Young Turk (39 page)

‘Matters to me. I’m not anti-semitic. Or am I? I mean, I’m sure I take a person for what he is. And you – I love you like a son. Surely you know that. I’ve watched you develop and guided you with great pride.’

‘I know, sir.’

‘But ... still, the question remains. Why do I call you “Jew”? Is it in my nature? Am I anti-semitic deep down?’

I shrugged sadly.

He nodded solemnly. ‘I’ll think about it. I might have to revise my opinion of myself. And if I have to, I’ll change, I promise you.’

I perked up. ‘So what do I do?’

‘You, nothing. It’s me ...’

‘I mean, as a decoy.’

‘Oh, that.’ He looked concerned. ‘You’re sure you want to?’

‘Yes.’

He beamed. ‘You lovely J ...’ He paused. ‘I don’t know what to call you now ...’

‘“Zeki”? Or “young Turk” ...?’

‘Right, you lovely young Turk. Are you really sure about this? Things might go wrong. You might get into trouble ...’

‘I’m sure.’

‘If you’re arrested, they’ll interrogate you. They’ll want to know about me, about the press, the mimeographers, whoever supported Nâzιm ... They might even get rough ...’

‘I’ll try and hold out ... But what if they break me ...?’

‘We’ll repair you.’

‘And if I tell them about you? The others?’

‘We’ll suffer the consequences. We’re resigned to that. By then, hopefully, Nâzιm should be safe.’

I shivered with excitement and trepidation. ‘That’s all that matters.’

He got up and slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get moving!’

As we moved towards the door, he stopped me. ‘One thing, young Turk: don’t lose the young Jew. Cherish everybody’s difference. If we all become the same, we’re bound to perish.’

The next day, at Âşιk Ahmet’s house, I met the team. (We had finished our exams and were just two days away from the summer break; consequently, attendance at college, both by teachers and students, had become irrelevant.)

There were two ‘magicians’ – Âşιk Ahmet’s designation for the people who would whisk Hikmet away – and fifteen decoys, including myself.

Âşιk Ahmet had made certain that we, the decoys, came from all walks of life. Symbolically, we represented the diverse peoples of the country to whom Hikmet had given a strong communal voice. Apart from me, there were four other students, all from Istanbul University’s various faculties.

The ‘magicians’ – Yannis Karolidis, a reputable undertaker said to be rich as Croesus, and Aybek, a Circassian from Trabzon, both middle-aged – were men of such contrasting appearance that, in less momentous circumstances, I would have perceived them as Laurel and Hardy.

Immediately after the requisite proprieties, Yannis – he was the large man – took the floor. As he strode up and down, collecting his thoughts, I realized how deceptive my first impression of him had been. This was not a flabby Oliver Hardy, but a monolith of solid muscle.

He introduced himself as one of Âşιk Ahmet’s old students; one who, though crimped by circumstances into the ranks of mercantile life had, nonetheless, remained faithful to his first love, poetry. Consequently, he considered it a matter of honour to help Hikmet – in his estimation, the greatest poet of our times.

To this effect – and to his great joy – he would, for once, apply his professional skills to providing an extension to a person’s life instead of returning him to dust. He would arrange a lavish ‘funeral’, ostensibly for a Pontos
ağa
who had ‘died’ in Istanbul and whose last testament had stated that he should be buried in Çoruk, his place of birth, a village near the Black Sea town of Trabzon.

Yannis, who was a Pontos himself, reminded us that his people were descended from the kingdom of Trebizond which, after the fall of Constantinople, had stood as the last outpost of the eastern Roman empire for eight more years before it, too, had succumbed to the Ottomans. Yet a sizeable number of these people had remained in the Black Sea area, preserving assiduously both the traditions of the Greek Orthodox Church and the Hellenic vernacular of Byzantium. This was true, in many syncretic ways, even of those offshoots, like his own, that had eventually converted to Islam. Hence the transportation of the remains of a Pontos man, even of the Christian persuasion, to his native village would not be considered inordinate by the authorities.

And, of course, instead of this fictitious
a
ğ
a
, it would be Hikmet who would be conveyed to within a stone’s throw of Turkey’s north-eastern border with the USSR. Needless to say, the coffin itself would be specially crafted to be airy, easy to get in and out of and comfortable like a bed in a harem. Because of Hikmet’s heart condition, it would not be entrusted to the vagaries of provincial roads. Instead it would be transported, with due pomp and circumstance, by sea. No one would question these arrangements or check the coffin; Yannis’ lavish gratuities to everybody from officials to grave-diggers would make sure of that. On the prescribed day, while Hikmet was well on his way to the USSR, the burial of the empty coffin would take place with due solemnity. And that would be that.

