The Ghosts of Anatolia

by Steven E. Wilson

  Mourad nodded solemnly. “For this I’m grateful. I thank God for your friendship and loyalty.”

  Mourad stepped through a patch of snow in Kemal’s barren field and headed for a formation of rocks along the riverbank. A few weeds were already poking up from the ground—harbingers of the approaching spring. He walked past a stand of spruce trees and spotted Stepannos and Mikael sitting on a rock tending their fishing lines.

  Stepannos cast his line into the fast-flowing stream.

  Mourad placed his hand on Mikael’s shoulder. “Having any luck?”

  “Not even a nibble. They must be sleeping.”

  “Where’s Sirak?”

  “He’s fishing with Özker by the fallen tree.”

  “Go tell them to come here. I’ll tend your line.”

  Mikael handed his makeshift fishing pole to his father, and pushing himself up from ground, headed upstream around a rock formation. He reappeared a few moments later with Sirak and Özker.

  Mourad smiled. “Hello, Özker. Your mother wants you up at the house.”

  The dark-skinned Turkish youth turned and jogged away. Mourad watched him until he reached the barnyard before turning back to his sons. “Put your poles down. I want to talk to you boys about something important.”

  Stepannos lodged his pole in the rocks and turned to face his father. Mikael pulled in his line from the water and set the pole on the bank.

  Mourad sat beside Stepannos and gathered Sirak into his lap. He glanced up at the sweltering noonday sun. “Oh, my sons, where did all the years go?”

  “What do you want to talk to us about?” Stepannos asked impatiently.

  “I want to tell you what happened to your grandfather’s brothers, Ohan and Daniel.”

  Sirak turned in his father’s lap. “We already know that, Papa. They went to live in Baghdad.”

  Mourad picked up a stone and hurled it into the rapids. “That’s what I told you, but it’s not what really happened.”

  “What happened?” Mikael asked.

  “Twenty years ago—actually, exactly twenty years ago this past November—during the reign of Sultan Abdul Hamid the Second, something horrible happened here in Anatolia. A storm of hatred and evil swept through the walled city and many of the villages in the province.”

  Mikael glanced at Stepannos, and his brother returned a vacant stare. “Where did it come from, Papa?”

  “From the Devil. It rose up from misunderstanding and distrust among the people living in Diyarbekir Province and many of the other provinces here in Anatolia. The Bloody Sultan—as we called him back then—used this misunderstanding to stir up madness.”

  “Misunderstanding?” Mikael queried. “What misunderstanding?”

  “Misunderstanding about the beliefs and intentions of our people. Many other Christians suffered too—especially the Syrians. The Sultan stirred up a terrifying hatred among the Turks and Kurds, and as a result, many of our people, including grandfather’s brothers, were killed. Grandfather and the rest of us probably would’ve been killed, too, if it hadn’t been for Kemal’s father. He hid us on this farm until the storm passed.”

  “You lived here before?” Mikael asked.

  “Yes, Son, we lived in this same house and caught fish in this same stream. That was just before Alek was born.”

  Sirak crawled out of his father’s lap and tossed a rock into the water. “Did Uncle Ohan and Uncle Daniel have children too, Papa?”

  “Yes, they did, but we don’t know what happened to them. They just disappeared.”

  Stepannos squinted at Mourad. “That’s why we came here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s why we came. Another terrible storm of hatred is sweeping through Anatolia, and once again, many of our people are being arrested, are disappearing, or worse. I think we’ll be safe here, but just in case, I wanted you to know the truth. If something happens to me, I want you to protect your mother and sisters. Do whatever you must do. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Papa,” Stepannos replied solemnly, “we understand.”

  “If we somehow get separated, I’ll return to Kemal’s farm as soon as I can. I expect you boys to stay here and take care of your mother and sisters. Keep the family together, no matter what the cost. Do you understand?”

  Both of the older boys nodded somberly. Sirak stared down at the ground.

  “Do you understand, Sirak?”

  Sirak looked up gloomily. “Yes, Papa.”

