Dr. Charles ducked behind a cart parked at the corner. Fighting to catch his breath, he hoisted Sirak onto his shoulders and gathered the others around him. “They’ll have to pass this way to get to the river.”
Peering up the street from atop Dr. Charles’ shoulders, Sirak watched mounted policemen clear the mob ahead of the procession. “Is my papa coming now?” he cried out hopefully.
“I don’t know, Son,” Charles replied distractedly. “We’ll find out soon.”
Several minutes passed before policemen on horseback reached their position. Whimpers, wails and shouts from distraught relatives echoed off the walls of surrounding buildings.
“Hovan! Oh, my Hovan!” a young woman screamed hysterically above the clamor.
“I love you, Vartan,” an old man yelled.
The huge leading throng of relatives streamed on both sides of the cart and a phalanx of armed guards surged forward ahead of the prisoners.
“Dear God,” Kristina called out frantically, “they’re all bound together.”
More than twenty abreast, the long column of scruffy men and boys in tattered rags stumbled past them. A fetid communal odor hung over them like a cloud. Telltale signs of torture—cuts and bruises, blackened eyes and charred heads—were visible on many of the prisoners. Some prisoners carried other men on stretchers. Clean white bandages worn by a few men seemed oddly out of place. A few prisoners searched the surrounding multitude for loved ones, but the majority stared trance-like at the ground beneath their feet. Club-toting guards shouted commands and forced the desperate crowd out of their path.
Bobbing and craning, Kristina scrutinized the vacant faces of the closest prisoners. “Mikael, climb up on this cart!”
Mikael climbed up the tailgate and jumped into the bed. His eyes darted from face to face, searching for Mourad and Stepannos. “There they are!” he shouted. “Papa! I’m up here! Stepannos! I’m up here!”
Stepannos hobbled along with his father near the end of the procession. Hunched over at the waist, Mourad looked as if he’d aged twenty years. His right eye was swollen shut.
“Papa!” Mikael yelled again.
Mourad looked up and searched the crowd. Suddenly, he spotted Mikael. He waved his hand and yelled to his son.
“I can’t hear you, Papa!” Mikael called out mournfully. He held his arms extended. “Papa, I love you. Stepannos, my brother, I love you, too. May God protect you!”
“Mikael, take Sirak so he can see, too,” Dr. Charles shouted. He handed the boy up. Kristina passed Izabella to Elizabeth. Climbing into the cart, she leaned down and lifted her daughter into the wagon. Mikael climbed into the driver’s seat. Reaching back into the bed, he pulled Sirak in beside him.
Sirak stood in the seat and scanned the faces streaming past. “Where’s Papa?”
Mikael pointed to the road behind the cart. “Right there!”
Sirak spotted them. He jumped up and down. “Papa!” he called out jubilantly. “Papa, I miss you. I love you. Stepannos, I love you, too.”
“Stepannos! Mourad!” Kristina shouted. “I miss you, my darlings. We pray for you.” She lifted Izabella and turned her head. “Look Izabella! There’s your papa and brother.”
Mourad waved his arms. He cupped his bandaged hands over his mouth and yelled up at Kristina, but the roar of the crowd muffled his shout.
“What?” Kristina shouted frantically. “We can’t hear you!”
“Jerusalem!” Stepannos bellowed up to her. “Saint James in Jerusalem!”
“Yes!” Kristina shouted. “I heard you! Saint James in Jerusalem.” Staring helplessly, with tears streaming down her face, she locked eyes with Mourad. She held his gaze for a moment, before the trailing throng pushed him past.
Mikael and Sirak crawled over the side of the cart and jumped to the ground. Dr. Charles plucked Izabella out of the bed. Elizabeth helped Kristina climb over the tailgate.
“They look terrible,” Mikael gasped. “Did you see Papa’s eye?”
“Yes,” Kristina sobbed, “and there were bandages wound around both of his hands.”
“At least they’re alive,” Charles said. “Thank God Almighty.”
“Yes, they’re alive,” Kristina said gratefully. Looking to the heavens, she traced the sign of the cross across her head and chest. “Thank you, dear God.”
