by Ayşe Kulin
As soon as Macit left the room, Sabiha turned to Hülya.
“Did you at least ask permission for the day off today?”
“Daddy phoned the head teacher.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that Grandpa wanted to see me this morning and he asked for permission.”
“You know, of course, that it’s not right to skip lessons, don’t you, Hülya? You could have visited your grandfather after school. Maybe you’ll at least attend your afternoon lessons.”
Hülya immediately became sulky and shrugged her shoulders.
“I wonder what this is all about,” Leman Hanım inquired.
“Probably the ministry. One would think he was running Turkey single-handed. We don’t have a moment’s peace day or night. I’d love to know what they would do if he ever had an overseas posting. Probably fly him back at moments of crisis…”
Macit appeared at the door, looking very worried.
“What’s up?” Fazıl Reşat Paşa asked in his fragile voice.
“I have to return to the ministry. It seems there are some new developments.”
“What’s the matter? What happened?”
“I’ll find out the details. I’ll let you know when I visit you this evening,” he promised. Then he nodded to his wife to follow him.
“I thought we were going to Karpiç to sort out our affairs,” she said mockingly.
“Sabiha, I didn’t want to say this in front of your father. I didn’t want to upset him but the situation is very serious. Hitler took over the rest of France this morning.”
MARSEILLES 1942
For some time, Selva had been keeping an eye on the road from behind the net curtains. Then she summoned her husband.
“Rafo, the coast’s clear. You can hurry across the road now. Don’t hang around!”
Rafo planted a kiss on his wife’s neck and walked to the door. “You worry too much, Selva. Nothing will happen today. Just you wait and see,” he said reassuringly before closing the door behind him. Selva listened until the sound of his steps faded away down the stairs.
Rafo left the building, walked to the edge of the sidewalk, and waited for the policeman at the crossroads to stop the traffic. Selva heaved a sigh of relief after Rafo entered the pharmacy and closed the door. She drew the curtains aside, opened the window, and inhaled the cold damp air. She wouldn’t be taking Fazıl to the park this morning; the black clouds were a sure sign of rain.
If only those black clouds would just remain in the sky; since the occupation had spread to the south, it was as if these clouds had invaded her home and her whole being. She had stopped giving lessons to her students, even though teaching was like a sunbeam in her monotonous, lonely life. No one had expected her to stop teaching, but since the beginning of the invasion on November 11, she had taken on a new role: to protect her husband as much as she could, her husband whom she’d persuaded to emigrate to France and unintentionally thrown into the lion’s den.
Rafo, like all the other Jews, checked carefully before going out. Venturing out of doors while the SS were patrolling was asking for trouble. Thank God, Rafo’s place of work was just across the street. The mission that Selva had set for herself began after her husband entered the pharmacy. Apart from the time she spent looking after Fazıl, she would spend the rest of the day sitting on a high stool in front of the window. The moment she heard the Gestapo on their motorcycles, or saw them patrolling the streets, she would telephone the pharmacy to tell Rafo to make himself scarce and hide in the storeroom.
“I hear the noises, my darling,” Rafo kept saying. “I can assure you that I take precautions immediately. If you go on like this, you’ll drive yourself crazy.”
“But what if they creep up on you one day?”
“We need to let our lives take their natural course. After all, there is such a thing as kismet. I’m not a Muslim, but I certainly believe in destiny more than you do.”
“And if they took you away, Rafo…”
“They wouldn’t. Thanks to you, we finally have our Turkish passports.”
“If the passports were enough to protect us, Tarık wouldn’t be calling from Paris every other day to check that we are all right.”
“For heaven’s sake, darling, stop fretting. Remember how the consul managed to get Rosa out of their hands?”
“But you remember what he said? ‘It’s like Russian roulette. I was lucky, I managed it that time, but I may not be lucky again.’ ”
“If he managed to save one of us, he can probably save all of us!”
For some reason, Selva was unable to think like Rafo. Night after night she had a recurring nightmare of herself and her family being squashed into a trainload of screaming people and taken away. She would jump out of her bed and pace up and down the apartment. Selva now regretted having registered her son as Alfandari. Tarık had been angry with her too, for endangering her son’s life, but Selva wouldn’t swallow her pride and admit that she had changed her mind. God, she regretted taking after her father. This damned pride! She didn’t approve of her own nature, but she just couldn’t help it. It was as if there were someone else inside her telling her what to do.
Selva decided to take her surveillance duties one step further. The corner window of their apartment was in a good position to see when the SS were approaching. She could see them on the main road before they turned into the street. She telephoned the mothers of her former students in particular and, after introducing herself, offered to warn them of any approaching danger. But her neighbors were disturbed by this meddling Turkish woman whom they hardly knew, and Rafo scolded her for her intrusive behavior. Selva was taken aback; it appeared that no one understood her kindness.
Selva was feeding Fazıl some apple puree when there was a knock at the door. There was another hour before Rafo’s lunch break, and since she had no students, she wondered who it could be. Before opening the door she asked who it was. A woman replied, “Madame Alfandari, I live in this area. My name is Afnaim, Camilla Afnaim.”
