Last Train to Istanbul

by Ayşe Kulin

  “Some of them don’t have identification papers, but I’m sure that once we’re in Paris—”

  “I said get out!” shouted the German. It was clear he was annoyed at having to carry out the order.

  “My clerk and I will get out last,” said the consul, folding his arms across his chest. The kavass was next to him, standing to attention as if he was his aide-de-camp.

  Those in the wagon started jumping out. They carefully lifted down the man who had suffered the heart attack. The two children stayed by the consul, not wanting to be separated from him. The woman who’d urged the children forward seemed happy that they had been able to prove they were Turkish, but didn’t want to make eye contact with them for fear of what might happen next.

  “Are these children yours, madame?” asked Nazım Kender.

  “No, I’m their aunt. We were shopping in the market when they picked us up.”

  “Come on then, Peri and Sami, it’s your turn now,” said the consul.

  The kavass held the girl under her arms and lowered her to the platform. The boy jumped by himself. The consul was the last to leave, like a captain abandoning his ship. The kavass was beside him.

  The German officer approached. “Your car is waiting outside the station,” he said.

  “Thank you. I’d rather return by taxi. If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if the car took the old man who’s had a heart attack.”

  A woman interjected before the German officer could speak. “No, no. Thank you very much. I’m sure we can manage on our own. Thank you all the same.”

  The German officer gave her a look as if to say, “You’re mad,” then he saluted the consul, turned his back, and marched away, followed by the other soldiers.

  When the Germans left, a buzz of excitement erupted. Every one of the eighty people surrounded Nazım Kender, wanting to kiss his hands or cheeks, trying to put their arms around him. Those who couldn’t get close stretched their arms just to touch him on the shoulders or back, as though he were some sacred object.

  “For God’s sake, don’t lift me up on your shoulders,” the consul shouted. But there was no way he could control the waves of love flowing around him. There were no words to describe the gratitude these people felt.

  “I suggest that those of you who don’t have Turkish nationality leave and find a safe place. Go back as soon as possible,” he said, and then as an afterthought, he said, “Where the hell are we, exactly?”

  “In Arles,” said the kavass.

  “I believe there should be a train to Marseilles in about an hour,” someone said, “if it hasn’t been canceled.”

  The consul and the kavass walked out of the station together. The Mercedes-Benz allocated to the consul by the Nazis was parked right outside.

  “I wonder if there’s a taxi around here—why don’t you find out, Halim?” asked Nazım Kender. He sat on a bench outside the station door as the kavass walked away.

  In the deep recesses of his mind, he wondered if this experience had been a nightmare, or if it had really happened. A little while later, he was startled by Halim’s voice.

  “Apparently, there is a wood-powered car, sir. Shall we hire it?”

  “Yes, hire it immediately.”

  Nazım Kender got up, walked slowly by the Mercedes-Benz, and crossed the road with dignity.

  PARIS

  Ferit watched as his wife crossed the street and walked into the distance. When Evelyn was out of sight, he drew the curtains, checked the lock on the street door, and went into the bedroom. He threw the cover, quilt, and pillows hastily on the floor, feeling the sides of the mattress until he found what he was looking for. It was a tear large enough for a hand to fit through. Ferit put his hand in the hole and extended his arm all the way inside. The communiqués were right there, somewhere in the middle. He grasped hold of them and pulled them out, then carefully remade the bed. He puffed up the pillows, put them in their place, then sat at the kitchen table and scribbled a note for his wife:

  Darling, I’m going to see a friend from the university on the other side of the river. Don’t worry if I’m late.

  He put the communiqués under his vest, left the apartment, and walked toward the Métro.

  For some time now, Ferit had been a member of the Resistance, an underground organization whose operations had become more and more important due to the Vichy government’s cooperation with Hitler. Ferit might not have been French, but he loved this country like a real Frenchman. What’s more, he hated Hitler.

  Because he wasn’t French, his associates on the committee didn’t share sensitive plans relating to nationalist issues with him. They did, however, turn a blind eye to his work with cells that organized the smuggling of Jews and Communists out of France.

  Ferit had never mentioned his connection with this organization to Evelyn. She thought that her husband had volunteered to become the assistant of his beloved professor from the lycée, the same professor who had helped him with his thesis. This was the way he could explain his disappearances some mornings, afternoons, and evenings, and very often during the night. The professor was also a member of the same organization, so it seemed there was no way Evelyn could find out.

  Ferit had managed to be the go-between for his many Jewish friends and the Organization, issuing passports of neutral countries. Recently, the most sought-after passport was Turkish, because the Turks made a point of protecting their citizens from the Gestapo. Ferit had been able to contact the consulate through his old friend Muhlis. Shortly after, he had met Tarık and, discreetly testing the water, invited him for coffee and raised the subject. He asked whether the Turkish consulate could issue passports to non-Turks. The answer was very clear.

  “I wish I had the authority to answer you differently, Ferit,” Tarık said. “Every single person we can save from sorrow and death is a source of satisfaction for us. But you know yourself the danger we face every time we visit one of those camps or police stations. After all’s said and done, we are an honorable and just nation and, as such, can’t get involved with anything illegal.”

  “Should I give up hope completely?”

  “Yes, my friend.”

  Ferit inhaled deeply from his cigarette and blew smoke rings into the air.

  “Fine. In that case, I won’t bother you about this again.”

  “I promise I’ll do whatever I can to help you with anything else. I have to admit, I really respect what you are doing. Honestly, I would be on your side if I weren’t a government employee.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’d like to ask you a question, if you don’t mind. How did you get involved in this?”

  “Everyone who has a heart is involved, Tarık. It’s true the French aren’t fighting in the field, but I can assure you, they have an excellent underground organization. As for me, I got involved through a close friend at the university. He used to take me to meetings, and eventually I joined the Resistance too.”

  “Doesn’t it surprise you the French haven’t fought bravely?”

  “Listen, Tarık, I’m sure you’ll agree that Paris is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. In my opinion they didn’t want to risk it getting bombed.”

  “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

  They sipped their coffee for a while in silence. They were sitting in one of the student cafés in the Latin Quarter.

  “Shall I tell you a secret, my friend?” Tarık said. “The British and the Americans can’t stand de Gaulle. They can’t stomach the man at all. Had there been someone else leading the national liberation, you might be able to get more support.”

  “The British can’t stand anything that may damage their interests,” said Ferit. “De Gaulle isn’t the sort of person to take notice of their interests. He’s a stubborn, cantankerous man who regards every attack on himself as an attack on France.”

  “Strictly between us, I believe that if you changed your man at the top, you’d probably get more suppo
rt from the British, and even the Americans.”

  “Another leader was sought, but unfortunately without success. All the Resistance activists are behind de Gaulle,” Ferit said. “Just you wait and see. I bet eventually those who don’t like de Gaulle will eat their words and support him.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Eventually the Allies will have to invade France to win this war. When that day comes, they will have to recognize both de Gaulle and the National Liberation Committee, because without their support, they’d be unable to carry out the invasion successfully.”

  “The sooner that day comes the better,” Tarık said.

  They asked for the bill.

  “I hope neither Muhlis nor Evelyn will learn of our meeting today. I can count on you, can’t I?” Ferit asked.

  “Of course you can…Ferit, I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but don’t you think it’s wrong to keep this from your wife?”

  “I do, Tarık, but I don’t want to worry her. She’s pregnant, you see.”

  “Oh!” Tarık said. “I had no idea. Congratulations.”

  “We only found out ourselves recently. We haven’t told anyone yet. I’d rather you didn’t know either.”

  “I understand, but do be careful, won’t you?” Tarık replied, patting his friend on the back. “Your responsibilities in life are just beginning. Don’t get involved in anything dangerous, my friend.”

  Later that day, while traveling on the Métro, Ferit reflected on his conversation with Tarık. He wished he could have persuaded him to cooperate. As soon as they had met, he’d felt he could trust Tarık. He was an honest, hardworking, brave man who wasn’t indiscreet. He had all the virtues of someone who could be a member of the Organization. What a pity that—as was to be expected—Tarık had chosen to stick to his country’s laws. However, he had left the door slightly open when he’d said, “I promise I’ll do what I can to help you.”

  Ferit became suspicious when he saw the reflection of a scrawny man watching him in the window of the Métro. He tried to look at him from behind his newspaper. When the man began to fidget, Ferit wondered if he had given himself away. Should I get off at the next stop? he thought. Ferit stood up when the train reached the next station. The man got off, so he sat down again. He had been anxious for no reason at all. “All this worry,” he said to himself. “It’s not the Gestapo; it’s the worry that will eventually kill me.”

  These worries made him feel that he might try that door Tarık had left open after all. If anything happened to him, Tarık was the only person who might be able to get Evelyn to his family in Istanbul. Neither Muhlis—his friend for the past forty years—nor anyone else would do. There and then, he promised himself if he should accomplish his mission successfully, he would go see Tarık first thing tomorrow. But what would he say? How would he appeal to this man he’d met not more than five times? What could he possibly say to him? “I’m entrusting my wife to you.” Surely not. Tarık would probably think he was mad. But then, maybe not. Hadn’t he trusted him enough to tell him of his association with the Resistance after only a few meetings? Tarık hadn’t batted an eyelid. He wasn’t surprised; he hadn’t disapproved or tried to give him advice. Yes, Tarık was his man; he could entrust his wife to him. Inşallah, he would get through today without any problems, and then first thing tomorrow…

  After getting off the train and walking toward the exit, Ferit noticed a long line forming. The women were passing straight through, but the men had to produce identity papers. German officers were loading those who had no identification or had Jewish stamps on their papers straight onto a truck waiting at the Métro’s exit.

  “This is all I need,” he said to himself, anxiously searching in his pockets. Thank goodness he had his papers with him. He gave a sigh of relief, but all the same he was still worried about having to wait in line. Thank God, it was moving quickly. The cursed men were carrying out their job quickly and efficiently. When his turn came, he produced both his birth certificate and his teaching certificate to the soldier with an SS band on his arm.

