The Ghosts of Anatolia

by Steven E. Wilson

  Sirak stared at the floor and continued. “The inquiry proceeded rather slowly, with many physicians, nurses, and clerks being called before the committee to give testimony. Then, several months after the inquiry began, after a long day of surgery, I happened into the physician’s lounge late one evening.” He looked up. “I remember opening the door and hearing loud laughter echoing from the back of the room. It was a cackle that, unbeknownst to me, would trigger the greatest professional ordeal of my life. It still comes to me in my dreams occasionally, but in the beginning, it visited itself upon me nearly every night.”

  Thursday, March 6, 1980, Euclid, Ohio

  Dr. Miller glanced toward the door and abruptly stifled his laugher. The portly chief of staff was slouched on a sofa in the back of the room beside Doctor Phillips.

  Miller recognized Sirak. “Dr. Kazerian, you must be exhausted. My God, man, how many operations did you do today?”

  “Eleven,” Sirak replied with a sigh. “It would’ve been twelve, but one gall bladder got cancelled.”

  Phillips stood up and slapped Sirak on the back. “What are you trying to do, single-handedly stamp out the budget deficit?”

  “I was on vacation the last two weeks,” Sirak replied.

  Miller laughed. “That’ll teach you to take time away. Listen, Kazerian, I’ve been meaning to have a word with you.”

  “Oh really. What about?”

  He offered his hand. “I owe you an apology. You were right from the beginning about that low-life scoundrel, Pasha. I should’ve listened to you.”

  Sirak shook his hand. “Thank you, Preston,” he replied sincerely. “I accept your apology.”

  “That son of a bitch is about to get what’s coming to him. He’ll be damned lucky to ever practice medicine in this country again once we’re through with him. We’ve already got enough evidence to hang him. I suggest you lay low until it’s all over.”

  “I planned on it,” Sirak replied bewilderedly.

  “I hope you’ve learned a lesson about following through on your commitments to future appointees,” Phillips quipped.

  “What can I do if we don’t have the money?” Miller replied. “But once this is over, Leonard Morgan will be the new chief of rehabilitative medicine. I won’t have to give him a damned thing.”

  “Leonard Morgan?” Sirak gasped. “You’ve got to be kidding? That slacker’s not competent to be chief dog catcher.”

  “Listen, Kazerian,” Miller whispered, with a glance at the closed door, “Morgan’s done us all a big favor. You’d be well advised to support his appointment when it comes before the board. Do you understand?”

  “I’m not sure I do understand. What are you saying?”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Phillips whispered. “Somebody’s coming.”

  The door opened and a crusty old custodian in overalls slipped his cleaning cart through the door.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, doctors,” the man called out with surprise. “I’ll come back later.”

  “That’s okay, Juan,” Miller said. “We were just leaving. See you later, Sirak. Have a great evening.”

  Too stunned to move, Sirak watched Miller and Phillips disappear out the door. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs and sat down at a dictation machine.

  Sirak glanced up at Butler and Wang. “That brief conversation, and the implications of what’d been said, haunted me for the next two weeks. Then, early one morning, before most of the staff had arrived at the hospital, I went down to the medical library to read some journal articles and happened to run into Leonard Morgan. I scarcely knew the man, but after an exchange of pleasantries, I couldn’t hold back any longer.”

  “Doctor Miller tells me you’ll be nominated to succeed Faruk Pasha as chief of the department of rehabilitative medicine after this messy affair is over,” Sirak baited.

  Morgan smiled smugly. “Miller told you, huh. So I’ll have your support?”

  “Absolutely. This is important to the hospital, but even more so to me personally, as I’m sure you know. I’m very grateful.”

  “It’s my pleasure. I hate that bastard with a passion. Did you know Pasha suspended me for a week last summer just because I fell behind on my dictation?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. I told Miller not to hire him.”

  “You were right. That arrogant prick’s been a problem from the first day he showed up.”

  Sirak’s heart rate raced out of control. Turning to make sure no one was behind him, he leaned across the table. “How’d you set him up?”

