Anyush

by Martine Madden

  The captain looked around. He was younger than some of the others and noticeably different. His uniform was neat and well cut, and his boots were polished. He didn’t wear a moustache or beard, and his straight black hair was unusually long.

  ‘You were attacked,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Five of you. By two girls and a boy.’

  The soldiers looked uneasy, but the Ferret stared sullenly. ‘I wasn’t going to hurt him. Just scare him a bit.’

  The captain went to where Kevork lay on the ground. The boy’s nose was broken, his face bruised and swollen, and red rope burns ringed his neck.

  ‘Lieutenant, escort these men back to base.’

  ‘She attacked me,’ the Ferret said. ‘I’ve a right to defend myself.’

  ‘And throw Corporal Hanim in detention until I decide to let him out.’

  The soldiers left, following the lieutenant down the lane, and the captain walked over to where Anyush was crouched over Kevork.

  ‘Is he alright?’

  Anyush nodded. She helped Kevork to sit and loosened the collar of his shirt. The captain looked around the yard, at the broken glass and the mutilated goose.

  ‘Keep the boy indoors for a while and maybe stay away from pitchforks next time.’

  Anyush got unsteadily to her feet. ‘Next time I’ll put it in his belly.’

  Diary of Dr Charles Stewart

  Constantinople

  April 14th, 1900

  We arrived in Constantinople two weeks ago as the rain pelted down and I thought I was back in wintry New York. Hetty and I were both exhausted from travelling but we were relieved to see Elias Riggs waiting for us at the quayside. I’m not sure what I had been expecting of an ageing American missionary, but I really didn’t think he would be so energetic or so tall. He’s been working as a doctor in the Empire for over forty years, and when I told him about my plans for trachoma research, he seemed more interested in telling me about the times of religious services in the area. The man is very devout which makes for a certain awkwardness between us. I did of course take this job as a ‘missionary’ doctor but, as Hetty pointed out when I first proposed coming here, I’m an atheist and she’s Jewish. We do go to services occasionally, some of them at least, but I think Elias already suspects I’m not what he thought I was. For a while, it looked like he was going to send us home, but it turns out he badly needs help at the clinics and he’s already very fond of Hetty.

  Our final destination is to be a small village in the Trebizond area on the Black Sea coast. From what I’ve learned, the place is pretty remote but not that far from Trebizond city, a large town and an important sea port. The village is at the centre of one of the most badly infected trachoma districts in the country, so a lot of hard work awaits us.

  For the moment, we’re living on Istiklal Avenue in Pera. It’s not exactly luxurious, but it is clean and serviceable and on the European side of the Bosphorus. Just three rooms which come with a Greek kitchen maid, a Turkish hamal (or jack of all trades) and a Polish cook. Hetty, my khanum or lady as she’s called here, is in her element. She cannot practise as a doctor because women doctors are only allowed work in the harems, but she’s up early most mornings sketching the ruins in old Constantinople. Her fascination with the city is understandable. The Whore of the Orient certainly lives up to her name and is magnificent and tawdry in equal measure. On any given street there are sights to take your breath away, the grandeur of the Hagia Sophia church or the opulence of the Topkapi Palace, while around the corner vermin-ridden slums spring up in the ruins of buildings levelled by the earthquake of 1894. Paris in miniature extends along the elegant boulevards on the European side of the Bosphorus, while on the eastern side women in full purdah walk three paces behind their husbands and the Prophet reigns supreme. As Elias says, it is a city of contradiction and contrast.

  We’ve already made good friends in Henry Morgenthau, the American Ambassador, and his wife, Josephine. They’re Jewish, so Hetty feels right at home, and Henry is a stimulating and interesting character. He entertains royally and has a very fine cellar, so it amuses him that a ‘poor missionary doctor’ should be partial to a good claret. The Morgenthaus know everyone in Constantinople, from the diplomats to young men on the Grand Tour, and they seem intent on introducing us to all of them. We will be seeing more of the Morgenthaus in the immediate future now that Hetty is expecting in the autumn and our travel plans have been put on hold. The delay is unavoidable but frustrating, although it seems we would have had to wait for travel permits anyhow. In this country it is impossible to work, build or do the smallest thing without them. Elias counsels me to be patient. He tells me that when he first came here the old Sultan would not allow foreign reading material or gas lighting for fear of corrupting his subjects. He bids me to remember that I, at least, can read and have lamps to see by. Amen to that!

