by Moris Farhi
Given the atrocities suffered by the Armenians at the hands of Enver and Talat Paşas, given also the Armenian nationalist movement that led to the creation, under the treaty of Sèvres, of an Armenian Socialist Republic in August 1920, you may well be surprised to hear that there were some Armenian recruits in the Turkish army during the War of Independence – as, indeed, there had been during the First World War. Notwithstanding the fact that the Armenian Socialist Republic collapsed within months of its birth and was subsumed by the Russians, the presence of Armenian soldiers in the Turkish army is a clear example of the paradox that was the Ottoman empire and, to a lesser extent, the paradox that is the new Turkey. It is also an indication of my Paşa’s esteem for non-Muslim minorities.
Back to my story. Me, Pepo, as the terminal for vital intelligence reports.
There I was, barely nineteen, a city boy with some education who, inspired by my Paşa’s call to join the struggle for Turkey’s very existence, had readily volunteered. A boy who had never seen a weapon in his life, let alone used one. A boy as enthusiastic as a boy can be, but also scared out of his wits. A boy who, no sooner had he reached the Turkish lines – an arduous trek for those, like me, coming from Izmir or the Aegean provinces which, at the time, were under Greek occupation – finds himself in the Gehenna of war. A boy either petrified as he relaid countless metres of telephone lines under intense artillery fire or frantic as he manned, a breath away from the front, both the telegraph receiver and the cumbersome switchboards connected to look-outs with field telephones. A boy with more lives than a thousand cats, particularly when mending the communication wires that had been either clipped by enemy scouts or blown out of existence by the relentless bombardment. A boy who, instead of day-dreaming about girls or masturbating spiritedly as if aiming for a world record, had to learn not only the Morse code but all the advances in cryptography.
I am embarrassed – but also proud – to admit it, but I became an expert – the best, according to my instructors. I could receive and speedily transcribe several messages at the same time. I even managed to become ambidextrous. Consequently, I was sent from one battlefield to another until I ended up at my Paşa’s command post, at Sakarya, in centre-west Anatolia.
The battle of Sakarya, as we all know, became a turning-point in the War of Independence. It lasted some twenty-one days and saw fierce fighting on both sides. The front, sometimes twenty kilometres deep, stretched over 100 kilometres, almost the full length of the terrain where the Sakarya river forms a wide loop before snaking its way north to the Black Sea. The Greek army, well equipped and well provisioned from the Aegean, had started its offensive on 14 August from its positions around Eskişehir and Kütahya, which it had conquered in July. Its main objective was to push towards Ankara, the seat of the Turkish Nationalists, and thus put an end to my Paşa’s dreams of creating a new Turkey from the ruins of the Ottoman empire. Following the Greek gains in July, Ísmet Paşa, my Paşa’s ablest commander – and now, since my Paşa’s death, president of Turkey – had pulled the Turkish army back to the Haymana plateau, east of the Sakarya river, where the terrain, about 900 metres high, was not only easier to defend but also provided unimpeded views of the Greek forces from a number of hills. Beyond lay the portals of Ankara, destined to be the nation’s capital.
On 17 August my Paşa, just five days after having broken a rib during the preparations for battle, took overall command of the Turkish forces and set up his headquarters at Alagöz.
The Greek army, positioning one corps at the confluence of the Sakarya and its tributary, the Ilιca, unleashed its main assault from the south, skirting round the river’s loop. By so doing, it not only avoided the tribulations of a river crossing, but also sought to strike at the Turkish army’s soft underbelly.
Bitter and relentless fighting ensued. The Greeks advanced forcefully and captured a few hills. Some Turkish commanders advised a retreat towards Ankara, but my Paşa forbade it. This battle was not one where we were defending an expendable military position; here we were defending the very heart of the Motherland. Consequently, not even a millimetre of the battlefield could be yielded to the enemy. ‘Make your peace with your God,’ my Paşa exhorted us, ‘for here we might be judged by Him.’
