The Ghosts of Anatolia (3 page)

The front door opened and Mourad stepped inside with his older sons. “Welcome back to the living, Bedros. I take it you had no trouble resting. Your snoring nearly shook the walls down.”

Bedros chuckled, and the laugh lines in his temples morphed into deep furrows. “You have said it! I haven’t slept that well since I left Istanbul.” Bedros stepped forward and wrapped a brawny arm around each of his nephews. “And what have you two boys been doing the past year? Up to no good, I suspect.”

“We’ve been working with Papa on the farm most of the time, but we go to school in Chunkoush between the cotton harvests,” Stepannos said.

“Promise me you’ll study very hard. Farming is honorable work, but it is bad for the back, and even worse for the money belt.”

“Dinner!” Kristina called out.

Flora set a loaf of bread on the unfinished wooden table set for four. Then, she placed two bowls of stew on a small crate on the floor. Mourad pulled out a chair for his brother. “Bedros, sit here next to me.” The men and older boys sat at the table, while Izabella and Sirak knelt at the crate. They all bowed their heads.

“We thank Thee, Christ our God,” Mourad began, “for Thou hast satisfied us with Thine earthly gifts. Thank you for guiding Bedros safely home. We pray you will watch over Garo, Aren and Alek while they serve in the army, and that there will be peace in the Empire. Forgive us for our sins. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages, Amen.”

Flora served pilaf chicken from a large dish. Mourad broke off a crust of bread from the loaf and passed it to Bedros. Flora smiled at Sirak as she filled his bowl. Putting down the pot, she ruffled his hair and kissed him on the cheek. “There’s plenty more if you finish that,” she whispered to her brother.

Mourad took a bite of bread. He chewed contentedly and swallowed. “Well, Bedros, what news have you from Istanbul?”

“Nothing good. The capital is in complete turmoil. There is the ongoing mobilization of the army throughout the Empire. The enlistment is a disorganized mess, with mass desertions in the southern and eastern provinces. Everyone is preoccupied with finding enough money to pay the
bedel
to keep husbands and sons at home. As far as the fighting between Russia and Germany—there is little information, but I heard from a friend that Ottoman troops have been skirmishing with British infantry near Damascus.”

A look of concern gripped Mourad’s face. “What’s your best guess? Will the Ottoman Empire join the war?”

“Who knows? There are rumors. German military officials, including General Otto Liman Von Sanders, have been spotted in Istanbul, and talk is that the Triumvirate is solidly behind the Germans. We’re all hoping cooler heads prevail.”

“The Triumvirate,” Mourad hissed. “I don’t trust them one bit—especially Enver, he’s too ambitious.”

“If you ask me, anything’s better than the Bloody Sultan. Have you forgotten what happened in Diyarbekir only two decades ago?”

“How is it better? For weeks we’ve been hearing reports about widespread looting in Diyarbekir...of stealing being carried out under the pretext of war collections. Hundreds of Armenian shops and warehouses were looted and burned only a week before Alek was conscripted. How is this better? Tell me.”

“Old habits die hard. At least the Young Turks are trying. I understand Jemal Pasha provided great service to our people after the massacres in Adana Province in 1909. I also heard him speak in August, and I must say I was impressed with his grasp of the problems facing the Empire.”

“I guess we’ll see how things go,” Mourad replied. His mouth was overflowing with chickpeas. “I still have grave concerns. How much was your
bedel
?”

“Three thousand one hundred
lire
. How much was yours?”

“Three thousand nine hundred. It was no easy task coming up with it, either. I used the rest of the money Papa left me, and still had to sell one of the workhorses and my two-year-old colt. Then I felt guilty about paying
bedel
to spare myself, rather than reporting for army duty with Alek.”

“That’s nonsense. Someone must care for the family and manage the farm. How’s the harvest?”

“Ah, our best crop in years. Old man Tarik bin Sufyan died in June, but his son Kemal helped me with the first picking. We couldn’t have done it without Kemal.”

“Özker and I helped, too, Papa,” Sirak called out from the smaller table.

Mourad gave him a devoted smile. “Yes, you did. You’ve both become excellent cotton pickers.”

“So, old man Tarik finally died,” Bedros said. “Somehow I thought the old ox might live forever. Did you know he taught me to harness a wagon when I was a boy?”

