Last Train to Istanbul (3 page)

Not long ago, just a few months in fact, the country had been sucked into the whirlpool of war. War…It was worse than that, it was a cesspit, a filthy cesspit! Macit threw his cigarette butt in anger. It fell somewhere in the pitch-darkness without a glimmer of light. He remembered the stories his war-hero father
told about this darkness and the cigarette lights at night—one, two, three lights, five lights, ten lights—bodies without arms or legs, corpses without heads. People miserable, hungry, covered in lice, like wounded, skinny animals. Starving, abandoned children. Women who’d lost their humanity; men who had no money, no home, and no hope. He vaguely remembered his father in that state appearing at the garden gate, all skin and bones, covered in lice, his uniform in rags. He had staggered toward the edge of the pool and collapsed. This was a memory imprinted in Macit’s mind, but he wasn’t sure if he had actually witnessed it or was told about it later. What he did remember was that the gardener hadn’t recognized his master, and thought he was a beggar. It took some time before they realized who the man was. The tall, strong, sociable Ruhi had become a cadaver, a spiritless skeleton dragging one leg, without the usual gleam in his eye. Such was war! Macit was certain that victory was to be won around the table, not on the battlefield. He was working so hard to save the people of his nation from that dreadful fate again, but how could he explain that to his sobbing wife?

Slumping into a straw armchair and drifting into his memories, he realized he had gotten used to the coolness on the balcony. Macit had contributed a lot toward the signing of the agreement with England and France in 1939. According to that agreement, the French and the British would provide the Turkish army with its vital needs. In return, Turkey was to sell the chrome she produced to France throughout the war. The Turkish foreign minister himself had traveled to France with Macit to sign the agreement. They had gone to Paris with great expectations, but, unfortunately, the end result didn’t meet their hopes. France desperately needed the money they’d make selling the Turkish chrome, but despite Menemencioğlu’s insistence on supplying the chrome for the duration of the war, France would only sign for two years. Then Britain
drastically reduced the quantity of arms, tanks, and antiaircraft guns it was willing to supply to Turkey.

The Turkish army needed 11 million bullets and 6,500 machine guns. The British were only prepared to supply two million bullets and 200 machine guns. With these pitiful supplies, how on earth could Turkey be expected to stop the Germans in the Balkans? One could understand a person fighting with his bare hands to save his own country, but to fight for the British, who had stirred up the Arabs against the Turks in the First World War when they had their eyes set on Musul and Kerkük, was too much to expect. At the same time, other European countries, for their own reasons, had supported various Middle Eastern tribes who were seeking independence.

Had it been left to Macit, he would not have lifted a finger for any of them. Let the Europeans go at each other’s throats. Wasn’t it enough that they were dragging each other into this war? Macit had no doubt that if, for some reason, Turkey was eventually forced to join the war, she would have to foot the bill for the ambitions of the great powers.

During a meal on the train on the way back from Paris, Macit learned that the foreign minister was concerned about another thing. He addressed the delegation. “Gentlemen, as I see it, the British haven’t got enough weapons and the French have none. They aren’t able to deliver the goods because they have bad intentions. It is simply impossible. I became fully aware of this situation during our talks in Paris. There are all sorts of questions in my mind. I have doubts about their eventual victory. I wonder if we are backing the wrong horse, signing these agreements that will make us their allies.” After a year of endless discussions—who would win the war? Which side should Turkey support?—it had been decided that Turkey should support the French and British. Now, in Paris, they had found out about France’s lack of weapons. Gradually they
had begun to realize that they may have chosen the wrong partner. Although they didn’t return to Ankara empty-handed, they were very disappointed that less than half their expectations had been met.

At the end of the talks, on the evening of their last day in Paris, Macit had managed to keep a promise he had made to Sabiha to meet up with Selva. He had told his friends that he had to see a relative who lived in Paris, and they were courteous enough not to ask questions.

