4. Yeshua’s Story: Balat, Istanbul, 1937.
Note: Although this story takes place almost two decades after the advent of the Turkish Republic, which supplanted the Ottoman empire, and although Perendeoglu was a legendary figure during the Republican period, the negative descriptions of Jewish life in the Balat neighborhood stem from travelers’ accounts dating as far back as the early nineteenth century. Thus, Yeshua lived in a place, if not a time, that can be considered “Ottoman.”
Another difference between Yeshua and the other three characters in this book is that he is the only one not completely drawn from whole cloth. Some of my details are borrowed from Marie-Christine Bornes-Varol’s essay on “The Balat Quarter…,” in Levy, Avigdor, editor, The Jews of the Ottoman Empire.
Chapter One.
Even if you have never heard of Balat, you must surely know about the nearby neighborhood of Ayvansary, and its famous church-mosque, St. Saviour, in Chora. Before I launch into the story of my own humble existence, I must pause to tell you about this notable building.
“St. Saviour in Chora, or ‘in the country,’” was so-named because of its location beyond Constantine’s walls. The church’s splendid mosaics come from the period when it was rebuilt, between 1315-21, during the final Byzantine flowering. The Turkish conquest of the city occurred in 1453. The church-mosque has long been famous for its mosaics, which depict the lives of Mary and Jesus.
Another feature of St. Saviour’s is its Italian Renaissance-influenced frescoes, magnificent too, and exactly contemporary with the great Giotto (1267-1337). During the 16th century, the church was converted to a mosque, the Kariye Camii, or ‘church mosque,’ by one of those eunuch-grand viziers —I forget his name.
After that, the mosaics were obscured, buried by paint, dirt, earthquakes, whatever, and they still remain hidden to all but a few cognoscenti and other insiders. Sadly, “The Flight into Egypt” has been completely destroyed, but the depiction of the apocryphal fall of idols from the wall of an Egyptian town, as the Holy Family passes through, is still there, beneath the rubble.
“How,” you may ask, “do you happen to know all this?” The answer will allow me to introduce myself. My name is Yeshua, and I am the associate of a much-better known man, the much loved and much reviled Perendeoglu. Before I describe the exploits of this Jewish Robin Hood, I must make another detour, this time into the slanderous tales of European travelers that have rendered our Balat a watchword for the degradation of Turkish-Jewish life.
These tales, starting in the early nineteenth century, and lingering into the twentieth, describe a place degraded by filth, squalor and poverty, as well as by the uniform meekness and obscurantism of its inhabitants. Although these accounts are distorted, they contain kernels of truth. One section of Balat is, indeed, filthy, owing to the presence of a huge waste dump, and many residents of that section are, indeed, very poor, and some, strictly observant.
I venture to say that these negative depictions of Balat life may have stemmed from two main motives. The first is anti-semitism, often present even among cultivated European travelers. The second is the mercenary motive: bad news sells books and articles better than good news. Adding to these motives is the fact that most visitors to Balat probably stayed for only a few hours, at most, passing through on their way to that popular tourist destination, St. Saviour’s church-mosque.
As I have indicated, the travelers’ tales are, at best, half-truths. Some areas in Balat have long contained better-off Jews and better housing, including the mansions of the wealthiest. Nor are all of the Jews of Balat orthodox, or even observant, and not all are meekly submissive, or even quiet. In some ways, my friend and master, Perendeoglu, can be seen as representing the ways in which Balat is a far better place than the one long slandered by travelers.
Surely, you have heard of my master. You may even have enjoyed yourself with a few friends at his coffee house in Balat, right on the banks of the Golden Horn. Whether, or not, you must have heard of Perendeoglu, as the proprietor of this cafe, renowned for its excellent music, food and drink.
The owner of the cafe is no mere hotelier, but a man of many parts. Depending on your source, you may know him as a man with underworld connections, someone who extorts protection money from his fellow-Jews. Since he is also the patron of Balat’s volunteer Jewish fire-fighting brigade, the Balat Sinan Kapih, his nickname, “the bandit who rights wrongs,” is well-earned. Like most of us, Perendeoglu seems to be full of contradictions.
Where does your servant, Yeshua, come in? I am the boatman popularly called Kitapci, or “Book Seller.” Why am I so called? When I ferry people across the Bosphorus to Haskoy, I require them to read religious texts, in order to insure our safe passage. Like my friend, Perendeoglu, you could say that I have a foot in each of two worlds, the respectable world and the underworld. In other words, I am both a pious boatman and a brawler.
Since, as I have admitted, many of the inhabitants of Balat are, indeed, desperately poor, and live in conditions of abject squalor, they are subjected to abuse of many types by their Muslim and Christian neighbors. Since Perendeoglu and I defend our co-religionists from such hooligans, we can also be called champions of the people. Finally, we are vigilant at fending off the various elements who are constantly trying to open rival cafes in Balat, and its environs —or, to make a small joke of this serious business, I help my friend to fend off those miscreants who attempt to horn in on his golden business.
Take what happened last year, during Tishrei [September-October], 5697-98 [1937].. I have just made mention of the “various elements” that are our rivals. Among the worst of these is the rowdy group of kayikçis [boatmen], of Laz ethnicity, who were so aggressive in their incursions that Perendeoglu asked me to speak to them seriously about the matter.
After extended third-party negotiations, we agreed to a meeting outside the aforementioned church-mosque, St. Saviour’s, in Chora, which is in the nearby Arvansaray neighborhood. St. Saviour’s was chosen because it was both convenient, and a neutral site —from our viewpoint— and a suitably hybrid one, from theirs. (The Laz are Christian converts to Islam.)
I have not yet mentioned the extensive grounds that abut the church-mosque. These grounds house many kiosks, hawking imitation tiles, and such, to hordes of gullible tourists. There are also several outdoor cafes, and it was at one of these that we agreed to parley with the Laz boatmen.
It was further agreed that I, alone, would represent the interests of Perendeoglu, that the Laz would also send a single spokesperson, and that neither of us would be carrying pistols, cutlasses, or any other weapons. As Perendeoglu and I composed our message, I envisioned the Laz foes to whom it was directed. In my mind’s eye, I pictured fearsome a mob of cutthroats whose costume comprised a bandana-like kerchief covering their entire head above the eyes, knotted on the side, and hanging down to the shoulder and upper back; a snug-fitting jacket with loose sleeves, of coarse brown homespun; and baggy, dark brown woolen trousers tucked into slim, knee-high leather boots.
My imagined Laz was also armed to the teeth: rifle, pistol, powder horn, cartridge belts across the chest, a dagger at the hip, and even a coil of rope for trussing potential captives. Despite our agreement, anticipating that no Laz would come to our parley without at least two hidden daggers, I planned to carry two, myself, one secreted in the sash at the back of my pantaloons, the other tucked under a voluminous Turkish turban.
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