“What is her name to be, Anno?” Vrej asked.
Anno looked to Daron and he announced, “Sossè.”
“Sossè.” The name echoed around the room and then was tested again. All were amazed at how good it was that she be named after the graceful plane trees that dotted their land.
C H A P T E R 39
In late February, Raffi and Aram left Sassoun. They could bear their seclusion no longer. They would see for themselves what was happening in the other villages, and they would get news from the capital.
Weeks later, minds and bodies numbed, they returned to Salor.
Families clustered at Vartan’s and Mihran’s doors to hear their news, too many to be ushered inside. With all his strength, Father Sarkis beat the clubs against the walnut slab, and the people of Salor filled the church.
Raffi stood before them all, his back to the darkened altar. “They are emptying the villages of all our men. They leave just the women, the old ones, and the…” Raffi’s voice faltered. “The smallest of children.”
All strained to hear.
“They lie to them about where they are going, when they will return, or do not say anything at all. But they kill them. Right away. Mass graves are everywhere.” Raffi bowed his head and Aram stood and continued.
“Once they finish emptying the villages of the men, the rest is made simple. All Christians are driven to the deserts or the rivers to die. The Kurds are thoroughly armed and they perform much of this work themselves because they know that the remains of the villages will be theirs. The livestock, the crops, the goods in the stores, the stores themselves, the houses…” His head shook with the memory of so much plunder. “They even have schedules made for the deportations of the Armenians in each vilayet, each city, each village.”
Raffi’s head lifted. “It seems they concentrate on moving the people to the south. But they are always moved to places where the foreign diplomats cannot see.
“Our people,” Raffi took a breath and spoke more loudly. “Our people walk unarmed, with scarcely more than the bread they have been able to bundle for themselves, and are not even allowed to drink water along the way. They stop the caravans of people right near the fountains our own masons have built, and yet they are not allowed to drink.” He paused to ensure that his voice would remain strong, then added, “Not even the babies. There is no one to help us. Their plan is to make Turkey for the Turks, and any Muslim who aids us is killed.”
“We have seen Turkish women carry away the rugs, the lanterns, the furniture of the emptied homes…” Aram interjected here but could not continue. Raffi knew what his friend had meant to say, and he continued for him, his voice hushed once more.
“And the children. They snatch the youngest children from their mothers and take them as well.”
The people had heard enough. They spoke to each other at first in hushed voices that began to rise in panic, and amid the din, one person called out after another.
“Do you think they will do the same to us here?”
“How long before they get to us here, on our mountains?”
“Are you sure they will not stop soon? We have seen this before. They raze a number of villages to scare us, but then they stop.”
Raffi held his hand up for silence. “Our treacherous mountain trails and harsh weather should shield us for a while. But I do not know if we will be spared.”
It is true. It is different this time. He did not speak this last out loud.
One week later, the sky above Salor cleared and the sun began to make a daily appearance. Uncle Hagop, encouraged by his clear view of Maratuk, dragged himself from the house to the village square.
He did not expect the uproar he saw there. News had come from Moush. It was repeated over and over again. He swung back on his heel to make his way home again.
The melting snow dripped incessantly from the tree branches above. Uncle Hagop swore as an icy trickle caught the back of his head but did not slow his pace. Six hundred Armenian writers, poets, lawyers, and educators living in Constantinople had been put to death.
RAFFI AND ARAM set off for Van. Van did not have the mountainous advantage Sassoun had. The city had been attacked and the people there had organized their own defense.
Anno and Daron stood alongside a hundred other villagers of Salor and waved their young brothers away with blessings and tears and dread. The pain in the base of Anno’s throat choked her. She went to be near Lucine, who stood apart from the rest.
Her sister stared after them, still and tearless. Her eyes were rounded and glassy and her pale, tender lids were swollen and dry. Her lips moved but Anno could not hear what she said. She leaned closer.
“I gave him a lock of my hair,” she rasped.
“Who?” Anno asked.
Lucine’s lips moved again. Anno had to move closer still.
“Aram.”
Anno stepped away, confused.
“But why?” she frowned.
“Because he asked it of me.” Tears began to flow. “And it was all I could give. Now.”
