The Ghosts of Anatolia (52 page)

“No, I want him to wonder if I even got the message. Maybe he’ll have the guy call me again. Have the department trace all incoming calls to my house. I’m going to get that bastard good.”

“I do have news that’ll make your day.”

“What’s that?”

“George Liralian walked into the Pittsburgh FBI headquarters this morning.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. He said he was tired of running.”

“That’s wonderful news! I want to interview him as soon as I get back.”

“I guess you haven’t checked your e-mail. How about even better news?”

“What could be better than that?”

“Dave Saunders from the lab found several hairs inside the old coat from the storage locker,
and
he got a clear DNA profile.”

“I’ll be damned,” Butler muttered. “The worm has turned. Do me a favor: ask the prosecutor to subpoena a mouth smear from Zakian so we can get his DNA profile. Also, ask him if we can offer Liralian immunity in return for his cooperation. Oh, man, you’ve made my day!”

“I’ll call you back after I call the prosecutor.”

“Thanks. I’ll have my cell.”

“When are you coming back to work?”

“A week from Monday. I’m going sailing in Vermillion tomorrow, and then I’m driving up to Niagara Falls to visit my old roommate. I’ll be there until Saturday.”

”Take your gun. Those ASALA guys are freakin’ crazy.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

“Hey, have a good time.”

“Thanks, Leo, talk to you later.”

February 12, 1999
Cleveland Heights, Ohio

Sirak smiled happily at the cheery faces gathered around the dining room table. Keri sat at the end of the table beside David and his wife. Michael was seated on the opposite side of the table next to his wife. Sirak’s great-grandchildren were intermingled with the others.

Keri glanced out the picture window at a man in a hooded parka trudging through the wind-driven snow. He stood up and tapped his wine glass with a spoon. “I’d like to toast Sarah and Cathy for preparing this delicious feast for Papa. Thank you both.”

Everyone lifted their glasses in salute and shouted a chorus of appreciation.

Keri raised his glass again. “Papa, thank you for spending your ninety-first birthday with us. I know you don’t care for large gatherings, but we all wanted to celebrate with you this year. Let’s sing
Happy Birthday
and then we’ll move into the living room to open your presents.”

Everyone joined in saluting the patriarch of the family with a rousing song, as Sirak nodded and smiled cheerfully.

After they’d finished, Sirak struggled up from his chair and steadied himself with a hand on the table. “Thank you all for this wonderful birthday celebration. While you were singing, I felt a powerful sense of
déjà vu and I realized it came from when I was a young boy in Anatolia and my mama and papa and all my brothers and sisters celebrated my birthday around our dinner table. If my memory serves me correctly, that was the last time we were all together before the Great War erupted and my brother, Alek, left for service in the army.

“Being here today with my son, my grandsons, and all my great-grandchildren is the greatest gift I could ever receive. My biggest regret in life is that we didn’t have more celebrations over the years. I’m solely to blame for that. But I want you all to know that I love you all with all my heart.” Teary eyed, Sirak scanned across the adoring faces. “We must also thank God, for He alone made it possible for us all to be here together today. I praise Him for his goodness and mercy.”

“Hey, Papa Sirak,” young Troy blurted out, “thank you for having Papa Keri, too, or none of us would be here today.”

The group erupted into laughter and David punched him on the shoulder.

“Okay, everyone,” Keri said, “let’s move into the living room. You boys bring in some firewood from the back porch. David, you’re in charge of gathering the gifts while I help Papa Sirak.”

The family gathered in the living room around the crackling fire. Cathy helped Sirak open his gifts, while Sarah brought in drinks and cake. Sirak got a new television, a cane, a clock radio, and several smaller gifts. Once the gifts were opened, most of the children and adults filed outside to play in the snow, while Keri sat beside the fire with his father.

“Can I get you anything, Papa?”

“No thank you, Son. Perhaps a glass of port later, but I’m fine right now.”

Keri took a sip of wine and set his glass on the end table. He grabbed a couple of logs and stoked the fire. “Papa, Agent Butler called me yesterday.”

“Who?” Sirak asked with a vacant expression.

