A LOVE IN TIME OF WARS - Chapter Two, a novella from the book AFFAIRS OF THE HEART
Late 1930s, Istanbul
The doctor confirmed to his devoted ones, “He is leaving us and is now seeking his dreams forever. Come, let’s say a prayer for him.”
The clothes and a few of his personal things prepared for his funeral were placed in a chest some weeks ago. He was ready. In the past, on the front, he always expected death to come in the shape of a bullet, quickly and suddenly. It appeared the best way to die so just about in the last days, he stopped being angry for his prolong agonizing sickness. At finally it eas for better giving him an opportunity to think back and ensure, what he would like to take with him for the world beyond death after the last crossroad. The blue costume, black shoes, a little copy of the Koran, single amber hidden in a pocket and…
An old letter on yellowed paper attracted the attention of his people. No one appeared to be embarrassed to read such a personal note. The sender had mailed it from Sofia long, long ago.
“Mustafa, even the long days come to an end. The stars appear in Sofia’s sky already, the night is reigning. Do you outside at the moment and see these stars, winking like candles above my home, above my head? There can’t be another sky with so many magnetic stars all over the whole universe.
The sleepy town is mine, the streets are mine, the trees in the park are mine, the wind in the grass is mine, Vitosha Mountain is mine. Somewhere beyond the hills, the Black sea is mine as well. Its endless rhythmic water is mine. Time is mine. The century is mine, in which both of us happened to be born on this Earth to share the same sky, wind, grass, sun, news.
And the thoughts of you are mine. The whole warmth of my heart is mine, yet, unfortunately it is not yours. Who else could keep such warmth for your heart as mine does now for yours? I don’t know what to do, having so much and why the warmth exists if it is useless, you could not receive it, especially in recent days.
I have heard such dreadful news, it makes me wonder why were we born in such awful ages. I like to dream of running in a better world than the one in which we live. Close your eyes and dream with me. We share being at a great place together. Peaceful and beautiful! No problems, no fears. How can I share these dreams filled with all my love for life while you are under thunderbolts of bullets and shed innocent young blood around?”
“Why would the man take that old paper with him to keep it forever in the coffin?” his people all wondered years later.
His doctor tried to awake him from talking in his sleep and heard him murmuring. “In recent nights, I cannot sleep, Maria. I close my eyes but I fail to dream.”
1915, at the front line, Dardanelles
The letter was put in a kit bag with other gathered things and a man was running behind his comrades along the empty trenches. Somewhere, brave and resistant medical officers were collecting the last of the wounded. The air still filled their lungs with gunpowder, ashes, and the smell of burnt flesh. Ears were deafened after endless thunder of shells and rain of bullets. The headache became stronger, almost unbearable after long hours hardly escaping whizzing shrapnel by shrapnel along. The sky was all in dense smoke, the ground in wounds and the men between had a sense of experiencing the Hell. Noise of detonating bombs, noise of cannons and no time to feel dread for life in its full dimension nor to thank for the survival. The next battle was ahead. Motor-lorries were expected for the remaining troops and divisions.
Mustafa, the front line commander, climbed on the last motor-lorry. Sitting among the anxious soldiers, he was still on alert for one final attack from somewhere while the front-line was moving away behind their backs. What they were leaving behind was more than friends and enemies fallen into eternal silence. That loss of humanity, the anguish, the rage and the painful memories would weigh heavy on them till the end of their lives. No military victory was worth such a nightmare. But in the middle of 1915, nothing was over. The soldiers were transported to the train that would take them to another front line. After a few days in Istanbul, they would be conveyed to the Asian parts of the Ottoman Empire. Combating on many fronts, the country found itself surrounded by the armies involved in the biggest event, the First World War.
At a railway station, the exhausted men embarked on a train that would take them to Istanbul. Smoking his last cigarette before making a decision, Mustafa thought he was at a difficult crossroad once again. He could hear how cracked his voice sounded. “I will catch up with you in Istanbul. Bye.”
Moving in a rush, he jumped on another train at the last possible moment and took a deep breath on the first footboard.
After changing trains, he got in on a relatively peaceful one and sat down in seclusion. The scenes of planted fields and hard working people in them along the rails in the first days of autumn reminded him of the other side of life. He slid down the window to feel closer to it and stuck his head out. When he turned back, a fellow traveler was in the compartment. A piece of simit from white flour and a few exchanged cigarettes and words built a bridge between them. After a while, the older white-haired man repeated in amazement, “Let’s clear this up. You fought to the death in the Balkan War against her father, her brother and her country. And she served as a nurse to Bulgarian soldiers, among blood, wounded, dead, and the smell of formaldehyde on the opposite side of the borderline. Does it mean you are coming to ask for the hand of your enemy’s daughter? The Bulgarian general, who personally led his army from the front line against the Ottoman divisions?”
