The Ghosts of Anatolia

by Steven E. Wilson

  “Keep moving!” the gendarme shouted.

  Kristina shepherded her children in behind another family of deportees and trudged down the center of the rutted dirt road.

  Three caravans of more than a thousand people had set out early that morning from the Jdeide Quarter of Aleppo. A small contingent of gendarmes guided each group through the city. Departing from the southern gate, the long columns of women, children and elderly refugees had marched southwest through the arid countryside dotted with dry brush. Covered in dirt from head to toe and breathing air thick with dust, the refugees had bedding and precious personal effects strapped to their backs. Even the children—those old enough to walk on their own—bore pillows or other small items.

  The refugees meandered for hours across an endless, scrub-covered plain. Along the way they passed through tiny villages surrounded by clusters of Turkish and Arab farms.

  The refugees forged on until well after sundown. Finally, after a ten-hour march in sweltering heat, the gendarmes halted the caravan. Kristina and her children dropped their belongings and huddled in the middle of a large group of deportees. They ate the remnants of the loaf of bread they’d received in Aleppo and fell into a deep sleep, only to be awoken by shouts from the gendarmes at the first light of morning. The refugees had half an hour to eat and repack their possessions. Then they broke camp before the sun peeked above a distant mountain range.

  Traveling in eerie silence, the caravan came to a Turkish and Arab village that was surrounded by fields of late-summer wheat, barley and cotton. Desperate for water, some deportees flocked to wells and cisterns just off the road. But the gendarmes spurred them onward—even driving desperate women and children past compassionate residents who gathered along the road to offer them water.

  Sirak was bone weary from the three-hour, early-morning march across the undulating Syrian plain. His spirits began to rise, however, as the once-distant foothills grew nearer. He picked up a stone from the dirt road and flung it into an adjoining field of cotton.

  “Save your energy, Sirak,” Kristina whispered. “Heaven only knows how far they’ll force us to walk today.”

  Sirak glanced back at his mother and sister. Izabella’s matted hair hung across her open mouth and her dress and shoes were caked with mud. She stumbled and her exhausted mother tugged her back up by the arm. Mikael struggled on a few paces behind them under the added weight of Kristina’s bedroll and knapsack.

  Sirak waited for his brother to catch up. “Give me Mama’s blankets.”

  Mikael, his face streaked with perspiration and his lips chafed and cracked, bent down so Sirak could grab the bedroll. “Thank you,” he gasped wearily. Adjusting the remaining load, he trudged onward up the steep grade.

  The caravan turned southwest and headed toward the coastal mountains before the sun peaked in the sky. In the distance, a town, nestled at the base of a humpback hill, came gradually into view.

  “Look there, Mama!” Sirak yelled excitedly. He pointed up the road ahead of the caravan. “We’ve made it through the desert.”

  “Look at the olive trees!” Mikael chimed in. “We have made it!”

  One of the gendarmes rode back through the caravan. “Idlib ahead!” he yelled. “Stay clear of the wells. We’ll stop for water at the river beyond the city.”

  Surrounded by olive plantations, the idyllic town was dotted with wells hewn in the rocky soil. Despite the gendarme’s admonition, desperate women and children at the front of the column rushed the first wells. Gendarmes on horseback forced them away, however, before they’ed had so much as a sip. Images of cool water pervaded the thoughts of every refugee in the caravan.

  The procession snaked through the town past farmers and shopkeepers who looked on impassively at the exhausted and demoralized deportees. Even those who felt pity were reluctant to meddle, fearing reprimand, or worse, from the merciless gendarmes.

  One old woman rushed forward with a cup of water. She offered it to a gasping child, but a furious gendarme knocked it from her hands.

  Finally, a kilometer past the town, the lead members of the caravan rounded a sweeping hillside turn and spied a small meandering spring. A group near the front, including Sirak and Mikael, broke away from the others and ran headlong to a tranquil pool.

  A young woman fell to her knees. Bending down to the water, she took a drink with her cupped hand. She screwed up her face and spit the water on the ground. “It’s salty!” she cried in anguish.

