Forty Days of Musa Dagh

by Franz Werfel

  "What do you take me for?" scoffed Jemal. 'You don't get me to bite so easily."

  So, to all appearances crushed to earth, and yet, inside himself, not quite so hopeless, the Kaimakam retired from the presence, past the highly decorative Osman. Nor did hope deceive him. This same Osman came after midnight to his quarters, to rouse and lead him at once to Jemal. The Syrian dictator was often pleased to prove, to himself his power, to others his originality, by such surprise invitations at all hours. He did not receive his late visitor in uniform, but wrapped in a fantastic burnous, which gave his by no means irreproachable figure the aspect of a picturesque bedouin sheikh.

  "Kaimakam, I've thought over that whole business of yours, and I've reached some decisions . . ."

  He struck the table with the flat of his red, plebeian hand. "The empire is being sacrificed to crazy and incompetent careerists."

  The Kaimakam waited, in mournful confirmation, for what would come. Osman paraded his splendors in the doorway. "When does that fellow get a chance to sleep?" the governor of Antioch reflected.

  Jemal paced up and down the room. "You're right, Kaimakam, this disgrace of yours affects me also. It must be wiped out, it ought never to have been, you understand me?"

  Still the Kaimakam waited, saying nothing. The little general's spitefully bearded face glanced up at him. "You have ten days, after which the whole thing must be wiped out and forgotten. . . . I shall send you one of my most efficient officers and everything necessary. . . . But you answer to me, mind! . . . I want to know nothing more about it."

  The Kaimakam was clever enough not to say a word in reply.

  The general took two steps back. Now he really did look like a hunchback. "I want to hear no more of this whole business! 1ff have to hear any more of it, if it is not all got smoothly out of the way, I shall have all those responsible shot . . . and you too, Kaimakam, will go to the devil!"

  The freckled müdir, installed in Villa Bagradian, was roused twice that day from his kef-siesta. The first time to receive a letter from the Kaimakam, apprising him of his immediate arrival. But when the sergeant of the saptiehs appeared a second time to drag him out of the cool villa into grilling midday heat, he showered wild curses on the head of that unfortunate disturber and longed to thrash him. And yet, once in the church square of Yoghonoluk, the müdir quickened his pace, since a really unusual sight awaited him. In front of the church stood a yayli, not drawn by horses even, but by mules. Nor was it even a proper yayli; it was an old-fashioned coach of some kind, with high wheels. Inside the coach sat an old gentleman whose garb and being suited it to perfection. A dark blue robe of silk reached down to his feet, clothed in the softest goatskin slippers. Around his fez, this very distinguished-looking old gentleman wore the tarbush cloth of the pious. The ancient's soft, almost spinsterish fingers kept counting the beads of an amber rosary. The müdir perceived at once, in this old gentleman, an Old-Turkish patrician, a partisan of the opposite camp, which, in spite of the revolution, still retained vestiges of its power. Then he remembered having met the old gentleman before, on two or three occasions in Antakiya, where people had saluted and done him reverence.

  The yayli did not stand there alone. A line of sumpter mules, heavily laden, stood behind it, scraping and clattering with their hoofs. Besides their drivers, the müdir saw two other elderly Turks, with mild, almost transfigured-looking faces, and a thin figure, leaning against the carriage door, whose face was thickly veiled. The young man from Salonika put his hand politely to his forehead to greet the ancient. Agha Rifaat Bereket beckoned him over. The disciple of Ittihad, enemy as he was of all tradition, came straight up to the carriage to hear what the old man had to say.

  "We are on our way to the Armenian camp. Give us guides, Müdir."

  It was made to sound like an order from above. The müdir stiffened. "To the Armenian camp? Are you wrong in the head?"

  Rifaat Bereket took no notice at all of this jovial question. On the back seat of the coach lay an ultra-modern-looking, yellow pigskin attaché case, in glaring, bristling contrast to the rest of that roomy, comfortable equipage. The soft white fingers pressed back the catch.

  "I have a mission to the Armenians."

  The Agha handed his teskeré to the red-haired müdir, who began to investigate it. When he could still not manage to find what he wanted, Bereket patiently commanded him: "Read the inscription above the seal."

  And indeed the müdir obeyed with such alacrity that he even read it aloud: "'The holder of this passport to be given free admission to all Armenian deportation camps, such admission not to be refused by any political or military official whatsoever.'"

  The young man passed back the document into the coach, in his beautifully manicured fingers. "This isn't a case of a deportation camp, but of a nest of rebels, dangerous traitors, who've mutinied and shed Turkish blood."

