The Ghosts of Anatolia (2 page)

Keri sat in a chair across from his father. Staring introspectively at the floor for several moments, he finally looked up and peered into his father’s deeply furrowed eyes. “Papa, I could hold you to that same standard.”

Sirak’s eyes narrowed warily. “What are you saying?”

“I’m fifty-nine years old.
Fifty-nine.
What’s the big secret? Why do you never talk about our family? Ara and I grew up knowing next to nothing about our mother, our aunts and uncles, or our grandparents. How many times have I asked you? A hundred? Five hundred?”

Sirak stared back in agonizing silence, and finally looked away, muttering to himself.

“What, Papa?” Keri persisted.

“I said, it’s too painful.”

“What’s too painful?”

Sirak cupped his forehead with his hand and stared down at his feet. “Everything,” he muttered. He looked up at his son, and tears were pooling in his sorrowful eyes. “The things that happened to our family… to your grandmother.”

“I want to know, Papa. Your grandchildren want to know, too. There’s no reason to shelter us anymore.”

“It’s not you, Keri. I haven’t spoken a word about what happened to anyone, except Ara, in seventy years…and telling your brother was the worst mistake I ever made.”

“Why, Papa? Why was that a mistake?”

“Because it killed him!” Sirak snapped. “Telling your brother killed him, and now I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.”

“Information about our family didn’t kill Ara, Papa. Evil killed Ara.”

“But if I hadn’t told...”

“No, it was not your fault,” Keri interrupted. “And now it’s time you told me, too. Neither one of us is getting any younger; I deserve to know about our family.”

“Son, I love you
so
much,” Sirak whispered. “You and your children are all I have left.”

“We love you, too, Papa, but you’ve endured this burden in silence for too long. Please, tell me—what happened?”

Sirak inhaled deeply and exhaled through pursed lips. “God help me,” he muttered, wiping a sleeve across his eyes. He took another deep breath. “We lived on a small farm just outside of the village of Seghir, a few miles east of the great walled city, Diyarbekir, in southern Anatolia.”

“In present-day Turkey, right?”

“That’s right. We were poor cotton farmers eking out an existence on the land your great grandfather, Misak Kazerian, left to your grandfather, Mourad, and your great uncle, Bedros. Let’s see, in 1914 I was six years old. I know Papa was forty-six when I was born, so he and Mama would have been fifty-two and thirty-eight then.”

“What was your mother’s name?”

“Kristina. Her maiden name was Malekian. She was a beautiful, loving woman. I had three older brothers. Alek was twenty. I remember that because he had to report to the army that year. Stepannos was a year or two younger, and Mikael must have been about twelve. I also had two sisters. Flora would’ve been fifteen. She looked just like our mother. My younger sister, your aunt Izabella, was only four or five at that time.”

“So there were six children in the family?”

“Yes.” A hint of a smile came to Sirak’s lips, as long-suppressed memories came flooding back. “What a great family it was, too. We were poor, but so happy—at least until the war destroyed everything.” He shook his head pensively. “Where do I begin?”

“Begin where you can, Papa. I want to hear what happened.”

September 8, 1914
Ten kilometers east of Diyarbekir, the Ottoman Empire

Mourad, his trousers caked with mud, turned at the whinny of a horse. He leaned his shovel against an old stump and wiped a muddy sleeve across his brow. As he peered through the dazzling afternoon sunlight, a lone rider trotted up the path from the main road. The horse scattered a bevy of squawking chickens into the adjoining field.

Suddenly, a broad grin broke across Mourad’s face. “Bedros!” he called out, jogging up the path. “What a surprise! It’s so good to see you. I wish we’d known you were coming.”

“Mourad, my brother,” Bedros sighed wearily as he dismounted his horse and hugged his younger sibling. “My letter didn’t reach you? I sent it three months ago.”

“We never got it. You’ve lost so much weight. Are you sick?”

“I had a nasty bout of the grippe last winter. It took me months to regain my strength, but I’m much better now. How’s Mother?”

“She’s a lot worse. Her joints are so stiff she rarely gets out of bed. Then, last spring, she began losing a lot of weight. It’s her heart. The doctor said she might not make it to winter.”

“Thank God I came. I wish I’d brought the family, but the roads are too hazardous. The political situation is deteriorating.”

“How is Liza?”

