The Ghosts of Anatolia (13 page)

Kemal led Mourad down a short hall and ducked through the last door. Mourad followed him into the tiny room and set his mother gently on the blanket-covered bed.

Nahid rushed in behind them and covered the old woman with a colorful woolen quilt. “It’s always so cold in this room. I’ll make her some warm soup.”

Mourad leaned down and kissed his mother on the forehead, and her aged eyes fluttered open.

“Mourad, my son,” she whispered, in a high-pitched, frail voice.

“Yes, Mother?”

“Don’t let them take the land, Son.” She clutched desperately at his arm. “Your father’s grave...your grandfather’s grave...you can’t let them...”

“Don’t worry, Mother, we’re not leaving forever, just for a short while.”

Catching her breath, she grimaced with pain. “Promise me.”

Mourad glanced dolefully at Kemal. His friend stared solemnly back.

“I promise, Mother. We’ll take you home soon.”

“Thank you, Son.” The old woman closed her eyes, and taking a deep breath, let out a relieved sigh.

Kristina fetched a box from the back of the wagon and handed it to Sabiha. “Here are Flora’s clothes.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kazerian,” Sabiha replied politely. “I’ll put this in my bedroom. Flora and I will share the guest room in the back of the house, and you and your husband are in the large bedroom in the front.”

“What about Verda and Lale?”

Fadime stepped from the house and smiled. “Don’t worry. I moved the twins into the room in the back.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“Unfortunately, the boys must sleep on the floor in the living room, but we’ve got plenty of pillows and blankets.”

“That’ll be fine. They love sleeping by the fire.”

Kristina stooped down, and sitting on the end of the wagon, prepared to jump to the ground.

“Wait,” Mourad called out. “Let me help you.” He lowered Kristina to the ground and pushed an errant strand of hair beneath her headscarf. “You look exhausted, darling. You need a nap.”

“No, Mourad. Fadime needs help with dinner.”

“Flora can help her with dinner. You need to sleep, or you’ll end up sick.”

“You must listen to your husband,” Fadime said. She took Kristina’s arm. “There will be many more dinners. You must rest now.”

Kristina smiled. “How can we ever begin to thank you?”

“No thanks are expected. We’ll always remember it was your Mourad who offered my husband work when Abdul Pasha bullied the other farmers not to hire him. I don’t know what we would’ve done, if he hadn’t defied that evil brute.”

They stepped into the house and headed to the bedrooms.

“Bedros and Mourad speak so highly of Kemal, and his father, Tarik. They both say Tarik was like a second father to them.”

“You have said it,” Fadime replied warmly. “Tarik counted them as the second and third sons his wives could never bear. He spoke of this many times.”

Fadime led Kristina into a bedroom crowded with a small bed and chest. Pulling the blankets back, she fluffed the pillow. “There you go. Please get some sleep and I’ll wake you for dinner.”

Kristina took Fadime’s hands. “You’re such an angel. I know in my heart we’ll be good friends.”

Fadime squeezed Kristina’s hands and smiled. “I feel this, too. May God give you rest and answer all your prayers.” Fadime stepped out of the room and quietly closed the door behind her.

January 23, 1915

Abdul Pasha stepped inside the house, and slipping off his heavy coat, hung it on a hook beside the door. Hasan was seated by the fireplace reading the Quran. Ignoring him, Abdul stepped around the divan and into the kitchen. He tore the end off a loaf of bread, stuffed it into his mouth and stepped back to the fireplace. Yawning, he glanced at the wood box beside the hearth and shook his head. “Damn it! brother-in-law, where’s that worthless son of mine?”

“I’m not sure, Effendi,” Hasan replied deferentially. He peered over his reading glasses, and stroked his beard. “He may be with his mother.”

“Erol!” Abdul bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Get the hell out here!”

Erol came running from the back of the house and timidly stared at the floor. “Yes, Father.”

“Did I not tell you to fill the box with wood?”

“Yes, Father, but…” Jasmine hurried from the rear of the house. “I asked him to help me make the bed and fold your clothes.”

Abdul turned and glared at her. His eyes were filled with loathing. “And has he finished with the bed and clothes?”

“We just finished.”

“Well, then, woman, I suggest you mind your own business and get on with preparing my breakfast.”

Jasmine walked past Erol into the kitchen and filled the teapot with water.

