The Ghosts of Anatolia (17 page)

“Good afternoon, Kemal.”

“What can I do for you, Abdul?”

Pasha glanced across the field behind the barn. “I didn’t realize you had such a fine-looking farm. It looks like you’ve gotten a good start on your planting.”

“God is great. The weather was perfect this week.”

“Spring is finally here. I take it you got your military exemption.”

“Yes, at least for one year,” Kemal lied guardedly.

“Are you available for work? All of my men were conscripted, and I need help planting my crops.”

“No, I’ve got my hands full with my own crops.”

“I’ll pay you double what you earned from me last year. I’ll even barter provisions for your family.”

“I’m sorry, Abdul, but I just don’t have time.”

Pasha sighed with frustration. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He glanced toward the farmhouse. “By the way, have you seen Mourad Kazerian?”

The hairs stood up on the back of Kemal’s neck. “Uh…no,” he stuttered, “I haven’t seen Mourad in months. The last I heard, he was moving his family to Istanbul to live with his brother. Why do you ask?”

“I thought maybe he needed some work.”

“If I see him, I’ll be sure to tell him you’re looking for help.”

“I’d appreciate that. But be careful, my friend, the governor-general’s new regulations forbid dealings with Russian sympathizers. The penalty is death by hanging.”

“Mourad Kazerian is not a Russian sympathizer,” Kemal snapped.

“Easy, my friend. I wasn’t referring to Kazerian.” Abdul handed down a small piece of paper. “I picked up the
Agence
in the village. There’s a story about a lot of Armenian leaders being arrested in Istanbul for plotting against the Empire. Since your farm isn’t far from the north road to Bingöl, you could encounter sympathizers fleeing to the east from Istanbul. Remain vigilant.”

“Thank you for the warning. I’ll keep my eyes open. How’s your family?”

“It’s a difficult time for everyone. We barely have enough food to make it to the next harvest, but somehow we’ll get by. I just wish this damned war would end.” Pasha glanced toward the farmhouse. “How are your sons?”

“I have only one son. Özker is fine.”

“I thought I saw two boys. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

“That was Özker’s cousin from Siverek.”

“His cousin from Siverek,” Abdul repeated with a toothy grin. “Well, I must be going now. God willing, I’ll see you soon.”

“Goodbye, Abdul. May God protect you and your family.”

Pasha turned and rode off across the barnyard. Kemal stood watching until the Turk disappeared beyond an embankment sprinkled with yellow and white wildflowers. Finally, he turned and walked across the barnyard to the house.

“Good morning!” Kemal called out cheerfully. The Turk was dressed in tattered work clothes. He took a seat at the table beside Mourad. “Did you hear the warblers this morning?”

“No, I missed them.”

Nahid, adorned in a baggy
shalwar
, with a long-sleeved blouse and veil, set a platter of bread and cheese between the two men.

Kemal sliced off a hunk of cheese, and wrapping it with bread, stuffed it into his mouth. “It’s a beautiful day outside,” he said through a mouthful of food. “Özker and I went to fetch water from the river and we spotted a bear and her cubs basking on the far bank. It shouldn’t take us more than a couple of hours to finish planting the cotton. How about if we ride over to your farm after we finish?”

Mourad took a sip of his tea. “No, I want to stay here today. Pasha spooked me. He knows...I feel it in my bones.”

“Relax, my friend. Don’t let him get to you. He’s desperate, or he wouldn’t come to ask me for help.”

“How can you be so calm? I couldn’t sleep at all last night.”

Kemal patted Mourad’s arm. “Relax, everything will be...”

The pounding of horses’ hooves brought Mourad out of his chair. “What’s that?”

“Kemal Sufyan,” a gruff voice bellowed from the barnyard, “come out now!”

Kemal glanced anxiously at Mourad. He got up from the table, opened the door and stepped outside.

More than two-dozen uniformed gendarmes were scattered across the barnyard. Several had guns trained on the house. Another group was inspecting the barn.

“We already gave up our horses and mules,” Kemal offered guardedly, “along with fifty percent of our supplies. I’ll get the receipt.”

“I’m Lieutenant Mohammad,” the leader barked. “Are you Kemal Sufyan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sheltering the Armenian Mourad Kazerian?”

Kemal stared back at the lieutenant in stunned silence.

