How Was He Born?
The first part of this short novel was published in “Genç Kalemler” (Young Pens) in Salonika. Here we write a very brief summary of this section.
Engineer Kenan Bey married an Italian girl in Izmir ten years ago. He had studied in Europe and until then had not thought about being Turkish. He also has a child from this woman. The war with Italy begins. This unjust aggression deeply offends him. He rejects his wife’s proposal to go to Italy, even suggesting that she become Turkish. The woman says, “I will never accept savage Turkishness…” However, when she leaves for Italy, she wants to take the child with her. Yet the child has been affected by the demonstrations in Salonika and has understood the greatness and sacredness of Turkishness. Although he doesn’t know Turkish, he rejects being Italian, saying “I am Turko child, I am Turko child…” and rises before his father and mother like a living proof of the newly born Turan ideal…
T[urkish] W[ord]
How Did It Happen?
His mother divorced his father, refusing to become Turkish and Muslim. She went to Italy. Primo remained alone at home. He liked this solitude. Besides, what need was there for that foreign woman, that enemy, among them? Now he had also left the French school and entered the big school at the end of the boulevard, this Turkish hearth. Within a month, he learned Turkish. What a beautiful language it was… Gradually, he even began to read newspapers. One day his father said, “Primo, let’s give you a Turkish name!” He immediately agreed with joy.
“Let’s do it, Enver for example…”
“This is not Turkish.”
“Then Niyazi…”
“That’s not either.”
“Strange, you’re joking, father… How can these names that Turks use not be Turkish?” he laughed. And he thought his father was having fun with him; he became serious. He frowned. He crossed his arms over his chest. He stared directly. His father pulled him onto his lap as if wanting to break his sternness.
“I’m not joking, my son, these names are not Turkish.”
“Then what are they?”
“Arabic.”
“Are Turkish ones different?”
“They are different.”
“Like what?”
“For example, Oğuz, Turhan, Orhan, Cengiz, Turgut, Alp, etc…”
“Oh Oğuz, Oğuz… Let’s choose Oğuz,” he clapped his hands and asked, hugging his father’s neck: “Is this the name of a great man?”
“The name of the greatest Turk.”
“Is he a pasha?”
“No, the first khan of the Turks… The first Turkish khan… Just as every nation has its myths, Turks have theirs too. Oğuz Khan descended from heaven and his dynasty ruled over the Turks.”
“Oğuz… Oğuz… Call me once and let me see.”
“Oğuz…”
“Here I am…”
His tiny body stood upright. He thrust out his chest and assumed a heroic posture. His father hugged him again. Kissed him.
“You are a lion, my son, a lion of a Turk. Your name will go down in history,” he said. Primo thought for a moment. To have his name go down in history… How would this happen?
“How does a man’s name go down in history?”
His father answered, stroking his chestnut and curly hair: “By doing something very great and noble… By showing a heroism that will astonish everyone…”
“Very well, very well…” he said. And from that moment on, he began to think of great things, to engage with dreams worthy of the name “Oğuz” he had adopted. He knew French as his mother tongue. His father brought him a book with a yellow cover called “Blue Banner.” Little Oğuz kept reading it; his dreams were filled with Jebe’s armies and Genghis’s palaces. After finishing his lessons, he would immerse himself in Blue Banner and read for hours. His first task in the morning was to go through the newspapers. Such a blow was being dealt to the base Italians in Tripoli… One day he asked his father:
“Are we Turks?”
“Without doubt, my son…”
“Then why are the servant, cook, and maid at home Greek?”
His father thought. He liked his son’s patriotism. Indeed, after being Turkish, couldn’t one at least Turkify one’s own home?
“You speak the truth, Oğuz,” he said. And the next day he found a Turkish servant. He was also looking for a cook and maid. He had no difficulty. A widow named Emine Hanım was found. She also knew how to cook well. He had been longing for Turkish-style dishes. Oğuz had never eaten them in his life. This woman was a refugee. She also had a son. He was a soldier. He worked as an orderly at a neighboring officer’s house. Within a week, there was no other nation in the house but Turks. Now Oğuz spoke Turkish abundantly, read books about Turcology that his father brought without fully understanding them, and told everyone what he read. With a training rifle he got from the armory, he constantly tried to take aim. He had made the picture of the King of Italy his target. Every day he placed one or two shots, sometimes at the head, sometimes at the chest of this enemy of the Turks.
The war with Italy dragged on and on, and Tripoli still could not be taken. It had been almost a year. The agencies and newspapers were writing well. But he saw his father very dejected and sorrowful. What was his grief about? He asked. His father shook his head. “My little Oğuz,” he said, “we are living our last days now. We will be like Persia. And this won’t take long…”
Primo was astonished: “How, but how? Father, we are fighting very well in Tripoli. Our armies are ready.”
His father sighed again. “Listen to me, my son,” he began, “let me tell you about Turkiye and the situation of Western Turks. Ertuğrul and the Ottomans who established our government left Turan, Khorasan, and Altai Mountain and went to Anatolia. They united all the Turks in Anatolia—the Seljuks and others—by the power of the sword. Then they crossed into Europe. There they enslaved nations like Greeks, Albanians, Bulgarians, and Serbs. They took their countries. Later, when they became very powerful, they took Syria and Arabia, putting an end to the disasters of disorder there. But because they could not Turkify the people of the places they took, this greatness became the cause of their weakening. Just as when you put too much water into a glass of lemonade and dilute it, the power of its sugar decreases and it loses its taste… In the past, they governed these nations separately and quite well. Then the Tanzimat ruined things. Ah, this Tanzimat… This is truly the beginning of our disaster.”
