As he struggled, he was stunned to realize that there was no one in the room, that he was not being strangled. He’d rolled onto the floor and bumped his head, but what he didn’t understand was where he was. Where am I? I’m not in my apartments in Yıldız Palace, I’m not in another palace. So where am I, and what is this dark room? What am I doing here? What would a sultan be doing in a room like this?

  Just when his distress was at its deepest, he felt Sheikh Zafir’s peaceful, blessed hand on his forehead; this calmed him, eased the fears that had tormented him all his life. He heard him say, Don’t worry, my boy, in the blessed light of morning, none of this will remain. Night is the mother of delusion. The cruelty of the night drives you to despair. Everything will be fine in the morning. As he felt himself being drawn down into the dark waters of sleep, he heard his sheikh reciting the Surah Inshirah.

  Have We not expanded for you your breast,

  And taken off from you your burden,

  Which pressed heavily upon your back,

  And exalted for you your esteem?

  Surely with difficulty is ease.

  With difficulty is surely ease.

  So when you are free, nominate.

  And make your Lord your exclusive object.

  Greathearted Thessaloniki—Dr. Hüseyin Bey—The end of the tyrant—Love letter

  THREE AND A HALF years later, Thessaloniki, sunk in indolence and lethargy, would surrender to the Greek army without firing a shot, but on that warm spring evening in 1909 it was bustling and lively. No one could even imagine the possibility of the city changing hands after so many centuries. The empire’s most European city smelled of the sea, fish, raki, ouzo, and sometimes revolution and gunpowder. This was a city of fear, known to some as “greathearted Thessaloniki” because officers sent from Istanbul were assassinated one after another.

  The population of the freest and most cosmopolitan city of the empire consisted of Jews, Turks, Bulgarians, Avdeti, Greeks, Macedonians, French, and Italians; here the smell of anise mixed with the sea breeze and everyone devoted themselves to enjoyment. In the Muslim neighborhoods, a devout and dignified silence reigned, no sound was heard but the call to prayer and the sound of the night watchman banging his staff on the ground and calling out, “All is well.”

  Officers serving in the empire’s Third Army would occasionally meet to talk at the café behind the White Tower on the Cordon, or at one of the nightclubs where lively Greek girls sang; they would exchange gossip about Istanbul, the palace, and Thessaloniki, but generally avoided discussing the growing unrest in the Balkans. One of these officers was Captain Atıf Hüseyin Bey, who was serving as a doctor at the Third Army Hospital. As he was single, he occasionally spent time with his unmarried officer friends, and he was particularly fond of the Olympos nightclub, where his heart would be quickened by the scorching voices of the Greek singers he loved so much. He was kept very busy at the hospital, he worked hard and was left exhausted. It seemed as if the evenings he spent with his friends were his only reward. Because he was a disciplined, well-balanced officer who took good care of himself, he contented himself with a single glass of beer; he seldom touched spirits such as raki and ouzo that his friends drank until late. Though once in a while, when he was feeling down, he would have some of the tsipouro he liked so much. Sometimes they would go to Dimitris Sarayıotis’s coffeehouse in the Sindrivani district, the Tumba, to drink frothy coffee. They would also play billiards at the Parthenon on Hamidiye Avenue. It was said that Captain Mustafa Kemal Bey was the best billiards player. He’d met this fair-haired captain at the Greek Cultural Dance Society, which began operating in the period of freedom and openness after the proclamation of the Second Constitutional Monarchy in 1908. The young officers burned with the fire of rebellion, they dreamed of something like the French Revolution, of breathing freedom, of overthrowing Abdülhamid, “the vomiter of blood, the cruel, bloodthirsty tyrant who won’t allow anyone to breathe.” They hated him with a burning passion, referring to him as the Red Sultan, or sometimes in French as Le Sultan Rouge. They recited a famous poet’s secret poem that described him as resembling an owl, and wished that the Armenians had succeeded in blowing up his carriage. They memorized Tevfik Fikret’s poem “A Moment of Remembrance,” in which the would-be assassin, Edward Joris, is described as a glorious hunter.

