English translation of "El Apartmento Andjelo"

The Appartment named "Angel"

Roz Kohen

I lived about twenty years in an apartment named Angel near the Galata tower in Istanbul. My parents had moved into this apartment before we were born, when the Second World War had just started. It was named Melek, which means Angel in Turkish. The six floor building had two apartments on every floor, a sideways view of the famous Golden Horn, and a terrace on the top floor that served as the roof top.

This building had existed for over a century and still had wooden stairs, even though the structure was made of stone and iron. Once a white stone building it had now turned gray and dirty. Its name too, seemed to be in contrast with its neglected appearance. Even then it seemed that the building was tired of its long past as it had been home to so many generations of Jewish inhabitants who had come to live and eventually left for better neighborhoods. The narrow windows were covered with dark colored blinds. This was the standard window dressing, during the world war years; the purpose was to protect the city from air attacks. Even though the wars were over and the city was safe, the blinds were kept out of convenience by the tenants of the apartment. Pigeons were the frequent visitors of those somber windows where an occasional garden rue pot withstood the four seasons.

Mehmet was the concierge. We called him the door keeper. He and his family were the only Moslem inhabitants of the apartment and they lived in one room in the basement. Next to their windowless room were the coal and wood storage rooms. This was the winter supply that the 12 renters of the building kept so that they could burn in their stoves during the winter season.

Mehmet had come from a remote village yet he was in today’s terms the maintenance manager of the building. He helped the renters with his many services. He mopped the entrance and the wooden stairs all through the six floors, purchased everybody's bread and newspapers, and collected the garbage from all 12 apartments, brought the coal and wood to each floor as requested, and kept an eye at the door, making sure strangers did not wander into the building.

He was also the one to take all the kids to the Jewish school, Benei Berit, situated a block away. I remember his warm hand holding unto ours. Three kids walked on each side of him, as he carried our lunch boxes and heavier book bags and he would not let go until we entered the school premises. He was always on time, always had the same serious mission: to help us cross the busy avenue and make sure we made it on time to school.

I remember the winter nights; Mehmet locked the heavy iron door of the apartment. If we arrived past midnight from an outing to the Bosporus or a Movie at the Pera region we would ring the doorbell so that he would let us in. He would show up with his pajamas cloaked with his coat, respectfully unlocked the entrance door, let us in and went back to sleep.

The living room is where we spent most of our time. This room had a couch, 2 arm chairs, a radio, a dining room table, 4 chairs and the charcoal stove, leaving barely room to move around. It is from this room that we observed the lives of neighbors that lived in the apartment across the street: Mrs. Sevi, The Almoslinos, Mr and Mrs Behar.

"There you go: she just took out all her winter clothes to the balcony...she is going to air her clothes...I think they must have had an engagement party. I can see they have a wreath of flowers...what happened to the mother in law? Poor thing she kept calling them at no avail and no one showed up to help her carry her groceries...see Elvira's fiancée, he has been smoking in the balcony leaving the door open. They are going to freeze to death... "

When we climbed up the stairs to the sixth floor roof top balcony, this was the most exciting event of the week! My mother would borrow the key to the balcony from Mehmet the concierge and we would climb up slowly carrying the basket full of wet laundry. The roof top was also where Zimbul the hair dresser and her blind sister Ester lived. As we arrived to the roof top to hang the clothes the two would open the door of their one bedroom apartment and enjoyed visiting and talking about their daily lives.

Crazy Arditti was one of the most mysterious personalities of the neighborhood. I would safely observe him from the roof top balcony, without being noticed. Arditti walked by like a shadow, he always wore a heavy black coat, a fedora hat and he was bearded. There were colorful strings attached to the buttons of his somber and worn out coat. He walked slowly and stepped on the cobbled stone road carefully, he talked to himself as he smiled and nodded. He seemed scared and sad, all to himself in his lonely world; always his hands in the coat’s pockets as if he had a huge secret. My mother always felt sorry for him and would tell us that he was a mathematical genius when he was young, at the same Jewish school Benei Berit where many generations were schooled.

I would look downward from the roof top observing the street’s both ends and watch the activities of the street vendors, the neighbors shopping, the carts, the cars, the used cloth sellers and the boats on the golden horn. The bird view of the roof top allowed me to see the residents of the neighborhood shake their Turkish carpets, the children playing in the street all without being noticed! This secure feeling was with the view of the neighborhood surely was the proof that the apartment was the center of the world. Thus I was lost in this visual feast and time went by fast. As mother finished hanging the clothes we headed back downstairs clacking our wooden heeled slippers on the wooden old stairs.

When Passover arrived we would stretch the dining room table and up to fifteen of us could sit to read the Haggadah and to eat the wonderful Passover dishes all prepared in the kosher tradition. The old armoire turned into a magical one when the porcelain Passover plates and the red wine glasses appeared. The small living room was quickly transformed into a palace hall and the Passover feast to one of the one thousand and one fairy tales lavish dinners.

In the recent years I visited Istanbul three times. The first time I visited the old apartment and even climbed its stairs with my two young daughters. The second time I could not get around the metro construction that was going on in the area and could not look at the apartment closely. Two years following to that visit, my cousin sent me an email telling me the apartment had suddenly collapsed. The inhabitants had long deserted this century old apartment and the collapse had taken place during the night causing no further damages. I did not believe the news; I thought that she was surely mistaken. Such a majestic building; so strong and stern, so large, it was to be there till eternity!
Yet my cousin was not mistaken. On my last visit of the apartment named Angel, I found the huge wreckage where the apartment used to be. The pile of stones instead stood silently, ready for the clean-up to be part of the history leaving no witnesses behind.

Yet, years later very far from Istanbul, in the city of St. Louis in the heart of the United States, where I live in a huge house surrounded by a large green and wooded area, in my reoccurring dreams I always find the apartment named “Angel”.

Its entrance door is wide open. The neighbors, just as it used to be, are busy with their lives. Mehmet the concierge greets me excitedly. The knowledge that the old apartment had collapsed becomes distant. I find the place in better shape than I ever remember it to be. I find great comfort in my dream.