by Kulin, Ayse
“The nerve!” Gerhard said.
“This is all because our salaries are much higher than those of our Turkish colleagues. They feel like they’re being treated unfairly.”
“It’s true, our salaries are higher. But our contracts forbid us from any outside work. The Turks all have their own private clinics and offices. They end up earning far more than we do.”
“Come on, Gerhard. Whenever anyone falls ill in this city, they insist on being treated by a German doctor. They seem to think we can work magic. It’s only natural that Turkish doctors would resent us.”
“Do you know what they wrote in this same newspaper last week? Basically, the ministry of education was accused of having snapped up Jewish academics on the cheap, as though we were sold in bulk to the highest bidder. The byline said . . . hang on, I’ll remember. Ah, Yunus Nadi! Anyway, at the end, this Nadi character demanded that our contracts be terminated. Have you heard about this?”
“Of course I have. But did you know that Tan published a response dismissing Nadi’s complaints as gossipmongering and describing us as a glittering constellation of scholars? It was a long article. I’ll find it for you if you like.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. It annoys me just as much when they pile on the flattery.”
“Listen, my friend,” Hirsch said. “I was trained as a legal theorist. We need to be analytical and identify their real motives. We’re not the target; we’re just an easy mark. It’s the Gazi and his reforms that they want to attack, but they don’t dare do it openly, so they set their sights on us. Can’t you see that?”
Gerhard gulped a mouthful of rakı from the glass his friend had filled. The national drink, once so strange to him, went down smooth as water these days.
“I need some ice.”
Hirsch waved to the waiter and gestured to Gerhard’s glass.
“I left that first meeting so impressed by their determination to modernize. What happened to all that enthusiasm? Why are these reactionaries being tolerated?”
“People resist change. The Turks have been resisting change for centuries.”
“You, me, all of the professors I recruited . . . we find ourselves between the reformists and the old guard—right in the line of fire. Had I known it would turn out like this, I might never have come.”
The waiter arrived with an ice bucket and placed two cubes in Gerhard’s glass with a pair of silver tongs.
“The waiters here are smarter than the scientists. All it took was a flick of your finger for him to understand that I wanted ice. In Germany, the waiter would have come over to the table and asked what you wanted,” Gerhard said.
“We won’t be in Germany again for a long time. You’ve learned to communicate with this country’s waiters, my friend. I suggest you learn to get along with its professors, as well.”
“But how? They oppose new research, oppose their students reading scholarly literature, oppose original thinking, oppose questions, oppose new ideas. What they really want is for time to stand still. And they call themselves scientists!”
“Perhaps some of the fault lies with the Republicans. They expect the public to swallow the medicine of modernity in one great gulp. And what happens? The patient vomits it right back up.”
“You’re a legal scholar. You have the luxury of dissecting thorny questions one step at a time. I’m a doctor. If I were to remove a tumor one piece at a time—a bit today, a little next week, some more next year—the patient would die. To be effective, treatment must be immediate, swift, and thorough!”
“Yes, but we’re not talking about an individual here. We’re talking about an entire society composed of millions of people with all kinds of different problems . . .” Hirsch’s sentence petered out as his eyes were drawn to the full moon, which had just emerged from behind a silvery veil of cloud. He popped a few roasted chickpeas in his mouth and took a sip of rakı, followed by a sip of water. “Never mind all this, my friend! Let’s enjoy the moonlight. We can’t allow a few reactionary professors to get us down. Now, what were you saying about Hanna? She hasn’t left you, has she?”
“Actually, that’s exactly what she’s done. She found a lover and ran off.”
“You’re kidding! A German?”
“No, a local.”
“But how do they communicate?”
“Love has its own language, they say.”
“How did they meet?”
“In a shopping arcade in Beyoğlu, just up the hill from our home. The one full of drapers and haberdashers. Hanna was forever running off to the shops for a bit of thread or a button. As it turns out, she was flirting with the son of a shopkeeper. His family paid us a visit and asked for her hand. Elsa stalled, saying she couldn’t consent to an engagement without getting permission from the girl’s real family first. So, two days ago, Hanna left a note saying she had eloped, just like that!
