Last Train to Istanbul

by Ayşe Kulin

  Tarık felt the agony in his dream. He was deliriously happy, yet his palms were sweating and his heart fluttering like a bird’s wings. He was scared not only of making a mistake but also, and more importantly, that he was falling in love.

  Tarık got out of bed and paced the room. No, this wasn’t love; perhaps it was a kind of idealization, he thought. Did he simply desire what was unattainable? To an Anatolian from the east of Turkey, Sabiha was the ideal woman—blonde, beautiful, well educated, and with all the social graces. She could speak several languages and was able to mix with all sorts of people, from all walks of life. He had never met such a woman before. On top of all this, she was his boss’s wife, his friend’s wife. Wasn’t it Macit who had written that excellent report about him, who was so instrumental in his promotion? Should he eventually marry, Tarık knew that Sabiha was everything he wanted in a wife. That’s it! This wasn’t love; it was admiration!

  Back in bed, Tarık wanted to fall asleep, but this time his excitement for the day ahead kept him awake. He was returning to Istanbul for the first time since his university days, and he was looking forward to being back in the city of domes and plane trees. He thought of the days when just walking down Pera Street in Beyoğlu was considered an adventure! And now he was returning to that enchanted city as a diplomat. A busy time lay ahead. Macit had recommended shopping at Karlman Arcade followed by dinner at Rejans, the Russian restaurant, where he should have chicken kiev washed down with yellow vodka to the strains of the balalaika orchestra. Another of Macit’s “musts” was a visit to the Garden Bar at Tepebaşı or to the Park Hotel for a nightcap. Tarık wasn’t one for drinking on his own, but he thought that he should make the most of his couple of days in Istanbul. They might be a sampler of the sophisticated times ahead for him. He didn’t really care for the company of the boring snobs who frequented the bars and restaurants of Istanbul, but at least they spoke his language.

  And then what?

  What would become of him once he boarded that train and mixed with the other passengers? They probably wouldn’t be speaking Turkish. He was headed for an occupied country. Europe was in the grip of war, and what if that war spread to Turkey? What if he never returned to his country again? He had only enough money to last him a couple of weeks, and he spoke a little bit of French. What if he got stuck in that turmoil? The few French words he’d uttered a short while ago came back to him. With fear in his voice, he said to himself, Je suis le deuxième secrétaire à l’ambassade de Turquie. He repeated this in his head, and then another sentence came to mind: “Please, God, help me!”

  It was almost five in the morning before he fell asleep.

  That year spring had arrived in Istanbul hand in hand with sorrow. The dark lines of anxiety under everyone’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed by Tarık. The fear of war burdened everyone, young and old, men and women, rich and poor—no one was spared. By radio and newspaper, the government had issued the instructions for everyone to build bunkers or shelters. If an apartment building was more than three floors high, its ground floor had to be converted to a shelter with windows covered by sandbags. As a result, the city looked like one giant construction site. In spite of all this, Beyoğlu was still as buzzing, as colorful and joyful as Tarık remembered.

  When Tarık left the Haydar Paşa Station on the Asian side of Istanbul, he could smell the salty sea air. He took the ferry over to Karaköy on the European side. Even though he was cold, he deliberately sat on the outside deck so he could watch the white, frothy waves on the sea. Once at Karaköy, he hailed a taxi and sat next to the driver, giving him the slip of paper with the address of his hotel.

  The taxi driver drove through Yüksek Kaldırım to Pera and stopped in front of the Londra Hotel. There were sandbags piled in front of it, just as Tarık had seen in front of other buildings on the short drive.

  “Look at all this,” the driver said, pointing to the sacks. “It gets on people’s nerves. We are not at war, but just look at this mess. We can hardly drive through the streets.”

  “It is always better to be cautious,” said Tarık. “God forbid there should be a sudden air raid. Where would people find shelter?”

  “It’s fate, sir,” said the driver. “Who knows when their number’s up?”

