Forty Days of Musa Dagh

by Franz Werfel

  To be sure, in Paris things had been different for Juliette. Her own world, in which Gabriel was the foreigner, had supported her like a higher power. In Yoghonoluk their positions were reversed, and it is very easily understood that Juliette, for all her irony, should have striven to fortify in herself her feeling of being well disposed towards the "half-civilized" people with whom she was living.

  Gabriel must be left to his own devices. That painful talk in the night seemed no more to Juliette than one of the moods she already knew. For this Frenchwoman, grown up amid immeasurable security, could not imagine in the least what Gabriel had meant by his "desert storm." Europe was now a battlefield. Even in Paris people were having to spend the night in cellars, taking refuge from enemy aircraft. But here she lived amid paradisaic spring. A few more months of this would be delightful. Then, sooner or later, they would be sure to return to the Avenue Kiéber -- and meanwhile Juliette's days were fully, and very pleasantly, occupied. She had not the time to do much thinking. Her ambitions as a châtelaine were aroused. These servants must be trained to civilization. She soon found herself admiring the natural talents of Armenians; within a few weeks Hovhannes the cook had developed into almost a cordon bleu. The butler Missak was so versatile that she had thoughts of taking him back with her to Paris. Her two maids bade fair to become expert ladies' maids. The villa on the whole was in good condition, yet sharp feminine eyes could pick out many points where decay and dilapidation threatened. Workmen invaded the house. Their master, Tomasian, undertook to do all the carpentering. But Tomasian must never be called a master-carpenter to his face. He described himself as a "builder and contractor," wore a heavy gold watch chain across his middle, hung with a big medallion of his late wife, that had been painted by the schoolteacher Oskanian, and never let slip a chance of telling people how his two children, a son and a daughter, had been to school in Geneva. He was tediously thorough and insisted on engaging Juliette in endless discussions. In compensation, however, he succeeded in repairing any structural damage the house had sustained and could even make certain additions and improvements necessary to European habits. His men worked fast and with astonishing quiet. By the beginning of April, Juliette was already proudly aware that here, on the remotest coast of Syria, she possessed a country house which, apart from its rather primitive lighting and sanitation, could easily compare with any in Europe.

  Her chief delights were the rose garden and orchard. Here her inherited instincts found expression. Is there not in every Frenchman an inborn gardener and fruit-grower? But Armenians also are born gardeners, especially those round Musa Dagh. Kristaphor the steward was an expert. Juliette had never conceived of such fruit. No one, without having tasted them, can have any idea of the sweetness and juiciness of Armenian apricots. Even here, beyond the watershed of the Taurus, they retained all the savor of their home up along the shores of Lake Van, so rich in gardens. Juliette kept making the acquaintance of more and more new kinds of fruit, of flowers and vegetables of which she had never heard. She spent most time in pruning rose trees, on her head a sombrero, a vast pair of Kristaphor's gardening-scissors in her hand. For such a rose-lover the delights of this could not have been equalled. Long beds of rose trees, shrub after shrub, tree after tree, not in stiff European lines, but a tangled tumult of scent and color, on dark green waves.

  Apothecary Krikor had promised that, if she would send him enough baskets of the real moschata damascena, he would extract for her a tiny vial of that attar, the recipe for which goes back through the centuries. And he told her a legend. A single drop of the genuine essence has such power that a corpse, on to whose hair it has been sprinkled, will still be perfumed with it at the Last Judgment, and so will influence the recording angel in his favor.

  Sometimes Juliette went for rides with Stephan. Behind them rode a stable-boy, for whom she had designed picturesque livery. The instinct to embellish, to decorate, possessed her completely. When she rode forth with Stephan and the decorative groom down the village street and across the church square of Yoghonoluk, she felt like the princess of this fairy-tale world. She sometimes thought of her mother and sister in Paris. What a much better time she was having! Wherever she went, she was greeted with the deepest obeisance, even in the Mohammedan villages, which she touched on her longer rides. It was obvious. Poor Gabriel had another of his crises de nerfs. She, Juliette, could see not the slightest sign of a changed world.

  Gabriel Bagradian left the house early every morning, but no longer to explore Musa Dagh. He went through the villages. His hankerings after memories of his childhood had been replaced by more adult cravings. He was determined to get to know these people thoroughly, their way of life, their needs, their comings and goings.

  At the same time he had sent a batch of letters to Istanbul, to Armenian friends in the Dashnakzagan party, and some to former friends among the Young Turks. He shrewdly hoped that, though the metropolitan censorship might prevent most of these from being delivered, some at least would get to their destination. The answers that came must decide the future. If everything was as usual in the capital, or if it were simply a case of general military control, he would, he had decided, break up this household and dare the journey to Istanbul, even without the necessary passport. If no answers came, or unfavorable ones, the old Agha's fears must be well founded, his fate sealed, retreat cut off. Then there would remain only the hope that such a friend of Armenians as the Wali Djelal Bey might tolerate no "incidents" in his vilayet, and that a peasant community like this round Musa Dagh would be left unmolested by the firebrands, who, after all, congregate in big cities. In that case the house in Yoghonoluk might, as the Agha had said, be an ideal refuge.

