The Ghosts of Anatolia (41 page)

“Nothing, my friend. They’re a gift to repay you for all the deliveries you’ve made for me.”

Eli’s face lit up with surprise. “Thank you! What a surprise. Please join us for dinner.”

Jeremiah patted Eli on the back. “Thank you for the invitation, but we must go. I have to get Sirak and Izabella to Saint James before the offices close for the evening.”

“We’re having a celebration in honor of Rabbi Stein at our home next Saturday. Please come and join us.”

“I’ll be there, and I’ll see you at the synagogue on Friday.”

Jeremiah climbed up on the wagon and made a sharp turn through the open Jaffa Gate. Just beyond the gate, the towering Citadel and Anglican Christ Church came into view. They rattled along the narrow Patriarchate Road for a short distance and finally slowed to a stop outside the main gate of the Saint James Convent.

“Stay here with the wagon,” Jeremiah said. “I’ll go inside to present you.” He hurried away and disappeared through the gate into the Armenian Quarter.

Sirak smiled at Izabella and gave her hand a squeeze. Looking up, he peered toward the end of the street. A few people were milling about, but otherwise the street was surprisingly quiet.

A few minutes passed before Jeremiah and a smiling, white-bearded man emerged from the building.

“Sirak and Izabella, this is Abu Apraham, Patriarch Tourian’s assistant. He’ll take care of you from here.”

“Welcome to Saint James Convent!” Abu Apraham called up to Izabella and Sirak. “Brother Levite told me about your long journey. By the grace of God, you’ve at long last found refuge among your people.”

A young man pulled a handcart through the Saint James Gate and stopped beside the wagon.

“Transfer your things into the cart,” Abu Apraham said. “I’ll take you to your new home.”

Jeremiah helped Izabella down from the wagon. He helped Sirak transfer their belongings into the handcart. Finally, he patted Sirak on the back. “Good luck finding your father and brother.”

Sirak grasped Jeremiah’s arm. “We’re grateful for everything you’ve done for us. May God bless you.”

Jeremiah pulled Sirak into a bear hug. “This isn’t goodbye. Take good care of your sister and I’ll bring you back details from my brother about your best options for medical training. Goodbye, Izabella. I hope you’ll soon feel at home here in Saint James.”

Izabella waved timidly. “Goodbye, Jeremiah.”

“Abu Apraham knows where to find me,” Jeremiah said to Sirak. “Goodbye for now.”

“Goodbye, Jeremiah,” Sirak said.

Jeremiah climbed into the driver’s seat of the wagon. He waved one last time and drove slowly away.

Abu Apraham watched Jeremiah until he rounded the corner. He turned back, and his kindly eyes sparkled with satisfaction. “Well, Son, let me show you your new home. I think you’ll enjoy your new neighbors.”

Abu Apraham led Sirak and Izabella down a long hall that coursed past Saint James Cathedral and into a large courtyard. They walked down a cobblestone footpath past curious residents whom he greeted by name. He stopped several times to introduce Sirak and Izabella as the newest refugees. A few more turns and a short flight of stairs brought them to a narrow walkway.

“Your apartment is owned by the Patriarch,” Abu Apraham explained. “No rent will be charged, but you are required to tithe ten percent of your earnings. You’re also expected to obey the convent rules—including attending the liturgy at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher on Saturdays. We want you to be good neighbors to the families who share your courtyard—which shouldn’t be too difficult, since the Simouians are among the dearest
Kaghakatsi
living in the quarter.”

“Kaghakatsi
?” Sirak queried.

“
Kaghakatsi
is the term used for the Armenian families who’ve lived in Jerusalem for generations, and in some cases centuries. You and your sister are
Kaghtagan
, or the refugees. Perhaps unfairly, this distinction holds great weight with some people. But you’re fluent in Arabic, unlike most refugees who came to this city these last few years. This will make your acclimation much easier. You’re fortunate to be living side by side with
Kaghakatsi
people. It’s a rare opportunity attributable to the fact that the previous occupant died without heirs. Gather your things. The cart can’t follow us the rest of the way.”

