by Orga, Irfan
That evening the general’s batman arrived with a letter from the great man himself which said that he had talked over matters with the general in charge of the scheme, that he was willing to see us at the War Office the following afternoon, that he himself had given some information about the family and its present difficulties, that he hoped my mother would take advantage of the good life offered to her sons, etc.
My mother thoughtfully folded the letter, and the widow, who was spending the evening with us, declared that good luck was returning to the family.
‘Perhaps you are right,’ said my mother. ‘But of course I was told this afternoon that everything at the school is still very disorganised after the War, that it will take a long time before it settles back to normal. Still, it is a great opportunity.’
I began to laugh, remembering the barber’s shop and my mother with remarkable intuition looked across at me, saying: ‘Well, at least there will be no more coffee-cups to break!’
The following afternoon Mehmet and I were taken to the War Office, excitement and fear gnawing at our vitals, hunger too, for we had been unable to eat any luncheon. My mother seemed nervous also but tried to put this behind her when we arrived at the War Office. A soldier showed us into the office of a very beautiful young officer, the general’s adjutant, and he blushed when he spoke to my mother, asking her name and her business. She gave him this information and he asked her to be seated for a moment and dashed gracefully into an adjoining room where presumably lurked the general. Mehmet and I stood awkwardly whilst my mother sat stiff as a ramrod on a hard chair, a bright spot of colour in either cheek. The adjutant returned, saying that the general would see us at once. He held the door open, keeping his eyes respectfully on the ground as my mother passed him. I passed through the door last of all and looked back to see the beautiful young adjutant staring at my mother’s back, an unreadable expression in his eyes. Maybe he thought it strange for a Turkish woman to go with open face.
The general was tall and lean with silvery hair and a kind intelligent face, or did it only seem kind as it looked at my mother with that especial look that even old men reserve for lovely women?
He pushed forward an armchair for her, hard ones for Mehmet and me and said with an affectation of joviality: ‘What! Are these young lions yours?’
My mother replied that this was so.
‘Well, well!’ said the general, as though this was a great surprise. ‘Our old friend, General X, has told me all about you. I once knew your father-in-law, in my youth you know. A very fine man. I was sorry to hear that you lost your husband during the War. I am afraid things cannot have been easy for you.’
‘I lost my brother-in-law too,’ said my mother.
‘Very sad,’ said the general, painting sympathy on his face, and he fiddled with papers on his desk and for a few more moments they talked family gossip.
Then the general turned to me and said: ‘So you are İrfan! How old are you, my boy?’
‘Ten, sir,’ I replied in a weak voice.
‘This War! This War!’ He sighed to my mother. ‘This child should have been at school three years ago. However he looks intelligent; let us see what we can make of him. So you would like to be an officer?’ he demanded, turning suddenly to me.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, adding boldly, ‘I should like to be a general like you!’
He laughed.
‘And perhaps you will,’ he retorted. ‘It is something at least to know what one wants from life. And what about the little one?’ he asked, chucking Mehmet under the chin then saying thoughtfully to my mother, ‘Yes, he is like his grandfather. I can see the resemblance quite plainly.’
He mused over Mehmet’s small, shut-away face, then asked: ‘What is your name?’
‘Mehmet, sir,’ stammered my brother, very red in the face with such close, unwelcome scrutiny.
‘And what do you want to be, Mehmet? A general too?’
‘No, sir,’ said Mehmet. ‘I want to be a doctor.’
‘Two young gentlemen who know their minds!’ declared the general. ‘I remember when I was their age I wanted to be a street-seller for they seemed to be the only people who ever had horses. But the only way I ever got a horse was by becoming a cavalry officer, so perhaps to all of us Fate gives our desires in a roundabout way. Well,’ he declared, turning his attention back to my mother, ‘you appear to be a fortunate mother for here you have, in embryo, a future general and a future doctor.’
He patted our heads and rang for his adjutant.
‘I shall leave you in my adjutant’s hands,’ he said to my mother, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘He knows far more about this business than I do!’
We went out to the adjutant’s office, who said: ‘You understand, hanım efendi, that you have to sign a contract for the military education of these two boys?’
‘No,’ said my mother.
The adjutant grew red and could hardly bear to look at her.
‘But did not the general explain?’ he said in astonishment.
‘No,’ replied my mother.
‘Dear, dear!’ said the adjutant fussily, then he cleared his throat and tapped a piece of parchment with a finger. ‘This contract,’ he began, ‘states that your two sons shall be educated at the Military School in Kuleli and afterwards at the Military College – providing they pass their examinations – entirely at the expense of the Government. In return for this they will serve in the Turkish Army for fifteen years but if they fail in their final examinations they will serve as Sergeants for the same number of years, without any chances of promotion. There is no promotion from the ranks.’
‘That seems very hard,’ murmured my mother doubtfully. ‘If I sign this contract I sign my sons’ lives away for twenty-five years and how can I tell if they will be able to pass their examinations or not? How can I tell?’ she said again, looking up at the young officer, and he smiled a little, remembering his own years in the military institutions.
‘It is generally found, hanım efendi, that if a boy wants to become an officer he passes his examinations.’
