Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature) (34 page)

– 22 –
Flight

It had been seventeen days since Sultan Vahdettin had lost his title as the thirty-sixth
padi
ş
ah
, or “Master Shah” of the House of Osman. Ever since he’d received notice of the abolition of the sultanate on the night of November 1, 1922, he had remained in the palace in his remaining capacity as Caliph. And as the Caliph sat in one of the pavillions in the royal park of Yıldız, his eyes traveling across the hundreds of domes under which his illustrious ancestors had gone to their eternal rest on the seven hills of Istanbul, it was impossible to know if he was lamenting the treachery of the Arab leaders he’d always believed would eventually come to the aid of the “Commander of the Faith,” or if he was bitterly regretting the missteps and miscalculations of the past years. It was impossible to know because the normally taciturn Vahdettin was no longer speaking at all. His despondency spoke for itself: in the deep lines etched on his face, in his sagging shoulders.

He hadn’t been particularly surprised when he’d been notified of the decision to abolish the Ottoman Dynasty.

The Sultan’s first aide-de-camp had greeted National Government representative Refat Pasha in Kabata
ş
with the words, “Welcome, efendim. I convey to you—and to the National Government which you represent—the royal salutations of His Majesty.”

Refat Pasha had responded with the words: “Please convey my respects and gratitude to His Exalted Shelter of the Caliphate.”

Sultan Vahdettin was astute enough to infer from the wording of that greeting that the sultanate had come to an end. And as he considered his future, he would have found it impossible not to ponder the violent end suffered by other European rulers.

The French monarch Louis XVI had been guillotined; King Charles I beheaded with an axe; the Russian Tsar Nicholas II shot, along with his entire family. Those would have been the first murders that came to the former Sultan’s mind. The sovereigns sitting on the thrones of overturned empires had all shared a common fate: execution. And, closer to home, hadn’t many of Vahdettin’s own ancestors and relatives also been murdered?

Most had been killed on the orders of their brothers—but some had been dispatched at the request of sons and mothers, and one had even been put to death by his own father. If that was to be his fate, he should accept it with dignity and grace.

In this modern age, surely more humane methods would be visited upon him than those reserved for his ancestor Genç Osman, in 1622. Surely, Sultan Vahdettin would either be shot or hanged.

But then again, there were no signs of preparation for his execution. There was nothing to do but wait patiently. And so he waited. He hadn’t yet considered either suicide or flight.

Then he was informed of a deplorable incident and changed his mind.

Ali Kemal Bey, a leading journalist at
Peyam-ı Sabah
, a prosultanate gazette that had consistently opposed the Ankara Government throughout the occupation and the war of liberation, had been having a shave at a barber’s shop in Beyo
ğ
lu when agents from the Special Force had abducted him, taking him first to Kumkapı, then by motorboat to
İ
zmit.

There, this burly and defiant columnist had been attacked by an angry mob armed with sticks and stones, and finally—when Nurettin Pasha, the commander of the unit assigned to protect him, had failed to issue orders to keep him safe from the crowd—he had been lynched.

The day of the Friday Prayer Procession was fast approaching. Vahdettin was terrified at the thought that he too would be thrown to the crowd: was his execution to take the form of a public lynching? Under no circumstances should he mix with his subjects. After all, the people had been slowly crushed under the boot of the foreign enemy for four long years and had every right to demand a reckoning from their sovereign. If only Sultan Vahdettin could tell the people of his own sufferings, could explain that he had taken the only possible course of action, could describe the torments he had endured as he resigned himself to his fate.

If only he could tell them that he regarded the victory of the National Army as a miracle wrought by Allah and that he was at least as grateful for this triumphant army as they themselves were. But Vahdettin knew he would never have the opportunity for any of this. Some lunatic would leap out of the crowd, others would follow, and God forbid . . . He couldn’t bear to think about it. He couldn’t allow his royal station to be degraded by a repeat of that mob scene in
İ
zmit.

So he decided to flee before Friday Prayers.

From what he’d been able to ascertain, the National Government would not object to abdication and self-exile. No one wanted any bloodshed, unrest or harm to the Caliphate. Ankara had deeply regretted the lynching of the journalist. The best solution was to flee the country with the security afforded by the title of Caliph.

