Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature)

by Kulin, Ayse

  Ahmet Reşat returned with the housekeeper.

  “Let’s go upstairs for a moment,” he said, “while they prepare your bed.”

  “You’re tired too, efendim. Aren’t you ready for bed yet?”

  “Not yet. We’ve talked over so much but I still have no idea why you’ve returned to Istanbul. Surely you didn’t come all this way to deliver Behice’s baby!”

  Mahir laughed. “Actually, no. Cholera may well spread to the barracks, so I’ve come to take precautions.”

  “Has there been an outbreak of cholera?”

  “It’ll start any day now.”

  “Surely you can’t simply order the outbreak of cholera?”

  “That’s precisely what I’ll do. It’ll be ordered to start and then it’ll spread to all the barracks.”

  “Well I’ll be damned!”

  “That way, all of the barracks will be evacuated. The officers will have to get out of the way for me to apply disinfectants. I’ll have to disinfect the warehouses as well, of course. The reason I’m here is to confirm the presence of cholera. I’ll identify a serious case, write it up and recommend that measures be taken. Have I been able to make myself clear, efendim?”

  “I understand exactly what you mean, Mahir Bey,” said Ahmet Reşat. “Might I suggest we celebrate Sabahat’s birth and the successful prevention of a cholera epidemic by each drinking a cup of linden tea? Then it’s off to our beds and a restful night’s sleep.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  “Housekeeper Gülfidan, could you brew us up some linden tea? You can make up the bed later,” said Ahmet Reşat. As they walked to the sitting room upstairs Mahir peeped over at the piano. The lilac shawl wrapped around Leman’s shoulders as she’d played was now draped over the piano stool and in danger of touching the floor. Mahir picked it up and placed it on top of the piano. Then he brought his hand to his nose and discreetly breathed in the scent of lemon cologne.

  – 17 –

  The Raid

  Sick of his paperwork and eager for deployment to the front, Kemal was ecstatic to be summoned one day as he was napping in his bunk just before mid-afternoon prayers. He hurriedly threw on his clothes and it was with a quick step and a light heart that he followed the now familiar path to the main building. Was he going to Anatolia at last? Awaiting him were the architects of a nighttime raid. One of them, a man everyone addressed as Major, was known to Kemal as the commander of the farm; but the two men sitting on either side of his desk were strangers. Major pointed to a chair. Kemal sat down.

  “Kemal Bey,” Major began, “Two motorboats are leaving for Karamürsel tonight. You’ll be on one of them. You’ll then travel overland to Ankara for a few days of training on how to set up telegraph lines, after which you’ll immediately be sent to the Aegean front.”

  “Right, efendim.”

  “We have an additional request to make of you.”

  “I’m at your service.”

  “Since you’ll already be in one of the motorboats, you could be of great use to us.”

  “How?”

  “Let me introduce you to captains Mustafa and Ahmet, in whose boats tonight we will be getting guns and ammunition from the Karaağaç depot for transport to our friends on the front in Anatolia.”

  Kemal nodded at the two captains, whose rough and ready looks marked them out as men from the Black Sea region.

  “When we were deciding who to choose for this assignment, we realized we needed men who were patriotic, capable and—most important—able to keep a secret. You met all of our requirements. We don’t expect you to help carry the munitions, but undertakings of this nature require meticulous records. The men carrying the weapons will be too busy for that. That’s only one of the reasons we would like you to be aboard one of the boats tonight. If, God forbid, anything were to go wrong, we want you to talk to the occupation police in their own language and stall them with a cover story we will provide.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “This raid is a dangerous business. It could end in death.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you accept?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s precisely the answer I would have expected from a veteran of the Battle of Sarıkamış,” Major said. “Your name is Gaffur Abdullah and you’re a merchant in the cloth and underclothing trade. You’re shipping some goods to the Asian Shore and returning to Istanbul with vegetables and grain. You own a trading firm. All your documents are ready; you’ll have them tonight. Now go to the dormitory and pack. Then come back here and get dressed in the clothes we’ve chosen for you. The captains will brief you once you’re on your way.”

