The Ghosts of Anatolia (21 page)

The attendant grabbed Dr. Charles by the arm but the latter jerked out of the attendant’s grasp.

“I’ll find my own way out, thank you.” Charles took a step toward the door, but suddenly turned. “You leave me no choice but to contact Ambassador Morgenthau and Enver Pasha about your sanctioning, if not orchestrating, the atrocities that are being committed against Armenians and Syrians in Diyarbekir Province.”

“Go ahead and write your damned letters. I can assure you, Doctor, they’ll meet with disdain in Istanbul. The Armenian collaborators are a threat to the Empire and I’ve been given explicit orders to crush them.”

“Clearly, Governor-general, you diligently carry out your orders—even if it means killing totally innocent people.”

“They can all go to hell for all I care. Let me give you a little advice, Dr. Charles. Get your nose out of my office before I have it cut off. Don’t forget, sir, the capitulations have been abrogated, and I’ve now got absolute power to punish you in any way I see fit. I’ll tolerate your insolence this time because the Empire needs skilled medical professionals, but my tolerance is nearly at an end. Good afternoon.”

Dr. Charles stormed out of the office past the governor-general’s assistant.

Reshid shook his head. “I can’t believe the impudence of these foreigners. It’s time to teach them a lesson they’ll not soon forget.”

“You have said it, sir,” his assistant replied. “We’re censoring all foreign correspondence, but somehow details about the measures we’ve taken to deal with the collaborators have leaked out. I put another letter in your basket this morning.”

“From whom?”

“From Lord Gray, the British Minister of Foreign Affairs. It’s a warning about what he refers to as atrocities being committed against the minorities. He specifically mentions the Armenian and Syrian Christians.”

“To hell with him. I’ll not suffer an inglorious dismissal like my predecessor. We must press ahead without delay. Inform Colonel Tamir he’s got one week to round up the remaining infidels or I’ll promote someone else to his position.”

“I’ll tell him. What about Dr. Charles?”

“It’s a cane with shit on both ends,” the governor-general replied pensively. “We need help in the hospitals, but I’ll not tolerate him meddling in my affairs. Ask Colonel Tamir to keep an eye on him.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”

May 11, 1915

Abdul Pasha reined his horse in at the crest of the hill overlooking his freshly plowed fields. Just as he’d hoped, the barnyard was empty. He nuzzled Flora’s neck beneath her veil. “This is your castle, my princess.”

Flora didn’t reply. Sitting sidesaddle in front of Abdul, she felt only emptiness and sorrow.

Abdul dug his heals into the mare’s flanks. Guiding it down a gentle embankment, he trotted across the barnyard to the house. “Whoa,” he muttered.

Pasha helped Flora down from the horse and led her to the front door. “Remember, you are the chosen one.” Opening the door, Abdul led her inside.

Erol was kneeling on the floor in front of the coffee table playing chess with his uncle.

Hasan turned and shot up from his chair. “Abdul,” he stammered, “welcome home. We were worried some evil befell you in Aleppo.”

“My business took longer than expected. Did Baran finish the planting?”

“Yes, he planted the north field the day after you left and the west field two days ago.”

“Very good. Erol, why haven’t you chopped the wood? I told you to finish those limbs before I returned.”

“The boy’s been with fever for several days now,” Hasan said.

“He’s well enough to play games. Erol, go get the women.”

The boy jumped up and dashed down the hall.

Abdul removed Flora’s veil. “Hasan, let me introduce you to Flora, my beautiful third wife. God willing, she’ll bear me many sons.”

Hasan, too shocked to reply, stared open-mouthed at the young woman. Sabriye led Jasmine and her daughters into the room. Flora stared at the floor.

“Good morning,” Abdul greeted them cheerfully. “This is Flora, my new wife.”

“Wife?” Sabriye gasped in disbelief. “She’s Armenian.”

“Flora converted to Islam, and the mullah blessed our marriage.”

“But where?” Jasmine demanded incredulously. “There’s no room for another wife.”

“We’ll make room,” Abdul replied. “Henceforth, Flora will be my favored wife, and God willing, she will bear me many strong sons. She’ll take the large bedroom.”

“The large bedroom?” Jasmine asked incredulously. “What about the children and me?”

