Without a Country Page 8

  It was past ten when Gerhard stepped into view at the end of the street. Elsa picked up his briefcase and, just as he was nearing the building’s front door, hurled it out the window. The briefcase hit his back with a thud and fell to the ground.

  “Take your briefcase and go back to wherever you spent the night,” Elsa yelled.

  Gerhard picked up his briefcase, walked through the door, and stepped into the hallway, where he came face-to-face with Madame Saryan.

  “Welcome, Monsieur. Your wife has been expecting you since last night.” As always, Madame spoke to Gerhard in French.

  “I nodded off on the ferry.”

  “Make excuses to your wife, not me.” Much as a sudden drop in temperature signals that rain is on the way, the frigidity of her tone warned that a storm was brewing upstairs.

  Gerhard smiled, slipped past her bulky frame, and pretended not to hear the parting words she addressed to the back of his head: “Turkish, Armenian, or German, you men are all the same.”

  Upstairs, Gerhard found that he couldn’t get his key to work. There must already be one in the lock on the other side. He rang the doorbell. No response. He held the button down with his finger.

  “What do you want?”

  He kept his voice low and measured. “Please open the door. Let’s not cause a scene in front of the neighbors. I’ll tell you what happened when I get inside.”

  “You can tell me from out there. Then I’ll decide whether to open the door.”

  “Elsa, stop being so childish. Please.”

  “I’m listening!”

  “Madame is listening, too,” he hissed. “Do you want her to hear everything?”

  “Why shouldn’t she? After all, she’s the one who waited up with me all night. She’s the one who called the police and checked the hospitals.”

  And that’s when Gerhard finally got it. Elsa had been worried sick, terrified that something had happened to him. He’d expected his wife to simply assume he had missed the last boat, but that wasn’t fair.

  “Darling, I’m so sorry. Open the door, please. You’ll laugh when I tell you what happened.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Let me in and I’ll tell you.”

  “Like I said, tell me first. Then I’ll decide whether to let you in.”

  Gerhard squirmed impatiently. Yes, he’d been an idiot, but that didn’t mean he deserved to be locked out of his own home. Was he really expected to explain himself through a closed door? What if a neighbor came down the stairs and saw him pleading with his wife, like a philanderer begging for forgiveness?

  “Elsa, I’m asking for the last time. Will you open the door?”

  “Not until you explain yourself.”

  “All right, then. Suit yourself!”

  Briefcase in hand, Gerhard marched down the stairs, shot through the door and along the street to avoid any falling objects, and didn’t slow down until well after he had rounded the corner.

  When Elsa heard his footsteps in the stairwell, she rushed over to the window in time to see her husband disappear.

  Had she been too stubborn? What if he didn’t come home again tonight? What would she tell Peter? She sank onto the chair by the window, then sprang back to her feet with a scream. That damn knitting needle! She started crying, but were they tears of pain, regret, fatigue, or loneliness? It was the loneliness that was getting to her, she decided with a sniff. Ever since they’d moved to Turkey, her only close companion and confidant had been her husband, and the threat of losing that was more than she could bear. The Turks had been friendly and helpful, had graciously invited Gerhard and Elsa to their homes, and fussed over Susy and Peter. But the lack of a shared language was a huge barrier to true intimacy. Virtually none of the local women spoke German, and Elsa’s Turkish was still limited to the superficial and mundane. She was most comfortable with Germans, but the émigré families were scattered in far-flung neighborhoods. The Hirsches lived on the Asian shore, while the Reuters and the von Hippels lived miles away, in Bebek. Now that Peter was settled into school in Pera, the family couldn’t move to Bebek, much as Elsa wanted to. Cabs were expensive, and she was afraid of getting lost if she took a bus.

  And so, Elsa was largely confined to the company of Madame, the Jewish family upstairs, and the two Germans who lived within walking distance, Hans Reichenbach and Maria Moll. Sadly, neither Elsa nor Gerhard were particularly fond of Reichenbach. By all accounts a brilliant and creative philosopher, Reichenbach was also a terrible snob and would drone on and on in a high-pitched voice about the Turks’ lack of intellectual rigor and the futility of efforts to elevate the local culture. Every time he threatened to leave Turkey, which was something he did loudly and often, Elsa would roll her eyes and say to herself, “What’s stopping you?” Gerhard ignored Reichenbach, but she remembered a dinner party where the delightful Erich Franck had taken his colleague to task.

