Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature)

by Kulin, Ayse

  What a shame, what a terrible shame! The officers of a mighty empire spanning half a millennium had been reduced to saluting lowly Greek privates. And the royal patronage of the Sultan had been extended to organizations clamoring for Shari’a. No, this was going too far! Things had reached breaking point; well, let them snap.

  “Son,” he wearily said to Kemal, “our people are divided in two: there are those who believe we must take up arms against the invaders, and those who believe it prudent to rely on diplomacy to soften the terms of the armistice. I’m fully aware that our finances can not endure another war, for which reason I have consistently counted myself among the latter group. But the events of recent months have convinced me it’s in our interests to support those who want to fight.”

  “Now that you’ve seen the truth, please help us.”

  Ahmet Reşat went to his nephew’s side and whispered his next words.

  “The coffers are bare. If it’s money for arms you want, there isn’t any.”

  “We’re not looking for monetary assistance. What we will need is the authorization and blessings of the government. That’s when we’ll apply to you for help.”

  “And when you do, I’ll be of assistance any way I can.”

  “Thank you. I knew that one day . . .” Kemal kissed his uncle’s hand and pressed it to his forehead “You’ve always been the father I never knew. Young as you were, you looked after me, you brought me, you forgave me my mistakes. If I’d been forced to leave this house without your blessing, and died somehow, I’d have had no one to close my eyes for me. But I’m at ease now. You’ve made me very happy.”

  “When are you going, my boy?” asked Ahmet Reşat. “I’m awaiting word. I’ll go the moment I receive it.”

  “I’ll be thinking of you. Wondering how you are. And my aunt will weep for you every day. We’ll be a worried house again, a house of suffering.”

  “I returned from Sarıkamış; surely I’ll be able to return from Bakırköy.”

  “But weren’t you going to Anatolia?”

  “Later. When the time comes. Along with supplies . . .”

  “God speed you on your way,” said Ahmet Reşat, “and don’t tell anyone else until the day you leave.”

  “I may be going in a few weeks.”

  “Well at least we’ll have a few more weeks of calm. The women of the house are going to be in an uproar, and I don’t have the strength to endure it just yet.”

  The two men fell silent when Leman entered with some sheet music.

  “Look what the doctor sent me, Father.”

  “Oh, did he really? But Mahir Bey’s left, hasn’t he?”

  “An orderly just brought it. If I’m able to learn all the pieces inside, I’ll surprise him when he gets back.”

  “Well, you’d better get to it.”

  “Did he tell you when he was returning?” Leman said. “When his work is done.”

  “When will it be done?”

  “How am I supposed to know, Leman. The hospitals are overflowing with patients who’ve contracted everything from typhus to trachoma. He may not be back for some time.”

  “May God protect him.”

  “God looks after doctors,” said Kemal, “just as He looks after children.”

  “I’m not so certain God looks after anyone anymore,” Ahmet Reşat said. Kemal glanced at his uncle with raised eyebrows. His uncle had never been one for gloomy pronouncements. His disillusionment with the Sultan appeared to have spread.

  Mehpare’s back was cramped with constant bending and her fingertips had gone numb wrapping parcels. The contents of the salon, the office, and every bedroom in the enormous mansion had been tied into bundles. While she admired the many precious objects, Mehpare was thankful that her own house was less ostentatious. The foreigners had passed over the less grand mansions, with smaller gardens, that lined the street. Otherwise, finance minister or not, Ahmet Reşat and his family might have found themselves out on the pavement one winter’s day. The English had seized the Taksim house of a family friend, Şakir Pasha. They’d been forced to move to their summer house on Büyükada Island, in the Sea of Marmara, in the dead of winter. Were the same thing to happen to Ahmet Reşat, they’d have no choice but to move to the island as well . . . And freeze to death. It had been difficult enough to heat the city mansion, and the cold northern winds sweeping across the pine-topped hills of the island would have killed Kemal, while causing Saraylıhanım and the girls to come down with pneumonia at best. Mehpare silently mouthed a prayer of thanksgiving she’d learned from Saraylıhanım; then she touched wood and tugged her right earlobe for good measure.

