He suddenly saw the foundations of the castles he had built in Spain being dug up. A great benefit was waiting for him… He became a bit philosophical, a bit scholarly. The socialist theories to which he had wholly devoted his soul during hungry and miserable days in Italy returned to his judgment.
One day he said to his daughter: “Do you think this Kenan is a Turk?”
Grazia had answered with emotion, “Never, never! Kenan is never a Turk. And can never be a Turk…”
Then they conversed at great length. Monsieur Vitalis spoke to his daughter about history, the science of ethnography. The Turks who conquered the Byzantine Empire were only a handful… The population of Rumelia and Anatolia seen today were all Greeks. But their religion had been forcibly changed. Yes, Kenan too was a Greek child. After Turkiye was divided by the Europeans, undoubtedly the seventeen million Greeks living under the name of Turk in Rumelia and Anatolia would return to their old religion and become Christians… Monsieur Vitalis was explaining this way, adding that there was no Turkish family in all of Turkiye except the sultan’s family, and that even the knowledgeable Turks who understood this admitted it. Grazia was amazed and delighted. Kenan was invited again. These conversations were opened in his presence. Forgetting the millions of Turks who gained fame with their histories, works, traditions, and heroism, who began to rush to the West in the Abbasid era, the Karamanids, Seljuks, Ak Koyunlu, Kara Koyunlu, denying the existence of the brave Turks who crossed to Rumelia, to the Vardar Valley, a few years before the emergence of the Ottoman dynasty, he too confirmed that there were no Turks at all in Turkiye.
After the father and daughter accepted Kenan as a Greek in their imaginations, they did not see the marriage as so impossible. Monsieur Vitalis had learned that an inheritance of fifteen thousand liras had been left to Kenan from his father who had died two years ago. This was a considerable amount of money, especially in Turkiye… Then when the Eastern Question was resolved, that is, when Turkiye was divided piece by piece by the Europeans, such competent men as Kenan, intellectuals educated in Europe, familiar with the spirit of the natives, would occupy the greatest positions. Yes, Grazia’s fortune was good… Monsieur Vitalis appeared favorable to the marriage. But he had a few insignificant conditions: before the marriage, Kenan would sell his properties, give five thousand liras to his daughter, would never have relations or intimacy with his fanatical relatives who had remained loyal to Turkish customs, the children to be born would receive Italian education and become Italian… Grazia would be free in every respect… Five thousand liras would also be given to him, like a loan, to be used in some of his ventures!… Kenan had immediately gone to Istanbul, sold what was to be sold, and married Grazia accepting all the conditions. Within two years they had two boys, one after another. He was very happy. Following the Italian custom, they called their children by number: “Primo! Sekundo!” they would say. Sekundo had fallen ill two years ago and died. Now they were left only with Primo… Monsieur Vitalis, suspecting that things would not go well in Turkiye after the declaration of the Constitutional Government, had gone to Italy where he had come penniless with thousands of liras. He had bought a farm there and retired from business. He was sending a postcard every week and a long letter every month to his daughter and son-in-law…
What would he write about this aggression, how would he praise the victory of his Italian homeland, the heroism of the Italian soldier? Kenan wrinkled his face as if wounded in a place he didn’t know. He couldn’t sleep…
Now wouldn’t his father call Grazia and him to Italy? What would he do?… Would he go?… No… Then what?…
Would Grazia agree to change her nationality? They had children. And look, for nearly ten years they had loved each other so much… Cold sweat was flowing from his temples. He took out his handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his face. He ran his fingers through his hair. When he opened his eyes, he saw from the window that outside was becoming light. Morning was coming. For the first time in his life, he was spending an entire night sleepless. He got up. He stretched. His head felt numb from pain. He approached the window. He looked at the street. On the balcony of the second floor of the opposite building, an elderly woman was hanging some covers, and on the wharf a dark navy blue sea stretched away under a dark navy blue sky. In the street, a few Jews were talking as if arguing, creating the noise of twenty or thirty people. He turned. He lay down on the bed again. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t sleep, saying to himself “What shall I do? What shall I do?” unable to make any decision, writhing from suffering and torment…
Men and women, all were wearing hats. In this great moving and public dwelling where if a needle were dropped it wouldn’t fall to the ground, there were only three fez wearers including himself. The other two fez wearers were the man who operated the tram and the ticket collector.
