Speaking of the Turks

by bey K. Ziya Mufti-zada

We arrived in Erenkeuy in the afternoon on one of those beautifully clear days-which make of the fall almost the most pleasant season of Constantinople. The air was mildly heated by an autumnal sun shining in a marvellously blue sky. The leaves of the plane trees surrounding the station had turned golden red and had become scarce on the branches. Even now some were volplaning to the earth on the wings of a gentle fall breeze. The square in front of the station, with its clean little shops—each a diminutive bazaar of its own—opened itself smilingly to us as we emerged from the train with our baggage. In the background we could see the little mosque where villagers were entering for their afternoon prayer.

We decided to walk to my aunt's house, which is not far from the station. Besides, it was prayer time and we should avoid arriving while the whole household was at prayer. We heaped our luggage in a carriage—a typically Asiatic conveyance with bright coloured curtains hanging from a wooden canopy and with seats char-a-banc fashion. It disappeared in a cloud of dust to the gallop of its sturdy little Anatolian horse. My wife was delighted, this was at last Turkey somewhat as she had imagined it to be. But what would happen to our bags if the coachman was not honest? Had I a receipt? Didn't the coachman give me a check? At least I had taken the number of the carriage, hadn't I? I reassured my wife: the coachman was not a Greek—he was not even a taxicab driver of one of the “civilized” western metropolises. He was a plain Turk, just an Anatolian peasant, and our luggage was as safe in his keeping as it would be in the strong box of a bank.

We leisurely followed the carriage through a little country road bordered by garden walls on both sides. High stone walls, white washed, protected the privacy of the gardens from the glances of passers-by. A big gate here, a half-opened door there would give us a glimpse of houses, small or large, surrounded with trees—elm trees, plane trees, fig trees, cedars and cypresses—whose dark branches enshrouded the houses in a mystery of falling leaves. The only house of which we could get a full view from the road was a little old house, with a slanting brick roof, an enclosed balcony hanging high in the air and supported by arched pillars, a cobbled courtyard where a few hens were picking their feed while a big brown dog, a relic of the old street dogs, was peacefully sleeping. It was at the corner of a street, its gate wide opened, and there was only one big old tree in the garden. The others must have died of old age, and the owner must have been too poor to replace them.

The road we followed was dusty and almost deserted, with deep furrows left by chariots, carts and carriages since the beginning of time. In winter the rain and the snow turned the soft, pinkish Anatolian soil into a greasy mud and every winter, ever since the days of the Janissaries, chariots, carts and carriages had passed on these roads, furrowing always deeper. One felt as if the clock of time had stopped here years ago. An acute sense of the living past permeated everything.

On our way my wife asked me to tell her something of my aunt's family. Our surroundings reminded me of old stories and I told her the story as told to us by my grandmother when we were tiny little boys. I used to love it as it opened before my mind vast visions of heroic ages. “Centuries ago,” I told my wife, “there lived a young man, almost a boy, in the faraway mountains of Anatolia, bordering the snow-covered peaks of the Caucasus. He was tall and handsome but did not marry because he had to support his old father and mother who were so old and so poor that they could only sit on their divans all day and pray the Almighty to call them back to him so that their boy might be left free of worries and responsibilities. But they were good parents and the boy was a good son. Therefore, the Almighty heard their prayer and freed their son of all worries, but not in the way the old people had prayed for. It so happened that the “Frank” kings of Hungary, Servia and Bulgaria declared war on our powerful Sultan and invaded his domains. To repulse the invaders our Sultan called all his brave subjects under arms. They flocked from all over to the standard of their emperor. The young boy from the Anatolian mountains near the Caucasus heard his sovereign's call and answered it immediately. But he was so far away that when he came to Adrianople, which was at that time the capital of the Sultan, he found that the armies had left many days before to meet the detested foes. He galloped post haste through the Balkans, days and nights without rest until he finally reached the plains of Kossovo. But, alas, what a sight met his gaze when he arrived there! The armies of the allied “Frank” kings had captured the standard of the Sultan, and the Turkish armies were in rout. Tooroondj—that was the name of our young hero—decided to recapture the standard of the Sultan and in the depths of the night when the “Frank” armies were asleep, he climbed the walls of their citadel, killed the sentry on watch, took the flag and returned to the Turkish camp. Next morning at dawn the Turkish soldiers, awakening and seeing the standard of the Sultan waving again on the imperial tent, were filled with renewed courage. The Sultan assembled them all and before all the Turkish armies he called Tooroond; to him. He gave the imperial flag to our hero and ordered him to lead a final charge against the enemies. Tooroond; was so brave that he planted victoriously the standard of his emperor on the citadel of the enemies. Thus, first through his bravery in recovering single-handed the standard, and second through the valour he showed in leading the charge Tooroondj won for the empire the first battle of Kossovo. In recognition of his services the Sultan made him Bey of his natal province. After the war Tooroond; returned to his principality and to his old father and mother, and took to himself a wife. His descendants have ruled there until feudality became gradually extinct. Then the main branch came to Constantinople where it has ever since served the empire in all branches of the government services. Now the last descendants of the main branch are here, in Erenkeuy, and we are entering through the gate of their house.”

