In Europe

train on the way home I read in the
Wiener Zeitung
about the trial of the forty-nine-year-old Franz Fuchs, who carried out a one-man terror and bombing campaign for four years. Four Gypsy children were killed in one of his attacks. In the courtroom, all he did was shout slogans:
    Up with the German folk! Foreign blood, no thank you! Minority privileges, no thank you! Squandering our
Lebensraum
on foreignpeoples, no thank you! International Socialism, no thank you! Counter-German racism, no thank you! Zionistic anti-Teutonism, no thank you!
    It is Wednesday, 3 February, 1999.



Chapter SIX
Vienna
    THE DAYS AT HIS PARENTS’ HOUSE WERE FILLED WITH THE MURMUR of the waves, birds were always singing in the gardens. Irfan Orga lived in Constantinople, which would later be called Istanbul. He was five, the son of a wealthy carpet merchant. He lived behind the Blue Mosque, the house looked over the Sea of Marmara.
    Later, Irfan committed his memories to paper, and in them he describes the bedroom as he awoke, full of marine light, the morning kiss from his beaming mother, the games of ‘lion’ in his grandfather's big, soft bed, and later their walk together to the coffee house. There comes a day when his grandfather suddenly begins to stagger, together they limp home, the doctor arrives, there is excitement, sorrow, he is allowed to see his grandfather for a moment, and for the rest Irfan remembers mostly the wait in the sunny garden and the cooing of a wood pigeon.
    That was in spring 1914. The Orga family spent their last summer together with Uncle Ahmet and Aunt Aysşe at the beach resort of Sariyer, in a house on the Bosphorus. Uncle Ahmet swam in the sea each morning, and in the cool of the evening he taught Irfan how to fish. ‘One time I saw a school of dolphins, and watched breathlessly as they jumped through the air.’ As they rowed home, Irfan's uncle told him stories. Aunt Aysşe and his mother drank coffee under the magnolia. ‘They looked so flowery and elegant, sitting there on their chaises longues, chattering like sparrows while the sun washed their brightly coloured silk dresses back to pastel.’ Later, lying in bed, Irfan could hear the adults talking quietly on the veranda.
    Halfway through that summer he noticed the tone change. One evening the conversation was grimmer, the adults laughed less. Irfan heard hisfather say something about ‘war’ in Europe, and that he and Uncle Ahmet would have to ‘go’, and that he therefore wanted to sell his house and the business as soon as possible. ‘I listened sleepily to what they were saying, and heard that strange, new word ‘war’ pop up again and again. That word seemed lately to rule everyone's thoughts, and resurfaced at regular intervals when the men were together. My father said:“The German officers aren't training the Turkish Army for their dark eyes.” To which my uncle replied: “But if we enter this new war, we're done for as a nation.”’
    On the surface, it remained a holiday like all the others. Irfan's father relaxed in the garden, the children grew browner with each passing day, the ladies went for short rides and paid a few visits. They were happy days, and they were quickly over.
    When they took the ferry back to Constantinople, the ship passed the garden with the magnolia tree one last time, the garden of the swimming parties and the stories. ‘We waved bravely to my uncle and aunt, but none of us knew that we were saying farewell to a life that was going to disappear from the face of the earth.’
    After the summer holidays, Irfan started at a new school. He overheard another sentence: ‘The situation is serious.’ The family business was sold. Everyone began squirrelling away goods. Shops closed, prices rose. Women were almost the only ones who ventured out onto the street. That fall, the Orgas moved to a smaller house.
    Not long after, one evening in November, they heard the sound of drumbeats approaching. The family went to the door. Irfan's father put his arm around his shoulder, the boy leaned against him. Then a man appeared from around the corner, beating a big bass drum: ‘All men born between 1880–5 are to report to the recruitment centre within forty-eight hours.’
    The next day there was no bread to be had. Uncle Ahmet had been born in 1885. He came to say goodbye, and drank his coffee in silence. Then Irfan's mother began sewing a crude white duffel bag, with careful little stitches. A few weeks later,