Last Train to Istanbul Read online

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2002 by Ayşe Kulin

  English translation copyright © 2006 by John W. Baker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Last Train to Istanbul was first published in 2002 as Nefes Nefese. Translated from Turkish by John W. Baker. First published in English in 2006 by Everest Yayınları. Published by Amazon Crossing in 2013.

  Published by Amazon Crossing

  PO Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781477807613

  ISBN-10: 1477807616

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013904883

  CONTENTS

  ANKARA 1941

  ISTANBUL 1933

  ANKARA

  AN OVERSEAS POSTING

  FROM ISTANBUL TO PARIS

  MARSEILLES 1940–41

  ANKARA 1941

  MARSEILLES

  PARIS

  MARSEILLES

  LYON

  ANKARA 1942

  MARSEILLES 1942

  ANKARA

  PARIS

  ANKARA

  MARSEILLES

  PARIS

  MARSEILLES

  WAGON OF FEAR

  PARIS

  PARIS

  ANKARA 1943

  CAIRO 1943

  PARIS

  DARKNESS AT NOON

  PARIS

  COUNTDOWN

  FAREWELL EVENING

  ANKARA

  ON THE TRAIN

  THE TRAIN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  ANKARA 1941

  Even though, when leaving that morning, Macit had warned Sabiha that he would be late coming home, his good manners made him uneasy when he realized it was already past eight o’clock. He excused himself from the meeting room, went to his office, and dialed home on the black telephone with its noisy dial.

  “We’re having a meeting again this evening. Please don’t wait for me for dinner,” he said.

  “Not again,” said his wife exasperatedly. “For nearly three weeks, we haven’t been able to have dinner together. Really, darling, hasn’t anyone there got a wife or children waiting at home?”

  “For God’s sake, what are you going on about? The Bulgarian army is on our doorstep and you are talking about dinner!”

  “How typical of women!” he said, putting the phone down.

  His wife was just like his mother. The running of the house, the children’s eating and bedtime, the whole family gathering around for dinner—these things were top priority for organized housewives. Atatürk’s attempt to turn them into women of the world was in vain, Macit thought. Obviously, our women are only good at being mothers or housewives. And he was even beginning to have second thoughts about that. Hadn’t Sabiha abandoned her motherly duties and left their daughter’s upbringing to a nanny? Deep down, Macit was certainly beginning to find his wife’s behavior odd.

  At first he was angry, thinking maybe her distant attitude was a silent protest against his endless meetings that lasted into the early hours. What right did she have to get angry about his long hours? After all, was he responsible for the war? Was he to blame for these late nights? What if Turkey actually found itself fighting in the war? If that were to happen, which woman in their circle would even catch a glimpse of her husband’s face?

  But Macit knew in his heart Sabiha’s attitude wasn’t due to selfishness alone. She seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown. For some time this young woman who liked going on picnics, watching horse races when the weather was fine, and playing cards on rainy days didn’t seem to enjoy anything anymore. He often found his wife in bed, fast asleep, when he got home. If, when he got into bed, he put his arms around her, she would turn away. On the rare occasion they managed to go to bed at the same time, she always had an excuse to go to sleep immediately. It was obvious that she had a problem, but she had chosen the wrong time to have a nervous breakdown. How on earth could he find the time to care for her when he was inundated with work? Even if his meetings finished after midnight, Macit would still have to be back at the ministry by seven the next morning.

  They were living in very unsettled times. Turkey had found herself between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, there was Britain, who had only her own interests at heart, insisting that Turkey should be her ally; on the other, there was Germany’s threatening attitude. As if that weren’t enough, Russia extended an iron hand in a velvet glove to Turkey. Their interest in Kars, Ardahan, the Bosphorus, and the Dardanelles hung over them like the sword of Damocles. If Turkey chose the losing side, Russia would make her pay dearly where the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles were concerned. This nightmare had been ongoing for two years.

  The First World War had taught President Inönü the cost of choosing the wrong side, and he had learned his lesson well. There was nothing he wouldn’t give to know which side would be victorious this time, but no fortune-teller could possibly predict the outcome. It was up to the foreign ministry and general staff to make this prediction. Every possible contingency had been discussed, considered, and recorded during those endless meetings that dragged on into the night.

  Macit was proud to be a member of the general staff. At the same time, ever since the Italians had attacked Greece, the ring of fire had been tightening, and government employees and their families were getting nervous.

  The capital, Ankara, was preparing for a hot summer again. In Turkey the winters were extremely cold and snowy, and the summers were unbearably hot. It was already obvious that the approaching summer months would be hotter than hell.

  About a week before, the German ambassador, Franz von Papen, had brought a personal message from Hitler to the prime minister, and the officials had waited with bated breath for the meeting to end. Macit guessed correctly the contents of Hitler’s message: on the surface the letter was full of good wishes and intentions. It offered Turkey every kind of armament and help strengthening control of the Bosphorus and Dardanelles, and it promised not to put German soldiers on Turkish soil. However, if read between the lines, the letter implied that now was the time for Turkey to make up her mind, and if she didn’t side with Germany she would have to suffer the consequences when the war was over and decisions were made about her waterways.