While the tram was moving, he was now watching outside to avoid seeing this conscience-crushing scene of defeat and ruin. He had approached his mansion, and after a while he paid attention again. As if by fate, not a single fez wearer was passing by. All hats, hats, hats… He wanted to console himself, not to abandon himself completely to despair and hopelessness.
“Strange coincidence?” he said. “It’s very strange that not a single fez wearer passed by on such a long road…”
His small, elegant mansion was silent as if dead. All its shutters were closed. He passed through the garden. He climbed the stone stairs, pressed the bell, the maid came, opened the door, he asked with nervous haste: “Where is Madam?”
“She had a carriage brought this morning. She went out.”
“Primo?”
“He went with Madam too.”
“Didn’t Madam say anything?”
“No…”
He went inside. Two travel trunks had been prepared. So Grazia was thinking of traveling. He was looking at the walls, curtains, furniture, objects as if seeing this place for the first time, amazed. In all this environment, there was not even a shadow, a line belonging to Turkish life, the Turkish spirit… Suddenly he remembered his childhood home in Bursa; there were divans that were clean, comfortable, and covered with white. The rooms were very clean and full of carpets. In a gilded cage hanging from the domed and decorated ceiling, a canary always sang, and the old cuckoo clock made of walnut at the head of the stairs would cut off its noise by shouting out the Turkish hours. His father’s room came before his eyes. They also called this the selamlık. This spacious room, furnished with low couches and thick carpets, was a bit dark with its heavy cherry-colored curtains. On the walls hung curved swords inlaid with gold, daggers, pistols. In fact, one day his father had taken down one of these swords, removed it from its sheath and shown him some black stains, asking, “What are these? Do you know?” Not understanding what they were, he had answered, “They’re very dirty, let’s have them cleaned…” He seemed to still hear it; his father had smiled then and stroking his tiny back with his big hand had said, “No, my son, no, these are not dirt… These are enemy blood… This sword was left to us from our grandfathers. Both my father and I went to war with it. This sword saw seven battles. The enemy blood on it is its greatest value, it cannot be cleaned…”
Then one day when he was alone, he had the maid take down the other daggers and swords of various sizes, and he had looked at them after removing them from their sheaths. All of them, all of them were bloody. And this blood was enemy blood… Again in this room, above the main couch, there was a large inscription decorated with silk and embroidered borders. These lines, written in red and fine flowers on two columns, he would always read, even memorize. This was a harsh and clean ode, as if made of gold and steel. It gave advice on courage, emanating from a brave Turkish soul, recommending chastity, honor, steadfastness, self-sufficiency. Some verses were coming to his mind:
Don’t cross the bridge of the dishonorable, let the water take you! * Don’t fear the enemy, even if he is fire, he cannot burn you! * Be upright, God Almighty will not shame you!
