“I’ve got a wife and five children. They need my protection.”
“Thousands of men with even larger families reported for service to the Empire. Failure to report is itself a crime punishable by death.”
“I paid my bedel,” Mourad replied defiantly. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Tell it to the magistrate. Put him on a horse,” the lieutenant ordered. He turned and walked over to Stepannos. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen, sir,” Stepannos whispered fearfully.
“Why didn’t you report for army service?”
“I’ve been helping Mr. Sufyan and my papa plant the crops, sir.”
“You’re under arrest,” the lieutenant said calmly. He motioned to the gendarme.
Stepannos hung his head submissively. The gendarme forced him up onto a horse.
“What’s in the barn, Sergeant Faraz?” the lieutenant asked a wiry gendarme.
“Two scrawny work horses and a few bags of flour and rice, sir.”
“Search the house for weapons. See that no harm comes to the women and children.”
“Yes, sir.” The gendarme jogged past Kemal and disappeared into the house.
Nearly an hour passed before the young sergeant and several other gendarmes emerged from the house. Fadime followed them out wearing a blue dress and veil.
“Did you find anything, Sergeant?” the lieutenant asked.
“Three women and several children under the age of fifteen are in the house, sir. I also found these.” He pulled an ivory-handled knife from a wooden box.
The lieutenant took the knife, and turning it over in his hand, inspected the engraved blade. He glanced at Kemal. “Are these your knives?”
“No,” Kemal replied uneasily.
“They belong to the Armenian?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before.”
“Sir,” Mourad began, “I can explain...”
“Shut up!” the lieutenant demanded angrily.
“I found something else, sir,” the sergeant said. He handed a sheet of paper up to the lieutenant.
The lieutenant scanned the page. “What is this?”
“It’s some sort of code, sir.”
Lieutenant Mohammad thrust the sheet of paper in front of Kemal. “What is this, Mr. Sufyan?”
Kemal glanced at the page. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen it before.”
The lieutenant stepped over to Mourad and held the paper up. “What is this, Armenian?”
Mourad glanced at the sheet and swallowed nervously. “Sir, my brother’s a member of the Ottoman Assembly. We exchanged these codes so we could communicate in case of emergency.”
“In case of emergency?” the lieutenant mocked. “What emergency?”
Mourad shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. We’ve never used them.”
The lieutenant glared at Mourad for a moment before turning back to Kemal. “Bind his hands,” he ordered a young policeman standing beside the Turk. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Sufyan.”
“For what?” Kemal protested.
“For providing sanctuary to enemy agents,” the lieutenant replied indignantly.
“Let him be!” Fadime screamed. She angrily pushed past the gendarme. “None of these men did anything wrong.”
“Get back in the house, woman!” the lieutenant shouted.
“But they’re innocent.”
“If they’re innocent, then they’ve got nothing to fear.”
“Where are you taking them?”
“To the Central Prison in Diyarbekir. Now get out of my way.” He took the reins from one of the gendarmes and swung up onto his horse.
Suddenly, the front door burst open and Sirak dashed headlong into the barnyard. He was carrying a large spoon.
Kristina ran out of the house a step behind him. “Sirak! Get back in here!”
Fadime tried to intercept the boy, but he sidestepped her and ran straight for the lieutenant’s horse.
“Don’t hurt my papa!” the red-faced boy hollered. “Leave him alone!”
The lieutenant’s horse spun in place, and spooked by the stick-toting assailant, reared up on his hind legs. The lieutenant, though clinging desperately to the horse’s neck, tumbled off. Sirak swung the stick and landed a glancing blow on the officer’s hands before a gendarme grabbed him. The gendarme dragged Sirak toward the house. Twisting and turning like a fish, Sirak struggled out of the man’s grasp and ran toward the horses once again.
“Sirak!” Mourad shouted from atop the horse.
The boy stopped in his tracks.
“Get back to the house with your mother.”
“Papa,” Sirak cried out mournfully. Tears streamed down his face.
