Last Train to Istanbul

by Ayşe Kulin

  “Why are you looking like that? Put everything—your bowl, spoon, blanket, and number—on the table.”

  David carefully placed his bowl, spoon, and blanket on the table, then he put his number on the blanket. The man checked the items as if they were precious jewels, then he asked David to sign for each one.

  “Where am I going?” asked David.

  “To hell!” the man answered.

  “May I speak to my family one last time before I die?”

  The man smiled.

  “Or would it be possible to send them a message?”

  “What about?”

  “That I’ll be put before a firing squad.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “If I’m not allowed to speak to them, if I give you a telephone number, would you kindly tell them what’s happened? I’m sure they’d rather know than just be wondering.”

  “Know what?”

  “That I’m dead.”

  The man smiled mockingly. Nasty dog, thought David.

  The soldier who’d escorted David ordered him to move again, and David followed him outside the building. They crossed the courtyard and entered the gate of another building with the German flag and a swastika hanging outside. Inside, they walked up some stairs, and along a corridor.

  “You wait here,” the soldier said before entering a room. David collapsed on a bench by the door. He even thought of stretching out on it. He presumed he could do anything now that he was going to his death. For instance, he could spit in the face of his escort or the officer passing by. He could swear at them or even unbutton his trousers and pee all over the place. What difference would it make? He thought all this, but did nothing; the fresh air was making him feel extremely lethargic. It was as though he had no energy for anything except unraveling and carrying barbed wire, as though this were the duty given to him at the gates of hell, the only thing he would ever be able to do.

  The soldier returned with a file in his hand. “Move!” he said again. David tried to get up from the bench but realized that he didn’t have the strength.

  “Move!”

  He tried again, dragging his feet, and managed to follow the soldier. Had he not been ashamed, he would have crawled. They went back down the stairs, out of the courtyard, and into the street, finally entering a garden full of chrysanthemums. David saw an elegant villa in front of him.

  David, he thought, you’re a dead man, you’re just not aware of it! That street…this beautiful garden…these flowers…this villa…surely it can’t be true…I must be dead. I am dead. Thank God. I didn’t feel a thing. I’m saved. Finally, I’m saved. Hooray, death!

  A guard saluted the soldier as he passed. David saluted back, bowing almost to the ground. The guard looked in amazement, waving back. The soldier led David up the steps to the villa and into a marble hall with fantastic paintings on the walls. David kept expecting a houri to appear from one of the rooms. He wished her eyes would be like Stella’s and her voice would be like his mother’s. True, there were no houris or angels waiting for Jews in heaven, but he had heard that Muslim men were supposed to be greeted by pretty young virgins called houris. He had died carrying a Turkish passport…He smiled to himself. He wasn’t in the mood for pretty girls right now, but he desperately needed to see someone he knew, a friendly face, someone to remind him of his past. That’s why he wished the houri would look like Stella. As for his mother’s voice, it had never occurred to him, even in his wildest dreams, that he would miss his mother’s voice. All he wanted was to hear his mother saying, “My son, my lovely son,” and to be able to respond, “Mother, I missed you so, Mother!”

  “Take this and go into that room. I’ll be waiting here,” the soldier said, handing over the file. David took it and went into the room, which was furnished with expensive furniture. A man was sitting behind a Louis XIV desk.

  “Can you find your name in this notebook?” asked the man.

  Can you! Yes, he was dead all right; he was going to heaven. David approached and looked at the notebook. His vision didn’t blur this time and he found his name.

  “Here…my name’s here.”

  “Sign next to your name.”

  He signed.

  “Here you are, this is for Auschwitz, and this is your ticket to Paris.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your exit certificate and your train ticket. You’re free to go. Good-bye.”

  “Where am I going to? Do you mean I’m going home?”

  “What sort of imbecile are you?” The man saluted like a soldier and pointed to the door. “Straight to Paris,” he said with a bad French accent, “and when you get there, make sure you get down on your knees and kiss the hand of the Turkish consul!”

  David left the room and followed the soldier who had been waiting outside down the stairs, out of the villa, through the chrysanthemums, to the gate. No, he wasn’t dead; he was being set free. What is freedom? he wondered. The soldier went into the guards’ hut, said something to them, and one of the guards opened the gate.

  David walked out.

  He had weighed sixty-five kilos when he arrived at the camp two months earlier. Now he only weighed forty-seven. He looked like a skeleton or a ghost walking between the bare chestnut trees. He felt nothing, neither happy nor hungry. He wasn’t excited; he had no expectations. It was as though he was just drifting toward the station where the train would take him home. Who was he? What of his heart…what of his whole being? All he was now was a wretched number and old, very old, even older than his father, whom he referred to as “the old man.” He was now 3,233 years old.

  PARIS

  Selva had begun to like some of the people she taught very much, and Margot was one of them. She and Selva had become very close. Maybe because Margot was Hungarian, she had been able to pick up the Turkish language more easily than the others.

  One day she said in Turkish, “I have Turkish friend.”

  “Yes, of course you’re my friend,” Selva responded sincerely, putting her arms around her. Margot smiled, a little startled.

