It took some time to pacify Djimlah, who managed to convey between her sobs that I, her own baby, “her own flesh and blood,” as she put it, was no longer coming to see her, because she was a Turkish child and because Constantinople had been burned.
The old hanoum sent the younger women out of the room, put Djimlah on the hard sofa by the window and wrapped her in a shawl. Then she came to me, tucked me in a blanket, and carried me near to Djimlah. After that she fetched two enormous Turkish delights with nuts in them, and two glasses of water.
“Both of you, eat and drink.”
When this operation was over, she said quietly: “Now tell me all about it.”
As well as I could I told her of what Djimlah had said, and of my feelings on the subject.
“I don’t want to be equal with her before God,” I protested. “It isn’t right; for she is a Turk, and I am a Greek.”
“Well, my sweet yavroum, you are all mixed up about just where you stand before God. At present you stand nowhere, because you are only babies. As you grow older your place will be determined by your usefulness in the world, your kindness and gentleness, by the way you treat your husband’s mother and his other wives, and how healthy and well brought up his children are. As to your being a Greek and Djimlah a Turk, that is only geography,” she explained vaguely. “When we shall die and go to God, we shall be that which we have made of ourselves.”
“She says that we are wicked and brutal, and burned Constantinople, and killed the people,” Djimlah moaned.
“That was because Allah willed it. Nothing happens without the will of Allah, and his word must be carried by the sword. We like you and love you, and could no more harm you than we could harm Djimlah.” She leaned over and took me on her lap. “Now, yavroum, remember that Allah is father to you all, and he loves you equally well; and all you have to do is to love each other and be good and go to sleep, and that will please him.”
She kissed me, and drew Djimlah to us, and made us kiss each other.