  Oh glorious hunter, you did not set your trap in vain You threw, but alas you missed

  The poet Mehmet Akif went even further, referring to the sultan as the Crimson Unbeliever and “the owl of Yıldız,” and “the spirit of the demon”:

  Oh, if the owl of Yıldız does not die the end will be terrible.

  For them, this large-nosed, black-bearded hunchback was the cause of all the evil in the empire; he was like a black sheet covering the nation, and no one could breathe. It was as if the sun would shine brighter without him, the stars would be more enchanting, the smell of the night jasmine would be deeper and the breezes more refreshing. The young officers were so obsessed with Abdülhamid that they rarely spoke of anything else. He was a bloody murderer who sat up all night in his high-walled palace making evil plans; he inflicted pain not only on Muslims but on Armenians, Greeks, and Jews as well. He didn’t hesitate to scrap the Ottoman constitution. Even though the most important promise he made to those who put him in power was to uphold this constitution. He betrayed them. The newspapers were so heavily censored that they reported that foreign leaders who had been assassinated had died of the flu or whooping cough. So that the people wouldn’t get ideas. In the foreign newspapers and magazines that reached Thessaloniki, he was depicted as a butcher or the angel of death, rolling up his sleeves with a bloody knife between his teeth. European magazines got so carried away with this propaganda that they depicted Le Sultan Rouge as a mad and lascivious rapist. They reported as fact that he had his opponents weighted with rocks and thrown into the sea. Europeans reported that the sultan liked to eat rooster brains, that three hundred roosters were decapitated every day in the palace kitchen and that their brains were made into a salad.

  The young officers, to whom the waiter was attentive because they were regular customers at Olympos, engaged in heated discussions every evening, but this evening they seemed even more excited than usual. They didn’t sing along and sway to the intoxicating songs, their manner was serious and they spoke in whispers. There was a sign in Turkish, French, Ladino, and Bulgarian stating that it was forbidden to sing along with the performers, but the officers usually didn’t pay attention to this. They were all young and serious, with curled mustaches in the fashion of Kaiser Wilhelm. Even though they hated Abdülhamid, they admired the kaiser. As Yorgo the waiter brought raki, beer, dried fish, and fried red mullet to the table, he heard fragments of their conversation.

  “…they’ve overthrown the demon.”

  “Get out of here!”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t jump to your feet, you’ll attract attention. Sit down!”

  “Who deposed him?”

  “Our Thessaloniki army.”

  “How could that have happened?”

  “For God’s sake, tell us what happened.”

  “They got a fatwa from the shaykh al-Islam.”

  “What?”

  “Here’s the mind-boggling part. He’s accused of harming Islam, causing Muslims to kill each other and banning religious books…”

  “Was it Abdülhamid who was doing this?”

  “That’s what I heard from a friend who just arrived from Istanbul.”

  “I hope it’s true, brother, but…if I saw it in a dream I wouldn’t believe it.”

  “So Hamid is gone, huh?”

  When the officers couldn’t help but jump to their feet in excitement, Yorgo withdrew because his fat boss was summoning him. When he returned, the officers were sitting, but they were still in a state of excitement.

  “I don’t know,” said the doctor, “I didn’t hear that.”

  “They probably strangled the demon.”

  “Hopefully!”

  “I think they sent him to hell like they did his uncle. He died vomiting blood.”

  “That man will be cursed in every household in the nation.”

  “Still, I hope they send him into exile instead of killing him.”

  Yorgo realized they were talking about the sultan and became excited. Because “the owl of Yıldız” wasn’t just a problem for the officers, he was a problem for everyone. In the end he couldn’t contain himself. “Excuse me,” he said, “are you talking about the sultan?” The officers, who under the influence of drink saw Yorgo as a brother, said, “Yes, the demon is finished.”

