Without a Country

by Kulin, Ayse

  “Does it hurt?” I asked him, looking at his hand.

  “No. I took an extra painkiller before I came here. Since we can’t drink, I thought we might as well have a quick dinner. I’ve reserved a table downstairs for eight o’clock. Your family will worry if you stay out too late.”

  “What if I told you I lived alone?”

  “Oh, come on. It’s obvious you don’t.”

  “Oh no! Does that mean I put on my bold red dress for nothing?”

  “You’re sharp-witted, too.”

  “It’s my wits that got me into medical school.”

  “And confident.”

  “Not really. I’m just quick on the uptake.”

  Sitting on the terrace of Mikla Restaurant with a bunch of stranded tourists, we flirted and traded questions for a long time, trying to get a sense of one another. And we both liked what we learned.

  When I heard the next day that over a thousand people had been injured in Istanbul and Ankara that night, I felt terrible. There we’d been, admiring the view, oblivious to the clouds of teargas and the chanting crowds seventeen floors below. I hadn’t imagined the violence could get even worse.

  Meanwhile, I’d plunged unprepared into not only love but also my vocation. My days at the clinic were teaching me how to set casts, do artificial respiration, stanch bleeding, and do much with little. I was learning the practical skills normally required of an intern, not a med student.

  I also learned what it was to have an aching heart.

  Tarık and his production crew left for the Far East five months after we met and four and a half months after we became lovers.

  I told myself there was a silver lining. No more would I neglect my studies or stumble home late after hours of love and drink. There had been some nights when I didn’t come home at all. I always told my grandparents I was staying at my friend Güzin’s. I’m grateful they never called her to find out.

  When I started the next school year, it was without Tarık in my life. It wasn’t easy, but I returned to my diligent ways and learned to live without him. I was alone, but at peace. And anyway, how could a medical student and a war correspondent ever hope to make it work?

  In the beginning, we talked on Skype virtually every day. I’d expected him to return to Istanbul within a couple of months, but he kept getting new assignments in different countries torn apart by civil war and unrest. There was never a shortage of trouble in the world.

  We started Skyping less. The time difference had always been a problem, but we went from two or three chats a week to one, and finally to none.

  We remained friends, but our relationship had to go on the shelf.

  Eight months after Tarık left, I started dating Burak. He didn’t last very long.

  In my fourth and final year of medical school, all I did was study. My dreams were filled with skeletal, muscular, and nervous systems. The people around me turned into walking and talking anatomy lessons.

  It was during that final year of school that we lost Demdem. His funeral brought together the members of our far-flung family. Mother arrived from England, and Father came up from Side. Great-Uncle Peter’s son, Kurt, flew in from America. Kurt had gone completely bald. My father had tied his gray hair into a ponytail, and when I first saw him standing at our door in a suit, I wondered who the old man was. But his voice was the same. I would have recognized it anywhere. And his anxieties were the same. He looked pretty nervous when I gave him a big hug and told him he was now more important to me than ever.

  The only person untouched by the years was my mother. I don’t know if it was the yoga, the vegan diet, or the meditation, but she looked closer to forty than sixty, even without makeup. She was wearing a long, bright skirt fashioned out of handwoven silk; lace-up flat sandals; and a fluttering, Indian-design shawl. I caught my father eying her. In fact, I even found myself hoping that they might get back together. How conventional of me. What is it with people wanting what they can’t have?

  We left the house on Grenadier Street and headed to the mosque courtyard for Demdem’s final rites. I motioned for my grandmother to get into the car following the hearse.

  “I’m going with my husband,” Su said.

  “I will, too,” I said, but the hearse had only one row of seats, and that’s where the imam always sits. I had no choice but to squeeze into an Uber with my parents, Kurt, and Rozi.

  I watched as the hearse carrying my beloved Demdem wove through the streets, crying on the shoulder of the man who’d never really been my father while I mourned the loss of the man who’d been grandfather and father both. I realized how alone I was in the world, and it made me shiver uncontrollably. Korhan took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around me. I was grateful.

