Last Train to Istanbul (23 page)

“Do you know, Monsieur Tarık, I’ve had contact with Turkey before?”

“Really. Is that so?”

“Yes, the company I worked for back home exported pharmaceuticals to Turkey, especially sulfonamide.”

Tarık didn’t know a lot about this, but he vaguely remembered that when the British stopped exporting many things, including pharmaceuticals, Turkey turned to Hungary for supplies, particularly Atabrin, which was used against malaria.

“You see,” said Tarık, “obviously our countries were cooperating long before us.”

By now Tarık’s anxieties about the evening had gone out the window. When their main courses arrived, Margot couldn’t help looking at Tarık’s plate condescendingly. Her steak was almost raw, while his was very well done.

“Don’t you like rare meat?” asked Margot.

“I’m not a lion,” Tarık replied.

That led them to talk about the various food habits in their countries before Tarık admitted that he’d found it very difficult to get used to eating snails. Vegetables in garlic were his favorite food in France, but he still hankered after the dolmas cooked in olive oil
back home. Margot complained that she hadn’t yet found a restaurant in Paris serving proper goulash, her favorite Hungarian dish.

Toward the end of the evening, Margot leaned forward across the table.

“So what methods are you using to save Jews? Have you managed to smuggle any of them out of France?” she asked.

They had finished the wine some time ago. Tarık hadn’t ordered another bottle because he was afraid he wouldn’t have enough money to pay for it. Margot posed her question, and he suddenly became upset. It was just as well that he hadn’t ordered a second bottle. Who was this woman sitting across the table? Could she be a spy, trying to worm information out of him?

“What are you saying?” said Tarık harshly. “What on earth made you ask that, Margot? We’re only issuing passports to those who can prove they are Turkish nationals, that’s all! Whether they stay or leave or obtain visas for somewhere else after that is no concern of ours.”

“But how is it that some of them ended up without passports, then?”

That’s it, thought Tarık to himself. She’s been pumping me about the same subject since we’ve been here. This woman is either from the police or she’s a spy!

“There are Turkish Jews who have come and settled here in France. It seems that they haven’t bothered to keep their Turkish passports up-to-date. All we do when they apply is extend its validity. That’s all!”

“So why do you think they hadn’t done it before?”

“Maybe they didn’t want to travel abroad. Isn’t that possible? Take my family, for example; they’ve never been abroad, so they didn’t need passports.”

“How long does it take to get a passport?”

Tarık’s mood had changed completely. He waved at the waiter for his bill without even asking his guest if she’d like coffee.

“Every case is different. We have to make inquiries back home, so it depends on how long it takes to get a reply.”

He paid the bill and they left the restaurant and got into a taxi. Tarık gave the driver Margot’s address. They hardly spoke on the way there and heaviness came over him. When the taxi pulled up at the address, Tarık got out and escorted her to the door.

“Would you like to come in for a coffee?” asked Margot.

“It’s rather late, thank you; some other time,” Tarık replied as he shook her hand before returning to the taxi.

After she’d gone in, he paid the fare to the driver and started to walk in the cool of the night. He tried to remember every topic they had covered that evening. Damned Muhlis! he thought. He was the one who saddled me with this woman!

Tarık was a bit late waking. When he went into the kitchen, Muhlis was already having breakfast.

“Well, well, how’s His Lordship this morning? You appear to have burned the midnight oil last night. I’ve never seen you wake up this late. Methinks you took my advice.”

“What advice?”

“About kissing a girl before saying good-bye.”

“If I were in the mood for a fight, I’d punch you right on the nose.”

“My, my, aren’t we touchy? Have you already started to feel protective toward this Hungarian girl?”

“What do you mean?”

“I only asked you if you kissed the girl and you suddenly took offense.”

“Tell me something. How well do you know this girl you saddled me with?”

“I’ve never
couché d’avec
her, I swear. I never even kissed her, Tarık.”

“Don’t try to be funny with me!”

“Frankly, I really don’t know her. She’s Jeanne’s friend; they work together. One day when I was meeting Jeanne at that café in Montparnasse, they arrived together and I telephoned you to join us. Do you remember? I’ve only known her as long as you have. So now will you tell me what happened?”

“I didn’t like the questions she kept asking me.”

“About what?”

“Things like, are we smuggling Jews out of the country? How do we issue passports? How do we decide who qualifies for them? Loads of questions. I must say I felt most uncomfortable. I didn’t like it at all.”

“Well, in that case you shouldn’t have answered them.”

“That’s not the point. I’m wondering if she is some sort of spy.”

“What!”

“Or a police agent.”

“Where did that come from?”

“If you think about it, we have saved so many people from the police and the camps. Would it surprise you if they are keeping tabs on us, possibly having us followed?”

“But we’re not the only ones involved, are we? There’s also Hikmet, then there’s Selahattin in Rhodes and Nazım in Marseilles…”

“So what? They’re probably under surveillance too.”

“In other words, last evening you dined with Mata Hari, is that it?”

“I’m not sure, but if that’s the case, I hold you responsible for involving me.”

“Come on!”

“And that’s not all. Do you know how much I had to pay for that wine you recommended so highly? Don’t expect me to
contribute even a bottle of beer to this apartment before the end of the month.”

“Every good thing in this world has a high price.”

