The Ghosts of Anatolia

by Steven E. Wilson

  “You went back to live in the Armenian Quarter?”

  “Yes, in that same tiny apartment. I could’ve afforded to move, but I feared what might happen to Izabella without Umm Krikor’s love and attention. I took a position in a hospital in the Jewish section of the city and honed my surgical skills on the battered bodies of the victims of the ongoing embittered struggle between the Arabs and Jews. There was little joy in our lives during those years—only the daily struggle to survive amidst the constant echoes of gunfire and bomb blasts. I came to feel like my only reason for living was to nurture and protect Izabella, since I was the only family she had left. In retrospect, I realized that I was severely depressed and didn’t even know it.”

  “But we were born in the Katamon. When did you move?”

  “One day, out of the blue, everything suddenly changed. It was a few months after my twenty-ninth birthday, and I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon in June, just a few months before the Arab revolt exploded into open warfare. Izabella and Umm Krikor were tending vines in the courtyard, while I sat at the outside table sipping coffee with old man Abu Krikor. We heard voices on the stairs leading to the courtyard and the old Jew, Jeremiah, suddenly appeared. Unbelievably, Ammar was right behind him. And yet again, my life abruptly changed.

  CHAPTER 51

  June 20, 1936

  The Armenian Quarter in Jerusalem

  “Abee!” Izabella screamed from atop her stepladder. Jumping down, she tossed her clippers on the ground and ran headlong into Ammar’s arms. “Oh, Abee, I missed you so!”

  “I missed you, too,” Ammar whispered. He smiled over the top of her head at Sirak.

  Sirak stood in dumbfounded silence. It was as if he’d seen a ghost.

  “Is Ummee here?” Izabella asked hopefully.

  “No, little one, Ummee wasn’t strong enough to make the long journey. She sends you her love and devotion. Here’s a letter she wrote.”

  Ammar spread his arms and stepped to Sirak. “My son,” he blurted out, his voice cracking with emotion.

  Sirak buried his face against Ammar’s chest. “Abee, I missed you so much.”

  “I missed you, too. It’s been painful for us all. Thank you for all the letters you wrote.”

  “Is Ummee ill?”

  “She’s recovering from a bout of the grippe. She wanted to come anyway, but I thought the long journey was too much for her. I brought someone else to see you though.”

  Sirak looked at Ammar, and then glanced at Jeremiah. “Who?”

  Jeremiah walked back to the steps and reappeared a moment later with a young woman. She wore a dark blue dress and headscarf, and her eyes were riveted on the ground.

  At first Sirak didn’t recognize her. Then, she looked up, and his mouth dropped open. “Yasmin?” he gasped in disbelief.

  The young woman, her curly brown hair cascading across her shoulders, nodded apprehensively.

  “Well, Umm Krikor,” Jeremiah said, “how about some coffee for the weary travelers?”

  The old woman laughed. “Of course. How about something to eat, too?”

  “I was hoping,” Jeremiah chuckled. He glanced at Sirak, who was standing trancelike at arm’s length from Yasmin. Jeremiah winked at Ammar. “Izabella, Papa Ammar and I would like to wash up before we eat. Could you draw our water?”

  “Of course,” Izabella replied excitedly, “come inside with me.”

  Sirak and Yasmin stood alone in the courtyard. They sat down opposite each other at the table. The sweet scent of jasmine wafted in the air.

  “Yasmin, what are you doing here?” Sirak finally asked.

  “Ammar brought me to live in Jerusalem.”

  “You’re moving to Jerusalem? Where’s you husband?”

  “Barek abandoned me six months ago.”

  “He abandoned you? Why?”

  “Because I committed the greatest sin of all for a Druze wife. I didn’t bear him children.” Yasmin smiled timidly and stared at the tabletop. “Sirak,” she whispered, “did you ever think of me?”

  Sirak stepped around the table and lifted Yasmin up from the bench. He grasped her tiny shoulders and drew her to his chest. “Every single day.”

  “Oh, Sirak, I never stopped loving you. God forgive me, I never did.”

