As the Poppies Bloomed

by Maral Boyadjian

  “Lucine is searching for you!”

  “I think I dropped mine somewhere.”

  “Do you know what is happening?” Takoush pulled Anno to her feet and wiped at her face impatiently with her own handkerchief. She hugged her hard and whispered in her ear.

  “Aram is coming home. He has been seen.”

  Takoush’s eyes sparkled and Anno squeezed her hard in return.

  “I am so glad,” she whispered back sincerely.

  C H A P T E R 18

  The shepherds had strained their eyes and stretched their necks for days now. Aram’s return was overdue. Then at last, shortly after the moon slipped down below the horizon, a solitary figure was spotted. Heavily clothed and bent, he prodded his donkeys along with a thick staff.

  One young shepherd, having placed himself at the peak of a high, balded slope, looked out over acres of rocky hills and treetops. Raffi had given him field glasses and he used them, discreetly, under the cover of stone ledges or behind wide trunks. A herder grasping field glasses would bring forth jeopardizing questions from passing Muslims.

  The rocks and slopes were matching shades of muted browns and mauves. Aram was seen for a moment at a time only to disappear again while he made his way slowly along the shelter of the ridges and through their shadows.

  Once certain that the traveler was indeed Aram and no one else, the young shepherd had painstakingly secured the field glasses inside his coat and, with a large accompaniment of careening and bouncing rocks, leapt up from his squatting position and scrambled down the hillside.

  He longed to call out the news to the shepherds on the knolls, but did not dare. With only a nod and a glad wave he slid by. One stood as he passed and stared into the long trail of dust that had been kicked up in his friend’s wake. He thought it lingered and hung there an unusual amount of time, as if to taunt him that he would not be the one to carry the good news back to the village.

  Aram waited just outside the village, under the protection of a large willow. He would not enter the village until many hours past dark. The dogs would have been taken in again by then and most would be asleep. Aram’s donkeys were still and spent beneath their load. Storage space underneath the dirt floor of a home was deep and waiting. The guns and ammunition would be stored there only briefly and then moved out again as needed.

  He had run out of cigarettes long ago. While he waited, if he could have chosen between a hot meal and a cigarette, he would have chosen the latter.

  It had taken days for the throbbing in his groin to subside enough for him to walk. Then he had washed himself with the bit of oghee he had brought along.

  They had slashed away his foreskin. It would heal. At least, the wound itself would. But his body still shook with rage and humiliation.

  He decided to move into the village in another hour. And he decided he would tell no one the reason for his delay.

  THE NEXT EVENING, Aram placed himself strategically near Avo’s father’s house. Villagers greeted him warmly. A baker slipped away from his ovens with a warm loaf in his apron, pressed it into Aram’s hands and squeezed his shoulders in welcome. Beginning to feel self-conscious, Aram considered leaving, but then he saw Lucine. She was emerging from the coppersmith’s carrying an old pot that had likely already been mended a handful of times. A trace of a smile formed on his face and he moved toward her. He stretched out his arms in greeting. He would hug her and kiss her hands. Had he not done just that so many times when they were children? He would carry the pot home for her and steal extra time at her side.

  A wide, joyous smile lit Lucine’s face at the sight of Aram and her steps lifted and quickened. Her long apron curled and flipped sideways from the breeze and Aram’s eyes followed the movement down to an unmistakably rounded belly.

  C H A P T E R 19

  Mariam had asked her younger son, Haig, to accompany her on this Sunday evening visit. He was short and stocky like his mother. His muscled chest seemed constrained beneath his tightened coat, and his arms, instead of resting at his sides, were bent at the elbow and held inches away from his ribs. He appeared ready to leap to battle at a moment’s notice, but by nature he was more inclined toward firm handshakes and warm embraces.

