Nobody's Child (7 page)

Mariam pulled a veil over her hair and smoothed down her dress with her free hand. Kevork and Anna and Onnig with Sevo stood at the end of the pathway leading to the cave that doubled as a grave. It would be easier for her and Marta to visit the grave this one last time without their brother anyway, Mariam rationalized.

The girls knelt side by side on the cold ground in front of the cave. Mariam could only hope that their parents' souls were now at peace. She felt a surge of grief fill her throat as she placed her bouquet and then her brother's down on the cold stone. She willed herself not to cry, but she noticed through the corner of her eye that her sister's bouquet glistened with a single hot tear.

From the pathway, Kevork watched the sisters at the grave. In one way, he envied them. At least they knew where their parents were. If his mother was still alive, how would she ever find him now? And what about his father? Was he really dead, or had he just taken off? At least Marta and Onnig and Mariam knew that they had been loved and that they hadn't been abandoned. Kevork felt so utterly alone. He also felt, that by leaving the village, he was abandoning any hope of ever finding his parents. He looked down at Sevo, whose mournful eyes looked back up at him, as if she understood his worries. He scratched her fondly between the ears and was thankful that at least he had her. Then he looked at the little boy whose arms
were wrapped so tightly around the goat's neck, and he realized how much more he could have lost. Kevork at least had his memories. Would Onnig have that?

Kevork reached down and gathered Onnig into his arms, hugging him tight.

Mariam finished her prayer, then stood up, brushing the dust from her skirt. She reached down and tapped Marta on the shoulder, letting her sister know that it was time for them to leave.

They walked back down the path and found Onnig fast asleep in Kevork's lap, his arms thrown loosely around the older boy's neck. Kevork's head rested on Anna's shoulder and Anna held Sevo's rope with one hand. The goat grazed contentedly. More time had passed than they had realized.

They stretched, gathered together, and started their journey in earnest. As they walked down the grassy path towards the dirt road, Abdul Hassan came into view, and behind him was his wife, who was noticeably thinner than she had been the last time they saw her. Abdul Hassan had a sack of threshed fall wheat on his back and a sickle in one hand, and he looked exhausted. Amina Hanim's face, which was not covered with a yashmak, was red from the sun, and the edge of her veil was rimmed with sweat. She too held a sickle and a sack of wheat.

Abdul Hassan glanced at the rucksacks on their backs. “So you're leaving?” he asked.

Mariam stepped forward in greeting. “The time has come for us to find our way back to Marash.”

The Turk's brow frowned with worry. “You cannot walk all the way back.”

“We walked most of the way here,” said Mariam.

“You were with a large group then,” replied Abdul Hassan. “Now you are just children and one vulnerable woman.”

“What shall we do?” asked Mariam.

The man was silent for a moment, deep in thought.

In the silence, words that Anoush had said to Mariam ages ago came back to her:
If they kill the Armenians, who will harvest the grain?

Indeed. The Turk and his wife were alone in the field, threshing. The wheat was already going to seed. Mariam knew that if Abdul Hassan didn't get his crop in, he would face ruin.

Mariam caught Anna's eye and saw that she was thinking the same thing: perhaps if they helped Abdul Hassan with his harvest, he would help them get to Marash. “Perhaps we can help you?” Mariam asked.

The Turk looked at her hopefully, but not really understanding.

“We're children and one woman, that's true,” said Mariam. “But we're strong. We could help bring in your wheat.”

The Turk's eyes filled with gratitude. “Even one extra set of hands would be a blessing from Allah,” he said. “We're about to lose the whole crop.”

Amina Hanim took Mariam by the hand. “First we eat, then we work,” she said, with a weary smile. Then she led the group up towards the house.

When the barn came into view, Mariam felt a shiver up her spine. Were the souls of all those barley harvesters in that barn, or in the caves where they died, or
had they flown to heaven? She said a quick prayer for them, and then another as they passed by the spot where she and her family had camped out in the open.