“For those who can afford it.”

“Look who’s talking. Starting next month, you’ve been promoted to vice-consul; isn’t that enough? As for the girl, leave it to me. I’ll try and wheedle some information out of Jeanne when I see her.”

“Absolutely not! You mustn’t say anything. You’ll only make things worse. If my suspicions are right, what’s done is done. On the other hand, if I’m wrong we’ll look like fools.”

As Tarık took his cup of coffee from Muhlis, he looked him straight in the eye.

“Muhlis, this is serious. I’m talking to you as your superior, do you understand? Not a word!”

“Yes,
mein kommandant
,” replied Muhlis. “But tell me the truth. Did you or didn’t you kiss the girl?”

MARSEILLES

Samuel and Perla tried to read aloud from their notebooks.

“Winter hash arrived. Today the weatherz wery cold. We fell cold.”

“No, no children; that’s not correct. Listen carefully. Winter has arrived:
has
, not
hash
. Today the weather is
very
cold:
iz very
cold. We feel cold: feel…
feel
, not
fell.
Come on then, one more time.”

The boy with the hazel eyes struggled with all his might: “Winter hass arrived.”

“Not
hass
, has…Pronounce the
s
like
z
in
zebra
. I want to hear the
z
.”

“Hass…haz…has…”

“Good boy; that’s right. You see, you can do it if you try. All you need to learn are about fifty sentences, and I promise to teach you those. Fine. Now, Perla, it is your turn. Sorry, not Perla. What did we say?”

“Peri, like Perry?”

“Good, very good. And what was yours, Samuel?”

“Sami, like Sammy.”

Selva looked at the notes in her hand, continuing to teach the children.

“Now, I want you to write down these Turkish words together with their meanings, and I expect you to learn them by heart.
Ekmek
—bread;
peynir
—cheese;
çay
—tea;
kahve
—coffee;
gece
—night;
abla
—older sister;
abi
—older brother;
tuvalet
—toilet;
mutfak
—kitchen;
oda
—room. Right, that’s enough for now.”

They were all sitting around Selva’s table. It had been fifteen days since she’d left the children’s identity cards with Nazım Kender. The lessons had begun the day after she went to the consulate. She hadn’t telephoned the consulate yet, but she was determined that the children should thank Mr. Kender in Turkish if they should be issued passports.

“They would have phoned you if they decided to issue passports,” Rafo had said.

“And they would have phoned me to collect the identity cards if they didn’t.”

“Oh, Selva! My dear Selva, I don’t understand why you poke your nose into other people’s business. We are immigrants too; we may need all sorts of help.”

“We have our papers, Rafo.”

“But we can’t leave.”

“Because in order to leave we have to travel through hell!”

“Come on, darling, admit it. Having left Istanbul in disgrace, we can’t face returning with our tails between our legs, so we’re making excuses,” Rafo said, laughing. “I wouldn’t consider going back, but the way things are, we’ll have to swallow our pride for the sake of our son. That is, of course, if this train business materializes…”

“Rafo,” Selva said, “there’s something I need to confess.”

“Who else did you try to save?”

“No one. I’m giving Turkish lessons. So they don’t run into trouble on the way—that’s if they go at all.”

“If you’re starting to teach again, you should stick to English.”

“You don’t understand. I offered to give free lessons.”

“I don’t know what to say, Selva. You’re really amazing. What’s the use of teaching Turkish?”

“In case they eventually get on the train and…”

“Selva! Don’t tell me you’ve talked about the train.”

“Rafo, I can’t believe this is you talking. You’ve changed so much since we got here. It’s all right for you to save your skin, but what about the others? Should they be left to die?”

“Look, Selva, you talk like this because you’ve never had to look death in the eye. When your life is at stake, you have to think of yourself first, otherwise you don’t survive!”

“Oh! I’m sorry, Rafo, maybe there’s something I don’t know. How many times have you faced death then?”

“I haven’t, but the fear of death is in my genes. Death has haunted my race for thousands of years.”

“Exactly. That’s why I am struggling to save your people, Rafo.”

“You shouldn’t feel responsible, my darling. It’s not your country that’s after their lives and possessions.”

“I’m not doing this because I feel guilty; I’m doing it for humanitarian reasons. Please don’t try to stop me.”

The children that Selva had renamed Sami and Peri had finished their lesson, and Selva was getting ready for the next group. They were eleven men and women introduced by Camilla, the grandchildren of Turkish Jews who no longer had ties with Turkey. Ever since Tarık had phoned her from Paris and hinted at the possibility of a train that might be leaving for Edirne in a few months’ time, Selva had taken it upon herself to teach those who had Turkish identity papers and might travel on the train enough Turkish to make them plausible. Although they had all asked to be taught Turkish, Selva felt uncomfortable teaching adults the Turkish alphabet and making them repeat sentences taught in primary school.

“Father, buy me a book! Throw me a ball!
Tut
—catch!
Koş
—run!
Git
—go!
Gel
—come!
Söyle
—tell!
Al
—take!
Ver
—give!
Kaça?
—How much?
Nerede?
—Where?
Nasıl?
—How?”

Camilla wouldn’t sit with the students; she sat quietly in the corner while Selva got on with her task. Having spent all her energy to help her children, she no longer had the nerve to ask for anything for herself.