Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature)

by Kulin, Ayse

  FAREWELL

  A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul

  Ayşe Kulin

  Translated by Kenneth J. Dakan

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1 - A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul

  Chapter 2 - Behice, Mehpare and Saralihanim

  Chapter 3 - Sabotage

  Chapter 4 - March 1920

  Chapter 5 - Flight

  Chapter 6 - White Death

  Chapter 7 - The March 16th Disaster

  Chapter 8 - April 1920

  Chapter 9 - July–August 1920

  Chapter 10 - Confrontation

  Chapter 11 - October 1920

  Chapter 12 - On the Farm

  Chapter 13 - At Home

  Chapter 14 - Call of Duty

  Chapter 15 - Reunion

  Chapter 16 - Birth

  Chapter 17 - The Raid

  Chapter 18 - December 31, 1920

  Chapter 19 - February 1921

  Chapter 20 - Broken Wings

  Chapter 21 - September 1922

  Chapter 22 - Flight

  Chapter 23 - Farewell

  Chapter 24 - The Letter

  Notes

  About the Author

  TURKISH LITERATURE SERIES

  Copyright

  – 1 –

  A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul

  Snowfall loses its grandeur out of season. Instead of transforming Istanbul into a shimmering city of mother-of-pearl, the snow—which had arrived at the end of a long and arduous winter, just as the flowers were expected to bloom—resembled confectioners’ sugar haphazardly scattered across the muddy streets and peeling wooden houses. In the Beyazit district, the driver of a two-horse carriage—his face red, his fingers numb with cold—drew back on his reins at the top of the second street leading down to the sea. The carriage slid several yards before stopping. Wary of shod hooves on patches of ice, the passenger, Ahmet Reşat, had decided to spare the horses and finish his trip home on foot. He descended from the carriage, paid the driver, and picked his way with cautious footsteps down the street, across the scattered snow. Soon it would be time for the morning call to prayer. Reşat Bey was worn out—his meeting had been prematurely concluded, the participants far too exhausted to think, let alone speak. He paused for a moment in the middle of the street, silently praying that his wife was still asleep, before slipping into the stately home on the right. He was in no condition, at this early hour, to answer questions.

  His fingers had barely grazed the garden gate when it opened beneath them. “Good morning, sir,” said Hüsnü Efendi.

  “What are you doing in the garden at this hour,” said Reşat. “Didn’t I tell you all not to wait up for me?”

  “I was getting up to pray in any case. And I saw you from the window. You’re worn out, sir.”

  “Of course I am. How many days have we all gone without sleep? God help us.”

  “Amen.”

  The look Ahmet Reşat gave his manservant was intended to reassure. Not only were Hüsnü Efendi’s eyes filled with anxiety, he was obstructing his master’s passage.

  “There’s no bad news, Hüsnü Efendi—business, that’s all that kept me. Business. Go on now, pray. Off with you.”

  Hüsnü raced ahead to open the front door. Stepping across the threshold, Ahmet Reşat caught a sharp whiff of disinfectant. He grimaced, sank down on the footstool beside the door, removed his shoes and placed his fez on the appointed shelf, handed his coat to Hüsnü, and entered the selamlık in stocking feet. Hoping to nap for a few hours, he threw himself onto the divan before the window, face down, resting his forehead in the cupped palms of his hands. He had a splitting headache. Casting from his mind the discussions and events of the previous twenty-four hours, he tried to relax as Mahir had counseled him—clearing his mind, taking deep breaths. He drew one, released it slowly . . . and another . . . and another. Yes, his friend’s advice had been sound. He stretched and yawned, rolling onto his back, placing the cushion he’d tossed to the floor beneath his head. But he’d barely dozed off when he was startled by the tobacco-coarsened voice of his aunt.

  “What kind of person stays out until this hour, with an invalid in the house?”

  Collecting himself as he sat up, Reşat muttered, “It’s not for my own pleasure.”

  “Well then, what exactly is it that’s been keeping you away until dawn?”

  “You know the state of affairs.”