Primo asked, “Strange, what is this Tanzimat?” His father began to explain in more detail:
“The era when we completely forgot our Turkishness… This Tanzimat is the beginning of the application of European-style laws to our country. These foreign and harmful laws greatly benefited our former slaves, the subjects. Because these laws arose from European civilization, that is, from the spirit of Christianity. Since most of our slaves were Christians, these laws suited their lives like a tailored coat and helped them progress. As for us Turks, since our religion is Islam, an institution arising from Christianity couldn’t possibly suit us; it produced opposite effects. Years passed. Our slaves left us farsangs behind intellectually, spiritually, and in terms of civilization. Our elders still foolishly and naively proclaimed ‘equality.’ Our slaves had a new and perfect weapon in their hands. We had a broken arrow… In our country, all wealth passed into the hands of our slaves, that is, those old and irreconcilable enemies, in a short time. We remained almost like a guard, a servant. We had no source except military service and civil service. And under the name ‘Ottoman,’ which was nothing more than a political and diplomatic term, we considered all our enemies as brothers, showing our children the greatest Turks, such as great war geniuses like Genghis and Hulagu, as the worst people. We could neither create a new Turkish civilization not contrary to Islam, nor accept the Christian civilization coming from Europe. The disaster was not delayed. After the Greeks had the Europeans, who shared their religion, burn our navy at Navarino, they declared their independence. Romania, Serbia, Montenegro, and Bulgaria were not resting either. They revolted. They snatched away the lands we had taken inch by inch over centuries, shedding blood. Finally, we were left with today’s Rumelia and Anatolia. Rumelia was about to go. The Young Turks had awakened from the East’s unawakeable sleep. They declared the Constitutional Monarchy. For four years, they had been holding the government, Ottoman sovereignty. It was only this ‘Young Turk’ power that opposed the Greeks, Bulgarians, Serbs, and Albanians who were attacking the foundation of our state through the most secret ways, trying to destroy our state, and dealt with them. Today this power has fallen. Laid on the ground. Now the enemies of Turkishness are free. They will work comfortably. They will dig our grave in an instant…”
Primo’s eyes had clouded, his gaze was lost. He was listening to what his father was telling him slowly and feeling his little heart becoming troubled. So his nation was so unfortunate. But still, he couldn’t lose hope.
“What about our army, father; what about our army?” he cried out. His father shook his head!
“Alas, my son, alas… Now that is a legend… War is not fought with cannons and rifles. It requires spirit. It requires morale. It has become clear that there is no longer a common spirit in the army, that morale has failed. Turkish officers deny their own nationality. They are uniting with the Albanians, who are the most terrible, most troublesome, and most tireless enemies of our state, killing the Turkish power, that is, their own existence.”
Primo didn’t understand.
“Oh father, aren’t the Albanians brothers of the Turks?”
“No, my son, among our former slaves, the Albanians are the ones who will never forgive us. In fact, they caused the Greek government’s independence. They fought with the Turks, working with their blood for the Greeks to establish a government. Let’s leave the past behind. Four years have passed since the declaration of the Constitutional Monarchy. They found an opportunity, watching for the state’s most troubled time. They revolted four times… Now some Turkish officers, like gypsies, are denying and rejecting their origins and working with the enemies of Turks. They are helping the force formed by the enemies of Turks, that is, Greeks, Bulgarians, Serbs, and Albanians.”
Primo still couldn’t understand.
“Strange thing, Father, these Turkish officers don’t know they are Turkish, do they?…”
“They don’t know. They consider enemies as brothers. Their blind eyes cannot see that the enemy nations, all non-Turks, are trying to destroy the Turks.”
“Okay… The officers are like that… What about our soldiers? Our Anatolian Turkish soldiers?”
“They are a body. What can they do without a head? After their officers became enemies to their Turkishness, after their officers tried to destroy them, what will they do?…”
Primo became absorbed. He began to think about his unfortunate nation; how foolish and stupid those poor, unaware officers must be who are enemies to their own existence, who kill Turkish power, Turkish government within itself and support enemy power. Even the sparrows in the cherry tree in the garden don’t mix with other birds; don’t they live as one kind, one nation? Was there any sparrow that would leave its own flock and go mix with crows or pigeons? So the Turkish officers who separated from their own nation, from their own flock, and mixed with the forces of foreign and enemy nations didn’t have as much awareness, foresight, or nobility as these little sparrows… He wanted to cry. The fact that Turks were enemies to Turkish power had deeply offended him. A pain rose from his chest. It went up toward his throat. He was going to sob. He swallowed. His father was still expressing his sorrow, adding, “The army is now a legend.” “The brothers of the non-Turkish Ottomans outside the borders, that is, the Balkan governments, will defeat us within twenty-four hours. They won’t leave a single Turk in Rumelia. They will drown us in fire and blood.”
Now Primo had lost his former cheerfulness. Like a sick hawk, he constantly sought dark corners, thinking, waiting for the disaster his father had announced was approaching. So they were going to drive all the Turks from Rumelia… They would take this beautiful Salonika too, the great schools would remain to the enemies, the Hagia Sophia Mosque where the sultan had come and prayed last year would become a church again… Ah, the White Tower… A garden was going to be built around it. Now this garden would not be built, Primo would not be able to play there. The Union Garden where he walked in the evenings with his hands behind his back like a grown man would be filled with hatted enemy officers, the band he listened to every Friday evening would play for them, they would drink these delicious ice creams and lemonades and puff out their chests for having routed the Turks, and who knows how else they would enjoy themselves. At that time, how could one endure the insult of all these waiters, these tram drivers, all the conductors, these tailors, these grocers, all these Ottoman enemies of Turks? He would close his eyes and, as if in a nervous nightmare, seem to see the view of Salonika after the Turks were driven from Rumelia. His heart would begin to beat rapidly. Was it possible to live after being so humiliated and wretched? He would stand up, clench his fist, and shout as if to an imaginary enemy before him: “No, no, scoundrels, you will not take them. You will not take these places that our valiant fathers conquered five hundred years ago by bringing you to your knees. All Turks will stand against you, they will wet every inch of their homeland with your blood. Even if you kill all of them and succeed, you will find nothing but a grave, a ruin.”
