Last Train to Istanbul (10 page)

“Let’s run away from here as soon as possible, Rafo,” she said. “Let’s go somewhere with different values that aren’t so extreme. Let’s run away from our families’ emotional blackmail.”

Finally they left. But now the torment they had endured in Istanbul seemed nothing in comparison to the humiliation and suffering the Germans inflicted on the Jews. The Germans, with their steely eyes and hard expressions, were putting the Jews in France through hell. Selva loathed them, and she wondered how Rafo felt deep down inside.

Just as Selva was checking the additions in her accounts book she heard the footsteps of the postman. He delivered a couple of bills and a letter from Sabiha!

She closed the accounts book and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. Sitting in the armchair in front of the window, stretching her legs on the footstool, she tore open the letter. The best minutes of her day were about to begin. Before young Fazıl woke up, she would have about an hour to devour the letter’s every word and dream of the old country.

Her sister wrote about someone called Tarık. She vaguely remembered that name—yes, that’s right, Sabiha had mentioned him once before. Tarık had now been posted to France and was due to arrive very soon. Apparently she’d sent some money with him, and she gave instructions that Selva should call him if she ran into trouble.

Selva wondered, for goodness’ sake, am I supposed to call this Tarık for the smallest problems? What if we need to escape? What is she going on about? Escape, run away, to where? Haven’t we already run away? Haven’t we escaped from all our friends’ anger and gossip? Our neighbors’, even our butcher’s nasty looks? Where on earth are we supposed to run to this time? Are we never going to find peace? It’s as if those that didn’t allow us to finish university have donned Nazi uniforms and followed us here.

Anyway…Hülya did very well at school. Mother, Father, and Sabiha attended the end-of-term ceremony, although Macit was again too busy at the ministry to attend. It appears the change of
air has really improved Father’s health; he is much more relaxed in Ankara.

Relaxed! thought Selva. Of course. No one knows him in Ankara. Nobody points him out as “the man whose daughter ran off with a Jew.”

Mother too has benefited from the dry Ankara air—she has no more asthma attacks, for one thing. Since Father is more relaxed, he helps her as well. The poor woman carries a photograph of little Fazıl with her wherever she goes.

Well, Selva decided, at least Father has not objected to my calling my son after him. Who knows? Maybe one day…

Suddenly there were loud noises outside in the street. Selva jumped up to the window to see what was going on, knocking her coffee cup to the floor with a crash. Young Fazıl woke up and started to cry. Two people were running after a man, overturning everything in their way. A woman was screaming at the top of her voice. Selva wiped up the spilled coffee and put the letter away before going in to check on Fazıl.

“Don’t cry, my baby,” she said. “I know your father doesn’t like us going out, but we both need some fresh air.”

Selva seldom left the apartment. Rafo tried to protect her from all the dreadful things that were happening in the streets, and he continually created all sorts of pretexts to keep her indoors. He even came home for lunch to stop his wife from coming to him. He was adamant that she should be safe, adapting to their new life in France and bringing up a new baby. The streets of Marseilles were getting more alarming, more depressing.

It hadn’t been easy for them to sever themselves from the easygoing, comfortable lives they had led with their families in Istanbul. But they had both chosen to change their lives to be together. They were both trying hard to adjust; it had almost been like changing their identities.

Selva was no longer Fazıl Reşat Paşa’s spoiled little girl who lived in a mansion during the winter and a villa by the sea in the summer. She was no longer the rich girl who wore couture dresses and was admired by all; she was now simply the wife of a Jewish apprentice chemist. Rafo hadn’t been able to get his French citizenship, and was therefore unable to register his partnership at the pharmacy legally. He had completed the papers, but due to the collaborationist Vichy regime, Rafo decided with his business partner to postpone the idea of citizenship for the time being.

Rafo was the middle son of the Alfandari family, highly respected not only in their own community but also in the wider Istanbul medical community. Four generations of the Alfandaris had served as palace physicians. Rafo’s mother’s greatest wish was that he should follow the family tradition and become a chemist. Giving up his studies for Selva had shattered her dream. Not only was Rafael Alfandari no longer a Turkish Jew, he wasn’t even a French one. Furthermore, his decision not to circumcise his son had put his Jewishness in doubt. Rafo had ended up without identity, country, or religion.

Yes, undoubtedly, he loved Selva, but he had never foreseen burning all his bridges. Neither he nor Selva had actually wanted this, and he wondered how on earth they had found themselves in this position.

When he met Selva, Rafo would still have been considered a youth. He was a student, wearing a school uniform. The tall girl who had joined his class was very different from all the other girls, had drawn his attention, and they had become friends.

One day he had been invited for tea at the girl’s mansion. Oh, how proud and excited his mother was. She starched his shirt and pressed his pants herself. Her son certainly couldn’t go to tea
empty-handed. Should he take chocolates or flowers? When he came home, she bombarded him with questions. Was the inside as opulent as the outside? Were the paşa and his wife at home? Had Rafo met them? How many guests were there? What did they have for tea? Were the pastries from Lebon or were they homemade? Did they have tea or soft drinks? Who had actually served the tea?

Later, Rafo was invited to the grand mansion again, and then to other places. He had started to follow Selva like a shadow. Selva, the girl with the blonde plaits on top of her head; Selva, the calm girl with the big brown eyes, who always looked a little perplexed, but whose whole face lit up when she laughed, the girl who not only had a lot to say for herself but could also listen attentively.

