Forty Days of Musa Dagh (92 page)

 

 

The yayli did not stand there alone. A line of sumpter mules, heavily
laden, stood behind it, scraping and clattering with their hoofs. Besides
their drivers, the müdir saw two other elderly Turks, with mild, almost
transfigured-looking faces, and a thin figure, leaning against the carriage
door, whose face was thickly veiled. The young man from Salonika put his
hand politely to his forehead to greet the ancient. Agha Rifaat Bereket
beckoned him over. The disciple of Ittihad, enemy as he was of all
tradition, came straight up to the carriage to hear what the old man
had to say.

 

 

"We are on our way to the Armenian camp. Give us guides, Müdir."

 

 

It was made to sound like an order from above. The müdir stiffened.
"To the Armenian camp? Are you wrong in the head?"

 

 

Rifaat Bereket took no notice at all of this jovial question. On the
back seat of the coach lay an ultra-modern-looking, yellow pigskin
attaché case, in glaring, bristling contrast to the rest of that roomy,
comfortable equipage. The soft white fingers pressed back the catch.

 

 

"I have a mission to the Armenians."

 

 

The Agha handed his teskeré to the red-haired müdir, who began to
investigate it. When he could still not manage to find what he wanted,
Bereket patiently commanded him: "Read the inscription above the seal."

 

 

And indeed the müdir obeyed with such alacrity that he even read it aloud:
"'The holder of this passport to be given free admission to all Armenian
deportation camps, such admission not to be refused by any political or
military official whatsoever.'"

 

 

The young man passed back the document into the coach, in his beautifully
manicured fingers. "This isn't a case of a deportation camp, but of a nest
of rebels, dangerous traitors, who've mutinied and shed Turkish blood."

 

 

"My mission is to all Armenians," the Agha mildly replied, stowed away
his teskeré very carefully in his brand-new, business-like attaché case,
and, out of it, drew yet another document, the outward appearance of
which was obviously, in itself, enough to conjure with. It was a big,
intricately folded sheet, sealed with a complicated seal. The müdir's
eye had first to get accustomed to the flourishes of Arabic calligraphy
before he could decipher the name, Sheikh ül Islam, together with the
demand, which that spiritual Supreme Head of Turkey had addressed to every
orthodox Moslem, that they should assist to whatever he might require of
him, no matter what such demands might seem to entail, the orthodox bearer
of the document. "What influence that world of moths still possesses!" it
occurred to the müdir. The Sheikh ül Islam, in spite of Enver and Talaat,
was still one of the most powerful officers of state. This medieval screed
was therefore an official order, which it might cost him dear to disobey.
He eyed the sumpter mules, heavily laden with sacks of grain.

 

 

"And where do you intend to take these sacks?"

 

 

Rifaat Bereket, as his custom was, made his answer dignified but discreet.
"They have the same destination as I have."

 

 

The müdir answered ceremoniously, though it annoyed him that the old Agha
should remain quietly seated before him, the government representative,
as though he were merely concerned with an official of the ancien régime.

 

 

"I don't know, Effendi, whether you've got this matter clear in your mind.
The Armenians in this district have risen in arms against the government
and set up a rebel camp on Musa Dagh. They've dared to defy the Turkish
army, arm themselves, and kill Turkish soldiers. Now we're starving them
out. And you come here, Agha, with sacks of grain.

 

 

Rifaat Bereket heard all this with his head wearily inclined. Not till
the müdir had finished, did the old man's rather prominent, wrinkled eyes
look him up and down. "Were you yourselves not once in arms against your
Padishah? Did not you oppose his soldiers, sword in hand, as attackers even?
Revolutionaries should never appeal to lawfully constituted authority."

 

 

And for the third time, as he was saying it, the Agha felt in his magic
attaché case. It was almost like an incident in a fairy-tale to see him
draw forth his mightiest charm: a parchment scroll headed with the
Sultan's turban, decked with gems as signet. The supreme lord and Caliph,
Mohammed the Fifth, commanded, in this irade, all his subjects, and in
particular the civil and military authorities, that they should aid in
all his undertakings the Agha Rifaat Bereket of Antakiya, and set no
obstacle in his way.