Days passed, his father’s sorrow increased even more. Primo asked, “Father, you said there would be war, but nothing happened…”
“Certainly, my son, it will certainly happen.”
Finally, one Friday, while strolling, Primo saw a bit more activity. He was passing by the barracks. He asked a soldier: “What’s this, compatriot, this crowd?”
This was a black-mustached dispatch soldier. On the brass plaques on his collar was written “dispatch.”
“Mobilization has been declared,” he answered.
“What does mobilization mean?”
“It means an order to prepare for war…”
“Is there going to be a war?”
“That’s what they say.”
“With which state?”
“Bulgaria.”
Primo felt a strange joy inside. He jumped on the tram. He came home. He began to tell the cook Emine Hanım that there would be war and how the Turks would conquer countries again. But this woman was not happy like him.
“Ah, God forbid it doesn’t happen…” she was saying. Primo got angry. Strange, wasn’t she a Turkish woman? Why didn’t she want war? Wouldn’t a Turkish woman want many Turkish sons to gain glory and fame again, to show the world again who the Turks were? He asked: “Why don’t you want war?”
“Ah, my child, wouldn’t it be a pity for all those people of Muhammad?”
“What do you mean?”
“There will be so much migration again, families and children will be left in the open.”
Primo didn’t understand, “Oh, Emine Hanım,” he was saying, “why should there be migration? Our armies will enter the enemy’s country, they will conquer their cities. If there is to be migration, it will be theirs.”
The old woman raised her head: “Ah, my child, we cannot fight the infidel.”
Primo was getting angry: “Why can’t we? Don’t we have cannons and rifles? Don’t we have soldiers?”
“Whatever may be, if there is war, there will be migration again.”
Primo was getting even angrier: “What do you know?”
“I know. ‘First Damascus, last Damascus,’ our great scholar effendis said this…”
“What does ‘first Damascus, last Damascus’ mean?”
“I mean, certainly one day the infidel will come, drive us from Istanbul, from Anatolia. All Muslims will gather in Damascus.”
“Boo… What a superstitious idea!…”
“Hush, my child, don’t say that, you’ll be struck…”
“Why will I be struck?”
“Our great scholar effendis decreed this…”
“What do they know?”
“They know everything.”
Primo didn’t understand, but didn’t ask more, saying to himself, “What does this ignorant woman know?…” Evening came. At dinner he talked with his father. He was even more hopeless than the cook woman. But in his own heart lay a lion. Would the Turks ever leave their five-hundred-year homeland to two and a half Bulgarian or Greek soldiers? Now every day he went to the barracks square, watching the soldiers gathering at the Reserve Office, the pack animals, the cart horses. One morning a commotion broke out. Jewish children were running in the street, shouting “Extra, extra!” He immediately bought one. He read it. And understood that war with Montenegro had begun… He ran home. He gave this good news to Emine Hanım. The old woman was saying “Alas, alas…” and beating her knee because her son, her little Mustafa, would also go.
In the evening his father appeared even more distressed. Primo left for school early in the morning. He got off the tram in front of the barracks. Activity had reached its peak. But all the officers and soldiers were not at all happy that there would be war. This was obvious from their state. Almost all of them had turned a bit pale, faded, as if a bit frightened. Not much time passed. It was heard that Bulgaria, Serbia, and Greece had also declared war. The newspapers kept writing victories at the borders, writing and writing, they couldn’t finish writing. He brought these home and showed them to his father…
His father said, “Lies, my son, lies…” Salonika became so crowded that no one knew anyone anymore. Such confusion… you should see…
…They were saying that those who abandoned the war were fleeing to Salonika! Primo was walking around. He saw the cafés, inns, and shops all filled with soldiers. Since there was a war, what was the meaning of so many soldiers walking in the streets as if it were a holiday? One day when he came home, he found Emine Hanım crying. He asked why she was crying.
“Ah, my child, refugees have arrived…”
“Refugees have arrived?” he shouted, “where?”
“Everywhere! All the mosques are full…”
“Who said so?”
“Mustafa came today. He told me.”
“Where are they coming from?”
“From Kočani, from Štip, from Veles… From everywhere…”
The next day he didn’t go to school, he headed toward the mosques. Indeed, everywhere was full. These were old people, girls, women and children. They were all crying, sobbing in indescribable misery. His heart couldn’t bear it. He ran. He ran so as not to see them. All the poor people were hungry. They were begging everyone who passed, “For God’s sake, a little bread…”
The cafés were again packed with soldiers. There was no order, no government… That night he couldn’t sleep. What his father had said was coming true. The officers were still sitting in the casinos, arranging their hair and mustaches with their delicate white hands, like women.
When he got up in the morning, his head ached. He told his father. “You’ve caught cold, my son. Don’t go out at all today,” he said. He stayed home. His father would bring the newspapers in the evening. After lunch, he sat by the window, thinking about the Turks’ disaster, what would happen at the end of this disaster. He saw Emine Hanım’s son Mustafa entering through the garden’s iron-barred gate. Doubtless he was coming to see his mother. He was a lion of a soldier. His chest was broad, his large eyes blue and bright. What would he talk about with his mother?
