Young Turk

by Moris Farhi

  Yet, as I walked through Pompeii’s ancient streets, I had the feeling that I was in a living city – and, strangely, one that I knew well, as if I had visited it recently. Old Fuat was not surprised; he had heard that in some people, past and present desolations commingle. Thus I felt that the inhabitants were only temporarily absent, perhaps on an outing or having their siesta, and that, in a few moments, they would emerge and go about their daily business, paying little attention to Mount Vesuvius above them, which was busily preparing their deaths.

  So I roamed the ruins as if expecting a recurrence of that eruption on 24 August 79 ce, when ash and pyroclastic rubble engulfed the city in a matter of hours. I registered only odd details, like the distortions in a road or the shape of the amphitheatre uncannily mirroring the volcano’s crater, or the colonnade in the Forum that looked as if it had been built only yesterday. And wherever I stood, Vesuvius, snorting and blowing smoke like an Edward G. Robinson of volcanoes, kept warning me that it had last erupted just three years before, in 1944, and might do so again on a whim.

  Then Saadet screamed.

  An interminable scream.

  It was the scream, I imagined, of a person set on fire. The scream that persists until the blaze vaporizes the victim’s saliva. The scream Pompeii had left behind for posterity. The scream the martyrs of the Spanish Inquisition tried to raise in autos-da-fé when they were unable to beat down the flames consuming their bodies with hands that had been tied to redemptive crucifixes. The scream of countless innocents reduced to ash in extermination camps.

  I spun round.

  Saadet was running – away from the museum. She looked panic-stricken. Every few strides, she changed direction as if only by fleeing nowhere could she feel safe.

  I had been in the museum shortly before, but had seen nothing unusual: some pottery, some artefacts, a man and a child preserved by petrified ash.

  Old Fuat, who had been smoking outside the museum, chased after Saadet.

  I followed.

  When we caught up with her, she flailed and screamed in frenzy.

  Old Fuat, locking his arms around her, whispered soothingly, ‘Sssshhh ... Sssshhhh ...’

  Gradually she calmed down. She began to cry.

  Old Fuat lowered her on to the grass. He folded his jacket into a pillow and made her lie down. ‘Cry, dear heart. As much as you need. We’re here.’

  I sat down, too, and held Saadet’s hand. She didn’t pull away.

  We stayed like that for some time. Saadet dozed off. Now and again, she shivered.

  Then our group began to assemble.

  Saadet stirred. She kissed Old Fuat’s hand and hugged me; then, seeing that we still looked worried, she tried to explain. ‘The figure of the boy ... preserved in ash ... I couldn’t help it ... I thought of my son ...’

  The next day, Saadet kept to herself.

  I invented countless excuses to get up to the third-class deck where she had withdrawn, to keep an eye on her. Much of the time, she sat on a bollard and stared into herself. She had not spoken since Pompeii.

  I felt bereft. We were on our penultimate day. In less than forty hours, we would reach Marseilles and go our different ways. In all probability, I would never see her again, never enjoy the feeling of being like a son to her.

  But the next morning, she called me over. Though still strained, she looked more composed. We spent the day playing cards and dominoes, chatting, sunbathing and snoozing.

  Then, after dinner, when people had vacated the refectory, she asked Old Fuat to join us. She had brought a notebook and a pencil. ‘Let’s keep in touch. Give me your addresses.’

  Old Fuat and I did so eagerly.

  Saadet handed us slips of paper where she had written down hers.

  Old Fuat noted that Saadet’s address carried another name. ‘Won’t your husband let you receive letters?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he?’

  ‘This is care of somebody. Advocate Vitali Behar.’

  It was a name I knew well. ‘You mean the lawyer? He lives near us ... He has a son, Zeki ...’

  Saadet nodded. ‘He’s an old friend of the family ... Let me explain ...’ She brought out a bottle of Greek brandy and took a large gulp. ‘I’ve been meaning to ... I don’t want you to think I’m mad ...’ She offered the bottle to us. ‘When you need it – nothing better than brandy ...’

  Old Fuat took a sip. So did I, manfully.

