Anyush

by Martine Madden

  Anyush stared at the paper.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m telling you? Captain Orfalea is being punished for something he should never have become involved in.’

  The soldier talked on, but all Anyush knew was that Jahan was gone. Really gone.

  ‘He’s not coming back. You know that, don’t you? Better for everyone if you do.’

  ‘He’ll come back,’ she whispered. ‘He will.’

  She looked into the lieutenant’s face and, whatever she thought she might find there, she did not expect his pity.

  Mushar

  Trebizond

  July 6th, 1915

  My dearest Jahan,

  I have just learned that they have taken you away from me. The lieutenant says you are to be sent to Constantinople and I hope this letter will reach you there. My heart is broken, Jahan. The village already seems so different without you. Everything is changed. Everything is wrong. I went to the ruin, even though a storm was blowing and the noise inside was deafening. The rain and the wind comforted me, Jahan, because no one could hear me weep. I said a prayer that they have not hurt you and that you will be with me again very soon. My only consolation is that you thought of me as they took you away. I will write to you every day, Jahan. I will think of you every second until we are together again.

  Let me know that this letter has reached you and that you are safe.

  Yours always,

  Anyush

  ‘I was afraid when he finished plastering that they’d send him away, but he’s re-roofing the barracks now and it’s the answer to our prayers.’

  Parzik and Anyush were sitting by the edge of the pool, the laundry at their feet. Parzik’s old uncle Stepan was dozing in the shade and the washing-pool was otherwise empty. Since the attack on Havat, fewer women were coming there, and those that did came in large groups or with male relatives.

  ‘He hates the work and hates the gendarmes, but it’s a job,’ Parzik said, her voice carrying across the water.

  She paused to shift her position and rest her hand on her belly. ‘At least I know where he is so I don’t worry so much. Anyush … are you listening to me?’

  ‘Sorry, yes. That’s good.’

  Parzik looked at her friend closely. ‘You don’t look well. Is something the matter?’

  Anyush could have told Parzik then. About the prayers she was saying twice, three times a day that her monthly bleed would come. She could have said she had blasphemed in the house of the Lord and that He was punishing her. That she would carry a bastard child with no one to console her. Khandut would banish her from the house, and she couldn’t bear to think what it would do to her grandmother.

  ‘I haven’t been sleeping,’ she said. ‘Because of Havat.’

  ‘Poor Havat. What will become of her?’

  Parzik picked up a pair of trousers and held them to the light. ‘There’s a new captain in the village. From Trebizond. I wonder what happened to the other one?’

  Anyush remembered the day in Sosi’s yard. The first time she had seen Jahan. She closed her eyes, thinking of the last time.

  ‘There was something strange about that captain … you know … at the wedding? The way he danced with you?’

  A shrill, piercing whistle rang out across the water. Near the treeline Husik was standing on the bank, gesturing to them. ‘Soldiers!’

  The girls ran to the shore, picking up clothes as they went.

  ‘Leave them!’ Husik shouted. ‘This way. Quickly … hurry.’

  Parzik shook old Stepan awake and led him after Husik into the trees. They could hear the sound of the soldiers’ boots on the high shore and a lone voice telling the others to be quiet. Husik moved without making a sound, bringing them further into the wood, but Stepan, half blind in the darkness and disorientated from his sudden wakening, was crashing through the undergrowth, hitting off low branches and stumbling over roots. Husik went to him and signalled everyone to be still. They had been climbing upwards along the hillside and could see through the trees down to the river below. Standing around the water’s edge, the soldiers were looking at the deserted pool. A man in a uniform, just like Jahan’s, kicked over the abandoned clothes basket. He turned slowly, surveying the land around him, before looking upwards at the exact spot where they were hiding. Stepan was out of breath, breathing far too loudly. If the soldiers entered the wood, they would have to keep climbing, but Stepan would not get far. Parzik’s lips moved in silent prayer and her arm curled around her belly. Only Husik looked out from behind his tree, one hand raised to keep the others quiet. For what seemed an age, they stayed hidden in the trees before another sound reached them. Anyush risked a look. The soldiers had gone back onto the road and were leaving, the sound of the horses’ hooves dying away.

  Mushar

  Trebizond

  July 12th, 1915

  My dearest Jahan,

  With every day that passes, I pray it will be the day I hear from you. The lieutenant told me you were to board a ship in Trebizond, so you must surely have reached Constantinople by now. I worry that you have been arrested or are unwell, because I know if it was possible to write to me you would have done so.

  Life here in the village grows more dangerous every day. The captain who replaced you is feared by everyone and even the Jendarma are said to stay out of his way. A few days ago another girl was assaulted like Havat Talanian and people are saying Captain Ozhan and his men are to blame. Everyone is afraid to leave their homes but even there they are not safe. Arshen Nalbandian was dragged from his house and beaten. Nobody knows what his crime was, but it seems these men do not need a reason. Our village begins to look like a ghost town. The Armenian houses are empty, the contents stolen and the doors kicked in. The few animals left have been taken or butchered, so that even the air itself seems to reek of blood. And those who still have homes are being evicted from them. Parzik and Vardan watched Ozhan’s men burn their farmhouse to the ground. Poor Vardan. It is as if he has been twice bereaved.

  As for myself, Jahan, every day seems as long as a lifetime. I wait and hope and pray to hear from you.

  Yours always,

  Anyush

  Diary of Dr Charles Stewart

  Mushar

  Trebizond

  July 13th, 1915

  Another member of staff was missing today. Anyush Charcoudian’s reliability is second only to Manon’s, and when she didn’t show up at the clinic this morning everybody was concerned. The mystery was resolved when I found the girl’s grandmother, Gohar Charcoudian, waiting in our garden to see me. The old woman is thinner than when I last saw her, and seems a little unsteady on her feet. Her arthritis has come back with a vengeance, and there are bruised-looking pouches beneath her eyes. She has all the appearance of an anxious, frightened, old woman, but then everyone in the village looks the same. Since the arrival of Nazim Ozhan, attacks on women have become commonplace. Everything I suspected about the man has been borne out. He is a bully and a thug who takes the law into his own hands and delights in the suffering of others.

  The old woman asked if she could speak with me, and I invited her to come inside. Hetty sat her at the table and put a bowl of soup before her, which she took in both hands and ate as though she hadn’t tasted a hot meal in quite some time.

  ‘Tesşekür,’ she said, when she’d finished, and asked if she could have a word privately.

  ‘Thomas, go help Robert in the stables,’ I said, ‘and tell the others they can watch Arnak shoeing the mare.’

  My eldest son sloped reluctantly from the room as a creaking noise came from the bassinet in the corner. Lottie’s tousled head peered out from under the canopy, and two thin arms reached for her mother. My youngest daughter is small for her age and slight, with purple shadows like pewter half-moons beneath her eyes. An ill omen, the chekeji would say, an indication that she is under the influence of the evil eye. Lottie’s poor colour and small size have more to do with a weakness of the kidneys and a tendency t
o infection and fever than any misbegotten hex. She sat on Hetty’s lap, her little blonde head ducking like a sparrow’s beneath her mother’s chin, while Gohar Charcoudian told us that her granddaughter was ill with inflammation of the stomach.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ I said. ‘Would you like me to see her?’

  ‘That will not be necessary, Doktor. She has eaten mussels she should have thrown away and her stomach has been complaining ever since.’

  I assured her she wouldn’t be the first, and Hetty insisted that Anyush should stay in bed for a few days’ rest.

  ‘Teşekkür ederim, Bayan Stewart, Dr Stewart.’

  The old woman stood up from the table and looked for a moment at my daughter. Gohar Charcoudian is an arresting sight, tall with deformed, arthritic hands and clothed from head to toe in sepulchral black. She is a woman who is full of common sense and is mostly responsible for the charming girl her granddaughter turned out to be, but on first sighting she is intimidating. Lottie, however, liked her instantly and smiled happily at her.

  ‘God bless you and your baby,’ the old woman said.

  I couldn’t be certain afterwards, but as I escorted her to the door I thought I saw tears in her eyes.

  ‘Enough for this evening, Anyush. We can continue this tomorrow.’ Anyush closed the book of French grammar and was startled to feel Bayan Stewart’s hand on her arm.

  ‘I’m concerned about you. Are you fully recovered? You don’t seem well.’

  ‘I am better, Bayan Stewart. Just a little tired.’

  ‘Forgive me but I know what it is to feel tired. Is that really what troubles you?’

  Tears filled the girl’s eyes so that she had to turn away.

  ‘Anyush … my dear! You know how fond Dr Stewart and I are of you. You are like one of the family. I think of you as a friend. Are we not friends?’

  Anyush nodded miserably.

  ‘Then can you not tell me what is the matter?’

  With all her heart she wanted to. If anyone would listen and not judge her too harshly it was this woman. She didn’t want to imagine what Dr Stewart would think of her carrying a bastard child, but she knew Bayan Stewart would not turn her away. Her good opinion was more important to Anyush than that of any other living person, the very reason she said nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bayan Stewart. What happened to Havat has upset me. I just need to go home.’

  Mushar

  Trebizond

  July 15th, 1915

  Dear Jahan,

  If you receive this and if it is within your power to do so, I beg you to write to me. Rumours about the war are on everyone’s lips, and there is talk of terrible losses suffered by our troops. I have been dreaming the same dream of you lying injured on the battlefield. In my dream I can see you from the top of a hill but I cannot get to you. The nightmare is no worse than my waking one. I am utterly lost. There is so much I need to tell you. Your silence frightens me.

  Anyush

  Diary of Dr Charles Stewart

  Mushar

  Trebizond

  July 16th, 1915

  Today I came as close as I’ve ever been to dismissing Manon. What stopped me is the knowledge that I cannot run the hospital without her, and the fact that she is only partly responsible for what happened.

  I arrived at the hospital late, having done an early morning call to Father Gregory who looks to be in the early stages of TB. By the time I got to the hospital I was already concerned that we were running behind with the surgical list and was further disconcerted to discover that the operating theatre was empty. No nurses, no prepared trolleys, no patients. I went to look for Manon, who was in the treatment room removing a cast from an old man’s arm. Outside on the corridor, I asked her where everybody was, specifically the two student nurses, Mari and Patil, whose job it is to prepare the operating theatre. All Manon would say was that the list had been rescheduled for Friday.

  ‘What do you mean Friday?’ I asked. ‘Why can’t it be done today?’

  ‘It is better Friday when Anyush is here.’

  I reminded her that Anyush was not a nurse, and that I was depending on Mari and Patil, but she would only repeat that they were away. I couldn’t get her to reveal where they were, or why they had gone, until I told her I was going to write to the director of nursing services at the Municipal Hospital to complain.

  ‘Please, you must not do that.’

  ‘You leave me very little choice.’

  With a look of weary resignation, she informed me that both girls had left the night before for Batum.

  ‘Batum? In Georgia?’

  ‘Please do not shout, Dr Stewart. Yes, Georgia.’

  I asked her why, and, taking me by the arm, she marched me through a rear door out to the back of the clinic. Once we were out of earshot, she told me that the girls had been smuggled in a fishing boat across the border to Georgia. The skipper was a friend of Paul’s and he had hidden them in the hold with a consignment of fish.

  ‘Stop right there,’ I said, a knot of anger unravelling in my stomach. ‘What has this got to do with Paul Trowbridge?’

  ‘I must ask you again to be quiet, please, Dr Stewart.’

  In no uncertain terms, I told her that this hospital was not run by Paul Trowbridge and that I wouldn’t have his paranoia coming between me and my work.

  ‘He is not paranoid.’

  ‘What exactly would you call stealing my nurses away in the middle of the night?’

  ‘I have told you,’ Manon said, regarding me coldly, ‘but you will not listen. Ozhan came to the clinic last week.’

  At the back of my mind I vaguely remembered her saying something about Ozhan appearing on some pretext or other, but the details eluded me. Manon said he had talked to the staff, asked them many questions and written down their details. What their name was. Where they were from. Who was Turkish and who was not. She said he spoke to the Armenians most of all, especially Mari and Patil.’

  ‘Manon,’ I said, trying to control my temper, ‘Ozhan likes to know about everyone. It is typical of the man but no reason to send the staff away.’

  ‘He does not proposition everyone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He told Patil she must come to the barracks. If she does not come, she will have the same fate as Havat Talanian.’

  I assured Manon that although Ozhan was a bully and liked to intimidate people, there was an understanding between us and he wouldn’t dare harm any of my staff. I knew the man and understood how he operated, but my reasoning appeared not to have the slightest effect on her.

  ‘There was no need for this,’ I said. ‘How am I to run a hospital without nurses? Why didn’t you come to me first?’

  ‘I did not consult you, Dr Stewart, because I already knew what you would say.’

  Constantinople, 26 July 1915

  Jahan was escorted to Trebizond by Ozhan’s soldiers and put on a naval frigate returning to Constantinople. On board ship he spent restless days cursing his own stupidity and worrying about Anyush. He couldn’t bear to think of what Ozhan might do, and felt utterly helpless to protect her. Dr Stewart afforded her some measure of safety, but it was not nearly enough. A man like Ozhan would not let a foreign giaour come between him and his depraved distractions. Jahan had to get back to the village or find a way to bring Anyush to Constantinople. Every fibre of his being itched to be with her, but as Trebizond receded into the distance, his thoughts began to turn towards home.

  Late one sunny afternoon, the ship docked in Constantinople and Jahan felt a rush of joy at returning to the city of his birth. Stepping onto the quayside and seeing Galata Tower looming over Beyoğlu on the far side of the Golden Horn, his spirits rose. But at Army Headquarters nobody seemed to have the first idea what to do with him. He spent an hour waiting to see Enver Pasha, only to be told the War Minister wasn’t in the building. His secretary then directed Jahan up three flights of stairs to where a sullen German colonel presented him
with a new command. The men awaited him at Scutari barracks in Üsküdar, a motley corps of injured veterans who looked as though they would put a knife in his belly sooner than return to the front. Most of them were twice his age, or appeared to be, hardened men whose only certainty was that they would not survive another campaign. Disillusioned and distracted by events in Trebizond, Jahan made his way to his parents’ home in Galata.

  The house on the Grande Rue de Pera was surrounded by embassies, schools and churches of Constantinople’s non-Muslim population. In this part of the city, and for the more progressive Turks, French was the common language. Jahan’s family spoke it fluently along with Turkish, English, German and Greek. A facility with languages was a mark of breeding and education, and in Constantinople it was a necessary skill. There was nothing unusual in the fact that every sign and every official document was printed in four languages and sometimes in as many as six. During his stay in Paris, Jahan had been surprised at the uniformity of the city, the genteel absence of mélange. It was this, Constantinople’s teeming variance, that he loved the most.

  Jahan paid the toll to cross Galata bridge and strolled into the Grande Rue past the Bon Marché store. Ladies in elaborate hats were gossiping in the shade of the arches and Jahan tipped his cap at them. On this street the Turkish men were distinguishable from the Europeans only by the wearing of the fez, still more popular than the bowler.

  Seven-year-old Tansu, the youngest of Jahan’s sisters, came running into his arms when Azize opened the door.

  ‘You’re home! He’s home! Jahan’s home!’ she said, squeezing him hard around the neck. ‘Are you back for good? Did you bring me something?’