The Ghosts of Anatolia (6 page)

Mourad smiled thankfully. “How can we ever repay your kindness?”

“I’ve done nothing. The only explanation for Sirak’s rapid recovery is intervention by our merciful loving God. I’m sure He must have a plan for him and I’m pleased I could contribute—at least in small part.”

“You’re too modest, Dr. Charles,” Kristina said appreciatively. “Only a true man of God would’ve taken us into his home—especially considering Mrs. Charles’ condition. In our eyes, you’ll always be Sirak’s guardian angel.”

“Any true Christian would’ve done the same. Well, I must return to the wards. My wagon and driver are at your disposal. I wish you the best.”

The doctor turned and stepped toward the door.

“Thank you, Dr. Charles!” Sirak piped up from the couch, his voice brimming with childhood exuberance. His dark, mischievous eyes darted from the doctor to his mother and back again.

“You’re welcome, Sirak. You’re a very brave little boy. Please come back and see me sometime. Okay?”

Sirak glanced at his father, and Mourad nodded approvingly. “Sure, Dr. Charles,” he finally replied, “I’ll bring my horse, Tiran. He needs a check-up, too.”

Dr. Charles and the Kazerians burst out laughing.

“I’ll look forward to that,” Dr. Charles replied, with a wink at Mourad.

Kristina followed the lanky doctor to the door. “I want to thank Nurse Barton, too. Where can I find her?”

The doctor glanced at his timepiece. “Right now she’s working in the surgery ward. I’m sure she’ll be disappointed if she doesn’t see you before you leave.”

“If you happen to see her, please tell her I’ll come find her before we leave.”

“I’ll be happy to. I wish you a safe journey.”

Elizabeth Barton glanced up from her notes and beamed when she caught sight of Kristina stepping through the door. Kristina returned her warm smile.

“Good morning, Kristina. Dr. Charles told me you’re leaving today.”

Kristina kissed Nurse Barton on the cheek. “God bless you for helping him save my son’s life.”

“I didn’t do anything. Even Dr. Charles only played a bit part in this miracle. Sirak has extraordinary inner strength, especially for such a young boy. I pray God blesses me with two or three sons just like him someday—and perhaps a couple of daughters, too.”

“God will reward you for the kindness you give, without measure, to the people of Anatolia. I know in my heart, you’ll have a wonderful family of your own someday. It would be a shame for someone who’s so wonderful with other people’s children not to have her own.”

“If God does bless me with children, I pray I become half the mother you are. Thank you for all your help this past week.”

“There’s no need to thank me. Most of these soldiers are little more than boys, and it gave me great comfort to provide what little assistance I could to ease their suffering. I couldn’t help thinking of my own son, Alek. If he’s suffering somewhere, I pray one of these boys’ mothers helps him.”

“I will pray for Alek’s safe return. Well, it’s been wonderful getting to know you. I only wish things weren’t so hectic right now, so we had more time to sit and talk. I feel we could become good friends.”

“We
are
good friends, Elizabeth. I’ll return to Chunkoush with Sirak for checkups, and I’ll be disappointed if we don’t get a chance to see you. I think you need a friend.”

Nurse Barton smiled awkwardly. “You are a perceptive woman.”

“Anyone can see that you work too hard. You’re still a young woman, and you take no time for life outside this hospital. I admire your dedication to patients, but you need to work someplace where you have a chance to meet people. You know, someone to love—someone to marry.”

Elizabeth’s expression melted into somber melancholy. She looked down at her hands. “I’m only planning to work here in Chunkoush for another year or two, Kristina; but it provided an escape when my life came crashing down around me.”

“I’m sorry, Elizabeth, I didn’t mean to...”

“No, it’s okay,” Elizabeth interrupted. “My fiancé, Gordon, was killed in a train accident in New York City a month before our wedding. After
nearly a year in a fog of mourning and depression, I answered an ad in the newspaper and ended up here—doing missionary-nursing work in Anatolia. It gave me an opportunity to redirect my sorrow into helping even less fortunate people than I. I don’t have time here for my mind to drift to those agonizing memories and what-ifs that haunted me back home in the States. Gordon’s spirit still haunts me sometimes, especially late at night when my work is done, but those memories have faded…”

“I’m so sorry, Elizabeth.”