Macit chose to meet Selva at the Café de Flore, because it was tucked away out of sight. Selva arrived with an armful of gifts for her mother, sister, and niece. She hugged Macit tightly and kissed him on both cheeks. It was obvious how happy she was to see someone from home. She asked about everyone in great detail: Was Sabiha still tying Hülya’s hair with huge satin ribbons? Had they been inviting the same old friends to their Friday soirees? Who was Sabiha’s bridge partner? Did her mother close down the summer house at the end of the season, or when it got cooler? She even asked about her father, who was so disappointed in her.

Macit looked at all the presents his sister-in-law had piled on a chair. With an embarrassed look on his face, he said, “I really can’t take all this back with me, Selva. I only have a small suitcase.”

“Please, Macit, don’t deny me the pleasure of sending a few things to my family. I might not get another opportunity. I can duck out and get another little bag from Lafayette.”

“No, for God’s sake, don’t! What will my colleagues think? We are here on official business. They’ll say I have done so much shopping for myself and my family that I had to buy an additional suitcase to carry everything.”

“At least take the lavender perfumes I got for my mother and sister. There are also some chocolates for Hülya…”

“I wish you hadn’t gone to all this trouble; you must have spent quite a bit of money. What a shame.”

After exchanging news, suddenly there was a lull in the conversation. It was only then that Macit noticed the dark circles under Selva’s eyes. In the evening sun, he realized how pale and haggard she looked. She was still wearing the green raincoat that Macit knew so well—which indicated that she couldn’t afford a new one here in Paris. This was Fazıl Reşat Paşa’s daughter, who had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth! The things one does for love! Macit couldn’t help wonder if Sabiha would have had the courage to act the same way if her parents hadn’t approved of him. Macit wasn’t sure that he wanted to know the answer. Sabiha might not have chosen to endure hardship for the sake of love. Would she have married him had he been of another religion, been Armenian, for instance? No! Not in a million years. No doubt his coming from an old respected Istanbul family, well educated and with a good career, contributed considerably to her choice. But why should he feel disappointed? Hadn’t he made similar choices? Wasn’t Sabiha a beautiful, intelligent, educated girl, well brought up in a respected family, and well adjusted to boot? He remembered the sensible advice Sabiha had given to her sister in those days when Selva was head over heels in love. It had not had much effect, but that was beside the point.

“Love is like a flame; it burns itself out eventually,” Sabiha had told Selva. “What will you do then? When you finally come to your senses, if you repent and wish to divorce Rafo, it won’t be the same as divorcing someone else. No one will want to marry you after that. I swear you’ll end up an old maid.”

“Because I’ll be considered the leftover of a Jewish husband—is that it? Don’t you worry, dear sister, I am sure that if the flame burns out, as you say, our friendship will survive. We will be lovers and best friends.”

“What if, God forbid, something should happen to Rafo? Will you come home as the Jewish Madame Alfandari?”

“I certainly won’t do that. I won’t return to the house of our father, who has rejected me, simply because I have fallen in love with a man who is not a Muslim. Who knows, by then anyway I may have children of my own, or even grandchildren.”

When Sabiha realized she was getting nowhere with Selva, she tried talking to their father.

“Times have changed, Father. These sorts of differences don’t matter anymore. Please don’t do anything you’ll regret later. I beg of you, Father, please be sensible. Look at Sami Paşa’s daughter-in-law—she’s Greek, isn’t she? Then there is Vecdi’s wife, who is German. What about them? Plus, you were educated in Europe. You’re supposed to be more open-minded.”

“If she marries that man, she will no longer be a daughter of mine. She’ll have to forget she was ever my daughter.”

“But, Father, how can she possibly forget she is your daughter!”

Fazıl Paşa looked far away, out the window.

“You mean ‘was.’ ”

This dreadful situation had turned the family upside down and lasted not just a few days, weeks, or months, but years. Fazıl Paşa’s unsuccessful attempt at shooting himself hadn’t stopped Selva; she simply waited until he was well again and then went to her lover. Then it was their mother’s turn to cause havoc. She took to her bed, seriously ill, and needed constant care and attention. Fazıl Paşa refused to leave the house. The family was so ashamed; they couldn’t look any of their friends directly in the eye. The incident hadn’t done the family any good, but at least now they knew who their real friends were. Now, even friends they had considered close were gossiping behind their backs, blaming Paşa because he had educated his daughters in Christian schools, as indeed many of them had.