My mother smiled too.
‘I think perhaps you are right,’ she said. ‘Nevertheless, I should like a little time to think this over before, with a stroke of the pen, I take their freedom from them. How long will it be before these contracts are ready for my signature?’
‘There are many formalities to complete first,’ replied the adjutant. ‘Perhaps in fifteen days’ time?’
‘That surely gives me time enough to decide,’ answered my mother, and I was in an agony that she, with her feminine prejudices, was going to take this chance from my hands. I dared not interrupt their conversation but I felt sick with apprehension that my bright and shining dream of becoming an officer, a general, would end in nothing.
The adjutant explained that he required certain documents from the local police, from the Muhtar, a certificate of good health from the proper authorities and twelve photographs of each of us.
‘References are not needed,’ said he with some embarrassment. ‘For General X has already given them.’
‘Thank you,’ said my mother with a faint ironical inflection in her cool voice, and the adjutant bowed us out of his office, his eyes once more on the floor, his attitude beautifully restrained.
For the next few days there was a great deal of argument at home for my mother was extremely obstinate, refusing to be advised or guided by anyone. My grandmother said she could not understand why so much fuss was being made since nothing very serious could go amiss with our lives whilst we were in the hands of the military authorities.
‘But can you not see that other schools can be soon found again? Civil schools with as sound an education but without the tie of signing away their lives for twenty-five years?’
‘I do not want to go to any other school!’ I wept, impotent and unable to stand up against my mother’s reasoning. ‘I want to be an officer! Please!’ I begged, as a last sop to politeness
.
The battle rolled back and forth, now in favour, now against the Military School. The neighbours animatedly joined in the discussion, my mother not listening to what they said, mistrusting everybody’s opinion. In the meantime however she took us to the Bayazit Police for the necessary papers. We went to the Muhtar’s office, to the hospital for examination, and having obtained all the relevant documents, we went to be photographed and still no final decision was forthcoming from my mother.
I took to going to the mosque, praying fervently in that cool, quiet place. I prayed no prescribed prayers for I was unable to concentrate on anything but: ‘Please God let me go to the Military School. Please God let me go the Military School!’ saying the same thing over and over again in feverish intensity.
And perhaps a benevolent God heard my anxious prayers for the evening the finished photographs arrived my mother announced that she had carefully thought everything over and that she was convinced she was doing the right thing in allowing us to go to Kuleli.
Once again we visited the War Office, my mother leaving us in the adjutant’s room whilst she went to speak to the general in private. As she was departing, he said: ‘Personally, I think you have made a wise decision and good luck to you and your sons.’
The contracts were signed at last and only then did I feel able to breathe properly. It was done now and could not be undone! Oh, proud and lovely moment! We had been given to Kuleli Military School, that long, white, rambling building that I was to know so well.
The adjutant solemnly shook our hands.
‘Report to Kuleli on the 15th of May,’ he said crisply in a man-to-man tone of voice and I grew scarlet with pleasure.
May 15th, 1919, is a date in Turkish history for on that day Kemal Atatürk sailed towards Samsun. It was the date the Admiral of the British Mediterranean Fleet declared that the Greeks would occupy İzmir – and that was the date too that I entered Kuleli. Young and insignificant and as yet untried by life, yet could I also claim a share in the date that was making Turkish history.
The morning dawned fair and promising and Mehmet and I were taken by my grandmother to the mosque to pray. We prayed for different things, we three. My grandmother prayed for our health and our success in school-life. I know for I heard her, her loud rumbling voice intoning, intoning … Maybe Mehmet prayed to become a doctor, but who can say? for Mehmet could be as secretive as the grave. And I prayed one little prayer only. I gave thanks because I was going to Kuleli at last. Over and over again I prayed: ‘Thank you, God. Thank you, God,’ and felt His invisible presence all around me.
Goodbyes were said to the street for we did not know when we would be returning again and the old women cried over us and the old men sighed and wished they were young again. And eventually we got away for Galata Bridge and the boat that would take us down the Bosphor, to the beginning of our youthful dreams.
Were we nervous, I wonder, that May morning, just the littlest bit reluctant to leave home and familiar faces so far behind us? I do not think so, although looking back from this distance it is no longer possible to judge that with any accuracy. We went to the boat dressed stiffly in our best, our faces and hands so clean and shining that all who saw us must have realised that this was a great occasion. And in my case whenever we passed a French or British officer – and the way to Galata Bridge was thick with them – I felt proud of the future my mother had chosen for me and told myself that I too should one day walk like this, in uniform, the badges of rank on my collar.
My mother allowed me to buy the boat tickets and I felt very important, as though the humble clerk who attended to me should know that I was bound for Kuleli and adventure. When I requested three tickets for Çengelköy he paid no attention to me at all, as if I was the merest passenger and not a potential general. But my inflated ego was not jolted and I talked loudly to my mother and Mehmet about Kuleli and what I would do there. Once my mother said: ‘Hush!’ but not sharply. ‘It is very vulgar to boast, you know.’
But thoughts of vulgarity would never be able to dampen enthusiasm.
