Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature) (33 page)

– 20 –
Broken Wings

Azra had put down her pen and leaned back in her chair when, in the weak, flickering light, she saw that her tears were smudging the ink. She closed her eyes and waited for a time. Then she allowed herself to sob long and loud.

She was living in a primitive dwelling—impossible to heat in the winter and maddeningly short of water in the summer—located on one of the narrow lanes in the impoverished outskirts of the city of Mara
ş
. Sitting there at her desk, the shutters still closed against the morning sun, wearing her nightgown, her shawl slipping off her left shoulder, her hair uncombed, the dark circles under her eyes mute testimony to yet another sleepless night, she was the very picture of misery and dejection—she suspected she looked like an actress ineptly performing some melodrama in a provincial theater. And yet, she still seemed completely out of place in the utter wretchedness of that room.

She’d believed that it was love of country that had brought her to this distant city. That is, she’d believed it until months of hardship had given her the courage to examine her true motives, forcing her to conclude that she had come not for country but to inject excitement into her empty life.

How envious she had been of Mehpare! And it was only now, as she composed a letter of condolence, that she acknowledged an envy that astonished her. Feeling genuine affection for that uninformed young woman living in the house of Re
ş
at Beyefendi in the role of poor relation, a status so much lower than her own, Azra’s friendship had nonetheless been tinged with envy for Mehpare’s intense love for Kemal, and later, with envy for the fertility God had granted so generously to Mehpare while denying it so completely to herself.

Kemal, however, had always implied that it was Mehpare who might be envious of Azra. Which was only natural. After all, Azra was well-educated, wealthy, esteemed and independent: everything Mehpare aspired to, but would never attain. Kemal had cited Azra’s many fine qualities as precisely the reason she should be tolerant of any discourtesy evinced by Mehpare.

But Mehpare had never been discourteous, had always shown Azra the greatest respect—except for that one day when they’d all gathered at the mansion. And now it was Azra who would give anything to change places with Mehpare—anything. But God disposes.

Fate had sent Mehpare into Re
ş
at Bey’s house and into Kemal’s arms; it was fated that they would marry, and it was also fated that she would be left a widow before she’d fully learned what it was to be a wife.

Had Azra’s envy, then, been misplaced?

No, Mehpare had a child in her arms. And she would always have her great love, even if she yearned for him till the day she died.

She, Azra, had nothing.

She and Necdet had married because their families had deemed it suitable. It was a sensible marriage with benefits on both sides. When she looked back and tried to remember their happiest moments together, she’d see the docile, hazel eyes of her husband looking at her with great tenderness, if not great love. There had been moments of deep contentment: sitting side by side listening to music or reclining on lawn chairs under the chestnut tree in the garden discussing books they were reading.

But passion?

If there were moments of erotic desire, they belonged to Necdet alone. Lying under her husband’s strong, youthful body, her legs parted, her silk nightgown hitched to her waist to spare the lace, she’d surreptitiously wipe away the drops of sweat falling from her husband’s forehead onto her face and, if there was enough light, study Necdet’s face with disgust. When his eyes began rolling behind half-closed lids she’d know the end of her torment was near. And that’s when she’d begin the work of murmuring
ah
’
s
and
oh
’
s
to hasten his climax. She sometimes wondered if her failure to conceive had been due to her inability to give love to her husband, to take pleasure from him. On that day when Kemal and Mehpare had hidden at the mansion, Azra had been staggered at the raw desire she noticed in the girl’s eyes every time she looked at him. The act of sitting in the same room as Kemal was enough to produce an intensity of feeling in Mehpare that far surpassed anything Azra had ever felt for her husband, even in their most intimate moments. Azra had observed their every move; she’d taken their measure. She’d seen how Kemal would “inadvertently” brush against Mehpare’s hand, her arm, her hair, even her breasts and her thighs. And as for Mehpare, she was forever gazing at him, lingering over his eyes and his lips, and Azra had recognized the look of a woman recalling private moments. And when Mehpare wasn’t actually looking at Kemal, she would still drift off to thoughts that were, no doubt, of Kemal, always of Kemal.

She’d been envious. But it wasn’t them she’d envied—it was that heightened emotional and physical state, one that she recognized while realizing it was something she herself had never experienced.

Now, as she dipped her fountain pen into the inkwell and struggled to compose a letter of condolence, she had no idea what to say.

