Forty Days of Musa Dagh

by Franz Werfel

  We see, therefore, that Dr. Bedros Altouni was a very ardent champion indeed of western science. Had not old Avetis Bagradian sent him to get his education and supported him a whole five years at the University of Vienna, that he might hold aloft the torch of enlightenment above the darkness of this people? But how were things with him in reality? What reward had fate given the hekim for having kept his promise to his old patron? In all the long years through which, astride his patient ass, the doctor had gone jogging round the villages, and indeed been in constant request by Moslems, up and down the whole district, he had had to admit the oddest experiences. His whole scientific heart might rebel, but his eyes had had to see many cures obtained by the lousiest quacks, the filthiest nostrums, in flat defiance of all antiseptic or hygiene. In eighty percent of these cures "evil eye" had been the diagnosis. For this the specffics were spittle, sheep's piss, burnt horsehair, bird's dung, and even more attractive medicaments. And yet, more than once it had happened that a patient, given up by Dr. Altouni, got a lightning cure from having swallowed a strip of paper scribbled with a verse from Bible or Koran. Altouni was not the man to credit the magic of swallowed strips, not, at least, to the point where doubts assailed him. But what use was scepticism? A cure was a cure! In Armenian villages the news of such miraculous therapy would get about from time to time, so that Altouni's patients all forsook him, to seek out the Arab hekim in the neighborhood, or even consult Nuniik and her worthy sisters, the other fates. And frequently there would be confirmed "enlighteners" -- this or that schoolteacher, for instance -- who deserted the doctor for the quack. It certainly did not improve his temper.

  There was another reason for Dr. Altouni's bitter wrath. Perhaps it was the really valid one. Science! Enlightenment! Progress! All well and good. But to diffuse the light of scientific advancement one must oneself be scientifically advanced. And who, cut off from all knowledge of recent discoveries, medical books, or medical journals, could advance in the shadow of Musa Dagh? Krikor's library contained the works of many years on every conceivable subject except medicine, although, or perhaps because, he was a chemist. Bedros Altouni had only a German Handbook of Medicine published in 1875. It was a solid work; it contained the essentials. But it had one grave defect. For devouring time had not only affected the vade mecum, but also the doctor's memory of German. The Handbook had, as it were, been struck dumb. So now Dr. Altouni never opened it, nor even used it as amulet and fetish. All that, decades ago, he had learned theoretically, had melted into an inconsiderable something. For the doctor there were ten to twenty diseases that could be named. Though he had seen innumerable pictures of human suffering, he crammed them all under the few headings he possessed. In the depths of his sad and simple heart Altouni felt every bit as ignorant as the hekims, quacks, and keening-wives of the district, whose gruesome cures so damnably often succeeded, with a little help from patient Nature. It was just this utter lack of conceit which, without his ever being aware of it, made of Altouni a great doctor. On the other hand it provoked these frenzied outbursts at the sight of Nunik, Wartuk, Manushak. But today these midwives did not let themselves be dismissed. They lingered on the edge of Three-Tent Square, eyeing the enemy with derision.

  Hovsannah, the pastor's wife, was the first woman among the people to lie in chuldbed on the Damlayik. Even in the everyday valley a birth was a kind of public event, to which all assembled, near and distant relatives, not excepting the men. How much more solemn, therefore, and public an occasion, up here in camp -- since now, in perhaps the most perilous situation in which that people had yet been placed, the first Armenian child was to be brought forth. Even the resplendent spoils of war, the two golden howitzers, shed their glory on it. The crowds which had that morning surrounded those trophies now jammed into Three-Tent Square, the most "select" place in this poor camp. The curtains of poor Hovsannah's tent were lifted and she was mercilessly exposed to the sun. Her birth-pangs were her own, but she was the people's. The inquisitive came in and out. Altouni, having soon realized himself superfluous, had made way, with a grunt, for his wife, who as a rule replaced him at a childbed. He walked away, taking no notice of the deep salaams of the keening-women, towards the hospital hut to visit his wounded.

