Young Turk (10 page)

Marko readily agreed to help us. But he would not hire out his boat. He pointed out that we not only knew nothing about the vagaries of the Aegean Sea, but also were totally unfamiliar with the Thracian coastline. If we were chased by Turkish or German patrol boats, we would not be able to give them the slip and would either get captured or blown out of the sea.

There was only one way we could succeed: he would smuggle us in and out of Greece personally. He was an experienced sailor who knew the region like the back of his hand. He could put us ashore very close to Salonica, for instance at Acte, the easternmost promontory of the three-tongued Khalkhidiki peninsula where the monasteries of Mount Athos were situated. In fact, operating near the monasteries would be wise; in case of mishaps, the monks could be expected to provide us with food and shelter. Last but not least, he, Marko, was an irrepressible romantic who believed that saving people was a sacred duty; consequently, he would do the job for a pittance, say, a month’s supply of raki.

His evaluation made good sense; his enthusiasm lifted our spirits. We could finally leave the realm of ‘if only’ and enter the world of action. So we agreed.

We set the date for Sunday 6 September. We would return, we calculated, a week later, on the thirteenth.

‘Accounts made at home never tally in the market,’ say the Turks. True enough. In no time at all, everything went wrong.

Our request to go on a week’s camping with the boy scouts elicited little enthusiasm from our fathers. Naim and Can’s, desperately trying to keep their businesses afloat, needed their sons for odd jobs and refused them permission outright. My father, stuck in Ankara and loath to leave my mother alone with her depression, insisted that I stay by her side. Only Bilâl’s parents acquiesced – with indecent haste, according to Bilâl. Their marriage, as everybody could see, had turned sour; they welcomed the opportunity to give their son a respite from their bickering.

Two days later Marko had second thoughts. An operation that entailed the rescue of five people of different ages, he reasoned, was beyond the capabilities of youngsters, no matter how bright or brave. Moreover, we were too many – almost a crowd. We would be conspicuous. We would get caught and would probably be executed on the spot. (We hadn’t told him that only Bilâl had permission to go away; we still hoped that we might prevail upon our parents to change their minds.)

Marko suggested a new plan. He would go on his own. Like every Levantine, he spoke fluent Greek. And he knew his way around Salonica: before the war, he had had a wild time there with the lusty
koritzia
. Ah, those girls – Aphrodites, all of them! Just hand over the passports and he’d be in and out in a flash. He wouldn’t even ask for additional payment.

We were devastated. We asked for a day or so to reconsider. Our first thought – certainly mine – was that, all along, Marko’s sole interest in our project had been the passports. I could picture him selling them to the highest bidder, making hay for a while and eventually reappearing with a cock-and-bull story about how he had very nearly succeeded but had suddenly, tragically, been struck by misfortune. But since, except for Bilâl, we had been reduced to non-participants, what counter-arguments could we offer?

At the next meeting, Bilâl confronted Marko with a sang-froid that surprised us all. ‘You’re right. All of us would be too many. So we’ll be just two. You and I.’

Marko chuckled and ruffled Bilâl’s hair. ‘My little brother. Fellow spirit. Lovely boy. No.’ He sipped his raki and chased it with mineral water. ‘I must be alone. Only way. In and out. Finished in no time.’ He flexed his biceps. ‘Marko can do it. Word of honour.’

Bilâl, half-teasing Marko, flexed his own muscles. ‘You and I.’

Marko stared at Bilâl’s thin arms and roared with laughter. ‘Oh, little brother ...’

Bilâl poured more raki into Marko’s glass, then proffered his hand. ‘Deal?’

Marko pushed Bilâl’s hand away angrily. ‘No!’ He gulped down the drink, then leaned menacingly across. ‘You don’t trust Marko, little brother? Even when he gives his word of honour?’

‘I do. But they won’t.’

Marko turned to us, even more menacingly. His thick, perfectly groomed moustache bristled. ‘You won’t?’

Bilâl punched him on the shoulder. ‘Not them, Marko. My family in Salonica.’

Marko chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, little brother. They will trust me. Instantly – they will love me. They will kiss my hands. They will kiss me everywhere.’

At moments like these I felt that Marko, beneath all his manliness, was a simpleton.

