The Ghosts of Anatolia (10 page)

Mourad peered into Kemal’s determined eyes. “You’re right,” he finally said. Waiting for a cart to pass, he pulled the wagon back onto the road and headed for the northern quarter.

Driving on for half an hour, they passed a steady stream of traffic headed in the opposite direction. Several times, the monotonous clatter of the wagon was pierced by the defaming shouts and threatening gestures of passing travelers, including a shrieked slur from a veiled old woman who shook her fist in frenzied anger from the back of a freight wagon.

Mourad stepped out from behind a stand of shrubs, and adjusting his trousers, glanced at the children playing with Kristina in the adjacent weedy lot. “I’ve decided what I’ll do, Kemal. If our reception at Hakan Souk is hostile, I’ll ride to Ergani tomorrow. I fear the food merchant was right.”

“About what?” Kemal asked bemusedly.

“About us being fortunate to find anyone willing to sell goods to Armenians,” Mourad replied.

Kemal shook his head with exasperation and wiped perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. He stuffed the rag into his pocket and climbed into the driver’s seat. After a moment, he jumped down to the ground and hurried back to Mourad. “I have an idea. I’m sure it will work.”

“What?” Mourad asked apprehensively.

“Do you trust me to do what’s best for you, Mourad?”

“You know I do. What?”

“Before I saw it for myself, I didn’t believe this hatred could reemerge so quickly. Now, I know differently. It’s not that my people are evil. It’s an irrational madness born of desperation and war. You were right; the price that scoundrel offered was at least twice the going rate. He knew you were desperate and thought he could cheat you. I’m afraid the same thing will happen at the next warehouse, and probably in Ergani, too.”

“So where should we go?”

“To Hakan Souk.”

“But you just said...”

“Not you, Mourad—me. I’ve bought provisions from Hakan Souk for years, and my father did the same for decades before me. So Özker and I will go on alone, while you wait here with your family.” Kemal turned and motioned toward the foliage. “You should be safe hiding there in the brush. It’ll take me at most an hour. Do you agree?”

Mourad took a deep breath. “You’re the most loyal friend I’ve ever had,” he whispered. He grasped Kemal’s shoulders and gave him a bear hug. “How will I ever repay you?”

“You already have, Mourad—many times over.”

Mourad slipped off the money belt concealed beneath his coat and handed it to Kemal.

“I’ll negotiate the best possible price, my friend,” the Turk said determinedly.

“I trust you, Kemal.”

“I’ll rush back here, and God willing, we’ll make it through the north gate before it closes at sundown.”

Mourad lifted Özker up to his father in the driver’s seat. Kemal flicked the reins and the wagon eased away.

“Good luck, Özker!” Sirak called out.

“See you soon!” Özker shouted back.

Mourad led Kristina and the children into the half-dead scrub brush as far away from the busy road as possible. Their senses on knife’s edge, they spread Izabella’s blanket on the ground and joined hands in prayer. Mourad pleaded for God’s solace for his family, and they huddled together on the ground to await Kemal’s return.

For the hundredth time, Mourad peered at the waning sun through limbs of the shrubs shrouding the family. His stomach churned mercilessly, but he glanced back and gave Kristina a smile of false bravado.

“Don’t torture yourself, darling,” she whispered.

Mourad clenched his fists and peered out at the ebbing sun. “Damn it! They should be back by now. Why didn’t I take you and the children home and try again tomorrow? How could I be so stupid?”

“You must have faith,” Kristina whispered. She gathered the ends of her headscarf beneath her chin against the cold. “Kemal has never failed you. He will not fail you now.”

“It’s been too long. Something must have happened.” He glanced once again toward the waning sun. “What will we do if he doesn’t return?”

“He will return. You must be patient.”

Mourad shook his head and peered out at the road once again. Soon he heard the clomping of hooves in the clearing. “Thank God!” Leaping from the shrubs, he ran to the wagon, relieved to see it laden with supplies. “Thank God, you’re safe, Kemal.”

“I’m sorry we took so long,” the Turk replied remorsefully. “All of the traders at Hakan Souk were out of potatoes. We traveled nearly to the eastern gate to buy them.”

“Potatoes?” Mourad laughed. “You put us through hell just to find potatoes?”

“I wasn’t coming back here without potatoes, my friend. What’s lamb stew without potatoes?”

“An excellent point,” Mourad agreed, with a chuckle. “We’ll have a feast on Saturday to celebrate.”

