by Ayşe Kulin
“So, how did the British come to this brilliant decision?”
“It’s the only way to stop the Germans invading Turkey. Of course there is another thing…”
“What’s that?”
“We are to inform the British of the details of our negotiations in writing and act outside these parameters.”
“Do you know, my son,” said the paşa in a trembling voice, “I just can’t stomach the fact that damned foreigners are dictating what we should do. Would the Great Ottoman have stooped to this?”
“But, sir, wasn’t it the same before the republic? How on earth were we supposed to equip our forces when we inherited a crushing gold debt from the Ottomans? Didn’t we need charity from the British?”
“I’m not defending the Ottomans, my son. I am aware of all of our mistakes, but it still hurts.”
“They are not your mistakes, sir; they are mistakes that have accumulated over the centuries. Please, God, let us pave the way to a stronger and wealthier nation for our children.”
“Yes, we have certainly made a mess of things. Inşallah, you will succeed,” Fazıl Reşat Paşa said sadly.
“I do understand how you feel, sir, but believe me, Inönü is doing his best to protect our country’s honor. I know because I deal with Hitler’s correspondence. The Germans sent us a friendly letter back in February promising that their forces wouldn’t come anywhere near the Turkish borders. But there was a restrictive amendment that said, ‘as long as the Turkish government doesn’t force us to change our attitude.’ ”
“And…”
“In his reply, Inönü thanked Hitler appropriately, but then he added a restriction using, more or less, Hitler’s wording.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘as long as the German government doesn’t take measures that force Turkey to change their friendly attitude.’ Tit for tat, in other words. Hitler has always addressed the weaker countries harshly. Perhaps Inönü’s proud, almost haughty, manner baffled him a bit.”
This conversation would have continued had it not been for Sabiha joining them. She was holding a letter and some photographs.
“Look, Macit, a letter sent ages ago has finally arrived today. Selva sent some pictures of little Fazıl.” She glanced at her father. “The little boy must have grown since she sent this letter. Children change so quickly at this age. Have a look, darling…Isn’t he cute? His eyes and nose are exactly like Selva’s.”
Macit looked at the photographs nonchalantly, avoiding eye contact with his father-in-law, and put them back in the envelope.
“Yes, very nice.”
“Don’t you agree that he looks like Selva, especially around the mouth?”
“Sabiha, I was in the middle of an important conversation with your father.”
“You’re always like that—whatever you’re talking about is so important,” she said angrily.
Sabiha laid the envelope with the photographs on the small table where her father could see it, and left. Fazıl Reşat Paşa didn’t look. He poured himself a little more raki from the small carafe.
“Let me get some more ice for you,” Macit said, going to the kitchen.
The so-called icebox was a small wooden cupboard lined with zinc. They would buy large blocks of ice from a restaurant, break them up, and put the ice in the box. Inside the icebox were some long brown bottles of Tekel beer. A carafe of water was crammed between the bottles. Leman Hanım had had the icebox brought by a porter from the summer villa to the Asian side of Istanbul and from there by rail to Ankara.
When the maid saw Macit trying to break off some ice, she tried to stop him.
“Please, sir, let me do that. I need to wash it as well after breaking it up.”
Macit returned to where his father-in-law was sitting. He saw the old man looking through the photographs one by one, placing them back in the envelope with shaking hands. Macit went back to the kitchen on tiptoe so as not to disturb him.
MARSEILLES
Reading the newspaper, Selva saw the sickening headline.
According to the latest edict issued by the Vichy government, all Jews were required to register themselves and their belongings with the authorities. Those who didn’t comply would be penalized and sent to concentration camps.
There was also a list published of those being sent to the camps because they hadn’t obeyed the instructions, or were late doing so. Selva trembled as she read through the list. Luckily Rafo’s name hadn’t been registered on any of the pharmacy’s legal papers. All the same the Vichy administration, with its spies and hunting dogs, was even more efficient at tracing Jews than the Nazis themselves. What if they found out that Benoit’s mother was Jewish? She didn’t even want to think about that now.
Many Turks, particularly from Istanbul, had migrated to France after the First World War, settling mainly in Paris, Lyon, and Marseilles. Later, the children of these families intermarried with the French and produced their own families. Benoit’s mother was one such case. She had moved to France with her family from Istanbul and married a Frenchman who was not of the Jewish faith when she was twenty-one.
Benoit and his mother would go to Istanbul every year for their summer holiday. During these holidays they would spend some time with the Alfandaris in their Tarabya house. Who knew how many times they swam there in the dark-blue waters of the Bosphorus, played hide-and-seek in the groves on its hills, and fished along its shores?
Before the Germans occupied Paris, when Rafo was desperately seeking a safe base for his family somewhere, it was Benoit who had suggested that they go to Marseilles. He offered to make Rafo a partner in his pharmacy once he had sorted out his financial situation.
There were a few friends of Selva’s family who had gone to France at this time. Selva read the lists in the newspaper with fear in her heart that she would come across any of their names. Doenyas, Alhadef, Eskenasy…Some names looked familiar. Eskenasy—wasn’t that the surname of her grandmother’s poker partner, Ester Hanım? Her now deceased grandmother, who had been so unhappy when they’d decided to move to Paris? Selva would ask Rafo when he came home for lunch. Surely he would know who was who. But what was the point? He would be so upset if he knew any of them.