 

 

The red-haired müdir stared at it uneasily. The "old gang" seemed to have
turned up in full force, he must say! Hastily, and without enthusiasm,
he set the Padishah's name to heart, mouth, forehead. Certainly the
gesture did not in the least consort with the young man's light "summer
suiting," bright red tie, canary-colored gloves. Well, what ought he
to do? Impossible to let rebels be provisioned. Equally impossible to
impede any man under such obvious special protection from His Majesty the
Sultan. But the slick young müdir from Salonika was wily enough to hit
on a compromise, which at last, much against the grain, after many silent
curses, he proposed. The Agha himself should be allowed past the Turkish
outposts round Musa Dagh. But his train of mules with their provisions
must be left behind in the valley. And in this the Agha Rifaat Bereket
could not obtain the least concession. There was a grain famine all over
Syria. The Kaimakam of Antakiya must decide the destination of these
supplies. On the other hand, there were a few smaller sacks of coffee and
sugar, and some bales of tobacco. These luxury articles could proceed. To
that at last the müdir consented, after much persuasion. Finally he made
inquiries about the companions of the Agha.

 

 

"They are my servants and assistants. Here are their passports. Examine them,
please. You'll find them in order!"

 

 

"And this man here. Why is he veiled, like a woman?"

 

 

"He has an ugly skin disease on his face and must not expose it to the air.
Shall he lift his veil?"

 

 

The müdir grimaced and shook his head. More than an hour had passed before
the yayli could proceed in the direction of Bitias. An infantry platoon,
commanded by a mülasim, marched beside it. Two sumpter mules, with coffee,
tobacco, sugar, and three others, for the Agha and his two assistants to
ride, brought up the rear of the procession. When their way was clear
before them, Rifaat Bereket left his coach and asked the mülasim to
halt his men, to avoid misunderstandings with Armenians, who might open
fire. The officer welcomed this suggestion and encamped, in regulation
style, in the wood with his soldiers. The three old men rode on, sitting
sideways across their donkeys, while the two sumpter mules were driven
after them. The veiled man walked beside. In his right hand he carried
the green banner of the prophet, in his left, the white flag of peace.

 

 

 

 

They sat facing each other in the tent. The Agha had demanded this talk
without witnesses. Now the Agha's companions squatted outside, beside the
sumpter mules, whose muleteers had unloaded their sacks and bales. The
crowd round this group increased every minute. The Agha was as composed
and dignified, he waited there as ceremoniously, as though he had been
sitting at home in the mild afternoon twilight of his selamlik. The amber
beads slipped through his fingers as uninterruptedly as time itself.

 

 

"I have come to you, Gabriel Bagradian, as the friend of your grandfather,
the friend of your father, the friend of your brother Avetis; and I have
come as the friend of the ermeni millet. You know that I have worked in
the cause of peace, now destroyed for ever, between our two peoples. . . ."

 

 

Here he interrupted his litany. His pitying eyes examined the face of
this once so prosperous-looking young European. Never would the Agha have
recognized that shrunken, wildly bearded face. He thought for a moment
before he continued: "There is guilt on your side and on ours. . . .
This I only say so that your judgment may not err, in spite of all that has
happened, nor your heart be hardened. . . ."

 

 

Gabriel's face looked graver and smaller still. "He who has come as far
as I have come knows no more of guilt. No guilt can trouble me now,
no right, no revenge."

 

 

Rifaat's hands lay still. "You have lost your son."

 

 

Bagradian's hand had happened to stray into his pocket. There it closed
round the Greek coin, which he still kept with him as an amulet. "To the
inexplicable, in us and above us." He held it up. "Your gift has brought
me little good fortune, Agha. The coin with the king's head I lost on
the day I lost my son. And the other -- "

 

 

"You still do not know your last day."

 

 

"It is very close. And yet it seems to come far too slowly. I often
long to rush down into the midst of your people, so that at last --
at last! -- it may all be over."

