by Defne Suman
Every road leading down from Hukumet Street was blocked by a mass of people. Mustafa Efendi indicated with his hand that he could go no further and sat himself down on a stool in front of one of the shops decorated with red flags in the Kemeralti Bazaar. Since his wife Sidika Hanim’s death, the poor man had aged a great deal. Sumbul told the children to stop. It would not be appropriate to leave their grandfather and go down to the quay without him. Cengiz pouted. He wanted to at least cross the street to where the men were standing; from where they were, they couldn’t even see the street.
Students from a girls’ school, dressed in black uniforms and waving flags, passed in front of them. Their teachers, in long black robes, were prodding them from all sides to keep them in line. When Cengiz saw his neighbourhood friends on the pavement across the street, dressed as he was in jacket and trousers with dark purple fezzes on their heads, he mixed in with the girl students and crossed over without saying anything to his mother.
Sumbul realized immediately that her son had given her the slip. She pushed through the throngs of women to get to a spot where she could keep an eye on him. Dogan, frightened by the crowd and the noise of the drums, was glued to his mother’s skirts. Mujgan’s daughters edged their way to the front with their baskets so that they could throw flowers on the road as the procession passed. Sumbul noticed that they had a picture of Kemal Pasha pinned to the breasts of their capes. She also noticed that Nanny Dilber’s forehead was shiny with sweat; taking a fan from her handbag, she passed it to her. She wiped her own face with the edge of her robe, which was the colour of pomegranate flowers.
When the five cars comprising Mustafa Kemal’s cavalcade finally appeared at the top of the avenue, shrieks of joy rippled through the crowd. Cengiz was standing with the other boys closest to the road and Dogan was crying for his mother to pick him up so he could see. As the sparklingly clean black cars covered with olive branches drove past, roses rained from the sky. With one voice, the crowd roared, ‘Long live Ghazi Mustafa Kemal Pasha!’
Sumbul didn’t get to see Kemal Pasha sitting in the back seat of the open convertible at the rear of the cavalcade. Her view was blocked by the heads of the women in front of her and by the cavalry lined up on both sides of the road with their sabres crossed. But that didn’t dampen her excitement; her heart was bursting with pride and hope as she studied the piercing blue eyes that stared out at her from the portrait on the giant cardboard placard that two girls in the front row were holding up. How handsome he was.
Women in the front who’d had the honour of catching sight of him whispered, ‘He’s lost so much weight, his cheeks are hollow. But he still looks magnificent.’
‘He hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol in a month and he didn’t allow his soldiers to drink, either.’
At the back, old people opened their hands to the sky, praying for Mustafa Kemal’s health and prosperity, and thanking Allah for bringing them independence.
Dogan hadn’t climbed into his mother’s arms soon enough and so had missed seeing the Pasha. Aware that his brother, on the opposite side of the street, had had the best view, he began to cry. Behind the women, Mustafa Efendi was leaning on his cane as he sat hunched over on the stool in front of the shuttered shop. Sumbul thought that he might be finding it all too much – the crowds, the noise and the heat. As the cavalcade of shiny black cars inched its way down towards the sea, she motioned for Nanny Dilber, Cengiz and the girls to get ready to leave. Holding her father-in-law’s arm, she got him to his feet.
As they walked up Hukumet Avenue to Iki Chesmelik, Cengiz pulled sulkily at his mother’s robe. He wanted to follow the convoy down to the quay. Sumbul looked desperately for Hilmi Rahmi among the soldiers showily riding around on their horses, but she couldn’t see him through the crowd. ‘Your grandfather’s not well, son,’ she said, prizing Cengiz’s fingers from her robe. ‘Let’s take him home, then you can go out with Ziver, down to the quay. Okay?’
Cengiz kicked at a stone by way of reply.
When they’d pushed their way through the throngs of people drunk on victory and arrived at their house on Bulbul Street, they found Hilmi Rahmi at the entrance to the courtyard. He looked very upset about something; his face was set in a frown. Handing his horse over to Ziver, he walked to the door.
Cengiz had been imagining the moment when he would tell his father about coming eye to eye with Kemal Pasha, but seeing him distracted and silent, his confidence faltered. Still, he put on a brave face and raced up to his father.
‘Father, I saw Kemal Pasha – and he saw me! He looked straight into my eyes – his eyes are like the sea, deep blue – and then he lowered his eyebrows the way the women teachers at school do. He was so serious.’
Hilmi Rahmi pushed his son aside, ignoring the pleading look in the boy’s eyes, eyes that were the same green as his mother’s, and went into the men’s quarters. A now tearful Cengiz came to his mother’s side, and Sumbul, who’d observed the change in her husband with concern, took him in her arms and whispered, ‘Your father is thinking about his brother, your Uncle Huseyin, who was killed in the war. Let him go to his room and rest for a bit. Later he’ll talk to you about Kemal Pasha. Now go and tell Ziver that you and he should get down to the quay. The girls will want to go too, I’m sure. Don’t miss the Pasha’s speech. Listen well so that when you come back you can repeat it for me, word for word. Okay? Don’t forget your flag.’
Sumbul breathed a sigh of relief when Mujgan’s daughters and Cengiz left the courtyard with Ziver. Her ears were ringing. It was so hot. Maybe she had heat stroke. She went to the women’s quarters. Without stopping by the kitchen, she made straight for the spacious salon, took off her robe and shoes and lay down on the couch.
*
‘Mummy, is Father going to shoot Uncle Kostaki with his pistol?’
Sumbul was startled. She had dozed off, forgetting her younger son Dogan, who was waving his sword at imaginary enemies in a far corner of the room. ‘What’s happened, my Dogan?’ she asked anxiously. ‘What’s made you think that?’
Even from where she lay on the couch, she could see that her son’s eyes had welled up. Suddenly she was worried. Had the humpbacked confectionary seller Kostaki, who came past the mosque every day with his rooster-shaped, red, yellow, orange and green lollipops, done something to Dogan?
‘Son, come and sit here with me. Did Uncle Kostaki do something to make you unhappy?’
Dogan scampered across the rug in his bare feet to where his mother was sitting. Sumbul took a handkerchief from the bosom of her dress and wiped his runny nose, then raised her purple silk sleeve so that Dogan could settle under her armpit like a cat, as if he were an extension of his mother.
‘Dogan, darling, tell me, why did you think your father would shoot Uncle Kostaki?’
The boy felt safe under his mother’s arm. ‘“Father will kill all the infidels with his gun,” that’s what my brother said. I asked him, “Even Uncle Kostaki?” and he said, “Yes.”’ He straightened up and turned his small face to hers. ‘Please, Mummy, tell Father not to shoot Uncle Kostaki. He always gives me lollipops when he passes the mosque.’
He buried himself in his mother’s silky armpit once again and began to sob. Sumbul decided she would give Cengiz a good beating when he came home, but then her heart softened as she reminded herself that her older son was caught up in the euphoria of victory, that was all.
‘Your brother was joking, son. Your father killed the enemy with his gun, but he wouldn’t shoot people who weren’t soldiers. Thanks be to Allah, we won the war. We got rid of the enemy who were occupying our land. Now we can live as we did in the past. Uncle Kostaki will stay here as our neighbour for the rest of his life, giving you rooster-shaped lollipops.’
‘Mummy, is Uncle Kostaki an infidel?’
Sumbul leaned down and buried her nose in her son’s chestnut-coloured hair. The smell of mastic and lavender had seeped from the pillows into the curls flattened by his fez. She poured
kisses onto his head and squeezed his little body tight until he had had enough.
From outdoors came the clatter of plates, forks and glasses on the table that Nanny Dilber and Mujgan were setting in the shade of the chestnut tree. Leaning her head back on the couch, Sumbul closed her eyes. What could Hilmi Rahmi be doing alone in the men’s quarters? On this happy day, a splinter was still pricking her heart. Why? Was her soul so greedy that it could never find peace? Surely not. On the contrary, after the night of lovemaking in her husband’s arms, she felt like a satisfied cat. Izmir was back in Turkish hands. In Mustafa Kemal their country had a progressive, European-style leader at the helm. This filled her with pride, joy, and excitement. Hilmi Rahmi had said they would go to balls like European husbands and wives, would dance together as they did. Sumbul could not believe that something like this would happen in her lifetime, but she was still pleased that her husband could imagine dancing with her in the European style. In her mind she saw herself playing the piano in Plovdiv while her mother and father waltzed in the ballroom of their mansion.
