On the morning of December 4th, 1945, a government-orchestrated mob of thousands, swinging pick axes and sledgehammers, destroyed the Sertels’ powerful Tan publishing house as the police watched on. Tan’s destruction became an international event . But the only people put on trial were the Sertels. In the following section, Sabiha describes life in prison as she and Zekeriya await trial.
Period 10: The Founding of the Democrat Party and the Arrests
The women’s prison was an ideal place for conducting social research. I spoke to the inmates every day, listening to why they’d committed their crimes and ended up in prison. There were three rooms on my landing. One was an enormous hall full of bunk beds. It held around thirty beds, with sixty women sleeping in them. When there were too many inmates, two people slept in the same bed. The other ward was smaller. Because the rooms were cold, the women took their braziers to the entrance hall and cooked there. The heavy smell of charcoal filled every room.
There were only two or three murderesses in the prison. The majority of the inmates were thieves and prostitutes. Heroin addicts were a case study in and of themselves. I was a novelty to all of them. They found it extraordinary that a female journalist had been thrown into prison.
The first night I was there, two women came to my room. ‘We prepared a show for you tonight,’ they said. ‘Would you come?’
There were only two or three murderesses in the prison. The majority of the inmates were thieves and prostitutes. Heroin addicts were a case study in and of themselves. I was a novelty to all of them. They found it extraordinary that a female journalist had been thrown into prison.
The first night I was there, two women came to my room. ‘We prepared a show for you tonight,’ they said. ‘Would you come?’
I went along. All women had gathered at the top of the stairs, some of them sitting on the stairs, some on the floor. A few held self-made instruments to accompany the singer, Nuriye, who’d been a famous bar performer. She sang the song ‘Kır Belini Alidayı’.3 The others kept time and sang along. Even now, whenever I hear this song, I remember my prison days.
3 TN: Roughly,‘Shake your hips, Uncle Ali’.
Nuriye was in prison for murdering an officer she’d loved. Slowly, I got to know all the prominent inmates. I wrote their petitions to the prosecutor and read out the letters they received. They came to me for advice on everything.
The noisiest day in prison was hamam [Turkish bath] day. To go to the hamam, we’d take our bags and pass through the men’s courtyard. On the way back, the male prisoners would line up on both sides of our path and hand the women letters and heroin. Back in their own quarters, the women would fight over the heroin and love letters. They’d scream and shout, jump on each other, tear out each other’s hair, and rough each other up. Occasionally, the fighting grew so bad that Aliye Hanım had to blow her whistle and call in the gendarmes. It was amusing to see fighting women separated by gendarmes. Sometimes, the women returned to their wards covered in blood.
One night, they invited me over to the big ward. They told me it was trial night; once a month, they held a session to interrogate new arrivals. I saw them put a large desk in the middle of the ward. Three women sat down at it, a chief judge and two other members of the court. Another woman sat across from them, pretending to take minutes. Two inmates were brought before the court. One of them was in prison for stealing, the other for prostitution. The judge first spoke to the thief, asking her why she had stolen.
‘I have three children,’ the woman answered. ‘I’m a widow and can’t find work. I stole to feed my children.’ She never tried to deny her crime.
The second inmate said the following:
I used to work at a factory and as a charwoman. When I lost my jobs, a woman in the neighbourhood convinced me to start selling myself. The job brought in more money than all the others. The police arrested me for unlicensed prostitution. There are hundreds of women who work in licensed brothels, and the police don’t touch them. But they jailed me for not having a licence.
The women playing the judges knew the proper procedure from their many sessions in court. After listening to the culprits, they started whispering among themselves. Then, the chief judge stood up. She sentenced the prostitute to five years and the thief to three. When the culprits heard the verdict, all hell broke loose. The woman sentenced to five years demanded to know why prostitution was a greater crime than theft.
‘I’m the one selling myself!’ she yelled. ‘What’s it to the police or the government? I’m okay with it, and the men I see are okay with it too! So what’s it to them? I’m not stealing anyone’s property. Theft is the real crime!’
Now the thief started yelling.
‘I’m stealing because I have to,’ she said. ‘What’s your excuse for disobeying the government?’
The argument grew. The other thieves and prostitutes in the ward each stood up for their companion. Finally, they all fell upon each other, hitting one another and ripping out each other’s hair. Aliye Hanım blew her whistle, and the gendarmes stormed inside. The women attacked the gendarmes as well. I escaped to my room.
Sociologists and psychologists write volumes on the issue of crime and punishment. But these women, with their highly realistic approach, solved the issue in a matter of minutes. In a capitalist society, it wasn’t a crime for a woman to sell her flesh. But the government issued licences and confined the profession to brothels. If selling one’s flesh wasn’t illegal, why was it a crime to do it without a licence? The thief ’s reasoning was equally sound: if a woman with three children couldn’t find a job, what could she do but steal?
Once a week, the inmates were allowed family visits. On such occasions, they and their families lined up on opposite sides of the iron bars. We were exempt from this rule and could receive visitors every day. Zekeriya, Cami Baykut, Halil Lütfi and some imprisoned merchants met their guests in a room next to the warden’s office. I joined them there in the afternoons to talk to the visitors. One day, A. M., an imprisoned merchant, told me about a female inmate. Her name was Madame Atina, and she’d been the owner of Beyoğlu’s most luxurious brothel.
‘Talk to her,’ he said. ‘She can tell you many political secrets.’