Young Fazıl sat on his potty as she continued to read the newspaper. The baby started to scream at exactly the same time that the telephone started to ring. He must have some sort of built-in mechanism, she thought. “Un moment, s’il vous plait,” she answered, and rushed back to Fazıl. By then he had overturned the potty, and it took some time to empty the pot, clean up, and wipe him. My God, she said to herself, I forgot the telephone! She picked up the receiver, worried that the caller had hung up.
“Hello! Hello!”
A man’s voice replied, “Selva Hanım, this is Tarık Arıca speaking. Your sister gave me your number. I’m the second secretary at the Turkish consulate in Paris.”
“Oh, Tarık. Of course I know who you are. Sabiha has mentioned you in her letters so often.”
“That’s so nice of her. I’m sorry I seem to have called at an inopportune moment. I can call back at a more convenient time if you wish.”
“No, no, Tarık, it’s fine now. Please don’t hang up. I was just changing Fazıl’s…I mean my son’s…I was just going to put him to bed…He’s playing happily now. Oh! Tarık, I do miss home so much…especially talking to you right now. I’ve missed speaking my own language…it’s perfectly all right to speak now.”
“I promised your sister that I’d call you as soon as I got to Paris. Unfortunately, I’ve been extremely busy since I arrived. I couldn’t call you sooner. Things here are rather hectic. Anyway, I bring you lots of love and regards. I also have a couple of things for you. I’ll try to send them to you as soon as I can.”
“There’s no hurry. Perhaps you could give them to somebody who is coming down here. Please don’t send them by post; I’m not sure I would get them.”
“You’re right. I know t
hat we are sending a courier to our consulate in Marseilles next week. I’ll send your things then.”
“Did you have a good trip, Tarık? Did you get through without being harassed by the Germans?” Selva asked in an attempt to prolong the conversation.
Apart from the few occasions when she spoke to her mother or sister, and of course Rafo, she had no opportunity to speak Turkish to anyone. She hadn’t admitted, even to herself, that she missed using her mother tongue. At this moment she was trying to satisfy her longing by speaking to a man she hardly knew. Listening to him was like breathing Istanbul air!
“My journey was very tiring. I couldn’t get a direct train from Istanbul on the date I wanted. I had to travel to Edirne by bus, a very ramshackle old bus indeed, then a dreadful train from Edirne to Varna. From there, I took an equally dreadful steamboat to Köstence, where I boarded yet another train. The carriages were freezing and there was nothing to eat. The Germans often stopped the train for checks, but I must say they were all right with me. We kept changing trains. It was quite an adventure, but I am here now.”
“Welcome,” said Selva wholeheartedly. “In fact, I have been waiting for your call. From the way Sabiha has written about you, I feel I have a close friend in France, even if we are in different cities.”
“Thank you, Selva Hanım. Is everything OK down there? Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”
“We’re managing for the time being.”
“I hope both you and your husband have your Turkish passports.”
“We do, but we applied for our French citizenship, so Rafo didn’t extend his.”
“That’s a big mistake! You should go immediately to our consulate in Marseilles and put all your papers in order. I urge you to do this. In fact I urge you to do this immediately, today!”
“Really? I’ll tell Rafo when he gets home. We were a little embarrassed…I mean…anyway, I’ll tell him when he comes in.”
“Selva Hanım…”
“Please, call me Selva.”
“Please give me a little time to call you this, Selva Hanım. I’ll call our consulate in Marseilles today and give them your names. There’s nothing to feel embarrassed about. You must ask for Nazım Kender; he’s our consul there. I will put him in the know right away.”
Selva became very quiet. She didn’t know what to say to this man she hardly knew and yet who was so concerned about them.
“Selva Hanım, for God’s sake, I’m telling you, do as I say without delay. If your Turkish papers are in order, they can’t touch you.”
“Thank you, Tarık,” she said shakily. “Thank you for your concern. I feel as though my sister put you up to this, but…”
“I assure you this is serious. It has nothing to do with Sabiha Hanım. Look, Selva Hanım, I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but according to a reliable source, the German army is to move south very soon. The occupation will spread. If you don’t have your papers in order, you may be very sorry. You can’t say I haven’t warned you.” He was very serious; his voice had changed entirely. He didn’t prolong the conversation further, but wished her good day and hung up.
Selva went straight to the chest of drawers in their bedroom and found their passports. Since they had left Istanbul the day after they were married, she hadn’t had time to change her surname. Her passport was still in her maiden name, Behice Selva Kırımlı. She had used this passport when she visited Italy with her parents a year before she and Rafo left Turkey. The holiday had been organized by Leman Hanım in an attempt to patch things up between her husband and daughter. She’d chosen Italy because she knew how Fazıl Reşat Paşa admired the country. She had imagined that the magnificent sights, delicious food, and wonderful wines would heal the rift. Unfortunately, she had been too optimistic, and her hopes hadn’t materialized: the two remained distant and talked to each other only when necessary. They returned home after a week still feeling resentful toward one another. Italy’s ornamental architecture, the ice-cold Frascati, and the various pasta dishes might have satisfied their senses, but had done nothing to warm their hearts.