I am greatly saddened, dearest sister. May God grant you the patience to endure. Your husband was martyred for the motherland. Be proud of him. Try to find solace in your son.

Azra crumpled up the sheet of paper and started again.

Dearest Mehpare, my beloved and most unfortunate sister
,

Would you take consolation in an account of the last two days I spent with Kemal? We were both excited by having arrived in Ankara to learn a new skill, one that would be helpful in driving the enemy from our lands. Kemal was elated. He had married the woman he loved, he was awaiting the birth of his child, he had been given an important duty he was thrilled to discharge, and he was, in his own words, “of use at last.” Once the Greek advance was repulsed, he planned to return home with his head held high. Neither of us had any idea how the Greeks would be driven off, but we’d both dedicated ourselves to just that end, and we believed, with every fiber of our being, that a miracle would happen . . .

Mehpare, on that night in Ankara, Kemal and I talked until dawn. We returned to our childhood. We were both moved to tears. By what we’ve lost, by what we’ve lived, by our mistakes…

No, she could never send that to Mehpare. Another crumpled ball of paper tossed into the waste bin . . .

She began again.

You’re absolutely determined to learn more of that horrific event. I don’t know of what use such knowledge will be to you, but I’ll do as you ask nevertheless: Kemal was traveling with a bag of telegraph conductors when he was detained by the military police near Eski
ş
ehir. He refused to open the bag. He tried to send them on their way, saying he was a traveling salesman, and producing the relevant papers. They insisted he open the bag. Left with no choice, he agreed. But instead of opening the bag he flung it into a nearby ravine. The Greek police looked down at the bag at the bottom of the ravine. Then they pulled out their guns and emptied their bullets into his slender, defenseless body . . .

Why am I writing this, Mehpare? Am I out of my mind? Another sheet of paper was crumpled and tossed. No, this would be more than a letter of condolence. Azra wanted to confess her love. She needed to unburden herself. Perhaps by confiding her love to someone else she would free herself from this nightmare. That was her real and fervent desire.

. . . and so, as I wrote to you earlier, I’ve at last found a love like the one you shared with Kemal, the love I so envied and admired. But Mehpare, I’m afraid I’ve bungled things badly, yet again. There was a desperate hopelessness to your early love for Kemal and I, too, am now hopelessly and passionately in love with this man . . . This man . . . This man . . .

In the letter you wrote to me, you said how pleased you were that I had found love at last. Don’t be pleased for me, sister. There is nothing pleasing about this love of mine . . .

As Azra stood up the chair tipped over. She began a frenzied circling of the room. What to do with this man and this love? Could she accept the offer he’d been making day after day? Could she run away with him? Obliterate her past, dismay and disgrace her mother, her relatives and her friends . . . Could she abandon her homeland?

The night before, she’d come to Jean Daniel’s house dressed like a local villager, thrown herself into his arms, too enraptured to make sure the curtains were drawn, felt his weight pressing down on her, been maddened by his exploring lips and later, lying in his arms, released and fulfilled, had promised to leave with him. And then came morning and a cool head and now, as she sat writing to Mehpare, she realized how agonizing it would be to tear up roots… She couldn’t decide if the tears streaking the page in front of her had been shed for Kemal or for herself.

Perhaps the only solution was for Jean Daniel to die fighting for his cause, just as Kemal had. That way, she would be free. But what was she doing? Was she really hoping for her lover’s death? For the sake of her own peace of mind? She would never amount to so much as the nail on Mehpare’s little finger, Mehpare who was ready at any moment to give up her life for Kemal! Azra paced back and forth, the whole length of the room, wide-eyed and waving her arms as though deep in argument.

Mehpare, if you only knew what a fortunate woman you are! You’ll be loving the ghost of Kemal for the rest of your life. Which means that he’ll always be yours. He won’t be there to see you age and fade and grow old. But if I abandon my country and my family to pursue this love for a French officer, and if he betrays me . . . If he leaves me one day . . . How could I return across a bridge of ashes? And to whom would I return?