  After Margot had been dismissed from her job, she’d started to visit Ferit’s apartment very often, trying to help Selva. While Selva was teaching, she’d look after Fazıl. She’d take him out for fresh air and also help with the shopping.

  When Selva asked, “Didn’t you at least ask why they sacked you so suddenly?” Margot had replied, “I thought it better not to ask too many questions. What could I have said if they told me it was because I’m Jewish?”

  She was one of those people who had decided if they couldn’t take refuge in Paris, it was better to go to Palestine via Turkey.

  “You never know, you might like Istanbul enough to settle there for good,” Selva had said. “We might even find you a handsome Turk.”

  “Turks don’t fancy me.”

  “I don’t believe that, Margot! Turks are mad about blondes.”

  She contented herself with just a smile, murmuring, “If only…”

  Because of the close friendship that had developed between them, Selva had asked Margot to help her. They were to stick photographs in passports brought home by Ferit, write Turkish names inside, and have them ready by lunchtime.

  Selva and Ferit had tried to think of new names that were as similar as possible to their own. Roxanne had become Rüksan, Constance became Kezban, David, Davut, Lillian, Leyla and Marie, Meryem. But Selva had difficulty finding a name for Margot.

  When Margot arrived that morning, Selva asked her in French, “Margot, would you like to be Meral?”

  “Aren’t there other names beginning with M?”

  “Let me see now, there’s Makbule, Madelet, Mergube, Mehire…”

  “Why don’t you choose one for me?”

  “I think Meral’s the best. It’s a young person’s name.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s modern.”

  “I’ve heard of names being fashionable, but modern?” Margot said
.

  “I assure you, Margot, there’ll be many more surprises in store for you once you’ve reached Turkey,” Selva replied. “I promise you, you’ll be surprised by things every day. My country is very different.”

  “Oh!” Margot said with a sigh. How wonderful it would be, she thought, to be able to return to my own country as easily as this woman can.

  They spread the passports out over the work surfaces in the kitchen. Selva was sticking the photographs on and Margot was pressing them hard with a heavy iron. Most of the passports had been issued by the Turkish government to students. They were now removing the original photos and replacing them with those of the Jews. Those over a certain age had to use other passports provided by the Organization.

  Ferit had asked them to have them ready by his lunch break so he could collect them and have them stamped. When the doorbell rang, Margot ran to open it, thinking Ferit had arrived. The voice Selva heard from the kitchen was familiar.

  “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Excuse me, I should be asking you the same question!”

  “I need an explanation immediately.”

  “How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice.”

  Selva rushed to the hallway when she realized that the voices were getting harsher. Both Tarık and Margot were looking daggers at each other. They were baffled and taken aback.

  “Tarık! I thought it was Ferit at the door. Please come in.”

  Tarık held Selva by the arm and dragged her into the kitchen. He closed the door and spoke in Turkish.

  “Selva, do you know this woman? Who on earth asked her to come here?”

  “Tarık, she’s Margot…my friend.”

  “I know who she is, but where did you meet her?”

  “Here.”

  “What do you mean here?”

  “Ferit brought her here so she could learn Turkish along with the others. She’ll be getting on the same train.”

  “My God! Do you realize what you are doing?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Listen to me, Selva. That woman could easily be a spy.”

  “You must be joking. She’s Jewish, a Hungarian Jew.”

  They heard the kitchen-door handle move. Margot was knocking on the door, and Tarık stopped talking. The door opened.

  “Monsieur Tarık,” Margot said in a soft voice, “you’re very wrong about me. Admittedly I’m to blame because I misled you. I owe you an apology. I hope you understand that we all live in fear. How could I have told you that I am Jewish?”

  “You should have told me outright, Margot. You know that we’re doing our best to be helpful.”

  “I tried to wheedle it out of you. I tried every way I could to find out if you would give me a passport, but you slammed every door in my face. I ended up thinking that you must have realized I was Jewish and simply wanted to wash your hands of me.”

  “You couldn’t have been more wrong.”

  “But you never called me again.”

  “I thought totally different things. I’ve only just found out that you are Jewish. Muhlis said nothing to me.”

  “Muhlis doesn’t know. Nobody does. All of us are obliged to hide even our identity cards so we can keep our jobs.”

  “How did you find this place?” Tarık asked.

  “Monsieur Ferit brought me here.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “He’s a friend of my cousin’s.”

  “Tarık, have you and Margot already met?” asked Selva.

  “Yes, but I have to admit I was totally surprised to see her here,” Tarık replied, and then in Turkish he asked if the passports were ready.

  “Yes, they’re ready.”

  “I’ve brought you some christening certificates. I thought you might be able to put them to good use too.”

  “Excuse me, I don’t quite understand,” said Selva.

  “Monsignor Angelo Roncalli, who’s the Vatican representative in Istanbul, sent us some fake christening certificates. If you don’t have enough passports, maybe we can use these, especially for the children.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  “I just told you, from Istanbul.”

  Margot and Selva looked baffled.

  “You mean a man of the cloth is trying to help the Jews?” Margot asked.

  “He’s a truly God-fearing man; why not? Aren’t we all God’s children?” Selva remarked.

