The Ghosts of Anatolia

by Steven E. Wilson

  “I’m sure many Turks died during the war, but most of the Armenians who died were murdered.”

  “Did you see them murdered?”

  “I saw my brother, Mikael, murdered. And one of our best friends, an American physician named David Charles, was brutally murdered in the prison in Diyarbekir. I saw my older brother and my father sent down the river from Diyarbekir on rafts with hundreds of other Armenian men. One raft overturned and nobody lifted a finger to help. At least twenty men drowned. I also saw my mother and sister abducted, and I never saw either one of them again.”

  “I’m sorry that happened to your family. “But isn’t it true that many Turks died in the inter-ethnic conflict that engulfed the Ottoman Empire during its collapse?”

  Sirak downed the last of his wine and set his glass down. “Bahar, I understand you’ve been taught a Turkish perspective of what happened during those years in Anatolia, but I lived through those terrible years, and I lost most my family to the hatred that swept the Empire and led to the annihilation of my people. My brother, Mikael, was brutally murdered, and my father and brother, Stepannos, vanished forever. My younger sister and I would’ve died, too, if a Druze family hadn’t saved us. What happened was genocide. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I’m sure there were murders, just like there are here in Cleveland, but don’t you think most of what happened in Anatolia occurred in the context of the war and the resultant fear and angst of the Turkish rulers that the empire was being attacked from within by Armenian traitors collaborating with the Russians? After all, the Empire lost more than eighty thousand men during the first battle with Russia. Before the terrible war ended, many Turks died, too, including hundreds of thousands of women and children.”

  “Bahar, nothing could ever excuse what happened to my family. They were mercilessly obliterated. We were treated like dogs, starved, and forced from our homes to walk mile after mile in sweltering heat until we dropped from exhaustion. Many others were left for dead or, like my mother, snatched by tribesmen and never seen again. I was only seven years old when I saw this with my own eyes. It is too horrible to think about. May we change the subject please?”

  Faruk cleared his throat and gazed sympathetically at Sirak. “Bahar, you have enough information for your article. Unimaginably terrible things happen in war. It has always been so, and will always be, for only during the desperate and uncertain times of war can the depraved killers living amongst us bring their distorted and zealous cruelty and terror into the mainstream of human existence. We’re truly sorry about what happened to your family, Dr. Kazerian.”

  “Thank you,” Sirak whispered sincerely.

  An awkward silence engulfed the table and the patter of raindrops echoed from the patio outside.

  Dilara stood up to clear the table. “How about coffee and dessert? I baked my mother’s favorite baklava recipe.”

  Sirak smiled graciously. “Thank you. I’d love some. My mother baked baklava, too, and I haven’t had any in years.”

  Faruk and Bahar gathered the dishes and followed Dilara into the kitchen. Sirak got up from the table and wandered to the back of the dining room where a melange of old photographs adorned the wall. As his eyes wandered from one image to the next, he lingered on a photo of Faruk and Dilara standing with their arms around their four young children. Then he examined a graduation photo of Faruk standing with several American University of Beirut professors he’d admired many years earlier. Finally, his eyes wandered to a grainy black and white photograph of three women sitting on a sofa with half a dozen children. His eyes fell on one woman in the photo and a powerful sensation of recognition swept over him. “No, it couldn’t be,” he whispered. “Faruk, who is this woman in the photograph?”

  The Turk set down the dessert platter and walked around the table to see what Sirak was pointing at. “That’s my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  Faruk pointed. “Yes, and that’s me beside her. I was ten or eleven years old at the time. That’s my twin sister and that’s my stepbrother. This is my father’s first wife, Sabriye, this is his second wife, Jasmine, and these other younger women are my half-sisters.”

  Sirak swallowed hard and continued to stare at the photograph. His mouth was bone-dry. “What was your mother’s name?”

  “Her name was Flora,” Faruk replied with a smile. “She was a wonderful woman.”

  Sirak caught his breath and a chill ran up his spine. “What happened to her?”