Amina Hanim followed Mariam's gaze to the spot that held so many memories. “You'll all stay with us in the house,” she said firmly. “You are like family now.”

When the two-storey house came into view, Mariam noticed that it didn't look as prosperous as it did before. The garden was overgrown with weeds and there was an indefinable uncared-for quality about the place.

Instead of leaving them outside like Abdul Hassan had before, Amina Hanim motioned them to follow her into the house. They paused just inside the threshold, not knowing what to do.

Mariam had never been in a Turkish home before and was curious. The central room was clutter-free and almost totally devoid of furniture except for a low table and a number of large cushions on the floor. There were closed doors on either side of the main entrance. Mariam guessed that one door led to the men's quarters, and the other to the women's — although why they needed that when there were just the two of them was beyond her. There was also a set of stairs leading up to the second storey.

“Please sit down,” said Amina Hanim, indicating the cushions on the floor, then she hurried out into the kitchen. Abdul Hassan sat down with his guests.

They had barely settled down into the cushions when she came back, bearing a platter of bread, olives, and cheese, which she set on the table. She scurried out again, and then moments later came back with a tall pitcher of water and clay tumblers.

“My apologies for the simple fare,” she said. “My days are spent in the field.” She set the pitcher and tumblers next to the tray and then stood over by the doorway.

“Sit with us, wife,” said Abdul Hassan. “There are things we need to discuss.”

A faint smile fluttered across her face, then she sat down on a cushion close to her husband.

Once their guests had eaten, Abdul Hassan said, “You cannot walk to Marash. I would take you right now, but my crop is going to seed.”

Mariam nodded in understanding, anticipating what he was about to say.

“If you stay with us and help us get in as much of the crop as we can before it goes completely to seed, I shall pay you.”

Mariam was about to open her mouth. Payment wasn't what they wanted. The Turk held up his hand for silence. “I will also take you myself to Marash. In my oxcart. God willing.”

Mariam smiled. “Thank you,” she said. The turn of events came as a relief. She had felt uneasy about travelling by foot all the way to Marash, but she hadn't been able to see an alternative. Just as her gut had told her in the spring that it was wrong to stay in this house then, now it was telling her this was the best choice.

Her one concern was for Anna. Could she work in the fields in her condition? And would the Turkish couple let her live in their house, or would their superstitions exile her to the barn? Mariam regarded Abdul
Hassan. This time he had barely taken notice of Anna. She looked over to Amina Hanim. The woman was staring at Anna. It was obvious that she wanted to ask a question, but didn't know how.

Anna, who always kept her eyes cast down in the presence of strangers, felt the heat of the gaze. She looked up and met Amina Hanim's eyes. “Yes?” she asked.

Amina Hanim quickly looked away. Looking at her own hands, which were rough and reddened with work, she said, “Hanim, can you work in the sun with your white skin?”

Mariam smiled inwardly. The very thing she was wondering herself.

“It is difficult,” she said. “The sun burns my skin rapidly.” She looked at Kevork, then Onnig, Marta, and Mariam. “But I would do anything to help these children.”

“I can think of two possible solutions,” said Amina Hanim. “You could stay inside and look after the house. That would free me up to work in the fields.”

Anna nodded.

“You could also look after the little boy.” Amina Hanim gestured towards Onnig.

“But that would be a waste of an adult,” said Anna.

“Which leads me to my other possible solution,” said Amina Hanim. “You would be hot, but a thick paste of oil and clay might protect your skin. I have used it myself when the sun's rays burn brightly.”

“If the woman goes into the field,” asked Abdul Hassan, “who will look after the boy?”

“I could,” said Marta.

Everyone turned in her direction. “I am almost eight, and Onnig is my little brother. I know how to look after him.”

“But could you look after the house while everyone else is in the field?” asked Amina Hanim.

“I have watched my sister and Anna bake bread,” the little girl replied gravely. “I think I could do it. And I already know how to sweep and to wash clothing and many other household chores.”

