by Kulin, Ayse
“Password?”
“Crescent.”
“Signal?”
“Destination.”
“Move along. Safe journey to you.”
“Thanks.”
Moments later, they were past the bridge and chugging toward the Sea of Marmara. Drained from all the excitement, Kemal sat in the stern of the boat, his back propped against a pile of nets, looking out over the murky water. Captain Mustafa came up to Kemal and rested his hand on his shoulder, “Shouldn’t be any trouble now! Why don’t you go below deck and have a nap,” he suggested.
“I’m fine here.”
“My nose is telling me we could have some stormy weather. If we do, you’ll get awfully sick below. You’d better get some sleep now, while it’s dead calm.”
Kemal glanced over to his right, at a coastline etched in indigo, dark but for one or two lights straining weakly somewhere in the distance. There was nothing to look at; he got up to do as the captain had advised. And as the first welcoming corner presented itself, Kemal curled up and fell fast asleep.
Frantic cries and shouts, someone yelling, “Light a bonfire,” comings and goings, hurried footsteps overhead . . . half-real, half-dreamed as Kemal lay sleeping. A heavy crate dropped with a thud and he opened his eyes. At first, he had no idea where he was. Was he in the dormitory, in his bunk? Instinctively ducking his head, he sat up. It was stuffy. Getting to his feet, he walked, clutching anything he could for support. The strange noises in his dream continued, even though his eyes were open. He climbed the three rungs of the ladder, stepped on deck and looked up at a starless sky leached by the milky light of early dawn.
“And a good morning to you, sir,” Captain Mustafa greeted him. “They dropped a crate of rifles and woke you up.” The pieces of information in his confused mind came together and Kemal knew where he was.
“Have we reached our destination?”
“We have, thank God. That was quite some snooze, Kemal Pasha.”
“You mean I was promoted to pasha while I slept?” Kemal laughed.
“Pasha of the whole navy.”
The band of men still on the boat had busied themselves all night long lugging sacks and crates to shore. There were also some new men, who had come aboard to help.
“Where’s the other boat?” Kemal asked.
“It hasn’t arrived yet. We’re still waiting.”
“How long have we been here?”
“Almost an hour.”
“I was out like a light, Captain Mustafa. I wish you’d woken me up. Why are the others so late? You don’t think there’s been any trouble, do you?”
“They were right behind us. Then we lost them over by Darıca . . . They might have had engine trouble.”
“God help them.”
“Maybe they overshot the dock,” said one of the men carrying off a crate of munitions.
“That’s what the district governor thinks, which is why he suggested lighting a bonfire on the shore. Of course, now that it’s getting light outside a fire won’t do any good.”
Kemal shivered slightly as he stepped off the boat. There was a fresh breeze. A mountain of crates and sacks rested on the dock. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and leaned against a post trying to read it. Still too dark. He gave up. A huge fire blazed on the shoreline, the bonfire the governor had ordered. Kemal walked back and forth on the dock. The sky was growing brighter by the second. He pulled out his notebook again and started cross-checking the list of items from the depot.
As the hours passed everyone grew increasingly nervous about the missing second boat. The entire consignment had been loaded onto carts waiting on the dock and the cargo hold had been refilled with sacks of grain. Also stacked on the dock were Kemal’s boxes of cloth and underclothes.
Captain Mustafa came up to Kemal and said, “It’s time the traveler was on his way. You’ll have to be leaving us now.”
“And you should go immediately and help the others if their boat’s broken down,” Kemal said.
“Aye aye, Navy Pasha,” chuckled Captain Mustafa. “But the sea’s too deep for them to drop anchor if they’ve had engine trouble, Kemal Bey. They’ll have drifted off to God knows where.”
Not for the first time, Kemal felt rather sheepish at his ignorance. The captain thrust out his hand and said good-bye. The mooring lines were untied and Captain Mustafa’s motorboat chugged off into an open sea glazed here and there with shimmering shades of red and yellow, until he and his boat were no more than a pinpoint on the distant horizon. Kemal felt as though his last link to the city had been severed. As the boat bound for Istanbul disappeared, he was keenly aware how far he was from home. He felt oddly empty but curiously elated as he sat on a box of underclothes and began to stock-take in his notebook as he patiently waited for the second boat.