  “And if the worst happens, and we get separated and it’s impossible to return here, then we’ll all meet in Jerusalem. Find your way to the Saint James Monastery. People in the monastery will take care of you. Okay?”

  One by one, each of the boys nodded that they understood.

  Mourad stood up from the rock. “Good. This is the last time we will speak of these matters. God willing, we’ll be safe here and none of this madness will touch us. But I felt we should have a plan.”

  “Papa?” Sirak asked inquisitively.

  “Yes, Son?”

  “When can we go home?”

  Mourad stared into Sirak’s eyes for a long moment. “I don’t know. Maybe in a year or so.”

  “A year,” Stepannos said with surprise. “That’s a long time.”

  “Yes, it is, but it’s not safe there. There’s something else I must tell you, and I want you boys to keep this a secret between you and me. I don’t want to frighten your mother and sisters. Someone burned our house and barn. There’s nothing left but ashes.”

  Stepannos clenched his jaw in stunned disbelief. Mikael mumbled unintelligibly.

  “Do not despair. At least we’re all together, and someday, when this war ends, we’ll rebuild our house. It’ll be even better than it was before.”

  “Why, Papa?” Sirak asked sadly. “Why would someone burn our house?”

  “Hatred, Son. If a man lets hatred into his heart, it will control him, and then anything can be justified—no matter how terrible or how much it hurts other people. Regardless of what happens, you must put your faith in Jesus, and He will cleanse the hatred from your heart. Otherwise, the evil one will own your soul. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Good boy. Okay, that’s all I wanted to say.” Mourad picked up Mikael’s pole. “Help me catch some fish for dinner. Whoever catches the biggest...”

  “Mourad!” came a shout from the house. “Mourad!”

  Kemal ran across the field, with Özker right behind him. “It’s your mother!” he shouted. “She’s not breathing!”

  Mourad tossed the fishing pole on the ground and sprinted to the house.

  CHAPTER 17

  Abdul Pasha looked up from his plow, and spotting Baran on horseback, pulled up his mule at the end of the row.

  “My eyes must be failing me, Effendi,” the Turk said sarcastically. “You’re plowing all by yourself?”

  “Shut up, Baran. Who else will do it? My farmhands are all off fighting Russians. Besides, I’d rather plow the fields than listen to Jasmine’s endless complaining.”

  “Why don’t you get that lazy son of yours out here?”

  Pasha’s eyes narrowed and his face melted into a scowl. “Fuck you, Baran!”

  “I meant no offense, Effendi. I’ve heard you say it yourself.”

  “Maybe I have, but you’ll not mock my son.”

  “No offense intended. Actually, I just rode by your house, and Erol was chopping firewood. He’s getting much better.”

  “Slowly, but surely, he’s making progress. I still ride him hard to get his chores done.”

  “Where’s Ali?”

  “He and his brother decided to accept the amnesty offer.”

  “They reported?”

  “I took them to the Army Induction Center yesterday.”

  “Are you mad, Effendi? Why would you do that?”

  “Haven’t you heard? The lieutenant governor-general issued orders revoking the bedel of anyone caught sheltering their workers from se
rvice. I don’t want you hanging around here any more, either.”

  “Just pay me what you owe me.” Baran glanced at the plow mule. The sickly-looking animal was mottled with matted black patches. “What the hell happened to your mule?”

  “That’s tar, moron. It got him a not-fit-for-service designation, so I can keep the military procurement scum from taking him.”

  Abdul glanced up at the sun. “Well, Baran, what do you want? I must finish this field today.”

  “I rode by Kazerian’s farm this morning. Pay me my wages, and I’ll tell you what I found. You’ll be interested.”

  Abdul stared up at Baran for a moment. “Is he back?”

  “I want my pay, Abdul. I’ve got a family to feed, too.”

  Abdul glared at the disheveled Turk for a moment. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of coins. He counted and handed them up to Baran. “That’s all I’ve got now. I’ll give you the rest next month.”

  Baran carefully counted the coins and stuffed them into his pocket. “Someone tilled the Armenian’s field and cleared the debris from his foundation.”

