by Orga, Irfan
I could not bear to hear my kindly father talk like this and I threw myself on him, weeping as if my heart would break. The house stood on a hill and from the upper windows we could see the Marmara, but faintly from this distance and more grey than blue. A laundry had been built on the side of the house by a previous owner, a haphazard afterthought. And a fig tree grew in the middle of it. There was no proper roof on the laundry, only a sort of terrace built of wood with a hole left for the fig tree to triumphantly emerge, so that in summer it could spread its glory outside the bedroom windows. In winter rain must often have come through but because it was only a laundry no one seemed to care. Only in İstanbul could such a lovely, enchanting thing be found. Later on, after we moved there, İnci would spread a carpet across the terrace and my mother would lie there with us on cushions, watching the sun through the leaves of the fig tree, now and again stretching upwards to pull the ripe, purple figs with a stick which had been specially made for that purpose.
But before we moved in, men erected chicken-coops at the end of the garden and furniture was arranged, to the satisfaction of none, for the smaller, darker rooms looked unbearably overcrowded with my grandmother’s unwieldy furniture. She never liked that house and seemed a different person for the short while she lived there. The day before we moved in my father bought a ram, for this is a tradition still observed in Turkey today. Its horns were painted gold, its woolly coat red and gold and a large red ribbon was tied about its neck, the bow sitting coquettishly under one ear. That night I could not sleep for I was excited and at the same time sad for the poor beautiful ram which would be killed on the morrow. Next morning a butcher was called and, with my father reading extracts from the Koran, the ram’s throat was slit and as the blood poured down into the street, a great shout went up from the watching crowd.
‘Hayırlı olsun! ’ they cried, meaning, ‘let this house be lucky for you!’
My father turned to us and said: ‘Bismillahir rahmaner rahim,’ which can be very roughly translated as ‘I go into this house in the name of God.’
Then the little ceremony was over and the ram taken away to be cut up for distribution amongst the poor people. The same evening after sundown my father went to the mosque to give thanks for the new house.
So into the new house we went and strange indeed it was that first evening. There was the garden to be explored and the joy of discovering ripe pears and quince on the little trees, to open the garden gate which led to a path to our neighbour’s home and to a big field that was just waste ground, dotted here and there with a few stunted fig trees. Strange it was too to see Feride in the kitchen, to know that never again would one hear Hacer’s laughter or see her fat buttocks straining under her skirts. Strange to play in the dining-room for the last half-hour of the day before bed, although we discovered that a satisfactory ‘house’ could be made beneath the table. And then to go into the salon, with its tall, narrow windows fronting the hilly street, to see my mother and grandmother there, thoughtfully looking round them at the clumsy, heavy furniture made for a roomier house. And strangest of all it was to go up the stairs and see Mehmet’s little bed alongside mine – strange, but comforting nevertheless – and to hear İnci’s breathing all through the night, knowing she was there within call in the little scrap of room that opened off ours and was barely wide enough to hold her bed or the cupboard for her clothes.
The newness wore off and we became accustomed to the sight of Feride in the kitchen and I still continued at school. One evening when I returned from school I saw that my mother had guests. I flung my satchel on the hall table, washed my hands and went into the salon, where my greater years or the slight relaxation of discipline now gave me the right to enter freely.
A very elegant-looking lady was seated on the sofa, drinking Turkish coffee, and two children, about my own age, sat demurely with her. My light-hearted entrance was somewhat checked by their presence, for I had not realised children would be there. My mother, however, introduced me before I could turn tail and run to find İnci.
‘This is our neighbour, Madame Müjğan,’ she said and I had to step forward and kiss her hand. ‘This,’ continued my mother, bringing forward the girl, ‘is Yasemin and her brother, Nuri.’
I bowed to them both, then retired a little shyly but my mother rang for İnci and we were told to go into the garden and play together.