The last verse would repeat like a refrain. How young his father looked. The guests who came, the aghas, also resembled him. This inscription was supposedly the translation of their hearts, their morals… The harem side was also waving in his imagination, he was seeing his mother with a green-covered head, and his sacred sister who always looked at the ground, carrying a pink scarf on her shoulder like a halo. Now how far he was from these venerable beings, from his own origin, his foundations… While he was studying, his father and mother had died. His sister, who went to his uncle’s place, had married a local bey there. He himself had not gone to Bursa for ten years, had not seen his relatives, had even sold his properties through a proxy he had sent from Istanbul…
He was waking from his reverie, looking around. On the walls were pictures related to myths, ancient Roman and Greek landscapes. On the coat rack hung the wide straw hat that Primo wore when going to school, on the central round table lay copies of Progres and Journal de Salonique newspapers. He wanted to escape from here. But which room would he go to? If he went upstairs, he would encounter the large pictures of Monsieur Vitalis and Madame Vitalis. He entered the salon. He opened a window, pushed the shutter. Light filled the interior. Oh… Involuntarily he cast his eyes on the walls. The pictures of Garibaldi and Victor Emmanuel were looking at him like two comfortable and victorious rulers. On the other opposite surfaces hung oil paintings of the Vatican and Naples. And this house was his… He was thinking, thinking, and the more he thought, the more he understood the baseness, misery, meanness, and lack of ideals of his existence that he had become aware of for two days; he felt bitter mourning for the nationality he had lost, the nation he had forgotten, the foundations whose value he could not appreciate, saying, “Ah, how wretched I am!”
This half hour that passed in these pangs of conscience seemed like a day to him. When the doorbell rang, his whole body trembled. Here Grazia was coming. The tips of his fingers grew cold. His neck remained in heat. His head itched. He felt unbearable suffering. “I wish I had written my thoughts in a letter!” he thought. But now there was no time. Grazia was taking off her hat outside and asking the maid about him. Now she would open the door and come in… What would he do? What would he say? How would he speak, how would he explain to her the decision he had made this morning? This torment of hesitation did not last long. Grazia entered through the door. With a pale smile she said, “Bonjour, my friend, why are you sitting here?” Her face had turned pale and her beautiful nose seemed to have grown a bit larger and longer. She had a thin brown coat on her back. She was trying to remove the glove from her left hand. Kenan gave an unconscious answer: “Nothing…”
“Why didn’t you come last night?”
“I had business.”
“Where were you?”
“At the hotel!”
“Oh, how worried I was.”
And sitting beside him, she recounted the sufferings of her worry. She had placed one arm on Kenan’s shoulder as in moments of love and pleasure. At the end of sentences, with this arm she would touch his head, make a slight shake, as if thus subduing and hypnotizing her interlocutor, appropriating his being. Kenan was seeing that he was still at the bottom of the pit of captivity into which he had rolled for ten years and that it was very difficult to get out of here. This pleasant dark-eyed woman whom he thought he loved, in reality, with her essence, her foundations, her nationality, was so foreign, so distant to him. And even an enemy… She was talking about the war that had been declared. Kenan was listening and not disturbing his calm. Grazia had spoken with the interpreter this morning. She had learned news that no one knew, that the newspapers had not written. Foreign political officials knew everything. Only the Turks had no knowledge of anything. The interpreter had said as a secret; the most important points of the Eastern Question would be resolved within this year. England, Germany, France, in short, all Europeans had completely agreed with each other. Morocco was becoming France’s, while Germany was being given another colony from Africa, it was being left free in Anatolia, England was advising Italy to quickly capture Tripoli. While Tripoli became Italy’s, Persia would also be divided by Russia and England. A few months later, bombs would start exploding everywhere in Rumelia; Crete would be given to Greece, autonomy would be given to Albania, Macedonia, Syria, Arabia, the sultanate would be taken under the protection of Europeans and an “international administration” would be established in Turkiye… This was Europe’s program! Grazia was explaining these