Last Train to Istanbul Read online

  She blamed herself for not having foreseen this catastrophe. Her darling son had abandoned his studies because of this despicable blonde devil in disguise! All those hopes and dreams she had had for her son. He was supposed to launch a range of lavender-based perfumes—she had discussed this project with a nephew in France, and he’d been preparing to market the products for them. Who knew? Maybe one day Rafael would become the owner of his very own perfumery. Even names had been discussed—Les Nuits du Bosphore or Essence d’Orient for the ladies’ range, or Raff for the men’s products.

  When she finally confronted her son about Selva, she received yet another blow. Rafo had gone as far as discussing the possibility of marrying her. Rakela’s dismay at Rafo’s academic underachievement was nothing in comparison to the thought that he was considering marrying a Muslim girl.

  That year the Passover meant nothing to Rakela. She hadn’t bothered to bring down and wash her precious piñatas from the attic. She couldn’t bring herself to prepare the special celebration meal of pescado con huevos y limones. She didn’t even supervise the making of the matzo.

  The rest of the family didn’t feel much better. Every single person had tried to dissuade Rafo from taking this step. Each had either chastised him or tried to advise him, some even resorting to emotional blackmail. Rafo began to think that he was lucky that his father had died two years previously. He shuddered to think how he would have reacted. The only person to adopt a totally different approach was his uncle Jack.

  “Every cloud has a silver lining,” he said to his elder sister Rakela. “Just think of the advantages should your son become Fazıl Reşat Paşa’s son-in-law. Instead of wishing that your son would leave this girl, you should be praying that he is accepted into such a family.”

  Rafo had not been accepted by the paşa, and Selva had not changed her mind.

  And yet, Rafo had not been able to express his fears for their future. Was what they were about to do madness? At first he thought that the fire inside him would cool, or that Selva would be persuaded to change her mind. But Selva had no such intention; she wasn’t giving him up. Nor did he have the nerve to stop himself. He was proud to be so loved by this girl he admired so much, and there was also the excitement of tasting forbidden fruit. Many of his friends looked upon him with envy, as if he were the hero in a fairy tale. Unfortunately, his relatives—particularly his mother—did not share this view.

  Rakela did not give up. “One would think you were Aladdin in love with the sultan’s daughter,” she said, crying her eyes out. “Can’t you see they don’t even deign to speak to us? All we hear about is how angry and disappointed the paşa and his wife are. What about me, what about my family, for God’s sake? One would think that we are enamored of that beanpole! How heartbroken and ashamed we are! Where is your dignity?”

  Rafael did indeed have dignity, and that was precisely why he couldn’t give Selva up.

  Selva still believed that eventually both families would come around to accepting the situation, especially after they had children. Rafael, on the other hand, knew very well that if their child was brought up as a Muslim, his family would never forgive him. Likewise, if the child was brought up as a Jew, Selva’s family would never forgive her.

  “Time will heal everything,” Selva said. “They are bound to miss us when we live abroad. Surely they will mellow when they see how solid our relationship is. Leave it to time.”

  Rafo envisaged all sorts of scenarios in his mind. He knew they’d have financial problems, as well as difficulties adapting to a foreign country. He knew that they would be lonely too, at times. But he’d never imagined the hell they were suffering these days. It was all beyond his worst dreams.

  Here he was, in Marseilles, without a valid passport, an apprentice, even though he had paid to become a partner. He was truly pitiful: afraid to have his son circumcised and in a position where at any time he might be dragged away from his wife and child and sent to a labor camp. He was risking a death sentence even though he had committed no crime. He could be sent to the gallows without a trial. Yes, he had foreseen problems, but nothing of this magnitude.

  These were the thoughts going through Rafo’s mind as he perched among the cardboard boxes in the pharmacy storeroom. Waiting for the commotion outside to calm down, he couldn’t help cursing his fate.

  How long he awkwardly sat there in the dark waiting for the all clear he didn’t know, but when he tried to get up, he realized he had strained his back.