  That night, my father left without even attending the evening prayer service. Kurt stayed another two days. My mother stayed for a week. On the third day, she joined me and Su in the ritual planting of flowers on Demdem’s grave.

  Then Mother was gone, and Su and I were alone.

  Home had become a sad, dark place. Grandma Su would never be the same, but she still looked after me, making my favorite meatballs or zucchini croquettes and trying to find TV shows she thought I’d enjoy.

  One day I said, “You’re wearing yourself out, Grandma. Take care of yourself even if it’s only for my sake. Without you, I won’t have a single person left in the world who truly loves me.”

  “Your mother loves you and so does your father, in his way,” she said. “And your great-uncle’s family would always welcome you with open arms. You’re not alone.”

  “My great-uncle’s family lives in America. My father . . . doesn’t count. And my mother has no time for anyone but herself.”

  “Don’t be so unfair to your mother! She seems self-centered, but she’s got a huge heart and makes room in it for everyone.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mean she makes room in her bed?”

  “Don’t make me wash your mouth out with soap! I blame myself and Demir for not helping you appreciate your mother. You have no idea how tenderhearted she is.”

  “I’m not buying it.”

  “No? Do you remember Renate?”

  “Of course I do. She had the biggest feet I ever saw on a woman. And she taught me to belly dance.”

  “Do you know what Renate’s real name was?”

  “It wasn’t Renate?”

  “No. It was Ratip.”

  “But that’s a Turkish name. And a man’s name—”

  “Ratip was tortured after the September 12 coup for being a transsexual. You do know what that is?”

  “Grandma, of course I know. And, we say ‘transwoman’ now, not transsexual. How did Mother meet her?”

  “When my mom, your great-grandmother Elsa, was hospitalized, Sude went to Frankfurt and stayed there for quite a long time, taking care of her. One day, Renate heard your mother speaking Turkish to one of the Turkish doctors in the hall, and she came over and introduced herself. That’s how they met. Renate was undergoing some kind of psychological evaluation. She and your mother got to talking. Sude was horrified when she found out what Renate had been through.”

  “What happened?”

  “We all knew what they did to the leftists, the Communists, and the Kurds after the coup . . . but it was just as bad for homosexuals and trans—men and women, as you said. They were held in the Sansaryan building for days, harassed, beaten, raped . . . Then, their heads shaved, they were crammed onto trains at Haydarpaşa station and taken to different cities in the middle of Anatolia. Renate said some of them were even thrown out of a moving train as it passed through the outskirts of Istanbul. She said she witnessed it herself.”

  “That sounds like a horror movie!”

  “But it was a real-life horror. Later, some of them managed to get away from the police. The lucky ones fled Turkey. Most were never heard of again. There was no social media in those days, and the newspapers never breathed a word about it. Renate was one of th
ose lucky ones. She made it to Europe and found work in bars. But she struggled with posttraumatic stress, as you can imagine. Your mother invited her to visit us in Side.”

  “But you had her stay in my dad’s house.”

  “We did—for your sake.”

  “Oh please, Su! Don’t hide behind me.”

  “Hey. You were still so little. And we didn’t know much about those things or whether it would be rude to her if we tried to explain it to you. What if you’d burst in on Renate while she was changing? Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that your mother took care of Renate that entire summer. She introduced her to people, bought her medication, found her a job in a café. Does that sound like the kind of thing a selfish woman does? And Renate’s just one of the many people your mother’s taken under her wing. You misjudge her.”

  “Well, how was I supposed to know any of this? I was only eight when I came to live with you. I thought Renate was my dad’s girlfriend. Why didn’t you tell me about my mom before?”

