by Ayşe Kulin
“So why should there be a problem?”
Selva fidgeted in her seat. It was obvious from her manner that she felt very uncomfortable.
“I hope I shall have the honor of meeting him,” said the handsome man. “You remember I told you that we organize get-togethers for the Turkish community from time to time. I sincerely hope you will accept our invitation to join us at our next gathering.”
Selva’s face brightened up. Hopefully the people she met here wouldn’t be as condescending and hurtful as those she had considered her friends in Istanbul.
“Oh! Thank you very much; we’d love to, of course.”
“May I have your passports, please?”
Selva took the passports out of her bag.
“I’m afraid our surnames aren’t the same. Would you be able to correct that if I left my marriage license with you?” she asked.
Selva broke the silence that followed.
“We left Istanbul the day after our wedding and we didn’t have time to change my name on my passport.”
Selva placed the passports together with the marriage license on the desk.
The handsome consul looked through the pages of the license and appeared to be choosing his words carefully.
“Selva Hanım,” he said. “Of course we can make the necessary changes, but since you have neglected to do this for so long, may I suggest you not do it just yet?”
“Why?” Selva said almost indignantly.
“Because it’s difficult to know what the Germans will do next. I don’t recommend you change your name from Kırımlı to Alfandari just yet. Let it stay the way it is. We are ready to help our Jewish citizens, I assure you, but as I said before, there are certainly times when our power doesn’t go far enough. You have a young son, don’t you?”
“How do you know that?”
“Tarık told me. I firmly believe that you owe it to your son not to change anything until the war is over. I will certainly add your son’s name to your passport. What is it?”
“In other words, you expect me to save our skins and throw my husband to the devil. Is that it?”
“You’re exaggerating, Selva Hanım. I’m ready to do anything you say. I’m merely suggesting caution. Maybe you should discuss this with your husband before deciding.” He glanced at the names on the passports before adding, “I’m sure Mr. Alfandari will agree with my advice.”
“Thank you, but the three of us are totally inseparable. Please make the appropriate changes. All three of us should have Alfandari on our passports!”
“Fine, as you wish. I sincerely congratulate you for your courage. Your husband is a very lucky man.”
The handsome consul got up and showed Selva to the door.
“You can collect your updated passports in two days. Needless to say, if there is anything else I can do, don’t hesitate to contact me.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much, sir.”
“Please convey my regards to Macit and that very lovely sister of yours—you are in touch with them, aren’t you?”
“We try to correspond, but unfortunately it isn’t so easy. It takes ages for our letters to arrive, but what can one do?” Selva offered her hand, thanked the consul sincerely again, and left the room. She hurried down the corridor. When she returned home, she would tell her husband that the Turkish consul in Marseilles was the best-looking man she had ever seen in her life.
PARIS
Tarık was banging the keys on his Remington typewriter with the intensity of a concert pianist. His body language reflected the words he was typing. He would raise one hand, nod, and strike a key, then raise the other hand, nod again, and so on, pausing from time to time to search for a particular letter. Tarık targeted the chosen letter before banging his finger down again, as if he was firing a gun, rat-a-tat-tat.
We, the Turkish Embassy, are honored to inform you of our Government’s views concerning your Government’s legal clause 2333, which was approved on 2/6/1941. According to this clause, Jewish people are required to register themselves and their possessions. This clause includes Jews of Turkish nationality. Turkey does not differentiate between its citizens on the grounds of race, color, or creed, and therefore is disturbed by this ruling from the French Government. The Turkish Government alone is responsible for protecting the rights of its citizens.
The third secretary, Muhlis, sitting opposite Tarık, joked, “Why all this passion?”
“I’m using the kind of language these people understand.”
“They only understand blasphemy.”
“What a shame swear words aren’t allowed in diplomacy.”
“I think you are giving vent to your feelings on that poor machine.”
“What do you expect? I’ve got to get it out of my system somehow. If only you knew what I went through last week…”
“Yes, I just heard! If I hadn’t been away delivering the courier bag, I could have joined you. I understand you saved Rifka Mitrani, Yakop Barbut, and Eli Farhi from the hands of the Gestapo. I saw the thank-you notes they sent this morning, so I remember the names.”
“It was really tragic. You should have heard Mitrani’s daughter’s voice on the phone…It was heartbreaking to hear her sobbing, yelling, and screaming that they’d taken her mother away.”
“Where to?”
“They brought her from Lyon to Paris. They were going to send her to Drancy. Sometimes they send them to Berlin by train.”
“Yes, and after that nobody knows what happens.”
“That’s right. I never knew civilized people could behave this way. Why this animosity? Why?”
“I wish I knew. If I ever meet Hitler one day, I’d like to ask him,” said Muhlis.
“You never know. Maybe he was cuckolded by a Jewish beauty when he was young. Don’t they say there’s always a woman’s finger behind everything? Cherchez la femme!”
Muhlis Edin was very new at the consulate. There had been an enormous increase in the number of passport queries after Tarık was posted to Paris, so he was given an assistant. Unlike Tarık, who was serious and hardworking, Muhlis didn’t take life too seriously. He was frivolous and made light of everything. Tarık hadn’t quite made up his mind whether or not he liked this young man. He had to admit, though, that in these dismal days Muhlis did manage to make him laugh and lightened the atmosphere a little. But Tarık wasn’t quite sure how much he could trust him.