Abu Apraham helped Sirak and Izabella carry their belongings. He led them up a flight of stairs to a narrow passageway. “I must warn you. The Simouian woman, Mariam, is prone to fits of mania and profound depression. You should address her as Umm Krikor—after her eldest son, who died of typhus during the Great War. She lost her two daughters to the fever, too, and there’s no telling how you’ll find her on a particular
day. Some days you’ll find her cheerfully working in the courtyard garden. But then, without any warning, she’ll be gripped with a profound sadness. Often the depression forces her to bed for days on end. Her elderly husband, Hovsep, dotes over her, even though he himself is in poor health. Let’s see how we find her today.”

Abu Apraham led them into an open courtyard. Sirak and Izabella were bedazzled by the unexpected beauty and sweet fragrance wafting through the magnificent garden. The surrounding walls were adorned with potted wisteria and rose bushes, and every nook and cranny of the yard was crammed with tins, pots and urns that bore basil, freesias and lilies. Two half-barrels overgrown with jasmine were positioned beside a wooden table and chairs at the far end of the courtyard. A matronly woman in a long dress stood atop a stool pruning a small tree.

“Mariam,” Abu Apraham called out to her cheerfully, “how are you this fine afternoon?”

The woman broke into a broad grin. She climbed down from the stool and hobbled toward them with a pronounced limp. “Abu Apraham, what a wonderful surprise! How is Sara?”

“She’s just fine, thank you. She’s away visiting her sister in Bethlehem, but I’m expecting her home tomorrow. As usual, your garden is magnificent.”

“I wish you’d come to visit when the jasmine were in bloom. They’ve never been so glorious. Who are your young friends?”

“This is Sirak Kazerian and his sister, Izabella. They just arrived from Syria and I’ve assigned them to Yeghia’s old apartment.”

Mariam smiled blissfully. “Welcome! I am Umm Krikor,” she said, spreading her arms and embracing Izabella. “I’m delighted to meet you. I just know we’ll be good friends. Do you like to garden?”

Izabella glanced over Umm Krikor’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen such a splendid garden.”

“It belongs to you, too, now,” Umm Krikor said. “I’m sure you’ll come to love these plants as much as I do.”

“Well, you’re both in good hands,” Apraham said to Sirak. “Allow me to show you your new apartment.”

Mariam smiled at Sirak. “You must be starving. We insist you join us for dinner.”

“We don’t want to trouble you,” Sirak replied politely.

“I insist on it. It won’t be anything extravagant, just soup and bread with olives and figs. I’ve also got coffee and baklava for desert. Oh, please join us. Hovsep will want to meet you, too.”

Sirak smiled appreciatively. “Okay, then, we’ll get settled and clean up.”

“Wonderful! I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

Apraham led Sirak and Izabella to a door in the middle of the courtyard. He lit a paraffin lamp and ushered them inside. The single room was dank and musty, and totally devoid of furnishings—except for a tiny wooden table with a single chair at the side of the room.

“This is one of the nicest refugee apartments in the quarter. Here in the back of the room you have direct access to the cistern beneath the courtyard. You can draw as much water as you need with this bucket. Three meals a day are provided for all the refugees at the dining halls. The closest one is back down the stairs and around the corner. I hope you’ll both be very happy here.”

“Thank you, Abu Abraham,” Sirak said. “We’re very grateful the Patriarch has provided us with this apartment.”

“You’re welcome, my children. After everything you’ve lived through, it gives us all great pleasure to have you here. I’ll be your contact for any matters related to Saint James Convent or the Patriarch. Enjoy your dinner and I’ll see you at mass this weekend.” He stepped outside, walked across the courtyard and disappeared down the stairwell.

Izabella and Sirak barely had enough time to spread a blanket on the floor before Mariam came to fetch them for dinner. She led them through the darkened courtyard and introduced her frail husband, Hovsep. The old
man was seated at a small wooden table illuminated by two paraffin lamps. The table bore a soup pot, a basket of bread and several dishes of food. Mariam seated Sirak beside Hovsep and Izabella next to herself.