As noon approached, those around him began to lose hope. The sun was now high above the horizon. The district governor of Karamürsel and his men were openly speculating that the boat had been stopped by an English assault vessel out on the open sea. Everyone was grim-faced.
“At any sign danger, they would have dumped all the weapons into the sea,” Kemal said, still holding out hope. Then he remembered the prisoners that had all been loaded onto the second boat. They could hardly throw all of them overboard!
“There’s no sense waiting out here in the open,” the governor said. “Let’s go back to town. There may be word from Istanbul.”
As they trooped dejectedly off of the dock someone noticed a tiny speck on the horizon. Their hearts in their mouths, they waited. Yes, it was them.
The boat was welcomed with whoops and cheers. Their engine had broken down near Darıca and they’d spent all these hours trying to repair it. The freight was unloaded and the prisoners turned over to the commander of the National Forces when he arrived to pick up the weapons.
Another raid successfully concluded.
The British response was harsh. Many of the men rounded up by the occupation authorities were tortured to extract confessions. The Istanbul Government was threatened with reprisals and, from that day onwards, all vessels of all sizes and descriptions were categorically forbidden to pass under any bridges after nightfall.
– 18 –
December 31, 1920
Dilruba Hanım didn’t join her chattering daughters in the sitting room after dinner. She performed her ablutions and her prayers, got into bed and read the Koran well into the night. Then she placed it on her nightstand, said a final prayer, and lay down to sleep in the hope that, in her dreams that night, God would show her the best path. Two weeks earlier, a family living on the street behind hers had asked for Mualla’s hand in marriage. They were good people, honest and simple. She’d first met the mother of the family some years earlier at the corner grocery; they’d since visited each other for morning coffee and to exchange holiday greetings, shared recipes for jam and börek, and generally got along well. While she couldn’t easily refuse such a family, Dilruba was a mother first and foremost, and neither was it easy for her to forget that she had a relative, however distant, who served in the cabinet and lived in a mansion in Beyazit. If Reşat Beyefendi were to confide to one his clerks that he had relatives of a marriageable age, any of them would doubtless be eager to take as his wife a girl as virtuous and well-connected as her daughters. And if Mehpare had successfully beguiled the young master of the house under whose patronage she had been sent to live, surely her own girls could turn the head of one Kemal Bey’s distinguished friends. Mualla and Meziyet would then be sent from the peeling house on a humble street in Beşiktaş to become the mistresses of grand mansions all their own.
Their home hadn’t always been in such a state of disrepair, of course. When her father had bought it some forty years earlier, it had been a typical Istanbul house, a three-storey wooden structure, painted white, with a red-tiled roof and charming bow windows. Dilruba Hanım had been a child at the time. Like so many Circassians, her family had fled to
Istanbul to escape the bloody massacres in the Caucasus after the ’93 War. The house had been bought with the gold pieces they’d sewn into the hems of their skirts and the linings of their cloaks and even hidden in their hair. They’d hoped to build a peaceful new life in their new homeland, but they’d arrived just as the Ottoman Empire was entering a period of decline and disintegration. And so they lost their men to war, their women to childbirth, and their children to epidemics. They may have become poorer, sadder, but they were still grateful not to have to face slaughter and rape, and grateful for their prosperous relatives here, always prepared to lend a helping hand. If one of the girls were to make a favorable match, employment might even be arranged at a government office for her son Recep.
When, gift in hand, daughters in tow, Dilruba Hanım had made her way to the mansion to present her congratulations on the occasion of the birth of Behice’s third daughter, and dutifully stayed on for a few days to help with the flood of well-wishers, she’d casually dropped a hint to Saraylıhanım.
