Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale

by Levi, Mario

  Black or red

  There is no doubt that Enrico Weizman had a desire to find out about Ginette in those days. He had prepared himself for an encounter quite different from what he had experienced during those interminable nights. One had to acknowledge the fact that those long nights belonged to a different time in the past. Everybody who shared his pain and was aware of what he was going through was aware of the actual state of affairs . . . Madame Manzil had brought little Ginette in the evening. She appeared to be a quiet, resolute girl who appeared to have found inner peace. She had begun to talk bluntly without recourse to convoluted phrases. “I’ve been told that you’d be kind enough to take me under your care,” she said. Who had told her this? Could it be Marie Thérese, the prioress, who had addressed Madame Manzil and Ginette, briefing them about the people charged with her care and whose duty it would be to prepare her for a new path in life? Enrico Weizman could not remain impassive faced with the hidden meaning in this sentence. Ginette had shown up carrying a small bag in her hand that contained a couple of garments and underwear. As a matter of fact her entire trousseau had consisted of these items. The bag also contained a figurine of Christ which she had kept with her during the long lonely nights. This was a token that Marie Thérese, to be precise, the entire monastery, had given as a gift to her. That night, she had spoken no further, but had knelt before that figurine in devotion before falling into a sound and restful sleep.

  Just before she left, Madame Manzil had presented an envelope to Enrico Weizman, an old worn-out envelope saying: “Not much has been left from the sale of the available effects, I’m afraid; you know everybody tried to hold on to their possessions and rescue whatever they could. I donated part of the sum obtained to the monastery. I don’t think that Madame Rachael would object. However, I’ve not sold the house; both the house and the shop remain unsold. You’ll find the keys in the envelope as well . . . Poor little orphan . . . her life is in your hands from now on, Monsieur. I’ve done my duty. I feel at ease now . . . I have perfect confidence in you.”

  Enrico Weizman had gazed at Ginette who was sound asleep, possibly dreaming of the fairy world of children. She had taken from her worn-out bag, whose shabbiness was clear to see, cheap clothing, some underwear, and a figurine of Christ . . . A long path had been trodden, one followed by another long path which promised further hardship . . .

  It was summer . . . They had strolled along the beach for several hours collecting seashells. Ginette had mentioned a card game she used to play once upon a time with her father. For the first time she was speaking of her father. They had immediately set out to buy a pack of cards. The name of the game was “Black or Red”? French words were now and then interspersed among the Turkish ones. That was the key of the game. Enrico needed to learn how to play. The game consisted of guessing which of the cards turned facedown was ‘red’ and which was ‘black.’ The dealer asked: “Red or black?” After the answer was given it was up to the dealer to check whether it was right or wrong. If the guess was correct, the person who answered was declared the winner, otherwise the dealer won. In this game, like in other similar card games, memory played an important role. But, for little girls, this wasn’t so important; the essential thing was the mere act of playing. Such ordinary moments seemed to fill those ineluctable, unforgettable moments. Nesim used to play this game with his daughters. Ginette’s memory seemed to bear certain hazy streaks dating from those days. When they used to play this game, she usually sat on her father’s knee and when her guesses proved to be correct she was ‘reprimanded’ by her father who tickled her . . . She suddenly began sobbing during the game. “I’ve missed him so much,” she said, thinking of her father. Both had felt disheartened, in a quandary. Only time would remedy their despair. Such moments would remain the only ones they truly lived in that house. Ginette had understood that she was to abandon a life she would never return to in the future. This was an important fact if the path she had already trodden was to be taken into account. She had given this its due, taking the cost into consideration. Partly for this reason, she would be one of those heroines that would suddenly appear in my story only as she saw fit, partly because I might be able to speak of the new land and about her prospects. Yet, what we were to go through, would divert us on our paths. I wonder if I can assert that I may have left some voices or colors in this person who had exposed to me another aspect of my life. I wonder if I can feel self-confident once more. Can I entertain once again such a belief for ‘other’ sentences? My concerns and the need to put these questions and to show that I desire to ask them may well conjure up certain details left in the dark, eclipsed by my past. But I’m obliged to confess at this stage that she had made a dignified exit from my story, listening to her own voice and turning a deaf ear to what I had to say, just like she had done when she entered. She would prefer to get lost in the country in which she had been looking for a future. For a long time to come, I would be keeping the trace of her that I had lost. A time would come, however, when, having forgotten a good many details, we would encounter each other in a manner suiting the plot of the story. However, now it was my turn to arrange the encounter wherein I hoped to make headway. Whether the venue was the correct one and whether the time suited the boundaries that my story delineated, I’ll be able to formulate a judgment on only after I come to know other people, times, and places . . . trying not to forget the relationships in which I had to leave a part of myself, an integral part of myself. For instance, only now can I patch up the various parts of Ginette’s story that I have obtained from different sources. It is only now that the venue has become my venue and the time my time. The true stories were those awaiting their correct intervals which found their places within us at the least expected moment. They were the ones that awaited their real time which produced secret shoots in other stories. However, for this, details had to be dwelt upon. Ginette’s sudden bursting into tears while playing “Black or Red” was significant to me for this reason. The game associated the only true vision of her father that had indelibly entered her imagination. She had to cling firmly, tightly, desperately to this vision in order to be able to lay claim to those days of her youth that had been robbed from her, even though this act might involve false hopes. It was as though this was one of the conditions for her survival . . . one of the conditions, griefs, or prices she had to pay for her survival. Ginette, whom I tried to have a better insight into, who, I was sure, would always be in the background of my story occupying a very special place in it, had been able to support the burden of this life lost to her past. In other words, Ginette had never forgotten anything. I was but a kid when she taught me this game. One should not expect me to appreciate the value of this gift at the time. How could she have made me hear her inner voice? And by the time I realized the importance of this detail I had learned that I could not possibly escape this story. We had remained in each other during that short space of time together with our unforgettable details and yearnings. Time had enabled us to see the happenings around us behind different masks and to learn the differing touches of different individuals. Ginette had undoubtedly had access to the meaning of that short space of time long before me. In time I would be learning that after that evening she never cried in front of people and never tried to enter into the lives of people through her weaknesses. This, I believe, was both her strength and weakness. However, the incidents forced people to revise their concepts of good and evil once more. The efforts to relate oneself to others entailed not only the wounds that one received but also the wounds caused to others. The said efforts were also directed to the discovery of the further meanings of betrayals.

