The Ghosts of Anatolia

by Steven E. Wilson

  Sirak nodded disappointedly. “My papa and brother. The last time I saw them, they were on a raft floating out of Diyarbekir. Papa yelled for us to meet them in Jerusalem. That was in 1915, and I was seven years old.”

  “Fourteen years is a long time.”

  “It’s a very long time. They could be anywhere by now. I never realized there were so many Armenians living in Jerusalem. How will we ever find them, even if they are somewhere in Palestine?”

  “Your best bet is to start with the leaders at Saint James Convent. The Patriarch has taken in hundreds of Armenian refugees over the years and his subordinates may know them, or at least know if they’ve been there. I’m sure the convent keeps records of all the refugees who reached Jerusalem during and after the Great War.”

  Sirak glanced up the road as the wagon jostled through a sharp turn. It emptied into a clearing offering a spectacular view of a stark, foreboding desert plain ahead of them. The road ahead twisted and turned through the wasteland like a snake. “Unbelievable,” he mumbled in awe. “What is this place?”

  “This desert plateau extends for more than twenty-five kilometers to the north of Amman. It’s beautiful country this time of year, but don’t venture here in the summer.”

  “Beautiful wasn’t the word that came to mind. Frightening seems more appropriate to me. How long will it take us to make it through that?”

  “It’ll take us three more days to reach Amman, if the weather holds up.”

  Sirak frowned. “Where will we stay tonight?”

  “At an inn just two kilometers beyond that rise in the distance. We should arrive there just before sundown.”

  Sirak sighed restively and lapsed into a brooding silence. Jeremiah left him to his thoughts for nearly an hour before offering him the canteen.

  “Go on, drink the rest,” Jeremiah said, with a yellowed, toothy grin. “There’s plenty of water in the back and more where we’re stopping tonight.”

  Sirak took a long drink. He tied the water bag and set it beside Jeremiah on the seat.

  Jeremiah shook the empty bag and tossed it into the bed. “I’m curious, why do you want to be a physician? My brother likes medicine well enough, but it took him years of training and hard work to get established. Even today, he nearly works himself to death caring for his patients.”

  Sirak glanced at the old Jew. He leaned against the wooden seat and peered out at the expansive desert.

  “I’m sorry,” Jeremiah said. “You don’t need to tell me if it’s an uncomfortable subject. It’s really none of my business.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable. I was just thinking about what you said about your brother. It reminded me of the man who introduced me to medicine. His name was Dr. Charles; he was an American missionary doctor. I was playing with a friend when a viper bit my foot—I was just seven years old then. Dr. Charles saved my life. Then, after the situation in Anatolia deteriorated, we fled our neighbor’s farm and went to live in Diyarbekir with the doctor and his wife; she was a nurse. Dr. Charles let me follow him around the wards and he nearly worked himself to death caring for his patients, but he loved doing it. Most of the patients were wounded and sick Ottoman soldiers. I’ll never forget how much those men appreciated what Dr. Charles did for them. He was a great man. Unfortunately, he was killed.”

  Jeremiah nodded understandingly. “After everything you’ve been through, I guess medical training doesn’t seem like it’d be too difficult.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. Working hard is good for me. And helping sick people is the best way for me to repay Dr. Charles and everyone else who helped me.” Sirak reached into his pocket and retrieved the old leather-bound Bible he’d carried since his mother gave it to him in Anatolia. “I started reading my Bible again before we left Rashayya. I’ve decided to devote my life to God and medicine, just like Dr. Charles.”

  “What about family? Won’t there be time for that, too?”

  Sirak shook his head. “No, no family, except for Izabella.”

  Jeremiah smiled and patted Sirak on the knee. “Young man, you’re young. I’ll pray God sends you the right woman and gives you the wisdom to recognize her. Only family and God can bring the happiness and contentment you deserve.”

  Sirak stared at the old man’s face. The skin around his eyes was a roadmap of lines and creases. The eyes themselves had fleshy vascular bumps in the corners and the pupils were clouded with cataracts.

  The old man coughed and cleared his throat. “That’s all the advice I can offer you about love and family. God knows I myself have been an abject failure in this regard.”

  “Where is your family?” Sirak asked.

  “I only have my brother. There was a woman I cared for many years ago, but I lost her to another man. I was too busy with my business to keep her or find another. I constantly travel to buy and sell these stupid rugs and baskets.” He sighed melancholily. “So you can see, I’m not the one to advise you about women and marriage.

  “There’s one piece of counsel I can offer you. Search for your family in the Holy City, and then leave it as soon as you can. If you stay, Jerusalem will only bring you misery and sorrow. Fighting will undoubtedly flare between the Zionists and the Arabs, and when it does, the city and everyone in it will be consumed by war.”

  “Sirak!” Izabella cried out from the wagon bed. “Sirak, where are you?”

  Jeremiah slowed the wagon to a stop.

  Sirak jumped down and ran to the rear of the wagon. He climbed into the bed. Izabella was sitting with her back against the sidewall and her eyes were glazed with terror.

  “I’m here, Izabella.”

  “Don’t leave me alone. Is there any water?”

  Sirak jumped down and ran to the front of the wagon. Jeremiah tossed him a full water bag.

  “I need to ride with my sister now. Thank you for your advice.”

  “It was my pleasure. I’ll stop to rest and water the horse in about an hour. If you fall asleep, I’ll wake you.”

  Sirak smiled. “Thank you for everything.”

  “You’re most welcome. Don’t forget to pray for a kind and understanding wife.”

  Sirak chuckled. He turned and ran to the rear of the wagon and climbed into the bed. “Okay!” he shouted.

  The wagon kicked up a cloud of dust and rumbled away down the road.

  CHAPTER 48

  September 19, 1928

  The wagon bumped into the bustling city of Amman, and the travelers took lodging at a small inn. They enjoyed a leisurely rest day, with plenty to eat and drink, before they set out on the last leg of their journey. After three grueling days, they entered rocky Palestine and crossed the River Jordan on a mule-drawn ferry. They climbed into the hills to the east of the Holy City and skirted the Mount of Olives before Jerusalem sprang into full view. In the ebbing afternoon light, Sirak stared out at the golden Dome of the Rock and the imposing stone walls surrounding the city.

  “Oh Jerusalem, we heed thy call,” Jeremiah muttered pensively.

  Sirak’s eyes tracked from one guard tower to the next around the perimeter of the ancient city. “The walls are enormous. I didn’t realize Jerusalem was a walled city.”

  “These walls were re-built by Suleiman the Magnificent in the early sixteenth century.”

  “It’s magnificent, even more beautiful than I’d imagined.”

  “Don’t let its splendor deceive you.”

  Sirak turned and gazed into the older man’s eyes. “What has this city done to you?”

  “My younger sister and her twin boys were killed by the typhus fifteen years ago. Then, two years ago, an uprising spread to the Jewish District and a band of Arabs killed my brother’s wife and daughter. A day doesn’t go by without my feeling the heartbreak of losing them.”

  “I’d heard there was a lot of fighting here the last few years.”

  “And it’s getting worse. For centuries, Arab, Christian and Jew lived side by side here in Palestine, but now the British ha
ve sown the seeds of unremitting rioting, sabotage and murder.”

  “Why do you stay?”

  “Where would I go?”

  “Well, I doubt Jerusalem could be any worse than what we survived in Diyarbekir and Aleppo. We’ll stay here until, God willing, we find Papa and my brother, Stepannos.” He turned back to the city. “Where’s Saint James Convent?”

  Jeremiah pointed. “It’s inside the walls in the southwest corner of the Old City—see there, beyond the golden dome. We’ll enter through the Jaffa Gate and travel a short distance to the convent. I must stop to deliver carpets to a friend who manages a fleet of carriages outside the Jaffa Gate, but we’ll arrive at the convent well before dark.”

  The wagon rumbled along the ancient Jericho Road and through a series of rutted switchbacks before bumping down a rocky hillside toward the city. Beyond Suleiman’s stone walls, bathed by the last rays of the afternoon sun and reflecting pink beneath the clouded sky, Sirak’s eyes wandered across the spires, towers, domes and minarets scattered throughout the Holy City.

  Jeremiah pointed out the Church of Saint Mary Magdalene and the hilly area of Gethsemane. Then the wagon turned south along a road that ran parallel to the great walls. They skirted Mount Ophel and lurched through a mass of travelers clad in every sort of traditional garment.

