The Ghosts of Anatolia (50 page)

“For almost ten years. I moved my sons here from New York in 1971.”

“New York,” Faruk repeated, with a nod. “What a coincidence. We lived in Buffalo for fifteen years before I took the position here in Cleveland. Were you born in New York?”

“No, I was actually born in Anatolia, but I left when I was very young.”

“You don’t say. Where in Anatolia?”

“Just outside a small village called Seghir. It’s near Diyarbekir.”

“
Really
? I was born near Seghir and I lived there until I was twelve years old.”

“It’s a small world, indeed,” Sirak said. He sipped his wine. “Was your father a physician?”

“No, my father was a farmer, but he was killed before I was born.”

“My father was a farmer, too. It seems we have a lot in common.”

Faruk smiled. “There’s something else we have in common, Dr. Kazerian.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“My mother was Armenian.”

Sirak’s eyes widened with surprise. “Is that so?”

“Yes. Mama was my father’s third wife. Papa took her in when her parents were lost during the Great War. And there’s another thing we have in common. We both took our medical training at American University in Beirut. I noticed in the Euclid Hospital staff directory that you studied there from 1929 to 1934. I attended American University from 1924 to 1928.”

“I didn’t know that either.”

“My stepmother arranged a position for me there after I finished undergraduate studies at Ankara University. Those were truly wonderful years. Don’t you agree?”

“AUB was a great school, but that was a difficult time for me because my sister lived in Jerusalem and she often needed my help. Several times
I left Beirut for weeks, or even months, to care for her. That’s why it took me five years to finish.”

“Even then you were a man of principle, Dr. Kazerian. I’ve never gotten a chance to visit Jerusalem. Is it as wonderful as they say?”

“Some people think so, but I’m not among them. I lost my wife, daughter and sister there in the 1967 Arab-Israeli War.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Faruk replied awkwardly. He glanced into the dining room where his wife was setting a large platter of food in the center of the table. “I think dinner is about ready.”

The group dined on tender lamb chops, rice and green beans, along with tasty flat bread Sirak remembered from his youth. Dilara queried Sirak about his sons and their families and she told him about their children and grandchildren. Faruk and Sirak talked about the conspiracy that implicated Faruk at the hospital and the pending trial of Dr. Miller.

“So, Dr. Kazerian, were you living in Anatolia at the time of the Great War?” Bahar asked when the conversation lagged.

“Yes, I lived there as a boy,” Sirak replied curtly. “These lamb chops are superb.”

Dilara smiled appreciatively. “I’m glad you enjoy them. They looked so wonderful I couldn’t pass them up.”

“They’re spectacular. Could I trouble you for a bit more wine?”

“My pleasure.” Dilara fetched a fresh bottle from the kitchen and refilled the glasses.

Sirak lifted his glass and smiled. “Thank you again for inviting me to your beautiful home.”

“Thank you for coming,” Faruk said.

Bahar took a sip of his wine and sighed impatiently. “Dr. Kazerian, I know you were very young, but do you remember the First World War? I mean, do you remember what the situation was like in Anatolia?”

Sirak set down his glass and sighed with resignation. He glanced at Bahar’s grandfather. “Yes, I remember it like it was yesterday, but I don’t care to talk about what happened to me in Anatolia. I’m sorry.”

“Please, Dr. Kazerian,” Bahar persisted. “I’m writing an article for the Turkish magazine
Kurtulus Cephesi
. I’d really appreciate your insights.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Yes, or at least I’m an aspiring writer. I specialize in Ottoman art history, but I was invited to contribute this article for a special issue. I’ve been working on it for several months. As you know, it’s a highly controversial topic in Turkey. Please tell me about your experiences in Anatolia. I’ve never had the opportunity to discuss this with someone who actually lived there before and during the Great War.”

“I have only painful memories of that time, Bahar. I can assure you they wouldn’t interest your readers.”

“Can I just ask you one question? Do you agree tens of thousands of Muslims died in Anatolia during those years? I know many of your people died, but didn’t many Turks and Kurds die, too, not only from the fighting, but from starvation and disease?”

“I’m sure many Turks died during the war, but most of the Armenians who died were murdered.”

“Did you see them murdered?”