  Where the trees thin out on the northern promontory the river bends in a wide arc towards the sea, and the flow of water slows to a pool. The surface is broken by jutting grey boulders like bathing giants, and it is here the village women come to do their laundry. Anyush and her mother walked in silence towards the river, each carrying a basket. Voices and the sound of wet clothes slapping against the rocks drifted towards them as they rounded the bend.

  ‘Barev, Anyush. Barev dzez, Bayan Charcoudian.’

  Parzik Setian was standing in the shallows beside Sosi, her arm waving in salute as she called out to Anyush and her mother. Both girls had their skirts tucked into their waistbands and clothes in the water under their feet. On a rock nearby Havat sat by herself, her legs dangling in the water. Anyush’s mother barely acknowledged them and upended the clothes from her basket onto the bank. She took off her boots and stockings and hitched up her skirts as she waded into the river.

  ‘What are you gawping at them for?’ she snapped at her daughter. ‘You think those clothes will wash themselves?’

  Anyush tipped out the contents of her basket and sat down to take off her stockings and boots. The clothes belonged to their landlord, Kazbek Tashjian, and his son, Husik. They were filthy and reeked of things Anyush didn’t like to think about. Taking a cake of soap and a shirt, she dipped it in the cool water, scrubbed it, beat it hard, then laid it out on the high rocks to dry. Mother and daughter worked side by side for a time, without speaking, Anyush struggling to match her mother’s pace. Khandut Charcoudian was wiry and strong, with a strength belied by her small size. Since her husband had died, it was she who hammered and sawed and climbed the roof to repair the wood tiles. She took pride in her ability to dig trenches, and hang gates, and take on whatever task needed to be done. Gohar, Anyush’s grandmother, looked after the small vegetable garden, and Anyush took on whatever chores brought in extra money and most of those that didn’t. In her mother’s eyes, it was never enough. If it were not for Khandut Charcoudian, she liked to remind them, they would be walking the roads and they were lucky to have her. What Anyush felt about her mother had little to do with luck. Nothing satisfied the woman or gave her any pleasure. She was vexed by life in general and by her daughter in particular.

  ‘Pssssst …’

  Parzik beckoned. Anyush nodded and looked over to where her mother was wringing soapy water from a pair of trousers.

  ‘I’m going to wish Parzik luck,’ she said. ‘Her mother’s started on her wedding dress.’

  ‘Make it quick,’ Khandut replied, without looking at her.

  Parzik stood in the water, hands on her hips, looking like a half-submerged colossus. She was very tall for a girl, her height accentuated by her thinness and her unusually long neck. Her thick black hair was wound around her head in girlish braids, but her beak-like nose had earned her the nickname ‘t’Rchun’, the bird. She was not pretty as Anyush and Sosi were, but she had full breasts and wide hips that had appeared, as if by magic, two years before. Parzik was the only one of Anyush’s friends engaged to be married, and Vardan Aykanian, a local plasterer and her second cousin, was
to be the groom. Spared conscription and the army because of his work on the local barracks, he was one of the few young men left in the village.

  ‘I heard what happened,’ Parzik said.

  ‘Shhh! My mother doesn’t know. How’s Kevork?’ Anyush asked, turning to Sosi.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And Havat?’

  The three girls looked over to Sosi’s sister staring at her reflection in the water.

  ‘She cries a lot. I haven’t told her yet that Kevo is gone.’

  ‘Gone? Where?’

  ‘My mother is taking him to my uncle in Ordu. They left for Trebizond this morning.’

  Anyush looked at the river, the slow-moving water broadening its reach towards the sea.

  ‘What will you do?’ Sosi asked.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘That soldier knows what you look like. It’s not safe for you either.’

