The Dark Moment

by Ann Bridge

  Mustafa Kemal had foreseen under what pressure the Chamber would meet, if it met at Istanbul, and as far back as the autumn he had urged the deputies to assemble in the freer air of Ankara, or failing this, at least to gather there first and decide on a line of action. But the pull of the ancient capital and the habit of traditional loyalties were too strong—besides, the Ottoman Government, naturally, bitterly opposed such an idea. So at Istanbul the Chamber met. But once again Kemal proved to be right—he had an extraordinary “nose” for political situations. The Allied representatives, made suspicious by what was going on, first demanded and obtained the resignations of the Minister of War and the Chief of the General Staff, and then proceeded to arrest the President of the Chamber himself.

  These measures appeared to do little good. The Allies might squeeze the lemon in Istanbul, but up in his mountain fastness of Ankara, out of reach of their troops and guns, Mustafa Kemal continued to do as he chose, and so did his shabby troops in the wilds of Anatolia. On February the 11th, under Nationalist pressure, the French were forced to evacuate Maras, down in the South; and whether pro-Kemal or not, the whole nation lifted up its heart in rejoicing at this first concrete sign of renewed strength. On the 27th the whole contents of the big dump of surrendered arms at Akbas was seized by the insurgents, and carried off to Anatolia. This was too much. That was no way for a conquered country to behave. And the Allies, unable fully to realise that there were by now two Turkeys, one within their grasp and one outside it, decided to teach a sharp lesson at least to that part of the nation within their reach. On March the 16th they made a complete military occupation of Istanbul.

  Troops had of course been in the city since Franchet d’Esperey marched in in triumph in the late autumn of 1918, but at least the Ottoman Government had continued to function. What now took place was quite different. The most powerful ships of the fleet were moved up towards the water-front, fresh troops were disembarked, and marching through the narrow streets, with their strange traffic of donkeys, street-vendors, and horse-drawn carts, they proceeded to occupy the Government offices themselves. Far away in Ankara, Orhan and others, furious, heard what was happening as it happened; for a plucky telegraph operator, Manastirli Hamdi by name, sat at his instrument in the Central Post Office and kept ticking out the news as it was brought to him; at the end there came a sudden silence, as when a sinking ship finally goes down—the foreign troops, occupying the building, had reached the room where he sat.

  The news of this last affront quickly spread over Anatolia. The Nationalists already had their own paper, a daily, the Hakimiyeti Milliyet, or “National Sovereignty,” whose first issue had appeared on January the 10th. It was a little two-sheet thing, brought out by an editor with one assistant, in a room literally no bigger than a billiard-table; the printing-press occupied part of the stables of a han next door. Its modest circulation of two to three thousand copies gave no idea of its importance; couriers, on the tough little Anatolian ponies, carried it at astonishing speed over the rough tracks to all main centres, and a single copy would furnish news—uncensored news—to hundreds of people. Copies were even smuggled down to Istanbul, and read there greedily, passing from hand to hand.

  Those were bad days for the Pasha. When he first heard of Orhan’s departure for Ankara he really did not know whether to be glad or sorry. He was disturbed at yet another member of his family being now openly committed to what he regarded as plain rebellion; on the other hand he could not but be relieved that his own household was no longer implicated. “At least,” he said to Réfiyé Hanim, when she told him the news, “we shall have no more disturbances at night.” He was distressed for Féridé—he would have entirely agreed with her remark to Nilüfer that they two led strange lives for married women. But Féridé, unlike her sister-in-law, did not wilt or droop; she seemed more buoyant than ever as she went about the house—not smiling, for in spite of her expansive nature she smiled rather rarely, just serenely assured.