  “Bullshit,” Abdul growled. “You lie to get your money.”

  Baran shrugged. “Go see for yourself. There’s also a fresh grave beneath the trees.”

  “When was the last time you rode over there?”

  “A week ago, and nothing had been touched.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “Not a soul. I hid in the trees for a while, but I didn’t see anyone.”

  Abdul stared at Baran for several moments. Finally, he stepped out from behind the plow and began to unharness the mule.

  “What are you doing?” Baran asked with amusement.

  “I’m riding over to see for myself.”

  “Do you want me to come, too?”

  “Hell no! Get your scrawny ass out of here before I lose my bedel.”

  “As you wish, Effendi.”

  Abdul grabbed the mule’s reins, and leaving the plow behind, headed off across the untilled field. “I’ll cut your balls off if you’re still here when I get back,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “Yes, Effendi,” Baran replied. He watched Abdul until the Turk reached the barn. “You piece of shit,” he muttered.

  Baran dismounted his horse. Retrieving a hunk of bread from his saddlebags, he squatted down and took a bite. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and mumbled angrily beneath his breath.

  Abdul emerged from the barn on horseback and trotted off to the road.

  Baran waited a few minutes. Finally, he remounted his horse and trotted across the field to the Pasha farmhouse.

  Abdul stopped his horse at the crest of the hill overlooking the Kazerian farm. Shading his eyes from the afternoon sun, he scanned the valley from the foundation to the murky green pond. Both the cotton field and the pasture inside the fence were freshly tilled.

  “Where are you, Kazerian? I’ll kill you, infidel—no matter how long it takes.” He jerked Timurhan’s pistol out of his saddlebag and advanced a bullet into the chamber. Tucking the gun beneath his belt, he rode slowly down to the farm.

  The chimney stood statue-like in the middle of the foundation littered with charred wood. To one side, however, someone had painstakingly sorted fire-tinged stones.

  Abdul turned and gazed out past the tilled fields toward the rolling hills west of the farm. Gnashing his teeth, he spit on the ground. “Fuck you, Sufyan,” he snarled. Finally, he spun his horse around and trotted off.

  Kemal plucked a nail out of his mouth, and pressing a board into position on the wagon, started the nail with a few taps. “Özker, hand me some more nails.”

  Özker grabbed a handful of nails from a wooden box and handed them to his father.

  Kemal started another nail, but looked up at the distant whinny of a horse. A lone rider trotted out of the trees at the bend in the river.

  “Sirak,” Kemal barked, “run to the house and tell your father a rider’s coming. Özker, you go with him.”

  The two boys scampered off across the barnyard.

  Kemal tucked the hammer beneath the waistband of his pants and walked out to meet the rider. The man finally got close enough for him to discern the visitor’s swarthy features. “Abdul Pasha,” he muttered warily.

  “Good afternoon, Kemal.”

  “What can I do for you, Abdul?”

  Pasha glanced across the field behind the barn. “I didn’t realize you had such a fine-looking farm. It looks like you’ve gotten a good start on your planting.”

  “God is great. The weather was perfect this week.”

  “Spring is finally here. I take it you got your military exemption.”

  “Yes, at least for one year,” Kemal lied guardedly.

  “Are you available for work? All of my men were conscripted, and I need help planting my crops.”

  “No, I’ve got my hands full with my own crops.”

  “I’ll pay you double what you earned from me last year. I’ll even barter provisions for your family.”

  “I’m sorry, Abdul, but I just don’t have time.”

  Pasha sighed with frustration. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He glanced toward the farmhouse. “By the way, have you seen Mourad Kazerian?”

  The hairs stood up on the back of Kemal’s neck. “Uh…no,” he stuttered, “I haven’t seen Mourad in months. The last I heard, he was moving his family to Istanbul to live with his brother. Why do you ask?”

  “I thought maybe he needed some work.”

  “If I see him, I’ll be sure to tell him you’re looking for help.”