  Yorgo rushed away to tell his boss. A little later, the fat, mustachioed owner came out onto the stage, silenced the musicians, and shouted, “Tonight all drinks are on the house. Enjoy yourselves ladies and gentlemen.”

  That night, his heart still racing, the doctor made his way through the narrow cobblestone streets, receiving a salute from the night watchman, and entered the front door of a two-story wooden house. The house seemed empty, quiet, and lonely, as it did every night when he returned. He lit the lamp, took off his jacket, went to the table in front of the window with the crocheted calico curtains, sat down, took a sheet of paper and his fountain pen, and slowly and carefully began writing the following letter:

  Don’t think that a lover can be comfortable when he is separated from his loved one.

  Light of my eye, I am the same, my dear, my angel.

  Don’t be too hard on me for beginning my nightly letter of longing with this couplet by Shaykh al-Islam Yahya. Because my soul yearns for you. Will I ever see you again in this lifetime? Until now I’ve been in despair because it seemed this wish would never come true. But tonight it is as if the sun has come out from behind the clouds, as if the darkness has been banished, and for the first time it seems possible that I might see you, which I want more than anything in the world. Because the demon who ruined our lives, who exiled your venerable father to Cyprus and put impassable mountains and rough seas between us, has been deposed. We don’t know his fate, we don’t know whether he’s alive or dead. I thank God a thousand times for the happiness he has brought our nation tonight, and I hope this good news will bring an end to your longing and misery.

  He carefully folded the flower-patterned paper, placed it in a similarly patterned envelope, sealed it, and put it in a drawer with hundreds of other letters that had not been mailed. All of the letters bore the same address: Nabizade Melahat Hanım—Cyprus. That was all, because all he knew about Melahat Hanım, whom he dreamed of day and night, was that she was on the island of Cyprus. In any event, he wasn’t writing the letters in order to send them.

  Princesses with stiff necks—Gas lamps—Floorboards—Yogurt and pilaf—Tobacco box

  THE MEMBERS OF THE imperial family, who’d spent their last weeks in Istanbul under siege by gun-toting revolutionaries, with little to eat and with the lights in the palace turned off, and who’d then been put on a train to Thessaloniki, were exhausted, and curled up in various corners. When they woke four or five hours later, they tried to remember where they were, but at the same time they wanted to forget everything. They’d spent their lives sleeping on down mattresses, and their limbs and necks were sore from sleeping on the bare floorboards. They turned their heads left and right, rubbed their arms and shoulders, and uttered groans that echoed in the empty rooms. In addition, the mighty mosquitoes of Thessaloniki must have found their noble blood delicious, because they were covered in bites.

  The huge mansion was dim because the shutters were closed, but the light that streamed in here and there was enough for them to see. They went to whatever bathrooms they could find, looked at their tired yellow faces and dirty hair in the mirror, and were grateful for the dried, shrunken pieces of soap that had been left behind. Once they were able to convince themselves they were presentable, they knocked on the sultan’s door. He told them to come in, and when they did they saw he seemed to be looking for something on the floor, they bowed and greeted him respectfully, wondering as they did so what he was looking for and why he hadn’t ordered anyone to help him. The sultan looked at them, tapped the floor with his right hand, and said, “Whoever made this floor did a masterful job. Wonderful material and workmanship. Look at how masterfully the boards are joined. The floor creaks a little, but that’s to be expected. It’s damp here by the seaside.” He stood slowly, brushed the dust off his hands, and said, “I couldn’t have done a better job myself. Good morning. How did you sleep. I’m pleased to see that you’re all looking healthy.” Then he looked at the floor again. “To tell the truth, the only floor I’ve seen this good was in Buckingham Palace.”

  Only then did his wives and children realize that he was attempting to conceal his emotional turmoil. The tired, aged, shaken sultan was trying to show fortitude. They played along and gave their attention to the floorboards.