  “We’re both exhausted. Let’s stop for some tea,” Azra said as she struggled to secure the ends of a bed sheet she’d wrapped around a large Acem carpet.

  “Let me help you,” Mehpare offered, disposing of the task in a trice. Then they settled themselves side by a side on a sofa swathed in calico. “Could you bring each of us a tea, Housekeeper Nazik? The alcohol stove and teapot should still be in their old places,” Azra said.

  With the housekeeper out of the room, Azra and Mehpare were alone for the first time. Mehpare seized the opportunity to speak.

  “Azra Hanım,” she began, looking directly into the young woman’s blue eyes, “I wonder if I could speak frankly with you for a moment.”

  “What about, Mehpare?”

  “I have something to say about Kemal Bey.”

  “Please,” Azra nodded, prepared to retort sharply when Mehpare asked about her relationship with Kemal.

  “You may have guessed, Azra Hanım, what I want to ask of you.”

  “What?”

  “You may not appreciate the extent of Kemal’s illness, both physical and . . .”

  “I’m well aware, Mehpare.”

  “You’re not aware of everything, efendim. He was bedridden for two years. His lungs are weak. As are his kidneys.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because if he falls ill again he won’t recover. He’ll die. Doctor Mahir has told me as much. Other doctors have said the same.”

  “Then continue to tend him well. I’ve noticed how attentive you are.”

  “Azra Hanım, I’m begging you, don’t drag him into this dangerous business.”

  “What are you saying? What dangerous business?”

  “You know what I mean. You’re a clever woman. I know you’re working for the good of the country. I commend you for it. But if Kemal Bey were to leave our house, catch cold, wear himself out . . . He’d get ill and . . . and . . . I can’t say it. He’s already served his country. He was in the war. Please, leave him out of this. I’m begging you, Azra Hanım.”

  “You’re worn out. You don’t know what you’re saying, Mehpare.”

  “Tell me, I’ll do whatever it is you want him to do. I’m healthy; I’m strong.”

  “I don’t want anyone to do anything. That’s enough. Please stop talking nonsense.” Azra sprang to her feet and began pacing the room.

  “I’m upset enough as it is today, preparing to turn my home over to the enemy, and then this. The housekeeper will bring your tea. You’ve been of sufficient help to me, Mehpare, and you’re free to go home when you’ve drunk it. Thank you.”

  Azra was walking through the doorway when Mehpare ran up and clutched her arm.

  “Don’t be angry with me. I’m only trying to protect him. And Azra Hanım, I’m ready to help any time you need me. I’ll deliver messages. Drop off letters . . . Even weapons. Make use of me; I’m not afraid.”

  Azra was uncertain how to respond to the desperate young woman clinging to her arm, but she stopped and glanced around the room, taking in the salon that had once been brightly lit and airy, not at all like this place of empty shelves and shrouded armchairs, this reception room for ghosts. It was here that they’d celebrated her late brother’s circumcision ceremony, and here that she’d been engaged to Necdet. In a few days, this room would echo with the
stamping boots of English officers. The downstairs sitting rooms and anteroom would become classrooms for Christian children. And in that, Azra found solace . . . At least children would be racing through the house, much as she’d done at a happier time with her brother. It was a cruel life. And this woman clinging to her arm, begging. So many different kinds of suffering. It staggered you. A deep sense of compassion arose in her heart.

  “Mehpare,” she said, “I understand your concern, but there’s nothing I can do. If Kemal Bey has made up his mind, he’ll go and he’ll assume whatever duties he chooses. I can’t prevent that; neither can you. And if you think I’m a spy, I’m not. I lost my brother, and my husband, and the situation in which my father is spending his last days in Bursa is one he never deserved. There’s nothing for me to cling to but my country, and I’d like to do my share to liberate it, that’s all.”

  “I apologize. I never thought you were a spy.”

  “There’s something else I’d like to say to you . . .”

  “Please.”

  “Kemal Bey might leave home to join the war of liberation. And he might die in battle.”

  “God forbid!”

  “God forbid. But thousands of men just like Kemal Bey are leaving their families and loved ones behind. And it’s not just men, women are rushing off as well.”

