He joined the 5th Division, which had been stationed in Gelibolu since the previous year but was one of a stream of reinforcements brought in for the inevitable attack by the Allied forces, which had been softening up the region with bombardments for months. Açar found himself in the 57th Regiment attached to the 19th Infantry Division under the leadership of Lieutenant Colonel Mustafa Kemal.
Two months of intensive training had impressed upon Açar what the true meaning of discipline was. Elder soldiers with battle-hardened experience of the Balkan Wars had laughed at the ‘boys’ hoping to stand shoulder to shoulder with them. Nevertheless, he’d thrown himself at his training and he wondered what his father might make of him now with his newly acquired ability to march day and night without food, water or rest. Or his capability of breaking down a rifle and reassembling it in under two minutes, or the fact that he no longer felt he had a free-thinking mind – he simply responded to orders. His dead mother would sigh in her grave that he had stopped writing, stopped dreaming, and that he was being forced instead to imagine killing.
So far Açar had managed to avoid taking anyone’s life; he had not had a clean shot at the enemy but he also fired his rifle deliberately off target. He was careful to join in the backslapping discussions of this shot or that, and disguised his fear with battle cries alongside his fellow Turks, inspired by ancient Ottoman history and a similar determination to defend their lands. He had wounded two men, he was sure, and had prayed both would survive.
He had begun to imagine a story of two young men, both in their third decade, from different backgrounds, cultures, and at war with each other but not really sure why. Neither wanted to kill. Neither had married yet. And in fact that’s mainly what consumed their thoughts – being with a woman. He might write this story, if he survived the war.
His neighbour nudged him and Açar fired a shot to pretend he had been concentrating. He watched the bullet bounce uselessly off rock. He didn’t think he’d survive the war and the truth was he’d felt a sense of melancholia creeping up ever since he’d heard the now famous tale that their commander had berated his men who had clapped eyes on the Allied fleet and wanted to flee. Mustafa Kemal had given the unnerved soldiers a stirring speech, the words of which burned in Açar’s mind.
I don’t order you to fight, I order you to die.
Açar fully expected to follow that order.
Kemal’s troops had responded with limitless courage and fought with such determined ferocity that they were convinced the amphibious landings by the British with their Australian and New Zealand counterparts could only be marked down as disastrous. They had witnessed them face the unfamiliar and treacherous terrain, and become scattered, disoriented, and knew they were now crouching in hastily dug trenches or tiny ridges and overhangs, trapped like birds that dare not break cover.
He’d heard that the Australians had sunk headlong into four feet of water as they tumbled out of their boats because of the heavy kit each carried. Some were hit on the ten-yard rush to the foot of the hills. They soon cast aside all their equipment, and then like mountain goats had to find the agility to climb with only their rifles and fear for company, the soil crumbling beneath them.
Açar had liked hearing about the singing, though. Once there was no more need for stealth, the Australians had apparently begun to sing.
‘Australia will be there,’ one of his companions imitated and those listening laughed.
‘No! No! No! No! Australia will be there,’ his friends chorused.
He dared not admit feeling moved that his enemy sang in the face of death. He and his kind were manacled to the Germans, while the singing Australians were helplessly loyal to their Crown in Britain.
He felt another nudge from his comrade. Relieving soldiers had arrived. It was their turn now to drop back; he had high hopes that mail may have arrived from the surrounding villages. He slid on his belly into the trench, his back to the setting sun over the waters, and wondered what might distract him tonight from his dark thoughts of impending death.
In the camp the saya had recently arrived with a bundle of letters tied in cheesecloth. Açar heard the men grouped around him murmur a familiar phrase.
‘Cenneti-í Alâda,’ the friends of the fallen informed quietly.
‘Truly? Mohammed is dead?’ he queried Hasan, standing nearby.
The man shrugged. ‘He is in paradise,’ he said, repeating the familiar phrase.