  Mairik Antaram stayed with Hovsannah. With sharp words, even with fists, she cleared the tent of its intruders. Decisively she set about the duties which for many decades she had performed. Yet, old as Mairik was, she could still, even today, not help at a childbirth without some thoughts of the two miscarriages which dated back to her earliest youth. Iskuhi stroked her sister's forehead with hands as cool as ice, in spite of the heat. She kept eyeing Mairik with shy anxiety, afraid of missing some direction. All the energy of the doctor's wife could not keep people out of the hut; they kept on returning, to give advice, encourage, ask how things were getting on. Gabriel too came in for news. Iskuhi, in the midst of all this bustle, was still struck by the haggard paleness of his bearded face. Also she felt surprised that Juliette should remain scarcely half an hour with Hovsannah -- they had lived together so long, in a single family. Aram, the husband, was in and out every twenty minutes. But he always went again. He was, he kept saying, more needed than ever; after yesterday's victory over the Turks he must keep an eye on the general discipline. Really his own excitement, and worry about his wife, drove him round in circles.

  The women of the people were shaking their heads over the fact that Hovsannah Tomasian did not scream as she lay in labor. They sensed some pride behind it. It was perhaps the pride of shame. Nunik, Wartuk, Manushak, had long since come back into the foreground. Nunik herself squatted inside the tent, watching all Antaram's laborious efforts with reflectively professional eyes, much as a world-famous surgeon might watch the work of a village barber.

  After more than eight hours' labor pains Hovsannah at last brought forth a son. This child, who in its mother's womb since Zeitun had known much fear and suffering, was unconscious, and did not breathe. Antaram shook the tiny body, still covered with blood and afterbirth, while Iskuhi had to breathe into its mouth. But Nunik and her colleagues, who knew better, seized like lightning on the afterbirth, to pierce it with seven needles, owned by seven different families. They cast the whole into their fire. The life which, to escape its fate on earth, had taken refuge in this dead matter, must be freed by fire. A few seconds later the child gurgled; he began to breathe, and then to whimper. Mairik Antaram rubbed him all over carefully with mutton fat. The crowd, grown silent, began applauding. The sun sank. Pastor Aram, with all the clumsy, rather absurd, pride of a young father, took up the little wrinkled thing, which should grow to a man, and held it out to the people. They all rejoiced and praised Tomasian, since this was a male. The broadest jokes went the rounds of the fighters. None of them could remember the real future. It remains uncertain which of them was the first to notice the little, round fiery birth-spot which this true son of Musa Dagh bore above his tiny heart. The women put their heads together to consult as to the meaning of this sign. But Nunik, Wartuk, Manushak, whose profession it was to decipher such omens, would say nothing, bound up their veils, took their staves, and so retraced their steps, well recompensed. Their old brown legs moved in long strides. Again they were like the mimes of an ancient chorus as, under the rising moon, they took their way down mountain slopes towards the graves of the past.

  Not more than three days and nights had passed, and scouts were already announcing incomprehensible movements in the villages. Gabriel climbed at once to his observation post. His field-glass certainly showed a most active scurry, in sharply differentiated forms. Long lines of oxcarts across the plain of the Orontes, along the highroad between the villages, on the paths and cart-tracks leading off it. Big crowds in these villages themselves, people in fez and turban, darting in and out, in obvious haste. Gabriel tested every strip of ground with his spy-glass, but could not make out one soldier's uniform, and not many saptiehs. On the other hand he noticed that this time it was not the familiar
populace of Antakiya, or its suburbs, that invaded the empty streets. Today's incursions looked far more opulent, and seemed to have a definite object. Great stir on the church square of Yoghonoluk. Little turbaned shapes were clambering up the fire escape of the church, and moving about in the empty bell tower, to the side of the big cupola. The long-drawn, thread-like notes of a tiny voice grew audible, perceptible rather, sent out to the four quarters of the globe. It was the prayer-cryer of the Prophet, standing above the house of Christ, giving out of himself his plangent sing-song, which causes every Moslem heart to beat faster, and which seemed to be bringing in the faithful from every cluster of huts, village, market town, in the empty land. The fate of the Church of Ever-Increasing Angelic Powers, built by Avetis the elder, was therefore sealed. The mad desire to answer this desecration with a shell flashed into the grandson's mind. He checked his impulse. His basic principle -- always to defend, never attack -- must be broken least of all by himself. And the mountain, towering secretively over its enemies, as though shamming dead, threatened more effectively. Provocation could only weaken their defence, since it gave the Turks, the ruling people, their moral right to punish rebels.