“Liza is well, but she’s fretted day and night since Garo and Aren reported for the mobilization. We haven’t heard anything from them since they left home in August.”

“God bless you both,” Mourad replied understandingly. “There’s nothing worse than not knowing what’s happening. We haven’t heard from Alek, either.”

“Alek?” Bedros queried, his heavy black eyebrows shooting up with surprise. “He’s only nineteen.”

“No, Brother, Alek turned twenty this summer.”

“God help us,” Bedros sighed. He shook his head. “I pray our country will stay out of this insane war, but I fear the worst.”

“How are Alis and Mairan?”

“They’re just fine. Alis finished her nursing apprenticeship, and Mairan recently expressed an interest in becoming a teacher.”

“Uncle Bedros!” a curly-headed young boy shrieked. He ran headlong from the house and jumped for joy.

“Sirak, my spirited bear cub!” Bedros lifted the boy, twirled him into the air and set him on his shoulders. “You’ve gotten so big. How’s my favorite nephew?”

“I’m fine, Uncle. You know what?”

Bedros chuckled. “What?”

“Papa taught me to ride the plow horse this summer. Then, last week, he let me ride my colt for the first time.”

Bedros grinned at Mourad. “My, you really are getting big. Soon you’ll be old enough to help your papa plow the field. How old are you now?”

“I’m six and a half. Papa, can we show Uncle Bedros how I ride?” the boy pleaded excitedly. His dark eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Not today. Uncle Bedros has ridden a long way and he’s very tired. We can all take a ride together tomorrow. Can you stay, Bedros?”

“Yes, of course; I’d hoped to stay a few days while I take care of business here in Diyarbekir. Would Kristina mind?”

“What do you mean, would she mind?” Mourad scoffed. He took his brother’s reins. His horse, its flanks glistening with sweat, at first resisted his tug, but finally yielded. “Papa left this farm to both of us.”

The two men walked across the farmyard to a ramshackle barn with its roof bowed at one end. Mourad lifted his brother’s bags down from the horse’s back and led the old mare into an empty stall. He poured water into the trough and carried feed from stores on the opposite side of the barn.

Sirak pulled Bedros out the rear door of the barn. He led him to the corral, where two yearling colts were running free.

The shorter of the two colts, a chestnut with white accents on his nose and legs, kicked up his heels. He bolted past his brother, and whirled around to face the visitors. Tossing his head back, he whinnied, trotted to the fence, stuck his head through the rails, and gently nuzzled Sirak’s arm.

Sirak climbed up on the fence and stroked the horse’s neck. “Isn’t he beautiful, Uncle?”

“He’s magnificent,” Bedros uttered admiringly. He shaded his eyes from the bright sunlight and watched the colt bolt away to the back of the enclosure.

“Papa gave him to me for my very own.”

“He’s a fine horse. What’s his name?”

“Tiran, and his brother over there is Alexander.”

Bedros leaned against the fence and watched the colt gallop toward the barn. “Tiran’s destined to be a fine riding horse, Sirak. He reminds me of the horse your grandfather gave me when I was a boy. I named him Tartus. To this day, he’s the best horse I ever owned.”

Mourad walked from the barn carrying Bedros’ bags. “I watered and fed your horse. Let’s go inside, and I’ll ask Kristina to prepare you something to eat.”

“Thank you, Brother. Where are Stepannos and Mikael?”

“A new American missionary school opened in Chunkoush last year. I let them go whenever I can. They attend full time, now that we’ve picked the cotton. They’ll be home later this afternoon. Come on, let’s go inside.”

Bedros took his bags and the two men walked to the house.

Mourad opened the front door. He stepped inside the cramped front room. The kitchen was tucked in one corner and a hall in the back led to the bedrooms.

Kristina, a slender, fair-skinned woman, her dark-brown hair covered with a scarf, turned from the stove at the sound of the door. “Bedros!” she exclaimed. She brushed past her daughter and kissed him on the cheek. “You look so tired. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. I just need a little rest and a bit of your wonderful cooking.”

She smiled. Tonight I’ll prepare a special dinner just for you. Where’s Liza?”

“She decided to stay in Istanbul with the children.” Bedros squatted and smiled at a slight, dark-haired young girl sitting on the floor playing with a tattered doll. “Izabella, my little princess, are you ready to give your Uncle Bedros a hug?”

The dark-haired cherub looked up and shook her head.