  In so far as the absence of marching-orders was concerned, Bagradian fancied he could perceive the exact workings of the minds of the Turkish High Command. Why were Armenians being retired from the line and disarmed? Surely the Turks feared that defeat would mean that a strong minority, armed with all the latest weapons, might be tempted to demand certain rights from the dominant race. But where there could be no soldiers, officers, who at the proper moment might snatch up the leadership of such a movement, were still less to be tolerated.

  Valid as were all these reasons, Gabriel had not a second's real peace. Yet now his unrest was no longer neurotically on edge, but fruitful and purposeful. He found in himself a meticulous sense of detail, so far known only in his scientific work. It was useful as a means of discovering exact relationships. He did not once ask himself to what object his new exertions were being directed or to whom he imagined they might be useful.

  His first step was to investigate the village of Yoghonoluk. It was the largest village. In its communal house the municipal business of all seven villages was transacted, particularly their dealings with the authorities. Mukhtar Kebussyan was away. The village clerk let Gabriel in with many bows; a visit from the head of the fabulous Bagradian family was a great distinction.

  Was there a register? The clerk pointed ceremoniously to the dusty shelves round the walls of his little office. Naturally there were lists. And not only had every inhabitant been entered in the proper church register -- these were not Kurds or nomads, but Christian folk -- only a few years ago the mukhtars had taken an independent census. In 1909 -- after the reaction against the Young Turks and the big massacre in Adana -- Armenian party leaders had given orders for lists to be taken in the villages. By a rough calculation there must be about seven thousand Christians. But if the Effendi so desired, he could have the exact figures within a few days. Gabriel did so desire.

  His next inquiry was more delicate. How were those young men placed who were liable for military service? The village clerk had begun to squint a little, like his master, the mukhtar. So far the order had concerned all able-bodied men between twenty and thirty, though legally twenty-seven was the age limit. About two hundred men in this whole village district had been affected. Just one hundred and fifty of these had paid their bedel, the sum whic
h bought them clear of the army -- fifty Turkish pounds a head. The Effendi knew how thrifty people were in the villages. Most fathers began to save for the bedel the instant their sons were born . . . to spare them the horrors of Turkish barrack-life. The Mukhtar of Yoghonoluk, in conjunction with the gendarmerie station, had to collect it as every batch received its marching-orders and pass it on to the Hükümet at Antioch.

  "But how is it," Bagradian asked, "that in a population of six thousand there should only be two hundred men fit for service?"

  The answer did not come as a surprise. The Effendi must remember that this lack of able-bodied men was a legacy from the past, a consequence of the blood-letting to which, at least once every decade, the Armenian people was subjected. But that was only a euphemism. Gabriel himself had seen over two hundred young men in the village streets. There were other ways of avoiding conscription, without having to pay the bedel. The pock-marked saptieh, Ali Nassif, was no doubt fully conversant with these other methods.

  Bagradian came back to the point: "Well, then . . . Fifty people were sent to barracks in Antakiya. What's happened to them?"

  "Forty were kept for service.

  "And in which regiments, on what fronts, would they be serving?"

  That was uncertain. It was weeks, months, now, since the families had had news of their sons. The reliability of the Turkish field-post was all too well known. Possibly they were in barracks in Aleppo, where General Jemal Pasha was reconditioning his army.

  "And does nobody say in the villages that they're going to use the Armenians as inshaat taburi, as depot soldiers?"

  "They say all kinds of things in the villages." The clerk looked rather uneasy as he answered.

  Gabriel eyed the little bookcase. A List of Householders stood next to a copy of the Imperial Ottoman Book of Laws , and next that a pair of rusty scales for weighing letters. He turned suddenly: "What about deserters?"

  The harassed village clerk tip-toed to the door, opened and shut it again mysteriously. Of course there were deserters, here as everywhere. Why shouldn't Armenians desert, when Turks were setting them the example? How many? Fifteen to twenty. Yes! They'd been after them, too. A few days ago. A mixed platoon of saptiehs and regular infantry, led by a mülasim. They'd looked all over Musa Dagh. Made fools of themselves.

  The pointed face of the blinking little man was suddenly craftily triumphant. "Fools of themselves, Effendi. You see, our lads know their own mountain."

  Ter Haigasun's presbytery was the third best house in the church square of Yoghonoluk. Only the mukhtar's house and the school buildings could compare with it. With its flat roof and single-storied, five-windowed façade, it might have stood in any small town in the south of Italy. Ter Haigasun was Gregorian chief priest to the whole district. His province even included hamlets with mixed inhabitants and the small Armenian communities in such Turkish towns as Suedia and El Eskel. Ter Haigasun had studied in the seminary at Ejmiadzin, at the feet of the Catholicos, in whom all Armenian Christianity acclaimed its chief spiritual head, and was therefore in every way the chosen vicar of his district.