  “When I, a chief physician and the recipient of research prizes, was expelled from my professorship and my homeland, Turkey was the only country to embrace me,” Franck said. “This is my country now, and I won’t let you impugn it.”

  Then he stalked off. The awkward silence around the table was finally broken by the gynecologist, Dr. Wilhelm Gustav Liepmann.

  “Erich is right,” he said. “Our careers were doomed in Germany. Turkey has given us all the opportunity to make a fresh start and to continue our research. How can you be so ungrateful?”

  “My views are my own, and you’re not required to share them,” Reichenbach countered. “You’re welcome to stay forever in your beloved land of the star and crescent. But my abilities are being squandered here.”

  With more than forty German professors in Istanbul, Elsa asked herself, why, oh why, did Reichenbach have to live closest?

  In her darker moments, Elsa cursed the luck that had forced her from her homeland, even wrestling with her faith and questioning what it meant to be a Jew. She was proud of her roots, and she wanted to walk in God’s ways, but would her people never know peace? Her ancestors had fled pogroms in Bohemia. Her husband’s ancestors, too, had moved to Germany in fear for their lives. And then there was Rifka, her upstairs neighbor, the wife of a pharmacist. In curiously accented and halting French, Rifka had told Elsa she was Sephardim, the descendant of Jews expelled from Spain in the fifteenth century. They’d sailed in leaky, decrepit ships to the shores of the Adriatic, then traveled to Istanbul.

  Now, centuries later, having fled Frankfurt and ended up in Istanbul just because she was Jewish, Elsa had a neighbor with whom she shared a common faith but no common language. If only there were someone she could talk to!

  “Ah, Gerhard,” she said aloud. “Life is lonely enough as it is. Don’t you leave me, too.”

  Elsa brushed away a tear with one hand and with the other one kept rubbing the spot the knitting needle had jabbed.

  Then she leapt to her feet and ran to Madame Saryan’s. At the sight of Elsa’s wan face and red-rimmed eyes, Madame held out her arms. Elsa rested her cheek against Madame’s capacious bosom and let the tears flow. Wrapped in the arms of this woman so many years her senior, a relative stranger whose language she couldn’t even speak, she cried her heart out.

  When Elsa was ready to dry her tears, Madame made her a cup of Turkish coffee.

  “I’m not sure I can drink that—it’s too strong for me.”

  “Please! I’ll tell your fortune.”

  Elsa didn’t know what Madame meant, but she meekly accepted the tiny cup and saucer. She was taking her first sip when she remembered, in a flash, that they were invited to the von Hippels’ that evening. A physicist and a Christian, Arthur von Hippel had been fired for having a Jewish wife. The von Hippels lived in faraway Bebek, but she had attended several tea parties there and had grown fond of Mrs. von Hippel. Elsa would be horribly disgraced if Gerhard didn’t come home tonight.

  The thick, bitter coffee was sticking to her throat, and the tears she thought she’d
cried out began welling up in her eyes. A glass of water helped her get the coffee down. Elsa stared as Madame took her cup and flipped it over on the saucer. She was composing a question in her mind in French when the phone rang. Madame went to the foyer to answer it. Elsa could hear her saying, “There’s no need. Elsa is here with me.” Madame appeared, beckoning her.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Elsa, it’s me, Hirsch. At the risk of disturbing your neighbor, I wanted to tell you myself what happened last night. It was all my fault. I kept insisting we have another round, and Gerhard was too polite to refuse. Then, as you know, he fell asleep on the ferry.”

  Elsa listened as Hirsch told the entire story from start to finish. At one point, she even found herself wanting to laugh. But she suppressed it.

  “Neither of us realized how worried you would be. We were terribly thoughtless. Elsa, let me apologize. It won’t happen again.”