  “She died of typhus a few years after this photograph was taken. I was devastated. After Mama died, Jasmine and her second husband raised Kristina and me as their own.”

  Sirak stared at the young girl in the photograph. “Your sister’s name was Kristina?”

  “Yes. She lives in Istanbul with her husband and seven children.”

  Sirak continued to stare at the photograph. “Kristina was my mother’s name.”

  “Well, that’s something else we have in common.”

  Sirak took a deep breath and exhaled contemplatively. He glanced at his watch. “My gosh, look how late it’s gotten. I must be getting home.”

  Faruk’s mouth dropped open. “But what about coffee and dessert?”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get home. Thank you for a wonderful evening.” Sirak retreated through the living room to the front door.

  Faruk wrung his hands in despair. “Did Bahar offend you? I’m truly sorry if he did.”

  “I’m not offended. I’m just very tired. Thank you for a spectacular dinner, Mrs. Pasha. It was nice to meet you, too, Bahar.”

  Sirak reached for the doorknob, but the door suddenly opened. A middle-aged woman and a teenage girl stepped inside.

  “Oh, hello,” the woman exclaimed with surprise. “You must be Dr. Kazerian. I’m Ferah and this is my youngest daughter, Flora.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Kazerian,” the girl said politely. “Thank you for helping Grandpapa Pasha.”

  Sirak caught his breath. Young Flora had almond-shaped brown eyes and full lips. “My God,” he whispered.

  “Is something wrong?” Ferah asked.

  “No, I’m sorry,” Sirak replied. “Flora just reminds me of someone I knew a long time ago.”

  Ferah set her purse on the table in the foyer. “I’m sorry we’re so late. The meeting took longer than we expected. You’re not leaving already… Are you okay, Dr. Kazerian?” she asked upon spotting tears pooling in Sirak’s eyes.

  “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day. Faruk,” Sirak asked, looking back at his host. “I forgot to ask, what was your father’s name?”

  “My birth father or the father who raised me?”

  “Your birth father.”

  “His name was Abdul Pasha.”

  Sirak swallowed hard. “Abdul Pasha,” he repeated in a near whisper. “Well, goodnight. I’m glad I got a chance to meet you all.”

  “We’ll be happy to drive you home,” Faruk said. “Bahar can drive your car and I’ll follow in ours.”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you. My son is coming early in the morning to take me fishing, and I must get to bed. Thank you all for a wonderful evening.” Sirak stepped outside and limped up the driveway to the street.

  At long last Sirak knew what had happened to his sister, Flora, and that their malevolent neighbor Abdul Pasha had kidnapped her those many years ago. Sirak was not surprised. Even as a young boy he had known the animosity between the Kazerian and Pasha families. It had never occurred to him that Dr. Faruk Pasha was in any way related to those Pashas of long ago, who longed to own Mourad Kazerian’s land. After all, Pasha was a common name in Anatolia. Sirak felt the grief of his sister’s abduction all over again, and as he lay in bed that night, he tried to find some comfort in the fact that Flora bore two children who loved her and must have brought her happiness.

  “So you never told him that he’s your nephew?” Butler asked Sirak incredulously.

  “No, I never did.”
r />   “Why not?”

  “What would it accomplish to tell Dr. Pasha he owes his very existence and that of his children and grandchildren to abduction and forced marriage? Should a man be held accountable for the sins of his father?”

  “How do you know it was an abduction?”

  “I was there, sir. I saw the masked man drag Flora kicking and screaming out of our neighbor’s house. This was not uncommon back then. Men would enter houses and take whatever girls and women they wanted. After Flora was taken, it happened again, to my mother.”

  Sirak glanced at his son. “I didn’t tell you about it for the same reason. No good could’ve possibly come from your knowing this sad part of our family history. But that night I drove away from dinner at Dr. Pasha’s knowing one of the longest chapters of my life had finally been closed. The burning hatred I’d harbored in my heart was extinguished once and for all by the timid innocence in my beautiful Turkish greatgrandniece’s eyes, or should I say my sister Flora’s eyes?”

  “And now they live in Los Angeles?”

