The Ghosts of Anatolia (28 page)

“Good afternoon,” the major replied. “I’m Major al-Kawukji.”

The man wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “Good to meet you, Major. My name is Adem from Elbis. Could you spare us feed for our horses and a loaf of bread?”

“I’m sorry, but we’re short ourselves, with a long journey ahead of us.”

“I understand. Where are you headed?”

“We’re taking the women and children to Mardin.”

“That’s where we’re headed, too. Well, actually, we’re riding to my uncle’s farm just west of the city.” He peered past the major at Kristina and Elizabeth sitting with Hakan and Izabella on a slope behind the wagon. Mikael and Sirak were standing in the rocks at the top of the slope. “We’ll take them to Mardin for you.”

“I appreciate your offer, but Mardin is just our first stop. We’re taking them on to Ras ul-Ain to meet the train to Aleppo.”

“Ras ul-Ain isn’t far out of our way. We’d be happy to relieve you, if you can spare us some food for our horses.”

“Dear God, no,” Kristina whispered beneath her breath. She glanced worriedly at Elizabeth.

“Thank you,” the major replied, “but we’re meeting a detachment of cavalry in Ras ul-Ain. You can buy food and supplies from the villagers at Kabu Oasis.”

“Yes, God willing, I’m sure you’re right. We’ll be on our way then. Good afternoon.”

The man rode past the major, and his companions trotted up the trail after him. All four men ogled the women as they passed. The leader whispered something to the rider next to him, and the man laughed out loud.

Major al-Kawukji watched the riders until they disappeared around the bend in the road. “Kurdish
chetes
,” he growled contemptuously. “They’re probably some of the criminals who were released from the Central Prison in Mardin.”

“Maybe we should stop here for the night,” the sergeant suggested. He glanced over his shoulder at the women. “We could hide the wagon in the trees and sleep up there in the rocks.”

The major let out a worried sigh. “No, we can’t stop yet. We’ve got to make it to Ras ul-Ain tomorrow before the arrest orders are issued.”

“What about the Armenians, sir?” Private Bekir asked pointedly.

“What about them?” the major asked brusquely.

“Well, I just thought...”

“Don’t think, Private. Just do as you’re told.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Quiet now, here they come.”

“Who were those men, Major?” Elizabeth asked worriedly.

“Just some Kurdish villagers looking to buy feed for their horses.”

“They’re headed to Mardin?”

“That’s what they said. Are you ready? We’ve got to ride for two more hours before we stop for the night.”

“I’m ready. I’ll tell Kristina.”

Al-Kawukji glanced up at the westward progress of the sun. “We’ll ride in five minutes.”

The last leg of the day’s journey proved uneventful. Late in the afternoon, they passed a few small villages and a contingent of haggard infantrymen headed north, but otherwise traffic was sparse through the desolate hills. The major considered stopping for the night at a small Kurdish village, but ultimately decided they’d be better off camping alone-—preferring
not to place their security in the hands of strangers. They finally stopped in a clearing where an L-shaped rocky enclosure created a perfect view up and down the road in both directions. The blood-red sun dropped beneath a jagged hilltop and the sweltering afternoon faded into twilight.

After another meal of bread and cheese, Elizabeth, Kristina and the children settled down on blankets in a small ravine. The soldiers secured the horses and wagon nearby.

Major al-Kawukji gazed up the road. “Two of us will stand watch while the other sleeps, and we’ll switch every two hours. Who wants to sleep first? You, Isa?”

“No, sir, it’s too early for me.”

“I’m not tired either, Major,” Bekir said. “You should rest first.”

“Okay, then, I’ll sleep first. Awaken me in two hours.”

“Yes, sir,” Isa replied.

The major fetched his bedding from the wagon and unrolled it across the ground. He checked his rifle, rolled over on his side and closed his eyes. His snore soon echoed across the clearing.

Bekir mused aloud about the war and his family for the better part of an hour.

Isa listened attentively and gazed up at the rising moon. Finally, he knelt on the ground to clean his rifle. When he finished, he reloaded and rose to his feet. Bekir had dozed against a rock.
What the hell?
Isa thought to himself.
Why should both of us lose sleep?
He sat beside the private and peered at the darkened trail below.

Staring down at the shadowy, darkened road, Isa cradled his rifle in his arms. He listened for a long while to the chirp of a cricket. He nodded off briefly, but his head jerked up with a start. Rubbing his eyes, he rose to his feet and stretched. He ate the last of his cheese and took a deep breath before crouching back down.

Isa scanned down to the bend in the road and stretched his arms into the air. He stared up through the trees at the moon and yawned loudly. He peered bleary-eyed at the dark road. Finally, yielding to the muggy night, his chin dropped to his chest.

Major al-Kawukji bolted upright on his blanket. He glanced behind him. The women and children were asleep on the ground a few meters away. Peering through the darkness, he glimpsed the silhouettes of two men scurrying across the ravine to the wagon and horses. He groped for his rifle and jumped to his feet. “Isa? Is that you?”

The high-pitched whinny of a horse echoed across the clearing.

Al-Kawukji ran toward the trees. “Isa! Bekir!” he shouted. “Bandits!”

An instant later, a blood-curdling scream echoed through the darkness.

Al-Kawukji spotted a man with a white turban climbing atop one of the horses. The horse broke for the road. The major raised his rifle and squeezed off a shot. The rider fell backwards off the horse to the ground. Running down the hill, the major caught a glimpse of two more men in turbans sprinting away from the rocks. He fired again, and the nearest man tumbled to the ground. Al-Kawukji took aim again, but lost the other intruder in the shadows. He dashed to the horses.

Tiran was galloping in circles around the clearing. Spinning to face the major, the chestnut stallion whinnied defiantly.

“Easy, boy,” al-Kawukji whispered. He grabbed the reins.

Sirak and Mikael ran down the hillside. “Tiran!” Sirak shouted excitedly.

“He’s okay,” al-Kawukji whispered. “You boys hold him here while I secure the other horses.”

Sirak pointed toward a mound on the ground. “What’s that?”

Aiming his rifle, al-Kawukji stepped warily toward the motionless figure. “It’s a bandit with his forehead bashed in. The horse must have kicked him.”

The major ran across the clearing to the man he’d shot. Lying on his back and trembling with fear, the wide-eyed bandit raised his hand and gasped for mercy.

“Go to hell!” al-Kawukji barked. He drew his sword and slashed the thief across the neck.

Then he grabbed a knife that lay on the ground and ran back to the boys. “Stay here with the horses while I check on Isa and Bekir. Use this knife to defend yourselves and the women.”

Al-Kawukji skulked warily up the hill to the rocky enclosure where he’d left his men. Stepping around a boulder, he gasped in horror. Isa and Bekir were lying on the ground in pools of blood. Their throats were slit wide open.

“Fucking murderers!” al-Kawukji bellowed in anguish. He dropped his rifle and slumped to his knees beside Isa’s body. “Isa, my friend,” he sobbed.

Al-Kawukji mounted his horse, and repositioning his sword, turned toward the wagon. Elizabeth, Kristina and the children were huddled in the rear. Hakan sat in the driver’s seat with a rifle across his lap. Two riderless horses were tied to the tail of the wagon.

“Okay,” the major called out, “we’ll take the next few turns on the run. If we get ambushed, don’t stop. Keep going, no matter what. Mikael, are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Mikael called back from the wagon bed. He held up a rifle.

“Okay, move!” al-Kawukji shouted. He galloped past them with his rifle clutched beneath his arm.

The wagon lurched around the first bend, and tipping onto two wheels, rumbled down a steep incline. It splashed through a muddy furrow, rattled into a narrow clearing and slid sideways through a patch of underbrush. Jostled about in the bed, the women and younger children clung desperately to the sideboards.

Al-Kawukji galloped across a dry riverbed and through a series of short switchbacks. Peeking back over his shoulder, he re-gripped the reins, galloped to the next turn and rode to the top of a ridge. Finally, he tugged on the reins and stopped in the middle of the road.

The wagon thundered through the last turn and Hakan jerked back on the reins. “Whoa!” he bellowed. The wagon clattered to a stop.

“Is everyone okay?” Major al-Kawukji called out.

“I’m okay,” Elizabeth gasped.

Kristina pulled herself to her knees and clutched wide-eyed Izabella. “We’re okay, too.”

“Whee!” Sirak shouted. He jumped up on the tailgate and patted Tiran on the head. “Can we do it again?”

The major shook his head and grinned. “No, little fearless one, we must save the horses. We’re still four or five hours from Mardin.”

“Can I ride Tiran, Major?” Sirak pleaded. He smoothed back the horse’s glistening mane.

“That’s up to your mother.”

Kristina nodded. “It’s okay, if you stay beside the wagon.”

Major al-Kawukji untied Tiran, and pulling him along the sideboard, held him steady. Sirak climbed onto the horse’s back and grabbed the reins. Shifting his weight forward on Tiran’s back, he smiled at his mother. “Don’t worry, Mama, we’ll protect you.”

June 22, 1915

Major al-Kawukji led his charges along the winding road deep into the windswept hills of southern Anatolia, approaching the ancient city of Mardin from the north. Sirak rode Tiran for nearly two hours, but tired of the constant jostling and returned to the wagon. Enduring a scorching sun and bothersome insects, the tiny caravan pressed on doggedly through the middle of the second morning.

At first they passed only occasional travelers and military units headed in the opposite direction. Early in the afternoon, however, the trickle of traffic headed north became a flood, and an unsettling trend developed. Many travelers ran headlong into the brush the moment they spotted the wagon and horses.

“Where are all these people from?” Elizabeth asked anxiously.

“Mardin,” Major al-Kawukji replied. “Or from the railway station in Ras ul-Ain.”

Elizabeth glanced up at another large group that appeared around the next curve. They, too, scattered like mice into the brush. “Look!”

“They’re terrified,” Kristina gasped.

Sirak and Mikael climbed into the driver’s seat with Hakan. They watched with amazement as the same response played out time and again. Fleeing in panic from the road, each group hid in the brush until their wagon passed.

Finally, a rundown ox cart overloaded with household goods headed directly toward them. The driver—an old Turk wearing a fez—nodded at the major.

“What’s going on up ahead?” al-Kawukji called out to him. “What are all these travelers running from?”

“The army is rounding up all the infidels in Mardin and the surrounding villages,” the man yelled back. “The city is total chaos. Be on your guard.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Al-Kawukji replied. He glanced worriedly at Elizabeth. “We must hurry to make it to Ras ul-Ain before dark.”

A few kilometers north of Mardin, an army detail herding a large group of detainees appeared in the middle of the road ahead of them. A young Turkish officer on horseback was the first to spot them. Breaking away from the others, he galloped toward the wagon.

“Damn it,” al-Kawukji grumbled beneath his breath. “Don’t anyone say a word. Let me do all the talking.”

The brash lieutenant trotted up to the major. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good day, Lieutenant. It looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

“Yes, sir. We began a northern sweep this morning and I’ve already rounded up more than one hundred fifty infidels who escaped from the city. Where are you headed, sir?”

“To Ras Ul-ain. How’s the road, Lieutenant?”

“Crowded, sir. All the roads have been choked with traffic headed to the internment centers ever since Governor-General Reshid issued his orders early this morning.”

Al-Kawukji peered up the road at the prisoners. “Armenians and Syrians?”

“Not only them—Maronites, Nestorians and Europeans, too. Are those horses tied to the wagon available, sir? We could sure use them.”

“The chestnut stallion belongs to me, but you can take the other one. It belonged to one of my men who was murdered by Kurdish bandits.”

“Sorry to hear that, sir. Those damned
chetes
are creating havoc all over Southern Anatolia. Would you like me to take those detainees off your hands?”

“The lieutenant governor-general ordered me to personally take them to Ras ul-Ain. The brother-in-law of the dark-haired woman is a member of the Ottoman Assembly.”

The lieutenant stared at the wagon. “The Ottoman Assembly, huh? What about the European woman?”

“An American nurse from Diyarbekir, and my mistress.”

“Your mistress?” the young soldier blurted out. He glanced into the wagon once again.

Elizabeth’s face and clothes were smeared with dirt, and her tangled hair was blowing haphazardly in the warm breeze.

“She cleans up well,” al-Kawukji whispered. “She’s headed to Aleppo and, unfortunately for me, then back home.”

The lieutenant laughed and rode over to Major al-Kawukji. “It’s your lucky day, sir,” he whispered. “There’s plenty of young pussy up there to go around.” He chuckled. “Take any girl you like except for the slender brunette in the blue dress up front. I’m taking her home with me.”

“No thanks, Lieutenant,” the major replied good-humoredly. “I’ve already got one.” He motioned toward the wagon, where Izabella was standing at the sideboard with her mother. “I’ve taken a fancy to the young one.”