“Welcome, welcome,” he says, clearing the phlegm from his throat. With a lazy wrist he gestures for them to sit, which they decline, then sags back into his chair. “So,” he says fingering the letter, “you’ve come to get some girls.”
“Yes,” Begum Șenay nods, her bosom manoeuvring itself to eye level. “I need half a dozen women to help in the home and my friend here needs a handful as seamstresses. She’s sewing for the war effort. Uniforms,” she indicates Khatoun behind her.
The officer looks them over and nods. “Good. Take them. Less for me to deal with.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out tobacco and papers and rolls a cigarette, ignoring the one burning in front of him. “My duty is to safeguard the security of our borders. These people are spies, subversives and troublemakers – the o