“Now? Lucine? What do you mean, now?” Anno could not form the words. Could not continue.
Lucine turned to her sister, slowly, as if her skull was weighted and not her own. She squarely met Anno’s eyes.
Understanding dawned and Anno pulled Lucine further away from the crowd of villagers. “Lucine, do you care for… for Aram?”
The glass-green eyes never left Anno’s face until finally words, words learned and recited, came from her throat.
“No, Anno. Nooo. I am married. I have my husband.”
Her words, weak and false, thrust at Anno’s heart. She knew, at that moment, as no other could, how much life and love her sister had missed.
“Oh, Lucine. I am so sorry. I never knew. Never.”
She thought of Takoush. Her friend could have never kept such a thing to herself had she known her brother’s feelings. Anno was certain that they were something Aram had kept to himself, as a desperate secret.
“It does not matter now, Anno.” Lucine’s voice reached her ears, lilting almost, as if to try and cheer her younger sister. “I am married to someone else. And Aram will not return.”
C H A P T E R 40
Raffi and Aram stole into the Walled City at night, covered in dirt and gunpowder. They had watched the cannon fire coming from the Turks all that day. They had watched the Armenians’ calculated and less explosive responses.
They were familiar with the vastness of Van. Of its two thousand villages, two hundred and seventy-five were inhabited by a majority of Armenians. They watched aghast as survivors, thousands of them, dragged themselves into the city alongside them. They, too, had heard that the people of Van were trying to hold out in their own defense until the Russian army reached them.
“Let us head to the citadel, Aram. That is where we should receive our instructions.”
People skirted to the right and left of them, anxiously seeing to their needs in the relative safety of the night. Livestock, hastily herded in, stood in makeshift pens. Raffi and Aram found their way to where the leaders of the defense gathered.
One fedayee, well known to them, rose excitedly as they approached. He pulled them in closer to the table where the military counsel sat studying drawings of Van. Raffi noted that the Garden Town, heavily populated with their own people, was boldly etched.
The defenders were desperate for men familiar with guerrilla fighting. They were told that the fedayees had trained bands of young men to protect the street corners and boundaries of the Armenian quarters.
The discussion continued, and they listened closely. Raffi’s eyes rested on the markings of cannons and artillery surrounding all of Van and pointed into every corner of it.
Once the meeting ended, Raffi reached across the table to lift a copy of a manifesto the defenders had long distributed to the Turkish people of Van. It stated simply that their fight was not with them who had been their neighbors, and they hoped tha
t in future, they would live as neighbors again.
Raffi heard his name called and let the paper float back to its pile.
A man not ten years older than Raffi himself stood waiting. Legs bowed beneath him, he took in Raffi’s cartridge belt crossed over his chest and his sword sheathed at his hip. His wary eyes rested on the Mosin.
“What is its range?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“Two thousand feet.”
The man grunted. “Smokeless?”
“Nearly,” Raffi answered, and realized he had just met his commander.
He and Aram were to be separated. They cupped each other’s faces briefly and clapped shoulders.
“God be with you, brother.” Their voices were filled with emotion. “We shall meet now and then, I feel certain.” They smiled wanly at one another, a lifetime of knowing in their eyes. Aram lifted his own rifle and hastened away.
C H A P T E R 41
Barrages of cannon and rifle fire burst around them from sunlight until dusk. Shrapnel flew as the Armenians attempted to tunnel past the Turkish lines while the Turks attempted to tunnel into the Walled City.
At night, the well diggers dug trenches furiously and bored openings between the walls of houses. Merchants, tradesmen, and shopkeepers reconstructed defense lines. Cartridges and bullets were manufactured daily, and the women took over the supervision of the food and clothing supplies.
Raffi learned at once that the American and German missionaries were sympathetic to the Armenians and aided and housed the wounded in their buildings, beyond their capacity. He learned, too, that the British Consular building was occupied by Turkish police and that gendarmes used their position to halt communication between the Christians in the orchards and streets.