“It’s fine. I’m learning to put it behind me. You know, this is the first time I’ve mentioned Gordon to anyone since I arrived in Anatolia. I can finally say his name without falling apart. That represents real progress,” she said, with an awkward smile.

Kristina let out a long sigh. “Elizabeth, there’s something I want to say to you. This is very difficult, but I must speak my mind. I’ve noticed how attracted you are to Dr. Charles.”

“Kristina!” Elizabeth blurted out with surprise.

“You’re in love with him.”

“No, I’m not. I respect and admire him, but that’s it.”

“If you really believe that, you’re not being honest with yourself. Any fool could see it. But as wonderful as Dr. Charles is, he’s not the man for you.”

“Of course he’s not the man for me. He’s married.”

“But Julie is very ill, and the poor woman will not be here much longer. I’ve spent a lot of time with her this past week. You know what she told me last night?”

“What?”

“She confided in me that her husband has always been married to his work. What she regrets most, she said, is that they never had children or a life away from the hospital, and now it’s too late. I know Dr. Charles is fond of you, Elizabeth, and I’m afraid that once Julie passes, he’ll turn to you in his sorrow and loneliness. That’s not a life that will make you happy. I know it in my heart.”

Elizabeth bit down on her lower lip and stared in silence at Kristina. “I’m sorry,” she finally said, “but I can’t talk about this. I’ve got to get back to work. Please take care, and I hope we can talk again when you return for Sirak’s checkup.”

“Goodbye, my new friend. Please think about what I said. I only want you to find the happiness you deserve.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth whispered. She kissed Kristina’s cheek. “Thank you for your friendship. That’s what I need most right now.”

Sirak opened his eyes and smiled up lovingly at his mother. Kristina absentmindedly stroked his head and listened to Mourad’s bantering conversation with the wagon driver. A staccato of rapid jolts flung everyone to one side, as the wagon rumbled through a succession of deep ruts in the sun-baked dirt road.

Just before noon, the wagon reached the crest of a particularly steep incline. “Whoa!” the driver yelled. He pulled the wagon onto the shoulder to make way for the advance unit of a column of Ottoman troops strewn haphazardly along the road.

A few of the men were dressed in Ottoman infantry uniforms—including an officer on horseback, who was clad in a gray uniform, accented with a red fez, collar, and cuffs and knee-high boots. But most of the soldiers wore tattered civilian clothes.

One by one, Mourad scanned the sorrowful faces of the ill-equipped, dispirited soldiers as they streamed past. Suddenly, he bolted upright. “Alek!” he called out to a young man carrying a stretcher.

Kristina rolled to her knees and peered out across the multitude. “Where is he?”

The young man turned his head and glanced at the wagon.

“It’s not him,” Mourad whispered sadly.

Kristina also scrutinized the faces marching past. Finally, the last few stragglers slogged by—including many men carrying stretchers that bore the sick and wounded.

Once the last vestiges of the column passed, the driver pulled the wagon back onto the road and continued on to the east of Diyarbekir.

Finally, as the last rays of the late summer sun dipped beneath a nearby hill, the wagon turned onto the short trail that led to the Kazerian farm. The driver slowed to a stop at the front of the farmhouse. Bedros rushed outside carrying Izabella. Stepannos, Mikael and Flora tailed close behind.

Bedros jogged to the wagon and peered down at the bed where the sleeping youth lay. “Brother, tell us Sirak lives.”

“We nearly lost him. He surely would’ve died if not for the skill of the doctor at the American Missionary Hospital. He lost a bit of his foot, but it could’ve been much worse.”

Mourad passed Sirak down to Stepannos, and Izabella giggled with delight at the sight of her young brother.

“See, Izabella,” Flora exclaimed excitedly, “I told you Sirak would be home soon.”

She reached out and patted Sirak’s head and kissed him on the forehead. “I love you, little mouse. We prayed for you night and day.”

Mourad helped Kristina down from the wagon and gathered Sirak into his arms. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he called out.

The driver turned the horses and drove the clattering wagon in a circle around the barnyard. The man nodded and touched his hand to his fez before rumbling away to the main road.

Mourad made his way into the darkened front bedroom. He set Sirak on the small blanket-covered bed, and Kristina stuffed a pillow beneath his head. His uncle and brothers crowded into the room.