On November 17
^th
, dressed in ceremonial costume, and prepared, along with his fellow dignitaries, to join the procession, Ahmet Re
ş
at took his place in front of Yıldız Mosque in the area reserved for Ottoman ministers. Standing at attention as they awaited the arrival of the Sultan’s carriage were the Royal Guard, in colorful uniforms and white gloves, and the officers, with their gilded decorations, kalpaks and shiny boots. The carriage was behind schedule. The call to prayer echoed from the minarets. Minute followed minute, one after another. An impatient gelding began kicking and stamping under a mounted guard. Others joined in.

Ahmet Re
ş
at and his fellow ministers continued to wait respectfully for the imminent arrival of their sultan, even though they knew he would never again be coming to the Friday Procession. And as he waited, Ahmet Re
ş
at studied the faces of the crowd: the enduring, the long-suffering, the deceived people of Istanbul.

He felt like embracing each and every one of them, these people filling the courtyard of the mosque; he wanted to tell them to stop waiting in the rain and to go home.

Because Ahmet Re
ş
at knew that even as the people of Istanbul were standing in the rain at the Friday Prayers Procession, Sultan Vahdettin VI Mehmet Han was abandoning his country as part of an escape plan devised by General Harrington.

Early that morning five former government ministers and three former Grand Viziers had gone to Yıldız Palace. The Sultan had first bid farewell to his family and relatives in the harem; he had then gone to the selamlık to make his farewells to the personages gathered there to see him off. Wearing an official uniform bedecked with Ottoman and foreign decorations, and dark glasses that might have been meant to conceal his tears, he gravely shook the hands of those assembled and spoke in a qua- vering voice.

Five minutes after the Grand Viziers and ministers had proceeded to the courtyard of the mosque in their personal carriages, he and his retinue would board two automobiles with drawn curtains, exit the Be
ş
ikta
ş
gate of Malta Pavilion, and drive down an avenue lined with British soldiers to Dolmabahçe Palace.

After resting briefly in the harem of Dolmabahçe Palace, he would proceed to the royal pier, board a motorboat flying English colors, and, in a last cruel twist of fate, be conveyed to the waiting British battleship,
Malaya
.

With him were his two wives, his favorite concubine, his son, Ertu
ğ
rul, his private physician, Re
ş
at Pasha, and a few trusted men who handled his personal affairs, chief among them first aide-de-camp Çerkez Pasha. Twelve people in all. And most probably, at that very moment, a military band was striking up
The Sultan’s March
as a double row of British sailors lined up on the deck of the battleship Malaya and took aboard the last Ottoman Sultan.

Ahmet Re
ş
at hastily pulled his watch out of his breast pocket and checked the time. Yes, the ship bearing the Sultan was probably weighing anchor just about now. He put his watch back in his pocket. Bowing his head slightly, arms folded over his chest, he discreetly paid his respects to all of the illustrious sovereigns, and, in particular, to the last sovereign, of an empire whose glories and dignity had once been legend. When he lifted his chin there were tears in his eyes. He hadn’t felt this wounded, hadn’t felt a stab of pain quite this acute, since Kemal’s death.

Ahmet Re
ş
at joined the grumbling throngs shuffling towards the outer gate of the courtyard. The rain was falling more heavily than before. Which was good, because the tears were rolling down his cheeks, tears he was helpless to contain, tears that seemed such a natural part of him at that moment that he was barely aware that they were there at all. He felt like Emir Abdullah of Granada, who’d wept from the safety of the mountainside as he’d watched Spanish soldiers swarming the streets of a city going up in flames. Abdullah’s mother had turned to him and spoken those words that would go down in history: “That’s it, cry—crying suits you. Snivel like a harlot for the city you failed to defend like a man!”

Ahmet Re
ş
at’s tears had come too late. Unlike Kemal and his friends, he’d failed to put his heart and soul into defending his city. But, thanks to those brave young men, Istanbul was on the verge of becoming, once again, his city. Insolent foreign troops would no longer be wandering the streets in colorful braided uniforms, and Ottoman officers . . . how foolish . . . which Ottomans? Were there any Ottomans left? In the handful of land remaining from a mighty empire that had once spanned three continents, Turkish officers would no longer be forced to salute those strutting invaders.

“And thank God for that,” he said to himself.

