Many yards away, women chuckled at them, and one called out, “Enough. It is already enough. Are there so many streams available to us that it seems such a miracle you find one another here each morning?”
When her goading was ignored, another called out, “Anno, girl, gather your jugs and stop this foolishness before something even larger than what I just saw crawls inside.”
Lucine gasped at this and whirled away from Anno to retrieve the jugs. Chuckles came to them from the water’s edge.
The sisters joined the others. Women’s heads bobbed closely all around them as news and gossip were exchanged.
“Are my brothers well?” Lucine asked.
Anno was still attempting to situate herself on the moist soil so that she might trap the clearest surface water without overly dirtying her skirt and shoes. At a glance, she noticed that Lucine had already done so effortlessly, and by the way her arms were bent and fixed, she guessed her jug was nearly full.
“They are both well, although I hardly saw them this morning.”
“Why is that?” Lucine asked, her full jug set on the ground and both arms raised to her head as she attempted to readjust her headband and veil.
Anno squinted back at her and Lucine rolled her eyes upward as if to say, “It is a nuisance, and it is ugly, but it is unavoidable.”
Turning back to her task, Anno answered, “I was in the stable, storing the preserves.”
Anno rested her filled jug on the ground as well and fetched the empty one. Lucine bent slightly to steady them both.
“Have any visitors come to my father’s house?” Lucine pressed.
For anyone within earshot, the girls hoped that it would sound as if Lucine was simply gathering the daily news of her father’s home, but Anno knew that Lucine wanted to know more: whether Raffi was still considered a fugitive in the eyes of the Turkish police.
“No one has come at all, Lucine.”
This last Anno said rather quietly, almost to herself, causing Lucine’s eyes to fix on her. The sun shone brightly on Anno’s dark brown hair. Shorter, finer strands had come loose from their braids, and they curled close to her face, a becoming contrast to Anno’s eyes, honey-colored in the bright sun. Anno stood and turned, her mouth pursed and eyes heavy-lidded.
Lucine’s confusion lasted only a moment. Her brothers were safe for the time being. Anno’s momentary sadness had been for herself.
They walked back toward the houses. Lucine searched Anno’s face again. Her own life had changed so suddenly. She was busy trying to know and understand Avo, trying to find her place and contribute to her new family and their household, so that she was in contact with her father’s family in only the most basic way. Were they safe? Were they well? But whether they were happy was knowledge out of her reach. She was not at all aware of the extent of Anno’s attachment to Daron, but she knew it had turned her little sister into someone older and sadder.
“Whether they come or do not, Anno, all will be well.”
“No! It will not,” she burst out.
Lucine stared at her sister in astonishment. Anno’s teeth had clenched as she spoke and large teardrops rolled down her face.
Lucine did not understand when feelings such as these had developed. She herself was not even sure she would know Daron if she passed him on the road. She had thought this a childish attraction. She had certainly had them herself at Anno’s age. But then Avo’s family had come and she had forgotten, had she not?
“Anno, what are you thinking?” she demanded anxiously.
Elopements happened in their village. The families accepted these marriages and carried on to avoid more shame, but it had never happened in the Vartanian family. Lucine was not sure how her parents would bear such a thing.
“I do not know anything. How can I? I hardly see him. I hardly speak to him. It is as if it is only I alone in all this with my imaginings.”
“Then why are you waiting for his family to come? Why do you think that will happen?”
“Because,” she halted as Lucine reached forward with her free hand to wipe at her tears.
“Because he has told me he loves me.” Anno’s head fell forward and her body shook with all the loneliness and months of hidden feelings and hopes not realized.
“And, Lucine,” Anno struggled to speak. “Lucine, I am afraid.”
“Of course you are. I can see that,” Lucine retorted.
“No. No.” Anno shook her head. “There is something else.”
Lucine tightened her hold on the water jug.
“I think someone saw us already. Old Mariam.”