  “Esra, don’t forget: Sude’s my daughter. I never felt as though I needed to tell my granddaughter about her mother. And you never asked. You’re old enough now to understand that things aren’t always what they seem. People are complicated. I hope you’re able to get to know your mother one day. It’s time you forgave her. You’ve never understood how difficult it was for her to let you come and live in Istanbul. It was our idea, not hers.”

  I didn’t say anything. But that voice inside was still there, the one saying, “My mother abandoned me.”

  It’s not like I could claim I’d had an unhappy childhood. Su and Demdem loved me and taught me I could do anything. All they asked was that I did my best. It was because of them that I’d had the grades and the confidence to become a med student.

  I graduated with honors from the School of Medicine at Istanbul University and prepared to move to İzmir for an internship at Ninth of September University. I wanted Su to come with me to İzmir, a sunny, modern city with a laid-back lifestyle. We could promenade along the sea, I told her. We could have a glass of beer or wine and watch the sun set. She could even teach literature at a private school, if she wanted.

  But Su was having none of it. She was determined to spend the last years of her life in the building where she’d met Demir, and the last moments of her life in the bed they’d shared.

  I understood. I didn’t insist.

  Mother was somewhere overseas, as always.

  Korhan was in Side, as always.

  I arrived in İzmir alone.

  As it turned out, between my internship and my exams, I had no time to enjoy İzmir. The rare opportunity to relax came during national holidays, when I’d fly to Istanbul for long weekends with my grandmother.

  It was hard, but I knew this period in my life would soon come to an end.

  Once I became a specialist, I would move to Istanbul. That was the plan, anyway.

  But Su had other ideas.

  Ups and Downs

  I wasn’t used to seeing my grandmother lying in bed. She’d always been busy making breakfast by the time everyone else got up. She could set and clear the table and still be the first one ready to go to the beach in Side or out shopping in Istanbul. She always held herself so straight. Her hair was always neatly tied in a ponytail. Or at least it used to be. Then, when she reached her sixties, she started pinning her hair into a bun and claiming that she preferred pants now because she was tired of getting runs in her stockings.

  It pained me to see her long white hair spilling over her pillow and her body so tiny in a white gown. I hadn’t realized how much she’d aged, how hunched she was, how thin her arms had become.

  When she saw me standing in the doorway, her face lit up, but she said, “Why did you come? I told them not to worry you. There’s no need to be alarmed. I’m not the only person who gets a little dizzy sometimes.”

  “I was already planning to come to Istanbul,” I lied. “I’m attending a seminar.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “Until you’re discharged.”

  “I won’t let you. You must have patients scheduled for Monday. I’m a doctor’s daughter. I know how it is.”

  “I’m on leave, Su. First, I’ll help you get settled at home. Then, when you’re stronger, you’ll come and live with me in İzmir. The warm air will do you good. If you like it, we can rent out your apartment here.”

  “Esra, there’s only one way I’ll agree. Do what I asked. I sent you an e-mail. I told you on the phone, too.”

  “Grandma, I can’t. I’d never thrive in a strange country, career-wise or in general. Do you think it’s easy for a Turk to live overseas?”

  “You’ll never thrive here, either. Not with the way things are going in this country. They’re inventing common enemies to try and unite the religious factions. Anti-Semitism has come out of the shadows. They’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”

  I smiled and looked her in the eye. “Grandma, for the millionth time, I’m Turkish. I’m a third-generation Muslim Turk!”

  “Oh, Esra. I know. I’m Turkish too, even though I was born in Germany. I looked up to Atatürk as a father. I grew up chanting, ‘Happy is he who can say, “I am a Turk.”’ The tenth anniversary march always brought tears to my eyes.”

  Grandma was tearing up now, and her nose was running. I tried to wipe it with a tissue, but she pushed my hand away.

  “Don’t interrupt me. I was so Turkish, Esra, that I got furious when other Eurovision countries gave us low scores due to politics. It was the same every year. I’d pray Turkey came first and Germany second. The Peace Operation on Cyprus kept me up nights. I was always afraid European countries would blame us when there was a coup or when a synagogue got bombed—”

  She started coughing.

