Mardiros spent the remaining year of the war in prison. When the Allied forces released him at the end of 1918, he remained demoralized, not only because of his vile prison experience, but because of his brother’s death from typhus, the horrible disease that had ravaged the prison population.
With the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire, his father’s title of Pasha no longer claimed distinction. Mardiros found himself outside the prison, a great distance from his home in Baghdad. Alone and without money or connections, he walked over 100 kilometers from Hillah to Baghdad.
The sad news of his brother’s death overwhelmed the Kouyoumdjians. While the family shed tears, Karnig’s widow, Diggin Rose, accustomed to berating others, reprimanded Mardiros, “YOU should have died instead of my Karnig. You have no wife, no children. People like you have no right to survive.” She wailed again and again, “Woe, woe to me! How will my four children survive without a father?”
Mardiros, flabbergasted, was defiant. “You talk as if the K-K-Kouyoumdjians are banishing you from the Q-Q-Qasr, our home,” he stuttered. “Have you forgotten this big place belongs to all five brothers? The Karnig compartment remains eternally his. Why do you want to leave us?”
Mardiros held his breath, awaiting her reaction.
Her jaw dropped.
Mardiros had succeeded. He went to her, held her hand and whispered, “I can be the disciplinarian of the children, if you like.”
The disturbing scene ended right then and there, leaving an indelible memory on all.
Within a year of Mardiros’ release, post-war activities in Baghdad society replicated the pre-war festivities. The French and British Embassies became the Kouyoumdjians’ playground. Half-hearted, Mardiros resumed participation in Baghdadi society. He fell into the same old habits of fox-trotting with many beautiful maidens to the most recent records revolving on his Master’s Voice gramophone. Banquet tables overflowed with European cuisine and cognac. The novelty and flair of mingling with nationalities other than the Ottomans and Germans failed to lure him to a life of fun and frolic.
At one of those palatial parties, Mardiros met Simon Gharibian, an Armenian philanthropist on a fund-raising mission. He traveled to many capitals of the world where large Armenian communities existed, including London, Paris, Sidney, and Calcutta, and he had collected a considerable amount of money to assist the Armenian orphans whose families had been massacred by the Ottoman Turks during The Big War.
Simon Gharibian had come to Baghdad on a similar calling. “There are hundreds and hundreds of orphans,” he said, addressing a group of gentlemen in white ties, glasses of cognac in their hands and cigars between their lips. “They are now scattered throughout the lands of the defunct Ottoman Empire. They will perish or they will cease being Armenian. These orphans are our heritage. They are our future. Even if there were only a single drop of Armenian blood in our veins, we must rescue them at any cost.”
Something aroused Mardiros. Mesmerized, his gaze riveted on this unusual gentleman as if they were the only ones in the room. Mardiros felt he was listening to a confidante, a friend, a liberator. The man motivated him, spoke to his heart. He foresaw encouragement for his efforts and appreciation for his deeds. Mardiros listened to the gentleman; he spoke a truth and revived in him his deepest values. Of all mankind, this person would believe in him. He could help him achieve his greatest potential.
Mardiros wanted to contribute more than the plain monetary donation the Kouyoumdjians made—though it was a substantial amount. He wanted to be more than a passive donor. Might his involvement include the physical rescue of the orphans? He aspired to finding and saving the children. Work in the field himself? The ground level? He visualized adventures that would fulfill his mission in life.
The two gentlemen, one from Baghdad, the other from Basra, spent the rest of the evening devising plans to rescue the orphans. When the last of the cognac was sipped and the final cigar puffed, Mardiros volunteered for the first step—to go to Mosul.
With great exuberance, he departed from Baghdad, leaving behind traditional indulgences and not looking back. He smelled his own zeal while packing and tasted his farewells as he bid his family adieu. But the tediously slow train to Mosul tired him, adding uncertainty to his expectations for the coming days.
At least the field granted solid footing. Once in the company of Sebouh Papazian, his host, assigned to evaluate the situation in Mosul ahead of him, he expected great support in undertaking and devising the next steps of locating and housing the orphans.