  The wagon wove along the great wall past the Dung and Zion Gates, and turned at the southwest corner of the city. Pandemonium reigned outside the Jaffa Gate, as countless worshipers, merchants and beggars converged on the fabled western entrance to the city.

  Jeremiah pulled the wagon to a stop near a line of horse-drawn carriages and a heavily- bearded man leapt up from the ground to greet him.

  “Jeremiah, my friend, you’ve returned safely.”

  Jeremiah gave the man a warm hug. “Yes, Eli, and I found the rugs you wanted.” Jeremiah led the man to the back of the wagon. “These are my new Armenian friends, Sirak and Izabella. I’m taking them to the convent.”

  “Welcome to Jerusalem!” Eli said boisterously. “May God grant you peace and happiness.”

  “Sirak, hand down those rugs that are lying along the sideboard,” Jeremiah said.

  Sirak passed him the rugs and Eli helped him unroll them on the ground.

  “They’re magnificent. How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing, my friend. They’re a gift to repay you for all the deliveries you’ve made for me.”

  Eli’s face lit up with surprise. “Thank you! What a surprise. Please join us for dinner.”

  Jeremiah patted Eli on the back. “Thank you for the invitation, but we must go. I have to get Sirak and Izabella to Saint James before the offices close for the evening.”

  “We’re having a celebration in honor of Rabbi Stein at our home next Saturday. Please come and join us.”

  “I’ll be there, and I’ll see you at the synagogue on Friday.”

  Jeremiah climbed up on the wagon and made a sharp turn through the open Jaffa Gate. Just beyond the gate, the towering Citadel and Anglican Christ Church came into view. They rattled along the narrow Patriarchate Road for a short distance and finally slowed to a stop outside the main gate of the Saint James Convent.

  “Stay here with the wagon,” Jeremiah said. “I’ll go inside to present you.” He hurried away and disappeared through the gate into the Armenian Quarter.

  Sirak smiled at Izabella and gave her hand a squeeze. Looking up, he peered toward the end of the street. A few people were milling about, but otherwise the street was surprisingly quiet.

  A few minutes passed before Jeremiah and a smiling, white-bearded man emerged from the building.

  “Sirak and Izabella, this is Abu Apraham, Patriarch Tourian’s assistant. He’ll take care of you from here.”

  “Welcome to Saint James Convent!” Abu Apraham called up to Izabella and Sirak. “Brother Levite told me about your long journey. By the grace of God, you’ve at long last found refuge among your people.”

  A young man pulled a handcart through the Saint James Gate and stopped beside the wagon.

  “Transfer your things into the cart,” Abu Apraham said. “I’ll take you to your new home.”

  Jeremiah helped Izabella down from the wagon. He helped Sirak transfer their belongings into the handcart. Finally, he patted Sirak on the back. “Good luck finding your father and brother.”

  Sirak grasped Jeremiah’s arm. “We’re grateful for everything you’ve done for us. May God bless you.”

  Jeremiah pulled Sirak into a bear hug. “This isn’t goodbye. Take good care of your sister and I’ll bring you back details from my brother about your best options for medical training. Goodbye, Izabella. I hope you’ll soon feel at home here in Saint James.”

  Izabella waved timidly. “Goodbye, Jeremiah.”

  “Abu Apraham knows where to find me,” Jeremiah said to Sirak. “Goodbye for now.”

  “Goodbye, Jeremiah,” Sirak said.

  Jeremiah climbed into the driver’s seat of the wagon. He waved one last time and drove slowly away.

  Abu Apraham watched Jeremiah until he rounded the corner. He turned back, and his kindly eyes sparkled with satisfaction. “Well, Son, let me show you your new home. I think you’ll enjoy your new neighbors.”

  Abu Apraham led Sirak and Izabella down a long hall that coursed past Saint James Cathedral and into a large courtyard. They walked down a cobblestone footpath past curious residents whom he greeted by name. He stopped several times to introduce Sirak and Izabella as the newest refugees. A few more turns and a short flight of stairs brought them to a narrow walkway.