He was curious. He got up. He went downstairs. He found Mustafa sitting on a chair in the kitchen across from his mother. He went smiling. He held his hand: “Welcome, Mustafa.”
“Thank you, my master.”
“What’s new?”
“Nothing…”
“Why aren’t you going to war?”
“I stayed at the captain’s house. But anyway, the war is over.”
Primo shouted “What? The war is over?”
“Yes, it’s over.”
“How did it end?”
“The captain came this evening. He told those at home not to be afraid. Our pasha and the Greek pasha talked.”
“And then?”
“Then they will surrender Salonika.”
“Without war?”
“Without war…”
Primo shouted “Oh, the scoundrels, oh!” How could this be? Had our fathers taken Salonika without war that it was now being given to the enemy without war? He asked Mustafa many more things. Fifty, sixty, seventy thousand people would give up their weapons. The big cannons at Karaburun would be surrendered to the enemy without firing a single shot…
Primo asked again: “Hey, what will the enemy do with you then?…”
“I don’t know well, but probably they’ll take us prisoner… They say: ‘Captivity is very comfortable. They treat you like a gentleman.'”
And he was telling how happy the captain was. Primo was listening, a terrible hatred rising inside him, spreading through his veins like poison, hurting everywhere. When Mustafa was about to leave, he pulled out a large revolver from his waist. It belonged to the captain. When the Greeks took them prisoner, according to the conditions, the officers would leave their swords, but they might take their other weapons. So he gave this to Mustafa; so his mother would keep it… Primo was listening and thinking about why this officer was hiding a weapon he hadn’t used in war, what he would do with it after the war. He had never seen such a revolver. Its case was wooden. He took it, looked at it.
“How strange,” he said, “what is this thing?”
Mustafa showed off his knowledge: “This is called a Mauser revolver, my master; it can be used both like a pistol and like a rifle…”
The more Primo asked, the more he explained. He opened the wooden case, or rather the box. He took out the revolver. He attached the grip to the end of the box. The wooden case became like a rifle stock. He placed it on his shoulder, took aim.
“Like this…” he was saying, giving more details, Primo was listening carefully. Ten bullets were loaded at once. He explained how they were loaded, then how they were emptied. Primo also took it. He put it on his shoulder. He cocked the mechanism. He pulled the trigger. He emptied it as if firing. Ah, when there was such an excellent weapon that loaded ten bullets at once and shot two thousand meters, how could one run from the enemy? Primo couldn’t understand this.
Emine Hanım was saying “Oh son, where shall I hide this?” Primo found the easy way. Upstairs in the attic near the eaves there was a small hole. If it was put there, no one could see it. There were also ten cartridge belts; they should put those in the coal room.
Mustafa said “Great, great.” His mother couldn’t object. Primo took the revolver. He placed it himself. They wrapped the bullets in cloth so they wouldn’t get damp. They put them behind the sacks. Primo kept asking things about the war, Mustafa wasn’t answering. Primo just couldn’t understand this matter of surrendering. In the evening he got into a discussion with his father. How was this happening? And he understood that his father wanted to go to Istanbul. Ah, so Salonika would be left… His heart ached from distress. He couldn’t think more about this disaster that he wouldn’t believe even if he saw it in a dream. Hours of disaster pass heavily. It took quite a while for the Greek cavalry to arrive, for the king, princes, and princesses to fill Salonika.
Suddenly everything had changed. The hatted ones filled the streets. All the Jews immediately became Greek. All the shops were painted blue and white.
Blue and white arches were made. The Greek king arrived. Everyone, women and men, poured into the streets. Applause, applause, applause… From the clapping of hands and “Long live, long live George!” even if thunder roared, it couldn’t be heard.
Enemy battalions were passing in front of the mansion, playing music. All the shutters were opening, flowers and kisses were being thrown at these passing battalions. In the evening his father said, “My son, we won’t stay here anymore. We’ll go to Istanbul on the first ship. Tomorrow or the day after…”
Oh my God! Was leaving the homeland so easy!… They would board the ship as if going on a trip, they would leave Salonika where they had lived for five hundred years. No, no… He, Primo, would not go anywhere from here, he would die here from sorrow. What would he do by going to Istanbul? The Greek children passing in the street, the tram drivers, the vendors would look at him with who knows how bitter an insult, saying “There’s a Turkish child…” and would make fun of him. How would he endure this life anymore? He couldn’t sleep at night. Let his father prepare the suitcases and all… He would escape… He wouldn’t board the ship, he would kill himself.
After deciding to die, Primo felt a very sweet and pleasant relief. His suffering almost decreased. School and all had closed long ago. The Turks had fled, all these buildings were filled with Greeks.
He had not yet determined his final hour. He went outside. He began to stroll. Everything, everywhere had changed. Ah, the only ones unchanged were our officers. After giving their soldiers, their cannons, their rifles, their homeland, their honor, their possessions to the enemy, they were amusing their filthy and worthless lives they had saved, still strolling shamelessly among the victorious enemy soldiers, dragging their shiny swords on the ground as before, with the manner of a girl passing in front of men; in the casinos they were sitting with legs crossed, arranging their combed hair and upturned mustaches with their delicate white hands like fragile women. Yes, only these had not changed, as if nothing had happened to them, as if Salonika had not been taken, as if the bloody massacres told by the refugees had not occurred. They were still riding in carriages, talking with chanteuses, still having political discussions with each other.
