Last Train to Istanbul

by Ayşe Kulin

“Absolutely not! You mustn’t say anything. You’ll only make things worse. If my suspicions are right, what’s done is done. On the other hand, if I’m wrong we’ll look like fools.”

  As Tarık took his cup of coffee from Muhlis, he looked him straight in the eye.

  “Muhlis, this is serious. I’m talking to you as your superior, do you understand? Not a word!”

  “Yes, mein kommandant,” replied Muhlis. “But tell me the truth. Did you or didn’t you kiss the girl?”

  MARSEILLES

  Samuel and Perla tried to read aloud from their notebooks.

  “Winter hash arrived. Today the weatherz wery cold. We fell cold.”

  “No, no children; that’s not correct. Listen carefully. Winter has arrived: has, not hash. Today the weather is very cold: iz very cold. We feel cold: feel…feel, not fell. Come on then, one more time.”

  The boy with the hazel eyes struggled with all his might: “Winter hass arrived.”

  “Not hass, has…Pronounce the s like z in zebra. I want to hear the z.”

  “Hass…haz…has…”

  “Good boy; that’s right. You see, you can do it if you try. All you need to learn are about fifty sentences, and I promise to teach you those. Fine. Now, Perla, it is your turn. Sorry, not Perla. What did we say?”

  “Peri, like Perry?”

  “Good, very good. And what was yours, Samuel?”

  “Sami, like Sammy.”

  Selva looked at the notes in her hand, continuing to teach the children.

  “Now, I want you to write down these Turkish words together with their meanings, and I expect you to learn them by heart. Ekmek—bread; peynir—cheese; çay—tea; kahve—coffee; gece—night; abla—older sister; abi—older brother; tuvalet—toilet; mutfak—kitchen; oda—room. Right, that’s enough for now.”

  They were all sitting around Selva’s table. It had been fifteen days since she’d left the children’s identity cards with Nazım Kender. The lessons had begun the day after she went to the consulate. She hadn’t telephoned the consulate yet, but she was determined that the children should thank Mr. Kender in Turkish if they should be issued passports.

  “They would have phoned you if they decided to issue passports,” Rafo had said.

  “And they would have phoned me to collect the identity cards if they didn’t.”

  “Oh, Selva! My dear Selva, I don’t understand why you poke your nose into other people’s business. We are immigrants too; we may need all sorts of help.”

  “We have our papers, Rafo.”

  “But we can’t leave.”

  “Because in order to leave we have to travel through hell!”

  “Come on, darling, admit it. Having left Istanbul in disgrace, we can’t face returning with our tails between our legs, so we’re making excuses,” Rafo said, laughing. “I wouldn’t consider going back, but the way things are, we’ll have to swallow our pride for the sake of our son. That is, of course, if this train business materializes…”

  “Rafo,” Selva said, “there’s something I need to confess.”

  “Who else did you try to save?”

  “No one. I’m giving Turkish lessons. So they don’t run into trouble on the way—that’s if they go at all.”

  “If you’re starting to teach again, you should stick to English.”

  “You don’t understand. I offered to give free lessons.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Selva. You’re really amazing. What’s the use of teaching Turkish?”

  “In case they eventually get on the train and…”

  “Selva! Don’t tell me you’ve talked about the train.”

  “Rafo, I can’t believe this is you talking. You’ve changed so much since we got here. It’s all right for you to save your skin, but what about the others? Should they be left to die?”

  “Look, Selva, you talk like this because you’ve never had to look death in the eye. When your life is at stake, you have to think of yourself first, otherwise you don’t survive!”

  “Oh! I’m sorry, Rafo, maybe there’s something I don’t know. How many times have you faced death then?”

  “I haven’t, but the fear of death is in my genes. Death has haunted my race for thousands of years.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I am struggling to save your people, Rafo.”

  “You shouldn’t feel responsible, my darling. It’s not your country that’s after their lives and possessions.”

  “I’m not doing this because I feel guilty; I’m doing it for humanitarian reasons. Please don’t try to stop me.”