  “Affairs of state are best handled by day, my son. Nights are for prayer, for sleep. Your grandfathers’ duties were no less exalted than yours, but come night they slept in their own beds.”

  “And how lucky they were that our country wasn’t under occupation, Aunt.”

  “That’s all I hear—the occupation! What’s done is done. There’s no fighting the past or death. But your nephew, he’s still alive. Less concern for the health of the nation and more for my grandson, if you will. He coughed all night again. Soon he’ll be spitting up blood. He needs to get to the hospital directly. Today.”

  “But he’d recovered—aren’t you exaggerating?”

  “Don’t believe me, Reşat? Night after night he coughs, and you’re not around to hear it. I’ve been trying to catch you for days. Kemal’s cough syrup is nearly gone, and we’re running low on coal. We can’t even heat the house properly.”

  “I’ll see if there’s any syrup left in the Pera pharmacies. As for the coal, Aunt, even the Palace is running short. We’ll have to burn wood.”

  “But there isn’t any wood to be had, either. And we’ve got to keep Kemal’s floor warm.”

  “Have the gardener chop down the trees at the end of the garden.” Ahmet Reşat got up from the divan and patted his aunt on the back.“I’ll go have a look at Kemal,” he said.

  “Looking at him won’t help. Take him to the hospital.”

  “You know that’s not possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’d be arrested on the spot. His photograph’s been posted for months; he’d be recognized immediately.”

  “Are you calling my grandson a traitor? Which of you went off to freeze in that white hell? Which of you took up arms for the nation? He’s a traitor—the rest of you are heroes. Is that it?”

  “I’m no hero. But the police aren’t looking for me, either.”

  “The government that issued his arrest warrant has fallen, hasn’t it? Does the present government have the power of decree? What are you so afraid of?”

  “Aunt, governments rise and fall, but the Sultan remains.”

  “All I know is that Kemal needs medical attention. Now.”

  “Look, you brought him into this house without my knowledge or consent, and I turned a blind eye for your sake. So he wouldn’t be suffering out on the streets. But don’t expect me to jeopardize my family. If it’s consumption, there’s nothing the hospital can do for him beyond the customary tending. Thanks to you, Kemal is well cared for here at home: Mehpare is at his bedside night and day. We’ll do our best to get him medicine. I beg you, let’s end this discussion once and for all.”

  “Reşat, you rat!”

  As his aunt stormed from the room towards the staircase, Ahmet Reşat sank back onto the divan, his newly throbbing head cupped helplessly in his hands.

  Ahmet Reşat was indeed besieged by a host of troubles. His fugitive nephew couldn’t be taken in for treatment, and the only doctor they could call was Mahir, a close family friend. Were it to become known that Ahmet Reşat was sheltering Kemal, he would face immediate exile, with no regard for his explanati
ons, his years of service, or his position. He was caught between his oblivious and aging aunt and the protests of his wife, who was terrified that their children would be infected with consumption. The two women agreed that Kemal should be sent to the hospital, if for very different reasons. Kemal’s condition wasn’t improving at home. The disastrous misadventure of Sarıkamış had left him a broken man. Guilty of politically-motivated crimes, the scalawag had sided first with the partisans of the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP); when they were swept to power after the revolution of 1908, he’d turned his back on them, alienating not only CUP supporters but their opponents as well. Kemal was a true liberal, and the rift with CUP had been wide. But the damage had been done, and he would be forever associated with their cause. In fact, information of an unsettling nature had recently reached Ahmet Reşat: some of his colleagues had taken to referring to Kemal as “Reşat’s mutinous nephew.”

  While the nephew may, in fact, have deserved all the contempt he received, the uncle did not. Kemal had been mired in trouble since his first day at the lycée, associating with agitators from the Young Turks to the Masons. He’d also become friendly with opposition writers, going so far as to have articles published under his own name in a magazine known to be disagreeable to the Palace.

  Kemal had been thrilled when CUP took over the reins of governance, but it hadn’t been long before he’d made enemies of them as well. So much so, that he had volunteered to battle the Russians in faraway Sarıkamış just to get away from them—as well as to serve the homeland, of course.