Dr. Charles grabbed Sirak’s hand. “Come on, let’s hurry back to the wagon and follow them down to the river.”
Hakan pulled the wagon to a stop at the top of an embankment overlooking the Tigris River. The blazing noonday sun hung directly overhead in a cloudless sky. Far below, at the crowded river’s edge, the prisoners were being transferred onto kelek rafts supported by inflated animal skins. Twenty to thirty men, all bound together, were being loaded on to each raft, along with an oarsman and an armed gendarme.
Several overloaded rafts were already drifting down the slow-moving river. Distraught friends and family members scattered along the bank and many shadowed rafts bearing their loved ones. A line of jagged rocks several hundred yards downstream blocked the progress of the hordes on land. Heartbreaking wails and mournful goodbyes reverberated up and down the river.
“Wait here, Hakan!” Dr. Charles shouted. Jumping to the ground, he helped the women and children out of the wagon and led them down the riverbank and into the teeming crowd.
Sirak spotted his father immediately. He jumped up and down and waved his arms. “Papa! Papa!” he called out frantically. “Papa, I’m over here!”
A guard led Mourad and Stepannos onto a raft and tethered them to a dozen other men. Mourad slumped to his knees. He peered up at the boisterous, crowd-covered embankment and caught sight of Kristina and his children. Nudging Stepannos, he pointed to the shore and raised his shackled arm.
Panicked cries suddenly arose from downstream.
Dr. Charles gasped in horror at the sight of one raft listing precipitously to the side. “Merciful God!” he breathed.
The raft abruptly rolled over amid a chorus of terrified screams. The guard and helmsman bobbed to the surface a moment later. Glancing back toward the stricken raft, they swam for shore.
“Someone help them!” Kristina shrieked.
The gendarmes watched passively from the shore, as ripples in the water rolled gently onto the bank.
One man swam out to the capsized raft. He tried to turn the raft over, but failed. “Help me!” he bellowed.
Several men, including Dr. Charles rushed out to join him. But it was hopeless. Bound together with manacles and ropes, the prisoners sank straight to the bottom.
“Did you see that?” one of the guards asked his comrade within earshot of Dr. Charles. “They sank like cannons.”
“They must have gold in their pockets,” another guard snickered. “We should’ve searched them more carefully.”
“Murderers! Child killers!” Dr. Charles bellowed, his baritone voice booming with anger. “You will all rot in hell!” He waded to shore and gazed helplessly at the overturned raft.
Two gendarmes ran down the embankment and grabbed Dr. Charles’ arms.
“Let me go!” Charles exclaimed angrily. He tried to pull away, but the gendarmes twisted his arm behind his back. They kicked his feet out from beneath him and forced him to the ground.
“You’re under arrest,” one gendarme shouted.
“For what?” Charles asked indignantly.
“Incitement to rebellion,” the man replied.
“Let him go!” Elizabeth cried out. “He did nothing!” She rushed forward and tried to pull the gendarme away from her husband, but the man shoved her to the ground.
The gendarmes led Charles up the embankment to a group of officials standing on the ridge. One of the men, a Turk wearing civilian clothes, stepped forward and punched Charles in the face.
A trickle of blood ran from Dr. Charles’ nose. He glared back defiantly.
“Hell on earth awaits you, infidel,” one man snarled. “Take him to the
prison.”
Sirak watched helplessly as the gendarmes escorted Dr. Charles away. Suddenly, he whirled back to the river and scanned the rafts floating downstream. His eyes locked onto a large raft crowded with prisoners that was abreast of the rocky peninsula jutting into the slow-moving river. “Papa,” he whispered, as the raft drifted out of sight.
CHAPTER 27
June 1, 1915
Lala poked her head through the door into the gloomy bedroom. She tiptoed across the room with a tray. Grief hung in the air like the poignant dirge of a lone piper.
Nurse Barton was lying on the bed beside Kristina. She had a washcloth draped over her eyes. Izabella and Sirak were huddled against the wall on a pallet and Mikael was slumped in the chair across the room.
