Today we have another letter from Helene’s time in Istanbul while she was waiting to get the money and passage to America. This is the only letter where she describes life outside of being confined to whatever lodging she was assigned. She still seems to be a prisoner, since she was assigned a “minder” to help her run her errand. Who knows how much of his job was to help Helene and how much was to watch her?
For readability’s sake, I have added paragraph breaks and done some slight editing.
Istanbul, 4 February 1946
My dear children,
It is an unwritten law that all people who go on big trips either write books or at least they write newspaper articles in which they give their impressions for the public to read. I am of course not such a loose cannon, but I cannot fail to describe Istanbul to you as I have seen it with my own eyes. Every normal traveler to the Orient would begin by describing the wonderful mosques, he would make an attempt to describe life on the street, he would praise the beauty of the Bosporus, and such things. I am not doing this. First of all, there has been enough paper used up for that, and certainly by more competent writers. Second of all, I have not really seen that much yet – I’ve only seen a little bit. Why? Well, that is my secret. What I have seen and how I have seen it I will tell you in the Viennese-style like we talk around the water tap.
I arrived from R [Ravensbrück] with a small weekend suitcase in which I had my food rations for two days tucked away. In Göteborg, I got a warm winter coat and dress, things which were useful for me on the long ship trip, but which I had to store away here in this warm climate. I decided to buy a suitcase as soon as I had a chance to do so.
When I got communication from the American consulate that my visa had arrived and that I should come over with my photos, then I made my decision. Today, now or never, the suitcase will be acquired. It was raining torrentially. The locals were in their raincoats, rubber boots, and umbrellas and they looked at me with my sandals, with nothing on my head, as I was calmly and leisurely walking across the Galata bridge towards Pera. Why was I walking? I was already so wet anyway that there was no danger that my clothes would be taking on more water than they already had. And besides, the little sandals I had put on were breaking up into their parts and the passersby and I were stepping on the shoe straps, and walking was only possible when I pressed my toes into the sole so that the shoes would not fall off my feet.
My escort seemed to be wearing these magical “seven league boots” [from European folklore] and once in a while he turned around to me because he didn’t understand why I was walking as if on eggshells. I finally arrived at the tunnel and since I didn’t have shoes on anymore, my footwear seemed like flippers or fins. After I had taken care of this business, I swam to a Caddessi [Turkish for “street”] which was parallel to the tunnel. My attendant took me to a store at which a man from the Committee [the Joint] had already bought quite a few suitcases. The store was on one of those streets where the sidewalks are like staircases and the road is crooked and has quite a steep ascent to it, like the middle of the staircase up to Belvedere Gardens. When I looked down from Pera and saw the descent, I remembered that I had a cord in my handbag. I tied under the water reservoir which was under my feet so that it sprinkled me and I recommended to the Herr (I don’t mean the man who was with me - I mean the Lord God) my soul and my feet. Every step down was like a pond in itself. The middle of the street was, for some reason unknown to me, torn up. At first, I hopped like a chamois who had St. Vitus’ dance, zigzag from one curbstone to another, and there seemed to be no end to this path and my mountain guide bellowed at me: “Madame Cohen, why don’t you walk more quickly?” I changed the way I walked and decided to toe dance like a ballerina …, but I already felt that I was getting a cramp in my calf so I stomped according to all the rules of my art through the puddles so that the passersby shrank back as if I were rabid.
Finally, we had reached the suitcase store. I knew about the price and I chose a suitcase. The proprietor required 30 lire - I had 17 - and I was determined not to spend another kurush more. My adjutant would have lent me 3 more lire so I’d have 20. He wanted to make me an advance of that and the salesman had come down on the price. I remained tough like Shylock. I put my cash on the table and I pointed to it with my finger. I must have looked like an angry archangel, because the proprietor who had been quite unfriendly up until then and only reluctantly took down some suitcases from the top shelf for me, suddenly changed his tactics and became what counts for polite around here. My impatient interpreter explained to me that the Ladenhüter [proprietor] had decided that he would give me his Ladenhüter [slow selling merchandise - pun]. You cannot pay 19 lire when I only have 17 and I had a very firm intention not to borrow money as long as I was not in a position to earn any myself.
My suitcase dealer seemed to be quite a psychologist and he noted that I had broken off diplomatic relations and he wanted me to pay one more kurush for this transaction. To show his goodwill or maybe his contempt, he took 1 lira out of his vest pocket and put it on the table with my 17. Quickly he grabbed his lire as he saw that I was looking like I was going to put my money away. With the rather haughty expression of an insulted queen, I left the store and I pointed with my finger with my revenge angelic (not English) [a play on words] toward the competing store which was catty corner across the street. I balanced my way across the torn-up street and got to the other side. Suddenly I felt that someone was taking my arm and holding me back. At first, I thought somebody was trying to save me from falling into a hole. And then I saw that it was my suitcase salesman, of whom I would not have thought such agility possible, who was bringing me back into his store. He made a weak attempt to get another half lira out of me, but he decided to forget it and give me with Spanish grandeur the object of contention. In no way did he want to allow the competition to get any business. My Polish-Russian-Jewish attendant accompanying me suddenly held me in high esteem. While before he had criticized me for the strange way I was walking, not to say that he was disgusted at me for it, now he said to me “Madame Cohen, you’re quite a hit!” I left the store and I was ashamed. Not because for the first time in my life I asked for a lower price for something, not because I only had 17 lire, but because I’d believed that I’d been cheated, because the salesperson looked at me rather triumphantly. In between then and now, several months have passed, the suitcase is still intact, and I am still looking for the drawback. The bag is all right but I think I paid too much for it.