On 2 September the Greeks captured Mount Çal, the most strategic position on the battlefield. The road to Ankara beckoned. But by then, they had suffered terrible losses and their supplies had been severely depleted. Consequently, much of their resolve had foundered. Those who had survived felt they had no cause to celebrate. Realizing that the next offensive would prove even bloodier, they had begun to despair of victory. They yearned to return home.
We, too, had suffered terrible losses. We, too, were very short of supplies. But we were on our homeland. We could not let it be plundered. We had accepted the command to defend it to the last man. So we dug ourselves in wherever we stood.
And the fighting continued. Blood ran like floodwater and carried heads, limbs, torsos as if it were the quartermaster of an insatiable war god.
My Paşa, looking like an avenging spirit in his simple, unranked uniform of Mehmetcik – the generic name for the ordinary Turkish soldier – ran from unit to unit ordering the men to hold their positions, insisting that the Greeks would soon capitulate, that, in fact, one could hear them cracking up, even through the thunder of the guns.
Just hang on for another day.
And Mehmetcik believed him. For my Paşa was not only one of them, but in his unranked kit, he looked like any of them.
And hung on yet another day ...
Which dawned on 4 September.
I have it etched in my mind. Etched somewhat dreamily, I must admit; but then, I had been on duty, night and day, since before the commencement of hostilities and sorely lacked sleep.
According to scouts and look-outs, there had been frantic goings-on throughout the night in the Greek camp. We could not assess the exact nature of this activity; the aridity of the region cocooned every movement with clouds of dust. My Paşa was convinced that the Greeks were preparing to strike camp. Yet we had intercepted messages from the Greek High Command stating that fresh supplies and heavy armour were on their way under cover of night – though none of our scouts could confirm these.
Round about first light, when I had just closed my eyes for all of two minutes, my Paşa shook me awake. ‘Don’t fall asleep on me, Pepo! Not now! Not today!’
I shook my head and tried to keep my eyes open. ‘I won’t, sir!’
He hauled me up from my console. ‘Come on! We’ll walk a bit!’
Feebly pointing at my instruments, I protested. ‘What about ...?’
‘We’ll keep our ears open. Come on! Quick march!’
‘Yes, sir. Quick march!’
My Paşa had not slept for over a month – he never did on the field of battle – yet he looked as fresh as if he had just returned from an early morning swim. Moreover, his chest was strapped up; his broken rib had still not mended; yet, apart from the scabrous respiration that identified a heavy smoker, he did not seem to have any difficulty breathing; and his grip, as ever, was like a wrestler’s.
Goaded by the superhuman qualities of the man, I propelled my legs forward.
We strode up and down in the wooden hut that perched precariously on the crest of Alagöz. A few of my Paşa’s bodyguards – sinewy Laz braves known as yiğits, from the Black Sea regions, dramatically clad, as always, in dark clothes – kept pace with us. The hut groaned and shook under our feet as if it were about to snap off its stilts. The scene struck me as so bizarre – exhaustion has a wicked sense of humour – that I giggled.
My Paşa patted me on the shoulder. ‘Find me a man who laughs at adversity and I’ll show you a Jew!’
‘I’m a Jew, my Paşa ...’
‘Which is why I’ve commissioned you to be my eyes and ears!’
‘Allah be praised!’
‘Are you religious, Pepo?’
‘No, my Paşa .
..’
‘Good. Keep it that way.’
‘But I believe in God ...’
‘We all do. Otherwise we wouldn’t be fighting this war.’
I looked up surreptitiously, thinking he was being sarcastic. But no, the freshness in his face had faded. He appeared haunted and hollowed-out. The eyes, normally lit by the famous sardonic smile that had intimidated even the German High Command, seemed dimmed by torturous thoughts.
I wondered whether this impression was caused by his simple uniform, which had begun to look like a shroud. Why had the Nationalist Assembly in Ankara not yet invested him with a rank – particularly as they had already appointed him commander-in-chief? Had they expected him to parade himself in his Ottoman army rank? Surely everyone knew by now that since the new sultan had so callously surrendered his people to the British, my Paşa had turned his back on everything Ottoman. Turks in a free country, in republican Turkey – that was what he was fighting for, that was why the sultanate had sentenced him to death.
