Last Train to Istanbul Read online

  Nesim Mitrani had thought that losing his company and fortune was the greatest disaster he would have to endure, but he was wrong. One day, while he was organizing his family’s move to the South of France, away from the occupation, the Gestapo took him and his son and transported them to Drancy. They were never heard from again.

  Rifka managed to escape to Lyon with her daughter, Constance. She hoped they would be able to start a new life there. Even though the French government appeared to be pro-Hitler, she and Constance held French passports, after all. The days of wine and roses might be over. They found it hard to cope with the loss of their loved ones. But life had to go on.

  Constance went to the university in Lyon, and there she met a young Frenchman and married him. Her husband was of Jewish descent, but he was not like her family. He was seventh-generation French. Because of his love for Constance, he had agreed to live with his mother-in-law, despite their different tastes in food and music. The young couple didn’t have a lot of money, so they both had to work. When they came home tired in the evening, there was always a bowl of hot soup and something else that Rifka had prepared.

  As a result of what had happened to her son and husband, Rifka had lost almost all interest in life herself. She was also suffering from a heart condition. She would go out shopping early in the morning, then cook food for the youngsters to come home to. In her free time she would visit the synagogue and pray for her loved ones. Her only joy was the rare occasion when she got news from old friends and relatives, most of whom had dispersed all over the world. Those who had the means had escaped to America; some had returned to Turkey and others had done as they had and moved to various cities in the South of France. It was true that Rifka had no friends in Lyon, but the monotony of her life gave her a certain peace.

  She couldn’t remove the mezuzah with the knife, so she looked for a screwdriver in the drawers. When Constance came home around lunchtime, Rifka was still struggling at the front door.

  “For goodness’ sake, Mother! What on earth are you doing?”

  “Oh! Constance. I don’t know how to tell you this…bad news, my dear. Rachel telephoned today from Marseilles.”

  “Which Rachel?”

  “How many Rachels are there, Constance? Rosa’s mother.”

  “Why did she phone?”

  “Dear, dear Constance. Are we ever going to find peace on this earth?”

  “What’s happened? Tell me, Mother.”

  “The damned collaborators…The police took Rosa and her child to the police station.”

  “My God!”

  Rifka began sobbing; it took her ages to tell Constance exactly what happened.

  “In other words, the Turkish consul managed to save them, is that it?”

  “That’s right. Rachel thought she should tell me so we can be careful ourselves.”

  “Don’t you have a Turkish passport, Mother? The way you hoard everything, I bet you still have it. Why don’t you check?”

  “Don’t you remember the way we left Paris, my dear? I couldn’t even take a spare pair of shoes, let alone the box where I kept that tattered old passport.”

  Constance noticed her mother still struggling with the screwdriver. “Stop it, Mother. You’ll hurt yourself. Marcel can do that when he comes home this evening.”

  “I suppose I can always nail it on the top of my bedroom door,” Rifka said, wiping her nose.

  “You can put it where you like,” replied Constance, shrugging her shoulders, “as long as you stay away from the synagogue area. I beg you, Mother, this is serious. Give me Auntie Rachel’s phone number so I can call her. I bet they must have been petrified.”

  “They were lucky,” said Rifka. “They were in one day and out the next.”

  Unfortunately, Rifka was not to be so lucky and was soon caught up in the web herself. Even though she had promised Constance that she wouldn’t visit the synagogue, one day she couldn’t resist going to pray. As she entered the synagogue, the Gestapo rounded her up together with the other Jews there. She struggled desperately, protesting strongly, saying she was Turkish. But no one listened. She was forced into a police car and taken to the police station, and from there in a bus to the train station and thence to Paris. The train was absolutely crammed full. Once in the Paris police station, she and many others were lined up against the wall in a hallway before being sent to Drancy.

  A German officer called out her name: “Rifka Mitrani, take one step forward.”

  Rifka thought she was going to be shot. At last she could join her husband and son!…She took a step forward and followed the man to the end of the hallway.

  A young man was sitting in a tiny room speaking to the police officers. He asked Rifka to sign some documents before taking her to his Citroën. There were already two men sitting in the back of the car.

  “Where are you taking me, monsieur?” she asked.

  “Where do you want to go, madame?”

  “To my daughter.”

  “That’s where I’m taking you.”

  “To Lyon?”

  “No, madame. To the Turkish consulate, where your son-in-law is waiting.”

  When Rifka realized that she had been saved, she hugged and kissed this man driving the car. But she felt ashamed doing so—not because she was smothering a young man with kisses, but because she felt so happy to have been saved from death, and then she remembered her son and husband. She shuddered, thinking that she had faced death so bravely. It’s interesting, she thought, that one isn’t scared of death from a distance, but when it is staring you in the face it feels like a merciless enemy that you desperately want to avoid.

  Back in Lyon another surprise awaited Rifka. Her daughter and son-in-law announced that in a few weeks they intended to cross the mountains into Spain. They would wait for the sunset, and then cross through the passes under cover of darkness. They were already preparing to put their plan into action.

  “Listen, children, I can’t scramble over the Pyrenees at my age. I’m bound to have a heart attack and die on the way,” she said.