“Lala,” Elizabeth whispered, “please bring me a glass of water.”
“Right away, madam. I also brought a tray of fruit and cheese.” She set the tray on the nightstand and fetched a water pitcher from the bureau.
“Did Hakan take my letter to the governor-general?”
“Yes, madam. He left two hours ago, but he’s not back yet.”
“Send him in as soon as he gets back, even if I’m asleep.”
“Of course, madam. I’m sorry to trouble you, but there’s a problem in the clinic.”
“What problem?”
“Doctor Karinget’s been asking for you. He’s fretting about a soldier he admitted this morning. He needs surgery, but there’s no scrub nurse.”
“Tell him I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Yes, madam. Nurse Barton, we’re all heartbroken about Dr. Charles. It’s shameful after everything he’s done to help people here in Diyarbekir. I pray they release him soon.”
“Thank you, Lala,” Elizabeth said wearily. “I appreciate your prayers.”
“Maybe Dr. Charles will be with Hakan when he returns. Someone must have some common sense down at that prison.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Miss Lala?” Sirak called out.
The old Turkish woman turned and peered at Sirak through her veil. “Yes, my little angel?”
“Would you pray for my papa, too?”
“Oh, you poor little dear. Of course—I’ll say a special prayer just for him.”
“His name is Mourad Kazerian.”
“I know. I’ll remember him in all of my prayers.”
“Thank you, Miss Lala.”
Lala stepped out and Nurse Barton rolled onto her back. Sobbing softly, she stared up at the ceiling.
“Have you ever been to Jerusalem?” Kristina whispered.
“No. David and I intended to go last winter, but then the war ruined our plans.”
“I’ve heard you can worship any God you want there and nobody interferes. Can you imagine that—Muslims, Jews and Christians living together in peace?”
“I doubt the Ottoman officials in Jerusalem are all that tolerant now that there’s war. In America, religious freedom is guaranteed by our Constitution.”
“America,” Kristina whispered. “It must be a wonderful country.”
“Mama, where is America?” Sirak asked.
“It’s far, far away, little mouse—on the other side of the great ocean.”
“Is that where God lives?”
“No, God doesn’t live there, but lot’s of wonderful people do, like Nurse Barton and Dr. Charles. Uncle Bedros called it paradise on earth.”
“Has Papa ever been there?”
“No, little mouse, he’s never been there. Maybe someday, after we meet Papa and Stepannos in Jerusalem, we can all visit America together.”
“How do we know Papa’s in Jerusalem?” Mikael called out skeptically.
“He said he’d meet us there,” Kristina replied. “We must have faith he’ll find his way.”
“Can we go find them tomorrow?” Sirak asked impatiently.
Kristina sighed sadly. “We can’t go tomorrow, but we’ll go...”
A knock at the door resounded through the room.
“Who is it?” Elizabeth called out.
Lala pushed the door ajar. “Hakan is back, madam. He’s here with me now.”
Elizabeth bolted up in the bed. “Have him wait in the parlor. I’ll be right there.” She grabbed her robe off the bedpost and hurried out.
Hakan was standing in the parlor. He looked up with a long face.
“What happened?” Nurse Barton demanded.
“They wouldn’t listen to me, Nurse Barton.”
“Did you ask to see the governor-general?”
“Yes, I did just what you said, but I only got to speak to his assistant. He said the governor-general was busy and couldn’t be interrupted.”
“Did you give him my letter?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Good,” she whispered. “Hopefully, he’ll read it soon.”
“No, madam.”
“No? Why not?”
“I’m so sorry. I did the best I could.”
“What happened? Tell me.”
“He burned the letter.”
“He burned it?”
“Yes, he lit a match and set fire to it right there on his desk.”
“But why?”
“He told me to tell you murderers and child killers don’t read letters.”
“Murderers and child killers?”
“That’s what he said. Those were his exact words.”
“Dear God. Did he say anything else?”
Hakan shook his head “No.”