  ‘He’s a very decent person, Abdülkerim, my husband. He was a widower. A lot older than me. But I do love him. And I get on well with his sons and daughters. They’re all married. With children of their own. Seven, to date. I look upon them as my own grandchildren. Especially the very young ones – born after I came on the scene ... We married only recently, you see. Two years ago ...’

  Old Fuat tried to make a joke. ‘Still the blushing bride, eh?’

  Saadet gave a gentle smile. ‘Abdülkerim is my second husband. My first marriage was in Paris. In ’28. To a Turkish Jew. I had a son. Born in ’35.’ She stroked my cheek. ‘He’d be almost your age now – maybe just as handsome ...’

  I interjected without thinking, ‘The son you lost because you were careless ...?’

  Saadet’s eyes clouded. Hurriedly, she took another sip of brandy. ‘Yes ...’

  I bit my lip. I felt troubled. I didn’t want to hear her story. But I had to.

  ‘I was mad about my first husband, Efraim Pesah. As The Song of Songs says, “His fruit was sweet to my taste.” I’ve never loved anybody the way I loved him. Not even, I’m ashamed to say, my son, İshak. Efraim loved me just as much. Probably more. He had an immense capacity for love ...

  ‘He was from a poor family. But he was bright. He received a scholarship from the Alliance Israélite and learned perfect French. In the early years of the republic, when unemployment was rife, he emigrated to France. Took any job that came his way. But kept his eyes open. Eventually, he saw there was a market for oriental carpets and objets d’art. So he went into partnership with a cousin in Edirne and began importing. It proved a great success.

  ‘That’s how we met. I had just graduated from the Academy of Fine Arts and was working for an auctioneer in Istanbul. Efraim came to one of our sales and bought several items. I helped him with the export formalities. We took to each other instantly. He asked me whether, occasionally, he could consult me about Ottoman antiques. I had some expertise in that field. I was flattered and, naturally, said yes.

  ‘A couple of months later, he invited me to Paris. He was furnishing an apartment for a wealthy Egyptian and wanted ideas. I suggested a few items. The Egyptian loved them. Efraim took me to Biarritz in celebration ...

  ‘Two weeks later we married.

  ‘I moved to Paris.

  ‘The business flourished. Became international. We went all over Europe. And America. We became rich ... And carefree because Vitali Behar – whom Efraim had befriended when Vitali was studying law in Paris – was managing our affairs perfectly.

  ‘Then we decided to crown our happiness with a child.

  ‘We had İshak ...

  ‘That’s when I started worrying. We were so happy. And we had everything. I began to fear: this can’t last. Fate is seldom generous. When it floods you with blessings, that’s a warning that years of tribulation lie ahead ...

  ‘I was right, needless to say.

  ‘Suddenly, the war.

  ‘What appals me is we knew what Hitler was up to. During trips to Germany, we saw how the Nazis were treating the Jews. We ignored it. We should have packed our bags and run back to Turkey, as Vitali kept begging us to do. But we were so bound up in each other we didn’t pause to think.

  ‘And, unforgivably, we had brought İshak into the world. One more Jew for Hitler. Though, strictly speaking, he was not a Jew because I, his mother, was a Muslim. But try and tell that to the Gestapo ...

  ‘Before we knew it, Paris was occupied.

  ‘The French authorities, co-operating with the
Nazis, began to round up the Jews. When they confiscated our apartment, we came to our senses. We ran from one dark corner to another. Everywhere we faced blackmail, denunciation, arrest, deportation.

  ‘Then Efraim heard that the Turkish government was saving Jews – particularly Jews of Turkish origin. Repatriating them. Hiring trains because the seas were unsafe. So we rushed to the consulate.

  ‘They welcomed us. Efraim – who had allowed his Turkish passport to lapse – and İshak – whom we hadn’t bothered to register – were given new passports. Mine, though still valid, was renewed for good measure. And they booked us on the next train: 14 March 1943.

  ‘It was a Sunday. A day when the Gestapo and the police were doubly alert because on Sundays people took to the streets and Jews seeking hideouts tried to blend with the crowds.

