Last Train to Istanbul (12 page)

ANKARA 1941

As Macit walked home from the ministry, he was happy that he had things to relate to his father-in-law over their raki. He and the old man had been living under the same roof for some time now, and Macit had grown to like Fazıl Reşat Paşa. At first he was rather nervous of this elderly Ottoman gentleman who still dressed in the old style, but the paşa had adapted well to the new republic. Whether intentionally or not, he had gradually relaxed with Macit and begun to reveal his weaknesses. In spite of all his progressive ideas, the paşa hadn’t been able to come to terms with the collapse of the empire and the fact that the sultan had been forced to run away. As far as he was concerned, the War of Liberation ought to have been fought under the sultan’s banner. If a change was necessary, maybe the sultan ought to have been changed, but not the regime. People living on Ottoman soil weren’t as cultured as the Europeans; they didn’t have the know-how to govern themselves. They could only be governed by a leader like a sultan or
padishah
who also had religious authority. Whenever the old man spoke, he deliberately avoided mentioning the republic, preferring instead to use words like
Ottoman, Ottoman soil
, or
Ottoman administrators
. Like most of the Ottoman paşas, Fazıl Reşat was a well-educated man who
hated fanatics. He believed that reactionaries were destroying his country. All the same, he was against being governed by those without religious authority; he was particularly against being “ruled by the people.” Macit considered these ideas nonsensical but always listened quietly, respectfully, refraining from making comments. He could never understand how a cultured person, who had adapted so well to modern living, could go on and on about the importance of a sultan.

Although Fazıl Reşat Paşa was an advocate of a sultan, he was also a man who had an accurate understanding of most things and enjoyed life to the full. Every evening he would wait for Macit, sitting beside a small table with a selection of mezes that he had prepared himself. Together they would sit on their stools in the small hallway between the kitchen and dining room, chatting about the day’s developments, sipping ice-cold raki, and nibbling on white cheese and roasted chickpeas. Macit was certain that the paşa chose this small corridor so that the ladies of the house couldn’t join them. It was obvious that, after spending all day with his wife, daughter, and grandchild, listening to “woman talk,” in the evening the poor man needed a change.

Fazıl Reşat Paşa always listened attentively to Macit and often made some unexpectedly incisive comments. For example, he was certain that getting involved with the Germans would have disastrous results. As far as he was concerned, it was the Germans who somehow always managed to stir up trouble in the world. Although he never mentioned Selva and Rafo, he was furious about the atrocities the Germans were inflicting on the Jews. He was sure that one day history would judge them and they would have to pay for their injustices. Macit couldn’t understand how such a wise man was unable to find it in his heart to forgive his young daughter.

Today, the paşa had prepared their raki on the marble kitchen counter; they picked up their glasses and began to sip.

“A very important development took place today, sir,” said Macit. “The British ambassador delivered a letter to President Inönü.”

“Really! And what do they want?”

“They want two things. The first is, they definitely want us to sign an agreement with the Russians—”

“Surely not!”

“As a matter of fact, we have been putting that one on the back burner for some time. The other thing is something we’ve hoped for, even though it seems negative. Because, in the present circumstances, we are so isolated, both geographically and strategically, it appears that the British won’t be able to come to our aid if we’re attacked…”

“Well, well, just listen to them. We are expected to run to their rescue but they won’t do the same for us. Doesn’t still water run deep? They have certainly mastered the art of backstabbing.”

“Actually we are rather happy about this, sir. They say that since they are in no position to help us, they’d consider it sensible if we should contact the Germans, making sure we at least eliminate the danger of an attack.”

“You don’t say! In other words our president, the deaf old fox, has solved the problem just by being patient.”

Macit stifled a laugh.

“Inönü may have trouble hearing, sir, but he has a good brain. Now that Hitler has attacked Russia, he has finally relaxed a bit. Do you know that when they telephoned and woke him up in the early hours to tell him of Hitler invading Russia, he burst into laughter and couldn’t stop? Can you believe the brilliance of Inönü’s plan? Had we sided with the British, we’d now be face-to-face with Mr. Hitler. The way things are, we neither sided with the British nor the Germans, and we avoided becoming either’s enemy. On top of
that, the British are encouraging us to have good relations with the Germans.”

“So, how did the British come to this brilliant decision?”

“It’s the only way to stop the Germans invading Turkey. Of course there is another thing…”

“What’s that?”

“We are to inform the British of the details of our negotiations in writing and act outside these parameters.”

“Do you know, my son,” said the paşa in a trembling voice, “I just can’t stomach the fact that damned foreigners are dictating what we should do. Would the Great Ottoman have stooped to this?”

“But, sir, wasn’t it the same before the republic? How on earth were we supposed to equip our forces when we inherited a crushing gold debt from the Ottomans? Didn’t we need charity from the British?”

“I’m not defending the Ottomans, my son. I am aware of all of our mistakes, but it still hurts.”

“They are not your mistakes, sir; they are mistakes that have accumulated over the centuries. Please, God, let us pave the way to a stronger and wealthier nation for our children.”

“Yes, we have certainly made a mess of things.
Inşallah
, you will succeed,” Fazıl Reşat Paşa said sadly.

“I do understand how you feel, sir, but believe me, Inönü is doing his best to protect our country’s honor. I know because I deal with Hitler’s correspondence. The Germans sent us a friendly letter back in February promising that their forces wouldn’t come anywhere near the Turkish borders. But there was a restrictive amendment that said, ‘as long as the Turkish government doesn’t force us to change our attitude.’ ”

“And…”

“In his reply, Inönü thanked Hitler appropriately, but then he added a restriction using, more or less, Hitler’s wording.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘as long as the German government doesn’t take measures that force Turkey to change
their
friendly attitude.’ Tit for tat, in other words. Hitler has always addressed the weaker countries harshly. Perhaps Inönü’s proud, almost haughty, manner baffled him a bit.”

