The Ghosts of Anatolia (18 page)

“Suit yourselves,” Farhad replied, “but don’t say you weren’t warned.” The old man turned away and sat along the wall.

Mourad took Stepannos by the arm and led him across the cell. A middle-aged man scooted over to make room. Mourad bade Stepannos sit down and sat down beside him. “We will not confess to anything,” he whispered. He squeezed Stepannos’ knee. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Papa.” The terrified young man fidgeted mindlessly.

“No matter what they do. The wicked accusers will not have the satisfaction of besmirching our family name. We will find our strength in each other, and in God.”

“Yes, Papa. I understand.”

Nearly an hour passed before a guard detail appeared outside the cell. The taller of the two men, a strapping, acne-ridden Turk, with a jagged scar ranging down his jaw, opened the cell door. “Mourad Kazerian!” he barked.

“Remember, Stepannos, admit nothing.” Mourad patted his son on the leg, and standing up, wove past several other prisoners to the door.

“Hands behind your back,” the guard growled. He spun Mourad around, clamped handcuffs on his wrists and shoved him down the cell-block.

The guards led Mourad out of the building and across the bleak central yard. The taller guard seemed to make a point of leading him past towering gallows that loomed ominously at one end of the yard. He stopped in front of worn steps that led up to a narrow platform, and smiling callously at Mourad, pressed his hand to the latter’s throat.

Mourad glanced up at the three nooses swaying in the breeze above the platform. He shuddered. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,” he whispered.

Ducking back into the building, the guards led Mourad through a maze of offices along a dimly-lit corridor.

“Stop!” the burly guard ordered. He opened the last door and jerked Mourad to a chair in the middle of the windowless rectangular room. In the rear of the room there was a long bench and a wooden chair in front of a wall studded with wooden bludgeons, chains and other implements of torture. Unclasping Mourad’s hands, the guard cuffed his wrists to the arms of the chair.

Mourad craned his neck for a glimpse at the guards.

The taller man smiled menacingly. “I’ll bet one
lira
he confesses in less than five minutes,” he whispered to his comrade.

“Three minutes for him and five for the son,” the second guard replied.

Mourad looked away and both men erupted into boisterous laughter. A chill ran up his spine. He bowed his head in silent prayer.

After a few minutes, a rather slight man with black-rimmed glasses and a red fez stepped into the room. His bushy black mustache and eyebrows framed deep-set, cold eyes. He was dressed in a charcoal-gray officer’s jacket that was trimmed in red. His pants were tucked into black knee-high boots. But it was the gleaming sword at the officer’s side that caught Mourad’s eye.

The man stepped in front of the chair and glared down at Mourad for several moments. Mourad’s mouth went dry and his heart began to pound.

“My name is Major Tezer Akcam,” the man began. He had a surprisingly deep voice. “I’m your interrogator. Two eyewitnesses confirmed you serve as an agent for the Andranik forces. Your primary responsibilities are recruitment and financial support. Do you admit it?”

“I deny it,” Mourad replied determinedly. “I’m nothing more than a simple cotton farmer.”

“Do you also deny your son, Stepannos, colludes with traitors who support the Andraniks from the American Missionary School in Chunkoush?”

Mourad’s heart pounded. The memory of Stepannos’ careless comments and Bedros’ sharp rebuke came flooding back.

“My sons attended school in Chunkoush, but they had nothing to do with traitors who betrayed the Empire. How can we be accused of treason when my brother is a member of the Ottoman Assembly and my son serves loyally in the Ottoman Army?”

“Your brother, Bedros? He was arrested for conspiracy two weeks ago.”

“Arrested?” Mourad exclaimed in disbelief.

“Yes, arrested and sent to the gallows.”

“Bedros?” Mourad gasped.

“Yes, and your spineless son deserted at the height of the battle for Sarikamish.”

Mourad shook his head vehemently at the abhorrent thought. “Alek would never desert.”

“He was a gutless coward who ran like a rabbit. My patience is at an end, infidel. Who are your Andranik contacts?”

“There are no contacts. I’m only a...”

The Turk swung his gloved hand and struck Mourad full on the face. “No more lies!”

Mourad felt blood trickle from his nose. “I’m not lying,” he gasped. “We are loyal...”