  The scoundrel looked at his papers and said, “Get through.”

  Ferit grabbed his papers back and stuffed them into his inside pocket. He hurried along for a few kilometers before entering an awful grocer in a back street, with dirty windows and half-empty shelves. There was a very bored looking man sitting behind the counter.

  “Give me a Paris Soir, will you?” Ferit said.

  “Do you want the supplement too?”

  “Why not, if it’s free.”

  Ferit put some money on the counter.

  “Don’t you have change?”

  “I don’t. Do you?”

  “Through that door and down the stairs on the left,” the grocer said without looking up. He continued doing his accounts.

  Ferit went through the door at the back of the shop, down the stairs, and opened a door. He was now in a garage. Five or six people were gathered around a small table behind some cars.

  “Where were you, Turk?” one of them asked.

  “Sorry, I’ve just managed—”

  “Sit down, there’s something that might concern you. We received some information today.”

  Ferit took one of the stools nearby and squeezed in between those already at the table.

  “What information?”

  “The Turks are apparently making preparations to get their Jews to Turkey. Have you heard about this?”

  “No.”

  “Mon Dieu! What on earth are you talking about with your friends from the consulate?”

  “Well, I’m not about to say, ‘Apparently our organization has received some information about getting Turkish Jews out.’ ”

  “You’ll ask them now, then.”

  “Fine, I will. Supposing they are, what then?”

  “We’ll get those who aren’t of Turkish origin to board the train too.”

  “They won’t accept that.”

  “We’re aware of that.”

  “So what?”

  “We will manage it all the same.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “We’ll find a way.”

  “Supposing you do, how many people are you considering?”

  “There are twenty-eight so far, but there may be more.”

  “What! Are you crazy?”

  “Tell us, Turk, do you think we’d be doing this if we weren’t crazy?”

  “You couldn’t help us with the passports, so you might as well get on with this,” said a man with a hooked nose sitting at the head of the table.

  “You must bring us precise details first. Find out if this business about the train is true. If so, when is it going to happen?”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Ferit.

  “Now, let’s get on to item two on the agenda,” said the man at the head of the table. “There’s a group we must get over the Swiss border this week…”

  Suddenly, the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling flicked off. Everyone around the table got up. Two of them started cleaning the cars. Another got into a car with a screwdriver in his hand. With the other two, Ferit ran toward the door he’d entered. The light went on again.

  “OK, gentlemen, the danger’s over. Back to the table,” said the hooked-nosed man.

  Tomorrow, thought Ferit, tomorrow I must speak to Tarık without fail.

  PARIS

  It hadn’t been easy for Tarık to get Selva’s message. Had it not been for her insistence and panic on the telephone, the night security guard wouldn’t have bothered to send word to Tarık at home, and he wouldn’t have known about the developments. News of the eighty people loaded onto a cattle train bound for Paris would have waited until the following day.

  The security guard had slammed the telephone down on her twice. Was it possible this woman didn’t understand what he had said?

  “Listen, the consul isn’t here. There’s no one here. Neither the second nor the third secretaries are here. E
verybody went home. Please call again tomorrow,” he had said. But she wouldn’t listen. Then he’d gotten a bit scared when she called for the third time. He wondered if she could be someone important, who might have connections with the powers that be. It was then that he decided to call the grocery beneath Tarık Arıca’s apartment, as he had been instructed to do in an emergency. He had asked the grocer to let the gentlemen living in apartment five know they should call the consulate urgently. About half an hour passed before the grocer got around to sending his errand boy up with the message.

  Tarık had run to the consulate as soon as he received the message. He found out from the security guard that a crazy woman had been persistently phoning from Marseilles. He guessed who it was and phoned Selva straight away. All he learned from her was that a number of Jews had been crammed onto a train leaving the Saint Charles Station for Paris, and Nazım Kender had also been on that train. Selva pleaded with Tarık to meet the train in Paris and save her husband. Tarık immediately called the Turkish embassy in Berlin. Because Paris was under German occupation, the consulate in Paris had to contact the embassy in Berlin for instructions. He had also informed Behiç Erkin, the ambassador in Vichy, of the situation, because he knew he was very sympathetic toward saving the Jews.

  Behiç, who had been a close friend of Atatürk, was not a diplomat who had started his profession from the bottom; he had vast experience of state affairs. He was an intelligent and conscientious man with a lot of common sense. It was these qualities that had earned him his post. Maybe that had been a godsend.

  “Gentlemen, even though we must be careful not to step on the Gestapo’s toes, the necessities of war shouldn’t make us forget our humanity,” he’d said to his young colleagues. “Even the Urartu who lived in eastern Anatolia in the seventh century BC showed respect to the people whose lands they conquered, giving them freedom of faith. I can’t understand what’s happening to the Germans, behaving this way in the middle of the twentieth century! Don’t get drawn into any confrontations, but of course try to do what you consider is right.”