  Kemal ran all the way back to the dormitory, where, from among his possessions, he took only his medicine and the handkerchief embroidered for him by Mehpare. He entrusted his books to Hemşinli Osman, from the next bunk over, and made his farewells to his roommates. Once he’d returned to the main building and dressed in his costume, as instructed, he reentered the room and saluted Major and the others.

  Kemal and the two captains traveled by carriage to a jetty on the Sea of Marmara, from where they set sail for Ahırkapı, just below the palace at Saray Point.

  There was a strong wind, and as the small sailboat bobbed and dipped Kemal became increasingly seasick. He fought back the urge to vomit and silently gave thanks that the deepening dusk concealed what must have been his decidedly greenish color. Terrified of disgracing himself, he fixed his gaze on a point in the distance and tried to remain as motionless as possible—he remembered having read somewhere that that might help.

  As the sky darkened the sea grew calmer, and Kemal began to feel better. The captains took turns describing in more detail the raid that was to take place later that night. Kemal listened with the rapt attentiveness of a pupil.

  When it had became obvious that the Ottomans were on the losing side in the Great War and the probability of foreign invasion strengthened, CUP partisans had begun stockpiling weapons across the city. The 500 crates of ammunition known to be at the Karaağaç depot on the Golden Horn were now needed to counter the Greek invasion. With God’s help, all 500 crates would shortly be on their way to Anatolia. The risk involved was believed to be minimal, since the Karaağaç storekeeper, one Nazmi Bey, was himself involved in the underground and had prior knowledge of that night’s raid.

  Once they reached Ahırkapı, they would be driven by horse and cart to a pier on the Golden Horn, where two motorboats would be waiting. Captain Ahmet’s boat would lead the way with the raiders; Captain Mustafa’s would follow with Kemal.

  In celebration of his newly settled stomach, Kemal took a drag on the cigarette offered him. Damn, it was foul! Captain Ahmet took over the briefing from Captain Mustafa. Once again, Kemal hung on every word. They’d had difficulty finding forty men to cart off the heavy guns. Not just anyone would do. No, they needed men who were brave, strong, quick and tight-lipped. And you couldn’t find one of them on every corner, could you? So they’d told five of their captain friends to be on the lookout for men who fit the bill. With God’s help they’d been rounded up in no time and would be joining the raid. Both captains were as calm and confident, as though they were discussing a regularly scheduled ferryboat service from the European shore to the Asian. Their self-assurance was contagious, and Kemal, who was anxious not to offend, took a final drag on the nauseating cigarette and tossed it into the sea.

  “We’ll be handing out pistols and daggers to all the men, just in case something goes wrong. Kemal Bey, I’m giving you a pistol too. I hope you won’t need it, but it’s best to have one, just in case,” said Captain Mustafa. “Here you go—you know how to use it, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Kemal as he silently prayed he wouldn’t disgrace himself that night and considered, with a sinking heart and a churning stomach, how much younger and stronger he had been just five years earlier, marching off to Sarıkamış. So much had happened since then: he was no longer h
ealthy, nor was he in his twenties. Seasickness was a horrible thing! He decided right then and there he’d never again take on more than he knew he could handle. Having honorably discharged the duties he’d accepted that night, he would go straight home, where he’d find refuge in Mehpare’s arms and spend the rest of his life studiously penning articles and shunning adventure of any kind, devoting himself instead to being a wise husband and a loving father, just like his uncle.

  As planned, they disembarked at Ahırkapı and traveled to a pier on the Golden Horn. Both motorboats were ready. Small bands of men, their faces swathed in cloth, came stealing out of the surrounding buildings, and materialized from behind bushes and trees. Everyone seemed to know exactly what was expected of them. They must have been old hands at this sort of thing. Most of the men crept into the first boat; a few boarded the second with Kemal, disappearing into the hatches and holds, where they crouched without a whisper, a sneeze, a cough. The engines had been muffled by towels, the exhaust pipes lowered into the sea. Kemal had forgotten all about seasickness. He nervously scanned the area, the only sound the beating of his own heart. The boat sliced through the dark waters, past Karaağaç, and drew up to a landing in front of the depot. “Gangway! Don’t come near the landing!” the watchman shouted.

