by Levi, Mario
It is reported that Enrico Weizman had mentioned Madame Angela during a ‘human mission’ to Istanbul while telling of his most important encounters. The eyes of Berti, who told me about this woman years later, toward which nobody could remain impassive, betrayed the pride of being trusted with a secret and were mixed with a sadness I could not account for. A time would come when she would occupy a special place in Enrico Weizman’s life as a woman about whom he would be inclined to give a more elaborate account when reverting to his recollections. Berti was one of those who had experienced bitter relationships that could not be put into words or shared. I liked him for this particularity. I too wanted to live, taste, and learn how to experience the bitterness caused by inexpressible relationships in situations where I thought that such affiliations would be never-ending, in the proper sense of the word. The source of the grievance lay, I think, in the impossibility of explaining what ought to be explained to the right people. Those people were sometimes unconsciously the heroes of those relationships, as well as their onlookers who took notice of the real meaning behind the stories. There were situations in which time was lived the wrong way . . . situations wasted in the wrong hands, lingering hopes deferrable because of apprehensions . . . The emotion that different words had raised in Berti might have been due to an affect generated by a similar situation. However, in order that I might be able to decipher certain details and measure their proper significance, I needed to gauge this effect better, and to learn how to be patient once more. Those stories, like those people, stood there even though they were not lived as they ought to have been, waiting for their ‘real’ time to come. “That woman was no ordinary woman. I had felt this, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask what I really wanted to ask. A hand, an invisible hand seemed to have forestalled my action . . . ” Berti said. What was meant by this was that gap, that sense of imperfection generated by my inability to have access to that untouchable and forbidden zone. One may prefer not to soil, with one’s foreign steps, the path leading to that zone in the face of people whom one reveres. This experience seems to refer to a period of hesitancy that looks as though it will never end; an old period of hesitancy that looks as though it has no end; a period of hesitancy that holds you immobile, unable to decide which action to take, about whether you should take that step forward or not; its real meaning lies in your past, in another human being to whom you cannot have access. I might well understand this hesitancy. However, when I go over Enrico Weizman’s experiences, his attitude toward life, it occurs to me that this concern must be concealing quite another concern lying in the depths of the water.
Enrico Weizman with whom I had lunch at Rumelikavağı was a man who tried to make the best out of every situation he found himself in, who, every now and then, laughed, sometimes without rhyme or reason, who spoke about death as though he was delivering a speech on a meteorological forecast and who recounted assiduously his recollections to anybody willing to listen, anyone without the least moral scruple, save for those he had left behind in the years gone by. Berti and Juliet were also at the table. He had returned to Istanbul, in his own words, as someone who had the “identity of an immigrant who had lost his enthusiasm.” This was a somewhat belated and inadequate visit. He knew that I had been working on a very long story. Now and then, it occurs to me that he had provoked in me that moral scruple on purpose. I owed that evening to Juliet who had mentioned the dream I held before dinner. We had had a long talk, setting out from the night in question and making headway toward the war, toward the days of old, toward escape and return. Fragments were getting fitted together. This was an encounter, an extraordinary meeting I yearned for for ages.
