BACKSTORY: The last supper

Deeply concerned about the fate of foreign Jews in detention camps in Turkey during World War II, the leaders of the Jewish community of Istanbul approached the governor of the city, Lutfi Kirdar, and sought his help in alleviating the difficult conditions of their co-religionists. 

Kirdar explained that his hands were tied with those already in detention – the pressure and threats from Berlin were “relentless” according the governor. Nevertheless, he acceded to the request to grant Jewish refuges weekend passes on the community’s cognizance. At the very least, these souls would celebrate Sabbath in Jewish households before facing a future fraught with uncertainties.

My polyglot maternal grandparents, Samuel and Lotte Gabay, who lived in Chaldean (Kadikoy) on a street called Uzun Hafiz were among the first to receive these refugees. They came from all over Europe and from all walks of life. They were destitute, broken and frightened: a violinist named Monsieur Marius from Hungary; Juran and Livrescu, brothers from Romania; the Starssbergs from Belgium; and an Italian chef who owned a restaurant in the Jewish Quarter of Rome.   

The first order of the day would be burning their lice-infested clothing, followed by a visit to the Turkish bath located in the cellar of the large house. Next was a “fashion show” which generated a great deal of mirth as the visitors tried on brand new clothing donated by local manufacturers. Greek seamstress girls while adjusting sleeves and hems would sew into the clothing secret mini-pockets to conceal gold coins and scarce currencies. 

Then it was time to welcome the Sabbath. A festive meal was followed by everyone congregating around the radio for the latest news. Later on, some would play chess and poker. Others would read in the library, or write letters. Many would talk till the early hours on the morning, baring their souls and sharing their grief over lives stolen and destroyed.

It would be more of the same on Saturday, culminating in the recitation of Havdalah at the synagogue of Hemdat Israel.

The next day, a leisurely walk by the sea to the port – vaporettos crisscrossing the Sea of Marmara between Asia and Europe – against the backdrop of a thousand minarets, would be the prelude to the main event of the day: the Sunday luncheon. The meal would be served, weather permitting, under the gigantic hazelnut tree in Lotte’s enchanting floral garden. The last supper would be a mainly vegetarian Sephardi feast (meat and poultry were scarce). Eggplant au gratin (almodrote); fish in plum sauce; assorted vegetables cooked in olive oil and – for the finale – a rainbow compote. As ersatz Turkish coffee was served, Samuel would introduce his guests to the pleasures of the hookah. The cook Maneka would be invited to foretell the future by reading hidden omens in coffee cups always speaking words of joy and comfort. They would then gather in the library for a piano recital  given  by my aunt Sonia.  

During the concert, the Kurdish girls who helped Lotte in household chores would prepare parcels of food containing dried fruits, Turkish delights and assorted pastries called borecas. Packs of cylindrical black cigarettes would be squeezed next to sardine cans for the long journey ahead. 

The peaceful interlude in the midst of the  incandescence of war would come to an end in the late afternoon on Sundays as the brass clock, mounted on the shoulders of a bronze Atlas, would strike the hour of return. Hugs, tears, prayers, blessings and promises to meet again after the war would mingle in an unforgettable tableau of valediction in the front yard of the house. 

Muslim neighbours too would come out to say goodbye to complete strangers. Some would give them miniature Qur’ans, others would attach blue stones with safety pins, for good luck, on the reverse side of the lapels of the departing guest.  As the horse-drawn phaeton would move on the cobblestones of Uzun Hafiz street, a friend would throw a bowl of water after the carriage: a Turkish custom for wishing voyagers Godspeed.

No one who passed through the house of Lotte and Samuel Gabay during the war returned or called afterwards.