in detail and quickly, repeating the interpreter’s fears: Now the government was in the hands of the Young Turks. And these young men were skilled in the art of exciting the public, creating a harsh and common spirit. If the government was in their hands at the time when the resolution of the Eastern Question was attempted, great disasters would certainly appear. Because they would unite with the old Turks and would attempt to fight in Rumelia and Anatolia. Many massacres had to be anticipated. Within a week or two, with the excitement of Tripoli’s capture, the deputies would overthrow the government. All consuls were sure that the new cabinet would consist of deputies with European ideas, educated in Europe, supporters of decentralization, that is, autonomy, who wanted true freedom, that is, European protection, free from national fanaticism, and opposition and competent. This cabinet would recognize Italy’s right and sovereignty in Tripoli without getting soldiers killed, would not upset the great powers and Greece with meaningless and dangerous insistence on Crete, would give the autonomy they wanted to Albania, Macedonia, Syria, would have its “territorial integrity” certified one last time by delivering its finances to Europeans, in short, would end the Eastern Question with responsible politics without bloodshed… All ports would be opened. Mesopotamia would be operated, all of Europe’s great capital would rush in, railways would be built everywhere, these places would become countries of trade and wealth like Egypt, Turkiye too would finally give up spending all its revenues on its savage army and navy and would take the path of true progress. Then neither fanaticism nor ignorance would remain. European civilization would triumph, millions of harsh and warlike semi-savages would become obedient and soft workers. But the interpreter was afraid… He was afraid that the government would remain in the hands of the Young Turks! These were very arrogant, ignorant, and chauvinistic. They did not love Europeans at all. They did not shy away from revolution, bloodshed, useless defense and stubbornness. They were barbarously brave. In fact, within twelve hours they had attempted to expel the Italians from Turkiye, and had shown the recklessness of harming Italian trade by declaring a boycott…
Grazia was explaining at length with the detailed eloquence peculiar to coquettish and exciting women, Kenan was listening without interruption, standing motionless as if dead. The interpreter had also said that it would be very appropriate to leave Salonica for two or three months. Istanbul was very safe. They should go to Italy or a foreign country… Grazia had even prepared their passports. She asked: “When shall we depart, Kenan? Tomorrow?…”
“Where to?”
“To Egypt, Istanbul, or Italy…”
Kenan did not answer. That deep and discerning silence, that brave composure that always comes to us after great and shocking excitements, great sorrows, great discouragements, had suddenly changed and deepened his temperament. How had he lived until now with this foreign woman who was the enemy of his race, with a Westerner who found the capture and bankruptcy of his homeland pleasant and agreeable? He was amazed. Grazia added.
“You’re looking at my face so strangely… And I had forgotten to mention, I also received a telegram from father yesterday. He’s writing that we must leave Salonica.”
Kenan turned his head and looking out the window said, “I’m not going anywhere from here!” Grazia couldn’t believe it.
“What, will you stay in Salonica?”
“Of course…”
“What about me?”
“You too…”
At that moment Primo came in. He was walking slowly. He was thoughtful and pale. His eyes seemed to look into the distance, having shrunk and deepened. His mother found the argument inappropriate in his presence. With an angry and harsh manner she said, “Come on, out you go, Primo, we’re talking about something private…”
The child did not object. He went out without saying anything to his pale father and his mother whose lips were trembling, who was removing her gloves with her fingers. Yes, it would be like this. Didn’t Primo know as if?… He began to think about yesterday. He had not gone to school. In the morning, he was trying to fish from the wharf with the Greek children he had met in İttihat Garden. He saw Orhan, one of his school friends, in front of the summer theater. He was reading a newspaper, beside him was a slightly older Turkish boy. He had called him. This was the son of a Turkish pasha. In school he ruled over all his friends, was never afraid of the freres. Why was he calling him? He went to him. Orhan took his hand and asked: “Isn’t your father a Turk?”
Primo blushed: “Why are you asking?”
“I’m asking, why are you denying it? Isn’t your father a Turkish engineer?”