 

 

The Agha glanced at his shimmering hands. "You will not debase your life,
but raise it. You, Bagradian, have more strength than most men. Yet God
decides all."

 

 

The yellow attaché case lay beside Rifaat's crossed legs. On it, ready
to be delivered, Pastor Harutiun Nokhudian's letter to Ter Haigasun.

 

 

"As you know, Bagradian, for months I have travelled on your behalf.
I have renounced the peace of my old age. And, with God's help, I shall
still get as far as Deir ez-Zor. But my first journey in Syria was to
you. You have friends both abroad and here in Turkey. A German pastor has
collected a large sum of money for you, and I keep in touch with him. I
had managed to get together fifty sacks of grain to give you. It was not
easy. They would not let them through. I felt they would not. But the
Kaimakam will not succeed in confiscating them. They shall go to your
brothers in the camps. Yet these sacks of grain were not my reason for
climbing to the top of Musa Dagh. . . ."

 

 

He handed over Nokhudian's letter. "This letter will tell you what,
otherwise, you would never have heard, the fate of your countrymen. But
at the same time you must remember that our people is not all composed
of Ittihad, of Talaat, Enver, and their servants. Many others, besides
myself, have left their dwellings and gone eastwards to help the
famished. . . ."

 

 

To be sure the Agha Rifaat Bereket was a very fine man indeed. He deserved
that Gabriel should kneel to him, in the people's name. But these long,
detailed descriptions of acts of benevolence and self-sacrifice did
nothing to assuage Gabriel's bitterness. Real as these sacrifices were,
their enumeration made him impatient. "You may help the exiles, but
not me."

 

 

The old man kept all his equanimity. "I could help you, my son. That is
my most important reason for sitting here in your tent."

 

 

And now, in the saiine even monotone, the Agha explained his plan for
saving Gabriel, whose heart stood still as he listened. Bagradian,
so began the Agha, must have noticed the five men of his escort. The
two greybeards were members of a pious confraternity, engaged on the
same duty as himself; the two muleteers were old servants, members for
many years of his household in Antakiya. But the fifth man was a case
apart. He had the deaths of many Armenians on his conscience, and, in
Istanbul, the Sheikh of the Thieves of Hearts had converted him. Now
he repented. He had taken an oath to do penance for these deeds done
by the baser powers of his soul and make amends to the Armenians for
the wrongs which his hatred had inflicted on them. This man, then, was
ready to change clothes with Gabriel Bagradian and disappear. Down on
the church square, the müdir had closely inspected all their passports
and made a list of their names. It was almost a foregone conclusion that,
when they returned, no one would ask for their teskerés a second time.
But if, against all expectation, the müdir began to make things difficult,
Gabriel need only show his double's passport. Nor would the mülasim and his
soldiers, who had counted six people in the camp, and would take six people
back to the village, be likely to suspect in the least that all the six
were not the same. He, the Agha, as an honorable man, disliked such
attempts to defraud the police; but here it was a question of bringing
the last of the Bagradian family into the shelter of his house in
Antakiya. This he must do for the repose of the soul, and in memory of,
the blessed Avetis, of whose friendship he had received a hundred proofs;
he, a Turk and a young man, from the old Armenian.

 

 

Gabriel felt stifled. A wind of life blew so mightily through him that
he stumbled out of the tent to breathe. He saw the escort squatting in
silence. He saw the man of the oath, who had long since taken off his
veil. A dull and ordinaiy-looking face, on which neither the murder of
Armenians nor the oath to expiate had left any perceptible traces. He saw
the villagers crowding round them, all of whom seemed shaken with wild
excitement. He saw Iskuhi, standing outside the sick-tent. And she, too,
was as unreal and remote as everything else. Nothing was real, save the
thought of living: A dark room in Rifaat's house. The wooden shutters
of the window, outside which is the inner court with its fountain,
are closed. And there, forgetting all, knowing of nothing, to lie,
awaiting a second birth.

 

 

When, after several minutes, he had calmed down, Gabriel went back into
the tent. He kissed the old man's hand. "Why didn't you come to me before,
Father, when everything was still easy, when we lived down there in the
villa . . . ?"