Once out of the presence of our elders, our shyness melted and we talked to each other freely. Nuri, I discovered, was two years older than me and Yasemin one year younger. From then on we frequently played with each other, our friendship being smiled upon by our elders. Nuri was very jealous of his sister and seemed to resent the quick friendship which sprang up between her and me. He would suddenly leave us in the middle of a game and go stalking off by himself to sulk. He was a heavy handsome boy, unable to bear the sight of his sister hero-worshipping somebody else. One day he and I had a fight and arrived at our homes with bloodstained noses and a couple of ripe black eyes. Our outraged parents forced us to apologise but, although we were civil enough before them, we continued the feud in private for many weeks.
One other day stands out in the memory. Yasemin and I were playing alone together in our dining-room. We were playing the age-old game of ‘husbands and wives’ and I was proudly returning from my ‘work’, greeting her with a passionate kiss when a sharp slap on the backside put paid to that. İnci had discovered us and went to inform my mother, who apparently blushed deeply, locked me in my room and escorted a tearful Yasemin to her own home. It appears that the two ladies talked long and earnestly, later informing their husbands of this dark deed, and the upshot was that Yasemin and I were separated and forbidden to play with each other again.
So Nuri got his sister back again. I would see them playing in their garden together, and if Yasemin were to catch sight of me she would give a little precocious, flirting tilt to her head, ignoring my placatory smiles.
Life was full of resentments for me just then. I was very hurt and puzzled by my parents’ attitude towards the kissing of Yasemin and angry that nobody would give any reasonable explanation as to why I should not kiss her. I became suddenly troublesome at home and at school, being surly with my teachers, who promptly reported this behaviour to my father. One other night I refused to eat my dinner, demanding that İnci should serve me with the sweet course first. When she refused, I bit her hand and, knowing that trouble would arise from this behaviour, added insult to injury and pinched her hard. She howled with pain and rushed to tell my mother. My father was very angry. He beat me with a stick then sent me to my room without anything to eat. In my room I angrily kicked all the furniture, hoping thereby to damage it. I tentatively used some of the swear words I had picked up from the other boys at school, half expecting that the house would fall on me with the wrath of God. When nothing happened, I used the words more freely, shouting them aloud to the empty room and, to make matters worse, I could see Yasemin and Nuri playing in their garden, uncaring of my misery.
I was so hungry I wanted to cry. After Mehmet and İnci slept, I debated with myself whether I dare go downstairs and raid the larder. Before I could summon enough courage however my grandmother crept stealthily into my room with a slice of bread and white cheese and a glass of milk. I ate ravenously and she whispered that she had been unable to bear the thought of my hunger, but that I was not to tell my mother that she had given me anything. I promised fervently and soon went to sleep.
I had been at the French school a little over two months, when one morning upon arrival all the pupils were told to go into the music-room, instead of their classrooms.
We were very curious, especially as all the teachers were also gathered there, and wondered if we had done something awful. Presently the Director of the school arrived, going to the dais and looking sternly down at us. At least we thought he looked stern.
We said: ‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Directeur,’ and he replied in kind.
Then he spoke
in Turkish, which was very unusual, but he wanted to make sure we all understood him. He said: ‘My children, this country is at war. This is a French school and my country and your country are now enemies. This school will be closed indefinitely. You may all go home now and God bless you.’
His voice cracked and his little goatee quivered mournfully. And that day too my father told my mother that a pact had been signed between Turkey and Germany and our country was now in the war.
Thus ended an era for us, quietly and soberly and with no indication that these times would never come back again.
About this time I became acquainted with Bekçi Baba. There is still a Bekçi Baba in Turkey, but the ‘Baba’ has been dropped and his duties are less onerous than they were in the old days.
Every Bekçi Baba is attached to a police-station, and thirty-five years ago many and varied were his tasks. During the day he would bring vats of drinking-water to the houses and during the night he became our guardian and our watchman.