“I saw my brother, Mikael, murdered. And one of our best friends, an American physician named David Charles, was brutally murdered in the prison in Diyarbekir. I saw my older brother and my father sent down the river from Diyarbekir on rafts with hundreds of other Armenian men. One raft overturned and nobody lifted a finger to help. At least twenty men drowned. I also saw my mother and sister abducted, and I never saw either one of them again.”

“I’m sorry that happened to your family. “But isn’t it true that many Turks died in the inter-ethnic conflict that engulfed the Ottoman Empire during its collapse?”

Sirak downed the last of his wine and set his glass down. “Bahar, I understand you’ve been taught a Turkish perspective of what happened during those years in Anatolia, but I lived through those terrible years, and I lost most my family to the hatred that swept the Empire and led to
the annihilation of my people. My brother, Mikael, was brutally murdered, and my father and brother, Stepannos, vanished forever. My younger sister and I would’ve died, too, if a Druze family hadn’t saved us. What happened was genocide. It’s as simple as that.”

“I’m sure there were murders, just like there are here in Cleveland, but don’t you think most of what happened in Anatolia occurred in the context of the war and the resultant fear and angst of the Turkish rulers that the empire was being attacked from within by Armenian traitors collaborating with the Russians? After all, the Empire lost more than eighty thousand men during the first battle with Russia. Before the terrible war ended, many Turks died, too, including hundreds of thousands of women and children.”

“Bahar, nothing could ever excuse what happened to my family. They were mercilessly obliterated. We were treated like dogs, starved, and forced from our homes to walk mile after mile in sweltering heat until we dropped from exhaustion. Many others were left for dead or, like my mother, snatched by tribesmen and never seen again. I was only seven years old when I saw this with my own eyes. It is too horrible to think about. May we change the subject please?”

Faruk cleared his throat and gazed sympathetically at Sirak. “Bahar, you have enough information for your article. Unimaginably terrible things happen in war. It has always been so, and will always be, for only during the desperate and uncertain times of war can the depraved killers living amongst us bring their distorted and zealous cruelty and terror into the mainstream of human existence. We’re truly sorry about what happened to your family, Dr. Kazerian.”

“Thank you,” Sirak whispered sincerely.

An awkward silence engulfed the table and the patter of raindrops echoed from the patio outside.

Dilara stood up to clear the table. “How about coffee and dessert? I baked my mother’s favorite baklava recipe.”

Sirak smiled graciously. “Thank you. I’d love some. My mother baked baklava, too, and I haven’t had any in years.”

Faruk and Bahar gathered the dishes and followed Dilara into the kitchen. Sirak got up from the table and wandered to the back of the dining room where a melange of old photographs adorned the wall. As his eyes wandered from one image to the next, he lingered on a photo of Faruk and Dilara standing with their arms around their four young children. Then he examined a graduation photo of Faruk standing with several American University of Beirut professors he’d admired many years earlier. Finally, his eyes wandered to a grainy black and white photograph of three women sitting on a sofa with half a dozen children. His eyes fell on one woman in the photo and a powerful sensation of recognition swept over him. “No, it couldn’t be,” he whispered. “Faruk, who is this woman in the photograph?”

The Turk set down the dessert platter and walked around the table to see what Sirak was pointing at. “That’s my mother.”

“Your
mother
?”

Faruk pointed. “Yes, and that’s me beside her. I was ten or eleven years old at the time. That’s my twin sister and that’s my stepbrother. This is my father’s first wife, Sabriye, this is his second wife, Jasmine, and these other younger women are my half-sisters.”

Sirak swallowed hard and continued to stare at the photograph. His mouth was bone-dry. “What was your mother’s name?”

“Her name was Flora,” Faruk replied with a smile. “She was a wonderful woman.”

Sirak caught his breath and a chill ran up his spine. “What happened to her?”

“She died of typhus a few years after this photograph was taken. I was devastated. After Mama died, Jasmine and her second husband raised Kristina and me as their own.”

Sirak stared at the young girl in the photograph. “Your sister’s name was Kristina?”

“Yes. She lives in Istanbul with her husband and seven children.”

Sirak continued to stare at the photograph. “Kristina was my mother’s name.”

“Well, that’s something else we have in common.”

Sirak took a deep breath and exhaled contemplatively. He glanced at his watch. “My gosh, look how late it’s gotten. I must be getting home.”

