Young Turk

by Moris Farhi

  Then, on 15 July, as we began to despair of an amnesty for Hikmet, he was released.

  Our joy was unsurpassable. It made us believe that defenders of the word could never be defeated, that Fate somehow contrived to protect them, sometimes even used, paradoxically, repressive regimes like that of Menderes, to give them back their pens.

  I spent the rest of the summer mimeographing. Some weeks I barely slept. But I didn’t care. I was permanently euphoric. My hero was free; even more importantly, so were hitherto unknown batches of his work. Hikmet, anxious to publish again, was collecting the poems he had written in prison from those relatives and friends to whom he had given them for safekeeping. Many of these found their way to şιk Ahmet. He, in turn, passed them on to us, the mimeographers. Soon, people heard of these poems and inundated us with requests for copies. This provoked the ever-active reactionary worms to defame Hikmet even more savagely; we, his devotees, were branded as his ‘moujiks, odalisques and catamites’.

  But we, his moujiks, odalisques and catamites, laughed at them. We bared our chests and challenged them to engage us. We told them they were a dying breed; that we had no sympathy for their death throes; we were Atatürk’s children engaged in important work. We even claimed that Atatürk had dearly loved Hikmet and that, but for his death, he would have protected him from the fascists who had gaoled him. And we proclaimed Hikmet’s famous poem from prison to his first wife, Piyale, as our anthem:

  They are the enemies of hope, my love,

  enemies of running water

  of trees fruiting in their season

  of life spreading itself and maturing.

  Because death has stamped their foreheads –

  the rotting teeth, the flaking flesh.

  And certainly, my darling, absolutely certainly,

  freedom

  will roam this beautiful country

  swinging its arms

  dressed in its most glorious habit,

  its workers’ dungarees.3

  Would youth of such calibre give a fuck about armoured generals, bloated politicians and godless men of god?

  The rest of the year streaked away in a gallop.

  My devotion to our clandestine press soon propelled me into Hikmet’s orbit. Here and there, I attended the readings he gave for his friends. Occasionally, I even spoke to him; or rather he spoke to me and I stared at him in awe. As şιk Ahmet had described him, he was Orpheus reincarnated.

  Once, in the grounds of an admirer’s villa, he put his arm around me as if I were his compeer and suggested, as we walked around the orchard, that we free-associate with the feelings that the various fruit trees elicited from us. I stammered some inanities like the mulberry being a nipple that gushed answers to life’s mysteries, the peach a symbol of the perfection of the world and the fig a depository of seeds capable of repopulating the earth. He generously praised these pretentious associations and then remarked that while a fruit was a miracle in itself, the tree that bore it was an even greater miracle. And pointing at the trees around us, he showed me how each one with its singular strength and beauty stood witness to the great, but mysterious design of Creation. His praise of the trees reminded me of the famous lines from Kuvâyi Milliye, his epic about the War of Independence:

  To live like a tree single and free

  And in brotherhood like a forest

  That is our aspiration ...4

  Physically, too, he was the most striking man I have ever met: tall, lively, with a large elongated head, thick Titian hair like a perpetual sunrise and a natural elegance. An ever-present pipe that he either sucked with relish or used like a conductor’s baton enhanced his authority. For me, the trait that really summed him up was the way his eyes constantly smiled – as if he were witnessing a new miracle every time he looked at something. How had the clear blue depths of those eyes withstood, one wondered, the desolation of long years in prison. (A joke doing the rounds at the time thanked Providence for keeping Hikmet and Atatürk apart even though they had been forged in the same crucible, Salonica. For both were so dazzling in appearance that anybody seeing them together would have been confused as to whom to worship.)

  Soon, however, we began to be concerned about his future. He had a heart condition and needed to avoid stress. But, short of funds, and unable to find employment within an Establishment that treated him like a pariah, he and his second wife, Münevver, had had to accept hospitality first from a close comrade, then from his mother. Eventually an old friend had offered him work in a film studio and the Hikmets had moved in to a basement flat.