  The children that Selva had renamed Sami and Peri had finished their lesson, and Selva was getting ready for the next group. They were eleven men and women introduced by Camilla, the grandchildren of Turkish Jews who no longer had ties with Turkey. Ever since Tarık had phoned her from Paris and hinted at the possibility of a train that might be leaving for Edirne in a few months’ time, Selva had taken it upon herself to teach those who had Turkish identity papers and might travel on the train enough Turkish to make them plausible. Although they had all asked to be taught Turkish, Selva felt uncomfortable teaching adults the Turkish alphabet and making them repeat sentences taught in primary school.

  “Father, buy me a book! Throw me a ball! Tut—catch! Koş—run! Git—go! Gel—come! Söyle—tell! Al—take! Ver—give! Kaça?—How much? Nerede?—Where? Nasıl?—How?”

  Camilla wouldn’t sit with the students; she sat quietly in the corner while Selva got on with her task. Having spent all her energy to help her children, she no longer had the nerve to ask for anything for herself.

  “If the children can only make it to Istanbul, they can eventually go to Palestine,” she said. “If my husband and I save our children, then we’ll simply give up the fight. We’ll accept our fate. We’ve seen and done a lot, through good times and bad. We’ll have to be content with that.”

  “I don’t dare telephone the consulate, Camilla,” Selva said to her. “I know how frustrating this is for you, but you must be patient. I feel they would have contacted me by now if their response was negative.”

  “Do whatever you feel is right,” Camilla replied.

  They had become very close after that first meeting when they witnessed what the Gestapo were doing at the crossroads. After the officers had left, the two of them hugged each other in tears. Selva had then telephoned her husband’s pharmacy. “They’ve gone, Benoit. Rafo can come out of the storeroom now.”

  Even though she wasn’t participating in the lessons, Camilla realized she was picking up a few words here and there. She had learned, for instance, that çay meant tea, because every time the students arrived, Selva would ask in Turkish if they wanted tea. She had learned the difference between the letter ç, as in çay, and the letter ş, pronounced “sh.” In fact, today she had gone a step further and surprised everybody by saying, “Yes, tea, please” in Turkish, which earned her a round of applause from the class.

  Selva ended the lesson a bit early because little Fazıl had a slight temperature, and she had to look after him. The students left in twos and threes at ten-minute intervals, so as not to draw attention to themselves. Camilla was the last to leave after giving Selva a little peck on the cheek.

  “Be patient for a little while longer,” Selva said.

  After closing the door, Selva went to look in the bedroom and saw Fazıl fast asleep. She walked to the window to wave good-bye to Camilla, and as she waited for the woman to walk out the front door, she suddenly noticed a van stopping in front of the pharmacy. Some men with SS armbands were getting out. She ran to the telephone and dialed the pharmacy’s number. As soon as Benoit heard her voice, he said, “Wrong number,” and slammed the receiver down. Selva rushed back to the window to see the men dragging Rafo outside the pharmacy. She opened the window, and started screaming at the top of her voice.

  “Hey there! Monsieurs! Soldiers! Leave him alone! He’s Turkish! Turkish. Leave him alone, I said! His papers are right here.
Why don’t you look at them? Rafooo…”

  Her voice was carried away by the wind. She ran to the bedroom and got their identification papers from the drawer in the bedside cabinet. When she got down to the third floor, she met Camilla, who was out of breath climbing the stairs. Camilla gripped Selva’s hands.

  “Don’t go, Selva. Don’t. Think of your child!” she pleaded.

  Selva pushed the woman aside and rushed down the stairs two and three at a time.

  When she reached the front door, she looked back to see Camilla tottering down behind her.

  “Please go back to Fazıl. For God’s sake, don’t leave him alone.”

  In one quick action, Selva managed to unlock and open the front door; Camilla had locked it from the inside just a few moments earlier. She rushed outside and across the road, without paying any attention to the traffic. A couple of cars screeched to a halt and the drivers hurled abuse at her through their open windows.

