The Ghosts of Anatolia (24 page)

“Good morning,” the young woman replied politely. “My name is Azra and this is my husband, Farhad.”

“Where are you from?”

“We lived in the village of Tatum near Van.”

“Van?” Elizabeth muttered with surprise. “That’s a long way. Did you flee from the war?”

The young woman nodded solemnly. “Our village was burned to the ground. Ottoman soldiers killed my mother and father, and both of my brothers. They slaughtered over three hundred of our friends and neighbors, too. We’re the only ones left, except for a neighbor boy who’s asleep on the ground over there.”

Elizabeth reached out and squeezed the young woman’s shoulder. “God bless you.”

“We lost everything, but we should be grateful to be alive—at least that’s what the German doctor told me when he amputated Sima’s leg.”

Elizabeth reflected for a moment. Suddenly, she reached up, unfastened her earrings and handed them to the young woman. “They’re gold. Trade them to buy food and clothing for your family.”

Azra stared down at the shiny loops in her hand and glanced at her husband.

“And, if you come to the Missionary Hospital this afternoon, we have a room where the four of you can stay. It’s in the basement, but it’s a lot better than living out here. Just ask the guards for Nurse Barton.”

“Thanks be to God,” Azra whispered tearfully.

Nurse Barton glanced at her watch. “I must go now. Will I see you this afternoon?”

“You will see us,” the young woman’s husband replied. He nodded respectfully and wrapped his arm around Azra’s shoulders.

“Have a good morning, and I’ll see you later.” Elizabeth walked into the street and climbed up into the wagon. She felt the weight of Hakan’s astonished stare. “What?”

“The compassion within your heart is limitless, Nurse Barton. Please forgive my indifference.”

“It was the least I could do. Let’s hurry on now. I need to send my telegram and get back to the hospital.”

The wagon pulled to a stop outside the telegraph office at a little before nine o’clock. Hakan tied the horse to a post. He helped Nurse Barton down and followed her inside.

A young clerk looked up from behind the desk. “May I help you?”

Elizabeth handed him a single sheet of paper. “This is an urgent message for Ambassador Henry Morgenthau at the American Embassy in Istanbul.”

“I’m sorry, madam,” the young man replied regretfully, “but all private communications have been suspended until further notice.”

“Suspended?” Elizabeth asked incredulously. “On whose orders?”

“By order of the governor-general,” a man called out from the back of the room.

Elizabeth turned and glared at the pudgy gendarme sitting in a chair.

The man got up and stepped to the desk. He grabbed the paper out of the clerk’s hand. “What’s your name, madam?”

“Elizabeth Barton Charles.”

“Wait here until I return.”

The gendarme turned and disappeared through an open door at the back of the room. A few minutes passed before he reappeared with a tall, uniformed army officer. The man wore a belted red jacket and knee-high leather boots. His coal-black eyes and bushy brows lent him a menacing air.

“That’s her there,” the gendarme said.

The officer held up the paper. “Did you write this telegram, madam?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“You’re Elizabeth Barton, the Missionary Hospital nurse?”

“I am she.”

“And you wrote that the governor-general is a cold-blooded murderer responsible for the death of hundreds, if not thousands, of Armenians and other Christians throughout Diyarbekir Province?”

“I did, and he is.”

“You are an American, madam?”

“Yes, I am. And what is your name, sir?”

“Major Akeem al-Kawukji, madam,” the officer replied evenly. “Gendarme!” he barked out.

The man jumped to attention. “Yes, sir!”

“Escort Nurse Barton back to the Missionary Hospital. Madam, you are hereby confined to the hospital until further notice. You are forbidden to make any further attempts to contact individuals outside this city. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Major,” Nurse Barton replied defiantly. “I understand your aim perfectly.”

“I hope so, madam, for your own sake.” The major turned and walked to the rear door.

“Major,” Elizabeth called after him, “I’d like my telegram back, if you don’t mind.”

The major stopped and turned to face her. He glanced at the gendarme, and the man stared back, awaiting the major’s response. “Take care, madam,” al-Kawukji finally replied. “I trust you’ll bear in mind that the capitulations which once protected you no longer exist.” Finally, he turned and disappeared through the door.

Elizabeth was busy dispensing afternoon medications to the patients on the surgery ward when a young orderly drew her attention from the doorway. “Excuse me,” Elizabeth told a wounded soldier before setting her tray on the stand at the end of the bed, “I’ll be right back.” She turned to the orderly. “Yes, what is it, Joseph?”