“My dear Muhlis, you’d better set these jokes aside. One day you may be faced with a similar situation and then what?”
“Right, I was just about to ask you. What exactly did you do after you got that call?”
“I called the German embassy in Paris immediately. I insisted that the person in question was Turkish. They in turn asked for her papers. It is always extremely important to have all the relevant documents in order. The girl sent her mother’s birth certificate with her husband, and the young man traveled all night to bring it to me. He was totally exhausted when he got here. We were about to jump into my Citroën to go to the police station when there was another call. Apparently there were another two at the same station.
“Anyway, thank God we seem to get some respect from the Germans at the moment. You know they’re buying chrome from us now. Anyhow, we got there. I don’t know if you remember that I saved another two from a different police station last week. I think I’m getting good at this. You should have seen the joy, all the hugs and tears, when we crammed into the car later. The poor woman couldn’t stop crying. She kept trying to hug and thank me while I was driving. No matter how many times I warned her not to distract me, she kept trying to give me sloppy kisses. She just didn’t seem to understand. We could easily have had an accident.
“The others were similar. Yakop was in shock, so he could hardly talk and the other one kept praying in all the different languages he knew. Finally, tearfully, we got here. What I am trying to emphasize is that, if people have the necessary papers to prove they are Turkish, you shou
ldn’t hesitate for a minute. After making your formal applications, you need to follow up personally, and with insistence. If necessary, you should also contact the Turkish embassy in Vichy for further pressure. If that doesn’t work, you should also seek assistance from our embassy in Berlin.”
“I understand,” said Muhlis. “So then what happened?”
“Then we took all their old papers and replaced them with solid Turkish passports. They were so grateful. They thanked us a thousand times and left the office.”
“Didn’t you ask them why the hell they left Turkey to come here?”
“No! For God’s sake, how can you ask those questions at such a time? Don’t we wish we were Europeans at times? Don’t we envy the Europeans’ level of civilization, their knowledge, their order? Those poor souls must have felt the same way. Well, they got up and left. What a mistake!”
Just as Muhlis was going to answer, they were interrupted by a secretary.
“The consul is waiting for that letter, sir. He’s asking if it is finished yet,” the petite brunette said.
“I’ll bring it over in ten minutes,” said Tarık, and he went back to striking the keys. Rat-a-tat-tat…
MARSEILLES
Selva was thinking of the good news she had for Rafo on her way home. Before returning to their apartment, she went to the pharmacy to collect Fazıl. Rafo had put his son in his high chair behind the counter. He had given him a piece of paper and some colored pencils to amuse himself. As soon as he saw Selva, he lifted the boy up and handed him to his mother.
“Where have you been?” he asked in an irritated voice.
“Sorry, I only just made it. Why? Has anything happened?”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t ask silly questions. They took Rosa and her kid away. Benoit ran to the police station. I was waiting for you before I could join him.”
Selva hugged her son tightly, and Rafo continued, “It seems they rounded them up just as they were getting on the bus today. They were carrying out an identity check. We received the news about twenty minutes after you left.”
Rafo was already putting on his jacket.
“Come on, Selva. You’d better go home. I need to lock the door.”
“Rafo, wait. I have to talk to you first.”
“What’s there to talk about? I can’t leave Benoit alone. He was so sad, almost desperate.”
“I understand, but maybe I could help him.”
“Who? You?”
“Yes.”
“Just who do you think you are? Being Fazıl Reşat Paşa’s daughter won’t get you very far in Marseilles.”
“What you are saying, Rafo?”
“I’m sorry, Selva, I’m on edge right now, and you’re making me late. I had to leave Benoit on his own because of you. If you hadn’t left Fazıl, I would have been able to join him.”
“Rafo, you’ve got to come home with me. You must tell me exactly where they took them and what time. I need their full names and addresses and—”
“And what will you do with these details, may I ask? Will you go to the police station and say ‘Listen here, you. I am Madame Alfandari. You will regret your actions’?”
Finally Selva had to raise her voice.
“Shut up, Rafo! Shut up and listen!”
Rafo wasn’t used to his wife speaking to him in that tone.
“Rafo, let’s call the consul I saw today. I’m sure he can help.”
“You’re being ridiculous now.” He led Selva by the arm out of the pharmacy, closed the door, pulled the shutters down, and locked up.
“Come on, darling, go home. I might be late for dinner, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Aren’t you even going to ask what I did today?”
“We’ll speak when I get back,” said Rafo.
Selva crossed the street with her son cradled in her arms and went home.
“Now then, little one, please don’t be difficult; play in there,” she said, putting Fazıl in his playpen. “I need to make a call now and then I’ll get you something to eat. OK? Will that be OK?”
The child looked as though he would resist at first, but seeing the determined look on his mother’s face, he picked up his little red truck and began to play.
Selva looked through the notebooks by the telephone and found the piece of paper on which she’d written the consul’s telephone number.