  Haig had been born just months earlier than Vartan. Their mothers nursed them side by side under the shade of great walnut trees, and they were baptized within days of each other, but they were each other’s antithesis from birth. Haig’s appetite for milk and bread was boundless, Vartan’s indifferent. Haig’s interest in people and objects would throw him forward palms outstretched for the first dozen years of his life, while Vartan observed and noted details from a distance. Haig’s laugh was loud and open, while Vartan’s indication of pleasure was a gentle smile and a warmth around his eyes. Haig would toss and catch a scythe recklessly for his own amusement, while Vartan would turn the pages of a rare newspaper tirelessly until its contents were memorized. They complemented and balanced each other’s lives improbably, but the keystone to their devotion was laid in 1894, days after Raffi’s birth.

  Freedom fighters led the people in their own defense, but the end was near and their losses devastating. Young girls and women still ceaselessly refilled gun cartridges for their men who were standing for the final battle.

  Yeraz, too, had remained behind for as long as Vartan allowed. Until that early morning when Vartan had pulled her out of her slumber and ordered her and their entire household of women and girls away, up the long and arid mountainside.

  Short days later, Vartan had been grazed in the temple and Haig had dragged him into the thickness of the forest. He had washed the wound with the last precious drops of oghee from his flask and had left, for how long Vartan did not know. When he woke, the flask was lying on his chest, filled with water. The blood from his head had soaked down his cheeks into his high collar and he was alone.

  There was a buzzing in his ear. He lay still and determined that it was not in his ear, but near it. Flies. He reached up tentatively, found his cheek, and flapped his hand at them. His hand came away with blood, thick and clinging between his fingers. He wiped his hand on his trousers. He listened again. Silence. Where were the screams? Where were the galloping horsemen overtaking the fleeing? He could smell the smoke well enough. They had laid fire to everything—fields, rooftops, stables, women’s skirts.

  His trembling hands tried to lift the flask to his mouth and he felt the liquid slip onto his lower lip. He licked at its coolness and tasted a good amount of blood and grit instead.

  The air was too still. He could hear nothing. He fought against the urge to close his eyes. He opened them again and turned his head from side to side. He tried to bend his legs. He would search for survivors. He would start up the mountain and find his wife, his mother, his sister. Where was Haig? He slept again.

  He heard laughter. He sniffed the air for the smell of baking lavash. The layers of pine needles and leaves were his warm wool mattress and the laughter was his father’s.

  He sniffed harder and woke himself. His bleary gaze met the night sky. The leaves and branches were shades of green and brown and darkness and he had only dreamed the laughter and the bread and the closeness of his family. But there, he heard it again. He felt it was close, but harsher now. There were grunts. Vartan stopped breathing, his eyes and ears strained to understand. The ground rustled and he heard a low groan. A groan of pleasure? It was unmistakable. Something, leaves perhaps, rustled again but with a whispery rhythm. He froze. He knew he was listening to the sound of a man taking his pleasure.

  Vartan’s teeth clenched. He had witnessed enough rape these last days to know what he was hearing now. It perplexed him that he did not hear any protest or struggle, but he did not want to be found lying under a tree defenseless once the bastard had re-fastened his shalvar.

  The groans were loud and free and Vartan rolled to his side gently and sat up. His vision blurred and he took deep breaths to fight the nausea. He heard loud Turkish cursing and a slap.
He thought he heard a whimper, something high-pitched. He struggled to his knees. He must have the advantage of surprise. He was too weak to fight anyone. His gun, useless, had been dropped somewhere. But his sword was hanging off his belt. He staggered closer to the sounds, still coming in rhythm. Several feet away, he saw the back of a man, in military coat, trouserless, kneeling atop something. Vartan tried to focus, but he was having difficulty. Unthinking, he stepped closer. The soldier was so large. Was that merely his own shadow moving beneath him? Just his own shadow? Vartan crept closer still, watching the broad back of the military coat rock backward and forward. Close enough now so that he could take in what was on the ground, straddled between his massive bare legs, Vartan saw a girl. Her clothing was torn in half away from her pale body, creating a dark frame against her nakedness. Peering at her flat undeveloped chest and thin arms, Vartan sucked in his breath in revulsion. This was a child, aged nine or ten at the most. And he saw the reason why he had heard no sounds of protest. Her nose and mouth were wrapped and muffled tightly with a scarf. Only her eyes were left uncovered, and they were tightly shut.

