Last Train to Istanbul (9 page)

The man knocked on wood. “Those working behind the reception desk were killed, but apparently the ambassador had just walked into the bar a few minutes before and he’s safe and sound.”

Tarık walked out of the hotel and down the street toward the Pera Palace Hotel. Policemen were trying to disperse the crowd in front of the hotel while nurses and doctors, stumbling over uprooted paving stones and twisted tram lines, carried the wounded to waiting ambulances. Squeezing through the crowd, Tarık approached a group of young men. He assumed they were journalists, as they were busy taking photographs.

He asked one of the men how it had happened.

“It seems the bomb was placed in a suitcase in the lobby.”

Who was the bomb meant for? Tarık wondered. He thought probably the British ambassadors, Rendel and Hugessen, the ambassador to Turkey.

Tarık couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor souls who had been behind the reception desk, not to mention the innocent commuters who had just been going about their daily business. The taxi driver’s words came back to him: “Who knows when their number’s up?”

MARSEILLES 1940–41

Selva poured herself a cup of hot coffee, breathing in the aroma, thinking how interesting it was that human nature adapts itself to all sorts of situations. When she and Rafo had first settled in France, she hated this bitter coffee served in these huge cups. Fortunately, Sabiha, or rather, Macit had managed to bring her many packages of tea, plus six dainty Turkish tea glasses. Macit had visited France quite often in those days. It was such a joy to drink that Turkish tea at breakfast with Rafo.

After the birth of their son, Selva got used to this bitter coffee. She drank it to keep herself awake until the baby’s last feeding at night. What had begun as a way of keeping herself awake had turned into an addiction. Rafo couldn’t understand how she could drink “this poison.” In fact, there were a number of things Rafo couldn’t get used to here in France.

“For goodness’ sake, don’t criticize things in front of other people,” she’d said when he first expressed his lack of enthusiasm. “They’ll think you are a peasant. Fancy not enjoying the best cuisine in the world.”

“I don’t care what they think. The best cuisine in the world is Turkish. What do I care if they are ignorant?” Rafo insisted. “I will
never understand how on earth French food has this great reputation. Those heavy sauces play havoc with your digestion, and just the thought of swallowing snails makes me want to throw up. And as for that cheese that smells like sweaty feet…”

Selva tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t give up.

“Is there anything to beat the flavor of fresh vegetables cooked in olive oil, for instance? Can you tell me how they justify ruining the flavor of beautiful fish by smothering it in all those sauces?”

“Why on earth have we come here, then, if you hate the food so much?”

“Because their wines are absolutely magnificent.”

“That may be, but we can’t afford them, can we?” Selva reminded him.

“We will, my darling, we will. Trust me. Be a little patient. Look how well we have budgeted this month. If we can stick to this for a few more months, we will be able to afford all the best wines in the country.”

If Rafo hadn’t been able to fulfill that promise, Selva would not have been very upset, but as it happened just as Rafo had achieved his aim, everything turned upside down. Selva was sitting at the dining table helping their neighbor’s daughter Yvonne with her English homework when suddenly they heard a commotion outside. Both rushed to the window. Yvonne, who was only nine, was so excited to see all the policemen on their motorcycles that she started to clap. Sitting stiff-backed on the motorcycles, they looked like statues. Selva immediately felt as though a desperate bird were fluttering in her heart. She put her hand on her huge tummy and prayed, “Please, God, protect our child.”

As soon as Yvonne left, Selva rushed across the street to the pharmacy where Rafo worked, and when she saw his pale face, she felt she might miscarry. But she didn’t, and the baby was born one month later, two weeks prematurely, a tiny son. They called the boy
Fazıl, after her father. Not that she hadn’t worried about her father’s objections to a Jew’s son having his name. Even though she was still angry with him, she put those worries to the back of her mind because she still loved and missed him so much.

They had decided that should the baby be a boy, they would have him circumcised after seven days according to Jewish tradition. However, because of the ominous Nazi presence, they decided against it. The day Rafo made this decision, he hadn’t been able to sleep all night.

Selva would sip her coffee and go through the accounts in her notebook. They were in a mess. By the time the Germans occupied the north of France and Paris, Selva and Rafo had already left for Marseilles; they had hoped they would be safe there, but events had taken an unexpected turn.

Marshal Pétain, who had taken over the Vichy government and declared himself president, had decided to cooperate with the Germans in order to prevent the rest of the country from being occupied. In his effort not to step on the Germans’ toes, he had begun to accede to their every demand. The Vichy police even started to hunt down the Jews. De Gaulle, who had opposed any collaboration, had fled to Britain to form his Free French Forces. Unfortunately, neither the underground resistance nor de Gaulle in Britain could do much to help the Jews.

Selva lost two of her students when their Jewish parents decided to leave the area, but that turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Other parents who were planning to escape to America wanted Selva to teach their children. So she immediately had three new students and had to turn others away. She was happy to have more students, but Rafo warned her to be cautious.

“For God’s sake, Selva, be careful. The Fascists are all over the place. They are bound to notice these youngsters coming and going.”

“What’s wrong with teaching English, Rafo? Is it forbidden to teach?”

“No, but it is forbidden to be Jewish.”