  These were the very words she had hoped to hear from her husband.

  “How did you get this number?” she asked. “Did Gerhard give it to you? Did he put you up to this?”

  “Gerhard gave me your landlady’s number a long time ago, in case of emergency. He has no idea I’m calling you, Elsa. I simply wanted to explain and to apologize for my role in this.”

  Elsa thanked him, hung up, and went back to the sitting room. Madame was peering into her coffee cup, studying the streaks and smears left by the grounds.

  “Tonight, you make peace. No more fighting. No other woman. But there’s a man, and he’s sad . . . you’ll see this man soon.”

  “Is it Gerhard?”

  “No, not Gerhard. Another man. He will get very unhappy, not now, but soon.”

  Elsa didn’t have the energy to worry about some supposed mystery man. She had more important things on her mind, chief among them Gerhard’s whereabouts and tonight’s dinner. Perhaps she should tell the von Hippels that one of the children had come down with a fever?

  At the sound of Susy’s voice in the stairwell, Elsa hastily thanked Madame for the coffee and rushed out to help Fatma carry the stroller.

  When Gerhard stepped into the apartment building at the usual hour that evening, he was carrying his briefcase and a bouquet of flowers. He crept up the stairs, careful not to alert Madame, and knocked on the door of his home. Peter always greeted him first, but today it was Elsa standing in the doorway, Susy in her arms. Gerhard lowered the bouquet from in front of his face and handed it to Elsa. She took it without a word, set Susy on the floor, and went to the kitchen to get a vase. Gerhard picked up his daughter and followed his wife.

  “Elsa, you didn’t forget to tell Fatma about tonight, did you? The dinner at the von Hippels’? Someone has to stay with the children.”

  It was Elsa’s opening to call her husband a drunk, a thoughtless and selfish cad. But she controlled the volume and tone of her voice as she said, “If we’re still going, Madame will look after the children.”

  “You’ve grown quite attached to Madame. I wouldn’t have thought she was the most suitable of companions for you.”

  “I accept friendship where I find it.”

  Gerhard put Susy down and went up behind his wife, who was arranging flowers in the vase. He lifted her hair and kissed the back of her neck. Sensing no resistance, he rested his hands on her hips. If Peter hadn’t walked into the kitchen at that moment, Elsa would have turned and thrown her arms around her husband. Her face lit up with a self-conscious smile. Her family was happy and together again, and that was all that mattered.

  Is There a Spy Among Us?

  As always, Elsa and Gerhard set off for Bebek on foot, walking as far as Taksim Square, where they boarded a bus. She found a seat, but he had to stand. It was only after most of the passengers got off in Beşiktaş that they could sit together.

  “In a year or two, we might have our own automobile,” Gerhard said. “The trip to Bebek will be easy then.”

  “I don’t mind the bus on the way there,” Elsa said. “It’s trying not to fall asleep on the long ride home that I dread. Let’s take a cab back. And that way, the von Hippels won’t see us waiting at the bus stop.”

  “Why would that matter?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He’s from such an aristocratic family. And she—I’ll bet you didn’t know this—is the daughter of James Franck, the Nobel Prize–winning physicist. That’s what Holde told me.”

  “Are you serious? James Franck is Dagmar’s father?”

  “He certainly is.”

  “Good heavens! We’d better turn around at once and go straight home. They’re sure to slam the door in the faces of lowly bus riders like us.”

  Gerhard was gratified to see that he could still make his wife laugh. She’d been all smiles ever since they’d made peace in the kitchen that evening.

  “I know a secret about the von Hippels, too,” he said. “One of Arthur’s uncles fought in the Great War as an Ottoman officer, and his remains are still in the German military cemetery up in Tarabya. Why the face? Don’t you believe me?”

  “Such important people. Perhaps I should have worn my ruby brooch,” Elsa said. “Then again, Dagmar doesn’t seem the showy type.”

  Elsa’s instincts had served her well. The von Hippels, both husband and wife, were as unpretentious as they were gracious. Dagmar had prepared a casual dinner of German-style meatballs, potato salad, and apple cake, just a few of the much-missed flavors of home. Elsa enjoyed every bite.

