The Daughter of Smyrna
by Halida Edib Khanum (English Translation by Muhammad Yakub Khan)
Chapter 1
MY story begins when I was yet holding a petty appointment in the Foreign Office. One day as I was seated in my drawing-room my mother broke to me the news that the Bulgarians had concluded peace with the Allies. A thunderbolt could not have caused me a greater shock. I was plunged in grief and felt deeply agitated. In the bewilderment that overtook me, I paced up and down the room, now sitting in one chair, now in another, again all of a sudden, springing to my feet. My mother had furnished the house in the European style. Costly carpets had been spread on the floor and cushioned chairs and sofas tastefully arranged. All this was thrown into disorder as I frantically moved about these articles of decoration. My mother had something more in her mind to tell me. But I was in no mood to listen.
My convulsion over the news was all the more strange because I was a convinced pacifist. I looked upon peace as a blessing and had all along deplored and condemned the curse of warfare in which hundreds of thousands of men took part and spilt the blood of their own fellowmen. The participation of Turkey in the World War, in particular, appeared an ominous blunder to me. The war had been going on for a number of years bringing in its wake the inevitable miseries. Thousands of helpless poor people went without a single meal a day and without a meal spent sleepless nights. Our own household, however, had felt no such pinch of the war. My mother was one of the richest persons in Smyrna. She had been brought up in Constantinople in the lap of luxury. The produce of her fields were plentiful and so we did not in the least feel the effect of the war.
When my mother saw how agitated I felt over the news she had communicated to me, she lighted a cigar and with perplexity writ large on her face, stretched herself on one of the sofas. I rang up the hotel to send me a cup of coffee and in the meanwhile began to smoke my golden cigar. This was just to run away from and forget my inward restlessness. Presently the cup of coffee was brought in and along with it came the news of the arrival of Jamal.
It was evident that when my mother informed me of the peace of Bulgaria, she also wanted to tell me something about Jamal. But just then I cared not a hang for Jamal. The appearance of the Kaiser himself could not have taken away my mind from the sweet delight that the puffs at my golden cigar afforded me. Jamal was a cousin of my mother and had served as an officer on the various theatres of war. Many a time no doubt he had got wounded but almost every time he came to Constantinople for treatment, I happened to be in Germany. Even if at home, I did not much relish the idea of cultivating deep relations with him. Whenever I thought of his sister, forthwith the idea flashed across my mind how twelve years ago my mother had wished to join me in wedlock to her and for that express purpose had sent for her to Constantinople. She was a girl of Smyrna, Aysha by name. As soon as I came to know about the trap to entangle me in matrimony, at once I packed up and bolted straight off to Europe. Six months later, I heard that Aysha was married to one Muqbil Bey, a relation of my father. Feeling safe now, I returned to Constantinople. My mother thought I was a fool to reject the hand of a wealthy lady like Aysha. Gradually, however, she got over the incident. In her heart of heart, she herself had not much of liking for a rustic village girl. She wished me to marry in some up-to-date fashionable Europeanized family. I was then a youth of 24.
On the day of the peace of Bulgaria when Jamal visited us, his sister had already been married a number of years. I fancied that she must have grown older. Her husband, Muqbil, had resigned service in the Foreign Office and was sojourning at the farmhouse of his wife. He had been devoting his fullest attention to trade in grapes and figs.
Jamal kissed my mother’s hand and I was yet thinking to offer him a formal salutation in order to keep up appearances, when he stepped forward, extended his hand and gave me such a vigorous shake that I had perforce to attend to him.
Jamal was a man of bluish eyes which, under dark brows, reflected a ripe and sober judgment. He had a small oval face upon which a gentle ripple of smile always seemed to play. His lean and light body betokened the graceful strength which he had acquired through braving many an arduous and perilous action. Whenever he came face to face with anyone whom he must salute, with a brisk and sharp movement, he would pull himself up to military erectness, his heavy military boots at the same time striking automatically against each other with a smart click. In conversation his tone was positively captivating. When he let go the grasp of my hand, he pushed back his military hat and pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket, he passed it over his forehead as if to remove perspiration.
“What makes you rub your forehead?”
I remarked.
“Certainly you are not perspiring.”
This brought a sad smile to his face and seating himself in a chair he lighted his cigar.
“As I was coming along this way,”
he said,
“I met a friend in the tram-car. We had a rather long discussion about the peace of Bulgaria and that is why I feel a bit tired.”
All of a sudden, he assumed a tone which showed a real sense of danger ahead. Fixing his pair of blue eyes on me, with childlike simplicity, he put me the question:
“Bulgaria has signed peace. This means she has realized her weakness. What is to be our policy now? You must certainly be in the know of it through the Foreign Office.”