“Hello, is this the Turkish consulate? I’d like to speak to Nazım Kender, the consul, please. It’s very urgent. Yes, very urgent indeed. This is Selva Kırımlı; I came to see him this afternoon. Would you tell him that…Yes, I’ll wait. Thank you.”
Selva put her fingers to her lips to indicate to her son that he should be quiet.
“Hello…yes, yes, it’s me, Selva Kırımlı, Mr. Kender. I’m sorry to disturb you but apparently, as I was seeing you this afternoon, they took away someone very close to me, together with her son. Actually, she’s my husband’s business partner’s cousin. Yes, on his mother’s side. They’re a family from Istanbul…”
Selva started sobbing, drowning her voice in her tears. “I don’t really know where. I’ll see if I can find out. Her name is Rosa, Rosa Hatem. Her child’s name is Yako. Their address, their address is…My God, what was it now?…48 Rue Boissière…I’m sure that’s right, yes, that’s right. I understand that her husband is in the hospital. He had a gallbladder operation three days ago. I presume he knows nothing of this. Please help! I beg of you, Mr. Kender. Thank you. I can’t thank you enough.”
Selva put the phone down, went into the kitchen, and made sure that the door was closed so Fazıl wouldn’t hear her crying.
LYON
Rifka was busily preparing pastries in the kitchen when the telephone started to ring. Rifka’s family had originally emigrated from Toledo to Istanbul, and not even twenty-seven years in Paris had changed her taste in food or the customs surrounding it. Passover was approaching, and Rifka had already prepared a list of food she would be cooking for her small family, as well as the unleavened bread for the meal. What a pity, though, that she had left behind in Paris the special china she had for such a holy occasion. There were actually far more important things than plates that she had had to leave behind, but if she had them, she would be busy washing them now for the Seder feast.
Her first reaction was to ignore the telephone. It was probably for her daughter anyway, and she wasn’t at home. However, when the ringing persisted, she hurried to the sitting room, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Hello,” she said.
She listened to the voice on the end of the line for a while, slowly turning pale, and finally reached out for a nearby chair to sit on. She started rocking back and forth, hitting her knees with her fist. After replacing the receiver, she ran to the kitchen and picked up a sharp knife. She opened the front door and tried to prize off the mezuzah nailed to the top right-hand corner of the doorframe.
Rifka Mitrani had moved from Paris to Lyon. After the First World War, she and her husband had left Istanbul to live in Paris. Originally, her ancestors had migrated from Spain to Istanbul in 1492. That move was a direct result of the imperial declaration signed by the Spanish king, Don Ferdinand, and his queen, Donna Isabella, in March of that year. It commanded the Jews—who were considered to be heretics—to leave the country by July and never to return. Those who disobeyed this order and stayed, or even came back, would be executed no matter what their age or gender. Furthermore, they were to liquidate all their assets and leave behind all their money together with their gold, silver, and jewelry.
At the same time Beyazid II, the eighth sultan of the Ottoman Empire, issued an invitation to the 250,000 Jews banished by Spain to come to his country. Leaving everything behind, they boarded old, run-down ships for the dreadful journey to the only country offering them refuge. Some five hundred years later, Moris Karako, one of the descendants of those refugees, would write about the experience: “The Ottomans sincerely greeted us and gave us accommodati
on. We were free to practice our religion and to speak our own language. We were even protected from those who wanted to banish us yet again to foreign lands. Our honor and dignity were restored.”
Beyazid II’s statement at the time was: “It is said that Ferdinand is a wise king. However, the truth of the matter is that by getting rid of the Jews, he has made his country poorer and mine richer.”
The refugees settled in their new country, becoming prosperous and happy. But their new homeland wasn’t without its own problems. For centuries its inhabitants endured destitution and hardship. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, the five-hundred-year-old empire had started to fall apart, piece by piece.
As the Jews accumulated considerable fortunes through commerce, they started to spread to different areas and different countries. Many moved to glamorous France, particularly to its brightest star, Paris, which in those days was the center of civilization, art, and leisure.
Nesim Mitrani, Rifka’s husband, established a financial company in Paris. By the time their first child, Maurice, was born, they’d not only become a well-to-do family, but they’d also obtained solid French passports. Rifka hadn’t the heart to throw away the tatty old passports written in Arabic script, so she put them in the hatbox where she kept her old family photographs. She was as faithful to her religion as she was to the traditions passed on from her grandmothers, the Ladino language and the memorabilia that reminded her of her past. She kept everything with nostalgic significance, and this instinct was typical of people who are always on the move. “Our home isn’t a home,” her husband would say. “It’s a flea market!”
From banking, their wealth accumulated over the years and Rifka continued to collect her knickknacks. By the time their daughter was born, they had become extremely rich. They would spend their summer holidays in the South of France and in the winter send the children skiing in the Alps. They lived in one of the most elegant districts in Paris, shopped at Faubourg St.-Honoré, and dined at the most expensive restaurants. By now, instead of knickknacks, Rifka was collecting antiques and rare objets d’art from auctions. But the good life came to an abrupt end in 1940, as though lightning had struck. The transfer of Mitrani’s very own company to a French Catholic businessman took just three days.