Mourad sat on the edge of the bed and patted Sirak’s leg. “How are you feeling, Son?”

“I’m sleepy—even more sleepy than when we picked the cotton.”

“Ha,” Mourad chuckled. “Then you are very tired, indeed. A big boy like you needs a lot of rest after a long trip. You sleep now and your mama will bring you some dinner a little later. I promise you’ll feel better soon.”

“Papa, when can I ride Tiran?”

“Dr. Charles told me he expects you to be able to do everything you want to do in a few months. That includes riding, but you need to be patient.”

Mikael scooted past his father to the side of the bed. “I’ll water and feed Tiran, Sirak, but he won’t let me ride him.”

Sirak struggled to keep his eyes open. “Tell him I’ll come see him when I feel better,” he murmured.

“Let’s let him sleep,” Mourad whispered to Mikael and Stepannos as he shepherded them out the door. “You boys go tend to the horses. Flora, feed the chickens, and take Izabella with you.”

Mourad slumped into a chair at the table.

Bedros sat down beside Mourad. “Sirak looks better than I expected. That’s a special little boy in there. His single-mindedness reminds me of Papa.”

“He’s got a temper like Papa, too,” Mourad sighed.

“He got some of that from his own Papa,” Bedros chuckled. He poured a cup of tea from a pot. “Well, Mourad, I’m glad I could help, but I must be on my way first thing in the morning. I’m sure Liza is worried sick.”

Mourad gripped Bedros’ forearm. “Thank you, Brother. I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend much time together, but thank you for taking care of the children.”

“I’m glad I was here. Gourgen Papazian and several other people from church brought food to the house while you were gone. Gourgen wanted me to be sure and tell you the whole church was praying for Sirak.”

“I’ll ride over and thank him tomorrow. He is a wonderful friend.”

“He asked me to bring Liza and the children back next spring. He suggested we all plant our crops together.”

“It’ll be just like old times, and something wonderful to look forward to.”

“How did you find the situation in Chunkoush?”

“It’s total chaos. The authorities took over the hospital and threw out all of the civilian patients because so many soldiers need care—mostly from typhus, but some from wounds suffered in attacks by Andranik’s forces.”

“The Andraniks are fighting the army?”

“Yes, I heard they’re very active in the northeast. Men were dying there by the hundreds. I was afraid the whole time I was there that Garo, Aren or Alek would arrive in the next infirmary wagon. We passed thousands of soldiers on the road today and they all looked terrible. Most of them didn’t even have uniforms.”

“God help us,” Bedros muttered, with a sigh. He sipped from his teacup. “I wish there were some way to come up with the money to send the boys to America when they come home on leave.”

“I’ve thought about that every day since Alek left. If there were a way, I would’ve done it last summer, when war began to look inevitable; but even if we sold all the horses and used the money from the cotton harvest, there still wouldn’t be enough.”

Bedros tapped his finger on the side of his teacup. “We could sell this land.”

Mourad recoiled in horror. “Sell the land? You must be delirious.”

“Who knows what the future holds here in Anatolia? If the Empire blunders into this war, anything could happen. Remember when we were boys and tens of thousands of Armenians were slaughtered in Diyarbekir and villages throughout the province? I remember when Papa took us through the village down the river, where everything had been obliterated—even the church. If war comes, horrible atrocities like those could happen again. You and your family would be much safer in Istanbul.”

“No, Bedros,” Mourad said, shaking his head, “Papa fought to keep this land, and I’d rather die than sell it.”

“Look, I know how you feel. I feel the same way, but there are some things even more important than land.”

The two brothers stared at each other for several moments.

Finally, Mourad shook his head. “No, my brother; remember the last words Papa whispered to us before he died? I will never sell this land.”

“Things have changed. Think about it. Anyway, the Turk, Abdul Pasha, came by while you were in Chunkoush. He renewed his offer to buy the farm.”

“So that’s what planted these dreadful thoughts in your mind. That scum is worse than his father. Remember when his father tried to get Papa to sell the rest of the land after the Armenian massacres in Diyarbekir? He even threatened us. That must’ve been sometime in 1895 or 1896. Remember how Papa told Pasha to get off the farm? You should’ve done the same with Abdul. What’s it been, three years since the last time he came here? Damned vulture. I told him never to come back.”