“Yes…”
“Then you’re a Turk too!…”
Primo didn’t know Turkish. Orhan was speaking in French. He translated the Young Turks’ manifesto in his hand to him. He explained that Turks and Italians were now fighting. As he explained, he was getting excited; Turks were the bravest, noblest, strongest nation in the world. They were the lineage of kings, sovereigns, khans, beys, emirs… For centuries they had dominated all of Asia, Attila had crushed Europe, made it howl like a dog. Turks had opened the roads of civilization, carried heroism, pure blood, clean morals, innovation and purity everywhere. Genghis had established the world’s greatest government, a small part that separated from this great Genghis lineage had destroyed Eastern Rome, the Byzantine Empire, captured Anatolia, united the scattered Turks there, and had gone as far as Vienna. A few centuries ago, this lineage that educated Europe, these Ottoman Turks, were now being attacked all at once by all Europeans, they were trying to destroy them, but they could not succeed. Now all of them wanted to expel them from their colonies in Africa. But they would not be able to. They would understand again how powerful the Turks were, what an invincible force they were, and would begin to think. With the encouragement of all of Europe, Italy had stepped forward. It had many ironclads!…
Orhan was saying, “Ah, if only we had them too…” but saying that they couldn’t do anything on land, that the sea would be a grave for the Italians coming from within, the old naval battles of the Turks, how they once made the Mediterranean a Turkish lake, he was narrating at great length the things he had heard from his great grandfather, from his lieutenant brother, magnifying them childishly, exaggerating them. Primo was delighted and listening. At that moment he felt deep pride that his own father was also a Turk… The Greek children on the wharf were jealous that he was talking for hours with a Turkish child. They called. He paid no attention. They called again. They were calling again. Orhan said, “Oh these flies! They can’t do anything, they only know how to harass.”
And he added: “They won’t leave us alone; come on, let’s go outside, we’ll come back in later.”
Primo did not object at all. He was enjoying being with Orhan so much… Among his non-Turkish friends, there was no one as handsome and lovable, especially as strong as him. His black hair under his red fez, his dark complexion, his red cheeks, his bright eyes that always looked forward and from above, his brave manner standing upright and nimble as if about to attack something, gave him the air of a small and irresistible hero.
They left the garden. Ahead, in front of the Committee of Union and Progress Club, they saw a terrible crowd. Primo estimated this crowd at four or five hundred thousand people. Orhan stopped. He looked.
“There seems to be something, let’s go there!” he said. Primo was hesitating. Orhan gave him courage.
“Don’t be afraid, you’re a Turk! Turks never, at any time, anywhere, fear anything…”
“But I have a hat on my head!”
“No harm!”
“There’s a ribbon of Italian colors on the edge, look…”
Orhan found a solution for this too. They left Primo’s hat with the tobacco seller in the garden for half an hour. Just as they were heading toward the club, this crowd surged, mixed, in their midst a red flag swaying on a long pole, a white crescent and star appeared. They were coming toward the garden. They watched this magnificent arrival without breathing. As they passed before them, they too followed. Primo paid attention. There were many children. They were holding torn flag pieces in their hands. But there was no one without a fez and bareheaded except himself. They began to walk on İttihat Boulevard. They stopped in front of a building on the left side. Primo immediately recognized it. He had come here a few times with his mother. This was the Italian Consulate. A man climbed above the door. He took down the Italian coat of arms. Those waiting below attacked and tore it apart with their feet. They were breaking the large flag pole with an axe. A man in black clothes, with yellow mustache, with a small fez climbed onto the railing fence next to the door. Clenching his fists, he was saying something, the whole crowd was answering him with applause. Finally he shouted something at the top of his voice. The listeners were responding by shouting and shouting with some words he couldn’t understand. He was curious. What was being said? He asked quietly: “What is he saying?”
Orhan translated into French: “He says that dishonorable, base, pirate Italians, while we had no knowledge, while our relations with them were good, while they were our friends, suddenly attacked our homeland. They killed the unarmed men, old people, women, girls, children there with cannon balls. Citizens! They trust in their great and powerful ironclads. But if they have ironclads, we also have a sacred right. And this is stronger than their ironclads!”