  Sirak kissed her tenderly on the forehead and brushed tears from her cheeks. “I love you.”

  “Sirak, do you have a woman?”

  “No, Habibi, there’s never been anyone but you.”

  “Oh, Sirak, God answered my prayers.”

  Sirak smiled reassuringly and sat Yasmin down at the table. He spotted Umm Krikor standing outside with a tray. “Umm Krikor, hurry before the coffee gets cold.”

  They all gathered around the courtyard table to share vegetable stew, olives and dried figs. Jeremiah and Ammar ate and drank ravenously, but Sirak and Yasmin couldn’t take their eyes off each other. They groped each other’s hands beneath the table.

  “Well,” Ammar said, “under the circumstances, I guess we should all speak openly. Sirak, you appear pleased to see Yasmin.”

  Sirak smiled at Yasmin. “Yes, Abee—she is a gift from God. The happiness that fled my heart eight long years ago has returned.”

  “I’m happy for you, for both of you. God is great.”

  “How long will you stay, Abee?” Sirak asked.

  “I can stay for a week, but then I must return to Rashayya. I’ll help Yasmin find a place to live before I go.”

  “Yasmin is welcome to stay with us until she finds her own place,” Umm Krikor offered.

  They all enjoyed Turkish coffee before Jeremiah finally left for home. The stunningly bright afternoon faded into a warm evening. Umm Krikor and her husband retired to their apartment and Izabella helped Ammar get settled in theirs.

  Yasmin and Sirak found themselves alone again in the courtyard. Sitting beneath a jasmine bush, they talked about the years they were apart. Sirak told her about his training in Beirut and the challenges of living in increasingly dangerous Jerusalem. He also told her about Izabella’s progressive psychological infirmity. Yasmin bemoaned the unhappy years with her husband and his demanding family—who’d become more belligerent and abusive the longer she remained barren. She told Sirak how she learned to weave baskets to sell to Jeremiah, giving her the opportunity to secretly query the noble-minded Jew about Sirak’s life and well-being in Jerusalem.

  “He never told me.”

  She smiled happily and folded her hand in his. “I asked him not to.”

  “What about your family?”

  “My father renounced me. I shamed him by deciding to leave Rashayya. I can never return, but there’s nothing there for me now.”

  Sirak glanced back to his darkened apartment. He leaned forward and pecked her on the lips. “Yasmin, I love you. I’ve always loved you. If you’ll have me, I want to marry you.”

  Yasmin smiled adoringly. “But I’m Druze, my love, and you are Armenian.”

  “What difference does that make? We love each other.”

  “It makes a difference to your people…and to your sister.”

  “Izabella will accept and love you. Her mind may be weak, but her heart is gold.”

  “What about your church? Jeremiah told me intermarriage is not condoned by the Armenian leaders here in Jerusalem.”

  “I’ll ask for dispensation from the Patriarch. Surely he’ll understand the suffering we’ve both endured and that God, Himself, has brought us back together.”

  “Oh, my darling, you’re sweeter than honey, but your love for me will fade like these blossoms. Think about yourself for once. I can never bear you children.”

  “That doesn’t matter now. It only matters that you are happy and I am happy. There are many orphans here in Palestine. We can give some of them what Abee and Ummee gave me—hope and love.”

  “I want you to think about it. Then, if you really...”

  They both jerked around at a r
esounding boom that echoed through the courtyard.

  “What’s that?” Yasmin gasped.

  “A bomb,” Sirak replied matter-of-factly.

  “It sounded very close.”

  “It exploded in the Jewish neighborhood just beyond the wall. The gunfire and bombings have become more and more frequent since the Arab strike began in April, but we’re safe here. Well, you must be very tired. I’m sure Umm Krikor is waiting up for you.”

  Sirak took Yasmin’s hand and led her through the darkened courtyard to the Krikor front door. He kissed her full on the lips.

  “Forgive me for forsaking you,” she whispered. “I was afraid.”

  Sirak kissed her forehead. “That doesn’t matter now.” He rapped softly on the door and it creaked open.