  Vartan strode forward quickly and dug his sword into the back of the soldier’s neck. The tinkling of the medals stilled as his back arched in pain, and double-fisted, Vartan dug the sword in further. His strength spent, he fell to his knees and waited. The Turk pitched forward and Vartan grabbed a fist full of hair and thrust him sideways, off the child. He watched the soldier convulse and once the blood flowed from his mouth, Vartan crept forward on his knees. He cradled the child’s upper body in the crook of his left arm and pulled her free.

  Her lower body was smeared with so much blood that Vartan, sickened, scrambled to cover her. He fumbled with the scarf and unwound it several times before her nose and mouth were exposed. He could not tell if she was dead or alive, and he did not have the will to find out. He gathered her close, and with her head still cradled against his chest, he sagged down onto one elbow and closed his eyes.

  ONCE HAIG HAD filled the flask of water for Vartan, he had taken great gulps from the stream himself. He had walked for a long distance upriver, to a place where he saw no more bodies floating on the surface and the water flowed reasonably clear.

  He had been climbing now, for hours, and knowing he was near, he did not search for another water source anywhere. Although his head pounded and his tongue felt rough and dry, his legs moved on.

  He remembered walking beneath the cover of low-flying vultures and spying Yeraz seated beneath an elongated slab of boulder, jutting out of the side of the hill. Its layers were visible in shades of slate and gray and it provided a perfect roof over her head. In the shadows, her breasts were bared, and one breast was hidden completely from view by the head of a suckling infant.

  Haig led their way down the mountain back to their smoldering village with Yeraz lifted high in his arms, resting only to ensure that the long trail of women and children still followed.

  C H A P T E R 20

  Mariam left Haig inside the garden. Vartan sat there beneath the brittle, yellowed leaves of the gnarled grapevine that stretched across the garden wall and spilled over its sides.

  From the opposite end of the yard, Uncle Hagop’s voice, raised and indignant, came to her.

  “Vrej, boy, why did you not choose the taller stalks?”

  “There were no stalks taller than these,” Vrej answered calmly, twisting hemp fibers across his thigh.

  Mariam saw them, seated side by side, with a huge pile of stripped stalks near their feet. She watched Uncle Hagop attempt to roll the delicate fibers with his large, fumbling hands. The fibers slipped and unraveled across his leg. Next to him, Vrej was serenely rolling yet another length of fine rope.

  Mariam chuckled and entered the house.

  Anno faced Yeraz and waved a white pillowcase frustratedly in the air. Her face was flushed and her hair untidy.

  “But Mama, I do not want a pillowcase such as this. I do not care whether I sleep on an embroidered…”

  “I do not know where this girl’s mind is but it is not on improving her skills!” Aunt Marie’s voice rang out.

  Yeraz took the pillowcase from Anno’s hand and inspected the tiny stitches.

  “Now, Anno, I taught you this design myself years ago. You can do much better work than this.” She handed the case back to her daughter.

  Mariam watched Anno and thought the girl looked defeated.

  “Go wash your face and start again,” Yeraz directed.

  But Anno had turned away. She had seen Mariam and the pillowcase dropped to the floor. Aunt Marie bent in annoyance to retrieve it.

  Before Marie could add to the scolding, Old Mariam hastily made her greetings and moved across the room as if she had witnessed no altercation at all.

  She had brought a plate of halvah with her, knowing it to be Vartan’s favorite sweet. Yeraz sighed with relief at her presence.

  Mariam turned back to look into Anno’s guarded face. At least the child did not bolt from the room at the sight of me, Mariam thought.

  “Come, let us sit, Sister Mariam.” Yeraz invited, “away from the draft of the door.”

  Mariam clapped her hands once and suddenly announced, “Yeraz, Marie, Anno, we have things to discuss.”

  Anno’s heart sunk at her words. Old Mariam has finally come to tell all she knows, she thought. There will be no hope left now.

  “Let us begin, and then the men shall join us, if they wish,” Mariam continued as she eased herself onto a fluffed cushion, looking pointedly at Anno.