“There’s someone here to see you, Nurse Barton. He says he’s representing Yousouf Zia Ali, Mufti of Diyarbekir.”

“Mufti Ali?” she asked with surprise. “Did he say what he wanted?”

The orderly stared back uneasily. He cleared his throat. “He’s been to the prison, Nurse Barton.”

Elizabeth’s face lit up. She looked at the young man with hopeful anticipation. He stared back awkwardly, and then looked away.

“What is it, Ahmed?” Getting no reply, she brushed past him and rushed down the hall. “Tell Beatrice to dispense the medications,” she called back anxiously.

Hakan and Lala were standing outside the administrative office with a slight Turk in cleric’s robes. He was speaking to Doctor Saunders. They all turned at the sound of footsteps.

“Is something wrong?” Elizabeth asked anxiously.

The Turk swallowed uneasily. “Nurse Barton, I’m Ismael Selmin, the Mufti’s personal assistant. I’m afraid I bear horrible news. Dr. Charles died early this morning.”

Elizabeth’s expression melted into horror. “You’re mistaken.” She glanced at Doctor Saunders’ grim expression. “No, it’s a lie. It’s not true.”

“I’m sorry,” Selmin said sorrowfully. “His body was released to the Mufti an hour ago. I’ve brought him back to the hospital.”

Tears streamed from Elizabeth’s eyes. She gasped. “How did he die?”

“We were told he came down with the typhus and passed very quickly.”

“Where is he?” she demanded.

“Nurse Barton,” Hakan interjected, “I asked the guards to take the doctor’s body to the morgue.”

“I want to see him!” Elizabeth turned and took a step down the hall.

“Elizabeth!” Doctor Saunders exclaimed. He grabbed her arm. “I’ve seen David’s body. You must not...”

“I want to see him!” Elizabeth yelled hysterically. She pulled away from the doctor and ran headlong down the hall.

“Come with me,” Doctor Saunders said to Hakan and Lala.

The three of them rushed after Nurse Barton. Hurrying to the end of the long corridor, they turned the corner and caught a glimpse of her, ducking into the stairwell. They followed her down the stairs into the dimly lit bowels of the hospital. Doctor Saunders ran into the rank-smelling morgue.

Two bodies were lying on carts in the middle of the small room. The sheets had been pulled back to reveal dark-skinned corpses. Elizabeth stood beside a wooden box resting atop a table near the back wall.

Doctor Saunders charged to the back of the room. “Don’t!” he pleaded, grabbing her hands. “For God’s sake, you must not see him this way. It wasn’t typhus.”

Elizabeth stared into Doctor Saunders’ eyes. She pushed his hands away. Grabbing the wooden top, she yanked it up and gasped in horror.

Dr. Charles’ face was charred beyond recognition. All of his hair—including his beard and eyebrows—was burned completely away. His upper lip hung across his neck—attached only by a thin sliver of skin—and exposed a jagged line of broken teeth. In the center of his blackened face, all that remained of his nose was a discolored irregular gash.
Protruding from his chest was a wooden-handled knife that had been thrust through a blood-soaked sheet of paper.

Elizabeth bent down to scrutinize the paper. It was the hand-written telegram Major al-Kawukji had taken from her at the telegraph office earlier that morning. “Merciful God,” she gasped. She turned to Doctor Saunders. “I killed him! My God, I killed David!” Her eyes rolled up in her head and she slumped heavily against the box.

Doctor Saunders lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the morgue.

Sitting solemnly on the side of the bed, Kristina dabbed Elizabeth’s forehead with a washcloth. She’d fallen into a deep sleep.

Sirak sat down beside her and patted Nurse Barton’s hand. He peered up at Kristina with innocent, teary eyes. “Mama, why did the bad men hurt Dr. Charles?”

“I don’t know, dear one,” Kristina replied somberly. “I guess he was just too good.”

“How could he be
too
good?”

“Dr. Charles made the governor-general realize how badly he was treating people. He didn’t like that, so he hurt Dr. Charles.”

“The governor-general will never get to heaven, will he, Mama?”

“That’s for God to decide, little mouse.”

The door opened behind them. Lala stepped over Izabella’s toys and walked to the bedside. “Nurse Barton,” she whispered. She jiggled Elizabeth’s arm. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a young woman asking for you at the hospital entrance—Azra from Tatum. She’s got an injured daughter with her. She said you told her to bring her family to the hospital.”

