Last Train to Istanbul Read Free

Ankara their lives were secure. No policeman or soldier was knocking on their door at some ungodly hour. There weren’t people around wearing yellow badges on their chests like branded asses. Branded asses! Whose words were those? Necla was the only one who would make such crude remarks. Suddenly Sabiha remembered: two weeks agoduring a bridge party, Necla, in one of her callous moods, had said, “The poor Jews have been made to wear yellow badges on their clothes, just like branded asses!”
    “What on earth are you saying?” Sabiha screamed. “How can you possibly compare people to asses? You call yourself a diplomat’s wife. I wonder if you can actually hear yourself!”
    Necla, almost in tears, had asked her friends, “What’s got into her? Why is she screaming at me like that?”
    “This war has got to all us girls,” their hostess had said, trying to defuse the situation. “These days the slightest spark causes an explosion. Come on, let’s get on with the game. Whose turn was it?”
    Sabiha now felt embarrassed remembering her outburst. She certainly was in a terrible mood. It was the same thing every day when she read the news in the papers. The Nazis storming over Europe…The fleeing emigrants…France…Ooooh! Sabiha reached out to touch one of the wisteria blooms on a wall, but just as she was about to pick it, she withdrew her hand. She couldn’t bring herself to snap off the flower. Suddenly she felt a lump in her throat, and as she turned toward the street, tears streamed down her face. As night descended she gasped for breath. The sad day would turn into yet another sad night.
    Macit was probably going to come home late. Hülya would have her endless whens, whys, and wheres throughout the meal. The nanny would sit across the table, undoubtedly talking about the war. Ankara, which was so full of happy memories, only represented sadness now. Not just sadness, but monotony, dreariness as well. Life was just gray!

    Macit opened the front door as quietly as possible; he didn’t want to disturb his wife if she was sleeping. He tiptoed into the bedroom,and could see by the pale, pink light of the bedside lamp that she was awake. She lay with her hair spread across the pillow, looking at her husband through puffy red eyes.
    “What’s wrong? Why have you been crying?” asked Macit.
    Sabiha sat bolt upright in bed. “I’m on edge. This letter arrived by the evening delivery; the postman left it on the doormat. I found it as I was taking out the garbage. Here, read it.”
    “Who’s it from? Your mother? Is your father ill again?”
    “It’s not from Istanbul, Macit. The letter is from Selva.”
    “Really?”
    “Macit, I am scared. We’ve got to do something. We
must
get her here. This cannot go on. Sooner or later, my mother will hear what’s happening in France, and I swear it will give her a heart attack.”
    Macit took the letter and tried to read it by the dim light.
    “Selva would never agree to come here, leaving Rafo behind,” he said. “Rafo wouldn’t agree to come back.”
    “But this can’t go on. Selva has got to consider our mother. I have asked the telephone exchange to connect me to her. God knows how long it will take. Maybe by the morning or sometime tomorrow…”
    “You’ve done what, Sabiha? How many times have I told you not to call Selva from the house?”
    “Well, I certainly couldn’t go to someone else’s house at this hour of the night. I have to speak to my sister; I have to persuade her before it is too late.”
    “I’m going to cancel the call,” said Macit, rushing to the telephone.
    “How can you do that? She’s my sister. Don’t you understand?”
    Macit returned to the room. “Sabiha, I am working for the foreign ministry, the Germans are at our borders, war is on our doorstep, and you are booking a call to a Jew in France. You’re asking for trouble!”
    “I’m fed up with your foreign ministry. I’m really fed up. I’m always imagining