Last Train to Istanbul Page 2

  Necla, almost in tears, had asked her friends, “What’s got into her? Why is she screaming at me like that?”

  “This war has got to all us girls,” their hostess had said, trying to defuse the situation. “These days the slightest spark causes an explosion. Come on, let’s get on with the game. Whose turn was it?”

  Sabiha now felt embarrassed remembering her outburst. She certainly was in a terrible mood. It was the same thing every day when she read the news in the papers. The Nazis storming over Europe…The fleeing emigrants…France…Ooooh! Sabiha reached out to touch one of the wisteria blooms on a wall, but just as she was about to pick it, she withdrew her hand. She couldn’t bring herself to snap off the flower. Suddenly she felt a lump in her throat, and as she turned toward the street, tears streamed down her face. As night descended she gasped for breath. The sad day would turn into yet another sad night.

  Macit was probably going to come home late. Hülya would have her endless whens, whys, and wheres throughout the meal. The nanny would sit across the table, undoubtedly talking about the war. Ankara, which was so full of happy memories, only represented sadness now. Not just sadness, but monotony, dreariness as well. Life was just gray!

  Macit opened the front door as quietly as possible; he didn’t want to disturb his wife if she was sleeping. He tiptoed into the bedroom, and could see by the pale, pink light of the bedside lamp that she was awake. She lay with her hair spread across the pillow, looking at her husband through puffy red eyes.

  “What’s wrong? Why have you been crying?” asked Macit.

  Sabiha sat bolt upright in bed. “I’m on edge. This letter arrived by the evening delivery; the postman left it on the doormat. I found it as I was taking out the garbage. Here, read it.”

  “Who’s it from? Your mother? Is your father ill again?”

  “It’s not from Istanbul, Macit. The letter is from Selva.”

  “Really?”

  “Macit, I am scared. We’ve got to do something. We must get her here. This cannot go on. Sooner or later, my mother will hear what’s happening in France, and I swear it will give her a heart attack.”

  Macit took the letter and tried to read it by the dim light.

  “Selva would never agree to come here, leaving Rafo behind,” he said. “Rafo wouldn’t agree to come back.”

  “But this can’t go on. Selva has got to consider our mother. I have asked the telephone exchange to connect me to her. God knows how long it will take. Maybe by the morning or sometime tomorrow…”

  “You’ve done what, Sabiha? How many times have I told you not to call Selva from the house?”

  “Well, I certainly couldn’t go to someone else’s house at this hour of the night. I have to speak to my sister; I have to persuade her before it is too late.”

  “I’m going to cancel the call,” said Macit, rushing to the telephone.

  “How can you do that? She’s my sister. Don’t you understand?”

  Macit returned to the room. “Sabiha, I am working for the foreign ministry, the Germans are at our borders, war is on our doorstep, and you are booking a call to a Jew in France. You’re asking for trouble!”

  “I’m fed up with your foreign ministry. I’m really fed up. I’m always imagining that I am being followed by spies.”

  “It’s almost the school holidays. Then you and Hülya can go to your parents in Istanbul. I just wonder if your father will be as understanding as I am on the subject of your sister.”

  Sabiha heard her husband walk to the end of the hall, dial the operator, cancel the call, and then go to the living room. Sabiha started to cry again, very quietly.

  Macit went out onto the balcony. He lit a cigarette and looked at the midnight-blue horizon far, far away. Macit was happy with the cool Ankara nights, but tonight, for the first time, he felt cold and uncomfortable. He tried to warm his arms by rubbing them with his hands. It wasn’t just the weather that made him feel cold. They were living through days that—for those who understood what was going on—were dangerous enough to make one’s hair stand on end. Neither the man in the street nor his capricious wife whimpering indoors was aware just how close they were to the brink. They simply switched on the radio, listened to the news, then complained about the black market and how expensive everything was before pulling up a blanket and drifting off to sleep. They weren’t aware of anything. No one knew the extent of the disaster Turkey would face if she was dragged into the war by either side. How could anyone know the knife edge that Inönü and his colleagues trod? The government was trying its best not to alarm the public or cause a panic. Macit wondered whether it was better to disclose the truth so everybody could face the facts, or take on the role of a protective father, shielding the children from bad news.