  "My mission is to all Armenians," the Agha mildly replied, stowed away his teskeré very carefully in his brand-new, business-like attaché case, and, out of it, drew yet another document, the outward appearance of which was obviously, in itself, enough to conjure with. It was a big, intricately folded sheet, sealed with a complicated seal. The müdir's eye had first to get accustomed to the flourishes of Arabic calligraphy before he could decipher the name, Sheikh ül Islam, together with the demand, which that spiritual Supreme Head of Turkey had addressed to every orthodox Moslem, that they should assist to whatever he might require of him, no matter what such demands might seem to entail, the orthodox bearer of the document. "What influence that world of moths still possesses!" it occurred to the müdir. The Sheikh ül Islam, in spite of Enver and Talaat, was still one of the most powerful officers of state. This medieval screed was therefore an official order, which it might cost him dear to disobey. He eyed the sumpter mules, heavily laden with sacks of grain.

  "And where do you intend to take these sacks?"

  Rifaat Bereket, as his custom was, made his answer dignified but discreet. "They have the same destination as I have."

  The müdir answered ceremoniously, though it annoyed him that the old Agha should remain quietly seated before him, the government representative, as though he were merely concerned with an official of the ancien régime.

  "I don't know, Effendi, whether you've got this matter clear in your mind. The Armenians in this district have risen in arms against the government and set up a rebel camp on Musa Dagh. They've dared to defy the Turkish army, arm themselves, and kill Turkish soldiers. Now we're starving them out. And you come here, Agha, with sacks of grain.

  Rifaat Bereket heard all this with his head wearily inclined. Not till the müdir had finished, did the old man's rather prominent, wrinkled eyes look him up and down. "Were you yourselves not once in arms against your Padishah? Did not you oppose his soldiers, sword in hand, as attackers even? Revolutionaries should never appeal to lawfully constituted authority."

  And for the third time, as he was saying it, the Agha felt in his magic attaché case. It was almost like an incident in a fairy-tale to see him draw forth his mightiest charm: a parchment scroll headed with the Sultan's turban, decked with gems as signet. The supreme lord and Caliph, Mohammed the Fifth, commanded, in this irade, all his subjects, and in particular the civil and military authorities, that they should aid in all his undertakings the Agha Rifaat Bereket of Antakiya, and set no obstacle in his way.

  The red-haired müdir stared at it uneasily. The "old gang" seemed to have turned up in full force, he must say! Hastily, and without enthusiasm, he set the Padishah's name to heart, mouth, forehead. Certainly the gesture did not in the least consort with the young man's light "summer suiting," bright red tie, canary-colored gloves. Well, what ought he to do? Impossible to let rebels be provisioned. Equally impossible to impede any man under such obvious special protection from His Majesty the Sultan. But the slick young müdir from Salonika was wily enough to hit on a compromise, which at last, much against the grain, after many silent curses, he propo
sed. The Agha himself should be allowed past the Turkish outposts round Musa Dagh. But his train of mules with their provisions must be left behind in the valley. And in this the Agha Rifaat Bereket could not obtain the least concession. There was a grain famine all over Syria. The Kaimakam of Antakiya must decide the destination of these supplies. On the other hand, there were a few smaller sacks of coffee and sugar, and some bales of tobacco. These luxury articles could proceed. To that at last the müdir consented, after much persuasion. Finally he made inquiries about the companions of the Agha.

  "They are my servants and assistants. Here are their passports. Examine them, please. You'll find them in order!"

  "And this man here. Why is he veiled, like a woman?"

  "He has an ugly skin disease on his face and must not expose it to the air. Shall he lift his veil?"

  The müdir grimaced and shook his head. More than an hour had passed before the yayli could proceed in the direction of Bitias. An infantry platoon, commanded by a mülasim, marched beside it. Two sumpter mules, with coffee, tobacco, sugar, and three others, for the Agha and his two assistants to ride, brought up the rear of the procession. When their way was clear before them, Rifaat Bereket left his coach and asked the mülasim to halt his men, to avoid misunderstandings with Armenians, who might open fire. The officer welcomed this suggestion and encamped, in regulation style, in the wood with his soldiers. The three old men rode on, sitting sideways across their donkeys, while the two sumpter mules were driven after them. The veiled man walked beside. In his right hand he carried the green banner of the prophet, in his left, the white flag of peace.

  They sat facing each other in the tent. The Agha had demanded this talk without witnesses. Now the Agha's companions squatted outside, beside the sumpter mules, whose muleteers had unloaded their sacks and bales. The crowd round this group increased every minute. The Agha was as composed and dignified, he waited there as ceremoniously, as though he had been sitting at home in the mild afternoon twilight of his selamlik. The amber beads slipped through his fingers as uninterruptedly as time itself.

  "I have come to you, Gabriel Bagradian, as the friend of your grandfather, the friend of your father, the friend of your brother Avetis; and I have come as the friend of the ermeni millet. You know that I have worked in the cause of peace, now destroyed for ever, between our two peoples. . . ."

  Here he interrupted his litany. His pitying eyes examined the face of this once so prosperous-looking young European. Never would the Agha have recognized that shrunken, wildly bearded face. He thought for a moment before he continued: "There is guilt on your side and on ours. . . . This I only say so that your judgment may not err, in spite of all that has happened, nor your heart be hardened. . . ."

  Gabriel's face looked graver and smaller still. "He who has come as far as I have come knows no more of guilt. No guilt can trouble me now, no right, no revenge."