Azra poured water into her cupped hand from the pitcher on the desk and splashed her face. She pushed up the guillotine window and opened the wooden shutters. She drew aside the calico curtain, blinking in the morning light and attempting to draw fresh air into her lungs. But her chest was tight and soon enough she’d have to get dressed and leave. She was to report to the provincial governorship and edit the Turkish commanders’ correspondence with the French. When the Greeks had defied the Allies by continuing their advance into Anatolia, there had been a subtle but perceptible change in the attitude of the French and the Italians towards the Turks, a shift that accelerated after the Ankara Government had signed a friendship treaty with Soviet Russia in March If only Kemal were alive to see these developments for himself. If only. But just as Azra knew that a life full of “if only’s” wasn’t really a life worth living, she also knew that the rest of her days would be spent in regret. If she left, one day she’d wish she’d stayed; and if she stayed, one day she’d wish she’d gone.

She rolled a cigarette and lit it. When she’d smoked it she felt marginally better, well enough to sit down, place a clean sheet of paper on the desk in front of her, and write a letter of condolence to Mehpare.

– 21 –
September 1922

My Dearest Sister, Mehpare,

I’m writing this letter to you from
İ
zmir. Please send all future letters to the new address that I’ll forward to you. I read your most recent letter with close attention. Believe me when I say that I know as well as you that grief and longing will be with you forever. Try to accept the painful truth. It’s true that death didn’t take my lover from me, but the pain of separation is as acute as the pain of losing a loved one. And furthermore, I don’t have a baby binding me to life.

Dearest Sister, life goes on. And while you rear Halim and Sabahat in Istanbul, I’ll be occupying a position at a school in
İ
zmir, where I plan to settle. We have no other choice. This is our lot in life, the way the women of our land have always lived. Let’s pray that our children have happier lives than ours.

Believe me, sister, your letters are a source of great comfort to me here in the uproar and upheaval. They bring me the colors and smells of my city. But I’m afraid the letters I send to you are always accounts of fighting, of the war.

As you know, hostilities with France ended last October. The French troops stationed in and around Adana have all been demobilized and Jean Daniel has returned to France at the head of his regiment. I refused his offer of marriage—refused to accompany him. He left these lands disappointed and angry. He desires no further correspondence with me and says he wishes only to forget me and to get on with his life. He’d hoped for us to return to France together, to marry and start a family. If it weren’t for this war, that might have been possible. He’ll never understand why I couldn’t bring myself to marry an officer from an army that was occupying my country. So be it, I have no regrets. And, like you, I now have a great love I will never forget. I will love Jean Daniel for as long as I draw breath.

While he was still in Mara
ş
I requested transfer to a place other than Ankara. My transfer to the Western Front coincided with King Constantine ordering his Greek troops to march on Ankara. Vehicles and wagons loaded with soldiers, the wounded and the fleeing filled the roads. It was a grinding journey but it was worth the hardship. I was there to share with others our great victory in Sakarya.

I stayed in Eski
ş
ehir for a while. As our National Army launched a major offensive I was given a position as a nurse at a field hospital behind the lines.

It was smart of us to attend those classes at the Red Crescent in Istanbul, Mehpare. If I hadn’t learned how to dress wounds, how to change bandages and give injections, what would I have done? There were other women here from Istanbul, seven of us in all, nursing amid the shelling and gunfire, sometimes for days on end, with virtually no sleep. During twenty days of continuous counter-attacks, we did everything we could to help, from working in the field hospitals and kitchens to gathering fruit from the trees and vegetables from the fields, from rolling bandages to assisting at surgeries. With God’s help, every single counter-offensive ended in victory.

Undoubtedly, Re
ş
at Beyefendi has long since been informed of the most recent development, but I’ll share it with you nonetheless: Greek Commander in Chief General Nikolaos Trikoupis and his retinue were captured last week. We wept in the streets, embracing one another and singing together. Then we all followed the army corps as it advanced towards
İ
zmir, which is how I eventually came to be in this beautiful place. As we neared
İ
zmir, the entire city was in flames. They wouldn’t allow any women to go to the port, where there were reports of utter chaos. We waited at a village not far from Manisa and were able to enter
İ
zmir only two days later. I don’t know if you’ll believe this, but as I looked out over
İ
zmir for the first time, from a hilltop, I felt as though Ali Riza and Kemal were there with me, shedding tears of joy. They have not died in vain. Every life we lost brought us a step closer to liberation.

Mehpare, this might not be of much comfort to you, but the telegraph lines Kemal successfully put in place are now proclaiming victory to the four corners of our land.

By the end of this month, Western Anatolia is expected to be purged of the Greek army. I’m preparing to rent a small house in the district of Karantina, not far from the school where I will become an English teacher. I’m arranging for my mother to come and live with me. The summers here are said to be sweltering, but for the rest of the year the climate is mild. When school is recessed for the summer, we’ll be coming to Istanbul in any case. We’ll probably rent out part of our enormous house. And we’ll have the opportunity to see you all.

