Without a Country

by Kulin, Ayse

  Paul, I wish I hadn’t needed to write you this letter, but let me offer my deepest apologies on behalf of Germans everywhere, for

  Paul peered at Gerhard over the frames of his spectacles. “The rest is private. Hammen and I have been friends since childhood.”

  Gerhard waited for his father-in-law to finish the letter before saying, “What this proves is that an entire nation can go insane.”

  “It is also an indication of the depravity to which a despot can drive his countrymen, Gerhard. I don’t know when it will happen, but Hitler will be gone one day, and only then will sociologists be able to analyze what has happened, and why. What I mean to say, son, is that evil, too, can be instructive.”

  “That may be, but Hitler’s not going anywhere soon. Just yesterday, civil servants were instructed to turn in the names of any colleagues who’ve dared to criticize the government.”

  “And, most likely, anyone against whom they bear a grudge. Soon, people will be ratting out their neighbors to prove their own purity. Germany has been transformed into a den of spies and traitors.”

  The two letters were far more chilling to Gerhard than the daily reports on the radio and in the papers. Those eyewitness accounts wormed their way into his dreams, visions of black and curling pages giving way to scattered human limbs and dashed brains. For the first time, he submitted when Gertrude offered him one of her calming herbal teas before bedtime.

  As Gerhard’s homeland continued to deteriorate, he stopped feeling sorry for himself and came to realize how blessed he and his family were to have left when they did. He threw himself into his work, which he had dubbed “Paul’s special project.” The old man would join him in the office until midnight, writing letters to every academic he knew and pleading with them to find positions for the names on his growing list. So far, they had been able to place someone in Denmark and another two in France—just three out of hundreds. Still, for those three people and their families, it meant everything in the world.

  About two weeks later, Paul arrived home with a delighted smile. “I’m going to Geneva this week. Gerhard, would you like to come with me?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a walk along the lake.”

  “We won’t have much time for walks, but we will be visiting a friend of mine who lives right on the shore. If what I learned today is true, we will be meeting with the one person in the world who can solve our problem.”

  “Which problem, sir? We have so many.”

  “How to help our applicants. This could be the light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “Who is your friend? What does he do?”

  “He’s a professor of pedagogy and the former president of the University of Geneva. He’s been advising the Turks on how to found a modern university. I must be getting old, Gerhard. I should have thought of him immediately. I thought it best to speak in person, so we’re paying him a visit.”

  “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Malche. Albert Malche.”

  But the morning they had planned to set out for Geneva, Gerhard found Paul sitting at the breakfast table with a long face.

  “Malche called early this morning,” Paul explained. “He’s going to Istanbul.”

  “Oh! Didn’t he know about our appointment?”

  “Yes, but he was awaiting news from Turkey.”

  “What kind of news?”

  “Last year, at the request of the Turkish president, Malche submitted a report on educational reform to that country’s minister of education. He didn’t expect to be taken seriously by the Turks, who often interpret science through the lens of religion. Imagine his astonishment when he learned that his report had been well received. They even offered him a consulting position—he’ll be helping to found their new university. He leaves for Istanbul today.”

  “Well, we can always meet with him when he gets back.”

  “That’s what I’m upset about. He expects to be there for six months.”

  “We’ll write to him, then.”

  “That looks like our only option. Let’s get straight to work, Gerhard. I know it’s a Sunday, but we need to work on this until dinnertime. We can’t let another day pass,” Paul said. He quickly finished his egg, gulped down his coffee, and got up from the table.

  Gerhard was caught with his mouth full. He couldn’t understand why there was such a rush. Even so, he left his half-full cup of coffee behind and followed his father-in-law to the office.

  They decided to start by recommending only three people to Malche. A list of dozens might frighten him off. By noon, they had finalized a carefully worded letter asking if it would be possible to send a representative to Turkey to discuss employment prospects. It was signed by Professor Paul Hindberg on behalf of the Association to Assist German Scientists Abroad.