  “I’d appreciate that. But be careful, my friend, the governor-general’s new regulations forbid dealings with Russian sympathizers. The penalty is death by hanging.”

  “Mourad Kazerian is not a Russian sympathizer,” Kemal snapped.

  “Easy, my friend. I wasn’t referring to Kazerian.” Abdul handed down a small piece of paper. “I picked up the Agence in the village. There’s a story about a lot of Armenian leaders being arrested in Istanbul for plotting against the Empire. Since your farm isn’t far from the north road to Bingöl, you could encounter sympathizers fleeing to the east from Istanbul. Remain vigilant.”

  “Thank you for the warning. I’ll keep my eyes open. How’s your family?”

  “It’s a difficult time for everyone. We barely have enough food to make it to the next harvest, but somehow we’ll get by. I just wish this damned war would end.” Pasha glanced toward the farmhouse. “How are your sons?”

  “I have only one son. Özker is fine.”

  “I thought I saw two boys. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

  “That was Özker’s cousin from Siverek.”

  “His cousin from Siverek,” Abdul repeated with a toothy grin. “Well, I must be going now. God willing, I’ll see you soon.”

  “Goodbye, Abdul. May God protect you and your family.”

  Pasha turned and rode off across the barnyard. Kemal stood watching until the Turk disappeared beyond an embankment sprinkled with yellow and white wildflowers. Finally, he turned and walked across the barnyard to the house.

  CHAPTER 18

  “Good morning!” Kemal called out cheerfully. The Turk was dressed in tattered work clothes. He took a seat at the table beside Mourad. “Did you hear the warblers this morning?”

  “No, I missed them.”

  Nahid, adorned in a baggy shalwar, with a long-sleeved blouse and veil, set a platter of bread and cheese between the two men.

  Kemal sliced off a hunk of cheese, and wrapping it with bread, stuffed it into his mouth. “It’s a beautiful day outside,” he said through a mouthful of food. “Özker and I went to fetch water from the river and we spotted a bear and her cubs basking on the far bank. It shouldn’t take us more than a couple of hours to finish planting the cotton. How about if we ride over to your farm after we finish?”

  Mourad took a sip of his tea. “No, I want to stay here today. Pasha spooked me. He
knows...I feel it in my bones.”

  “Relax, my friend. Don’t let him get to you. He’s desperate, or he wouldn’t come to ask me for help.”

  “How can you be so calm? I couldn’t sleep at all last night.”

  Kemal patted Mourad’s arm. “Relax, everything will be...”

  The pounding of horses’ hooves brought Mourad out of his chair. “What’s that?”

  “Kemal Sufyan,” a gruff voice bellowed from the barnyard, “come out now!”

  Kemal glanced anxiously at Mourad. He got up from the table, opened the door and stepped outside.

  More than two-dozen uniformed gendarmes were scattered across the barnyard. Several had guns trained on the house. Another group was inspecting the barn.

  “We already gave up our horses and mules,” Kemal offered guardedly, “along with fifty percent of our supplies. I’ll get the receipt.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Mohammad,” the leader barked. “Are you Kemal Sufyan?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you sheltering the Armenian Mourad Kazerian?”

  Kemal stared back at the lieutenant in stunned silence.

  “Are you?”

  “Sir, Mourad and his family are close friends, and someone burned their home to the ground.”

  “I have a warrant for his arrest. Stand clear while my men search the house.”

  The officer motioned several men into the house. The first gendarme, a chubby Turk with a pistol, grabbed Mourad and forced his arm behind his back. He pushed him outside. Another gendarme led Stepannos to the barnyard. The others searched the house.

  The portly gendarme bound Mourad’s hands behind his back with a stretch of rope.

  “Armenian dogs,” the lieutenant hissed.

  Mourad glanced over his shoulder at another policeman binding Stepannos’ hands. “Why are you doing this? We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Do you deny recruiting men for the Dashnak forces in the east?”

  “I absolutely deny it. My oldest son is a soldier in the Ottoman Army.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifty,” Mourad replied tersely.

  “Why haven’t you reported for army service?”