  But Kemal and thousands of his fellow soldiers had had no idea of what awaited them in the North. Istanbul’s soldiers departed from Haydarpaşa Station to the accompaniment of fluttering handkerchiefs, a marching band, prayers, votive offerings, and the sacrificial slaughter of livestock. The pomp and high spirits proved to be short-lived. First came the long train ride to the furthest reaches of Anatolia, where mobilization to the front continued in the ice, by oxcart. When the soldiers finally reached camp, the hell that greeted them wasn’t one of flame, but rather of glacial whiteness—a scalding cold that burned their arms and legs and faces, that raised blisters and opened wounds on their unprotected skin.

  Few of them managed to survive the catastrophe of Sarıkamış. Kemal’s relatives had braced themselves for news of his death, and were relieved to learn that he’d merely been captured. Nine months later they found him in front of the garden gate, barely alive, physically shattered. While they’d succeeded in slowly nursing his broken body back to health through many months of treatment at the hospital, followed by a year of devoted care at home, all the patience in the world had failed to heal his spirit.

  Ahmet Reşat had disapproved of his nephew’s imprudence, but, in light of the boy’s sufferings in Sarıkamış, he did his best to forgive and forget. Allah had spared his life and reunited him with his family; perhaps the Palace would be equally forgiving—surely he regretted his foolhardiness. Kemal was well-educated, well-versed in languages; he’d seen the world; he was a skilled writer: surely he could be of use as a translator? Through the force of his good name and connections at the Palace, Ahmet Reşat had managed to secure a position and save his nephew. But sadly, this solution hadn’t lasted.

  Kemal’s sufferings seemed to have taught him nothing: this time, he got himself mixed up with the Nationalists. Even as the uncle was applying for clemency to the Grand Vizier himself, the incorrigible nephew was penning articles critical of the government for publication in the Vakit and Akşam broadsheets—again, under his own name. Finally, the palace issued an arrest warrant.

  Reşat Bey had absolved himself of any responsibility for his nephew, and promptly evicted him.

  He’d been enraged to discover that Saraylıhanım had smuggled her grandson, whose health had deteriorated once more, back into the house, and secretly installed him in the attic with the servants. More than anything, Reşat was furious with his wife for having colluded with her. He could well imagine how his aunt had cajoled, bribed and threatened the rest of the household into silence, but surely Behice wasn’t so easily bullied. As he listened to her defending herself through a flood of tears, he couldn’t decide if she’d been motivated by pity, as she claimed, or if it was the extremely valuable diamond brooch, presented to his aunt some years ago by one of the Sultan’s adoptive mothers—a Circassian, if memory served—that had finally won her over. Reşat knew only too well that his aunt was as adept at bribery as his wife was fond of baubles. Still, his conscience wouldn’t permit him to throw his convalescent nephew back into the streets, and so he was allowed to remain in the servants’ quarters until he had regained his health.

  Ahmet Reşat was drifting away from his family. It had been weeks since he’d seen his daughters or spoken to his wife. He would arrive home while everyone was asleep and set off for work in the early morning darkness, before anyone else was awake. So removed was he from the grievances and tribulations of his household that he felt as though he lived in another city.

  Reşat sighed. These domestic worries were nothing compared to the trials his country was facing. The city had been under occupation for nearly two years. High Commissioner Admiral Somerset Arthur Gough-Calthrope, who had signed the Armistice of Mudros on behalf of Britain, had promised Rauf Bey, his Ottoman counterpart, that no foreign forces would be deployed in Istanbul. He had failed to keep his word. The Allies had set in motion their secret plan to dismember the Ottoman Empire.

  The invaders’ fleet of fifty-five warships had dropped anchor in the Bosphorus just nine days after the leaders of the Committee of Union and Progress—that unfortunate trio of pashas mocked as “The Father, the Son and The Holy Ghost”—Enver, Talat and Cemal—had fled into exile. Troops were dispatched into the streets of Istanbul without delay.

