Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature) (21 page)

“Forgive me,” Mehpare said, admitting defeat. “I hadn’t seen it that way. But if Kemal does go, and if there is a place for women, couldn’t I come?”

“Even if Kemal doesn’t go anywhere you can join us. You know how to read and write, don’t you?”

“Yes. And I know how to nurse.”

“Good, I’ll remember that.”

“Are you going off to Anatolia?”

“My work here is done. I’ll go when the time comes.”

“I’d better get home before dark. If you need me, I’ll come and help you,” Mehpare said.

“Please stay and have tea with me. We’ll chat a while longer and get to know each other better.”

Head bowed, Mehpare re-entered the salon and reclaimed her place on the shrouded sofa. They were soon sipping tea from tulip-shaped glasses.

“Tea is normally served with cake but I’m afraid . . .”

“We’ve been making do without cake for ages,” Mehpare confided. “It’s ten days since we reached the bottom of the sack of flour, and supplies haven’t come in from Beypazarı at all this month.”

“We’ve still got a little flour. I’ll tell them to give it to you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of imposing!”

“What do you mean, imposing! I’d planned to give everything in the pantry to the Housekeeper and Hakkı Efendi; you’re certainly welcome to the flour. I’m not leaving anything for the enemy, I’d throw it out first.”

When they’d finished their tea, Mehpare got up, threw her cloak over her shoulders and walked to the door.

“Thank you, Mehpare. With your help, we were able to pack everything up today,” Azra said.

“Shall I come again tomorrow?”

“We’re leaving the house tomorrow.”

“Are you coming to stay with us?”

“I’m returning to the Asian Shore, to my mother.”

“God grant you a safe journey,” Mehpare said.

Azra embraced her, kissing her on each cheek. “Give my love to the family. And send my greetings and wishes for a safe journey to Kemal.”

“Can I tell him we talked about my joining you?”

“Of course you can,” said Azra.

“Send for me if ever you need me. I’ll do whatever I can. Behice Hanım had so wanted to join you, but, with her condition . . .”

“Yes, I know.”

“Goodbye Azra Hanım. Do take care.”

“You too. We’ll see each other again, Mehpare.”

As Mehpare quickly walked home, a few paces ahead of Azra’s manservant, her thoughts turned to their talk. If she went to Anatolia with Kemal she could protect him. She’d cook for him, make sure he stayed warm, give him his medicine. It was true, fighting for your country was a beautiful thing, but there was one point on which she differed with Azra: love came before country. First came Kemal, then country, then life, then pride, honor, morality, family, the world, paradise, whatever. But first and foremost came Kemal, always Kemal. If he went, she would follow; and if need be, to the gates of hell.

Taking Zehra with them, Saraylıhanım, Behice, her daughters, and Housekeeper Gülfidan moved to the house on the island at the beginning of June. This annual ritual took place around the time the first discarded watermelon rinds washed up on the shore: packages were tied up, suitcases slipped into dust covers, dinner plates stacked in tin boxes, and it was off to the island for the rest of the summer. At the first sign of the late September chill, back they would go to the house in Beyazit.

Life on the island was full of simple pleasures. Cushions were strewn onto carpets rolled out under pine trees, and from the sycamores hung swings for children, hammocks for adults. And all through the hot months, the many relatives of Behice Hanım and Saraylıhanım streamed in, stopping for the night or longer.
İ
brahim Bey was no fan of city life, and his visits to his daughter and grandchildren were timed so that he could indulge in the restorative, sweet-smelling air of the island. In addition to the overnight guests, neighbors were frequently invited to drop by for breakfast, late afternoon tea, a few hands of poker, a late evening chat over drinks, and their visits were returned, one after another. Fruit was picked from the mulberry, apricot, and peach trees, grapes from the vineyard, vegetables from the kitchen garden. The caretaker and his wife would snap into action after the slow winter months, racing here and there to maintain the household, but with the help of an extra cook hired to assist in keeping up with the many summer guests. At every hour of the day plumes of smoke curled up from the freestanding kitchen back behind the main house. Water was kept cool in glazed earthenware jugs; watermelons and honeydews were lowered in net bags into the garden well; but Ahmet Re
ş
at had also had an icebox made for his summer house. Ice from the fishmonger was chipped, wrapped in salted canvas and placed onto the top and bottom shelves of the zinc-lined oaken cupboard, where rakı, as well as bottles filled to the brim with lemonade or sherbet, were neatly stacked. In this house, whose hosts were honored to be able to serve their guests icy cold juice and rakı, the flurry of refreshing offerings was without end.