  “I think so. Dr. Pasha accepted a job in Santa Monica a few weeks after I visited his home. He called to say goodbye and that was the last time we spoke to each other. He’s still there as far as I know, although he’s probably retired by now.”

  Agent Butler shut his legal pad. “Thank you, Dr. Kazerian, that’s all I have for now.”

  “By the way, Agent Butler,” Keri said, “I ran into George Liralian a few days ago. I meant to call you, but I got busy and forgot.”

  Butler stared blankly at Keri for a moment. Suddenly, his face lit up with recognition. “George Liralian? Here in Richmond Heights?”

  “No, we saw him at the Cleveland Skating Club in Shaker Heights. My grandsons had a hockey game there last Wednesday, and he was working at the bar.”

  Butler wrote a note on the back of his pad. “The Cleveland Skating Club? Did you mention anything to him about me or this investigation?”

  “No, we were only there an hour, and I didn’t even speak to him. As soon as he saw me with Papa, he ducked into the back.”

  “He hid from you?”

  Keri glanced at Sirak and smiled. “I think so. He and Papa don’t get along very well.”

  Butler nodded. “Thanks for the tip. Please let me know if you hear from him.”

  Sirak showed the agents out. He returned to the living room and found Keri jotting down a note. “Why didn’t you tell me you saw George Liralian?” he asked irritably.

  Keri tucked the notepad into his shirt pocket. “Why? So you could peg him with your cane again? Papa, is there anything else you should tell me about? I can’t believe you kept the truth about Faruk Pasha to yourself.”

  “Like I told Agent Butler, I agonized over telling you about your aunt Flora and Dr. Pasha, but I decided nothing good would come of it. But now you know our darkest family secret. If there are anymore, I don’t know about them.”

  “Papa, I’d like to meet Dr. Pasha and his family someday.”

  “Maybe we’ll go together someday. I haven’t talked to him since he left Cleveland, so I’m not sure the phone number he gave me is still correct. I’m sure we could reach him through the hospital where he worked. Son, I realize now I should’ve told you and Ara everything about Anatolia and Syria, and what happened to our family, including my discovery about your aunt Flora and Faruk Pasha. I convinced myself that hiding the truth would somehow insulate you and your brother from the hatred and extremism that grew out of the events that transpired all those years ago, but in the end I guess I really only protected myself.”

  “Protected yourself from what, Papa?”

  “Protected myself from having to relive all that in my thoughts and words. Make sure you and the boys share what happened with your grandchildren while they’re still young. Don’t leave it for someone else to come along and use Anatolia to stir hatred in their hearts.”

  Keri patted his father’s knee. “We already talked to them. The children know what happened, and they understand that the evil men who were responsible died a long time ago.”

  “Tell them about Dr. Pasha and his family, too.”

  “I will.”

  “Are we still going fishing next Sunday?”

  “I’m planning on it.”

  “I’ll pick you up around ten-thirty Saturday morning. I’ve got to go now.”

  Sirak hugged Keri to his chest. “I love you, Son.”

  “I love you, too, Papa. We’ll see you Saturday.”

  CHAPTER 60

  May 15, 1998

  Washington DC

  The jet touched down gently on the tarmac. Butler glanced out the window at the airplanes lined up outside the Washington National Airport terminal. “Well, this should be interesting.”

  “Damned interesting,” Wang agreed. “I’m sure Zakian’s been expecting us to show up ever since he heard from his wife.”

  “Yeah, and now he’s had six months to work on his story. At least we can turn up the heat a bit. Maybe he’ll make a mistake.”

  The agents disembarked and wove through the crowded terminal. Walking out into bright sunshine, Butler made a beeline for a man sitting on the hood of a Town Car bearing the ATF insignia.

  “Are you waiting for Butler and Wang?”

  “Yes, sir!” the clean-cut, young black man replied. “The name is Jefferson, sir. Let me help you with your bag.”

  “I’ll keep it with me, if you don’t mind. We’ve got a few things to review during the drive.”

  Jefferson opened the rear door. “No problem, sir.”