Nurse Barton bit her lip and stared tearfully at a collage of photographs on the wall. One was a grainy black and white image of David Charles, along with several other white-coated doctors, standing in front of the American Missionary Hospital in Chunkoush. A snapshot from a happier day, Charles stood cheerfully, with his arm draped around a young Turkish colleague’s shoulders. He stared back with his indomitable grin. Nurse Barton gazed at his image for several moments. “Leave me now,” she sobbed.
CHAPTER 28
The front door opened and Erol struggled inside toting a large burlap bag. His red face was streaked with perspiration. Straining under the weight of the bulky load, he tripped and nearly fell. “Father told me to bring in these potatoes.”
Flora rushed around the kitchen table. “Here, let me help you.” She grabbed one end of the bag and helped him hoist it onto the counter. “This is much too big for you. You shouldn’t be lifting anything this heavy.”
Erol bent over and propped his arms on his knees. “Tell Father,” he replied wearily. “If I don’t, he whips me.”
Flora grabbed a wet cloth from the kitchen and dabbed perspiration from the boy’s forehead. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand why he hits you. Is it my fault?”
Erol took a deep breath and sighed. “No, it’s not you. It’s because I’m not Timurhan.”
Kristina frowned. “Timurhan?”
“Timurhan was my half-brother, born of Sabriye. Don’t you remember him? He was with us that day Father offered to buy your farm.”
“Oh yes, I do remember. Where is he now?”
“He got killed in the war. Father always hated me, but since Timurhan died, it’s been even worse. He hates Mother, too.”
“Erol, he doesn’t hate you. He’s just a very strict man. He’s that way with me, too.”
“No, he hates me. He constantly tells me I’ll never amount to anything, and that I’ll never be like Timurhan.”
Flora smiled and brushed Erol’s bangs back from his face. “You must be thirsty. Would you like some water?”
“Thank you, but then I must get back to my chores.”
Flora poured a glass of water and handed it to Erol. He gulped it down and she refilled his glass. “Slow down, or you’ll get a side ache.”
Erol took another sip and handed her the glass. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry he forced your mother and sisters out of the large bedroom.”
“He hates them, too. He wants us
all to leave, but we’ve got no place to go.”
“Well, I don’t hate you. Always remember that. How old are you Erol?”
“Eight.” He glanced at the door.
“My youngest brother is eight, too.”
“I know.”
“You know Sirak?”
“I met him when we came to your farm. Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere safe, I hope.”
“You aren’t really Armenian, are you?” Erol asked Flora.
“Yes, I am. Why do you doubt it?”
“The Armenian fighters killed Timurhan. If there’s anyone Father hates more than me, it’s the Armenians.”
“I am Armenian, so I guess he must hate me, too.”
Erol shook his head. “No, he doesn’t. I see the way he treats you.”
Flora took his empty glass. “How does he treat me?”
“With love—like he treated Timurhan.”
Flora chuckled. “I think sometimes you let your imagination run wild.”
“Are you scared to have a baby?”
Flora’s eyes widened with surprise. She blushed crimson. “Please, Erol, don’t ask me questions about such things.”
“I’m sorry. I heard Sabriye tell Mother you’re pregnant. Now you hate me, too.”
Flora regained her composure. She took Erol by the shoulders. “No, I don’t hate you. I’ll never hate you. You and I will always be good friends. Okay?”
Erol nodded gratefully. “Okay.”
“Erol,” a gruff voice bellowed from the barnyard, “where the hell are you?”
Erol’s eyes filled with fear. “Don’t let him hit me.”
The door burst open and Abdul lunged inside. His face was flushed red with anger. “What are you doing? I told you to feed the chickens.”
Erol hurried past Abdul and out the door.
Abdul slapped him on the back of the head. “Idiot,” he spat out. He turned and caught Flora’s disapproving glare. “What?”
“He’s your own son. Why do you treat him like a dog?”
“Watch your tongue, woman. I told him to bring in the bag of rice and come right back to the barn. The boy’s lazy. He uses every possible excuse to avoid work.”
The Ghosts of Anatolia Page 18