Primo was disgusted by them, he wanted to go up to them and slap them. What kind of men were these? Did they have no feelings at all? How could they live shamelessly among the victorious Greek and Bulgarian officers, among the Greek soldiers? Didn’t they understand the insult and hatred in the looks that all the Greek, Jewish and foreign women cast at them? Even Greek children had begun to follow behind them, to shout “Boo Turkos, cowards…” after they passed. If they had a bit of shame, could they stay in this city they had surrendered with their own hands? All right, their lives were dear, they couldn’t kill themselves. But what was the point of appearing in public? If they couldn’t get lost and go somewhere from here, couldn’t they hide in a corner?
At home he asked his father: “We understand, Salonika was conquered. But why are they keeping these officers, for decoration?”
His father shook his head. “Alas, my son,” he said, “no one is keeping them, they are staying themselves.”
Primo opened his eyes wide: “They are staying themselves?”
“Yes, themselves.”
“How? Aren’t they prisoners?”
“No, my son. The commander of the Greek army, Prince Constantine, told them, ‘You can go to Anatolia, to Istanbul.'”
“Hey, why aren’t they going?…”
“Why wouldn’t they go… The Bulgarians have reached Çatalca; if they go to Istanbul or to Izmir, there’s a possibility they’ll be sent to war again. So they prefer to pass the time.”
Primo turned bright red. Could there be so much baseness and cowardice in the world? “Oh scoundrels, oh…” he shouted. He couldn’t control himself, he began to cry from anger. His father tried to console him. He was saying that these officers were not at fault, because the poor people couldn’t grasp their nationality, didn’t know they were Turks, what Turks and Turkishness were and would be, “the fault lies in the causes that made us forget our Turkishness…”
These poor officers had no knowledge of their nationality to the point of asking each other what “Turan” meant. They didn’t know a letter of Turkish history. Yet our enemies were advancing the ideals they took from the spirit of their own nationality, performing the great duty their histories told them; they were gladly shedding their blood for their traditions, for their brothers whose homelands were separate. The Greeks, pursuing their “Megalo idea,” that is, their great ambitions, were leaving thousands dead, jumping on Turkish cannons giving speeches, swearing to go further for “Hellenism”; the Bulgarians were throwing themselves into fire with joy, saying “Nashi, nashi, Tsarigrad nashi,” that is, “Istanbul will be ours, Istanbul is ours.”
But the Turks… The Turks had no idea, not a great one, not even a small ambition… The members of a nation that did not possess such a common and shared ambition, a conscience, a spirit, would be chauvinistic, egoistic, selfish. Since they did not grasp a common and shared national life, for example, something noble, high, and sacred called Turkishness, their particular and individual lives were valued, they could not easily sacrifice their lives.
His father was explaining for hours. He was listening vaguely, thinking that he felt his nationality, that he was a Turk, that he knew it very well. Since he knew he was a Turk; he understood the disaster of great Turkishness, of great Turkishness that was dying today. In that case, his own mortal life had no importance anymore. He should sacrifice this mortal and temporary life for the great life of great Turkishness. But how?…
Now Primo was always thinking about this. He had decided not to leave Salonika. He was walking among the patrols of Greek and Bulgarian soldiers in the streets, pondering how he would sacrifice his temporary and unimportant life, in what manner. He could no longer see the Turkish officers. Had they all gone to Istanbul or to Izmir, taking advantage of the permission given by Prince Constantine? He asked his father, who had been sick and unable to leave the house for two days.
“Some have gone to Istanbul, my son, but when the Bulgarians came they protested. The Greeks also held all those who remained as prisoners and sent them to Athens.”
Primo said “Oh!”
They were accepting captivity as being against dignity, in a wretched and disgraceful state. This was the state of those who ran from this war… Now they would stuff them into coops like dirty and lazy chickens, they would lock them in… Primo was happy about this, this was his only joy in these dark days. He couldn’t stand these officers walking the streets at all.
Now he was strolling comfortably. They didn’t pay attention to him because he was small. He went to the pier, to the barracks, to the station, in short everywhere; watching the joy of the enemy soldiers, the enemy officers, but his tiny heart was always beating for great Turkishness, he kept thinking of the way to sacrifice this mortal life in a glorious manner that would go down in history.
Primo was standing like a lion on a high marble mounting stone; in his hand a large flag made of red satin… On his head a bright and stylish Turkish fur cap made of white lambskin… The square before him was filled with prisoners of the defeated enemy. Primo was ordering his aide: “First let the kings come…”
Yes, little Oğuz, just like the French Jeanne d’Arc, had taken the lead of the Turks and routed all the enemies, plundered their countries, finally captured them all; their kings, their queens, their princes, their princesses, their marshals, their generals, all of them. Now the lives of all these eight hundred thousand people depended on his one word… Now they had come under the arch, they were begging for mercy… In a terrible roar, this voice kept being heard:
“Long live Oğuz…”
“Zito pedi Oğuzos…”
“Long live the glorious world conqueror Oğuz…”
Four people were advancing through the crowd. These were King Ferdinand, King Georgević, King Nikita, King George… They were all looking at the ground. They were lining up at the foot of the stone. They were bowing their heads. Oğuz was waving the large red flag in his hand over them and saying: “Do not tremble, do not fear. You are under the great Turkish banner. Do not forget. Your fathers, your grandfathers, your ancestors all came like this. They prostrated themselves before this arch, they bowed down. Come, take off your crowns… Give them to Turkishness, to me, the heroic owner of all crowns.”
These four men, like living shadows, were taking off their crowns. And they placed them at little Oğuz’s feet, at the bottom of his foot, and prostrated themselves on the ground… Now all the prisoners filling the square were silent. A terrible, majestic silence was occurring. In this silence, in this general quietness, Oğuz’s thin but strong and civilized voice rose.