  No one mentioned how hungry they were because they didn’t want to upset one another. In any event, toward noon the front door opened and soldiers brought in yogurt and pilaf. Once again, there was no cutlery. Were they trying to humiliate the imperial family, or did they fear that they would use the metal to harm themselves? Perhaps it was simply an oversight. They never spoke of it, and when, three days later, the food came with forks and spoons (but no knives) they no longer had to eat with their hands or remember their noble cat.

  That afternoon soldiers brought bedsteads, chairs, sheets, quilts, pillows, and towels. The furniture was shabby and dirty, but to the new inhabitants of the Alatini mansion it seemed beautiful. The commander told them he’d procured it all from hotels. Who knew who had slept on these sheets without knowing the next users would be a deposed sultan and his entourage. The servants set up the sultan’s room first, on his instructions placing the bed as far as possible from the windows, then they moved on to the other rooms, and slowly the mansion began to look like the abode of a poor family, far from its original splendor and from the conditions they were accustomed to. Still, the sultan’s wives and daughters had something to occupy themselves with, some tried to wash the sheets with the scraps of soap in the bathroom, some struggled to put mattresses onto broken box springs, some contented themselves with ordering servants around, but they all appreciated the distraction from their harsh conditions.

  They were delighted when the sullen soldiers brought lamps in the evening, those four or five weak lamps seemed like a festival of light to them.

  On the second night the sultan went to his room, his five wives and three daughters went to the hall on the second floor, the sons to another room, and the eunuchs and servants to two separate rooms. Meanwhile his daughter Şadiye Sultan, who’d pleased him so much when she gave him the yellow bag full of jewels, was able to give her beloved father another gift. She knocked respectfully, entered, and found him standing in front of the window as if the shutters were open, leaning on his cane. He greeted her lovingly, then she watched his face light up when she gave him the cigarettes, tobacco, and rolling papers she’d managed to grab as they were leaving the palace.

  Abdülhamid couldn’t manage without tobacco. He was adept at rolling the fine, strong, aromatic amber-yellow tobacco and would line up his cigarettes side by side. His tobacco box, of mahogany inlaid with jewels, was a work of art in itself. Like many of the cabinets, tables, and bookcases in the palace, it was his own work.

  Perhaps his happiest hours were those he spent in his carpentry workshop. He was particularly pleased by the mastery he displayed in making furniture. He would proudly show his work to the people of the palace, he would expect their admiration, and sometimes when he was very pleased with himself he would compare himself to the eighteenth-century cabinetmaker Thomas Chippendale. He’d been deeply influenced by his visits to France, England, and Germany with his uncle Sultan Abdülaziz. He often spoke about the English to his family in the evening. He seemed to be a bit frightened by them.

  When the sultan saw his tobacco box he snorted with delight as if he’d been reunited with an old friend; he immediately rolled a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply, enjoying the moment and squinting his eyes with pleasure. He held the smoke in his lungs like a jealous lover, then exhaled slowly through his famous nose, the “imperial nose” that was mocked in foreign periodicals. Then he said, “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, my child. This is one of the things I missed most, no other tobacco is as strong as this, I’ve become accustomed to it, I can’t smoke anything else. I miss my parrot too, and my carpentry tools. They’re like extensions of my hands. I feel incomplete without them.”

  Then the sultan laughed and coughed at the same time. When he’d caught his breath he turned to his daughter, who didn’t know why he’d laughed. “Life is full of coincidences,” he said. “The merchant Alatini Efendi, who had this mansion built, brought me the best tobacco to give as a gift to the Emperor of Japan. May he prosper, for years he kept me supplied with tobacco, and now we’re living in his house.”

  Şadiye didn’t quite understand, but she was so happy to have pleased her father that she bowed deeply. In a sense she’d made up for the favor her sister had gained by singing La Traviata the night before. What had the soldiers patrolling the garden by lamplight thought about the foreign music that had drifted from the mansion in the middle of the night? During the chaos at the palace, Şadiye had managed to retrieve both the yellow “water” bag and this precious box. It was no secret that this tobacco aggravated his bronchitis, but he probably couldn’t live without it.