  “It was a duck shoot in a bathtub. One of the pharmacy technicians is a hunting buddy of mine. He slipped a couple of open morphine vials into that backpack Pasha carts around after the Turk had ordered morphine for a trauma patient’s CAT scan. Then I went and told the head of security I saw Pasha sneak some medicine. Security searched his backpack, and bingo, hasta la vista Dr. Pasha.”

  “That’s brilliant. Parker’s a real Einstein.”

  “Parker didn’t do shit. Miller masterminded the whole thing. Don’t ever get on his shit list.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.” Sirak glanced at his watch. “Oh gosh, I’m late for clinic. I’ll see you later.”

  “Yeah, see you around.”

  Sirak looked up at Butler and let out a heavy sigh. “I agonized about what I’d uncovered for the next three weeks. I couldn’t eat and I couldn’t sleep and my guts were churning inside me. When I did manage to fall asleep, I’d wake up in a cold sweat—traumatized by the recurring nightmare of Dr. Miller’s sinister laugh. All the while, I struggled with what I should do.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Butler said. “You didn’t know Dr. Pasha was your nephew?”

  “I had no idea. I’m getting to that.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  Sirak glanced at Keri, and his son took his hand.

  “I was torn in opposite directions. One minute, I felt like Dr. Pasha had it coming, and the next minute, I knew I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do something. Then, one night before bed, I happened to read a verse in the Bible that kicked me right in the solar plexus. You probably know it. It’s in the fourth chapter of Ephesians.

  Get rid of all bitterness, rage, anger, harsh words, and slander, as well as all types of evil behavior. Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you.

  “Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. That was a Friday night and the final hearing on Doctor Pasha’s case was scheduled for the following Monday morning. It’s funny, once I made my decision, the tension lifted like a fog and I slept like a baby the rest of that weekend. Bright and early Monday morning, I drove down to the hospital and made my way to the conference room in the administrative suite. When I walked into the room, Dr. Pasha and his lawyer were already seated at the table with Dr. Phillips, the executive director of the hospital, Mr. Anderson, and the rest of the committee members. Several men I didn’t recognize were seated at a side table. I found out later they were attorneys for the hospital. Dr. Phillips was summarizing the findings in the case, and I remember the look of surprise and confusion on his face when I stepped into the room.”

  “Hello, Dr. Kazerian,” Doctor Phillips said. “Can we help you with something, sir?”

  Sirak cleared his throat. “Yes, I’ve come to address this committee. I have information critical to these deliberations.”

  Phillips stared at Sirak for a moment before motioning to one of the hospital attorneys. The young man approached the table and Phillips engaged him in a whispered conversation. During their tête-à-tête, both men glanced at Sirak, as though he was an apparition they hoped would disappear. Finally, the attorney took his seat beside the others.

  “Dr. Kazerian,” Phillips finally said, “this committee is no longer hearing testimony. Therefore, I am declining to...”

  “This man is innocent of the charges leveled against him!” Sirak barked. “Al
l of the evidence was fabricated to discredit Dr. Pasha. Unless you hear me out, I’ll go directly to the police.”

  “Fabricated by whom?” Executive Director Anderson asked skeptically.

  “By Dr. Preston Miller, Doctor Leonard Morgan and Edward Parker, a pharmacy technician here at the hospital.”

  “This is preposterous!” Phillips shouted. “Dr. Kazerian, I hope you can substantiate these egregious charges against the chief of staff of this hospital and several other respected employees.”

  “You know Dr. Phillips as well as I do that what I say is true. If you persist in this charade, you have only yourself to blame for the criminal charges that will undoubtedly be brought against you, too.”

  Phillips lapsed into silence and the weight of every eye in the room fell upon him.

  Suddenly, Mr. Anderson jumped up from his chair and headed to the door.

  “Where are you going, Mr. Anderson?” one of the committee members called out after him.

  “To call the police. This meeting is over.”

  Executive Director Anderson disappeared into the hall and bedlam erupted in the conference room.