  But the events of March the 16th fairly crushed the old gentleman. He said, constantly, that it was all Mustafa Kemal’s fault, which in a way it was; but even blaming the man he disapproved of could not diminish his own angry sense of humiliation—a feeling which all Turks shared—joined to an intense resentment and hatred against their conquerors. Sitting in his study, his fez on his head, smoking a narghilé to tranquillise himself, the poor old man was sometimes shaken with a spasm of reluctant envy for those two young ones, up in the mountains, out of sight and sound of the infidels who at present not only filled but controlled the capital which he adored. He rarely went to the Club now—usually he kept away; and cold as the yali was in winter, one was at least left in peace there. But they, those young men, were in a position to do something, to hit back. And they did—or at least their leader did. Two days after the occupation of the city the wretched Chamber, already shorn of its President, met for the last time as the Ottoman Legislature; and the very next day Mustafa Kemal announced by telegram to every province in Turkey that a “National Assembly” would shortly meet in Ankara, armed with “extraordinary”—i.e. over-riding— powers. There was, in fact, no stopping the man!

  But this was not yet realised in England. At Christmas an Anglo-French Conference had met in London and roughed out the dreamlike provisions of the Treaty of Sèvres; and all through that spring, in the College common-room at Oxford, his friends asked Dr. Pierce— “Who is this infernal fellow Kemal? and why can’t he keep quiet?” Poor Dr. Pierce tried to explain about Smyrna and Adana, but his fellow dons were still thinking in terms of Byron and Missolonghi and Greek independence, and his words fell on deaf ears. Besides, they had a new name to conjure with—Venizelos, a remarkable man! At home in his little house in North Oxford Fanny, now released from the V.A.D.s and keeping house for him, questioned, fretted. “Oh, I do wish I were there! Ahmet used to talk about Mustafa Kemal—he really worshipped him. He wanted to be on his Staff.”

  “Well, he was, my dear; he was that when I saw him—I mean he had been, till he was taken prisoner.”

  “And this Orhan, whom Féridé has married—I wish I had seen him! He made the accompaniment to the Falcon Song.” Homesick for everything Turkish, Fanny went to the piano, struck some chords, and softly sang the words.

  “Oh, I can’t get it right—the accompaniment, I mean. I wish I had got it from Féridé!—it was beautiful.”

  The Doctor listened, like his niece carried back by the words and melody to the country they both loved so much, now in such travail.

  “I wonder what Féridé and Nilüfer—poor Nilüfer, she was so lovely, but rather droopy, I always thought—are doing,” said Fanny, and took up her darning again.

  At that very moment Féridé and Nilüfer were in anxious consultation—anxious, and immensely excited. The same dirty old man from Scutari who had brought Nilüfer her letter from Ahmet on New Years Eve had appeared again at the yali that day, and this time he got past old Mahmud with less trouble; the door-keeper never forgot a face—it was his business to remember faces. As before, the old man insisted on seeing Nilüfer in person; but now he asked for Féridé Hanim too, for he brought two letters. When they had thanked the old creature, and given him his baksheesh, the two girls fled upstairs with their precious missives, and read them together. Both said much the same thing: each husband had succeeded in renting a furnished house in Ankara, and wished their young wives to come up and join them there forthwith. They were to take a steamer to Inebolu, a small port on the Black Sea coast—there was one sailing in about a week’s time; and from thence drive to Ankara. “If possible, one of us will come down to meet you, but if not I think you will manage it,” Orhan wrote. “Many will be travelling. Do not bring much luggage, there are no social occasions here—but bring warm clothes, and some tea,” “Bring me six pairs of socks, and my grey flannel trousers,” he added practically, as a PS. “And take a spirit-lamp and some alcohol and a sauce-pan, so that you can warm things up en route.” And he gave
a good many other, rather detailed, instructions about their proceedings.

  “But do you think we can go?” Nilüfer had asked, at first, doubtfully. “What will your Father say?”

  “I shall consult with Niné—she will know how best to arrange it,” said Féridé; “but till I have done so, Nilüfer chérie, please do not speak of it at all—not to anyone.”

  “But I must tell Hatijé; she will need to be getting her things together, and taking farewell of her parents.” Hatijé was Nilüfer’s maid.

  Féridé sat up very straight, her brows drawn down over her eyes in a manner that always rather intimidated her sister-in-law.

  “But you cannot take Hatijé!”