  And Pastor Harutiun Nokhudian? How did a Protestant pastor suddenly come to inhabit such a remote Armenian village? The answer is that Syria and Anatolia contained a great many Protestants and that the Evangelical church had those German and American missionaries who had cared so well for Armenian orphans and victims to thank for these proselytes. The worthy Nokhudian had been such an orphan, sent by these compassionate mission-folk to Dorpat in East Germany to study theology. But in everything that was not of strictly spiritual concern Nokhudian submitted to Ter Haigasun. In view of the constant danger besetting Armenians theological differences became of comparative unimportance, and Ter Haigasun's spiritual leadership -- he was, in the truest sense, a spiritual leader -- remained uncontested and uncriticized.

  An old man, the sacristan, led Gabriel into the priest's study. A bare room with a wide carpet. Against the window a small writing-desk with, beside it, a tattered, straw-seated chair for visitors. Ter Haigasun stood up behind the desk and came round it a step nearer Bagradian. He could not have been more than forty-eight, yet his beard had long grey streaks on either side. His big eyes (Armenian eyes are nearly always big; big with a thousand years of terror) had a mingled look of shy isolation and resolute knowledge of the world. The priest was wearing a black alpaca cassock with a hood that rose to a point over his head. His hands were hidden in wide sleeves, as though they were freezing even on this warm, spring day. Was it a shiver of humility? Bagradian sat down carefully on the rickety straw-seated chair.

  "I much regret the fact, reverend Father, that I am never able to greet you at my house."

  The priest cast down his eyes; both hands waved a gesture of apology. "I regret it even more than you, Effendi. But Sunday evening is the only time we priests have free in the whole week."

  Gabriel looked about him. He had hoped in this presbytery study to find some documents and records. Nothing at all. Only a few written papers on the desk. "I can well believe that you carry a heavy burden."

  Ter Haigasun did not deny it.

  Gabriel tried to arrest the eyes of the priest. "Don't you agree, Ter Haigasun, that these are not the days for social gatherings?"

  A brief, attentive glance was his reply. "On the contrary, Effendi. This is the right time for people to come together."

  Gabriel at first said nothing in answer to these strange words with their double meaning. It was a while before he observed: "It really is surprising that life here should go on so calmly, and that nobody seems to be perturbed."

  Again the priest was sitting with downcast eyes, as though he were prepared to accept any scorn with humility.

  "I was in Antioch a few days ago," Gabriel very slowly observed, "where I heard a good deal."

  Ter Haigasun's freezing hands slipped out of his sleeves. He joined his finger tips. "The people in our villages only very seldom go to Antioch. And that is good. They live within their own boundaries and know little of things in the world outside."

  "How long will they still be able to live at peace in their own boundaries, Ter Haigasun? . . . What will happen, for instance, if all our leaders and rich men in Istanbul get arrested?"

  "They have already been arrested," the priest answered very softly. "For the last three days they have been in the prisons of Istanbul. And they are many, very many."

  So that Gabriel's fate was sealed, the way to the capital blocked. Yet for the moment this major fact impressed him less than Ter Haigasun's calm. He had no doubt that the news was reliable. The clergy, in spite of the liberal Dashnakzagan, was still the one great power, the only real organization of the people. The priest was the first to learn, by quick and secret ways, of any new and dangerous factor, long before the newspapers of the capital had dared report it. Gabriel wanted to convince himself that he really had understood.

  "Actually arrested? And who? . . Are you perfectly sure?"

  "I'm certain."

  "And yet you, the head priest of seven large villages, keep so calm?"

  "Excitement would be of no use and would probably only injure my people."

  "Have any priests been arrested?"

  Ter Haigasun doubtless perceived the guile in this question. He nodded gravely. "Seven, so far. Among them Archbishop Hemayak and three highly placed prelates."

  For all this devastating news Gabriel craved a cigarette. He was given one, and a light. "I ought to have come to see you before, Ter Haigasun. You have no idea how hard it has been to keep silence."

  "You did very well to keep silence. And we must continue to keep it."

  "Would it perhaps be better to prepare these people for what may happen?"

  Ter Haigasun's face, as though carved in wax, showed no emotion. "I can't tell what may happen. But I know the danger of panic in a community."

  This Christian priest had spoken to almost the same effect as had Rifaat, the pious Moslem. But in Gabriel's mind a lightn
ing vision came and went: a huge dog. One of those stray mad curs that make all Turkey dangerous ground. An old man on a road, stopping in terror of the dog, swaying on his feet, and turning, with a sudden jerk, for flight -- but already the rabid fangs are in his back. . . . Gabriel passed his hand across his forehead.