Ahmet Re
ş
at walked all the way to Beyazit. By the time he reached the garden gate he was exhausted, physically and spiritually. Too tired to bother with a key, he rang the bell. He nodded a silent greeting to Hüsnü Efendi and they walked to the house together without a word. The front door swung open. It was Behice, looking utterly drained as she helped him out of his coat, took his fez and flashed a meaningful glance in the direction of the selamlık. “Caprini Efendi has been waiting for you for over an hour,” she said. “Count Caprini Efendi.”

“Good heavens! I wonder what he wants?”

“I can’t say I understand exactly. There’s a list of some kind . . . He insisted on seeing you himself. My word, Re
ş
at Bey, today, of all days, why on earth did you have to come home so late?” asked Behice.

– 23 –
Farewell

Ahmet Re
ş
at studied the early morning, mist-shrouded vision of Istanbul rising from the waters of the Bosphorus, minarets reaching for the skies. He stood tall and unblinking on the shore, imprinting upon his mind a spectacle he’d probably never see again. Drawing the cool sea air deep into his lungs, he closed his eyes and listened to the city. He would impress Istanbul upon all five of his senses. Later, much later, in his mind’s eye, he would behold the minarets and domes, the Bosphorus shading blue to green; his nose would fill with the richness of kelp, the tang of salt, of coal smoke; his ears would ring with the metallic rattling of a tram, the deep moan of a passing ferryboat, the raucous cry of street vendor and gull. He would remember.

He would never forget.

Mahir was standing a little way off, and when Ahmet Re
ş
at sensed the doctor approach, he lightly coughed to clear the disquieting lump from his throat, turned to his friend, and said, “Mahir Bey, I can’t expect you to watch over my family while I’m gone, but it would greatly ease my mind if you’d concern yourself with the health of the two newborns.”

“Rest assured, efendim. I will be caring not only for the babies but for your entire family. If my work in the city is done before you return, I’ll request appointment to a hospital in Istanbul. And if they still insist on posting me to the countryside I’ll resign immediately.”

“I have no right to burden you with such a responsibility. I only ask that you look in on them from time to time. Behice Hanım doesn’t have a head for figures. If you could help her, perhaps. Ah, if only Kemal were alive . . .”

The lump was back; Ahmet Re
ş
at went quiet.

“Re
ş
at Beyefendi . . . I’m having some difficulty putting this into words . . . I’m rather discomfited, but I really feel I must speak to you about a certain matter, and there’s so little time . . .”

“Yes, do go on, Mahir Bey.”

“I’m well aware of the difference in our ages, but I do feel that, in your absence, in order to still the wagging tongues of the ladies and to preclude any unsavory speculation, that… were I to request Leman Hanım’s hand in marriage . . . were we to become formally engaged and marry only upon your return . . .”

“Mahir, asking you to take care of my family is one thing, but this is something entirely different. How could you assume such extravagant generosity? And furthermore, Leman is but a girl.”

“Leman Hanım is sixteen years old. She’ll be seventeen by the time you return. We can wait.”

“You mustn’t sacrifice yourself like that on our behalf.”

“Re
ş
at Beyefendi, it would be no act of self-sacrifice. You see, I greatly admire Leman Hanım.”

“Oh!”

“Please don’t misunderstand. She’s a young woman now, and I’m very fond of her. If events hadn’t unfolded in the way that they have, I would never have been bold enough to admit you into my confidence. My admiration would have remained a secret. But circumstances have changed. You shouldn’t leave your house without the protection of a man.”

“I never noticed that my girl was grown up. Between work and state affairs, it seems like I’ve never even had time to look at my children. I’ve missed out on life, Mahir. And now, life is sending me to a strange land . . .” Ahmet Re
ş
at stared into the distance through tears.

“Is your response in the affirmative, efendim? Do you consent to take me as your son-in-law?”

“Could there be a more agreeable groom, Mahir? You’re my dearest friend. Our families have been intimate for generations. Still, I have to consult my wife and daughter first. After all, it’s Leman who’s getting married.”

“If they consent too, we can be betrothed this evening, before you leave.”

“I’ll go home and discuss it with my family. If there are any objections, our friendship won’t suffer, surely?

“Never. I would still look after your family and remain in Istanbul until you returned.”

“I can’t ask that of you. Let me speak to my daughter . . . then we’ll talk again.”

“Re
ş
at Beyefendi, you will let me know, won’t you? Even if…”

“Of course I will. I’ll have Hüsnü Efendi deliver a letter to the hospital.”

“I’ll be waiting at home,” Mahir said. “It’s closer.”