  ‘The captain seemed fair,’ Parzik said. ‘Lucky for Kevork he came when he did.’

  ‘He’s a Turk,’ Anyush said. ‘They’re all the same.’

  ‘I’m only saying, if he’s around then you don’t have to worry.’

  ‘My brother was almost hanged,’ Sosi said. ‘You think we don’t have to worry?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. Look … Anyush will be fine and I’m going to be married. We need to celebrate a little.’ She grinned, pointing to herself. ‘Bayan Vardan Aykanian, that’ll be me.’

  ‘If Vardan will have you,’ Sosi said.

  ‘He’ll be lucky to have me! A laying hen, unlike certain chickens I know.’

  Sosi splashed Parzik and started to laugh. It caught her friend by surprise. Cold water ran down Parzik’s chest and drenched her blouse. Recovering quickly, she skimmed the surface of the river with her large hands, wetting Sosi and Anyush into the bargain. They were laughing now, and Havat got up from her perch on the rocks to join them. River water splashed everywhere and, in the excitement, Anyush forgot about her mother. But Khandut was already drenched, the sleeve and skirt of her dress soaked. With the noise and the laughter, it was a while before Anyush realised someone was calling her. She turned to see her mother whirling a wet shirt above her head which she flicked in her direction. But Parzik had crossed in front of Anyush, and the wet sleeve coiled like a snake around her long neck. Her hands flew to her throat, to try and loosen it, and she lost her footing, falling helplessly into the river. Gasping for breath, Parzik struggled to her feet, thoroughly soaked.

  ‘Khoz!’ she spat at the older woman. ‘Pig!’

  Khandut turned her back to them.

  ‘Madwoman! You’re mad!’

  ‘Parzik–’

  ‘Leave me be,’ she said, pulling away from Anyush.

  With Havat on one side and Sosi on the other, Parzik waded over to the bank, wiping water from her face. The three girls gathered their things and left. Anyush wanted to weep with shame. Her mother was mad. Cruel and twisted and spiteful. She cursed wilful fate that chose her for her mother and deprived her of the father she loved. Leaving the washing on the stones, Anyush ran from the water and headed towards the coast road. Taking the track down to the small bay, she walked across the beach in the direction of the cliff. The wind was in her face as she paddled in the shallows, and her hem quickly became soaked. Beside her, the sea broke over the rocks, a dull sullen grey. After a time, the tightness in her chest began to ease and her breathing became calm. The wind whistled in her ears and the waves pounded on the sand, drowning out her mother’s carping voice. She wanted to keep walking, to follow the shoreline until there was nowhere left to go. As far as Constantinople maybe, far enough that she would never have to see her mother again.

  She didn’t notice him until they were quite close. Her first instinct when she saw a soldier in the uniform of the Turkish army was to turn and run, but there was something familiar about him. His walk. The way he held his head. From a long way off she could feel him watching and her heart quickened. They drew abreast of each other, and, to her surprise, the captain greeted her in Armenian and walked on. They were now moving away from each other, but Anyush soon reached the foot of the cliff and could go no further. With no other option, she turned back, but there was no one behind her – nothing to see only the restless ocean and the empty beach. One set of footprints disturbed the yellow sand – her own.

  What struck him at first was the contradiction. The girl from the farm seemed young and yet old at the same time. With her childish plait and defiant air, he couldn’t make up his mind about her. The events at the farm troubled him and he had no doubt what would have transpired had he not come upon them when he did.

  At times he felt helpless to control the men under his command in a way he never had with his old company. Since the passing of the Amele Taburlan decree, all Armenians in the Ottoman forces had been demobilised and assigned to unarmed labour battalions. The captain’s company had lost roughly a third of its men in this way, soldiers he had come to know and respect, unlike their replacements. Most of the new recruits had minimal military training, and others, such as Corporal Hanim, had been released from prison. Aside from his lieutenant, there were few the captain could trust. They spoke cruelly about the fate of the Armenian soldiers, claiming they had been shot because of their allegiance to the Russians, or set free and used as target practice. Whatever the truth of the matter, Jahan had neither seen nor heard of his Armenian soldiers since, and every newspaper article, every proclamation issued by the government was rife with anti-Armenian propaganda.

