Serenade for Nadia

by Zülfü Livaneli

  On 1 April, 1933, the NSDAP, the party, not a state authority, called for a boycott of Jewish shops, trades, lawyers, doctors, etc., with posters, “Germans! Be on your guard! Don’t buy from Jews!” Those who were being boycotted were forced to hang these posters in their shop windows, their businesses, and at the entrance to their offices. And that is how the terror began.

  What made the terror even more effective were the Storm Troopers on duty in front of the boycotted shops barring people from entering. Apart from the odd exception, the German people allowed the Jews to be terrorized and displayed no moral courage.

  It was not the Kristal Nacht of November 1938, but the Day of the Boycott of Jewish Businesses of 1 April, 1933, that was the real German Day of Shame. This day when the German people’s unwillingness to oppose the arbitrary acts of the NSDAP was revealed, increasing the audacity of the Nazis to do whatever they wished.

  I had become so engrossed in Nazi Germany that it was some time before I heard my phone ringing in my bag. By the time I opened my bag and found the phone it had stopped ringing. When I looked I saw that it was Filiz who’d called and I immediately pressed the reply key.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t hear my phone. When should I come and collect the professor?”

  “That’s why I phoned,” she said. “The doctors thought that while he was in the hospital they might as well give him a check up; the results will be ready this evening. If you like, come then.”

  “All right,” I said, “I’ll come at six.”

  Then I phoned Ilyas and said, “Can you pick me up from home at five? We’re going to the hospital.”

  “Very well, madam,” he replied.

  “Ilyas, have you managed to find the violin?”

  “No, madam.”

  “Why? Didn’t you ask Süleyman?”

  “I asked him but he said it wasn’t in the car.”

  “OK, thanks,” I said and hung up. Yet another headache. In all that commotion we’d either left the violin on the beach or Süleyman was lying. I was sure that while I was dragging the professor to the car I’d tried to pry the violin from his hand, but hadn’t succeeded. He’d been holding it too tightly. We might have left the case behind, but I was sure he’d been holding the violin. I just couldn’t remember what we’d done with it while we were pushing Professor Wagner into the car.

  I emerged from the shopping center and walked home. The streets were even more crowded than they’d been earlier. When I got home I undressed, got into bed, and continued to read Hirsch’s book. I read until four.

  We were faced with the fact that Hitler had won over half the votes. His party had seduced the people with indoctrination and demagogy, with bribery and corruption, trampling underfoot and destroying every standard of traditional value and putting forward a new set of values. But everyone who had witnessed the worthlessness of a large section of the press before 1933, who had observed the rude tone of political conflict, was able to understand that the constitutional take-over of the government was in fact a guise to attempt to outwardly legitimize a government coup.

  I closed the book and thought for a minute: this was the price of high inflation, broken national pride, and high unemployment—50 million dead.

  Then I recalled what had happened here on 6–7 September 1955. It was a time of tension between Turkey and Greece over Cyprus. The president and the prime minister, together with leading members of the ruling party and senior military officers, devised a plot to terrorize the then considerable Greek population of Istanbul. First they staged a bombing at the house in Thessaloniki where Atatürk was born, and which, at the time, was serving as the Turkish consulate. A consulate employee who was working for the National Intelligence Agency placed a small bomb in the garden. It caused no damage except for one broken window. Yet the following day, newspapers in Turkey printed doctored photographs of the consulate in ruins, together with inflammatory articles inciting revenge against Greeks. It was later discovered that these doctored photographs had been prepared a week earlier.

  Meanwhile, thousands of factory workers from several cities in Anatolia were brought to Istanbul by train, truck, and bus. In the afternoon, Nationalist student groups began a protest march from Taksim Square, and were soon joined by the factory workers. Greek-owned businesses and Greek homes had previously been marked with crosses, and the mob began systematically looting and destroying the shops. What they couldn’t carry away, they simply tossed out into the street, and Istıklal Avenue was strewn with coats, hats, shoes, rolls of cloth, broken pianos, and washing machines. And shattered glass. After that they vandalized and burned Greek churches and desecrated Greek cemeteries, and then turned their attention to the homes. They broke down the doors and threw all the furniture out onto the streets. Thirty-seven people were killed, and there were hundreds of reports of rapes and beatings, and even of forced circumcision, particularly of priests. The looting and burning continued for nine hours before the army finally intervened. The Greek population of Istanbul before the riots was 70,000, and today it is less than 3,000. One of the senior officers who organized the riots later said proudly that it was “a successful special warfare operation.” The U.S. secretary of state, John Foster Dulles, who was visiting Ankara at the time, urged the government to blame the rioting on communists.

  I shuddered to realize how very similar this was to Kristallnacht.

  As I lay in bed trying to find an excuse to linger a little longer, I saw the papers on my bedside table.

  They had to do with the ship I’d asked Kerem to find out about the other day.

