Nobody's Child

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  The Captain dismounted and tethered the horse to the gate.

  Mariam slid off the horse, stumbling and landing on her hands and knees in the litter-strewn street.

  He prodded her with the toe of his boot. “Get up,” he said.

  She stumbled to her feet and he pushed her towards the open gate in the street wall. Mariam was overcome with fear, but she willed herself not to show it. She decided that she had to concentrate on memorizing every detail of everything that she passed. Perhaps this information would somehow help her escape.

  Forcing herself to concentrate, she noticed that the exterior of the huge house looked dull and weathered, but Mariam saw that the walkway through the garden was a beautiful mosaic in subtle tones of white, grey, and wheat-coloured marble. The garden itself was abundant with flowering shrubs and fragrant lemon trees, but some of the trees had been bent to the ground, and one was snapped in half. There were bits of debris on the walkway — broken china, shards of crystal, stains. And muddied footsteps.

  There were three white marble steps that led to a wide double door of intricately carved wood. The doors were weathered and dark, but beautiful nonetheless. The Captain held the door open and pushed Mariam inside. Mariam noted that the door was not locked.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kevork stared down the barrel of the gun that was pointed at his nose.

  “Tomorrow morning at dawn,” said the soldier, “you will all gather back here for deportation.”

  Kevork nodded. The soldier lowered his weapon. “Any Armenian who resists deportation will be shot,” said the soldier. “And any Turk who assists an Armenian will have his house burned to the ground, then he will have to watch while that ‘saved’ Armenian is executed.”

  With that, the soldier turned and left. The others who had aimed their weapons at Marta, Anna, and the rest of their group lowered them. They followed the first soldier out the gate.

  As soon as they were gone, Miss Younger ran to Paris. Mara, the girl who had caught her, was slick with blood. She had stumbled to the ground with the weight of Paris.

  Miss Younger knelt, then gathered Paris in her arms. As she ran to the orphanage hospital, Kevork could hear her pleading voice, “Please God, let her live.”

  He felt the warmth of Marta’s hand in his. “I must go,” she said. She let go of his hand and followed Miss Younger.

  The children dispersed in silence. Some followed Miss Younger and Marta. Others walked towards their dormitory rooms.

  Kevork lingered, walking over to where the stallion had stood. With the toe of one newly made boot, he traced the hoof marks in the dust. Anna lingered too. She walked up to Kevork. “Nephew,” she said, “I know that this is hard for you. It is hard for me, too, but we will pull through. Trust in God.”

  Kevork looked up at her with a flash of anger. “God?” he said. “If there was a God, he wouldn’t let this happen.”

  Anna’s hand flew to her mouth and she regarded Kevork with sorrow. “Even in the darkest times, God gives us people to love,” she said. She stood on her toes and kissed him quickly on the cheek and then she turned and walked away.

  Kevork was left alone in the courtyard. He stared at the orphanage gates and thought of poor Mariam, carried off by a Turk. He thought of his mother. Was she still alive? What was her fate? Would Mariam’s be the same?

  He looked down at the pattern his boot was making in the dirt and he noticed something flickering in the sunlight. He knelt down in the dirt and felt with his hands. Mariam’s sickle. She must have dropped it.

  Kevork picked it up. It was coated with a light layer of dirt. He cleaned it with the sleeve of his shirt, then held it in both hands, feeling its weight. “Bad luck,” he said to himself. “Wherever this sickle goes, it causes bad luck.”

  He knew that Marta would want to preserve it. The sickle was her only memento of her mother, after all. But Kevork was loath to let her have it. He took it with him back to his workshop and hid it in the corner of the very top shelf.

  Marta met him as he was locking the door to the workshop. “Paris has died,” she said, with tears in her eyes.

  “Perhaps she’s the lucky one,” replied Kevork.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The room that Mariam stepped into was spacious, almost cavernous. The floor was of pale yellow marble, and by the fade marks, it was obvious that a huge carpet had recently covered most of it. Similarly, the plain white plaster walls were bare, but there were hooks along the upper edge. The rich silk wall hangings and paintings that had recently adorned the room had been taken down. In front of a massive marble fireplace, a desk had been set up, and sitting behind it was a man in a loose cotton robe and a tasselled fez, holding a quill pen and frowning over lists on paper.

  The man looked up when the Captain pushed Mariam forward. “Is this one for you, or is she for sale?” the man asked in a businesslike voice.

  “Let’s see what price she will fetch,” said the Captain.

  The man dipped his pen into ink and then wrote something on the paper in front of him. Without looking up, he said, “Name.”

  “Give him your name,” said Captain Sayyid.

  “Mariam.”

  “Age?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Are you whole?” asked the man.

  “Wh-what do you mean?” asked Mariam.

  “Deformities,” stated the Captain. “Do you have scars? Have you broken bones?”

  “No,” said Mariam.

  “Disrobe,” said the man at the desk in a bored voice.

  “What?” asked Mariam.

  “Take off your clothing,” said the Captain, frowning with cold impatience.

  “I won’t,” she said. No man had ever seen her naked.