‘They are Jews, Marko. They have to be introduced before they can kiss.’

Marko stared at him. ‘You’re joking ...?’

Bilâl nodded. ‘Yes. But it’s also true. My relatives don’t know you. They won’t trust a stranger. Not after what’s been happening to them.’

Marko shook his head mournfully. ‘But I can save them, little brother! I am ready to save them!’

‘They know me. They will trust me. I’m family. Then they’ll kiss your hands. Kiss you everywhere.’

Marko became ebullient. ‘They will?’

‘Especially the women.’

Marko looked up suspiciously. ‘Only one woman, little brother. Your aunt. The girls are too young.’

Bilâl smiled. ‘Fine! The girls can kiss me!’

Marko grinned and clasped Bilâl’s hand. ‘Right! You and I then!’

They left on Sunday 6 September, as scheduled, from Beşiktaş, at the mouth of the Bosporus, where Marko normally berthed his boat. Naim, Can and I sailed with them as far as Florya. We arranged to meet a week later at the same place. Did any of us believe Marko and Bilâl would succeed? I don’t know. I have suppressed a great deal since then. I would say Marko, ingenuous as ever, did believe. The rest of us, I imagine, pretended.

The day of their return, 13 September, came and went. We waited on the beach, at our rendezvous, until dawn the next day. We smoked countless cigarettes and slunk into dark corners to weep. Finally we admitted that we would never see them again. We were inconsolable.

Later all hell broke loose.

Ester, distraught at her son’s failure to return home, contacted the boy scouts and was told that Bilâl could not have joined an excursion since, due to lack of funds, none had been organized.

She and Pepo then contacted our parents, who duly summoned us to an inquisition. My father managed to extricate himself from Ankara and rushed over. My mother, too distressed – she had been very fond of Bilâl – confined herself to her room.

We saw no point in hedging. Desperate to save Bilâl, if this were still possible, we told them everything.

Much to our surprise and despite harshly reprimanding us for being so immature and foolhardy, they understood us, even sympathized. Bilâl’s parents, in particular, for once equable, muttered praises, in between sobs, for our compassion and courage. I believe my father, too, felt proud of me even as he told me that I must not expect him to intercede on my behalf when the legation put me on trial for stealing the passports.

Several decisions were taken. The consulate would approach the Turkish immigration authorities and ask them whether there had been entry records for the five Turkish passports – fortunately, we had noted their numbers. If, by some miracle, Ester’s relatives had reached Turkey or were being held in custody at a border post, then my father, with the ambassador’s blessing, would prevail on the Turkish government to grant them asylum. The parents of Naim and Can would, in turn, make inquiries in the Levantine community about Marko’s fate.

On Saturday 19 September Tomaso came up with some news. His father had had reports that Marko’s boat, the
Yasemin
, had been seized by German patrol cutters in a cove in the bay of Kassándra, in the Khalkhidiki peninsula, on 12 September, the day before he and Bilâl were due back in Istanbul. The seizure itself, the sources insisted, was due to bad luck: a plank nailed over the
Yasemin
’s name and port of registration, Gelibolu, had worked loose and a sharp-eyed German official, intrigued at finding a vessel with Roman lettering instead of Greek, had gone to investigate.

As far as the sources could ascertain, there had been no arrests. That suggested that the boat was empty when the Germans discovered it.

It was likely, therefore, that Marko and Bilâl were lying low, conceivably with Ester’s relatives – Salonica was no more than fifty kilometres from the bay of Kassándra – or somewhere on the peninsula.

We held on to this hope.

Four days later, we heard about Marko’s death. He had appeared, the previous evening, inside Bulgaria, near the Svilengrad rail-bridge close to the Turkish border. He had acquired a mule and was galloping towards the Meriç river.

He had been spotted by German and Bulgarian motorcycle patrols, who had given chase. When he started scampering across the river, the Bulgarians, respecting the neutrality of no-man’s-land, had stopped chasing. Not the Germans – they had opened fire. Turkish border guards, appearing on the scene, had asked the Germans to stop firing and threatened to fire back. An argument had ensued. Meanwhile, Marko had reached the bank. The Turkish soldiers, rushing to help, had found him mortally wounded. He had died shortly after, delirious and repeatedly asking after Bilâl.