“Reşat Bey is in such a temper these days that I fear he’s in no condition to act as matchmaker,” Saraylıhanım had said, adding, “But when the time comes for Mehpare to give birth I do hope you’ll come again for a night or two, at which point I’ll be certain to broach the subject with him.”
Saraylıhanım relished the role of marriage broker.
Dilruba Hanım found herself on the horns of a dilemma: should she wait until the birth of Mehpare’s baby and the prospect of a distinguished and possibly wealthy suitor for her daughter, or should she settle for the neighbor’s son? Life had repeatedly taught her that when in the presence of running water, one should wash one’s hands. Furthermore, she was worried that Mualla would gain a neighborhood reputation as a fussy, stuck-up girl. Kismet may come to your feet; but, once turned away, might never return. As Dilruba Hanım pondered long and hard, it never occurred to her to ask her daughter for guidance. No one had asked her when her own husband had been arranged. The task of choosing a spouse fell to elders, relatives, and even neighbors. And as she wrestled with her weighty responsibility, deeply conflicted and unable to reach a decision, she hoped her dreams would show her the way.
Dilruba Hanım was awakened from a deep sleep by a series of explosions. She’d been dreaming about a double wedding and was smiling contentedly at a low rumbling which she’d taken to be the pounding of the ceremonial drums. That smile was still on her face as she sat up in bed. Those were no drums—no, it was a bomb . . . and another. She leapt out of bed so abruptly that her head spun and she nearly toppled over. Lurching to the window she pulled back the curtains. The sky above the two- and three-storey houses was illuminated with an unearthly red light. There must be a fire nearby! The streets had filled with frantic people running to and fro. Bombs continued to explode, one after another. Were they being shelled? Had the enemy invaded their street? Would they burst into the house? Would they loot and pillage? Would they kill everyone? She ran out of her room and bumped straight into her daughters, both of them quaking with fear.
“What’s going on, mother? Are they dropping bombs on us? What’s that racket?”
“Where’s your brother? Where’s Recep?”
“He hasn’t come back yet.”
“He hasn’t returned? At this hour? My God, what if something’s happened to him? He may have been shot, or arrested!”
“Don’t even say such a thing!”
“Quick, get dressed girls, into your çarşafs. Everyone’s running for their lives. Let’s go.”
“But where can we go at this hour, mother?”
“We’ll go to Reşat Bey’s house. We can shelter there. It’s the home of a minister; we should be safe.”
“But how will we get there?”
“We’ll find a rowboat to take us as far as Sirkeci. Or we’ll walk. Hurry up and get dressed. Write a note to Recep saying where we’ve gone. Leave it on the console in the hall. Got that, Meziyet? Quickly now!”
The blasts were deafening and unremitting. Dilruba went to her room, rummaged through a wooden trunk and pulled out a tin box containing her valuables and the deed to the house. Groping through the contents of a dresser drawer, she located a key, opened the box and began rummaging around for something. She hastily stripped the pillow of its case, tossed in the few jewels and gold pieces from the box, tightly knotted it and secured it to her waist with a long sash, and slipped into her cloak and çarşaf. “Are you ready, girls?” she called.
Dilruba Hanım and her daughters raced down the stairs to the street door and outside. The street was heaving with panicked neighbors, screaming women, wailing children, howling dogs, watchmen blowing whistles. People were hanging out of their windows. Everyone was shouting at once and it was impossible to tell what anyone was saying.
“Take hold of my hands, hold tight,” Dilruba Hanım shouted to her daughters, “and if anyone gets lost in the crowd we’ll meet at the Beşiktaş Ferry Station, all right?”
The crowds were surging towards the main street, pushing and shoving, trampling each other, stepping over and onto the fallen. Dilruba Hanım realized she’d forgotten to put on her shoes. Not only was it difficult to walk in backless slippers, her feet were cold. Trying as best she could to keep hold of her daughters’ hands, she checked to make certain the bundle strapped around her waist was still there. It was—she relaxed slightly. The bombs were still going off in rapid succession, and each explosion painted the sky a garish red, then other colors, one after the other. Flashes of blue and yellow, orange and purple.