Faruk’s mouth dropped open. “But what about coffee and dessert?”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get home. Thank you for a wonderful evening.” Sirak retreated through the living room to the front door.

Faruk wrung his hands in despair. “Did Bahar offend you? I’m truly sorry if he did.”

“I’m not offended. I’m just very tired. Thank you for a spectacular dinner, Mrs. Pasha. It was nice to meet you, too, Bahar.”

Sirak reached for the doorknob, but the door suddenly opened. A middle-aged woman and a teenage girl stepped inside.

“Oh, hello,” the woman exclaimed with surprise. “You must be Dr. Kazerian. I’m Ferah and this is my youngest daughter, Flora.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Kazerian,” the girl said politely. “Thank you for helping Grandpapa Pasha.”

Sirak caught his breath. Young Flora had almond-shaped brown eyes and full lips. “My God,” he whispered.

“Is something wrong?” Ferah asked.

“No, I’m sorry,” Sirak replied. “Flora just reminds me of someone I knew a long time ago.”

Ferah set her purse on the table in the foyer. “I’m sorry we’re so late. The meeting took longer than we expected. You’re not leaving already… Are you okay, Dr. Kazerian?” she asked upon spotting tears pooling in Sirak’s eyes.

“I’m just tired. It’s been a long day. Faruk,” Sirak asked, looking back at his host. “I forgot to ask, what was your father’s name?”

“My birth father or the father who raised me?”

“Your birth father.”

“His name was Abdul Pasha.”

Sirak swallowed hard. “Abdul Pasha,” he repeated in a near whisper. “Well, goodnight. I’m glad I got a chance to meet you all.”

“We’ll be happy to drive you home,” Faruk said. “Bahar can drive your car and I’ll follow in ours.”

“No, I’m fine, thank you. My son is coming early in the morning to take me fishing, and I must get to bed. Thank you all for a wonderful evening.” Sirak stepped outside and limped up the driveway to the street.

At long last Sirak knew what had happened to his sister, Flora, and that their malevolent neighbor Abdul Pasha had kidnapped her those many years ago. Sirak was not surprised. Even as a young boy he had known the animosity between the Kazerian and Pasha families. It had never occurred to him that Dr. Faruk Pasha was in any way related to those Pashas of long ago, who longed to own Mourad Kazerian’s land. After all, Pasha was a common name in Anatolia. Sirak felt the grief of his sister’s abduction all over again, and as he lay in bed that night, he tried to find some comfort in the fact that Flora bore two children who loved her and must have brought her happiness.

“S
o you never told him that he’s your nephew?” Butler asked Sirak incredulously.

“No, I never did.”

“Why not?”

“What would it accomplish to tell Dr. Pasha he owes his very existence and that of his children and grandchildren to abduction and forced marriage? Should a man be held accountable for the sins of his father?”

“How do you know it was an abduction?”

“I was there, sir. I saw the masked man drag Flora kicking and screaming out of our neighbor’s house. This was not uncommon back then. Men would enter houses and take whatever girls and women they wanted. After Flora was taken, it happened again, to my mother.”

Sirak glanced at his son. “I didn’t tell you about it for the same reason. No good could’ve possibly come from your knowing this sad part of our family history. But that night I drove away from dinner at Dr. Pasha’s
knowing one of the longest chapters of my life had finally been closed. The burning hatred I’d harbored in my heart was extinguished once and for all by the timid innocence in my beautiful Turkish greatgrandniece’s eyes, or should I say my sister Flora’s eyes?”

“And now they live in Los Angeles?”

“I think so. Dr. Pasha accepted a job in Santa Monica a few weeks after I visited his home. He called to say goodbye and that was the last time we spoke to each other. He’s still there as far as I know, although he’s probably retired by now.”

Agent Butler shut his legal pad. “Thank you, Dr. Kazerian, that’s all I have for now.”

“By the way, Agent Butler,” Keri said, “I ran into George Liralian a few days ago. I meant to call you, but I got busy and forgot.”

Butler stared blankly at Keri for a moment. Suddenly, his face lit up with recognition. “George Liralian? Here in Richmond Heights?”

“No, we saw him at the Cleveland Skating Club in Shaker Heights. My grandsons had a hockey game there last Wednesday, and he was working at the bar.”