  In the evenings the captain had taken to walking the long stretch of beach lapped by the waters of the Black Sea, and it was here he came in contact with the girl again. She was coming towards him, her skirts flapping noisily and her hair blowing in wisps around her face. Despite the ugly headscarf and tattered clothes, he could see she was attractive and possibly beautiful. It fascinated him that she should walk alone, especially after what had happened. On the pretext of asking after the young farm boy, the captain made discreet enquiries about her in the village. He discovered that she worked for the local doctor, an American missionary by the name of Stewart, and helped out at the school run by his wife. This was unusual as Turkish girls married young and were not allowed work outside the home. He found himself looking out for her and began to discover just how unconventional she was. There were times he noticed her clothes and hair were wet, as though she had been swimming, but he never actually saw her in the water and was careful never to approach. That first time he had passed her on the beach he had made an effort to say hello in his few words of Armenian, but she didn’t acknowledge him, and her hostility was like a cold breeze blowing against him. He didn’t blame her. He could hardly have expected her to be in any way approachable, but he was sorry for it nonetheless.

  Diary of Dr Charles Stewart

  Mushar

  Trebizond

  May 6th, 1901

  Today was one of the longest, most irritating, back-breaking days I have ever spent in a saddle, and one I hope not to repeat for a long time. But I’m running ahead of myself.

  Some months have passed since we came to Constantinople and much has happened in that time. Hetty and I have made good friends; we’ve learned Turkish and a smattering of Armenian and Greek; and we are the proud parents of a baby boy, Thomas George Stewart. Three weeks ago, we said goodbye to Elias Riggs and the Morgenthaus, before setting out for Trebizond. Hetty was sorry to leave, and I suppose it is daunting bringing a small baby into the wilds of eastern Turkey, but, I have to admit, I was impatient to get started. We’ve had to bring almost everything we need with us, and I spent weeks organising the shipment of furniture, medical equipment and supplies, as well as provisions for the journey. It was the usual exhaustive round of permits and bribes, but finally it got done and we were under way.

  A small coastal frigate by the name of Mesudiye brought us along the Black Sea to Trebizond. The Circassian captain told us that the town derived its name from the Greek wo
rd trapezous meaning ‘table’, and, as he guided the boat into the bay, we could see the ramparts of the old city, built on the flat hilltop, surrounded by a buttressing medieval wall. It was a surprisingly large town and not the backwater I had been expecting. At the dock, a crowd gathered on the quay, and a line of mules and their handlers stood to one side. Waiting for the boat were pedlars, customs officials, baggage handlers, caravan hamals and hangers-on of every description and persuasion. A full head and shoulders above these was a tall, foreign-looking man, whom I guessed to be our contact, an Englishman Elias had arranged would meet us. But in pride of place, standing at the foot of the gangway, was a local dignitary. He was dressed in a long khameez, with a green girdle wound around his substantial waist, and traditional Turkish slippers. On his head was a turban like a miniature minaret, and his fingers sparkled with a dazzling display of jewelled rings. Two servants held a striped awning above his head, and a rug had been unrolled beneath his feet. He barely glanced at Hetty, but his black eyes never left my face. I was used to people staring by this time, but under this man’s gaze I felt like the dish he was about to eat for supper.

  ‘Selamın Aleyküm,’ I said.

  ‘Aleyküm Selam,’ he replied.

  He said no more, and I was unsure if I should bow to him or pay him bahşiş or simply walk past.

  ‘Let me introduce the Vali, His Excellency, the Governor of Trebizond,’ a voice said. The foreign-looking man removed his hat. ‘Sorry … I should introduce myself. Paul Trowbridge.’

  Like Riggs, he was tall and thin, his linen suit looking a little the worse for wear and hanging in creases at his elbows and knees. He towered over Hetty and patted Thomas on the cheek.

  ‘You’re welcome to Trebizond. The Vali was anxious to meet you.’