The shorter of the two colts, a chestnut with white accents on his nose and legs, kicked up his heels. He bolted past his brother, and whirled around to face the visitors. Tossing his head back, he whinnied, trotted to the fence, stuck his head through the rails, and gently nuzzled Sirak’s arm.
Sirak climbed up on the fence and stroked the horse’s neck. “Isn’t he beautiful, Uncle?”
“He’s magnificent,” Bedros uttered admiringly. He shaded his eyes from the bright sunlight and watched the colt bolt away to the back of the enclosure.
“Papa gave him to me for my very own.”
“He’s a fine horse. What’s his name?”
“Tiran, and his brother over there is Alexander.”
Bedros leaned against the fence and watched the colt gallop toward the barn. “Tiran’s destined to be a fine riding horse, Sirak. He reminds me of the horse your grandfather gave me when I was a boy. I named him Tartus. To this day, he’s the best horse I ever owned.”
Mourad walked from the barn carrying Bedros’ bags. “I watered and fed your horse. Let’s go inside, and I’ll ask Kristina to prepare you something to eat.”
“Thank you, Brother. Where are Stepannos and Mikael?”
“A new American missionary school opened in Chunkoush last year. I let them go whenever I can. They attend full time, now that we’ve picked the cotton. They’ll be home later this afternoon. Come on, let’s go inside.”
Bedros took his bags and the two men walked to the house.
Mourad opened the front door. He stepped inside the cramped front room. The kitchen was tucked in one corner and a hall in the back led to the bedrooms.
Kristina, a slender, fair-skinned woman, her dark-brown hair covered with a scarf, turned from the stove at the sound of the door. “Bedros!” she exclaimed. She brushed past her daughter and kissed him on the cheek. “You look so tired. Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. I just need a little rest and a bit of your wonderful cooking.”
She smiled. Tonight I’ll prepare a special dinner just for you. Where’s Liza?”
“She decided to stay in Istanbul with the children.” Bedros squatted and smiled at a slight, dark-haired young girl sitting on the floor playing with a tattered doll. “Izabella, my little princess, are you ready to give your Uncle Bedros a hug?”
The dark-haired cherub looked up and shook her head.
“No hug? Have you forgotten who gave you that doll? Then, I guess you’re not interested in the new doll I brought for you.” Bedros set his bag down, and crouching to the floor, fished through the bottom. He pulled out a small red ball and held it out to Sirak. “This is for you, Nephew.”
Sirak beamed with joy. He took the ball and turned it over in his hands.
Izabella got up from the floor and shuffled shyly toward her uncle.
Smiling broadly, Bedros pulled out a baby doll dressed in pink nightclothes, and held it up. “Do you like it? Your Aunt Liza made the clothes herself.”
Izabella, her eyes sparkling, glanced at her mother. Kristina smiled reassuringly and nodded. Finally, Izabella reached for the doll, but Bedros jerked it back.
“Oh, no! First, I want a hug.”
Izabella frowned, and glanced at her mother.
“Your uncle Bedros traveled a long way to see you, Izabella,” Kristina reassured. “Go ahead, give him a hug.”
Izabella peeked out from beneath her long bangs. Finally, she warily hugged her uncle’s arm and Bedros pressed the doll into her tiny hands.
Smiling with heartfelt glee, Izabella clutched it to her chest. Bedros, Mourad and Kristina erupted into laughter.
“And these are for you, Flora,” Bedros said. He held out a small red box.
“Thank you, Uncle,” Flora replied politely. She took the small box, and with a gleeful smile, opened it. Two ruby earrings were fastened to white silk in the bottom. Flora beamed with delight. She handed them to her mother and Kristina helped her put them on.
Bedros handed three wooden boxes to his brother. “I bought these ivory-handled knives from an African trader in Istanbul. They’re for the older boys. Make sure Alek gets one when he comes home to visit.”
“Thank you for your generosity,” Kristina said appreciatively. “You’re always so thoughtful.”
Bedros smiled. “We all miss you so much and look forward to the day when we can return to Anatolia. We long to celebrate birthdays and Christmas together as a family.”
“There is nothing we pray for more than this,” Kristina said. “Since you moved to Istanbul, there is an emptiness in this home that can only be filled when you and Liza and the children return. Especially now, with all the uncertainty...”
“But we appreciate the sacrifices you’ve made for the Armenian people,” Mourad interrupted. His eyes shot daggers to silence Kristina. “Representation in the central government has never been more important. There will be plenty more birthdays and Christmases after you’ve completed your term.”
Bedros tugged at his beard with his fingertips. “I’d like to see Mama now.”
Mourad took his brother’s arm. “She stays in the back bedroom.”
The two men walked down a short hall past two rooms. They stopped at a closed door.
Mourad tapped lightly on the door. “Mama, Bedros is home. Can we come in?”
There was no reply. Mourad pulled the door open and stepped into the small room.
Muted light filtered through the faded-blue curtains. A frail-looking, gray-haired woman, covered with blankets up to her neck, was lying in a bed that nearly occupied the entire room.
Mourad squatted beside the bed. “Mama,” he whispered. “Look who came to see you.”
The feeble old woman opened her droopy eyes. After a few moments, a look of recognition swept across her face. “Bedros,” she whispered. “My son, God has answered my prayer.”
Bedros leaned over the bed and kissed his mother on the forehead. He sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long, Mama. We wanted to come last spring, but Tania came down with the pox.”
A worried frown furrowed her brow. “My Tania?”
“She’s fine. We’re all fine. Garo and Aren reported for army duty, but I’m sure they’ll watch out for each other.”
“Thank God,” she whispered.
Bedros took his mother’s hands and sat gazing at her for a long while. Falling into a contented sleep, she didn’t stir as he lovingly massaged her twisted knuckles and fingers. Finally, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Rest well, Mama. I’ll come back later.”
Bedros stepped into the front room and brushed a curl of wet hair back from his face. He lifted his nose into the air and took in a whiff of the spiced aroma wafting through the room. “You’ve prepared something wonderful, Kristina? Lamb stew?”
“It’s my mother’s pilaf chicken with burghol. I hope you’re still hungry.”
Bedros didn’t reply. His attention was fixed on a small painted statuette of the Madonna and Child on the counter. “I’m starving,” he finally said. “I didn’t carry enough bread to last the journey. I’d hoped to buy provisions at stops along the way, but as I traveled farther from Istanbul, I discovered that most of the inns—including the Bournouz Khan where we stopped with Father when we were boys—had been abandoned.”
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 har
d. 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.”
CHAPTER 3
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.”
The Ghosts of Anatolia Page 2