Nobody's Child (9 page)

“It's down this way,” said Mariam, walking a few steps in front of Abdul. With the oxcart they couldn't take the shortcut and had to stick to the wider roads.

“We're almost there,” said Mariam with a grin, darting between other travellers.

Then, before she knew it, Mariam was standing at the street wall in front of her own house. It seemed smaller than she had remembered it, and somehow shabbier.

The last time she had been here, the wall in front of the courtyard had been well over her head. Now she could see over top of it when she stood on tiptoes. She grinned at the familiar sight of the apricot, fig, and almond trees. She spied her own goat, Lala, whose pale yellow coat with a dark brown patch on her neck was as familiar to Mariam as the back of her own hand. She also saw Yar, her grandmother's goat, and several chickens.

There was an old-fashioned bell on a chain above the garden door, and Mariam pulled the rope with all her might, giggling at the sound of the familiar clang. There was no answer. She pulled it again. No answer.

“Mariam, look in the window,” Kevork said.

Mariam got back up on her tiptoes and looked over the wall. There was a small glass-covered window beside the front door of the house, and she could see someone peering through it. She realized that her grandmother must have been scared out of her wits, seeing Abdul Hassan, Kevork, and Anna with the cart.

“Grandmother, it's me,” she called. “Onnig and Marta are here, too! Please open the door.”

Mariam jumped and flailed her arms, and Marta stood up in the cart, and she held Onnig up so he could wave.

Suddenly, the door opened wide. There stood Anahid Baji — Grandmother Hovsepian — looking older than Mariam remembered. Her hair had been steel grey, but now it was completely white. And there were lines of worry on her forehead that hadn't been there when Mariam had kissed her goodbye a lifetime ago.

The look in Anahid Baji's eyes was one of incomprehension. “I thought you were dead,” she whispered, her hand covering her mouth. “Word came that all the harvesters were killed.”

There was a shuffling sound behind Anahid Baji, then another woman stood beside her. This was Aram's widow, Aunt Ovsanna. She was a head taller than Anahid Baji, and thin like a reed. Mariam had never noticed it before, but she had a faint resemblance to her own dead mother. When Ovsanna recognized her
nieces and nephew, her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the ground. Mariam stretched her arm over the gate and unlatched the hook, then she ran to Ovsanna and helped her up. “It's okay,” she said. “We couldn't get back sooner.”

“Is Aram dead?”

“He is,” said Mariam, hugging her aunt tight. “We gave him a proper burial.”

“Thank God at least for that,” said Aunt Ovsanna, crossing herself. “May his soul rest in heaven.”

Anahid Baji stood, her eyes taking in the scene before her — Ovsanna in Mariam's arms, Marta and Onnig in the cart with strangers — and the news tumbling out that both of her sons had indeed been killed. Her eyes filled with tears. “My sons,” she said. “Both dead. And my dear daughter-in-law too. Thanks be to God that you children survived.”

Marta tumbled out of the oxcart, then helped Onnig down. They both ran to their grandmother, hugging her skirts and weeping.

By this time, Ovsanna's two children had come to the door to see what the commotion was. Gadar was two years younger than her cousin Marta, but the two looked like sisters. Her younger brother, Aram, was the same age as Onnig. Aram and Gadar hadn't seen their cousins for awhile, and so they stood just inside the threshold, looking shyly on.

Another person who felt less than comfortable was Abdul Hassan. He stood awkwardly beside the oxcart, his hand tightly gripping the rope, and his face flushed bright red.

Kevork, too, didn't know where to look or what to do, so he stayed in the cart and looked down at his hands. Anna sat beside him. She reached over and gripped one of his hands.

Mariam came to her senses first. “We have friends with us,” she announced.

Mariam watched Ovsanna's expression as she looked in confusion from the burly Turk, to the boy, and then to the strange-looking woman. Mariam gripped her by the hand and led her to the oxcart. She looked behind her and saw that Anahid Baji had one of her hands in Marta's and another in Onnig's, and they were pulling her towards the cart too.