“I would have met you at the station,” Sebouh Effendi said at the threshold of his house, “if I had known of your arrival. I’m relieved to see you here, finally.” The two gentlemen from Baghdad shook hands and, due to the lateness of the night, retreated to their respective rooms.
Groaning, Mardiros stretched an exhausted body on the bed. A slender man of 5’8”, he wrapped the quilt around his body to combat the coolness of the room. Not the lumpiness of the mattress. If not for the cot, it would have reminded him of the brick floor of the Ottoman prison. For a moment he questioned his sanity. I must be crazy to leave the comforts of the Qasr. Why had he? To rescue orphans, of course. His eyes remained open and his heart beat in anticipation. What had aroused such compassion in him? It had never occurred to him to have such empathy. I’m not knowledgeable about children. Or about homelessness. Far from it. He understood something about engineering, though only from college textbooks. How could training to survey land and gauge river depths be applied to dealing with refugees?
His host, Sebouh Effendi, had experienced Mosul several days earlier earlier than he. Mardiros would rely on the counsel of this man, who was older and a widower. Baghdadi gossip alleged that the man was raising his little daughter as well as his own wife would have. His sympathy for children boded well for the welfare of the orphans. Working with a knowledgeable person comforted Mardiros.
A fly buzzed in the night silence. He shooed it away and blew out the kerosene lantern. The sun neared its rising time. He rolled over and closed his eyes. What would the morrow reveal?
4—Jarbeeg
Mannig awakened to flies hovering above her face.
She waved them off, but they persisted, landing on the yellow scum stuck to her long eyelashes. Not on my mouth! She cupped her mouth, veiling the cut in her lower lip—split in the middle and infected. The sore had begun a long time ago, prompting the habit of holding her lip immobile to ease pain. Because of the never-healing gash, she faced the challenge of chewing and swallowing without exerting lip movement—that is, if she found anything to eat. Food?
Sitting up suddenly disturbed the buzz and stirred the raw smells of dampness. She scraped sticky grime off the folds of her eyelids. A quick scan of the khan bore out a disconcerting mood and the unusual stillness a disturbing notion. Nearby, as usual, the orphans sprawled under their filthy quilts. The sight of them sleeping used to comfort her, for it meant she had a head-start to roam the city for edibles.
Her heart hit bottom.
The sun must be at high noon to filter across the palm branches. Hazy rays bounced off the bare ground. The children’s mats rolled up, and the eerie silence warranted quick action. Vye! They’re foraging Mosul. She was late! She jumped off the hard mat, unable to explain why she had overslept.
Like a second awakening, the warmth on her shoulders thrilled her—Romella’s gift. Immediately she reached inside the sweater. Amahn! No one had stolen the remainder of her bread! What joy! She wallowed in contentment, a sensation not felt in a long time.
Of course, she had slept deeply. Warmth and a full stomach promoted sleep. She hugged her bread, then hid it under her hard mat. She lay down again. Luck must have come to her. She closed her eyes in awe of the goodness in life. Romella had called her jarbeeg.
She sat up again. How could she justify Romella’s statement? She must live up to the reputation of being street-smart.
A few stalls beyond her niche, she saw two
older girls blowing on bits of hay to sustain flames. Next to food, finding fuel for cooking and heat topped the list. She knew dried animal bones and intestines were grabbed first because they burned slower and longer. Twigs and sticks rated high but had been picked from the neighboring alleys of the khan a long time ago. Firewood, which could always be exchanged for food, might yet be found in unexplored alleys.
She grabbed a gunny-sack from under her mat and dashed out, only to slow down at the sight of a lanky person lingering at the entrance of the khan—a boy, about thirteen or fourteen, wearing a pair of tattered army pants re-belted at his armpits. His eyes sparkling like black olives dancing in oil below arched brows attracted Mannig; she cast a second glance at him. He seemed likable, except for the hungry way he stared at the rolled up bedding where she slept.
“If you steal my quilt,” she snarled, “I will yell to the heavens that you are the thief in our khan.”
“I don’t need your quilt,” he smiled, accentuating a square jaw.
