Last Train to Istanbul (4 page)

“Of course.”

“I have also written my mother.”

“Think very carefully, Selva. You now have one more reason to return to Istanbul.”

“I can’t raise my child without its father. Don’t worry, Macit. Rafo also believes that staying here is dangerous. He is following up
a few work possibilities outside Paris, somewhere in the countryside. We may be leaving Paris within a month.”

Rafo and Selva did eventually manage to leave Paris and move to Marseilles, but to what use? The Nazis had cast their shadow even down there. In order to save the southern part of the country from being invaded, Marshal Pétain’s newly formed government sacrificed the French Jews in order to cope with Hitler. Gradually, the French Jews, who had thought they might be able to go unnoticed by living in remote areas, began to realize they were wrong. The Germans penetrated everywhere, just like smoke. It became impossible to get away from them.

Rafo had started working in Marseilles with a friend of his who was a chemist. Selva’s mother had sold a diamond ring at auction and managed to send the money to her younger daughter without the knowledge of her husband. Rafo invested the money in a partnership with his friend the chemist. He and Selva lived in an attic apartment right across the street from the shop. Selva gave English and piano lessons to three young girls who were neighbors. They had managed to make a few friends, but Selva’s best friend was still her sister. She wrote to Sabiha every day, giving her details of their life. Her pregnancy was going fine. No morning sickness. No financial problems, but they were living hand-to-mouth. Their only luxury was the telephone they’d installed so that the sisters could keep in touch. Nevertheless, Rafo and Selva were well aware of the net closing around them. Selva had even heard atrocious reports of men being stopped by the police and asked to drop their pants in order to check if they had been circumcised. Luckily, Rafo hadn’t been subjected to this humiliation. All of their friends looked upon them as Turkish, since they always spoke Turkish to each other. Back in March, Selva had even fasted for Ramadan and had made sure everyone knew she was fasting.
Despite all their efforts, she feared that sooner or later the truth would come out.

Macit knew his wife constantly worried about her sister, but there was nothing much he could do about it. These days personal dramas were a drop in the ocean compared to those that confronted the nation. He went indoors after finishing a second cigarette. He was shivering as he walked toward the bedroom. He stopped outside and heard his wife breathing heavily; Sabiha had managed to fall asleep. He crept into the bathroom and undressed there so as not to disturb her. Then Macit got into the warm bed, but he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned until he heard the telephone ringing.

My God! he thought. They probably forgot to cancel the call.

He rushed out of bed and, without even pausing to put on slippers, ran down the hall, reaching the phone and answering it breathlessly.

“Hello.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I knew I’d wake you, but…”

“Hello…hello…who’s that?”

“It’s me…Tarık…Tarık Arıca.”

“Oh, Tarık.” Macit took a deep breath. “What’s happened?”

“I’m sorry for calling at this late hour. I hope I haven’t woken the rest of the family.”

“Tell me, what’s the matter?”

“Bad news, I’m afraid. I’m on duty at the office, and, well, half an hour ago the Germans attacked Rhodes.”

Macit slumped into the armchair. “I can’t believe it,” he mumbled.

“I’m afraid so. The secretary general, the minister, and the chief of staff are to meet in about twenty minutes. The president has been informed.”

“I understand,” said Macit. “I’m on my way. Thank you.”

He crept toward the bedroom again. Sabiha was still sound asleep. He went into the bathroom and dressed in the same clothes he had taken off earlier.

When Sabiha heard Macit close the door, she sat up in bed and waited for a while in the dark. She turned on the lamp on her bedside table. Tears were running down her face onto her pink nightdress.

She held up her arms to pray. “Please, God, protect my darling Selva. Save my sister from that hell. I beg of you, God.”

She clasped her hands to her face and rocked in despair. “Forgive me, my little sister,” she whispered. “Forgive me, Selva.”

ISTANBUL 1933

Selva was drying her long blonde hair in the sun, combing it with an ivory comb and at the same time shaking it, scattering a myriad of tiny drops that looked like little balls of crystal. Sabiha looked on enviously and snapped, “Don’t dry your hair over here; you’ll stain my dress.”

“You must be joking! Whoever heard of water leaving stains?”

“I assure you that water stains silk.”

Selva walked away from the window and sat cross-legged on her bed, continuing to dry her hair.

“You could take me with you, you know!”

“But I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re too young, that’s why. Maybe next year.”

“But I’m taller than you.”

Sabiha looked at her sister angrily. She was going to respond, but bit her lip for a while.

Knowing how proud Selva was of her long hair, Sabiha couldn’t resist saying, “You know, I think it’s about time you cut your hair. You’ll be sweeping the floor with it soon.”

“Father won’t let me cut it.”

“You’re lying. You just don’t want to. That’s all there is to it!”

“Maybe so…”

“It’s so old-fashioned, Selva; it’s almost down to your ankles! It’s difficult to wash and difficult to dry too. For years now you have had that huge knot on top of your head. Two plaited strands of hair tied into a topknot. Aren’t you tired of it, for God’s sake?”

“Nope.”

“Well, that’s fine by me, but if you want to go to tea parties with me, you’ll have to do something different with your hair. I can’t have you walking beside me looking like Queen Victoria. I hope you understand that.”

“I do, Sabiha.”