The children had their dinner early in the back garden while the adults had theirs late, under the arbor out front, where, accompanied by saz and ud, they drank rakı and sang songs well into the night. Life on the island was devoted to entertainment and enjoyment, in stark contrast to the solemnity of the house in Beyazit. With its vineyard and vegetable garden, its pine grove and paved courtyard, the enormous green garden had always been five thousand square meters of paradise, as much for friends and relatives as for the children.

But that had all come to an end some years ago. War had taken its toll, and the family didn’t dare allow Kemal to make the ferry-boat ride to the island. Kemal would be spending another summer at the house in the city, along with Mehpare and Hüsnü Efendi. Except for weekends, Re
ş
at Bey was too busy to join his family, a development that pleased Kemal as much as it distressed everyone else. Kemal looked forward to spending his last weeks in the house alone with his uncle, talking man to man and strengthening the bonds of their friendship. It also occurred to him that this might be just the opportunity he needed to win his uncle over to the cause.

– 9 –
July–August 1920

The summer of 1920 was unusually hot. Mehpare kept the shutters of the front windows closed and had arranged a shady spot under the linden tree for the men to sit in the back garden. Sadly, Re
ş
at Bey rarely found the time to do so, even in the evening. The Grand Vizier and interior minister had gone abroad to negotiate the terms of the peace treaty, leaving Ahmet Re
ş
at as acting interior minister. He’d stagger in to bed late at night and rush off in the morning without breakfast. The long man-to-man talks Kemal had imagined with his uncle were not to be, and he was sorely disappointed.

One oppressive July evening, Ahmet Re
ş
at arrived home at an uncommonly early hour. Instead of going up to his room he washed his hands and face at the basin in the entry hall, asked Hüsnü Efendi to lay out rakı and all the usual accompaniments, without delay, and headed straight for the garden. It was immediately clear to Kemal that something had gone wrong.

He went out to the garden and up to the hammock where Re
ş
at had stretched himself.

“Uncle, has something happened?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You never drink rakı without reason. Especially at this time of day.”

“Today, my boy, the peace treaty dictated by the Allied Powers, the terms they’ve forced down our throats, was agreed to by the Council of State. Now do you understand what’s happened? Do you understand why I want to drink myself under the table?”

“That I do, uncle.”

“The Greeks marched into Tekirda
ğ
yesterday. We’ve learned that an Armenian regiment entered Adana two days ago. Three days ago, the English occupied
İ
zmir. Four days ago the Greeks invaded Bursa. The previous days saw Bandırma, Kirmastı, and Balıkesir fall one by one. Shall I continue?”

“No. Please don’t.”

“You’d think our land was a watermelon, out of which, each and every blessed day, some salivating infidel takes another bite. I feel like beating my head against the wall. And this, today, what happened today, has unnerved me like nothing else: today, it’s become clear to one and all that we’re expected to resign ourselves to whatever happens. In less than a week, the treaty will be signed. And so it ends . . . and so we’re finished!” Ahmet Re
ş
at rubbed his palms together. “Finished, just like that, the great Empire of the Ottomans, dead and gone. And God has willed that my generation will pay for its sins, whatever they’ve been, by signing the empire’s death warrant. We’re paying a terrible, terrible price. Hüsnü Efendi, bring me my rakı! What’s keeping you?”

“Uncle, you’ve had a drink or two on the way home, haven’t you?”

“And so what if I have? Has sobriety ever done me any good? If I stay sober will I prevent the invasion of yet another one of our cities tomorrow? Go on, run and get me some rakı, sit down and have a drink with me, would you?”

Helpless to console his uncle, Kemal circled the hammock. Hüsnü Efendi soon arrived in the garden bearing a large tray that he set on the table. Mehpare had lined little plates with tomatoes and sliced melon.

“The tomatoes are from our garden, sir,” Hüsnü Efendi said.

“Then you’d best guard them with your life, Hüsnü Efendi, because soon enough they’ll be all we have left,” Ahmet Re
ş
at responded.

“God save us!”