  CONFIDENTIAL

  GENERAL DIRECTORATE OF SECURITY,

  MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR number: 55912-S /13 September, 1941

  Upon your request of 4 September 1941, we are informing you that everyone who is to sail with the Struma will be allowed to leave after they have completed all emigration procedures. In the meantime, we will require a list of those Jews who have booked and are in labor camps to enable them to leave the country.

  When the Romanian Iron Guards began actively persecuting Jews in 1938, many Jews began to escape from the port of Constanţa, hoping to reach Palestine. By 1939 the city had become a huge refugee camp with thousands of Jews lining up outside fly-by-night travel agencies that were selling tickets for what came to be known as “coffin ships.” These ships were barely seaworthy, had few or no amenities, and were usually crowded to five or ten times their capacity. A few made it to Palestine, only for their passengers to be detained and interned by the British military police, but many did not. In December 1940, a Uruguayan registered ship called the Salvador, carrying 347 refugees, despite having a capacity for a maximum of 40 passengers, sank during a storm in the Sea of Marmara. A few of the passengers were rescued, to be deported back to Romania, but 203 drowned.

  The Romanian authorities allowed these ships to continue to sail because it was a lucrative source of revenue; the refugees had to ransom their way out illegally, handing over everything they owned and signing over their property before they were allowed to board. And despite the knowledge that many of the ships did not make it, there was no shortage of demand. The slight chance of reaching safety was preferable to the near certainty of death in the camps.

  The only problem was the availability of ships. There were plenty of unscrupulous shipowners willing to take part, but the Germans had requisitioned every available ship to transport food and livestock up the Danube to Austria. However, an abandoned, Greek-owned ship called the Macedonia, which was seventy-four years old and measured fifty feet long and twenty feet wide, was rejected by German officials as unsafe even to transport cattle on the river. The owner of the Macedonia immediately seized the opportunity, had a few repairs made, registered the ship in Panama, and renamed it the Struma. He then made a deal with a ticket agency, which began advertising passage to Palestine aboard a luxu
ry liner for one thousand dollars. The posters and brochures featured pictures of the Queen Mary.

  Within days, 769 Jews had bought tickets. They included 269 women, many of them pregnant; 103 infants or toddlers; a number of professionals, including 30 physicians, 30 lawyers, and 10 engineers; a number of businessmen, merchants, craftsmen; and students and a select group of youth leaders. When they saw the ship, their disappointment was beyond description. It had only 100 bunks and a single toilet. The shipowner had prepared himself for this moment; he appeased the passengers by saying that as the ship he’d chartered flew an American flag it had to wait outside Romanian territorial waters. The Struma was only to take them as far as the liner. When they reached the open sea the passengers faced the harsh realization that they’d been tricked. There was no luxury liner waiting for them, but it was too late to go back to Romania.

  They arrived in Istanbul on 15 December 1941. The engine had broken down and the hull was leaking. The captain requested permission to remain in the harbor until repairs were completed. The Turkish authorities, considering what had happened to the Salvador, generously granted this permission.

  In view of the unbearable conditions on the ship, the Turkish authorities were willing to allow passengers to disembark while the ship was being repaired. However, it turned out that none of the passengers had entry visas to Palestine. As a compromise, the Turkish Foreign Office requested at least an assurance from Sir Adrian Knatchbull-Hugessen, the British ambassador in Ankara, that all the passengers would be issued visas to Palestine. The British refused to give any such assurance. The Turkish-Red Crescent, the American-Jewish Joint Distribution Committee in Turkey, and the Jewish community in Istanbul mobilized to feed the passengers, whose provisions had run out and who did not even have drinking water.

  The Struma stayed in the Istanbul harbor seventy-one days, during which time the Turkish government conducted intense negotiations to find a solution. Despite the intervention of international organizations, the British government requested in a telegraph sent by the British High Commission in Palestine that the boat be prevented from reaching Palestine at all costs, stating that they thought the best solution was for the Turkish authorities to send the boat back to the Black Sea.

  The colonial secretary, Lord Moyne, complained that the escape of these people would, “have the deplorable effect of encouraging further Jews to embark.”

  Thus the Struma, with failed engines a failed generator, and no radio, was abandoned to its fate in the waters off Istanbul.

  I jumped up suddenly. I’d been so absorbed I’d lost track of the time. I hastily reached for my plaid skirt and white silk blouse.

  CHAPTER 12

  Ilyas had arrived early. When I looked out of the window I saw him leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette. He was a heavy smoker, but at least he didn’t stink up the car the way Süleyman did.

  After we set off I asked him about the violin.

  “Süleyman says it’s not there, madam. I asked him to take another look but he insists that it’s not there.”

  This left me in a difficult position. I had to get the violin back, and now I’d either have to put pressure on Süleyman or go back to Şile and ask around if anyone had found it. It also made me uneasy that I hadn’t seen or heard from Süleyman since he stormed out of the motel room. What was he up to?

  “Where’s the car being repaired?”

  “A mechanic called Riza.”

  “Could we pay Riza a visit?”

  “Of course, it’s not far.”