“Very well. I’d like to walk along the shore for a bit. The letter will be in your hand right after noon prayers, Mahir Bey.”

Mahir said good-bye to Ahmet Re
ş
at and strode off towards Sirkeci, his cape fluttering behind him; but whether he was walking or flying, he himself couldn’t have said.

When Mahir was out of sight Ahmet Re
ş
at sank onto a boulder and gazed into the distance. The sun had not yet risen; the sea stretching out before him had not yet been irradiated a brilliant blue: it was opalescent and shot with rays of red piercing through the low bank of clouds on the opposite shore. The ancient peninsula behind him seemed to enfold Ahmet Re
ş
at, blanketing him in its glories, its transgressions and its virtues. He had been born and grown to manhood here in this city of narrow lanes flowing down to the water’s edge, of crimson vines and dark-green cypresses, of simple wooden houses garlanded with the magenta blossoms of the judas tree, of great lonely squares and a bustling bridge linking the Muslim and Christian quarters: this was a city old, proud and unrivalled.

Tomorrow, at about this time, the strip of coast now under his feet would slowly pass before his eyes, above it the domes of the old palace and minarets like pens pointing to the sky, as he stood on the deck of an Italian ship, bound for exile, leaving behind his home, his family, his relatives and his friends. He wouldn’t be there to admire Leman in her bridal veil or to dandle his grandchildren on his knee. He wouldn’t be there to see Suat blossoming into young womanhood, the crinkles forming in the corners of Behice’s beautiful eyes and lips, Sabahat and Halim taking their first steps, his aunt’s last years on this earth: in short, he wouldn’t be there to witness any of the ordinary things that give life meaning and consequence.

His rigorous education, his years of hard work and duty on three continents on behalf of the empire, the orders of merit he’d always made light of, his devoted and dedicated service . . . to a Sultan he had blamed just days ago for having fled on an English destroyer, like a traitor.

No, he couldn’t blame His Majesty any more than he could blame himself. The poor Sultan had been forced to shoulder problems that had been accumulating for centuries. Finally, the volatile accumulation of lies, the tricks, the plundering, the ignorance, the greed, the cronyism, the bigotry, the thousands of missteps committed in the name of religion, the corruption, the profiteering, in combination with the insatiable appetite of the European states, had exploded in his hand, burning one and all.

The Sultan was gone. And he too would be going. He repeated the same question to himself: Where was he going, and why?

Was he running off just to live among strangers, his identity and character in tatters as he struggled to survive . . . To breath in and breath out . . . To eat, drink, and sleep?

To eat and drink?

With what money and for how long? Trying to survive on the bit of money he hoped to obtain from the family income . . . What if he lived for a long time? And if the properties he’d pinned all his hopes on were seized—something that could happen at any moment—how would he and his family scrape by? There were six females to consider, two of them babies, one of whom was still in swaddling clothes, an elderly woman, a child, and, perhaps, only Mahir to look after them! Mahir! Had Allah sent Mahir to protect and look after his family? Actually, he could surrender his family to the care of his father-in-law, but
İ
brahim Bey was now too old to leave his small town and settle in the big city. And he couldn’t even imagine Behice and his daughters at the farm.

He gazed at the red ripples on the surface of the water, now becoming marbled with yellow, as though an invisible hand was doing
ebru
, drawing sharp lines that suddenly softened and merged. If he were to walk out into the sea . . . lift the boulder he was sitting on and walk out… if he were to let himself be slowly swallowed up, sink into the shimmering, marbled water, just off shore. To sink, like the empire he was preparing to abandon. Was his soul so very precious? Wasn’t God going to claim it one day, anyway?

Ahmet Re
ş
at stood up. Stumbling slightly, he walked the length of the shore, gazing out over a sea now, finally, turning a deep blue. His shoulders sagged and his neck was lost inside his coat. He’d lost his hope, his expectations and his future. The only thing he would be able to give his family from now on was sorrow. And sadness, worry, and maybe even—God forbid—shame. Some would brand his daughters the children of a traitor. That’s what they’d call his loved ones: the wife of a traitor, the aunt of a traitor, the relatives of a traitor. He thought back to the terrible scene with Kemal. “You’ll have me known as the uncle of a traitor! Get out of my sight!” he’d said to his helpless nephew.

“Allah,” he prayed to himself, “Allah, what have I done that I’m destined for such a life?”