  After the long meeting, Inönü said, “The Germans are telling us not to try their patience, and at any time, they could make a deal with Russia behind our backs.” He went on to say, “Britain is fighting in Greece, and they’ve had a disaster in Libya; she is in no position to come to our aid. This is why we shouldn’t risk angering the Germans. Gentlemen, we must find a way to hedge our bets.”

  What they were looking for was a way to play for time without saying yes or no to either side—a way of stroking their backs without aggravating them.

  The morning after that long night, the prime minister invited the British ambassador to the ministry to explain Turkey’s predicament. She was heading toward the most fearful days she had encountered during this Second World War. The war was like a forest fire, spreading in all directions, and both sides had expectations of Turkey.

  In his office, Macit lit a cigarette, took two puffs, and stubbed it out in the crystal ashtray before returning to the meeting room. The foreign minister and the secretary general were no longer there. His assistant said, “Macit, the
president has asked to see today’s assessments. I have prepared the reports for you. He is waiting in his office.”

  Macit hurried back to his office, in the section allocated to the foreign ministry of the presidential mansion. For some months now, they had been working there so that they could instantly report to and receive instructions from Inönü. Macit took files of notes that he had updated a few hours ago from his drawer, glanced through them, and dashed off.

  Inönü was sitting in a club chair behind a huge table. He looked naive—smaller and more irritated than usual—leafing through the papers his private secretary took from Macit. Looking at the pages, it was as if he were listening to the voices of foxes in his mind, but he didn’t say anything. The other men sitting around the table were silent too.

  Suddenly, he asked, “Have you listened to the radio today?”

  “Yes, sir. Our colleagues have been listening to all the European stations. I gave our report to the secretary general a short while ago. They haven’t had a moment’s rest, sir, yet they continue to listen to Bulgaria and are preparing reports every half hour.”

  “Our agents in Bulgaria are keeping us informed on a daily basis. However, it’s still unknown if Hitler is going to move south, or move north to attack the Russians, sir,” another young official said.

  The young men left the room, and Macit stayed behind.

  “Thanks to you,” the foreign minister said, “we have been able to take every precaution to make sure the fire doesn’t spread to us. Rest assured you can now go to Yalova with a clear conscience. We’ll keep you informed of developments every minute.”

  Macit heard Inönü mutter, “I wish I knew what direction the Germans will go. Ah! If only I knew.”

  The Germans had reached an agreement with Bulgaria, so the Germans had become Turkey’s neighbors. Inönü was terrified, not knowing Hitler’s next move. Hitler’s modern armaments and powerful army were just across the border. He might want to move in on Egypt through Turkey. Or he could move toward the Caucasus. No one, not even his immediate staff, knew what the next target was, so Turkey had to be prepared for every eventuality. The worst scenario would be for the Germans to reach an agreement with Russia. That would spell disaster for Turkey.

  Macit waited for the men to finish reading the reports and then returned to the meeting room with the secretary general. There was another long meeting, with more reports to be read, assessed, and put together before they could be presented to Inönü. Hours later, as he was walking home alone, Macit worried. The government was paying a high price in order to avoid this fire spreading throughout the world.

  At home all the women, as if in a chorus, were complaining about the high price of everything. If civil servants and their families in Ankara were distressed, who knew how the poor people of Anatolia felt? In an effort to protect civil servants, the state was selling state products—textiles, shoes, and sugar—at considerably reduced prices. Furthermore, to prevent the black market and hoarding, it applied a rationing system, which meant that everybody’s identity card was covered in stamps. Despite these precautions the black market thrived. Unscrupulous people looking for a big chance became wealthy selling goods off the back of a truck. Most people were angry but resigned; they couldn’t find or afford basic supplies, and had only bread and cereal to eat. The president thought his prime concern—a matter of life and death—was to prevent his country from going to war. Approaching him with the people’s complaints was pointless. For a man like him, who had already personally experienced the hell of war, anything besides this was of secondary importance.

  Macit was exhausted. It was almost certain that Inönü would go to Yalova the following day, which meant that possibly, probably, there would be no late meetings next week. He might be able to go home earlier, and thus temporarily avoid Sabiha’s reproaches.

  “One spade.”

  “Two diamonds.”

  “Pass.”

  “Pass…Sorry, sorry. Four spades.”

  The young women looked up from their cards across the table at Sabiha. She blushed, looking thin and delicate in her pale-mauve suit.

  “You are very absentminded today,” said Hümeyra. “What’s wrong with you, dear?”

  “Nothing. I couldn’t sleep last night. I can’t concentrate. Couldn’t Nesrin take my place?”

