Between the Two Rivers: A Story of the Armenian Genocide

by Aida Kouyoumjian

  “Yes, very good … very good …” Sebouh stammered. “Your insight amazes me.” He touched Mardiros’s elbow and introduced him. “This is Adrine. She has helped with our curricular program. And what an assistant she has been! Invaluable. She is from Adapazar.”

  Adapazar?

  Mardiros almost interjected, Oh, I know Adapazar. I visited Adapazar when I attended Robert’s College … Somehow, he had uttered those same words very recently. Where? To whom? He looked at Adrine. No. He couldn’t recall seeing her before. “Noble Armenians come from Adapazar,” he said, resuming his search for Mannig.

  “Let’s plan the lesson together,” Sebouh said to her in a controlled staccato. “Sit with us.” He waited for her to slide onto a bench before he scooted next to her. “How much sugar do you like in your tea?” he asked, pouring bubbling claret tea into a glass cup.

  Mardiros remained standing, glancing hither and thither. Then he noticed the chestnut braid of an orphan a few rows away. It swung on her back as she slid onto a bench. Then she swung her head into full view as if searching for someone in his direction.

  Mannig!

  His heart raced. His gaze kissed hers. For a moment, he existed for her alone. He lost himself in the music that emanated from her eyes. He stared for a few seconds longer until he felt embarrassed without knowing why. Certainly, looking was not rude, especially while attending to Sebouh’s chatter. Might seeing her have stirred concealed emotions? Perhaps her proximity caused his palpitating heart. He looked at her again; her face glowed with grace and harmony. She smiled. Her deep brown eyes lit up like lanterns, rays of affection shining at him. So beautiful. Her whole being was more radiant than the sun. Unaffected by her surroundings, her poise and demeanor set her apart from the orphans. Obviously, she belongs to the aristocracy. She would fit perfectly into his life—promenading in the Kouyoumdjian marble halls, sipping tea with his sisters-in-law and entertaining dignitaries. She had conquered his heart. Would she win his family’s affection? The female entourage of his relatives would dress her like one of them—in a high neckline, her chignon complemented by a wide-brimmed hat.

  Never!

  Mannig was a young girl, not a fuddy-duddy stiff! Actually, younger than some of his nieces. She ought to wear styles for teenagers—let her hair down, with ribbons and bows. He visualized her looking gorgeous in one of the pretty dresses donated to the orphans by Orozdi-Bakk, the Swiss department store in Baghdad. He had brought about fifty floral and linen outfits, still packed in his luggage. Fifty, total? How might he control their distribution to ensure Mannig receives one? He must avoid the appearance of favoring one orphan over the others. How, how? He really wanted to see her wear a dress that was not a uniform. He knew she would be transformed into a work of art in motion.

  “… will hire teachers with expertise,” Sebouh was saying, “and you, Adrine, will be able to study advanced subjects.”

  “Who will hire the experts?” Mardiros asked as he dunked a chunk of rye bread into a bowl of date-syrup. With closed eyes, he sucked the aromatic condiment before taking a bite.

  “You, of course!” Sebouh said, nudging him. “You, the great motivator. The great negotiator, the wizard. I wanted to talk to you about real education. The children’s needs are overwhelming. Some students are very intelligent, always wanting more … some even want to learn foreign languages.”

  Mardiros sipped tea while contemplating Sebouh’s words. “I could go to Basra … see what I can do. But today, I must distribute a few items I brought along, including a pouch of letters.”

  “You have brought letters?” Adrine cried, eyes sparkling.

  “She wrote a letter to her uncle in Bulgaria,” Sebouh explained. “She has been waiting to hear from him.” He lowered his voice to play down his excitement over the mail. “I suppose we ought to see those letters.”

  Within a few minutes, Mardiros emptied the pouch on the carpet his mother convinced him he’d appreciate at ‘the camp.’ Instead of on the floor, he had spread it like a tablecloth across his desk.

  Sebouh thumbed through the pile, reading out loud the names written in French, while Adrine identified a few orphans—one residing in tent number 2 and two others in number 7.