“O Ferdinand! Did you not think of this day? Did you never read history? You thought Turkishness was dead. You hoped the Turks’ lineage had deteriorated, had become bastardized. Pretending to be a priest in the very middle of the twentieth century, you shamelessly opened a Crusade war against us; you had your savage soldiers tear apart our girls, our women, our elderly. You fired cannons at the great mosques of our Khans, at the sacred tombs built by our old heroic fathers… You had unheard-of crimes committed. Now finally, the Turkishness that you thought was asleep, frozen, its blood dried up, has caught you in its claws. Tell me, what shall I do to you?”
Ferdinand, who resembled a predatory eagle with his hooked nose from the side, began to tremble as if all the things he had done were passing before his eyes. The other kings Georgević, Nikita, George were also trembling from fear.
From among the prisoners, a deep, echoing, long voice was shouting:
“Forgive, great Oğuz, forgive. Turkishness always showed magnanimity to them. For five centuries, five hundred years, it fed them with its own bread. It gave them every kind of freedom and liberty imaginable in the world. While they should have remained grateful for this kindness, they committed treachery. The filthy blood of traitors cannot stain the Turk’s shining sword.”
Then a terrible roar. The prisoners were shouting in their own languages. What they were saying couldn’t be understood. Oğuz’s chest was swelling. Aren’t heroes magnanimous?… He too would be magnanimous.
“Rise, rise, poor kings, rise,” he was shouting. “Rise. Kiss the red flag of great Turkishness that forgives you.”
And he was extending the flag down from the mounting stone. Ferdinand was crying and embracing it, beginning to kiss. The other kings too were throwing themselves at this sacred banner with ridiculous and pitiable haste. They were kissing, kissing. The noise was increasing. A commotion. A terrible wind was blowing. Suddenly it began to rain. The prisoners were fleeing here and there… And like shadows from water, they were melting away, dispersing, disappearing. The sky was thundering. Oğuz saw that the arch above him was collapsing. But the kings were still kissing the flag in his hand, kissing. A strange faintness was coming over him, his head was spinning. He was closing his eyes.
And suddenly he was waking up. Stretching. Alone in his bed…
He was rubbing his hands and eyes, the daze of his dream was still continuing, but foreign sounds were also being heard from downstairs; what was there? He got up, jumped to the floor, ran to the window. He opened the glass, pushed the shutter. He looked outside. Strange. Enemy gendarmes, Cretans were standing in the garden.
“Could this be a dream too?” he brought his hands to his eyes. No, no, this was real. With a nimble movement he put on his socks. He pulled on his trousers. He took his jacket on his back and ran to the door. He went downstairs. A Greek officer was standing, talking with his father. He listened.
“Our government is investigating you. You will be imprisoned until the end of this investigation. Do not be afraid, your life is not in danger,” he was saying. His father was pale as a sheet. Was he afraid? But why would they imprison his father? The poor man wasn’t objecting at all to these treacherous people. He was even bowing his head in Greek, saying “I’m ready, sir, we can go,” just like the kings he had seen in his dream a moment ago.
Primo said “I’ll come too, me too.” The officer asked his father majestically: “Who is this?”
“My son, sir.”
“Where is his mother?”
“She’s not here.”
“Don’t you have a daughter?”
“No, sir.”
And he examined Primo with contempt. Primo also looked sternly at this scoundrel who was insolently looking for women and sisters. As if he would be afraid of him? What could he do; he allowed Primo to come as far as the office.
“I don’t interfere with what happens after that,” he was saying. His father told Emine Hanım not to leave the house and to prepare dinner for Primo in the evening, that he would send money to her with Primo. The poor woman was crying loudly as if they were taking her master to be slaughtered, she was trying to save him. The master was trying to explain that there was no danger. But Emine Hanım was insisting on crying, saying “Ah, I know them, they show no mercy at all.” This became like a tragedy. With difficulty they left the mansion. His father was walking on the left of the officer. He was also on his father’s left. Half of the Cretan gendarmes were walking in front, half behind. One each on the sides. They walked like this all the way to the White Tower. The Greeks on the road were gathering; they were all looking at them as if looking at wild animals, as if they were forty-year foreigners who had never seen a Turk in their lives. Greek children had gathered at the street corners, shouting “Boo Turkos; cowards.” They entered a building on Union Street. Probably it was the former club of Turkish officers. They took his father to the commander or police chief. Primo stayed outside. Exactly half an hour standing.
Greek soldiers coming and going for lunch were bothering him, asking his name, making fun. Primo wasn’t answering at all. Now the opportunity was theirs. And only cowards would take advantage of the opportunity. The victorious would never watch for an opportunity to take revenge. A puppet army could speak to a Turkish child without weapons like himself at such a time. Ah, but if he had a weapon. His father came out. His fatigue and hopelessness were obvious from his face.
“My son, I will be imprisoned for a few days, after the investigation is over, the commander promised that permission will be given for Istanbul. You go home. Stay. You can come here every day to see me.”
And taking out his wallet from his pocket, he gave him eight liras. In it were also Emine Hanım’s and the servant’s monthly salaries. For food and so on, he said a few more things about his clothes at the tailor’s. He bent down, kissed Primo. He whispered in his ear, “Come on, my son, don’t be afraid. Remember that you are a Turkish child. Don’t cry, don’t be sorrowful.”
