Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (69 page)

Enrico Weizman had a newspaper stand at Biarritz. He was a confirmed communist who had escaped from Spain in the wake of the defeat of the insurgents. He had his own abode somewhere and a modest family. He was the closest friend of Nesim and Rachael . . . He had been thirty-nine when he was interned. When he returned, his age was irrelevant.

The letter from the concentration camp

Enrico Weizmann’s letter seemed to me as though it had come out of space and eternity, despite its accuracy and substantiality. This state of affairs was accompanied by a sense of impermeability. What I had experienced entailed many an interpretation and question; I had conceived this venture during my lengthy studies on the matter; yet, there seemed to be things between the lines that forestalled my march toward those individuals, toward the source. I was realizing once more the necessity of reticence. This is the reason why I contented myself with merely ‘showing’ the letter, just like Monsieur Jacques. Its contents will find their way into the story, I know. Under the circumstances, I have no other choice but to endure my hopes forever, despite their detriments. I feel bound to pursue the right words even though I may run the risk of straying from the direct path. This path had already been trodden in pursuit of other pasts lost or stolen. Those people, those who had succeeded in returning from there had to wait for years to find a place for themselves, thus struggling against their own lives. Most of them had preferred to march on toward their new countries rather than going back to their homeland, toward new destinies in the new lands they had been heading for. Enrico Weizman had been among those who had been able to come back to his point of departure. He had already lost his homeland, his true fatherland. This had contributed to his endurance of the suffering he had to undergo, to his ability to delineate the borders of his country for himself alone, despite exiles, deaths, and the impossibility of return. In the course of this self-pursuit, the voice of silence, earned in return for a consideration, had to be heard. Despite my cramped condition, I had to listen to this voice between the lines. I had understood that thanks to my words, during my days of slavery that one had to risk new abandonments.

My dear friend,

Through the postcard I had sent you as soon as I got back, I had wanted to inform you that I had arrived here safe and sound. I had not had the opportunity to go into details. I was not ready for this. I’m going to speak to you now about our tragedy that started at 02.00 a.m. January 11
th
, 1944.