  The driver’s words sent a chill down Tarık’s spine, and yet, how typically fatalistic of a Turk. Tarık had thought that abandoning oneself to fate was a trait of people from the East, but here this Istanbul driver thought along the same lines. He got out of the taxi, and even before paying his fare he stood gazing at the view spread out before him. The silhouettes of the mosques, the domed cupolas, the plane trees on the hills, and the minarets pointing into the sky—it was indeed a breathtaking view. On the hillside, the red buds of Judas trees were just beginning to bloom. Istanbul looked like a watercolor: bright purple, blue, and green all mixed together with dashes of black India ink. In three days he would be leaving this extraordinary city to go to a war zone.

  He paid the driver and collected his luggage. He couldn’t help imitating the driver’s tone of voice as he mumbled to himself, “It’s fate, sir. Who knows when their number’s up?” Walking up the hotel steps, he came face-to-face with the commissionaire dressed like a palace guard. He put down his suitcase as the commissionaire, full of his own importance, summoned the bellboy.

  Just as the bellboy was putting the suitcase on the trolley, there was a frightful bang and Tarık fell flat on his face. Suddenly all hell let loose. There was the crashing of broken windows and people shrieking for help all around. Tarık lifted his head and saw the bellboy lying next to him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  The boy turned his head and looked with a dazed expression. The mucus on his upper lip looked like a greasy mustache.

  “Where the hell are we? Are we dead or alive?”

  “We’re not dead, my boy. We’re lying at the entrance to the hotel.”

  “I don’t believe it, sir!”

  “A bomb exploded nearby,” Tarık explained, struggling to stand up. He had hurt his knees very badly and had difficulty straightening up. The whole area was enveloped in a cloud of smoke and dust. Others around them who had been caught up in the explosion were coming out from under stairs or doorways and stretching. A short period of silence, broken by the agonized howling of a dog, ended with the din of Judgment Day: children started to cry, men and women called for help, police and guards blew their whistles, and cars sounded their horns. Tarık finally stood up; there was glass in his hair and his clothes were filthy. The bellboy was still lying facedown on the ground.

  Tarık tried to lift him up. “Come on, my boy, you’d better try to stand up.”

  The young boy sat up but was still visibly shaken. When Tarık realized he couldn’t get him up, he knelt down beside him and slapped him across the face. The boy started to cry.

  By now people were pouring out through the hotel lobby in panic. Tarık looked around for his suitcase and saw the overturned trolley across the street. Tarık made his way through the panic-stricken crowds toward his suitcase. People were running in all directions trying to find out what had happened; sirens were sounding everywhere.

  When Tarık returned with the trolley and his suitcase, the bellboy was on his feet but looking around in shock.

  “Are you OK now? Look, I’ve got your trolley. Come on then, back to work.”

  “Was it a bomb, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it was.”

  “Where?”

  “I really don’t know, but we’ll soon find out. It must have been very near.”

  “Is anybody dead?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  Tarık led the boy into the lobby, both of them trying to avoid stepping on the shattered glass. There they found total chaos and no receptionist. Several guests were attending to their wounds using their pristine white handkerchiefs. Tarık looked around. What was he to do now? It was then that he noticed that his pants
were torn at the knees. “Damn it!” he mumbled. His new suit was ruined.

  He decided to go upstairs and just find a vacant room. He went along the corridor trying one door after another. The first three were locked; the fourth opened but there were some belongings scattered around and the beds weren’t made up. He tried another door on the opposite side; luckily this one was vacant. The beds were made and the cupboards empty. Tarık closed the door, opened his suitcase on the bed, and took out his old gray suit. In the bathroom, he took all the glass out of his hair and freshened up. A little while later, he went back down to the lobby wearing his gray suit. The receptionist was there, talking in an agitated manner to the guests.

  “You weren’t here when I arrived, so I was obliged to find myself a room. Here’s the key,” Tarık said. “I’m Tarık Arıca from Ankara. I believe the foreign ministry has reserved my room.”