“I’m okay, Son.” Mourad’s voice trembled with emotion. “Take care of your mother and sisters.”
Sirak turned and staggered back to his mother. Kristina pulled the sobbing boy to her side.
“Are you okay, sir?” one of the gendarmes asked the lieutenant.
The lieutenant didn’t reply. He brushed the dirt from his uniform, and grabbing the reins, remounted his horse. He angrily turned his horse and wove through the clot of riders. “You’ll pay dearly for this, Armenian!” His voice dripped hatred.
Mourad didn’t reply. He turned and nodded at Stepannos in tacit support.
Stepannos’ eyes betrayed terror. He stared back at his father in silence, his jaw quivering.
The company of riders trotted away from the farmhouse to the bend in the river.
Mourad turned his head and caught a glimpse of Kristina, Mikael and Sirak standing in the barnyard with Fadime. “God, have mercy,” he murmured.
The hinges of the massive prison doors creaked open and the lieutenant led Mourad, Stepannos and Kemal, along with six other prisoners from the surrounding villages, into the expansive central yard. The procession marched beneath the imposing black walls and Mourad glanced up at the guard shack. One of the sentries, a dark-skinned man with a rifle, leaned out through a breach and caught his eye. Nodding smugly, the guard saluted.
The detail stopped in front of a small hut and a stout Turkish guard with a clipboard limped outside to converse with the lieutenant. Sheltering his eyes from the searing rays of the afternoon sun, the man recorded details provided by the lieutenant before several guards sorted the prisoners and led them away to cells. They led Kemal off in one direction and the other prisoners, including Mourad and Stepannos, in another.
The guards took Mourad and Stepannos down a sinuous passageway and finally stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. Fumbling with a ring of keys, the guards unlocked the door and led the captives past a long row of cells, each one overflowing with prisoners. The air was thick with the commingled stench of sweat, urine and feces.
One guard led Mourad and Stepannos to the last cell. He untied them, unlocked the door and pushed them inside.
Mourad scanned the somber faces of the two dozen men sitting on the floor. They stared back in silence. Finally, an old man rose from the floor and stepped forward.
“May the Lord’s mercy be upon you,” he said barely above a whisper. “My name is Farhad, from Sasun.”
“I’m Mourad from Seghir, and this is my son, Stepannos.”
“It’s my pleasure to meet you. I regret that we’ve met in this godforsaken place.”
Mourad glanced at a curly-haired man who erupted into a fit of coughing. “How long have you been here?” he asked the old man.
“Just over two weeks, but it seems like two years. Every male in my village over the age of sixteen was arrested and brought here. They’ve detained thousands of men all over the province.”
Mourad wrapped his arm around Stepannos’ shoulders. “Can you spare a drink of water for my son? We haven’t had a sip since early this morning.”
“The guards will come by later with a ration for each prisoner. If they bring food, I advise you to get your share. We’re lucky to get a crust of bread or some wate
red-down soup. If you pass it up, there will be nothing more until tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Mourad replied somberly. “I appreciate your help.”
“Let an old man give you one more bit of advice. Confess your crime.”
“But we’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Then make something up. If you tell the interrogators what they want to hear, they’ll move on to another prisoner. Otherwise, the devils will thrash you day and night until you confess. Then you’ll end up like him.” He pointed at a man lying along one side of the cell. Apparently unconscious, the man’s shirt was stained with blood. “But whatever you do, don’t admit you assisted Andranik or Dashnak forces. Two men from my village made that mistake and the devils hanged them in the courtyard early the next morning. Tell them you hid horses, withheld food supplies, or something else.”
“We will admit nothing,” Mourad countered. He glanced resolutely at Stepannos and clenched his fist. “We’ve done nothing. For God’s sake, my oldest son serves in the army.”
“Suit yourselves,” Farhad replied, “but don’t say you weren’t warned.” The old man turned away and sat along the wall.