  A short note arrived from Malche the following week:

  I will forward your request to the authorities in Ankara and be in touch.

  To Gerhard, it felt as if a door had opened and through the crack streamed a thin ray of light. Happily, he didn’t have to wait long for more news, this time in the form of a telegram:

  Expecting representative stop Malche

  “Congratulations! And to think you’ll get to see Istanbul!”

  “Son, you know I’m giving final exams this week. You’re our representative.”

  “Me?”

  “You’ll do exactly what I would. Present our list of candidates to the authorities and negotiate terms if it comes to that.”

  “I’m not sure I can. And Malche is your friend, not mine.”

  “If you’d been able to stay in Germany, you’d be chairing a department right now. And chairs have to negotiate. We have our three candidates. If you meet resistance, don’t insist on professorships for all three. One is better than none. I know you can do this.”

  A City with a Sea Running Through It

  On a hot July day, Gerhard boarded the Orient Express and settled in for the long journey to Istanbul.

  Once, in college, he and some friends had set out in a third-class carriage from Berlin, getting as far as Venice by washing glasses and peeling potatoes to pay their way. It was the most fun he’d ever had. When he later told Elsa of this adventure, he left out the bit about washing dishes.

  Settled now in a comfortable seat by the window, Gerhard gazed out at the familiar thick forests, red rooftops, and charming villages of Central Europe—scenery marred, on occasion, by the blight of industry. When he wasn’t looking out the window, he read books or drifted into an uneasy sleep. He had stopped allowing himself to hope for a better future. His new motto was “whatever happens, happens.” He was on his way to the East, and he would embrace the famed fatalism of the Levant.

  On the third day of the journey, Gerhard caught sight of the ancient ramparts of Yedikule and the blue expanse that was the Sea of Marmara. Just ahead, he could see hundreds of pointed minarets straining toward the low-hanging white clouds.

  Hugging the walls of Topkapı Palace, the train rounded the Sarayburnu promontory.

  Had he been transported to a land of make-believe? Was he dreaming?

  It was nothing like the cities he’d seen in Central Europe or on the Mediterranean, but it didn’t match his idea of the Middle East, either. He hadn’t spotted a single camel.

  The train chugged into Sirkeci Station.

  A small suitcase in hand, Gerhard stepped onto a platform that smelled of coal and the sea. The gentleman who approached with a smile and an outstretched hand turned out to be Erim, a professor fluent in German, a language whose intricacies he had mastered while earning a doctorate in mathematics at Nuremburg University. Gerhard was surprised. He’d never met a Turk who had been educated in Germany.

  “Good morning! I’m taking you directly to Darülfünun, the university. You can rest at a hotel after the meeting or join me for a tour of the city, whichever you prefer.”

  “Will Professor Malche be at the meeting?” Gerhard asked.


  “No, but you’ll see him tomorrow. We’ll have an early dinner this evening, and then I’ll take you to your train. We’ve booked a sleeping compartment. You see, Professor Malche isn’t in Istanbul—he’s expecting you in Ankara tomorrow morning.”

  “Is the university we’re going to now the one being reformed?”

  “Yes. As you’ll see for yourself, it’s terribly behind the times. The building itself, the professors, the system . . . everything is hopelessly outdated. It needs renewing, top to bottom. The state has been providing our brightest students with scholarships for advanced studies abroad. Our resources are limited, however, so we are founding a university adhering to European standards right here in Turkey. This was our founder’s idea, and the only way to keep up with the times. Herr Schliemann, our shared ideal is to propel our country to its rightful place among the most advanced countries of the world. We will do whatever it takes to achieve this.”

  Gerhard smiled broadly. “Good for you, my friend,” he said, certain now that he had come to the right place. He had only just arrived in this strange land, but the young professor’s idealism and enthusiasm were infectious.

  Present at the meeting were twelve faculty members, several of them German speakers and the rest fluent in French. They briefed Gerhard on their plans for the university, and he recommended several mathematicians and physicists.