“The investigator who came to your house last year to ask questions about Ara. Remember? He’s from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.”

“Oh, yes, I remember now. How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine. He finally found George Liralian.” Keri braced himself for an eruption of anger, but Sirak, his weary old eyes drooping nearly shut, merely waited for Keri’s explanation. “George has agreed to testify for the government at Gevork Zakian’s trial. He told Agent Butler that Zakian recruited Ara and him to ASALA, along with several other young men and then sent them to Beirut for training. Some of them carried out attacks on Turks here in the United States.”

“I told you George Liralian knew what happened to Ara.”

“Yes, you did, Papa. Agent Butler said that with George’s testimony and DNA evidence they found in that storage locker in Bedford, he was confident Zakian would be convicted. He expects him to be sent to prison for a long time.”

“What are the charges?”

“They charged him with a whole slew of things. The ones I remember are trafficking in firearms and explosives, committing acts of terrorism and sending followers to Beirut for weapons training to participate in acts of terror. He’s also charged with directing several of the attacks himself. Butler thinks he’ll get at least twenty years in prison.”

Sirak pondered the news in silence. Glancing out the window, he watched Kevin hit Troy with a snowball at point-blank range. Kevin scampered off, with his brother in hot pursuit. “I hope the bastard rots in that prison,” he muttered.

“What, Papa?”

“I hope Zakian rots in that prison for what he did to Ara and our family.”

“Do you want to attend the trial? Mr. Butler said we could.”

Sirak shook his head. “No,” he whispered sullenly, “I don’t ever want to hear that bastard’s name again.”

“Okay, Papa.”

Sirak sighed forlornly. “Will you drive me home now?”

“Now?” Keri asked with surprise.

“Yes, I’m very tired.”

“Why don’t you stay here tonight and I’ll take you home tomorrow?”

“No, I want to go home.”

“Sure, Papa. Give me a minute to load your presents in the car. I’ll ask David to drive his Suburban.”

Sirak grasped Keri’s arm. “I love you, Son. Thank you for a wonderful day.”

“I love you, too. You stay right here by the fire and I’ll go warm up the car.”

March 16, 1999
Cleveland, Ohio

The long, black hearse slowed to make a sharp left turn and skirted a uniformed motorcycle patrolman who was holding back traffic in front of the main gate of historic Lakeview Cemetery. A pair of Lincoln Town cars and a long line of other vehicles tailed closely behind. The procession snaked along a narrow road past scores of monuments, obelisks, crypts and grave markers that were nestled in the trees in the famed Cleveland graveyard.

The hearse braked to a stop beneath a magnificent sugar maple and the procession of cars parked along both sides of the access road. In the distance, the pointed pinnacle of the watchtower of U.S. President Garfield’s tomb was barely visible beyond a pair of mammoth spruce trees.

Keri, David and Michael, along with a half dozen other men, gathered at the rear of the hearse beneath a dreary, cloud-covered sky. Carefully lifting the bronze casket, they proceeded across the grass and up a hill.

An elderly bearded clergyman dressed in black vestments walked ahead of the casket clutching a gold Khatchkar cross. Reciting verses from the Bible, he led the pallbearers up the grassy slope to a freshly-dug grave
before a monument emblazoned with the surname ‘Kazerian’ and topped with a larger Khatchkar cross.

The clergyman stood in front of the open grave, raised the cross in both hands and began to recite a familiar Psalm. “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me.”

The pallbearers set the coffin on a bier atop the grave and joined the throng gathered on the hillside.

Keri glanced at the stone marker at the foot of the open grave that read “Sirak Kazerian, February 6, 1907 to February 13, 1999.” His eyes tracked to the adjacent marker engraved, “Ara Kazerian, January 4, 1948 to October 3, 1983.” Taking a deep breath, he peered up through the branches of a massive oak at the threatening sky.

“Dear Lord,” the clergyman called out in a resonant baritone voice, “we, the friends and family of Sirak Kazerian, are gathered here to bury your loyal servant’s earthly body in this final resting place. We are content in the knowledge that all is well with his soul, and that he will dwell with you in heaven forever. Sirak’s son, Keri, would like to say a few words about his father’s life.”