  Our greatest fear was the constant threat that he might be rearrested and sent to prison again. The government saw his popularity, particularly among intellectuals, left-wing organizations and students, as a likely source of opposition. Consequently, the police kept him under permanent surveillance and, to emphasize the menace, did so openly. Moreover, the fact that he had become an international celebrity – the 2nd World Peace Congress in Warsaw had just awarded him, together with Pablo Neruda, Pablo Picasso, Wanda Jakubowska and Paul Robeson, its peace prize – made him an even more charismatic adversary. (Needless to say, because of the government’s anti-communist stand, he could not travel to Poland to collect the award. Neruda had accepted it on his behalf.)

  By spring 1951, which should have been an exceptionally happy time because his wife had just given birth to their son, Memed, we were at our wits’ end. We kept hearing, on the grapevine, that in defiance of international opprobrium, the authorities were seeking new ways to indict him.

  In response to this threat, some of Hikmet’s closest friends began investigating the possibility of smuggling him out of the country. The USSR was mooted as the most likely country to offer him asylum.

  Then, early in June, the government struck. Hikmet received call-up papers informing him that since his years in prison had interrupted his military service, he was now required to complete that obligation at a posting in eastern Anatolia.

  A day or so later, şιk Ahmet summoned me to his office. He related all the events leading to Hikmet’s conscription: how the poet’s earlier efforts to secure exemption from military service on the grounds of ill health had failed; and how a specially appointed, and therefore skewed, medical committee had found him fully fit. We all knew that eastern Anatolia, where he had to serve, was a mountainous region with extremely harsh winters. Given Hikmet’s heart condition, the posting was a death sentence. He would be dead within six months.

  Then, swearing me to absolute secrecy, şιk Ahmet informed me that he and his friends had devised a plan to whisk Hikmet to the USSR. Bearing in mind the round-the-clock surveillance on the poet, the plan was quite convoluted and required a few auxiliaries to act as decoys. Since these auxiliaries would not be involved with the actual escape, they would not, in all likelihood, face any danger. However, every covert operation, by its very nature, carried a degree of risk and the same held true of this one. If by some mischance something went wrong and the decoys were spotted, they might be arrested, even maltreated.

  There he paused and scrutinized me.

  I engaged his eyes. I had read the question he had left hanging in the air. My heart began to beat frantically. ‘You want me to be one of the decoys?’

  He smiled. ‘You lovely Jew, you!’

  He had addressed me in this manner God only knows how many times. But, on this occasion, it riled me. ‘Why do you always call me that?’

  He stared at me in surprise. ‘Call you what?’

  ‘Jew.’

  ‘Does it offend you?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It sounds anti-semitic. Coming from someone like you, it doesn’t make sense. You don’t address any of the other boys by their race. You don’t call Agop “you lovely Armenian”, or Takis “my devilish Greek” ...’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I’ve never heard you.’

  ‘Haven’t you? I’m sure I do. I certainly do
in my mind.’

  ‘In your mind ...?’

  He became as passionate as when reciting a poem. ‘I do it in celebration. I swear to you. Because it’s like being in a beautiful garden and calling every flower by its name. The joy of pluralism. Of difference. Of diversity.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You don’t look too convinced. And you have a valid point. Why do I call you “Jew” out loud – often without even realizing I’m doing it – and address the others only in my mind?’

  ‘It’s all right, sir. It doesn’t matter ...’

  ‘Matters to me. I’m not anti-semitic. Or am I? I mean, I’m sure I take a person for what he is. And you – I love you like a son. Surely you know that. I’ve watched you develop and guided you with great pride.’

  ‘I know, sir.’

  ‘But ... still, the question remains. Why do I call you “Jew”? Is it in my nature? Am I anti-semitic deep down?’

  I shrugged sadly.