We bought simit on the boat and I dimly remembered Sarıyer and my father came back fleetingly, for less than a second, to tantalise with his shut-away face, and Aunt Ayşe smiled welcome but Uncle Ahmet stayed maddeningly just outside the line of mental vision, refusing to show his face.
But Sarıyer was more than just an hour down the Bosphor; Sarıyer was four years away and deader for us than its dead owners. I asked Mehmet if he remembered Sarıyer and Uncle Ahmet and he looked vague and said he did not. And I tried to paint a picture for him, there on the boat, of that old red-roofed house we had visited before the War. The pictures poured through my brain like pictures shaken up in a kaleidoscope and I talked of the magnolia trees that had stood on the lawn, of the shine on the grass when the sun came out to dry the rain, of the dogs, Fidèle and Joly, of the grapes on the house-vine of which my aunt had been so proud. And as I talked I was in Sarıyer again.
‘I used to fish in the Bosphor with Uncle Ahmet,’ I told Mehmet’s listening face. ‘We never used to catch very much but it was fun rowing home under the moon and sometimes hearing the voices coming across the water from İstanbul side.’
‘I did not know you would remember so much,’ said my mother. ‘And you have a gift for words, my son. You have brought Sarıyer back to me again too. I hope I have not done the wrong thing in entering you for a Military School. Perhaps you would have been better somewhere else.’
‘Of course not, mother,’ I said indignantly. ‘I wanted to come to Kuleli and I should have hated any other school. I am going to be an officer and one day I shall be a general, you will see! And I shall carry you everywhere on my arm and all the people will say that you look young enough to be my wife and the women will be jealous of you.’
My mother laughed merrily.
‘Your imagination is too vivid,’ she said. ‘And misplaced at that!’
We reached the boat-station of Çengelköy and disembarked, feeling less important now that we were so near our goal.
‘Kuleli?’ my mother asked the ticket-collector. ‘The Military School?’
‘Turn to the left,’ replied the ticket-collector briefly, only barely glancing at Mehmet and me. ‘It is only a few minutes’ walk from here and the school is so big you cannot miss it.’
So out to the quiet dusty roads of Çengelköy and along the sea-road, tree-lined and white in the noonday sun. The school loomed up on our right, like a Palace, I thought, so white it was against the cloudless summer sky that fifteenth day of May in 1919, the day Atatürk’s little boat rode the waters to Samsun.
We mounted the stone steps to the main door and my heart had commenced to thump furiously. A porter on sentry duty asked my mother’s business and she said she had come to leave us at the school, as arranged with the War Office.
‘This is the Military College,’ he informed her coldly. ‘The school is on the hill, along this road and up. It is a big grey building and you will find it quite easily.’
Up the hill road we toiled, hot and uncomfortable, disappointed that the white shining palace was not for us after all. We arrived at the school panting and out of breath and a great iron-barred gate prevented us from entering. There was the sound of boys’ voices and a few of them came near to the gate to look at us. There was a sentry-box near the gate and a soldier on guard there shouted, ‘Hüseyin Ağa! Hüseyin Ağa!’
And down towards the gate came an old, old man with a flowing white beard and a bent back and he grumblingly withdrew the bolts of the gates and asked our business.
My mother told him but this time impatience made her imperious and she tossed her piled-up curls and the old man grew civil and eyed her unveiled face with open curiosity. He allowed us to enter the garden, motioned to my mother to take a seat under the cool shade of the trees and said he was going to look for the ‘captain’, and muttered a bit to himself as though uncertain where to find the captain.
My
mother sat down gratefully for the heat had tired her and whilst she was resting I strolled away to explore. I went near to the gate and I saw two men unloading lamb carcasses from a cart and another man was carrying a sack of something that from the partially opened top looked like spinach. An old man who might have been a cook or a kitchen servant was haggling over the lamb and several mangy curs snarled under the horse’s legs and were kicked away by the men. I heard Mehmet’s voice calling for me and I ran back to where I had left him with my mother and saw that Hüseyin Ağa was back again and waiting to lead us to the captain.
We came near to the main school building and to our left there was a long, one-storeyed hut which, judging from the noise of cutlery, was the dining-room. The din coming from there was appalling and several big boys were entering. Most of them had very dark skins and one was, to my horror, quite black. They were shabbily dressed and looked jeeringly at Mehmet and me and talked amongst themselves. One of them said something aloud to us and I could not understand what language he was speaking. He is not Turkish, I said to myself, and wondered how many different nationalities might be housed in this place.
The captain met us at the door of his office with a big stick in his hands! He looked a very nervous type of man and was very pale. He clutched his stick fiercely, as though he was accustomed to quite frequently defend himself from the hordes of young savages in the school! He took us into his room and gave us rickety chairs to sit on. The room was indescribably dirty and untidy and the captain stuttered so badly every time he spoke that I felt a sort of hysteria beginning to bubble inside me. He thumbed through a pile of papers on his desk and finally extracted two which evidently related to us.
‘İrfan and Mehmet?’ he asked and my mother replied that this was so.
‘Turkish and Muslim,’ he said and sighed, leaning back in his chair.
‘Thank God for that!’ he said, stuttering very badly. ‘Two more Turks in the school!’
