The Ghosts of Anatolia (35 page)

Mikael mopped his brow and pressed a handkerchief over his mouth to filter the dust. He reached for Izabella. “Mama, let me carry her.”

Izabella stared vacantly at her brother. Her matted hair tumbled across sunken eyes and a blistered red mouth.

Kristina passed him the dazed little girl. She glanced over her shoulder as Sirak trudged out of the switchback a dozen yards behind them. Kristina held out her hand.

“I’m so thirsty, Mama.”

“We all are, Son. Hopefully we’ll reach the next stream soon.”

“When will that be?”

“I don’t know. Soon, I hope.”

Sirak plodded along beside his mother and stared at the uneven road beneath his feet. He looked up at the sound of a chorus of screams from
refugees ahead of them and spotted a band of men streaking down the hillside on horseback.

“Bedouins!” a woman screamed.

Kristina grabbed Izabella and ran into brush in a dry riverbed beside the road. Sirak and Mikael ducked in behind her. Sirak peeked out at the bedlam on the road ahead of them.

A pair of riders chased a large group of terrified women and children into the riverbed. Leaping to the ground, one Bedouin grabbed a cowering teenager, forced her onto his horse and trotted away.

Sirak spun around in horror at the echo of horses’ hooves behind them.

Red-faced Onan pulled up his horse and drew his pistol. “Don’t be afraid! I’ll protect you!” He pointed his pistol in the air and spun toward the road as the last remnants of the raiders raced up the hillside and disappeared over the summit. He shoved the pistol into his holster. “They’re gone now. Get back to the road. The sooner we make the hills, the safer we’ll be.”

As the day wore on, the caravan was raided several more times—mostly by Bedouins, but also by Kurds. The bandits sought out the youngest and the prettiest to spirit away. One band shadowed the wary refugees for hours and waited for the opportunity to swoop down on harried stragglers. Even meager resistance was met with overwhelming brutality.

Onan rode close to Kristina and her children. At one point, he galloped off to sort out a problem, but he returned a short time later. Kristina welcomed his presence, but worried silently about his intentions.

Sirak and Mikael spun around at the report of a pistol but relaxed at the sight of one of the gendarmes retrieving a plover he’d shot in the field beside the road. The man whooped with delight and swung the bird in a circle above his head, as another gendarme rode out to congratulate him.

Sirak glanced at Mikael and cringed. His brother’s chest was heaving and he was whimpering unintelligibly. “Sit down on the rock, Mikael. You can rest here until they make us go on.”

“I can’t take anymore,” Mikael muttered. “I’m losing my mind.”

“Sit down. You just need rest.”

Sirak understood his brother’s angst. He too felt the sense of foreboding arising from the unremitting attacks and relentless prodding of the gendarmes. He too suffered the hunger pangs and the searing thirst and exhaustion from the seemingly endless trudge through the incessant heat and humidity. He too fought the disconcerting feeling that somehow death might offer a welcome respite from this march of despair. Sirak sat beside his brother and mopped the perspiration from his brow. “We can make it, Mikael. Don’t give up. Mama and Izabella need us. Another hour at the most, and then we can rest. I’ll carry Mama’s bedding the rest of the way.”

Mikael looked up from the ground and nodded. “Papa was right about you,” he gasped. “You are a rock.”

Sirak gave Mikael a wry smile. “He said that about you, too. Come on, let’s go.”

Kristina limped through a broad turn clutching Izabella to her side. Both of them were nearly delirious from exhaustion. Sirak and Mikael, a few paces ahead, struggled under the weight of the bedrolls and knapsacks. Suddenly, Izabella collapsed.

Kristina tried to pull her to her feet, but the little girl refused to budge. “Izabella, you must get up. Mama can’t carry you.”

Izabella was covered head to toe in dirt and her dress was tattered and torn. Her shoes were disintegrated slips of leather. She was a pitiful shadow of the little girl who’d left Diyarbekir two months earlier. “No, Mama, my legs hurt. I can’t.”

Kristina stooped over her. “Get up, Izabella!” she demanded. “I won’t leave you behind. Come on, get up.”

“No, Mama,” the little girl whined.

Sirak glanced back. He tugged at Mikael’s sleeve and the two of them turned back.

“Mama,” Mikael said, “I can carry her, but not with the blankets, too.”

Kristina nodded her head and Mikael dropped the bedrolls on the ground.

“What’s wrong with her?” an ill-tempered voice called out. It was the gendarme, Onan.

“She can’t go any farther,” Kristina replied tearfully. “We just need a few minutes to rest.”

“We can’t stop! Leave her.”

“No!” Kristina screamed. “We will stay here with her.”

Onan peered back at the empty stretch of road behind them. He handed Kristina his leather water flask. “Let her drink.”

Kristina pressed the vessel to Izabella’s lips and the little girl took several sips.

“Not too much at once,” Onan cautioned. “She’ll get a bellyache.”

Kristina returned the flask. “Thank you.”

“You and your sons can drink, too. Quickly!”

Kristina handed the flask to Sirak and Mikael. Each of them took a few sips and passed the flask back to Kristina. She hurriedly took a drink and held the flask up to Onan.

“Please, sir, can’t she ride with you?” Kristina pleaded.

“It’s forbidden. Let me have your bedding and I’ll strap it to my horse. Take turns carrying her, and we’ll stop for the night at a river two kilometers ahead.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Kristina said gratefully. She passed him Mikael’s bundle and the gendarme tied it to his own.

Mikael lifted Izabella and twirled her onto his back. He walked slowly up the road after Sirak.

About an hour later, the caravan came to the rivulet Onan had mentioned. Kristina led her children down to the bottom of a shallow gorge, and they drank and bathed in the slow-moving river before choosing a grassy hollow within a stand of poplar trees beneath the gendarme’s camp to spend the night. Mikael and Sirak unrolled their blankets on the ground, and Kristina prepared a nest of foliage for herself and Izabella. Many other exhausted women and children staked out plots on the gentle slope beneath the gendarmes’ campfires.

The children fell asleep immediately, but Kristina found herself restlessly apprehensive about the challenges that would test them come the new day. She lay on her back gazing at the glittering stars through the branches of a tree.

Before too long, the rhythmic music of stringed instruments and tambourines, accompanied by the clapping and laughter of gypsy women festooned in colorful costumes, filtered down from the gendarmes’ camp. Kristina watched them dance with abandon around the campfire. Several gypsy children peddled food and handmade wares to gendarmes standing nearby.

The lively music and laughter wafted on the breeze for hours before the revelry faded into the chirps of crickets and the trickle of water in the nearby stream. Kristina was just dozing off when a tug at her arm roused her. Bolting upright, she found Onan bending down over her. His eyes were narrow slits and his breath reeked of cheap wine.

“Come help me with the horses,” he slurred.

“The horses?” Kristina asked dubiously. “Why?”

Onan grabbed her wrist and yanked her up from the blanket. “Come help me!”

Kristina realized Onan’s intentions at once. She tried to pull away but he jerked her against his chest.

“You or your daughter,” he whispered. “Do you understand?”

Kristina nodded submissively.

Onan grabbed the back of Kristina’s neck and marched her through the mass of deportees asleep on the ground. She locked eyes with an old woman lying by herself on the ground, who then closed her eyes and pretended not to see what was happening.

The Turk forced Kristina down an embankment and into a stand of brush on the riverbank. He eagerly groped her breasts and ground his pelvis against her backside. He pushed her to the ground and jerked up her dress. “Finally,” he moaned.

Kristina tried to push him off. “No, please!”

“Stop fighting me!” Onan pressed his forearm to her throat and she dropped her arms to the ground. Pushing down his pants, he rolled between her legs and tore away her undergarments. He grasped her shoulders and forced himself inside her. “Yes,” he moaned drunkenly.

Kristina emitted a muffled cry, and tears streaked down her face.

August 17, 1915
Hamah, Syria

Sirak struggled through a steep switchback and kicked a rock over a narrow ledge at the side of the road. Stopping beside his brother, he gazed out over a lush, meandering river that coursed through the valley far below. Ancient, rock-walled ruins on the cliff below them stood as silent vestiges of a bygone era.

Mikael lifted Izabella off his shoulders and peered back at the line of deportees laboring up the hill. “Where’s Mama?” he asked. Kristina stumbled out of the switchback a moment later.

“Wait here,” Sirak said to Mikael. He dropped his bedroll on the ground, shuffled down the uneven incline and reached for her hand.

Tears were streaming down Kristina’s face. She looked up and turned away.

“Mama, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing, my son. I’m just very tired. Go help your brother and Izabella, and I’ll catch up with you after I relieve myself.”

“Mama, you’re nearly to the top. We’ll wait for you in those rocks up there. We’re all going to make it, mama. The gendarme told me we’d reach Hamah soon. From there it is only a week to Kahdem.”

“Which gendarme?” she asked suspiciously.

“Onan, the Turk.”

Kristina clenched her jaw. She glanced behind her and squeezed his arm. “Stay away from Onan. He’s evil.”

“Why, Mama? He gave us water and helped when Izabella was too tired to go on.”

“Listen to me! Onan is a wicked devil. If anything happens to me, you must protect Izabella from him and the other gendarmes. Those fiends will steal her virtue. Do you understand?”

Sirak stared at her confusedly.

“Do whatever you can to protect her from them. Slip her away in the night or hide along the road until someone else comes along. Do not trust them. Do you understand me?”

Sirak swallowed. “Yes, mama.”

“Okay, then, go back to Izabella and Mikael. I’ll catch up soon.”

The caravan wound down the mountain along a narrow, dusty road under a blistering sky. Kristina walked alone behind a large group of deportees. She lowered her head to her chest and stared at the ground when a rider overtook her from behind.

“This is the hottest day yet,” Onan muttered with a sigh. “Tonight, God willing, we’ll sleep along the banks of the Orontes in Hamah.”

“Leave me alone,” Kristina blurted out angrily. She darted ahead fretfully, but stumbled in a rut and fell to her knees. Gathering herself, she rushed after the others.

Onan trotted up beside her. “I’ve been thinking about you. Bathe with me in the river tonight. It will be a beautiful evening.”

“Leave me alone!”

“Trust me, Kristina. Nobody will know we are lovers. You can rely on me to defend your honor. I swear to it.”

Kristina whirled to face him. “We are not lovers! You forced me!”

Onan dismounted his horse and slapped her face. “Shut up! You’ve all survived this journey only because you interest me. How many others
have lost their children to thirst or bandits?” He grabbed Kristina’s hair and pulled her close. “You will submit willingly the next time I come for you. Otherwise, I’ll shoot your sons and spoil your daughter. Do you hear me?”

Kristina glared at Onan as he held her tightly by her hair. “I hear you.”

Onan shoved her away. “You see? Before long you will ask for me.”

The precipitous trek down the winding trail to the valley floor suddenly took a turn for the worse as the caravan plodded through a series of mud flats and marshes that paralleled the river. Beset by swarms of gnats and flies, the women and children labored along the road toward Hamah. The gendarmes protected themselves from the biting insects with netted head covers. Several refugees were overcome by the oppressive heat and humidity and were left behind.

Late that afternoon, the caravan made its way into cultivated lands just to the south of Hamah. The gendarmes allowed the deportees to purchase bread and cheese from traders who ventured out of the city to meet them. They bathed and rested along the picturesque, tree-lined banks of the Orontes River by an ancient water wheel that churned in the current.

The women and children had just settled down to sleep when a band of Bedouins on horseback sent them fleeing for their lives into the river and the neighboring field. One gendarme made a halfhearted effort to stop the assault by firing his weapon into the air, but the rest were content to watch amusedly as the raiders assaulted the hapless refugees.

Kristina clutched Izabella to her chest and ran for the water. “Run this way, Mikael and Sirak!” She struggled into the waist-deep river and one of the raiders rode in after her. She screamed in terror and stooped low in the water to duck his grasp.

The Bedouin turned his horse to make another pass but a rock hit him flush in the side of the head. He spun his horse around.

Sirak and Mikael were hurling a barrage of rocks from the bank. One struck the raider’s leg and another glanced off his horse. He drew his
sword to charge, then, suddenly, spotted an easier mark. He galloped downstream, swept up a frantic young woman and rode off across a wheat field.

The attack ended as quickly as it had begun. The mother who’d been forced to abandon one twin had her remaining infant torn from her arms. Several more women and children were also abducted. The gendarmes rounded up the dispersed deportees who now numbered fewer than half the original number.

Kristina and her children filed past Onan a few minutes later. He stared smugly down from his horse. “This time you were lucky,” he called out.