“God’s not going to save us, efendi. God’s forsaken us. God’s been favoring his Christian subjects for quite some time now.”

“Good Heavens, sir!”

“They’ve got money; they’ve got power; they’ve got science. What happened to us; tell me, efendi, what happened? No, never mind, let’s say for the sake of argument that you don’t know either,” slurred Ahmet Re
ş
at as he turned his attention to Kemal. “But what about you—a scholar, no expense spared for the best education; you, who claim to know more about everything than anyone: so tell me: why has God, in his infinite wisdom, deemed us worthy of this disgrace, this abomination? Why’s He doing this to us and not to them?” He reached out his glass. “Fill it. And a glass of water. You drew it from the well, right? If you didn’t, go get some. Might as well enjoy our well water while we can. Just so you know, its days are numbered too. And the garden, this garden, they’ll take it away soon . . . Soon, very soon!”

Kemal and Hüsnü Efendi exchanged glances. This wasn’t the Ahmet Re
ş
at they knew and loved. Hüsnü Efendi had never seen his master in such a state, even on the ill-omened night of March 16
^th
. He tugged Kemal by the arm, pulling him a step or two away. “Are we really finished young Master? Is it true what Beyefendi says?” he asked with trembling lips.

At a loss for words, Kemal reached for a proverb: “Patience, Hüsnü Efendi. We never know what may happen before sunrise. Only God knows what tomorrow may bring.” Then he downed a glass of rakı, neat, like his uncle. His throat burning, a pleasant warmth spreading through his belly, Kemal sat down on the grass, next to the hammock. His uncle had long since finished his rakı but hadn’t touched any of the food. His empty glass had been dropped to the ground; eyes closed, he lay suspended motionless in the hammock.

“Uncle . . . Is there no hope?”

“Kemal, Tevkif Pasha refused to sign the Treaty of Sevres in Paris. The Pasha detected the differences of opinion among the Allied Powers and hoped to exploit them to our advantage. He kept reviewing and rereading the treaty in an effort to buy time. But the invasion of Thrace has upset all our calculations.”

“Uncle, I know all about that.”

“There’s plenty you don’t know. The Council of Ministers reassembled today. We read each line of the dispatch they sent, poring over every word. It’s even worse than we thought: the provisions they’ve imposed, both moral and material, are each harsher than the last. Not only are they exacting heavy reparations for our declaration of war and the subsequent loss of human life, they’ve added punitive payments for damage to property and goods. That much we could live with, but as far as some of the other conditions . . .”

Ahmet Re
ş
at began coughing. As Kemal patiently waited for his uncle to finish, he retrieved and refilled his glass.

“For example, the Allies have decided to end forever our sovereignty over other peoples. From now on, we’ll rule only Turkish subjects, and so, since we’re the minority population in Thrace and
İ
zmir . . . Just think, Kemal . . .”

Ahmet Re
ş
at had taken another swallow of rakı and began coughing again. Kemal tried slapping the choking and spluttering man on the back.

“I think that last one went down the wrong way.”

“In a show of magnanimity, they’ve deigned to allow Istanbul to remain our capital. But as for the Bosphorus . . . those sons of donkeys . . . The words stick in my craw . . .” Ahmet Re
ş
at stopped speaking. His face had gone beet-red. He paused, not speaking, not coughing, not even breathing.

“Uncle! . . . Are you all right?” cried Kemal, as his uncle’s scarlet complexion paled to pink, acquiring a greenish tinge. He dipped a napkin into the pitcher of water and dabbed at the beads of sweat on Ahmet Re
ş
at’s temples. “There’s still a ray of hope, uncle. We’re not finished.”

“We’re finished, my boy.”

“No, we’re not. The Ankara Government has announced to the world that it will never comply with the terms of the Sevres Treaty.”

“We were in the middle of our discussions today when a telegraph arrived from Re
ş
it Mümtaz Bey: Sign the treaty immediately, or the Allies will take Istanbul away from the Turks.”

It was Kemal’s turn to hold his breath.

Ahmet Re
ş
at had spoken in such a low voice that Kemal wondered for a moment if he’d heard correctly.

“It’s killed us, but we’ve signed the Treaty of Sevres.”

Through an open window on the second floor came the sound of Mehpare softly singing as she accompanied herself on the ud: