Last Train to Istanbul (13 page)

Apart from the few occasions when she spoke to her mother or sister, and of course Rafo, she had no opportunity to speak Turkish to anyone. She hadn’t admitted, even to herself, that she missed using her mother tongue. At this moment she was trying to satisfy her longing by speaking to a man she hardly knew. Listening to him was like breathing Istanbul air!

“My journey was very tiring. I couldn’t get a direct train from Istanbul on the date I wanted. I had to travel to Edirne by bus, a very ramshackle old bus indeed, then a dreadful train from Edirne
to Varna. From there, I took an equally dreadful steamboat to Köstence, where I boarded yet another train. The carriages were freezing and there was nothing to eat. The Germans often stopped the train for checks, but I must say they were all right with me. We kept changing trains. It was quite an adventure, but I am here now.”

“Welcome,” said Selva wholeheartedly. “In fact, I have been waiting for your call. From the way Sabiha has written about you, I feel I have a close friend in France, even if we are in different cities.”

“Thank you, Selva Hanım. Is everything OK down there? Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”

“We’re managing for the time being.”

“I hope both you and your husband have your Turkish passports.”

“We do, but we applied for our French citizenship, so Rafo didn’t extend his.”

“That’s a big mistake! You should go immediately to our consulate in Marseilles and put all your papers in order. I urge you to do this. In fact I urge you to do this immediately, today!”

“Really? I’ll tell Rafo when he gets home. We were a little embarrassed…I mean…anyway, I’ll tell him when he comes in.”

“Selva Hanım…”

“Please, call me Selva.”

“Please give me a little time to call you this, Selva Hanım. I’ll call our consulate in Marseilles today and give them your names. There’s nothing to feel embarrassed about. You must ask for Nazım Kender; he’s our consul there. I will put him in the know right away.”

Selva became very quiet. She didn’t know what to say to this man she hardly knew and yet who was so concerned about them.

“Selva Hanım, for God’s sake, I’m telling you, do as I say without delay. If your Turkish papers are in order, they can’t touch you.”

“Thank you, Tarık,” she said shakily. “Thank you for your concern. I feel as though my sister put you up to this, but…”

“I assure you this is serious. It has nothing to do with Sabiha Hanım. Look, Selva Hanım, I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but according to a reliable source, the German army is to move south very soon. The occupation will spread. If you don’t have your papers in order, you may be very sorry. You can’t say I haven’t warned you.” He was very serious; his voice had changed entirely. He didn’t prolong the conversation further, but wished her good day and hung up.

Selva went straight to the chest of drawers in their bedroom and found their passports. Since they had left Istanbul the day after they were married, she hadn’t had time to change her surname. Her passport was still in her maiden name, Behice Selva Kırımlı. She had used this passport when she visited Italy with her parents a year before she and Rafo left Turkey. The holiday had been organized by Leman Hanım in an attempt to patch things up between her husband and daughter. She’d chosen Italy because she knew how Fazıl Reşat Paşa admired the country. She had imagined that the magnificent sights, delicious food, and wonderful wines would heal the rift. Unfortunately, she had been too optimistic, and her hopes hadn’t materialized: the two remained distant and talked to each other only when necessary. They returned home after a week still feeling resentful toward one another. Italy’s ornamental architecture, the ice-cold Frascati, and the various pasta dishes might have satisfied their senses, but had done nothing to warm their hearts.

Selva toyed with the passports. Little Fazıl had fallen asleep in his bed. She decided that she would leave him with his father when he woke up and go to the consulate herself. She would tell Rafo that she was taking his passport too, and if she managed to get his extended, then she’d tell him why. The staff at the consulate might choose not to extend it, she thought; after all, Rafo had committed an unforgivable crime—sacrilege, according to Sabiha. He had married a Muslim girl. Strangely enough, Turkish men who married
Greek, Armenian, or Jewish girls weren’t subject to the same treatment as Rafo. Turkish men could marry whom they pleased, but it wasn’t the same for Turkish girls. Feelings of injustice filled Selva’s heart as she put the passports in her bag. Just then the telephone rang again.

“Hello!”

“Selva Hanım, this is Tarık Arıca from Paris again.” She now recognized his voice well. “I got you an appointment to visit the consulate. You are expected at half past three today.”

“You needn’t have troubled, Tarık. I decided to go anyway.”

“There’s a long line at the gate. I didn’t want you to have to go through all that, so I’ve given them your name. This way you can see the consul himself right away.”

Selva was baffled as she put the phone down. Was this man crazy or what? Why had he taken it upon himself to make such a fuss?

The line outside the consulate really surprised Selva. To the right of the gate, there was a crowd of middle-aged men and women talking among themselves and jostling one another. Selva did as Tarık had instructed; she went straight to the gate and rang the bell. The man who answered the door told her off in French.

“You ought to have taken your line number from that man,” he said pointing. Selva noticed an official standing on the other side of the gate.

“I’ve come to see the consul. I’ve got an appointment.”

“What’s your name?”

“Selva Kırımlı.”

“Wait here.”

The consulate doorman, a
kavass
, returned shortly. He was much more courteous this time.

“Please follow me, madame.”

He led Selva up the stairs of the old building, and they stopped at a desk in a hall where a secretary was sitting.

“Please take a seat,” said the elderly secretary with an Armenian accent. “The consul is engaged at the moment. I’ll show you in as soon as he is free.”

Selva sat on the edge of the chair in front of the desk and waited. Twenty minutes later the secretary announced that the consul was free. Selva stood up, straightened her skirt, ruffled her fringe, and strode down the long corridor to the consul’s office. She waited a few seconds before knocking.

“Please come in,” called a voice from the office.

She opened the door and walked in. The young man sitting behind the desk leaped to his feet. He walked around the desk and shook Selva’s hand. She was most surprised to see a tall, handsome man standing in front of her. She had expected the consul to be stout and bald.

“Hello, won’t you sit down…”

Selva sat in an armchair.

“I’m Nazım Kender. Your brother-in-law, Macit, is a colleague I admire a lot. Tarık, our friend in Paris, tells me you are Sabiha Hanım’s sister. When he telephoned he told me to make this appointment for you. Why didn’t you contact us yourself? I wish you had called and told me that you were Macit’s sister-in-law. Had I known you were here, I would have called you myself long ago. We try to get together with the Turks here at least once a month.
Inşallah
, you are all right. What can I do for you?”

Selva wondered if the man sitting across the desk knew about Rafo—if he knew that her husband was Jewish.

“I’d offer you something, but I’m sure you’ll understand that in the present circumstances supplies are short. We’ve even used up all the Turkish coffee that we had sent over last week.”

“Thank you. I don’t want anything to drink.” Selva was sitting on the edge of the chair rather anxiously.

“Tarık told me that some documents need updating. I understand your passports need extending.”

“Yes, that’s right. It was very kind of Tarık to take the trouble to arrange this appointment. I had thought that it wasn’t really necessary, but I realized why when I saw the line outside.”

“The lines…yes, that’s to do with the requirement that Turkish nationals have to register with the Turkish consulates. If they don’t, they stand to lose their citizenship. Unfortunately it appears that many of our Jewish citizens took no notice of this requirement. Why should they when they already obtained their French citizenship? In fact, some of them did nothing, purely out of negligence. Now they are stateless. All they have are tattered old Ottoman passports written in Arabic. Now, because of the Vichy government’s attitude, they are rushing to update them. What else can the poor souls do? The local authorities don’t seem to be taking any circumstances into consideration, even one’s age. They just gather people up, young and old, and send them to the camps. If they can show us anything to prove they were once Turkish citizens, we do our best to help them. Unfortunately it isn’t always easy. Sometimes there’s nothing we can do. Because the Germans are hoping that we might join their side in the war, they don’t seem to want to aggravate us too much. Anyway, enough of that; your passports are republic passports, of course, and I don’t suppose it’s a question of renewing them, of just extending them.”

“Well, yes. They’re not written in Arabic, but…I mean…”

“We can extend them right away.”

“My husband’s passport is out of date. Would you be able to extend that too?”

“Of course.”

“I think I must tell you that my husband is Rafael Alfandari.”

“He is a Turkish national, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s Turkish.”

“So why should there be a problem?”

Selva fidgeted in her seat. It was obvious from her manner that she felt very uncomfortable.

“I hope I shall have the honor of meeting him,” said the handsome man. “You remember I told you that we organize get-togethers for the Turkish community from time to time. I sincerely hope you will accept our invitation to join us at our next gathering.”

Selva’s face brightened up. Hopefully the people she met here wouldn’t be as condescending and hurtful as those she had considered her friends in Istanbul.

“Oh! Thank you very much; we’d love to, of course.”

“May I have your passports, please?”

Selva took the passports out of her bag.

“I’m afraid our surnames aren’t the same. Would you be able to correct that if I left my marriage license with you?” she asked.

Selva broke the silence that followed.

“We left Istanbul the day after our wedding and we didn’t have time to change my name on my passport.”

Selva placed the passports together with the marriage license on the desk.

The handsome consul looked through the pages of the license and appeared to be choosing his words carefully.

“Selva Hanım,” he said. “Of course we can make the necessary changes, but since you have neglected to do this for so long, may I suggest you not do it just yet?”

“Why?” Selva said almost indignantly.

“Because it’s difficult to know what the Germans will do next. I don’t recommend you change your name from Kırımlı to Alfandari just yet. Let it stay the way it is. We are ready to help our Jewish citizens, I assure you, but as I said before, there are certainly times
when our power doesn’t go far enough. You have a young son, don’t you?”

“How do you know that?”

“Tarık told me. I firmly believe that you owe it to your son not to change anything until the war is over. I will certainly add your son’s name to your passport. What is it?”

“In other words, you expect me to save our skins and throw my husband to the devil. Is that it?”

“You’re exaggerating, Selva Hanım. I’m ready to do anything you say. I’m merely suggesting caution. Maybe you should discuss this with your husband before deciding.” He glanced at the names on the passports before adding, “I’m sure Mr. Alfandari will agree with my advice.”

“Thank you, but the three of us are totally inseparable. Please make the appropriate changes. All three of us should have Alfandari on our passports!”

“Fine, as you wish. I sincerely congratulate you for your courage. Your husband is a very lucky man.”

The handsome consul got up and showed Selva to the door.

“You can collect your updated passports in two days. Needless to say, if there is anything else I can do, don’t hesitate to contact me.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much, sir.”

“Please convey my regards to Macit and that very lovely sister of yours—you are in touch with them, aren’t you?”

“We try to correspond, but unfortunately it isn’t so easy. It takes ages for our letters to arrive, but what can one do?” Selva offered her hand, thanked the consul sincerely again, and left the room. She hurried down the corridor. When she returned home, she would tell her husband that the Turkish consul in Marseilles was the best-looking man she had ever seen in her life.

PARIS

Tarık was banging the keys on his Remington typewriter with the intensity of a concert pianist. His body language reflected the words he was typing. He would raise one hand, nod, and strike a key, then raise the other hand, nod again, and so on, pausing from time to time to search for a particular letter. Tarık targeted the chosen letter before banging his finger down again, as if he was firing a gun,
rat-a-tat-tat
.