  Sirak leaned back in his chair. “The prosecutor offered Ed Parker immunity from prosecution in exchange for his cooperation with the investigation. Parker subsequently detailed the plot to discredit Dr. Pasha. Both Dr. Miller and Dr. Morgan pleaded guilty to conspiracy charges ahead of the trial and served five-year sentences in the penitentiary. Dr. Phillips was fired for allowing Dr. Pasha’s inquisition to continue when he knew the charges were false.

  “Meanwhile, Dr. Pasha was cleared of all charges and received a settlement from the hospital. He resigned from the staff and began to look at opportunities outside of Cleveland. I tried to continue on with my career, but found my interactions with the hospital administration and other long-term employees increasingly difficult. Many of my former friends at the hospital shunned me. So, in June of 1980, when I was sixty-six years old, I decided to retire. I continued to do some locum tenens work to help local physicians during vacations and the like, but soon, even that dried up. It seems I got too old.”

  “You’re an honorable man, sir,” Butler said admiringly. “Given how you felt about the Turks, I doubt there are many men who would’ve done what you did to help that doctor.”

  “God himself led me to that fourth chapter of Ephesians and I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d allowed an innocent man to be destroyed.”

  “So, at this point, you knew Dr. Pasha was your nephew?” Wong asked confusedly.

  Sirak shook his head. “No, I still had no idea whatsoever.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “About a month after I retired, and about three months after the incident at the hospital, I got a thank you letter from Dr. Pasha inviting me to his home for dinner. I thought about it for a few days, and finally, with great hesitancy, I accepted his invitation. That meeting unexpectedly solved one of the great mysteries of my life.”

  June 21, 1980, Pepper Pike, Ohio

  Sirak scanned the addresses on the mailboxes along the street and pulled his car to a stop on the grassy shoulder. Sitting for a moment to gather his thoughts, he stepped out of the car and hobbled down the long driveway. A single-story brick house was nestled beneath majestic maple and oak trees.

  The door opened before Sirak reached the porch, and Faruk Pasha, smiling from ear to ear, rushed out to greet him. He bowed graciously. “Dr. Kazerian, I’m honored to welcome you to my home. Please, sir, come inside and meet my family.”

  Pasha opened the screen door and Sirak stepped past him into the house. An attractive-looking woman and a younger man were waiting in the foyer.

  “Please allow me to introduce you to my wife, Dilara, and my grandson, Bahar,” Pasha said.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Dr. Kazerian,” the woman said effusively. “Welcome to our home.”

  The younger man offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. You’re my hero.”

  Sirak shook the young man’s hand. “Thank you, Bahar, and thank you, Mrs. Pasha.”

  “Bahar’s mother, my youngest daughter, Ferah, lives in Rocky River,” Faruk said. “She’s coming to join us after she picks up her daughter from school.”

  “How many children do you have?” Sirak asked.

  “Three,” Faruk replied. “My son, Musa, is a heart surgeon in Seattle and my older daughter, Kamile, lives in Boston with her family. Please, we’ll be more comfortable in the living room.” Faruk led Sirak into a stylishly-adorned living room. “Please sit here in my favorite chair.”

  Sirak sat in the chair next to the fireplace and Faruk’s grandson sat across from him in a recliner.

  “Can I bring you wine or a soft drink?” Faruk asked politely.

  “I’d enjoy a glass of wine, thank you.”

  Mrs. Pasha brought in a tray and handed each man a glass of wine.

  Faruk raised his glass. “Respected Dr. Kazerian, my family members and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts for your courage and integrity. Thank you, sir, for restoring my honor and saving my career.”

  “Any man with a thread of decency would have done the same,” Sirak replied graciously. He raised his glass. “It’s an honor to be invited to your beautiful home.”

  All three men sipped from their glasses and set them down on the end tables.

  “Dr. Kazerian,” Faruk asked, “how long have you lived in Cleveland?”

  “For almost ten years. I moved my sons here from New York in 1971.”

