Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature)

by Kulin, Ayse

  “From the postman?” Ahmet Reşat asked as he reached out his hand and took it.

  “A lady brought it, sir.”

  “Who?”

  “I couldn’t tell. She was wearing a çarşaf.”

  “Didn’t you ask who’d sent it?”

  “The bell at the garden gate rang. I went and opened it and a woman handed me an envelope. When I asked who had sent it, she pointed to the envelope and I assumed that it was for you.”

  “All right Hüsnü Efendi,” said Ahmet Reşat, “you can go.”

  “Efendim, she’s still here. That woman is waiting at the gate.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “For a response, I assume.”

  When Ahmet Reşat saw that it was Kemal’s handwriting on the envelope he deduced that the woman at the gate was in fact a man. Try as he might, there were some things he would be unable to conceal from Hüsnü Efendi. “Show her into the garden,” he said resignedly, “and have her sit under the arbor. Offer her refreshments of some kind. I’ll read the letter and write a response. It should only take a few moments.”

  “And if Saraylıhanım or Behice Hanım were to ask . . .”

  “Don’t get the ladies involved in this! If anyone asks, tell them a relative has come to visit you.”

  When Hüsnü Efendi had left the room, Ahmet Reşat opened the envelope, held it under the desk light and began reading. Kemal informed his uncle in covert terms that he was in good health, and enquired as to the welfare of the family, to whom he sent his greetings. Then he got to the point: The Nationalists had managed to locate munitions, but were short of funds for them. Kemal indicated the quantities of ‘sugar’ that were needed and employed similar code words to signal where payment should be made. The next paragraph was sufficient to cause Ahmet Reşat to break out into a cold sweat: they wanted to have the munitions shipped to Anatolia on an Italian vessel. To facilitate the loading of the clandestine cargo in Istanbul it would be necessary to make contact with Harbormaster, Pandikyan Efendi, who was known to be trustworthy and a friend of the Turks. Ahmet Reşat could apply to him without hesitation.

  Ahmet Reşat carefully reread the cryptic letter three more times to ensure that he’d understood it correctly. After he’d taken notes, he folded the sheet of paper, thrust it into his pocket and walked over to the outdoor kitchen on the other side of the garden. Simply tearing the letter to tiny shreds would be inadequate with the likes of Saraylıhanım in the house. Hüsnü Efendi was mopping the tiles of the outdoor kitchen. When he saw Reşat Bey, he came straight up to him.

  “Is she gone?” asked Ahmet Reşat.

  “I invited her into my room so no one else would see her. She’s waiting there.”

  “You’ve done well,” said Ahmet Reşat as he entered the kitchen. “Is there anything else, efendim?”

  “Is the stove burning?”

  “I lit it a moment ago for lunch. It’s not blazing yet. Did you want a cup of coffee? We’ve got some of that chickpea coffee left. I’ll have them make some inside.”

  “I don’t want any coffee, Hüsnü Efendi. Slide open the stove, would you?”

  The servant rushed over and opened the lid of the cooking stove. The heat struck Ahmet Reşat in the face as he bent over it. He removed the letter from his pocket and shredded it; then he threw the pieces into the stove and closed the lid. When he stood up, he saw Saraylıhanım Hanım staring at him from the doorway.

  “What are you doing here, my dear?”

  “I had a sudden desire for coffee.”

  “Reşat Bey, my boy, why do you suppose there’s a kitchen inside the house? You won’t find so much as a coffee pot out here. You do realize that this stove is used only for grills and strong-smelling foods, don’t you? You haven’t been yourself since Kemal went away.”

  “You’re right, Aunt,” Ahmet Reşat agreed, “I’ve been terribly absent-minded of late.” Avoiding Hüsnü Efendi’s eyes, he went straight to the selamlık.