Then a telegram was read. Orhan translated it too. In Tripoli, two warships of the Italians had crashed into rocks and sank. Later, these demonstrators had withdrawn upward. Behind them, little children had attached a rope to the broken and crushed Italian coat of arms, were dragging it and spitting on it…
…Primo was thinking about these things at the doorway, his hands in the small pockets of his short trousers, his large hazel eyes fixed on the ground, passing yesterday’s memory through his imagination point by point, and feeling his chest swell. This morning too, when his mother was talking with the interpreter, she had sent him out.
Now when talking with his father, she had driven him away… Why was she driving him away? Was he one of those dirty flies that knew nothing but harassment? No, he was not a dirty fly: he was one of those brave and courageous Turks who conquered Europe and Asia, whom Orhan had described… Always dominant, a Turk belonging to this lineage of kings, beys, khans, emirs could never be driven away! How had his mother dared to do this? Didn’t she know that he was a Turk? Blood was rushing to his face, his hands were trembling. He wanted to go in and ask his mother why he was being driven away. He turned to the door. But he stopped. Inside they were talking violently and excitedly. It would almost seem like a fight! He looked through the keyhole. He felt the need to listen carefully, to hear what they were talking about. But wasn’t this immorality?… But in such important moments, was there such thing as immorality?… He put his ear to the keyhole. Now he was hearing as if he were inside the room. His mother was saying in her thin and trembling voice from angry times, “I cannot stay here! You want them to kill me too when the old Turks, savage fanatics, spread into the streets with yataghans. To tear me to pieces! When the fleet of the great powers bombards Salonica tomorrow, let us be crushed under the cannon balls!”
His father’s voice was coming out very harsh: “These are all imagination, all delusion! Turks don’t raise their hands to women. Europe’s fleet can’t come here either. And if you stay, you won’t be Italian anymore…”
“Then what will I be?”
“Turkish…”
“Me Turkish?”
“Yes, you…”
“Impossible. I’d rather die than become a Turk. I won’t accept savagery.”
“Turks are not savage. The ones who are truly savage, thieves and pirates are the Italians.”
“No, it’s the Turks!…”
His father’s voice began to thunder like lightning: “Shut up! I’m saying… Here’s my proposal to you: If you leave here and remain Italian, know that there is no longer any relationship between us. If you want to live with me, not to break up our home, you will become completely Turkish! You will forget your father, your country, your customs, your friends! Your name will change! You will wear a çarşaf, learn Turkish, not speak a word of Italian… If it suits you, agree. If not, you’re free! You can go wherever you want today. I’ll divorce you. We’ll part never to see each other again!”
His mother’s voice was softening: “Oh Kenan, how can you suddenly forget our ten years of life? What were our conditions when we got married? You were completely a European. Why did you suddenly change like this? Did you become savage? Ah Madam Rapizardi… Where are you now? You always told me about these days…”
“What did she say?”
“When we got engaged, she tried so hard to prevent it; ‘These are wolves hidden in sheep’s clothing. It’s hard to believe. No matter how much they study in Europe, no matter how much education they receive, one day they’ll still show their teeth and tear people apart,’ she would say. I didn’t listen. Ah, I didn’t listen. I believed you. I could never have imagined that you would become so savage; that you would insult the civilized, the Westerners, that you would attempt to make me Turkish, to imprison me in çarşafs, to animalize me. Ah Kenan, you were so gentle and civilized…”
“I want a short answer! Either yes or no… I’m not forcing you. I’m saying you’re free! But if you remain Italian and Western, I’m saying clearly that I cannot live with you from now on…”
His mother didn’t answer. A minute as long as a hundred years passed. Primo turned his head. He looked through the keyhole. He could see the middle table and part of the flower vase on it. When his mother started to speak, he put his ear to the hole again.
“Since it’s like that… Here’s my answer; no… If you don’t think about the ten years we spent together, my loyalty, I won’t think about them at all. I’ll go to my father’s place… I’ll become a nun and stay there. But…”
“Hey, but what?”
