The Ghosts of Anatolia (22 page)

“I’ll do my best. Hakan’s headed to the souk today to buy provisions. Do you want anything?”

“We’re out of black tea.”

“Oh, yes, thanks for reminding me. David wants more coffee, too. Perhaps Lala can stay with the kids and we can finish...”

The door burst open and Dr. Charles rushed into the room. His face was drawn.

Elizabeth shot up from her chair. “What is it?”

Charles nodded at the children. “Are they finished with their breakfast?”

Kristina got up from the table. “Mikael, take Sirak and Izabella to the bedroom to play.”

“I don’t want to play,” Mikael sulked.

“Don’t argue with me.” Kristina helped Izabella out of her chair and ushered the children to the bedroom. She rushed back into the kitchen a moment later.

“I just got terrible news from Reverend Hollis,” David said. “They executed over a hundred prisoners at the Central Prison this morning.”

Kristina clutched her hands to her face in horror. “Mourad and Stepannos?”

“He didn’t know. They haven’t posted the names. Reverend Hollis brought a proclamation from the governor-general’s office. Reshid ordered the prison emptied of all non-Muslims. The remaining captives are to be sent down the river into exile.”

“Exile?” Kristina asked fretfully. “To where?”

“I don’t know anything more, but people are already gathering outside the prison. Doctor Saunders offered to do my surgeries so I can take you to the prison.”

Kristina nodded her head dolefully. “Give me a few minutes to get the children ready.”

“Are you sure you want to take the children?” Dr. Charles queried skeptically. “God knows what’ll happen down there.”

“David’s right,” Elizabeth agreed. “Lala will watch your children.”

“No, I want to take the children. God forbid, it could be their last chance to see their father.” She buried her face against Elizabeth’s chest.

Dr. Charles wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “I’ll tell Hakan to harness the wagon.” “I’m coming, too,” Elizabeth whispered. She took Kristina’s arm and helped her to the bedroom.

The street outside the hospital was in chaos when the horse-drawn wagon pulled away from the hospital an hour later. Dozens of people, some carrying stretchers, were milling about the front entrance and more than a dozen wagons were lined up down the street.

One of the guards caught sight of Dr. Charles riding beside his driver. Running to the street, he jogged alongside the wagon. “Where are you going, Doctor?”

“We’re going to the Central Prison. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“But all these wagons are loaded with sick and wounded soldiers.”

“Doctor Saunders will take care of them until I return. Let’s go, Hakan.”

Hakan whipped the horse, and the wagon jerked away from the hospital. Weaving through pedestrian traffic, they slowly made their way along sun-drenched streets to the access road outside the front gate of Diyarbekir Central Prison. Pulling wide-eyed Izabella to her side, Kristina covered her ears to shelter her from mournful wails echoing from the large crowd gathered in the street.

“My God, where is Thy mercy?” an old woman blubbered above the din.

“Hakan, park over there,” Dr. Charles shouted. He pointed to a clearing beneath a tree. “Wait for us there. We may want to use the wagon.”

Dr. Charles helped the women and children down to the ground. He swept Sirak up in his arms and led them towards the black-walled prison. Kristina grabbed Izabella and followed him into the fringes of the crowd.

“Have there been any announcements?” Charles asked an old man.

“The crier announced the prisoners would be brought out in thirty minutes. That was an hour and a half ago.”

“Any word about the men they executed?”

“No, nothing; but there’s a rumor that they…”

Suddenly, the murmur of the crowd intensified to a roar.

Kristina stood on her tiptoes and saw the prison gate open wide. She caught a glimpse of the large procession of men being herded out to the access road before the crowd closed around her. “I can’t see!” she cried.

“We’ll stay here with the children!” Elizabeth shouted. “You go ahead.”

“No, we must stay together. If Mourad and Stepannos come out, I want the children to see them.”

“This is insanity!” Dr. Charles shouted above a hundred jumbled cries. He picked up Sirak. “Our only hope is to race up the street ahead of the crowd.”

Kristina grabbed Mikael’s hand. “Should we head back to the wagon?”

“No, we’ll never get the wagon through this mob. Follow me.”

The group clung together and wove through the crowd. Breaking into the clear, they raced up a parallel service road. Finally, they turned up an alley and dashed back to the main street.

Dr. Charles ducked behind a cart parked at the corner. Fighting to catch his breath, he hoisted Sirak onto his shoulders and gathered the others around him. “They’ll have to pass this way to get to the river.”

Peering up the street from atop Dr. Charles’ shoulders, Sirak watched mounted policemen clear the mob ahead of the procession. “Is my papa coming now?” he cried out hopefully.

“I don’t know, Son,” Charles replied distractedly. “We’ll find out soon.”

Several minutes passed before policemen on horseback reached their position. Whimpers, wails and shouts from distraught relatives echoed off the walls of surrounding buildings.

“Hovan! Oh, my Hovan!” a young woman screamed hysterically above the clamor.

“I love you, Vartan,” an old man yelled.

The huge leading throng of relatives streamed on both sides of the cart and a phalanx of armed guards surged forward ahead of the prisoners.

“Dear God,” Kristina called out frantically, “they’re all bound together.”

More than twenty abreast, the long column of scruffy men and boys in tattered rags stumbled past them. A fetid communal odor hung over them like a cloud. Telltale signs of torture—cuts and bruises, blackened eyes and charred heads—were visible on many of the prisoners. Some prisoners carried other men on stretchers. Clean white bandages worn by a few men seemed oddly out of place. A few prisoners searched the surrounding multitude for loved ones, but the majority stared trance-like at the ground beneath their feet. Club-toting guards shouted commands and forced the desperate crowd out of their path.

Bobbing and craning, Kristina scrutinized the vacant faces of the closest prisoners. “Mikael, climb up on this cart!”

Mikael climbed up the tailgate and jumped into the bed. His eyes darted from face to face, searching for Mourad and Stepannos. “There they are!” he shouted. “Papa! I’m up here! Stepannos! I’m up here!”

Stepannos hobbled along with his father near the end of the procession. Hunched over at the waist, Mourad looked as if he’d aged twenty years. His right eye was swollen shut.

“Papa!” Mikael yelled again.

Mourad looked up and searched the crowd. Suddenly, he spotted Mikael. He waved his hand and yelled to his son.

“I can’t hear you, Papa!” Mikael called out mournfully. He held his arms extended. “Papa, I love you. Stepannos, my brother, I love you, too. May God protect you!”

“Mikael, take Sirak so he can see, too,” Dr. Charles shouted. He handed the boy up. Kristina passed Izabella to Elizabeth. Climbing into the cart, she leaned down and lifted her daughter into the wagon. Mikael climbed into the driver’s seat. Reaching back into the bed, he pulled Sirak in beside him.

Sirak stood in the seat and scanned the faces streaming past. “Where’s Papa?”

Mikael pointed to the road behind the cart. “Right there!”

Sirak spotted them. He jumped up and down. “Papa!” he called out jubilantly. “Papa, I miss you. I love you. Stepannos, I love you, too.”

“Stepannos! Mourad!” Kristina shouted. “I miss you, my darlings. We pray for you.” She lifted Izabella and turned her head. “Look Izabella! There’s your papa and brother.”

Mourad waved his arms. He cupped his bandaged hands over his mouth and yelled up at Kristina, but the roar of the crowd muffled his shout.

“What?” Kristina shouted frantically. “We can’t hear you!”

“Jerusalem!” Stepannos bellowed up to her. “Saint James in Jerusalem!”

“Yes!” Kristina shouted. “I heard you! Saint James in Jerusalem.” Staring helplessly, with tears streaming down her face, she locked eyes with Mourad. She held his gaze for a moment, before the trailing throng pushed him past.

Mikael and Sirak crawled over the side of the cart and jumped to the ground. Dr. Charles plucked Izabella out of the bed. Elizabeth helped Kristina climb over the tailgate.

“They look terrible,” Mikael gasped. “Did you see Papa’s eye?”

“Yes,” Kristina sobbed, “and there were bandages wound around both of his hands.”

“At least they’re alive,” Charles said. “Thank God Almighty.”

“Yes, they’re alive,” Kristina said gratefully. Looking to the heavens, she traced the sign of the cross across her head and chest. “Thank you, dear God.”

Dr. Charles grabbed Sirak’s hand. “Come on, let’s hurry back to the wagon and follow them down to the river.”

Hakan pulled the wagon to a stop at the top of an embankment overlooking the Tigris River. The blazing noonday sun hung directly overhead in a cloudless sky. Far below, at the crowded river’s edge, the prisoners were being transferred onto
kelek
rafts supported by inflated animal skins. Twenty to thirty men, all bound together, were being loaded on to each raft, along with an oarsman and an armed gendarme.

Several overloaded rafts were already drifting down the slow-moving river. Distraught friends and family members scattered along the bank and many shadowed rafts bearing their loved ones. A line of jagged rocks several hundred yards downstream blocked the progress of the hordes on land. Heartbreaking wails and mournful goodbyes reverberated up and down the river.

“Wait here, Hakan!” Dr. Charles shouted. Jumping to the ground, he helped the women and children out of the wagon and led them down the riverbank and into the teeming crowd.

Sirak spotted his father immediately. He jumped up and down and waved his arms. “Papa! Papa!” he called out frantically. “Papa, I’m over here!”

A guard led Mourad and Stepannos onto a raft and tethered them to a dozen other men. Mourad slumped to his knees. He peered up at the boisterous, crowd-covered embankment and caught sight of Kristina and his children. Nudging Stepannos, he pointed to the shore and raised his shackled arm.

Panicked cries suddenly arose from downstream.

Dr. Charles gasped in horror at the sight of one raft listing precipitously to the side. “Merciful God!” he breathed.

The raft abruptly rolled over amid a chorus of terrified screams. The guard and helmsman bobbed to the surface a moment later. Glancing back toward the stricken raft, they swam for shore.

“Someone help them!” Kristina shrieked.

The gendarmes watched passively from the shore, as ripples in the water rolled gently onto the bank.

One man swam out to the capsized raft. He tried to turn the raft over, but failed. “Help me!” he bellowed.

Several men, including Dr. Charles rushed out to join him. But it was hopeless. Bound together with manacles and ropes, the prisoners sank straight to the bottom.

“Did you see that?” one of the guards asked his comrade within earshot of Dr. Charles. “They sank like cannons.”

“They must have gold in their pockets,” another guard snickered. “We should’ve searched them more carefully.”

“Murderers! Child killers!” Dr. Charles bellowed, his baritone voice booming with anger. “You will all rot in hell!” He waded to shore and gazed helplessly at the overturned raft.

Two gendarmes ran down the embankment and grabbed Dr. Charles’ arms.

“Let me go!” Charles exclaimed angrily. He tried to pull away, but the gendarmes twisted his arm behind his back. They kicked his feet out from beneath him and forced him to the ground.

“You’re under arrest,” one gendarme shouted.

“For what?” Charles asked indignantly.

“Incitement to rebellion,” the man replied.

“Let him go!” Elizabeth cried out. “He did nothing!” She rushed forward and tried to pull the gendarme away from her husband, but the man shoved her to the ground.

The gendarmes led Charles up the embankment to a group of officials standing on the ridge. One of the men, a Turk wearing civilian clothes, stepped forward and punched Charles in the face.

A trickle of blood ran from Dr. Charles’ nose. He glared back defiantly.

“Hell on earth awaits you, infidel,” one man snarled. “Take him to the prison.”

Sirak watched helplessly as the gendarmes escorted Dr. Charles away. Suddenly, he whirled back to the river and scanned the rafts floating downstream. His eyes locked onto a large raft crowded with prisoners that was abreast of the rocky peninsula jutting into the slow-moving river. “Papa,” he whispered, as the raft drifted out of sight.

June 1, 1915

Lala poked her head through the door into the gloomy bedroom. She tiptoed across the room with a tray. Grief hung in the air like the poignant dirge of a lone piper.

Nurse Barton was lying on the bed beside Kristina. She had a washcloth draped over her eyes. Izabella and Sirak were huddled against the wall on a pallet and Mikael was slumped in the chair across the room.

“Lala,” Elizabeth whispered, “please bring me a glass of water.”

“Right away, madam. I also brought a tray of fruit and cheese.” She set the tray on the nightstand and fetched a water pitcher from the bureau.

“Did Hakan take my letter to the governor-general?”

“Yes, madam. He left two hours ago, but he’s not back yet.”

“Send him in as soon as he gets back, even if I’m asleep.”

“Of course, madam. I’m sorry to trouble you, but there’s a problem in the clinic.”

“What problem?”

“Doctor Karinget’s been asking for you. He’s fretting about a soldier he admitted this morning. He needs surgery, but there’s no scrub nurse.”

“Tell him I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Yes, madam. Nurse Barton, we’re all heartbroken about Dr. Charles. It’s shameful after everything he’s done to help people here in Diyarbekir. I pray they release him soon.”