  “They’re gone,” said Benoit. “You can come out now; I don’t think they’re coming back. Why won’t you go to the Turkish consulate? If I were you, I would have gone ages ago.”

  The light outside blinded Rafo, and he rubbed his eyes, squinting. “You’re really obsessed with this idea,” he said.

  “I promise you, I have heard from various sources that those with Turkish passports can save their skins.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” Rafo said, rubbing his back.

  “I swear it’s true. Why do you think the lines outside the consulate are getting longer every day?”

  “Those are lines of people who left Turkey after the First World War. In fact, we have friends among them. My situation isn’t the same.”

  “Rafo, most of them got their French nationality. They gave up their Turkish citizenship years ago. Now they are lining up for days on end for their Turkish passports again.”

  “Where did you learn all this from, Beno? You have your French nationality. Nobody knows that your mother was Jewish, so what’s all this to you?”

  “I’ve made inquiries on your behalf. One of the consulate employees is my aunt’s tenant. The other day when I went to see her, he came to pay his rent. He’s a very nice man. He speaks French. We had a cup of coffee together.”

  “So?”

  “I mentioned you…Oh, for God’s sake, don’t get on your high horse. I didn’t give him your name. I simply said that I had a friend from Istanbul with a residence permit who hasn’t applied for citizenship yet. ‘Let him come,’ he said. ‘Even if his Turkish passport has expired, we can immediately extend it.’ ”

  “I don’t believe this!”

  “I swear that’s what he said.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Rafo, I’m telling you the truth. If you have doubts, why not let your wife apply on your behalf?”

  “I’ve told Selva to leave and go back to Istanbul, but she won’t listen. She’ll never go back on her word, so a Turkish passport won’t solve our problem.”

  “It certainly will, Rafo. I’m telling you.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I don’t really know. Maybe the Turks have some sort of agreement with the Germans. Maybe they are their allies. How the hell do I know? I’m a chemist, not a diplomat.”

  “Nonsense,” said Rafo. “The Turks would never take the Germans’ side.”

  “Why not? Didn’t they in the First World War?”

  Rafo felt like saying, “They certainly did, but what a mistake that was.” He kept quiet. He stretched to ease his back, trying to change the subject. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve been stuck in this cramped place for hours.”

  “Just twenty-three minutes,” Benoit replied.

  “Twenty-three minutes, it feels like twenty-three hours.”

  They walked downstairs from the storeroom to the pharmacy, Rafo still rubbing his back. An old man entered the shop.

  “Welcome,” said Rafo.

  The man didn’t say a word.

  “What can I do for you, monsieur?”

  “I don’t really know. Actually, there’s nothing I wanted. I’ll have an aspirin, please. Yes, just an aspirin.”

  “Monsieur, you’re shaking. Are you all right? Would you like to sit down?”

  Benoit offered the man a chair from behind the counter. “Sit over here, relax,” he said.

  The old man sat down, put his elbows on his knees, and cradled his head in his hands.
He was shaking visibly.

  “Epilepsy?” Rafo whispered to Benoit.

  “No, he’s crying.”

  The two friends looked at each other.

  “Would you like some water?”

  “Maybe a sedative?”

  The old man shook his head and continued crying for a while before straightening up. “I want my dignity back, gentlemen,” he said. “Nothing else, neither water nor medicine.”

  “These are hard days for everyone,” Benoit said. “Life isn’t easy for any of us.”

  “You know this decrepit old man, Pétain, the conspirator, the traitor. Once I used to admire him. I thought he was a hero. I even had a framed photograph of him on my desk. I wish I’d known then what I know now.”

  “Marshal Pétain believes he is protecting the French. If he hadn’t cooperated, the invasion forces would have reached us here,” Benoit said softly. “Would that be better?”

  “My dear boy, two-faced Pétain isn’t capable of stopping them coming south. Don’t kid yourself. They’ll be here soon enough. When that day dawns, we’ll be doomed. You’ll see. When that day comes, we’ll lose everything. This Vichy government has taken over and we’ve lost everything anyway, including our dignity.”

