Forty Days of Musa Dagh (16 page)

 

 

She sank into its horrible breath. . . . It was Iskuhi's good fortune
that, attracted by the piercing howls of the children, the officer came
galloping sharply back to them. The brown claws flung her to the ground.
The tramp tried to run away but did not escape a final stroke with the
flat of the sword on the back of his head.

 

 

Iskuhi struggled to her feet but could not even manage to cry. At first
she only supposed that her left arm had been numbed in the struggle.
"As though it has gone to sleep," she thought. Then, suddenly, wild pain
flamed up in it. Speechless with this, she could not tell her brother
what had happened. Hovsannah and Aram led her. Not a sound passed her
lips. Everything in her became unconscious -- only not her feet, which
still took quick, little steps.

 

 

It is still a riddle how they ever managed to reach Marash. As soon as
the town was in sight, the desperate pastor went to the officer and even
ventured to ask him how long he thought the exiles would be allowed to
halt there. That, he was plainly told, would depend on the Mutessarif. He
might safely reckon on a halt of several days, since most of the out-going
transports were still in town. There would be some regrouping. Aram raised
imploring hands. "You see what a state my wife and sister are in. I beg you
to let us go to the American mission, for this evening."

 

 

The young officer was a long time thinking it over. In the end his pity
for poor Iskuhi overcame all official considerations. Still on horseback,
he scribbled a leave-chit for Pastor Aram and the two women.

 

 

"I haven't the right to let you go. If you're caught escaping, I shall
be held responsible. You are ordered to report to me daily, in the
concentration camp."

 

 

The mission fathers received their three protégés and pupils with
compassionate love. They had devoted their whole lives to Armenian
Christians -- and now this thunderbolt, which might be the merest
indication of the devastating storms to come! A doctor was sent for at
once, unluckily a very young, inexperienced one. He jerked Iskuhi's arm
backwards and forwards. The infernal pain of this, added to all that had
gone before it, made her really faint for a few minutes. No bones were
broken, said the doctor, as far as he could see, though the arm looked
curiously disjointed. The hurt was in the shoulder. He put on a big,
tight bandage and gave her a draught to dull the pain. It would certainly
be as well, he advised, if she could keep her arm stiffly resting for at
least three weeks. Iskuhi did not sleep a wink that night. Hovsannah,
in the room assigned to the women, had dropped at once into a sleep
which was like unconsciousness.

 

 

Aram Tomasian sat at the missionaries' table, discussing what was to be
done. The vote was unanimous. The rector, the Reverend E. C. Woodley,
said decisively: "Whatever else may happen, you can't go back into that
convoy. Hovsannah and Iskuhi would be dead long before you reached
Aleppo. And, apart from that, you aren't natives of Zeitun, but were
sent there by us."

 

 

Pastor Aram had one of the hardest spiritual conflicts of his whole life
to sustain. "How can I leave my people, at the very time when they need
me most?"

 

 

How many Protestants were there in the convoy? they asked. He had to admit
that, apart from a tiny minority, they all belonged to the Old Armenian or
the United churches. But that did not console him in the least. "In such
circumstances I can't worry about trifles. I'm the only priest they have."

 

 

Mr. Woodley calmed him: "We'll send someone else with them. But you're to
go to your home. You must wait there till we have another cure for you."

 

 

"And what's to happen to my orphans?" groaned Aram Tomasian.

 

 

"You can't help the children by dying with them. The orphanage in Zeitun
is our property. You've done more than your duty by bringing the orphans
to Marash. Leave all the rest to us. It's ceased to be your affair."

 

 

A teasing voice in Aram was not to be silenced. "Am I not bound to more
than just my duty?"

 

 

Old Woodley showed impatience, though his heart was rejoicing over Aram.
"You surely don't imagine, Aram Tomasian, that we intend to submit to
this treatment of our orphanage so tamely? It's not decided yet, by any
means, what is to happen to these children. But you're getting in our way,
my dear boy. As pastor of Zeitun you're compromised. Understand? Good. I
release you formally from your charge as director of the orphanage."

 

 

Aram felt that, if only he could hold out a few minutes longer, Woodley
would not only cease to oppose, but would bless him for his Christian
courage in sacrifice. But he said no more, in spite of this distinct
sensation, and submitted to the mission father's arguments. He believed
he was doing this for Hovsannah and Iskuhi. And yet, every time he
woke out of a sleep crowded with images, he was filled with the heavy
sensation of defeat, of having betrayed his vocation to the priesthood,
with the shame of weaklings.