Anahid Baji couldn't quite hide the hostility in her eyes when she came face to face with Abdul Hassan. He bowed politely to her, while her eyes darted from him to Mariam in confusion.

“Grandmother, I would like to introduce you to our dear friend, Abdul Hassan. This gentleman and his wife fed us and housed us and treated us like family. To ensure our safety, he travelled with us in his own oxcart from Adana right to your doorstep.”

The hostility on Anahid Baji's face dissolved in an instant. She returned Abdul's bow and said, “You are a good man. God bless you. Thank you for looking after my children.”

Mariam said, “Grandmother, there are two other people I would like you to meet. They have become our second family.” She reached up her hand and helped Anna down from the oxcart.

“This is Anna Adomian,” said Mariam. “And Anna,
this is my dear grandmother, Anahim Hovsepian, and my aunt, Ovsanna Hovsepian.”

Anna looked at the old woman quickly, then lowered her eyes, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She bowed to the old woman. Then she turned to Ovsanna and, without raising her eyes, bowed again.

Anahid Baji let go of Marta and Onnig's hands and walked over to Anna and took her hand. “Sister Anna,” she said, “welcome to our humble home.”

Onnig ran over to the side of the oxcart and called up to Kevork, “Come down, come down. You've got to meet my family!”

Kevork looked down at the little boy's excited face and was pleased to see such happy enthusiasm. When had he seen Onnig so happy before? Never. But the boy's happiness and the whole homecoming scene had made Kevork even more intensely aware of all that he had lost. Were his parents dead? How would be ever know if they were dead or alive, now that he had abandoned his home to travel to Marash. He smiled faintly at the little boy, then stood up and hopped down from the cart.

Onnig gripped his hand tightly and pulled him forward.

“Grandmother,” said Onnig, his eyes flashing with delight. “This is Kevork. He's my big brother now.”

Kevork blushed with embarrassment, then bowed deeply to the elderly woman. “I am Kevork Adomian, Anna's nephew,” explained Kevork.

Anahid Baji looked from the loving sparkle in her grandson's eyes to Kevork's forlorn ones. She had an idea that this boy had lost much, but he had still found
love to give to her grandson. Instead of bowing to him as Kevork had expected, Anahid Baji stepped forward and hugged him with all her might. She was older than his mother — much older — and he never knew his grandmother. But there was something in her scent and her ways that reminded him of his mother. Enveloped in her arms, he broke out into convulsive sobs. The sadness that he had been holding in for so long had unexpectedly broken forth.

Anahid Baji hugged him harder and rocked him in her arms. “You've lost so much,” she whispered hoarsely, “but we're your family, too.”

I
t was weeks later when Anna came up with a plan. She stepped out into the garden looking for Kevork, but he wasn't there. She climbed the ladder that went up onto the roof. When she poked her head out, she found him sitting with Marta and the younger children, playing a game with pebbles.

“Nephew,” she said.

Kevork looked up from his game.

“Can you walk with me?” she asked.

By the way that she said it, Kevork knew not to argue. He looked over at Marta, Onnig, and the cousins. “You're in charge, Marta,” he said with a wink.

Anna took the veil that rested around her shoulders and drew it over her head, then wrapped the ends loosely around her neck to cover the bottom half of her face.

Instead of going down the ladder, Anna walked to the southern edge and stepped onto the next roof.
Kevork followed her. She and Kevork were used to getting around in their old village this way, and so it came as second nature to travel this way in Marash, too. You could get practically all the way from one end of the city to the other by stepping from roof to roof. There were a few two-storey buildings that got in the way, and every once in awhile the space between the roofs required more of a hop than a step, but it was much quicker travelling by rooftop if you were going by foot. No need to dart out of the way of horses and oxcarts.

Kevork fell in beside his aunt. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“To the Church of the Forty Sainted Youths,” said Anna, holding her skirt away from her feet with one hand and her veil in place with the other. “The rectory, not the church.”

“Why?” asked Kevork. His aunt had such a serious expression on her face that he frowned with worry.

“I need to talk to the Vartabed,” she explained. “I am hoping he can advise me.”

“But why him?” asked Kevork.