When they came to arrest us as criminals, we had long been asleep. Maria was pregnant with our second child. This I distinctly remember. I realize nonetheless that a good many substantial things which might re-connect me to my place, from which I had been ripped, have been obliterated from my memory. However, not a long time had elapsed in the meantime. Only recently had we been together with our loved ones. We believed that we would open our eyes to another day. When one wants to forget certain things one just does. One forgets them, or thinks that he has forgotten them; even though time appears short to those who live their morning routines. I’m saying all this just to draw your attention to my ignorance of the exact date of her pregnancy. I believe it was her fourth month of pregnancy. Or it might have been her third . . . anyway . . . It is not important any more . . . There is no end to the number of things we have lost in the mist of our past, of our darkness. Yet, we have not learned how to lose . . . because of our resolve. Daniella, my first-born, had done her homework, and was ready for her French test the next morning. Having performed her task, she had gone to bed with a clear conscience. A strange coincidence, she had asked me to tell her the tale of Little Thumb; she had listened to the very end of it (by the way she usually fell asleep before the end of the tale, confident in the protection her storyteller father could offer.) Then I used to caress her hair staring long at her. I recalled other tales I had long forgotten. I promised myself to recall them later and tell them to her one-by-one. I was positive about this, although I had not forgotten what I had gone through in the past and the things that I had to leave behind. “Dad, if I ever get lost in a wood you’ll come to my aid, won’t you?” she had asked once. “Certainly, dear,” I had rejoined, “You’ll also rescue my brother who’s waiting to be born, won’t you?” I had kept silent. This reminded me of the corpses we had to abandon in the wood. They were the children who had strayed and could not find their way back. “Certainly, my dear, your father will find you and rescue you.” I had promised myself to keep my children removed from this nightmare. How could I ever guess that the same fate would be knocking on our door so soon after? Difficult to believe, isn’t it? You may think that I’m exaggerating a bit, that my imagination is running wild. Not at all! In our tribulations there was no room for imagination. The things we were going through and could not escape were already forcing the boundaries of our imagination. It’s true; I had promised Daniella I would come to her aid. What else could a father do? However, this conversation was fated to be our last effectual exchange of words. I was soon to witness how helpless we would be in the face of certain incidents, despite our conviction to the contrary. In fact I was going to lose a precious part of myself that would be ripped from my entrails. It so happened that Liliane had stayed with us overnight. Her mastery of the German language, her mentioning of certain names likely to be influential seemed at first to be of some use. She spoke about her sister’s situation, of her pregnancy. Whereupon, they said that they would be taking me solely, ‘for the moment,’ and would be thinking over the cases of the rest. This was a blessing amid the heaps of grief. I found an opportunity to whisper into my wife’s ear to get prepared for a journey with our daughter, to take with her whatever valuables she could find and set off soon. On the way to my destination all that occupied my mind was how they would manage to escape and whether it was at all possible. They at least had a chance to flee this nightmare. However, my joy was not to last for long. Maria had not been quick enough as she thought that they might not return so soon; they found them in the state they had been left. No word could be heard anymore, between the whole lot of us including Maria, Daniella, Nesim, Rachael, Paulette, Anette, Isaac, Lilianne, and myself. We met a short time later in the Bayonne prison. We were intrepid explorers of a land we did not know, or better still, one we did not want to admit was there. We were not in a position to realize what was happening to us. We tried to survive, each one of us in a different fashion, grounding ourselves in our habits and imaginations. Everything was topsy-turvy and we were all curious. Everything had happened so quickly and unexpectedly. It was too late for controversies, interrogations, and cross-examinations. We had been expecting such an onslaught alright, but for some reason or another we had a latent conviction that we could find a way of escape. Spain was not very far, if the worst came to the worst. Personally, this path was far from being secure for me. But, I could manage somehow. “Why did you linger and not set off immediately, remaining with folded arms?” you may ask. No explanation. Routine enslaves one and binds you to insignificant things. You cannot do away with them, with these fatuities; you unconsciously let yourself be enslaved by your habits. Nesim, relying on his Turkish citizenship, believed that they wouldn’t touch him. This was a privilege from which his relatives would also benefit. He had his children registered as Turkish citizens at their birth although they were born in France. (There might be one exception, however; I was not so sure of Ginette’s registered nationality. Anyway her fate would not be the same as ours.) This was quite astonishing for me, an attitude involving contradictory elements. She had told me all about her experiences regarding her departure from Istanbul and that she had found the serenity she had been looking for in Biarritz, stressing that she had not the slightest intention to go back. You must have discussed this subject during your visit here. She must have given you all the details relative to her resoluteness. Yet, I feel as though she had had certain secrets which she kept to herself. She had a sentimental attachment to Istanbul which she did not confess even to herself. She just could not acknowledge it. I felt it. The same attachment I had myself to Teruel in Spain which I was forced to leave and for which I harbored bitter resentment. We took the cities we lived in for our own kingdoms. Although we now and then remembered the fact that we bore in our depths similar sentiments for other cities we had lived in. The city in which he had spent his childhood and had to depart from later was for Nesim a perennial realm, lasting indefinitely and impervious to change. Istanbul, he grew wistful about, excessively sentimental, sometimes feeling an abnormal yearning to return to it. This was a yearning to return not only to a geographical setting or climate but also to an irredeemable past. For him, Istanbul brought to mind the ‘Last Ottomans’ as well. During those nights when we were hunted by the Gestapo, he had said: “If only we had stayed where we were . . . Comfortably settled in our house overlooking the Golden Horn, we would now be dreaming of a more fascinating country . . . It must be the season of the blue fish now.” This was enough to show me how nostalgic he felt about Istanbul and about his losses. Rachael’s eyes were wet with tears; her tears also reflected other feelings of hopelessness and resentment. All of us were linked to our past. The blue fish I heard mentioned for the first time by Nesim had become associated for some reason or another with Istanbul. The fact that I still dwell on such an insignificant detail surprises me. On the other hand, I don’t want to turn a deaf ear to the call of nature. When I come over, one of the first things that I will be asking from you will be to take me to a fish restaurant. The night within me calls for this . . .

That was the last time that Nesim mentioned Istanbul. His acknowledgment of the New Nation and making it his own must have been due to his attachment to his native country. He was fully aware of the fact that he could not betray it despite all likely developments and changes. Everybody who knew him closely was aware of this. One should not forget, however, that this had a pragmatic side as well. To hold the citizenship of a foreign country in a strange land is always advantageous so long as your economic situation is all right. How come that Nesim, who was well acquainted with all these intricacies and had access to that valuable intelligence according to which Turkish citizens enjoyed privilege had missed this important fact? I was not a fatalist, nor am I at present. My experiences have taught me to have confidence in coincidences. This might suggest you have recourse to your fate naturally. When I recollect those coincidences and unanticipated life choices, I feel like keeping silent; simply to keep silent . . . The incidents that took us to the prison had developed at a dizzying speed . . . Nesim had been arrested four or five days before us. You should have seen the moment he and Rachael encountered each other in the prison. We had all given in to tears. We were in such a plight that any spark could kindle a fire in us. Rachael had clasped Nesim firmly, saying: “I thought I’d never be able to see you again.” I was witnessing that love; true love provided the vital force one needed. I had once again borne testimony to a love rarely experienced by a human being. What I have gone through in my life has transformed, eroded, and corrupted lots of things with the exception of this conviction. This conviction I tried to keep intact partly because of my observations at the time. Then I noticed the grief in Nesim’s eyes as he stared at his daughters, Paulette and Anette. “I had to entrust Ginette with Madame Manzi. It was the only thing I could do . . . under the circumstances, I could leave only one of our children and I chose the youngest. At least she would be able to outlast us without deeply feeling the bitterness of our experience, by remembering certain incidents, and to start a new life, perhaps. Forgive me,” Rachael had said. At these words we were strangely overjoyed. It was a joy nourished by grief, a grief never to be forgotten . . . One of us at least would resolutely be heading for a new life. We were ready to face the adversities now. We knew that we were going to change and how difficult it would be to go back. I had noticed the grateful expression in Nesim’s stare toward Rachael. They were no longer able to exchange such looks nor would they be allowed to embrace each other. Paulette, who had also noticed this, had said: “This was our common decision, father.” It was not difficult to guess the meaning that this sentence conveyed. Who knows, perhaps Nesim’s looks also expressed a regret to have begotten his children in France. Paulette was twenty and Anette sixteen, at the time. Ginette was barely four years old. Only the three of us had experienced regret. I stood near Nesim and Rachael. We were enjoying once again a moment of togetherness which we were reluctant to put into words. The words would follow later . . . We had more than enough time to babble. We were obliged to talk and talk in order that we might cling to life and keep our souls alive. For us, every single detail was important henceforth, details that under normal conditions would be trivial. I would like now to share these details to the extent I can haul them from the store of my memory.