  The van was about to move as she reached the pharmacy. Selva ran to the driver’s window and knocked on the glass; he didn’t even bother to look at her. When that didn’t work, she pounded with all her might on the closed doors of the van, screaming at the top of her voice.

  “Rafooo, can you hear me? Get out! Tell them you’re Turkish. Rafooo!”

  The van suddenly accelerated away and Selva fell down. Someone tried to help her up.

  “Please don’t bother, I can manage,” she said in French as she scrambled up. She was covered from head to toe in mud. Benoit hugged her tightly, his face as white as a sheet.

  “Come into the pharmacy, Selva. Look at the state of you. Don’t stand out here in the cold.”

  Benoit hung up the closed sign as soon as they were inside.

  “Look, you grazed your leg when you fell down. Let me clean it and put some iodine on it.”

  “No, no, Benoit. You must take me to the consul immediately.”

  “You’re covered in mud, Selva. At least wash your hands.”

  “There’s no time to lose.”

  “What’s the point in rushing? They won’t be sending anyone anywhere until tomorrow anyway.”

  “We’ve got to find out where they have taken him, Benoit. Come on, hurry up. Where’s your car?”

  “Around the back,” Benoit replied, sounding dazed.

  “Go get it then.”

  Benoit switched off the lights and they walked outside together.

  “Get a move on, Benoit,” Selva pleaded.

  “Wait a moment, won’t you? Let me lock up first.”

  As Benoit turned into the side street to fetch his car, Selva leaned against the pharmacy window, covering her face with her hands and sobbing. When she heard the car approaching, she wiped her tears with the back of her hand and looked up to her apartment window and saw Camilla’s silhouette behind the net curtain, looking like a sad apparition.

  When Selva got out of the car and ran to the steps in front of the consulate gate, there was no one. She rang the bell with one hand and banged on the gate with the other. Suddenly, she heard shuffling footsteps inside. Obviously the kavass had looked through the peephole and recognized Selva. He opened the door and inquired, “What’s up? What happened?”

  “I must see the consul, Mr. Kender…”

  “The office is closed now.”

  “All the same, I must see him.”

  “He left about half an hour ago.”

  “In that case, I must see someone else. The consul general…”

  “Nobody’s here; they’ve all gone home.”

  “Give me Mr. Kender’s home address, then.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “For God’s sake, I implore you. I desperately need to see him.”

  “Please don’t make this difficult for me. I’m not allowed to. What’s the matter? What happened?”

  “They took my husband away,” said Selva. Her voice sounded so desperate. Even though he had only seen her three times, he felt very sorry for her.

  “Who took him away? Where to?”

  “The Gestapo.”

  “The Gestapo? It must be a mistake.”

  “I beg of you, please help me find Mr. Kender, for the sake of those you hold most dear.”

  “Please don’t!” said the kavass.

  “I’m begging you.”

  “Well…as far as I know, Mr. Kender was supposed to meet someone in the café of the Grand Hotel de Louvre. He should be there if he hasn’t changed his plans.”

  Selva grabbed the man’s hand and tried to kiss it.

  “Please don’t, honestly don’t,” the man said, pulling his hand from Selva’s lips.

  Selva dashed back to the car. As she got in next to Benoit, she said, “Move, we’re going to the Grand Hotel de Louvre et de La Paix. Please hurry.”

  In the lobby café of the Grand Hotel de Louvre, Nazım Kender was having tea with the Italian commercial attaché and his wife. Because he was sitting with his back to the door, he didn’t see the woman rushing in like the wind and heading straight for him. By the time he saw the almost frightened gazes of his guests, he was face-to-face with Selva. It was cold and wet outside, but Selva wasn’t wearing a coat; her checked skirt and roll-neck sweater were soaked by the rain. She knelt in front of Nazım Kender and held his hand tightly.

  “They took my husband away,” she said hoarsely. “The Gestapo dragged him out of the pharmacy by force. They put him in a van and took him away. Please find him. I beg you to save Rafael. Look, I brought all the papers with me…I’ve got everything here, his passport, his birth certificate, his residence permit…”

  The consul stood up. “Selva Hanım, please get up.” Selva remained kneeling and put her arms around his legs.