Lucine gasped. “When? What did she see?”
“We went to meet at the well.” Anno hung her head again. “On your wedding day.”
Anger rose in Lucine. “Walk, Anno,” she commanded. Too many stares had come their way already. “Do not drop the jugs. It is lucky for you that Sister Mariam has remained silent about this for so long, but if she has seen you, she will not remain silent forever.”
Anno had no answer. She knew what her sister said was true.
“How was it when you went to sort the herbs? Did she seem disappointed in you?”
Anno shook her head guiltily. “I did not go.”
Lucine gave a sound of exasperation. “But, Anno. That was unwise. I am sure she was expecting you.”
For several years now, just before winter arrived, Anno had rushed to Old Mariam’s side to help her crush and store that year’s collection of herbs and grasses. From the first, Mariam’s worn, experienced hands had painstakingly guided Anno’s smooth, eager ones. She had taught Anno to recognize every herb and its uses and how to prepare and store them with the least amount of waste.
Mariam would converse only lightly as they worked. She had admonished Anno at the first that their careful preservation and division of these herbs would someday help in the healing of their own neighbors and must be carried out with the utmost care. If Anno had done something incorrectly, Mariam would wordlessly reach out and redirect her hands. A short nod was Anno’s only reward. And then, when all work was completed, they would sit back on a cushion and drink sweetened tea and a special pastry that Mariam had put aside for that day.
“Oh, Lucine, I wish I had gone. I wanted to, but I did not think she would want me.”
“She is like our grandmother, Anno. She might have helped you.”
Avo’s family’s home was just yards away now. Lucine tipped the water jug into her cupped hand and wiped Anno’s face from brow to chin with the icy water, then hastily dried the drops with the edge of her sleeve.
“Do nothing foolish, Anno. I shall ask around and see what I can learn about his family. But you must do nothing foolish.”
Anno nodded tiredly.
“Give me your word,” Lucine demanded.
“I give you my word,” Anno repeated dully and turned down the road. Lucine watched her sister’s back and listened to the crunch of rocks beneath her boots for a moment longer before entering her husband’s home.
C H A P T E R 16
Anno walked unseeingly. The water jugs nearly slipped from her hold once, but she was able to catch them and continued to grip them weakly.
She heard her name called but did not turn, not caring to be seen with swollen nose and eyes. She concentrated on moving while hugging the jugs that had grown too heavy for her.
“Anno, kiz,” the voice called again. Anno, girl. She knew that voice. She slowed her steps and searched to see where it came from.
It was not hard to spot Turgay. Her head covering sat lopsided as always on her snowy white hair, a startling contrast against her stark black garb.
Anno set the jugs down. She never had the heart to make a quick escape from Turgay. She joined her on the edge of the tree stump where she sat.
Turgay blinked up at Anno. “Is she coming?”
Old Turgay had borne four children, who had then produced a true dozen grandchildren, and then great-grandchildren in still mu
ltiples of that. Their home was in the Kurdish camp on the other side of the river from where Anno collected water daily. It was not possible to cross the river without a soaking, but in a few places, the river narrowed and large stones and boulders were laid in a row to serve as a bridge.
Turgay had first been seen wandering through Salor almost five years earlier. Hands outstretched and always weeping, she would approach men and women alike and plead with them, in Kurdish, to help her. She stood no more than four feet tall, and her still fair skin was folded in deep lines. Her filmy brown eyes, perpetually troubled, were quick to twinkle at the slightest kindness.
At first, the villagers were wary of her presence. They returned her greetings when it could not be avoided, but skirted by quickly, wanting to avoid any knowledge of her should something happen and her people come searching. But eventually, the older women of the village began to stop and listen to her pleas, and they remembered. They pieced together clues from her mutterings and, round-eyed, clapped their hands to their mouths in shock at the realization that Old Turgay was, in fact, one of their own. They clung to each other and to Turgay as they remembered.