“Exactly! First was the war… the love followed later… Peace was somewhere in between.”
“Yesterday, you could have killed her on the other side of the front, today you are in love and what about tomorrow?”
“She felt the same way. And what? All efforts to be enemies appeared to be in vain. Thin is the border line between our ability to hate to death or to love.”
His fellow-traveler shook his head distrustfully. “Your story sounds crazy.”
A newsvendor passed along the compartments. Mustafa and his companion took a few newspapers. Reading the articles about the war, the old man recognized him. “Is this you? Really you? A hero while I was afraid, I’d come across a runaway.”
A part of the soldier’s thoughts cut the air, escaping through his moving lips like an echo. “Never a runaway! I am just going to one more fight. My very personal fight.”
“So kidnap her. Escape together as it has happened many times in the Balkans.”
“I cannot. Bulgarian law forbids marriage without the consent of the parents or a living relative. Who would easily marry a Muslim man and a Christian woman in secret? If not what would she be in my life without a legal marriage? A mistress? The woman who was born to be my wife? I cannot make a political scandal between our countries. The general is respectful and popular so I have to receive his approval.”
“But he is not crazy like you, is he and most probably he will not give her to you.”
“He knows love is a normal state. War is madness. I have met her family and they know me. They appeared well-disposed, liked and listened to me.”
Mustafa stayed wrapped in himself before took a moment to say what bothered him the most. “I should have made a bargain with him, as there is in the market, to be recognized as her fiancé. As it is, it will be possible to take her with me if I come back from the front alive. But I did not it because until now, all my days have been spent as a soldier, not a merchant.”
The old man felt sympathy for the younger one. “Do not blame yourself. Stories like this happen all the time.”
1914, Sofia, general Achev’s home
A woman’s whoop of joy attracted the attention of everyone in the company gathered in the big parlor. “My goodness, it must be very expensive. How did you manage to buy it without speaking Turkish to bargain with the merchant.”
Colonel Nokov, Maria’s brother-in-law smiled impishly. “No problem. We started with komsu, which means neighbor, and finished with arkadash, which means “friend.”
After a short silence while they examined the beautiful Orient’s gown, the thin black-hired girl, with delicate figure and behavior, ventured to ask, “Istanbul is a fairy city, isn’t it?”
As one of the guests, Mustafa became startled as he stood in the room’s doorway and looked at Nokov with confusion in his eyes but the colonel did not notice. He was enchanted to tell the tale of the fairy city.
“Some noticeable places are like workshops, in which a part of the world’s history was forged, Maria. They have carefully preserved the traces of worldly events, which happened there. And I was able to see each sign Mother Bulgaria left in this town.”
“I wish I could see it.”
Feeling they were entering into a difficult topic, he interrupted her quickly, “Come on. Let’s prepare for the soiree and enjoy the surprise.”
1915, on the train
Mustafa stepped to the corridor and slid down the window. At the sunset, the wind blew his hair while birds were flying along by the train. It was a beautiful autumn evening. If only there were not those heavy burdens on his mind and spirit. Obsessed by them, a little later he rushed to his co-traveler at the compartment to eagerly cite George Byron’s verses:
“She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes...”
“My life has become like a Byron’s poem. I entered in a story, similar to his passionate ones. Long ago, I wrote my lyrics but it’s better to live it than describe it.”
“Or to live through the emotions of others as I do today.” his co-traveler added thoughtfully before nodding off to sleep.
Mustafa wrapped himself in his greatcoat and looked at the moon that followed the illuminated signs of his train. His elderly co-traveler had more success with sleep, while the newly promoted Ottoman colonel, chewing a bit of simit, started writing a note on the tobacco package by the light coming in from the corridor.
“Dear General Achev, thank you for having me in your home a few times during the two years of my service in Sofia. I came in your city with some worries of how I would be threatened by Bulgarians after the last Balkan war between our countries. I was truly surprised when I faced friendliness and goodness, which I did not expect. I opened my heart to the true appreciation and respect for your country and your family in particular. Relying on your hospitality, I dare to ask for the hand of your daughter again. She is the one, who knows how to deal with my tough character, despite her youth. For the good of both Maria and myself, I hope for a new meeting to discuss this with you.”