Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature) (27 page)

After prayers had been performed, Kemal knelt next to the cleric and looked at the congregation of dark young men. In their black eyes, he read fear and helplessness. Soldiers of a people who were wealthier, more educated and more knowledgeable than these poor men had come to seize their land, to hold them captive, to lay claim to their very souls. Kemal had no doubt that these young Algerian men kneeling across from him on the carpet of a mosque in Istanbul in ill-fitting French uniforms were wondering why they had been sent to a Muslim country on another continent, and were cursing their fate.

He began by faithfully translating the words of the cleric, who was directing his congregation not to fire upon their Muslim brothers. But then his emotions and thoughts overflowed; he continued speaking long after he’d interpreted the cleric’s final words.

His Algerian co-religionists harbored no antagonism towards the Ottomans; they had been sent to a far-away land to fight for French interests in a battle that would leave them maimed and scarred and dead. And to what end? So that the French would get richer. And what about them, the youth of Algeria? What about their families? Would their participation in the invasion of this city, of this land, improve the lives of their mothers and fathers, their siblings back in Algeria? No! Muslim Algerians would continue living under the heel of Christian Frenchmen. And for how long? Until they’d forgotten their own identity, their own language, their own religion. Their French masters might help them fill their bellies but the darkness of their skins and the faith they held dear would condemn them forever to second class status, even in their own country.

At first, the cleric waited for Kemal to finish; then, when Kemal’s speech dragged on, the cleric grabbed him by the arm and motioned for him to be quiet. Kemal ignored him and was admonished with the words: “What are you telling them? Be quiet. You’ll get me into trouble.”

At that, Kemal had no choice but to conclude his impromptu sermon. His Algerian congregation burst into applause.

“What did you say to them?” asked the cleric.

“I told them the truth,” replied Kemal. “Their truth.”

When Kemal returned to the dormitory that evening, he was astonished to find that the news of his speech at Eyüp Sultan Mosque had preceded him. His roommates surrounded him, eager for more details. He had just sat down on his bunk to begin an impassioned recapitulation when Pehlivan burst into the room.

“Hey, Kemal Bey! Know-it-all! Did we send you there to sermonize, or to translate?”

“I was translating but then I . . .”

“Quiet! Don’t talk back to me! From now on, you’ll do what you’re told and nothing more, understand? Pehlivan planted an enormous finger in the center of Kemal’s forehead, and shoved him. Kemal sprang up from his bed, white-faced.

“Hold on, Pehlivan; you’ve gone too far.”

“No—you’ve gone too far. I call the tune around here. This unit is under my command.”

“This isn’t the army.”

“It’s a civilian army. If you don’t like it, go back to your mansion. We’ll have no trouble replacing you.”

“I go where I want, if and when I want. Why am I being subjected to this sort of treatment?”

“I suppose you think you were being clever, right? Well, you weren’t. All you did was grab attention. You stood out. Everyone who was attending that mosque is now at the coffee house talking about your nonsense. You’d better pray the invaders don’t overhear them. If it meant trouble only for you, I wouldn’t care. But you could take us down with you. We’re not here to show off. We’re not here to fish for cheers. You’ve got to keep your head down; you should be invisible. This business is nothing like wrestling out on the field. Do you understand?”

“I’m sorry.” Kemal said, abashed. “I was wrong; I didn’t realize.”

“Then stop strutting around and get to bed.”

Kemal stretched out on his bunk bed, head resting on his hands, and reflected bitterly on the utter mess he’d made of his first assignment outside the farm. They’d probably never give him another; he’d spend the rest of his life forging papers.

The next day, Kemal realized how wrong he’d been. He was getting dressed in the morning when Pehlivan came into the dormitory and said, “Finish up your deskwork by noon. You’ve got some work to do in the coffeehouses later in the day.”

“In coffeehouses?”