  ‘Departure was at seven in the evening. We set out in the late afternoon, hoping that, by that time, surveillance would have slackened. But as we approached the Gare de l’Est, we saw it was teeming with Gestapo and police. It hadn’t occurred to us that departures to Turkey would be strictly checked for stowaways.

  ‘Efraim urged us on. We had nothing to fear. Our passports were genuine and we were on the consulate’s passenger list.

  ‘İshak clung to my hand.

  ‘As we approached the checkpoint, a German sentry smiled at İshak. It was a pleasant smile – the sort you get from someone who likes children. But it frightened İshak. ‘He thinks I’m Jewish,’ he said.

  ‘Wanting to calm him down with a cuddle – he loved being cuddled – I let go of his hand.

  ‘That’s all I did. I let go of his hand. For a fraction of a second. To cuddle him.

  ‘That was my mistake. That’s how I was careless.

  ‘I don’t know whether he thought by releasing his hand I was telling him to run away. But that’s what he did. He ran off.

  ‘Efraim ran after him.

  ‘And so, of course, did the sentries.

  ‘By the time I collected myself, Efraim and İshak had been bundled into a van and driven away.

  ‘I rushed at the sentries. I shouted dementedly. Tried to hit them. They responded brutally. Punched me. Hit me with their rifles. I thought they’d kill me. I wanted them to kill me.

  ‘The Turkish consul saved me. He had recognized me and rushed over to help. The Turks were determined no harm would come to their Jews. So they supervised the departures. Even stationed officials all along the route to make sure no one would be taken off the trains.

  ‘The consul took charge. The authorities insisted I board the train. I refused. I was going nowhere without my family. The consul was sympathetic. He asked where Efraim and İshak had been taken. They told him it would be Drancy – just outside Paris, where the Nazis had set up a transit camp. The consul summoned his car. We would go there and he would personally secure their release.

  ‘But Efraim and İshak had not been taken to Drancy.

  ‘We spent weeks searching for them. Went back and forth to Drancy – just in case they had been sent there later. On two occasions, we saw Jews being loaded into cattle-trucks for dispatch to concentration camps.

  ‘Some two months later, the consul was informed that, immediately after their arrest, Efraim and İshak had been rushed to the border and put on a transport on its way to a camp. There was nothing the Turkish authorities could do except protest vehemently.

  ‘The consul tried to console me. Advised me to wait for the war to end. Told me the concentration camps could not be as bad as they were said to be. Both Efraim and İshak were healthy and should survive their incarceration.

  ‘So I went back to Turkey and waited for the war to end. When it did, I learned the truth about the camps. Though I felt sure Efraim and İshak had perished, I still registered their names with Displaced Persons agencies.

  ‘Then in December 1945 I received notification that, according to a Gestapo document, both Efraim and İshak had died while being transported from one camp to another. A death march, by all accounts ...

  ‘By then, I was working for Abdülkerim. He runs an antique business. We had become good friends. He was kind, caring, understanding. And lonely. A widower, as I mentioned before. When I told him Efraim was dead, he proposed marriage.

  ‘I accepted. What else could I do? I had no strength left. My spirit had wasted away. I was all alone. Worse, I had no one to love. Or care for. Or to look after. I might as well have been dead. Yet somewhere a part of me insisted that I live.

  ‘Abdülkerim and Vitali dealt with the formalities. I became a widow – officially. Then we got married.

  ‘Then, last month, Displaced Persons contacted me. They had found a man in a mental institution in Colmar, in Alsace, who spoke Turkish and fitted Efraim’s description. Despite his darkened mind, they had established that he had been in a concentration camp and somehow survived. Could I come and check?

  ‘You can imagine my shock ...

  ‘And my confusion ... What was I to do?

  ‘Abdülkerim decided for me. See this man, he said. Otherwise he’ll haunt us for the rest of our lives ...

  ‘That’s what I’m doing ...

  ‘And I’m terrified ...

  ‘I keep imagining I’ll find a man – like the dead in Pompeii – fossilized by ash ...’

