“I’m Abdul Pasha bin Mohammad. Is something wrong?”
“Sir, I regret to inform you that your son has been martyred in jihad.”
“No,” Abdul whispered, his expression melting into horror. He gaped at the wagon. “My God, no. You are mistaken, sir.”
“No, sir. Unfortunately, I’m certain. We’re returning your son’s body for burial.”
Abdul peered at the wagon through a suddenly heavy snowfall. Slowly, he sank to his knees. “No! No! No!” he cried out in anguish. “Not my son!”
Timurhan’s mother rushed from the house. “What it is?”
“Our son is dead!”
Overcome with anguish, Sabriye sank to her knees and collapsed face down in the snow.
Hasan knelt by her side. “Come inside, sister,” he whispered. Helping her to her feet, he led the sobbing woman to the house.
The other soldiers dismounted their horses. Walking to the back of the wagon, they opened the tailgate.
“Sir, let me help you inside,” the lieutenant said. “My men will bring your son’s body.”
Abdul suddenly looked up at the lieutenant. His eyes were filled with rage. “How?”
“Sorry, sir?” the lieutenant replied.
“How did my son die?”
“He was guarding a supply convoy that was ambushed by Dashnak forces near Van. He was killed in the first volley of rifle fire.”
Abdul’s face contorted with fury. “My son was killed by Armenian dogs?”
“Yes, sir. Twenty-two men died in the attack, and seventeen more were wounded. Timurhan was one of my best men, a valiant soldier. I was with him when he died, and he told me to tell you he loved you. He also asked me to give you this.” The lieutenant pulled the familiar Mauser pistol from beneath his coat and handed it to Abdul.
Abdul slowly turned the pistol over in both of his hands. “I gave this to him just before he left.”
“I’m sorry, sir. He was a remarkable young man.”
“Fucking Armenian infidels,” Abdul muttered beneath his breath, as he rose to his feet. “The infidels will pay dearly for my son’s death.”
“Yes, sir. The general ordered all Christians in the Third Army to give up their weapons, and many were relieved of their duties. But, to be fair, some of our men who died in the ambush were themselves Armenians, including the lieutenant leading the supply convoy.”
“Turncoat dogs,” Abdul muttered, ignoring the lieutenant’s comment. “Their bodies will rot on the ground.” He walked to the rear of the wagon. There, in the bed, a body was bundled from head to toe in white cloth. Abdul placed his hand on his son’s chest. It was frozen solid.
“Where would you like us to take him, sir?” the lieutenant asked.
Alone with his thoughts, Abdul did not reply. He stood staring into the distance toward the far-off mountains.
“Sir,” the lieutenant repeated, “where would you like us to take your son?”
Abdul turned and stared vacantly at the lieutenant. “Help me take him inside,” he finally whispered.
The soldiers hoisted Timurhan’s body from the wagon and carried it to the house. Abdul, his shoulders slumped in despair, stepped past them to the threshold. Opening the front door, he let them pass and followed them inside.
CHAPTER 12
Sirak trudged across the snow-cloaked field after Özker. A few paces in front of them, Mikael tailed Stepannos, using his brother’s body as a shield against a bitter westerly wind. Each boy had an armful of scrap firewood.
Snow gusted into Sirak’s face, peppering his skin with icy needles. Too cold to speak, he struggled through a deep drift of snow next to the barn and clomped across the barnyard to the house. The wind waned for a moment, and a welcoming plume of smoke rose above the chimney.
Balancing the wood against his chest, Stepannos opened the front door and stepped inside the Sufyan home. Mikael, Sirak and Özker filed inside behind him.
Mourad was seated on the divan, and the girls from both families were crowded around the fire.
“Good work, boys,” Mourad said cheerfully. He took Sirak and Özker’s loads, and dropped them on the woodpile in the corner of the room.
Mikael dropped his wood on the pile. “It’s getting worse. The wind is blowing harder than last night.” He collapsed on the floor beside Flora and leaned his head against her shoulder.
“It’s ten times worse,” Stepannos muttered. “Listen to the wind whistling in the trees. Oh, by the way, a spruce fell across the trail down at the turn by the river. We’ll need to clear it before we use the wagon.”
“No problem,” Mourad replied. “We won’t be leaving anytime soon. We’ll chop it up after the storm passes.” He stepped over to the side of the room, and pulling the drapes aside, peered out at the snow whipping through the barnyard. “I hope Kemal gets back soon. It’s a bad night to be out on the road.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth, than the door burst open. Kemal, his face caked with snow, stepped inside and slammed the door behind him.
“Thank God you’re home safely,” Mourad said. “I was worried.”
“God is great,” Kemal puffed. Setting his bags down on the floor, he headed straight for the fire. “Old Brown almost didn’t make it home. He definitely earned his feed tonight.” Pulling off his coat, Kemal set it on the woodpile next to the fire. “Fadime, I’m starving. How about dinner?”
“In five minutes,” she called back. “Please send the children to wash up.”
“Okay, boys and girls, you heard her,” he said, clapping his hands. “Off you go.”
Kemal waited until all the children had gone before turning to Mourad. “I heard some more bad news in town,” he whispered. “They hanged more men in Diyarbekir and a few in Ergani.”
“In Ergani, too?”
“Yes, they were all charged with aiding the enemy. Many Armenians from the surrounding villages have fled. Even the priest of your church was arrested a couple of days ago.”
“Father Adalian? Why?”
“The police accused him of hiding men who were wanted for recruiting resistance fighters. Apparently, Governor-General Hamid intervened personally on his behalf. They finally let him go.”
“Merciful God,” Mourad muttered. “You’re right, Kemal. We must leave for Istanbul immediately.”
“I’m afraid that’s no longer possible, my friend—at least for now. I ran into Münir Mohammad at the souk. Do you remember him? He drives a wagon for the Aleppo Freight Company.”
“Yes, I remember Münir. He transported Bedros’ goods to Istanbul when he left to join the assembly. He’s a good man.”
“He just returned from Antioch, and he and six other drivers lost everything—seven wagons of goods and all of their horses. The bandits beat Münir and broke his arm. He’s quit his job rather than risk another trip. They’d heard terrible stories of beatings, rapes and murders on their journey. Even Turks are hesitant to travel.”
“Dear God,” Mourad moaned. He buried his face in his hands. “What do we do now?”
“You must stay here with us. Perhaps the situation will improve in the spring.”
“We’ve already burdened you enough. We’re grateful for everything you’ve done, but we’ve got to find a way to get to Istanbul. It’s either that or return to the farm.”
“Nonsense, my friend. I insist you stay here. Your farm is too dangerous for Kristina and the children. Besides, the women and children are enjoying staying together. Oh, I asked the postmaster if you had any mail. I’ve known Talovic for years, so he gave me a letter he’d been holding for you.” Kemal stepped across the room, and opening his pack, fished out a letter and handed it to Mourad.
“It’s from Bedros,” Mourad muttered. He tore the envelope open, and sliding out a single sheet of paper, held it up to the light. “It’s dated December 5,” he mumbled aloud. “He says the military leaders in Istanbul are giddy with anticipation for the coming war. They’re expecting a great vi
ctory against the Russians.”
Kemal shook his head. “What stupid morons. After the fiasco in Sarikamish, those fighting cocks got their spurs clipped once and for all. I also rode by your farm.”
Mourad glanced up from the letter. “You did? Was everything okay?”
“Everything seemed fine. I even dug beneath the snow to find your message rock. Your letter to Alek was still there.”
“Here come the children,” Mourad whispered. He stuffed the letter into his pocket. “I’ll read the rest later.”
The younger children gathered in the kitchen. Nahid, dressed in a dark green dress and veil, handed each child a bowl before heading to the bedroom with a basket heaped with bread.
Fadime stepped out of the kitchen and silenced the room with a snap of her fingers. “Let’s all wish Sirak a happy birthday. He’s eight years old today.”
The room erupted into loud cheers and applause.
“Happy birthday, Sirak!” Stepannos shouted. He patted his little brother on the head.
“Özker has a special gift for you,” Kemal called out. He pulled an object from his bag, handed it to Özker, and pushed his son forward.
Özker beamed happily and stepped across the front room with a brown, multi-paneled ball. He tossed it to Sirak.
Sirak turned the odd-shaped orb in his hands. “What is it?”
Kemal laughed. “Shopkeeper Mohammed imported them from Istanbul. The British use these balls for a game they call football. It’s a very strange game. You can kick the ball or even butt it with your head, but you can’t use your hands. Both teams try to score by kicking the ball between two posts before their opponents can stop them.” Kemal stuck his fingers through an aperture in the ball and pulled out a long stem. “You blow the ball up with this tube and then stick the tube back inside, like this.”
Mikael ran his hand across the paneled leather surface. “What a funny game. Why would anyone want to play a game where you can’t use your hands? It’ll never last.”
“I’m afraid the ball won’t be much good until summer,” Kemal lamented. “The shopkeeper told me not to get the leather wet. But you can play with it here in the house. Of course,” he chuckled, “as long as Fadime approves.”
“Don’t kick the ball in the house,” Fadime called out from the kitchen, “but you can roll it back and forth to each other in the hall.”
Mourad stepped across the room to inspect the strange gift. “How many men play this game?”
“I don’t know, but apparently it’s become very popular in Istanbul. I thought Sirak might like it. It’s easy to pack if you let all the air out of the ball.”
“It’s a wonderful gift, Sirak,” Mourad said. “Tell Özker and his papa thank you.”
“Thank you,” Sirak said shyly, “I always wanted one of these.”
Everyone erupted in laughter. Mourad shook his head with amusement and set the ball on the floor.
“Okay,” Fadime called out, “all women and children into the back dining room while the food is still hot. Kristina and Nahid, I’ll leave you to serve the men.”
Mourad and Kemal sat at the table in the front room with Stepannos and Mikael. Kristina brought soup and bread, and filled their glasses. They mused about the snowstorm, the downed tree and the wind whistling outside the door.
Kristina gathered her shawl over her nightclothes, and stepping around the end of the bed, crouched beside a pallet on the floor. In the flickering light of an oil lamp, she rearranged the blanket over Izabella and Sirak. Izabella was sound asleep, but Sirak opened his eyes when she brushed a lock of hair back from his face.
“Goodnight, Mama,” he muttered sleepily.
“Goodnight, little mouse. Did you have a nice birthday?”
“Yes, Mama.”
She smiled. “I have something for you, too. I planned to give it to you tomorrow, but since you’re awake, I’ll give it to you now.”
Kristina stepped around the end of the bed. She fetched a worn, leather-bound book from the chest where she stored her clothes, and kneeling on the pallet, pressed it into Sirak’s tiny hands. “This Bible belonged to your grandpapa. It’s very precious to me, but I want you to have it.” She opened the book, and taking out a small photograph, held it up to her son’s eyes. “This is a photograph of your papa and me with Alek and Stepannos. They were little boys when this was taken.”
Sirak took the photograph in his tiny hand. The grainy image showed Mourad and Kristina standing on the stone steps at the church. They were proudly holding their toddler boys. “Thank you, Mama.”
“You’re very welcome.” Kristina placed the photograph inside the Bible. “I’ll set it here next to your pillow and you can look at it again in the morning. Grandpapa wrote some notes in the margin, so...” She stopped after realizing Sirak had drifted to sleep, smiled and ran her fingers across his forehead. “I love you.”
CHAPTER 13
“Shit on you and your religion, Kazerian!” Abdul Pasha slurred heatedly. “I know you’re in there, infidel!” The Turk whirled on his horse, and nearly tumbled off. “Come out, or I’ll burn you out!” His red eyes bulged.
Abdul dismounted his horse and stood in the snowy barnyard outside the Armenian’s farmhouse. The irate Turk tottered to and fro and waved Timurhan’s handgun in the air. “You better come out, Kazerian, or I’ll line up your family and shoot them all!”
Erol sat silently astride his horse a few paces behind the others taking in the scene. He shifted uneasily and fought a sudden urge to gallop off.
“Duman, go see if that dog is in there,” Abdul scowled.
The scruffy-looking Turk limped through the ankle-deep snow to the front door. “It’s open!”
“Search the barn!” Abdul bellowed to another farmhand standing with the horses. He turned and staggered to the front door. “Shoot them if they try to flee.”
Abdul paused inside the doorway, and erupting into a hacking cough, glanced toward the kitchen. Several pots and a kettle were neatly arranged on the countertop next to the wood-burning stove. His eyes tracked across the front room to the fireplace and came to rest on a gold-framed painting of Jesus perched on the mantle beside a figurine of the Virgin Mary. He held out his hand “Give me your rifle.”
“What for?” Duman asked reluctantly.
“Give me your fucking rifle!”
Duman passed his rifle to Abdul. The Turk stumbled across the room, and lifting the gun over his head, smashed the icons to pieces. “Infidels!” he growled. “Go check in the back.”
Duman jogged down the hall to the bedrooms.
Abdul staggered across the room and thrust the rifle butt through the glass panel in the china cabinet, and a line of cups and plates shattered beneath the blow. Again and again, in frenzied rage, Pasha drove the rifle butt through the cabinet, until everything inside was smashed to bits. Then, he lashed out at the end table and snapped off a leg. “Fuck you, Kazerian!” he shouted. He stormed across the room, pulverizing everything in his path.
Rampaging into the kitchen, he resumed his crazed assault until every dish, utensil and pot lay in ruins on the floor. Bending over for a moment to catch his breath, he staggered back to the front room and determinedly pounded at remnants on the floor.
“Effendi!” Duman shouted.
Abdul whirled around and fell to one knee. Struggling to his feet, he tipped over the broken end table. “What?”
“There’s no one here. The rooms are empty.”
“Did you look beneath the beds?”
“Yes, Effendi. All of the beds are stripped and their clothes are gone.”
“Spineless coward,” Abdul hissed. “The bastard probably fled to Istanbul. Damn it! Now the Empire will claim his land.”
Abdul stormed outside and caught a glimpse of one of his men walking through the corral beside the barn. “Any sign of them, Mohammad?” he called out.
“No, Abdul. The barn is empty, except for some old tackle.”
Pasha cle
nched his fists and threw his head back. “Kazerian!” he screamed, at the top of his lungs. “Kazerian, if you can hear me, I promise you, one day you’ll pay for my son’s death.” He staggered across the barnyard, grabbed the reins and re-mounted his horse. He sat gazing at the dwelling for a moment. “Burn the house and barn,” he whispered calmly.
“Burn them?” Duman queried hesitantly.
“Burn them!” Abdul shouted. “Burn everything! God willing, we’ll cleanse this land of any remnants of the cockroaches.”
CHAPTER 14
February 22, 1915
“Here I come!” Sirak shouted. The exuberant boy ran away from the house. Jogging to the barnyard, he turned his face to the sun’s rays and enjoyed the unseasonably warm weather. Rounding the corner of the house, he ran for the barn, but suddenly veered off to the back yard. He caught sight of his father crouching behind a pile of wood. “I found you!” he hollered gleefully.
“You found me,” Mourad chuckled. He stepped out with an adoring smile. “You’re running so much better.” He ruffled the boy’s curly dark-brown hair. “Okay, that’s enough. It’s time to clean the stalls in the barn.”
Sirak jumped up and down with glee. “Please, one more time, Papa.”
“No more, Sirak. I’ve got a lot of work to do before Kemal gets back from the city.”
“Please, Papa, just one more time.”
Mourad grinned and shook his head. “Okay, but just one more. I’m counting. Go!”
Sirak darted around the side of the house and sprinted toward the barn. “Özker,” he shouted, “Papa’s it. Where are you?”
The barn door creaked open and Özker, grinning excitedly, pressed his index finger to his lips.
Sirak ducked inside the barn. “Where should we hide?”
“Let’s hide in the rock pile by the river. He’ll never find us there.”
The boys ducked out through the small door at the rear of the barn and jogged across the barren field. Sloshing through mud, they darted behind a great mound of rocks.
The Ghosts of Anatolia Page 11