  When we arrived at Riza’s garage, I saw that the Mercedes had been raised. No one was working on it, and Süleyman didn’t seem to be around. A man in overalls came out and asked in a friendly manner if he could help. I introduced myself, told him I worked for the rector of Istanbul University, and gave him my card. I explained that a visiting professor had left his violin in the car and I’d come to get it.

  As I watched the Mercedes being lowered I remembered something interesting I’d come across in the past few days. One of the Germans who’d worked in Ankara was Ernst Reuter, and his son Edward, who’d grown up there, had gone on to become the chairman of the board of Mercedes.

  When the car had been lowered, Riza opened the door. I made a thorough search, but there was no violin anywhere. I looked in the trunk as well, but it was empty except for a pile of rags in the corner.

  Had Süleyman been telling the truth? Had we left the violin on the beach or at the motel? But it couldn’t be in the motel.

  “Did Süleyman take anything from the car?”

  “I didn’t see him take anything.”

  I thanked Riza and was just about to get into the car when I turned back.

  “If it’s not too much trouble, could I look in the trunk again?”

  “Of course.”

  I opened the truck and reached for the rags in the corner. They were wrapped around something, and I knew at once it was the violin. I unwrapped it and showed it to the mechanics who’d gathered around.

  “You’ve all witnessed this, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  I turned to Ilyas.

  “You see what Süleyman did?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  We thanked Riza and drove off. We’d probably left the violin case on the beach, but at least we’d found the violin.

  “Ilyas, do you know any music shops. I’d like to stop and get a case for this violin.”

  “Of course, madam!”

  About twenty minutes later he pulled up in front of a store that sold musical instruments. I showed the man behind the counter the violin and said I wanted a case for it. He took the violin and looked at it appreciatively.

  “This is a beautiful instrument, quite old and the workmanship is very good. I can get it appraised for you if you’re interested in selling it.”

  “I don’t want to sell it, I just want a case.”

  “Yes, of course, madam, but I’m afraid we don’t have much of a selection. I doubt if we have one that will do this violin justice.”

  “It doesn’t matter, I just need something to carry it in.”

  He brought out three that looked very much alike. I took one, put the violin in it, and went back to the car.

  It was almost seven by the time we got to the hospital. Filiz gave me a hard time for being late, saying that Maximilian kept asking for me. Then she said there was something she had to talk to me about.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, “Has something happened?”

  “Well, I told you that we were going to give him a thorough check up.”

  “Yes?”

  “While they were doing a CAT scan they found a lump in his pancreas. It didn’t look very good. They spoke to him and asked if he would like further tests, but he said it wasn’t necessary. He said he already knew that he had a tumor in his pancreas and that it was malignant.”

  “In other words, the man has cancer of the pancreas!”

  “He seems to be handling it very well.”

  “How long do you think he has?”

  “It’s difficult to say. But probably not more than six months.”

  “So that means he came to Istanbul to say farewell.”

  “Yes, probably. Come on, don’t keep him waiting any longer, but if he doesn’t tell you himself, don’t let on that you know about it.”

  “Don’t worry Filiz,” I said. “I won’t say anything.”

  The professor smiled when he saw us.

  “I thought you’d never get here.”

  He was already dressed in his suit and tie, with his hair neatly combed, and indeed he looked so healthy it was hard to believe he didn’t have long to live.

  He said goodbye to each of the people who’d helped him, and tipped the nurses and the orderlies. Then we went to the car.

  “Oh
, we have a different car and a different driver.”

  “The Mercedes is being repaired and this car is newer and less likely to break down. So this is our last evening, professor. Do you want to go straight to the hotel or are there places you’d like to see?”

  “Of course, there are, but I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to put you out. I wouldn’t mind seeing Sultanahmet Square one last time.”

  That, “one last time,” wrenched my heart. I told Ilyas and he drove us straight down the tramline to Sultanahmet Square, where we got out of the car.

  It was a magical spot at that hour, with the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque all lit up and standing out against the night sky. I bought a bag of roasted chestnuts from a street vendor, and we sat on a bench and took it all in. We sat in silence at first, picturing all that had happened there, the Byzantine emperor riding with his procession to the gates of the Hagia Sophia, the Ottoman sultan arriving in front of the Blue Mosque, the Hippodrome filled with excited crowds watching the chariot races. Slowly, we fell into conversation, talking about this or that emperor or sultan, the palace intrigues, uprisings and mutinies, the ruthless cruelty exercised by those with absolute power. Byzantine princes who were blinded and exiled on the islands, how a sultan’s brothers were all strangled the moment he came to power to avoid wars of succession. Grand viziers who rose to great power from humble backgrounds, only to be executed as soon as their power became a threat.

  Would we—had we been granted such power and responsibility—have been more reasonable and compassionate? Probably not, we agreed. We would have been part of a system that would resort to anything to perpetuate itself, we would have been conditioned by this system, corrupted by it and by the power it granted us. And we would have had enemies. We went on to talk about the nature of power and of the machinery of oppression and the ways in which it had expressed itself through history, and how crimes against humanity were justified by the lopsided internal logic of systems whose only purpose was to perpetuate themselves at all costs.