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-two. She’s of age, but Elsa’s the one who brought her to Istanbul, and she feels responsible for her.”
“How unfortunate,” Hirsch said.
“It was my mother-in-law’s doing. She expected Hanna to help Elsa with the housework and the baby. Nobody even bothered to tell me. Imagine my astonishment when Elsa got off the train with this strange young woman in tow.”
“When I saw Hanna in your house, I assumed she was a relative.”
“Not at all. She managed to get out of Germany and ended up at her aunt’s in Zurich. The aunt is an acquaintance of my mother-in-law, who then took it upon herself to arrange a position for her friend’s niece. And that’s how we ended up with Hanna.”
“What about the man Hanna eloped with? Do you know much about him?”
“He’s from a family of Sephardic Jews. They own several shops in the arcade, so they must be reasonably well-off. Anyway, Peter’s the only one who’s actually sad she left.”
“Your little boy has good taste. Hanna was a beautiful girl.”
“That beauty has brought nothing but trouble. We had to notify both the Turkish authorities and the German consulate that she was no longer residing with us. She might be of age, but we could still be held responsible for any trouble she causes.”
“You have my sympathies.” Hirsch raised his glass and said, “May it all work out for the best. Prosit!”
“Şerefe,” Gerhard replied. “That’s the first Turkish word I mastered.” He finished off his rakı and stopped the waiter from refilling his glass. “I’d better slow down, or I’ll end up missing the last ferry. I have enough problems at work. The last thing I need is another problem at home.”
“Bring the tray of meze, please,” Hirsch told the waiter in his heavily accented Turkish. Then he looked Gerhard directly in the eye. “Don’t make too much of these setbacks at the university. We can’t allow a handful of disgruntled professors to make us forget our gratitude to this country.”
“That’s precisely what has me so upset! I’ve been working day and night to help my students succeed, but all this mudslinging makes me want to give up. I can’t help it.”
“Don’t let them get you down, my friend. We’ve come so far. You even learned Turkish.”
“Well, I’ve picked up a bit from Fatma, our cleaning lady, and from shopkeepers. My Turkish will never be as sophisticated as yours.”
Hirsch, who had taken private lessons since his first day in Turkey, was already competent in legal terminology. He contemplated the tray of small plates the waiter was holding and selected a few in what Gerhard took to be flawless Turkish.
“Leave on the table melon, cheese, salted mackerel, and that stuffed vegetable, waiter, sir.”
The waiter smiled. “Your wish is my command.”
“So, then, Hirsch,” Gerhard asked, “how much longer will it be until you escape your solitary existence? When will I have the honor of meeting your wife?”
“Very soon. I’m expecting Holde to arrive by the end of this month.”
“Elsa
will be so pleased,” Gerhard said. “She needs friends who share her background and speak German. The few she’s met live quite far from us. I wish you’d move closer by.”
“I’m afraid that’s a promise I can’t make! I’ve become terribly attached to having morning tea on the ferry as we glide across the Sea of Marmara.”
A close friendship had developed between the pathologist and the legal scholar. Once a week, they would meet either at the meyhane in Moda or at a Russian restaurant in Pera. Their approaches to the challenges of their new lives may have differed, but on one subject they were fully agreed: Istanbul was a paradise. Even the least promising alley of worn cobblestones and ramshackle wooden houses could open onto the most breathtaking vistas. This was a city of surprises and unexpected beauty, a city that made one grateful to be alive.
That night in the meyhane, as the full moon peeped through the clouds, the rakı flowed as freely as the conversation. Gerhard, indeed, nearly missed his ferry. Panting after a mad dash to the quay, he took a seat on the side of the boat that would afford the best views of Seraglio Point, rested his chin on his chest, and promptly fell asleep.
A ticket collector was tugging at Gerhard’s arm when he opened his eyes. Blinking and confused, he asked, in German, what the man wanted.