Then Aybek, the Circassian, took the floor.

As I watched this man, thin as a rake, present himself as an
iş bitirici
, a ‘fixer’ of all things impossible, who, to date, had never failed a commission, I also had to revise my first impression of him. Despite his pencil-thin moustache, he seemed to gain weight each time I looked at him. His eyes, almost mauve, like the waters of the Black Sea itself, hypnotized the beholder.

He spoke briefly. He explained that he ran, among other things, a very profitable contraband racket in the Black Sea area with a select band of Turkish and Soviet border officials. In Trabzon, Yannis would hand Hikmet over to him. And he would duly smuggle him, by car, into the USSR via a road specially built for their trade and omitted from all maps.

Âşιk Ahmet concluded. Preparations would take about ten days. Nothing would be left to chance. Aybek would provide the documentation for the ‘deceased’. Yannis would attend to all the formalities; such was the potency of his reputation and purse that he would not even have to find a corpse. For good measure, the ‘funeral’ procession would start as far away from Hikmet’s neighbourhood as possible.

All the moves would be rehearsed until perfected.

The first imperative would be to smuggle Hikmet out of his home without alerting the police. This would be executed late at night when, in all likelihood, his surveillants would be either too lethargic or snoozing. However, during the five or six days it would take to transport him to Trabzon and thence to the USSR, Hikmet would have to be seen to be ‘in the house’.

This is where we, the decoys, were to play our part.

First and foremost, one of us would have to impersonate Hikmet. His surveillants would need to have frequent glimpses of him playing with his baby son or talking to his wife through the window. And since it was Münevver, with Memed in tow in a pram, who went shopping, Hikmet had also to be seen waving them off and welcoming them back.

Other decoys would be deployed as admirers. Such was Hikmet’s popularity that there was always a stream of students, writers, poets and film people visiting him. A sudden cessation of this flow would immediately arouse suspicion.

To my great surprise – and concern – I was the one chosen to impersonate Hikmet. Like him, I was tall, slim and had a large head. I also had a pale complexion. Equipped with an auburn wig and mimicking the poet’s particular stride, I could look, certainly from a distance, very much like him.

We set the date of the ‘funeral’ for Saturday 26 June, a few days before Hikmet was due to report for military service.

We, the decoys, spent the next week or so rehearsing our moves.

My routine was as follows: I would sneak into Hikmet’s apartment, early in the morning, just before the surveillance teams changed shifts, when those on night duty, impatient to be relieved, would be watching the road instead of the gardens at the back. Once inside, I would put on an auburn wig, don one of Hikmet’s shirts and occasionally appear either at the door to welcome visitors or at the windows, in various moods, but mostly distracted as if in the throes of composing verse.

After a few days, we noted that my impersonation drew no suspicion from the surveillance teams; they maintained their bored or cursory looks. (This attitude so increased my confidence that, in no time at all, I began to fantasize that I really was Nâzιm Hikmet.)

Simultaneously, those decoys designated as visitors made regular calls on the apartment. The surveillants duly noted their arrival and departure and, no doubt, filed their descriptions, too.

We also verified that, as we had expected, those surveillants on night shifts invariably dived into stupor. Most dozed right through the night; a few chain-smoked or stealthily got drunk; some sang softly – always sad songs; and one, a young man, kept going behind a hedge – to masturbate, we presumed.

On Sunday 17 June, just as I was about to leave for Hikmet’s apartment, Âşιk Ahmet came round. He looked pale and tense; his nicotine-stained fingers, for once devoid of a cigarette, trembled.

Standing at the top of the stairs, as if ready to run away, he whispered harshly, ‘Don’t go to Nâzιm’s place today.’

I became alarmed. ‘Why?’

‘Stay in – all day. I’ll explain later.’ And he rushed off.

He rang soon afterwards. And several times during the day. Each time, he repeated that I was to stay in. As time went on, his tension increased; on a couple of occasions, I thought he was going to break down.

Around midnight, he rang again. This time he sounded relieved and close to tears. ‘All’s well.’

‘What’s been going on?’

‘Stay put. Pretend you’re ill. I’ll come over when the time’s right.’