  Umm Krikor smiled and took the young woman’s arm.

  “Good night, Sirak,” Yasmin whispered.

  “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Two weeks later

  Sirak sat patiently outside Patriarch Torkom Koushagian’s office for nearly thirty minutes before the door opened and Abu Apraham stepped into the hall. He closed the door behind him.

  “I’m sorry it took so long. There were many matters for the Patriarch to consider.”

  “Did he approve my dispensation request?”

  “Come to my office and we’ll discuss his decision in detail.”

  Abu Apraham led Sirak down two flights of stairs to a dimly lit hallway. He opened a door at the end of the hall and showed him into a simple office furnished with a small desk and three chairs. “Please sit down.”

  Abu Apraham sat behind his desk. The old cleric put on a pair of reading glasses and opened Sirak’s file. “How long have you been with us in Jerusalem?”

  “Eight years, sir, including the five years I spent mostly in Beirut during my medical training.”

  “God has blessed you, my son. What you’ve accomplished since you left Syria is an inspiration to us all, especially when you’ve cared for your sister at the same time. We appreciate your hard work.”

  Sirak’s apprehension was growing by the second. “Thank you, sir. What’s his decision?”

  Abu Apraham folded his hands on the desk. “The Patriarch decided not to give his dispensation for you to marry the young Druze woman.”

  Sirak’s mouth dropped open. “Why?”

  “He doesn’t believe it’s in either one of your best interests, or your future children’s best interest. The woman is Druze, and she’ll always be Druze. Be ye not unequally yoked together. ”

  Sirak stared at the old man for several moments. “I will marry Yasmin, no matter what the Patriarch or anyone else decides,” he said defiantly. “I love her and she loves me. That’s all that matters.”

  “Then you will leave the convent, and your sister will leave with you. You must also repay the Patriarch the debt you owe him for the four years of medical school that have yet to be satisfied by service to the poor.”

  Sirak gawked in disbelief. “But my sister needs the love and support of Umm Krikor.”

  “That’s your decision, my son. The Patriarch will not reconsider.”

  Sirak sat for a few moments staring at his hands. Finally, he looked up at Abu Apraham. “I will marry Yasmin. That is my decision. Please provide me with an accounting of the debt I owe the Patriarch and I’ll repay him. We’ll need two weeks to find a place to live.” He stood up and opened the door.

  “Sirak,” Abu Apraham called after him, “think about what you’re doing. Don’t make this decision in haste, my son.”

  “I’ve thought about it, sir. I’ve done nothing but think about Yasmin for eight long years. I’m marrying her, and I know in my heart God understands, even if the Patriarch doesn’t.” Sirak stepped into the hall and shut the door quietly behind him.

  CHAPTER 52

  Cleveland, Ohio, October 26, 1996

  Sirak stared at the float bobbing on his line. He looked up at Keri. “So now you know the truth. Your mother wasn’t Armenian; she was Druze.”

  “Is that why we only attended church on Christmas and Easter?”

  “That’s one reason. I also resented the Patriarch’s decision. Then, we couldn’t travel to the Armenian Quarter for twenty years after the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. We lived on the Israeli side, and the Old City was occupied by the Arabs.”

  “I remember. Did you tell Ara about Mother?”

  Sirak let out a weighty sigh. “Yes, I told him two years before he died.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Papa?”

  “Ara was five years older than you. Then, after I told him, we lost him. I wasn’t willing to take that risk with you. You’re older now and the situation has changed. I’ve changed, too.”

  Keri nodded acceptingly. “Did you ever see Ammar and Azusa again?”

  “No, I never did. I got a letter from them now and then, and we sent them letters. Then, a year or so before we left Jerusalem, I got a letter from their daughter, Nazira. Ammar and Azusa died a few days apart from some sickness that swept the town. Ammar told Nazira to tell me he loved me just before he died. I always regretted not going back to see them before they died.”

  Keri nodded thoughtfully. “Did you repay the Patriarch?”