  Benoit looked around anxiously. “You’re distressed, monsieur. Don’t talk this way. Someone might hear.”

  “Just now, they stopped a man walking two paces in front of me. They asked for his identity papers. Apparently, he didn’t have them. They started to manhandle him and he resisted. Then they dragged him into their jeep. Can you guess what they did then? Do you by any chance know how they check if you are Jewish? Luckily, I am all skin and bone, so I was able to hide behind a big tree. I ran and ran all the way down the street, from tree to tree, to get away from them. I haven’t run that way for at least fifteen years. I ducked into every street. I even pissed myself. Look. I didn’t have my identity papers with me either. I had to run away, otherwise I would have had to show my penis to those bastards who call themselves policemen. I ran away. And why am I running away, son? I’m not a thief, I’m not a murderer, and I’m not guilty of anything. I’m eighty-two years old. I haven’t got the strength anymore…I can’t keep running away.”

  Rafo pretended not to notice the wet stain on the front of the man’s pants.

  “Give me some sleeping pills!”

  “I can’t sell those without a prescription,” said Benoit. “You’d better get one from your doctor.”

  “I haven’t got a doctor. He left. Those who were intelligent and young left. The trash stayed behind; we couldn’t make it. Why don’t you be a good boy and give me some sleeping pills?”

  Rafo took two pills from a box and gave them to the man. “This will do you for tonight; you should get a good night’s sleep,” he said, refusing to accept payment.

  The old man got up, put the two pills in his pocket, and staggered out. He came back immediately looking very confused.

  “Gentlemen, where am I now? I don’t think I recognize this district. I’m sure I visited a friend in a hospital in that square, but I don’t know my way around. Is there a bus stop near here?”

  Benoit went outside with the old man. “Let me show you the way.”

  When Benoit returned, Rafo was sulking. “We could have done without harboring that damned informer,” he said.

  “For heaven’s sake, Rafo, do me a favor and stop talking like that. Even walls have ears nowadays. You could get us both into trouble if you carry on like that. That poor old man had nothing to lose. Didn’t you see? He wouldn’t have been so outspoken if he’d been fifteen years younger.”

  “Was he telling the truth, Beno? Is it possible the police have stooped that low?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I don’t think so. He was probably exaggerating.”

  “I might go to the Turkish consulate after all. If I am going to be messed and shoved around, I can do that just as well back home.”

  “Come on, Rafo, you wouldn’t be shoved around there. Many German Jews escaped to Turkey. There is a cousin of mine on my mother’s side—Leon Arnt—and a very close family friend, Auerbach. Both managed to get away and are now teaching chemistry at the Istanbul University. Do it, Rafo. Get up and go before it’s too late. Forget about your pride, you owe it to your wife and child.”

  “It isn’t just a matter of pride. If that were the case, I wouldn’t have come all the way here. Do you know what would be ahead for me? For a start, my son—will he be Jewish or Muslim? Whichever we choose will cause outrage. Our families and friends won’t want to know us. It isn’t as bad feeling lonely in a country where you don’t know anyone. Can you imagine being ignored by everyone in a place where you have many friends and family? My father-in-law doesn’t even want to know his daughter. As for my family, can you imagine, they no longer set my place for Passover? Why do you think we came all the way here?”

  “Yes, I understand,” said Beno. “It must be difficult, very difficult, but as I said before, no one’s situation is easy these days. We all seem to live in some kind of hell or other.”

  Rafo didn’t reply. He was standing in the doorway watching the bent old man stumbling down the street, still trembling visibly.