“Because he's the only person in Marash that I know,” said Anna.

Kevork followed her in silence. The Church of the Forty Sainted Youths was south of the Armenian district, close to the city gates. He had a fairly good idea what she needed advice on. It was obvious that Anahid Baji was running out of funds, and that their household was simply too big to manage. Mariam had turned over her purse of coins to her grandmother, but even that
was being emptied at an alarmingly fast rate. If Anna had a way of resolving this situation, he would do anything he could to help her.

As they stepped from rooftop to rooftop, Anna and Kevork nodded at others who walked past them in their own travels. They also gingerly stepped around people's cooking pots and fruits drying in the sun. Once, they startled a Turkish boy who was in such deep concentration navigating his kite that he didn't hear the footsteps on his roof.

“Ack!” the boy said, momentarily loosening his grip on the wooden cross that he used to manoeuvre the kite strings.

Kevork stopped for a moment and looked in the air. The boy's kite was in the shape of a huge dove with outspread wings. It was glittering white silk with edging in mauve and grey. The sight brought a sudden catch to Kevork's throat, as he thought of the simple white bird kite that his father had made for him. He looked at the boy and realized they were probably the same age. But this boy had an innocence about him that Kevork had long ago left behind.

“Sorry,” said Kevork, with a faint smile. Then he added, “That is a beautiful kite.”

The boy looked up and grinned.

A few rooftops after the boy with the kite, there appeared a row of two-storey houses.

“Can you help me down?”

Kevork hopped down from the lower sloped side of the last single-storey roof, then reached up and helped his aunt down to the ground.

“We're almost there,” she said, pointing down the street at a solid-looking building with a cone-shaped roof topped with a cross. “The rectory is beside it.”

When they got there, Anna knocked gingerly on the rear door of the rectory. It was answered by a stooped Armenian woman dressed in black.

“Is the Very Reverend Vartabed Garabed in?” asked Anna.

“Does the Vartabed know you?” asked the housekeeper, looking Kevork and Anna up and down with suspicion.

“Not to see,” replied Anna. “But he knows my name. I corresponded with him when I was Father Dikran's secretary.”

“Oh,” said the woman, crossing herself. “Poor Father Dikran. So many deaths, a church destroyed.” The old woman opened the door all the way. “Come in. I'll tell Father Garabed he has visitors.”

They followed her through the kitchen, then down a central corridor to a room at the front of the house. Kevork's nose wrinkled at the mustiness of the place. This woman may have been the housekeeper, but it didn't look like she was much of one. There was a sagging wooden bookcase against one wall, and two other walls were covered with Armenian carpets. Kevork noted that they had once been beautiful like the ones his mother made, but they were now faded and dusty with age. The remaining wall had a small window grimed with dust, and there was a crucifix nailed above it. A heavy wooden desk dominated the room, and there were several uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs facing the desk.

The woman gestured for them to sit down. “Father Garabed will be here shortly,” she said.

A few minutes later, a tall, gangly man entered the room. He wasn't very old, and while he was dressed in a priest's black cap and robe, he didn't have a beard. Kevork had never seen a priest without a beard before. Kevork stood up and bowed his head in reverence.

Anna stood up, then knelt before the priest, kissing his hand. “God be your helper, Very Reverend Father.”

“Bless you, child.” He helped her back up to her feet. “Are you Anna Adomian?”

“Yes,” said Anna. “And this is my nephew, Kevork.”

Kevork stepped forward, then knelt in front of the priest just as Anna had done.

The priest accepted Kevork's greeting, then extended his hand, helping him back to his feet. He gathered up the skirts of his cassock and perched at the edge of the desk. “Make yourselves comfortable,” said the priest, indicating the chairs.

Kevork and Anna sat back down.

“Why did you come to me?” he asked.

“I need a job,” said Anna. “I can read and write. I can sew and cook.”

Kevork looked at his aunt. The hopelessness of the situation was clear. How could one woman possibly make enough money to feed five children and three adults? He looked at the priest's expression and saw that his thoughts were similar. If he only knew, thought Kevork. It is not just me that Anna wants to support.