A wrought-iron garden gate opened on a road bordered with trees. Right near the gate and on each side of the road were two little houses of seven or eight rooms each. These used to be the “Selamlik,” or quarters where my uncle received his men friends in the old days, entertained them or talked state matters with them. When business required it, or when the friends desired, they would stay a few days as his guests. The little houses were specially designed for this purpose, each of them having even its own kitchen. The service was made by a retinue of men servants alone and in the old days only men were to be seen in and around these two little houses, as around all “Selamliks.” They were a sort of private club at the time that Turkish ladies were not allowed to associate with the social or business activities of their men. But now that the barkers curtailing the activities of women have been torn down the two little houses were rented to two families. Some of the tenants were sitting on the verandas and looked at us with the curiosity that all people living in a quiet country place feel towards strangers.

We followed the road winding its way through old trees and shrubs and soon reached an inner wall covered with vines, separating the gardens of the “Harem” from those of the “Selamlik.” The road skirted this inner wall and took us to the back of the main house, or “harem” proper which in the old days was consecrated to the living quarters of the ladies and the private quarters of the family. It is a big building with its main entrance opening on the outer court, but with its façade turned toward the gardens of the harem, so that there is no communication with the old Selamlik other than this entrance. The door was ajar and opened as soon as we set foot on its steps.

My aunt, with her two sisters, their children and the servants had formed a semi-circle inside the entrance hall and were awaiting us, outwardly calm but with their eyes shining with restrained excitement. Turkish etiquette requires composure no matter how excited one is. Every one has to wait his turn and we greeted each other accordingly, starting by the eldest and going down the line according to age—kissing the hands of those older than us and having our hands kissed by those younger than us. This hand-kissing is a sign of respect which remains supreme in Turkey; no matter what their respective social position, when two Turks greet each other the younger one always at least makes a motion as if to kiss the hand of his elder. It is a quaint, graceful acknowledgment of the respect and allegiance due to old age.

With all the formality attached to it the reception extended by my aunts at our arrival was vibrating with sincerity and emotion. The dear, dear ladies were patting us and embracing us, their eyes full of tears, with little sighs of delight and whispered prayers of thanksgiving to the Almighty to have thus permitted our reunion under their roof. They took us to the sitting-room where we all sat in a circle, and a general conversation, in which my wife's Turkish had to be helped by my cousin or by myself, started around. My aunts do not speak English but this handicap of language did not prevent the establishment of ties of love and devotion between them and my wife. These bonds in fact developed in the course of time to such a degree that to-day they are as strong as the ties of blood uniting my aunts to me. They took to my wife immediately and wanted to know how she liked Constantinople. Wasn't she missing her country and her sisters? But now she had a new set of sisters and brothers. Their own children would surround her with love and try to make her feel less the absence of her sisters in America and they themselves were my wife's aunts. She had become one with me by her marriage and how would we enjoy staying with them in Erenkeuy? The life here was very quiet, a great change for people coming from America.

A few minutes later my uncle came to join the family circle. We all got up respectfully and stood until he sat in his favourite easy-chair. He greeted us with warm words of welcome, in his quiet, unostentatious way. Every one was conscious that the head of the family was now with us, although there was no strain whatsoever. Just a note of deference, that was all. Coffee was served. Then a maid brought us jam on a silver platter and each one took a spoonful, drinking some water immediately after. We exchanged news about the different members of the family and about our friends, talked of the past and of our future plans. At tea time we adjourned to the dining-room and had our tea Turkish fashion: weak, with lemon and plenty of sugar. No toast is served but instead bread and that wonderful white cheese which melts in the mouth. They explained to us that during the war they drank the boiled extract of roasted oats instead of tea or coffee.