Someone yanked at the barn door, but only managed to open it a few inches. After a moment, the ring of a shovel resounded through the door.
“They’re coming!” Sirak whispered. “Hurry, Mikael! Boost me up and push the rear door open.”
“No, Sirak!” Mikael replied angrily. “You’ll get shot.”
Sirak glared at his older brother, and then glanced at the front door. The sound of men talking and shoveling snow echoed from the yard. Sirak led Tiran to one of the stalls, climbed up on a slat and jumped onto the horse’s back. Spinning around at the front of the barn, he edged the spirited horse toward the door.
Mikael stepped in front of him. “What are you doing, Sirak?”
“If you won’t help me, then I’ll gallop past them as soon as they open the door. We’ll be past them before they know what happened.”
Mikael’s eyes bulged in disbelief. “Listen to me, little brother. Those are real soldiers with real guns out there.”
“Open the back door before they see my Tiran.”
Mikael peered into Sirak’s determined eyes. Sighing with exasperation, he jogged to the rear door and pushed one panel open. Suddenly, the bottom of the front door scraped across the icy snow.
“Halt!” the sergeant bellowed.
Sirak squeezed Tiran through the opening, and galloped headlong through the corral gate and across the enclosure. The powerful horse snorted loudly and, kicking up a cloud of snow, streaked across the pristine pasture.
Mourad bounded through the rear barn door with the sergeant and two of his men.
“Halt!” one soldier yelled. He raised his rifle to fire.
“No!” Mourad shouted. He deflected the rifle barrel just as it discharged with an ear-shattering blast.
Sirak flinched at the report of the rifle, but didn’t stop. He jabbed his heels into Tiran’s flanks and headed directly for the fence. Leaning forward, he prepared to jump.
Another rifle shot echoed across the pasture. Tiran whinnied, reeled away from the fence, and tumbled onto his side, sending Sirak head over heels into the snow.
Sirak remained face down in the snow for several seconds before rolling over and brushing the snow from his face. Tiran thrashed about in the waist-deep powder and struggled to right himself. Finally, he got to his feet and, whinnying loudly, with terror in his eyes, trotted aimlessly across the snow-covered pasture.
The soldier leveled his rifle at Sirak. “Don’t move!” he ordered.
Stepannos squeezed past the man and knelt beside his brother. “Are you hurt?”
Sirak muttered unintelligibly, and rolling to his knees, craned his neck to find Tiran.
“Get your hands in the air!” the soldier shouted. He walked forward with his gun trained on Sirak. “You’re under arrest.”
“Hold your fire, Corporal!” the sergeant barked. “You idiot! Can’t you see he’s just a boy? Go get the horse and take him back to the barnyard.”
“Yes, sir,” the corporal replied. He jogged off after Tiran.
The sergeant stopped beside Stepannos and peered down at Sirak with a benevolent smile. “Are you hurt?”
Sirak, his face and body covered with snow, shook his head dejectedly.
“You’ve got the heart of a lion, Son. I wish I had a dozen soldiers like you under my command. You’ll be a valiant cavalryman for the Empire someday.”
“Please, sir, don’t take my horse,” Sirak pleaded. Tears welled in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Son, but I must follow my orders or I’ll find myself hanging from the gallows.”
“What will you do with him?” Sirak asked angrily.
The sergeant turned his gaze on the corporal trying to corral Tiran. The man managed to grab the reins, but the belligerent horse reared back and galloped off to the back of the corral.
“Such a fine horse will likely be assigned to the cavalry. But first he’ll go through training.”
The snow whooshed behind them and the sergeant turned. The soldier who’d tried to shoot Sirak shoved Mourad across the pasture. Mourad’s hands were bound behind his back and a trickle of blood was running from his nose.
“Untie him, Private,” the sergeant ordered gruffly.
“But, sir,” the soldier protested, “he interfered with me.”
“As would any man with an okka of courage. You were shooting at his son. Untie him, damn it!”
The private, his jaw clenched with rage, untied Mourad’s hands.
Mourad rushed past the sergeant and lifted Sirak to his feet. “Are you hurt, Sirak?”
“No, Papa,” the boy sniffled. His voice crackled with emotion. “They’re taking my Tiran.” Bursting into tears, he pointed across the pasture.
Mourad turned to look. The corporal held Tiran’s reins and was leading him to the barn.
“I’m sorry,” Mourad whispered. He squatted and clutched Sirak to his chest. “I’m so sorry.”
Sirak buried his face in his father’s coat, and sobbing uncontrollably, peeked around to catch one last glimpse of Tiran before the proud horse walked into the barn.
Mourad stared blankly across the room and gently rubbed Sirak’s neck. The crestfallen boy was lying on the sofa with his head in his father’s lap. The room was lit only by dying embers in the fireplace.
Kristina crept silently into the room and scooted carefully around Stepannos and Mikael’s pallet on the floor. “Is he sleeping?” she whispered.
Mourad nodded his head dejectedly. “He finally cried himself to sleep.”
“Poor darling. I’ll change him into his nightclothes.”
“No, I’ll carry him back to the bedroom in a few minutes.”
“Did they take all of our horses?”
“They left the old mare.”
“What about our food supply?”
“The sergeant apologized for taking so much, and he made a point of leaving more than half of the rice and beans. It could’ve been a lot worse.”
“Do we have enough to last the winter?”
“Maybe, but we must carefully ration what’s left.”
“What will we do if it’s not enough?”
“I don’t know. We have the money I saved to buy seed in the spring.”
“We’ll need the seeds, Mourad. Let’s sell the diamond necklace Mother left me.”
Mourad smiled appreciatively and reached for Kristina’s hand. “Thank you, darling. We’ll see what happens. You know, it’s funny, but I’ve been sitting here wondering whether God means for our horses and supplies to help Alek.”
Kristina stared back in silence for a moment, before closing her eyes. “I just wish we’d hear something. A letter or short note...anything. It’s the not knowing that drives me mad.”
“I know, I know. If it weren’t for Alek, I’d accept Abdul Pasha’s offer and move to Istanbul or, if I could arrange it, even out of the Empire. But I keep thinking, what if Alek returns to the farm, injured or sick and needing our help?”
Kristina sat on the end of the couch, and leaning against Mourad’s shoulder, stroked Sirak’s arm. “I support you, whatever you decide, but I cannot leave Anatolia until Alek returns.”
“You’ve changed your mind?”
“Yes, at least for now.”
“Then we agree. We’ll stay until Alek returns, no matter what.”
“But if the opportunity arises to safely send the children to live with Bedros, I want to do it, even if we must sell everything. It’s not safe here anymore.”
Mourad glanced down at the boys on the pallet. He traced his fingers down Kristina’s arm and grasped her hand. “I’ll ride to Ergani to make inquiries once the storm passes.”
CHAPTER 9
Late January 1915
Sariyazma
Kemal stopped at the crest of the hill overlooking Mourad Kazerian’s farm and scanned the scene below. The barnyard was eerily silent. The roof of the house was cloaked in snow. A mound of fresh-fallen powder was heaped against the front door. Not even a w
isp of smoke rose from the chimney and the small window at the front of the house was dark. It looked deserted.
Kemal walked his horse through a gully and headed down the snowy path to the farmhouse. “You stay with the horse and I’ll check the house,” he whispered to Özker. He slid to the ground, and walking toward the house, stopped a few paces from the front door. “Mourad!” he called out. He glanced over his shoulder at Özker. “Mourad, it’s Kemal! I’ve brought flour!”
A moment later, the door creaked open. Mourad, looking gaunt and haggard, stepped across the mound of snow. He glanced anxiously up the path toward the main road. “Thank you for coming, Kemal. I’m so happy to see you.”
“Is your family well?”
“As well as can be expected. We heard about the mass arrests and disappearances in Diyarbekir and the surrounding villages.”
“You’re right to be careful. This unrest is so terrible—unlike any before.” Kemal motioned toward the chimney. “Do you need help chopping firewood?”
“No, my friend, we have plenty, but we only use the fireplace at night. We don’t want to attract attention.”
Kemal nodded glumly. “How’s Kristina?”
“She’s sick. She hardly eats since the soldiers confiscated our stores. I’m worried about Sirak, too. He’s been inconsolable since they took his horse. I thought it would pass after a few weeks, but his depression has only deepened. The light’s gone from his eyes.”
“God is great, my friend. He’ll forget with time. Maybe playing with Özker would help.”
“I’ll try anything at this point.”
“And how’s your mother?”
“A little better, thank God.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Fadime sent two bags of flour. Can I bring them inside?”
“Of course. Forgive my bad manners. I can’t begin to express our appreciation for your thoughtfulness and friendship. Kristina will brew a fresh pot of tea.”
Kemal lifted Özker down off the horse and untied the rope holding two large bags of flour. “Now, Özker, don’t forget what we talked about. Play with Sirak and try your best to cheer him up. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Did you bring the ball?”
“It’s here in my pocket.”
Kemal patted his son on the head. “Good boy.”
Mourad stepped outside with his arm around Sirak. The boy’s face was expressionless and pale, with dark rings around his eyes.
“Sirak!” Özker called out. He ran to his friend. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you, too, Özker,” Sirak replied flatly. There was a vacant, far-away look in his eyes, and his face was devoid of emotion.
“Father told me about the soldiers. I’m sorry. I know how much you loved Tiran.”
Sirak nodded glumly.
“Those bad men came to our farm, too. They took Father’s best horses.”
“I know God expects us to sacrifice to help my brother, but whenever I think of Tiran, all I...” Sirak bowed his head, and sniffling, buried his head in his father’s coat sleeve.
Özker stepped to Sirak’s side and gently patted his friend on the shoulder. He pulled a bright red ball from his coat pocket. “Sirak, would you like to play with my new ball?”
Sirak wiped his eyes on his sleeve and glanced up. “Yes.”
Özker slipped his arm around Sirak’s back and the two boys walked away toward the barn.
Mourad and Kemal stood watching them for several moments. Özker tossed Sirak the ball and took up a position a few meters away. Sirak dropped the ball on the snow-covered ground and gave it a glancing kick. The ball spun toward the barn and Özker ran after it.
“Thank you,” Mourad muttered. “I’m grateful for anything to take his mind off the horse. A young boy should never endure so many heartaches. The tea should be ready by now. Let me take that bag.”
“I should feed and water my horse before we go inside.”
“Just tie him to that post. I’ll send Stepannos to tend to him.”
Kemal tied his horse to the post and, hoisting the second bag of flour onto his shoulder, followed Mourad to the front door. “You boys come inside if you get too cold!”
“We will, Father,” Özker yelled.
Sirak kicked the ball against the side of the barn and Özker caught it. He heaved it back to Sirak and he kicked it high into the air. Diving to his right, Özker landed face first in a mound of snow. Rolling over, the young Turk struggled to his feet. He was covered head to toe in white powder.
Sirak brushed snow away from his friend’s face with his fingertips and broke out in laughter. “You look like a winter fox that crawled into a hare hole.”
“It’s inside my coat!” Özker squealed. He opened his coat and brushed snow off his tunic. “Brrr, that’s really cold. Hey, let’s go see the ice on the pond!”
“No, I’m not allowed. Mikael fell through the ice and nearly drowned when he was a little boy. He would have, if Alek hadn’t pulled him out. Besides, I’m too cold.”
“Okay,” Özker muttered disappointedly. “Hey, I know; let’s play in the barn!”
“Sure! Do you ever feed chickens?”
“No, that’s Verda and Lale’s chore. I clean the horses’ stall.”
Sirak stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at Özker as though he’d been punched in the stomach. Turning away, he walked to the barn and kicked at the snow.
Özker ran after him. “What’s wrong, Sirak?”
“Cleaning the horse stalls was my chore, too. Now they’re all gone except for old Rock.”
“I’m sorry, Sirak. I forgot.”
Sirak glanced toward the snow-covered corral. “I wonder what Tiran’s doing right now?”
“Maybe he found Alek.”
“That’s what Papa says. I hope he’s not scared of the guns.”
“Tiran wouldn’t be afraid of the guns,” Özker scoffed. “I’m sure he’s very brave, just like you, Sirak,”
“Come on, let’s go feed the chickens. I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
The boys walked across the barnyard and Sirak opened the barn door. He led Özker to several pens stacked against one wall. Some of the chickens whistled and clucked at the sight of them. Sirak grabbed a pail of feed, and taking a handful, opened one of the doors to let a rooster eat out of his hand.
“Pepper here’s my favorite. He’s always happy to see me.” Sirak held the pail out to Özker. “You feed those two. That’s Natty and Tia.”
Özker took a handful of the feed and reached inside. Both hens clucked contentedly and pecked at his hand. “It tickles!” he squealed.
Sirak grinned and tossed feed into another pen. “Özker, do you hate Christians?” he asked pensively.
Özker glanced over his shoulder with a puzzled expression. “No, I don’t hate Christians. My mother told me not to hate anybody. Why?”
“I heard Mama tell Papa the Muslims in the walled city hate Christians. Many Christians have been killed there since the war started,” Sirak said.
“You’re a Christian.”
“Yes, and everyone in my family’s a Christian, too.”
“Do you think I hate you, or my father hates you?” Özker asked.
“No, of course not. Papa says that your father is a kind and religious man, and if there were more men like him, the Empire would be a better place for everyone. But our neighbor, Abdul Pasha, hates us.”
“Abdul Pasha hates everybody.” Özker dropped the rest of the feed into the pen and locked the door. “Mother reads the Quran to me every night at bedtime and helps me memorize the important parts. I learned a passage that reminds me of you.”
“Really? What does it say?”
“Thou wilt find the nearest in friendship to the believers to be those who say, we are Christians. That is because there are priests and monks among them and because they are not proud. Father said that passage reminds him of your papa, too.”
“That’s written in your holy book?” Sirak asked.
“Yes, it is. Mother says there’s no harm in us being friends, no matter what other believers say. So we’ll always be friends, Sirak, even when we’re like the old men in town who only gossip and play chess. You must remember this.”
Sirak smiled gratefully. “I will remember.”
Özker thrust his hands into his coat pockets. “Brrr, I’m cold! Let’s finish feeding these chickens and go see if your mother has something to eat.”
Sirak set his bucket against the wall. “I’ll feed them later. Mama baked sweet bread this morning. We’d better hurry before Stepannos and Mikael eat it all.”
“Let’s go!”
The boys dashed out of the barn, and matching stride for stride, sprinted to the front door. Sirak shoved the door open.
“Hello, Özker,” Kristina called from the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”
Özker glanced at his father and Kemal nodded.
“Yes, Mrs. Kazerian. I’m starving.”
“I’ve baked the Armenian sweet bread you love. Sit down by the fire and I’ll bring you some.”
The wood in the hearth crackled and smoked, and intermittently spewed hot embers onto the floor. Stepannos, Mikael and Flora—bundled in winter coats—sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace. Izabella was in Flora’s lap.
Sirak and Özker held their hands out and playfully sparred for the heat.
Sirak scooted in beside Flora, and making room for Özker, smiled at his father.
Mourad smiled back and gratefully nodded at Kemal.
Kristina and the girls had gone to bed, and Mikael and Stepannos were slumbering by the fireplace. Sirak and Özker had fallen asleep on the floor near their fathers’ feet.
Kemal peered through darkness lit only by dying embers in the fireplace. “It’s late, Mourad,” he whispered. “It’s time to head home.”
“You’re welcome to stay until morning.”
“No, I can’t. Fadime and Nahid will worry. Can I have a private word with you before we leave?”
Mourad gathered himself to his feet. “Of course. I’ll help you with your horse.”
The two men stepped softly through the front room, and slipping outside into the crisp night air, headed to the barn. The scent of burning firewood wafted on the gentle breeze.
The Ghosts of Anatolia Page 9