He used to carry a large, thick stick, the bottom of which was bound with an iron rim. This was very useful when he wanted to beat a miscreant, or knock him unconscious until the police arrived. It was also Bekçi Baba’s duty to beat the drums during Ramazan, or any other religious Bayram. He had to announce important tidings or give warning if there was a fire in any part of İstanbul. This latter warning was the signal for all the young men in the district to leap from their beds, hastily collect the one and only pump allotted to each street and rush madly and with wild cheers to the scene of the fire.
I had never seen Bekçi Baba, for during the day, when he called with the water, I was never allowed into the kitchen, and at night, when he turned watchman, I was generally in bed and asleep.
But one night I was lucky for I was lying in my little bed, wide-awake, looking out at the evening sky. The pale light from the street gas-lamp shone faintly into the room and there was a great stillness everywhere. Not a soul seemed to stir in the streets and only now and then could be heard the faint, far barking of a dog. Suddenly a noise came out of the quietness – a heavy tak-tak-tak … The sound grew nearer and I heard a voice crying something but it was too far away to distinguish what it said.
My father came out into the hall. He was calling back to my mother and grandmother in the salon: ‘Bekçi Baba is coming. He’s shouting something but I do not know what he is saying. There must be a fire somewhere.’
I began to feel excited up there in my little lamp-lit room and I sat up in the bed to listen. The noise of Bekçi Baba’s stick was nearer now. It went tak-tak-tak on the cobblestones, and the old man shouted: ‘Fire! Fire! There is a fire in Beyoğlu – ’ spacing out his words carefully and clearly, so that none should misunderstand.
I jumped out of bed and ran to the window.
Bekçi Baba was coming up the road, a fearsome-looking figure with his dark cloak flapping out behind him and his stick thumping the ringing stones. He stood for a moment under the gas-lamp in front of our house, and to my heated imagination his face looked ghastly.
The poor, wavering light from the lamp leaped and flickered over his face, now lighting, now shading the prominent cheekbones and the cadaverous eye-sockets. My father called out to him: ‘Where is the fire, Bekçi Baba?’
‘Beyoğlu!’ the old man rasped and was off again on his way, his cloak still flying out behind him and his stick going tak-tak-tak far into the distance.
For a long time after I ceased to hear his voice I heard the echo of his stick coming back to me, ever fainter. Probably Bekçi Baba was still shouting of the fire in Beyoğlu.
CHAPTER 6
The Changing Scene
The end of 1914 and Turkey at war.
How little that meant to me then or to my family, save perhaps my father, who had the gift of vision and foresaw things more clearly.
Just at first there was no change in my home. It is true I no longer went to school but the events of the house continued without change.
One evening our neighbours were to dine and, war or no war, food must still be served, wine decanted. My grandmother took an active interest in this little, quiet dinner-party. She felt she could not trust Feride to do everything properly and lamented the loss of Hacer.
One of the dinner dishes she particularly wanted prepared was lahana dolması – stuffed cabbage-leaves – of which she was very fond, and she spent the entire morning complaining to my mother that Feride would ruin them. Eventually she marched into the kitchen herself, tied a large overall over her black satin dress, deposited her many rings in a safe place, and started to prepare the lahana dolması. She explained to Feride that although she had never actually cooked them, she nevertheless knew perfectly well how to do it.
Apparently Feride watched her noisy preparations with a great deal of misgiving, and found difficulty in getting on with any other work, since my grandmother continually got in her way.
I was allowed into the kitchen to watch. I was continually directed to do this, that and the other – all the dirtiest jobs incidentally.
She called Feride to her side and gave a demonstration of how onions should be chopped, looked up directions in an old cookery-book, then disagreed with them. She chopped onions with great gusto, calling upon my mother and İnci to witness her handiwork. Whilst my grandmother busily explained to us how capable she was, Feride was frantically trying to interrupt to tell her the cabbage leaves were boiling over and what should she do with them? My grandmother disregarded her. My mother said thoughtfully that it did seem to her rather a lot of rice was being prepared, surely too much for a quiet dinner party of a few people? My grandmother airily disregarded her too and proceeded to wash and drain the rice. She then proceeded to mix her finely chopped onions with it, and poor Feride, unable to stand the strain any longer, burst into loud tears. My grandmother paused in the mixing, looking with astonishment at the violently weeping Feride and asked what was wrong. Poor Feride gasped between the paroxysms that shook her that the onions had first to be cooked with şam fistiği, nuts in olive oil, before being mixed with the rice.