Sabiha wasn’t surprised by her sister’s answer. She was one of those people who never contradicted anybody, but somehow always managed to get her own way. It was impossible to argue with her, so Sabiha changed the subject. Trying necklaces on in front of the mirror, she asked her sister, “Which one do you think?”

“That one!” Selva suggested.

“No, I think this one is better. This will do. Can you help me with the hook, please?”

She pulled up her hair and knelt down for her sister to fasten it.

Selva admired her sister’s choice. “You were right, it is perfect. You’ll be the most beautiful girl at the party.”

Sabiha looked at herself in the mirror; the three strands of pearls complemented her light-green silk dress. Very elegant, she thought. She touched up her hair, tucking the sides behind her ears. She certainly looked good; she smiled at her reflection in the mirror.

Just then her mother opened the bedroom door. “Your friends are here, dear. Hurry up, and for God’s sake, don’t be home late. You must be back before your father or there’ll be trouble!”

Sabiha blew her sister a kiss and followed her mother out of the room. Moments later she rushed back, hugged Selva, and said, “I promise to take you with me next time,” and rushed out again.

Selva listened to their footsteps down the hall, got up from the bed, plaited her hair, and walked toward the mirror, fixing her hairpins. “I’ll never forgive you, my Lord; no, no, never. I shall never forgive you, Lord Seymour. I trusted you with all my heart. You may now leave me,” she said, pointing to the door.

Hearing her daughter, her mother returned to the bedroom, asking, “What on earth are you doing, my child?”

“Oh, Mother! I didn’t hear you come in,” she said with a laugh. “I am rehearsing the end-of-term play. I am playing Elizabeth the First…”

“Who’s the king?”

“There is no king, Mother. When Henry the Eighth died, all hell broke loose. The play is about the rivalry between two women fighting over the throne of England. Mualla is playing Mary Stuart and Rafo is playing Lord Seymour. Of course, there are other parts too, priests and lords, et cetera. Please, Mother, can I invite the cast for tea next week? Please don’t say no.”

“You can invite just the girls.”

“Really, Mother, how can we rehearse with just the girls? Who’s going to play the boys’ parts?”

“Oh dear! What will I do with your father again? You know how he feels about these things. You know what I went through to persuade him to let you go to parties.”

“What do you mean? You never let me go to parties.”

“But, darling, you’re not even eighteen yet.”

“Don’t fret, Mother. I won’t want to go to parties even when I am eighteen. I only say I want to go to tease my sister.”

“And why on earth won’t you want to go?”

“Don’t you think I know why girls go to parties? They go because they want to find themselves a husband!”

“And where does all this come from?”

“I hear Sabiha talking to her friends about it. It seems that they are all after the same thing, they all have one thing on their mind.”

“And what’s wrong with that, may I ask? Of course, suitable young men with good educations are invited to those parties. They all speak several languages and behave impeccably. Besides, these parties are always held at home, where their elders can keep an eye on things.”

“I know, and that’s exactly what annoys me. The mothers arrange these parties so they can choose a suitable husband for their daughters.”

“So, what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with a mother wanting her daughter to have a good marriage?”

“Well, I certainly don’t want that!”

“That’s all right by me then; your father and I won’t help. You can rely on the old-fashioned method, like I did. Let’s see how you react when the matchmaker comes knocking on our door!”

“God forbid—that’s not what I meant at all!”

“I can hardly imagine you being happy with that.”

“Never. Over my dead body!”

“I didn’t think so…so what are you carrying on about?”

“I don’t really know. I just find it odd for eligible young men and sweet little girls to be herded together to try to…Oh…I give up…I can’t explain.”

“Perhaps you can explain exactly how you will find the appropriate young man to be your husband. Are they to be found in the marketplace, by any chance?”

“All I know is that I will find my own husband myself. I would hate to find someone through a competition organized by keen mothers.”

“That’s just great; you have spoken just like the child you are. What would someone of your age know about choosing a husband? Enough of this; you had better get on with your rehearsal.”

Just as her mother left the room, Selva called after her, “Mother, wait! What about next week’s rehearsal here? Would you at least allow me to ask just one, I mean, just one boy who has the lead?”

“Who is this star, then?”

“Rafo. Rafael Alfandari.”

“Alfandari? Is he the famous doctor’s son?”

“Grandson.”

“Well, what can I say? I suppose you can. I believe your father knows the family. He might not be against it.”

Leman Hanım left the room and Selva continued to practice her lines in front of the mirror.

Later that evening Selva was studying when her mother rushed into her room in a flurry. “Selva, it’s half past five and your sister isn’t back yet.”

“It can’t be that time already. I haven’t heard the clock chime yet.”

Just as she said it, the cuckoo called once from the clock in the hallway, as it did every half hour.

“There you are,” said Leman Hanım.

“Don’t panic, Mother, she’ll be here any minute.”

“I just hope she comes home before your father.”

Selva walked to the window and looked outside, “Here she is—she’s coming now.”

Mother and daughter squeezed together in the bay window and saw Sabiha running toward the house, her cloak and dress billowing around her.

“Stop, don’t run; you’ll fall over,” shouted her mother, as if Sabiha could hear her.

Kalfa, the manservant, had already opened the door before Selva got downstairs. Sabiha looked radiant. Her eyes sparkled and her face was glowing.