When the coach set off, the crowd of onlookers in front of the hotel all held out their crosses and pointed two fingers at me. A few moments later I asked someone in the coach what it meant. He did not wish to answer at first, but when he understood that I was a Turk, a stranger, he explained that it was to guard against the “evil eye.” For a poor outsider who was about to meet a strange man in this unknown country, this did not feel good at all. But the people around me all looked so kind, sincere, and compassionate that I could not help but feel the bittersweet sorrow in my heart begin to melt away.
Our driver cracked his long whip. The coach began to hurtle down the road. The landscape was wonderful. As I watched it, I forgot all about the hotel and everything that transpired there.
It was these valleys, forest paths, narrow passes, and rugged rocks that the moustachioed, hawk-eyed, steel-armed Turkish heroes passed with their steeds, carrying their green and red flags, battling the unknown, the barbarians, the highland nations, crushing the knights whose armor was as black as their horses as though they were crushing glass, reaching all the way up to the foggy, icy Baltic sea, thinking, “Not long to go before the Red Apple!”[6]
The road we took was steep. But the coach was traveling very fast and the driver was doing his best to go even faster. And sometimes images of Istanbul, my dear home, with its blue skies, familiar landscapes, and pretty faces under the glittering springtime sun would suddenly flash before my eyes. Then I would ask myself, “Am I dreaming?”
I understood why the driver was hurrying. He wanted to be through the famous Burgo Pass as quickly as possible. From what I had heard, this storied passage would be in fairly good condition in the summer. But at this time the rubble caused by the winter snow and floods had not yet been cleared. It is almost a historical tradition here that the roads are not kept clean and open to travel. When the Turkish sword was still sharp and Turkish rule still in place, the hospodars, princes of Erdel Transylvania, would avoid clearing and repairing the roads. For if they were repaired, the Turks would suspect the Transylvanians of calling for Polish and German allies to join forces against them, and they would break the truce and start a war.
In front of us, the dark forest ran through the high hills of the Carpathian mountain range. The afternoon sunlight created beautiful dark and light shapes where it fell over the undulating forest.
As the coach climbed the road, which wriggled like a snake beneath the hills, one of the passengers touched me and pointed out a very high snowy mountain on the horizon. He said in German, “Look, this is Isten-sezek, the seat of God,” and immediately crossed himself.
Through the evening we encountered unusual-looking Czechs and Slovaks along our way. There were many crosses erected on either side of the road. As we passed them my fellow travelers all crossed themselves. It was as though they were trying to protect themselves from the coming evil.
Toward the evening the weather grew colder. As the sun set, a black fog and an icy darkness began to fall.
We started to climb toward the Burgo Pass on a steep road, through dark forests. At times we encountered places so steep that the horses had trouble pulling the coach, despite the cracking of the whip.
When darkness fell there was visible worry among the passengers. They spoke repeatedly to the driver, and they were apparently urging him to go faster. He lashed the horses mercilessly with his whip. Some time later the road ahead of us appeared to improve. Two imposing mountains on either side drew nearer the coach. We were now entering the Burgo Pass.
The passengers’ worry and fidgeting had increased. They gave me strange looks and craned their heads out of the coach to look about.
We travelled along this narrow path for a while and finally came to the eastern exit of the passage.
Now I too stuck out my head, in search of the coach that I had been notified would be sent by Count Dracula. I was hoping that any moment I would see its lights in the pitch black darkness surrounding us. But there was not yet any such thing in sight.
The driver looked at his watch, then spoke a few words to the passengers in his broken German. He did it in such a low voice that I could barely hear it. I think he said that there was an hour left until the appointed time! Then he turned to me:
“Turk Effendi, as you can see there is no coach waiting for you; it seems they have forgotten. It is best if you come to Bukovina with us tonight; you can go back tomorrow or the next day.”
As he spoke, the coach’s horses began to neigh and stamp. This forced the driver to tighten the reins with all his might. At the same time, the passengers made noises of fear and worry, and as they crossed themselves a four-horsed coach, known as a Kalsin, drew up next to us.
With the help of the lights on our coach, I saw that all four horses on the other were as black as coal from head to toe and were beautiful animals. The coach was driven by man with a long, black beard and a black hat with a wide brim. This wide black hat obscured his face from me completely. But as his head turned toward us, I was able see by the light of the coach a pair of crimson eyes. The man said to our driver:
“My friend, tonight you are an hour early!”
The driver tried to answer, stammering:
“The Turk Effendi was in a great hurry.”
The stranger interrupted him:
“Yes, that must be why you were deceiving him, trying to take him to Bukovina. You cannot fool me, my friend. I know much more than you do, and my horses are swift!”
The newcomer smiled as he spoke these words, and the coach’s lights revealed a hard-looking mouth. Its lips were a vivid red and the ivory white teeth looked extremely sharp. When the stranger finished the words, “and my horses are swift!” one of the passengers near me turned to his friend and quoted Bürger’s “Lenore,” whispering:
“For the dead travel fast!”
I do not know how the owner of those four horses heard this softly-recited line. But I saw him look aside with a gleaming smile, and the passenger who received the look crossed himself instantly, putting up his two fingers as I saw outside the hotel.
“Give the Effendi’s luggage to me!” the stranger said. My belongings were carried quickly from our coach into the other; I descended too. Since the new
carriage was already standing next to ours, the man in black held my arm to assist me. His grip was like a steel clamp. The owner of this hand must have had terrible strength. I climbed into the new coach. The stranger shook the reins without a word and the carriage turned around. We flew off into the dark abyss of the Burgo Pass.
As I looked back instinctively, I saw the horses by the lights of the old coach, steam radiating from their backs, and the passengers all crossing themselves. Then the driver cracked his long whip and called to his animals, and the mail coach started back on its way toward Bukovina.
Once my former companions were lost in the darkness of the night, a cold shiver passed through my body and a feeling of deep solitude and desolation settled in my heart. But in the intervening time, a cloak and blanket were thrown over me and the driver said in perfect German: