The Ghosts of Anatolia

by Steven E. Wilson

  “Mourad, I’ve heard whispers the army suffered a devastating defeat on the Russian frontier.”

  Mourad frowned. “A defeat?”

  “Yes, they say it was a rout. Shocking rumors are spreading about thousands of soldiers being lost—entire corps vanishing.”

  “God Almighty.”

  “Do you know where Alek is stationed?”

  “No. We haven’t heard a word since the day he left home.”

  “They say the Russian Army has driven deep inside Anatolia—nearly to the outskirts of Van. And there’s something else you must know. There are reports of many Armenians joining the Russian volunteer regiments. Turks in Diyarbekir are calling for revenge.”

  Mourad stared back, unable to find his tongue.

  Kemal grasped Mourad’s shoulder. “Your family isn’t safe here anymore. You must leave Anatolia now.”

  “But, where do we go?”

  “Go join Bedros in Istanbul. He has perks and privileges there. The capital may be the only place in the Empire where Armenians are safe. And from Istanbul you could arrange safe passage out of the Empire.”

  Mourad stood contemplatively for several moments. “Who knows, maybe the situation isn’t any better in the capital. I haven’t heard a word from Bedros since his letter in October.”

  “It’s got to be better than here.”

  “How can I move my mother to Istanbul? It’s a long, hard trip, even for healthy people. How could she survive that in the dead of winter?”

  “Mourad, you remember, of course, that my father and yours were good friends?”

  “Yes, yes they were. We know that.”

  “Before Father died, he told me his biggest regret in life was not doing enough to save their common friend, Adom Tomassian. Did you know him?”

  “Yes,” Mourad replied solemnly. “We all knew Adom. He was a leader in our church.”

  “Well, then, you know what happened to him.”

  “My father spoke of it many times. He blamed his killing on the Bloody Sultan.”

  “Truly, Sultan Abdul Hamid must bear much of the blame, yet Father said we all bore responsibility because we didn’t do enough to stop the killing. It haunted him until the day he died,” Kemal explained. “Mourad, I don’t want to bear this burden. You must act now, before the situation spins out of control.”

  Mourad stared into his friend’s unwavering eyes. “Okay, I’ll do it.” He squeezed Kemal’s hand. “It’ll take a week or so to prepare for the journey, but then we’ll go.”

  “You must stay at my farm until you leave. It’ll be much safer. I’ll return first thing in the morning to help you move your family.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I insist. Tell Kristina to pack only what you need to live for a week. We’ll return later to gather belongings you plan to take with you to Istanbul.”

  “Okay, we’ll be ready. I should’ve accepted Abdul Pasha’s offer,” he said with regret.

  “To hell with Pasha,” Kemal growled. “I’ll watch the farm while you’re away, and when everything settles, you’ll return. Everything will be the same as it was before. You have my word on this.”

  Mourad embraced Kemal. “Thank you, my friend. You’re a true man of God.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Kemal lifted Sirak up to the driver’s seat atop the wagon. He walked to his horse and, adjusting his saddlebags, untied the scruffy-looking mare from the barnyard post. Swinging up onto the horse’s back, he reached down for his son. He positioned Özker in front of him astride the horse and pulled the boy’s cap down on his head. “Okay, let’s take it slow.”

  “Mourad, did you remember the note for Alek?” Kristina yelled from the rear of the wagon.

  “Yes. It’s in the spot we agreed on in case of emergency.”

  “What if he forgets?”

  “Don’t worry, he’ll remember.”

  Circling around the barnyard, Kemal trotted up the snow-covered path. The wagon clattered after him.

  Mourad peered up at the bright blue sky and glanced over his shoulder. Kristina and the children were huddled together behind three crates of clucking chickens and two chests of belongings. Izabella was asleep in her mother’s lap, her beloved doll, a gift from Uncle Bedros, clutched in her small hands. Mourad’s ailing mother, bundled from head to toe against the cold, stared back with a cheerless, vacant expression. He gave her a forlorn smile, but she quickly glanced away.

  Mourad’s eyes fell on the Khatchkar cross hanging on the front door of the house. He tapped out the sign of the cross. “Father, give us Thy protection,” he whispered.

  The rickety wagon crested the hill and Sirak turned in his seat to catch one last glimpse of the snow-cloaked farmhouse, the only home he’d ever known.

  Sensing Sirak’s apprehension, Mourad smiled and patted his son on the knee. “Don’t concern yourself with the things of this world, Son. Put your faith in God.”

  The wagon turned west onto the main road, and Sirak’s eyes wandered to three columns of smoke rising into the sky in the distance. He glanced at his father, but Mourad hadn’t noticed. The latter’s eyes were fixed on the bumpy road ahead, as his horse splashed through a puddle of melting snow.

  Kemal, however, had noticed the smoke. Feeling a sense of foreboding, his thoughts drifted to another time and place. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled apprehensively. “Allahu Akbar,” he whispered.

  Özker turned around. “What did you say, Papa?”

  “Nothing, Son, nothing at all.”

  The wagon bumped slowly over the uneven country road for half an hour before Kemal turned onto a narrow trail that meandered through snow-draped spruce trees. Paralleling the bank of a frozen stream, the path opened onto a small clearing nestled between the river and a line of rocky cliffs. In the middle of the field, a small farmhouse, its chimney billowing smoke, stood a stone’s throw from a dilapidated barn.

  Kemal rode to the front door and the wagon clattered to a stop beside him. The door burst open and Fadime and Nahid, both wearing veils and long black dresses, stepped gingerly through the snow. Sabiha, Verda and Lale rushed past them, giddy with excitement.

  “Flora!” Sabiha called out happily.

  “Hello, everyone,” Flora called out.

  Özker jumped down from the horse and ran to the wagon. “Let’s go, Sirak! I’ll show you my river. Most of it’s iced over, but we can throw rocks in the rapids.”

  Mourad lifted Sirak down to the ground and crouched beside him. “You can throw rocks, Son, but stay back from the water. Do you understand?”

  “I know, Papa—the ice is dangerous.”

  “And the water is cold. Be very careful.”

  Sirak nodded. He turned and sprinted across the snowy pasture. “Özker, wait for me!”

  Mourad watched the boys until they ran behind the barn.

  Kemal walked up beside him. “They’ll be fine.”

  “I know. This is a blessing for Sirak. He won’t have to see our empty corral, or Tiran’s tackle in the barn.” He let out a long sigh and looked to the river. The boys were skipping along the bank hurling stones. “Thank you, Kemal.”

  “Please, my friend, thank me no more. We are brothers, and I know in my heart, you’d do the same for me.”

  Mourad nodded solemnly. Walking to the rear of the wagon, he picked up his mother and carried her to the house.

  Kemal rushed ahead to open the front door. “This way, please. We’ve prepared a bed for her in Father’s old room.”

  They stepped through a living room that was simply adorned with a pair of divans, a chest and a slew of hand-woven cushions and carpets. The Quran sat open on an ornate stand at the end of one divan.

  Kemal led Mourad down a short hall and ducked through the last door. Mourad followed him into the tiny room and set his mother gently on the blanket-covered bed.

  Nahid rushed in behind them and covered the old woman with a colorful woolen quilt. “It’s always so cold in this room. I�
�ll make her some warm soup.”

  Mourad leaned down and kissed his mother on the forehead, and her aged eyes fluttered open.

  “Mourad, my son,” she whispered, in a high-pitched, frail voice.

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Don’t let them take the land, Son.” She clutched desperately at his arm. “Your father’s grave...your grandfather’s grave...you can’t let them...”

  “Don’t worry, Mother, we’re not leaving forever, just for a short while.”

  Catching her breath, she grimaced with pain. “Promise me.”

  Mourad glanced dolefully at Kemal. His friend stared solemnly back.

  “I promise, Mother. We’ll take you home soon.”

  “Thank you, Son.” The old woman closed her eyes, and taking a deep breath, let out a relieved sigh.

  Kristina fetched a box from the back of the wagon and handed it to Sabiha. “Here are Flora’s clothes.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kazerian,” Sabiha replied politely. “I’ll put this in my bedroom. Flora and I will share the guest room in the back of the house, and you and your husband are in the large bedroom in the front.”

  “What about Verda and Lale?”

  Fadime stepped from the house and smiled. “Don’t worry. I moved the twins into the room in the back.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  “Unfortunately, the boys must sleep on the floor in the living room, but we’ve got plenty of pillows and blankets.”

  “That’ll be fine. They love sleeping by the fire.”

  Kristina stooped down, and sitting on the end of the wagon, prepared to jump to the ground.

  “Wait,” Mourad called out. “Let me help you.” He lowered Kristina to the ground and pushed an errant strand of hair beneath her headscarf. “You look exhausted, darling. You need a nap.”

  “No, Mourad. Fadime needs help with dinner.”

  “Flora can help her with dinner. You need to sleep, or you’ll end up sick.”

  “You must listen to your husband,” Fadime said. She took Kristina’s arm. “There will be many more dinners. You must rest now.”

  Kristina smiled. “How can we ever begin to thank you?”

  “No thanks are expected. We’ll always remember it was your Mourad who offered my husband work when Abdul Pasha bullied the other farmers not to hire him. I don’t know what we would’ve done, if he hadn’t defied that evil brute.”

  They stepped into the house and headed to the bedrooms.

  “Bedros and Mourad speak so highly of Kemal, and his father, Tarik. They both say Tarik was like a second father to them.”

  “You have said it,” Fadime replied warmly. “Tarik counted them as the second and third sons his wives could never bear. He spoke of this many times.”

  Fadime led Kristina into a bedroom crowded with a small bed and chest. Pulling the blankets back, she fluffed the pillow. “There you go. Please get some sleep and I’ll wake you for dinner.”

  Kristina took Fadime’s hands. “You’re such an angel. I know in my heart we’ll be good friends.”

  Fadime squeezed Kristina’s hands and smiled. “I feel this, too. May God give you rest and answer all your prayers.” Fadime stepped out of the room and quietly closed the door behind her.

  CHAPTER 11

  January 23, 1915

  Abdul Pasha stepped inside the house, and slipping off his heavy coat, hung it on a hook beside the door. Hasan was seated by the fireplace reading the Quran. Ignoring him, Abdul stepped around the divan and into the kitchen. He tore the end off a loaf of bread, stuffed it into his mouth and stepped back to the fireplace. Yawning, he glanced at the wood box beside the hearth and shook his head. “Damn it! brother-in-law, where’s that worthless son of mine?”

  “I’m not sure, Effendi,” Hasan replied deferentially. He peered over his reading glasses, and stroked his beard. “He may be with his mother.”

  “Erol!” Abdul bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Get the hell out here!”

  Erol came running from the back of the house and timidly stared at the floor. “Yes, Father.”

  “Did I not tell you to fill the box with wood?”

  “Yes, Father, but…” Jasmine hurried from the rear of the house. “I asked him to help me make the bed and fold your clothes.”

  Abdul turned and glared at her. His eyes were filled with loathing. “And has he finished with the bed and clothes?”

  “We just finished.”

  “Well, then, woman, I suggest you mind your own business and get on with preparing my breakfast.”

  Jasmine walked past Erol into the kitchen and filled the teapot with water.

  “Now, boy,” Abdul said, leaning his face close to Erol’s, “you get that scrawny butt of yours outside and fetch more wood. If that fire goes out, I’ll skin you alive.”

  Erol screwed up his courage to look at his father’s wind-burned face. “There’s no cut wood, Father—only a few scraps.”

  “Then get the hell out there and chop some more!” Abdul shoved Erol to the door. “Do I have to do everything around here? Tell me, woman, why did you burden me with this worthless runt?”

  “He’s just a boy, Abdul,” Jasmine protested from the kitchen, her voice filled with contempt.

  “He’s eight. That’s old enough for a boy to pull his weight in the household. Timurhan cut wood when he was even younger.”

  “Timurhan was always big for his age.”

  “As long as a boy can lift an axe, he can chop wood.”

  “But Erol doesn’t know how. Timurhan cut the wood before he left, remember?”

  “Come on,” Abdul snarled at Erol. He jerked his coat down from the hook. “I’ll show you. Then, from now on, it’s your responsibility to keep the box filled with wood and the fire burning. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father.” Erol glanced fretfully at his mother and followed Abdul outside.

  Abdul and Erol slogged through ankle-deep snow. They clomped around the side of the house to a clearing where several large logs were scattered on the ground.

  “Damn it,” Abdul grumbled. “There isn’t enough here to last for more than a few days. We’ll gather more wood tomorrow. Watch me carefully.”

  Abdul picked up the axe, and taking a powerful swing, knocked a patch of bark off one of the tree trunks. He swung again, and again, until he chopped completely through the log, splitting it in half. Straddling one of the pieces, he chopped a grove in the middle. “Okay, now it’s your turn.” He handed the axe to Erol.

  Erol clutched the handle and clumsily lifted the axe off the ground, but stumbled and fell to his knees.

  Abdul shook his head. “Worthless,” he muttered. “Hold it farther from the end so you’ll have better control.”

  Erol got up and took a feeble swing. The blade of the axe barely dented the wood.

  “Again!” Abdul bellowed.

  Erol swung the axe once more, but the result was the same.

  Abdul moaned disgustedly. “We don’t have all day.” He jerked the axe from the boy’s hand. “Today, you watch. Then, tomorrow, you will chop that smaller trunk. I don’t care if it takes you all day. You will not stop until you are finished. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Wielding the axe with authority, Abdul chopped the trunk into several pieces, before splitting off several hearth-sized logs. Finally, he drove the axe into the nearby trunk and handed Erol one of the logs. “Carry this into the house.”

  The boy’s arms drooped under the weight. Gathering several logs into his own arms, Pasha rounded the corner of the house with Erol trudging behind him, straining under the weight of his burden.

  Abdul leaned his load against the door jam and pushed the door open. “Go on.”

  The boy staggered past him into the house and headed to the fireplace.

  Abdul dropped his logs into the wood box. He grabbed the log from Erol and dropped it on the waning embers.

  “Go get the rest of th
e logs. I’ll make a man out of you yet.”

  Erol, head down, walked back to the door. At the threshold, he turned and glanced at his mother. Watching silently from the kitchen, she smiled sympathetically and nodded encouragement.

  “Go on!” Pasha yelled. “Don’t come back here without a log.”

  Erol cringed. Stepping outside, he pulled the door closed behind him.

  Abdul slumped down on the divan. “Woman, where’s my breakfast?”

  Jasmine defiantly marched to the divan and handed Abdul a cup of tea. She turned to walk away, but he grabbed the belt of her dress.

  “What? I’m getting your tray.”

  Abdul grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. He ran his hands across her breasts. “After I eat breakfast, we’ll meet in your bedroom.”

  “I can’t, Abdul. It’s my time of the month.”

  “Bullshit!” he shot back. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe your menses come every week?”

  “You believe what you want to believe, but it’s the truth.”

  Abdul, his jaw clenched in anger, glared at his wife. She stared back, with equal measures of disdain and fear.

  “Perhaps it’s for the best,” he finally huffed. “There’s no sense taking the risk you’ll get pregnant and bring another pathetic weakling into this family. I’ll find something you can do for me,” he glared, a wicked smile on his face.

  The door opened behind them.

  “I told you not to come back here without a log,” Abdul growled at Erol, who was standing empty-handed in the open doorway.

  “There are…there are soldiers, Father,” he stuttered. “They want you.”

  “Soldiers?” Abdul repeated. Rising to his feet, he set his teacup on the end table and walked to the door.

  Three soldiers on horseback were in the barnyard. Behind them was a wagon outfitted with a team of six horses. All the men were bundled in heavy winter coats, and the driver, an old man wearing a red fez, was wrapped in blankets.

  One soldier dismounted and marched across the barnyard. “I’m Lieutenant Yasevi, sir,” he said solemnly. “We’re here to see Abdul Pasha bin Mohammad, father of Timurhan Pasha bin Abdul.”