Açar nodded sadly, believing too that Mohammed was in a better place, but he would miss the man’s ready laugh and sense of fun. He watched the postman put Mohammed’s letter back to return to his family. Is that how it would be when it was his turn to reach paradise? His father’s letter would simply be returned, or would word be passed from village to village until it finally reached the city and all the way to his family home?
‘Don’t grieve for him, Açar. His family will be proud of him. I hope to make mine as proud.’
‘By dying?’
‘Dying while defending our country from invaders. Look how we have kept them confused, scattered . . .’
‘And still they persist,’ Açar said softly, as Hasan tugged his sleeve and nodded towards the postman.
‘Your name is called. You have a parcel.’ He raised a hand. ‘Over here!’
It surprised him how thrilling it felt to see the men passing back the small package, his only link with those he loved. He took the parcel silently, his breath held, and moved slowly to a quiet spot where he could unwrap his prize. The British ships’ guns were booming their rage, but he was well out of range and the noise seemed to fade when he ran his fingers across the neat writing on the front. He recognised his father’s hand and tried to reach for a connection through the ink, tracing the letters of his name, imagining his father penning it, dipping his nib into the pot with that economy of movement he possessed. Açar sighed and carefully undid the string and opened the brown wrapping.
Inside he found a pair of thick socks, a small scarf and some lokum. He smiled, fingering the soft brown wool as the sight of the hard pink gel studded with purple and green pistachios from his favourite sweets shop and the nutty aroma reached him from the small pack of sesame halva. He knew he must resist eating it immediately and save it as a treat for after his meal, which he presumed would be chickpea soup and rice again. His belly growled at the thought of food but mostly because of the temptation of his aunt’s halva. He knew the recipe, could almost taste its texture on his tongue . . . To stave off his hunger he reached into his pocket for the small thread of standard-issue rolled figs. Açar expertly bit one off, chewing slowly to savour the flesh for as long as he could. Then he finally slipped a finger beneath the envelope flap and opened his father’s letter. He was aware of releasing his held breath through his nose as he chewed the final morsel of fig, trying not to notice his eyes misting slightly as the smell of his father’s tobacco lifted from the tissue-thin page. That one sheet felt so precious he barely heard the sounds of his unit beginning to settle around him. The writing was tiny and he had to squint to make it out.
My dear Açar,
Thank you for your letter, which we were glad to receive and I shared it with the family over the evening meal of your aunt’s chicken and rice. I don’t know when this will find you – your letter took over six weeks to reach us – but I hope you are well and keeping up with your duties. It is hard to get much regular news from the south but we know you are in the midst of the fighting and we all pray that you remain safe.
Your aunt made the socks and cousin Amina wanted to knit a scarf to keep you warm through these cool spring nights but also for winter. I’m sure you’ll thank them in due course for their endeavours. Your youngest cousin Demet misses you and says she will write as soon as her music exams are finished. We expect her to pass with honours.
We are fortunate to live in Galata. So many of the old-city dwellers have had to cross over the Golden Horn and find homes on this side of the waterway. They fear
the invaders will want to control our ancient city first. Our big homes and gardens keep us protected, although these days even finding daily bread is a challenge. Formerly friendly neighbours openly fight over a small loaf.
Açar turned the sheet over, hungrily reading on.
I must share the sorry news that I have had to let Arzu and Fazil go. I know these servants are family to you but Fazil was called up in the second conscription and Arzu needed to help her family as its men have been called to duty. Ayfer remains – she’s too old to start again or even live alone, she complains a great deal and now cooks for me . . . but badly!
It remains stubbornly cool with a brisk wind cutting off the Bosphorus but your mother’s famous mulberry tree is thickening with leaves again and we are expecting a big crop of fruit this summer. Kashifa is planning to pound some of it into pekmez and send that to you with her homemade sesame paste to improve your morning meal. We were all disappointed to learn from your last letter that eating for you was now simply to stay alive – I thought the army would feed you all much better, given that most of our country’s food is grown or reared for our soldiers. You can imagine what your admission did to your aunt’s state of mind. Anyway, I’m sure her mulberry molasses will enliven you and remind you of home.