  Rifaat's hands lay still. "You have lost your son."

  Bagradian's hand had happened to stray into his pocket. There it closed round the Greek coin, which he still kept with him as an amulet. "To the inexplicable, in us and above us." He held it up. "Your gift has brought me little good fortune, Agha. The coin with the king's head I lost on the day I lost my son. And the other -- "

  "You still do not know your last day."

  "It is very close. And yet it seems to come far too slowly. I often long to rush down into the midst of your people, so that at last -- at last! -- it may all be over."

  The Agha glanced at his shimmering hands. "You will not debase your life, but raise it. You, Bagradian, have more strength than most men. Yet God decides all."

  The yellow attaché case lay beside Rifaat's crossed legs. On it, ready to be delivered, Pastor Harutiun Nokhudian's letter to Ter Haigasun.

  "As you know, Bagradian, for months I have travelled on your behalf. I have renounced the peace of my old age. And, with God's help, I shall still get as far as Deir ez-Zor. But my first journey in Syria was to you. You have friends both abroad and here in Turkey. A German pastor has collected a large sum of money for you, and I keep in touch with him. I had managed to get together fifty sacks of grain to give you. It was not easy. They would not let them through. I felt they would not. But the Kaimakam will not succeed in confiscating them. They shall go to your brothers in the camps. Yet these sacks of grain were not my reason for climbing to the top of Musa Dagh. . . ."

  He handed over Nokhudian's letter. "This letter will tell you what, otherwise, you would never have heard, the fate of your countrymen. But at the same time you must remember that our people is not all composed of Ittihad, of Talaat, Enver, and their servants. Many others, besides myself, have left their dwellings and gone eastwards to help the famished. . . ."

  To be sure the Agha Rifaat Bereket was a very fine man indeed. He deserved that Gabriel should kneel to him, in the people's name. But these long, detailed descriptions of acts of benevolence and self-sacrifice did nothing to assuage Gabriel's bitterness. Real as these sacrifices were, their enumeration made him impatient. "You may help the exiles, but not me."

  The old man kept all his equanimity. "I could help you, my son. That is my most important reason for sitting here in your tent."

  And now, in the saiine even monotone, the Agha explained his plan for saving Gabriel, whose heart stood still as he listened. Bagradian, so began the Agha, must have noticed the five men of his escort. The two greybeards were members of a pious confraternity, engaged on the same duty as himself; the two muleteers were old servants, members for many years of his household in Antakiya. But the fifth man was a case apart. He had the deaths of many Armenians on his conscience, and, in Istanbul, the Sheikh of the Thieves of Hearts had converted him. Now he repented. He had taken an oath to do penance for these deeds done by the baser powers of his soul and make amends to the Armenians for the wrongs which his hatred had inflicted on them. This man, then, was ready to change clothes with Gabriel Bagradian and disappear. Down on the church square, the müdir had closely inspected all their passports and made a list of their names. It was almost a foregone conclusion that, when they returned, no one would ask for their teskerés a second time. But if, against all expectation, the müdir began to make things difficult, Gabriel need only show his double's passport. Nor would the mülasim and his soldiers, who had counted six people in the camp, and would take six people back to the village, be likely to suspect in the least that all the six were not the same. He, the Agha, as an honorable man, disliked such attempts to defraud the police; but here it was a question of bringing the last of the Bagradian family into the shelter of his house in Antakiya. This he must do for the repose of the soul, and in memory of, the blessed Avetis, of whose friendship he had received a hundred proofs; he, a Turk and a young man, from the old Armenian.

  Gabriel felt stifled. A wind of life blew so mightily through him that he stumbled out of the tent to breathe. He saw the escort squatting in silence. He saw the man of the oath, who had long since taken off his veil. A dull and ordinaiy-looking face, on which neither the murder of Armenians nor the oath to expiate had left any perceptible traces. He saw the villagers crowding round them, all of whom seemed shaken with wild excitement. He saw Iskuhi, standing outside the sick-tent. And she, too, was as unreal and remote as everything else. Nothing was real, save the thought of living: A dark room in Rifaat's house. The wooden shutters of the window, outside which is the inner court with its fountain, are closed. And there, forgetting all, knowing of nothing, to lie, awaiting a second birth.

  When, after several minutes, he had calmed down, Gabriel went back into the tent. He kissed the old man's hand. "Why didn't you come to me before, Father, when everything was still easy, when we lived down there in the villa . . . ?"

  "I hoped for a very long time that this fate of yours could be averted. And, from you, it can still be averted."

  "No, by me, too, it must be embraced."

  "Are you afraid? . . . We can wait till it's dark. There won't
be the slightest danger in it."

  "Day or night! It's not that, Agha." An embarrassed little pause. "My wife has nearly died, and today she's beginning to recover."

  "Your wife? You'll find other wives."

  "My child is buried up here."

  "It's your duty to beget another, to carry on your line."

  The old man's heavy eyes still looked impassive.