  The Captain punched her in the stomach so hard that it took her breath away. She fell, sprawling on the floor. He dusted off his hands. “There are many ways of hurting you without it showing.”

  Mariam looked up at him with unadulterated hatred.

  She stumbled back to her feet. Spasms of pain coursed through her abdomen, but she willed herself not to cry.

  “Do as the man asked,” he said.

  With trembling fingers and a bright red face, Mariam complied.

  “Turn around,” said the man at the desk.

  Mariam did. She kept her eyes lowered, but she could feel the clerk’s and Captain’s gazes burning into her flesh.

  “Good,” he said. “You can get dressed.”

  As Mariam fumbled back into her clothing with hot tears of anger burning her cheeks, she heard the man say to the Captain, “You’ve found yourself quite a prize. She’ll fetch a good price.”

  “Yes,” said the Captain. “Just remember that it was me who brought her in.”

  The man looked up from his list. “Of course,” he said, with a toothless smile. Then he picked up a bell from the desk and rang it twice.

  Without another word, the Captain turned and left. Mariam stood there, alone with the clerk and her anger. She willed herself to look passive. Anger would get her nowhere right now. A few moments passed, then a door opened. A short Turkish woman bent with age and covered from head to foot in a black chador entered the room. The only part of her face that showed were her eyes, and they were wrinkled and rheumy. The woman extended a gnarled hand and grasped Mariam by the elbow. “Come with me,” she said, not unkindly.

  When Mariam stepped forward, her knees buckled beneath her. She didn’t know if it was from the pain in her abdomen, the shock of the situation, or the worry she had for all her loved ones. What was happening with Marta, Kevork, and Anna? What about Anahid Baji, Ovsanna, and the children?

  The woman put a firm arm around Mariam’s waist to support her, then led her back through the door and down a long hallway. Mariam’s breath came in gulps as she tried to deal with the pain and keep her composure. She willed herself to take note of everything she passed. It could mean the difference between life and death.

  There were t
wo doors on one side of the hallway and one double door on the other side. All three doors were closed, and in each doorknob was a key. As in the main room, valuable goods had obviously been stolen from the hallway. There were unfaded squares on the walls where pictures had recently hung, and there was a bare wooden table at the far end of the hallway. The floor itself was bare pale hardwood, with darker strips of hardwood closer to the walls. The long runner carpet that had graced the hallway had obviously been pilfered.

  The woman stopped in front of the double doors and turned the key, then pulled the door open. “In, please,” she said to Mariam, guiding her by the elbow and leading her in.

  The air in the room was humid with sweat, and Mariam had trouble seeing because there was a heavy curtain on the window and no lights in the room. She stepped forward. The old woman stepped back out into the hallway. The door closed and there was a loud click as the key turned in the lock.

  “Sit here,” said a woman’s voice from somewhere on the floor. Mariam knelt down, then felt around her with her hands. She could feel sleeping pillows scattered on top of a woven carpet. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could also make out the form of a woman lying on her side on one of the pillows.

  “May I pull back the curtain?” asked Mariam.

  “If you wish,” said the voice.

  Mariam stayed on her hands and knees and felt her way towards the window. She reached out and felt the texture of heavy silk brocade. She drew it sideways. Light streamed into the room from outside, bringing with it a gust of cool breeze. Squinting from the sudden light, Mariam felt around the window frame, then found a tasseled sash and tied the curtain back.

  She looked outside and gasped. In better times, the window had looked out onto a carefully tended garden at the back of the house. Spring flowers and fruit trees were in full bloom. There was a beautiful man-made pond surrounded by flagstones, and a fountain in the shape of a dolphin, water streaming from its mouth and cascading into the pond.

  It should have been an idyllic scene. But the pond was congested with three bloated, rotting corpses of men. Over the fragrance of fruit trees and flowers, there was the scent of death.

  She turned to look inside the room. Next to the woman who had spoken to her, there was a girl of no more than twelve. She was a delicate beauty with cascades of hair so black it was almost blue. Her face was white with sorrow. She sat with her knees clutched up to her chin. Now that there was light in the room, she could see that the other woman was older — perhaps in her thirties. There was a resemblance between the two, and Mariam deduced that they were perhaps mother and daughter. The mother was injured. She wore a simple grey skirt and blouse, but there was a mottled stain of blood on the front of the skirt. There was also a thin dried slash of blood on the side of her face. The woman breathed shallowly, as if in pain.

  It was too much for Mariam to take in all at once. She crumpled into a heap on one of the pillows and burst into tears.

  The girl crawled over to Mariam and wrapped her arms around her. “It is all right,” she said. And then she dissolved into tears, too.

  A rush of memories came back to Mariam. Being comforted by her mother so many years ago, Anahid Baji’s strong comforting arms. She felt so badly for this little girl, and guilty that she had let herself be seen as so weak that she had to be comforted by a child.

  Mariam took a deep breath. “I’ll be strong,” she said. And then she introduced herself.

  “My name is Ani,” said the girl. She crawled over to the injured woman lying on the pillow and put her hand lightly on the woman’s shoulder.