“Are you?”

“Sir, Mourad and his family are close friends, and someone burned their home to the ground.”

“I have a warrant for his arrest. Stand clear while my men search the house.”

The officer motioned several men into the house. The first gendarme, a chubby Turk with a pistol, grabbed Mourad and forced his arm behind his back. He pushed him outside. Another gendarme led Stepannos to the barnyard. The others searched the house.

The portly gendarme bound Mourad’s hands behind his back with a stretch of rope.

“Armenian dogs,” the lieutenant hissed.

Mourad glanced over his shoulder at another policeman binding Stepannos’ hands. “Why are you doing this? We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Do you deny recruiting men for the Dashnak forces in the east?”

“I absolutely deny it. My oldest son is a soldier in the Ottoman Army.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifty,” Mourad replied tersely.

“Why haven’t you reported for army service?”

“I’ve got a wife and five children. They need my protection.”

“Thousands of men with even larger families reported for service to the Empire. Failure to report is itself a crime punishable by death.”

“I paid my
bedel
,” Mourad replied defiantly. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Tell it to the magistrate. Put him on a horse,” the lieutenant ordered. He turned and walked over to Stepannos. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen, sir,” Stepannos whispered fearfully.

“Why didn’t you report for army service?”

“I’ve been helping Mr. Sufyan and my papa plant the crops, sir.”

“You’re under arrest,” the lieutenant said calmly. He motioned to the gendarme.

Stepannos hung his head submissively. The gendarme forced him up onto a horse.

“What’s in the barn, Sergeant Faraz?” the lieutenant asked a wiry gendarme.

“Two scrawny work horses and a few bags of flour and rice, sir.”

“Search the house for weapons. See that no harm comes to the women and children.”

“Yes, sir.” The gendarme jogged past Kemal and disappeared into the house.

Nearly an hour passed before the young sergeant and several other gendarmes emerged from the house. Fadime followed them out wearing a blue dress and veil.

“Did you find anything, Sergeant?” the lieutenant asked.

“Three women and several children under the age of fifteen are in the house, sir. I also found these.” He pulled an ivory-handled knife from a wooden box.

The lieutenant took the knife, and turning it over in his hand, inspected the engraved blade. He glanced at Kemal. “Are these your knives?”

“No,” Kemal replied uneasily.

“They belong to the Armenian?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before.”

“Sir,” Mourad began, “I can explain...”

“Shut up!” the lieutenant demanded angrily.

“I found something else, sir,” the sergeant said. He handed a sheet of paper up to the lieutenant.

The lieutenant scanned the page. “What is this?”

“It’s some sort of code, sir.”

Lieutenant Mohammad thrust the sheet of paper in front of Kemal. “What is this, Mr. Sufyan?”

Kemal glanced at the page. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen it before.”

The lieutenant stepped over to Mourad and held the paper up. “What is this, Armenian?”

Mourad glanced at the sheet and swallowed nervously. “Sir, my brother’s a member of the Ottoman Assembly. We exchanged these codes so we could communicate in case of emergency.”

“In case of emergency?” the lieutenant mocked. “What emergency?”

Mourad shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. We’ve never used them.”

The lieutenant glared at Mourad for a moment before turning back to Kemal. “Bind his hands,” he ordered a young policeman standing beside the Turk. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Sufyan.”

“For what?” Kemal protested.

“For providing sanctuary to enemy agents,” the lieutenant replied indignantly.

“Let him be!” Fadime screamed. She angrily pushed past the gendarme. “None of these men did anything wrong.”

“Get back in the house, woman!” the lieutenant shouted.

“But they’re innocent.”

“If they’re innocent, then they’ve got nothing to fear.”

“Where are you taking them?”

“To the Central Prison in Diyarbekir. Now get out of my way.” He took the reins from one of the gendarmes and swung up onto his horse.

Suddenly, the front door burst open and Sirak dashed headlong into the barnyard. He was carrying a large spoon.

Kristina ran out of the house a step behind him. “Sirak! Get back in here!”

Fadime tried to intercept the boy, but he sidestepped her and ran straight for the lieutenant’s horse.

“Don’t hurt my papa!” the red-faced boy hollered. “Leave him alone!”