 

 

Next morning the Reverend E. C. Woodley, accompanied by the American
vice-consul, went to the Mutessarif and procured for Tomasian and his
wife and for Iskuhi an official permit to travel to Yoghonoluk. But this
would be valid for only fourteen days, within which they must have reached
their destination. So that, in spite of the serious state of Iskuhi's arm,
they were forced to set out three days later. They might have chosen the
shorter route, via Bagche, the nearest railway station along the Anatolian
line. They were advised most strongly against it. The Taurus line was
crowded with transports for Jemal Pasha's fourth army. Nowadays prudence
forbade any unnecessary contact with Turkish troops, especially with
Armenian women to escort. Since the pastor had already submitted to the
Marash fathers' decision, he was equally ready to let them choose his
route. Instead of the short railway journey they began a very difficult
carriage drive, of several days' duration, on mountain roads. First
into the mountains, to Aintab, then along the wretched winding tracks
over the passes of Taurus, down to Aleppo. The mission fathers placed a
large two-horse carriage at Aram's disposal, and an extra horse, which
could also be used as a mount. They wired to their representative in
Aintab to prepare relays.

 

 

But the travellers were not yet past the suburbs of Marash when pursuing,
imploring howls drowned the clatter of hoofs. The orphan girl Sato and
the house-boy Kevork came running up behind them, clamoring. Fortunately
it was early morning, there was still no one out in the streets to betray
this scene. Inconvenient as it was to have to do so, nothing remained for
Pastor Aram but to rescue these two unwanted additions to his party. The
little vagabond Sato had always been a very difficult child and a burden
on the Zeitun orphanage. About every three months she would be overcome
with longings for a vagabond life. Then she would vanish for days,
to come back in an almost subhuman state, lousy and caked with dust
and very subdued. And before these attacks she was quite unmanageable
-- incapable of connected speech or any other laboriously acquired
attainment. Nor was it any use to lock her up. She seemed to get through
walls like a ghost. But, if she could not manage to get away, Sato would
be possessed by devils and could alarm the whole house with her genius
for malicious damage. Iskuhi had been the first to influence her to the
point at which her malice could be restrained and perhaps at last even
exorcized -- and this not by any specifically educational means. Iskuhi
knew very little of pedagogic methods. For this little tramp was devoured
with love for young Iskuhi, love which wrought sad confusion in Sato's
already bewildered brain, and even seemed to have the power to engender
that most dangerous of emotions -- self-contempt. Now, in her pleated
orphanage smock, Sato came pattering down the street with many cries.

 

 

"Küchük Hanum! Miss! Please don't leave Sato alone," this skinny little
waif besought, with eyes widened by deathly fear and yet at the same
time insolent -- eyes which concealed inescapable resolution within
their depths. Neither Iskuhi nor Hovsannah had ever really been able to
repress a shudder of instinctive repugnance at the sight of Sato. Even
when she was clean and kempt, she inspired a certain physical disgust.

 

 

Yet now this unwelcome acquisition had to be stowed away on the back seat.
The house-boy Kevork took his place on the box beside the driver. Kevork
came from Adana. Ever since, as a half-grown lad, he had been hit over the
head with a rifle-butt, in the course of one of the numerous "incidents"
there, he had remained a good-natured cretin. He could only talk in a
stutter. And when, like Sato with her uncontrollable longings to run wild,
he was seized with his mania for dancing, he too was impossible to control.
This solemn fit had caused him to be named "the dancer." It was a quiet
and very harmless peculiarity, which seldom possessed him altogether, and
then only when something had stirred his mind. Otherwise Kevork faithfully
discharged his duties as stoker, water-carrier, wood-chopper, gardener,
and with mute zeal did the work of two grown men. How many promising
children and useful adults (the thought flashed into Aram's mind) were
there to rescue -- and yet God sends me a little criminal girl and an
idiot. It seemed to him a significant answer to his lukewarm shrinking
away from sacrifice on behalf of the banished folk of Zeitun. Sato,
however, was shaken by eerie, boisterous merriment. She wriggled up, with
her pointed knees, against Iskuhi; she laughed and jabbered all day long,
as though exile were the best conceivable holiday. Perhaps it was her
first ride in a carriage. She let her thin little hand, with its big,
filthy nails, hang out, as though over the side of a boat, drawing it
after her with delight through the cool wake of surrounding air. These
high spirits only annoyed and alarmed the others. Iskuhi jerked away
her knees. The pastor, riding beside the carriage, threatened Sato
that, unless she could sit still, he would either put her down without
compunction or tie her hands.