Selva became more and more frustrated each day. She hadn’t been able to forgive her father, because he looked down on people who were of a different faith. He, in turn, hadn’t forgiven his daughter for his own reasons, probably mainly because his daughter had rebelled against his wishes. Selva had never wanted to believe that her father had opposed her marriage solely on religious grounds. She couldn’t believe that the man she respected and loved so much was a religious bigot. What was all this fuss about religion? Surely, she thought, religion should be practiced without thought of race or color, with all its ceremonies carried out in mosques, churches, and synagogues. God was worshiped in these communities, and people reached out to him and found peace in their souls. Selva recalled the joy of Ramadan back home: the excitement of preparing the evening meals before breaking the fast; the special care not to miss prayers; the serenity of the older members of the household in their white headscarves before they prayed; the aura of mystery surrounding the muezzin’s call. All these were exciting. Yes, religion was a many-splendored thing; surely it should be part of life and not used to separate people. Couldn’t people from different religions love one another? Oh, dearest Father, she thought, is religion worth sacrificing your daughter? Is it worth rejecting your son-in-law, just because he prays in a synagogue?

Selva could well remember the debates she’d had with her father on the subject. In those days, Fazıl Reşat Paşa had no idea of what was to come. He too enjoyed having philosophical discussions with his daughter—that clever girl who willingly read every book he suggested. Later, they discussed them in detail for hours on end. The paşa had often pointed out that the more people became interested in science, the pursuit of knowledge, and culture, the
less importance they placed on religion. He often told his daughter that most bigots or fanatics came from poor, ignorant backgrounds. Even during the time when Selva was falling madly in love with Rafo, she had discussed these issues with her father in depth. Respect for other religions? Of course! It is one of the conditions of being contemporary.

What about being enlightened by other religions?

Why, after all, was Fazıl Reşat Paşa giving Selva books to read about Far Eastern religions? Wasn’t it because he wanted his daughter to understand not everybody was alike? There were those who didn’t think the same. It was up to her to draw her own conclusions.

She had hoped to use her father’s own views to defend herself regarding Rafo. She would remind him of his every word. But, sadly, when he learned of the romance, he put up a brick wall, simply saying, “Over my dead body. You cannot marry him. I won’t give my permission.”

At first Selva kept asking why. Even though her father was an open-minded person, he opposed a marriage that would go against his customs, his traditions. Dismayed, she soon found out that he had provided his daughters with a good education for his own reason. It wasn’t to broaden their horizons, but so they’d raise good Muslim grandchildren for him.

Finally, she had to compromise. “Fine, if that’s the way it must be. I certainly won’t marry anyone else. Not one of Macit’s friends at the ministry or the son of some paşa. It will have to be Rafael or no one.”

Rafo seemed resigned to his fate. He was more concerned about the problems they might encounter than Selva was herself. What would be the reaction of his friends and family? How would he provide for this girl who was used to nothing but the best? Those were responsibilities he would have to shoulder.

Selva wrote to Rafo during the time she spent with her sister in Ankara—not love letters, but those of a friend. While she was there, Selva took the opportunity to observe those around her. Those in her sister’s circle were mostly people who had made good marriages. What she’d learned from this experience was that if people chose to marry partners from a similar background, they stood a better chance that the relationship would last after their early passion waned. Especially after their children were born.

When she returned to Istanbul, Selva realized that none of the young men she’d been introduced to were of interest. She felt nothing for any of the young diplomats she had met through her brother-in-law. She wasn’t just being stubborn; she simply had nothing in common with these young men. In her opinion, they were only interested in themselves, and, dictated by their mothers, they were looking for suitable wealthy debutantes to marry. None of them made her smile, much less roamed the streets with her, happily and aimlessly. They only wanted to take her dancing at the Ankara Palace after the receptions. Putting their arms around her waist, they waltzed in their squeaky, patent-leather shoes. Some tried to kiss her, merely touching her lips with their own, and she felt nothing. She was bored. Back at Sabiha’s house, she lay on her bed in her young niece’s bedroom. She looked up at the shadows thrown onto the ceiling by the streetlights outside.

She had only one life to live: Did they expect her to waste it? Her father was behaving totally against his nature, and, in so doing, poisoning her life. She would not be able to marry, or to be happy, or to know the love of a child. In short, she wouldn’t be able to live her life. Why? Because Fazıl Reşat Paşa said so! Because of what their relatives, friends, and neighbors would say! Was what people thought more important than her happiness? No! With these thoughts she decided to send word to Rafo and ask if he still wanted her.

Rafo certainly did want her, but at the same time he was reluctant to disrupt her life. He was scared of not being able to offer her the life to which she was accustomed. Since his own family would renounce him too, they would have to live on what he could earn. Was Selva ready for this? He urged her to wait and think carefully about her decision. He didn’t want her to have regrets later.

Selva had thought about all of this when she was sent to stay with her uncle in Cyprus and decided she was willing to take the risk. She was willing to face the problems ahead, to live in a foreign country far from her family, even to make do with little money. She had thought about everything, and had answers for every question. She hadn’t discussed it with Rafo because she was sure that she knew his answer. She knew Rafo wanted her just as much as she wanted him.

After she spent that difficult year in Cyprus, Selva’s mind was made up, and she informed Rafo of her decision. She was, however, taken aback to find out that Sabiha, who had been her confidante and staunch supporter, had changed her tune. Hadn’t she initially encouraged her relationship with Rafo? Now she spent hours—until early in the morning—trying to make her change her mind, as if she hadn’t been instrumental in helping Selva’s clandestine meetings with Rafo.

“How could I have known that you’d be crazy enough to let things go so far?” Sabiha kept saying. “How could I have known that you would fall in love, let alone want to marry him? Never! It never entered my mind!”

And what of her father, her father she had loved and respected above all others her entire life? He had even attempted suicide, hoping that she would change her mind. In fact, as far as Selva was concerned, that was the point of no return.