  As he watched all this mysterious stir in the valley, Bagradian asked himself how many more onslaughts they could drive back. In spite of the spoils of double victory, and Nurhan's workshop for making cartridges, the munition supply was very limited. It made his heart stand still to remember how the smallest slip, the most trifling failure, must lead to irretrievable disaster. There was no middle way for those on the Damlayik; it was either final victory, or the end. His tactical skill was merely useful to put off that end as long as he could. To achieve that object the capital sum of wholesome fear which, after two defeats, they obviously inspired in the Turks, must not be frittered away. The new population of the valley increased every minute. But this time it did not mean an attack, of that he was certain, after long and minute investigation. Perhaps they were only holding a demonstration, perhaps this was the solemn investiture of a Christian district by Islam. In front of the church door of Yoghonoluk he made out a small group of men in European dress. The müdir with his officials, presumed Bagradian, glad to see no officer among them, come to get the hang of the situation. All the same he ordered that the trenches were to keep on the sharpest alert, set a double guard at every observation post, and groups of scouts at all possible approaches to the Damlayik, as far down as the vines and orchards, so that no surprise attack at night should be possible.

  Gabriel had judged correctly. It was the freckled müdir who stood in the church square of Yoghonoluk. But a greater than he, the dyspeptic Kaimakam in person, had come to have a look round for himself. There was excellent reason for it. This last, disastrous defeat of a force of regulars had made things happen in Antioch -- things which entailed important consequences.

  Between the Kaimakam and the poor, rosy-cheeked bimbashi a life-or-death struggle had started instantly. That forthright veteran of the simple barrack squares of former days was in no way up to the latest Ittihad finesse. Only now did he begin to get some inkling why his deputy, and keen competitor, the yüs-bashi, had chosen this moment to go on leave. By granting it he had walled into the trap. Very soon now the major would have ceased to deputize. It began by the Kaimakam's slyly contriving to stir up popular hatred against the bimbashi. In Antioch there was only one hospital, superintended by the civil authorities. Soldiers without much the matter with them were ill in barracks, but if hospital treatment became necessary the military command had to put in a request to the Kaimakam. The Kaimakam made skilful use of his red tape. But, in any case, he had finished the colonel. Yet the thing might have gone dragging on for weeks, with piles of reports and investigations, before they removed him from his command; and, to pursue his policy in the kazah, the Kaimakam needed dependable Ittihad collaborators, not indolent dug-outs, survivals of the days of Abdul Hamid. He and the major had judged the event with sufficient accuracy, and made their arrangements together. A few hours before the bimbashi got back to Antioch, the disconsolate herald of his own downfall, a long line of oxcarts with dead and wounded, the victims both of guns and avalanche, had come into the town, at the dead of night. No light shone in the windows of the Hükümet. When these carts halted outside the hospital, its superintendent categorically refused to admit their occupants. He had been expressly forbidden to take in soldiers without written permission from the Kaimakam. Curses and threats left him unmoved. The surgeon, by the light of an oil lamp, and of the moon, in the open air, put on the most necessary bandages. He, too, had neither space nor permission to admit two hundred extra patients into his wretched lazaret. In despair he sent off an assistant to the Kaimakam, to get his instructions. It took a very long time for the messenger to come back without any. The Kaimakam was so soundly asleep that nobody had succeeded in waking him. So that at last it had to be decided to take these screaming, or groaning, men to barracks, where at least they could have a roof over their heads. Meanwhile the sun was up, it was full daylight. An indescribable impression was made on the people of Antioch by these carts, slippery with blood. And when, at almost the same instant, the poor bimbashi, so tried by fate, rode with his staff across the Orontes bridge into the town, he was welcomed with stones, and could scarcely get back to his quarters, by devious lanes. Only now, with crowds thronging the market place, did the Kaimakam, whose sleep was so deliciously long and tranquil, send necessary permission to the hospital. The long line of cart-loads of wretched men jolted slowly back there. The carts had been given careful orders to trundle through the Long Bazaar. This repeated sight of sallow, agonized faces, bandages stiff with blood, provoked an uproar. A furious crowd collected in front of the barracks, and broke all the poor bimbashi's windows -- and windows, in these parts, were valuable luxuries. Not only that! What was left of the military arm had grown so timid, so subdued, so scared of the mob, that it closed its barrack gates, like any terrified little shopkeeper. In every collection of massed humanity there slumbers a primitive hatred, easily roused, against its rulers. As it heard the deathly quiet behind barrack gates, this mob grew aware that it had triumphed, and opened fresh fire. His officers kept imploring the bimbashs to let them turn out the guard with fixed bayonets, to clear the square. But the old man, stretched on his sofa, could heed no counsel. He could only whimper: "It isn't my fault," again and again. Utterly worn out by this strain and hardship, he sobbed except when he fell asleep, and slept whenever he was not sobbing. The garrison had to endure the further disgrace of requesting police and saptiehs to rid the square of its turbulent populace.