  He could understand why Kemal needed money for arms. Only a week earlier the British, having found themselves powerless to prevent frequent raids on the arsenals of Istanbul, had dumped any remaining munitions into the waters of the Sea of Marmara, near the Prince’s Islands. With the clandestine supply of weapons from Istanbul thus eliminated, the resistance movement would be forced to explore other avenues. Which meant purchasing arms from the French or the Italians.

  Establishing contact with Pandikyan Efendi would be far more difficult than simply raising funds. The Finance Minister himself couldn’t simply stroll into the office of a harbormaster. Nor could Pandikyan Efendi be summoned to his own office. It would attract undue attention. And inviting him to the house was unthinkable! He would have to find a way to send word to Pandikyan, but how? First, he would respond to the letter and dismiss the veiled courier waiting even now in Hüsnü Efendi’s room. He pulled a sheet of paper out of the desk drawer, opened the lid of the inkstand, dipped his pen into the well, and composed his thoughts. Kemal had not referred to him as “uncle.” The letter had begun with “My esteemed efendim,” and he would respond as though he were replying to an old friend. He indicated that everyone at home was well and forwarded in clandestine terms the latest developments. The government had received news that Kâzım Karabekir Pasha was poised to reclaim Sarıkamış and Kars from the Armenians. That was the good news. But there was some bad news as well: The Greek occupation had encroached as far as Bursa. Ahmet Reşat concluded his letter, signed it, and gave it to Hüsnü Efendi to pass along to the courier. Then he went up to his room to change his clothes. He should get in touch immediately with the Minister of Marine, who had never concealed his sympathy for the Nationalists. He should also sound out any other ministers who shared their sentiments. They would have to find a way to finance the flow of arms into Anatolia.

  Most of the funds allocated to the Red Crescent found their way onto the battlefields of Anatolia. The association had even gone so far as to sell some of its own holdings, with the proceeds going to the National Army. Perhaps he could channel funds to Anatolia by making it appear that they had been earmarked for the Red Crescent? Damat Ferit was still in France, and he would have considerably more room for fiscal maneuvers while the Grand Vizier remained at a safe distance.

  Finally, he would have to find a way to meet with Pandikyan. Ahmet Reşit Bey sighed deeply as he wished more fervently than ever that his closest colleagues and confidants hadn’t all been abroad at a time of such need.

  As he got dressed, he contemplated the various ways he could reach Pandikyan without attracting unwanted attention. He suddenly remembered that Pandikyan had been among those in attendance at the games of cards and chess he’d played with the French officers. That was it: he’d send Hüsnü Efendi with a note inviting the harbormaster to join a bridge party. But where was the card game to take place? He contemplated the home of his old friend Caprini Efendi. No, that wouldn’t do at all. Friendship or not, they were on opposing sides. Could he fully trust an Italian? Finally, he hit upon a place: they could meet in a room at the Şahin Pasha Hotel, in Sirkeci. It was a hotel popular with wealthy landowners, and they should go largely unnoticed among the bustling crowd.

  Just after late afternoon prayers, Ahmet Reşat and Pandikyan Efendi met in a room on the first floor of the Şahin Pasha Hotel. Reşat Bey had reserved the room in advance and sent the number to Pandikyan. He’d had a samovar of tea and two tulip-shaped glasses brought up to the room.

  The harbormaster was quite nonplussed when he arrived at the room all prepared for bridge and saw only one person awaiting him.

  “I beg your pardon, Pandikyan Efendi,” Ahmet Reşat said, “but I was forced to take precautions. I’ve invited you not for cards, but because there’s a matter I wish to discuss.”

  “I should have guessed as much, efendim,” said Pandikyan, “but as we had played bridge previously, well, I thought it possible that . . .”

  The two men studied each other for a mom
ent. “I need your help,” said the host, wasting no time.

  “I would be honored to be of any small service, Reşat Beyefendi.”

  Ahmet Reşat poured them both tea from the samovar, indicated that Pandikyan Efendi was to sit in the chair and himself perched on the edge of the bed.