As I have already told you, Nesim had been arrested before us. I hope you’ll overlook my repetitions. I cannot help being verbose at times. This is something new with me. I believe this helps me to concentrate on my thoughts. Otherwise I cannot focus if these repetitions that expose my obsessions are kept undisclosed. In the coming years I may reveal the skeletons in my closet, I hope. Let’s wait and see, let’s keep waiting . . . Nesim had set out for that journey of no return on a Sunday morning. That morning, before he heard the knocking on the door by the ‘uninvited guests,’ he had got up in a gleeful mood he had not experienced for quite some time: he prepared breakfast, and put on one of his favorite outfits, knotted his tie fastidiously, and polished his shoes. He had then brewed tea in the ‘Turkish manner.’ This was, by the way, one of the habits Rachael and he had never broken with. In the meantime, he had opened the lid of the orange jam jar he had been keeping for a special occasion, placing it carefully on the table, quite unaware of what was awaiting him and his family. The visitors had come when the household members had gathered around the table taking joy from his merriment. The visitors had acted in the most refined manner; they had asked Nesim to go with them to the headquarters for some insignificant formalities. “Very well,” Nesim had said. Although he still felt optimistic about it, he had not neglected to whisper in the ear of Rachael just before leaving: “I think I’m being taken to an unknown destination,” adding, “one has to be ready for every contingency; do your best to entrust the children to a member of our family.” It was a great responsibility. Rachael was trying to express her hopelessness as she was narrating the incidents to me. Was there still a flicker of hope to return to Istanbul? They began to consider this eventuality when no news came from Nesim since his departure two days previously. Paulette had suggested that everybody had better go on their own and take the path he or she deemed best; they should not attract attention. Anette had said that she would go with her elder sister. Ginette was in her confined world and was not aware of what was happening and what should be expected in the future. Rachael had felt pride mixed with a deep sadness due to their eldest daughter’s readiness to confront such adversity. In case they would be obliged to live somewhere else, it appeared that they had sufficiently grown up to consider life as a little game . . . However, all these suggestions seemed unacceptable. She could not be divested from her fixed legacy. Despite her many years in France, she had a different identity, she had preserved in her a different person; she had, actually, lived on a different emotional plain. They had to set out together toward their fated destination. They had begun elaborating on different alternatives; they were planning to travel through Spain, from the free zone perhaps. Conceivably they would be obliged to bribe their passage. She had touched her jewel box in her chamber. Then she had cast a glance at her reflection in the mirror, having a closer look at her wrinkles. Nesim, on the dresser in front of her, was looking at her with a smile. She was realizing that there was no way out, all things considered. New schemes had to be envisaged. On the morning of the third day, their maid, Madame Manzil, had knocked on their door in great perplexity and said that the Gestapo had been patrolling the grounds; intruding on the privacy of people and arresting them at random. An immediate decision had been taken about Madame Manzil’s custodianship of Ginette. Rachael communicated Nesim’s last wish to her, which she had accepted heartily saying: “Well, of course, people must be helping each other out in such times. Soon nobody will be able to look into the face of his or her fellow being,” and added: “However, I can manage only Ginette, since to hide a little girl is easier, after all.” She had other problems as well, with regard to the rested space. Her account was certainly correct and plausible. The moment was not propitious to hide oneself behind lies; realities had to be faced; rapid and realistic solutions had to be envisaged. This had facilitated taking that step. Everybody had first lent an ear to their inner feelings. This process had not lasted long. They told Ginette that they had to set out on a long journey in order to bring their father back, while the journey was not suitable for a little girl of that age. They told her that this might take some time, although they would do their best to make it as soon as possible. Madame Manzil’s account had been the same. She would be doing her best to protect her and care for her. Rachael had asked Madame Manzil to pray for them. At such moments every one of us had to believe in something.