“You won’t be going to the mosque all the time. This time, you’re being sent to some coffeehouses. We’ve identified a few places that are frequented by soldiers from the Caliphate Army. You’ll go with a couple of friends and ask for a water pipe. You’ll start chatting, especially with any soldiers you might see. You’ll play a game of cards or some backgammon. As you get chummier, you’ll happen to mention that your new soldier friends are bearing arms not on behalf of the Sultan, but because of pressure from the English. You’ll bring it up with your friends, real natural, like you’re having a heart-to-heart. I don’t want you twisting any arms or starting any arguments . . . You’re just a couple of guys chewing over politics at the coffeehouse.”

“Do you think they’ll take our word for it?”

“That’s your job, to make them believe you. That’s why we chose an upper-class guy like you, someone who has a way with words. Your uncle’s the finance minister, isn’t he?”

“My maternal uncle, yes.”

“Great. You’ll repeat what your uncle’s told you. One of your companions will be from the State Office; the other one’s close to the Palace. If the three of you don’t know what you’re talking about, who does? Just sit and talk. Grumble about things, how upset you are at the invasion but how there’s nothing you can do about it. How you wish your fellow Muslims would stop working for English interests, change sides and go to Anatolia to fight against the Greeks. You won’t be telling any lies. Balıkesir, Bursa and
İ
zmit have already fallen, and now the Greeks are invading Tekirda
ğ
. It’s God’s truth, isn’t it? And everyone knows it. And when they’ve taken
İ
zmir, they’re bound to move on to Istanbul, aren’t they? Everyone knows how badly the Greeks want Istanbul. And at this rate, it’ll be theirs. Are we going to stand for it? Or are we going to do something before it’s too late? Wouldn’t it be great if these Ottoman soldiers stopped working under the orders of the English, if they went to Anatolia, taking their weapons with them, to help their Muslim brothers? That’s what you’ve got to get across, Kemal Bey! Just talk amongst yourselves so you get the others thinking, open their eyes a little. But not like what you did yesterday: you’ve got to be cool and calm. That’s what I expect of you.”

“And then?”

“And then
what
?”

“Fine, I’ll do exactly what you told me. But then what should we do? What if we fail to dupe them?”

“You’re not duping anyone. You’re planting the seeds of doubt. When you finish your chat and your coffee, you’ll be going to other coffeehouses to do the same thing. When you leave, others of us will arrive and repeat what you said. We’ll keep it up until we’ve won the soldiers over to our side.”

“But what if we fail?”

“Always look on the bright side, Kemal. What if we succeed?”

And at that, Kemal could only nod in agreement.

“You’ll need to be dressed as a gentleman when you go out this afternoon. I’ve had the suit of clothes you wore under your cloak ironed, and your fez is ready,” Pehlivan said. “You talked up a storm last night. Let’s see how you do today, Kemal Bey.”

Late that night, Kemal, a bit dizzy from smoking water pipes at four different coffeehouses, found his companions were still awake. Some were performing their prayers on their rugs, others stood in prayer in a corner. At first he assumed they had waited up for him and launched into an account of his adventures. Kandıralı signaled for him to be silent.

“We’ll listen to all that later, bey. For now, join us in prayer.”

“What’s going on?” Kemal asked. “Has something happened?”

“Has it ever!” Kandıralı confirmed. “Dramalı went off with Cambaz and some of the others to teach that dog Binit a lesson. They still haven’t come back. We’re praying for their safe return.”

“But weren’t they going to take me along?”

“How could they! Binit doesn’t hang out in coffeehouses. He goes to fancy places and rubs shoulders with dandies like you. They’d know you in a minute.”

“Kandıralı, how do you know where I go or who I know?”

“Your mug gives you away. You look like the kind of guy who makes merry up in Pera.”

Kemal didn’t bother to inform Kandıralı that he hadn’t so much as poked his nose out of doors for a very long time indeed. He was tired. He got undressed and climbed into bed. He’d expected to drift off into a deep sleep the moment his head hit the pillow, but he was now too worried to do so. He joined the others as they held vigil for Dramalı and his men.

It was morning before they returned. In order to shake their pursuers, they’d had to run off in the opposite direction, through Ka
ğ
ıthane and over the hills of Istanbul, before daring to return to headquarters. They were deeply disappointed: Binit had been wounded, not killed. Well, by hurting him, they’d avenged their Nationalist friends, at least somewhat, they consoled themselves.

