The Ghosts of Anatolia (15 page)

“God help us. The war must be going badly,” Mourad said.

Kemal nodded. “Russian forces have advanced to within ten kilometers of Van and there’s a desperate struggle going on between Russian-backed fighters and our forces in the city. Apparently, the chaos is spreading to the countryside surrounding Van and Bitlis. There are terrible stories of reprisal and retaliation all over Anatolia.”

“Merciful God. I feared this would happen.”

“Mourad,” Kemal continued despondently, rubbing his tired red eyes, “there’s more.” He reached out and clutched Mourad’s shoulder. “It’s terrible.”

“What is it?” Mourad asked apprehensively. “Is it Alek?”

“No, my friend, it’s your farm.”

“My farm?”

“I rode past it on my way back from the village. There was a fire.”

“A fire?” Mourad gasped. His mouth was dry as parchment. “Where?”

Kemal reached out to steady Mourad. “Everywhere…the house, your furnishings, the barn…everything is gone.”

“Oh, God, no! It can’t be.”

“I’m so sorry. I searched for belongings that survived the blaze, but unfortunately, I only found a few damaged pots and utensils and this.” He pulled a charred silver crucifix from his pocket and handed it to Mourad.

Mourad stared at the artifact and clutched it to his chest. “It was my grandfather’s.” He leaned against the side of the barn and buried his head in his arms.

Kemal rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Mourad, when this war’s over, you and I will rebuild your home. It’ll be better than it was before. I promise.”

Mourad nodded his head. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and turning around, took a deep breath. “I want to see it with my own eyes.”

“No, Mourad, not now. It’s too dangerous.”

“I must see it for myself,” Mourad replied determinedly.

“No!” Kemal whispered adamantly. “The corpses along the road—they were Armenians.”

Mourad stared into Kemal’s eyes. “Armenians? Are you sure?”

“I’m certain. A notice was posted nearby. It said they were traitors. Then, when I headed back, I saw an Armenian family attacked by a band of Kurds. They were merciless. You must not go.”

Mourad stared at the ground. “What will we do now?”

“You will stay here with us until this madness ends,” Kemal replied assertively. “We’ll all be safer together.”

Mourad turned and smiled gratefully. He embraced Kemal. “You are a true friend—the best I’ve ever had. Don’t tell Kristina or the children about the farm. It’s better they don’t know.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.” Kemal reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper. “Unfortunately, I’ve got even more bad news. The government ordered all able-bodied men between eighteen and fifty-two, including all who previously paid
bedel
, to immediately report for army duty.”

Mourad grabbed the notice. “Eighteen? Are you sure?” He read the notice and shook his head. “Well, they can have me, but they’ll not have Stepannos. I’ll not sacrifice another son for this Empire.”

“No reasonable man could fault you, my friend. I’ve anguished about my own decision all the way home. Now that I’ve seen the bands of
chetes
wandering the countryside with my own eyes, I will not report either. I must take care of my family. If that makes me a traitor to the Empire, then so be it.”

“Then it’s decided. No matter what, we’ll stay together and defend our families. Come, let’s tell them the danger has passed.”

March 8, 1915

“No, damn it!” Abdul Pasha screamed. He jerked the axe from Erol’s hands. “Hold the handle firmly—like this. Otherwise, you’ll never even crack the bark. Do you understand?” Erol cowered under the weight of his father’s icy stare. The boy, his hair and brows caked with snow, trembled. “Yes, Father; I’m trying.”

Abdul handed his son the axe. “Well, try it again!”

The boy lifted the axe over his head, and with a grunt, brought a glancing blow down on the log. This time a fragment of bark flew off the stump.

“That’s better! Again!”

Abdul watched Erol deliver one feeble blow after another. “Keep it up,” he growled. “Don’t stop until you chop all the way through.” Turning at the whinny of a horse, Abdul stepped back to the barnyard to meet, Baran, one of the hired hands riding up the road. The rider’s head and neck were wrapped in a wool scarf, and only his eyes were visible through a narrow slit.

“Any sign of Kazerian?” Pasha barked when the man was within earshot.

“No, Effendi. The farm was just as we left it.”