Why would he cry? Women, the weak, the powerless, the base, the vile cried. He wouldn’t cry, but he would make others cry. He felt a pain in his heart again; as if tears were gathering under his eyelashes, wanting to overflow. He took a deep breath.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he said. He separated. He threw himself outside. A warm autumn sun was brightening the whole street, the shadow of the White Tower was falling behind. The sea was waveless and deep blue… Many Jews, men and women, children, had gotten on boats, were touring, watching the enemy’s ironclads. Primo walked slowly, hands behind his back, as always, ah, as in the times when Salonika was in the hands of the Turks. He came to the edge of the pier. Waters were hitting the blackened, moss-covered stones, making a sound like crying. He looked, looked. Now what would he do? The enemies had come in five days and taken the five-hundred-year Turkish homeland with a speed that wouldn’t be believed even if seen in dreams… Finally, they had also attacked his own home. They had seized his father like a murderer. Yes, his father was neither a soldier nor an official… He was an engineer. What could an engineer do? Nothing. But they were looking for the weak and wretched, crushing every being that didn’t resist. The things the refugees told made his hair stand on end. The enemies were surrounding every Turkish village, not forgiving even those who begged for mercy, shooting all the men, sending their small children to Greece as prisoners to make them Christian; violating the honor of women, beautiful girls; they weren’t leaving stone upon stone. Their aim was to remove the Turkish name from Rumelia. Of course they would kill all of them, or make them flee by torturing them. They were introducing this method, which Westerners called “cleansing,” which the Spaniards had once applied to the Arabs in Andalusia, and recently the Germans in Herero territory and the Italians in Tripoli, this ugly and bloody method to Salonika too. True, they hadn’t yet gathered the men and shot them. Now they were gathering sensible Turks who could speak, like his father. Then doubtless they would find a fake plot, inventing an imaginary rebellion, they would extinguish many families with blood and fire.
Primo was looking at the waters whispering at his feet, saying to himself “Will no Turk stand against them, will they all bow their heads and extend their necks to the enemy’s trembling and cowardly blade?…” Since one must die anyway, even if one didn’t die, since the homeland was now completely destroyed, the history full of five hundred years of glory, honor and greatness had been thrown into the mud, trampled, why should one cower, hide, try to live anymore… He scratched his head. He felt a weight in his chest. He stretched. Stretched. Stretched. He yawned as if he were sleepy. Yes, Primo was a Turk. He would never accept these insults, he would not give up his revenge… But how should he take this revenge? He was thinking… He walked. In front of the Union Garden, many women and Greek officers were talking. He passed by them. He was remembering a poem that the literature teacher at school had made him memorize, and looking sideways at the crowd of enemies all around him in hats, swords, uniforms:
“I am a Turk and I am your enemy, even if I remain alone”
he was murmuring. He jumped on the tram. He was thinking deeply. He got off in front of the mansion. He was swaying like a drunk and feeling an agitating joy inside. He had now organized his plan. The whole world would understand that a Turk, a Turkish child who knew his Turkishness, would not leave his homeland alive, how dearly he would sell his death, that he would not give up the revenge of his homeland, his father.
He entered through the door. He gathered the servant and Emine Hanım in the courtyard, gave them their salaries. And he said: “My father and I will stay at a hotel. Now you can go wherever you want. We will come here in two days to collect the things. Whoever wants to come to Istanbul with us can come.”
Emine Hanım said “I’ll come, young master, I…”
“Very well, very well…” he didn’t prolong the conversation. He said he would lock the mansion and take the key to his father. None of them understood his lie. Within half an hour they all left.
When he was alone in the house, he let out a deep “oh.” He took off his head covering and removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves. He ran straight to the attic. He took out from the hole where he had hidden the Mauser revolver that Emine Hanım’s son Mustafa had brought. A very fine and light dust had settled on the wooden case. He blew it off. He was trembling with reverence and affection as if holding something extremely sacred. He opened the lid of the case. He pulled out the revolver. The mechanism was shining with a silent and frozen brightness. He extended his thin lips; he kissed, kissed, kissed. This was so sweet… He sucked, sucked. He stuck out his tongue from between his lips, touched it to the barrel. He felt a sour and cool taste. In this cool sourness there was such an indescribable pleasure that it couldn’t be compared to anything in the world. This indescribable thing, this thing of unknown nature, seemed to mix with his blood; spreading everywhere, it was giving him a lion’s strength, a warrior’s enthusiasm, a hero’s happiness. He went downstairs, entered his own room on the upper floor. He went to the window. He looked out. The mansion’s garden, the street in front of the garden, the tram line, further away the small street going to the Greek school and the houses with gardens were completely visible. Oh what a view!… He would paint these places with blood shortly, make them a battlefield. He went to his father’s room. There was a small table. He took it, brought it to his room. He pushed it next to the window. He put the revolver on it. Then he ran downstairs like lightning. He entered the coal room. He pulled the sacks. He took out the bullets they had hidden. Again running, he went up to his room. His hands had turned black, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, unwrapped the cloths. He wiped each bullet separately. He cleaned them. Again he fitted them ten by ten into the magazine. He lined up these ten cartridge belts on the table. He attached the revolver to the case, put it in rifle form. He pulled the shutters inward. From the gap he first took aim at the corner of the opposite street, then at the lower window of the blue and white painted mansion, then at a priest passing on the tram line. Perfect, the place was very good. Now he would wait for Greek soldiers and officers to pass. He would open such a fire that he wouldn’t leave any of them alive… He thought for a bit.