“You promised I could join you. Tell us everything that happened, at least,” Kemal said.

“We’ve had our guys tailing this Binit character for close to two months now,” Dramalı began. “He knows how to have a good time and he’s got a thing for the ladies. He goes out every night. Whenever he stepped into a music hall, we’d make sure one of our men was sitting at the next table, watching his every move and listening to everything he said. He usually hangs out at a tavern in Büyükdere. Binit’s crazy about rakı. He always has a bottle brought over, nice and cold, plates of snacks laid out on the table in front of him, a Greek beauty perched on each knee, and there he sits, drinking the night away. After he’s had his fun with the ladies, he gets into his automobile and they drive him off to the Kroker Hotel. But does he go up to his room and conk out? No! If a few Turks have been rounded up he heads down to the hotel cellar, roughs ‘em up real good with a horsewhip and then, and only then, has a good night’s sleep. If the dungeon of Kroker could only speak, the things it would tell us. What they’ve done to our men.”

“Enough of that. Tell me what happened.”

“The leaders of our organization put their heads together and passed a death sentence on Binit. And Pehlivan approved it.”

Glancing over at Pehlivan, who was sitting cross-legged on one of the bunks, Kemal seized the opportunity to get even for the previous night. “So you decided it’s not always best to remain invisible, did you?”

“My men are patriots, and I can’t always control them, Kemal Efendi,” said Pehlivan. “Sometimes they’ve got to do what they’ve got to do.”

Everyone was eager to hear the rest of the story, and Kemal held his tongue.

Dramlı picked up where he’d left off.

“So after his night out on the Bosphorus, he gets into his automobile and the headlights are switched on, like always. That’s how we knew he was coming up the hill. There’s never anyone else driving around over there at that hour. We’d stationed fifteen of our men there, behind trees and bushes, to keep a look out. We had a few look-outs on top of the hill, too. We planned to stop his automobile; then Mad Hamza was going to start shooting it up. He took up position behind a tree on the side of the road. We were all lying in the field, face down. There wasn’t a peep. It was completely dark, there was no moon out last night. The only light was the stars, like diamonds, big as your fist, shining away in the black sky. We were all holding our breath. Then, way in the distance, we saw the lights of his car, coming toward us. He came speeding round the bend. We’d sawed through a huge tree right there on the side of the road. We were holding it up with rope, but it was all we could do to keep it standing. We were going to let it crash down right when the car passed. We only had a split-second to get it right. A split-second! If we were late, his armed guards would mow us down. As the automobile got closer, one of our guys lets out a whistle. Down goes the tree, with a terrible creaking noise . . . I can still hear it. But the tree lands right in front of the automobile, not on top of it. We all start shooting. His guards are shooting back. Sergeant Husam was standing right next to me; with all his might, he lobs a bomb. I heard one of the heathens scream; another one was crying and carrying on something awful. Mad Hamza swore he saw Binit over to one side, lying in a puddle of blood. But it beats me how he managed to see anything on a night that black! And then all hell broke loose. Dogs barking, the watchman blowing his whistle, all kinds of shouting and yelling and cursing . . . We ran down the hill as fast as we could, not looking back once.”

“If Bennett’s dead we’ll read about it in the papers,” Kemal said.

“If they don’t censor it.”

“Even if it’s censored, we’ll get wind of it, don’t worry.”

“I hope he’s alive,” Pehlivan said.

“What? Why? You mean we went through all that for nothing?”

“I hope he’s alive, and I hope he knows he was punished for all the torture he dished out. That’s worse than death.”

“You’re right. If he did survive, he’ll be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. ”

No one fell asleep that day until well after morning prayers. They all slept until evening.

