Portrait of a Turkish Family by Irfan Orga Page B

placatory smiles.
    Life was full of resentments for me just then. I was very hurt and puzzled by my parents’ attitude towards the kissing of Yasemin and angry that nobody would give any reasonable explanation as to why I should not kiss her. I became suddenly troublesome at home and at school, being surly with my teachers, who promptly reported this behaviour to my father. One other night I refused to eat my dinner, demanding that İnci should serve me with the sweet course first. When she refused, I bit her hand and, knowing that trouble would arise from this behaviour, added insult to injury and pinched her hard. She howled with pain and rushed to tell my mother. My father was very angry. He beat me with a stick then sent me to my room without anything to eat. In my room I angrily kicked all the furniture, hoping thereby to damage it. I tentatively used some of the swear words I had picked up from the other boys at school, half expecting that the house would fall on me with the wrath of God. When nothing happened, I used the words more freely, shouting them aloud to the empty room and, to make matters worse, I could see Yasemin and Nuri playing in their garden, uncaring of my misery.
    I was so hungry I wanted to cry. After Mehmet and İnci slept, I debated with myself whether I dare go downstairs and raid the larder. Before I could summon enough courage however my grandmother crept stealthily into my room with a slice of bread and white cheese and a glass of milk. I ate ravenously and she whispered that she had been unable to bear the thought of my hunger, but that I was not to tell my mother that she had given me anything. I promised fervently and soon went to sleep.
    I had been at the French school a little over two months, when one morning upon arrival all the pupils were told to go into the music-room, instead of their classrooms. 
    We were very curious, especially as all the teachers were also gathered there, and wondered if we had done something awful. Presently the Director of the school arrived, going to the dais and looking sternly down at us. At least we thought he looked stern.
    We said: ‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Directeur,’ and he replied in kind.
    Then he spoke in Turkish, which was very unusual, but he wanted to make sure we all understood him. He said: ‘My children, this country is at war. This is a French school and my country and your country are now enemies. This school will be closed indefinitely. You may all go home now and God bless you.’
    His voice cracked and his little goatee quivered mournfully. And that day too my father told my mother that a pact had been signed between Turkey and Germany and our country was now in the war.
    Thus ended an era for us, quietly and soberly and with no indication that these times would never come back again.
    About this time I became acquainted with Bekçi Baba. There is still a Bekçi Baba in Turkey, but the ‘Baba’ has been dropped and his duties are less onerous than they were in the old days.
    Every Bekçi Baba is attached to a police-station, and thirty-five years ago many and varied were his tasks. During the day he would bring vats of drinking-water to the houses and during the night he became our guardian and our watchman.
    He used to carry a large, thick stick, the bottom of which was bound with an iron rim. This was very useful when he wanted to beat a miscreant, or knock him unconscious until the police arrived. It was also Bekçi Baba’s duty to beat the drums during Ramazan, or any other religious Bayram. He had to announce important tidings or give warning if there was a fire in any part of İstanbul. This latter warning was the signal for all the young men in the district to leap from their beds, hastily collect the one and only pump allotted to each street and rush madly and with wild cheers to the scene of the fire.
    I had never seen Bekçi Baba, for during the day, when he called with the water, I was never allowed into the kitchen, and at