  “But Mother, you’ll die if you stay here too. The Nazis won’t leave us alone. At least give yourself a chance,” her daughter insisted.

  “Constance, I promise you, I will not set one foot through this door. Please drop that idea.”

  “Mother, it’s all right for you to say you won’t go out, but what about us?”

  “What about you? Surely you’re not in as much danger as I am.”

  “And how!”

  “But why? Nobody would know you’re Jewish. You don’t even have a Jewish accent.”

  “Mother, it’s about time you knew…Marcel has been working for the Resistance. Some of those who were working in his cell have been caught already. It is impossible for us to stay here safely. We have to leave France as soon as possible.”

  Rifka listened in awe.

  Marcel wanted to cross to Spain immediately, but his mother-in-law refused to return to the country that had caused her people indescribable pain and driven them away.

  “All that happened centuries ago. What’s the point of dwelling on it?” Marcel argued.

  “You can go. I’ll stay here. After all, what difference does it make whether I end up in the hands of the Germans or the Spaniards? As if that wasn’t enough, you also expect me to scramble over the mountains like a goat. At my age and with my heart condition…What for? To end up being degraded? Never!”

  “Mother, you’re being ridiculous. Is this the way to behave because of something that happened in the fifteenth century? Don’t you realize that you’re putting us in danger? I already told you that they captured two men from Marcel’s Resistance cell. If they are made to talk, it will be the end of us. Can’t you see that? For God’s sake, be sensible. We have to get away, and the sooner the better.”

  “You’d better go, then.”

  Constance firmly believed that her mother would change her mind, so she waited patiently for her to say yes. She a
nd Marcel kept on the move. They stayed with friends for a couple of nights, and then moved on to others, constantly changing their abode. But Rifka had a plan. She wrote to the Turkish consul who had saved her from the Gestapo. She wondered if the consulate would be able to issue passports to her daughter and son-in-law as well. She pleaded with them in her letter. If necessary she was willing to relinquish hers in exchange for the two. Anything, as long as the Turkish consulate could spread its wings over her children.

  ANKARA 1942

  Leman Hanım untied the satin ribbon from around the dusty pink box. She took some photographs out of the box and spread them on her bed. Her entire life was spread out before her, captured in sepia-colored photographs glued to thick brown cards. She picked up one photo at random. There she was with her wavy hair held up by a huge bow and cascading across her shoulders and down onto her chest. She was leaning against her father’s knees with a bouquet of flowers in her hand. Her childhood was staring back at her with wide-eyed innocence. Her father sat proudly in a carved armchair. In another photograph, taken at the famous Michailides studio, her hair was up in a bun with strands of bridal silver hanging from the top of her head to the floor. She appeared so fragile in her tiered lace dress; her waist was so tiny that she looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away. In another picture, she was wearing the same clothes, but this time her husband was standing beside her. He had a fine, twisted mustache and a fez that came down to the center of his forehead. He looked so tall, handsome, and wide-shouldered in his aide-de-camp uniform.

  Leman Hanım took a deep breath, put the pictures down, and rummaged again through the box. The next photos she picked up had been taken at the Photo Sabah Studio. They were of her children, to her the most beautiful girls in the world. Every year without fail they would have their photographs taken on their birthdays. Even though the pictures were in black and white, one could immediately see the sparkle in Sabiha’s eyes and the shine in her blonde hair. She was springlike, fresh and beautiful. Next to her was Selva, with her huge eyes and plaited hair. Although one could tell from some pictures that she was the younger of the two, in most she appeared to be looking down at her sister from above.

  What was it that Sabiha had said that day at the studio? Leman Hanım smiled as she remembered: “Mother, I’d like to sit down for the photograph. Selva can stand beside me.”

  “That’s not possible, my darling. If you sit and she stands, we can’t get you both in the same frame,” said Enver, the owner of the studio, not knowing how much that upset Sabiha. “She should sit down, and you stand beside her.”

  Sabiha immediately began to sulk. Where on earth had this complex about her height come from? It was ridiculous that a girl as beautiful as she was should worry so much about her height.

  Leman Hanım continued to rummage through the photographs until she found what she was looking for: the last photo taken of Selva before she left. She was wearing a simple beige two-piece with her plaited hair up around her head as usual. Slender and elegant, Selva was sitting at the table in the registry office on her wedding day, signing the registry wearing her wedding ring. No other jewelry, no tiny diamond ring, no brooch on her lapel, no string of pearls around her neck, and she was supposed to be a bride! Leman Hanım felt tears running down her cheeks. Oh, my darling Selva, why, oh why did you do this? My stubborn little baby! What I would have given to see you in a long veil with strands of bridal silver, looking like a perfect bride! How I wish that I could have given you one of the family heirlooms to wear on your wedding day!

