some of the boys visited your parents on your birthday and Can told me your mother had news of you. Apparently you saved her family and smuggled them out of Salonica into Skopje, where the Turkish community is hiding you all.
I want to shout, ‘My hero!’ But the boys aren’t totally convinced. They think someone’s trying to comfort your mother. I find it difficult to believe also, I don’t know why. Yes, I do know. It’s the Varlιk. We have become rudderless boats. There are no horizons left; no one can tell whether there’s land anywhere.
Please be alive. For my sake. They’ve taken my
father away. My mother looks stricken with blight. I’m like an orphan!
Love.
27 February 1943
I’m having difficulty writing. It’s freezing. We have no heating. Mother and I go to bed wearing all our clothes.
I’ve heard some people – the neighbourhood rats – say, ‘Let’s burn the Jews! They’re fat enough! They’ll keep us warm!’
Burn the Jews, like they did during the Spanish Inquisition ... Like they say the Nazis are doing ...
I’ve even heard rumours that some municipalities here are preparing ‘burning sites’. Not true, of course – Üstat Vedat reassures us about that. Just shows how the Varlιk chews up the mind.
Talking about Nazis. Did you know some Turkish officers have taken German officers to certain schools so that they can praise Nazism, spread anti-semitism and justify the Varlιk?
Mother is sitting by the window, watching the street. Poor woman, what else can she do?
I’m going to bed. If I fall asleep before her, I won’t have to cry with her.
I want my father back!
Why aren’t you here, you pig! Why aren’t you here to keep me safe? And warm.
5 March 1943
I’m sorry to tell you your father, too, has been sent to Aşkale. They picked him up yesterday, as he was about to leave for work. Apparently he told the police they should let him work so that he can pay his tax. They laughed at him. ‘We don’t want undesirable elements taking our jobs. Only true Turks have the right to employment,’ they said.
Can you blame me for being afraid? ‘Undesirable elements’, ‘quasi-citizens’, ‘half-Turks’ have become today’s language. Even reputable journalists are at it. You should read some of the ‘unbiased’ articles on Jews – poison.
Naim’s father, too, has been sent to Aşkale. They came for him while the family were having lunch. On this occasion, the police had the decency to wait in another room so that they could finish eating (as if they could) and he could say goodbye.
Our world has fallen into quicksand. We can’t even scream because there’s mud in our mouths. Even so I keep looking at the wind in case it blows a green leaf my way.
Next week Handan will play a solo in her father’s concert. You can imagine how excited she is. I’ll be there to support her.
Here’s the best of the latest gossip.
Aşer’s aunt, aged seventy-five, has threatened to divorce her new husband (her third), aged eighty-nine, if he refuses to give up his five paramours and the seven other women who claim to be his odalisques. Though all the latter live in an old-people’s home where no male, not even a tomcat, is allowed to set foot, Aşer’s aunt really believes their claims. Her husband might be eighty-nine, she says, but he eats a lot of figs and consequently has the virility of ten rams.
Love is lovely.
10 March 1943
Listen to this.
We have a new Jewish boy in our class. Alev Moris. He’s from Bursa. He lost his mother some years back. When the Varlιk dispatched his father and two older brothers to Aşkale, he came here, to Istanbul, to live with his aunt. A harmless, timid boy deeply marked by his mother’s death – like Rιfat. But, unlike Rιfat, not sporty. However, he reads a lot and knows all sorts of things.
The other day, Metin, the history master, confusing us with another class, started the lesson with the Age of Discoveries – a period we’ll be studying next term. When we pointed this out he, being the shit he is, got angry. He started mocking our ignorance and offered a lira to anybody who could say anything meaningful about how the Age of Discoveries had affected the world. Naturally, knowing that nothing we said would be ‘meaningful’ to him, we kept quiet. But, Alev, being a newcomer, took him seriously and launched into an amazing monologue. Starting with the navigational advances made by Muslim mathematicians, he spoke about how the need for a sea route for the spice trade drove Columbus, Vasco da Gama and Magellan on to their historic voyages; then, describing how the lust for wealth and power had spawned the evils of colonialism and imperialism, he pronounced both the First and the Second World Wars as continuations of these pursuits.
This response – which left us gaping – inflamed Metin’s anger. ‘What’s your name?’ he shouted. Alev told him. Metin snarled, ‘Moris? Moris? What sort of a name is that? All Turkish names have a meaning. Alev means “flame”. My name, Metin, means “stalwart”. What does Moris mean?’ Well, as you know, Moris comes from the French Maurice, and is an affectation among educated Jews for Moses. So we thought Alev was cooked.
Not in the least. He thought for a few moments then spoke slowly, as if Metin were a dimwit. ‘The surname is Moriz, sir. Written with a “z”. Not Moris with an “s”. It was misspelled by the registrar of births, sir. As you know, mor means “purple”, iz means “track”. Combined, it means “purple track”. This refers to the time when we Turks were trapped in a maze of mountains in Central Asia, sir. We were facing death by hunger and thirst when out of nowhere a grey wolf appeared. It laid down a track – a phosphorescent one so that it would be visible even at night, which is why it was purple – and led us to safety. As you know, sir, today many European politicians call Atatürk “the grey wolf”. That’s because he, too, led us out of the wilderness.’