Tiny and fair, in her fourth or fifth year, she was noticed by a passing Kurd. He slyly followed Turgay’s mother, on her way to the baker, balancing a tall load on her head with her tiny daughter skipping along behind. Turgay’s mother had noticed the Kurd on horseback from the start and knew she was being followed. When the horse’s snort sounded too near, she turned in time to see the Kurd lean over and lift Turgay to him by her arm. Turgay remembered her mother’s screams for the rest of her life, but the memory of her face gradually faded.
Living just across the river, she was raised as the daughter of a Kurdish family. She was made to forget her true family and her true identity. Now, as old age weakened her mind, she lost her reasoning and discretion for great chunks of time and would break free to seek what was taken from her as a child. Her mother.
Anno had been the exact same height as Turgay when she had first seen her. Turgay’s cries for her mother had broken Anno’s heart, so she had pulled the old woman to her own home and presented her to Yeraz. It was just days before Easter and trays of chorek topped with sesame seed lay cooling everywhere. Yeraz knew of Turgay and had pulled her close to the fire and pressed a warm braided loaf into her hands. The woman had stared at it as if it were a bar of solid gold, pressed her face to it in remembrance and wept, with the suffering of a lifetime cutting forth each sob.
Later that day, Vartan had taken her back to the river. She had crossed to the other side easily enough, but then turned and looked stubbornly back at him. Vartan had been forced to cross over as well and gently coax her home. He had come face-to-face with Turgay’s eldest son, who clasped his mother to him in relief. Neither man spoke a word, but their eyes met and Vartan saw knowledge reflected there, and sadness, and fear.
“No, Turgay. I do not think your mother is coming just now.”
Turgay accepted Anno’s words trustingly. Their shoulders slumped and they drew comfort from one another for long minutes.
Eventually, Anno stood and went to retrieve the water jugs. She had already decided that she would not leave Turgay behind.
“Come, Turgay Dade. Hold on to my apron and let us go home. My mother will be waiting and we shall have a cold drink of this water and a bit of something to eat together.”
C H A P T E R 17
Vrej peeled the outer leaves off a neatly cut chunk of cabbage, folded them into his mouth and noisily crunched his large mouthful.
Raffi leaned against the door frame and watched his younger brother. Vrej suddenly took in the silence of the room and lifted his head to see Raffi standing there, holding both their caps. He raised his cabbage wedge invitingly in Raffi’s direction, but his brother only chuckled and shook his head.
They heard the sounds of the clubs calling them to church. “You should be thinking of communion today instead of cabbages,” Raffi admonished.
“When you decide to take communion, then that is the exact same day that I shall as well,” Vrej answered and popped the last leaf into his mouth.
Since Raffi’s absences had been questioned by the gendarmes, he had remained in Salor, attending to his family’s crops and livestock and openly appearing at village activities. Now, as they walked together, the brothers watched the sway of skirts ahead of them, the wide, muted skirts of the older women and the brighter-colored ones of the young.
There was so much Vrej wanted to ask Raffi. For instance, where was Aram? His absence had stretched to weeks now and Vrej wanted to know where he had been sent. He wanted to know why Raffi was always so tense and why, no matter how their mother tried, he would not eat enough to put the lost flesh back on his bones. And why were so many of the village dogs taken in at night when the weather was not yet frigid? But knowing better than to ask, he said instead, “I believe our mother is fashioning a fez for that big head of yours.”
At this unexpected absurdity, Raffi laughed out loud, and the sound warmed Vrej so much that he joined in.
A fez was a gesture of fashion, Turkish in origin and adopted by all the Turks’ subjects, much like the thick upturned moustaches of the day. Yet, Raffi could no more wear a fez than drop to his knees and raise his arms to Allah.
Behind them, Lucine walked with Avo, her hand on his arm. Raffi turned to look at his sister, at the dark purple of her long dress and veil, at the silver linked belt shiny and fitted around her waist, and then back to the worry in her eyes.