  Clutching Greek flags, throngs of Hellenic Ottomans turned out to give the invaders’ ships a boisterous welcome. Even worse, in the dark month of February, the wretched residents of Istanbul were forced to endure the cries of joy and the raucous applause of the minority populace as the French commander pranced the entire length of Grand Rue de Pera, a strutting conqueror on a white steed.

  The Ottoman Empire had begun to pay a heavy toll for decades of errors. The Christian minorities of Istanbul were cooperating with the occupiers. Muslims were denounced at every opportunity; occasional shows of resistance were quashed and the ring-leaders subjected to horrific torture at the city’s police stations. The Muslim residents of Istanbul were cowed, drained, distraught. To make matters worse, demoralizing accounts of the rowdy behavior of the Senegalese soldiers were becoming exaggerated into rumors of general ill treatment of Muslims at the hands of the minorities, who were even said to be tearing at women’s veils.

  While most of the rumors might have been false, they contained certain unbearable truths. Homes were undeniably being seized for billeting troops, and the conceited and arrogant English didn’t hesitate to humiliate and rough up not just members of the general public, but government officials—members of parliament and ministers of state. Because pashas Ali Rıza, Salih Hulusi and Tevfik—the successive holders of the office of Grand Vizier during the occupation—had surreptitiously resisted the conditions outlined in the Amnesty, pressure from the English had led to their removal from office. Ordinary citizens had begun to face harassment at the hands of their neighbors. Fifteen days earlier, Dilruba Hanım, a distant relative, had set off to visit the home of Reşat Bey. Sitting in a tram car she was poked in the shoulder by a madam and ejected from her seat with the words, “You’ve been sitting for long enough, Hanım; now it’s our turn.” In tears, the poor woman had flung herself from the tram at the next stop and walked all the way to Beyazıt.

  Despite the provocations, the oppression, some were still determined to resist the occupiers. The states of Europe had received official notification of the establishment of a less compliant, rival government in Ankara. And while it was true that the Istanbul Government
had issued a death sentence for one Mustafa Kemal, signed by the Sultan himself, no one dared to travel to Ankara to arrest the leader of the Turkish national movement and self-styled chairman of the new parliament. In fact, certain members of the Cabinet were known to be secretly wishing for his success.

  Resistance was all well and good, Ahmet Reşat thought to himself, but without arms and soldiers, it was an exercise in futility. Certain adventurers imagined they could liberate not only Istanbul, but all of our lands—and backed only by half-starved, ill-clothed troops completely exhausted by eight years of combat on a thousand and one fronts. They were doomed from the start.

  After a futile search through his jacket pockets for his cigarette case, Ahmet Reşat let loose an oath and blushed, even though he was alone in the room. Events beyond his control were turning him into an irritable man. Yes, he’d changed. He’d never been one for swearing, but now found that curses leapt to his lips with startling regularity. He was smoking more frequently. If his limbs felt heavy when he finally arrived home—and that was almost always the case these days—he’d taken to indulging in a single glass of rakı just before bed, the sharp scent of anise on his breath supplying his wife with yet another pretext for complaint. He himself was unhappy with his new vices, but these were trying times, demeaning, demanding days. The Treasury was unable to pay the salaries of its civil servants: the Ottomans were up to their necks in debt. Ahmet Reşat found himself having to answer to creditors every blessed day. All signs pointed a doubling of the yawning budget deficit of the previous year. Compensation for the alleged losses suffered in the World War would push that figure higher still.

  Rising again, Ahmet Reşat began to stretch, pacing the length of the small room. If he went up to bed, he’d awaken his wife. His daughters were also certain to be asleep. The wooden treads of the staircase squeaked horribly, alerting light sleepers to any descent to the kitchen, the hamam, or the tiled entry hall. This was yet another item in his wife’s litany of complaints. “Saraylıhanım is sitting with her ears pricked up yet again, trying to tell whether or not we’re going down to the hamam,” she’d grouse. But how to afford replacing the worm-shot wood or having the creaky hinges oiled?