  “This mail has been traveling all over the world,” Mardiros said, reading the addresses, also in French. “This one says, ‘To Miriam Salibian, Daughter of Garabed of Konya.’ The initial address on this envelope says, The Armenian Orphanage in Switzerland,” Mardiros continued. “Switzerland has been crossed off and forwarded to, The Armenian Orphanage in Syria. Syria is crossed off, and here in this corner it says, The Armenian Orphanage in Mesopotamia. Is Miriam Salibian in our orphanage?”

  Sebouh looked at Adrine, who shrugged her shoulders, “I don’t recognize the name.”

  “We must inquire at every tent,” Sebouh insisted. “If no one knows a Miriam Salibian, where should we forward it?”

  “Maybe back to Syria,” Mardiros moaned, pulling up a hassock for Sebouh and another for Adrine. “I understand there is a new orphanage in Aleppo. She may be there, if she survived the massacre at all.”

  They left the crumbled, discolored and marred envelopes alone for a moment. The three had stopped identifying and sorting and paused to reflect. The ensuing silence overwhelmed Mardiros. More spiritual than religious, he closed his eyes in memory of the perished Armenians.

  Before they started to read and sort again, Adrine touched the undeliverable pile and said. “Perhaps I can ask the students in my class this morning. They may recognize some of these names …” She stopped short and shook her head. “No! I cannot do that. I do not know how to read in French.”

  “See, Barone Mardiros?” Sebouh said, addressing Mardiros. “If Adrine learned a foreign language, she could volunteer for such assignments.”

  “I hear you,” Mardiros said. “Maybe I will teach … or you will learn, in due time.” He scrutinized the next envelope. “This is addressed to Adrine Dobajian …” He focused on Dobajian. Isn’t that Mannig’s surname? He hid his curiosity, lest it betray his interest in news of her family. “Are you Adrine Dobajian?”

  “Yes!” Adrine exclaimed.

  “Yes!” Sebouh exclaimed, grabbing the envelope. “It does say, Adrine Dobajian of Adapazar.”

  “Is your surname really Dobajian?” Mardiros asked, coyly.

  “Yes,” she whispered, extending a shaky hand. She cuddled the envelope close to her heart and, with tears in her eyes, asked to be excused to return to her tent.

  Both men nodded. Sebouh opened the tent flap for her.

  She took short, light steps and thanked him for helping her. As soon as she exited she dashed away, yelling at the top of her lungs, “Mannig! Mannig!” Mardiros noticed Sebouh swallowing with difficulty, but dismissed the significance of his reaction, being somewhat emotional himself. Only a few months earlier, Mannig had refused to go to America, saying, “Not without my sister.”

  Is Adrine Mannig’s sister?

  33—Surprise, Surprise, and Surprise

  Madiros’ love was no juvenile crush, but the real thing. At the age of 32, he compared falling in love to going to a bathhouse for the first time—one felt cleansed, senses unusually acute. He heard her cheerful voice a hundred tents away, smelled her presence through variety of aromas and would know her touch with his eyes closed. Visualizing her movements put him in a daze. Mannig, Mannig. What a melodious name.

  Admitting his passion for her invigorated him. The mere thought of her aroused him. The bulge in his trousers while in her presence would not only embarrass him, but distract him to the point where he could not enjoy her company. The bourgeois decorum implanted in his psyche offered a solution. He dashed to his suitcase and flipped open the lid. He discarded trousers and shirts east and west until he found the heavy bandages he had wrapped around his groin during his athletic feats at Robert’s College. He bandaged himself like the Olympian track contender he had been in 1912. He pulled up his white linen trousers
and double-checked the buttons inside the fly before he responded to Sebouh’s voice. “Come in,” he said.

  “The orphans are planning a surprise tonight,” Sebouh said and, sidestepping Mardiros, sat on a hassock, his after-shave cologne preceding him.

  Mardiros smiled, suppressing a chuckle. The man hopes to attract the orphans.

  Mardiros snapped the elastic of his suspenders against his shoulders and looked into the gilt-framed round mirror, dangling from a pole. Sparkling eyes were reflected back at him. “What surprise?” he asked.

  “Actually, the surprise will be on them,” Sebouh said, puffing rings of smoke.

