Nightingale by Fiona McIntosh Page B

are fortunate to live in Galata. So many of the old-city dwellers have had to cross over the Golden Horn and find homes on this side of the waterway. They fear the invaders will want to control our ancient city first. Our big homes and gardens keep us protected, although these days even finding daily bread is a challenge. Formerly friendly neighbours openly fight over a small loaf.
    Açar turned the sheet over, hungrily reading on.
I must share the sorry news that I have had to let Arzu and Fazil go. I know these servants are family to you but Fazil was called up in the second conscription and Arzu needed to help her family as its men have been called to duty. Ayfer remains – she’s too old to start again or even live alone, she complains a great deal and now cooks for me . . . but badly!
    It remains stubbornly cool with a brisk wind cutting off the Bosphorus but your mother’s famous mulberry tree is thickening with leaves again and we are expecting a big crop of fruit this summer. Kashifa is planning to pound some of it into pekmez and send that to you with her homemade sesame paste to improve your morning meal. We were all disappointed to learn from your last letter that eating for you was now simply to stay alive – I thought the army would feed you all much better, given that most of our country’s food is grown or reared for our soldiers. You can imagine what your admission did to your aunt’s state of mind. Anyway, I’m sure her mulberry molasses will enliven you and remind you of home.
    All is well here. Everyone keeps good health and we remember you in our daily prayers. I am attending the Sultan Ahmed Mosque whenever I can and it is certainly easier at the moment because the university has moved to a new restricted curriculum. So I have a lot more time to myself and in fact I believe with the age limit now expanding to thirty-five years and upwards I will soon be conscripted to work full-time with the military in some capacity. I have offered again but they will not permit me to join an active unit. It seems I am wanted in Logistics in Istanbul.
    I will send a larger food parcel next time. Remain diligent in your prayers, son, and do not despair or question your role. Allah alone decides. It is pleasing to know that you scribe letters for your fellow soldiers and keep their families informed of their wellbeing.
    I expect it is warming up in the south but keep your new woollen garments safe for the winter. I will let you know where I am sent by the government once I know more.
    Affectionately, your father
    Açar stared at the dark ink on the page so neatly crafted into words, not a single smudge, clinically produced from that ordered mind of Rifki Shahin so incapable of expressing his real thoughts – his fears, his joys, his love. His father had never praised Açar for being made a platoon commander and while even he knew this was mainly because he could read orders and write messages, it was still an honour in one so young.
    â€˜I’m going to die here, Baba. You will never see me again,’ he whispered to the page.
Never see me smile or hear my voice again. You’ll never be able to chastise me again and unless you hurry you’ll never be able to tell me that you do love me
, his inner voice continued
.
Açar accepted his fate wholly, somewhere deep where he no longer dreamed.
    Hasan arrived to flop down next to him. ‘Lucky you. Nothing for me. Everything good at home?’
    â€˜Yes . . . yes. Everyone is fine. They knitted me socks and a scarf,’ he answered, digging up a smile.
    Hasan nodded appreciatively. ‘Any food?’
    â€˜You know there is. Lokum and homemade halva. I’ll share it later.’
    His friend grinned. ‘Come on,’ he said, standing. ‘Let’s go eat. There’s a travelling finger puppet show on this evening for those of us off-duty.’ Hasan slapped Açar’s