The Ghosts of Anatolia (5 page)

Mourad pulled himself up from the floor and grasped Dr. Charles’ hand. “Doctor, my wife and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts. We’ll stay with him. Nurse Barton, I insist you go get some rest.”

“Okay,” she chuckled. She grabbed the pitcher off the bedstand. “But he needs lots of water. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Mourad knelt beside the bed and wrapped his arm around Kristina’s back. Leaning her head against his shoulder, she clutched Sirak’s tiny hand.

The nurse returned with the pitcher of water and placed it on top of the instrument cabinet. “Try to get him to drink as much as he can,” Elizabeth whispered. “If you need anything, you’ll find me in the exam room across the hall. I’ll be back in two hours.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Kristina whispered. “May God bless you.”

“Oh, I’ve done nothing. It’s Dr. Charles who deserves your thanks and prayers. He’s the most devoted physician I’ve ever known—dutifully giving his heart, mind, and soul to every man, woman, or child who comes here for help.

“How does he keep up such long hours?”

“He’s always worked hard—often sixteen hours or more a day. Then, last week, an Ottoman official ordered him to admit several dozen soldiers to the hospital. Most of them are burning up with typhus, and several have already died. He’s had little sleep since the soldiers arrived. The man’s a saint.”

“May God bless him,” Mourad whispered. “I heard about the American Missionary Hospital from a cotton farmer who lives near Diyarbekir. He told me this was the place to come if anyone in my family ever got sick.”

“It’s good to hear the hospital’s reputation is growing among the people of Anatolia. It was a chaotic mess before Dr. Charles arrived from Mus two years ago. In fact, I’d given my notice—I was fed up with the incompetence and turmoil. I accepted a new job in Van. Then Dr. Charles arrived and everything changed. Within two weeks, he totally revamped
the system. Most importantly, he instilled a new spirit of cooperation and hope into everyone who works here. I agreed to stay for another year because I saw great things ahead for this hospital. I wouldn’t leave now for the world, and neither would anyone else on the staff.”

Mourad smiled admiringly. “Thanks be to God for leading us here,” he whispered. “Nurse Barton, please, go get some rest.”

“Okay. You know where to find me. I’ll be back in two hours for medication rounds.”

Dr. Charles left the hospital and trudged across the courtyard along a short cobbled path. He opened the front door of the darkened cottage and stepped into a room that was adorned with worn, secondhand furnishings. He eased the door shut behind him and shuffled through the shadowy room toward a flickering light that shone through the half-opened bedroom door.

“David, is it you?” a feeble voice called out from the bedroom.

“Yes, darling,” Charles replied. He stepped through the doorway. Pulling off his long white coat, he hung it on the bedpost, then went to the empty side of the bed. He leaned across it and brushed an errant strand of hair from his wife’s sunken eyes. “Can I get you anything?”

She smiled tiredly. “No, thank you, darling,” she whispered. She reached to grasp his hand and grimaced with pain. “Natalie brought me food and water.”

Charles looked at the tray of dried apricots and cheese that sat, untouched, on the bedside table. “But you haven’t eaten any of it.” He picked up an apricot and pressed it to her chapped lips. “You’ve got to eat.”

She turned away. “I’m too sick now. Maybe later. Get some rest before they call you back.”

“Okay,” he whispered. He leaned over and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. Lifting her head, he readjusted the pillow and peered into her blue eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Charles kicked off his shoes and extinguished the oil lamp. He rolled onto his back next to his wife. Lacking the energy to remove his shirt and trousers, he lay awake listening to his wife’s shallow breaths for a few minutes. Finally, his light snore reverberated through the darkness.

Nurse Barton bolted up out of a deep sleep. Loud shouts echoed from the front of the hospital. She hopped out of bed, and smoothing down her dress, scurried from the room and up the corridor. “Just a moment! I’m coming!”

The foyer echoed with resounding knocks. She hurried to the door, and pushing back the bolt, opened it wide.

A gaunt, middle-aged soldier, in the uniform of an Ottoman Army lieutenant, stood before her. Behind him, the road in front of the hospital teemed with horse-drawn wagons that were overflowing with sick and wounded soldiers. Some of them wore ragged and soiled military uniforms, but most were dressed in tattered civilian clothes. Some men were clad in little more than bandages and dressings. Nurse Barton flinched in horror at the stench of gangrene wafting through the air.