“Now, boy,” Abdul said, leaning his face close to Erol’s, “you get that scrawny butt of yours outside and fetch more wood. If that fire goes out, I’ll skin you alive.”

Erol screwed up his courage to look at his father’s wind-burned face. “There’s no cut wood, Father—only a few scraps.”

“Then get the hell out there and chop some more!” Abdul shoved Erol to the door. “Do I have to do everything around here? Tell me, woman, why did you burden me with this worthless runt?”

“He’s just a boy, Abdul,” Jasmine protested from the kitchen, her voice filled with contempt.

“He’s eight. That’s old enough for a boy to pull his weight in the household. Timurhan cut wood when he was even younger.”

“Timurhan was always big for his age.”

“As long as a boy can lift an axe, he can chop wood.”

“But Erol doesn’t know how. Timurhan cut the wood before he left, remember?”

“Come on,” Abdul snarled at Erol. He jerked his coat down from the hook. “I’ll show you. Then, from now on, it’s your responsibility to keep the box filled with wood and the fire burning. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.” Erol glanced fretfully at his mother and followed Abdul outside.

Abdul and Erol slogged through ankle-deep snow. They clomped around the side of the house to a clearing where several large logs were scattered on the ground.

“Damn it,” Abdul grumbled. “There isn’t enough here to last for more than a few days. We’ll gather more wood tomorrow. Watch me carefully.”

Abdul picked up the axe, and taking a powerful swing, knocked a patch of bark off one of the tree trunks. He swung again, and again, until
he chopped completely through the log, splitting it in half. Straddling one of the pieces, he chopped a grove in the middle. “Okay, now it’s your turn.” He handed the axe to Erol.

Erol clutched the handle and clumsily lifted the axe off the ground, but stumbled and fell to his knees.

Abdul shook his head. “Worthless,” he muttered. “Hold it farther from the end so you’ll have better control.”

Erol got up and took a feeble swing. The blade of the axe barely dented the wood.

“Again!” Abdul bellowed.

Erol swung the axe once more, but the result was the same.

Abdul moaned disgustedly. “We don’t have all day.” He jerked the axe from the boy’s hand. “Today, you watch. Then, tomorrow, you will chop that smaller trunk. I don’t care if it takes you all day. You will not stop until you are finished. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

Wielding the axe with authority, Abdul chopped the trunk into several pieces, before splitting off several hearth-sized logs. Finally, he drove the axe into the nearby trunk and handed Erol one of the logs. “Carry this into the house.”

The boy’s arms drooped under the weight. Gathering several logs into his own arms, Pasha rounded the corner of the house with Erol trudging behind him, straining under the weight of his burden.

Abdul leaned his load against the door jam and pushed the door open. “Go on.”

The boy staggered past him into the house and headed to the fireplace.

Abdul dropped his logs into the wood box. He grabbed the log from Erol and dropped it on the waning embers.

“Go get the rest of the logs. I’ll make a man out of you yet.”

Erol, head down, walked back to the door. At the threshold, he turned and glanced at his mother. Watching silently from the kitchen, she smiled sympathetically and nodded encouragement.

“Go on!” Pasha yelled. “Don’t come back here without a log.”

Erol cringed. Stepping outside, he pulled the door closed behind him.

Abdul slumped down on the divan. “Woman, where’s my breakfast?”

Jasmine defiantly marched to the divan and handed Abdul a cup of tea. She turned to walk away, but he grabbed the belt of her dress.

“What? I’m getting your tray.”

Abdul grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. He ran his hands across her breasts. “After I eat breakfast, we’ll meet in your bedroom.”

“I can’t, Abdul. It’s my time of the month.”

“Bullshit!” he shot back. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe your menses come every week?”

“You believe what you want to believe, but it’s the truth.”

Abdul, his jaw clenched in anger, glared at his wife. She stared back, with equal measures of disdain and fear.

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” he finally huffed. “There’s no sense taking the risk you’ll get pregnant and bring another pathetic weakling into this family. I’ll find something you can do for me,” he glared, a wicked smile on his face.

The door opened behind them.

“I told you not to come back here without a log,” Abdul growled at Erol, who was standing empty-handed in the open doorway.

“There are…there are soldiers, Father,” he stuttered. “They want you.”

“Soldiers?” Abdul repeated. Rising to his feet, he set his teacup on the end table and walked to the door.