– 13 –
At Home

Ahmet Re
ş
at had begun returning home directly from the Ministry when his day’s work was done. He wasn’t particularly close to most of his fellow Cabinet ministers and had grown weary of the interminable, inconclusive bickering. He kept the fact that his feelings for His Majesty had cooled considerably to himself. In any case, the best way for Ahmet Re
ş
at to gain information of possible use to the resistance was to remain silent, alert. He was pained and somewhat ashamed at the situation in which he found himself, and sometimes felt that his activities were those of a hypocritical traitor. Yet all he asked for was an independent country, at peace. His street encounters with the forces of the occupation were becoming increasingly unbearable and as he set about the government business that frequently brought him face to face with foreigners he struggled to contain his contempt and resentment.

Life at the ministry was tedious at best, and life at home wasn’t much better: he felt like a rooster shut up in an overcrowded henhouse. None of his intimate friends or confidants lived nearby, and the conditions of the day prevented visits to far-flung districts of Istanbul. Talk at home centered exclusively on babies—whenever, on his days off, he ventured into the sitting room on the middle floor, he invariably found Saraylıhanım and Behice seated on the divans discussing names.

“Re
ş
at Bey, naturally we’ll be naming him Raif, after your father, but we’ll need a second name as well; it won’t do to be known simply as “Raif.” These days, more contemporary names have become fashionable. Firuzan would do nicely. Or perhaps Kenan, or Bülent.”

“You do your own father a grave injustice, my girl,” Saraylıhanım would interject. “I think the boy should be called
İ
brahim Raif. That way, we’ll have considered the feelings of both sides of the family.” Behice would then begin voicing her objections, and on it went.

Re
ş
at Bey couldn’t resist a parting shot as he fled the room that day: “You’re measuring nappies for a baby that’s not even born yet. Why, we might have another girl.”

“No, this time it’ll be a boy. I saw it in a dream!”

“May it all work out for the best,” he said, as down he went to the shadowy stillness of the selamlık, where he’d busy himself at his writing desk, penning detailed accounts of the most recent state of affairs to his friend, Interior Minister Ahmet Re
ş
it, who was still in France, or by reading books and awaiting news of Kemal.

It had been a long time since anyone had brought news from the farm. If anything bad has happened to Kemal, surely we’d be the first to know, he’d tell himself. Three days after his nephew had left home, someone had arrived at the door to tell them that he’d arrived safely and that they shouldn’t be alarmed if there was no more news for a time. Simply traveling to and fro was hazardous, and try as he would to remain calm Ahmet Re
ş
at couldn’t help worrying. It was on one of those trying days, as he sat yet again at his desk wrestling with figures and ledgers, that Hüsnü Efendi entered the room carrying an envelope.

“From the postman?” Ahmet Re
ş
at asked as he reached out his hand and took it.

“A lady brought it, sir.”

“Who?”

“I couldn’t tell. She was wearing a çar
ş
af.”

“Didn’t you ask who’d sent it?”

“The bell at the garden gate rang. I went and opened it and a woman handed me an envelope. When I asked who had sent it, she pointed to the envelope and I assumed that it was for you.”

“All right Hüsnü Efendi,” said Ahmet Re
ş
at, “you can go.”

“Efendim, she’s still here. That woman is waiting at the gate.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For a response, I assume.”

When Ahmet Re
ş
at saw that it was Kemal’s handwriting on the envelope he deduced that the woman at the gate was in fact a man. Try as he might, there were some things he would be unable to conceal from Hüsnü Efendi. “Show her into the garden,” he said resignedly, “and have her sit under the arbor. Offer her refreshments of some kind. I’ll read the letter and write a response. It should only take a few moments.”

“And if Saraylıhanım or Behice Hanım were to ask . . .”

“Don’t get the ladies involved in this! If anyone asks, tell them a relative has come to visit you.”

When Hüsnü Efendi had left the room, Ahmet Re
ş
at opened the envelope, held it under the desk light and began reading. Kemal informed his uncle in covert terms that he was in good health, and enquired as to the welfare of the family, to whom he sent his greetings. Then he got to the point: The Nationalists had managed to locate munitions, but were short of funds for them. Kemal indicated the quantities of ‘sugar’ that were needed and employed similar code words to signal where payment should be made. The next paragraph was sufficient to cause Ahmet Re
ş
at to break out into a cold sweat: they wanted to have the munitions shipped to Anatolia on an Italian vessel. To facilitate the loading of the clandestine cargo in Istanbul it would be necessary to make contact with Harbormaster, Pandikyan Efendi, who was known to be trustworthy and a friend of the Turks. Ahmet Re
ş
at could apply to him without hesitation.