  “This is my mother, Herminé Topalian,” she said.

  Mariam’s hand flew to her mouth. “Topalian?” she said. “So this is your house.”

  “Yes,” replied Ani. “And those bodies in the garden are my brother, father, and uncle.”

  Miss Younger watched with her mouth set in a thin line as the nurse washed Paris’s body, then covered her with a shroud. “This cannot go on,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

  She stepped out of the front door of the hospital and the midday heat enveloped her like a furnace. Where did the Turks think they were deporting these people to? She had seen them marching in the southeast, seemingly into the desert. It was April now, and the sun was already hot. What would it be like in a month or two months from now?

  With these thoughts on her mind, Miss Younger walked with determination down the main road of the orphanage complex in search of Mr. Muller, one of the other German missionaries. She found him in the kitchen with Mr. Karellian, parcelling up bundles of food.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said to him.

  Both Mr. Muller and Mr. Karellian looked up from their work. Mr. Muller set the bundle he was assembling down on the table and stepped outside with her.

  “I cannot go out in the city alone,” Miss Younger said, with agitation in her voice. “I need you to accompany me.”

  “Where is it that you want to go?” asked Mr. Muller.

  “I must speak to the German consulate,” said Miss Younger. “There must be something we can do to stop these deportations.”

  “I will go with you if you wish,” said Mr. Muller, “but it will do no good.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Miss Younger.

  “Our government is fully aware of the Armenian situation,” said Mr. Muller sadly. “In fact, I have heard that the German government has even provided assistance to the Turks in the form of weapons and manpower.”

  “That is absurd,” said Miss Younger heatedly. “Here you and I are: German citizens, helping these Armenians who are being persecuted by the Turkish government, and you’re telling me that our government is helping the Young Turks in the persecution?”

  Mr. Muller shifted on his feet. “Not exactly,” he said.

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “Germany and Turkey are on the same side in this Great World War that has just recently started.”

  “I know that,” said Miss Younger.

  “The weapons and militia they have sent is for the war effort, but it is also being used against the Armenians.”

  “I must talk to our consulate,” said Miss Younger. “They must stop.”

  “I would suggest that you do not,” said Mr. Muller.

  “Why?”

  “I would be afraid that if you cause too much fuss, we will be ordered home. And then what would happen to these children?”

  Miss Younger was silent for a moment. She had not considered that point. “Then what can we do?” she asked, tears of frustration forming in her eyes.

  “We can only carry on as best we can,” responded Mr. Muller sadly. “I wish there was more that we could do.”

  “Perhaps your course is the best one for the moment,” said Miss Younger. “Continue packing up food parcels.”

  “I shall,” he said. Then turned and walked back into the kitchen.

  Miss Younger held back tears of frustration as she walked back to her own office. She had to think this through and determine what she could do without causing more harm.

  She sat down at her desk and drew out a blank sheet of paper. She dipped a pen into ink and then stared at the sheet, willing herself to come up with some sort of plan.

  A sharp knock sounded on the door. She looked up, startled, and called, “Come in.”

  Rustem Bey opened the door and stepped in.

  “Please,” said Miss Younger, surprised, “sit down.” She set down her pen and motioned with her hand towards the one chair in front of her desk.

  Rustem Bey sat on the edge of the chair and placed his hands on his knees. He looked at the blank piece of paper in front of her and said, “I hope I am not disturbing you.”

  “It is fine, Rustem,” she replied in a tired voice. “What can I do for you?”

  “Would you share with me what is happening to the orphans here in light of the newest measures against the Armenians?”

  Miss You
nger sighed. “I appreciate your concern, Rustem. You have always been a good friend to me and the other missionaries. We have been given assurances that the children will not be harmed.”

  Rustem Bey breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back on the chair. “Thank God,” he said. “I had been told different.”

  “What had you been told?” asked Miss Younger.

  “My mother told me that the deportations were happening even within the orphanage.”

  “She is partly right,” replied Miss Younger, meeting his eyes. “The older orphans have been deemed ‘adults’ and they’re set for deportation. Also, the Armenian trade teachers and staff will all be deported.”

  “My God,” said Rustem Bey. “Are the Young Turks mad?”

  “It seems to me that the whole world has gone mad.”

  “I want to help you,” said Rustem. “I can hide some people in my warehouse.”

  “I cannot let you do that,” said Miss Younger. “If you are caught, the Armenians you hid will be executed before your eyes, you will be killed, and your house and warehouse will be burned. Not only can I not let you risk that for your own sake, but for ours, too. Remember, you are my only secure source of food for the orphans.”

  Rustem Bey stood up and planted his hands on Miss Younger’s desk. “I cannot stand by and watch while these people are being deported,” he said.

  Miss Younger knew exactly how he felt. Hadn’t she just said something similar to Mr. Muller?

  “Let us bide our time,” she said. “There will be opportunity for you to help, but not right now.”

  Rustem regarded her with frustration. He removed his hands from her desk and sat back down in the chair. He was silent in his thoughts, as was Miss Younger.

  “When will the soldiers be back?” he asked.