“You can say anything,” she said. “Speech is cheap. When I return, I better see it exactly where it is now.” She took deep breath, questioning herself, Is that what a jarbeeg says? “Why are you glaring at it, then?” she growled.
“I am new here,” he said. “I’m looking for a free spot to sleep tonight.”
Surprised at his consideration for others, she eyed him again. The orphans she knew normally shoved and pushed, grabbed and even displaced each other for a spot to settle in. This boy deserved a second glimpse. Should she offer him a slot next to hers? No! Not to a stranger. It behooved her to stay aloof. She lugged her bag and took a step. I must think jarbeeg … act jarbeeg! But how? She swung her bag over her shoulder and glanced here and there, and even at the boy, hoping something might give her an idea. Nothing. He remained, standing tall and peering across the khan.
A jarbeeg wouldn’t waste time. Out of the khan she flew, in pursuit of her mission.
The wintry dew covered the dry furrows under her bare feet. The pebbles strewn in her path nicked her calloused feet without slowing her pace until she stubbed her inflamed toe. More in anger than pain, she kicked stones and pebbles with her good foot, hurling them hither and yon. The ruckus replaced the surrounding calm as a brindled brown pigeon flapped, squawking a yard above the ground. She chased it; bent and picked up a stone to hurl at it. She pursued, threw stone after stone, aimed closer and flung faster, again and again. She could taste a juicy roasted chick on a spit. Saddened and breathless, she finally gave up. Neither her speed nor aim matched the survival instinct of the bird. I’m not as jarbeeg as Romella imagines me to be.
The chase, however, had led her to new paths. Several mosques loomed above the skyline, and one tilted minaret leaned taller than the surrounding tenements. The neighborhood boasted larger houses than the ones near the khan.
Beggars roamed the streets, stretching sinewy arms and muttering, “Bakhsheesh! Alms! Bakhsheesh!” They called repeatedly, “Khattir Allah, Joo’aan! For God’s sake, I am hungry!”
Mannig wandered beside the Moslawi beggars, but resisted emulating them. The natives persisted, hour after hour, scouring the less starving quarters asking for charity—a privilege for Muslims, an expression of piety in the name of Allah. But Mama’s admonition, “Armenians don’t beg,” haunted her. Might Mama condone receiving manna in the famine-stricken city?
Loafing about for bakhsheesh tempted her. Wouldn’t Haji-doo, her grandmother, even from heaven, be chastising her with, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop?” Even Mannig rebuffed laziness. A non-beggar, she felt different from these people, and Romella’s sweater gave her a self-imposed pride. Being jarbeeg justified stealing, cheating, and fighting for food. Resorting to her wiles, she walked with new purpose.
Farmers drove livestock back and forth in the wide streets. She sidestepped to avoid a tall man in a brown cloak goading his donkey with a stick. When she noticed portly flies feasting on the syrup oozing out of the date-heavy baskets, she dashed toward the donkey faster than a thrown stone. She swept her fingers and her palm across the basket and fled. Only after losing sight of the man did she lick her sweetened hand and all sides of her fingers.
She dodged two mules shuffling their hooves under sacks of barley, but followed the person clad in a black abaya—the shoulder-to-toe garb, reminiscent of the Bedouin Arabs. The woman pulled the rope tethered to the cow’s neck. Mannig fell into stride with them, ambling in rhythm to the clanging of heavy brass bells dangling from its neck. Mannig stopped when the woman did, at the door of a white adobe two-story house.
“Haleeb! Milk!” The woman yelled, rapping at the door.
A young girl, dressed like an Arab maid, opened the door and handed the vendor a metal bowl with a wide rim.
The milk woman squatted, her abaya billowing around her. She set the bowl of streamed milk in her lap with a splash.
Mannig’s mouth watered. She must act—quickly. She pulled on the maid’s gown. “I am a very good helper,” she declared. “I can do many things for you while you rest. Let me come and do some chores for you. You will see what a wonderful worker I can be.”
“Imshee! Scat!” the maid shooed off Mannig. “I do the chores in this house.”
Dejected, Mannig had turned to leave when she spied a bottle under the milk-woman’s sleeve. While the maid talked with Mannig, the woman had pulled her abaya close to her body to shield pouring water into the client’s bowl.