“Is Anno with our mother?’ she asked them.
Vrej shrugged.
Lucine searched the road. She was always worried now about Anno’s whereabouts. Raffi was watching her, she knew, but she dared not say anything just yet.
ANNO WAS ALONE, roaming the cemetery behind the church. She decided that she would lean here against one of the gravestones for just a moment longer, in the rare sun, and then head to church. It did not seem possible to fill her lungs in the dark of the night, but here she could, again and again.
Her eyes traveled to the church dome and then down to the high, narrow windows framed by stone carvings that allowed only slivers of amber sunlight to fall on heads bowed in prayer. At Easter, only a quarter of the village would be able to squeeze inside its walls.
Anno’s eyes fell on a spot on the north wall and she remembered. She and Takoush had merely entered their eighth year. Raffi had found them on their hands and knees beneath that wall, digging their small fingers into the base of a crumbling tufa stone block. They had told Raffi that they were looking for gold coins buried beneath the church, left by their ancestors.
He had dusted them off and sent Takoush home. As he and Anno walked side by side, she had asked, “Brother, why does our church have holes in its walls? Why does it have pieces breaking everywhere?”
“Because it is almost sixteen hundred years old, Anno.”
Her eyes had widened at the incomprehensible number.
“Our great, great, great, great, grandfathers built it that long ago. It is very old and so it crumbles,” he had explained.
“And the Turks let them build it?” Her voice dropped as she asked. Even at so young an age, she had perceived that they lived with strict limitations on their freedoms.
“The Turks were not here then to stop them,” Raffi answered her.
“Where were they that they did not see?”
Raffi wondered how to explain.
“Anno, do you see where the sun rises every day behind that end of the church?” Raffi pointed to the east.
Anno nodded.
“In that direction, far, far, far away there is a land where the Turks’ great-great-great grandfathers were born. That is where they were when we built this church, where their real home is.”
Anno was silent, but for only a moment. “Has Baba seen where they came from?”
“No. None of us have seen it. It is very far away. The Turks’ ancestors traveled for seasons and year
s over great rivers and mountains to reach here. And when they arrived, they did not look like us. They had very black, very straight hair and slanted dark eyes. When they came, they looked like their grandfathers.”
She scooted to the side to kick a stone as they walked, moving it only a few feet and coating her shoe in a new layer of dust. “Do you not wish that they had never come, Brother?” she asked softly. “That they had stayed where they were born?”
“I do wish it, Anno,” he answered, just as softly. “I wish it every day.”
THERE WERE JUST a few minutes left to her, she knew, before the church services would begin, and later the cemetery would fill as many others would slowly weave their way through the gravestones to find the resting places of their loved ones.
Utterly alone, Anno leaned her head against the great smooth stone that marked her grandparents’ grave. Nearby was Vartan’s brother’s grave. All three had died during the massacres of 1894.
Anno mechanically crossed herself and, with palms loosely joined, recited a prayer. Then she sank to the ground beside the large headstone and sobbed.
The chance to unleash her emotions unobserved was so rare that each time she brought her head up, thinking her tears were surely spent, something triggered more sorrow and she wept again. She was not so careless as to make herself heard by any of the other early comers, but leaned into the sun-warmed stone and, resting her head against her forearms, let her tears be absorbed into its gray pores.
She wept for herself, for the smell of Daron’s hair and skin, and for the deep hollows beneath Raffi’s eyes. And for the evenings spent waiting for Daron’s family to appear at her father’s door, and the meaning she took from their never coming.
Suddenly Anno sucked in her breath. She heard footsteps.
“Ann! Anno!”
She tried to still her tears.
“Oh! You are tiring me, Anno!” the voice scolded, closer now, and Anno tipped her head sideways.
“Takoush, I need your handkerchief.”
As the Poppies Bloomed Page 7