Keri, looking pale and haggard, stepped in front of the grave and turned to face the gathered mourners. His face was drawn with grief. He took a deep breath and sighed despairingly. “Thank you all for coming today,” he said in a near whisper. “Those of you who attended the Last Unction ceremony heard the moving eulogy delivered by Father Vasken Demirjian. He told you about Papa’s service to God, the Armenian people, his family and his patients, and how, in the end, he died peacefully in his sleep. I’d just like to say a few words about what Papa meant to me. Most of you know we weren’t always close. You see, for many years Papa’s thoughts were dominated by the events that befell our family and him in
Anatolia, Jerusalem and here in Cleveland—including the death of my brother, Ara. But, by the grace of God, a miracle occurred and during the last few years Papa grew close to his grandsons, great-grandchildren, and me. In the end, Papa and I became very close, and for this I thank God.

“When I was young, Papa taught me the difference between right and wrong and the value of hard work and perseverance. Later in life, he taught me the importance of family and respect for the history of our people. He also taught me to love this great country that sheltered and provided for us after Mama and my sister were killed in Jerusalem. We moved here with little more than we could carry on our backs, but that didn’t stop Papa from establishing a successful medical practice and helping thousands of injured and sick people. He always credited God and America for that achievement. But most importantly, Papa taught me the lesson of forgiveness he himself learned over the last few years of his life.

“I can’t begin to find the words to express how important this lesson has been to my sons and me, but suffice it to say, it brought serenity and contentment to each of our lives. I’d like to invite a special guest to say a few words. What he has to say will bring perspective to Papa’s incredible life. Doctor Pasha,” he said with a nod.

Faruk Pasha stepped out from beneath the oak tree, gave Keri a hug and turned to the throng. Peppered with gray, and wearing a black suit, he stooped at the waist. He smiled at the crowd with heavy-lidded eyes and brushed an errant strand of hair back from his glistening forehead. “Good morning, friends. My name is Faruk Pasha. For many years, Dr. Kazerian and I were colleagues at Euclid Community Hospital, and together we took an improbable journey to forgiveness. You see, Sirak Kazerian was not only my friend; he was also my uncle, and the brother of my mother, Flora.”

A murmur ran through the mourners. David looked up with surprise and glanced at an equally shocked Michael.

“Since I’m a Turk, I believe most of you understand that truly
is
a miracle. But Sirak and I weren’t always friends; in fact, even though we were both born near the same small village in Anatolia, attended the same medical school in Beirut and, by chance, worked in the same medical facility, ate in the same cafeteria, and served on the same hospital committees, we never uttered a single word to each other for over two years. Then, in 1980, something truly miraculous happened here in Cleveland. This great man, Sirak Kazerian, without regard for his own career or the security of his family, rescued me from circumstances that surely would’ve destroyed my career. Dr. Kazerian risked
everything
for me, a Turk, even though he never imagined in his wildest dreams he was my uncle.” Pasha smiled munificently.

“He learned the truth about our common ancestry a short time later when he came to my house for dinner and discovered a photograph of his sister, Flora, my mother, hanging on the wall in our dining room. But even then, he never told me. I only learned the truth three days ago when Keri Kazerian telephoned me after his father’s death.

“When I arrived in Cleveland, Keri shared with me the details of his father’s past, and what had happened to Dr. Kazerian as a child, and to his parents and brothers and sisters. What a remarkable life this great man lived! It was a life filled with horrible tragedy, but also enormous courage, sacrifice, faith and hope. After Keri talked with me, I kept wondering why Dr. Kazerian never told me he was my uncle, why he didn’t tell me about my mother, his sister. As I thought about his life, and everything that had happened to him, I finally understood.

“He thought the truth about my father and the abduction and forced marriage of my mother would shake not only my world, but my children’s world, too. And that, in a nutshell, is who Sirak Kazerian was—a man who
always
put the feelings of others ahead of his own. I’m sure it’ll take a long time for me to come to grips with all that’s happened. But this information also brought a new sense of compassion and understanding to my life, and for that I am grateful.