“Who’s in charge here?” the lieutenant demanded. He was lean and erect, with a bushy mustache.

“Dr. Charles,” Elizabeth replied. She glanced past the lieutenant. A team of soldiers was already unloading stretchers from the nearest wagon.

“I must speak to him at once. Get him for me.”

“But he just went to rest after more than twenty hours without a break.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got orders from the governor-general. I must deliver them to him immediately. Take me to his quarters.”

“Right this way.” Elizabeth stepped outside and led the officer down the dirt path and around the side of the hospital. “Dr. Charles,” she called out, knocking lightly on the front door of the darkened cottage.

The lieutenant reached past her and pounded on the door. “Dr. Charles!” he shouted.

“Who is it?” a weary voice muttered inside.

“Lieutenant Mehmet of the Ottoman Army; I must speak with you straightaway, sir.”

The door creaked open. The bleary-eyed physician still wore his wrinkled slacks and shirt. “Yes, what is it?”

The lieutenant forced several papers into his hand. “By order of the governor-general, the American Missionary Hospital must care for the soldiers I’ve brought from the Russian front.”

Charles glanced down at the papers and then looked up. “Okay. How many do you have?”

“Three hundred twenty, sir.”

“
Three hundred twenty
?” Dr. Charles gasped incredulously.

“Yes, at least when we left Bitlis. Some of them died along the way. Half the men have the typhus. The military hospitals in Diyarbekir and Bitlis are already overflowing with sick and wounded.”

Dr. Charles glanced at Nurse Barton, then back at the lieutenant. “We don’t have room or supplies to care for that many men.”

“You must make room, Doctor; they have nowhere else to go. All non-military patients are to be discharged immediately. Those who need further medical care are to proceed to the military hospital in Diyarbekir.”

“That’s impossible! Many of my patients are too ill to be moved, and you just told me the hospital in Diyarbekir is overflowing with sick soldiers.”

“Those are my orders. I intend to carry them out.”

“Then you’ll have to see to it yourself. I’ll not be a party to this madness.”

“As you wish,” the lieutenant barked, his pitch-black eyes coldly indifferent. He spun on his heels and marched off toward the front of the hospital.

“Lieutenant!” Charles shouted before Mehmet rounded the corner of the building.

Lieutenant Mehmet stopped, turned in place and stamped his foot. “Yes, Doctor, what is it now?”

“The hospital won’t be much good without physicians to treat the sick and wounded. If you want us to care for your soldiers, then you must work with us.”

“My orders are inflexible,” the lieutenant called out. He took a few steps back toward the cottage. “All of the non-military patients must go to Diyarbekir.”

“Will the army provide transportation?”

“Once the soldiers are unloaded from the wagons, they can be used to transport anyone who’s too sick to walk or ride.”

“Do I have your word on that, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Doctor, you have my word.”

“Okay, just give me a minute to change my clothes.”

There was a firm knock on the door, and Mourad and Kristina awakened with a start.

A surly soldier opened the door and leaned into the room. “This hospital is being evacuated,” he barked. “You have five minutes to gather your things.”

The man disappeared down the hall before Mourad or Kristina could respond. They glanced at each other in bewildered silence. Mourad pushed himself up from the floor and opened the door. The corridor was in chaos. He watched two soldiers carry a stretcher from a room.

A young doctor followed behind shaking his head. “This woman has a high fever! She can’t be moved!”

His admonishment went unheeded. The two soldiers continued down the hall toward the front of the hospital. The young doctor whirled in place and threw up his hands in frustration.

Mourad caught sight of Elizabeth helping an unsteady patient walk. “Nurse Barton! What’s happening?”

“I’ll be right back, Mr. Kazerian. Let me help this woman outside.”

Mourad watched with growing angst, as another patient was carried out on a stretcher. Several other patients walked out with an orderly.

The soldier who’d poked his head in their room headed their way. “Are you ready?” he demanded.

Mourad stepped out of the room. “My son is too sick to move.”

“All civilian patients must leave this ward immediately,” the soldier replied. “Anyone who’s too sick to go home is being transferred to the Diyarbekir Military Hospital.”