Sabiha and Selva, like most of their friends’ children, were sent to the American school in Gedik Paşa for their primary education, then to the French school for their secondary education, and finally to the American college. Both sisters grew up speaking English and French fluently.

Macit remembered how impressed he was, many years ago, when he first saw his fiancée reading poems by Baudelaire and Byron. Even his mother, God rest her soul, had been impressed. “Just the sort of wife who would be right for a diplomat,” she had commented.

Selva’s voice brought him back to reality from where he had been lost in his thoughts. “Will Turkey join the war then?”

“No, she won’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“We are doing our best to see to it that she doesn’t. We certainly can’t afford another war, Selva.”

“Macit…There is something I need to ask.”

“Please do.”

“My father? Will he—will he ever forgive me?”

“Frankly I don’t know, Selva. Your sister and I have closed this subject. We no longer talk about it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, what else is there to say?”

“You really think so, Macit?”

Macit took a sip of coffee before replying. “What I think is neither here nor there. You have done what you wanted. Aren’t you happy, at least? Was it worth the upheaval you caused?”

“I resent your attitude, I must say. You are talking as if you had never met Rafo yourself.”

“I don’t see why you should resent my telling the truth. You simply refused to listen to anyone. You went ahead and burned your bridges. You hurt your father, your mother, and Sabiha. I only hope that it was worth it. We all hope you’ll have no regrets.”

“I love Rafo very much, Macit. I have no regrets, but I am very unhappy…”

Tears were streaming down her face. Macit took her trembling hands in his. “Come on, Selva, you shouldn’t be unhappy if you love him so much. Think of all you have endured to be together. You are a very strong person; you have always known what you wanted and had the courage to stick to your guns. I’m sure your father is aware of this too. He may not have forgiven you yet, but I am sure that deep down inside he still loves you dearly.”

“I miss everybody…so much.”

“Time is a great healer. Give this a little more time.”

“I wonder how much more time,” Selva said anxiously.

Was there any? Macit thought. Time was so very precious these days—particularly the past few months—as precious as gold. Wasn’t it time that the Turkish delegation had come to Paris for? President Inönü was seeking time more than anything else: time to think, time to distract, time to avoid war. In fact, Inönü kept answering questions regarding the war by saying, “Time will tell.”

Macit now gave the same answer to his sister-in-law. “I don’t know, Selva. Time will tell!”

He realized he was now using diplomatic tactics in his personal life. He had always thought that things could change in the blink of an eye, bringing unforeseen results. But in the present circumstances, Europe could find no solace in predictions or hope.

Before leaving Selva, Macit held her hands tightly and looked into her eyes. “Everything can change, Selva, and change rapidly. Should anything happen that puts your life in danger, you must return home immediately.”

“I can’t return without Rafo, Macit.”

“I think you should. He’s a man; he can look after himself.”

“We’ve vowed to stick together throughout our lives. He wouldn’t want to go back. You know all he went through, all those insults. And I just couldn’t leave him.”

“Think carefully. We only have one life to live. We alone are responsible for it.”

“Macit, try to understand. I am not only responsible for my own life.”

“Exactly. Even at sea women and children abandon ship first.”

“You don’t understand; I’m not talking about Rafo.”

Macit, who had stood up to leave, sat down again. “No! You don’t mean…”

“Yes, I do.”

“When?”

“Early next year.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I had hoped you’d notice.”

Looking at her more closely, Macit could indeed see that she had put on weight around the waist and that her breasts were fuller than he remembered. On the other hand, her face was drawn. He thought she must be mad to get pregnant in wartime. Rather reluctantly, Macit wished her well.

“Do you want me to tell Sabiha?” he asked.

“I have already written her, but she may not have received my letter yet. If you are going back tomorrow, you may as well spread the news, but I’d rather she hear it from me first.”