  “Pandikyan Efendi, it hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re a cooperative and loyal citizen of the Ottoman Empire. Your contribution to the war of independence in Anatolia has been great. It was you who notified the relevant authorities of the secret storehouses under British control, the amount of munitions they contained, and even the destination of the ferryboats used to transport arms.”

  “God forbid, efendim. God forbid. I have always remained outside politics. I am a mere civil servant. All I’m able to do is ease formalities.”

  Ahmet Reşat understood how badly he had alarmed his guest. He would have to act quickly to gain his confidence.

  “Certain close acquaintances of mine have dedicated themselves to the resistance. It was they who furnished your name. We had already formed an acquaintance, as you know . . . We’ve played bridge at the same table.” Ahmet Reşat lowered his voice to a whisper and mentioned a few people from Karakol.

  Pandikyan Efendi was sufficiently reassured to ask, “What would you like me to do?”

  “We’ll be boarding a few passengers on the next Italian ship to sail from this harbor. Their freight is rather heavy. We’ll require your assistance to load it.”

  “No ships flying the Italian colors are scheduled to set sail over the next week.”

  “Time is of the essence. If we were to increase the boarding fee, perhaps?”

  “It’s not a question of money. I would advise you not to rely on Italian ships at this time. The English raided one of them and the Italians found themselves in quite a difficult position. Their ships are now being closely monitored.”

  “But this is an urgent shipment. As you know, the Greeks are advancing . . .”

  “I can recommend another ship. I know the captain.”

  “Which ship? Do you foresee any difficulties?”

  “The Ararat.”

  “Are they deserving of trust?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend them otherwise. But you’ll have to agree on fees.”

  “When can you provide me with more information?”

  “Within the week . . .”

  “There’s no time. Would tomorrow be out of the question?”

  “Would you be able to find out the amount and weight of the freight by tomorrow?”

  We’re in trouble now, Ahmet Reşat sighed to himself.

  Thanks to Kemal, he was getting more and more involved in this business. With each step, he sank a little deeper. Even worse, he was endangering others. He’d begun using Hüsnü Efendi as a courier, and the poor man would now have to be sent to the farm, both to receive the information required by Pandikyan and to get approval for the loading of the arms onto a different ship. Fortunately, vegetables and chickens were being raised at the farm. In the event of any unpleasantness, Hüsnü Efendi would be able to claim that he had gone there to buy seedlings or poultry.

  “I’ll find out immediately,Ē Reşat said, “and have the information delivered by the same person who brought you the bridge invitation. And as far as the matter of payment, you can have full confidence in me.”

  “If I can’t place my in trust you, who can I trust, efendim?” Pandikyan said. “And I’m honored that you’ve placed your trust in me as well.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  “Beyefendi, we’re all on the same ship. If it goes down, we’re done for, all of us. I’m doing everything in my power to help keep it afloat. I see that you’re doing the same.”

  “Let me say, once again, thank you and God bless you,” said Ahmet Reşat. He was overcome with emotion as he offered his hand to Pandikyan. So, there were men like this: while some Armenians may have donned a French uniform and turned on their neighbors of centuries, others were prepared to put the Muslims to shame by risking all they had to help liberate the country they shared.

  – 14 –

  Call of Duty

  Early one morning, before he’d even breakfasted, Kemal was somewhat taken aback to learn that he’d been summoned to the main building. He washed his hands and face without delay and slipped into a fresh, collarless shirt. Wetting his hair, he attempted to plaster it to the sides of his head. He was escorted to the main building by the same man who’d brought word that his presence was requested. Assuming that he’d be going to the room on the second floor where he’d been taken on his first day at the farm, Kemal headed for the stairs and had already climbed two of them when his companion said, “We’re not going upstairs, bey. Please follow me.” Kemal came back down the stairs and the two men quickly walked to the end of the corridor. A tap on the large wooden door elicited instructions to enter and the man stepped aside to allow Kemal to go in alone.