  Sirak knelt beside her, wet his fingers and pressed them to his parched lips. The acrid water burned like fire. “It is salty,” he muttered dejectedly.

  Mikael stepped around the perimeter of the pool to the spring itself. Taking a sip from his palm, he angrily spit it out.

  A cadre of gendarmes watching from the road cackled with delight. “Maybe your God can change it into wine,” one guard shouted.

  Mikael took his brother’s arm and led him back to the road. “Don’t let them know we’re suffering.” He looked up and froze in his tracks. “Dear God, look at Mama.”

  Kristina’s eyes were sunken and lifeless, and her mouth hung open in despair. “I can’t,” she gasped. She let go of Izabella’s hand. “Take her.”

  Mikael wrapped Kristina’s arm around his shoulder. “We won’t leave you, Mama. You must keep going. Sirak, you help Izabella.”

  The caravan continued up the road for another kilometer before the gendarme commander directed the deportees into a small pomegranate orchard. He let the deportees draw water from a cluster of small wells and everyone drank their fill. Finally, the guards herded them into a nearby grassy field.

  “Find a spot to sleep for the night,” one gendarme bellowed. “When you’re settled, we’ll pass out bread. There won’t be any more for several days, so ration it carefully.”

  Mikael settled his mother and siblings in a small hollow. Retrieving two loaves of bread for the family, he broke one of them into pieces. He fed his mother, while Sirak tended to Izabella.

  After they ate, Sirak and Mikael spread their bedding on the ground. Mikael led them in a prayer of thanks before he and Sirak fell into a deep sleep.

  Kristina lay on the ground beside Izabella and cuddled the little girl to her chest. She heaved a forlorn sigh and stared up at the cloudy sky as a light rain began to fall. Rolling onto her side, she pulled the blanket over their heads, but slipped her hand out to catch the mist. She held her hand to her daughter’s mouth, and Izabella sucked the moisture from her palm. Suddenly, her thoughts drifted to a happier late-summer day when she’d run laughing through the parched cotton field with Flora in a drought-ending downpour. Giddy with joy, they’d caught the rain in their hands and sipped from each other’s palms before crouching gleefully to their knees among the stunted cotton plants. Kristina recalled the raindrops coursing down Flora’s silky-smooth skin, and how her eyes had sparkled with delight. It was the day after her thirteenth birthday, and all had been right with the world.

  “Flora, my dear Flora…” she whispered tearfully. “Why, my God? Why have you abandoned us? What have we done to deserve this hell?”

  She sobbed despairingly, buried her face against Izabella’s neck and drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER 39

  The gendarmes roused the deportees before dawn the next morning. Within an hour, the pitiable caravan was once again streaming along a road that meandered south through stands of olive trees.

  The column descended into an uneven fertile plain dotted with hamlets and small towns. The Turks, Kurds and Arabs who populated these agricultural enclaves seemed little interested in the lowly, dejected exiles who passed silently through their remote world. The scattered remains of numerous victims from caravans that had passed before them into the heart of Syria compounded the terror of the refugees. Black and rank, and ripped to pieces by animals, these vestiges were horrifying reminders of the scope of the calamity befalling the Armenian deportees from the Ottoman Empire.

  A pleasantly c
ool morning gave way to humidity and stifling heat. Sirak and Mikael carried the bedding and knapsacks, while Kristina and Izabella struggled to keep pace.

  The caravan crossed an old bridge a little before noon. On the far side, a narrow trail wound down a rocky embankment to the river. The gendarmes at the front of the column led the deportees down to the riverbank and dismounted their horses.

  “One lira per person!” the leader shouted. “You must pay to drink and bathe in the river.”

  One group of gendarmes walked their horses down to the slow-moving river, while the rest fanned out along the bank to collect the payments. Hundreds of people lined up to begrudgingly pay the fee.

  “Anyone who gives water to someone who didn’t pay will be whipped and left behind,” the leader yelled.

  Kristina thrust her hand into her dress and retrieved the roll of currency Elizabeth had given her. Furtively counting out four lire, she handed them to a paunchy gendarme. The man’s unkempt beard was caked with road dust, and the brim of his fez was stained with sweat.