“No hug? Have you forgotten who gave you that doll? Then, I guess you’re not interested in the new doll I brought for you.” Bedros set his bag down, and crouching to the floor, fished through the bottom. He pulled out a small red ball and held it out to Sirak. “This is for you, Nephew.”

Sirak beamed with joy. He took the ball and turned it over in his hands.

Izabella got up from the floor and shuffled shyly toward her uncle.

Smiling broadly, Bedros pulled out a baby doll dressed in pink nightclothes, and held it up. “Do you like it? Your Aunt Liza made the clothes herself.”

Izabella, her eyes sparkling, glanced at her mother. Kristina smiled reassuringly and nodded. Finally, Izabella reached for the doll, but Bedros jerked it back.

“Oh, no! First, I want a hug.”

Izabella frowned, and glanced at her mother.

“Your uncle Bedros traveled a long way to see you, Izabella,” Kristina reassured. “Go ahead, give him a hug.”

Izabella peeked out from beneath her long bangs. Finally, she warily hugged her uncle’s arm and Bedros pressed the doll into her tiny hands.

Smiling with heartfelt glee, Izabella clutched it to her chest. Bedros, Mourad and Kristina erupted into laughter.

“And these are for you, Flora,” Bedros said. He held out a small red box.

“Thank you, Uncle,” Flora replied politely. She took the small box, and with a gleeful smile, opened it. Two ruby earrings were fastened to white silk in the bottom. Flora beamed with delight. She handed them to her mother and Kristina helped her put them on.

Bedros handed three wooden boxes to his brother. “I bought these ivory-handled knives from an African trader in Istanbul. They’re for the older boys. Make sure Alek gets one when he comes home to visit.”

“Thank you for your generosity,” Kristina said appreciatively. “You’re always so thoughtful.”

Bedros smiled. “We all miss you so much and look forward to the day when we can return to Anatolia. We long to celebrate birthdays and Christmas together as a family.”

“There is nothing we pray for more than this,” Kristina said. “Since you moved to Istanbul, there is an emptiness in this home that can only be filled when you and Liza and the children return. Especially now, with all the uncertainty...”

“But we appreciate the sacrifices you’ve made for the Armenian people,” Mourad interrupted. His eyes shot daggers to silence Kristina. “Representation in the central government has never been more important.
There will be plenty more birthdays and Christmases after you’ve completed your term.”

Bedros tugged at his beard with his fingertips. “I’d like to see Mama now.”

Mourad took his brother’s arm. “She stays in the back bedroom.”

The two men walked down a short hall past two rooms. They stopped at a closed door.

Mourad tapped lightly on the door. “Mama, Bedros is home. Can we come in?”

There was no reply. Mourad pulled the door open and stepped into the small room.

Muted light filtered through the faded-blue curtains. A frail-looking, gray-haired woman, covered with blankets up to her neck, was lying in a bed that nearly occupied the entire room.

Mourad squatted beside the bed. “Mama,” he whispered. “Look who came to see you.”

The feeble old woman opened her droopy eyes. After a few moments, a look of recognition swept across her face. “Bedros,” she whispered. “My son, God has answered my prayer.”

Bedros leaned over the bed and kissed his mother on the forehead. He sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long, Mama. We wanted to come last spring, but Tania came down with the pox.”

A worried frown furrowed her brow. “My Tania?”

“She’s fine. We’re all fine. Garo and Aren reported for army duty, but I’m sure they’ll watch out for each other.”

“Thank God,” she whispered.

Bedros took his mother’s hands and sat gazing at her for a long while. Falling into a contented sleep, she didn’t stir as he lovingly massaged her twisted knuckles and fingers. Finally, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Rest well, Mama. I’ll come back later.”

Bedros stepped into the front room and brushed a curl of wet hair back from his face. He lifted his nose into the air and took in a whiff of the spiced aroma wafting through the room. “You’ve prepared something wonderful, Kristina? Lamb stew?”

“It’s my mother’s pilaf chicken with burghol. I hope you’re still hungry.”

Bedros didn’t reply. His attention was fixed on a small painted statuette of the Madonna and Child on the counter. “I’m starving,” he finally said. “I didn’t carry enough bread to last the journey. I’d hoped to buy provisions at stops along the way, but as I traveled farther from Istanbul, I discovered that most of the inns—including the Bournouz Khan where we stopped with Father when we were boys—had been abandoned.”