  “Grandma, I know all of this. You don’t need to tell me again. You should rest.”

  “I’m not finished! I was the proud daughter of a nation with a shining future. My father devoted his life to the advancement of science and medicine in this country. If we enjoyed a mini Renaissance, we owe a debt of gratitude to him and to the other scientists and academics, mostly Jewish German, who came here. They educated a golden generation of high achievers.”

  I’d already heard all about her golden generation, but noticed that she was now saying “Jewish German” scientists, instead of simply “German” scientists.

  After another fit of coughing, I plumped Grandma’s pillows and helped her sit up against them.

  “Su, we can talk about this later. You’re tiring yourself out.”

  “We have to talk. It’s our last chance.”

  “No, it’s not! Weren’t you listening to anything I said? I’m going to take you to İzmir and—”

  “I had it all planned out. If I hadn’t gotten sick, everything would be ready. The nephew of an old friend is an administrator at Guy’s Hospital, in London. I wrote to him. A lot of wealthy Turks go there. It’s on the—what’s the name again?—the Thames.”

  “Guy’s Hospital is going to hire a female Turkish doctor? Don’t make me laugh.”

  “You speak four languages,” Grandma said before another coughing fit hit.

  “It’s not a language school. It’s a hospital.”

  “This is serious, Esra! Enough of your jokes. The nephew even wrote back to me.”

  “Grandma Su! How could you do that without asking me?”

  “I haven’t done a thing. You just have to finish what I’ve started. Apply to that hospital. If you want my blessing, if you want me to go to İzmir, do it.”

  Now a little out of breath, Grandma fell silent.

  “We’ll talk about this again in İzmir. I promise,” I said, squeezing her hand.

  “No. We’re getting this squared away right now.”

  “All right,” I said, bowing my head.

  “Bring over a chair.”

  “Okay. I’m listening, Su.”

  “First, I want you to make p
eace with your mother.”

  “We’re not fighting!”

  “You resent her. If you need to resent someone, take it out on me, not her. I’m the one who took you away from your mother. She’s been mad at me ever since.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know, so listen while I can still tell you a little. My mother, your great-grandmother Elsa, resented my relationship with Madame. I resented how she favored Peter. We argued all the time. Then, one day, I found out that she stayed with my father for me.” A tear rolled down Su’s cheek. “Peter left home at a young age, but I was still living with my parents when I graduated from college. For my sake, my mother”—Su’s voice was barely audible now—“put up with certain things from my father.”

  “What are you saying? Not my great-grandpa Gerhard!”

  “Yes. Even him. Ah, my girl. Life is full of ups and downs. Sometimes we get caught in a snare, and sometimes we’re too weak to resist. Our mistakes can carry a heavy price. They thought I was too young to understand. Esra, I don’t have much time. There are two things I ask of you. One is to learn to forgive those you love. Be prepared. You will be called on one day to forgive.”

  “I’d never forgive anyone for cheating on me.”

  “You might be the one doing the cheating. How do you know? You’re only human. Everyone has their weaknesses.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something? Su, I swear I’ll kill you if you ever did anything behind Demdem’s back.” I began tickling her. “And this is how. I’ll tickle you to death.”

  Su seized my hand and tried to pull me closer. “Forgive her. Promise me. She doesn’t have anyone but you.”

  “Okay, Grandma,” I said, stunned to find that I was crying, too, now. “I promise.”

  “And now for the second thing. Listen carefully. Don’t interrupt. Come closer . . . closer.” I stood up and leaned over her. She shut her eyes and fell asleep.

  I ran out into the hall and up to the first doctor I saw.

  “My grandmother, Suzi Hanım, she suddenly fell asleep. “Can you come?”

  “She’s eighty-four. Old people sleep a lot,” the doctor said. “She’ll be discharged in a few days.”