This conversation would have continued had it not been for Sabiha joining them. She was holding a letter and some photographs.

“Look, Macit, a letter sent ages ago has finally arrived today. Selva sent some pictures of little Fazıl.” She glanced at her father. “The little boy must have grown since she sent this letter. Children change so quickly at this age. Have a look, darling…Isn’t he cute? His eyes and nose are exactly like Selva’s.”

Macit looked at the photographs nonchalantly, avoiding eye contact with his father-in-law, and put them back in the envelope.

“Yes, very nice.”

“Don’t you agree that he looks like Selva, especially around the mouth?”

“Sabiha, I was in the middle of an important conversation with your father.”

“You’re always like that—whatever you’re talking about is so important,” she said angrily.

Sabiha laid the envelope with the photographs on the small table where her father could see it, and left. Fazıl Reşat Paşa didn’t look. He poured himself a little more raki from the small carafe.

“Let me get some more ice for you,” Macit said, going to the kitchen.

The so-called icebox was a small wooden cupboard lined with zinc. They would buy large blocks of ice from a restaurant, break them up, and put the ice in the box. Inside the icebox were some
long brown bottles of Tekel beer. A carafe of water was crammed between the bottles. Leman Hanım had had the icebox brought by a porter from the summer villa to the Asian side of Istanbul and from there by rail to Ankara.

When the maid saw Macit trying to break off some ice, she tried to stop him.

“Please, sir, let me do that. I need to wash it as well after breaking it up.”

Macit returned to where his father-in-law was sitting. He saw the old man looking through the photographs one by one, placing them back in the envelope with shaking hands. Macit went back to the kitchen on tiptoe so as not to disturb him.

MARSEILLES

Reading the newspaper, Selva saw the sickening headline.

According to the latest edict issued by the Vichy government, all Jews were required to register themselves and their belongings with the authorities. Those who didn’t comply would be penalized and sent to concentration camps.

There was also a list published of those being sent to the camps because they hadn’t obeyed the instructions, or were late doing so. Selva trembled as she read through the list. Luckily Rafo’s name hadn’t been registered on any of the pharmacy’s legal papers. All the same the Vichy administration, with its spies and hunting dogs, was even more efficient at tracing Jews than the Nazis themselves. What if they found out that Benoit’s mother was Jewish? She didn’t even want to think about that now.

Many Turks, particularly from Istanbul, had migrated to France after the First World War, settling mainly in Paris, Lyon, and Marseilles. Later, the children of these families intermarried with the French and produced their own families. Benoit’s mother was one such case. She had moved to France with her family from Istanbul and married a Frenchman who was not of the Jewish faith when she was twenty-one.

Benoit and his mother would go to Istanbul every year for their summer holiday. During these holidays they would spend some time with the Alfandaris in their Tarabya house. Who knew how many times they swam there in the dark-blue waters of the Bosphorus, played hide-and-seek in the groves on its hills, and fished along its shores?

Before the Germans occupied Paris, when Rafo was desperately seeking a safe base for his family somewhere, it was Benoit who had suggested that they go to Marseilles. He offered to make Rafo a partner in his pharmacy once he had sorted out his financial situation.

There were a few friends of Selva’s family who had gone to France at this time. Selva read the lists in the newspaper with fear in her heart that she would come across any of their names. Doenyas, Alhadef, Eskenasy…Some names looked familiar. Eskenasy—wasn’t that the surname of her grandmother’s poker partner, Ester Hanım? Her now deceased grandmother, who had been so unhappy when they’d decided to move to Paris? Selva would ask Rafo when he came home for lunch. Surely he would know who was who. But what was the point? He would be so upset if he knew any of them.

Young Fazıl sat on his potty as she continued to read the newspaper. The baby started to scream at exactly the same time that the telephone started to ring. He must have some sort of built-in mechanism, she thought. “
Un moment, s’il vous plait
,” she answered, and rushed back to Fazıl. By then he had overturned the potty, and it took some time to empty the pot, clean up, and wipe him. My God, she said to herself, I forgot the telephone! She picked up the receiver, worried that the caller had hung up.

“Hello! Hello!”

A man’s voice replied, “Selva Hanım, this is Tarık Arıca speaking. Your sister gave me your number. I’m the second secretary at the Turkish consulate in Paris.”

“Oh, Tarık. Of course I know who you are. Sabiha has mentioned you in her letters so often.”

“That’s so nice of her. I’m sorry I seem to have called at an inopportune moment. I can call back at a more convenient time if you wish.”

“No, no, Tarık, it’s fine now. Please don’t hang up. I was just changing Fazıl’s…I mean my son’s…I was just going to put him to bed…He’s playing happily now. Oh! Tarık, I do miss home so much…especially talking to you right now. I’ve missed speaking my own language…it’s perfectly all right to speak now.”

“I promised your sister that I’d call you as soon as I got to Paris. Unfortunately, I’ve been extremely busy since I arrived. I couldn’t call you sooner. Things here are rather hectic. Anyway, I bring you lots of love and regards. I also have a couple of things for you. I’ll try to send them to you as soon as I can.”

“There’s no hurry. Perhaps you could give them to somebody who is coming down here. Please don’t send them by post; I’m not sure I would get them.”

“You’re right. I know that we are sending a courier to our consulate in Marseilles next week. I’ll send your things then.”

“Did you have a good trip, Tarık? Did you get through without being harassed by the Germans?” Selva asked in an attempt to prolong the conversation.