The Ghosts of Anatolia

by Steven E. Wilson

  “I asked him to help me rearrange heavy supplies and utensils here in the kitchen, and he was kind enough to lend a hand. He did nothing wrong.”

  “In that case, I’ll spare him the whip.”

  “You’d whip your own flesh and blood? It hurts when I see you abuse your own son this way. Is this how you’ll treat our children?”

  Abdul raised his hand. “You’ll not speak to me this way.”

  “Go ahead, hit me.”

  Abdul glared at her menacingly for a moment. Finally, he dropped his hand. “Women,” he huffed beneath his breath, “you’re all the same.”

  “Yes, we’re all the same. We all expect affection and kindness from our fathers and husbands. My father raised four sons and two daughters, and I never saw him raise his hand in anger—not even once.”

  Abdul crossed his arms and glowered at Flora. “I’m doing the best I can.” Then, considering her youth and beauty, Abdul leaned his pitchfork against the wall and took her hands in his. “I have some good news. My friend met with the governor-general.”

  “What did he say?” Flora asked with trepidation.

  “He agreed to spare your father and brother. They’re to be exiled to Syria.”

  “Syria? Why? They’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Your father admitted he aided the enemy, and the punishment for treason is hanging. It’s the best I could do.”

  Flora took a deep breath. “What about my mother?”

  “All Armenians in Anatolia are being relocated. She will probably be exiled to Syria, too—along with your sister and brothers.”

  “With my papa?”

  “I asked friends with influence to spare your father and brother. That’s all I can do. I’m not a miracle worker.”

  “Please, Abdul,” Flora begged tearfully. “I kept my promises to you, and you must keep yours to me. Will you do this for me?”

  “There’s a war going on. I saved your father and brother. What more do you want?”

  “I want my mama, papa, and my siblings to all live together in peace. That’s what you promised me.”

  Abdul stared at Flora for several moments. She glared back with unwavering determination.

  Abdul grinned. “How can I deny such beauty?” He reached for her hand, but Flora spun away.

  “I don’t want your flattery. I want you to honor your promise. Otherwise, I will not be bound by my promise to you.”

  “I can force you to stay.”

  “Yes, you can, but you can’t force me to be happy.”

  Taking a deep breath, Abdul groaned frustratedly. “I’ll do everything I can.” He stepped outside and shut the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 29

  June 8, 1915

  “We’re leaving now,” Elizabeth muttered dejectedly. She was wearing a long black dress and white gloves. Her hair was pulled back beneath a scarf.

  Kristina got up from the table and gave Elizabeth a hug. “I’ll pray your message finds its way to someone who will open the prison doors.”

  “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, Kristina. Thank God you’re here.”

  “Do they need me in clinic while you’re gone?”

  “No, everything’s okay for now. I should be back in a couple of hours, and then we’ll have Hakan take us to the market. Do you need anything?”

  “No, we’re fine. Be careful, Elizabeth.”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  Elizabeth made her way through the throng outside the main door of the hospital.

  “Good morning, madam,” Hakan greeted politely. “I brought water. It’s extremely hot today.”

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth replied distractedly. “We must hurry to the telegraph office. The clinic is already overflowing with patients.”

  “Yes, madam; I know a route that shouldn’t be very crowded.”

  Hakan helped Elizabeth into the wagon. He climbed into the driver’s seat and flicked the reins. The wagon jerked away from the hospital and sped down a crowded boulevard for several blocks before turning into a residential neighborhood in a rundown section of the city.

  It rattled past dozens of people, including many young children, gathered in front of the old basalt homes and buildings that lined the street. Here and there, small groups of haggard men stood guard over their beleaguered families and what little they had in the way of worldly possessions.

  Elizabeth caught sight of an emaciated young woman clutching a half-starved toddler in her lap. “God have mercy,” she muttered.

  Two young boys darted into the street. Holding up their tiny little hands, they ran alongside the wagon. “Bread please!” the younger one called up to her.

  Hakan cracked his whip above their heads. “Stay back!” he shouted gruffly.