  The receptionist looked confused. He stared briefly at Tarık and took the key without saying a word; it was obvious that he was still in shock.

  “Have you been able to find out what happened?” Tarık asked.

  “Apparently a bomb exploded at the Pera Palace Hotel nearby. Six people are dead and there are many wounded,” replied the receptionist.

  “Dead?”

  “I understand the British ambassador to Sofia is on a visit to Istanbul. They say he has come to see Inönü. I wonder if there is a connection. Maybe it was an attempt to kill him.”

  “You mean Mr. Rendel?”

  “Oh, you know him, do you?” asked the receptionist in amazement.

  “No, I don’t, but I know of him. Is he dead?”

  The man knocked on wood. “Those working behind the reception desk were killed, but apparently the ambassador had just walked into the bar a few minutes before and he’s safe and sound.”

  Tarık walked out of the hotel and down the street toward the Pera Palace Hotel. Policemen were trying to disperse the crowd in front of the hotel while nurses and doctors, stumbling over uprooted paving stones and twisted tram lines, carried the wounded to waiting ambulances. Squeezing through the crowd, Tarık approached a group of young men. He assumed they were journalists, as they were busy taking photographs.

  He asked one of the men how it had happened.

  “It seems the bomb was placed in a suitcase in the lobby.”

  Who was the bomb meant for? Tarık wondered. He thought probably the British ambassadors, Rendel and Hugessen, the ambassador to Turkey.

  Tarık couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor souls who had been behind the reception desk, not to mention the innocent commuters who had just been going about their daily business. The taxi driver’s words came back to him: “Who knows when their number’s up?”

  MARSEILLES 1940–41

  Selva poured herself a cup of hot coffee, breathing in the aroma, thinking how interesting it was that human nature adapts itself to all sorts of situations. When she and Rafo had first settled in France, she hated this bitter coffee served in these huge cups. Fortunately, Sabiha, or rather, Macit had managed to bring her many packages of tea, plus six dainty Turkish tea glasses. Macit had visited France quite often in those days. It was such a joy to drink that Turkish tea at breakfast with Rafo.

  After the birth of their son, Selva got used to this bitter coffee. She drank it to keep herself awake until the baby’s last feeding at night. What had begun as a way of keeping herself awake had turned into an addiction. Rafo couldn’t understand how she could drink “this poison.” In fact, there were a number of things Rafo couldn’t get used to here in France.

  “For goodness’ sake, don’t criticize things in front of other people,” she’d said when he first expressed his lack of enthusiasm. “They’ll think you are a peasant. Fancy not enjoying the best cuisine in the world.”

  “I don’t care what they think. The best cuisine in the world is Turkish. What do I care if they are ignorant?” Rafo insisted. “I will never understand how on earth French food has this great reputation. Those heavy sauces play havoc with your digestion, and just the thought of swallowing snails makes me want to throw up. And as for that cheese that smells like sweaty feet…”

  Selva tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t give up.

  “Is there anything to beat the flavor of fresh vegetables cooked in olive oil, for instance? Can you tell me how they justify ruining the flavor of beautiful fish by smothering it in all those sauces?”

  “Why on earth have we come here, then, if you hate the food so much?”

  “Because their wines are absolutely magnificent.”

  “That may be, but we can’t afford them, can we?” Selva reminded him.

  “We will, my darling, we will. Trust me. Be a little patient. Look how well we have budgeted this month. If we can stick to this for a few more months, we will be able to afford all the best wines in the country.”

  If Rafo hadn’t been able to fulfill that promise, Selva would not have been very upset, but as it happened just as Rafo had achieved his aim, everything turned upside down. Selva was sitting at the dining table helping their neighbor’s daughter Yvonne with her English homework when suddenly they heard a commotion outside. Both rushed to the window. Yvonne, who was only nine, was so excited to see all the policemen on their motorcycles that she started to clap. Sitting stiff-backed on the motorcycles, they looked like statues. Selva immediately felt as though a desperate bird were fluttering in her heart. She put her hand on her huge tummy and prayed, “Please, God, protect our child.”