Mourad took a bite of stew. “He taught me, too. Papa must’ve told me fifty times how he would’ve lost this farm without Tarik’s help. Tarik worked in the fields to the very end. Then the typhus swatted him down like a fly. One day he worked with me and the next he was flat on his back.”

“It seems like only yesterday when he helped Father clear the corral. Kemal and I carted off all the rocks and dumped them in that gorge behind the pond. How is Kemal?”

“He’s fine, although, as you might expect, he took Tarik’s death very hard. I expect him to come by tomorrow for his share from the first picking. He’ll be excited to see you. He’s always telling me stories about you two hunting together when you were young.”

“Is Özker coming, too, Papa?” Sirak called out from the side table.

“I don’t know, Son. We’ll just have to wait and see. Flora, bring Bedros another serving of chicken. We need to put some flesh on his bones before he goes back to Istanbul.”

Kristina set about clearing the children’s table, and brewed a pot of black tea. Beads of sweat gathered on her forehead while she worked. Even though it was September, and the worst of the summer heat had passed, the house was still stifling on hot days.

Bedros pushed himself back from the table. “That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time. I’m looking forward to finishing my term in the assembly, so we can move back and share a lot more family dinners.”

Kristina smiled. “That would be wonderful.” She poured tea for Bedros, Mourad and Stepannos.

“Have you decided once and for all not to stand for another term?” she asked her brother-in-law.

“No, I haven’t, but I’m leaning toward making this my last term. We’ve made a lot of progress, but there is still so much to do. Someone else deserves a turn.”

“What do you do in the assembly, Uncle Bedros?” Stepannos asked inquisitively.

“Well,” Bedros sighed, “not much. I do my best to protect Armenian interests, but the Triumvirate is running the show. There’s no doubt about that. How old are you now, Stepannos?”

“I turned eighteen in July, sir.”

“That’s good. You have almost two years before you report to the army.”

“I’m plenty old enough to fight now. Two of my friends quit school to join Andranik’s forces fighting with the Russians. The Russians are our true friends.”

“Stepannos!” Mourad barked furiously.

Bedros’ face flushed red with anger. “Where did you hear that shit?”

“From my friend at school,” Stepannos whispered. He glanced regretfully at his father.

“You must never repeat this!” Bedros bellowed. He reached across the table and grabbed Stepannos’ arm. “Never! Talk like that is all the provocation the Turks need to bring disaster upon us all. Do you hear me?”

Stepannos’ head dropped with shame. “Yes, Uncle.”

“Stepannos, go feed the horses,” Mourad demanded brusquely. “Mikael, you go with him.”

The two boys shot up from the table, hustled out the front door and shut it quietly behind them. An awkward silence descended over the table and hung unbroken for several minutes.

“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Kristina finally said. “It’s just the idle chatter of boys.”

“It’s dangerous talk,” Bedros said. “You must not allow it in this home. This past August, the Young Turks asked the Dashnak Convention to stir up an uprising among the Armenians in the Caucasus to occupy the Russians. The Dashnagtzoutune refused their request, but gave their assurance that in the event of war between Russia and the Ottoman Empire, they’d support the Empire as loyal citizens. Any other position is tantamount to suicide for all Armenians. We must not tolerate such talk.”

“I’m sorry, Bedros,” Mourad replied ruefully. He patted his brother on the forearm. “I’ll speak to Stepannos. Rest assured, there will be no further mention of Andranik in this house.”

“I’d appreciate it. But that can wait until tomorrow. It’s pleasant enough outside, and I brought a bottle of Raki and a box of cigars from
Istanbul. Grab some glasses and let’s take a walk down to the pond. Is Gourgen Papazian still living with his uncle?”

“Yes, of course; we had dinner at his house two weeks ago.”

“I’d love to see him. Let’s ride over and offer to share our Raki.”

“Why not? He’ll be delighted to see you.”

Sirak jammed his heals into his colt’s flanks. “Papa, look!” he yelled. The chestnut and white horse bolted from a standstill and streaked across the enclosure. Gripping the reins, Sirak tipped to one side and nearly tumbled to the ground.

Mourad laughed. “Slow down, Sirak! You’ll fall off.”

“Turn, Sirak, turn!” Bedros yelled, as the horse skirted the far end of the enclosure and galloped along the fence. “That boy knows no fear, brother.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“Okay, Son!” he shouted, “that’s enough for now. Walk him back this way.” Mourad climbed over the fence and grabbed the reins. He lifted Sirak off the horse and set him on the ground.