Three soldiers on horseback were in the barnyard. Behind them was a wagon outfitted with a team of six horses. All the men were bundled in heavy winter coats, and the driver, an old man wearing a red fez, was wrapped in blankets.

One soldier dismounted and marched across the barnyard. “I’m Lieutenant Yasevi, sir,” he said solemnly. “We’re here to see Abdul Pasha bin Mohammad, father of Timurhan Pasha bin Abdul.”

“I’m Abdul Pasha bin Mohammad. Is something wrong?”

“Sir, I regret to inform you that your son has been martyred in jihad.”

“No,” Abdul whispered, his expression melting into horror. He gaped at the wagon. “My God, no. You are mistaken, sir.”

“No, sir. Unfortunately, I’m certain. We’re returning your son’s body for burial.”

Abdul peered at the wagon through a suddenly heavy snowfall. Slowly, he sank to his knees. “No! No! No!” he cried out in anguish. “Not my son!”

Timurhan’s mother rushed from the house. “What it is?”

“Our son is dead!”

Overcome with anguish, Sabriye sank to her knees and collapsed face down in the snow.

Hasan knelt by her side. “Come inside, sister,” he whispered. Helping her to her feet, he led the sobbing woman to the house.

The other soldiers dismounted their horses. Walking to the back of the wagon, they opened the tailgate.

“Sir, let me help you inside,” the lieutenant said. “My men will bring your son’s body.”

Abdul suddenly looked up at the lieutenant. His eyes were filled with rage. “How?”

“Sorry, sir?” the lieutenant replied.

“How did my son die?”

“He was guarding a supply convoy that was ambushed by Dashnak forces near Van. He was killed in the first volley of rifle fire.”

Abdul’s face contorted with fury. “My son was killed by Armenian dogs?”

“Yes, sir. Twenty-two men died in the attack, and seventeen more were wounded. Timurhan was one of my best men, a valiant soldier. I was with him when he died, and he told me to tell you he loved you. He also asked me to give you this.” The lieutenant pulled the familiar Mauser pistol from beneath his coat and handed it to Abdul.

Abdul slowly turned the pistol over in both of his hands. “I gave this to him just before he left.”

“I’m sorry, sir. He was a remarkable young man.”

“Fucking Armenian infidels,” Abdul muttered beneath his breath, as he rose to his feet. “The infidels will pay dearly for my son’s death.”

“Yes, sir. The general ordered all Christians in the Third Army to give up their weapons, and many were relieved of their duties. But, to be fair, some of our men who died in the ambush were themselves Armenians, including the lieutenant leading the supply convoy.”

“Turncoat dogs,” Abdul muttered, ignoring the lieutenant’s comment. “Their bodies will rot on the ground.” He walked to the rear of the wagon. There, in the bed, a body was bundled from head to toe in white cloth. Abdul placed his hand on his son’s chest. It was frozen solid.

“Where would you like us to take him, sir?” the lieutenant asked.

Alone with his thoughts, Abdul did not reply. He stood staring into the distance toward the far-off mountains.

“Sir,” the lieutenant repeated, “where would you like us to take your son?”

Abdul turned and stared vacantly at the lieutenant. “Help me take him inside,” he finally whispered.

The soldiers hoisted Timurhan’s body from the wagon and carried it to the house. Abdul, his shoulders slumped in despair, stepped past them to the threshold. Opening the front door, he let them pass and followed them inside.

Sirak trudged across the snow-cloaked field after Özker. A few paces in front of them, Mikael tailed Stepannos, using his brother’s body as a shield against a bitter westerly wind. Each boy had an armful of scrap firewood.

Snow gusted into Sirak’s face, peppering his skin with icy needles. Too cold to speak, he struggled through a deep drift of snow next to the barn and clomped across the barnyard to the house. The wind waned for a moment, and a welcoming plume of smoke rose above the chimney.

Balancing the wood against his chest, Stepannos opened the front door and stepped inside the Sufyan home. Mikael, Sirak and Özker filed inside behind him.

Mourad was seated on the divan, and the girls from both families were crowded around the fire.

“Good work, boys,” Mourad said cheerfully. He took Sirak and Özker’s loads, and dropped them on the woodpile in the corner of the room.

Mikael dropped his wood on the pile. “It’s getting worse. The wind is blowing harder than last night.” He collapsed on the floor beside Flora and leaned his head against her shoulder.