The Ghosts of Anatolia (8 page)

Sirak frowned. “What happened to her?”

“She had a long healthy life and we had lots of fun together, but now she’s in heaven.”

“Do you want another horse? I think Papa would give you a foal, too.”

“No, my little mouse,” Kristina chuckled. She knelt down and hugged Sirak. “I don’t want another horse. I’ve got you now, and there will never
be another horse for me like Nera, just like there will never be another horse for you like Tiran.”

Mourad smiled and walked into the kitchen. Pouring water from a pitcher into a ceramic basin, he washed his hands and face and dried them with a towel. He sat down in his chair at the head of the table, and Stepannos and Mikael took their places opposite Sirak.

“Flora told me Abdul Pasha came to speak to you this morning,” Kristina said, without looking up from the loaf of bread she was breaking.

“Yes, the scum was here. He came to make another offer for our land. I told him we weren’t interested.”

Kristina returned to the kitchen. Picking up the stewpot with hot pads, she carried it to the table. “Was it a good offer?” she asked demurely. She turned to take a bowl of vegetables from Flora.

“I have no idea,” Mourad replied impatiently. “We’re not selling, so there was no reason to waste my time hearing him out.”

Kristina glanced at Flora and took her spot at the opposite end of the table. Finally, with a nearly imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, she bowed her head.

Mourad stared with wide-eyed surprise across the table. “Do you disagree with this course, Kristina?”

“You are my husband,” she whispered. “If it’s your decision that we stay, then we will stay.”

Mourad continued to stare across the table in silence. “We thank Thee, Christ our God,” he finally began, bowing his head, “for Thou hast satisfied us with Thine earthly gifts. We thank thee for Sirak’s continued improvement. We beg thy protection for Bedros on his journey back to Istanbul, and for Alek, Garo and Aren, wherever they may be. We pray for wisdom for our leaders and for peace for the Empire. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages, Amen.”

Mourad ladled stew onto Sirak’s plate. He let out a heavy sigh. “Next time he comes, I will hear him out.”

Kristina didn’t reply. Looking up, she smiled approvingly.

Early November 1914

Mourad led his mule into the barnyard and set about harnessing the old black to the wagon. He looked up upon hearing a shout.

“Good morning, Kemal,” he called out cheerfully. “When did you get back from Bitlis?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” the young Turk replied. He climbed down to the ground and lifted off Özker. “We’re on our way into Diyarbekir to buy supplies. I thought you might like to travel together.”

“You have perfect timing. We’re just leaving for the city ourselves. We learned from our priest that Dr. Charles is working at the Missionary Hospital in Diyarbekir. We’re taking Sirak for a check-up and then I’ll purchase stores for the winter.”

Kemal glanced at the gaunt mule harnessed to the wagon. “What happened to your workhorse?”

“Nothing, he’s in the barn. The army is seizing horses, mules and donkeys throughout Anatolia, so I decided to take the old mule into town.”

“That’s very wise, my friend. They seized every work animal they could find in Bitlis to haul supplies and grain to the Russian front. My uncle lost both of his mules. I wish I’d ridden my old mare.”

“Why don’t you ride in the wagon with us?”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“What’s the situation in Bitlis?”

“It’s worse than I ever imagined. There were soldiers everywhere and a growing tension between the Turks, Jews and Christians. Several resistance groups are causing trouble in the north. And the navy bombarded Russia’s Black Sea coast just before I left.”

Mourad’s face twisted in disbelief. “
What? When?”

“On the twenty-ninth of October. I thought you already knew.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it. We’ve stayed here on the farm the past two weeks to stay clear of trouble.”

“So you haven’t heard the worst news of all. Russia declared war on the Ottoman Empire.”

Mourad’s expression melted into dismay. “Dear God,” he muttered. “Our worst fears have come to pass. How did the people in Bitlis react to this news?”

“Some people were jubilant, but everyone else seemed stunned. Then alarming rumors began to sweep the city.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Rumors that some Armenians left to join the Russian forces in the east or that those who stayed were spying for the Russians. It felt as if the city would erupt into chaos at any moment.”

Mourad shook his head and let out a long sigh. “Did you see any Armenian soldiers among the Ottoman forces you passed on the road?”

“There were hundreds on the road to Bitlis. Many of them didn’t have uniforms or even a gun, but that’s also true of many of the Turks. I kept an eye out for Alek, but, unfortunately, I didn’t see him. You still haven’t heard from him?”

