A Second Call-Up

When I returned from my first period of service, Başkale was no longer the town I had left.¹ Violent clashes and deaths occurred around it almost every day. I owned the only camera in town, together with the equipment for developing photographs. The gendarmerie commander repeatedly summoned me to document the casualties, and so I found myself photographing bodies.

Then the Second World War began. Newspapers did not reach Başkale regularly; the freshest copy we saw was usually ten days old. The only radio, powered by a battery, stood in the officers’ club beside our house. Civilians could not enter, and reception was so poor that we understood scarcely one word in ten. Every evening the officers gathered there to debate the course of the war.

Some Jews earned their living by trading in the surrounding villages. Because of the war, non-Muslims were forbidden to travel more than one kilometre beyond the edge of the market. Merchants who needed to collect debts in the villages could no longer do so.

A new order followed: every non-Muslim born between 1312 and 1340 by the Ottoman calendar was to be conscripted.² I was among those called and prepared for my second spell of military service. Within the restrictions, we saw one advantage: conscripts could leave the town while the other Jews remained confined to it.

I was ready to depart when the recruiting officer informed me that I would not go with the others; skilled tradesmen would be summoned separately later. I stayed in Başkale while the rest were sent to Manisa and Akhisar for road work.³ Some regarded this as a relief, for older men were being sent to Aşkale.

The recruiting commander was then living on the ground floor of our house. Many people could not understand why I had not gone. Sabri, nicknamed “the Madman” and a deputy leader of the Ertoşi tribe, came to the officer and openly threatened that if he sent me to the army he would soon “find himself in the mountains.” He introduced himself as Sharafan Ertoşi. The officer replied that he had no intention of sending me.

The other conscripts were released after six months to spend the winter at home, though they remained liable to recall. In spring they were summoned again, and this time I decided to join them. Fourteen Jews left Başkale, some on foot and some on horseback, for Garzan; from there we took the train to Manisa. Everyone wore uniform except me, still in civilian clothes.

On the journey my friends tried to calm my anxiety. We would share every task, they promised—work, washing, and kitchen duty. On arrival we were assigned to units. My thirteen townsmen returned to Unit 21, while I was separated from them and sent with nine other recruits to Unit 20. None of us had expected this. At the station they embraced me one by one and wept. The farewell lasted more than half an hour, until men from my new unit told them they were not leaving me among enemies and that I would have friends here too.

We reached camp in the evening and were issued a tent to pitch on muddy ground. Then we went to the stores for bedding. I stood aside and waited. The others argued with the storekeeper, who handed out old blankets, torn mattresses, and worn pillows. “Dry them, stuff them with straw, and manage,” he said, closing the door.

After dark the storekeeper noticed me and asked why I had not approached him. He told me to return when night had deepened. When I did, he gave me a thick straw-filled mattress, a sheet, a full pillow, tent canvas to lay beneath the mattress against the damp, and another blanket. I thanked him and carried everything to our tent. My companions marvelled at the new equipment; I spread the canvas and blanket so that all of us could benefit.

There was a parade the next morning. The officer sent us to the bathhouse, told us to complete equipment forms, and ordered each man to take a pick and hoe. The ten of us formed a squad. Every morning 340 men set out to work in squads of twelve. Ours was led by Ciray, an Armenian engineer serving as a private. Five Kurdish privates acted as overseers, and Adnan, a reserve officer and water engineer, accompanied us.

Our squad included four Assyrian farmers from Diyarbakır—quick, energetic men skilled with a hoe—and five Rum Greeks from Istanbul.⁴ The Assyrians worked well on the first day. I too understood something of such labour and did my share and more. The supervisor inspected the work that evening and was pleased.

The next day, though I was not obliged to labour, I carted away excess earth. I had seen the Kurdish supervisors strike men who stood idle, so I worked without pause. One of them called out, “You in the white shirt—do not work so hard.” I replied that I was the squad leader and worked because I wished to. He liked the answer and drew Ciray’s attention to me.

When asked my occupation, I quickly said that I had been a contractor. I explained that I had approved building work in the municipal construction office and showed my papers. The officer was impressed and appointed me leader of the first squad. Rather than carry out the main earthworks, we would follow the other squads and correct defects.

Our output was the lowest in camp by quantity, but our workmanship was the finest. We received commendations, and the officer took pride that his unit ranked first among them all.