Mümtaz Bey

I knew three families from old Başkale—the family of Zion Besharan and those of his two brothers¹—who were repeatedly driven between Russia, Iran, and Turkey. They were Ottoman subjects, but lacked papers to prove it: the Russians expelled them to Turkey, the Turks to Iran, and the Iranians back to Russia. Their brother in Istanbul tried to regularise their Turkish citizenship through the Ankara authorities, without success.

Their relatives in Başkale asked for my help. I approached the kaymakam, who agreed on my guarantee to issue five-year residence permits. The families settled and began rebuilding their lives.

At the time, unrest was growing among the Kurds under Osman Kara—“Black Osman.”² The kaymakam and the regimental commander, a friend of mine, were replaced. A young lieutenant named Mümtaz acted as commander and rented a room in our sage’s home. The sage’s young granddaughter believed his promises of marriage. Then he left the house, moved to the military camp, and never returned.

Mümtaz was handsome but cruel. It was said that he had beaten six soldiers nearing discharge to death, as well as a Kurd I knew. When the new kaymakam arrived with his wife and her sister, Mümtaz married the sister. On hearing the news, the sage’s granddaughter hanged herself.

The girl’s mother complained, and the authorities announced an inspection. Mümtaz suspected that I was behind it and sent a soldier to summon me to the camp, four kilometres outside town. Before leaving, I wrote, “Mümtaz Bey has called for me; I am going to the camp,” and placed the note in the shop drawer in case I did not return.

He had once greeted me warmly; this time he ignored my salutation and did not offer me a seat. I pulled up a chair myself. After another officer left, Mümtaz closed the door, drew his pistol, and laid it on the desk. He had heard, he said, that I was working against him and evidently did not know what sort of man he was.

I grew angry. I told him that I had once liked him, but from then on he would find me standing against him.³ “They say that instead of beating a Jew, one need only frighten him,” I added, “but if we were cowards we could not live in this frontier country. We know the road to Ankara.” Mümtaz stared, then burst out laughing. He embraced and kissed me, ordered coffee, and escorted me to the camp gate. Back at the shop, I discovered that no one had seen the note.

Two days later two hundred soldiers were due for discharge. They received their papers but refused to leave. “Six of our comrades lie here. We will not go until the case is investigated and we bury their bones.” A commotion followed, and Mümtaz sought the kaymakam’s advice.

The kaymakam sent the mufti to calm the soldiers, and the mufti asked me to accompany him. At the camp they sat in a row and rose when they saw him. He began with “Allahu akbar” and a prayer, congratulated them on completing their service, and spoke of their comrades who had guarded the nation’s frontiers and received God’s mercy.

The mufti passed along the ranks reciting al-Fatiha⁴ and kissed each man on the cheek. The soldiers kissed his hand, said their farewells, and started home. We returned to the town.