“No,” he said, “these scoundrels will run away…” Yes, they would flee to both sides of the street and if he couldn’t hit any of them… This possibility of not hitting made him tremble. He left the revolver on the table. He pushed the shutters’ wings. He leaned, looked outside. And became absorbed… Ah, if they entered the garden… Then they couldn’t escape and would be forced to fight with him. But how would they enter the garden? On the day they came to take his father, they had entered for a duty. If he called… But for what reason would he call? It was necessary to find a reason. He thought. With an empty gaze he looked outside for perhaps two or three hours. He thought, thought. Finally he laughed. And turned around, clapping his hands. Yes, he had found the way to fill the mansion’s garden with many Greek soldiers. But he shouldn’t hurry. His revenge should be heavy but terrible, like a true Turk’s revenge.
“Tomorrow, tomorrow…” he murmured, “tomorrow, early…” Besides, tomorrow was Sunday… While taking his revenge he would spoil all these victorious enemies’ Sunday pleasure and fun. He went downstairs. He washed his hands and face. He put on his jacket and went out, locking the door. He surveyed his ambush, his beloved homeland where he would fight. Both sides were mansions. The garden in front had a door. There was no other place to escape. Ah, they would understand. His chest was swelling, his breath was getting short from excitement and joy. He walked toward the depot. He wanted to be alone, to walk on the piers, to expand his plan further in his mind… He passed Abdülhamit’s mansion. At Filoka’s café, Jews in holiday clothes were sitting. He passed there too. He followed the highway going to Uzunali. He climbed a hill. He was seeing from afar the large and magnificent Agricultural School that the poor Turks had newly built but couldn’t finish. He sat on the side of the road. He stayed there until evening.
When evening came, it had almost gotten dark. He went up to his room. He took his beloved weapon in his hand again. And kissed it. If it didn’t exist, how could he take his revenge tomorrow; how would he show the enemy that Turkishness was not dead, that Turks who knew they were Turks still existed in the world?… He loaded this sacred instrument. He emptied it. He placed its stock on his shoulder. He took aim at various places outside. He pulled the trigger. In the yellow case, in its thick and notched butt, in its violet-colored barrel, there was such a noble and gentle beauty… Primo couldn’t get enough of looking at it. He didn’t light a lamp at night. With the weapon in his hand, he walked around his room. He was thinking about tomorrow, about tomorrow’s victory. Now let the enemies not say “We took Salonika which had been in the hands of the Turks for five hundred years and no weapon was fired at us.” And let them see what a hero a Turkish child was… As if commanding himself he said “Now let’s go to bed…”
Yes, it was necessary to get up early tomorrow. And he should be strong. For that reason he shouldn’t spend the night sleepless, he should sleep, get rid of his fatigue, wake up in the morning like steel. He went downstairs. He washed his face. He locked the door. He came to his room. He got into his bed. He also took his revolver into his bosom. He pulled the quilt over himself.
“Ah, if it were possible for them to bury me tomorrow together with this sacred weapon that will fulfill Turkishness’s duty…” he thought. The grave and earth came to his mind. Who knows how dark it was there. It was just like a deep and waterless well. Death… But was this a terrible and frightening thing as the old people, the elderly, the dishonorable, the vile, the nationless, the Jews, the women and the cowards thought?… No, no… The literature teacher at school had said that this death which frightened the ignorant so much was nothing but a pleasant dream. A pleasant dream and a deep sleep… A sleep that is eternal… One could no longer wake from it. But life… Individual life had no importance at all. Because a person, no matter how long they lived, could live seventy, at most eighty years. Death was absolute and certain. It was not possible to avoid it. As for general and national life… For example, Turkishness… As long as the world lasted, for thousands, hundreds of thousands of years, Turkishness could live nobly and magnificently. It was truly this national life that had importance and value, with its traditions, its sacred things, its customs, its glories, its fame, in short its history. Otherwise, a person could not take pride in living seventy years miserably, enslaved and disgraced. But to belong to a great nation, a glorious people, a noble homeland and to die in its path… This was the thing to be proud of. Again he remembered the literature teacher’s explanation, quoting:
“What remains lasting in this dome is a good echo”
In individual and mortal life there was only one happiness, one hope, one pride. That was to have one’s name go down in history. To leave a trace in the minds of our fellow countrymen who would come after us… Not to be forgotten… How would this happen? Hadn’t his father said: “By doing something very great… By showing a heroism that will astonish everyone, a terrible courage…”
For great Turkishness, he would sacrifice his unimportant, worthless individual life. What would happen if he preserved this worthless, temporary life? Wouldn’t he grow old amidst insults, curses, slaps, curses, and finally one day wouldn’t he die in his sick and powerless bed like a senile and disgusting old woman?
Would history write his name then? No… Never… And what difference would such a male death have from the death of many horses, donkeys, dogs in the world? Many horses, donkeys and dogs were being born, living, dying. But because they all did not possess a great and social life, they were forgotten with their death. Who knows how many horses, donkeys, dogs had passed from the world and left no name in history. But were heroes like that? The praise of a hero from four thousand years ago was being read today.
Primo was thinking these things, closing his eyes, and clinging more tightly to his beloved Mauser revolver. He slept, he had many dreams. Hazy and mysterious dreams… He was passing through wide valleys covered in red and hot blood, through battlefields filled with millions of enemy corpses… He was spurring a white horse on steep cliffs… Then nights… From the East, from the Turan side, a crescent was rising into the blue sky. Inside it there was a tiny star… Primo was looking with wonder… A wetness at his feet… He was bending down; and he saw that he was up to his knees in blood… This was the blood of the enemies of Turks… It had become a huge lake… A red and endless lake… The reflection of the moon and star in the sky was reflecting on it… Ah, the living version of our flag, our true flag, the embodied meaning of our sacred flag…
Ömer Seyfettin