Primo’s heart began to beat violently: “I’ll take my child with me too, I won’t leave him here…”
“Primo is not only your child! Whatever right you have in him, I also have as much, perhaps more right. But I don’t want to compete with you. We’ll call our child, we’ll ask. He’ll belong to whoever he chooses. Either he stays with me and becomes Turkish; or he goes to Italy with you. There he’ll either become a priest or a pirate…”
Either become a priest or a pirate… Primo would never become Italian. Since his father was Turkish! He was Turkish too… He pulled back. He held his forehead with his hand. If his mother didn’t deign to become Turkish, did he deign to become Italian? He thrust his chest forward as if exercising in the gymnasium. He put his hands on his hips. He shook his head. He frowned. He pushed out his lips. He felt that an unknown and irresistible force wanted to overflow in his arms, that it couldn’t fit in his heart. He began to walk in front of the salon door with firm steps. He knew what he would say and do! Wasn’t he a Turk, that is, a hero? He would show it…
Suddenly he heard his mother shout: “Primo, come here…”
He walked toward the door. He clenched his fists to be sure of his strength. And again as if exercising, he extended his arms forward. Yes, he was very strong. He opened the door. His mother was standing by the table. His father hadn’t moved at all in the armchair where he sat. Both their faces were pale. His mother wanted to hug him. Primo refused with terrible seriousness: “Slow down…”
He had raised his hand like a little tragedy actor. Grazia froze like ice in the face of this commanding movement of her suddenly changed child. It was as if her breath was cut off. Primo sat in the armchair next to his father with the manner of a great man. He rested his head on his hand. And in a very strange accent, in French, he said, “What is it? Why did you call me?” He wasn’t speaking Italian. Grazia’s jaw had locked. Was this a nightmare? Had Primo perhaps received instruction beforehand? She looked at her husband. He too was perplexed. Primo’s strange state had also surprised him.
Kenan dared to break the silence that grew heavier as it lengthened. Looking ahead, he said, “My child, you know, there’s a war now. Your mother and I are completely separating. Do you want to stay here with me and become Turkish? Or do you want to go to Italy with your mother and become Italian?”
Primo jumped violently from where he sat. Grazia and Kenan looked at each other to see what he was doing. With his hands on his hips, with the manner of tragedy and excitement, he scrutinized now his mother, now his father, and shouted in very broken Turkish, “Me… Turko child… Me, no Italy no… Me here… Me child Turk…”
Grazia had collapsed into the chair by the table from amazement and grief. Kenan couldn’t believe his eyes, his ears. Then Primo, with a quick movement, grabbed the wicker chair from the side. He jumped onto the couch. With the nervous strength of his thin arms that could never be guessed, he lifted this chair and struck Victor Emmanuel’s picture violently.
The frame was shattered and glass scattered everywhere with a crash… Grazia had shrunk and cowered as if a cannonball had exploded and she was hiding her head to take cover. Primo jumped to the other couch. He brought down the same chair blow on Garibaldi’s head. Glass was falling to every corner of the room. Kenan was astonished. He rose with joyful and unconscious emotion. He embraced this Turkish child who was looking at him from the couch, from heights, from very high heights. He pressed him to his chest like a tiny deity. He kissed his forehead, kissed, then looked at his face. In the infinite depths of these hazel eyes, he was seeing that what he had until now considered a raw dream, a baseless mirage, was a great and sublime truth; he understood that this magnificent and solid truth, lost through the heedless succession of generations, poisoned by the East’s ominous spiritual opium, the great Turkish spirit, was being born again in the new generation, in the new life. Look how much he himself had changed in two days. And didn’t great aggressions, great disasters always mark the beginning of great revolutions? Thinking this, he was kissing again and again his little deity whom he held in his arms and who was still saying “Me Turko, me Turko… Me no Italiano…” realizing and declaring his existence, kissing him, and Grazia was sobbing like a cowardly and feminine symbol of the weak, sick and sluggish West that would be crushed under the certain victory of the victorious, young, strong and awakened Turan…
Ömer Seyfettin