“Shut up, pig! Perhaps the cane will loosen your tongue.” He nodded at the two guards.

The burly guard released Mourad’s arms, jerked him up from the chair and forced him onto his stomach on the bench. Grabbing his shirttail, the brute yanked it over Mourad’s head and lashed his outstretched arms to the boards. Fetching another rope from his pocket, the man bound Mourad’s ankles and stretched him out across the bench. He stepped to the wall, chose a cane and positioned himself astride Mourad.

Straining against the bindings, Mourad glanced up at the major. Akcam stared back with an expression of indifference.

“Twenty lashes,” he hissed.

The burly Turk lifted the cane high over his head with both hands and whipped it down. “Haa!” he barked.

Mourad arched his back under the force of the vicious blow and screamed in agony.

Time and again the Turk raised the cane in the air and smashed it down on Mourad’s back. After the eighth blow, Mourad lapsed into a stupor.

The major held out his hand to stay the guard. “Who are your Andranik contacts, Armenian?”

Mourad—unable to speak—slowly shook his head.

“Again!” the major barked.

The guard raised the cane again. He whipped it down on Mourad’s back and the rod snapped in two. The man walked to the rack and chose another. Stepping astride the bench, he resumed the beating until all twenty lashes had been delivered.

The major grabbed Mourad’s hair and lifted his head off the bench. “Fucking pussy,” he hissed. Take him to his cell and bring him back in the morning—this time with his son. He’ll confess soon enough.”

Stepannos cradled Mourad’s head in his arms. He glanced down at the angry red stripes across his father’s back. Sprawled against the back wall of the cell, Mourad hadn’t moved since the guards carried him back.

Old man Farhad crouched beside Stepannos and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Let him sleep.”

Tears streamed down Stepannos’ cheeks. He ran his fingers through his father’s hair. “Why?” he whispered. “Why?”

“I can’t explain it, Stepannos, except to say they’re evil, unprincipled men, blindly following their false God of hate. Remember what Jesus said to His disciples: blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

Kristina peered through the curtain at the masked men carting bags from the barn to a wagon. “Oh, my God! They’re coming this way!”

Fadime closed the curtain. “Hide yourselves in the back!” she shouted frantically to the children huddled in the hallway. “Don’t make a sound until I come for you.”

The children scurried down the hall into the bedrooms.

“What should we do?” Kristina cried frantically.

“We’ll let them have what they want, and pray they...”

A loud rap on the door reverberated through the living room. Fadime opened the door. A man in worker’s clothing, wearing a black hood over his head, pushed through the door waving a pistol.

“Please, have mercy,” Fadime pleaded. She pushed Kristina back with her outstretched arm. “In the name of God, take whatever you want, but please don’t harm...”

“Shut up!” the man barked. He pushed her aside. “Where’s your food?”

“There’s flour and rice in the cabinet next to the stove,” Fadime replied. “Take what you want.”

The man leaned back through the doorway. “There’s more inside. Come and get it.”

Another man ran through the door. He, too, was wearing a mask.

“Check the cabinets in the kitchen,” the leader barked. He turned back to Fadime and Kristina. “Where are the young women?”

“There are no young women,” Fadime replied calmly. “The children went to stay with relatives.”

“Bullshit,” the man hissed. Pushing past Fadime and Kristina, he headed for the bedrooms.

Fadime shrieked in horror. She flung herself onto the man and buried her nails into his chest. “Leave our children alone!”

“Fucking bitch!” The intruder swung his pistol and landed a powerful blow just above Fadime’s temple.

Kristina crouched down and crawled to the stricken woman’s side. Rolling her over, she gasped at the purple welt rising above Fadime’s eye.

“I’ll shoot her if she does that again,” the bandit growled. He turned and headed toward the back bedrooms.

The man forced the first bedroom door open. Nahid and Sabiha, along with Nahid’s twin girls, were cowering in the corner.

Nahid gathered Verda and Lale into her arms. “Please, sir, don’t hurt us.”

The hooded man turned, and without uttering a word, stepped from the room. He glanced through an open door into the second bedroom. It was empty, except for a mound of blankets in the back corner. He headed to the end of the hall and pushed against the last door. It didn’t budge. He forced his shoulder against the door, cracked it open and peered into the room. Mikael, Sirak and Özker were leaning on a dresser pressed against the door.

