Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (73 page)

“The prioress had apparently taken special care of her until she settled in, telling her that her parents had to set off on a perilous journey. Ginette had her repeat the account of their odyssey every night. Do you know that children want you to repeat the same story over and over again in order that they may believe it? It is a sort of game, in a sense. Every child has a tale; every child must have a tale. The best thing for her was to remember the story of her parents as a tale. The prioress was of the same opinion. She and Ginette had spent marvelous evenings together. Those delightful moments must have rendered the tale even more credible and beautiful. Once, the parents of a little girl had set off on a perilous journey. Ginette had wanted to know why they had not taken her along. Marie-Thérese had told her that only adults could go on such a journey. So, they had to leave her behind safe and sound. Because they loved her so much! She would understand the meaning of this journey better when she grew up. Whereupon, she had asked her when she would grow up. The answer that the little girl had received to this question, which every little child might ask, had not been so simple. The prioress had realized that her instruction to Ginette should start from a point she deemed to be correct. No one except herself would be in a position to tell her when she would have been considered grown up. Only she would be in a position to decide on her station. Ginette had also asked why they, that is, her parents, had to set out on such a journey, and whether they would ever return. To this, the prioress had answered saying that only God knew when, if ever, they would come back. She had told her that in the monastery everybody loved her and took her as one of the family. Ginette had seen God’s power, through the eyes of a child, after this conversation. That was the last of her recurrent questions. She had become introverted and morose yet submissive and industrious at the same time. Had this been a consequence of her resignation or of the creation of an illusory world within her? The prioress could not decide which of these alternatives she should opt for; however she told her that she would always be assisting her with her troubles. Shall I tell you something that seems interesting to me? Barring her creeds, she tried to nurse Ginette as a mother; she, in her turn, received things from the little child. I like to think that this was the case. Ginette was a girl who would make her feel this latent deficiency in herself because of the vows she had taken. Don’t ask me how I’ve come to such a conclusion. There are certain sentiments that cannot be described and should be left as they are. Well . . . that is all I can say about Ginette. And now I run into you, a miracle! I must disclose to you Madame Rachael’s last wishes. They were actually Monsieur Nesim’s, before he had been exterminated by the Gestapo that morning; well, Monsieur Nesim seems to have told Rachael the following: ‘I’m going to an unknown destination. Don’t ever give my children to any person other than someone in my family.’ Much as I’m reluctant, I should say that we must abide by his words. Their memory forces me to act in this way. I’ll tell this to Marie-Thérese. I know her, she will understand. But you should help me in doing so. Should you wish, Ginette may stay with you for a while. We must tell her that she had a family, a true tangible family. She’s got a family in Istanbul, if my mind does not fail me, hasn’t she? As far as I know, Monsieur Nesim had a brother. I have a vague recollection of him. The two brothers used to stroll along the beach. He often came to visit them. The good old days! Monsieur Nesim used to sing songs. He sang “La Paloma” most often. “La Paloma,” such a romantic song: I didn’t understand the words; but whenever I heard it, I felt like crying. You see, I can still remember. The war couldn’t snatch what we keep within our souls, our souvenirs. I’m sure the family in Istanbul will welcome Ginette with open arms. This will be difficult however, especially for Ginette. But we’re doing this for Monsieur Nesim and above all, for Madame Rachael. Do you see? Madame Rachael had absolute confidence in me in this respect. It may be because those on whom she could rely were diminishing in number. But, believe me, her voice was very sincere when she spoke to me. I distinctly remember her last words. ‘Contrary to Nesim’s anticipations, I’d been expecting this. I’d been seeing dreams replete with nightmares which I couldn’t share with anyone; I woke up more than once in the course of the night. Now I feel somewhat at ease. Whatever will be will be. One thing is certain: this is the end of our lingering. Pray for us. God will hear the voice of each one of us in similar situations. He seems not to hear us these days, I’m well aware, and yet, I know He will hear us. This is a new trial, an ordeal; but we have to withstand it and never loose hope. We are Jacob’s people. To know how to carry the burden of being a Jew . . . only this belief can help us stand,’ Rachael had said. She had reminded me once more of the days we had spent in Istanbul. She had mentioned the streets where we used to stroll and of her adolescent years. To what extent can one truly recall the past in such moments . . . yet, in her short accounts Istanbul seemed to invade us. Maybe she wanted to impress me on the spur of the moment. I’d forgotten all that had been told to me about those streets I didn’t know. However, I distinctly remember the Princes’ Islands; the Princes’ Islands that are part of Istanbul. Madame Rachael used to take her brother to the islands aboard the ferryboat on beautiful spring days where they roamed all alone. The man had an incurable mental disorder. She felt a genuine sorrow for having left him in Istanbul. ‘I wonder if I’ll ever be able to see Nesim again where I’ll be going, whether we’ll be able to return here at all. Would you believe that he hadn’t had the opportunity to even taste the orange jam he had been keeping for a special occasion? The morning they came to take him, he had laid the breakfast table and among the things that he had garnished the table with was the orange jam. I was so happy to see him so happy. At that very moment we had heard a knock on the door. Life is so strange, isn’t it? Well, you see . . . . I’d prepared myself for all sorts of eventualities . . . Take good care of Ginette; you know my instructions. Sell everything, the household goods, the shop, everything, for Ginette’s sake. Supposing that we’re released, I don’t think we shall ever return home. And even though we might be lucky enough to have the chance, we won’t be the same anymore . . . ’ She has said this before she left. No, this was not a revolt . . . it was as though she had prepared herself to die . . . ” These words, visions, and conversations were all intertwined. Dates, lives, and climates were mingled once again. I really am at a loss as to decide the extent to which these were true, this exchange of words based on expressions uttered by bearers of testimony in different languages, as I’ve been trying to patch up bits and pieces of information. Where exactly do I happen to be? Where do I come into these conversations? To what extent would I ever be permitted to allow people to partake in these conversations? As I’ve been in search of answers to these questions throughout the years, I’ve always been confronted with a dead silence; a complete, dark silence which had forestalled my progress in writing, hindering me from making headway after a given point. The men to whom I put questions remain dumb and mute. They don’t realize that they are the unrevealed aspects I try to express in words, discovering that I can elaborate on them through my story. They are actually the images I can see in the mirror, which I strive to reflect and project. This seems to indicate that we are doomed to be self-seeking, always at a crossroads. We are expected to make headway in those words; we ou
ght to advance in defiance of all errors, of the consequences and misunderstandings toward that silence and darkness; to learn how to walk, drawing our strength from the wounds received, from our abandonments and unrequited loves . . . Had those relations, borne throughout the years, not brought us to where we are now? Enrico Weizman, who listened silently and patiently to the soliloquy of Madame Manzil, trying to change the subject, said: “Rachael had met Nesim after that unforgettable morning. The fact that she spoke of having been gathered together in the Bayonne prison to be sent in toto to their death may lead us somewhere. Yet, there is no sense in trying to probe any further. One thing is certain: some lives were doomed to remain a mystery, impossible to be shared. You can bring Ginette to me, of course, whenever you can, Madame. Do not worry; we’ll execute the will of Nesim and Rachael. I’ll look after her for a while before taking her to her blood relations in Istanbul. Leave the rest to me, and please don’t worry anymore.” Madame Manzil’s smiling face expressed a sad calm. Was this a miracle? Was this expression of serenity on her face, this concealed smile originated from her belief in miracles? From where he sat, staring at the iridescence of the waters of the Bosporus, Enrico said: “You’ve got a beautiful city: I’m so happy to be back. I wish Monsieur Jacques were with us now.” Different times had once more been intertwining, directed toward others. We had been advancing toward our own times, toward the unforgettable voices . . . This was one of the magical sentences; my mind had conjured up Monsieur Jacques’ apparition in the background of that old sea journey whose poetry has been indelibly stamped on my memory. We were at one of the seaside restaurants at Kireçburnu . . . It was evening. Monsieur Jacques was gazing at the lights on the Bosporus, like Enrico Weizman, with some misgiving, with a sense of inadequacy. He gave the impression of someone looking at the ethereal space in which he expected to see something inexpressible. It seemed as though that beyond was a place toward which he was making headway. His view had been interrupted by the shape of a huge Russian tanker sailing along the water . . . This image had reminded him of Uncle Kirkor. Monsieur Jacques spoke of the stuffed mussels that Madame Alin, Uncle Kirkor’s mother, used to prepare, saying that he would never taste anything better in his