The lieutenant’s horse spun in place, and spooked by the stick-toting assailant, reared up on his hind legs. The lieutenant, though clinging desperately to the horse’s neck, tumbled off. Sirak swung the stick and landed a glancing blow on the officer’s hands before a gendarme grabbed him. The gendarme dragged Sirak toward the house. Twisting and turning like a fish, Sirak struggled out of the man’s grasp and ran toward the horses once again.

“Sirak!” Mourad shouted from atop the horse.

The boy stopped in his tracks.

“Get back to the house with your mother.”

“Papa,” Sirak cried out mournfully. Tears streamed down his face.

“I’m okay, Son.” Mourad’s voice trembled with emotion. “Take care of your mother and sisters.”

Sirak turned and staggered back to his mother. Kristina pulled the sobbing boy to her side.

“Are you okay, sir?” one of the gendarmes asked the lieutenant.

The lieutenant didn’t reply. He brushed the dirt from his uniform, and grabbing the reins, remounted his horse. He angrily turned his horse and wove through the clot of riders. “You’ll pay dearly for this, Armenian!” His voice dripped hatred.

Mourad didn’t reply. He turned and nodded at Stepannos in tacit support.

Stepannos’ eyes betrayed terror. He stared back at his father in silence, his jaw quivering.

The company of riders trotted away from the farmhouse to the bend in the river.

Mourad turned his head and caught a glimpse of Kristina, Mikael and Sirak standing in the barnyard with Fadime. “God, have mercy,” he murmured.

The hinges of the massive prison doors creaked open and the lieutenant led Mourad, Stepannos and Kemal, along with six other prisoners from the surrounding villages, into the expansive central yard. The procession marched beneath the imposing black walls and Mourad glanced up at the guard shack. One of the sentries, a dark-skinned man with a rifle, leaned out through a breach and caught his eye. Nodding smugly, the guard saluted.

The detail stopped in front of a small hut and a stout Turkish guard with a clipboard limped outside to converse with the lieutenant. Sheltering his eyes from the searing rays of the afternoon sun, the man recorded details provided by the lieutenant before several guards sorted the prisoners and led them away to cells. They led Kemal off in one direction and the other prisoners, including Mourad and Stepannos, in another.

The guards took Mourad and Stepannos down a sinuous passageway and finally stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. Fumbling with a ring of keys, the guards unlocked the door and led the captives past a long row of cells, each one overflowing with prisoners. The air was thick with the commingled stench of sweat, urine and feces.

One guard led Mourad and Stepannos to the last cell. He untied them, unlocked the door and pushed them inside.

Mourad scanned the somber faces of the two dozen men sitting on the floor. They stared back in silence. Finally, an old man rose from the floor and stepped forward.

“May the Lord’s mercy be upon you,” he said barely above a whisper. “My name is Farhad, from Sasun.”

“I’m Mourad from Seghir, and this is my son, Stepannos.”

“It’s my pleasure to meet you. I regret that we’ve met in this godforsaken place.”

Mourad glanced at a curly-haired man who erupted into a fit of coughing. “How long have you been here?” he asked the old man.

“Just over two weeks, but it seems like two years. Every male in my village over the age of sixteen was arrested and brought here. They’ve detained thousands of men all over the province.”

Mourad wrapped his arm around Stepannos’ shoulders. “Can you spare a drink of water for my son? We haven’t had a sip since early this morning.”

“The guards will come by later with a ration for each prisoner. If they bring food, I advise you to get your share. We’re lucky to get a crust of bread or some watered-down soup. If you pass it up, there will be nothing more until tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Mourad replied somberly. “I appreciate your help.”

“Let an old man give you one more bit of advice. Confess your crime.”

“But we’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Then make something up. If you tell the interrogators what they want to hear, they’ll move on to another prisoner. Otherwise, the devils will thrash you day and night until you confess. Then you’ll end up like him.” He pointed at a man lying along one side of the cell. Apparently unconscious, the man’s shirt was stained with blood. “But whatever you do, don’t admit you assisted Andranik or Dashnak forces. Two men from my village made that mistake and the devils hanged them in the courtyard early the next morning. Tell them you hid horses, withheld food supplies, or something else.”

“We will admit nothing,” Mourad countered. He glanced resolutely at Stepannos and clenched his fist. “We’ve done nothing. For God’s sake, my oldest son serves in the army.”