  He nodded solemnly. ‘I’ll think about it. I might have to revise my opinion of myself. And if I have to, I’ll change, I promise you.’

  I perked up. ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘You, nothing. It’s me ...’

  ‘I mean, as a decoy.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ He looked concerned. ‘You’re sure you want to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He beamed. ‘You lovely J ...’ He paused. ‘I don’t know what to call you now ...’

  ‘“Zeki”? Or “young Turk” ...?’

  ‘Right, you lovely young Turk. Are you really sure about this? Things might go wrong. You might get into trouble ...’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘If you’re arrested, they’ll interrogate you. They’ll want to know about me, about the press, the mimeographers, whoever supported Nâzιm ... They might even get rough ...’

  ‘I’ll try and hold out ... But what if they break me ...?’

  ‘We’ll repair you.’

  ‘And if I tell them about you? The others?’

  ‘We’ll suffer the consequences. We’re resigned to that. By then, hopefully, Nâzιm should be safe.’

  I shivered with excitement and trepidation. ‘That’s all that matters.’

  He got up and slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get moving!’

  As we moved towards the door, he stopped me. ‘One thing, young Turk: don’t lose the young Jew. Cherish everybody’s difference. If we all become the same, we’re bound to perish.’

  The next day, at şιk Ahmet’s house, I met the team. (We had finished our exams and were just two days away from the summer break; consequently, attendance at college, both by teachers and students, had become irrelevant.)

  There were two ‘magicians’ – şιk Ahmet’s designation for the people who would whisk Hikmet away – and fifteen decoys, including myself.

  şιk Ahmet had made certain that we, the decoys, came from all walks of life. Symbolically, we represented the diverse peoples of the country to whom Hikmet had given a strong communal voice. Apart from me, there were four other students, all from Istanbul University’s various faculties.

  The ‘magicians’ – Yannis Karolidis, a reputable undertaker said to be rich as Croesus, and Aybek, a Circassian from Trabzon, both middle-aged – were men of such contrasting appearance that, in less momentous circumstances, I would have perceived them as Laurel and Hardy.

  Immediately after the requisite proprieties, Yannis – he was the large man – took the floor. As he strode up and down, collecting his thoughts, I realized how deceptive my first impression of him had been. This was not a flabby Oliver Hardy, but a monolith of solid muscle.

  He introduced himself as one of şιk Ahmet’s old students; one who, though crimped by circumstances into the ranks of mercantile life had, nonetheless, remained faithful to his first love, poetry. Consequently, he considered it a matter of honour to help Hikmet – in his estimation, the greatest poet of our times.

  To this effect – and to his great joy – he would, for once, apply his professional skills to providing an extension to a person’s life instead of returning him to dust. He would arrange a lavish ‘funeral’, ostensibly for a Pontos ağa who had ‘died’ in Istanbul and whose last testament had stated that he should be buried in Çoruk, his place of birth, a village near the Black Sea town of Trabzon.

  Yannis, who was a Pontos himself, reminded us that his people were descended from the kingdom of Trebizond which, after the fall of Constantinople, had stood as the last outpost of the eastern Roman empire for eight more years before it, too, had succumbed to the Ottomans. Yet a sizeable number of these people had remained in the Black Sea area, preserving assiduously both the traditions of the Greek Orthodox Church and the Hellenic vernacular of Byzantium. This was true, in many syncretic ways, even of those offshoots, like his own, that had eventually converted to Islam. Hence the transportation of the remains of a Pontos man, even of the Christian persuasion, to his native village would not be considered inordinate by the authorities.

  And, of course, instead of this fictitious ağa, it would be Hikmet who would be conveyed to within a stone’s throw of Turkey’s north-eastern border with the USSR. Needless to say, the coffin itself would be specially crafted to be airy, easy to get in and out of and comfortable like a bed in a harem. Because of Hikmet’s heart condition, it would not be entrusted to the vagaries of provincial roads. Instead it would be transported, with due pomp and circumstance, by sea. No one would question these arrangements or check the coffin; Yannis’ lavish gratuities to everybody from officials to grave-diggers would make sure of that. On the prescribed day, while Hikmet was well on his way to the USSR, the burial of the empty coffin would take place with due solemnity. And that would be that.