  “I, too, have a surprise for them,” Mardiros said. He thrust aside the navy cravat he’d been considering and selected a green bow-tie that deepened the green of his hazel eyes. The bow also made him look younger—almost like a college student. He proceeded to button the white linen vest, but his reflection in the mirror stopped him. College students seldom wore vests. He threw it aside on his cot. While he put on his jacket, he noticed that Sebouh’s thoughts seemed to be flying into space. “You are a happy lark this evening.”

  “Well,” Sebouh said, “the content of the letter from Adrine’s uncle gave me great relief. He cannot, after all, sponsor the two sisters in Bulgaria. Apparently he is processing his papers for America. He promises to contact them from there. America is a rich country, he has written. And as soon as he and his family are settled, he will call for them.”

  “That should have been a disappointment,” Mardiros said, angling for a confession.

  “For her, yes. But not for me,” Sebouh finger-combed his moustache. “I dreaded seeing Adrine move away.”

  Aha! The man is in love, too!

  Mardiros pondered a moment about being in love. How unprecedented in real life, or perhaps even in literature, might a love-affair be that was a by-product of philanthropy? He acknowledged the birth of remarkable friendships among like-minded individuals in the field—his bonding with Sebouh being a tangible proof. However, they shared common ground—affluence, education and selflessness. He reflected upon his camaraderie with Diggin Perouz; an expected relationship with a married lady. The dearth of females in the altruistic arena decreased the opportunities for romance. Nevertheless, affection crossed boundaries of societal mores. Love bloomed at the camp.

  Mardiros held his breath. He and Sebouh might be breaking new ground.

  Mardiros’s philosophical ponderings about how fate had arranged for him to fall in love were disrupted by the smell of Sebouh’s cigarette. “By the way,” he asked, already certain of the answer. “Which one is Adrine’s sister?”

  “Her name is Mannig. She is an outstanding young lady herself. Those two sisters outshine any lineage in this orphanage.”

  Aha! So my own assessment of Mannig’s poise is not a figment of my making. Even Sebouh is affirming her nobility.

  Mardiros’s exhilaration urged him to step into the realm of the orphans. “Help me with my surprise for the girls,” he said, handing his friend the accordion file of discs. He swung around and lifted the gramophone. “Tonight, we shall dance.”

  The singing, wafting from the community tent, beckoned the two to the arena where a large circle of girls, pinky-to-pinky, danced and sang in the center. A few yards from them, a circle of half-a-dozen boys, arms interlocked over shoulders, stomped in sync to the same beat.

  Mardiros and Sebouh sidestepped a multitude of spectators and set the gramophone on a table by the tent wall. Mardiros greeted the teachers and staff, urging them to remain seated on the benches. He leaned against a pole and enjoyed watching the ensembles of dancers. To conceal his interest in Mannig, he exerted much effort to appear nonchalant. Not finding Mannig anywhere, he gazed at a few crouched girls. She was not among them, either.

  Adjusting to her absence, he decided to manage his expectations. Although disappointed, he remained unruffled. With or without Mannig, he decided to implement his strategy—to break free from the customary girls-dancing-with-girls while the boys danced with boys. Such archaic decorum had been created by people who had lived and died hundreds of years ago. He intended to end the traditional separation of the genders. Only by integrating the boy dancers with the girls could he intermingle with Mannig unobtrusively.

  He clapped his hands and signaled to the staff to ring the bell for attention.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said, addressing the crowd. “See this music box? This is the latest European invention. It is called a gramophone.”

  Everybody repeated after him—gramophone.

  He raised the record for all to see. “This is a disc. Now, I shall place it on the turntable. Then I must crank this handle.”

  What and How soared up in the air, followed by pushing and shoving for a closer look.

  “See how the disc is turning?” he continued. “Next, I shall place the fine needle at the tip of the neck at the edge of the disc. This will bring out music created by an orchestra and then we …”

  Oohs and Aahs filled the evening air.

  “Ring the bell again,” Sebouh instructed the orphanage manager and suggested that they move the gramophone to the center for better viewing. A more orderly listening time followed, when Mardiros played his favorite record, “Plaisir d’amour.” The children, awe-struck, listened to the chanteuse’s voice reverberating from the gramophone.

