The Ghosts of Anatolia

by Steven E. Wilson

  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.”

  “He was pleasant enough. He offered one hundred thousand lire for the farm and all the livestock.”

  “One hundred thousand! That’s half what he offered three years ago!”

  “He said he’d offered you more, but he pointed out that the situation has changed since then, and he would be taking considerable risk in expanding his farm now. I told him he’d have to discuss it with you. He said he’d come back in a few days.”

  “I’ll never sell this land to him. Besides, where would we go?”

  “You could move to Istanbul and share our house. Kristina, Liza and the children would love being together again.”

  “That will happen when you finish with the assembly and move back here. This is where our family belongs. I am not leaving here—no matter what. ”

  Bedros stood up from the table. “Okay, I can see you’re determined. But don’t close the door just yet. Tell Abdul you’ll think about it.”

  “I won’t do it. Once the Turk senses weakness, he’ll never leave me alone.”

  Bedros sighed frustratedly. “You are a stubborn mule—just like Papa. I must get an early start in the morning. I’ll see to my horse and pack my bags before dinner.”

  “Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  “That’s what brothers are for. Besides, I got a chance to spend time with Mama and visit with the children. I took them to mass and we all got to see Father Murphy again. It was the first time I’d seen him since we left.”

  “It must’ve been a thrill for him. He never fails to ask about you.”

  “Did you know he’s retiring next month? He’s returning to Ireland.”

  “Really? He’s talked about that for years, but somehow I doubted it would ever happen. He’ll be sorely missed, I can tell you that. Sirak served as his altar boy last summer.”

  “He told me. I took Stepannos and Mikael fishing down by the bend in the river after mass...to that same place we used to go as boys. We had a long talk about the Empire and the Armenian contribution to peace between the different ethnic groups in Anatolia. They’ve both grown up to be fine young men. You should be very proud.”

  “God has truly blessed us, as he has you and Liza.”

  Bedros turned and stepped toward the door. “Send the boys to fetch me when dinner is ready.”

  “I will.”

  Bedros stepped outside and shut the door behind him.

  Mourad stared at the closed door until long after his brother’s footsteps faded into silence. “God, grant me wisdom,” he whispered, with a long, apprehensive sigh.

  CHAPTER 5

  Bedros checked to make sure his bags were secure and patted his chestnut mare on the neck.

  Mourad gave Bedros a bear hug. “Take care, my brother,” he said solemnly. He smiled and handed him the reins. “Send us letters. I want to know when you hear from Garo and Aren.”

  “You do the same. We will pray for Alek. Remember what we talked about. No land is worth more than your family. You’re all welcome in Istanbul—anytime.” He handed Mourad a folded paper. “Take this just in case.”

  Mourad unfolded the paper and scanned down the page. “What is it?”

  “It’s a list of code words to use in letters. With these ciphers, each of us can let the other know what’s really happening.”

  Mourad nodded and slipped the paper into his pocket.

  The brothers walked out of the barn. Kristina and all the children, except Sirak, were waiting in the barnyard. The early morning rays of the sun shone across the rows of cotton plants heavy with ripening bolls.

  Kristina handed Bedros a cloth sack. “Be careful, Bedros. Hopefully, this is enough bread and cheese to last until you reach Istanbul. Give Liza and the children our love.”

  “Thank you, Kristina. Goodbye,” he shouted to the children.

  “Goodbye, Uncle Bedros,” they called back in unison.

  Bedros mounted his horse and waved one last time before trotting up the path to the road.

  Mourad wrapped his arm around Kristina’s shoulders as they watched. Just before he crested the knoll at the edge of the farm, Kemal and his son, Özker, appeared on horseback. They paused for a few moments before Bedros trotted his horse toward the road.

  “Good morning, Kemal,” Mourad called out.

  “Good morning, Mourad, Kristina. How’s Sirak?”

  Kristina smiled warmly. “He’s feeling better,” she replied. “He still can’t walk very well, but the swelling in his leg has gone down.”

  Kemal patted his son on the shoulder. “Did you hear that, Özker? That’s very good news.”

  “Can I see Sirak?” Özker asked.

  “He’s sleeping now,” Kristina replied. “Come up to the house at lunch time. I know he wants to see you.”

  “Are you ready for the second picking, my friend?” Kemal asked.

  Mourad glanced at the field. “Those bolls aren’t picking themselves.”

  Kemal swung Özker down to the ground and dismounted. He led his horse to the barn and helped Mourad hitch the workhorse to the wagon.

  Stepannos and Özker headed out to the field. They began picking cotton and stuffing it into worn cloth sacks slung over their shoulders. Lines of sweat streaked down Mourad’s face a
nd torso, as his hands darted from boll to boll picking the fluffy white cotton.

  The men and boys finished one row and began another before Kemal tapped Mourad on the back and motioned toward the barn.

  Mourad glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of three men on horseback conversing with his daughter, Flora. “Abdul Pasha,” he hissed. He threw his sack of cotton to the ground and walked down the row.

  “Don’t give him the pleasure of seeing your anger, my friend,” Kemal called after him.

  Mourad walked away without reply. He rounded the end of the row and walked directly to Pasha. The Turk was cajoling Flora as his older son looked on amusedly. The girl glanced uneasily at her father and clutched a basket of eggs to her chest.

  “Flora, your mother needs those eggs in the house,” Mourad called out to her. He wiped the perspiration from his brow and tucked his hand-cloth beneath his waistband.

  “Yes, Papa,” Flora said, then scurried away to the house.

  Pasha smirked and stared after her, before turning his menacing, deep-set eyes on Mourad. “Greetings, Kazerian,” he wheezed. He erupted into a rattling cough. “Your daughter grows more beautiful every year.” He swung his leg over the horse’s back and lowered himself to the ground. “How old is she now?”

  “How can I help you, Pasha?” Mourad asked pointedly.

  The Turk’s eyes hardened beneath his bushy brows before a forced smile emerged below his unruly mustache. “You remember my elder son, Timurhan, born of my first wife, Sabriye,” he said, motioning toward the older of the two boys. He was a muscular youth with his father’s bushy brows, prominent nose and dark complexion. He looked to be in his late teens.

  Mourad acknowledged the young man with a nod. “Timurhan,” he said.

  Pasha nodded toward the younger rider—a frail, light-complexioned boy. “And my son, Erol, born of my second wife, Jasmine.”

  “Erol,” Mourad muttered, glancing at the youngster.

  The boy nodded shyly and looked away toward the field.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Abdul?” Mourad asked. “I have work to do.”