Mourad took Stepannos by the arm and led him across the cell. A middle-aged man scooted over to make room. Mourad bade Stepannos sit down and sat down beside him. “We will not confess to anything,” he whispered. He squeezed Stepannos’ knee. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa.” The terrified young man fidgeted mindlessly.
“No matter what they do. The wicked accusers will not have the satisfaction of besmirching our family name. We will find our strength in each other, and in God.”
“Yes, Papa. I understand.”
Nearly an hour passed before a guard detail appeared outside the cell. The taller of the two men, a strapping, acne-ridden Turk, with a jagged scar ranging down his jaw, opened the cell door. “Mourad Kazerian!” he barked.
“Remember, Stepannos, admit nothing.” Mourad patted his son on the leg, and standing up, wove past several other prisoners to the door.
“Hands behind your back,” the guard growled. He spun Mourad around, clamped handcuffs on his wrists and shoved him down the cell-block.
The guards led Mourad out of the building and across the bleak central yard. The taller guard seemed to make a point of leading him past towering gallows that loomed ominously at one end of the yard. He stopped in front of worn steps that led up to a narrow platform, and smiling callously at Mourad, pressed his hand to the latter’s throat.
Mourad glanced up at the three nooses swaying in the breeze above the platform. He shuddered. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,” he whispered.
Ducking back into the building, the guards led Mourad through a maze of offices along a dimly-lit corridor.
“Stop!” the burly guard ordered. He opened the last door and jerked Mourad to a chair in the middle of the windowless rectangular room. In the rear of the room there was a long bench and a wooden chair in front of a wall studded with wooden bludgeons, chains and other implements of torture. Unclasping Mourad’s hands, the guard cuffed his wrists to the arms of the chair.
Mourad craned his neck for a glimpse at the guards.
The taller man smiled menacingly. “I’ll bet one lira he confesses in less than five minutes,” he whispered to his comrade.
“Three minutes for him and five for the son,” the second guard replied.
Mourad looked away and both men erupted into boisterous laughter. A chill ran up his spine. He bowed his head in silent prayer.
After a few minutes, a rather slight man with black-rimmed glasses and a red fez stepped into the room. His bushy black mustache and eyebrows framed deep-set, cold eyes. He was dressed in a charcoal-gray officer’s jacket that was trimmed in red. His pants were tucked into black knee-high boots. But it was the gleaming sword at the officer’s side that caught Mourad’s eye.
The man stepped in front of the chair and glared down at Mourad for several moments. Mourad’s mouth went dry and his heart began to pound.
“My name is Major Tezer Akcam,” the man began. He had a surprisingly deep voice. “I’m your interrogator. Two eyewitnesses confirmed you serve as an agent for the Andranik forces. Your primary responsibilities are recruitment and financial support. Do you admit it?”
“I deny it,” Mourad replied determinedly. “I’m nothing more than a simple cotton farmer.”
“Do you also deny your son, Stepannos, colludes with traitors who support the Andraniks from the American Missionary School in Chunkoush?”
Mourad’s heart pounded. The memory of Stepannos’ careless comments and Bedros’ sharp rebuke came flooding back.
“My sons attended school in Chunkoush, but they had nothing to do with traitors who betrayed the Empire. How can we be accused of treason when my brother is a member of the Ottoman Assembly and my son serves loyally in the Ottoman Army?”
“Your brother, Bedros? He was arrested for conspiracy two weeks ago.”
“Arrested?” Mourad exclaimed in disbelief.
“Yes, arrested and sent to the gallows.”
“Bedros?” Mourad gasped.
“Yes, and your spineless son deserted at the height of the battle for Sarikamish.”
Mourad shook his head vehemently at the abhorrent thought. “Alek would never desert.”
“He was a gutless coward who ran like a rabbit. My patience is at an end, infidel. Who are your Andranik contacts?”
“There are no contacts. I’m only a...”
The Turk swung his gloved hand and struck Mourad full on the face. “No more lies!”