  “But what can women do?”

  “So many things, Mehpare. From preparing meals on the front lines, dressing wounds and rolling bandages, to taking up arms and standing guard, when necessary. There are many things women can do. Don’t forget, soldiers need food, sleep and clothing.”

  “You’re right.”

  “We have to think of our country, not our loved ones and sweethearts. Try to understand.”

  “Forgive me,” Mehpare said, admitting defeat. “I hadn’t seen it that way. But if Kemal does go, and if there is a place for women, couldn’t I come?”

  “Even if Kemal doesn’t go anywhere you can join us. You know how to read and write, don’t you?”

  “Yes. And I know how to nurse.”

  “Good, I’ll remember that.”

  “Are you going off to Anatolia?”

  “My work here is done. I’ll go when the time comes.”

  “I’d better get home before dark. If you need me, I’ll come and help you,” Mehpare said.

  “Please stay and have tea with me. We’ll chat a while longer and get to know each other better.”

  Head bowed, Mehpare re-entered the salon and reclaimed her place on the shrouded sofa. They were soon sipping tea from tulip-shaped glasses.

  “Tea is normally served with cake but I’m afraid . . .”

  “We’ve been making do without cake for ages,” Mehpare confided. “It’s ten days since we reached the bottom of the sack of flour, and supplies haven’t come in from Beypazarı at all this month.”

  “We’ve still got a little flour. I’ll tell them to give it to you.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of imposing!”

  “What do you mean, imposing! I’d planned to give everything in the pantry to the Housekeeper and Hakkı Efendi; you’re certainly welcome to the flour. I’m not leaving anything for the enemy, I’d throw it out first.”

  When they’d finished their tea, Mehpare got up, threw her cloak over her shoulders and walked to the door.

  “Thank you, Mehpare. With your help, we were able to pack everything up today,” Azra said.

  “Shall I come again tomorrow?”

  “We’re leaving the house tomorrow.”

  “Are you coming to stay with us?”

  “I’m returning to the Asian Shore, to my mother.”

  “God grant you a safe journey,” Mehpare said.

  Azra embraced her, kissing her on each cheek. “Give my love to the family. And send my greetings and wishes for a safe journey to Kemal.”

  “Can I tell him we talked about my joining you?”

  “Of course you can,” said Azra.

  “Send for me if ever you need me. I’ll do whatever I can. Behice Hanım had so wanted to join you, but, with her condition . . .”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Goodbye Azra Hanım. Do take care.”

  “You too. We’ll see each other again, Mehpare.”

  As Mehpare quickly walked home, a few paces ahead of Azra’s manservant, her thoughts turned to their talk. If she went to Anatolia with Kemal she could protect him. She’d cook for him, make sure he stayed warm, give him his medicine. It was true, fighting for your country was a beautiful thing, but there was one point on which she differed with Azra: love came before country. First came Kemal, then country, then life, then pride, honor, morality, family, the world, paradise, whatever. But first and foremost came Kemal, always Kemal. If he went, she would follow; and if need be, to the gates of hell.

  Taking Zehra with them, Saraylıhanım, Behice, her daughters, and Housekeeper Gülfidan moved to the house on the island at the beginning of June. This annual ritual took place around the time the first discarded watermelon rinds washed up on the shore: packages were tied up, suitcases slipped into dust covers, dinner plates stacked in tin boxes, and it was off to the island for the rest of the summer. At the first sign of the late September chill, back they would go to the house in Beyazit.