Selva’s relationship with Sabiha changed the summer that her sister got engaged. They would leave the summer villa on one of the Princes’ Islands in the Sea of Marmara and take the ferry to the European side of Istanbul. There Sabiha and Selva would go to a café in Pera to meet Macit. Rafo would join them a little later. Rafo and Selva would leave the engaged couple and venture off into the side streets. On one occasion they even hopped on a tram and crossed the Karaköy Bridge over the Golden Horn, going on to Eyüp to visit the Eyüp Sultan Mosque. Once there, they wandered around the cemetery reading interesting verses on the tombstones. Another time they walked along the Golden Horn as far as the Feshane Pier. They had really enjoyed exploring the Greek quarter at Fener. Rafo had also taken Selva to Tatavla, where all the Greek tavernas were. Selva felt as if she had discovered a fascinating new world, with all its colors and cultures, existing beyond her own narrow world. She became eager to learn more.

One September afternoon, after leaving Sabiha and Macit at the Marquise Café, Rafo at last took Selva to his home. His parents were away at their summerhouse in Tarabya by the Bosphorus. The furniture in the drawing room was covered with dust sheets; the carpets were rolled up neatly against the walls; the crystal chandeliers
were wrapped in newspaper. It was all rather dark. Selva sat on the edge of the covered sofa next to Rafo. He gently turned Selva’s face toward him and kissed her.

“Do you want to make love to me?” Selva asked, much to Rafo’s surprise. “Rafo, I asked you a question.”

“No, I don’t know what you mean. Yes. No. I mean, what sort of a question is that?”

“I think that it was very clear. Yes or no?”

“You know I do, but I shouldn’t. Of course…I mean, I didn’t have that in mind when I kissed you.”

“I didn’t ask about your intention. I asked if you
wanted
to.”

“Selva, darling, you know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

Rafo looked at her intensely, trying to figure out what she meant. Selva was waiting for an answer, her eyes wide open.

“Yes, I do want to make love to you, very much.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you, of course.”

“Do you really love me?”

“Don’t you know that?”

“You’ve never told me so.”

“Maybe because I haven’t dared to.”

“Why’s that?”

“I didn’t want to make you angry.”

“How could I possibly be angry that you love me?”

“Well, I thought that you might think I was being audacious.”

“Fine, let’s consider it said then, and as you can see I’m not angry.”

Rafo lowered his head and kissed her again.

“Just imagine, Rafo, that even though you love me, you might end up getting married to someone else and making love to her. The same goes for me too, of course.”

“It isn’t possible to change your destiny, Selva.”

“Isn’t it?”

As Rafo lowered his head to kiss Selva for the third time, he suddenly realized that he was passing the reins of their fate into Selva’s hands. They spent the rest of the day in that dark room until it was time to rejoin Sabiha. He hadn’t managed to pluck up the courage to kiss her again. Selva had neither encouraged nor discouraged him. For his part, he couldn’t decide whether or not his advances might have a negative effect. His mind and his feelings were in turmoil. He had had the desire to let her long blonde hair flow down her slender body, which he presumed was as smooth as velvet and as white as snow. But in the end he had to make do with continuing their conversation, which was led by Selva.

When the clock struck six, announcing it was time to leave, she got up, swayed toward the door, and left the room without exchanging another kiss. They walked hand in hand down the marble steps of the house and onto the narrow streets of Pera. They took the metro from Tünel to Karaköy, where they met Sabiha at the pier before the two sisters took the boat back to the Princes’ Islands.

“So what have you been doing today?” Sabiha asked.

Rafo was about to answer, but Selva interrupted him.

“We went to Rafo’s home,” she replied.

“What? Was there anybody there?” she asked, sounding surprised.

“No.”

“So what were you up to then?”

“What do you do sitting at home? We talked.”

“Goodness gracious, you two never stop talking. You could have gone to the cinema.”

“We never run out of things to talk about,” Selva said before turning to Rafo and kissing him good-bye on the cheek. Rafo was thrilled, as if a shock went straight from his cheek to his heart.
It was something totally different from what he had felt when he kissed Selva on the lips. It was as though she was taking care of him; she was publicly acknowledging their relationship. Rafo felt an inexplicable warmth toward her as he walked to the bus stop for Tarabya. He felt proud! Good Lord, she loves me! he thought to himself. Mother, Mother, Selva loves me!

Rafo’s mother, Rakela, was no longer as enthusiastic as she had been when Rafo first told her that he had been invited to Fazıl Reşat Paşa’s house. At the time, she had felt very proud that one of her sons had befriended the daughter of one of the most prominent Turkish families. Her mother-in-law had been less excited. “What’s so special about that? Don’t forget that your husband is an Alfandari!”

Rakela would never have known what was going on if one of her friends hadn’t told her about the gossip concerning her son. She had been having endless arguments with Rafael herself already. She believed him to be her most intelligent son. Later, his decision to leave the university came as a great shock. Rafael was unlike his brothers. He always had a mind of his own. He was the one who criticized his family for speaking Spanish Hebrew—Ladino—and not Turkish at home. He didn’t see any sense in speaking the language of a country that had tortured and banished his people many years ago. Rakela presumed that her son’s decision to leave university had something to do with that. But maybe he had gotten too emotional about an incident there, and turned it into a matter of pride and honor. She’d noticed that her son had had bouts of depression ever since his father died. Did he feel guilty that he hadn’t been able to help his father? No one in the family had realized how bad Salvador Alfandari’s heart was until the night he had that fatal heart attack.

Rakela badgered her son with questions. Why was he studying chemistry if he found it so difficult? Why didn’t he choose another
subject at least? Why couldn’t he take a sabbatical and continue with his studies the following year?

When Rakela’s friend Rosa visited her one evening, what she had to relate was typical of the gossip at the time. The story, of course, bore no resemblance to the facts. Rosa told Rakela that it was Fazıl Reşat Paşa who had had Rafael removed from the university, because Rafo had the audacity to pester his daughter.