  After dinner, the men took their coffees to the sitting room while the women cleared the table together.

  “You have such a lovely home,” Elsa said, admiring the view of the Bosphorus, visible even from the kitchen. “If it weren’t for Peter’s school, I’d like to live in Bebek, too.”

  “My little ones are still too young for school. Perhaps we could swap homes when they get older, Elsa.”

  “It sounds like you and Arthur expect to stay here for many years, then. I’m happy to hear that. There are some who would bolt at the first opportunity.”

  “Oh, we’re here for the duration, despite everything—”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Not for me, anyway. It’s Arthur’s work. The problem isn’t the university; it’s his teaching assistant.”

  “Is his assistant a bad interpreter?”

  “Well, Arthur has two assistants. One of them is from a poor family, but has succeeded through his own efforts and intelligence. Arthur thinks the world of him. The other is the son of a well-off merchant. I’m sure you’ve noticed the way some wealthy Turks dote on their sons. They’re brought up to believe that money can solve any problem. Anyway, this spoilt young man, who is neither bright nor hardworking, has been a constant thorn in Arthur’s side. Most recently, he kicked up a fuss over a lab coat, of all things. Arthur had given one of his old lab coats to the other assistant to spare him the expense of buying a new one. The spoilt assistant found out and demanded one, too. Then, the chancellor of the university summoned Arthur to his office and warned him not to play favorites. He alluded to the many donations made to the school by the wealthy father and the special treatment he expects. Arthur protested, but the chancellor wasn’t having it. It’s been weighing on Arthur. Honestly, I’m so happy you could join us for dinner tonight. It’s done Arthur a world of good.”

  “How awful. Gerhard would feel the same way Arthur does.”

  “Please don’t repeat any of this to Gerhard. Arthur would be furious with me for telling you.”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Yes, I promise,” Elsa said.

  Elsa considered telling her about Gerhard’s disappearance the night before. It would be so nice to open up to a woman her own age who spoke her language. But the moment passed.

  Scraping the last table scraps into the garbage, Dagmar said, “Come on, Elsa. Let’s go join our husbands.”

  The men were deep in conversation in the sitting room.
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  “A Trojan horse, I’m sure of it,” von Hippel was saying. “I’ll be shocked if he doesn’t turn out to be Hitler’s spy.”

  “A spy? Who’s a spy?” Dagmar asked.

  “It’s just a figure of speech, dear. We weren’t talking about another Mata Hari.”

  “Arthur, why do you keep things from me?”

  “I share everything with you, Dagmar. I’ve even shared my fantasy about Atatürk.”

  “Arthur, do tell us, too, please,” Gerhard said.

  “Okay, but don’t laugh at me. As I was sailing from Italy to Istanbul, I imagined myself becoming great friends with Atatürk and galloping across the countryside with him, mounted on our white horses. I don’t know why. It was a fantasy. I’d heard he was not just a great military strategist, but a brilliant visionary. Imagine galloping across the steppe alongside one of the great geniuses of our day, debating the great questions of our times.”

  “And on a white steed, no less,” Dagmar said.

  The four of them burst out laughing.

  “I’m afraid that Atatürk—am I pronouncing it correctly? I can’t get my tongue around his new surname. Well, if anyone deserves the moniker ‘the father of Turks,’ it’s him.”

  “You’re saying it right,” Gerhard said. “But I doubt he has time for horses these days. Not to mention, he’s been ill. Perhaps you could ride with the minister of education or Prime Minister İnönü instead. They’re both skilled equestrians.”

  “The Gazi’s ill, you say?” Arthur asked, reverting to Atatürk’s old title, which he found easier to pronounce.

  “Two of my medical colleagues were summoned to Ankara for a consultation. But that’s all I know.”

  There was a brief moment of concerned silence before the conversation turned to less weighty matters. They were trading their funniest horse stories when Elsa heard the clock strike eleven. She’d forgotten all about Madame and the children!

  On the way home, Elsa turned to her husband.

  “What’s all this about a spy?”