Into the Wild Blue Below

This is the sixties, there is no bridge to Asia. Trucks wait days to cross on ferries from mid-night to five a. m. I am at The American School For Girls in Ushkadar. This is the oldest part of Istanbul, on the Asian side. In case you are geographically challenged, this is the border between Europe and Asia. So every day I get on a ferry and cross from Asia to Europe in twenty-five minutes and three cups of Chi (tea) to wonder and roam the Bazaar in the center of the old city established in about 330AD by Constantine the Great.

But this is about the school. It’s the elite school for young ladies from seventh grade through high school. They can board or day trip. The boarders are usually very bright but poor girls from the villages. The day trippers are the kids of parents who give great sums of money. So, of course some of them are not really bright, but they are powerful. Most arrive in limos with armed guards. So it goes.

All subject matter is taught in English. If you want to be a doctor, lawyer, etc, you have to know English. At least at this time, because all the textbooks for those occupations were only available in English. The school is staffed by educated church members. I want to forgo mentioning their denomination. So it goes. They’ve been there over a century. Doing wonderful work, but when I showed up, the government was trying to do away with all foreign schools. But . . .ah yes, there were too many politicians daughters going here, so the school had a break. There could be no outside improvements, so in time the place would fall down, but not while their kids were there. Typical of that breed, no?

Now to the meat. There was a math teacher who had a four year old son. Obbie was fluent
in Turkish, English and German. So he was the designated translator when you really wanted to buy things at the Bazaar. He and his dad lived on the third floor of the dormitory. They had a balcony overlooking the mall. There was inside construction in progress so there were piles of sand and dirt all about.

One day I looked out my bathroom window while shaving and I saw Obbie leaning over the balcony rail, and then slowly, like in the movies, tumble over it and fall three stories. Lathered and stripped to the waist I rushed down three flights contemplating death or mutilation. So I was amazed and angry when I saw the gardener holding the kid in his arms! ‘You never touch someone who has fallen this distance! I scream as I dash over to the bench where the gardener sits holding the kid on his lap. Obbie looks fine except for all the black soil in his hair and jammed in his ears and nose.

The gardener is terrified. I’m an American professor! His eyes plead. I glare, start investigating Obbie’s injuries. There seem to be none! But he’s gazing at me with pleading eyes. So I bend over and ask if he’s okay and he says he’s good but is there something I can do for him? Besides the hospital exam ? I mutter to myself. Then the gardener speaks. ‘ Sir. When I came to Pasha Bey Obbie, I thought he was dead, but he looked at me and smiled. Then he got up and I carried him over here. While I was doing this, he asked me if I would do a favor.’ When I asked what Obbie took over. ‘ Please don’t tell Daddy.’ Of course I did. Obbie was rushed to the best hospital in Istanbul. The next day he came home. Nothing! Not even a bruise! Not a scratch! Just nice black dirt in his thick eyebrows and under his little finger nails. So it goes. I spent maybe ten minutes looking at that balcony, then I went up to their rooms, stepped out on it and looked down. There was no way anyone could fall that far and not end up at least crippled for life. His father came out, said it was the work of the Lord. I kept my mouth shut. No matter. It was weeks before I could shave without staring at that balcony. Next up . . .Amsterdam!