  Not long ago, just a few months in fact, the country had been sucked into the whirlpool of war. War…It was worse than that, it was a cesspit, a filthy cesspit! Macit threw his cigarette butt in anger. It fell somewhere in the pitch-darkness without a glimmer of light. He remembered the stories his war-hero father told about this darkness and the cigarette lights at night—one, two, three lights, five lights, ten lights—bodies without arms or legs, corpses without heads. People miserable, hungry, covered in lice, like wounded, skinny animals. Starving, abandoned children. Women who’d lost their humanity; men who had no money, no home, and no hope. He vaguely remembered his father in that state appearing at the garden gate, all skin and bones, covered in lice, his uniform in rags. He had staggered toward the edge of the pool and collapsed. This was a memory imprinted in Macit’s mind, but he wasn’t sure if he had actually witnessed it or was told about it later. What he did remember was that the gardener hadn’t recognized his master, and thought he was a beggar. It took some time before they realized who the man was. The tall, strong, sociable Ruhi had become a cadaver, a spiritless skeleton dragging one leg, without the usual gleam in his eye. Such was war! Macit was certain that victory was to be won around the table, not on the battlefield. He was working so hard to save the people of his nation from that dreadful fate again, but how could he explain that to his sobbing wife?

  Slumping into a straw armchair and drifting into his memories, he realized he had gotten used to the coolness on the balcony. Macit had contributed a lot toward the signing of the agreement with England and France in 1939. According to that agreement, the French and the British would provide the Turkish army with its vital needs. In return, Turkey was to sell the chrome she produced to France throughout the war. The Turkish foreign minister himself had traveled to France with Macit to sign the agreement. They had gone to Paris with great expectations, but, unfortunately, the end result didn’t meet their hopes. France desperately needed the money they’d make selling the Turkish chrome, but despite Menemencioğlu’s insistence on supplying the chrome for the duration of the war, France would only sign for two years. Then Britain drastically reduced the quantity of arms, tanks, and antiaircraft guns it was willing to supply to Turkey.

  The Turkish army needed 11 million bullets and 6,500 machine guns. The British were only prepared to supply two million bullets and 200 machine guns. With these pitiful supplies, how on earth could Turkey be expected to stop the Germans in the Balkans? One could understand a person fighting with his bare hands to save his own country, but to fight for the British, who had stirred up the Arabs against the Turks in the First World War when they had their eyes set on Musul and Kerkük, was too much to expect. At the same time, other European countries, for their own reasons, had supported various Middle Eastern tribes who were seeking independence.

  Had it been left to Macit, he would not have lifted a finger for any of them. Let the Europeans go at each other’s throats. Wasn’t it enough that they were dragging each other into this war? Macit had no doubt that if, for some reason, Turkey was eventually forced to join the war, she would have to foot the bill for the ambitions of the great powers.

  During a meal on the train on the way back from Paris, Macit learned
that the foreign minister was concerned about another thing. He addressed the delegation. “Gentlemen, as I see it, the British haven’t got enough weapons and the French have none. They aren’t able to deliver the goods because they have bad intentions. It is simply impossible. I became fully aware of this situation during our talks in Paris. There are all sorts of questions in my mind. I have doubts about their eventual victory. I wonder if we are backing the wrong horse, signing these agreements that will make us their allies.” After a year of endless discussions—who would win the war? Which side should Turkey support?—it had been decided that Turkey should support the French and British. Now, in Paris, they had found out about France’s lack of weapons. Gradually they had begun to realize that they may have chosen the wrong partner. Although they didn’t return to Ankara empty-handed, they were very disappointed that less than half their expectations had been met.