  “Absolutely not! Let’s have some tea. That will sort you out.”

  “Hümeyra, I have to leave before five today anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got to pick Hülya up from Marga at her ballet class.”

  “Doesn’t the nanny do that?”

  “She has something else to do today.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, what else does a nanny have to do?”

  “She wants to do some shopping before she goes back to England at the end of the month.”

  “I didn’t know she was leaving, Sabiha! Why?”

  “Well, Hülya has grown up; she is a big girl now. She no longer needs a nanny to fuss over her.”

  “But I thought she was teaching Hülya English too.”

  “She has learned enough. Her father wants her to be able to stand on her own two feet now and be more independent.”

  The ladies all put down their cards and got up from the card table. Sabiha walked toward the room where tea was being served. She wanted neither tea nor any of the pastries on the table. She only wished she could go outside for a breath of fresh air, but she took a cup of tea and sipped it, hoping to avoid further questions. The other women followed Sabiha to the tea table, swaying rhythmically to the music on the radio. Suddenly the music stopped and an announcer’s urgent voice was heard.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this program to bring you some important information regarding this morning’s state committee meeting with the prime minister.”

  The ladies immediately changed direction, from the tea table to the radio.

  “Shh! Shh! Listen!” said Belkıs.

  Sabiha too walked toward the radio, her cup and saucer in her hand. Her hands shook as she listened to the grim news. The troops had retreated in Thrace behind the Çatalca line and were apparently digging in. The government was ordering all civilians in Istanbul to build shelters in their basements. Furthermore, those who had homes in Anatolia were being offered free transport there, and could bring up to fifty kilos of luggage per family.

  “My God, what somber news. For God’s sake, Hümeyra, turn that radio off,” said Nesrin.

  “No, please don’t, there may be news about France,” Sabiha said. “I wonder what—”

  Nesrin interrupted. “So what about France? Who cares?”

  Sabiha looked at her in dismay, putting her cup and saucer on the table.

  “You should have some fruitcake; you like that,” offered Hümeyra.

  Sabiha declined her offer, saying, “I must have caught a chill at the races last weekend. I feel nauseous, darling. I have no appetite at all.”

  “Did you hear that they are evacuating Edirne?” Belkıs continued. “In other words, war is on our doorstep!”

  “My husband will be totally unbearable,” said Necla bluntly. “He barely answers yes or no these days as it is. Can you imagine what he’ll be like if we go to war?”

  Sabiha felt completely suffocated by her friends’ conversation. While they were occupied with their tea and cake, she made her apologies to Hümeyra and quickly left the house.

  The heady scent of lilac and wisteria filled the Ankara air. The beautiful wisteria tumbling over the garden walls, hanging like bunches of grapes, seemed almost to accentuate her gloomy mood. Her pale-mauve suit was the only thing that harmonized with the surroundings. A thousand and one things were going through her mind as she walked home to Kavaklıdere. She bumped into an old man, and as she was apologizing, she tripped on a stone and almost fell over. Sabiha was very unhappy. She was unable to devote any attention to either her daughter or her husband, and everything was beginning to fall apart.
She was gradually distancing herself from those around her. From the beginning, her daughter had been a disappointment, as she had expected a son; her husband was only interested in his work; her parents were perpetually ill; and she had begun to have less and less in common with her friends. It was almost as if she were breaking away from life itself.

  Macit was so busy that it seemed—to her, at least—that he didn’t even notice the change in his wife. This made it easier for her to keep to herself. As for her friends, lately she had started making up excuses so as not to attend their various get-togethers. The nanny wasn’t doing any shopping today and she didn’t have to collect Hülya from Madame Marga’s Ballet School. What was true was that the nanny was indeed returning to England. Macit wanted it that way. He believed Hülya no longer needed a nanny now that she was going to school, and that Sabiha should devote more time to their daughter herself.

  Sabiha was aware that she hadn’t been in control of her life for some time now. This damned war was running her life! What’s more, it wasn’t even in her own country. Nothing could be found in the shops, and no one could travel; war was the only topic of conversation. Macit was like a prisoner of war; it was as if he were a soldier himself! They had been such a happy couple, had had so much fun together once upon a time—before her sister went away, before the war. Sabiha missed those long-gone days. On the other hand, she couldn’t help thanking her lucky stars whenever she read the newspapers or listened to the radio. At least in Ankara their lives were secure. No policeman or soldier was knocking on their door at some ungodly hour. There weren’t people around wearing yellow badges on their chests like branded asses. Branded asses! Whose words were those? Necla was the only one who would make such crude remarks. Suddenly Sabiha remembered: two weeks ago during a bridge party, Necla, in one of her callous moods, had said, “The poor Jews have been made to wear yellow badges on their clothes, just like branded asses!”

  “What on earth are you saying?” Sabiha screamed. “How can you possibly compare people to asses? You call yourself a diplomat’s wife. I wonder if you can actually hear yourself!”