Selva immediately opened the door to see a neatly dressed woman of about forty-five.
“Did you wish to speak to me, Madame Afnaim?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Are you from Istanbul too, by any chance?”
“No.”
“Perhaps somewhere else in Turkey?”
“My family is from Lebanon. We’ve never been in Turkey.”
“Oh, in that case you must have come to inquire about lessons. I’m afraid I don’t give lessons anymore.”
“I’ve only come to talk to you.”
Selva was surprised. The woman standing there wasn’t even of her generation.
“About what, may I ask?”
“It’s rather difficult to speak on the doorstep…”
“I do beg your pardon. Please come in.”
Selva took the woman’s coat and led her into the sitting room. Fazıl was sitting in his high chair, trying to eat his puree and spilling it everywhere.
“What a sweet child,” said the woman.
“Won’t you please sit down?” said Selva.
“Madame Alfandari, you don’t know me, but I know quite a lot about you. I know, for instance, that your husband works in the pharmacy across the street, that you gave private lessons at home, and that, two weeks ago, you even kindly telephoned Lea’s mother and offered to keep them informed about the goings-on outside. As I said, I live in this neighborhood as well.”
“On this street?”
“No, two streets up from here.”
Selva saw the woman looking at the tall stool by the window. “Yes, that’s my observation tower,” she said, nodding toward it. “I can see everything going on from the crossroads down our street and beyond. It’s all spread out as if on a plate for me when I sit there. I was trying to help some of the families in this street, but none of them wanted to know.”
“You shouldn’t mind them; everybody is so scared these days.”
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“Yes, I didn’t mind them. It’s just that I have to keep watch for my husband’s sake anyway…”
The woman didn’t respond and Selva continued, “Was it in connection with this that you wanted to speak to me?”
“No, madame. True, I wanted to ask you a favor, but it wasn’t that.”
“How can I help you then?”
“You’re Turkish, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Apparently the Turkish consulate is being very helpful to the Jews.”
“They’re renewing the citizenship registrations of those who are of Turkish origin.”
“Couldn’t they do the same for someone who isn’t Turkish?”
“I beg your pardon. How could that be possible? I don’t really think so.”
“Actually I’m not asking for myself or my husband. It’s just that I have two brilliant young children…” The woman’s voice was trembling. “I’m so worried about them. It was I who insisted that we come here, you see. I persuaded my husband to close down the business back home, and I dragged my family here.”
The woman stopped talking and held her head in her hands for some time. Selva waited, heartbroken.
“When Lea’s mother told me about your phone call, I realized what a helpful person you must be. Lea adores you.”
“Lea is a very talented child; I’m sure she will eventually become a successful pianist.”
“That is, of course, if she doesn’t end up in a labor camp.”
Selva bowed her head with sadness.
“If you happen to know someone at the consulate, madame. Maybe if, I mean…” The woman paused.
“I do know the consul.”
“Couldn’t you talk to him about my kids?”
“Frankly, I don’t think talking to him will do any good.”
“Maybe we could go together. If you introduced me, I could talk to him myself.”
Selva didn’t know what to say. “Would you like some coffee?” she offered.
The woman looked surprised.
“I’m sorry. It’s customary in my country to offer tea or coffee to a guest.”
“We have the same custom. Thank you. I’ll have coffee, black, please. Can I offer you a cigarette?”
“No, thanks. I don’t smoke. I quit when I was pregnant and I haven’t gone back…yet.”
Fazıl dropped his spoon and Selva rushed to pick it up. She lifted him out of his chair and took him into the kitchen while she made the coffee.
“I’d better keep an eye out for you,” said the woman, sitting on the stool. “I must say you do have a clear view of the crossroads from here,” she added.
A little while later Selva returned with two cups of coffee on a tray and Fazıl holding on to her skirt.
“Why on earth did you leave that beautiful country of yours to come here?” asked the woman. “Not that I have seen Istanbul myself, of course, but those that have go on and on about it.”
“Neither Rafael’s nor my family approved of our marriage. I am a Muslim, you see.” Selva saw the woman raise her eyebrows in surprise. “Instead of living in the same city as our disapproving parents, we thought it would be better to live in another country.”
“So you’re a Muslim. I wouldn’t have guessed it at all.”
Placing a cup of coffee on a little table, Selva said, “Why’s that? Can’t a Muslim and a Jew love each other?”
“I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant…”
“Why don’t you sit over here? I can sit on my stool now.”
“I can’t believe you keep watch like this all day,” said the woman, walking toward the sofa.
“Not all day, really,” said Selva, “but once I’ve finished my housework I do sit here and listen to the radio, and knit or read the paper. At the same time, I manage to keep an eye on what’s going on.”
“But listen, madame,” said the woman, pausing. “If you are a Turkish Muslim, that means your word would carry more weight at the consulate…”
“I can assure you, as far as our consulate is concerned, it doesn’t matter what religion you are if you’re Turkish,” Selva said with pride in her voice. Out of courtesy, the woman didn’t ask why, in case Selva had problems with her own family. Selva took a sip of coffee and glanced at the street.