 

 

The exhausting journey to Aintab -- their nights had to be spent
in wretched village khans -- passed without catastrophe. In Aintab
itself they rested three days. The Armenian colony there had received
Mr. Woodley's wire and the relay horses were waiting. On the previous
day the first convoy from Zeitun had reached the town. The people of
Aintab had seen these miserable people and now awaited their own fate
in despair. They scarcely went out of doors. Horrible rumors kept
circulating. It was said that the government intended to give even
shorter shrift to Aintab -- that the Armenian quarter was simply to be
set on fire, its inhabitants shot in batches. Yet the Aintab commune
could not be kind enough to the pastor. It was as though the sight of
these rescued victims inspired in them the hope of themselves being
saved. Aram Tomasian tried to find a home in the town for Sato. But she
clung in such strident terror to Iskuhi that he ended by taking her back
into the carriage, perhaps as an act of penance for his own sin.

 

 

Things still went smoothly as far as Aleppo, though they spent
four days crawling down the passes of the Taurus, had the greatest
difficulty in finding relays at the post-houses, and had twice to sleep
in empty barns. But the big town, with its many bazaars, its well-paved
streets, its government and army buildings, pleasant gardens, and opulent
mission-houses, inns, and hostels, acted like a charm on these ailing and
dispirited people. In spite of sharp inquisition by saptiehs at the octroi
-- Sato and Kevork, after several minutes' palpitating fear, were passed
as "servants" -- the very sight of these streets, with their streams of
undisturbed-looking people, gave bondsmen the illusion that they were
free. Their reception, however, by the missionaries and heads of the
commune was very different from those at Aintab and Marash. The fathers
here were so overburdened with business and worries of all kinds, they
were so bureaucratically organized, that Aram shrank from demanding their
help. All he asked was two small rooms for himself and his family. The
Armenian colony here was very rich, and so more timid, more hardhearted,
than the smaller people in Aintab. Their terror was intensified by the
fact that they had so much more to lose than the others. Worse still,
when the pastor mentioned Zeitun, he perceived at once that the very name
of this town of revolt aroused mixed feelings in these city-brethren. They
did not wish to seem, in official eyes, to have any connection with such
folk, pilloried now as stubborn rebels. The pastor's very presence in
their offices was enough to compromise them. At present, if one hoped
to save one's skin, it was necessary to seem a fanatical devotee of the
state and scrupulously shun all suspected company. Aram was offered a
sum of money. They could do no more for him. He refused it with thanks.

 

 

Time pressed, and Tomasian found himself obliged to hire a yayli for
himself -- a two-horse cab, of which there were dozens on every rank.
At first the owner refused even to think of facing all the discomfort of
such a journey. As far as the coast behind Antioch? He clutched his fez,
astounded at such foolery. However, after many protestations, many
"Inshallahs" and "Allah bilirs," a price was settled, two thirds
of which he insisted on being paid in advance. Since Aram knew that
every other cabman would have acted in exactly the same way, he gave
him the money. The pastor chose the road to Alexandretta in spite of
its windings. He hoped in a day and a half of quick driving to reach
the place where it forks to Antioch, and from there to be at home
within twenty-four hours. But, just before sunset on the first day,
the driver climbed down off his box, inspected damaged hoofs, wheels,
axles, and declared that he had had quite enough. His horses were fagged,
his carriage overloaded, it wasn't his business to cart Armenians all
over the world -- and so he was going straight back home, to be sure of
getting to Turont, where he had relatives, in reasonable time. No prayers
availed on him, not even the offer of almost double his fare. He had
had his money in advance, it was all he wanted, the Turk magnanimously
announced. He would do even more; he would take them back all the way
to Turont for nothing, where they could spend a delectable night in
the excellent beds of the first-class khan of his relations. Tomasian
raised his stick and would have given the insolent brute a thrashing had
not Hovsannah held his arm. Upon which the man threw their luggage out
of his yayli, jerked his reins, and left these five people stranded in
the midst of a wilderness. For an hour they walked on along the road in
the hope of coming to a village or getting a lift. But, far and wide,
there was nothing, no cart, not even a barn, no huts, no village. They
had to spend another night in the open, and it passed more slowly than
the first, since no one had reckoned on it. The curve of the road shone
under the faint moon like a dangerous scimitar. They lay down as far from
it as they could, on the bare earth. Yet even that mother of all proved
ill disposed towards Armenians. Damp forced its way up through the rugs;
poisonous airs from the swamp, alive with insects, enveloped them. Kevork
and Aram kept guard, the pastor tightly grasping the hunting rifle which
the Marash fathers had given him for the journey.