  ‘Why not, chérie?”

  “Does Ahmet say you can?”

  “No—no, of course not; but he knows I cannot be without Hatijé! Who would dress me and wash my stockings and see to my clothes and do my hair?” The gentle creature looked distressed. Féridé bent over and kissed her.

  “My dearest, it will be all right, you will see. I shall help you-Orhan says our houses are close, close together! But we cannot take maids with us. See what Orhan says, here”—she fluttered the pages of her letter: “There are two berths reserved for you on the boat. Take Osman or someone you can trust down to the quay, and when you get on board, ask for Ibrahim Bey, the Captain, and he will see to your places.’ You see there is nothing about a berth for Hatijé,” said Féridé with finality. “Did Ahmet not tell you about the two berths only?”

  “No, he did not write of such things! He writes of seeing me again, and—and so on,” said poor Nilüfer, looking very disconsolate.

  “Oh, my brother! He is not very practical! Well, sweet-meat, we shall manage alone, you will see.”

  “I wish they could come and meet us here, and not at this place Ine—whatever it may be,” said Nilüfer.

  “Ah no—that would be out of the question,” said Féridé, her eyebrows decisive again. “For them it would be dangerous. Now chérie, first promise me, solemnly, that you speak of this to no one, no one at all—and then we will look out your luggage.”

  Nilüfer gave the required promise, but there was trouble again over the luggage. She wanted to take two large cabin trunks, and all sorts of cases as well. These Féridé firmly vetoed—two suitcases each, and a parcel each, and a picnic-basket. Nilüfer was almost in tears.

  “But it is impossible! We are going for months and months! We must take so many things.”

  “Did Ahmet not tell you to bring very little luggage?”

  “No—he did not. He said”—she too drew her letter out again—” ‘Do not bring too much with you—that is all. And for so long a séjour these trunks are not too much.” The gentle creature looked almost mutinous.

  Féridé took her by the arm and drew her down to sit on the low bed, covered with one of those splendid velvet-and-gold quilts.

  “Listen, my dearest sister,” she said gravely, “I think perhaps my brother has not fully explained matters to you. Did he not tell you that we must go in secret?”

  “No. He said”—again she consulted the letter—“‘as for the journey to Inebolu, Féridé knows about it.’ Yes, I see he did say that,” she said, looking up at her sister-in-law. “Well, tell me then, my sister,” she added with a little sigh of acquiescence.

  “Bien! We must go together in secret; you will tell Hatijé that we are only going to your Aunt at Kandilli, for a few days, so we shall need little luggage and no maid. And though we can wear our own clothes and our fur coats, we must cover them with old çarşafs, and wear old shoes.”

  “But why all this?”

  “Because it is known where our husbands are, and with whom; and if we go openly, we might be stopped. And we must take some food to eat on the boat—but do not worry about that, I will see to it,” said Féridé cheerfully.

  “But is it not a boat on which food is served?” said Nilüfer in astonishment, thinking of the meals she had eaten as a child on board a boat going to Mudanya, when she was once taken to Broussa.

  “I am not certain. Anyhow we will take some to make sure.”

  “How long on the boat, then?”

  “I do not know exactly—about twenty-four hours, I think. Now, dji-djim, see, take these two cases, and put in warm things; and for what will not go in, I will bring you brown paper to make a parcel.”

  “But I cannot take a parcel! I should look like a peasant!”

  Féridé burst out laughing.

  “So you are to look, my precious one! And remember, not a word to anyone except that we go to Kandilli.” She kissed her again, and hastened away.

  She sought out Réfiyé Hanim at once. Their enterprise could not be carried through without the old lady’s knowledge, and in any case, not for worlds would she have left without telling her Niné; moreover she wanted her advice as to how to deal with her father.

  Réfiyé Hanim still always sat in her accustomed place by the window in the salon, still kept the shutters open and the great sea-green room flooded with light, still had her embroidery things beside her on the little inlaid table—only now, instead of the latest French novel or volume of memoirs there was some older book; it was a long time since new French books had been readily obtainable in Istanbul. People said that a few were beginning to come in again, but she hesitated to send Mdlle Marthe, who had always gone to buy her books in the past, in to Hachette’s in the Grande Rue de Péra now to see what there was to be had, when the streets were full of foreign troops.