Ahmet Re
ş
at carefully reread the cryptic letter three more times to ensure that he’d understood it correctly. After he’d taken notes, he folded the sheet of paper, thrust it into his pocket and walked over to the outdoor kitchen on the other side of the garden. Simply tearing the letter to tiny shreds would be inadequate with the likes of Saraylıhanım in the house. Hüsnü Efendi was mopping the tiles of the outdoor kitchen. When he saw Re
ş
at Bey, he came straight up to him.

“Is she gone?” asked Ahmet Re
ş
at.

“I invited her into my room so no one else would see her. She’s waiting there.”

“You’ve done well,” said Ahmet Re
ş
at as he entered the kitchen. “Is there anything else, efendim?”

“Is the stove burning?”

“I lit it a moment ago for lunch. It’s not blazing yet. Did you want a cup of coffee? We’ve got some of that chickpea coffee left. I’ll have them make some inside.”

“I don’t want any coffee, Hüsnü Efendi. Slide open the stove, would you?”

The servant rushed over and opened the lid of the cooking stove. The heat struck Ahmet Re
ş
at in the face as he bent over it. He removed the letter from his pocket and shredded it; then he threw the pieces into the stove and closed the lid. When he stood up, he saw Saraylıhanım Hanım staring at him from the doorway.

“What are you doing here, my dear?”

“I had a sudden desire for coffee.”

“Re
ş
at Bey, my boy, why do you suppose there’s a kitchen inside the house? You won’t find so much as a coffee pot out here. You do realize that this stove is used only for grills and strong-smelling foods, don’t you? You haven’t been yourself since Kemal went away.”

“You’re right, Aunt,” Ahmet Re
ş
at agreed, “I’ve been terribly absent-minded of late.” Avoiding Hüsnü Efendi’s eyes, he went straight to the selamlık.

He could understand why Kemal needed money for arms. Only a week earlier the British, having found themselves powerless to prevent frequent raids on the arsenals of Istanbul, had dumped any remaining munitions into the waters of the Sea of Marmara, near the Prince’s Islands. With the clandestine supply of weapons from Istanbul thus eliminated, the resistance movement would be forced to explore other avenues. Which meant purchasing arms from the French or the Italians.

Establishing contact with Pandikyan Efendi would be far more difficult than simply raising funds. The Finance Minister himself couldn’t simply stroll into the office of a harbormaster. Nor could Pandikyan Efendi be summoned to his own office. It would attract undue attention. And inviting him to the house was unthinkable! He would have to find a way to send word to Pandikyan, but how? First, he would respond to the letter and dismiss the veiled courier waiting even now in Hüsnü Efendi’s room. He pulled a sheet of paper out of the desk drawer, opened the lid of the inkstand, dipped his pen into the well, and composed his thoughts. Kemal had not referred to him as “uncle.” The letter had begun with “My esteemed efendim,” and he would respond as though he were replying to an old friend. He indicated that everyone at home was well and forwarded in clandestine terms the latest developments. The government had received news that Kâzım Karabekir Pasha was poised to reclaim Sarıkamı
ş
and Kars from the Armenians. That was the good news. But there was some bad news as well: The Greek occupation had encroached as far as Bursa. Ahmet Re
ş
at concluded his letter, signed it, and gave it to Hüsnü Efendi to pass along to the courier. Then he went up to his room to change his clothes. He should get in touch immediately with the Minister of Marine, who had never concealed his sympathy for the Nationalists. He should also sound out any other ministers who shared their sentiments. They would have to find a way to finance the flow of arms into Anatolia.