“Hovsep, will you lead us in prayer?” Mariam asked.

Hovsep bowed his head, and in a halting, throaty voice, recited the Lord’s Prayer.

Izabella opened her eyes and caught Sirak’s stare. She smiled forlornly.

Sirak took the basket offered by Mariam. He tore off a piece of bread and passed the basket to Hovsep.

Mariam served soup to Izabella and Hovsep and passed the pot to Sirak.

Sirak helped herself to an ample serving, along with portions of olives and figs. He sipped the soup. “This is delicious,” he exclaimed.

Mariam smiled appreciatively. “I’m glad you like it. It’s Hovsep’s favorite.”

The old woman rambled incessantly throughout the entire meal. Mostly, she talked about her garden, but also about the affairs of Saint James Convent and their old friend who’d lived in Sirak and Izabella’s apartment for twenty-four years, before she died.

Umm Krikor brought in the coffee and desert, and the conversation turned to Sirak and Izabella’s trip from Syria and details about what they could expect in the Armenian Quarter and Jerusalem. The old woman showed surprising discretion in not asking them about their past. She seemed to sense it was better left alone, at least for the time being.

Finally, they said their goodbyes and Sirak led Izabella through the darkened courtyard to their apartment. He lit a paraffin lamp on the table and filled an old basin with water from the cistern. Izabella washed herself, while Sirak retreated to the back of the room to unpack his bag. Once Izabella was done bathing, Sirak emptied the basin in the courtyard, refilled it from the cistern and cleaned himself from head to toe.

Sirak knelt beside his sister’s blanket. “Goodnight, Izabella,” he whispered.

“Goodnight,” she replied tiredly. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Sirak kissed her tenderly on the forehead. “You’re welcome. Thank you for being here. I love you; sweet dreams.” Blowing out the lamps, he lay on his blanket and stared up into the darkness.

“Sirak, will you say a prayer for us?”

“Of course. Dear God, thank you for watching over Izabella and me, and bringing us safely to Jerusalem. Thank you for providing us this place to live with good neighbors. Thank you for the food we shared tonight. Please guide us in our search to find Stepannos and Papa, and show us...”

A tremendous explosion shook the ground beneath them. Sirak bolted up on his blanket. A succession of pops echoed from the distance.

“What’s that?” Izabella called out through the darkness.

“It was a bomb, and that’s gunfire. But it’s not close.”

Sirak lay back. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled anxiously. His thoughts drifted to the last time he’d heard gunfire. It was on a dark night two years earlier, when he’d joined a group of young Druze fighters in a surprise attack on a French army outpost a few kilometers from Rashayya. A tremendous firefight ensued, and several French soldiers and Druze fighters were killed—including his best friend, Joseph, who’d died when a bullet shattered his skull. The memory of his friend staring up lifelessly from the ground had haunted Sirak ever since.

“Sirak?” Izabella whispered.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Are you asleep?”

“No.”

“Do you remember tonight when Abu Krikor said the Lord’s Prayer?”

“Yes.”

“When we were young, Papa said it on special occasions like Christmas.”

“Yes, I remembered that, too.”

A long silence was broken by the distant bark of a dog. Izabella sobbed quietly.

Sirak rolled onto his side and reached for her hand. “Are you okay?”

“I miss my mama and papa.”

“I miss them, too.”

She sniffled. “And I miss
Abee
and
Ummee
.”

“Me, too.”

“Goodnight, my brother. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

September 13, 1996
Bedford, Ohio

A slight woman with mousy hair looked up from her computer as a wiry man in paint-spattered overalls stepped through the office door. He limped inside carrying rusty bolt cutters.

“What are you doing, Bob?” she queried with surprise. “Weren’t you supposed to meet Jason for lunch?”

“I am, but Juan wants the lock cut off that past-due unit so he can clean it out. What’s the number?”