My grandmother paused uncertainly, then demanded from my mother what the cookery-book said. The cookery-book, unfortunately, said the same as Feride.
My grandmother looked down at her messy fingers, the piles of wasted rice mixed with the wasted onions, then rinsed her hands under the tap declaring she was finished cooking. Amidst a great silence she untied her overall, put all her rings back on her fingers again and told Feride that she could make the dolma herself – the way the cookery-book advocated. She declared she would never set foot in the kitchen again, having expected a little gratitude from Feride, not tears. She then went haughtily out to sprinkle eau-de-Cologne on her hands. Afterwards she complained of the smell from the cabbage leaves and was all for having them thrown down the drain and vine-leaves substituted. My mother restrained her and led her to the salon still grumbling. She then began a long tirade, pointing out the shortcomings of Feride and the merits of the absent Hacer.
That evening, despite my grandmother’s poor opinion of Feride, a dish of beautiful lahan dolmasi appeared on the table and my grandmother told everyone she had made them herself. When she caught my astonished eye she stared so haughtily at me that it was I who was forced to blush and look away first. Indeed she half convinced me that she was right.
Our guests arrived early and were taken to the salon, where a bright fire crackled merrily in the white china stove and İnci served little dishes of lokum.
Yasemin and Nuri were on their politest behaviour and very demure. In the dining-room they sat with Mehmet and me at a smaller table in a corner whilst our parents ate at the big walnut table in the centre.
During dinner my grandmother talked vivaciously, even being prevailed upon to sip a little rakı, which brought the colour to her cheeks.
Just as dessert was being served – slices of yellow water-melon in a silver dish surrounded with ice – there came a strange, odd noise which s
ounded like drums. Everyone at the big table was suddenly stilled. I, noticing the silence, looked at them and saw the colour ebb from my grandmother’s face and my mother’s hand unsteadily reach out for a fruit-knife.
My father said: ‘They are playing the drums tonight – that must mean an announcement of some sort. Let us hope it is good.’
Our neighbour, Orhan Bey, replied: ‘They play the drums during Bayram or Ramazan but tonight is neither. What can it be?’
‘They play the drums for war also,’ said my mother faintly, and we all looked at her, surprised that she should intervene in a masculine conversation.
‘Şevkiye hanım, I hope you are wrong. I sincerely hope you are wrong.’
He spoke jerkily, fussily, unable to entirely hide his own fear.
The faint drums beat on and we finished our dessert almost in silence. The grown-ups toyed with the melon and my grandmother peeled a tangerine, cutting firmly with her knife into the bright skin, making it stand out around the fruit like a flower. She quartered it with deft fingers, then put it on her plate and sat looking at it with faraway eyes as though wondering how it got there. The drums came nearer and I started to tremble, the fear of my elders once again communicated to me.
They left the table, the ladies huddled by the window and my father and Orhan Bey going into the hall and opening the front door. I crept out after my father and stood beside him in the darkness. The drums were nearer now. They sounded their doom, their terrible message, and even to this day I cannot bear the sound of drums.
We could hear Bekçi Baba calling something but he was too far away for us to distinguish what it was he said. My father put his arms around my shoulders and I pressed against him, feeling intolerably cold and miserable. Then the figure of Bekçi Baba turned the corner of our street, a man beside him beating mournfully on the big drum. They came nearer, the drum beating ceaselessly. Dan-dan-da-da-dan-dan cried the drum and Bekçi Baba came under the lamp before our door, to shout his shattering news.