  She kissed her daughter’s photograph with longing and pressed it to her heart. She was sure that there were three or four other photographs taken that day. She looked through the box and found them. In one that Macit must have taken, the two sisters were standing side by side with that disgusting Rafo behind them. One wouldn’t know that it was Rafo, because Leman Hanım had scratched his face off with a pin. In another—obviously taken by Rafo—Macit was standing between Selva and Sabiha. The last photograph of the wedding group must have been taken by someone at the registry office. How difficult it had been for Leman Hanım to hide these photographs from her husband. She had not put them in the family album, and took special care to hide them at the bottom of her box. As if Fazıl Reşat Paşa would bother to look for them! Anyway, she didn’t want to take the chance. He might tear them up; they were, after all, the last photographs she had of her darling daughter, her tall, slender daughter, in her beige two-piece suit. The photographs might have faded, but her beloved daughter was always so vividly in her mind and heart.

  When she heard the door open, she quickly slipped the photographs under the pillow.

  “You’re not looking at those photographs again, are you, Granny?” asked her granddaughter as she entered the room.

  “Yes, I am, my darling. I am.”

  “Don’t you get tired of looking at them over and over?”

  “No, I don’t. They’re my whole life. They are my past…”

  “You say that, Granny, but you don’t look at all of them. I know which ones you’re looking at.”

  “Really, and which ones are they?”

  “Photos of my aunt. Do you miss her a lot?”

  “A lot, yes. I miss her a lot.”

  “Why doesn’t she visit us in the summer? Even if she’s working, she could come for her summer holidays, couldn’t she? I’d love to see little Fazıl. If only she’d bring him to us.”

  “There’s war all around, my little darling. There’s war where your auntie lives. They just can’t come now! I’m sure they will, though—inşallah, when the war is over.”

  “Has Grandpa forgiven her then?”

  “What sort of question is that?”

  “Come on, Granny, I know. Apparently Grandpa was very angry because she married that man.”

  “Who told you that? Your mother?”

  “No, Hacer.”

  Leman Hanım frowned. How tactless staff can be, she thought. Not only do they have an answer for everything, they also listen to everything. Those were the days when they were so devoted, when they were almost members of the family. Those were the days indeed!

  “How inappropriate of her! There are things one doesn’t discuss with children.”

  “Oh, don’t say that, Granny. I’m not a child. I’ll be nine next month.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, child; you’ll be eight. You’re in such a hurry to get older, aren’t you? Wait until you do get older and then it will be the reverse,” Leman Hanım replied, handing the photographs to her grandchild. “Time just flies by,” she said with a sigh. “It’s almost five years since your auntie Selva left! Do you remember her, Hülya?”

  “Yes, I do, Granny. She read fairy tales to me in the evenings and she often took me to Kızılay Park. I remember drinking mineral water out of huge glasses. Granny, could you show me the photograph of my auntie holding a bunch of daisies?”

  Leman Hanım looked for the photograph of Selva wearing a white dress clinging to her figure, with layers and layers of petal-shaped chiffon hanging from the hips, the one in which she was holding a bunch of daisies. Daisies were Selva’s favorite flowers. They are just like Selva, Leman Hanım thought. Maybe a little wild, but certainly down-to-earth. She remembered how the pollen from the daisies had stained the gorgeous dress. She eventually found the photograph and looked at it, trying to hold back floods of tears. Selva looked rather sad in the photograph. There was a kind of melancholy in her eyes…Of course! Leman Hanım thought. The picture was taken at the American college on her graduation day. She must have been thinking that it wouldn’t be easy to continue seeing that wretched fellow Rafael!

  “There you are, here it is. Isn’t your auntie beautiful?”

  Hülya took the picture and looked at it for a while. She gazed at Selva’s sad face that looked as if it were carved out of marble. Then she looked at the other photos spread out on the bed and saw a picture of her mother as a teenager. Her oval face was
framed by wavy hair as she pensively rested her chin on her hand.

  “My mother is more beautiful, but you know, Granny, I wish I were my aunt’s daughter.”

  “What do you mean? Why’s that?”

  “I think my aunt loved me more than my mother.”

  Leman Hanım froze on the spot. For a moment she was speechless.

  “Really, Hülya! Where did that come from? Is it possible that your mother doesn’t love you? You’re her one and only daughter, for God’s sake.”

  “Frankly, Granny, I think she’s bored with me. She never seems to want to spend any time with me.”

  “Do you need to be entertained all the time? You know that because of your father’s job, she needs to accompany him here, there, and everywhere. She has to go to dinners and cocktail parties whether she wants to or not, and she can’t neglect herself when she has to go to those dos. There’s the hairdresser, the seamstress…just you wait until you grow up…inşallah, if you should marry a diplomat like your father, you’ll understand what I mean.”

  “I’ll never marry a diplomat, that’s for sure.”

  “Why, my darling? Don’t tell me you’re not proud of your father.”

  “I am, but…it’s just that…well, I’d rather marry someone who can spend time with me.”

  Hülya’s reply caused Leman Hanım’s blood pressure to rise. Those words—those familiar words—that attitude. She prayed that destiny would not repeat itself.

  “Sensible men have important jobs; they haven’t got a lot of spare time to spend with their wives. Only idle men have time to spend at home with their families.”

  “But Grandpa always stays with us.”

  “Your grandfather is retired. He certainly didn’t spend a lot of time with me when we were young. I hardly ever saw his face.”