life. Actually I was perfectly aware of the spot to where his looks had been directed, of the memories that that Russian tanker had stirred in him. He would have liked to see someone else sitting at the table with whom he would have liked to commune. The tanker was coming from a country that Olga was inextricably connected to. It is true that that country had never been a land where she had lived and breathed, but nonetheless an insignificant token that reminded him of her; a pocket watch and chain, for instance, the memory of a watch, the word of an unpretentious, innocuous master who lived in a state of symbiosis with his own cares that revived a web of memories. The tanker had traversed our sanctuary at our table from which we could not escape. Olga had remained behind a boundary. Those moments were being wasted, lavishly, irresponsibly . . . A time that assumed value years later only after it was lost. Can one say that Enrico Weizman had willingly told that story, reflected in him, of those moments lost at the restaurant at Rumelikavağı? What he had said, what he allowed himself to reveal, had opened up one of the important oaths that led me to this story. As for the things left unsaid, which could find no means of expression . . . one had to learn how to wait patiently in addition to using the power of one’s imagination. Sometimes certain details added meanings we had not thought were there. The truth that he had concealed from us during that dinner was one of those realities that would knock belatedly on our door one day. About eight months after that evening, a letter arrived from Biarritz. The letter that bore the signature of a lawyer indicated that Enrico Weizman had passed away after a longstanding terminal illness. His client had faced the bitterness that this ailment had caused with bravery. Everything possible had been done, but there were cases when medicine remained powerless in the face of fate. It appeared that it had been Monsieur Weizman’s wish to have his feelings communicated to certain addresses just before his time had come. He had expressed his gratitude to his relatives in Istanbul. Their affection showed that there were still good-willed people in the world. He had bequeathed part of his legacy to a lady by the name of Angela Fromantini with whom he had lived over many years, and another part of it to a young lady named Ginette Ventura. With reference to the latter he hoped that his relatives in Istanbul would be kind enough to extend a helping hand in executing the formalities of her inheritance. This help would signify their last duty to the departed. The letter addressed to Berti was written in a style both official and friendly, and had engendered in me something which was to prove to be the birth of a significant story. I think I was somewhat more experienced now when compared to my formative years. In this odyssey of mine, I had been skirting the coast of my writing over several years with a view to finding out, or rediscovering, the feelings that had guided me throughout my life. Under the circumstances, it seemed practical to force certain probabilities for the sake of the conclusion. Enrico Weizman had an awareness that he was going to die soon during his second visit to Istanbul. Death was somehow unexplainable, undeceivable, and irretrievable . . . As for Monsieur Jacques . . . can it be that he had been intending to disclose something that he had kept secret until then? Who knows? I have always wished to believe in such a probability. For, God gained meaning with such eventualities and anticipations, expressed by short poems. I liked those poems. I even thought that to abide in such poems might have removed some of the hard realities from life.

Black or red

There is no doubt that Enrico Weizman had a desire to find out about Ginette in those days. He had prepared himself for an encounter quite different from what he had experienced during those interminable nights. One had to acknowledge the fact that those long nights belonged to a different time in the past. Everybody who shared his pain and was aware of what he was going through was aware of the actual state of affairs . . . Madame Manzil had brought little Ginette in the evening. She appeared to be a quiet, resolute girl who appeared to have found inner peace. She had begun to talk bluntly without recourse to convoluted phrases. “I’ve been told that you’d be kind enough to take me under your care,” she said. Who had told her this? Could it be Marie Thérese, the prioress, who had addressed Madame Manzil and Ginette, briefing them about the people charged with her care and whose duty it would be to prepare her for a new path in life? Enrico Weizman could not remain impassive faced with the hidden meaning in this sentence. Ginette had shown up carrying a small bag in her hand that contained a couple of garments and underwear. As a matter of fact her entire
trousseau
had consisted of these items. The bag also contained a figurine of Christ which she had kept with her during the long lonely nights. This was a token that Marie Thérese, to be precise, the entire monastery, had given as a gift to her. That night, she had spoken no further, but had knelt before that figurine in devotion before falling into a sound and restful sleep.