All is well here. Everyone keeps good health and we remember you in our daily prayers. I am attending the Sultan Ahmed Mosque whenever I can and it is certainly easier at the moment because the university has moved to a new restricted curriculum. So I have a lot more time to myself and in fact I believe with the age limit now expanding to thirty-five years and upwards I will soon be conscripted to work full-time with the military in some capacity. I have offered again but they will not permit me to join an active unit. It seems I am wanted in Logistics in Istanbul.
I will send a larger food parcel next time. Remain diligent in your prayers, son, and do not despair or question your role. Allah alone decides. It is pleasing to know that you scribe letters for your fellow soldiers and keep their families informed of their wellbeing.
I expect it is warming up in the south but keep your new woollen garments safe for the winter. I will let you know where I am sent by the government once I know more.
Affectionately, your father
Açar stared at the dark ink on the page so neatly crafted into words, not a single smudge, clinically produced from that ordered mind of Rifki Shahin so incapable of expressing his real thoughts – his fears, his joys, his love. His father had never praised Açar for being made a platoon commander and while even he knew this was mainly because he could read orders and write messages, it was still an honour in one so young.
‘I’m going to die here, Baba. You will never see me again,’ he whispered to the page. Never see me smile or hear my voice again. You’ll never be able to chastise me again and unless you hurry you’ll never be able to tell me that you do love me, his inner voice continued. Açar accepted his fate wholly, somewhere deep where he no longer dreamed.
Hasan arrived to flop down next to him. ‘Lucky you. Nothing for me. Everything good at home?’
‘Yes . . . yes. Everyone is fine. They knitted me socks and a scarf,’ he answered, digging up a smile.
Hasan nodded appreciatively. ‘Any food?’
‘You know there is. Lokum and homemade halva. I’ll share it later.’
His friend grinned. ‘Come on,’ he said, standing. ‘Let’s go eat. There’s a travelling finger puppet show on this evening for those of us off-duty.’ Hasan slapped Açar’s shoulder. ‘That’s us, brother. And there’s a rumour that we may have potatoes and garlic tonight. I’m already drooling.’
Açar grinned. ‘Nothing new,’ he replied in a dry tone and took his friend’s proffered hand, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet and to walk away from the sense of a bleak destiny.
‘Hey, Açar, let’s make a promise that tomorrow we do our best to shoot that Australian who plays the mouth organ,’ Hasan joshed.
‘Why would you want to? I like it – I wish I could meet him.’
‘Ach, it’s ugly to my hearing. You only like it because you play music but your kaval is far prettier in its sound.’
Açar sighed. ‘The kaval is the sound of the shepherd, Hasan. It’s in the Turkish soul. But we both make our music by simply blowing air through small holes.’
‘Yes, but your pipe is of noble wood. His instrument is tinny.’
He shook his head. His kaval was made from the wood of the plum – nothing noble or important, but it was honest and its sound was indeed as sweet as the fruit it once bore. Nevertheless he secretly loved the music of the Australian in the trench not far from where he normally stood and it would be hard to explain that to Hasan. The soldier made gentle, sad music that spoke to Açar of dreams on the wind, carried on the wings of birds to families in faraway lands.
Fortunately the smell of frying garlic assaulted him and his whimsy about his opposing soldier was forgotten as Hasan dragged him faster towards food.
________
The guns had been quiet this afternoon, just the odd crack of sniper fire. It was a mild evening too and they’d even tasted something vaguely meaty in their food – hare, perhaps. Salat would be soon, he noted. As the sun was dipping beneath his sight, Açar reached to his pocket and touched the small, ancient prayer book of Islam – a gift from his mother’s wealthy parents at his birth, crafted in Arabic. The mufti would wait until dusk to call the men to perform their ritual prayers. The enemy deliberately tried to find and kill the holy men, believing they could dim the determination of the Turks if they could kill their priests.