  Wang and Butler climbed into the car and slammed the door. Jefferson jogged around the back end and ducked into the driver’s seat.

  “We’re headed to 1711 N Street, Northwest,” Butler called out. “But could you drive past the Lincoln Memorial on the way?”

  “Absolutely, sir, would you like me to take a little drive around the city, too?”

  “No, thank you, just the Lincoln Memorial. I make a point of seeing it whenever I’m in Washington.”

  Jefferson smiled at Butler in the rearview mirror. “It’s my favorite, too. We sure could use old Abe in the White House right now.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Wang and Butler were lost in their own thoughts as they passed the Lincoln Memorial; then Wang said, “We still don’t have anything to tie Gevork Zakian directly to the dynamite and guns, and we probably never will.”

  “Yeah, one step forward and two steps back. It’s so damned frustrating. The FBI isn’t even working the case anymore. We should’ve talked to this joker a year ago.”

  “What for?” Wang replied frustratedly. “He won’t give us a damned thing.”

  “Maybe not, but at least he’ll know we haven’t forgotten him.”

  “He hasn’t forgotten. You can bet he’s been in contact with at least half of the witnesses we’ve interviewed.”

  “I’m sure. We need to find George Liralian. There’s a reason he’s been dodging us for the past year and a half. Why else would he move from one apartment to the next and not use credit cards or bank accounts? I wonder where he gets the money to live.”

  “Probably from Zakian,” Wang quipped. “Maybe we should check all the registered guests staying at hotels near ANCA headquarters.”

  Butler laughed. “Why don’t you do that when you have a few extra weeks to waste?

  Ten minutes later, Jefferson pulled the car to a stop in front of an office building on N Street.

  The two agents checked the directory in the ornate marble foyer and took the elevator to the third floor. They found Suite 301, and Wang followed Butler inside.

  A middle-aged woman sitting at the reception desk looked up from her monitor. “May I help you, gentlemen?”

  Butler held out his ID. “I’m agent Jim Butler from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. This is agent Leo Wang. We’re here to see Gevork Zakian.”

  The woman perused the ID and t
hen looked up. “What’s this about?”

  “It’s official business,” Butler replied. “It won’t take long.”

  “Wait here, please. He’s very busy today, but I’ll see if he has time to speak to you.”

  The woman stepped through a door behind the desk and reappeared a minute later. “Mr. Zakian will see you, but only for a few minutes. He’s having lunch with Congressman White in forty-five minutes.”

  The woman led them into an imposing corner office. Zakian was sitting behind a large mahogany desk. He was an intense-looking man, with black hair and gold-framed glasses. He stared down at a letter he was reading.

  Butler glanced past him at the collection of photographs on the wall behind the desk. He recognized Bill Clinton and Newt Gingrich, along with dozens of other luminaries.

  “Ridiculous,” Zakian muttered. He folded the letter, slid it into his desk drawer and leaned back in his chair. “How can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked calmly.

  Butler held out his ID. “Mr. Zakian, I’m Jim Butler, special agent with the ATF, and this is agent Leo Wang. We’d like to ask you a few questions, sir.”

  “Ask away, but all I can spare is fifteen minutes.” Zakian stood up and walked to four oversized chairs arranged in a circle around a hexagonal coffee table. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

  Butler retrieved a legal pad from his briefcase. “Mr. Zakian, we’re here to ask you about dynamite and weapons that were found on September 13, 1996, in a storage locker in Bedford Heights, a locker you rented for the past twenty years.”

  “I didn’t rent any locker in Ohio,” Zakian replied.

  “Not directly, but you had your ex-wife, Lucy, pay the rent with money you sent to her. We’ve done our homework, Mr. Zakian, and it brought us right here to you. You’re a busy man, so let’s just cut through the semantics and get to the crux of the issue. You were an ASALA member, right?”

  “No, I was not.”

  Butler bent down and withdrew several papers from his briefcase. He handed them to Zakian. “Take a look at these documents. They were found in Lazar Sarkesian’s condominium in Buenos Aires after he died.”