As he considered once again the safety of his family, he hoped with all his heart that his daughter would accept Mahir’s marriage proposal.

Tearing open the envelope the moment Hüsnü Efendi handed it to him, Mahir skipped straight to the last lines.

“Hüsnü Efendi,” he shouted to the servant, who had begun to descend the steps but now stopped, turned round and asked, “What is it sir?”

“Come here.” Fishing through his pockets Mahir extracted every coin he could find and dumped them into the palm of the servant, who was standing at the front door again. Hüsnü Efendi’s bewildered eyes traveled from his cupped hand to Mahir’s face.

“Is there something you’d like me to purchase for you, sir?”

“No. That’s a tip.”

“Sir, that’s rather a lot of money.”

“You’ve brought me wonderful news, efendi. Tell everyone I’ll be around the moment afternoon prayers are read.” When Hüsnü Efendi had dutifully trotted off the doctor raced inside, sat on the first chair that presented itself and began savoring each word of the letter. Leman had accepted his proposal. Behice Hanım and Saraylıhanım had voiced no objections; on the contrary, they were most pleased. He was expected for dinner.

When Mahir arrived at the house, he was ushered by the housekeeper not into the selamlık but directly upstairs to the sitting room. A dinner
à la française
had been laid on the table in the anteroom. No one was there yet. Mahir set an enormous box of
lokum
on the console, took a seat on the divan in front of the window and looked outside. The street was in darkness, the lone streetlight at the top of the hill wasn’t burning. Dark streets for dark times. But Mahir was inwardly radiant, if slightly ashamed to be so amid the gloom of everyday life.

When Ahmet Re
ş
at entered the room he sprang to his feet.

“My dear man, I’m quite relieved to inform you that my daughter apparently returns your feelings. So, my Leman has reached an age where she’s able to have feelings for men, it’s all quite astonishing for me,” he said.

Mahir flushed. Re
ş
at Bey was saying that Leman had feelings for him. He was saying other things, too, but, for a moment, Mahir didn’t hear a word above the pounding of his heart.

“ . . . So, what do you think of my idea, Mahir Bey? Since there are no longer any men at home, there’s no need for a selamlık. As I was saying, if you’d like to remain in Istanbul after the nuptials and open your own clinic, you can use the selamlık.”

“We’ll hold the wedding only after your return, efendim.”

“I might never return. Our families will hold the engagement ceremony, then you can wait a bit for the wedding, until Leman is at least seventeen.”

“We’ll all be there at the wedding.”

Ahmet Re
ş
at sighed, but didn’t give voice to his doubts. A few moments later, Saraylıhanım, Behice and Suat came into the room. Disappointed to see that Leman had not yet made an appearance, Mahir rose to his feet and greeted the ladies, kissing Suat on both cheeks.

“Oh, you needn’t have bothered, Mahir Bey,” said Behice as she accepted the box of lokum and handed it to the house- keeper with instructions to arrange its contents in the silver bowl reserved for sweets. “Mehpare’s taken a curling iron to Leman’s hair. They’ll be down shortly,” she reassured Mahir as she sat down.

“Mahir Bey,” she continued, “Saraylıhanım had noted your interest in Leman but I, for the life of me, wouldn’t have thought such a thing possible. Well, may it all be for the best. Now we’ll have a man at the head of the household and we women won’t go unprotected until my husband returns.”

“I remain forever at your disposal, efendim,” Mahir said.

“You’re too kind, Mahir Bey.”

“With your permission, I’d like to become engaged tonight, while Re
ş
at Bey is still here.”

“Aren’t we rushing things a little?” Saraylıhanım protested. “Shouldn’t we wait for my Kemal?”

“If we act in haste, it is only because Re
ş
at Bey is leaving,” Mahir said.

“It might be the last such occasion on which I’m able to share my daughter’s joy,” said Ahmet Re
ş
at.”

“How can you say such things, Re
ş
at Bey,” Behice cried.

“Please don’t wear yourself down with such unhappy thoughts. You’ll be back in a few months. You’ll prove your innocence . . .” Her eyes filled with tears.

“Have I committed a crime that I’m now forced to prove my innocence?” asked Ahmet Re
ş
at. “Is it a crime not to betray an institution of which you yourself are a part?”

“Re
ş
at Bey, you were on the losing side. That’s your crime. It’s as simple as that. And if Kemal were alive, he’d be on the winning side,” Behice said.