  ANKARA 1941

  As Macit walked home from the ministry, he was happy that he had things to relate to his father-in-law over their raki. He and the old man had been living under the same roof for some time now, and Macit had grown to like Fazıl Reşat Paşa. At first he was rather nervous of this elderly Ottoman gentleman who still dressed in the old style, but the paşa had adapted well to the new republic. Whether intentionally or not, he had gradually relaxed with Macit and begun to reveal his weaknesses. In spite of all his progressive ideas, the paşa hadn’t been able to come to terms with the collapse of the empire and the fact that the sultan had been forced to run away. As far as he was concerned, the War of Liberation ought to have been fought under the sultan’s banner. If a change was necessary, maybe the sultan ought to have been changed, but not the regime. People living on Ottoman soil weren’t as cultured as the Europeans; they didn’t have the know-how to govern themselves. They could only be governed by a leader like a sultan or padishah who also had religious authority. Whenever the old man spoke, he deliberately avoided mentioning the republic, preferring instead to use words like Ottoman, Ottoman soil, or Ottoman administrators. Like most of the Ottoman paşas, Fazıl Reşat was a well-educated man who hated fanatics. He believed that reactionaries were destroying his country. All the same, he was against being governed by those without religious authority; he was particularly against being “ruled by the people.” Macit considered these ideas nonsensical but always listened quietly, respectfully, refraining from making comments. He could never understand how a cultured person, who had adapted so well to modern living, could go on and on about the importance of a sultan.

  Although Fazıl Reşat Paşa was an advocate of a sultan, he was also a man who had an accurate understanding of most things and enjoyed life to the full. Every evening he would wait for Macit, sitting beside a small table with a selection of mezes that he had prepared himself. Together they would sit on their stools in the small hallway between the kitchen and dining room, chatting about the day’s developments, sipping ice-cold raki, and nibbling on white cheese and roasted chickpeas. Macit was certain that the paşa chose this small corridor so that the ladies of the house couldn’t join them. It was obvious that, after spending all day with his wife, daughter, and grandchild, listening to “woman talk,” in the evening the poor man needed a change.

  Fazıl Reşat Paşa always listened attentively to Macit and often made some unexpectedly incisive comments. For example, he was certain that getting involved with the Germans would have disastrous results. As far as he was concerned, it was the Germans who somehow always managed to stir up trouble in the world. Although he never mentioned Selva and Rafo, he was furious about the atrocities the Germans were inflicting on the Jews. He was sure that one
day history would judge them and they would have to pay for their injustices. Macit couldn’t understand how such a wise man was unable to find it in his heart to forgive his young daughter.

  Today, the paşa had prepared their raki on the marble kitchen counter; they picked up their glasses and began to sip.

  “A very important development took place today, sir,” said Macit. “The British ambassador delivered a letter to President Inönü.”

  “Really! And what do they want?”

  “They want two things. The first is, they definitely want us to sign an agreement with the Russians—”

  “Surely not!”

  “As a matter of fact, we have been putting that one on the back burner for some time. The other thing is something we’ve hoped for, even though it seems negative. Because, in the present circumstances, we are so isolated, both geographically and strategically, it appears that the British won’t be able to come to our aid if we’re attacked…”

  “Well, well, just listen to them. We are expected to run to their rescue but they won’t do the same for us. Doesn’t still water run deep? They have certainly mastered the art of backstabbing.”

  “Actually we are rather happy about this, sir. They say that since they are in no position to help us, they’d consider it sensible if we should contact the Germans, making sure we at least eliminate the danger of an attack.”

  “You don’t say! In other words our president, the deaf old fox, has solved the problem just by being patient.”

  Macit stifled a laugh.

  “Inönü may have trouble hearing, sir, but he has a good brain. Now that Hitler has attacked Russia, he has finally relaxed a bit. Do you know that when they telephoned and woke him up in the early hours to tell him of Hitler invading Russia, he burst into laughter and couldn’t stop? Can you believe the brilliance of Inönü’s plan? Had we sided with the British, we’d now be face-to-face with Mr. Hitler. The way things are, we neither sided with the British nor the Germans, and we avoided becoming either’s enemy. On top of that, the British are encouraging us to have good relations with the Germans.”