  All this delighted the Kaimakam. He, with the manicured müdir from Salonika, had meanwhile repaired to the local telegraph office. This time these gentlemen between them composed a masterpiece of political acumen and tactful insight. A dispatch to His Excellency the Wali of Aleppo. This voluminous telegraphed document contained eleven hundred words, and covered ten closely written forms. A document as involved and subtle as the deed drawn up by a needy but ambitious solicitor, as glib as the most liberal newspaper editorial. It began, with colorful emphasis, by describing the recent disastrous efforts to "liquidate" -- these heavy, yet so unnecessary, losses (with figures attached): stigmatized as the unheard-of military delinquency that indeed it was, this surrender of insufficiently guarded howitzers to a set of rascally mutineers. The Kaimakam then dismissed the unhappy business with a resigned suggestion that any attempt on his part to influence military decisions was almost bound to be misinterpreted. On the other hand he felt it very urgent to insist on the highly uncertain state of public feeling in this matter, so outraged, for the moment at least, as to demand, even by street demonstrations, the instant removal from his command of the present bimbashi. And he, the Kaimakam, had not a sufficiently strong force of militia and saptiehs at his disposal to control any really serious outbreak. Therefore the popular outcry would have to be conceded to without delay, and would His Excellency be so kind as to remo
ve and punish by court martial the present responsible commandant? All this, the Kaimakam continued, was merely the indirect result of dual control, since the Syrian vilayets were subject both to their civil governors and the High Command of the Fourth Army. For so long as such dual control continued, he could guarantee neither peace in the kazah nor the so desirable completion of the enforcement of the edict of deportation against Armenians. He gave lucid legal demonstration that measures to ensure the migration of the Armenian millet were a process of the civil arm, in which even the most highly placed officers had no warrant to act independently. In their case military competence was fully comprised in the concept "auxiliary." But the use of such auxiliary troops depended, by the text of the edict, solely on such decisions as the civil authorities might arrive at. The present prevailing practice was therefore illegal, since the High Command frequently acted at its own discretion, in many cases withheld its auxiliary, forces, acted in a manner hostile to district governors, and would even sometimes commandeer the gendarmerie -- a section of the civil arm -- for its own objects. Such dangerous practices had resulted in stirring up the Armenian population to a resistance which, if it spread, might entail unpredictable consequences to the whole empire. The Kaimakam closed this very unusual service telegram on an almost threatening note. He could only undertake the liquidation of the armed camp on Musa Dagh on condition that he were given full control of all effectives. For that purpose he must have military auxiliaries, so armed and of such strength, at his disposal as to make possible the complete and thorough clearance of the whole mountain. Nor could it be a question of undertaking such punitive action with an officer unversed in the particular circumstances. He begged most urgently that the present deputy-major might be promoted military commandant of Antakiya, since this Armenian undertaking ought to be left entirely in his control. Otherwise -- should these minimum requests not be considered possible of fuffilment -- he, the Kaimakam, ventured most respectfully to suggest that the disaster above described had better be accepted as a fait accompli, without any further counter-measures, and the rebels left to their own devices on Musa Dagh.