  “Eventually, but it took me many years. Your mother and I were married in a civil ceremony, and we moved into the house where you grew up in Katamon. I was fortunate to be appointed to the surgical staff at nearby Hadassah Hospital. It was a tough time for us all. Your Aunt Izabella sank into profound depression despite your mama’s loving care for her. I worked twelve or more hours a day treating the battered and broken victims of one uprising or another. We took Izabella to visit Umm Krikor every week, until that became impossible, but nothing would dispel the gloom that consumed her. Then, the Arab revolt exploded into violent conflict and hundreds more Arabs, Jews and British soldiers were maimed and killed. Bombs exploded around us every single day. But through it all, your mama and I remained happy as lovebirds.” Sirak looked up from the water. “Your mama was a very special woman.”

  Keri smiled. “I know, Papa. How long were you and Mama married before Ara was born?”

  “Eleven years.”

  “Eleven years?” Keri blurted out with surprise.

  Sirak nodded. “We didn’t think your mama could have children. We looked at adoption, but with all the turmoil in Jerusalem, and the entire world going to war, we decided the orphaned children were better off leaving Palestine. Then, in the summer of 1947, when your mama was thirty-seven years old and I was forty, she became pregnant. Ara was born in January of 1948, just as the Arab-Israeli conflict raged into all-out war. Snipers killed two of our neighbors when they ventured out to buy supplies. Then thirty of my colleagues from the hospital, including one of my best friends, Doctor Chaim Yassky, the director of the hospital, were killed when Arab fighters attacked a medical convoy transporting supplies and injured patients to the hospital. The fighting finally tapered off near the end of 1948, but our neighborhood ended up in the Israeli-occupied territory, cut off from the Arab-dominated Old City—including the Armenian Quarter and St. James Cathedral. We never saw Umm Krikor or her husband again. For a time, we at least had telephone contact, but then the wires were cut, and that ended, too.”

  “That must’ve been terrible for Aunt Izabella.”

  “It was, when it first happened, but somehow—after the birth of your brother—she got much better. She immersed herself in helping your mama take care of the baby. Then, five years later, you were born, and your sister came a year after that. God truly blessed us and we were blissfully happy.” He smiled nostalgically. “You kids did well in school and the neighbors were good to us. Most of them were Jewish, since our Arab neighbors either fled or were forced out of their homes when Palestine was partitioned. It’s ironic. Both your mama and I were outcasts from our own peoples, but the Jews we lived and worked with accepted us unconditionally as friends and colleagues.

  �
��The Arabs and Jews battled on, but for the most part, we lived in peace during those years. I poured myself into my work at the hospital, and after a few years I got promoted to senior staff surgeon. But then the world came crashing down around us. The fighting intensified again and your mama pleaded with me to take the family out of Jerusalem. But I didn’t want to lose the power and prestige of my position at the hospital, and for this, we all paid dearly.”

  “Papa, it was war. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “It was my fault. In early 1967, rumors began to circulate that Syria and Israel would soon go to war. Your mama pleaded with me to take the family to Beirut or Amman, or even America. Ara was nineteen at the time, which means you were fourteen and Mina was thirteen. Every day we risked being shot by snipers or wandering into some no-man’s-land peppered with mines and being blown to pieces. But I valued the trappings of my position at the hospital more than my family, and because of this, your mama, sister, and Aunt Izabella were killed.”

  “Papa, it was war.”

  “I’ve had to live with my failure ever since that horrible day.”

  “Where were you that day? I’ve forgotten.”

  “I was at work. I remember that the day before I heard on the wireless at the hospital that the Egyptian Air Force had been destroyed on the ground and I rushed home to be with you kids and your mama. Shortly thereafter, we learned the Iraqi, Jordanian and Syrian air forces had also been destroyed. That night we heard distant gunfire, and a deafening artillery barrage shook the house. Most of the shells seemed to be directed to the west, but a couple fell nearby. There was a lull in the fighting the next morning, and I was called back to the hospital to care for wounded soldiers and private citizens. I’d just finished operating on a soldier who’d had both of his legs blown off, when Doctor Levin rushed into the operating room to find me…”