“Off, off. Ferry finished. Kaput!”
Gerhard gazed around the empty deck. He was the last passenger. He must have nodded off. He stood up, straightened his collar, thanked the man, and walked to the exit. The rush of cool air sent his head spinning for a moment, but he steadied himself. He trotted across the gangplank and onto dry land, only to find that he was still on the Asian shore, in Kadıköy! How could that be? He turned around, but the gangplank was gone and the ferry’s lights were off. Was he dreaming? No. What had happened, of course, was that he, a total idiot, had fallen into a drunken slumber, failed to disembark, and been carried back to Asia on the return trip. The man who’d woken him was smoking a cigarette a little farther along the quay. Gerhard went over and tried to ask what time the next ferry would leave.
“No boat,” the man said. “Kaput. In the morning.” He held up six fingers. Then he tossed his cigarette into the sea and walked off.
It was getting cold. Gerhard turned up his collar so it covered his ears, but he was still shivering. He had enough money for a cab, but the car ferry wouldn’t be running at this hour, either. It was complicated to live in a city on two continents. He stood at the end of the quay for a long while, the wind pelting his face with salt spray, and felt as helpless and alone as at any time in his life.
He considered going to Hirsch’s house. But his friend was probably asleep and might not even hear the doorbell. No, it would be better to find a hotel near the quay. He spotted a building that resembled an apartment block more than a hotel, but the sign clearly read “Özlem Oteli.” He stepped inside. The man at reception understood that he wanted a room, but kept repeating a word—Peşin! Peşin!—Gerhard didn’t understand. Why hadn’t he thought to bring his pocket dictionary with him?
When he’d first arrived at the university, he’d been provided with a German-speaking assistant for work and a first-year student to help with tasks like getting electricity and gas connected to his apartment. He’d appreciated the help but wondered now if he shouldn’t have taken private lessons like Hirsch. It was only when the receptionist started rubbing his thumb against his fingertips that Gerhard understood: “Peşin” must mean “advance payment.” He pulled out some cash, accepted his room key, and scribbled 5:30 on a slip of paper.
“Wake me up. Wake me up,” he said in Turkish, simultaneously miming the action. In his room one floor up, he removed all his clothing but his shirt and threw himself onto one of the twin beds. Exhausted and still a little tipsy, he fell asleep at once, without a thought for his worried wife.
A knock on the door awakened him at the appointed time. He put on the jacket and trousers he’d spread out on the other bed, slipped on his shoes, and grabbed his coat.
Downstairs, he politely refused the glass of tea awaiting him. Better to grab tea on the ferry. But when he stepped into the street, he was enveloped by a thick gray mist. The ferries wouldn’t be running in this fog! Unable to see more than a few feet in front of him, he nonetheless made his way to the quay among the lonely cries of foghorns. The small crowd that had gathered there was starting to thin. They must have lost hope. He wanted to ask someone when the fog was expected to lift, but was his Turkish up to it? Ordinary commuters were unlikely to know French or German. Chilled and defeated, he hesitated for a moment before setting off for Hirsch’s house in Moda.
Hirsch did a double take when he saw his friend at the door. He couldn’t help laughing when Gerhard explained what had happened.
“Have you eaten?”
“I was going to get tea and simit on the ferry.”
“The fog will lift in a couple of hours. Come on in.”
Hirsch set a jar of jam and some butter on the kitchen counter. “Have you contacted Elsa?”
“How could I? We don’t have a phone, and I didn’t want to wake up our landlady. It’s still too early.”
“You’re in trouble,” Hirsch said.
“Am I ever! What’s worse, I’ll have to go straight to the university without stopping at home. I have class at nine.”
“Listen, my friend. As someone who’s been married far longer than you, I advise you to skip your class and get home before Elsa calls the police.”
“My students—”
“I’ll stop by the medical school and inform your assistant. He can handle today’s lectures,” Hirsch said. “You just worry about your wife.”