“You will take the room next to Sabriye’s, or divorce me and live with your brother. It matters not to me.”

“You know Nadir can’t support us,” Jasmine said bitterly. “He can’t even provide for his own family.”

“Then you must make do with the room I give you.”

“This is outrageous! That tiny room isn’t big enough for one person, let alone the four of us.”

“Make it work,” Abdul replied calmly. “Erol can sleep here in the front room.”

Jasmine glared at Abdul. “How can you treat your own flesh and blood so callously? If you won’t listen to me, then perhaps you’ll consult the Holy Koran. A man may only take another wife if he can provide...”

“Enough!” Abdul bellowed. “There will be no more discussion. Sabriye, I ask you to oversee the arrangements, and I expect Flora to take her place in the large bedroom before I return.”

“A small room is all I need,” Flora whispered.

Everyone turned to stare at the impassive young woman. Glancing up for a brief moment, she quickly looked back down.

Abdul scowled at Jasmine. “I’ve made my decision. Flora will be recognized as my first wife, and she will take the large bedroom. If you cross her, or me, you do so at your own peril.” He stepped outside and slammed the door shut behind him. An uncomfortable silence hung over the room.

“Well, Abdul made his decision, and we all must accept it,” Sabriye finally said. She smiled at Flora. “I’m Sabriye, Abdul’s oldest wife, and this is my brother, Hasan.”

“I’m delighted to meet you, Flora,” Hasan said sincerely. “Welcome to our family.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Flora whispered timidly.

“And this is Jasmine, Abdul’s second wife,” Sabriye added. “These are her children, Ayse, Fairuza and Erol. We all welcome you.”

Flora nodded at Jasmine and her children.

Jasmine sighed resignedly. “I bear you no malice, Flora. I’m just stunned. You must be hungry. Can I prepare you a bowl of soup?”

“No, thank you. I’d just like to lie down for a while, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Sabriye said. “You can rest in my bedroom while we sort things out.”

“Thank you. You’re all very kind.”

Jasmine waited for Sabriye to lead Flora out of the front room before turning to Hasan. “There’s no way her family consented to this marriage.
She’s only a shy young girl.”

Hasan shrugged his shoulders. “There is no point in arguing. Abdul will do as he pleases, and if we want to remain in his household, we must comply with his decisions. Think of your children. The Empire is at war. This is no time to be reliant on the generosity of strangers. I’ll help you move your things.”

Sirak looked over Dr. Charles’ shoulder and watched him incise a boil on a wounded infantryman’s leg. Hyperventilating with pain, the soldier clutched the bedrails and sank his teeth into a rolled towel.

“Bite down, Corporal,” Charles said. “Sirak, hold his leg still.”

Sirak struggled to hold the soldier’s foot. He watched intently as Dr. Charles expressed foul-smelling pus from the angry wound and inserted a drainage tube. Finally, Dr. Charles sutured the tube to the skin. “You can relax now. We’re still not out of danger, but your leg looks better today. I’ll do everything I can to save it.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” the corporal gasped. “May God bless you.”

Dr. Charles ruffled Sirak’s hair and smiled kindheartedly. “I think I’ve found a new assistant. What’s your weekly fee?”

“My fee?”

“Yes, your fee. How much do you charge?”

Sirak stared up at the doctor. “Nothing, sir. But could it help my papa?”

Dr. Charles squatted eye to eye with the boy. “Sirak, I’ll do everything in my power to get your papa out of that prison. I promise.”

“Thank you. My mama says if anyone can get Papa out, it’s you. Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you like being a doctor?”

Charles broke into a broad grin. “Absolutely; at least most of the time.”

“What
don’t
you like about it?”

“Well, I guess when people are so sick I can’t help them. Unfortunately, that happens far too often since the war started.”

“What do you like best?”

“That’s easy. The best part is helping patients like you—someone who’s hurt really bad, but then recovers to live a full and happy life.”

“You know what Mama says? She says healing people is God’s work.”

Dr. Charles smiled and patted Sirak on the head. “Your mama’s a very smart woman. We’re all God’s little helpers.”

“Can I be a doctor when I grow up?”

“Yes, but first you must learn to read and write.”

“Mama’s already teaching me to read and write, but where do I learn to doctor?”