“I also got a great deal on chickpeas.” He held out Mourad’s belt. “Here’s the rest of your money.”

Kristina herded the sleepy-eyed children out from the stand of shrubs. “Thank you, Kemal,” she called out. “You’re truly a saint.”

“Hurry now,” Mourad ordered. “We must rush to the gate before it closes for the night.”

Kemal and Mourad restacked the supplies to create a sheltered cavity where Mourad, Kristina and the children could hide. Finally, he locked the tailgate, climbed into the driver’s seat and thundered down the road toward the Harput Gate.

Abdul Pasha picked up a gleaming Mauser pistol from a wooden case the bespectacled, gray-haired arms merchant held out to him. “This is more like it! Try this pistol, Timurhan.” He pressed the gun into his son’s hand. “Can you feel the perfect balance compared to that Ottoman Army pistol?”

“Yes, I feel it, Father,” Timurhan replied. He pointed the pistol at the wall.

“And look at the unusual handle. They call it the
Broomhandle
. You’ve got to hand it to the Germans; they really are the best gunsmiths in the world.

“How much?” Abdul asked the old man.

“These are the finest, handcrafted Mauser pistols I’ve ever had, sir.” The merchant pushed his turban back on his head with his fingertips. “We can’t get any more.”

“How much?” Abdul growled.

“For you, Abdul, three hundred
lire
.”

Abdul took another pistol from the box, and turning it over in his hand, jiggled it up and down to gauge the weight. He glanced up at the proprietor. “I’ll give you two hundred,” he said confidently.

“Two hundred seventy-five,” the old man countered, “including four boxes of German-made ammunition.”

Pasha looked down at the gun for several moments. “Two hundred fifty.”

“Done.”

Pasha broke into a grin. Wrapping his arm around Timurhan’s shoulders, he hugged him tightly to his chest and pressed the pistol into his hand. “Happy birthday, Son. God willing, you will kill many Russian pigs with this pistol.”

“Thank you, Father. The infidels will regret the day they dared challenge the Empire.”

Pasha paid the shopkeeper and the man wrapped the pistol and bullets in a black cloth.

“Thank you,” the shopkeeper said. He handed the package to Timurhan. “If you get your hands on a Russian officer’s pistol, bring it to me. I’ll pay you a handsome sum.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Timurhan replied. He turned and stepped outside through the open door. Handing a scruffy attendant a coin, he took the reins of his horse and stuffed the package into his saddlebags. He pulled himself onto the horse and sat waiting for his father to finish his business with the shopkeeper.

Peering across the wide square, Timurhan scanned the procession of pedestrians, horses and wagons filing past guards at the Harput Gate. Suddenly, one wagon caught his eye. He watched as the driver turned and patted his son on the back. “Father!” he shouted, without diverting his gaze.

“I’ll be done in a minute,” Abdul called back.

“Isn’t that Kemal Sufyan driving that wagon filled with provisions?”

Abdul stepped outside the gun shop and squinted across the square. “That backstabbing, infidel-loving, son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered. “It’s him—no doubt about it.”

“Why is he leaving through the Harput Gate? He’s added at least two hours to his trip.”

“I’ll tell you why. Don’t you recognize that broken down piece of junk? That’s ingrate Kazerian’s wagon.”

“Kazerian?” Timurhan muttered. “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. Look at that scavenged white front wheel. I’d recognize that shit-hauler anywhere.”

Timurhan glanced around to make sure the attendant wasn’t listening. “In that case,” he whispered, “it’s a perfect opportunity to try out my new pistol.”

“Not now. The roads are crowded with travelers arriving for the council. Our opportunity will come soon enough. Let’s hurry before the gate closes.”

November 25, 1914

Timurhan Pasha, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, stepped out of the farmhouse and glanced up at the threatening sky. Striding across the barnyard, he stopped and took his mother’s hands.

Looking up at him, Sabriye sniffled quietly and dabbed tears from her cheeks with a natty handkerchief.

“Please don’t cry, Mother,” Timurhan whispered reassuringly. “I’ll be fine.” Wrapping his powerful arms around her tiny frame, he hugged her gently to his chest.

She clutched at his coat. “Write me every chance you get. Promise me.”

“I promise, Mother. Don’t worry, God willing, I’ll be back before planting season.”

“God’s blessings be upon you, my son. We will all pray unendingly for your safe return.”