  Anno knew it could be nothing else. She would not be specifically included in any other such discussion with these women. She never had before! Her eyes fleeted from one face to the other.

  “Anno?” Yeraz scolded lightly. Her mother was motioning for her to help assemble a table of refreshments for their guest.

  Anno turned mechanically to where her mother pointed and still did not move.

  Yeraz sighed and quickly made the preparations herself. Large raisins, newly dried and darkly golden, were laid in small plates on a quickly assembled table. Young walnuts, their meats cleaned and free of their hard shells, were also placed close within reach of all to be seated.

  The tea came and the cups were filled, leaving nothing more to forestall the conversation, except Anno, who still stood.

  Mariam reached for a generous palm full of raisins and seemed to concentrate heavily on choosing just the right size and amount of walnut meats for accompaniment. She absorbed the tension in the room from the first but expected Yeraz to take control when she was ready.

  “My daughter, we are waiting for you,” Anno heard.

  Anno’s legs finally brought her to the table’s edge, where she sank fluidly to the bare floor beside Mariam. She kept her head bowed.

  Mariam drew a deep breath and chose her words carefully.

  “It was my pleasure to receive visitors to my hearth just ten days ago,” she began. “They are well known to me, and to you also.” This last she directed to Yeraz only. “The visitors were the women of the merchant’s family, Nevart and Naomi.”

  Yeraz thought she heard Anno exhale. Mariam, she noticed, was averting her gaze from the girl from the first, and Anno continued to stare into the triangle of her cross-legged lap.

  “It was, for me, a joyous visit, and I will now tell you why. And, I hope, if it is God’s will, that once I have told it, it will be a source of joy for your family as well.”

  Joyous? Minuscule hairs covering Anno’s body tingled and froze on end.

  Mariam paused to allow Yeraz time to absorb the news thus far. Marie pulled herself nearer the table still. Her large, dark eyes flitted from Yeraz’s thoughtful face to Mariam’s tranquil one.

  Anno had lifted her chin imperceptibly, but enough to peer sideways at Mariam, to glean some hint of what was to unfold. But the old woman was using every ounce of self-control to appear neutral, as was her role, so she did not dare to convey even the slightest bit of
comfort, though she ached to do so. Instead she continued calmly. “I was told that it is the family’s wish that Daron, Mgro’s one and only son, be married.”

  Mariam paused once again, but only long enough for Yeraz, who had lifted her cup to her mouth, to slowly return it to the table. She was nervous, Mariam knew, and so the old friend continued to go forth slowly.

  “Daron has entered his eighteenth year. He was schooled, here in the village, until the age of twelve, and with his father’s consent, after that, devoted himself wholly to the work and livelihood of his family. He had, however, Nevart was proud to say, displayed a quick understanding of mathematics. And, he has displayed a great deal of interest in his father’s trade of merchantry.

  “And now,” Mariam allowed herself a shadow of a smile, “I come to the purpose of my visit today.”

  Yeraz’s face was unreadable.

  “It is the Markarian family’s wish that Daron’s wife be our Anno.”

  Yeraz clutched her teacup with both palms. The tea had grown cold, the halvah had begun to cling to its plate like glue, and her neck stung with tension while listening to Mariam eloquently choose the words for her proposal.

  She was glad this moment had come. She was glad for her daughter, and relieved as well. She studied Anno across the tiny table and watched her rigid spine slacken. Her eyes were still downcast and Yeraz waited for her to lift her head. Where were her quick happy movements? How had she turned so inward, so guarded?

  Anno, inches from her mother, inches from Old Mariam, had heard, had heard the miraculous words. Now, she only wished to throw herself at her mother’s feet and beg, beg her to consent! In almost all things her father had the last word, but not this.

  Anno’s face lifted and she met her mother’s eyes.

  Yeraz took in so much at once: the beseeching, deep-set eyes that were rarely dry any more, nostrils flared as if there were never enough air, and lips, bitterly red and swollen. There was no longer any childlike fullness there, and the contours of her bones offered a vivid impression of the woman she would soon be.