After six months of service, my request to pay for the remainder and obtain early discharge was approved.1 The hospital commander called me in. He reminded me that my work was not hard and promised to shorten my service by two months if I stayed. “To pay such a large sum for only ten months is a crime,” he said. “We like you here. Give up this right.”
That evening my three friends and I celebrated in my room, ordering food and drinking arak until late. The officer over the doctors also asked whether I truly meant to leave. I had grown used to my surroundings, he said; I knew everyone and everyone knew me, and the remaining ten months would pass quickly. I answered that if my commanders thought I should stay, I would accept their judgment. We shook hands, and my early discharge was abandoned.
I had known several Siirt residents since my days in Başkale. The hospital surgeon, Cemil, rented a house from one of them. One evening he visited an acquaintance of mine, Sheikh Salim, who asked him to do me a kindness. He described how often I had helped them with the authorities in Başkale and said that I was capable of many trades, especially tailoring. Cemil was astonished. “We have no tailor here, and he never said a word!” Sheikh Salim feared that he had harmed me, but the surgeon promised that he would not.
Cemil was known as a nervous man who shouted readily, though he did not beat anyone. The next day I heard him speaking with the hospital commander. At the end, the commander said, “Leave this matter to me,” then passed me with a faint smile. The day’s work continued. When the last patient had gone, he called me into his office and told me to prepare two coffees. I saw no guest, but when he summoned me inside he pointed to the second cup and said it was mine.
He wished to speak as a friend. “Who made you think we were bad people?” he asked. I said that I had heard nothing but praise of him. “Then why did you conceal your trade?” I reminded him that I had said I was a photographer. He laughed. “So you have many trades. I have now heard that you were an expert tailor—and you were right to hide it.” He assured me that I would not be transferred without his consent and that no one but him could order me to another task.
The man who reported me knew me well, but he had exaggerated my skill. I was a good enough tailor for my own town, not the great master he described. Even so, I was given the rooms intended for a dental clinic that had not opened: two workrooms and a bedroom. A sewing machine and table came from the stores, two soldiers helped clean and prepare the space, and I received cloth for several sets of pyjamas. The commander inspected them and was pleased.
I worked, ate, and slept in the same suite, arranging the bedroom until it resembled a hotel room. From my window I could see the nearby spring and well. Siirt was a beautiful city, but it suffered from an acute shortage of water. Women dressed in black, their faces fully veiled, arrived early with large copper vessels and waited in line, talking in Arabic. Some returned home at evening without water, and quarrels sometimes broke out. The hospital posted a guard beside the well.
I watched from my window and occasionally asked the guard to fill the vessel of a woman standing far back. He never refused. The women I helped returned the next day and threw raisins and shelled walnuts through my window in thanks. I shared these gifts with my friends.
One day the commander asked me to come to his home. His wife showed me silk cloth and a model of the dress she wanted. She could help with the handwork, she said, but everything had to match the model exactly. I measured her, cut the cloth, and used the machine in their house. The commander stayed to assist me; when the work was done, he joked that I must also teach them cutting. I understood that they liked the result.
From then on his wife brought me more designs. She asked me to teach her mute sister cutting and sewing, so that the young woman could support herself and perhaps marry. For seven months I made dresses in their home and gave lessons in cutting while someone else administered the eye drops at the hospital. The doctor learned quickly and planned to teach his sister-in-law. I ate with the family, and each day his wife brought me a portion of whatever she had cooked.
Time passed until only two months remained before my discharge. I reminded the commander of his promise. His eyes filled with tears and he said he would keep his word. One month was officially due to me; for the second, he would make another arrangement. If the recruiting office in Başkale caused trouble, I was to telegraph him. He would send my discharge certificate at once and tell the office that I had been formally released.
At our parting he called to his wife, “Our maestro’s days with us are over.” If it were possible, he said, he would not let me go even for a moment. “We have grown as fond of you as of our own child. Go in peace to your wife and mother, who are waiting for you.” He began to weep. My friends were discharged several months after me.