Sirak ducked through the fence and ran to his uncle’s side. “Did you see, Uncle? I ride fast, just like Mikael and Stepannos.”

“I’m very impressed,” Bedros said, with a wink at Mourad. “Someday you’ll be the greatest horseman in Diyarbekir.”

“Papa says Tiran will be the most famous show horse in the province. I’m going to ride him in all the big competitions—maybe even in Istanbul! And Papa promised to teach me how to jump soon.”

Bedros and Mourad turned toward the clatter of a horse-drawn cart driven by an old man wrapped in a heavy, tattered coat. Several teenage boys were crowded into the rear.

“Good morning, Vache,” Mourad called out cheerfully. “Hurry, Stepannos; the wagon is here!”

“Sorry I’m late, Mourad,” the old man said. “I had to wait for an army convoy on the old river bridge.”

“Don’t worry about it, Vache. Let me introduce my brother. Bedros is a member of the Ottoman Assembly in Istanbul.”

“I’m honored to meet you, sir,” Vache said respectfully, removing his fez. “I hope you plan to stay for a while.”

“Unfortunately, I can only stay a few days. It’s a busy time in the capital.”

The old man grunted and nodded. “I expect so.”

The door opened and Stepannos and Mikael bounded from the house wearing baggy cotton trousers and white shirts. Each boy had a knapsack slung over his shoulder.

“Stepannos!” Bedros called out. “Come here for a moment.”

Stepannos exchanged anxious glances with Mikael before turning and walking to his uncle.

Bedros placed his hands on the teen’s shoulders. “Stepannos, I’m sorry I got so angry with you last night. What we talked about is a very sensitive subject now that there’s a real possibility of war with Russia—especially in Istanbul. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Uncle,” Stepannos replied contritely.

“Good. I want you to study hard at school today. You’re a bright young man and learning to read and write should be your first priority.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, then,” Bedros said. He patted the top of the boy’s cap. “Be on your way. We’ll all go for a ride out to the river when you get home. Maybe we’ll catch some fish for dinner.”

Stepannos turned, and running to the back of the cart, climbed into the bed with the other boys. Old man Vache grunted, and flicking the reins, turned the wagon in the barnyard. It bumped along the pebble-strewn incline down to the road. Mourad waved after them and stood watching until the wagon crested the embankment at the edge of the property.

Bedros turned and sighed. “Perhaps I was too harsh.”

“It was a good lesson for Stepannos. He’ll think twice before he mentions Andranik again.”

“Andranik,” Bedros muttered with a sigh. “Sometimes I don’t know whether to praise him or curse him.”

“Are they really training with Russian troops in the Caucasus? I heard a rumor in Chunkoush.”

“I’ve heard those rumors, too, but who knows what they’re really up to. I do know they’ve gotten the attention of the Ottoman leaders. Armenians in the Empire must not cast their lot with the Andraniks or any other resistance group, or they risk disaster. A Muslim assemblyman gave a blistering speech in support of the Germans two weeks ago. At one point, he held up the front page of a Hunchak newspaper published in Paris last summer. The headline was an appeal for Armenians to take up arms against the Ottoman Empire.”

“Dear God,” Mourad muttered. “Surely the leaders in Istanbul realize how many of our young Armenian men have loyally reported for duty.”

“I keep telling them, my brother—every chance I get.”

“Maybe we will learn something more at church on Sunday. Are you planning to go?”

“Yes, of course, but I must return to Istanbul Monday morning.”

Mourad heard the whinny of an approaching horse, and setting his hammer down, walked out of the barn. A man wearing a turban and worn worker’s clothing trotted his horse to the barnyard. A young boy sat astride the horse in front of him.

“Good afternoon, Kemal,” Mourad said, waving.

“Mourad!” Kemal replied cheerfully. “Are my eyes playing tricks, or is that your long-lost brother returned to mingle with the peasants?”

“It’s wonderful to see you again, my friend,” Bedros said. He grabbed the reins to steady the horse, and Mourad pulled the boy down to the ground.

Kemal dismounted and, grinning broadly, embraced Bedros. “Don’t they feed you in Istanbul, my friend? You’re skinny as a fencepost.”