“No, nothing, and Kristina gets more frantic with every passing day. Please don’t mention the news about Russia. Let me break it to her gently.”

“I won’t say a word.”

The farmhouse door opened and Kristina herded the younger children outside.

Özker broke free from his father’s grasp and ran headlong across the barnyard. “Sirak, you’re walking!” he called out gleefully. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

“I’m so happy to see you, too. Papa promised to take me to visit you soon.”

“I’ve been so worried about you. Can you ride?”

“I can’t ride fast like I did before, but I can ride with Papa’s help.”

“Allah is great. My mama and I prayed for you every day.”

Sirak smiled. “Thank you. My mama says I’m a living miracle.”

“Guess what? We’re going to Diyarbekir, too. Can I ride in your wagon?”

“Can he, Papa?” Sirak pleaded.

“Of course. We’ve decided to travel together.” Mourad lifted the boys into the wagon. Then he helped Kristina and his daughters.

Kemal led his horse to the barn and reappeared a moment later. “Are Stepannos and Mikael coming?”

“They’re at school in Chunkoush,” Mourad replied. “It’s their first day back since Sirak got bitten.”

Kemal’s eyes widened with surprise. “The schools in Chunkoush are still open?”

“The American School is—at least for now. According to Vache, the others closed. We’re taking things one day at a time.”

“We’re all taking things one day at a time,” Kemal said solemnly. He climbed up on the wagon.

Mourad jumped into the driver’s seat, and flicking the reins, gave the mule a shout. The wagon eased away from the barn and rattled slowly down the narrow trail to the main road.

The wagon bumped along a dirt road through the arid countryside, and traveled for nearly an hour before crossing a Roman bridge spanning a tributary of the Tigris River. They rounded a sweeping turn and the ominous basalt ramparts of the ancient city Diyarbekir sprang into view. The black stone walls and intimidating watchtowers soared above the surrounding countryside and lent the city a forbidding, medieval air.

Sirak’s eyes were drawn to the detailed inscriptions and strange, animal-like statuettes on the façade of the nearest tower. Spotting an armed sentry atop the nearest watchtower, he squeezed Özker’s hand. The two boys locked eyes for a moment before peering back up at the soaring gate.

Kristina wrapped her arm around Izabella and steadied herself against a sudden jolt when the wagon bumped through a muddy gully.

Falling in line behind a caravan of donkeys, Mourad headed for the open eastern gate. Armed soldiers were posted on either side. They took no more than fleeting notice of the scores of travelers entering the ancient city.

The wagon passed through the gate and Sirak’s senses were assaulted by clatter and stench. The noise rose from the babble and shouts of every sort of person—young and old—civilian and military—Turk, Arab, Armenian and Kurd—wandering through a hodgepodge of bazaars and shops just inside the gate. The odor came from the overpowering mélange of rot, perspiration and feces.

Sirak’s eyes scanned across the frenzied scene and locked onto the brooding eyes of a uniformed gendarme who caught sight of the wagon from his post near the gate.

The man stepped in front of the mule and held up his hand. “Halt! What’s your purpose in Diyarbekir?”

“We’re taking my son to see his doctor at the Missionary Hospital,” Mourad replied calmly.

“Aren’t you aware of the governor-general’s orders for all transportation and work animals to be surrendered to the army?”

“No sir, we live on a farm an hour from the city. This is the first we’ve heard of this order.”

Another older gendarme stepped outside of an adjacent guard shack and approached the wagon. “What’s the problem here, Yusuf?” the portly, middle-aged man called out to his associate. Rolls of fat beneath his chin quivered as he spoke.

“This Armenian claims he hasn’t heard about the military requisition orders, sir.”

The ponderous gendarme grumbled something beneath his breath, and grabbing the mule’s bridle, inspected his flanks and legs. “This old flea bag is worthless. Do you have other work animals back at your farm?”

“No sir, we had to sell our other horse to buy seed this past spring.”

The gendarme stared up at Mourad for a moment. “You people are all the same,” he finally said. “You can go now, but if you
are
hiding healthy animals, I advise you to immediately comply with the order and deliver them to the procurement center to the south of the city. Otherwise, you and your family members risk arrest and imprisonment.”