‘The enemy, too, thinks God is on his side, my Paşa.’
‘Sure, he does. The Greeks love God. And God loves the Greeks. I should know. I was born in Salonica.’
‘Which makes this a funny war ...’
‘That’s right, son. Funny for God. Life and death for us mortals.’
Passing by the hut’s crumbling window, I felt the morning air still smouldering on my face, but with a hint of coolness, which only shows that September is a month that enjoys teasing people. I took a deep breath and surrendered to the rhythmic sound of our footsteps. Within moments, I felt as if I were being rocked to sleep, or rather as if I was travelling on a train somewhere; and a woman – my mother? – was singing a lullaby.
My Paşa pulled me up. ‘You’re falling asleep!’
I tried to straighten up. ‘No! I mean, I’m trying not to ...’
‘Good!’
‘Only I haven’t slept for God knows how long ...’
‘You’ll probably have to stay awake just as long again.’
I started laughing. ‘What bliss ...’
My Paşa laughed too and proffered his gold cigarette case. ‘Have a smoke.’
I took one.
He lit our cigarettes, then turned to his bodyguards. ‘Fetch him some coffee!’
As the Laz yiğits raced to carry out the order, I inhaled deeply. The strong tobacco made me cough. The paroxysm dispersed some of my sleepiness.
My Paşa smiled. ‘I should have thought of cigarettes before.’ He led me back to my console. ‘Enough marching.’
I collapsed on to my chair, then stared at him in awe. ‘How do you do it, sir? Never sleep, I mean.’
He strode to the window, cleared a few cobwebs, then gazed out at the river down on the plains. He pointed at a stretch of gorges – shallow at this time of the year. ‘Somewhere beyond Sakarya – there are a couple of maidens ... I want them ...’
I looked at him, puzzled. ‘Maidens, my Paşa?’
‘One is called Victory. The other, History. I need them to save the country ...’
‘I see.’
‘Do you like maidens, Pepo?’
I grinned. ‘I’m mad about them. Especially if they’re round and rosy everywhere.’
‘Good man. What else do you like?’
‘Food – plenty of it.’
‘Raki?’
‘Sure. But I can’t hold it down very well.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Life – I like that best.’
‘Ah ... Not the stuff of martyrs, eh?’
‘No, my Paşa. I’d kill myself if I got killed!’
My Paşa chuckled. ‘So stay awake ... and you won’t get killed.’
Then everything happened at once. A yiğit rushed in with a mug of coffee and plonked it on my console. Another yiğit, almost tongue-tied, grabbed my Paşa by the sleeve and dragged him to the window. Other yiğits rushed around trying to get a better focus on the binoculars that had been placed along the hut’s windows. And my switchboard and receivers started crackling away like a conference of birds.
I gulped down my coffee and grappled with the incoming messages.
Behind me, my Paşa, scanning the battlefield, shouted jubilantly, ‘They’re retreating! They are retreating! Didn’t I say they would? Didn’t I?’
I was getting the same message from all the look-outs. I turned round and shouted, ‘They are retreating! They are!’
My Paşa had burst into a Laz song and was performing some steps with his yiğits.
I kept shouting, ‘They’re retreating! They’re retreating!’
‘Yes, Pepo, my son! They’re retreating!’ Unceremoniously he pulled me off my chair. ‘Come! Dance!’
I did – a few steps. But the crackle of my receivers summoned me back. Every look-out was sending in the same report. The entire Greek army was withdrawing.
My Paşa allowed himself another moment’s joy, then regained his full stature. He turned to the yiğits. ‘Summon my officers!’
He came and sat by my side. ‘Right, Pepo, this is it. The most momentous time of your whole life.’
‘Yes, my Paşa.’
‘Time to pursue them! I’ll be sending out orders by the minute. I want you fully alert.’
I was fully alert. Fatigue and sleeplessness had vanished. The magic of imminent victory. ‘I am, my Paşa. I will be.’
