Forty Days of Musa Dagh (15 page)

 

 

"You are the Protestant pastor, Aram Tomasian, native of Yoghonoluk,
near Alexandretta?" The colonel growled this warrant of apprehension
before he hurled himself on the victim. "You leave with the last convoy,
tomorrow morning. In the direction Marash-Aleppo. You understand?"

 

 

"I'm ready."

 

 

"I didn't ask if you were ready. . . . Your wife and other relatives to
accompany you. You are to take only such baggage as you can carry.
You will receive, as far as it is possible to supply it, a daily ration
of one hundred direms of bread. You are permitted to purchase extra supplies.
Any attempt to leave your column of march without permission will be
punished by the officer in charge; with death, in the case of a second
infringement. The use of vehicles is forbidden."

 

 

"My wife is expecting a child," said Aram quietly.

 

 

This seemed to amuse the bimbashi. "You ought to have thought of that
before." He glanced again at his papers. "The pupils of your orphanage,
as Armenian children, are naturally not exempt from transportation. They
are to hold themselves in readiness punctually, and in full muster --
they and the whole staff of your institution."

 

 

Pastor Aram retreated a step. "May I ask if any provision is to be made
for these hundred innocent children? A great many of them are under
ten years of age, and have never undertaken a long march. And children
need milk."

 

 

It is not your place to ask questions, Pastor!" the colonel shouted.
"You're here to take my orders. For the last week you've been living in
a military area."

 

 

Had this bellow made the pastor break down in terror, the bimbashi,
from superlative heights, might perhaps have conceded him his goats.
But Aram continued, quietly stubborn: "I shall therefore arrange for our
herd of goats to be driven out, so that the children may get their milk
as usual."

 

 

"You'll keep your insolent mouth shut, Pastor, and knuckle under."

 

 

"Moreover, Effendi, I make you personally responsible for the orphanage
building, which is the inalienable property of American citizens, under
the protection of their ambassador."

 

 

At first the bimbashi could find no answer. This threat seemed to have had
its effect. Such gods subdue their tinny voices as soon as higher gods come
into sight. After a long and, for a colonel, rather disastrous pause,
he spluttered: "Do you know that I can tread on you like an insect? I have
only to breathe, and you never so much as existed."

 

 

"I won't prevent you," said Pastor Aram, and meant what he said, for a
monstrous longing for death had overwhelmed him.

 

 

Later, when Aram, Hovsannah and Iskuhi were asked which moment of their
exile had seemed the worst, they all three answered: "The minutes when
we were waiting for our transport to get under way." It was an instant
in which their actual, concrete wretchedness seemed only half as acute
as a kind of heavy desolation, a primitive horror within their blood,
some awakened memory of a dim primal age before security of domicile had
been won as a legal right, so that now this mass of a thousand people,
dishonored, helpless, fused into one, not only felt the final loss of all
its possessions, the onslaught of the perils of life, but became aware
beneath all this of itself as a collective entity, a people robbed of
the rewards of centuries of effort, the cultural fruits of a thousand
years. Pastor Aram and the two women had fallen a prey to this general,
unfathomable melancholy.

 

 

An overcast day of low-hung clouds, which veiled the familiar heads of
the mountains of Zeitun: far better than a sunny day to march on.
But this outward gloom of the day seemed to load down the backs of the
exiles more heavily than any of the bundles they had been permitted
to take with them. This first step had something deeply significant,
something sacred, in its sheer terror, and which flashed upon every
soul like lightning. Families herded close together. Not a word, not
even the crying of a child. But already, after the first half-hour,
when the last outlying houses were behind them, these people felt a
certain relief. The primitive childishness of all humans, their poignant,
frivolous faculty of forgetfulness, gained the upper hand for a certain
time. As a single timid chirrup is heard at daybreak, and instantly the
whole choir has joined it, soon, above the heads of this whole transport,
there arose an entangled skein of jagged children's voices. The mothers
quieted them. Even the men called out this or that to one another. Here
and there a faint laugh was already heard. Many old people and children
were riding donkeys, also laden with bedding, coverlets, sacks. The
officer in charge allowed it to be. He seemed, on his own responsibility,
at his own peril, to wish to mitigate the harshness of this order of
banishment. Aram, too, had procured a donkey for his wife. But most
of the time they walked beside it, since she feared the joltings of
the ride. Although it would have been more prudent to send them on to
the head, the orphans brought up the rear of the convoy. After them
came only the herd of goats, which the pastor, neglecting orders, had
fearlessly caused to be driven forth. At first the children enjoyed it
all as an adventure, a delightful change. Iskuhi, who kept among them,
did her very best to encourage these high spirits. Nobody could have
seen the strain of her sleepless nights. Her face showed only delight
in the moment, the joy of life. Tender and weak as her body seemed, the
all-powerful resilience of her youth had surmounted everything. She even
tried to get the children to sing. It was a pleasant song from Yoghonoluk,
where people sang it at their work among vines and orchards. Iskuhi had
introduced it into the school at Zeitun.