There is much talk of eventually expelling the enemy forces from Istanbul as well. I would like to be there with you when it happens.

Please reply soon. Send me news of Halim and Sabahat, of Behice Hanımefendi, Re
ş
at Beyefendi and the girls. Has Leman improved on the piano? Has Suat grown taller and more beautiful? I wonder about all of them. I learned from my mother that Saraylıhanım has not been herself since the news of Kemal’s death. I’m terribly sorry. May Allah heal her.

May God bless us all; I kiss the hands of all my elders and the eyes of all the children.

Thinking of you always, your devoted friend,

Azra

When Mehpare had finished reading the letter she folded it and put it in the pocket of her apron. Saraylıhanım’s voice was reverberating down the stairs.

“Mehpare, have you brewed Kemal some linden tea?” she cried.

Walking over to the foot of the stairs, Mehpare replied, “I have. I’ll bring it in a moment.”

There were days when Saraylıhanım’s faculties were clouded, when she thought Kemal was still alive. The rest of the household would placate her by acting as though Kemal was still with them. Mehpare had even begun to enjoy this little charade: it pleased her to imagine that her husband was still among them.

When Behice had noticed that Mehpare was behaving like Saraylıhanım, she’d alerted her husband and Re
ş
at Bey had spoken to Mahir.

Mahir had been deeply concerned by Mehpare’s behavior. Saryalıhanım’s delusions could be put down to her advanced years, but he strongly advised that Mehpare be put under immediate psychiatric observation. A nerve specialist had been contacted and a thousand and one pretexts found to send Mehpare for a consultation with the renowned doctor.

It’s difficult for any woman to cope simultaneously with the loss of a husband and the birth of a child. Would it be possible to arrange a change of scene for Mehpare, some place far away, unconnected with her memories?

The household discussed various alternatives. But Mehpare was nursing two babies. Where could she go and who could take her? Behice thought of sending Mehpare and the babies to Beypazarı. She’d go with them, see her father and return to Istanbul. Mehpare could stay on at the farm for a couple of months, benefiting from the clean air and the fresh food.

But when they brought up the subject with Mehpare she was vehemently opposed. She was not going anywhere, she told them. No one could tear her away from the lingering scent of her husband and the memories kept alive in the rooms he’d once inhabited.

“Mehpare dear, we only want what’s best for you,” Re
ş
at Bey had pleaded. “It’s not right to shut you up here with my old aunt, whose mind isn’t what it used to be. The dead are gone, my dear, and the living must go on with life. Think of your son if not yourself. You need to be healthy for his sake.”

“I am healthy, efendim.”

“Spiritually healthy then.”

“I’m spiritually healthy as well. If I act as though Kemal is alive, it’s only to make Saraylıhanım happy. It does me good as well.”

“And that is precisely the danger. He’s dead. You mustn’t pretend he’s still alive.”

“Fine then! I won’t do it again!”

Mahir advised them not to push her, and they didn’t insist she go to the farm. And for her part, Mehpare stopped acting as though Kemal was alive and never again played along with Saraylıhanım. And now, as Mehpare poured out a glass of brewed linden from a long-handled copper pot, she smiled to herself. They all thought she was crazy. Well let them. She heard Saraylıhanım’s tread on the stairs.

“Why are you coming down here, dear? I’m bringing up the tea.”

“You’ve remembered to add some honey, to soften up his chest?”

“I have,” Mehpare assured her in a low voice. “Now go back upstairs, don’t let them see you down here.”

She watched as the elderly woman dragged her feet back up the stairs. It was as though the authoritative woman who had taken over the birth of Halim until the midwife arrived and who had single-handedly managed the administration of the household over the following weeks had decided her duties were done, and become a
deli saraylı
, a former palace woman gone typically mad.

As Behice and her daughters become increasingly exasperated with Saraylıhanım, Mehpare’s love and tenderness grew by the day. She knew that Kemal’s death had scorched the elderly woman’s heart just as intensely as it had her. They understood each other. Mehpare would not leave this house until Saryalıhanım—may Allah grant her a long life—had been recalled by her maker. And when she did leave, she wouldn’t go to Beypazarı, but to
İ
zmir, to live with Azra.

And they would take to the air together, on broken wings.