by Kulin, Ayse
“Bennett.”
“Sorry about that, it’s just that every time I hear his name I picture a pack of dogs. Mind you, he’s lower than the claw of the mangiest cur in all Tophane. Tell him what I just said. Do you think you can translate it?”
“I’ll do my best,” Kemal said, somewhat doubtfully. The thought of committing murder made him nauseous. He reached under his pillow for the lavender-scented handkerchief Mehpare had given him, and inhaled deeply. That same handkerchief had been damp with Mehpare’s tears on their last night together. He gently tucked it back under his pillow.
What was his darling doing right now? Was she brushing her long hair or was she sleeping peacefully? Dreaming about him? Did she miss him? How was she coping with Saraylıhanım? Had she told the others member of the household that she was pregnant with his child?
Before Kemal was given the opportunity to help teach Bennett a lesson, he was summoned to his first mission away from the farm. The cauldron of stewed dried beans had just been scraped clean and the dishes were being cleared away when the news arrived that Kemal was to be taken immediately to Eyüp Sultan Mosque. “Can they wait a minute while I perform my ablutions?” Kemal asked.
“You can do them when you get there. Hurry up.”
Kemal folded the towel he’d been holding, put it on the bed, rolled down his shirtsleeves, took his jacket and fez, and followed Faik Molla out of the dormitory.
The Algerian soldiers attached to the French army were being housed at the Rami Barracks in the vicinity of Eyüp and would be taken to the mosque that day to attend afternoon prayers. It had become customary for an officer to be on hand to translate the sermon delivered by the cleric into French, for the benefit of the Algerians. The usual translator had suddenly fallen ill and Kemal—who had known for some time that he might be called on to perform the task—would be taking his place.
After prayers had been performed, Kemal knelt next to the cleric and looked at the congregation of dark young men. In their black eyes, he read fear and helplessness. Soldiers of a people who were wealthier, more educated and more knowledgeable than these poor men had come to seize their land, to hold them captive, to lay claim to their very souls. Kemal had no doubt that these young Algerian men kneeling across from him on the carpet of a mosque in Istanbul in ill-fitting French uniforms were wondering why they had been sent to a Muslim country on another continent, and were cursing their fate.
He began by faithfully translating the words of the cleric, who was directing his congregation not to fire upon their Muslim brothers. But then his emotions and thoughts overflowed; he continued speaking long after he’d interpreted the cleric’s final words.
His Algerian co-religionists harbored no antagonism towards the Ottomans; they had been sent to a far-away land to fight for French interests in a battle that would leave them maimed and scarred and dead. And to what end? So that the French would get richer. And what about them, the youth of Algeria? What about their families? Would their participation in the invasion of this city, of this land, improve the lives of their mothers and fathers, their siblings back in Algeria? No! Muslim Algerians would continue living under the heel of Christian Frenchmen. And for how long? Until they’d forgotten their own identity, their own language, their own religion. Their French masters might help them fill their bellies but the darkness of their skins and the faith they held dear would condemn them forever to second class status, even in their own country.
At first, the cleric waited for Kemal to finish; then, when Kemal’s speech dragged on, the cleric grabbed him by the arm and motioned for him to be quiet. Kemal ignored him and was admonished with the words: “What are you telling them? Be quiet. You’ll get me into trouble.”
At that, Kemal had no choice but to conclude his impromptu sermon. His Algerian congregation burst into applause.
“What did you say to them?” asked the cleric.
“I told them the truth,” replied Kemal. “Their truth.”
When Kemal returned to the dormitory that evening, he was astonished to find that the news of his speech at Eyüp Sultan Mosque had preceded him. His roommates surrounded him, eager for more details. He had just sat down on his bunk to begin an impassioned recapitulation when Pehlivan burst into the room.
“Hey, Kemal Bey! Know-it-all! Did we send you there to sermonize, or to translate?”
“I was translating but then I . . .”
“Quiet! Don’t talk back to me! From now on, you’ll do what you’re told and nothing more, understand? Pehlivan planted an enormous finger in the center of Kemal’s forehead, and shoved him. Kemal sprang up from his bed, white-faced.