“Diyarbekir?” Mourad gasped. “My son is too sick to travel that far. He’ll die.”

“He must go. Get your belongings together, or you’ll be forced to leave them behind.”

“We will not go!” Mourad barked angrily. He stepped in front of the soldier. “Not until my son is stable enough to travel.”

“We have our orders!” the soldier shouted. He grabbed Mourad’s arm. “Step aside or I’ll arrest you.”

At that moment, Nurse Barton and Dr. Charles appeared out of the vestibule—followed by Lieutenant Khan. “Hold it!” Dr. Charles shouted.

“Let him go,” Lieutenant Mehmet ordered.

“I need to examine your son, Mr. Kazerian,” Dr. Charles said reassuringly. He patted Mourad on the shoulder and stepped past him into the room.

Kristina was sitting with the boy’s head cradled in her lap.

Dr. Charles knelt at the side of the bed and pressed his fingertips to Sirak’s neck. Then, he unwrapped the bandage on Sirak’s swollen foot and examined the angry-looking wound. He got up from the bed. “He’s a little better, but his pulse is still weak. He’s still too sick to move. We must debride that necrotic tissue from the side of his foot to prevent gangrene.”

“He can get the treatment he needs in Diyarbekir,” the lieutenant insisted with growing impatience.

“Damn it!” Dr. Charles bellowed. He stepped in front of the bed to block the way of the soldiers. “He’ll never survive that long trip.”

“Doctor,” the lieutenant sighed, “you’re challenging the limits of my patience. Our orders are to remove all civilians from this hospital and that’s what we’re going to do. My men will use force, if they must.”

Kristina rose from the bed to confront the lieutenant. “What kind of animal are you?” she screamed. “My son will die! Have you no measure of decency, sir?”

Mourad gathered his wife into his arms, and she began to sob uncontrollably. The lieutenant was unmoved by the tirade. He pushed past them and motioned to the men carrying the stretcher.

Dr. Charles regained his composure. “Lieutenant, your orders are to remove all of the patients from the hospital. Correct?”

“That’s right, Doctor.”

“But you expect my staff and me to stay and treat the soldiers.”

“As you say. The governor-general himself signed the orders.”

“Well,” Charles said defiantly, “if you want me to stay and care for these soldiers, I must insist on moving this boy into our personal quarters behind the hospital until he’s well enough to travel.”

Mourad glanced up with surprise.

The lieutenant stood for a moment pondering Dr. Charles’ request. “Okay,” he said finally, “that’s acceptable, but move him out of the hospital immediately.”

Charles grabbed the stretcher from the soldiers and passed an end to Mourad. “Nurse Barton, please gather the supplies we’ll need to treat the boy’s foot.”

Kristina transferred Sirak off the bed. The soldiers stood clear and the two men carried the stretcher into the corridor.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Mourad said. “How were these soldiers wounded? Has war broken out with the Russians?”

“No, sir, three days ago one of our army convoys was ambushed by Andranik’s forces near Kars. Dozens of soldiers were killed, and even more were wounded.”

“Andranik?”

“Yes, Andranik,” the lieutenant said pointedly. “His forces have swelled with hundreds of volunteers—including many of your fellow Armenians from Anatolia.”

Mourad made no effort to conceal his irritation. “Lieutenant,” he said with a huff, “my eldest son is serving in the Ottoman Army.”

“I’m pleased to hear that you take the defense of the Empire seriously, sir.”

Mourad did not respond. Re-gripping the stretcher, he followed Dr. Charles.

Ten days later

Dr. Charles finished rewrapping Sirak’s leg with fresh dressing and got up from the couch where the boy was lying. The doctor’s eyes were bloodshot and darkly ringed from the nonstop care of the soldiers transported to the hospital from the Caucasus the previous week.

Sirak stared up at his mother standing beside him, while Mourad stood watching from across the room.

“Sirak, your foot is healing up nicely,” the doctor said. “We won’t remove any more tissue, and within a few weeks, I expect you’ll be running and playing with your brothers. You’re ready to go home now—as long as your mother changes the dressings twice a day. She’ll need to keep that up until the skin heals. If it hasn’t healed completely in two weeks, your father will bring you back to see me.” He motioned toward a box of supplies next to the couch. “Mrs. Kazerian, take these dressings with you.”