  “I’ll leave these with you,” said Tarık, handing over the certificates. “Let me have the passports that are ready.”

  “But Ferit was supposed to collect them.”

  “Selva, we need to stamp them anyway. Let me have them so I can get going. Apparently, Ferit can’t come until this evening,” said Tarık.

  So, Selva thought, obviously Ferit’s endless talks with Tarık have come to fruition. Hasn’t Ferit said Tarık is the most kindhearted man in the world?

  Margot put the passports in a cotton bag with a stale loaf of bread sticking out a bit.

  When Tarık saw what she was doing, he said, “Don’t worry, I have diplomatic immunity.”

  “Yes, of course. Don’t forget, I owe you a coffee,” said Margot. “You bought me a bottle of wonderful wine, Monsieur Tarık. The least I can do before leaving Paris is to offer you a cup of coffee.”

  “We’ll do that, at the first opportunity,” said Tarık, feeling rather awkward. As he rushed down the stairs with the bag in his hand, a group of about eight or ten boys and girls were climbing up.

  Later, Selva looked at the youngsters one by one. They were sitting on the beds, the chairs, and the floor. She had eventually gotten to know them rather well and started calling them by their new names. The students, who were of different ages, had learned their names by now. The girls had their initials stitched on the front of their sweaters and the boys had done the same on their shirt pockets.

  They had been coming to Ferit’s apartment in groups of fifteen, at fixed times. Selva had been able to teach them all the numbers up to a thousand, the days and months, and some basic conversation. In case background information should be needed, she had taken great pains to make up stories that would suit them. For instance, if any strangers sat with them in the same train compartment, some young ones would say they had been studying, others would say they’d been undergoing medical treatment, a few older people would say they had been visiting their children, and others would simply pretend not to understand. All of them, whether old, young, or middle-aged, were afraid.

  On one occasion, Selva tried to reassure them. “Why are you so scared? The Germans don’t understand Turkish anyway; how would they be able to spot your mistakes? If necessary, just carry on making Turkish sounds and you’ll be OK.”

  “But what if someone among them speaks Turkish?”

  “Even if that happens, they won’t be able to speak as much as you. They might know just a few words. You’ll just have to do your best to learn as many sentences as you can.”

  Selva knew that the countdown to the day of the train’s departure had started, even though Tarık hadn’t given precise details yet. He had just said, “The carriage is on its way.”

  “Where’s it coming from?”

  “From Ankara.”

  “You mean the train.”

  “No, the carriage. It is a big car that they’ve linked on to a train leaving for Europe…”

  “When will it get here?”

  “Is it possible to say during the war? With a bit of luck, and if there are no problems, it should be here within a fortnight.”

  “In that case, we should tell everybody.”

  “No, for God’s sake, no! We should only tell them the day before. If the information falls on the wrong ears, all our efforts could go down the drain,” Tarık warned.

  “What? But how will they manage to get ready?”

  “Come on, Selva, they’ve been ready for ages. All they’ll need to do when the carriage arrives is pick up their bags,”
Rafael said.

  Tarık had started coming to the apartment more often. Sometimes, after everyone squeezed in the apartment was fed, Ferit would go out with Selva or Rafael and meet up with Tarık at a nearby café. The Alfandaris took turns staying behind to babysit. One of the new residents, Constance, renamed Kezban by Selva, had said time and time again that she was willing to look after Fazıl so the couple could go out together. Selva had declined the offers. She wasn’t comfortable leaving Fazıl with someone she hardly knew. She felt Fazıl should always be with a person with whom he felt safe. But most of those coming and going to the apartment had become close friends by now, and they would soon be leaving Paris, so they decided to make the best of it. Even if they didn’t go to the cinema or theater, they would sit in a café people watching. With Tarık and Margot, they enjoyed looking at the elegant women in their colorful clothes and fur stoles, swaying their hips, arm in arm with high-ranking German officers, or the young middle-class girls cycling, their ankle socks and high-heeled shoes going round and round. They had fun trying to imagine which woman was a spy, or which man in a leather jacket was a member of the Organization. They enjoyed making up scripts to suit the characters they picked out. When Margot joined them, Tarık stopped being his usual serious self, shook off his dullness, and managed to have fun.

  One evening it was Rafael’s turn to babysit, and Selva went out with Ferit and Tarık. While they were waiting for Margot to arrive at the Café des Artistes, Ferit took the opportunity to thank Tarık for the passports.

  “I’m sure God will reward you for all your efforts,” he said.

  “Don’t give me all the credit,” Tarık replied. “I wouldn’t have been able to have the passports stamped without the approval of my superiors.”

  “But I’m sure you’re the one who persuaded them to do it. My sister wrote me so much about you. She told me what an exceptional man you are,” Selva responded.

  Tarık felt himself blushing. “I can assure you, Selva Hanım, that both our government and our foreign ministry are being extremely cooperative. I wouldn’t have been able to do anything on my own.”

  Selva turned to Ferit. “As for you, Ferit, I must say no one can deny that what you’re doing is incredible too. Would you mind if I asked you something?”