The Ghosts of Anatolia

by Steven E. Wilson

  “Bedros told me your son got bitten by a viper. I’ve come to see if there’s anything we can do to help.”

  “Thank you for your concern, but Sirak’s doing fine now. Fortunately, it was a dry bite.”

  “Allahu Akbar,” Pasha uttered. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm and glanced at the blistering sun. “Cursed serpents. I lost my best farmhand to a viper during the peak of harvest last year. He was dead in fifteen minutes, and there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could do about it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear this,” Mourad said. He glanced toward the field where Kemal and the boys were hard at work. “Well, thank you for your courtesy, but I must get back to work. I want to finish the picking before we lose the sunlight.”

  Pasha turned and gazed across the field. “It looks like you’ve been blessed with an abundant crop. Is that Kemal Sufyan?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Kemal’s a hard worker—at times overly blunt, but capable. I sought him out to direct my harvest, but the idiot refused my offer of two thousand liras. Well, I may as well get to the point. I’ve come to make another offer for your land.”

  “I’ve told you, Abdul, it’s not for sale. I discussed it again with my brother and we are in agreement.”

  “You’ve yet to hear my best offer.”

  “It doesn’t matter how much you offer. I’m not selling the farm.”

  “Your family would be much safer in Istanbul, Kazerian. You know, where your brother enjoys certain influence and...”

  “We’re not leaving Diyarbekir,” Mourad growled impatiently.

  “Anything could happen here if war...”

  “You’re wasting your time. If we do decide to sell, it won’t be to you. That’s a promise I made my father on his deathbed, and I intend to keep it. Isn’t it enough that your father managed to pilfer the other two thirds of our land?”

  “That stubborn old goat never did have a bit of sense,” Pasha retorted. “I thought you might have more, but clearly I was mistaken.”

  “You’re the last one to be talking about common sense,” Mourad bristled, his face flushing red with anger. “If you hadn’t cheated Todori out of a good portion of his wages, you wouldn’t need Kemal Sufyan’s help bringing in your harvest. And on top of that, you spread lies to try to convince the other farmers not to hire Kemal after he declined your job offer. We’re not selling, and that’s the end of it.”

  “We’ll see,” Pasha growled menacingly. He pulled himself up onto his horse and jerked the reins. “Let’s get the hell away from these infidels,” he muttered beneath his breath. He slapped the reins against his horse’s flank and galloped off toward the road. The horses kicked up a cloud of dust and disappeared over the ridge.

  Mourad turned, and shaking his head with disgust, marched back toward the field.

  Several weeks later

  Sirak walked gingerly across the barnyard under the watchful eye of his father. He stepped across a rut and headed for the corral. On the horizon, the last rays of the late-afternoon sun danced across the underside of a distant bank of purple and scarlet clouds. Sirak reached the fence ahead of his father and peered excitedly across the pasture. Tiran was standing a short distance from his mother on the opposite side of the corral.

  “Tiran!” Sirak yelled out elatedly.

  The chestnut and white colt’s head shot up, but he stood his ground, staring passively across the enclosure.

  “Tiran!” Sirak called out once again. “Why won’t he come, Papa?”

  “Give him time, Son. I’m sure it’s been hard for him not to see you for such a long time. Let’s get a little closer.”

  Sirak and his father ducked between the rails of the fence and took a few steps into the enclosure. Tiran trotted toward them, but stopped. Turning, he stared at Sirak from a distance.

  “He hasn’t been ridden since you got hurt, Sirak. Give him a few moments.”

  “Tiran, please,” Sirak pleaded, holding out his arms.

  Suddenly, the colt bolted forward, and, pushing his nose into Sirak’s chest, nearly knocked him down. Sirak broke into a big smile. He brushed his fingertips through Tiran’s mane. The horse whinnied happily and nuzzled against the boy’s side.

  “That’s my Tiran!” Sirak exclaimed gleefully. “I missed you so much, boy!”

  “Always treat him with great love and respect, my son, and he will be your loyal friend and companion for many years to come.”

  “How long do horses live, Papa?”

  “Well, that depends. If you take good care of him, he may live for thirty more years.”

  “Thirty years? That’s really a long time—isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s a very long time. Tiran is a lucky horse to have such a loving master. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  Mourad smiled. “I think he knows that.”

  Sirak returned his father’s smile and brushed his hand down Tiran’s muscular chest.

  Mourad slipped a bit into the stallion’s mouth and pulled the reins across his back. “I’ll lift you up on his back, but I’m not letting you ride on your own yet. Just let me lead him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Mourad lifted Sirak up onto Tiran’s back. The boy grasped the horse’s mane with one hand and the reins with the other. Mourad walked the horse slowly along the fence. The colt didn’t make the slightest effort to gallop off with the boy—as he had many times in the past.

  “I think he wants to run, Papa,”

  “No, he doesn’t. Horses are very intelligent and instinctive animals. I’m sure Tiran saw your limp, and he understands there’s a reason you haven’t been here to feed him and ride for these past few weeks.”

  Mourad led Tiran past his mother at the back of the corral. Continuing at a deliberate pace, he walked the colt three full circles around the enclosure before finally pulling up at the main gate. Tiran whinnied contentedly.

  “Okay, Son, it’s getting dark. That’s enough for today.”

  Mourad lifted Sirak off Tiran and pulled the bit out of the horse’s mouth.

  Sirak wrapped his arms around the colt’s front leg and gave him a hug. He turned and took his father’s outstretched hand. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Tiran,” he called out.

  Mourad stepped inside the house and Sirak limped slowly after him. Stepannos and Mikael looked up from the game of chess they were playing at the table.

  Kristina stepped out of the kitchen. “There’s plenty for Kemal and Özker.”

  “I invited them, but Kemal wanted to get home. He’s helping the Tarkanians with their crop tomorrow.”

  Kristina cupped the back of her son’s head. “How did things go with Tiran?” she asked lovingly.

  Sirak smiled tiredly. “Papa let me ride him around the corral. I missed him so much, and I think he missed me, too.”

  “Of course he did. After all, you fed and played with him every single day from the day he was born right up until the day you got hurt. Horses get very attached to their masters.”

  “Did you ever have your own horse, Mama?”

  Kristina stirred a pot with a wooden spoon and carried it to the table. “Yes,” she said, with a nostalgic smile. “Her name was Nera. Papa gave her to me for my ninth birthday, and she was my closest friend.”

  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.

  CHAPTER 6

  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. “Ha
lt! 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.