Young Turk (8 page)

It was in the wake of this lawyer’s latest missive that Bilâl, Naim and Can, another gang member, approached me. You may have guessed, from my references to Ester’s concern for her relatives, that Bilâl – and, indeed, Naim and Can – were Jewish; and you may be intrigued by their Muslim names. There is a simple explanation: Atatürk, determined to distance the new republic from the iniquities of the Ottoman empire, had sought to instil in the people pride in their Turkishness. Consequently, by law, all minorities were obliged to give their children a Turkish name in addition to an ethnic one. Thus Benjamin had acquired Bilâl; Nehemiah, Naim; and Jacob, Can.

I remember the exact date of their visit: Monday 27 July 1942. I was with my parents in sleepy Florya, a resort some fifty kilometres west of Istanbul, on the European coast of the Sea of Marmara where, during the summer months, the British embassy maintained a spacious villa for its staff. We had just heard that the RAF had bombed Hamburg and, somehow, this news had raised the morale of the diplomatic corps much more than the month’s significantly greater achievements such as holding the line at El Alamein and bombing the U-boat yards in Danzig. Suddenly the whole British legation felt convinced that we would win the war and my father, Duncan Stevenson, had seen fit to offer me my first dram of
uisge beatha
, the water of life. Though, at the time, I had already perfected the art of downing leftover drinks, these had mainly been sherry; consequently, my first taste of whisky proved a revelation – which may well be the real reason I remember the date.

My father must have come up to Istanbul for an ‘appearance’. His outfit, the British-American Co-ordination Committee, set up to entice a still-neutral Turkey to join the Allies by providing its army with vital supplies, was headquartered in the capital, Ankara. To shield his activities from enemy agents, his official position had been listed as vice-consul in Istanbul. To safeguard this cover, he had to be seen living there. Thus we became prominent residents of the cosmopolitan suburb, Nιşantaşι. It was there that Bilâl, Naim and Can found me drifting aimlessly in parks and playing fields. And when they discovered that I could kick a football like a budding William Shankly, they made me their friend for life.

We had changed into our bathing suits with unusual decorum. I attributed my friends’ subdued spirits to the Gorgon’s presence. For, throughout the time we undressed, even when we turned our backs to her to prevent our willies from turning to stone under her serpent’s eyes – when, normally, like most boys celebrating puberty, we would have been comparing sizes – Mrs Meredith, the housekeeper, had not shifted her chilling scrutiny from us. This martinet, who aspired to discipline even the daisies on the lawn (the epithet ‘Gorgon’ had originated, some years back, from one of our senior diplomats), had a particular fetish for the parquet flooring which contributed so much to the villa’s elegance; no one, certainly not four strapping boys, could shuffle or, heaven forbid, run on it without forfeiting their lives.

We reached the villa’s private beach. My friends remained subdued. They should have been bubbly: this was a day stolen for fun. Normally, during the week, they helped in their fathers’ shops; moreover, except for the Johnson horde, who were a jolly bunch, the beach was deserted and we could run riot. I became concerned. ‘What’s up?’

Bilâl, distracted by the Johnsons waving at us, spoke quietly. ‘It’s grim!’

Thinking that he was referring to yet another crisis with the girl who lived across the road from him and whom he audaciously worshipped from his window, I offered a sympathetic smile. ‘Selma’s ignoring you?’

‘No. She returns my gaze. Smiles even.’

‘Well then?’

‘Salonica ...’

The Johnson children had risen from their chairs and were coming towards us.

I stared at Bilâl. ‘What?’

Can, always the soft voice that calmed us down, whispered, ‘His cousins. Difficult times for them.’

Naim, the oldest among us and hence our leader, spoke gravely. ‘We must do something.’

I stared at them. Children talking like adults. ‘What can we do?’

Bilâl muttered, ‘We can save them. If you help us ...’

‘Me? What can I do?’