  “Friend, we’re not strangers . . . Didn’t they tell you we were coming?” asked Captain Mustafa.

  “No. Don’t come any closer!”

  “Tell Nazmi Bey we’re here. He’s expecting us.”

  “I told you not to come any closer.” The watchman pointed his gun at the captain.

  “What the hell! What are we, enemies? Don’t go pointing that gun at me; save it for the real enemy. Shame on you.”

  As Captain Ahmet kept his boat well back, Captain Mustafa drew up to the landing. “What’s your name, matey? Come aboard. Everything’s shipshape. The English gave us a permit to clean out the depot. You know what it’s like, they can’t keep the thieving under control . . . So they decided to dump everything into the sea, to keep it from the Ottomans. That’s why we’re here. To load it up and dump it a bit further along. Straight into the sea with the whole lot, I say, no use to them and no use to us. I hate to do it, but we’re just following orders.” As the captain was speaking he steered closer to the landing until he was able to grab it with his hand.

  Kemal could barely make out the stock-still shadows that had appeared some distance behind the watchman, facing the sea. Who were they?

  “Captain Mustafa, look over there . . .” Kemal was about to blurt out when the captain gripped his arm as he continued talking:

  “Kemal Bey, give me a hand, would you? Keep the motorboat still,” Captain Mustafa said as he leapt up onto the landing to continue his chat with the watchman on dry land. The shadowy figures had crept even closer. Kemal leaned out and clutched the metal rail of the landing with both hands. As he held on for dear life, the boat started drifting away from shore and he found himself being transformed into a sort of human gangplank, with his feet precariously planted on the boat and his overextended arms stretched to breaking point. He was just about to fall into the water when a sailor jumped onto the prow, gripped the wooden landing with powerful fingers and managed to draw the boat closer.

  “I thought my arms would be ripped off,” Kemal said.

  “They’re fine, they’re just a bit longer now, brother, is all. New to this kind of thing, are you?”

  “I’m not a sailor . . . Hey, what’s going on?” As Kemal had struggled to keep the boat close to the landing, men from the other boat had silently jumped ashore and, smooth as clockwork, immobilized the watchman, tying his arms behind his back and wadding a handkerchief in his mouth. Men began leaping out of Captain Mustafa’s boat as well, and to Kemal’s right and left shadows streamed ashore and towards the depot. In the darkness, Kemal could make out English watchmen tumbling off the wall, their feet pulled out from under them.

  Four men were approaching Kemal’s boat. “Grab my hand and come ashore,” one of them said.

  “Who are you?” Kemal asked.

  “We organized the raid. We were expecting you. Come on.” As Kemal took the extended hand and jumped ashore he felt deeply grateful to have left the sea behind. “Nazmi Bey opened the doors. Our men are inside right now. You were told to take delivery of the crates and count them, weren’t you? Hurry up and get to it.”

  Two of the men waited in the boat while Kemal followed the other two a short distance back. Crates were being swiftly and soundlessly passed from hand to hand toward the boat. As Kemal furiously scribbled in a notebook, unable to see what he was writing, a large youth he’d met on the boat ride, who went by the name of Gendarme, kept his gun trained on a few gagged and bound soldiers, his eyes alert to the tiniest movement. Lookouts kept the raiders posted on any vessels that passed close to shore, at which time they’d stop their work, only to resume it with intensified speed once the coast was clear.

  Kemal had some burlap sacks opened and, with the help of Nazmi Bey, sorted munitions in order of importance, with cartridges going into one bag, bullets and ammunition into other bags and crates. Once filled, everything was immediately loaded onto the two motorboats.