 

 

"Days of misfortune pass and are gone,
Like the days of winter, they come and they go;
The sorrows of men do not last very long,
Like the buyers in shops, they come and go."

 

 

But Aram Tomasian came hurrying back at once to forbid their singing.
The young pastor covered twice or three times as much ground as the others.
He would be seen at the head of the convoy, then at the rear, among the
stragglers, always with his big gourd hung from a strap, out of which
he kept offering drinks of raki. And he gave out courage, cracked jokes,
adjusted differences, doing his best to bring some shape and order into
life, even such life as this. Everyone had a duty assigned him. Among the
craftsmen, for instance, shoemakers were entrusted with the task, during
every halt, of quickly repairing all broken shoes. Though there were very
few Protestants in the convoy, Tomasian was the only priest, since all the
Gregorians and Catholics had been sent forth in the first days. So that the
pastor had charge of all these souls. He evolved his own particular method
of making these exiles keep up their courage. Only what seems aimless is
unbearable; he knew that by his own experience. Therefore he kept repeating,
in a voice full of the stoutest confidence: "We shall be in Marash by
tomorrow evening. There, it will all be different. Probably we shall stay
there some time, till orders come to send us home again. And its as good
as certain we shall go home. The Istanbul government can't possibly be
behind all this. After all, we have deputies and national representation.
In three weeks from now it will all be arranged. But what matters most
is that you should all be well when we get to Marash and that we should
keep up our strength and courage."

 

 

Such speeches had a soothing effect, even on the naturally pessimistic,
on those who were too intelligent to believe in the innocence of the
central government. Despairing faces began to brighten. The miracle was
due not only to this rosily pictured future, but to an aim, a definite,
firmly defined thought: "We shall be in Marash tomorrow." In the long rests
the young officer in command of the Turkish escort showed himself a very
decent fellow. As soon as his men had finished their cooking, he offered
the pastor the use of their field-cookers, so that warm food could be
cooked for the weak and ailing. But, since tomorrow they would be in a
big town, even the strong did not trouble to economize their supplies.
And for the next few hours the march took on a new ease and confidence.

 

 

And when that evening they encamped in the open fields and stretched out,
weary to death, on their blankets, they could thank God that the first
day had passed off tolerably. Not far from their camp there was a big
village, called Tutlissek. In the night a few mountaineers, yailadjis,
came out of the village to visit the Turkish guards. The men squatted
together in dignified conference, gravely smoking, and seemed to be
discussing a serious matter. When, just before dawn, the Zeitunlis
awoke and went to collect their goats and donkeys, to water them, all
the beasts had vanished.

 

 

This was the first stroke of a cruel day. They had marched two hours
when the first death occurred in their ranks. An old man suddenly sank
to the ground. The convoy halted. The young and, as a rule, so friendly
officer came riding up in anger. "Get on!" A few tried to lift the old man
up. But they soon had to let him slip to the ground. A saptieh prodded him
with his foot. "Come on. Get up, you swindler." But he still lay on, with
open mouth, and turned-up eyes. His corpse was flung into the ditch. The
officer harried them: "No standing about. Forbidden. Get on. Get on." Not
all Aram's prayers, nor the howls of the family, could procure either
leave to carry the corpse, or a quick burial. It must suffice that they
raised the old man's head a little and placed big stones on either side
of him. There was no time left even to cross his hands on his chest,
since the saptiehs brandished their cudgels, cursing and driving on the
hesitant crowd. Panic descended on the transport -- a trotting run,
like a stampede, which only ceased when the corpse had been left far
behind and carrion birds from the Taurus came circling nearer it.