  Afterward, Gerhard accompanied Professor Erim and three other Turkish professors to a restaurant. Gerhard expected kebab, but the plate placed in front of him contained a meat stew of some sort nestled on a delicious mound of smoky eggplant mash. And there was a crisp salad composed of diced tomatoes, cucumbers, and red onions. He tried and failed to pronounce the Turkish for this “shepherd’s salad,” or çoban salatası. Next on the menu was a cloying dessert, half of which he got down, and a tiny cup of coffee. He thought it more polite to push away the cup of black sludge than to grimace openly with the attempt to take a second swallow of it.

  Now, his belly full, his eyelids were growing heavy. He would have loved to tour the city, but he badly needed a nap. Promising to return at seven that evening, Erim dropped him off at the hotel, where he collapsed on the white coverlet.

  When Gerhard awoke, the sun was low on the horizon. He struggled out of bed and splashed water on his face. Unaccustomed to napping, he felt confused and muddleheaded. And his trousers were badly wrinkled. He had a second pair in his suitcase, but wanted to save them for his meeting with Malche. Resorting to an old trick, he removed his trousers, spread them out under the coverlet, and smoothed them with his hand. The tub filled as he shaved. By the time Erim arrived, he was a new man.

  “We’re going to take a ferry to Asia,” Erim explained as they climbed into a taxi. “It’s just a twenty-minute ride on the Bosphorus; we’ll cross over from Europe. Let’s be sure to find seats facing west. Nothing is as magical as an Istanbul sunset.”

  They got out of the taxi at the quay and walked through the crowd toward the approaching ferry. Gerhard stared at the elegantly attired men and women disembarking from the boat, at the sturdy, headscarved women clutching string shopping bags, at the scrawny stevedores bent double under their loads, at the vendors hawking grape juice and sesame rolls, at the stray dogs and the napping cats and the squawking seagulls. Side by side teemed the rich and the poor, the stylish and the ragged. The ancient buildings and monuments were majestic and proud, timeworn and shabby: everything a study in opposites. He was jolted out of his reverie by an ear-splitting howl.

  “That’s the ferry,” Erim said.

  That raucous whistle, which Gerhard would one day learn to love, sounded again as a thick black cloud surged out of the smokestack. He instinctively clasped his hand over his nose, but a breeze arose out of nowhere and dissipated the smoke. The clouds still hung in the sky like fluffs of wool and now were tinged lilac.

  Gerhard and Erim climbed the stairs to the upper deck and found seats facing the European shore. Seagulls were wheeling and diving, dipping their wings in the sea foam and scrapping for bits of bread that passengers threw from behind the railing. Directly in front of him, countless domes and minarets were etched against a scarlet sun and an ever-changing, multihued sky. Gerhard got goose bumps. He wasn’t a particularly religious man, but the vision before him, this ancient city seemingly sinking into the sea along with the setting sun, was surely a masterpiece of that great artist known to some as God.

  Erim was asking him something. He wanted to know what Gerhard thought of Istanbul so far.

  “Magnificent,” he said without hesitation.

  This city, which so little resembled the land where he had been born and bred, somehow seemed worthy of every superlative.

  When they drew up to the opposite shore, he watched as the mooring lines were secured, waited as the creaking ferry met the groaning dock, and surged with the crowd over the gangplanks and up the stairs to the station.

  Gerhard turned around for another glimpse of the deep-blue sea.

  “We’re quite early for the train, Herr Schliemann, but there’s a meyhane nearby. Allow me to treat you to a glass of wine,” Erim said.

  Gerhard couldn’t think of a more welcome proposal. A short walk took them to a rustic seaside establishment, where they sat at a wobbly wooden table.

  The waiter brought little plates of salty white cheese, pale-green melon, wrinkled olives, and bread. A bottle of wine was soon produced, and Gerhard’s glass was filled.

  He forced himself to finish the first swallow and smiled graciously, but his companion was not fooled.

  “Perhaps our wineries need reforming, too. I should never have served white wine to a German.”