  At the end of the talks, on the evening of their last day in Paris, Macit had managed to keep a promise he had made to Sabiha to meet up with Selva. He had told his friends that he had to see a relative who lived in Paris, and they were courteous enough not to ask questions.

  Macit chose to meet Selva at the Café de Flore, because it was tucked away out of sight. Selva arrived with an armful of gifts for her mother, sister, and niece. She hugged Macit tightly and kissed him on both cheeks. It was obvious how happy she was to see someone from home. She asked about everyone in great detail: Was Sabiha still tying Hülya’s hair with huge satin ribbons? Had they been inviting the same old friends to their Friday soirees? Who was Sabiha’s bridge partner? Did her mother close down the summer house at the end of the season, or when it got cooler? She even asked about her father, who was so disappointed in her.

  Macit looked at all the presents his sister-in-law had piled on a chair. With an embarrassed look on his face, he said, “I really can’t take all this back with me, Selva. I only have a small suitcase.”

  “Please, Macit, don’t deny me the pleasure of sending a few things to my family. I might not get another opportunity. I can duck out and get another little bag from Lafayette.”

  “No, for God’s sake, don’t! What will my colleagues think? We are here on official business. They’ll say I have done so much shopping for myself and my family that I had to buy an additional suitcase to carry everything.”

  “At least take the lavender perfumes I got for my mother and sister. There are also some chocolates for Hülya…”

  “I wish you hadn’t gone to all this trouble; you must have spent quite a bit of money. What a shame.”

  After exchanging news, suddenly there was a lull in the conversation. It was only then that Macit noticed the dark circles under Selva’s eyes. In the evening sun, he realized how pale and haggard she looked. She was still wearing the green raincoat that Macit knew so well—which indicated that she couldn’t afford a new one here in Paris. This was Fazıl Reşat Paşa’s daughter, who had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth! The things one does for love! Macit couldn’t help wonder if Sabiha would have had the courage to act the same way if her parents hadn’t approved of him. Macit wasn’t sure that he wanted to know the answer. Sabiha might not have chosen to endure hardship for the sake of love. Would she have married him had he been of another religion, been Armenian, for instance? No! Not in a million years. No doubt his coming from an old respected Istanbul family, well educated and with a good career, contributed considerably to her choice. But why should he feel disappointed? Hadn’t he made similar choices? Wasn’t Sabiha a beautiful, intelligent, educated girl, well brought up in a respected family, and well adjusted to boot? He remembered the sensible advice Sabiha had given to her sister in those days when Selva was head over heels in love. It had not had much effect, but that was beside the point.

  “Love is like a flame; it burns itself out eventually,” Sabiha had told Selva. “What will you do then? When you finally come to your senses, if you repent and wish to divorce Rafo, it won’t be the same as divorcing someone else. No one will want to marry you after that. I swear you’ll end up an old maid.”

  “Because I’ll be considered the leftover of a Jewish husband—is that it? Don’t you worry, dear sister, I am sure that if the flame burns out, as you say, our friendship will survive. We will be lovers and best friends.”

  “What if, God forbid, something should happen to Rafo? Will you come home as the Jewish Madame Alfandari?”

  “I certainly won’t do that. I won’t return to the house of our father, who has rejected me, simply because I have fallen in love with a man who is not a Muslim. Who knows, by then anyway I may have children of my own, or even grandchildren.”

  When Sabiha realized she was getting nowhere with Selva, she tried talking to their father.

  “Times have changed, Father. These sorts of differences don’t matter anymore. Please don’t do anything you’ll regret later. I beg of you, Father, please be sensible. Look at Sami Paşa’s daughter-in-law—she’s Greek, isn’t she? Then there is Vecdi’s wife, who is German. What about them? Plus, you were educated in Europe. You’re supposed to be more open-minded.”

  “If she marries that man, she will no longer be a daughter of mine. She’ll have to forget she was ever my daughter.”

  “But, Father, how can she possibly forget she is your daughter!”