  “Stop that, Hakan!” Elizabeth ordered. “Stop the wagon.”

  “But, madam, we don’t have time to...”

  “Stop the wagon!”

  Hakan pulled up on the reins and brought the wagon to a rolling stop.

  Elizabeth fished through her purse and pulled out a handful of coins. Leaning down, she pressed coins into the eager hands of the youngsters crowding around the wagon. “God bless you,” she said to each grateful child.

  The throng quickly swelled. Soon other teenagers and adults gathered expectantly behind the horde of children.

  Elizabeth, her face beading droplets of sweat, continued doling out coins. Finally, she held up her empty palms. “That’s all I have. May God bless each one of you.”

  The throng melted away and Elizabeth caught sight of a slight young girl standing alone just off the road. The dark-haired child’s left leg was amputated at the knee and she was leaning on a cane fashioned from a tree branch.

  The wagon eased forward.

  “Wait just a minute,” Elizabeth said.

  Hakan reined the horse to a stop.

  Climbing down from the wagon, Elizabeth walked to the side of the road and crouched beside the little girl. Shading her eyes, she smiled warmly. “Hello, sweetheart. What’s your name?”

  The girl didn’t reply. She stared back with doe-eyed innocence.

  “Where is your mommy, honey?”

  The little girl turned and pointed at a scruffy young woman in a worn dress. Elizabeth guessed she was seventeen or eighteen years old. She was standing beside a gaunt, middle-aged man.

  “Let’s go talk to them.” Elizabeth took the little girl’s arm and helped her hobble to the couple. “Hello, I’m Elizabeth Barton, the head nurse at the Missionary Hospital.”

  “Good morning,” the young woman replied politely. “My name is Azra and this is my husband, Farhad.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “We lived in the village of Tatum near Van.”

  “Van?” Elizabeth muttered with surprise. “That’s a long way. Did you flee from the war?”

  The young woman nodded solemnly. “Our village was burned to the ground. Ottoman soldiers killed my mother and father, and both of my brothers. They slaughtered over three hundred of our friends and neighbors, too. We’re the only ones left, except for a neighbor boy who’s asleep on the ground over there.”

  Elizabeth reached out and squeezed the young woman’s shoulder. “God bless you.”

  “We lost everything, but we should be grateful to be alive—at least that’s what the German doctor told me when he amputated Sima’s leg.”

  Elizabeth reflected for a moment. Suddenly, she reached up, unfastened her earrings and handed them to the young woman. “They’re gold. Trade them to buy food and clothing for your family.”

  Azra stared down at the shiny loops in her hand and glanced at her husband.

  “And, if you come to the Missionary Hospital this afternoon, we have a room where the four of you can stay. It’s in the basement, but it’s a lot better than living out here. Just ask the guards for Nurse Barton.”

  “Thanks be to God,” Azra whispered tearfully.

  Nurse Barton glanced at her watch. “
I must go now. Will I see you this afternoon?”

  “You will see us,” the young woman’s husband replied. He nodded respectfully and wrapped his arm around Azra’s shoulders.

  “Have a good morning, and I’ll see you later.” Elizabeth walked into the street and climbed up into the wagon. She felt the weight of Hakan’s astonished stare. “What?”

  “The compassion within your heart is limitless, Nurse Barton. Please forgive my indifference.”

  “It was the least I could do. Let’s hurry on now. I need to send my telegram and get back to the hospital.”

  The wagon pulled to a stop outside the telegraph office at a little before nine o’clock. Hakan tied the horse to a post. He helped Nurse Barton down and followed her inside.

  A young clerk looked up from behind the desk. “May I help you?”

  Elizabeth handed him a single sheet of paper. “This is an urgent message for Ambassador Henry Morgenthau at the American Embassy in Istanbul.”

  “I’m sorry, madam,” the young man replied regretfully, “but all private communications have been suspended until further notice.”

  “Suspended?” Elizabeth asked incredulously. “On whose orders?”

  “By order of the governor-general,” a man called out from the back of the room.