  “New York,” Faruk repeated, with a nod. “What a coincidence. We lived in Buffalo for fifteen years before I took the position here in Cleveland. Were you born in New York?”

  “No, I was actually born in Anatolia, but I left when I was very young.”

  “You don’t say. Where in Anatolia?”

  “Just outside a small village called Seghir. It’s near Diyarbekir.”

  “Really? I was born near Seghir and I lived there until I was twelve years old.”

  “It’s a small world, indeed,” Sirak said. He sipped his wine. “Was your father a physician?”

  “No, my father was a farmer, but he was killed before I was born.”

  “My father was a farmer, too. It seems we have a lot in common.”

  Faruk smiled. “There’s something else we have in common, Dr. Kazerian.”

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  “My mother was Armenian.”

  Sirak’s eyes widened with surprise. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. Mama was my father’s third wife. Papa took her in when her parents were lost during the Great War. And there’s another thing we have in common. We both took our medical training at American University in Beirut. I noticed in the Euclid Hospital staff directory that you studied there from 1929 to 1934. I attended American University from 1924 to 1928.”

  “I didn’t know that either.”

  “My stepmother arranged a position for me there after I finished undergraduate studies at Ankara University. Those were truly wonderful years. Don’t you agree?”

  “AUB was a great school, but that was a difficult time for me because my sister lived in Jerusalem and she often needed my help. Several times I left Beirut for weeks, or even months, to care for her. That’s why it took me five years to finish.”

  “Even then you were a man of principle, Dr. Kazerian. I’ve never gotten a chance to visit Jerusalem. Is it as wonderful as they say?”

  “Some people think so, but I’m not among them. I lost my wife, daughter and sister there in the 1967 Arab-Israeli War.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Faruk replied awkwardly. He glanced into the dining room where his wife was setting a large platter of food in the center of the table. “I think dinner is about ready.”

  The group dined on tender lamb chops, rice and green beans, along with tasty flat bread Sirak remembered from his youth. Dilara queried Sirak about his sons and their families and she told him
about their children and grandchildren. Faruk and Sirak talked about the conspiracy that implicated Faruk at the hospital and the pending trial of Dr. Miller.

  “So, Dr. Kazerian, were you living in Anatolia at the time of the Great War?” Bahar asked when the conversation lagged.

  “Yes, I lived there as a boy,” Sirak replied curtly. “These lamb chops are superb.”

  Dilara smiled appreciatively. “I’m glad you enjoy them. They looked so wonderful I couldn’t pass them up.”

  “They’re spectacular. Could I trouble you for a bit more wine?”

  “My pleasure.” Dilara fetched a fresh bottle from the kitchen and refilled the glasses.

  Sirak lifted his glass and smiled. “Thank you again for inviting me to your beautiful home.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Faruk said.

  Bahar took a sip of his wine and sighed impatiently. “Dr. Kazerian, I know you were very young, but do you remember the First World War? I mean, do you remember what the situation was like in Anatolia?”

  Sirak set down his glass and sighed with resignation. He glanced at Bahar’s grandfather. “Yes, I remember it like it was yesterday, but I don’t care to talk about what happened to me in Anatolia. I’m sorry.”

  “Please, Dr. Kazerian,” Bahar persisted. “I’m writing an article for the Turkish magazine Kurtulus Cephesi. I’d really appreciate your insights.”

  “You’re a writer?”

  “Yes, or at least I’m an aspiring writer. I specialize in Ottoman art history, but I was invited to contribute this article for a special issue. I’ve been working on it for several months. As you know, it’s a highly controversial topic in Turkey. Please tell me about your experiences in Anatolia. I’ve never had the opportunity to discuss this with someone who actually lived there before and during the Great War.”

  “I have only painful memories of that time, Bahar. I can assure you they wouldn’t interest your readers.”

  “Can I just ask you one question? Do you agree tens of thousands of Muslims died in Anatolia during those years? I know many of your people died, but didn’t many Turks and Kurds die, too, not only from the fighting, but from starvation and disease?”