  Fazıl Paşa looked far away, out the window.

  “You mean ‘was.’ ”

  This dreadful situation had turned the family upside down and lasted not just a few days, weeks, or months, but years. Fazıl Paşa’s unsuccessful attempt at shooting himself hadn’t stopped Selva; she simply waited until he was well again and then went to her lover. Then it was their mother’s turn to cause havoc. She took to her bed, seriously ill, and needed constant care and attention. Fazıl Paşa refused to leave the house. The family was so ashamed; they couldn’t look any of their friends directly in the eye. The incident hadn’t done the family any good, but at least now they knew who their real friends were. Now, even friends they had considered close were gossiping behind their backs, blaming Paşa because he had educated his daughters in Christian schools, as indeed many of them had.

  Sabiha and Selva, like most of their friends’ children, were sent to the American school in Gedik Paşa for their primary education, then to the French school for their secondary education, and finally to the American college. Both sisters grew up speaking English and French fluently.

  Macit remembered how impressed he was, many years ago, when he first saw his fiancée reading poems by Baudelaire and Byron. Even his mother, God rest her soul, had been impressed. “Just the sort of wife who would be right for a diplomat,” she had commented.

  Selva’s voice brought him back to reality from where he had been lost in his thoughts. “Will Turkey join the war then?”

  “No, she won’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “We are doing our best to see to it that she doesn’t. We certainly can’t afford another war, Selva.”

  “Macit…There is something I need to ask.”

  “Please do.”

  “My father? Will he—will he ever forgive me?”

  “Frankly I don’t know, Selva. Your sister and I have closed this subject. We no longer talk about it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, what else is there to say?”

  “You really think so, Macit?”

  Macit took a sip of coffee before replying. “What I think is neither here nor there. You have done what you wanted. Aren’t you happy, at least? Was it worth the upheaval you caused?”

  “I resent your attitude, I must say. You are talking as if you had never met Rafo yourself.”

  “I don’t see why you should resent my telling the truth. You simply refused to listen to anyone. You went ahead and burned your bridges. You hurt your father, your mother, and Sabiha. I only hope that it was worth it. We all hope you’ll have no regrets.”

  “I love Rafo very much, Macit. I have no re
grets, but I am very unhappy…”

  Tears were streaming down her face. Macit took her trembling hands in his. “Come on, Selva, you shouldn’t be unhappy if you love him so much. Think of all you have endured to be together. You are a very strong person; you have always known what you wanted and had the courage to stick to your guns. I’m sure your father is aware of this too. He may not have forgiven you yet, but I am sure that deep down inside he still loves you dearly.”

  “I miss everybody…so much.”

  “Time is a great healer. Give this a little more time.”

  “I wonder how much more time,” Selva said anxiously.

  Was there any? Macit thought. Time was so very precious these days—particularly the past few months—as precious as gold. Wasn’t it time that the Turkish delegation had come to Paris for? President Inönü was seeking time more than anything else: time to think, time to distract, time to avoid war. In fact, Inönü kept answering questions regarding the war by saying, “Time will tell.”

  Macit now gave the same answer to his sister-in-law. “I don’t know, Selva. Time will tell!”

  He realized he was now using diplomatic tactics in his personal life. He had always thought that things could change in the blink of an eye, bringing unforeseen results. But in the present circumstances, Europe could find no solace in predictions or hope.

  Before leaving Selva, Macit held her hands tightly and looked into her eyes. “Everything can change, Selva, and change rapidly. Should anything happen that puts your life in danger, you must return home immediately.”

  “I can’t return without Rafo, Macit.”

  “I think you should. He’s a man; he can look after himself.”

  “We’ve vowed to stick together throughout our lives. He wouldn’t want to go back. You know all he went through, all those insults. And I just couldn’t leave him.”

  “Think carefully. We only have one life to live. We alone are responsible for it.”

  “Macit, try to understand. I am not only responsible for my own life.”