  “Your apartment is owned by the Patriarch,” Abu Apraham explained. “No rent will be charged, but you are required to tithe ten percent of your earnings. You’re also expected to obey the convent rules—including attending the liturgy at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher on Saturdays. We want you to be good neighbors to the families who share your courtyard—which shouldn’t be too difficult, since the Simouians are among the dearest Kaghakatsi living in the quarter.”

  “Kaghakatsi?” Sirak queried.

  “Kaghakatsi is the term used for the Armenian families who’ve lived in Jerusalem for generations, and in some cases centuries. You and your sister are Kaghtagan, or the refugees. Perhaps unfairly, this distinction holds great weight with some people. But you’re fluent in Arabic, unlike most refugees who came to this city these last few years. This will make your acclimation much easier. You’re fortunate to be living side by side with Kaghakatsi people. It’s a rare opportunity attributable to the fact that the previous occupant died without heirs. Gather your things. The cart can’t follow us the rest of the way.”

  Abu Apraham helped Sirak and Izabella carry their belongings. He led them up a flight of stairs to a narrow passageway. “I must warn you. The Simouian woman, Mariam, is prone to fits of mania and profound depression. You should address her as Umm Krikor—after her eldest son, who died of typhus during the Great War. She lost her two daughters to the fever, too, and there’s no telling how you’ll find her on a particular day. Some days you’ll find her cheerfully working in the courtyard garden. But then, without any warning, she’ll be gripped with a profound sadness. Often the depression forces her to bed for days on end. Her elderly husband, Hovsep, dotes over her, even though he himself is in poor health. Let’s see how we find her today.”

  Abu Apraham led them into an open courtyard. Sirak and Izabella were bedazzled by the unexpected beauty and sweet fragrance wafting through the magnificent garden. The surrounding walls were adorned with potted wisteria and rose bushes, and every nook and cranny of the yard was crammed with tins, pots and urns that bore basil, freesias and lilies. Two half-barrels overgrown with jasmine were positioned beside a wooden table and chairs at the far end of the courtyard. A matronly woman in a long dress stood atop a stool pruning a small tree.

  “Mariam,” Abu Apraham called out to her cheerfully, “how are you this fine afternoon?”

  The woman broke in
to a broad grin. She climbed down from the stool and hobbled toward them with a pronounced limp. “Abu Apraham, what a wonderful surprise! How is Sara?”

  “She’s just fine, thank you. She’s away visiting her sister in Bethlehem, but I’m expecting her home tomorrow. As usual, your garden is magnificent.”

  “I wish you’d come to visit when the jasmine were in bloom. They’ve never been so glorious. Who are your young friends?”

  “This is Sirak Kazerian and his sister, Izabella. They just arrived from Syria and I’ve assigned them to Yeghia’s old apartment.”

  Mariam smiled blissfully. “Welcome! I am Umm Krikor,” she said, spreading her arms and embracing Izabella. “I’m delighted to meet you. I just know we’ll be good friends. Do you like to garden?”

  Izabella glanced over Umm Krikor’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen such a splendid garden.”

  “It belongs to you, too, now,” Umm Krikor said. “I’m sure you’ll come to love these plants as much as I do.”

  “Well, you’re both in good hands,” Apraham said to Sirak. “Allow me to show you your new apartment.”

  Mariam smiled at Sirak. “You must be starving. We insist you join us for dinner.”

  “We don’t want to trouble you,” Sirak replied politely.

  “I insist on it. It won’t be anything extravagant, just soup and bread with olives and figs. I’ve also got coffee and baklava for desert. Oh, please join us. Hovsep will want to meet you, too.”

  Sirak smiled appreciatively. “Okay, then, we’ll get settled and clean up.”

  “Wonderful! I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

  Apraham led Sirak and Izabella to a door in the middle of the courtyard. He lit a paraffin lamp and ushered them inside. The single room was dank and musty, and totally devoid of furnishings—except for a tiny wooden table with a single chair at the side of the room.

  “This is one of the nicest refugee apartments in the quarter. Here in the back of the room you have direct access to the cistern beneath the courtyard. You can draw as much water as you need with this bucket. Three meals a day are provided for all the refugees at the dining halls. The closest one is back down the stairs and around the corner. I hope you’ll both be very happy here.”