  As soon as Yvonne left, Selva rushed across the street to the pharmacy where Rafo worked, and when she saw his pale face, she felt she might miscarry. But she didn’t, and the baby was born one month later, two weeks prematurely, a tiny son. They called the boy Fazıl, after her father. Not that she hadn’t worried about her father’s objections to a Jew’s son having his name. Even though she was still angry with him, she put those worries to the back of her mind because she still loved and missed him so much.

  They had decided that should the baby be a boy, they would have him circumcised after seven days according to Jewish tradition. However, because of the ominous Nazi presence, they decided against it. The day Rafo made this decision, he hadn’t been able to sleep all night.

  Selva would sip her coffee and go through the accounts in her notebook. They were in a mess. By the time the Germans occupied the north of France and Paris, Selva and Rafo had already left for Marseilles; they had hoped they would be safe there, but events had taken an unexpected turn.

  Marshal Pétain, who had taken over the Vichy government and declared himself president, had decided to cooperate with the Germans in order to prevent the rest of the country from being occupied. In his effort not to step on the Germans’ toes, he had begun to accede to their every demand. The Vichy police even started to hunt down the Jews. De Gaulle, who had opposed any collaboration, had fled to Britain to form his Free French Forces. Unfortunately, neither the underground resistance nor de Gaulle in Britain could do much to help the Jews.

  Selva lost two of her students when their Jewish parents decided to leave the area, but that turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Other parents who were planning to escape to America wanted Selva to teach their children. So she immediately had three new students and had to turn others away. She was happy to have more students, but Rafo warned her to be cautious.

  “For God’s sake, Selva, be careful. The Fascists are all over the place. They are bound to notice these youngsters coming and going.”

  “What’s wrong with teaching English, Rafo? Is it forbidden to teach?”

  “No, but it is forbidden to be Jewish.”

  Selva became more and more frustrated each day. She hadn’t been able to forgive her father, because he looked down on people who were of a different faith. He, in turn, hadn’t forgiven his daughter for his own reasons, probably mainly because his daughter had rebelled against his wishes. Selva had never wanted to believe that her father had opposed her
marriage solely on religious grounds. She couldn’t believe that the man she respected and loved so much was a religious bigot. What was all this fuss about religion? Surely, she thought, religion should be practiced without thought of race or color, with all its ceremonies carried out in mosques, churches, and synagogues. God was worshiped in these communities, and people reached out to him and found peace in their souls. Selva recalled the joy of Ramadan back home: the excitement of preparing the evening meals before breaking the fast; the special care not to miss prayers; the serenity of the older members of the household in their white headscarves before they prayed; the aura of mystery surrounding the muezzin’s call. All these were exciting. Yes, religion was a many-splendored thing; surely it should be part of life and not used to separate people. Couldn’t people from different religions love one another? Oh, dearest Father, she thought, is religion worth sacrificing your daughter? Is it worth rejecting your son-in-law, just because he prays in a synagogue?

  Selva could well remember the debates she’d had with her father on the subject. In those days, Fazıl Reşat Paşa had no idea of what was to come. He too enjoyed having philosophical discussions with his daughter—that clever girl who willingly read every book he suggested. Later, they discussed them in detail for hours on end. The paşa had often pointed out that the more people became interested in science, the pursuit of knowledge, and culture, the less importance they placed on religion. He often told his daughter that most bigots or fanatics came from poor, ignorant backgrounds. Even during the time when Selva was falling madly in love with Rafo, she had discussed these issues with her father in depth. Respect for other religions? Of course! It is one of the conditions of being contemporary.

  What about being enlightened by other religions?

  Why, after all, was Fazıl Reşat Paşa giving Selva books to read about Far Eastern religions? Wasn’t it because he wanted his daughter to understand not everybody was alike? There were those who didn’t think the same. It was up to her to draw her own conclusions.