‘This will have been the Greeks’ last offensive. This is the beginning of the end. From now on and until we send the Greeks packing in their boats, you and I will be like Siamese twins.’
‘Yes, my Paşa.’
And so we were. The Greeks withdrew to their old positions by Eskişehir and Afyon Karahisar. As my Paşa had predicted, Sakarya proved to be their last offensive. Throughout winter and the next spring, we prepared for victory.
On 25 August 1922 we engaged the Greeks again.
On 30 August we defeated them at Dumlupιnar and inflicted heavy casualties. They ran towards the Aegean, burning and destroying every field and village in their path, butchering the peasants they came across – mostly the elderly or children, the rest were in the army.
On 9 September the Turkish troops liberated Izmir.
On 10 September my Paşa entered the city.
On 13 September, as the Greeks started taking to their boats in the Urla peninsula, a terrible bloodbath ensued in Izmir. Set on fire by some of its inhabitants, the city witnessed the slaughter of many of its Greek citizens at the hands of the avenging Turks. The city’s military commander just stood by and watched.
By 16 September, when all the Greek forces had left the Turkish mainland – many of them literally having had to swim to their ships – three-quarters of Izmir had burned down and tens of thousands of refugees had either taken refuge in foreign battleships or been evacuated by the Turkish army.
Throughout all those times, I handled the intelligence for my Paşa and sent out his orders. I also conveyed his messages both to the Nationalist parliament in Ankara and to the officials of the foreign powers with whom he had begun to negotiate Turkey’s future.
Then I had an accident. I had been given leave, on the very day that the great fire of Izmir started, so that I could reacquaint myself with my native city and look up relatives and friends. I was in an old residential district, trying to locate a school chum, when the fire, spreading at speed, engulfed the neighbourhood. I joined the people trying to save those trapped in burning houses. We were directed to a Greek orphanage. We went in and brought the children out. As we were guiding them to safety, to the sea front, an explosion occurred. The fire had blown up an ammunition dump nearby. To my right, a wall burst. I was holding a child with each hand. I don’t know what made me do it but I pushed the children to the ground and threw myself on top of them. Chunks of the wall fell on me and crushed my legs. But the children were unharmed.
It took me almost three years to recover.
By then, my Paşa had exchanged his soldier’s uniform
for the garb of a statesman. He had declared Turkey a republic and had become its first president.
But he kept in touch with me. He made sure I was well looked after. He sent me provisions, clothes, books. It was he who introduced me to Nâzιm Hikmet’s poetry. ‘A madman,’ he said, ‘but our kind of madman because he loves Turkey as much as we do.’ He even called me to see him now and again. And after I started work – and until he became ill – he got me to do odd jobs for him.
A final word.
From Sakarya onwards, as I manned the communications for my Paşa day by day, I could see victory ahead. And the growing conviction that Turkey would be saved produced such excitement in me that I never again felt like sleeping.
Nor did I manage to sleep for years afterwards. The horrors of the Greeks’ scorched-earth policy and the revenge taken on them in Izmir and in the Urla peninsula continued to haunt me.
They still do.
6: Yusuf
And His Fruit Was Sweet to My Taste
Sunken boats were a common sight for me. I had seen ranks of them in marinas along the Bosporus, purposefully immersed, ‘having a bath’, as Kaptan Ali, the retired seaman maintained, because boats are flesh and blood, too, and need to keep their planks healthy and stretched.
But the slain ships in Piraeus harbour, jutting out of the water with mangled hulks, reminded me of Mahmut the Simurg’s tale about leviathans dying in abandoned seas because human beings no longer respected life.
It was a balmy day. Mid-June. The third-class deck that we steerage passengers were permitted to use was a sun-trap, yet I felt chilled to the bone.
I began to sob.
To my astonishment, someone clasped me. I turned round.
It was the woman who had been staring at me ever since we had embarked in Istanbul. ‘What’s wrong?’
I pointed at the dead ships. ‘All this destruction ...’