Most of the funds allocated to the Red Crescent found their way onto the battlefields of Anatolia. The association had even gone so far as to sell some of its own holdings, with the proceeds going to the National Army. Perhaps he could channel funds to Anatolia by making it appear that they had been earmarked for the Red Crescent? Damat Ferit was still in France, and he would have considerably more room for fiscal maneuvers while the Grand Vizier remained at a safe distance.

Finally, he would have to find a way to meet with Pandikyan. Ahmet Re
ş
it Bey sighed deeply as he wished more fervently than ever that his closest colleagues and confidants hadn’t all been abroad at a time of such need.

As he got dressed, he contemplated the various ways he could reach Pandikyan without attracting unwanted attention. He suddenly remembered that Pandikyan had been among those in attendance at the games of cards and chess he’d played with the French officers. That was it: he’d send Hüsnü Efendi with a note inviting the harbormaster to join a bridge party. But where was the card game to take place? He contemplated the home of his old friend Caprini Efendi. No, that wouldn’t do at all. Friendship or not, they were on opposing sides. Could he fully trust an Italian? Finally, he hit upon a place: they could meet in a room at the
Ş
ahin Pasha Hotel, in Sirkeci. It was a hotel popular with wealthy landowners, and they should go largely unnoticed among the bustling crowd.

Just after late afternoon prayers, Ahmet Re
ş
at and Pandikyan Efendi met in a room on the first floor of the
Ş
ahin Pasha Hotel. Re
ş
at Bey had reserved the room in advance and sent the number to Pandikyan. He’d had a samovar of tea and two tulip-shaped glasses brought up to the room.

The harbormaster was quite nonplussed when he arrived at the room all prepared for bridge and saw only one person awaiting him.

“I beg your pardon, Pandikyan Efendi,” Ahmet Re
ş
at said, “but I was forced to take precautions. I’ve invited you not for cards, but because there’s a matter I wish to discuss.”

“I should have guessed as much, efendim,” said Pandikyan, “but as we had played bridge previously, well, I thought it possible that . . .”

The two men studied each other for a moment. “I need your help,” said the host, wasting no time.

“I would be honored to be of any small service, Re
ş
at Beyefendi.”

Ahmet Re
ş
at poured them both tea from the samovar, indicated that Pandikyan Efendi was to sit in the chair and himself perched on the edge of the bed.

“Pandikyan Efendi, it hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re a cooperative and loyal citizen of the Ottoman Empire. Your contribution to the war of independence in Anatolia has been great. It was you who notified the relevant authorities of the secret storehouses under British control, the amount of munitions they contained, and even the destination of the ferryboats used to transport arms.”

“God forbid, efendim. God forbid. I have always remained outside politics. I am a mere civil servant. All I’m able to do is ease formalities.”

Ahmet Re
ş
at understood how badly he had alarmed his guest. He would have to act quickly to gain his confidence.

“Certain close acquaintances of mine have dedicated themselves to the resistance. It was they who furnished your name. We had already formed an acquaintance, as you know . . . We’ve played bridge at the same table.” Ahmet Re
ş
at lowered his voice to a whisper and mentioned a few people from Karakol.

Pandikyan Efendi was sufficiently reassured to ask, “What would you like me to do?”

“We’ll be boarding a few passengers on the next Italian ship to sail from this harbor. Their freight is rather heavy. We’ll require your assistance to load it.”

“No ships flying the Italian colors are scheduled to set sail over the next week.”

“Time is of the essence. If we were to increase the boarding fee, perhaps?”

“It’s not a question of money. I would advise you not to rely on Italian ships at this time. The English raided one of them and the Italians found themselves in quite a difficult position. Their ships are now being closely monitored.”

“But this is an urgent shipment. As you know, the Greeks are advancing . . .”

“I can recommend another ship. I know the captain.”

“Which ship? Do you foresee any difficulties?”

“The
Ararat
.”

“Are they deserving of trust?”

“I wouldn’t recommend them otherwise. But you’ll have to agree on fees.”

“When can you provide me with more information?”

“Within the week . . .”

“There’s no time. Would tomorrow be out of the question?”

“Would you be able to find out the amount and weight of the freight by tomorrow?”