“Hold on, Pehlivan; you’ve gone too far.”
“No—you’ve gone too far. I call the tune around here. This unit is under my command.”
“This isn’t the army.”
“It’s a civilian army. If you don’t like it, go back to your mansion. We’ll have no trouble replacing you.”
“I go where I want, if and when I want. Why am I being subjected to this sort of treatment?”
“I suppose you think you were being clever, right? Well, you weren’t. All you did was grab attention. You stood out. Everyone who was attending that mosque is now at the coffee house talking about your nonsense. You’d better pray the invaders don’t overhear them. If it meant trouble only for you, I wouldn’t care. But you could take us down with you. We’re not here to show off. We’re not here to fish for cheers. You’ve got to keep your head down; you should be invisible. This business is nothing like wrestling out on the field. Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry.” Kemal said, abashed. “I was wrong; I didn’t realize.”
“Then stop strutting around and get to bed.”
Kemal stretched out on his bunk bed, head resting on his hands, and reflected bitterly on the utter mess he’d made of his first assignment outside the farm. They’d probably never give him another; he’d spend the rest of his life forging papers.
The next day, Kemal realized how wrong he’d been. He was getting dressed in the morning when Pehlivan came into the dormitory and said, “Finish up your deskwork by noon. You’ve got some work to do in the coffeehouses later in the day.”
“In coffeehouses?”
“You won’t be going to the mosque all the time. This time, you’re being sent to some coffeehouses. We’ve identified a few places that are frequented by soldiers from the Caliphate Army. You’ll go with a couple of friends and ask for a water pipe. You’ll start chatting, especially with any soldiers you might see. You’ll play a game of cards or some backgammon. As you get chummier, you’ll happen to mention that your new soldier friends are bearing arms not on behalf of the Sultan, but because of pressure from the English. You’ll bring it up with your friends, real natural, like you’re having a heart-to-heart. I don’t want you twisting any arms or starting any arguments . . . You’re just a couple of guys chewing over politics at the coffeehouse.”
“Do you think they’ll take our word for it?”
“That’s your job, to make them believe you. That’s why we chose an upper-class guy like you, someone who has a way with words. Your uncle’s the finance minister, isn’t he?”
“My maternal uncle, yes.”
“Great. You’ll repeat what your uncle’s told you. One of your companions will be from the State Office; the other one’s close to the Palace. If the three of you don’t know what you’re talking about, who does? Just sit and talk. Grumble about things, how upset you are at the invasion but how there’s nothing you can do about it. How you wish your fellow Muslims would stop working for English interests, change sides and go to Anatolia to fight against the Greeks. You won’t be telling any lies. Balıkesir, Bursa and İzmit have already fallen, and now the Greeks are invading Tekirdağ. It’s God’s truth, isn’t it? And everyone knows it. And when they’ve taken İzmir, they’re bound to move on to Istanbul, aren’t they? Everyone knows how badly the Greeks want Istanbul. And at this rat
e, it’ll be theirs. Are we going to stand for it? Or are we going to do something before it’s too late? Wouldn’t it be great if these Ottoman soldiers stopped working under the orders of the English, if they went to Anatolia, taking their weapons with them, to help their Muslim brothers? That’s what you’ve got to get across, Kemal Bey! Just talk amongst yourselves so you get the others thinking, open their eyes a little. But not like what you did yesterday: you’ve got to be cool and calm. That’s what I expect of you.”
“And then?”
“And then what?”
“Fine, I’ll do exactly what you told me. But then what should we do? What if we fail to dupe them?”
“You’re not duping anyone. You’re planting the seeds of doubt. When you finish your chat and your coffee, you’ll be going to other coffeehouses to do the same thing. When you leave, others of us will arrive and repeat what you said. We’ll keep it up until we’ve won the soldiers over to our side.”
“But what if we fail?”
“Always look on the bright side, Kemal. What if we succeed?”
And at that, Kemal could only nod in agreement.
“You’ll need to be dressed as a gentleman when you go out this afternoon. I’ve had the suit of clothes you wore under your cloak ironed, and your fez is ready,” Pehlivan said. “You talked up a storm last night. Let’s see how you do today, Kemal Bey.”
Late that night, Kemal, a bit dizzy from smoking water pipes at four different coffeehouses, found his companions were still awake. Some were performing their prayers on their rugs, others stood in prayer in a corner. At first he assumed they had waited up for him and launched into an account of his adventures. Kandıralı signaled for him to be silent.
“We’ll listen to all that later, bey. For now, join us in prayer.”
“What’s going on?” Kemal asked. “Has something happened?”
“Has it ever!” Kandıralı confirmed. “Dramalı went off with Cambaz and some of the others to teach that dog Binit a lesson. They still haven’t come back. We’re praying for their safe return.”
“But weren’t they going to take me along?”
“How could they! Binit doesn’t hang out in coffeehouses. He goes to fancy places and rubs shoulders with dandies like you. They’d know you in a minute.”
“Kandıralı, how do you know where I go or who I know?”
“Your mug gives you away. You look like the kind of guy who makes merry up in Pera.”
Kemal didn’t bother to inform Kandıralı that he hadn’t so much as poked his nose out of doors for a very long time indeed. He was tired. He got undressed and climbed into bed. He’d expected to drift off into a deep sleep the moment his head hit the pillow, but he was now too worried to do so. He joined the others as they held vigil for Dramalı and his men.
It was morning before they returned. In order to shake their pursuers, they’d had to run off in the opposite direction, through Kağıthane and over the hills of Istanbul, before daring to return to headquarters. They were deeply disappointed: Binit had been wounded, not killed. Well, by hurting him, they’d avenged their Nationalist friends, at least somewhat, they consoled themselves.
“You promised I could join you. Tell us everything that happened, at least,” Kemal said.
“We’ve had our guys tailing this Binit character for close to two months now,” Dramalı began. “He knows how to have a good time and he’s got a thing for the ladies. He goes out every night. Whenever he stepped into a music hall, we’d make sure one of our men was sitting at the next table, watching his every move and listening to everything he said. He usually hangs out at a tavern in Büyükdere. Binit’s crazy about rakı. He always has a bottle brought over, nice and cold, plates of snacks laid out on the table in front of him, a Greek beauty perched on each knee, and there he sits, drinking the night away. After he’s had his fun with the ladies, he gets into his automobile and they drive him off to the Kroker Hotel. But does he go up to his room and conk out? No! If a few Turks have been rounded up he heads down to the hotel cellar, roughs ‘em up real good with a horsewhip and then, and only then, has a good night’s sleep. If the dungeon of Kroker could only speak, the things it would tell us. What they’ve done to our men.”
“Enough of that. Tell me what happened.”
“The leaders of our organization put their heads together and passed a death sentence on Binit. And Pehlivan approved it.”
Glancing over at Pehlivan, who was sitting cross-legged on one of the bunks, Kemal seized the opportunity to get even for the previous night. “So you decided it’s not always best to remain invisible, did you?”
“My men are patriots, and I can’t always control them, Kemal Efendi,” said Pehlivan. “Sometimes they’ve got to do what they’ve got to do.”
Everyone was eager to hear the rest of the story, and Kemal held his tongue.
Dramlı picked up where he’d left off.