Can, mindful of the Johnson brood who were almost upon us, whispered, ‘Passports – we need passports.’

‘What for?’

‘For the family. To get them out.’

‘Yes, get them out! Let’s have a look!’ This from Dorothy, the Johnsons’ oldest. A miniature Mae West since she started growing a couple of tangerines on her chest. But a tease: she wouldn’t let any boy touch her.

‘We’re having man-talk, Dorothy! Go away!’

She hissed. ‘Men, Robbie? Where?’ Then she smiled. She could be blade and balm in the same breath. ‘Dad says: come and join us. Someone’s sent a hamper of goodies:
lokum
, figs, halva ...’

I noted my friends’ reluctance, but we couldn’t refuse; it wouldn’t have been, in my father’s parlance, diplomatic. Why do junior staff always feel obliged to pamper youngsters? Still, Dorothy had said figs and Turkish figs were worth an empire. ‘Don’t mind if we do, thank you.’

We followed her.

I nudged Naim. ‘We’ll talk later.’

Naim didn’t respond. He was studying Dorothy’s widening hips. Wide hips are childbearing hips, he had once told us, quoting old Kokona, our neighbourhood know-all, as an authority. Well, that formidable Greek matriarch would have known; she had given birth to fourteen children and, by all accounts, it would have taken her husband a good few minutes to run a caressing hand from one buttock to the other.

In time, both Naim and Can developed a healthy preference for wide hips. I never did. Like most northerners, I ended up thinking that ample flesh and carnal living were joys that led to immoderation. These days I ask: what’s wrong with immoderation?

Figs and the other treats were followed by a chess game between Mr Johnson and Can, spectacularly won by the latter who, had he not set his mind on medicine, would have become a grand master. Then a bout of jousting in the sea during which Naim had the bliss of carrying Dorothy on his shoulders – his mouth barely centimetres away from her freckled thighs – while she repeatedly unseated her four brothers despite the valiant efforts of Bilâl and Mrs Johnson, who served as their mounts. Then a couple of hours of serious swimming, an activity at which I excelled. Finally a succulent lunch, courtesy of Emine, the cook, who, except for special requests, never repeated her menus.

Thus privacy eluded us until the obligatory siesta. Because of my father’s privileged status, I had managed to secure, as my retreat, the big room in the attic, which served as a dump for the villa’s oddments. That’s where we secreted ourselves, much to the displeasure of the Gorgon, who could not keep an eye on us in there.

Bilâl brought out the letter his mother had received from the family lawyer and translated it. His Greek was perfect. Since Ester claimed to have taught the language to Bilâl’s father, Pepo, in the early years of their marriage (not true, actually; Pepo had known Greek before he met Ester, had even acted as an interpreter during the War of Independence) we used to tease Bilâl that he had learned it by listening to his parents’ pre- and post-coital cooing. (A crass banter that we instantly abandoned after Bilâl confided in us that all was not well between his mum and dad.)

Much of the letter was devoted to an incident that had taken place on 11 July. On that day, a Sabbath, the
Wehrmacht
commander of northern Greece had decreed that all male Jewish citizens of Salonica between the ages of eighteen and forty-five must gather at 8
AM
in Plateia Eleftherias, ‘Freedom Square’, to register for civilian labour. Some 10,000 men, Ester’s elderly father Salvador among them, had duly reported in the hope of securing work cards. The Germans had chosen to humiliate the assemblage by keeping them standing in the blistering heat, without hats, until late afternoon. Those who had collapsed from sunstroke had been hosed down with cold water and beaten up; others, ordered to perform arduous exercises until they, too, had passed out, had received similar treatment. These horrific and arbitrary abuses, the lawyer admitted with mortification, had been witnessed, mostly with indifference, sometimes with glee, by a large number of the city’s inhabitants – people who, no doubt, considered themselves good Christians. Worse still, the following day, the newspapers, brandishing photographs supplied by the German army, had praised this attitude. Perhaps even more invidious was the fact that not a single professional organization, nor any members of one, had spoken up on behalf of a Jewish colleague or in protest against the Jews’ maltreatment. But what was even worse was that in Salonica – and nowhere else in the country – there had been many denunciations of Jewish neighbours by the citizens. These denunciations had much to do with Greek nationalism, which still resented the fact that throughout the centuries when Salonica had been an Ottoman city, Jews and Turks had had very harmonious relations. But it must be remembered, the lawyer bitterly lamented, that every institution in Salonica, not to say every citizen, had also worked and maintained close ties with Jews for generations. How could that tradition be forgotten? After all, history had produced only one constant in the Balkans: the Jew’s word as his bond.

To date, the Germans had dispatched most of the men who had assembled on that Saturday to build roads and airfields. What the future held for other Jews, the lawyer dared not imagine. Reports from eastern Thrace and Macedonia augured the worst. The Germans had delegated the administration of these territories to their ally, the Bulgarians; but since the latter kept prevaricating on the matter of surrendering their own Jews, the Germans had decided to deal with the Jews of Thrace and Macedonia themselves. Lately there had been rumours that these unfortunates would be deported
en masse
to Occupied Poland. All of this made the lawyer look back regretfully to the time when the Italians had been the occupying power. The Italians had been humane, often in defiance of Mussolini’s edicts. Throughout their occupation, they had persistently warned the Jews of the Nazis’ racist policies and urged them to leave the country; on many occasions they had even granted Italian passports to those who heeded their advice. Ester might remember one Moiz Hananel, a distant cousin from Rhodes: he was now safe in Chile. But, alas, Ester’s father, Salvador, disinclined to liquidate his considerable investments, had procrastinated. Now, the Italians had gone and Salvador’s wealth had evaporated.

There the lawyer’s letter ended.

Then Bilâl brought out another letter, the latest from Ester’s sister, Fortuna. It was written in French, the lingua franca of the educated Sephardim, and he read it out loud. As might be expected of my Scottish lineage – the antithesis of the insular, monolingual English – I was quite cosmopolitan and spoke several languages fluently.

Fortuna’s letter was like that of a dying person, without a trace of the billowing fury with which she normally faced adversity. Her husband, Zaharya, one of those impressed for road construction, had suffered a heart attack and died. Viktorya and Süzan, her daughters, aged eight and ten, had become the family’s breadwinners. Every morning before dawn, they would leave home – which, these days, was a corner in a disused warehouse – and climb to the lower slopes of Mount Hortiatis where they would collect wild flowers. They would then run back, at breakneck speed, to reach the city by noon and sell the flowers, often in competition with equally destitute Gypsy children, to German officers relaxing at the waterfront tavernas.

Every morning, as they left, Fortuna felt sure she would never see her daughters again. Her son, David – who, like Bilâl, was nearly thirteen – fared worse. His daily task was to scour the city for scraps of food. In doing so, he had to avoid the German patrols for whom the humiliation of rabbis, women and the elderly, the beating of children and the random shooting of ‘die-hard communists’ – a euphemism for semitic-looking people – had become favourite pastimes.

Salvador, a man who, in his time, had never backed down from a fight, was now a ghost. Since the expropriation of his villa by the
Wehrmacht
, a few days after 11 July, he had ensconced himself in a shack, near the Eptapyrgio fortress, that terrible prison on the crest of the old upper city. Vowing that he would never again be maltreated and calling for his wife, mercifully dead for many years, to come and take him away, he had not left the shack since. Viktorya and Süzan took him food, but how long could they go on doing that?

All of this had persuaded Fortuna that she would have to learn the ways of this new world, become cunning and predatory and, abandoning all notions of decency, survive any way she could. She was still young and attractive. Greek men, everybody knew, had a fondness for Jewish flesh. The Germans, too, it was said, had a secret passion for it.