“I can’t promise anything, but I am willing to go to the consulate and ask if they can do anything on your behalf,” Selva said.
“Oh, madame, Madame Alfandari, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I honestly have no hope at all.”
The woman took a photograph from her bag and gave it to Selva.
“Please keep this picture. Maybe you could show it to the consul. It may soften his heart if he could just see the children’s bright faces.”
“I’m sure, madame, that the photograph won’t make an ounce of difference. If the consul is in a position to help, he will, but you must agree that he can’t abuse his authority in any way—”
“Maybe if you were to say that the children are close friends of yours, or even ask if there is a price for such a thing. I’m sure there must be a price.”
Selva’s face dropped. She vented her anger on Fazıl, who was carrying all of his toys from the bedroom into the sitting room.
“I want you to take those back where they belong immediately!” she shouted at her son. She got up and took the half-empty cup from the small table. “Well, I’m pleased to have met you. Now I have things to do.”
It was obvious this woman hadn’t expected such a reaction.
“I’m sorry if I offended you, madame,” the woman said shakily.
“I’m not offended,” Selva said.
“Can I possibly call on you again, in a week?”
“No, please don’t come again.”
“Can I telephone you?”
“No, don’t.”
“I can see I have offended you. I can assure you, I didn’t mean to. I’m so desperate, please forgive me.”
“There was no offense taken.”
“Still, I’d better leave my telephone number in case you change your mind.”
She took a pencil from her bag and wrote the number on the back of the children’s photograph. Selva stood waiting by her side. Finally the woman got up and walked to the door. She and Fazıl followed, and stood by the door. The woman patted his head.
“You’re a mother too,” she said, almost in tears. “I have faith in you, only because of this…only because you are a mother.”
Selva closed the door, picked up Fazıl, and, as she walked back to the sitting room, she muttered through her teeth, “Insolent woman!” She put Fazıl down, picked up her unfinished coffee, and glanced out of the window. There was a commotion at the crossroads. Opening the window, she heard the shouts. On their motorcycles, the Gestapo were gathering at the corner. She could see people running here and everywhere.
Selva leaned out of the window and called out, “Madame…Madame…Madame Afnaim.”
The woman had just stepped out of the front door. When she heard Selva calling, she looked up.
“Come back,” called Selva. “Come back upstairs immediately.” She rushed to the telephone without even closing the window and dialed Rafo’s number.
“Rafo? Rafo, is that you? Hide yourself. For God’s sake, hide yourself immediately; don’t dare come out of the storeroom until I call you again.”
She put the telephone down and went to open the door.
“It’s incredible; they sprang up from nowhere. They’re harassing people at the crossroads. You’d better wait here until the coast is clear.”
The woman was shaking in front of the door. “God bless you, my friend,” she said, walking toward the corner window without even taking her coat off. “There are far too many Jews living in this neighborhood. That’s why we haven’t a moment’s peace. Unfortunately, those who aren’t Jewish have to contend with this too.”
Selva and Camilla jostled one another to g
et into the narrow space at the corner window, and Fazıl started to cry because he wanted to sit on his mother’s lap.
“Stop it!” she scolded. “This is no time to cry. Stop that at once, do you hear me?”
Fazıl heard the piercing sound of the sirens. He got frightened and stopped crying.
Selva knelt down beside her son. “Come on, why don’t you go and play with your red truck in the bedroom, my darling.”
“Madame Alfandari, look what they’re doing! My God! No, no, surely that’s too much!”
Selva stood up and tried to look out over the woman’s shoulder. Two German soldiers were grasping the arms of a young man who was screaming at the top of his voice. A third German forcefully pulled his trousers down. With a burst of energy, the young man struggled to prevent them from pulling down his underpants, but to no avail. Selva shut her eyes tightly. When she opened them, they were dragging the young man, shoving him into an army vehicle.
“Look over there, on the left, they have lined up all the men. Do you see that? They’re at it again!”
Selva changed places with the woman, and leaned slightly out the window. The woman was right. The men were being forcibly stripped and checked. A little boy was running down the street, hiding himself in the doorways.
“Have you got any binoculars?” asked the woman.
“What on earth for?”
“I can’t recognize the men in the lineup from here. Maybe I could with binoculars. I’d like to know if there are any friends of mine.”
“I don’t have binoculars,” said Selva. “Madame Afnaim—your surname is Afnaim, isn’t it?—please keep away from the window. What good would it do even if you did know some of them?”
She closed the window and drew the curtain, but the woman continued watching the street.
“Look! Look, they’re taking one more away; they’re dragging him by force. My God! The poor man’s pants are hanging around his ankles!”
Selva put her arm affectionately around the woman’s shoulders. “Come on, madame, don’t watch this brutality. Give me your coat and sit down over here.”
“Please call me Camilla.”
“Camilla, let me warm up the coffee you didn’t finish before.”