True encounters called people to special venues. The moments spent during such encounters were at the same time the most important moments in which you took progressive steps, steps which you believed to be exceptional. What we had discussed that evening at the restaurant would resurrect that sensation in me. On his way to see that fisherwoman, the experience Enrico Weizman had during that encounter, brought time to a standstill. At the least expected moment, the flow of daily events diverted their course in a completely different direction, transforming and affecting many lives. The transformation had occurred in one single moment; it was a moment that opened a new darkness within me. I was to open the door cautiously, full of apprehension. The man toward whom the actors of that meeting made headway was a person who had become the figure in quite a different dream, in quite a different wasteland. Whose future was it then? For whose sake and on whose behalf was one to appropriate those indelible visions of that morning lost in the hazes of war? At that moment and because of that moment a French woman had approached him, whose acquaintance he thought he ought to make, a talkative woman, a woman who seemed not to have lingered long at school desks and who was hardly interested in reading, a woman who freely expressed her philosophical ideas whenever the occasion allowed. She had stopped and asked him if he was Monsieur Weizman, by any chance. She shouldn’t be reproached for her daring, since the war had changed everybody. He had observed in that woman, who had achieved mastery in making the best of a bad situation with a hot baguette, a few slices of ham, and a few drops of wine, during the intervals between love-making in order to fill the gap caused by penury; to compensate for a lack of affection, a woman who could not help exteriorizing the effects of this mastery through nervous gestures, with her untimely wrinkles and gesticulations and jargon which might be interpreted as audacious by some. It seemed to him like déjà-vu, a moment which had been the subject of many an anecdote, experienced by nearly everybody and often recounted. A person comes from afar, from a distant past, a figure lost in the mists of the past, a person whom you have totally forgotten . . . and you feel a certain touch; a small touch, like in poems, between brackets. Then . . . then it becomes a chip on your shoulder you can never bring yourself to share with others. A pain you would prefer to get rid of. Why did he have to think like that? To protect himself? Maybe. He had told her that he was indeed Monsieur Weizman. The woman had introduced herself with a tremulous voice without trying to disguise her joy. She was Claudine Manzil, the concierge of the apartment that Nesim and Rachael had lived in once upon a time. It was my turn now to get excited. My excitement was due to the potential information that this woman could provide me with. Madame Manzil asked me about Nesim, Rachael, and the children. When all her questions had been answered, she grew silent and said that Ginette was alive and working in a monastery nearby. The incidents at the Bayonne Prison and the words that Rachael had said to Nesim while she held him tight had surged up in his vision. They had not merely embraced each other, it was a gesture of hope, a last hope . . . He had said that they had to go and sit down in a café and talk. They were living a story they could not abandon halfway through as they would have to carry it to the bitter end. Madame Angela had understood and tried to turn a deaf ear to their conversation. Madame Manzil went on relating the rest of the story with bated breath and great enthusiasm. The intonation of her voice, her looks, and the person that she tried to speak of denoted her preparations for this anticipated moment. “To withstand the Gestapo’s oppression was impossible, Monsieur. My husband kept on saying that if ever we were caught we would all be done for. We were terrorized.” She seemed to remember all the details of the incidents they had witnessed in their small apartment. The dress she wore might well have dated from that period. The war seemed to continue for certain people and showed no signs of ending soon. I had to remain silent and listen. “But there was a human being I had been entrusted with and had to protect. There was a life to be rescued, Monsieur! Not merely because I had given my word to Madame Rachael; but because it was my duty first and foremost. I thought that the best thing to do would be to take this poor girl to the convent where my mother and I often visited. The convent in question was a place I felt attracted to. I had gone there even after my wedding. I also took my own children there. I found peace there; I prayed for long hour
s and communed with myself. I wasn’t in a position to guess what Ginette might end up having to face there with the nuns. Poor Madame Rachael! May she rest in peace! I know she would forgive me having done this for the good of her daughter. I was sure Ginette would find safety there. It was long after I visited the place, in accordance with the stipulation of the nuns. She would grow up there in the midst of a single united family. But I couldn’t control my need to see her. So, I went to visit. I had seen Madame Rachael in my dreams. She said to me with the usual smile on her face that she missed Ginette and asked me whether I was taking good care of her. She looked downcast. She said she couldn’t come from where she was. When I awoke, the dawn had not yet broken. I waited impatiently for the first rays of sunshine before setting out. First, I had had a talk with Marie-Thérese, the prioress. She had grown old. She addressed me as ‘my little girl’ like in the old days. She appeared not to believe that I had become an adult like her many other ‘little girls.’ Well, the war had matured us before our time. She might also have wished to instill in me the peace I had lost elsewhere. I think I’m beginning to ramble. Had my husband been here now he would have said: ‘Come on, say what you want to say outright, without having to revert to roundabout expressions, Claudine!’ Excuse me, Sir. All I want to communicate to you is what I’ve experienced. Marie-Thérese did not want me to see Ginette. She said I could have a glimpse of her from a distance. I had no other choice. I had confidence in her. I revered her, had affection for her. I believe she was right. She had glanced at her watch. The hour of service was drawing near. Ginette was soon to pass before us in file with the other nuns. She held me by the hand. We walked through the corridor and hid ourselves from view in a dark corner. They passed before us in formation. I immediately recognized her. She had grown up and changed considerably; but, this did not prevent me from recognizing her. She had the air of Rachael. She shot a glance in our direction which made me shiver, although she could not see us. She must have felt my presence. She looked beautiful; her face had an expression of absolute serenity. Marie-Therese told me that she was loved by everyone in the monastery. She told me she kept asking about her parents, about their whereabouts, and the reason they had deserted her.
“The prioress had apparently taken special care of her until she settled in, telling her that her parents had to set off on a perilous journey. Ginette had her repeat the account of their odyssey every night. Do you know that children want you to repeat the same story over and over again in order that they may believe it? It is a sort of game, in a sense. Every child has a tale; every child must have a tale. The best thing for her was to remember the story of her parents as a tale. The prioress was of the same opinion. She and Ginette had spent marvelous evenings together. Those delightful moments must have rendered the tale even more credible and beautiful. Once, the parents of a little girl had set off on a perilous journey. Ginette had wanted to know why they had not taken her along. Marie-Thérese had told her that only adults could go on such a journey. So, they had to leave her behind safe and sound. Because they loved her so much! She would understand the meaning of this journey better when she grew up. Whereupon, she had asked her when she would grow up. The answer that the little girl had received to this question, which every little child might ask, had not been so simple. The prioress had realized that her instruction to Ginette should start from a point she deemed to be correct. No one except herself would be in a position to tell her when she would have been considered grown up. Only she would be in a position to decide on her station. Ginette had also asked why they, that is, her parents, had to set out on such a journey, and whether they would ever return. To this, the prioress had answered saying that only God knew when, if ever, they would come back. She had told her that in the monastery everybody loved her and took her as one of the family. Ginette had seen God’s power, through the eyes of a child, after this conversation. That was the last of her recurrent questions. She had become introverted and morose yet submissive and industrious at the same time. Had this been a consequence of her resignation or of the creation of an illusory world within her? The prioress could not decide which of these alternatives she should opt for; however she told her that she would always be assisting her with her troubles. Shall I tell you something that seems interesting to me? Barring her creeds, she tried to nurse Ginette as a mother; she, in her turn, received things from the little child. I like to think that this was the case. Ginette was a girl who would make her feel this latent deficiency in herself because of the vows she had taken. Don’t ask me how I’ve come to such a conclusion. There are certain sentiments that cannot be described and should be left as they are. Well . . . that is all I can say about Ginette. And now I run into you, a miracle! I must disclose to you Madame Rachael’s last wishes. They were actually Monsieur Nesim’s, before he had been exterminated by the Gestapo that morning; well, Monsieur Nesim seems to have told Rachael the following: ‘I’m going to an unknown destination. Don’t ever give my children to any person other than someone in my family.’ Much as I’m reluctant, I should say that we must abide by his words. Their memory forces me to act in this way. I’ll tell this to Marie-Thérese. I know her, she will understand. But you should help me in doing so. Should you wish, Ginette may stay with you for a while. We must tell her that she had a family, a true tangible family. She’s got a family in Istanbul, if my mind does not fail me, hasn’t she? As far as I know, Monsieur Nesim had a brother. I have a vague recollection of him. The two brothers used to stroll along the beach. He often came to visit them. The good old days! Monsieur Nesim used to sing songs. He sang “La Paloma” most often. “La Paloma,” such a romantic song: I didn’t understand the words; but whenever I heard it, I felt like crying. You see, I can still remember. The war couldn’t snatch what we keep within our souls, our souvenirs. I’m sure the family in Istanbul will welcome Ginette with open arms. This will be difficult however, especially for Ginette. But we’re doing this for Monsieur Nesim and above all, for Madame Rachael. Do you see? Madame Rachael had absolute confidence in me in this respect. It may be because those on whom she could rely were diminishing in number. But, believe me, her voice was very sincere when she spoke to me. I distinctly remember her last words. ‘Contrary to Nesim’s anticipations, I’d been expecting this. I’d been seeing dreams replete with nightmares which I couldn’t share with anyone; I woke up more than once in the course of the night. Now I feel somewhat at ease. Whatever will be will be. One thing is certain: this is the end of our lingering. Pray