“So after his night out on the Bosphorus, he gets into his automobile and the headlights are switched on, like always. That’s how we knew he was coming up the hill. There’s never anyone else driving around over there at that hour. We’d stationed fifteen of our men there, behind trees and bushes, to keep a look out. We had a few look-outs on top of the hill, too. We planned to stop his automobile; then Mad Hamza was going to start shooting it up. He took up position behind a tree on the side of the road. We were all lying in the field, face down. There wasn’t a peep. It was completely dark, there was no moon out last night. The only light was the stars, like diamonds, big as your fist, shining away in the black sky. We were all holding our breath. Then, way in the distance, we saw the lights of his car, coming toward us. He came speeding round the bend. We’d sawed through a huge tree right there on the side of the road. We were holding it up with rope, but it was all we could do to keep it standing. We were going to let it crash down right when the car passed. We only had a split-second to get it right. A split-second! If we were late, his armed guards would mow us down. As the automobile got closer, one of our guys lets out a whistle. Down goes the tree, with a terrible creaking noise . . . I can still hear it. But the tree lands right in front of the automobile, not on top of it. We all start shooting. His guards are shooting back. Sergeant Husam was standing right next to me; with all his might, he lobs a bomb. I heard one of the heathens scream; another one was crying and carrying on something awful. Mad Hamza swore he saw Binit over to one side, lying in a puddle of blood. But it beats me how he managed to see anything on a night that black! And then all hell broke loose. Dogs barking, the watchman blowing his whistle, all kinds of shouting and yelling and cursing . . . We ran down the hill as fast as we could, not looking back once.”
“If Bennett’s dead we’ll read about it in the papers,” Kemal said.
“If they don’t censor it.”
“Even if it’s censored, we’ll get wind of it, don’t worry.”
“I hope he’s alive,” Pehlivan said.
“What? Why? You mean we went through all that for nothing?”
“I hope he’s alive, and I hope he knows he was punished for all the torture he dished out. That’s worse than death.”
“You’re right. If he did survive, he’ll be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. ”
No one fell asleep that day until well after morning prayers. They all slept until evening.
– 13 –
At Home
Ahmet Reşat had begun returning home directly from the Ministry when his day’s work was done. He wasn’t particularly close to most of his fellow Cabinet ministers and had grown weary of the interminable, inconclusive bickering. He kept the fact that his feelings for His Majesty had cooled considerably to himself. In any case, the best way for Ahmet Reşat to gain information of possible use to the resistance was to remain silent, alert. He was pained and somewhat ashamed at the situation in which he found himself, and sometimes felt that his activities were those of a hypocritical traitor. Yet all he asked for
was an independent country, at peace. His street encounters with the forces of the occupation were becoming increasingly unbearable and as he set about the government business that frequently brought him face to face with foreigners he struggled to contain his contempt and resentment.
Life at the ministry was tedious at best, and life at home wasn’t much better: he felt like a rooster shut up in an overcrowded henhouse. None of his intimate friends or confidants lived nearby, and the conditions of the day prevented visits to far-flung districts of Istanbul. Talk at home centered exclusively on babies—whenever, on his days off, he ventured into the sitting room on the middle floor, he invariably found Saraylıhanım and Behice seated on the divans discussing names.
“Reşat Bey, naturally we’ll be naming him Raif, after your father, but we’ll need a second name as well; it won’t do to be known simply as “Raif.” These days, more contemporary names have become fashionable. Firuzan would do nicely. Or perhaps Kenan, or Bülent.”
“You do your own father a grave injustice, my girl,” Saraylıhanım would interject. “I think the boy should be called İbrahim Raif. That way, we’ll have considered the feelings of both sides of the family.” Behice would then begin voicing her objections, and on it went.
Reşat Bey couldn’t resist a parting shot as he fled the room that day: “You’re measuring nappies for a baby that’s not even born yet. Why, we might have another girl.”
“No, this time it’ll be a boy. I saw it in a dream!”
“May it all work out for the best,” he said, as down he went to the shadowy stillness of the selamlık, where he’d busy himself at his writing desk, penning detailed accounts of the most recent state of affairs to his friend, Interior Minister Ahmet Reşit, who was still in France, or by reading books and awaiting news of Kemal.
It had been a long time since anyone had brought news from the farm. If anything bad has happened to Kemal, surely we’d be the first to know, he’d tell himself. Three days after his nephew had left home, someone had arrived at the door to tell them that he’d arrived safely and that they shouldn’t be alarmed if there was no more news for a time. Simply traveling to and fro was hazardous, and try as he would to remain calm Ahmet Reşat couldn’t help worrying. It was on one of those trying days, as he sat yet again at his desk wrestling with figures and ledgers, that Hüsnü Efendi entered the room carrying an envelope.