Metin was left speechless.
God help Alev. But what courage! What imagination! What an example for the timorous like me.
Love.
16 March 1943
Yesterday, at assembly, we were told Alev had been expelled for misconduct.
Metin is a slug! Why don’t you come back and step on him?
Love is hope.
24 March 1943
Handan’s concert was a great success. They’re already planning others.
I had never imagined the kanun was such a magical instrument. It has a sound like twenty string instruments played at once. I can appreciate the music now because Handan and her father have been instructing me on some famous compositions, on how they create moods and trances as pathways to love and God. Üstat Vedat defines this music as Sufism in sound. For him it’s the preferred path, as opposed to poetry or whirling, for ascending the seven heavens and witnessing the Godhead. (I’m not sure I understand all that, but it has really taken hold of me.)
We have no news of my father. Is he well? Will he survive Aşkale? Mother says I should stop grieving. If anything had happened to him, we’d have heard; bad news always finds a cruel cloud to carry it. This from a woman who chains herself to the window to watch the street. I’m not that brave.
When Üstat Vedat and Handan see how little we Jews know about Turkish music, they become downhearted. ‘If your people listened to classical Turkish music like they listen to Bach or Mozart,’ Üstat Vedat said the other day, ‘they’d soon see that Turkish composers are the equal of their European counterparts.’ I’m sure he’s right. Which makes me think Turks may have some justification in calling us ‘half-Turks’. Surely we have the duty to immerse ourselves in our country’s culture.
So that’s what I’ve decided to do. I’ll even try and learn an instrument. The ney, Üstat Vedat suggested. That’s the reed flute. He thinks, since I can play the harmonica a bit, I should have good breath and good co-ordination.
Apropos of ‘half-Turk’. At Handan’s concert, I sat next to Ahmet Bey, the professor, and told him about Alev’s misadventure with Metin and his subsequent expulsion. Ahmet Bey was furious. He said Metin was a disgrace to his profession and he’ll make sure the turd doesn’t get away with this sort of fascist behaviour.
Love you.
10 April 1943
It was Rιfat’s birthday yesterday. I wanted to give him a present. He’s been such a solid, reassuring presence. He won’t let anybody else deliver our food. It’s as if Mother and I have become his wards. And whenever he sees me at school – which is almost every day – he offers me his lunch. I refuse, of course, even when I’m hungry. After all, he wrestles and needs nourishment.
Since I d
idn’t have any money to buy him a present, I gave him a kiss instead. I hope you don’t mind.
I kiss you, too.
24 April 1943
Yesterday, my class paraded in the Children’s Festival. The mayor called us ‘magnificent representatives of the nation’. In our hands, he said, Turkey’s future was assured.
I felt like asking him: what about the Jews’ future? Is it assured in your hands? If not – where can we run to? The Nazis are making sure there’s nowhere we can escape to!
Love.
16 May 1943
Twenty-four years ago yesterday, Atatürk secretly slipped out of Istanbul. On the 19th he stepped ashore in Samsun and launched the War of Independence.
I mention this as a link to yesterday’s events.
When Rιfat delivered the food, Ahmet Bey came with him. He told me he had confronted Metin and had threatened to chase him out of the educational system if he ever again discriminated against non-Muslims. Apparently, Metin got really scared. Illiberal elements in the government may hate Ahmet Bey, but he’s one of the country’s leading educationalists and very influential. Since he’s also a war hero, he’s someone to whom even fanatic nationalists defer.
Anyway, Metin has not only promised to mend his ways, but will also arrange Alev’s readmission.
In the course of this conversation, Ahmet Bey also explained the ideologies behind such terms as ‘Turkishness’, ‘Turkification’, ‘full Turks’, ‘half-Turks’ and ‘Kemalism’.
I’m summarizing what he said not only because it explains the present situation but also because we need to understand it for the future. As they say, ‘understanding begets solutions’.
Though Turkification started as a reformist movement by the Young Turks in the last decades of the Ottoman empire, it acquired special importance when the Turkish Republic rose from its ashes. The founders of this new Turkey, proposing, almost in Marxist terms, a democratic people’s state devoted to state socialism, decided that, in order to achieve this objective, the people needed a fresh identity that would shed its imperial past. An identity that would be Turkish rather than the motley of nations – millets – that existed before. Particularly as, following the carnage of eight years of war, the atrocities suffered by the Armenians at the hands of the Ottomans in 1915-17 and the 1923–25 population exchanges between Greece and Turkey, the ratio of non-Muslims to Muslims had fallen from one in five to one in forty. The sociologist Ziya Gökalp duly provided a new concept. He stated that a nation must be defined not by race, political system or geographical boundaries, but by a shared language, culture and traditions. What makes us human, he declared, is not our body, but our soul. (Yes, I say. Yes!) This is a definition that can embrace everybody in the land – including us, Jews.