‘I’m so hungry,’ Dogan mumbled, walking his soldier-fingers across his mother’s stomach. ‘If there’s extra, can I have two helpings of quince dessert?’
*
The silence at dinner, which they ate all together under the chestnut tree after the evening call to prayer, suited Mujgan perfectly. The festive mood in the neighbourhood had brought home the fact that her husband had been killed not by the infidels but while fighting against the army of the Ottoman sultan, who opposed Kemal Pasha’s National Struggle for Independence. The cheerful celebrations and victory yells, rather than alleviating her pain, were making it worse. The patriotic fervour that she had defended throughout the War of Independence now felt hollow in her husband’s absence. The thing they called a country didn’t fill even a corner of the great emptiness she felt inside. How was she supposed to feel any bond with those stupid people out there when her life had been deprived of its most precious connection? As the revelry outside continued, Mujgan’s sorrow and anger intensified.
The sun had set. In the evening breeze, the scent of roses wafted over the dinner table. Nanny Dilber lit the lamps she’d hung in the branches of the chestnut tree. The sound of drums and pipes still echoed on the street, and through the open window of the owner of the gramophone they could hear martial music, folksongs, opera melodies and even the tango. From time to time youths passing through Iki Chesmelik would yell out in celebration, to be met with either scolding or applause from neighbours who’d brought their chairs out in front of their houses.
The boys raced to finish their food so that they could go out and join in the revelry as soon as possible. Dogan even forgot about that second dessert. While Nanny Dilber was serving the coffee, Sumbul asked if she could let the boys go out onto the street with Ziver to supervise them. Hilmi Rahmi said no.
The boys looked to their mother with both disappointment and hope as Hilmi Rahmi and Mustafa Efendi took their coffee into the men’s quarters. Sumbul sensed that the dinner table had been quiet not out of respect for Huseyin but rather because of something that had happened in the city earlier that day. She paid no attention to the boys’ pleas. ‘You heard with your own ears that your father does not permit you to go out. What can I do?’
After finishing his coffee, Hilmi Rahmi went to his bedroom, put on his tall black boots and slung his cartridge belt over his shoulder. Where was he going so late in the evening? Sumbul’s heart was thumping with fear. Hilmi Rahmi frowned. Looking into the mirror, he straightened his red necktie and pulled at his moustache. Sumbul took the lamp at the head of the bed and placed it on the small table in front of the mirror.
‘Sumbul, I have forbidden my father to go to the European neighbourhood. Word has been passed to Madame Lamarck’s daughter’s house too. Madame Lamarck sent all the servants working in the mansion in Bournabat away except my father. How thoughtless! Is an old man to act as an armed guard? Father was very insistent, but eventually he agreed to stay here.’
‘You did well. He should stay with us for a time and rest. Today was difficult for him. I thought he might collapse at one point. But why has Madame Lamarck come into the city? Is Bournabat not safe? What’s happening in the European neighbourhoods?’
Hilmi Rahmi had taken an ivory comb from his pocket and was smoothing back his light-chestnut hair in front of the mirror. Sumbul took his black fez from on top of the trunk and held it ready for him. He placed it on his head, took his watch from the pocket of his jacket and checked the time.
‘Wife, everywhere is in chaos right now. I heard that there’s been fighting in Bournabat – nothing to do with us, but Greek soldiers fighting among themselves, settling old scores. A noisy row between supporters of Venizelos and supporters of the Greek king. Such quarrels don’t concern us any longer. I spoke with my superiors a little earlier and it seems I must be on duty for a few more days. I will leave my father in your care. Do not go out into the neighbourhood at all until I return. You should send Ziver to the market and have him buy a week’s provisions. Do not leave the house.’
‘But…’ Sumbul knew that with such a festive atmosphere on the streets, it would be impossible to keep the boys inside. Turkish soldiers had liberated the city, so why the need for such caution? And was she about to be left on her own again? She hadn’t had enough of her husband yet. Her eyes filled.
‘Are there weapons in the house?’