  “Thank you, princess,” he mocked effusively. He smiled and swept his brawny hand to allow Kristina and her children to pass.

  Kristina gathered Izabella into her arms. Taking Sirak’s hand, she walked down to the water.

  “We don’t have any money!” a woman cried out behind her. “Please, sir, just allow my children to drink. I beg you.”

  “If you don’t pay, you can’t drink,” the gendarme growled. “No exceptions.”

  “But my children are dying of thirst!”

  “That’s not my concern,” the man replied heartlessly.

  “Mikael, take your brother and sister down to the water,” Kristina whispered. She counted out three lire and walked back up the bank. “This is for her.”

  The gendarme turned with surprise. “You’re as generous as you are beautiful. Okay, they can drink.”

  The woman nodded gratefully at Kristina and ushered her daughters down to the edge of the stream.

  Kristina kicked off her shoes and set them on the bank. She helped Sirak and Mikael untie their bedrolls and knapsacks. Then, she clutched her dress and waded into the stream.

  “Thank you,” the woman she’d sponsored said gratefully. “I’m Anoush from Mus. How will we ever repay you?”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Kristina replied warmly. “I’m Kristina from Seghir. I don’t want repayment. It’s a gift to you from God.”

  “May He bless you and your family.”

  Kristina glanced back at Sirak and Mikael frolicking in the water. Stooping down, she cleansed Izabella’s hands and face and let her sip from her cupped hands, before taking a drink herself. She removed her headscarf, smoothed her long black hair behind her shoulders, and washed two-day’s worth of sweat and filth from her face and arms. She opened her eyes and spotted the gendarme who’d collected the money watching her from the bank.

  He grinned and scooped up water in his hands to rinse his beard. “What’s your name?” he asked brashly.

  “Mrs. Kazerian,” Kristina replied demurely. She glanced back at Sirak and Mikael and hurriedly replaced her headscarf.

  “Your first name?”

  “Kristina.”

  “That’s a beautiful name, befitting you. I’m Onan from Diyarbekir.”

  Feeling self-conscious under his lingering stare, Kristina asked, “How long before we reach Der-el Zor?”

  “We’re not headed to Der-el Zor.”

  Kristina’s eyes widened with surprise. “Then where?”

  “To Kahdem.”

  “Kahdem? Where’s that?”

  “A day’s travel south of Damascus.”

  “Damascus,” she repeated, letting the familiar word roll slowly over her tongue. “How long will it take?”

  “Two more weeks, I’d guess, but it depends how quickly we can make it through the mountains.”

  “Two weeks?”

  “Could be longer. Our orders are to arrive in Kahdem by the first of September, but we’re already behind schedule.”

  “How far is Kahdem from Jerusalem?”

  “Maybe a week or ten days.”

  “Is it a hard journey from Kahdem?” Kristina asked.

  The gendarme didn’t reply. Staring at her lasciviously, he imagined her with her hair clean and brushed and her features softened by healthy food.

  Kristina turned and walked away from Onan. “Sirak,” she called out, “stay with your brother!”

  “Yes, Mama,” he yelled back.

  Kristina watched him wade to Mikael. They dove under the water together and headed back to the bank.

  “I never imagined such a muddy little river could feel so wonderful,” a woman said cheerfully.

  Kristina turned to find Anoush standing behind her. Slender, with reddish-brown hair, the woman’s fair complexion was marred by a large black mole on her cheek. Her preteen daughter—a strikingly pretty girl with long wavy hair and high cheekbones—was standing beside her with a younger girl. “This is my older daughter, Sima, and my younger, Alis.”

  Kristina smiled. “It’s nice to meet you both. I love your hair, Sima. I’ve always wished my hair had more curl.”

  “Thank you,” the girl replied shyly. She turned and bounded off with deer-like strides to a group of teenage girls gathered along the bank.

  “Stay close, Sima,” Anoush called after her.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Anoush watched her daughter for a few moments before turning back. “The guard favors you,” she whispered.