Mannig grabbed the moment. To be heard by the matron of the house, as well as everyone in the vicinity, she shouted, “She is cheating! The milk woman is cheating! I would never let MY family be cheated like this!” She yelled without a breath, wanting to be heard loudly, clearly and repetitively. “The milk woman is cheating you! She poured water into your bowl! Do you want to pay for water instead of milk? I would never let my family be cheated like this.”
She took a breath to yell some more.
The maid overwhelmed her. She kicked Mannig with the back of her heel—Arab custom to scourge a vile creature—and through clenched teeth, snapped, “If you don’t shut up, I will turn the dogs on you.”
Having made enemies of the maid and milk woman alike, Mannig fled beyond the bend in the alley, leaving them to raise a ruckus of their own.
A group of scavenging boys faced her. Some clutched palm-frond baskets, and others carried gunny sacks like hers. Hearing Armenian, she followed them and stopped when they did. Mesmerized, they scrutinized a horse’s arching tail. The instant the dung oozed out, the children dashed to catch the falling dung before it hit the ground.
Mannig knew about collecting dung—camel dung—a chore assigned to her by the Bedouin Arabs. After rescuing her in the desert, they had sheltered her for several months before leaving her in Mosul. The Bedouin teased her as the “best dung collector” of the tribe. Her nimble fingers picked up the excrement intact, without breaking its mucous coating. Her chore began at daybreak before the camels trampled all over their droppings. Within the hour, the Bedou women mixed the pickings with spines of tumbleweed or hay and formed patties to dry in the sun. Dung was treasured as fuel for cooking and keeping the tent warm.
Seeing how the scavengers eyed the dung, Mannig decided to use her expertise. Feigning ignorance, she asked the boy who caught his prize before it splattered on the ground, “What do you do with the kaka?”
“I give it to the baker,” he boasted, turning his head to reveal a puss-filled boil on his left cheek. “He gives me bread for it.”
“Which baker?” she asked, pretending she knew of several.
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because I am an Armenian like you,” she said, expecting complete affirmation.
“Armenian, m-Armenian,” boil-cheek bullied her. He pushed her aside and tightened his grip on the basket with his muscled arm. “I don’t tell. The baker is mine!”
“I am a very good kaka picker. I really am. Will you make me your partner?”
&nbs
p; “Partner, m-artner. Nobody is anybody’s partner,” he sneered and pushed ahead.
Snubbed again, she rejoined the bevy of boys foraging behind animals. She stood apart when the discovery of droppings incited warfare among them. Amid the clamor of barking, braying, and neighing, the bigger boys, overwhelming the little ones, succeeded in grabbing the dung first. The losers scurried for the cow-pies, less precious than the dung of camels, donkeys, or horses.
Mannig schemed over the next pile of droppings. She gathered up the shreds of her garment and girdled them with her rope belt. Hurling herself amid the bedlam of boys over another pile of loot, she shouted like the rest and quarreled for a chunk of the fortune. When she wriggled out of the huddle, she found two boys eyeing her pick. She gasped at boil-cheek, who grabbed her wrist and pushed her to the ground.
He beat her.
She clenched her bag.
He dug his knee into her back.
Her breath stopped under his crushing weight.
She refused to succumb to pain. Having experienced throbbing before, she held her breath. I won’t relinquish my dung as long as I live!
A sudden relief from the crushing weight freed her to gasp, cough, and finally inhale. Several successive breaths revived her senses. Who had pulled the bully off? She gaped at two fellows, striking and counter-punching each other, fists landing and heaps of dung flying. Boil-cheek threw a punch at his assailant, who dodged without a blow, and the sustaining momentum landed the bully in the slush with a splash.
Mannig struggled to her knees—covered in manure, smelling of kaka. The scavengers were gone, and her rescuer looked at her.
He extended his hand to help her rise.
She was breathless again—this time at his gallantry. Who in these conditions might offer kindness? She took his hand and gazed at him. His black eyes shone below a pair of arched brows.
Between the Two Rivers: A Story of the Armenian Genocide Page 4