  Life on the island was full of simple pleasures. Cushions were strewn onto carpets rolled out under pine trees, and from the sycamores hung swings for children, hammocks for adults. And all through the hot months, the many relatives of Behice Hanım and Saraylıhanım streamed in, stopping for the night or longer. İbrahim Bey was no fan of city life, and his visits to his daughter and grandchildren were timed so that he could indulge in the restorative, sweet-smelling air of the island. In addition to the overnight guests, neighbors were frequently invited to drop by for breakfast, late afternoon tea, a few hands of poker, a late evening chat over drinks, and their visits were returned, one after another. Fruit was picked from the mulberry, apricot, and peach trees, grapes from the vineyard, vegetables from the kitchen garden. The caretaker and his wife would snap into action after the slow winter months, racing here and there to maintain the household, but with the help of an extra cook hired to assist in keeping up with the many summer guests. At every hour of the day plumes of smoke curled up from the freestanding kitchen back behind the main house. Water was kept cool in glazed earthenware jugs; watermelons and honeydews were lowered in net bags into the garden well; but Ahmet Reşat had also had an icebox made for his summer house. Ice from the fishmonger was chipped, wrapped in salted canvas and placed onto the top and bottom shelves of the zinc-lined oaken cupboard, where rakı, as well as bottles filled to the brim with lemonade or sherbet, were neatly stacked. In this house, whose hosts were honored to be able to serve their guests icy cold juice and rakı, the flurry of refreshing offerings was without end.

  The children had their dinner early in the back garden while the adults had theirs late, under the arbor out front, where, accompanied by saz and ud, they drank rakı and sang songs well into the night. Life on the island was devoted to entertainment and enjoyment, in stark contrast to the solemnity of the house in Beyazit. With its vineyard and vegetable garden, its pine grove and paved courtyard, the enormous green garden had always been five thousand square meters of paradise, as much for friends and relatives as for the children.

  But that had all come to an end some years ago. War had taken its toll, and the family didn’t dare allow Kemal to make the ferry-boat ride to the island. Kemal would be spending another summer at the house in the city, along with Mehpare and Hüsnü Efendi. Except for weekends, Reşat Bey was too busy to join his family, a development that pleased Kemal as much as it distressed everyone else. Kemal looked forward to spending his last weeks in the house alone with his uncle, talking man to man and strengthening the bonds of their friendship. It also occurred to him that this might be just the opportunity he needed to win his uncle over to the cause.

  – 9 –

  July–August
1920

  The summer of 1920 was unusually hot. Mehpare kept the shutters of the front windows closed and had arranged a shady spot under the linden tree for the men to sit in the back garden. Sadly, Reşat Bey rarely found the time to do so, even in the evening. The Grand Vizier and interior minister had gone abroad to negotiate the terms of the peace treaty, leaving Ahmet Reşat as acting interior minister. He’d stagger in to bed late at night and rush off in the morning without breakfast. The long man-to-man talks Kemal had imagined with his uncle were not to be, and he was sorely disappointed.

  One oppressive July evening, Ahmet Reşat arrived home at an uncommonly early hour. Instead of going up to his room he washed his hands and face at the basin in the entry hall, asked Hüsnü Efendi to lay out rakı and all the usual accompaniments, without delay, and headed straight for the garden. It was immediately clear to Kemal that something had gone wrong.

  He went out to the garden and up to the hammock where Reşat had stretched himself.

  “Uncle, has something happened?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You never drink rakı without reason. Especially at this time of day.”

  “Today, my boy, the peace treaty dictated by the Allied Powers, the terms they’ve forced down our throats, was agreed to by the Council of State. Now do you understand what’s happened? Do you understand why I want to drink myself under the table?”

  “That I do, uncle.”

  “The Greeks marched into Tekirdağ yesterday. We’ve learned that an Armenian regiment entered Adana two days ago. Three days ago, the English occupied İzmir. Four days ago the Greeks invaded Bursa. The previous days saw Bandırma, Kirmastı, and Balıkesir fall one by one. Shall I continue?”

  “No. Please don’t.”

  “You’d think our land was a watermelon, out of which, each and every blessed day, some salivating infidel takes another bite. I feel like beating my head against the wall. And this, today, what happened today, has unnerved me like nothing else: today, it’s become clear to one and all that we’re expected to resign ourselves to whatever happens. In less than a week, the treaty will be signed. And so it ends . . . and so we’re finished!” Ahmet Reşat rubbed his palms together. “Finished, just like that, the great Empire of the Ottomans, dead and gone. And God has willed that my generation will pay for its sins, whatever they’ve been, by signing the empire’s death warrant. We’re paying a terrible, terrible price. Hüsnü Efendi, bring me my rakı! What’s keeping you?”