I made friends with Madame Atina. She was a rather beautiful middle-aged woman. The police had been extorting her at the brothel. When she hadn’t paid the amount they demanded, they’d found a pretext to lock her up.
I made my own tea in the mornings, so I invited her over one day. After some trivial questions, I asked if any statesmen and prominent people visited her establishment.
‘Just a few,’ she said. ‘Usually, they told us to set up a big table for them. They ate, drank and talked, spreading their documents out on the table and calculating things. More often than not, they brought along some German military officers. The Germans put bundles and bundles of dollars on the table. They didn’t let us inside, so I observed them through a crack in the door.’
‘Who came, for instance?’
‘S. K. H., the Secretary General of the People’s Party; General Ş. N.; and S. S. from the Foreign Ministry.’
Each time we spoke, Madame Atina gave me more names. It was clear that important people found her establishment safe for conducting such transactions. But soon, she started avoiding me. One day, we met in the courtyard.
‘I can’t come to your room anymore,’ she said.‘I was called to the Police Directorate. They forbade me to talk to you.’
I laughed. It seemed the police had grown suspicious of our conversations.
The noisiest day in prison was hamam [Turkish bath] day. To go to the hamam, we’d take our bags and pass through the men’s courtyard. On the way back, the male prisoners would line up on both sides of our path and hand the women letters and heroin. Back in their own quarters, the women would fight over the heroin and love letters. They’d scream and shout, jump on each other, tear out each other’s hair, and rough each other up. Occasionally, the fighting grew so bad that Aliye Hanım had to blow her whistle and call in the gendarmes. It was amusing to see fighting women separated by gendarmes. Sometimes, the women returned to their wards covered in blood.
One night, they invited me over to the big ward. They told me it was trial night; once a month, they held a session to interrogate new arrivals. I saw them put a large desk in the middle of the ward. Three women sat down at it, a chief judge and two other members of the court. Another woman sat across from them, pretending to take minutes. Two inmates were brought before the court. One of them was in prison for stealing, the other for prostitution. The judge first spoke to the thief, asking her why she had stolen.
‘I have three children,’ the woman answered. ‘I’m a widow and can’t find work. I stole to feed my children.’ She never tried to deny her crime.
The second inmate said the following:
I used to work at a factory and as a charwoman. When I lost my jobs, a woman in the neighbourhood convinced me to start selling myself. The job brought in more money than all the others. The police arrested me for unlicensed prostitution. There are hundreds of women who work in licensed brothels, and the police don’t touch them. But they jailed me for not having a licence.
The women playing the judges knew the proper procedure from their many sessions in court. After listening to the culprits, they started whispering among themselves. Then, the chief judge stood up. She sentenced the prostitute to five years and the thief to three. When the culprits heard the verdict, all hell broke loose. The woman sentenced to five years demanded to know why prostitution was a greater crime than theft.
‘I’m the one selling myself!’ she yelled. ‘What’s it to the police or the government? I’m okay with it, and the men I see are okay with it too! So what’s it to them? I’m not stealing anyone’s property. Theft is the real crime!’
Now the thief started yelling.
‘I’m stealing because I have to,’ she said. ‘What’s your excuse for disobeying the government?’
The argument grew. The other thieves and prostitutes in the ward each stood up for their companion. Finally, they all fell upon each other, hitting one another and ripping out each other’s hair. Aliye Hanım blew her whistle, and the gendarmes stormed inside. The women attacked the gendarmes as well. I escaped to my room.
Sociologists and psychologists write volumes on the issue of crime and punishment. But these women, with their highly realistic approach, solved the issue in a matter of minutes. In a capitalist society, it wasn’t a crime for a woman to sell her flesh. But the government issued licences and confined the profession to brothels. If selling one’s flesh wasn’t illegal, why was it a crime to do it without a licence? The thief ’s reasoning was equally sound: if a woman with three children couldn’t find a job, what could she do but steal?
Once a week, the inmates were allowed family visits. On such occasions, they and their families lined up on opposite sides of the iron bars. We were exempt from this rule and could receive visitors every day. Zekeriya, Cami Baykut, Halil Lütfi and some imprisoned merchants met their guests in a room next to the warden’s office. I joined them there in the afternoons to talk to the visitors. One day, A. M., an imprisoned merchant, told me about a female inmate. Her name was Madame Atina, and she’d been the owner of Beyoğlu’s most luxurious brothel.
‘Talk to her,’ he said. ‘She can tell you many political secrets.’
I made friends with Madame Atina. She was a rather beautiful middle-aged woman. The police had been extorting her at the brothel. When she hadn’t paid the amount they demanded, they’d found a pretext to lock her up.
I made my own tea in the mornings, so I invited her over one day. After some trivial questions, I asked if any statesmen and prominent people visited her establishment.
‘Just a few,’ she said. ‘Usually, they told us to set up a big table for them. They ate, drank and talked, spreading their documents out on the table and calculating things. More often than not, they brought along some German military officers. The Germans put bundles and bundles of dollars on the table. They didn’t let us inside, so I observed them through a crack in the door.’
‘Who came, for instance?’
‘S. K. H., the Secretary General of the People’s Party; General Ş. N.; and S. S. from the Foreign Ministry.’
Each time we spoke, Madame Atina gave me more names. It was clear that important people found her establishment safe for conducting such transactions. But soon, she started avoiding me. One day, we met in the courtyard.
‘I can’t come to your room anymore,’ she said.‘I was called to the Police Directorate. They forbade me to talk to you.’
I laughed. It seemed the police had grown suspicious of our conversations.