“Damn it,” Abdul fumed. “I should’ve forced him to sell the land while I had the chance. I want you to check Kazerian’s farm every single day. If the Armenian plans to return, he must plant cotton by the middle of May. Let me know immediately if you see any signs of activity at the farm. Do you understand? But don’t dally there too much. We’re far enough behind as it is.”

“Effendi, we lost two more men yesterday. Yener and Ufuk were spotted by an army induction officer.”

“Damn it! How will I ever plant the crops if we keep losing men? Didn’t the lieutenant governor-general promise your brother there’d be no more men taken from my farm?”

“He did, but this was a roving detachment looking for men defying the new government decree. I was checking the Armenian’s farm, or they surely would’ve taken me, too. At least Mohammad got your exemption papers from the governor-general.”

“Yes, and for this I’m grateful, but I can’t run this farm by myself. Go speak to your brother again. Get him to ask the lieutenant governor-general for orders to release Yener and Ufuk.”

“I’ll do my best, Effendi. See you in the morning.”

Abdul Pasha watched Baran until he disappeared. He turned and walked to the woodpile. “Erol, are you making any progress?”

Erol set the head of the axe on the ground. Beads of sweat were streaking down his cheeks.

Pasha glanced at the log. “I’ll be damned. You’re nearly through it. Here, give me that axe.”

Erol handed his father the axe and Abdul chopped the rest of the way through the log with three powerful swings. “Okay, let’s go in and get some lunch. But I want you back out here as soon as we finish. No excuses.”

“I will, Father,” Erol muttered tiredly. He rounded the house and held his hands up to his eyes. His fingers and palms were covered with angry-looking blisters—some tense with blood. Wiping his brow on his sleeve, he went into the house to find his mother.

April 10, 1915

The rays of the early-morning sun filtered through the curtains into the women’s makeshift dining room. Kristina and Fadime sat at a wobbly wooden table strewn with fabric and spools of thread.

Kristina passed a needle through a knee patch she was sewing on a pair of pants. “This is it for these pants. Sirak needs a new pair.”

“Oh, dear,” Fadime muttered, with a slap to her forehead. “I forgot to ask Kemal to stop by the fabric souk in Diyarbekir. Özker’s outgrown his pants, too, and all three of our girls need new dresses. I think Kemal’s going into the village on Monday. Don’t let me forget to ask him to look for fabric.”

Kristina tied a knot in the thread. “I’ll try to remember.”

Fadime pushed herself up from the table. “I need another cup of tea. Would you like some?”

“I’d love a cup. As much as I miss my home, I’m so grateful for the time we’ve had together over the past two months. I haven’t had talks like these since my sister-in-law moved to Istanbul. I couldn’t have survived without your friendship and support.”

“Kristina,” Fadime said, her eyes soft and compassionate as she looked across the table at her friend, “it’s been wonderful having you here. You’re like a sister to me now, and I needed a sister. As you might have guessed, Nahid and I are not close.”

“Well, now that you’ve mentioned it, I have noticed the strain between you. Nahid speaks respectfully of you, of course, and she’s so sweet to the children. Did something happen?”

Fadime sighed. “It’s a long and painful story.”

“And none of my business, either. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s okay. Let me get the tea and I’ll tell you my life’s story. That should take about five minutes.”

Fadime returned with a tray bearing two cups, a teapot and a plate of bread. “Flora wants us to try her flatbread. It just came out of the oven.” Fadime set the cups on the table and poured the steaming tea. “Okay, where do I begin?

“I was raised on a farm less than three kilometers from here. My parents were poor cotton farmers, just like their parents before them, and just as we are today. Kemal and I have lived on this farm for eighteen years.”

“Did you meet in school?”

“No, our marriage was arranged by my mother and father. Father was very traditional. So, I never met Kemal before our wedding day.”

“You must have known who he was.”

“Actually, I never laid eyes on him before the wedding.”

“Really?” Kristina murmured with surprise. “I know this is common among your people, but then, I only spoke with Mourad three or four times before our engagement. So I hardly knew him, either. Were you pleased with your parents’ arrangement?”

“Oh, yes.” Fadime glanced back at the door to make sure it was closed. “Kemal was the handsome young man I’d always dreamed of marrying, so kind and gentle. I gave thanks to Allah every day for this blessing.
Those first eight years together were the happiest of my life. Each day seemed like springtime. ”

Kristina smiled. “I know that feeling. It’s how I felt about Mourad. I still do.”

“I know you do. Your face lights up when he walks into the room.”

“What happened between you and Kemal?”

“Sabiha was born a year and a half after our wedding, and I felt I’d found paradise here on earth. But then…” She took a deep breath.

“This is too much for you, Fadime. Please don’t feel you need...”

“No,” Fadime interrupted, shaking her head, “it’s important to me that you understand. After I bore Sabiha, I couldn’t get pregnant again. We tried, oh, we tried so hard, but somehow I knew something had changed inside my body. Sometimes I’d go six months without my menses. Finally, after six long years, Kemal expressed his desire to have more children. He wanted a son so badly. Even then, he was so considerate. He told me if I was opposed he’d never mention it again. I told him I understood, but inside, my heart was breaking. Another year passed, and I thought maybe he’d decided against it. But, then, one day out of the blue, his mother informed me they’d made the arrangements. Kemal and Nahid were married two months later. She was only fifteen years old on their wedding day—just eight years older than my daughter.”

“How horrible.” Kristina shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I can’t imagine such pain.”

“God, forgive me, I despised Nahid at first. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help myself. Kemal made every effort to keep us both content, switching bedrooms every night; but the passion left our marriage,” she sobbed. “And it never returned.”

Kristina reached for Fadime’s hand. She rubbed fingers that were roughened and chafed from years of labor. “I’m so sorry.”

“The hardest part was lying alone in my bed at night hearing Nahid whimper with bliss through these paper-thin walls. It was so painful hearing her enjoy the pleasures that’d been wrenched from my life forever.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I began to sleep on the sofa and only returned to my bedroom when I was certain they’d fallen asleep. Then, when it was my night with Kemal, I’d turn to ice. I remember wondering how he could possibly want me when he’d just spent the night before making love to a fifteen year old with a perfect figure.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“It must’ve been hard for Nahid, too. But, on the other hand, it was all she ever knew. It wasn’t long before she got pregnant. I helped her as much as I could when Verda and Lale were born. For a while, when the twins were very young, Kemal spent most nights with me. But that lasted only a few months. Then, he began to alternate bedrooms again. Finally, in a fit of jealousy, I told Kemal I couldn’t take it anymore. I told him he should sleep only with Nahid. I moved into the smaller back bedroom where I didn’t have to hear them together, and we haven’t shared a bed since. It’s been ten long and lonely years.” Fadime took a deep breath and sighed.

“I’m sorry, Fadime. Maybe you should try and talk to Kemal about how you feel. It’s not too...”

“No. I’m fine now. I find my happiness in Islam, and in helping Sabiha and the other children grow up in a stable and loving home. Özker’s like a son to me now—the son I could never bear.”

“What a delightful child—so happy and well-mannered. Sirak loves him like a brother.”

“He’s a very special little boy. You’ve done a wonderful job with your children, too. My Sabiha never stops talking about Flora. And she’d never admit it, but she’s got a crush on Stepannos, too.”

“My Stepannos? Really?”

Fadime smiled. “I think so.”

“Just wait until she meets Alek. I’m partial, I admit, he being my oldest and all, but Flora told me the young women at church swoon when they speak of him.”

“I can’t wait to meet him. What about you and Mourad?”

“What about us?”

“You’re obviously very much in love. How long have you been married?”

Kristina smiled. “It’ll be twenty-one years this July. He’s a wonderful husband, a devoted father and my best friend. There is nothing I would change about him—except maybe his messiness.”

“All men are messy,” Fadime said matter-of-factly. “It comes with a penis.”

Both women erupted into laughter. Fadime’s jowls quivered with delight and tears flooded Kristina’s eyes.

Fadime sipped at her tea and set the cup on the table. “God blessed you with six children to comfort you in your old age.” She chuckled. “I tell Sabiha she must bear me ten grandchildren. Hopefully, we’ll find her a suitable husband someday, but the war has made that impossible—at least for now.”

“Sabiha is a beautiful and intelligent young woman. She’ll have no trouble attracting a proper husband when this war is over.”