“I understand, sir,” Mourad deadpanned, “but, regrettably, this is our only mule. Thank you for your generosity.”

Mourad coaxed the mule forward, and pulling away from the gendarmes, wove carefully through a throng of people in the center of the road. After crawling along the main road toward the center of the city for over an hour, they turned onto a narrow side street. They bumped slowly past several diminutive homes and a small mosque built from monotonous black basalt. The basalt was quarried from the plateau on which the city was founded nearly five thousand years earlier.

Mourad pulled the wagon to a stop just outside the main entrance to the Missionary Hospital. The reek of human excrement hung in the air. Sirak and Özker grimaced at each other, and shielded their noses and mouths with their hands.

A motley band of soldiers loitered in the yard outside the hospital. Several men holding eating utensils were huddled around a large pot—apparently waiting for lunch. They turned en masse to stare at the new arrivals. One of the soldiers stood up and, shouting unintelligibly, made an obscene gesture toward Flora. The others erupted into boisterous laughter. Flora ducked her head, and frowned apprehensively at Kristina.

“Kemal,” Mourad muttered beneath his breath, “you and Özker stay here with Flora and Izabella. Keep an eye on the wagon.”

“Of course, my friend; I’ll park down the road by the mosque to get the children away from these roving eyes.”

Mourad jumped to the ground and helped Kristina down from the wagon. “We shouldn’t be gone long.” He gathered Sirak into his arms and walked to the main entrance of the two-story hospital. They scooted past a stack of boxes just outside the door and stepped into a cramped reception area. A young, fair-haired woman, dressed in a white nurse’s cap and dress, was seated behind a small wooden desk.

“Good morning,” she greeted. “May I help you?”

“Yes, thank you. My name is Mourad Kazerian and we’ve brought my son Sirak to see Dr. Charles. The doctor treated him for a viper bite at his hospital in Chunkoush.”

“I see. Well, unfortunately, Dr. Charles doesn’t have clinic today. This is his surgery day. But if you’ll wait here, I’ll find out if he’s available to see you later.”

The woman turned and disappeared into the hall behind the desk.

Sirak swiveled in his father’s arms. “Papa?”

“Yes, what is it, Son?”

“Why does it smell so bad outside the hospital?”

Mourad glanced at Kristina and brushed his free hand through Sirak’s hair. “The soldiers relieved themselves on the grounds outside. I guess there’s no place else for them to go.”

“Dr. Charles told me he didn’t allow that at his hospital,” Sirak replied thoughtfully. “He said it spreads diseases.”

“Well, he probably hasn’t been here long enough to...”

The door flew open and Nurse Barton rushed into the foyer. “Kristina!” she called out cheerfully. “How are you?” Stepping around the desk, she hugged Kristina warmly. “I missed you so much. How wonderful to see you again.”

“Oh, I missed you, too,” Kristina exclaimed happily. She kissed the nurse on the cheek. “You’ve lost weight. Have you been sick?”

“I’ve lost a pound or two, but I’m fine. We’ve been too busy to eat regular meals.”

“How long have you been in Diyarbekir?”

“It’ll be two weeks tomorrow. The military doctors took over our hospital in Chunkoush and Bishop Chlghadian asked Dr. Charles to come help out here. It was either that or head home. I decided to come with him.”

“Hello, Nurse Barton,” Sirak said shyly. He still clung to Mourad’s chest.

“Hello, Sirak!” Nurse Barton exclaimed. She kissed his cheek. “How’s our little mouse?”

“I’m good. Papa let me ride my horse yesterday.”

“He did?” she asked delightedly, smiling at Mourad. “You really are getting better. With such wonderful parents to look after you, I just knew you’d be fine.

Elizabeth greeted Mourad, then shared the news that Dr. Charles’ wife, Julie, had passed away.

“How’s Dr. Charles taking it?” Mourad asked.

“Not too well, I’m afraid. He only got a few hours to mourn her passing. He buried her in the Protestant Cemetery in Chunkoush the morning she died and was back to work early that same afternoon.”

Mourad glanced at the growing line at the reception desk. “It looks to me like you’re even busier here.”

“Our wards are overflowing with patients. On top of that, staff members from the Military Hospital keep coming over to
borrow
supplies
to treat soldiers—or at least that’s what they say they’re doing with the medicines and bandages they carry away. The clinic can’t go on this way much longer.”