“Oh, dear God, I forgot. Lala, take them down to the old storage room in the basement and give them some blankets and food and water. Tell the guards they’ll be living there until things settle down. Tell Azra I’ll come see her later this afternoon.”

“Okay, Nurse Barton. Mrs. Kazerian, can I bring you something to eat?”

“Nothing for me, thank you, but the children might eat a little bread and cheese.”

“I’ll bring a tray. Oh, Nurse Barton, we reached Father Martin. He’s planning the funeral for the day after tomorrow.”

“Did he mention where?”

“He said he’d hold the mass here in the chapel.”

Elizabeth nodded approvingly. “I’m sure David would’ve wanted it that way. May God’s peace be upon us all.”

June 11, 1915

The motley formation of pallbearers carried the wooden coffin bearing Dr. Charles’ body out the door of the dilapidated main hospital building. Two men were dressed in doctor’s whites, but the rest wore Turkish garments with red-tasseled tarboosh caps. They headed down the walkway to the street and passed through a gauntlet of melancholy mourners.

A handful of hospital staff, along with dozens of grateful former patients, including a few festooned in Ottoman military uniforms, stood beneath the blazing sun to pay their last respects to the beloved physician-missionary who’d given everything to ease the suffering of those he’d served in Anatolia. A pocket of veiled women at the end of the walk wailed demonstratively, but most of the mourners stood by in stunned silence.

Elizabeth and Kristina shuffled dejectedly behind the casket. Both women were dressed in long black dresses and veils. Elizabeth’s shoulders were stooped with grief. Sirak, his expression at once bemused and sorrowful, trailed behind his mother clutching Mikael’s hand. Father Martin, a paunchy, middle-aged German wearing purple robes, brought up the rear of the procession.

Scattered across the courtyard, several armed gendarmes monitored the funeral assembly. To the left of the walkway, a knot of Ottoman soldiers stood outside the commissary tent.

Elizabeth glanced up and froze dead in her tracks. “Bastard!” she hissed.

Kristina followed Nurse Barton’s gaze across the courtyard. “What’s wrong, Elizabeth?”

“Wait here,” Elizabeth said. Letting go of Kristina’s hand, she marched purposefully through the mourners to an officer dressed in a smart gray uniform and a red tarboosh cap. His baggy pants were tucked inside thigh-high brown leather boots. Without warning, Elizabeth slapped him full across the face. The slap echoed across the courtyard and launched the officer’s cap high into the air.

The man flinched, but maintained his composure. Several soldiers grabbed Nurse Barton’s arms.

“Let her go,” the officer ordered.

Elizabeth jerked her arms away, and trembling with emotion, glared at the officer. “Have you no shame, Major al-Kawukji? How dare you defile my husband’s funeral? I ask you to leave immediately.”

“You falsely malign me, Nurse Barton,” al-Kawukji protested. “I can assure you, I was also shocked and heartbroken to learn of Dr. Charles’ death. His death is a staggering loss to us all. I’m here to pay my respects.”

“You are a liar, sir, a vile, two-faced murderer. Your hands are stained with David’s blood.”

“You are mistaken, madam. I’ve long been an admirer of Dr. Charles, and of you, too.”

“Liar!” she cried out vehemently. “The telegram you took from me was impaled on the knife they plunged into my David’s heart. You are nothing but depraved savages.” She bowed her head and wept inconsolably.

The major winced and glanced awkwardly at the glowering soldier standing beside him. “I assure you, madam. I had no part whatsoever in
Dr. Charles’ death. I passed your telegram on to provincial officials, along with a stack of others I confiscated the past week, but I really had little choice. The gendarme in the telegraph office saw it first and he reported what you wrote to his superior. I was reprimanded by my commanding officer for not arresting you on the spot.”

“Did you know David was tortured?” Elizabeth sniffled.

“I assure you, madam, I did not. I had the utmost respect for him, and everything he’s done to help the wounded and ill soldiers who are brought here for treatment. I’m stunned to learn he was tortured. General al-Zifar told me he died from typhus.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath and exhaled. “If I’ve wrongly accused you, Major, I’m truly sorry.”

“I feel your sorrow. If there’s anything I can do to help you—anything at all—please contact me.” He handed her a slip of paper.