I can not recollect just now what exactly I told him in reply but one impression that I got on this occasion will not leave me all my life. Affection for Jamal sank deep into my heart and he was the first man who gave a turn to my hitherto aimless life. He also informed me that his sister Aysha and Muqbil were also thinking of coming over to Constantinople but their baby Hasan was too weak to stand the strain of the journey. This piece of information had a magic effect on me.
For the first time in my life I cultivated the friendship of a man who, notwithstanding his robust physique, was exceedingly modest, humble and the very personification of sincerity. I could not for one moment bear to part from him. In the afternoon at 4 o’clock, he would daily pass by the Foreign Office and together we would go to the Mussarat Hotel where we had a tete-a-tete with other military officers. They were all well- built, fine-looking stalwart youths but Jamal stood conspicuous among them all. There was something in his personality which cast a spell on my heart.
Constantinople presented the appearance more of a battlefield these days. Not a day or a night passed when British aeroplanes did not hover over our heads and shower bombs on us. This caused great commotion among the populace. The military officers who met in the Musarrat Cafe, discussed the topics of peace and war and the causes that led to the participation of Turkey in the war. One blamed Anwar Pasha. Another denounced Germany. A third would loudly shout that the Turks had lost the capacity to do anything with steadfast devotion. Defying all these pessimists, Saifi, an enthusiastic military officer, still stuck to his guns and vehemently declared that Turkey was bound to win. He narrated to the company the wonderful exploits of the battles of the Dardenelles and the Sinai.
I will never forget one of the earliest days of this period of revival. Jamal would daily go towards the Academy of War and one day he called on me to take me along with himself.
“The weather is so glorious and delightful,”
he said.
“Let us walk along towards the Bayazid Park.”
Jamal was feeling particularly depressed this day. He was ruminating over the causes of the calamities that had afflicted our nation. And at last, addressing me, he broke out:
“Turkey would not have seen this evil day, had she been a Republic.”
There sounded something delightfully strange about these words that dropped almost spontaneously out of the lips of Jamal.
“You must be on your guard,”
I observed.
“If you blurt out your democratic views before your comrades of the Academy of War, who belong to the Royal family, you know what it would mean.”
As we came up in front of the Foreign Office, we stopped to wait for a military officer who was coming towards us from the War Office. He was a resident of Istanbul, with a smart light body, close-clipped moustaches and a slightly slanting hat. As he came up to us, he quietly pulled off his gloves and stretched his right hand towards Jamal. As usual Jamal clicked his heels, stretched himself to military erectness and shook the newcomer by the hand.
“Where are you coming from, Ihsan?”
he asked.
“From the 3rd Division,”
replied Ihsan.
Jamal then introduced me to Ihsan. We had hardly been there a few minutes, talking over the Bulgarian peace when both these officers pricked up their ears and were all attention to a distant sound.
“British aeroplanes!”
they said, calm and composed.
“Let us at once quit this zone of the War Office.”
We hurriedly moved along and so did everybody in the locality, so as to get out of this danger area. Many had done shopping and were coming back, carrying their packages along. There were many ladies hustling along with their children. It was an hour of extreme danger. The weak and the strong all were seized with consternation and took to their heels. All of a sudden, the confusion and lamentations of the populace became louder. When I looked up I saw five aeroplanes from which bombs dropped like snowfall on the mob below. In a short while we found ourselves enveloped in a regular cloud of smoke and dust. People were frantically running about. The road was hardly visible and people fell on one another. My knees seemed to give way and I felt as if my backbone had become hollow. Presently I opened my eyes and all I saw was a scene of wholesale devastation. Houses and shops lay demolished. The roadside was strewn with human limbs — broken thighs, detached arms, shattered legs and so forth. One poor woman who was rushing along with her sweet child was now standing and bewailing. The ground in front of her was besmeared with blood and the last gasps of life were all that came out of the mouth of the dear little one. An aged Armenian woman who wore a black shawl over her grey hair was lying on the road, weltering in her blood. The upper part of her body was blown asunder from the lower. This was the first time that my eyes fell on a scene of bloodshed.
There were no signs of panic or distress on the faces of Jamal and Ihsan. One of them knelt by the body of the old woman; the other attended to the wounded. For me, the horrid spectacle was too much to bear and I betook myself aside and seated myself with eyes closed. A short while afterwards I felt the hand of Jamal on my shoulders.
“Get up, Biyami,”
he said,
“you are soiling your clothes.”
I opened my eyes and saw Ihsan also coming towards us. His face beamed with satisfaction mingled with determination. I confessed I was terror-struck.
“And so do I,”
put in Jamal.
This candid confession on the part of Jamal only enhanced my respect for him. I knew enough of human psychology to understand that one who is very loud in shouting his courage and daring is at heart the most cowardly of cowards. Both these soldiers offered me their hands and I got up to my feet. Thereafter we were passing through the jaws of death, as it were. We got into a car which brought us to the Musarrat Cafe. Here the waiters and others looked with amazement at my two soldier companions; for, contrary to the scene around, their faces radiated with triumph.