Selva toyed with the passports. Little Fazıl had fallen asleep in his bed. She decided that she would leave him with his father when he woke up and go to the consulate herself. She would tell Rafo that she was taking his passport too, and if she managed to get his extended, then she’d tell him why. The staff at the consulate might choose not to extend it, she thought; after all, Rafo had committed an unforgivable crime—sacrilege, according to Sabiha. He had married a Muslim girl. Strangely enough, Turkish men who married Greek, Armenian, or Jewish girls weren’t subject to the same treatment as Rafo. Turkish men could marry whom they pleased, but it wasn’t the same for Turkish girls. Feelings of injustice filled Selva’s heart as she put the passports in her bag. Just then the telephone rang again.
“Hello!”
“Selva Hanım, this is Tarık Arıca from Paris again.” She now recognized his voice well. “I got you an appointment to visit the consulate. You are expected at half past three today.”
“You needn’t have troubled, Tarık. I decided to go anyway.”
“There’s a long line at the gate. I didn’t want you to have to go through all that, so I’ve given them your name. This way you can see the consul himself right away.”
Selva was baffled as she put the phone down. Was this man crazy or what? Why had he taken it upon himself to make such a fuss?
The line outside the consulate really surprised Selva. To the right of the gate, there was a crowd of middle-aged men and women talking among themselves and jostling one another. Selva did as Tarık had instructed; she went straight to the gate and rang the bell. The man who answered the door told her off in French.
“You ought to have taken your line number from that man,” he said pointing. Selva noticed an official standing on the other side of the gate.
“I’ve come to see the consul. I’ve got an appointment.”
“What’s your name?”
“Selva Kırımlı.”
“Wait here.”
The consulate doorman, a kavass, returned shortly. He was much more courteous this time.
“Please follow me, madame.”
He led Selva up the stairs of the old building, and they stopped at a desk in a hall where a secretary was sitting.
“Please take a seat,” said the elderly secretary with an Armenian accent. “The consul is engaged at the moment. I’ll show you in as soon as he is free.”
Selva sat on the edge of the chair in front of the desk and waited. Twenty minutes later the secretary announced that the consul was free. Selva stood up, straightened her skirt, ruffled her fringe, and strode down the long corridor to the consul’s office. She waited a few seconds before knocking.
“Please come in,” called a voice from the office.
She opened the door and walked in. The young man sitting behind the desk leaped to his feet. He walked around the desk and shook Selva’s hand. She was most surprised to see a tall, handsome man standing in front of her. She had expected the consul to be stout and bald.
“Hello, won’t you sit down…”
Selva sat in an armchair.
“I’m Nazım Kender. Your brother-in-law, Macit, is a colleague I admire a lot. Tarık, our friend in Paris, tells me you are Sabiha Hanım’s sister. When he telephoned he told me to make this appointment for you. Why didn’t you contact us yourself? I wish you had called and told me that you were Macit’s sister-in-law. Had I known you were here, I would have called you myself long ago. We try to get together with the Turks here at least once a month. Inşallah, you are all right. What can I do for you?”
Selva wondered if the man sitting across the desk knew about Rafo—if he knew that her husband was Jewish.
“I’d offer you something, but I’m sure you’ll understand that in the present circumstances supplies are short. We’ve even used up all the Turkish coffee that we had sent over last week.”
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“Thank you. I don’t want anything to drink.” Selva was sitting on the edge of the chair rather anxiously.
“Tarık told me that some documents need updating. I understand your passports need extending.”
“Yes, that’s right. It was very kind of Tarık to take the trouble to arrange this appointment. I had thought that it wasn’t really necessary, but I realized why when I saw the line outside.”
“The lines…yes, that’s to do with the requirement that Turkish nationals have to register with the Turkish consulates. If they don’t, they stand to lose their citizenship. Unfortunately it appears that many of our Jewish citizens took no notice of this requirement. Why should they when they already obtained their French citizenship? In fact, some of them did nothing, purely out of negligence. Now they are stateless. All they have are tattered old Ottoman passports written in Arabic. Now, because of the Vichy government’s attitude, they are rushing to update them. What else can the poor souls do? The local authorities don’t seem to be taking any circumstances into consideration, even one’s age. They just gather people up, young and old, and send them to the camps. If they can show us anything to prove they were once Turkish citizens, we do our best to help them. Unfortunately it isn’t always easy. Sometimes there’s nothing we can do. Because the Germans are hoping that we might join their side in the war, they don’t seem to want to aggravate us too much. Anyway, enough of that; your passports are republic passports, of course, and I don’t suppose it’s a question of renewing them, of just extending them.”
“Well, yes. They’re not written in Arabic, but…I mean…”
“We can extend them right away.”
“My husband’s passport is out of date. Would you be able to extend that too?”
“Of course.”
“I think I must tell you that my husband is Rafael Alfandari.”
“He is a Turkish national, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s Turkish.”