“It’s Doomsday,” cried a man with a grey beard. “It’s not bombs, it’s the end of the world!”
The panicked crowd surged forward. Dilruba stumbled and nearly fell when someone stepped on the hem of her çarşaf; her headscarf slid to the ground. It would be impossible to bend over and pick it up. Well, they were all going to die, she no longer cared what the neighbors said, she thought as she tugged at her daughters and was swept along by the hordes of people. There was someone just ahead, going against the crowd, arms outstretched as he fought his way through. He was nearly upon Dilruba Hanım before she cried, “My God, it’s you!”
“Mother! What are you doing—your hair’s uncovered! Where on earth are you going?”
“Oh, Recep! My boy! All hell’s broken loose. Look at the sky! All those colors! We’re running for our lives.”
Halted as they were in the middle of the street, Dilruba Hanım and her family were shoved and elbowed from behind. Recep managed to pull his mother and sisters out of the crush and into the safety of a doorway.
“Mother, have you lost your mind? Get back to the house at once!”
“But son, what about the bombs? Don’t your hear them? We’ll be safe at Reşat Bey’s.”
“What bombs?”
“Look! Everyone’s running away!”
“We’re going home,” Recep said. “I hope you haven’t forgotten to close the door. Otherwise, thieves will have long since cleaned us out.”
There was a long explosion. “See? They’re dropping bombs!” Meziyet said.
“That wasn’t a bomb. They’re fireworks. If you’d made it as far as the coast you’d have seen for yourselves,” said Recep with an odd look on his face, as though he didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. “The heathens are celebrating their new year. There’s a cruiser anchored off Beşiktaş. They’ve been setting off fireworks for an hour. Now go on, get home!”
“Whatever do you mean?” stammered Dilruba Hanım. “No one sets off fireworks in the winter!”
As Dilruba Hanım limped back to her house, shivering in a single slipper, her head bare, her hair disheveled, her bundle of valuables threatening to slip to her knees, she decided that her dream that night had shown her the correct path. Allah had given her a glimpse of Armageddon; she’d been forced to confront death; then, he’d restored her to normal life. If she really had remembered to shut the door tightly against thieves, she would immediately inform
her neighbors, first thing tomorrow, that she would indeed agree to give her daughter Mualla’s hand in marriage to their son. And may it all work out for the best.
Spectacles perched on his nose, Ahmet Reşat sat in his room reading a letter in the daylight coming in from the window. When he’d finished, he folded it, placed it in his pocket and went downstairs to join the women in the sitting room.
“Mehpare, tell Gülfidan to make us each a nice cup of coffee, would you?” he said.
“Her hands smell of onion at the moment, I’ll go make some and bring it up to you, efendim,” Mehpare said. “And you’ll have to excuse me, please. I find I’m unable to enjoy the aroma of coffee these days.”
“Make some for Saraylıhanım and Behice then. They’ll have some.”
“Don’t make any for me, Mehpare, too much coffee is bad for my milk,” Behice said. In actual fact, the women were economizing so that their guests and Reşat Bey could drink coffee. And that wasn’t the only way they scrimped: Behice would pretend not to want meat on those days meat dishes were prepared, ensuring that her share then went to her daughters, who were growing, and Mehpare, who was pregnant. At first Saraylıhanım had been quite prickly with her fussy daughter-in-law; but when she came to understand Behice’s true motives she began treating her more kindly.
Mehpare left the room to prepare coffee for Reşat Bey and Saraylıhanım.
“What’s going on my boy? Why the sudden desire for coffee service?”
“It’s conversation I want; the coffee was a pretext,” Ahmet Reşat explained.
“Reşat Bey, since when have you been interested in sitting down to conversation with us?” Behice asked.
“Why wouldn’t I sit down with you when there’s something to discuss?”
“Is there something to discuss?”
“There certainly is.”
“I’m dying to know what it is, tell us for God’s sake.”
“Wait for Mehpare to come back,” said Reşat Bey.