Forty Days of Musa Dagh (28 page)

 

 

"There's nothing here for us to sit on."

 

 

"I tell you, Gonzague, you'd far better get away from Yoghonoluk. . . .
What can they do to you? You're an American citizen. . . . And you don't
look the least bit Armenian. . . ."

 

 

"But? French?"

 

 

"Oh, you needn't go and imagine that!"

 

 

The little stream that flowed through the ilex gorge lay across their path.
Not so much as a tree-trunk to cross by. Gonzague lifted Juliette over,
big as she was, with an easy swing. His narrow shoulders had not looked
as though he could do it. She felt his cool fingers around her hips,
but they did not stir her. The path was becoming less steep, and they
quickened their pace.

 

 

Gonzague broached the essential question: "And Gabriel Bagradian?
What makes him stay on? Hasn't he any chance to get out of Turkey?"

 

 

"In wartime? . . . Where? . . . We're Turkish subjects. . . . Gabriel is
liable for service. . . . They've taken our passports. . . . Who can make
out these savages? . . ."

 

 

"But, really, Juliette. you look sufficiently French. . . . No, really,
you look more like an Englishwoman."

 

 

"French? English? . . . Why, what do you mean?"

 

 

"Well, with a little courage you -- I mean you especially -- could get
anywhere."

 

 

"I'm a wife and mother."

 

 

Juliette was walking so fast that Gonzague had to keep a little behind her.
She seemed to feel the breath of his words: "Life is life."

 

 

She turned abruptly. "If that's your way of looking at it, why do you stop
in Asia?"

 

 

"I? It's wartime now for all the men in the world."

 

 

Juliette's haste increased again. "It's easy for you, Gonzague. If only
we had your American passport . . . You could easily follow your troupe
to Damascus or Beirut. Why waste your time in this God-forsaken hole?"

 

 

"Why?" By now Gonzague could keep close up behind Juliette.

 

 

"Why? If I really knew that, perhaps you'd be the last person I could
say it to, Juliette."

 

 

 

 

Truly the spirit had guided Gabriel to stage his eleventh-hour "dress
rehearsal." In the hall of the villa the pock-marked Ali Nassif awaited
him. "Please, Sir, I've come for those medjidjehs you promised me when
you gave me something on account."

 

 

Gabriel drew forth a Turkish pound and with a steady hand gave it to Ali,
as though, now, all were in order, and he could hear what he had paid for
without impatience.

 

 

The old saptieh took the money cautiously. "I'm going clean against my
orders. But you won't give me away, Effendi?"

 

 

"You've taken your money. Say what you have to say."

 

 

Ali Nassif blinked around dubiously. "In three days the müdir and the
police chief will come to the villages."

 

 

Bagradian leaned his stick in a corner and freed himself from the
field-glass slung over his shoulders. "I see. And what good news will
the müdir and police chief have to bring us?"

 

 

The policeman rubbed his stubbled chin. "You'll be having to leave here,
Effendi. The Wali and the Kaimakam have commanded it. The saptiehs
are to collect you and your people from Suedia and Antakiya and lead
you eastwards. But I can tell you you won't be allowed to halt in
Aleppo. That's because of the consuls."

 

 

"And you -- will you be one of the saptiehs, Ali Nassif?"

 

 

The pock-marked Ali protested noisily: "Inshallah! I thank God! No!
Haven't I been living twelve years among you? As commandant of the whole
district? And there's never once been any trouble. Yes, I've kept order
day and night. And now, because of you, I'm losing my good job. Oh,
ingratitude! Our post is being disbanded altogether."

 

 

And Bagradian, to comfort the poor fellow, pressed a few cigarettes into
his hand. "Now tell me, Ali Nassif, when is your post to be disbanded?"

 

 

"I have orders to march to Antakiya this very day. The müdir will come here
with a whole company.

 

 

Meanwhile Juliette, Iskuhi, and Stephan had reached the house. The sight
of Ali Nassif aroused no suspicion in them. Gabriel shepherded the saptieh
out of the hallway and into the gravelled square in front of the house.
"According to what you've been saying, Ali Nassif, the villages will be
left without police supervision for three days."

 

 

Gabriel seemed to consider that suspicious. The saptieh anxiously lowered
his voice. "Oh, Effendi, if you give me away, I shall be put to death,
and worse. I shall have a scroll pinned on my chest with the inscription,
'Traitor.' . . . All the same I'll tell you everything. For three whole
days there won't be a single saptieh in the villages, because the post
is being reconditioned in Antakiya. And then you'll all be given a few
days to pack up in. . . ."

 

 

Gabriel glanced at the windows of the house, as though fearful that
Juliette might be looking out of them. "Have you had to send in lists
of inhabitants, Ali Nassif?"

 

 

The pock-marked face blinked with sly fidelity at Gabriel: "Hope nothing
for yourself, Effendi. They're going to be particularly hard on the rich
and learned. They say: 'What use is it to us that poor, hard-working
Armenians should die off, if the effendis, the money-bags and lawyers,
stay on in our country?' There's a special bad mark against your name.
You've been reported at headquarters, Effendi. They've talked of you again
and again. And don't go and imagine they'll spare your family. You're to be
taken together as far as Antakiya, but after that they mean to separate you."

 

 

Bagradian eyed the policeman almost joyously. "You seem to be one of the
great and initiated. Has the müdir opened his heart to you, Ali Nassif?"

 

 

Ali nodded solemnly. "Only for your sake, Sir, did I labor so. I stood in
the offices of the Hükümet and, remembering you, I strained my ears.
Oh, Effendi, in spite of your miserable paper pound, I have earned a great
reward in the hereafter. What is a paper pound worth today? Even if they
will change it in the bazaar for you, they cheat you. And see, my successors
will have more than a hundred gold pounds, and all the medjidjehs they find
in the villages. Your house will be theirs alone, with all that is in it.
You can take nothing with you. And your horses also will be theirs. And
your garden, and all its fruits. . . ."

 

 

Bagradian stopped this flowery enumeration: "May they have joy of it."

 

 

He drew himself up. But Ali Nassif would not stir from his disconsolate
place. "Now I have sold you all this for a scrap of paper."

 

 

And so, to get rid of him, Bagradian emptied all the piastres out of
his pockets.

 

 

 

 

When Gabriel entered the presbytery, he saw to his great surprise that
Ter Haigasun must have known of the catastrophe several hours before Ali
Nassif brought him the news. Thomas Kebussyan was with him, together
with the six other mukhtars, two married village priests, and Pastor
Nokhudian from Bitias. Grey and waxen faces. This thunderbolt had not
cleared away that cloud of morbid coma in which for weeks these people had
been creeping about their business; it had only thickened it. They stood
leaning against the walls, seeming to grow against them like plants.
Only Ter Haigasun was seated. His face was bent back, almost in shadow,
but his hands, resting quietly before him on the desk, flamed white,
in a rigid shaft of sunlight. When anyone spoke, it was in a scarcely
audible whisper, not moving his lips. Even Ter Haigasun only whispered,
as now he turned to greet Bagradian:

 

 

"I've told these mukhtars to call their people together, the instant
they get back to their villages. This very day, and as soon as possible,
all the grown-ups, from Wakef to Kebussiye, must come together here in
Yoghonoluk. We shall hold a big meeting to decide what's best to be done."

 

 

Pastor Nokhudian's tremulous voice came out of a corner: "There is nothing
to be done. . . ."

 

 

The mukhtar of Bitias came a few steps out into the room.

 

 

"Whether it's any use or not, the people must come together to hear speeches
and speak themselves. It'll make it easier."

 

 

Ter Haigasun let these interruptions pass as he sat there frowning.
He went on to tell Gabriel of his decisions: "In this general assembly
the peoples are to choose delegates whom they trust and who will take
over the leadership. Discipline is the only weapon left us. If we keep
law and order, even out there, perhaps we shan't die."

 

 

As he said "out there," Ter Haigasun opened his half-shut eyes to glance
searchingly at Gabriel.

 

 

Thomas Kebussyan wagged his bald head. "We can't hold a meeting in the
church square. Nor in the church. There are the saptiehs. . . . And others,
too. God knows who wouldn't creep in and listen, and then betray us.
And besides the church is too small for all of us. So where?"

 

 

"Where? That's very simple." Bagradian spoke for the first time. "My garden
has a high wall all round it. The wall has three doors which you can bolt.
There's enough room for ten thousand people. It's as good as a strong
fortress."