  Mardiros gazed at their expressions—from the vivid to the brilliant, from the stunned to the romantic—they were immersed in a totally vicarious thrill. Ah, I wish Mannig were here, too. His evening was headed somewhere, but not where he had hoped. He replaced the song with a foxtrot, and noticed a smile on everyone’s face as some tapped their feet to the beat.

  The rhythm stirred the girls. Their youthful bodies swayed and swung; others jounced and writhed. A few girls in head scarves and uniforms flaunted themselves as the ‘orphanage elite’ locked in, pinky-to-pinky, and devised steps in time with the tempo.

  “No, no!” Mardiros said and stopped the music. “This is not a circle dance. It’s a couples’ dance. It is called the foxtrot. Two people face each other and hold hands—one male and one female …”

  “Oooooooooooooooo!” A big giggle reverberated across the desert atmosphere.

  “Come, come, ladies and gentlemen,” Mardiros said, walking to the center. “All over the civilized world, modern dances involve one man and one woman. Let me show you how. I need one of you to demonstrate.”

  He scanned their faces and waited.

  No one volunteered.

  A complete silence ensued. The girls raised their shoulders bashfully, hid their hands behind their backs and cast their eyes to the ground.

  “There is nothing to it,” he said, fixing his eyes on one face then the next. “It is only a dance and it is very easy. All I need is one girl. Who will be my partner?”

  Sebouh, from the sideline, gestured to stop persisting. But Mardiros ignored him and took a step forward to tap the shoulder of one of the girls, when a voice held him captive.

  “I will,” the sweet voice uttered. “I will be your partner.”

  My Mannig! Mardiros thought in jubilation. My dream is becoming a reality.

  Mannig made her way through the crowd but suddenly hesitated to meet him in the open.

  Sensing her shyness, Mardiros sidestepped the cluster of bewildered girls and extended his hand to her. “Come, Mannig,” his voice wavered. His heart beat in his chest like timpani, the booms echoing in his head. A dab of perspiration dotted his eyebrows. “Come, hold my hand.”

  What am I getting into?

  The whole scenario seemed an untidy tactic and he had trapped himself into experiencing it. His plan had become a dilemma. Doing the foxtrot might have been a big mistake, after all. I should have confided in Sebouh. His friend probably would have discouraged him from flouting the codes of etiquette at a place such as this. How dare he break the rules about mixing genders? Regrets were too late and, in the mornin
g, he would be looked at as the clown of the orphanage. What if my passion for Mannig is obvious? He had planned to express it to her in private.

  He wanted to close his eyes to pray for an escape, but his gaze latched onto Mannig’s face. His soul clapped its hands at her nervous smile as she approached him. With her almost in his arms, he fantasized about holding her on the Kouyoumdjian veranda in Baghdad.

  The two stood in the circle.

  The eyes of the crowd were riveted upon them.

  His heart’s desire was becoming a reality. He faced her. The two gazed at each other, barely avoiding eye-to-eye contact. He put her left hand on his right elbow and slid the tip of his fingers around her waist, not daring to touch her back with his palm. He brushed his sweaty left hand on his trousers before he supported her slender soft hand. He waited a second to catch the beat of the fox trot.

  “Follow my momentum,” he whispered. “Two steps to the right, like this. And two steps ….”

  Before he could say, ‘two steps to the left,’ Mannig was already doing it, her eyes glued to his feet. He wanted to say, ‘you already know how to foxtrot,’ but was afraid of stuttering. He just smiled and repeated the pattern, while his grip on her back tightened. Am I in heaven already?

  He hoped time would stop forever—he and Mannig forming one statue.

  “Mannig? Mannig?” a boy’s voice penetrated through the music. “Is that you? Mannig of Adapazar?”

  Mannig withdrew from Mardiros.

  Eyes sparkling, she veered toward the voice. “Dikran?” she called, smiling not only with her lips, but with her eyes, eyebrows and obviously, with memories. She dropped her hand from Mardiros’ and dashed toward him.

  As the two hugged like lost souls, everyone’s attention switched to them.

  Alas! The kiss Mardiros had been about to place at the peak of his joy soured to envy.