The Ghosts of Anatolia (37 page)

It didn’t take long for Fatima to heat a large pot of water. Using olive oil and water, Azusa washed encrusted dirt and grime from Izabella’s tangled hair. She held the little girl in her lap and scrubbed filth off her face, meticulously dabbing at her eyes and around the base of her nose.

Izabella was expressionless and somber. She stared up at Azusa’s benevolent face, but made nary a sound.

Azusa wrung out the washcloth and scrubbed at Izabella’s hands. “Oh, my precious child, what have your sad little eyes seen? It was God’s will Ammar found you and you’re safe now. One day, God willing, you’ll smile again.”

Izabella and Sirak did smile again. For fourteen years Ammar and Azusa cared for them as if for their own children. Sirak labored beside Ammar in the olive groves, apple orchards and wheat fields. In the dormant months, Sirak attended the Druze school in the village.

Azusa and her daughters doted on Izabella, but the little girl never recovered fully.

Ammar and Azusa called themselves
Muwahhidun
. One is not able to convert to Druzism; one must be born into it. Since Sirak and Izabella would never be accepted into their adoptive parents’ religion, Azusa
encouraged them to read the Bible Kristina had given to Sirak. It was difficult, however, as their understanding of the Armenian language was limited.

When Sirak was on the verge of passing from boyhood into adulthood, a life-altering event thrust him from his adoptive home. This experience, like the others before it, took him to a place he never expected to go....

June 16, 1996
Richmond Heights, Ohio

Keri rapped on the door and glanced back at David and Michael. His sons were gathering up half a dozen old newspapers scattered across the yard.

David set his stack on the top step. “Maybe Papa Sirak should cancel the newspaper if he’s not going to read it.”

“He loves the paper. He must not be feeling well.” Keri knocked on the door again. Standing on his tiptoes, he peered over the curtains into the darkened kitchen.

Michael set his newspapers on top of David’s. “Maybe he forgot.”

“I just reminded him on Thursday. Let’s go around back.”

They walked around the side of the house and headed down the weed-studded brick driveway. Rounding a twisted dogwood tree, they spied a lone figure slumped in a lounge chair in the shade of a massive oak tree.

Keri rushed across the yard and gently gripped his father’s arm. “Papa,” he whispered.

Sirak awoke with a start. “What is it?” he gasped.

“Happy Father’s Day, Papa. The boys and I are here to take you to lunch.”

“It’s Sunday already?” Sirak wiped the sleep from his eyes and turned in his seat. “Hello, Michael. Hello, David.”

“Happy Father’s Day, Papa Sirak,” David replied. “You don’t look well.”

“I’ve had a fever the last few days, but I’m a little better today. I don’t think I should go out, though.”

“That’s fine, Papa,” Keri said. “We‘ll stay here. Do you have anything to eat?”

“I’ve got
Choereg
bread in the freezer and a couple cans of beef stew.”

“That’s perfect. Let me help you into the house.”

Keri helped his father up from the chair and led him to the back porch. David and Michael followed them into the malodorous summer room. Several garbage bags were strewn across the floor.

“Open some windows, David,” Keri said. “Michael, could you take those trash bags out to the curb?” He led Sirak through the living room and into the kitchen and seated him at the table. Then he opened a window and set about preparing the stew.

Keri ladled out four bowls of beef stew and David helped him carry them to the table.

Michael was chattering about the upcoming sixth game of the NBA finals between the Chicago Bulls and Seattle Supersonics.

Keri sat down beside Sirak. “There you go. Be careful: it’s hot.”

Sirak slurped from his spoon. “It’s good. I haven’t eaten much these last few days.”

“Why didn’t you call me, Papa? You call me from now on if you get sick. Okay?”

“You’re busy, Son. I hate to bother you.”

“It’s no bother. I want to know...or do we need to think about other living arrangements?”

“Okay,” Sirak groaned, “I’ll call next time.”

“Should I cancel the paper for you? All the issues from the last week are out on the porch.”

“No, I’ll go through them once I get better.”

Conversation was subdued at lunch. David and Michael didn’t know what to talk about in the face of their grandfather’s obvious infirmity. Keri talked mostly about the summer activities of his grandchildren. Sirak listened attentively and asked several questions. Finally, a hush fell over the table.

Michael glanced questioningly at his father. Keri nodded.

“Papa Sirak,” Michael began, “I’ve been thinking about everything you told us about Anatolia and Syria. I can’t get it out of my mind. I have lots of questions. Do you feel like talking?”

Sirak smiled at his grandson. “I think I can manage. What do you want to know?”

“Why did you leave Syria?”

Sirak folded his hands on the table and let out a long sigh. “I fell in love.”

Michael glanced at his father. “You fell in love? You told us that you’d betrayed Ammar’s trust.”

“Yes, I did. You see, I fell in love with a Druze girl. It was forbidden.”

Michael frowned. “Did you get her pregnant?”

“Michael!” his father scolded.

Sirak patted Keri’s hand. “It’s okay; it’s a valid question, but no, that is not what happened. I noticed her for the first time at a community gathering when she was fourteen years old. I was sixteen and couldn’t stop looking at her. We exchanged glances for months after that before I finally got up enough nerve to speak. Even then, all we managed was a self-conscious hello.” Sirak smiled. “She had eyes that sparkled with joy and the sweetest temperament. My Druze sisters thought she was rather plain, but, to me, she was a vision of loveliness.

“As the years passed, pining glances and brief conversations budded
into forbidden romance. We shared our first kiss when she was seventeen, and when she was eighteen—aided by her favorite brother, Umar—we began to meet every few weeks at a secluded oasis in the desert. We held hands and exchanged a kiss or two, nothing more than that. After a while, we fell helplessly in love and began making foolish plans to elope to Damascus.”

“How old were you when you made those plans?” Keri asked.

Sirak’s smile faded into sadness. “I was twenty. But then, in the summer of 1928, when I turned twenty-one and she was eighteen, my life shattered to pieces…”

September 3, 1928
Just outside of Rashayya, Syria

Sirak’s muscles bulged under the weight of an oversized bundle of wheat. He leaned over the tailgate of the wagon, tossed the bundle atop a stack, and brushed the chaff from his cloak. Looking up, his eyes scanned the hillside to the grassy plain of Rashayya Al Wadi and followed the meandering river to the south toward far-off Mount Hermon.

Standing erect and wiry, with broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist, Sirak’s sun-bronzed face was framed with a neatly-trimmed mustache and beard. His head was covered with a white turban and the ends wrapped loosely around his neck. His face wasn’t particularly handsome, at least by
Muwahhidun
standards, but he’d nonetheless grown into a vigorous and self-confident young man. His maturity was attributable in large measure to the nurturing and love he received from the man and woman he’d affectionately called
Abee
and
Ummee
for over fourteen years.

Ammar walked from the house wearing a baggy white
shirwal
pants that were tight at the ankles above his sandals. He wore a traditional red and white-checkered
kufiya
on his head. “Are you ready, Sirak?”

“Yes,
Abee
.”

“You can drive.”

Sirak untied the horse and scampered up the side of the wagon. Sitting atop a stack of wheat, he turned the wagon in a tight circle and pulled to a stop beside Ammar.

The front door of the house burst open and Azusa rushed outside wearing a traditional dark blue dress with a white headscarf and shawl. “Where are you going? The wedding starts in less than two hours.”

“We’ll be home in plenty of time,” Ammar called back to her. “I promised Mohamed a wagonload of wheat by Saturday, and I can’t do it tomorrow.”

“Be back in an hour,” she huffed. “Sirak must change his clothes, even if you don’t.”

Ammar laughed and waved his arm. “Don’t worry. If we’re late, I’ll ask Ali and his wife to pick you up.”

“Don’t
be
late!” she barked.

Sirak drove the wagon down a steep switchbacked grade and skirted a beautifully terraced hillside olive grove. Comfortable in their silence, neither man spoke over the clatter of the wheels until they reached the dry riverbed that formed the southern boundary of Ammar’s farm. Sirak, his eyes squeezed to slits, reveled in the warmth of the noonday sun.

“How does the Rashayya School suit you?” Ammar hollered above the clatter of the wagon.

“Just fine. Why do you ask?”

“No reason in particular; but I heard talk from the men in the village that Abdullah Mousa’s son and some of his friends had harsh words for you. What’s the boy’s name?”

“Barek, the green-eyed fool. That idiot’s jealousy knows no bounds.”

“Have you given him a reason for jealousy?”

Sirak glanced at Ammar. “Of course not. I’ve known his betrothed for many years, but I haven’t spoken to her since their engagement was announced four months ago.”

“What’s the girl’s name?”

“Yasmin; she’s Ezekiel Jumblatt’s daughter.”

“Oh, Umar’s sister. Do you gaze at her?”

“No, not at her in particular. I might look at a group she happens to be standing with, but when did that become a sin?”

Ammar stared amusedly at Sirak for several moments.

Sirak held the reins tightly through a sharp turn and then glanced at Ammar. “What?”

“What does this Yasmin look like?”

“Like a girl,” Sirak replied curtly. He turned his eyes to the trail and ignored Ammar’s persistent stare.

“Is she pretty?”

“I guess some might think so, but Nazira says there are many prettier girls in the village.”

“I’m sure I’ve seen her. Describe her to me.”

“I can’t describe her. She just looks like a girl.”

“Is her skin light or dark?”

“Light.”

“And her eyes?”

Sirak sighed exasperatedly. “They’re green.”

“How about her hair?”

“Brown.”

“Light or dark, short or long?”

“She has long, light-brown hair, but she usually wears it tied up.”

“Is she fat?”

“No, if anything, she’s on the thin side.”

“Let me ask you this. If you haven’t looked at her in particular, how is it you can describe her so thoroughly?”

“Whoa!” Sirak barked. He reined the horses to a stop in the middle of the trail and turned to face Ammar. “Yasmin is friendly with Layla and Izabella, and when they were younger, they played together after the meetings on Thursday nights. So, naturally, I know the color of her hair and
eyes, but that doesn’t mean I gave Barek any cause for jealousy. Everyone in the village knows her father forced the engagement with Barek, and initially she wasn’t happy with the choice, but so far as I know, it had nothing to do with me. Layla can give you more details, if you’re truly interested. Any more questions?”

“No,” Ammar replied with a grin. He patted Sirak on the knee. “Let’s go. We mustn’t be late.”

Sirak spurred the horses and the two men rode in silence until the wagon bumped over a bridge past two Druze riding in the opposite direction. Recognizing them, Ammar waved affably and both men waved back.

Ammar wrapped his arm around Sirak’s shoulders. “Sirak, I know we’ve spoken of it before, but it’s been a long time. The ways of the
Muwahhidun
are very strict, and we must all abide by the tenets of the
Tawhid
faith.”

“I know,
Abee
. I’ve understood since I was ten that Izabella and I can never be part of the
Muwahhidun
community. There’s no need to repeat it.”

“You’re like a son to me—my
only
son—and nothing pains me more than the fact that I cannot fully share my life with you—most of all, my faith in God. Countless times I’ve lain awake at night agonizing about this unbendable truth. I even petitioned the
Uqq
l
and asked if there couldn’t be some exception laid out in the
hikmah
, especially considering your service during the revolution against the French oppressors, but they were unbending. No special considerations are possible.”

Staring up the road, Sirak nodded in comprehension.

“You’ve come of age, and it’s to be expected that your thoughts would turn to marriage and family. I have cordial relations with Stephen, the Christian baker in Rashayya. Would you like me to make inquiries regarding available Christian girls?”

“No,
Abee
,” Sirak whispered sadly, “perhaps one day, but not right now.”