  Elizabeth turned and glared at the pudgy gendarme sitting in a chair.

  The man got up and stepped to the desk. He grabbed the paper out of the clerk’s hand. “What’s your name, madam?”

  “Elizabeth Barton Charles.”

  “Wait here until I return.”

  The gendarme turned and disappeared through an open door at the back of the room. A few minutes passed before he reappeared with a tall, uniformed army officer. The man wore a belted red jacket and knee-high leather boots. His coal-black eyes and bushy brows lent him a menacing air.

  “That’s her there,” the gendarme said.

  The officer held up the paper. “Did you write this telegram, madam?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “You’re Elizabeth Barton, the Missionary Hospital nurse?”

  “I am she.”

  “And you wrote that the governor-general is a cold-blooded murderer responsible for the death of hundreds, if not thousands, of Armenians and other Christians throughout Diyarbekir Province?”

  “I did, and he is.”

  “You are an American, madam?”

  “Yes, I am. And what is your name, sir?”

  “Major Akeem al-Kawukji, madam,” the officer replied evenly. “Gendarme!” he barked out.

  The man jumped to attention. “Yes, sir!”

  “Escort Nurse Barton back to the Missionary Hospital. Madam, you are hereby confined to the hospital until further notice. You are forbidden to make any further attempts to contact individuals outside this city. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Major,” Nurse Barton replied defiantly. “I understand your aim perfectly.”

  “I hope so, madam, for your own sake.” The major turned and walked to the rear door.

  “Major,” Elizabeth called after him, “I’d like my telegram back, if you don’t mind.”

  The major stopped and turned to face her. He glanced at the gendarme, and the man stared back, awaiting the major’s response. “Take care, madam,” al-Kawukji finally replied. “I trust you’ll bear in mind that the capitulations which once protected you no longer exist.” Finally, he turned and disappeared through the door.

  Elizabeth was busy dispensing afternoon medications to the patients on the surgery ward when a young orderly drew her attention from the doorway. “Excuse me,” Elizabeth told a wounded soldier before setting her tray on the stand at the end of the bed, “I’ll be right back.” She turned to the orderly. “Yes, what is it, Joseph?”

  “There’s someone here to see you, Nurse Barton. He says he’s representing Yousouf Zia Ali, Mufti of Diyarbekir.”

  “Mufti Ali?” she asked with surprise. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  The orderly stared back uneasily. He cleared his throat. “He’s been to the prison, Nurse Barton.”

  Elizabeth’s face lit up. She looked at the young man with hopeful anticipation. He stared back awkwardly, and then looked away.

  “What is it, Ahmed?” Getting no reply, she brushed past him and rushed down the hall. “Tell Beatrice to dispense the medications,” she called back anxiously.

  Hakan and Lala were standing outside the administrative office with a slight Turk in cleric’s robes. He was speaking to Doctor Saunders. They all turned at the sound of footsteps.

  “Is something wrong?” Elizabeth asked anxiously.

  The Turk swallowed uneasily. “Nurse Barton, I’m Ismael Selmin, the Mufti’s personal assistant. I’m afraid I bear horrible news. Dr. Charles died early this morning.”

  Elizabeth’s expression melted into horror. “You’re mistaken.” She glanced at Doctor Saunders’ grim expression. “No, it’s a lie. It’s not true.”

  “I’m sorry,” Selmin said sorrowfully. “His body was released to the Mufti an hour ago. I’ve brought him back to the hospital.”

  Tears streamed from Elizabeth’s eyes. She gasped. “How did he die?”

  “We were told he came down with the typhus and passed very quickly.”

  “Where is he?” she demanded.

  “Nurse Barton,” Hakan interjected, “I asked the guards to take the doctor’s body to the morgue.”

  “I want to see him!” Elizabeth turned and took a step down the hall.

  “Elizabeth!” Doctor Saunders exclaimed. He grabbed her arm. “I’ve seen David’s body. You must not...”

  “I want to see him!” Elizabeth yelled hysterically. She pulled away from the doctor and ran headlong down the hall.