Mariam smiled sadly at this exchange. Her little sister had grown up quickly since their parents died. She could wash clothing, sweep, shell nuts, milk the goat, collect eggs, weed the garden, and many, many other things. The only reason she had never made flatbread was that she and Anna had made several weeks' worth at once, then dried it and stored it, taking out only what was needed each day.

“There would be no need for you to make Armenian flatbread,” said Amina Hanim. “I make Turkish pide each morning before going to the fields.”

The first time Mariam slashed her mother's tiny sickle through an expanse of wheat, an image of Turks with bayonets on horseback filled her mind. The thought gave her energy, and she pretended the stalks of wheat were her parents' killers. She slashed through them with a force she didn't realize she had.

“You're very good at this for such a young girl,” said Amina Hanim, who was working not far from her.

If only she knew what I was thinking, mused Mariam.

Kevork was good at it too, and Mariam suspected that his thoughts were not much different from hers. Anna, on the other hand, had difficulty with the job. Although she was older than Mariam, she did not have the same strength, and the mud paste that she had to wear on her face and neck and hands made her exhausted with heat. After just a few hours, Anna sat down in the middle of the field. She tried to hold her face in her hands, but ended up smearing the mud concoction into her eyes and making them sting with the grit. She brought her knees close to her chest and hugged them tightly, smearing yet more mud.

“I feel so useless,” she said.

Mariam came to sit beside her for a moment.

“Even you children are stronger than I am,” said Anna. “What good am I to you?”

“You are like a mother to us,” said Mariam. She took a corner of her veil and moistened it with her mouth, and then she carefully blotted the muddy mixture away from Anna's eyes. Mariam felt badly for Anna. What must it be like for her to be living with this handicap? She couldn't shed her white skin, and she couldn't change her strange sore eyes or the way that people reacted to her. The experiences of the last few months had made Anna more bitter than the others, yet she tried to rein it in for the sake of the children.

As Mariam considered Anna and her situation, her eyes wandered down to the sickle that Anna had been using. No wonder she was having so much difficulty. It was long and sharp, but very heavy. Mariam reached
down and picked it up. It was easily twice as heavy as the precious one that she was using.

“Would you like to use my sickle for awhile?” suggested Mariam. She didn't really like to have her mother's tiny sickle out of her grasp, but Anna's need was greater than hers.

Anna looked at Mariam with gratitude. “You would lend it to me?” she asked.

“I don't have to be covered up like you, so I'm cooler,” said Mariam. “Besides,” she added in her most convincing voice, “I think I might prefer a heavier one for a bit.”

Anna grinned. Mariam tried not to chuckle at the strange sight of Anna: white teeth and pink-rimmed blue eyes shining through a mud-streaked face.

Marta's first day of work wasn't as gruelling as it was for those in the fields, but it wasn't exactly easy, either. She set Onnig to work weeding the garden as she peeled onions to add to the pot of vegetable stew that Amina Hanim had put on the roof to cook in the sun before leaving for the fields. Amina had also asked Marta to thinly slice a basket of apples and lay the slices out on the roof to dry. Marta could not do either of these tasks very efficiently. She started with the onions because chopping was easier than slicing, and she didn't have to use such a sharp knife. Her eyes streamed with tears as she peeled away the skins, and her nose got extremely itchy while she chopped them. She couldn't wait to finish so she could wash her hands and give her nose a good scratching.

She decided to peel and slice the apples outside so she could keep a better eye on Onnig. He was intently digging a hole with a stick in a bare patch of the garden, but she didn't know how long this would amuse him. She brought out a small carpet to sit on, and a wooden cutting board and a bowl for the apples. Amina Hanim had shown her which knife was the best for the apples, and it looked formidably sharp.

She stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and frowned in concentration as she tried to peel the first apple. Her mother had always made the apple peel a single long coil, but how? Marta held the knife and apple at arm's length. She didn't want to get it too close because she was afraid of cutting herself, but her peel came off in chunks instead of a thin ribbon. When she looked at the first peeled apple, she sighed in frustration. There was more peel and core than apple. Oh well, she would get better.