 

 

Scarcely had the horror of this first sacrifice been surmounted when
a yayli, a ponderous two-horsed coach, held up the convoy. It thrust
the exiles off the narrow highroad, into swampy fields. Inside it a
portly young gentleman of about twenty-five, with many rings on his
fingers. Carelessly he thrust a bejeweled hand through the carriage window
to present a document to the officer. It was a government order, duly
stamped, giving him the right to select one or several Armenian girls for
domestic purposes. Since his coach happened to be surrounded by orphans,
his jaded, benevolent eyes alighted on Iskuhi. He pointed his stick at
her, beckoned her to him with a smile. This important gentleman did not
consider himself in the least a violator of women, but their benefactor --
was he not ready to snatch one of these dirty creatures from her fate,
take her to his bosom, to that of his highly respected family, in his
dignified and secure town house? All the greater therefore his amazement
when the fair one, instead of taking happy refuge in his sheltering
arms, ran away from him with loud shrieks of "Aram." The coach pursued
her. Perhaps no reasons with which the pastor strove to protect his
sister would have availed. That he should have mentioned her European
upbringing was a mistake, born of desperation, since this served only
to put an edge on the ardor of her would-be protector. Only the sharp
intervention of the young commanding officer settled the matter. He
most unceremoniously tore up the suitor's government order, adding
that, as officer in charge, he alone had power to dispose of Armenian
convoys. Unless the Effendi instantly made himself scarce, both he and
his yayli would be arrested. He emphasized all this with a cut of his
riding-switch on the flanks of the horses. The corpulent benefactor,
wounded to the quick at having been balked in a good deed, clattered
on at a remorseless trot. Iskuhi soon recovered from the incident. Soon
she was seeing it as a joke, so that certain of its comic details made
her shout with laughter. But her amusement was not to last long.

 

 

That same afternoon it began with the sufferings of the orphans. It is
strange that these children should not singly have noticed their wounded
feet, but all together -- so that a sudden howling, whimpering, wailing,
which tore the women's heartstrings, filled the air. The easygoing young
officer, however, was ruthlessly in earnest on one point -- no rests or
delays over and above the regulations. He had orders to reach Marash
with his convoy two hours after sundown. This he was determined to
carry out punctually, though in all the rest he might use discretion,
often against the clear indications of his superiors. His professional
pride was involved in this. There could therefore be no question of any
halt for the children's bleeding feet to be dressed with oil.

 

 

"All that's no good to you. See that we get to Marash in time, then you
can dress your wounds. Forward."

 

 

There was nothing for it. Some of the children had to be carried. Here
even the weak Iskuhi distinguished herself, though soon she too was
involved in disaster.

 

 

Her brother had repeatedly warned her not to lag in the rear of the convoy,
or even among the orphans who composed it. It was certainly the unsafest
part of the transport, immediately in front of the ill-disposed soldiers
of the escort and the many varieties of hideous vagabond which straggled
inquisitively out of villages. But Iskuhi refused to listen, for she
felt her place to be with the children, especially now that, with every
fifteen minutes, they became more weary, ill and footsore. The other
teachers of the orphanage little by little went on ahead, leaving only
Iskuhi doing her best to shepherd and encourage, with various arts,
her yelping infants. They stumbled more and more miserably, and for
this reason the line was often broken, till at last there was a fairly
wide gap between the rear and the main body. At such a juncture as this
Iskuhi felt herself gripped from behind. She screamed and tried to wrench
herself free. Over her there appeared a terrible face, gigantic, with
filthy stubble, snorting, rolling its eyes, stinking, inhuman. She let
out another piercing scream and then struggled silently with the man,
whose spittle dripped into her face, whose brown claws were tearing her
dress to shreds, to fasten themselves into naked breasts. Her strength
failed. The face above her swelled into a mountainous, shifting hell.