for us. God will hear the voice of each one of us in similar situations. He seems not to hear us these days, I’m well aware, and yet, I know He will hear us. This is a new trial, an ordeal; but we have to withstand it and never loose hope. We are Jacob’s people. To know how to carry the burden of being a Jew . . . only this belief can help us stand,’ Rachael had said. She had reminded me once more of the days we had spent in Istanbul. She had mentioned the streets where we used to stroll and of her adolescent years. To what extent can one truly recall the past in such moments . . . yet, in her short accounts Istanbul seemed to invade us. Maybe she wanted to impress me on the spur of the moment. I’d forgotten all that had been told to me about those streets I didn’t know. However, I distinctly remember the Princes’ Islands; the Princes’ Islands that are part of Istanbul. Madame Rachael used to take her brother to the islands aboard the ferryboat on beautiful spring days where they roamed all alone. The man had an incurable mental disorder. She felt a genuine sorrow for having left him in Istanbul. ‘I wonder if I’ll ever be able to see Nesim again where I’ll be going, whether we’ll be able to return here at all. Would you believe that he hadn’t had the opportunity to even taste the orange jam he had been keeping for a special occasion? The morning they came to take him, he had laid the breakfast table and among the things that he had garnished the table with was the orange jam. I was so happy to see him so happy. At that very moment we had heard a knock on the door. Life is so strange, isn’t it? Well, you see .
. . . I’d prepared myself for all sorts of eventualities . . . Take good care of Ginette; you know my instructions. Sell everything, the household goods, the shop, everything, for Ginette’s sake. Supposing that we’re released, I don’t think we shall ever return home. And even though we might be lucky enough to have the chance, we won’t be the same anymore . . . ’ She has said this before she left. No, this was not a revolt . . . it was as though she had prepared herself to die . . . ” These words, visions, and conversations were all intertwined. Dates, lives, and climates were mingled once again. I really am at a loss as to decide the extent to which these were true, this exchange of words based on expressions uttered by bearers of testimony in different languages, as I’ve been trying to patch up bits and pieces of information. Where exactly do I happen to be? Where do I come into these conversations? To what extent would I ever be permitted to allow people to partake in these conversations? As I’ve been in search of answers to these questions throughout the years, I’ve always been confronted with a dead silence; a complete, dark silence which had forestalled my progress in writing, hindering me from making headway after a given point. The men to whom I put questions remain dumb and mute. They don’t realize that they are the unrevealed aspects I try to express in words, discovering that I can elaborate on them through my story. They are actually the images I can see in the mirror, which I strive to reflect and project. This seems to indicate that we are doomed to be self-seeking, always at a crossroads. We are expected to make headway in those words; we ought to advance in defiance of all errors, of the consequences and misunderstandings toward that silence and darkness; to learn how to walk, drawing our strength from the wounds received, from our abandonments and unrequited loves . . . Had those relations, borne throughout the years, not brought us to where we are now? Enrico Weizman, who listened silently and patiently to the soliloquy of Madame Manzil, trying to change the subject, said: “Rachael had met Nesim after that unforgettable morning. The fact that she spoke of having been gathered together in the Bayonne prison to be sent in toto to their death may lead us somewhere. Yet, there is no sense in trying to probe any further. One thing is certain: some lives were doomed to remain a mystery, impossible to be shared. You can bring Ginette to me, of course, whenever you can, Madame. Do not worry; we’ll execute the will of Nesim and Rachael. I’ll look after her for a while before taking her to her blood relations in Istanbul. Leave the rest to me, and please don’t worry anymore.” Madame Manzil’s smiling face expressed a sad calm. Was this a miracle? Was this expression of serenity on her face, this concealed smile originated from her belief in miracles? From where he sat, staring at the iridescence of the waters of the Bosporus, Enrico said: “You’ve got a beautiful city: I’m so happy to be back. I wish Monsieur Jacques were with us now.” Different times had once more been