One by one, Timurhan said his goodbyes to his younger sisters. Erol was standing at the end of the line holding his mother’s hand. Towering above him like a giant, Timurhan squatted on the snow-covered ground and tenderly cupped his younger brother’s head in his hand. “Don’t forget what we talked about, Erol. Stick up for yourself. Father will respect you for it.”

Erol squinted up at his brother. “I’ll try,” he muttered in a near-whisper. He wiped his tear-filled eyes with a sleeve. “I wish I could go, too.”

“Someday you will.”

Erol’s mother smiled warmly and grasped Timurhan’s arm. “I will pray for you.”

Timurhan stood up and smiled with self-assurance. “I appreciate all your prayers, Jasmine. Thank you for baking bread for my trip.”

“God bless you.”

Timurhan turned and took a few steps to Hasan. Grasping his arm, he kissed him on both cheeks. “Goodbye, Uncle; I wish you good health.”

The somber, dark-skinned Turk, his right arm hanging limply at his side, fought back tears of his own. He smiled sadly. “You must pray for your own health and well-being, Son. I will pray for you, too.”

“Please, sir, while I’m away, I appeal for your encouragement and consideration for Erol. Father’s much too hard on him, and without me here to...”

“I’ll do what I can,” Hasan interrupted. He glanced uncomfortably toward the barn where Abdul Pasha was waiting with his son’s horse.

“Thank you.”

Finally, the wiry Turk strode confidently to his father.

Abdul, his leathery face beaming, clutched the reins of a spirited black horse. Suddenly, the stallion reared up. Abdul jerked the reins down with both hands. “Steady, damn you,” he growled. “Did you remember the extra boxes of ammunition, Son?”

“Yes, Father. They’re here in my bag.”

“Good. And the dagger Hasan bought you?”

“Yes, and the sharpening stone, too.”

“Very good.” Abdul’s voice swelled with pride. Wrapping a brawny arm around Timurhan’s back, he clutched him to his chest. “I only wish your grandfather were here to see the man you’ve become.”

Timurhan glanced uncomfortably toward the other family members and caught Erol’s stare. “Thank you, Father.”

“Timurhan, my first-born, may you courageously serve the Empire and bring honor to the Pasha family. Allah has blessed you with the strength of an ox and the cunning of a lion. Now, in His name, go forth as a righteous sword of God and strike down the infidel who dares challenge this great empire and our way of life.”

“I’ll do my best, Father.”

“I know you will. Go then, and may Allah be with you.”

Timurhan lashed his bags behind the riding blankets, and taking the reins from his father, mounted his horse. Turning, he waved a last adieu to the family members. Finally, he nodded one last time to his father and trotted off across the dirt yard that fronted the Pasha family home.

Hasan waited until Timurhan disappeared over the crest before approaching Abdul. “The boy will do well, Effendi.”

Abdul glared at Hasan. “Of course, he’ll do well. The boy bears his grandfather’s name—the hero of the Siege of Kars.”

“Yes, Abdul, but the Russians won the Siege of Kars.”

“Well, they won’t win this one. For five long years I’ve promised to give Timurhan the Kazerian land. I’m determined to present that land to him when this war is over. Have you done what we talked about last week?”

“Not yet, Effendi.”

“Well, do it!”

“I’ll travel to Diyarbekir tomorrow and inform the authorities.”

“Make it so, Hasan. We cannot let this opportunity pass.”

Abdul, his arms filled with split logs, stepped into the house and walked across the room to the stove. He stacked the wood on the floor and glanced across the living room. Erol was sitting on the floor playing with his sisters.

“Erol!” he bellowed. “What are you doing?”

“Playing with Ayse and Fairuza,” the boy replied deferentially. Fear filled his eyes.

“
With dolls
?” Abdul growled. Leaning down, he wrenched a figurine from the boy’s hand. He flung the toy across the room and it broke to pieces against the fireplace mantel. “Even now your brother is rushing to meet the enemy. And what’s Erol doing? He sits here, like a sissy, playing with dolls. You can’t possibly be my son. That useless whore mother of yours must’ve fucked the farmhands.”

Erol tried to duck away.

Abdul grabbed the boy by the collar and yanked him to his feet. “You’re worthless! Do you hear me? Worthless!”

Erol’s mother, Jasmine, rushed into the room. “Leave him alone, Abdul! He wasn’t hurting anyone.”