  Enrico Weizman had also said that it was only natural for a man to be desirous to share his feelings with people he empathized with and that this course of action was almost inevitable. She had taken someone into her confidence; she felt affection for him. It would take Ginette some time before fully realizing how difficult this was to do.
It even involved a virtue; a virtue whose meaning was hidden up until the moment one fully understood one’s feelings. Throughout the night that followed that evening they had continued to converse like two intimate friends. Enrico Weizman told her about his past, about the things he had to forsake, trying to give her a few snapshots of his history. Other nights would reveal other experiences. Nesim and Rachael would be witnessing the Spanish concentration camps to experience a new climate of sensations. Those photographs would also find their places in due time. That desire to speak about one’s experiences originated in a sense of accountability and a need to create a verbal legacy despite all its disadvantages. Enrico Weizman was well aware of the fact that learning certain bare facts might shatter the feelings of a young girl heading for her adolescent years and create irreparable damage. Yet, what he had gone through had taught him that even ill treatment was a kind of boon. To prepare to face oneself meant in a sense to teach yourself how to settle your accounts with the past and walk on incandescent coals beneath a layer of ashes. What lay beneath the ashes would always be smoldering. Ashes would be tantamount to omissions and glowing coals would continue to smolder. Our soles risked scorching if an unexpected wind suddenly blew, wafting the ashes. That would put us off for a while. However, those were the moments when we had a better insight into ourselves, moments during which we gained a better insight and tried to look upon the photographs hidden within ourselves. We could look for the reasons for our desire to narrate the history of the glances that seemed interminable in these escapes by choosing to hide ourselves behind those stories and visions. Those glances, which screened us from ourselves, were concealed on this path. Those glances were our very being. Those glances were what we had lost, what we had failed to gain; our incapacity to rip ourselves from our voices left in the dark.

  The time that had been spent in Biarritz was replete with these feelings and visions. On one of those mornings in which they had been combing the beach and gathering seashells, Ginette had said that she would like to go to Istanbul. She believed that she ought to do something in return for the people who had saved her from death. Enrico Weizman had suddenly felt a sharp pang in his heart; an inexpressible sharp pang he would not share with others. To be frank, he had prepared himself for this separation. What linked him to Ginette was a feeling of attachment whose snapshots could be hidden from view. One could speak of attachments, strong and lasting attachments to the visions one had to leave behind in the past, in the distant past, in defiance of all the bitterness, nightmares, and revolts involved; this also denoted another way of keeping death at bay. Ginette was already a blossoming young girl who had left her childhood behind.

  Enrico Weizman had written a different letter to Monsieur Jacques . . . here was the odyssey of a life. The little girl of the family was alive in France; she had been with him for the last two years, during which time she had been trying to recognize the people she had lost and to understand what surrounded her while getting prepared for the journey to Istanbul; to where she was expected. The time had come. She was obliged to prick her ears to the voice of fate. Had he been asked, he would be only too glad to come over to Istanbul, bringing this little girl who had unexpectedly dawned on their lives after having suffered so many deaths. It was a long story. The story could be lived by them on their ground and on their terms. They were not, by the way, obliged in any way to reply or to give credence to the story told, since Ginette was being taken care of by reliable people. The mere knowledge of the event would suffice after all that had transpired.