  Kemal found himself in a spacious room organized into a makeshift military headquarters. There was a writing desk to one side and a large table in the middle of the room, covered with maps. A few men were leaning over the maps deep in conversation. Kemal snapped his heels together and nodded in response to the salute of a young man in civilian clothes.

  “I’m Captain Seyfi of the General Staff, here from Ankara for the night. After a few appointments I’ll be returning immediately.”

  “And I am Kemal Halim.”

  “Please sit down,” the man said, gesturing to a chair opposite the writing desk as he sat himself down behind it. “I have learned a great deal about you,” he said, “from extremely trustworthy sources. I’ll get straight to the point. You’re a veteran of Sarıkamış.”

  “Yes, if you can call me that. As you know, most of us froze to death without firing a shot.”

  “The fact that you volunteered for battle indicates a certain fearlessness. We need people like you. The Greeks are advancing through Thrace . . .”

  “Am I to take up arms?”

  “If necessary, yes. But the gathering of intelligence is of far more importance to us at the moment. It’s vital that we establish lines of communication between the battlefield and Ankara.”

  “Then how unfortunate that the postal system is under the control of the Allies,” Kemal said.

  “Not entirely under their control,” interjected the man in the kalpak on the other side of the desk. “We do have access to a few secret telegraph lines. When the British requested detailed sketches of all our telegraph networks we told them we had none. We explained that a few clerks had simply memorized all the networks, and that we managed as best we could. They believed us—such is there contempt. They had our telegraph employees reserve a few lines for Allied use and cut all the other lines to Anatolia. That is, they imagine all the lines have been cut. In fact, we have a few secret lines in operation. But they’re inadequate. We also need couriers.”

  Kemal listened attentively.

  “Kemal Halim Bey, we’d like to use you immediately, for both our telegraph and our courier networks. Highly confidential reports and battle plans can’t be sent by telegraph. I’m aware that you’re working at the documents department here and wonder if you would agree to . . .”

  “I agree,” Kemal blurted out. “I agree to undertake anything you ask. I’m also prepared to go to the front.”

  “Your health won’t allow that. I also ask you to bear in mind that if you are captured while performing your new duties you could well face torture, even death. Think carefully. If you do agree to become a courier, we’ll have the necessary documentation prepared for your journey to Anatolia.”

  “I’m ready. When do I go?” Kemal asked. “You’ll set out at the beginning of the week.”

  “Sir, would it be possible to send word home? They don’t need to know where I’m going, but they should know that I’m leaving Istanbul.”

  “As you wish. I’m afraid there’s no time to make your farewells in
person. These are difficult days. We have to do whatever we can to prevent the Greeks from advancing any further, and we have to do it at once.”

  “Right. I’ll be ready the moment you want me.”

  There was nothing left to say. Kemal nodded a salute to the assembled men and left the room. This was the moment he’d so eagerly awaited. As if all those months in confinement, listening to the idle chatter of women, hadn’t been bad enough, his evenings now consisted of listening to the exploits of a dormitory full of men who conducted daring raids he was unable to join. Soon, he wouldn’t have to content himself with the stories of others. He would have his own tales to tell. Tales he would pass on to his children and grandchildren: daring feats, acts of heroism, perilous adventures . . .”

  But he was still troubled. He’d be leaving without having made his farewells to his uncle, his grandmother, the girls . . . And then there was Mehpare . . . Never mind, when he did get back he’d most certainly enjoy her every chance he got. Kemal headed to the dormitory to write a letter of farewell to his family.

  – 15 –

  Reunion

  As Hüsnü Efendi ventured out of the house and into the early morning darkness, where a carriage and neighing horses were waiting for him at the garden gate, a shadow leapt straight at him from behind the apple tree near the front door. “Hey! Who’s that?” he shouted, brandishing his cane.

  “Wait, Hüsnü Efendi . . . Don’t hit me . . . It’s me.”

  “Oh, Mehpare Hanım! What are you doing out here at this hour?”

  “I’d like to ask you the same question.”