“Stand back!” the intruder demanded. He pointed his gun at the door. “Stand back or I’ll shoot!”

Mikael stood up and pulled Sirak away from the dresser. “Okay, don’t shoot.”

The masked man pushed the door open, stepped inside the room and pushed the boys to one side. “Get out of my way.”

Flora and Izabella were cowering behind the bed. Paralyzed with terror, they peered up at the intruder.

“Get over here,” the bandit snarled. He leaned across the bed, grabbed Flora’s arm and dragged her across the bed.

Flora whimpered fearfully and struggled to pull away.

“Leave her alone!” Mikael bellowed. He lunged past Özker and grabbed the man’s arm.

Sirak crouched down and bit the intruder’s calf.

“Aww!” the man screamed. He bashed Mikael on the top of the head with his pistol and knocked him to the floor before Sirak bit him on the leg again.

“You little bastard!” The man jabbed the pistol barrel against Sirak’s ear and pulled the trigger. A loud click echoed through the room. “Damn it!” He rapped Sirak atop the head and the boy collapsed on the floor.

“Come here,” the thug snapped. He grabbed Flora’s arm and dragged her from the room.

Kristina leapt to her feet. “No!” She bounded into the intruder’s path.

“This is your last chance, bitch.” The brute pressed his gun to Flora’s head. “Get out of my way or I’ll shoot her.”

Kristina dropped to her knees. “Please, sir, don’t take my daughter. Do what you want with me, but leave her alone.”

“Get out of my way.” He pushed her aside and yanked Flora out the door.

“Did you get everything?” the leader asked another bandit.

“Yes, Effendi, it’s all in the wagon.”

“Help me get her onto my horse.”

The men grabbed Flora. The leader mounted his horse and reached down to seize her by one arm. He pulled her up and draped her across the horse’s back.

“Okay, let’s go!” the leader called out. He turned his horse and galloped across the barnyard.

The wagon rumbled after him, and the other bandits tailed close behind.

Kristina shrieked hysterically. Running across the barnyard, she stumbled to her knees. “Flora! Dear God, no! My Flora!”

The band of outlaws galloped for several kilometers along the deserted rocky road. Flora’s arms and legs were bound with rope, and a handkerchief was tied across her mouth.

The leader finally pulled up at a fork in the road. “Baran, store these supplies in my barn and let the men go home. I’ll be back in a week or two.”

“When do we get our share?” the wagon driver shouted. “My children are hungry.”

“We’ll divide the supplies when I return,” the leader groused. “Hasan has money and four bags of flour for each of you back at the farm.”

“Where are you headed, Effendi?” another man asked.

“None of your damned business.”

“We all took the risk and we should all share the spoils,” the man persisted. “I say we draw lots to settle on who gets to fuck the girl first.”

“Screw you!” the leader barked. “I found her, and she’s mine.”

“Okay, then, how about drawing to see who gets her next?”

“Bullshit. Kemal Sufyan is a Turk. Don’t forget that. If you’ve got a
cheki
of sense, you’ll just forget about her.”

“Okay, Effendi. You’re the boss.”

“Be on your way, before it gets dark. Baran, tell Hasan I’m traveling to Aleppo on urgent business. I’ll be back in a week or two.”

“Aleppo?” Baran asked suspiciously. “Will you sell the girl at the great auction? We should split that, too.”

“Damn it, will you just do as I say? You’ll see my intentions soon enough.”

“Okay, Effendi. I’ll tell him.”

“Off with you, then.”

The wagon rumbled away to the north and the riders galloped after it.

“Idiots,” the leader mumbled. He glanced down at Flora and patted her back.

Flora moaned and struggled to lift her head.

“Be patient, my sweet. We’ll be home soon enough.” He ran his hand down her spine and cupped her buttocks.

Flora groaned loudly and struggled against her ties.

The bandit laughed heartily. He spun his horse around and trotted away down the east fork.

Eventually, he guided his horse up a muddy ravine and through a stand of brush at the top of a rocky knoll. He rode over the crest toward a rundown shack built of stone and wood. The ground around the structure was overgrown with weeds and brush.

“Rest assured, my darling, this is only temporary. You’ll soon be the queen of one of the largest farms in the province.”