  “Come with me,” Doctor Saunders said to Hakan and Lala.

  The three of them rushed after Nurse Barton. Hurrying to the end of the long corridor, they turned the corner and caught a glimpse of her, ducking into the stairwell. They followed her down the stairs into the dimly lit bowels of the hospital. Doctor Saunders ran into the rank-smelling morgue.

  Two bodies were lying on carts in the middle of the small room. The sheets had been pulled back to reveal dark-skinned corpses. Elizabeth stood beside a wooden box resting atop a table near the back wall.

  Doctor Saunders charged to the back of the room. “Don’t!” he pleaded, grabbing her hands. “For God’s sake, you must not see him this way. It wasn’t typhus.”

  Elizabeth stared into Doctor Saunders’ eyes. She pushed his hands away. Grabbing the wooden top, she yanked it up and gasped in horror.

  Dr. Charles’ face was charred beyond recognition. All of his hair—including his beard and eyebrows—was burned completely away. His upper lip hung across his neck—attached only by a thin sliver of skin—and exposed a jagged line of broken teeth. In the center of his blackened face, all that remained of his nose was a discolored irregular gash. Protruding from his chest was a wooden-handled knife that had been thrust through a blood-soaked sheet of paper.

  Elizabeth bent down to scrutinize the paper. It was the hand-written telegram Major al-Kawukji had taken from her at the telegraph office earlier that morning. “Merciful God,” she gasped. She turned to Doctor Saunders. “I killed him! My God, I killed David!” Her eyes rolled up in her head and she slumped heavily against the box.

  Doctor Saunders lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the morgue.

  Sitting solemnly on the side of the bed, Kristina dabbed Elizabeth’s forehead with a washcloth. She’d fallen into a deep sleep.

  Sirak sat down beside her and patted Nurse Barton’s hand. He peered up at Kristina with innocent, teary eyes. “Mama, why did the bad men hurt Dr. Charles?”

  “I don’t know, dear one,” Kristina replied somberly. “I guess he was just too good.”

  “How could he be too good?”

  “Dr. Charles made the governor-general realize how badly he was treating people. He didn’t like tha
t, so he hurt Dr. Charles.”

  “The governor-general will never get to heaven, will he, Mama?”

  “That’s for God to decide, little mouse.”

  The door opened behind them. Lala stepped over Izabella’s toys and walked to the bedside. “Nurse Barton,” she whispered. She jiggled Elizabeth’s arm. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a young woman asking for you at the hospital entrance—Azra from Tatum. She’s got an injured daughter with her. She said you told her to bring her family to the hospital.”

  “Oh, dear God, I forgot. Lala, take them down to the old storage room in the basement and give them some blankets and food and water. Tell the guards they’ll be living there until things settle down. Tell Azra I’ll come see her later this afternoon.”

  “Okay, Nurse Barton. Mrs. Kazerian, can I bring you something to eat?”

  “Nothing for me, thank you, but the children might eat a little bread and cheese.”

  “I’ll bring a tray. Oh, Nurse Barton, we reached Father Martin. He’s planning the funeral for the day after tomorrow.”

  “Did he mention where?”

  “He said he’d hold the mass here in the chapel.”

  Elizabeth nodded approvingly. “I’m sure David would’ve wanted it that way. May God’s peace be upon us all.”

  CHAPTER 30

  June 11, 1915

  The motley formation of pallbearers carried the wooden coffin bearing Dr. Charles’ body out the door of the dilapidated main hospital building. Two men were dressed in doctor’s whites, but the rest wore Turkish garments with red-tasseled tarboosh caps. They headed down the walkway to the street and passed through a gauntlet of melancholy mourners.

  A handful of hospital staff, along with dozens of grateful former patients, including a few festooned in Ottoman military uniforms, stood beneath the blazing sun to pay their last respects to the beloved physician-missionary who’d given everything to ease the suffering of those he’d served in Anatolia. A pocket of veiled women at the end of the walk wailed demonstratively, but most of the mourners stood by in stunned silence.