  Next morning Saadet and I met early so that, on Old Fuat’s recommendation, we could enjoy the magnificent sight of entering Marseilles harbour.

  Her disclosure – ‘confession’, she called it – had revitalized us. Particularly me, though I hadn’t wanted to hear it. It had, in fact, brought us closer. As she later told me, she could express her feelings for me without the fear that she was betraying her son’s memory. And I could adopt her as the mother I would have loved to have by accepting that some mothers, like my own mother, find parenthood difficult because of their own histories and upbringing.

  And so we felt stronger and, therefore, more able to live with unhappiness. Marseilles, we kept telling each other, would open a new page for us. She would ascertain that the man in the mental institution was not her first husband – how could he be? – and go back to Abdülkerim with a clear conscience. I, young Odysseus, would complete my rite of passage and emerge as a person everybody, not least myself, would be proud to know.

  I noted, as we entered the harbour, that there were no sunken ships. I took that as a good omen.

  But the dock was still in ruins. People who had come to meet passengers thronged the rubble in ragged lines.

  Then I saw my uncle. I recognized him by his bushy hair, a family trait. I waved wildly. He spotted me, dived into the throng and surfaced with my father. They both shouted, ‘We’ve got passes. We’ll come up ...’

  Something – maybe my joy at seeing my father – upset Saadet. She squeezed my hand, then ran off.

  Hours later, after the passengers had disembarked and the crew had begun preparations for the return journey, we were still aboard. Saadet had locked herself in a toilet and would not come out until the ship set sail back to Turkey.

  Old Fuat and I sat on the floor, sharing her anguish. The captain, a couple of his officers, my father and my uncle paced the corridor. Having heard Saadet’s story, they, too, were sympathetic – particularly my uncle, who, having spent the war years hiding in monasteries, was a survivor himself. Nonetheless, as men who prided themselves on being practical, they tried hard to resolve her problem.

  But Saadet’s conflict was beyond them – even I understood that. She had not, as they thought, simply lost her courage. Knowing all that she knew about concentration camps, she could not, she felt, summon the strength to meet someone who had survived them. And if, by some twist of fate, the survivor did turn out to be Efraim – what then? How could she, who had not shared his horrors, face him? And even if she did face him, what could she do? Could she touch him? Look after him? Where could she take him? Home? Which one? The one in Paris – if, that is, they could reclaim it? Or to Abdülkerim’s? And what abou
t Abdülkerim? What would she do about him? And about their marriage? Where would they stand legally?

  So she had decided to leave things as they were. And go back to Abdülkerim. To live a sort of life – with fewer and fewer memories, if lucky; and if not, by returning to that inner sanctum where she kept herself locked up with the ghosts of Efraim and İshak.

  In the end, it was I who offered a solution. I suggested that we all go with her. That way she would not have to face her ordeal on her own; she would feel more confident.

  Both my father and my uncle thought it a sensible suggestion, but they were unable to comply. My uncle had to get back to work. My father had to take me to Paris, where my mother and our relatives were waiting. We were due to return to Turkey soon and we needed to devote all our time to the family.

  I proposed a compromise: my father and uncle could leave and I would accompany Saadet. I would rejoin the family when her crisis was over – all being well, in a day or so.

  We argued for a while. I suddenly realized that I had developed the will to stand up for myself. So I prevailed. I even obtained the satisfaction of having my father, who normally just kissed and hugged me, shake my hand.

  An hour later, Saadet, having equally failed to convince me to leave with my father, emerged from the toilet. She gazed at me for a long time, then kissed my hand. I felt I had become not only a son to her, but also a guardian.

  The moment we entered the ward, the patients grew distressed. Some screamed abuse and tried to chase us out. Others begged us to claim them as brothers, fathers, sons. Yet others, exposing their genitals, importuned us.

  The doctor pointed at an emaciated figure on a bed at the far end.

  Earlier, he had told us to brace ourselves. We would meet a person who was very frail and immensely disturbed, whose eyes, in so far as it could be ascertained, had turned permanently inward. In all likelihood, it was that inner world – miasmic or paradisal, unfathomable as yet – that somehow had kept him alive.