Mourad felt blood trickle from his nose. “I’m not lying,” he gasped. “We are loyal...”
“Shut up, pig! Perhaps the cane will loosen your tongue.” He nodded at the two guards.
The burly guard released Mourad’s arms, jerked him up from the chair and forced him onto his stomach on the bench. Grabbing his shirttail, the brute yanked it over Mourad’s head and lashed his outstretched arms to the boards. Fetching another rope from his pocket, the man bound Mourad’s ankles and stretched him out across the bench. He stepped to the wall, chose a cane and positioned himself astride Mourad.
Straining against the bindings, Mourad glanced up at the major. Akcam stared back with an expression of indifference.
“Twenty lashes,” he hissed.
The burly Turk lifted the cane high over his head with both hands and whipped it down. “Haa!” he barked.
Mourad arched his back under the force of the vicious blow and screamed in agony.
Time and again the Turk raised the cane in the air and smashed it down on Mourad’s back. After the eighth blow, Mourad lapsed into a stupor.
The major held out his hand to stay the guard. “Who are your Andranik contacts, Armenian?”
Mourad—unable to speak—slowly shook his head.
“Again!” the major barked.
The guard raised the cane again. He whipped it down on Mourad’s back and the rod snapped in two. The man walked to the rack and chose another. Stepping astride the bench, he resumed the beating until all twenty lashes had been delivered.
The major grabbed Mourad’s hair and lifted his head off the bench. “Fucking pussy,” he hissed. Take him to his cell and bring him back in the morning—this time with his son. He’ll confess soon enough.”
Stepannos cradled Mourad’s head in his arms. He glanced down at the angry red stripes across his father’s back. Sprawled against the back wall of the cell, Mourad hadn’t moved since the guards carried him back.
Old man Farhad crouched beside Stepannos and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Let him sleep.”
Tears streamed down Stepannos’ cheeks. He ran his fingers through his father’s hair. “Why?” he whispered. “Why?”
“I can’t explain it, Stepannos, except to say they’re evil, unprincipled men, blindly following their false God of hate. Remember what Jesus said to H
is disciples: blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
CHAPTER 19
Kristina peered through the curtain at the masked men carting bags from the barn to a wagon. “Oh, my God! They’re coming this way!”
Fadime closed the curtain. “Hide yourselves in the back!” she shouted frantically to the children huddled in the hallway. “Don’t make a sound until I come for you.”
The children scurried down the hall into the bedrooms.
“What should we do?” Kristina cried frantically.
“We’ll let them have what they want, and pray they...”
A loud rap on the door reverberated through the living room. Fadime opened the door. A man in worker’s clothing, wearing a black hood over his head, pushed through the door waving a pistol.
“Please, have mercy,” Fadime pleaded. She pushed Kristina back with her outstretched arm. “In the name of God, take whatever you want, but please don’t harm...”
“Shut up!” the man barked. He pushed her aside. “Where’s your food?”
“There’s flour and rice in the cabinet next to the stove,” Fadime replied. “Take what you want.”
The man leaned back through the doorway. “There’s more inside. Come and get it.”
Another man ran through the door. He, too, was wearing a mask.
“Check the cabinets in the kitchen,” the leader barked. He turned back to Fadime and Kristina. “Where are the young women?”
“There are no young women,” Fadime replied calmly. “The children went to stay with relatives.”
“Bullshit,” the man hissed. Pushing past Fadime and Kristina, he headed for the bedrooms.
Fadime shrieked in horror. She flung herself onto the man and buried her nails into his chest. “Leave our children alone!”
“Fucking bitch!” The intruder swung his pistol and landed a powerful blow just above Fadime’s temple.
Kristina crouched down and crawled to the stricken woman’s side. Rolling her over, she gasped at the purple welt rising above Fadime’s eye.
“I’ll shoot her if she does that again,” the bandit growled. He turned and headed toward the back bedrooms.
The Ghosts of Anatolia Page 14