  Once the depot had been emptied of munitions, the captains ordered their men and their prisoners onto the boats, which began cruising toward the bridge, heavily laden with the small arsenal, as well as the raiders and their captives.

  The bound and gagged prisoners had all been marched at gun-point into the bows of Captain Ahmet’s boat, under the watchful eye of their guards, talkative now that the raid was done. The captains had been undecided on what to do with them.

  Captain Mustafa had suggested that they be dropped off on a secluded stretch of rocky coast a safe distance away.

  “I think you should take them all the way to Karamürsel and surrender them to the Nationalist Forces. On the way, we’ll impress upon them that they’re the native sons of these lands, not of England,” Kemal weighed in.

  “But are they likely be swayed?” Captain Ahmet asked doubtfully.

  “Yes, very likely. I’ve been preaching a similar message to everyone from the Senegalese and the Algerians to the Muslim Indians. That was one of my duties, and I’ve been fairly successful. And these boys are Turks, after all,” Kemal said.

  “A few of them are English.”

  “Good God! Why’d we bring them along?”

  “What were we supposed to do? Let them go, so they could report the raid and identify our boats? That would have been asking for disaster.”

  “You’re right, but now we’ll have to feed them. These foreigners aren’t like us; they’re not used to going hungry.”

  “Well, even in the worst weather it shouldn’t take more than two nights to get there. Don’t worry, whether we give them food or not, they’re not going to starve,” said Captain Ahmet.

  After a long debate, a decision was reached: the prisoners would be taken to Karamürsel and surrendered to the National Forces. And the English hostages might well prove useful as bargaining chips.

  They made a short stop on the banks of the Golden Horn to load boxes of canvas, curtain fabric, and underwear onto one of the boats, sacks of grain onto the other. Most of the raiding party disembarked and slipped off home. When they resumed sailing, the remaining men carefully stacked merchant Gaffur Abdullah’s goods on top of the munitions.

  The second part of the adventure was about to begin.

  The surface of the sea was smooth and inky, and it was no coincidence that no moon shone that night.

  Kemal decided he was getting his sea legs, and that he might even be enjoying the bobbing of the boat and the murmuring of the waves as they gently lapped and plashed . . . His thoughts drifted back to the rowboat excursion he’d taken with his uncle on the Sea of Marmara.

  He’d leaned over the side and trailed his hand in the water, keeping it there until it was creased and puckered. Then he’d gleefully shouted: “Look Uncle, I’ve got old
man hands, just like you!”

  His uncle had laughed and stroked his hair with the words, “Here’s hoping you live to a ripe old age, and acquire a pair of them in earnest.” As he remembered, Kemal couldn’t help laughing aloud at the realization that his uncle had only been in his twenties at the time.

  “You seem to be feeling better now, Kemal Bey, but the real danger’s just about to begin,” the captain told him. “We’re approaching Unkapanı Bridge.

  Kemal’s smile died on his lips. There were no impediments at that bridge and they continued cruising unhindered towards Karaköy Bridge—the checkpoint controlling all maritime traffic into and out of the Golden Horn. Even in the darkness Kemal could see the anxiety on the captain’s face.

  “Will they search the boat?” he asked.

  “If one of our men is on duty, no.”

  “And if he’s not?”

  “Then we might be in for a little trouble.”

  They’d reached the bridge. A man signaled the boat with a lamp. Captain Mustafa let out a shrill whistle. The shadow up on the bridge responded in kind. The boat slowed and the captain steered it toward the checkpoint. Kemal felt his heart pounding. Cruising across the water may not have been as excruciating as trudging across the ice in Sarıkamış, but he sensed that he was as close to death as he had ever been in his life. The slightest false move would be met with a hail of bullets. And what a tragedy that would be. Not because they would die—no, they were all prepared for that: but because they’d die before surrendering the munitions, and all their work would have been in vain. Kemal silently prayed for success. If he were to die, he asked that it be for a purpose. Unlike the lives squandered in Sarıkamış, with not a single shot fired. As he prayed, a deep voice reached his ears.