Sumbul sniffed. For so many years she’d not shed a single tear. She’d been patient. But now, in front of her husband, her vulnerability was coming to the surface. Ashamed of herself, she turned her head.
‘There’s a double-barrelled shotgun in the well. And an old Greek Mauser rifle. When we were here on our own, your father thoughtfully brought us a Russian Nagant revolver. We hid that too. That’s all. Huseyin took the rest.’
‘Any shells?’
‘A few. What’s going on, for God’s sake, Hilmi Rahmi? Are we not safe? Are Greek gangs going to come and ransack our houses? I thought they’d all been evacuated, or are some of them still here? Are they going to burn this city as well before they leave?’
Hilmi Rahmi looked at his wife with love. Standing there in front of the door in her purple silk, with her curly blonde hair falling over her shoulders and her green eyes wide with fear, she looked like a fairy in the dim light of the lamp. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. His heart tightened at the thought that he would not be sleeping by her side that night. He straightened his back and reminded himself that it was his duty to keep the city and its people safe. Waving his hand in the air, he tried to dispel the dark possibilities that came to his mind. It was probably because of these possibilities that Nureddin Pasha had called his officers back to work.
He buckled on his brown leather belt and embraced Sumbul. ‘You are safe, wife. As long as we’re in this city, you’re safe. No one is going to burn our beautiful Izmir or ransack our houses. Everyone can continue going about their business.’
They walked out to the courtyard together. The streets had finally quietened, and night had settled over the city. The full moon had risen behind Kadife Kale in all its splendour, preparing to bathe the bay in its silver glow. The courtyard was filled with the intoxicating smell of honeysuckle that had been warmed by the sun all day. Sumbul passed her fingers over the scented flowers twining up the wall.
With one hand holding his horse’s reins, Hilmi Rahmi scanned the courtyard. ‘As a precaution, lock the gate behind me – I know how to open it from the outside. Take the shotgun out of the well and keep my father’s Russian Nagant to hand. Do not open the gate to anyone asking for shelter, even neighbours.’
Sumbul’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Even women and children?’
When Hilmi Rahmi didn’t answer, something else occurred to Sumbul. ‘Or are you worried that our own soldiers might ransack the city? But didn’t Kemal Pasha declare that anyone who so much as laid a finger on the possessions,
lives or honour of the Christians would be sentenced to death? In which case, who would dare?’
With a nervous expression on his face, Hilmi Rahmi passed his palm over his horse’s glossy black coat. He didn’t tell his wife that Metropolitan Bishop Chrysostomos, the highly esteemed leader of the Greek Orthodox community in Smyrna, had been killed by a lynch mob in Konak. They had first gouged out the old man’s eyes with a pair of barber’s scissors, then cut off his ears and his nose. After which, to make an example of him, they had dragged his dying body through the streets, before finally throwing his corpse outside the city.
He turned his hazel eyes to the sky, where the moon was shining like a jewel. He didn’t mention how on cold nights at the front hungry soldiers used to dream of looting the houses of infidels as revenge for the tortures they were suffering. Hilmi Rahmi remembered how disgusted he’d been when the officers had related how on those lonely nights the young men torn from the heart of Asia Minor would huddle together for warmth around a fire, rubbing their hands and talking of the beauty and immorality of infidel women and how, if they won the war, they would have the right to make those women do anything they wanted.
The horse whinnied impatiently. Solitary clouds scudded across the starry sky towards the sea.
‘No one. No exceptions.’
‘But—’
‘Sumbul, to save the lives of our children, you must follow what I say to the letter. I entreat you. Just do as I say and ask no more questions.’
Sumbul lowered her blonde head and looked at the long shadows in the garden lit up by the full moon. Hilmi Rahmi went through the wooden gate, mounted his horse in one smooth movement, turned the animal with a tug of the reins in the direction of the Jewish neighbourhood, and, without looking back at his wife, disappeared from sight behind the cemetery.
As she locked the gate behind him, Sumbul had the feeling that nothing would ever be the same again. She suddenly realized what it was that had been making her so uneasy the whole day, like a thorn pricking her heart. It was a Sunday, and for the first time ever since she’d arrived in the city as a fresh young bride, not one of the church bells in Smyrna had rung.