Açar smiled to himself. The enemy had a lot to learn about his faith. He caught the first gentle sound from the Australian trenches as his musical counterpart blew into the harmonica. His smile broadened to hear it.
‘You are alive, my friend,’ he murmured with gladness beneath his breath.
Hasan, never far away, nudged him. ‘Play with him. Show him who is the better musician.’
Açar shook his head. ‘No, I like to listen to him. He is wistful tonight.’
Leaning back, he let the music of the mouth organ reach hauntingly across the short distance of no-man’s-land and the still night.
‘He plays a song of the heart this evening,’ Açar remarked. ‘He’s thinking of a woman.’
‘To me it seems like the same ugly sound as always.’
Açar clicked his tongue. ‘It’s entirely different. Listen. Can’t you hear how it’s talking, telling her he loves her?’
Hasan shrugged and lit a cigarette. ‘Well, you may get to meet him. They’re calling a truce.’
Açar sat forward. ‘Definitely?’
His friend took a long, slow suck on his tobacco. ‘So I hear.’
He nodded. Good. Well, if it was the last thing he did on this earth, he wanted to meet the harmonica player from the opposing trench and thank him for the gentle music. Açar closed his eyes and let the breathy sound of the wind harp carry him away from the dirt tunnel and lift him on its notes to a place in his mind that was peaceful, without colour or texture. It was here from this pure position he felt no fear, no anxiety about pain or loss; in this place there was no past or future, for here he was not a worldly body – he was simply thought. It was serenity.
6
The waiter laid the golden tray on the table they flanked in wicker armchairs and gestured to them in invitation. Just the sight of the sherbets cooled Claire.
‘Mesdemoiselles, vos boissons,’ he murmured and got busy, putting out coasters and moving the drinks from tray to table.
The lingua franca in Egypt was English or French. Claire rather liked that he chose to speak French to two guests who clearly had English as a first language. It was a tiny defiance and she saw it glimmer in his eyes.
‘Merci, monsieur,’ she murmured politely, smiling briefly before leaning back to reflect on their day.
While the sleepier Alexandria was traditionally a world away in atmos
phere from frenetic Cairo, war had turned it into a chaotically busy harbour. They had been given seven hours’ leave and the two nurses had decided to flee the main port. Claire preferred Alexandria to Cairo – there was something more refined about its European influence evident throughout the city.
As they’d left the immediate port area eddies of dust flung fine grit into her throat and she’d flapped uselessly at the flies that constantly tormented them. Her mind rushed to a barren place – Walker’s Ridge – but could only imagine. Where Gupta had pointed lived Jamie Wren in a hot, filthy trench. There flies plagued him, along with the threat of malaria, dysentery and a host of other perils if the bullets and bombs didn’t kill him.
She had forced herself to bend her thoughts away from Gallipoli and back to the press of the narrow streets they had wandered into, with crowded shops where sharp-eyed merchants had tried keenly to catch her and Rosie’s attention. Far too experienced now, the nurses had remained in the middle of the alley, as best they could, and tried not to gaze left or right. They’d linked arms as they walked because the dusty road beneath was uneven, with potholes and ridges determined to trip them. She remembered now how she’d glanced up to see damp clouds that would give no rain but would keep the heat corralled below and send the humidity soaring.
They had moved past a row of shops and drifted level with a cavernous series of cafés, where men sucked on hookah pipes and hulked over games of backgammon while sulky-looking boys served them coffee that looked like tar in a glass. No women were present. The nurses had been searching for a welcoming hotel not too far from the port and knew just where to find it. It would have been easier to follow the waterfront but they’d both agreed they wanted to see some real life – people going about business that wasn’t to do with war or killing.
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