 

 

This suggestion of Gabriel's decided it. Those who, from despair or
will-less passivity, longed to let themselves be destroyed without
any irksome show of resistance -- and those who made heavy weather of
everything -- could raise no objections. And what serious objection could
they have had against the proposal that folk of this Armenian valley
should get together, in this death-agony of their race, and choose
leaders -- even leaders as helpless as they? This place of assembly
was secure, they need fear no intensification of punishment. Perhaps
what contributed to this feeling was the superstition that Bagradian
had powerful connections, which he might use in behalf of the seven
villages. With dead movements and dragging steps, the mukhtars left to
assemble their communes. Since Yoghonoluk was the central village, the
last stragglers would be in Bagradian's garden by four that afternoon.
The mukhtars themselves were to undertake to guard the entrances, so that
no outsider should be let in. Ter Haigasun stood up. The bells were already
ringing. He would have to get ready to vest for mass.

 

 

Of all the masses used by Christian sects the Armenian takes longest.
The time from the Introit to the priest's last sign of the cross may
easily be an hour and a half. No instruments, only tinkling bells
and cymbals, accompany the choirs, which, on any impatient Sunday,
increase their tempo to hurry the priest. But today the choirs were not
successful. Ter Haigasun took longer than ever before over each sacred
paragraph and act. Was he striving to hitch his prayer to the miracle of
some incomprehensible rescue? Did he want to put off as long as possible
the instant at which this flash of lightning would strike down on his
unwitting flock? All too soon came the last blessing and the words:
"Go in peace, and the Lord be with you." The benches began to rustle with
departure. But Ter Haigasun came down to the edge of the chancel steps,
spread his arms, and called:

 

 

"What we have all been fearing has happened."

 

 

Then, in a quiet voice, in a few words, he explained. Nobody must get
unnecessarily excited, or let himself be carried away. The deathly silence
of this instant must remain unbroken through the next days. No confusion,
no losing of heads, no weeping or wailing, was of any use. It would only
make things worse than they were already. Unity, resolution, discipline.
They were the only means of avoiding the worst. There was still time
to think out every step. Ter Haigasun invited the communes to the great
assembly in Bagradian's garden. No healthy adult of sound mind, man or
woman, should stay away.

 

 

In this assembly it would be for the seven communes not only to decide
collectively what line it was best to take, but to elect leaders to
represent the people before the authorities no matter what happened.
This time the usual show of hands at parish elections would not be enough.
So let everyone bring pencil and paper to record his vote in proper form.

 

 

"But now go quietly home," the priest implored them. "No standing about.
Don't make disturbances. Perhaps they've sent spies to watch you.
The saptiehs mustn't notice that you're warned. Don't forget to bring
voting papers. Quiet, above all."

 

 

He need not have given his second warning. Like dead people, or people
already touched by death, they silently groped their way out into the
daylight as if they had never known it. No man knows himself until he is
tested. Gabriel's biography till that day: The son of a well-to-do family;
brought up in comfortable surroundings; his life that of a leisured
"intellectual" spent here and there in Europe, in Paris. Long since
absolved from any ties which bind a man to his family, to the state,
from any sense of community with the masses; a sheltered, an abstract
human being. Very few angles to bark his shins on. An elder brother --
an invisible, imperceptible benefactor -- who, as head of the house,
provided for every need. Then, strangely enough, the first interruption
of this thoughtful, sensitive, introverted life -- the episode of the
military training-school and war. That patriotic idealism with which the
contemplative suddenly found himself imbued is not so easy to account
for. The general political fraternization of Turkish and Armenian youth
could not be a sufficient explanation. Perhaps something more was involved
then: some secret restlessness, the attempt to get away from his own, all
too well-ordered, easygoing life. And during that short campaign Gabriel
Bagradian had discovered unsuspected capacities in himself. He was not
only, as till then he had supposed, a man whose eyes were exclusively set
on invisible worlds. He showed himself surprisingly equal to demands made
on his powers of action, presence of mind, foresight, courage, and to
a far higher degree than most of his Oriental comrades. He was promoted
quickly, several times mentioned in dispatches, praised in commanders'
reports. True that in the days which followed all that had seemed a thing
of the past, an almost illogical memory, since his earlier nature resumed
its sway, more mature, far more balanced than previously. But today --
it was the twenty-fourth of July -- made all the years of his life seem
a pale preliminary.