The Ghosts of Anatolia (30 page)

“Well,” he continued. “it was a pleasure traveling with you, Hakan.” Al-Kawukji nodded and walked away down the platform.

“Where are you going?” Hakan called after him.

The major turned and smiled. “To find a warm bath, a soft bed and a sympathetic whore.”

“Aren’t you heading back to Diyarbekir?”

“Someday, I’m sure, but I can’t say when that might be.”

“But it’s not safe for me to travel alone. The
chetes
will slit my throat before I reach the pass.”

“Goodbye, Hakan,” the major said impatiently. “You’ve got a wagon and a strong horse. I advise you to sell the belongings Nurse Barton left behind and find yourself some burly guards. I should think you’ll have no trouble finding travelers willing to pay you for transportation to Diyarbekir.”

“What about the boy’s horse?”

“What about him?”

“You promised Sirak you’d keep him on your farm.”

The major smiled and shook his head amusedly. “Someday, my friend, you’ll learn the value of hope. I must be on my way now.” He turned and walked purposefully toward the station.

Hakan, still flabbergasted, stared after al-Kawukji for several moments. “Bastard,” he muttered. He turned and peered down the empty tracks. Finally, he took a deep breath, shook his head and hobbled back to the train station.

April 20, 1996
Richmond Heights, OH

Keri stood up from his chair and stepped across the darkened room. He took an empty glass from his father’s hand. Sirak awakened with a start and stared fearfully into his son’s eyes.

“It’s okay, Papa,” Keri whispered. “You dozed off.”

Sirak sighed with relief. “I’m sorry; I got up with the songbirds this morning. After the train pulled out of the train station in Ras Ul-ain, we...”

“Papa, that’s enough for today. It’s getting late. You know, I learned more today about our family than in the past fifty-nine years combined. Thank you, Papa, for telling me the story of your parents, brothers and sisters.”

“I’m sorry now that I didn’t tell you years ago. I should have. And, there’s much more to tell you.”

“And I do want to hear it all. But I think we should continue this talk next weekend. The doctor doesn’t want you to get overtired.”

“Okay, but Keri, I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything, Papa. What is it?”

“Will you take me to St. Gregory’s for next Sunday’s service? It’s the special requiem service for the Armenians.”

“Sure, Papa. The requiem service never meant much to me because I didn’t feel any connection. But now I do, and I want David and Michael to understand, too. We’ll all go together and go out to lunch afterward.”

“That would mean so much to me. It starts at ten in the morning.”

“Your opening up about the past means a lot to me, too.”

“There’s something I didn’t tell you about that Turkish doctor I worked with at the hospital. It’s important.”

“You can tell me next Sunday. I’ll pick you up at nine forty-five. Goodnight, Papa.”

Sirak heard Keri lock the door and rev the car engine before silence engulfed the room. He thought about his mother, brothers and sisters, and the rest of their story he had yet to tell. Suddenly, an irrepressible urge swept over him. He raised his unsteady hand and traced out the sign of the cross across his chest. “Thank you, dear God,” he whispered for the first time in twenty-nine long years.

The following Sunday, Keri turned his car into the church parking lot and followed a line of cars to the rear of the lot. More than a hundred people were already gathered on the grass around the granite memorial. Glancing into the side-view mirror, he spotted David’s Suburban a few vehicles back and Michael’s car directly behind it.

Sirak parked and struggled out of his car into the bright springtime sunshine. He smiled at Keri. “Thank you, Son.”

“You’re welcome, Papa. Cathy and Sarah need to take the kids to the skating club after the service, but David and Michael plan to join us. I told them about Anatolia, and they want to hear more about those years, too.”

Sirak nodded acceptingly. “That’s good. It’s time they knew the story of their grandparents and great-grandparents, too.” Leaning on his cane, he hobbled to his waiting grandsons.

David, a tall young man with an athletic build, stepped forward, hugged his grandfather and took his hand. “Good morning, Papa Sirak. It’s great to see you getting around so well. How’s that cane working out?”

Sirak held up his silver-handled hardwood cane. “Great, thank you, David. It also makes a good weapon. Ask your father about that.”

David chuckled. “Dad told me about that poor guy you whacked the hell out of at the coffee shop.”

“George Liralian deserved it! Anyway, how’s the business?”

“Pretty good, considering. Like always, the winter’s been slow, but business will pick up now that spring is finally here.”

“I’m sure it will; you’ve got a good business and work hard. You will always find a way to succeed. Where is Michael?”

“He’s helping Sarah with the kids. Wait right here and I’ll...oh, there he is.”

Michael stepped out from between the cars with a pretty, dark-haired teenager on crutches. He was a slender man of average height, with a full head of curly black hair. He gave Sirak a toothy grin and extended his hand. “Hello, Papa Sirak, you’re looking well. From Papa’s reports, I expected to find you with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

“I’m well, thank you,” Sirak replied amusedly. “I guess you’ll have to wait a bit longer than you expected for your inheritance.”

“And we had such big plans for that money,” Michael joked.

Sirak smiled, turned to Michael’s wife and offered his gnarled hand. “Hello, Sarah. Thank you for the beautiful flowers. I’m sure they were your doing.”

Sarah kissed Sirak on the cheek. “It’s good to see you up and around, Doctor Kazerian.”

“Papa Sirak,” David called out. He was holding his wife Cathy’s arm, and their three teenage daughters were trailing behind. “We’d better hustle over to the service. It’s about to start.”

Sirak greeted Cathy and each of David’s daughters with a warm hug, a peck on the cheek and a few kind words. Finally, the Kazerian brood—four
generations strong—walked across the freshly-mowed grass and fell in with the standing-room-only crowd facing the commemorative monument. The priest, wearing black vestments, and a teenage boy holding a golden Khatchkar Cross, stood talking with an older couple. Father Petrosian turned and spotted Sirak. He whispered something to the boy and walked over to Sirak and his family.

“Hello, Sirak. It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, Father, it’s been a very long time.”

“I see your grandsons have grown up to be fine young men with beautiful families of their own,” Father Petrosian said. “To what do we owe your presence here today?”

Sirak smiled at Keri. “Well, Father, my son helped me finally realize that it was more important for me to appreciate the living than dwell on the dead. I think you’ll be seeing a lot more of us all in the future.”

“I’m delighted to hear that. Well, it’s wonderful to see you, but it’s time to begin the service. Let’s have lunch sometime.”

“I’d like that, Father. I’ll give you a call.”

Father Petrosian walked back to the monument and raised his hand to silence the crowd. “Dear friends, thank you all for coming on this solemn day of remembrance. We must thank God for blessing us with this beautiful sunny day.

“Eighty-one years ago today, in Istanbul, the Young Turks initiated several years of unspeakable atrocities against the Armenian people. They began with the execution of hundreds of our finest intellectuals—writers, teachers, doctors, attorneys, and even legislators in the Ottoman Assembly.” Father Petrosian nodded somberly at Sirak. “Men like Sirak Kazerian’s uncle, Bedros.

“Before the carnage ended, at least one and a half million of our people perished by hanging, beating, burning and every other imaginable act of brutality. Many innocents, including infants and children, died from hunger and thirst in the Syrian deserts. It’s important for us—the sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, nephews and grandchildren of
those who perished—to ensure the world never forgets what happened there. And so we gather here in front of this commemorative monument to recite the names of the loved ones of our members who suffered and died there. As Jesus said,
blessed are they that suffer for my name’s sake
...”

Keri closed the car door and Sirak hobbled past him.

David and Michael were waiting just outside the front door of a cozy Italian restaurant festooned with green and red bunting. David took Sirak’s arm and helped him up the curb. “I hope you’re hungry, Papa Sirak. A good friend of mine owns this restaurant, and they serve the largest portions you’ve ever seen. There’s a private room in the back where we can talk.”

“I’m too old to care much about what food I eat. Whatever you boys like is fine with me.”

A young man in a suit and tie looked up from behind the reception desk. “Hey, David, how’s the family?”

“Just great, Emilio. Did the baby finally come?”

“Yes! Julie finally had him night before last, and they’re both doing fine. We named him Steven.”

“Congratulations!” David exclaimed gleefully. “Better late than never. Emilio, this is Grandpapa Sirak, my father Keri, and you know my brother, Michael.”

“Welcome to Mama Lucci’s. It’s an honor to meet more Kazerians.”

“We’re starving,” David said. “What’s the lunch special today?”

“We’ve got several. Let’s find you a table and I’ll tell you about them.”

“We have some private family matters to discuss. Can we use the back room?”

“It’s all yours. Right this way, please.” Emilio led them back through the diminutive main dining room and into a smaller room with a table set for four. He handed each man a menu. “I recommend the antipasti salad and the four-cheese ravioli. The lasagna special is great, too.”

The food and drinks came quickly and the conversation revolved around the mundane details of David and Michael’s family life until the main course was done and Emilio cleared the table. It was David who finally broached the past.

“Papa Sirak, Papa told us our family was Catholic when they lived in Anatolia. I never realized that.”

“Yes, all of our people were Catholic, at least back to my grandfather.”

“So why aren’t we Catholic now?”

“I wanted to worship with other Armenians when we moved to Cleveland, and there weren’t any Armenian Catholic churches in northeast Ohio.”

David nodded. “That makes sense. Did you ever find out what happened to your father and your brothers, Alek and Stepannos?”

“No, I never did. Alek probably died in the war or was executed by the Ottomans. As far as Stepannos is concerned, I searched the records at the Saint James Convent when we finally made it to Jerusalem, but there was no record of Papa and Stepannos arriving there. After learning more about the fate of the men and boys who were sent out of Anatolia, I think it’s likely Papa and Stepannos perished in the Syrian Desert. But only God knows what really happened.”

Sirak settled back in his seat and looked at his son. “Keri, have you told them everything I told you last week?”

“Yes, Papa, right up to the point you reached the train station in Ras Ul-ain.”

“Did you make it to your destination?” David asked.

“Yes, we did, but not without several more terrifying moments, especially for Mama and Nurse Barton. We were all euphoric when that train pulled out of the Ras Ul-ain station, but after a brief glimmer of hope, our situation deteriorated from desperate to hopeless.

June 23, 1915

The train rattled out of the station headed to central Ras ul-Ain and Sirak dozed in his mother’s lap. Mikael cuddled Izabella and peered restlessly out the window at the dilapidated houses and buildings that lined the Baghdad Railway tracks.

Elizabeth sat nervously watching the Turkish conductor as he checked tickets at the front of the car.

The car was overflowing with passengers of every age and description, and at least half of the seats held two people. A smartly-dressed Turkish woman was busy tending her colicky baby in the seat directly across the aisle. Two Turkish men and a veiled woman occupied the seats directly in front of them. One of the men—a rather frail-looking gentleman with a persistent cough—glanced repeatedly back at Kristina. Each time he did, she looked away, fearful he was questioning the presence of an Armenian woman and her children on the train bound for Aleppo.

Elizabeth glanced at Kristina. “Are you okay?”

Kristina nodded. “Thanks to you. But you shouldn’t have paid for our tickets.”

“We can thank David. I used the money he set aside for our return trip to America. He would’ve done the same thing.”

“I wish he were here. God rest his soul.”

Elizabeth smiled sadly. “You should try to sleep. Do you want me to take Sirak?”