  “No, no . . . it’s most refreshing.”

  “Would you like to try our national drink? I’d be happy to join you.”

  “Yes, please.” It couldn’t be worse than the wine.

  The waiter placed two tall, slender glasses in front of each man. He filled one of Gerhard’s with water and poured two fingers’ worth of a colorless liquid into the second. When water was added to the liquid, it turned a milky white. Gerhard’s initial alarm was overcome by the fragrant scent of anise. The waiter added two cubes of ice to the mysterious concoction.

  “I advise you to eat something first.” Erim had speared some cheese and was holding it out.

  A bit of bread, an olive, a sip of rakı, a chunk of melon, another sip of ice-cold rakı. The men clinked glasses and smiled at each other.

  “Be sure to have a sip of water after each sip of rakı. There’s a reason we say, ‘Rakı won’t sit in you the way it sits in the bottle.’”

  “How true. No alcoholic beverage does.”

  Erim raised his glass. “To your honor.”

  “To the success of the university reforms.”

  They were deep in conversation when Erim cried out, “Oh! I must ask for the bill at once, or you’ll miss your train.”

  Gerhard leapt unsteadily from his chair. He couldn’t miss the train! What if he disgraced himself in the eyes of his father-in-law and of Malche?

  Erim paid, then slipped his arm through Gerhard’s and practically carried his woozy guest all the way to the train station.

  “If the train’s already left, what will I do?”

  “We’ll catch it. And once you’re onboard, have them make up your bed at once and try to get a good night’s sleep, Gerhard Bey.”

  “Erim Bey, your wish is my command!” Gerhard grinned. “How strange. I feel so at home here, and so relaxed.”

  “That’s the miracle of rakı. One floats up above the clouds without a care in the world.”

  Professor Erim accompanied Gerhard to his compartment, placed his suitcase up on the rack, and instructed the conductor to ensure that the German’s bed was made up and that he was awakened half an hour before the train arrived in Ankara.

  Gerhard thanked his new friend from his heart, and they bid each other farewell. His bed was ready, so he hung his jacket on a hook, then lay
down, still fully dressed. Has the rakı gone to my head? Or is it Istanbul? was his last thought before falling fast asleep.

  A City Created out of Nothing

  An insistent knocking roused Gerhard from a deep sleep. He sat up and listened. A man outside the door was speaking in a strange tongue. His watch, where was it? In his pocket? Last night, that nice fellow, Errem—no, Emren?—had told the conductor to wake him up. He could still taste that white drink smelling of anise. He’d drunk too much and barely made it to the train in time. What was odd, though, was that he could remember everything. His head wasn’t even throbbing, though several glasses of wine always left him with a splitting headache. Now, where were his shoes? He must have kicked them off in the middle of the night. And his pants, too? Gerhard spotted them lying in a wrinkled heap in the corner, shoes under the table. He got up and opened his suitcase, laying everything out on the bed. Once dressed, he stepped out of his compartment in search of the toilet, then proceeded to the dining car. The moment he sat down at one of the white-clothed tables, a waiter brought over jam, butter, a variety of cheeses, and olives. Olives for breakfast? Were there no sausages? He asked the waiter in French. No! “Ooph, ooph,” the waiter offered. Ah, oeuf, eggs. Yes, a hard-boiled egg would work. But the waiter brought him a cheese omelet. Gerhard shook his head. Did Turks have cheese and olives with every meal? But he was hungry, and the omelet was tasty. Before long, he’d polished off everything on the table. Gerhard ordered a coffee. No, not that little cup of engine fuel again! Tea would have to do.

  An elderly couple was waiting for his table, so Gerhard nodded, stood up, and returned to his compartment. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and reorganized his suitcase, placing the file he would be presenting to the minister on top. Just then, he felt the train begin to slow as it pulled into the station. Gerhard lowered the window and peered out. That man in a straw boater holding himself ramrod straight like a true Prussian must be Malche. He looked roughly the same age as Gerhard’s father-in-law.