intertwining, directed toward others. We had been advancing toward our own times, toward the unforgettable voices . . . This was one of the magical sentences; my mind had conjured up Monsieur Jacques’ apparition in the background of that old sea journey whose poetry has been indelibly stamped on my memory. We were at one of the seaside restaurants at Kireçburnu . . . It was evening. Monsieur Jacques was gazing at the lights on the Bosporus, like Enrico Weizman, with some misgiving, with a sense of inadequacy. He gave the impression of someone looking at the ethereal space in which he expected to see something inexpressible. It seemed as though that beyond was a place toward which he was making headway. His view had been interrupted by the shape of a huge Russian tanker sailing along the water . . . This image had reminded him of Uncle Kirkor. Monsieur Jacques spoke of the stuffed mussels that Madame Alin, Uncle Kirkor’s mother, used to prepare, saying that he would never taste anything better in his life. Actually I was perfectly aware of the spot to where his looks had been directed, of the memories that that Russian tanker had stirred in him. He would have liked to see someone else sitting at the table with whom he would have liked to commune. The tanker was coming from a country that Olga was inextricably connected to. It is true that that country had never been a land where she had lived and breathed, but nonetheless an insignificant token that reminded him of her; a pocket watch and chain, for instance, the memory of a watch, the word of an unpretentious, innocuous master who lived in a state of symbiosis with his own cares that revived a web of memories. The tanker had traversed our sanctuary at our table from which we could not escape. Olga had remained behind a boundary. Those moments were being wasted, lavishly, irresponsibly . . . A time that assumed value years later only after it was lost. Can one say that Enrico Weizman had willingly told that story, reflected in him, of those moments lost at the restaurant at Rumelikavağı? What he had said, what he allowed himself to reveal, had opened up one of the important oaths that led me to this story. As for the things left unsaid, which could find no means of expression . . . one had to learn how to wait patiently in addition to using the power of one’s imagination. Sometimes certain details added meanings we had not thought were there. The truth that he had concealed from us during that dinner was one of those realities that would knock belatedly on our door one day. About eight months after that evening, a letter arrived from Biarritz. The letter that bore the signature of a lawyer indicated that Enrico Weizman had passed away after a longstanding terminal illness. His client had faced the bitterness that this ailment had caused with bravery. Everything possible had been done, but there were cases when medicine remained powerless in the face of fate. It appeared that it had been Monsieur Weizman’s wish to have his feelings communicated to certain addresses just before his time had come. He had expressed his gratitude to his relatives in Istanbul. Their affection showed that there were still good-willed people in the world. He had bequeathed part of his legacy to a lady by the name of Angela Fromantini with whom he had lived over many years, and another part of it to a young lady named Ginette Ventura. With reference to the latter he hoped that his relatives in Istanbul would be kind enough to extend a helping hand in executing the formalities of her inheritance. This help would signify their last duty to the departed. The letter addressed to Berti was written in a style both official and friendly, and had engendered in me something which was to prove to be the birth of a significant story. I think I was somewhat more experienced now when compared to my formative years. In this odyssey of mine, I had been skirting the coast of my writing over several years with a view to finding out, or rediscovering, the feelings that had guided me throughout my life. Under the circumstances, it seemed practical to force certain probabilities for the sake of the conclusion. Enrico Weizman had an awareness that he was going to die soon during his second visit to Istanbul. Death was somehow unexplainable, undeceivable, and irretrievable . . . As for Monsieur Jacques . . . can it be that he had been intending to disclose something that he had kept secret until then? Who knows? I have always wished to believe in such a probability. For, God gained meaning with such eventualities and anticipations, expressed by short poems. I liked those poems. I even thought that to abide in such poems might have removed some of the hard realities from life.