  Then Aybek, the Circassian, took the floor.

  As I watched this man, thin as a rake, present himself as an iş bitirici, a ‘fixer’ of all things impossible, who, to date, had never failed a commission, I also had to revise my first impression of him. Despite his pencil-thin moustache, he seemed to gain weight each time I looked at him. His eyes, almost mauve, like the waters of the Black Sea itself, hypnotized the beholder.

  He spoke briefly. He explained that he ran, among other things, a very profitable contraband racket in the Black Sea area with a select band of Turkish and Soviet border officials. In Trabzon, Yannis would hand Hikmet over to him. And he would duly smuggle him, by car, into the USSR via a road specially built for their trade and omitted from all maps.

  şιk Ahmet concluded. Preparations would take about ten days. Nothing would be left to chance. Aybek would provide the documentation for the ‘deceased’. Yannis would attend to all the formalities; such was the potency of his reputation and purse that he would not even have to find a corpse. For good measure, the ‘funeral’ procession would start as far away from Hikmet’s neighbourhood as possible.

  All the moves would be rehearsed until perfected.

  The first imperative would be to smuggle Hikmet out of his home without alerting the police. This would be executed late at night when, in all likelihood, his surveillants would be either too lethargic or snoozing. However, during the five or six days it would take to transport him to Trabzon and thence to the USSR, Hikmet would have to be seen to be ‘in the house’.

  This is where we, the decoys, were to play our part.

  First and foremost, one of us would have to impersonate Hikmet. His surveillants would need to have frequent glimpses of him playing with his baby son or talking to his wife through the window. And since it was Münevver, with Memed in tow in a pram, who went shopping, Hikmet had also to be seen waving them off and welcoming them back.

  Other decoys would be deployed as admirers. Such was Hikmet’s popularity that there was always a stream of students, writers, poets and film people visiting him. A sudden cessation of this flow would immediately arouse suspicion.

  To my great surprise – and concern – I was the one chosen to impersonate Hikmet. Like him, I was tall
, slim and had a large head. I also had a pale complexion. Equipped with an auburn wig and mimicking the poet’s particular stride, I could look, certainly from a distance, very much like him.

  We set the date of the ‘funeral’ for Saturday 26 June, a few days before Hikmet was due to report for military service.

  We, the decoys, spent the next week or so rehearsing our moves.

  My routine was as follows: I would sneak into Hikmet’s apartment, early in the morning, just before the surveillance teams changed shifts, when those on night duty, impatient to be relieved, would be watching the road instead of the gardens at the back. Once inside, I would put on an auburn wig, don one of Hikmet’s shirts and occasionally appear either at the door to welcome visitors or at the windows, in various moods, but mostly distracted as if in the throes of composing verse.

  After a few days, we noted that my impersonation drew no suspicion from the surveillance teams; they maintained their bored or cursory looks. (This attitude so increased my confidence that, in no time at all, I began to fantasize that I really was Nâzιm Hikmet.)

  Simultaneously, those decoys designated as visitors made regular calls on the apartment. The surveillants duly noted their arrival and departure and, no doubt, filed their descriptions, too.

  We also verified that, as we had expected, those surveillants on night shifts invariably dived into stupor. Most dozed right through the night; a few chain-smoked or stealthily got drunk; some sang softly – always sad songs; and one, a young man, kept going behind a hedge – to masturbate, we presumed.

  On Sunday 17 June, just as I was about to leave for Hikmet’s apartment, şιk Ahmet came round. He looked pale and tense; his nicotine-stained fingers, for once devoid of a cigarette, trembled.