Mahmut mulls over what he’s just said. He wants to believe this himself. Will there be such a day? Will it come? Will the day come when babies in the womb, mothers big with child, young girls, youths, Turks, Kurds won’t be killed, won’t destroy one another, when no one will be captured dead, be martyrs, when all can live without fear? This day will come, the instructor in the camp used to say. Not the female instructor but the older one known as the Doctor.
The female instructor used to explain things parrot fashion, as though reading from a book. She wanted her students to recite by rote, too, and would not allow questions. She used to itemize, like checking of a list, how mankind had arrived at the present day: how they had passed from primitive society to feudal society and from there to capitalist society and how things were moving towards communism. Somewhat bizarrely, while her students were being taught in an almost totally incomprehensible fashion about the transition to communism through working-class revolution, the syllabus seemed to change without warning, and the era of Eastern Bloc communism was swiftly glossed over. Those who enquired were told peremptorily that they were going to skip that subject for now, that the urgent question was the liberation of the Kurdish people and that they were going to learn about the people’s revolution.
The Doctor was different. He did not teach by rote. He conducted his lessons as though holding a conversation. A different world would be established one day. We will not see it, but our children will; if not them, then our grandchildren will. It would be a just, enlightened world where people would not oppress or tyrannize one another and where everyone would have food and work, where everyone would live their life without harming others, freely according to their own choice, their own will. Nature, animals and people will live in harmony. Humanity has been dreaming of this world for thousands of years. If there had not been the hope of such a world people would not have struggled for thousands of years. People only fight if there is the hope of a better world, a better life. If we lose this hope we cannot fight. If we lose our faith we surrender … He would say wonderful things like this. He would talk about life and hope, not about war, death and the organization. His students used to love listening to him, asking questions and receiving considered responses. Then he disappeared. He was too large for the mountains.
Mahmut shrugs off his memories and dreams and returns to the ward. ‘As long as there is no enmity in our hearts, as long as we don’t despise people,’ he concludes.
The bad-tempered woman scowls with the disappointment of not having found support from her son and his wife. The visitors shake their heads in agreement, as though to indicate it is to be hoped that things will get better. A nurse pokes her head round the door and reminds them that visiting hours are over. The son and daughter-in-law say goodbye to the patient and prepare to leave. As they pass in front of Zelal’s bed they wish her a speedy recovery from the bottom of their hearts. They ask whether she needs anything. No, thanks all the same — she does not need anything, thank God.
Today Mahmut does not feel like leaving Zelal there on her own. Crazy ideas pass through his mind. If I were to put her in a taxi and take her away, she would be able to walk as far as the door on my arm. She’s a tough girl; she wouldn’t even let out a peep. Hadn’t the doctors said she should take a few steps every day, walk around a bit? Would they look for her if we were leave now before they considered her ready to be discharged? Would they follow us? As if there are not enough people pursuing us! All we need are doctors as well! He thinks about the men waiting at the bus stand. He shudders. All right, I was suspicious for no reason, but my nerves are in shreds. I am wary of my own shadow. That’s certainly the case, but what if …? Without mulling it over, without thinking things out, he walks over to the woman in the other bed almost instinctively.
‘I’m entrusting Zelal to you, teyze,’ he says. ‘Please don’t take it personally if she’s sometimes rude or insolent. A lot of things have happened to her. It’s because she is shy, because she is afraid, that she puts out her prickles. She feels a stranger here, and when I go she is completely alone. Please look out for her. She’s just a young girl. She does not know this place — she does not know the city. Please help her. You have children of your own. There is love in your heart. Please take care of her for me.’
The woman had leant back against her pillows and was silent and unresponsive as though she had not heard what he said. It seems to Mahmut that she imperceptibly moved her head and said ‘All right’. He is not entirely sure, but he wants it to be so to ease his heavy heart.
Just as he is going out of the door he turns back. ‘I read somewhere that someone has written, “ People can reach other people.” What good are our hands and arms if we don’t reach out to help one another?’ His voice is mild but not meek and much wiser than one would expect from his appearance. He stands at the head of Zelal’s bed and with a clumsy, shy movement strokes the girl’s hair that resembles a sheaf of wheat spread out on the pillow. ‘I’ll come again tomorrow at the same time, and then perhaps, if the doctor allows, I’ll get you discharged early.’
The hospital corridor is crowded. It is leaving time for all the visitors. He gives a quick glance in both directions; everything seems normal. Before going out through the main door he lingers for a while at the end of the corridor. There is no one suspicious in evidence nor anything out of the ordinary. But, still, we must leave as soon as possible, I must take Zelal away from here right away. We have almost forgotten to be cautious. We have forgotten what a dangerous situation we are in. The people on the mountain used to say that the city air makes one relax. That’s true; we have let our guard down. I’ve relaxed. It is as though we thought we were normal citizens.
He goes out of the hospital and with rapid, determined steps mingles with the city’s crowds.
After Mahmut had left, Zelal felt worn out. They were giving her a great deal of oral and intravenous medication. The young nurse had said that the surgical wound site would hurt for some time so she should take medicine for the pain. Zelal liked this girl. Her highly sensitive antennae with which she continually combed her surroundings had picked up on the vibrations emitted by the young nurse; they had reached the touchstone of her heart, and she understood from the radiance that spread inside that only good would come from her. Among the many doctors and nurses who entered the room this was the one she warmed to most: Nurse Eylem, with the pretty face and strange name; Nurse Eylem who visited the room without fail whenever she was on night duty, who personally gave her her medicine, who spoke softly, who did not ask questions but who could read her looks.
Like a cat trusting its whiskers, Zelal trusted her antennae to sort out friend from foe. She was never wrong. Her teacher was a good man, the headmaster bad, her father was good, her uncles bad, her father’s second wife was good and the midwife was bad. Mahmut was good, very good. Before he went up the mountain her Mesut Abi had been good, too. she had loved him very much. However, when he returned from the mountain and came to the village he had changed. He had become bad; he had become somebody else. And those foul-faced dark men with cruel looks who had accompanied him … She had been afraid of them, had run away. When her father had thrown himself to the ground, beating his breast and crying like a woman because, he said, ‘My son is a collaborator’, she had not understood what was so bad about it. But when her Mesut Abi had returned to the village with those two youths, laughing unpleasantly and showing off his gun with a swagger, and had told her to run and tell their mother about his arrival, she had sensed evil with all her five senses. She had run away from them and had could no longer bear to see, smell or touch her Mesut Abi, whom she had previously loved so much. She had thought that her father had been right to beat his breast. People change, the good become bad — and perhaps the bad become good…