  Kristina glanced up the bank at the gendarme. He’d walked downstream to the horses and was talking with another guard. “If he does, he’s wasting his time. I’m a married woman.”

  Anoush smiled. “So am I. But you can still be nice to him. It is a long and difficult journey.”

  “I’m nice to everyone,” Kristina replied curtly. “But I’m not a whore.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” the woman retorted defensively. “But there’s no harm in talking to him.”

  “Forgive me. I’m very tired and I’ve lost my civility. I wonder how much farther we’ll travel today.”

  “I heard a gendarme say something about making it to the hills before we stop for the night.”

  Kristina looked up at the line of hills in the distance. “That far? My youngest is already struggling.”

  “My girls are exhausted, too, and my shoes are falling apart.” She glanced at her shoes on the bank. One shoe top was separated from its sole and the other was split along the side. She gazed down the river at a cluster of tents arrayed along the opposite bank. “Maybe tonight we can sneak off and join them.”

  Kristina peered at the group of men standing outside one of the tents. “They’re Bedouins,” she whispered.

  “So what? I’d rather take my chances with them than these Turkish and Kurdish gendarmes.”

  “No,” Kristina replied, shaking her head, “the sooner we reach Kahdem, the sooner I can take my children on to Jerusalem.”

  “Why Jerusalem?” Anoush asked with surprise.

  “My husband and son are waiting for us there.”

  “You’re a good person, Kristina. I’ll pray almighty God guides you safely to the Holy City.”

  “Thank you. I’ll pray for you, too.” Kristina turned to look at a commotion up the river. “Let’s gather our children. It looks like we’re leaving.”

  Scattered along a shallow ravine at the foot of a line of rolling foothills, the refugees lay, too tired to speak. Izabella was fast asleep beside Kristina, and her brothers were curled up on their blankets a few feet away. The gendarmes had gathered around a crackling campfire atop a narrow plateau overlooking the ravine. Their intermittent laughter echoed above the chirping crickets.

  Suddenly, at the far end of the ravine, the pounding of horses’ hooves reverberated above the conversations of the gendarmes. A chorus of screams tore through the darkness.

  “No! Get away, devil!” a woman scr
eamed above the din.

  “Help! Gendarme! Gendarme!” yelled another. “They snatched my Lara! Help, dear God, help me!”

  Kristina grabbed Izabella, clutched her to her chest and ran to Mikael and Sirak. “Run!” she screamed above the clamor.

  Scampering headlong up the embankment toward the gendarme encampment, they made it nearly to the top before a rider on horseback overtook them. Leaping from his horse, the lean, mustachioed man grabbed Izabella’s arm and tried to wrench her free.

  “No!” Kristina screamed. She clung desperately to her daughter’s waist as the fierce-eyed bandit struggled to tear her away.

  “Let go of my sister!” Sirak shouted. He ran at the raider and hurled a rock that glanced off the intruder’s black turban.

  Mikael jumped on the man’s back, but the bandit twirled him off to the ground. Then, a single gunshot rang out.

  The gendarme, Onan, was standing behind them holding his smoking pistol. He pointed the gun at the bandit. “Let her go.”

  The bandit stepped away, but held up his knife and glared at Onan.

  “Choose another!” Onan barked in Arabic.

  The bandit sprinted to his horse and rode off at a gallop into the ravine.

  Sirak watched him ride toward another group on the bank of the stream. Shrieking with terror, the refugees scattered in all directions. The bandit rode after a hysterical young woman and wrenched a young child from her arms. He galloped out the mouth of the ravine and disappeared into the night.

  “Why didn’t you stop them?” Kristina demanded incredulously.

  “We can’t stop them. There are too many.”

  “You have a gun,” she persisted angrily. “You could’ve shot him.”

  “You’re right, I could’ve shot him, but then five hundred, or even five thousand, Kurdish tribesmen would’ve returned in the night to kill us all.”

  Kristina shook her head in frustration. She picked up Izabella and walked away. “Come on, Mikael, bring your brother.”

  “Not even a thank you?” Onan called out.