  Féridé broke the news to her gently, but directly—Orhan and Ahmet, she said, had made arrangements for them, and had sent for them—and said no more. The old woman looked almost stricken for a moment; then she lifted her head.

  “God’s will must always be done,” she said. “A wife’s place is with her husband. Of course you must go.”

  “Oh Niné, I thank you!” The girl kissed her warmly. “You know that I am sad to leave you,” she said.

  “I know it, my child,” said the old lady, fondling her hand.

  “And now, dearest Niné, as always I want your advice. Orhan is urgent that we must go quite secretly; I gather that if we went openly, we might not only be stopped ourselves but put others in danger also.”

  “Very probable.”

  “Ahmet has not told Nilüfer this, and I have only told her of the risk of being stopped ourselves. Indeed, he seems to have told her very little, except of his love!” said Féridé, laughing.

  “Ah, our Ahmet! From a child his head was always in the clouds! And perhaps he fears to alarm her,” said the old lady. “Whom do you take with you, my child?”

  “Alas, Niné, no one—we cannot. Only Osman, to put us on the boat. But it is only twenty-four hours, and either Orhan or Ahmet will meet us when we land.”

  Réfiyé Hanim looked troubled.

  “I do not like the idea of your going alone,” she said slowly. “You have never done such a thing. Could Osman not accompany you until you are met, at least?”

  “Orhan says not, Niné. And we are saying that we go to Nilüfer’s Aunt at Kandilli, for a few days only, and therefore have no need of Hatijé and Siireyya.”

  “You will miss them. Oh my child, are you sure that you can do this thing? No one to serve you, to help you, all the way? And will there be maids there?”

  “Oh, surely, Niné dearest; they have taken houses for us, all furnished, Orhan says—and if there are houses, there must also be servants” said Féridé blithely. “I am confident that we can manage everything.”

  “You, perhaps—but Nilüfer? She has not your energy.”

  Féridé’s face grew a little grave.

  “Yes, for her it will be hard—much harder than for me. But I can look after her, for such a short time; I know I can.” She paused, and an amused look came into her face. “Niné, I have just thought such a funny thing—how easy it would be if instead of cette pauvre chère Nilüfer, it were la Canaria who was coming with me! She
would think nothing of such a journey. Do you remember how she was expecting to stay alone in that horrid pension, when her Uncle went away? She did not mind a bit, and she was only fourteen or fifteen.”

  “Dear little Fanny!” said the old lady, smiling. “But for the English, everything is entirely different.”

  “Ah, I wish she were near! I wish I could see her, or at least hear of her! I do miss her so much—still, do you know?” the girl said, turning her great grey eyes full onto her grandmother.

  “We heard from Ahmet.”

  “Yes, but that was a year ago! By now she might be married, anything.” She gave a tiny sigh. “But Niné, the most important thing of all we have not yet spoken of, and it is there that I especially need your advice.”

  The old lady looked keenly at her, “You mean your Father?” she said slowly.

  ‘Yes! How do we do about him? Oh, my poor Father!—this will make him so wretched. How I wish that he felt more in sympathy with Mustafa Kemal Pasha: then he would be less upset—I mean, he would mind our going away, but he would not feel obliged also to disapprove!”

  Réfiyé Hanim smiled a little.

  “That is too much to hope.” She considered, her eyes on the blue sky and the blue water outside the low window—Féridé waited. At last—“My child, I think we had better not tell him,” she said. “Say to him what you say to others, that you go to Kandilli for a few days. That will save much difficulty and trouble; and it is always as well to avoid difficulties and troubles when one can.”

  “Oh Nine, could we do it like that? I have so dreaded telling him! Usually I am not much afraid of anything,” said Féridé frankly, “but of this I am. But who will tell him? At some point he must learn it.”