  “Please save my husband before they take him away.”

  “What’s happening?” asked the Italian attaché. His wife seemed disgusted at the sight of this disheveled woman grasping on to the consul’s knees.

  “Please stand up, Selva Hanım.”

  Selva tried to stand up, but she couldn’t. Her strength had drained from her, her knees crumpled, and she collapsed into a heap. At that moment Benoit, who had been parking the car, arrived and anxiously saw Selva on the floor.

  “What have you done to her?” he asked the consul.

  “She fainted,” replied Nazım Kender.

  People from other tables started to gather around them.

  “I’ll attend to her. Please go and see what you can do,” begged Benoit. “That’s, of course, if you can do anything.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I’m Rafael Alfandari’s part—his friend. He works in my pharmacy.”

  “So when did this happen?”

  “A short while ago. We rushed to the consulate and then straight here to you immediately after…”

  “Do you know where he was taken?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think I heard them talking among themselves about the station.”

  “What! Are you telling me they’re taking him out of Marseilles?”

  “I think there are others too. I believe I heard one of those dragging Rafael away telling him not to struggle, and threatening to make him regret it if he delayed.”

  Nazım Kender bent down and picked up the papers Selva had dropped on the floor.

  “I’m leaving Selva Hanım in your capable hands, monsieur,” he said. After apologizing to the Italians, he rushed outside.

  “Please don’t crowd in on us,” Benoit told those standing around them. “Madame has fainted; she’ll come around in a minute.”

  “How disgraceful. What’s happening?” demanded the Italian woman.

  “Please get this person out of here,” ordered the headwaiter in a black jacket.

  An elderly lady in the crowd suggested calling for a doctor. “I hope she’s not pregnant,” she muttered.

  Benoit carried Selva through the confused onlookers out into the street. The cold air helped bring Selva around.

&n
bsp; “What happened?” she asked.

  “You passed out. I’m taking you home.”

  “But what about the consul…Rafo?”

  “Don’t worry. The consul took the papers and left immediately. I’m sure he’ll do whatever’s necessary. There’s nothing else you can do. All that’s left for you now is to go home and wait.”

  Selva asked Benoit to put her down. Her knees were shaking. Her head was reeling. She linked arms with her friend.

  “Benoit, I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.

  “Please try to hold on until you get home.”

  Selva walked unsteadily to the car, holding on to Benoit’s arm.

  WAGON OF FEAR

  When Nazım Kender got out of the taxi in front of the consulate, he was surprised to see a crowd of people jostling at the gate of the building. This was strange: it was after office hours, so normally there wouldn’t have been anybody there. He hurried toward the gate. Halim the kavass was waving his arms about and trying to explain something to the screaming crowd. When he saw the consul, he rushed up to him and said, “Apparently they’ve loaded them onto a train, they took them away…”

  About fifteen or twenty people rushed to Nazım Kender, clutching at his arms and legs.

  “Stop this! What happened?” said the perplexed consul. Because of the women wailing, he couldn’t hear those trying to explain things.

  “Make way!” the kavass shouted. “You’re wasting the consul’s time.”

  The noise stopped immediately.

  “They took them away. We told them they were Turkish, but they wouldn’t listen…” explained an old man in tears.

  “Where to?” asked the consul.

  “To the Saint Charles Station.”

  “Please let me through. I need to get the necessary documents from my room,” Nazım Kender said, running into the building. He returned a short while later with a file in his hand. “Is there anyone here with a car?” he asked.

  “Yes, I have one,” a young man answered.

  “Get it immediately!”

  “It’s over there by the gate. Follow me.”

  The young man ran ahead and opened the door of his Citroën for the consul. He then ran around to the driver’s side and got in, ready to drive away. The crowd of people surrounded the car, some pounding on the windshield and others trying to open the doors. Halim Kavass pushed his way through the crowd to the car.