The Ghosts of Anatolia (33 page)

“Papa?” Erol called out anxiously from the barn door.

“Run, boy!” Abdul bellowed. “Tell your uncle to get the gun.”

Erol ran headlong across the barnyard to the house. Baran sprinted toward the barn door, but Abdul tackled him before he got halfway across the yard and punched him in the mouth.

“You son of a whore,” Baran grunted. He struggled to roll Abdul off.

Suddenly, the youngest of the men, a Kurd named Ibrahim, pulled a knife from his belt. He lunged forward and plunged the gleaming blade into Abdul’s side.

Abdul’s eyes bulged in surprise. He rolled onto his back and groaned with pain. “You stabbed me?” he demanded in disbelief.

Baran jumped to his feet and wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “We warned you.” He jogged into the barn and ran back out a moment later. “You bastard! You’ve hoarded at least two hundred bags of flour and rice. Ibrahim, go get the wagon.”

The younger man handed Baran his knife and ran to his horse. He galloped up the trail toward the main road. A minute later, a horse-drawn wagon rumbled into barnyard and pulled to a stop at the barn door. Baran stood guard over Abdul, and the other three men began loading flour and rice into the wagon.

The front door of the house creaked open. Hasan stepped tentatively outside. Erol and Sabriye came behind him.

Baran held up the knife. “Stay in the house. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

Sabriye pushed past Hasan and rushed to Abdul’s side. “You stabbed him in the back?”

“I didn’t do it,” Baran said contritely. “Ibrahim stabbed Abdul after he punched me in the mouth and threatened to kill us.”

Sabriye knelt on the ground and wiped beads of perspiration from Abdul’s forehead with her veil. “Can you get up?”

Catching his breath, Abdul gurgled unintelligibly.

“Hasan, bring water! Hurry! Why did you do this, Baran?” Sabriye asked the Turk. “After Abdul supported you and your family for all these years. Why? He has a family to feed, a child on the way!”

“We just wanted what was due,” Baran answered. “We have families, too. I’m sorry it came to this.”

“He’s bleeding to death. Can you at least help me carry him into the house?”

Baran turned to the other men. “Let’s take him inside.”

Tarkan tossed a bag of rice into the back of the wagon. He hustled over, peered down at Abdul and shook his head. “He’s dead.”

“He’s not dead, you idiot,” Sabriye huffed, pointing to the house. “Come on!”

Erol opened the door and Baran and Tarkan carried Abdul inside. They laid him on the sofa in the front room, and Sabriye knelt beside him. He opened his eyes, let out a long sigh, and closed them again.

“I’m sorry, Abdul,” Baran said remorsefully. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. Why are you so damned stubborn?”

Abdul opened his eyes again and looked up at Baran. “Fuck you,” he gasped weakly.

Baran ignored his insult. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave plenty of flour and rice for your family.”

Sabriye blotted Abdul’s ashen face with a cloth. “Could you ride to the village for help?”

“Of course,” Baran replied. “I’ll go find the doctor.” He looked up and spotted Flora and Jasmine hovering in the hall with the children. Both women were wearing veils. “Don’t worry,” he reassured them, “I’ll take care of you until Abdul gets well.”

Getting no reply, he rushed out of the house.

Two months later, August 5, 1915

Mikael ducked into the darkened pew beside Sirak.

“Did you get any bread?” Kristina asked.

“Only one piece,” he replied frustratedly. He held out a dry crust. “Most of it was covered with mold.”

“Take anything you can get next time. We’ll scrape it off.” Kristina took the bread and carefully broke it into pieces. She handed Sirak one piece and Mikael another. “We thank Thee for this bread, Christ our God. We trust in your goodness and know you’ll provide for all our needs. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages, Amen.” She gathered Izabella onto her lap and tore off a bite. She pressed it into the little girl’s mouth. “Eat it slowly, angel.”

Izabella screwed up her face. “It tastes bad, Mama.”

“Eat it anyway. It’s all we have.”

Mikael patted Izabella’s knee and offered her a bite of his bread. The emaciated little girl stared vacantly at the ceiling as she chewed. “Aren’t you eating, too, Mama?”

“No, Son, you go ahead. Hopefully, there’ll be more later.”

Sirak held out his bread. “Mama, please take some of mine.”

“Thank you. Your father would be very proud of you, of all three of you.” Kristina tore off a morsel and slipped it into her mouth.

The old woman who shared their pew stumbled back empty-handed, as cries of despair echoed from the rear of the church. “God have mercy. They’re starving us all to death.”

Sirak held out his bread. “You can have the rest of mine, Mrs. Arulian.”

“You’re so precious, but you need it more than me. Vartan went to find us more.”

“We should’ve gone with Elizabeth. Nothing’s worse than starving to death,” Kristina mumbled. “No food and precious little water for over a month. Help us, dear God.”

Father Leonian, his expression heavy with despair, walked past the pew to the altar. He slowly mounted the steps, turned to face the crowd and raised his arms. “May I please have your attention,” he called out hoarsely. “I have an announcement to make. We’ve distributed all the bread and rice we’re likely to get today, so conserve what you’ve been given. I sent Vartan to look for more, but there’s a severe shortage of food throughout Aleppo. Pray he finds enough for everyone.”

“My baby hasn’t eaten in two days,” a young woman cried out frantically.

“I’m sorry,” Father Leonian lamented. “Would some of you kindly share some bread with Mrs. Veorkian?”

An old woman in the pew behind the young mother leaned forward and shared a portion of hers.

“God bless you,” Father Leonian called out. “As you all know by now, Aleppo has sunk into utter chaos. More and more people are arriving from the north every day, and there isn’t enough food to provide for them all. And now, there’s more news: The governor-general has ordered all Armenians in the city to join caravans leaving for Der-el Zor the day after tomorrow.”

A murmur arose among the refugees.

“I’d rather die here than starve in the desert!” an old man shouted above the clamor. “There’s nothing out there but sand!”

“And bloodthirsty bandits and child-stealing devils!” a young woman cried.

Father Leonian raised his hands. “The lieutenant governor-general promised to provide guards to protect the caravans. He also informed me that there’d be no more food brought to the church. So staying here is not an option. I’ve received his personal assurance that bread will be available to everyone traveling in the caravans. All of you must decide what you’ll take and what you’ll leave behind. Bring only what you can carry.”

“We want to stay with you,” a woman shouted from the back of the church.

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do to help you. I, too, have been told to join the caravans. We should all pray for God’s mercy and guidance. I ask each of you to join me in an appeal to God to end the war that’s brought this horrible crisis. Sunday service will be held at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll have another prayer service tomorrow night in preparation for the beginning of our journey the following day. God bless us all.” Father Leonian walked, head down, up the center aisle and disappeared into the vestibule.

“Get off the road!” a gendarme shouted. “Let the wagon pass!”

Glancing up at the blazing sun, Kristina took Izabella’s tiny hand and pulled her to the side of the road. Too tired and thirsty to speak, she motioned for Mikael and Sirak to wait beside her.

A wagon loaded with Ottoman soldiers rumbled past and kicked up a cloud of dust.

Sirak’s hair and face were caked with dirt. He covered his nose and mouth with his hand and peered up the road. The wagon barreled past the long line of refugees and disappeared over a distant rise.

“Keep moving!” the gendarme shouted.

Kristina shepherded her children in behind another family of deportees and trudged down the center of the rutted dirt road.

Three caravans of more than a thousand people had set out early that morning from the Jdeide Quarter of Aleppo. A small contingent of gendarmes guided each group through the city. Departing from the southern gate, the long columns of women, children and elderly refugees had marched southwest through the arid countryside dotted with dry brush. Covered in dirt from head to toe and breathing air thick with dust, the refugees had bedding and precious personal effects strapped to their backs. Even the children—those old enough to walk on their own—bore pillows or other small items.

The refugees meandered for hours across an endless, scrub-covered plain. Along the way they passed through tiny villages surrounded by clusters of Turkish and Arab farms.

The refugees forged on until well after sundown. Finally, after a ten-hour march in sweltering heat, the gendarmes halted the caravan. Kristina and her children dropped their belongings and huddled in the middle of a large group of deportees. They ate the remnants of the loaf of bread they’d received in Aleppo and fell into a deep sleep, only to be awoken by shouts from the gendarmes at the first light of morning. The refugees had half an hour to eat and repack their possessions. Then they broke camp before the sun peeked above a distant mountain range.

Traveling in eerie silence, the caravan came to a Turkish and Arab village that was surrounded by fields of late-summer wheat, barley and cotton. Desperate for water, some deportees flocked to wells and cisterns just off the road. But the gendarmes spurred them onward—even driving desperate women and children past compassionate residents who gathered along the road to offer them water.

Sirak was bone weary from the three-hour, early-morning march across the undulating Syrian plain. His spirits began to rise, however, as the once-distant foothills grew nearer. He picked up a stone from the dirt road and flung it into an adjoining field of cotton.

“Save your energy, Sirak,” Kristina whispered. “Heaven only knows how far they’ll force us to walk today.”

Sirak glanced back at his mother and sister. Izabella’s matted hair hung across her open mouth and her dress and shoes were caked with mud. She stumbled and her exhausted mother tugged her back up by the arm. Mikael struggled on a few paces behind them under the added weight of Kristina’s bedroll and knapsack.

Sirak waited for his brother to catch up. “Give me Mama’s blankets.”

Mikael, his face streaked with perspiration and his lips chafed and cracked, bent down so Sirak could grab the bedroll. “Thank you,” he gasped wearily. Adjusting the remaining load, he trudged onward up the steep grade.

The caravan turned southwest and headed toward the coastal mountains before the sun peaked in the sky. In the distance, a town, nestled at the base of a humpback hill, came gradually into view.

“Look there, Mama!” Sirak yelled excitedly. He pointed up the road ahead of the caravan. “We’ve made it through the desert.”

“Look at the olive trees!” Mikael chimed in. “We
have
made it!”

One of the gendarmes rode back through the caravan. “Idlib ahead!” he yelled. “Stay clear of the wells. We’ll stop for water at the river beyond the city.”

Surrounded by olive plantations, the idyllic town was dotted with wells hewn in the rocky soil. Despite the gendarme’s admonition, desperate women and children at the front of the column rushed the first wells. Gendarmes on horseback forced them away, however, before they’ed had so much as a sip. Images of cool water pervaded the thoughts of every refugee in the caravan.

The procession snaked through the town past farmers and shopkeepers who looked on impassively at the exhausted and demoralized deportees. Even those who felt pity were reluctant to meddle, fearing reprimand, or worse, from the merciless gendarmes.

One old woman rushed forward with a cup of water. She offered it to a gasping child, but a furious gendarme knocked it from her hands.

Finally, a kilometer past the town, the lead members of the caravan rounded a sweeping hillside turn and spied a small meandering spring. A group near the front, including Sirak and Mikael, broke away from the others and ran headlong to a tranquil pool.

A young woman fell to her knees. Bending down to the water, she took a drink with her cupped hand. She screwed up her face and spit the water on the ground. “It’s salty!” she cried in anguish.

Sirak knelt beside her, wet his fingers and pressed them to his parched lips. The acrid water burned like fire. “It
is
salty,” he muttered dejectedly.

Mikael stepped around the perimeter of the pool to the spring itself. Taking a sip from his palm, he angrily spit it out.

A cadre of gendarmes watching from the road cackled with delight. “Maybe your God can change it into wine,” one guard shouted.

Mikael took his brother’s arm and led him back to the road. “Don’t let them know we’re suffering.” He looked up and froze in his tracks. “Dear God, look at Mama.”

Kristina’s eyes were sunken and lifeless, and her mouth hung open in despair. “I can’t,” she gasped. She let go of Izabella’s hand. “Take her.”

Mikael wrapped Kristina’s arm around his shoulder. “We won’t leave you, Mama. You must keep going. Sirak, you help Izabella.”

The caravan continued up the road for another kilometer before the gendarme commander directed the deportees into a small pomegranate orchard. He let the deportees draw water from a cluster of small wells and everyone drank their fill. Finally, the guards herded them into a nearby grassy field.

“Find a spot to sleep for the night,” one gendarme bellowed. “When you’re settled, we’ll pass out bread. There won’t be any more for several days, so ration it carefully.”

Mikael settled his mother and siblings in a small hollow. Retrieving two loaves of bread for the family, he broke one of them into pieces. He fed his mother, while Sirak tended to Izabella.