Charles smiled. “The Medical College of Istanbul would be a very good choice. Did you know the great Sultan Mehmet’s doctor was Armenian?”

“The Sultan’s doctor? Really?”

“Yes, his name was Shashian, and they established the medical school together. That was almost one hundred years ago, in 1817, I believe. Come now, young man, we must finish rounds before clinic. Can you fill this basin with soapy water? I’ll be over there with the next patient.”

Sirak took the basin and ran out the door at the end of the ward.

“How are you feeling today, Sergeant?” the doctor asked a burly Turk.

The man grimaced and held up his bandaged hand. “It hurts like hell, but I can move my fingers.”

“That’s a good sign.” Dr. Charles sat on the edge of the bed. Unwinding gauze from the man’s hand, he examined the remnants of his index finger. Only a swollen and discolored stump remained. “It looks better today, and there’s no infection. How’d this happen?”

“I was cutting meat and my knife slipped.”

Dr. Charles looked up amusedly. “I guess it’ll be hard to shoot a gun without your index finger?”

“Truly. If you write that in my record, they’ll send me home.”

“I’ll write it, but only if you let me throw out that filthy fez.”

The soldier reluctantly pulled off his fez and handed it to the doctor. Charles stuffed it into his back pocket. “Where’s your family, Sergeant?”

“In Bitlis; at least that’s where we lived when the war started, but they evacuated when the Russian army attacked Van. Only God knows where they are now. They’re probably dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Charles said solemnly. He patted the man on the shoulder. “I’ll pray for them.”

Sirak hustled through the door carrying the water basin. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “Nurse Barton washed the basin.”

“That’s okay. Set it here on the table. Sergeant, I want you to soak your hand in this soapy water for at least ten minutes.” Dr. Charles looked up. The sergeant was glaring at Sirak.

“Is he Armenian?” the sergeant asked.

“Yes,” Charles replied.

The soldier lunged at Sirak. “I’ll cut your fucking head off!”

Charles pulled the wide-eyed boy to the door and squatted beside him. “It’s alright, Sirak. You didn’t do anything wrong. Go tell Nurse Barton I’ll join her in clinic in a few minutes.”

Sirak hurried off with his head down.

“What’s wrong with you, Sergeant?” Charles snapped.

“I hate infidel scum. The Armenian dogs captured two of my men near Van. One of them was my best friend. We only found pieces after the infidels got through with them. God willing, we’ll kill every last one of them.”

“He’s just a boy, and his older brother serves in the Ottoman Army.”

“There were dozens of Armenians in my regiment, but most of them deserted during the fight for Van. We should’ve lined them all up and cut their...”

“That’s enough! If you want my care, you’ll keep your hatred to yourself. Soak your hand in this water and I’ll send the nurse in to replace your bandage.”

Dr. Charles turned and made his way past a line of staring patients.

A man near the door struggled up on his cot. “Don’t side with the Armenians, Doctor,” he warned in a hoarse whisper. “Their tricks are well known, and nobody will fall for them anymore.”

Ignoring the man’s comment, Charles stepped out of the ward and shut the door behind him.

“
Allahu Akbar!”
a deep voice shouted in the ward behind him. A chorus of men repeated the cry.

May 30, 1915

“Good morning,” Elizabeth murmured tiredly. She stepped to the table and affectionately squeezed Kristina’s arm.

Kristina smiled. “Good morning.” She tried to spoon-feed Izabella a mouthful of rice, but the young girl twisted up her face and turned away. “You must eat, Izabella. If you’ll eat the rest of this, I’ll play dolls with you. Okay?” She looked up at Elizabeth. “I came to your room for some aspirin early this morning. I think Izabella’s coming down with a cold.”

“Did you find it?”

“Lala got me some. We’re feeling better now, aren’t we angel?”

The little girl nodded and took another bite.

“Did you get any rest last night?” Kristina asked.

“I managed to nap for a couple of hours. They brought in several wounded soldiers, so I was lucky to get that much.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“The orderlies had the situation under control. Besides, you had your hands full with Izabella. Did she finally sleep?”

“After I rocked her for two hours. Hopefully, she’ll take a nap this afternoon. Are you going to church this morning?”

“I can’t. David has an emergency amputation and he needs my help. Maybe we can go tonight.”

“I’d like to go, if you can make it.”