Elsa, who sometimes joined her husband for dinner with Hirsch, knew when the last ferry departed and that it took twenty minutes to reach the European shore. A rough sea might add another ten minutes, at most. Perhaps her husband had chosen to walk home from the European quay or had been unable to find a cab. That would add an extra thirty minutes. But now it was going on two in the morning, and there was still no sign of her husband. Had a thief mistaken him for a rich man and stabbed him or hit him over the head? Poor Gerhard might be lying in a puddle of blood in a back alley. She was desperate to talk to someone, even Fatma, who knew not a word of German. But Fatma had finished her work and left at five, as always. The children were asleep. If only troublesome Hanna hadn’t disappeared! Hirsch didn’t have a phone and was too reserved to use his neighbors’ phone. In an emergency, phone messages were left at the corner shop and delivered to Hirsch by the errand boy in exchange for a tip. But the shop wouldn’t be open at this hour. Even so, Elsa found the number, threw on a robe, and walked down two flights of stairs to Madame Saryan’s apartment. They could call the police as well. Once she was at the door, though, she thought better of it and trudged back up. She stretched out in bed and tried to sleep. But an hour later, she was back at Madame’s door, reaching for the bell, pulling her hand back, reaching for the bell . . . No, she couldn’t do it. Back upstairs, she ate an apple, stared at a book, wrote a letter to her mother, tore up the letter. Then she marched downstairs again and rang the bell before she could change her mind.
In next to no time, Madame had her reading glasses perched on her nose and was dialing the number Elsa had given her. As expected, nobody answered at the grocer’s. Next, Madame called to find out what time the last ferry had arrived in Europe. Then she called the police station and asked if there had been any reports of an accident or criminal incident. There were none. And no sign of Gerhard at the local hospitals. Elsa heaved a sigh of relief, thanked Madame, and went back upstairs.
Madame appeared at Elsa’s door a few minutes later with a pot of tea and Elsa’s favorite pastry. Conversing in limited French, a smattering of Turkish, and an abundance of body language, the women passed the better part of an hour chatting and nibbling on the nut-filled, crescent-shaped buns Madame had baked just that afternoon. When Madame left, Elsa climbed into bed again and, exhausted
as she was, prayed for her husband’s safe return. She felt utterly helpless. Perhaps Gerhard was with another woman? But he wasn’t that kind of man, and even if he were, he wouldn’t stay out all night. Then again, that’s what her cousin had thought until her husband suddenly announced that he had fallen in love with another woman and wanted a divorce. Elsa decided that, after she sent Peter to school in the morning, she’d take Susy and go to find her husband at the university. Surely, he’d be there. He would apologize, she told herself, say he’d missed the ferry and spent the night at Hirsch’s.
But what if she couldn’t find him at the university?
She told herself to stop worrying and might even have fallen asleep.
Susy woke up at six. Elsa changed her diaper, fed her, and left her in bed with some toys. Around seven, Peter came into the kitchen and asked where his father was. Elsa told him that Gerhard had left early for a meeting. Once her son was fed, dressed, and on his way to his nearby school, she watched from the window, as always, until he had rounded the corner. Normally, Gerhard walked Peter to school, and they turned to wave to Elsa before disappearing. Today, Peter was too busy joking around with his friends to remember to wave to his mother.
“That’s how it goes,” she said aloud. It was just as her mother had told her. A daughter will always be yours, but a son is only yours for the first few years. After that, he’ll belong to his friends, then to his girlfriends, and finally, to his wife.
But did Gerhard still belong to her?
Elsa sat down in front of the window and took up her knitting. Ignoring her daughter’s fussing, she kept her eyes on the street, her nervous hands stitching row after row.
Fatma arrived at five past nine. Before she’d even had a chance to take off her coat, Elsa asked her to take Susy out for a long walk. She tried to explain that her daughter hadn’t slept well last night. Fatma was none too pleased at the prospect of pushing a stroller up and down the steep cobbled streets, particularly in winter, but she was seldom called on to help with the children. Her employer must have her reasons. Muttering to herself, she bundled Susy up and left.