The violent shelling continued for days. Raffi lay in an isolated house, surrounded by mostly inexperienced young men, all holding their positions through sheer stubbornness. It had once been a large home, but its walls crumbled now around them and their ammunition was almost gone. Raffi, no longer believing that the promised reinforcements would come, watched in amazement as men dragged their way toward them through a deep trench. He did not move even as they spoke to him. Fatigue did not allow him to react. He was lifted bodily from his place by a window and ordered back to the Walled City for two days’ rest.
The shelling never stopped. Raffi struggled to sleep, but could not. He rolled over once again on the stone floor of the shop that served as shelter and sat up. In the next room, where the shopkeeper had probably napped cozily in the late afternoons, position commanders planned strategies that would use as little ammunition as possible.
Raffi slipped his cartridge belt back on and reached for his boots. He frowned at the condition of his feet and decided to see what he could do about them, rather than lie flipping from one side to the other.
He walked onto the street and looked around him. A city the size of Van, with all its food stores and tradesmen and hospitals and buildings, was straining under this siege. How would Sassoun manage to survive, he wondered? They had only had barely enough under the best of circumstances.
The streets were not safe. Stray bullets caught people regularly. Still, he needed to move. His throat was perpetually coated with smoke and each breath burned.
He wanted to see the refugees. He wished to hear where they came from and exactly what method of operation the Turks were using now. But what use was that? He reminded himself of why he had risen just moments before. Better to concentrate on what could be done now, for himself.
Raffi turned to a woman hurrying by, hunched over to protect a basket containing something presumably very precious.
“Sister!” Raffi called out.
She spun around, her brows, her face, anxious and wide-eyed. Her body was steeled as if to accept another blow.
“Where are the women who are sewing shirts and socks?” he asked.
She took a step forward, certain that she had not heard him correctly.
“For the defenders.” Raffi felt foolish, but the fact was that his right foot had ripped through the toes of his socks entirely and his foot was bared and rubbed raw against the sole of his boot. He needed socks, or one sock at least, or he would be bleeding when next he needed to run.
The woman looked back toward an open door and pointed.
Raffi sheepishly entered the schoolroom appropriated for the sewing committee. The sound of the shelling outside mixed in with the whir of the sewing machines lined against the walls. Women bent over long tables piled high with, it seemed, every article of clothing one could need. They conversed rapidly with one another, noting shortages and surpluses. They sorted and folded.
He was relieved to see a few other men there as well. He saw the women sewing underpants as well as shirts and socks and was glad he did not have to ask for those. He would approach the first person he saw with socks and then leave. His eyes soon landed on what he had come for.
He hesitated, not accustomed to asking for things. But in the snow, in this condition, it was better to ask than to lose his toes.
“Your pardon, I have come for a pair of socks.” He spoke with head bent, already examining the sizes before him.
The woman counting and stacking an unruly pile slowly looked up. She saw a lean torso belted with a pistol and sword appear before her tired eyes and her counting faltered, sixteen, seventeen… Her eyes traveled up the cartridge-laden chest to the gray coat collar and stopped. Her body was straight, but she was quite petite, making it necessary for her to lift her chin further to see the man’s face. Her hands stilled and the socks toppled over.
Raffi gave a short sigh of annoyance and looked up, for the first time, to see who this person was who was delaying his escape.
He saw brows dramatically upswept and arched, framing deeply brown eyes.
His mouth fell open and she laughed at him outright.
Raffi pulled himself away from the table in confusion. Now he could not take his eyes off her mouth. The old women called teeth like that pearls, did they not? What a foolish thing to remember!
He inhaled to collect himself. He felt he was behaving like Vrej. She was still smiling at him and he found himself smiling back. It had been a long time since he had laughed the way she had, but he began to feel as if, possibly, he could.
RAFFI WAS SENT ten miles north with eighty other armed men. Turkish soldiers and Kurds together were massacring the villagers there.
“You will find the people of three other villages there as well! Reach them!” his commander had barked.
It took a day’s walk. Raffi studied the men around him, the urgency in their step, the resignation in their eyes.
Then he would see another pair of eyes, deep brown against black, upswept brows.
Almost as soon as they reached the village, Raffi was positioned strategically near the front. His accuracy with a pistol had been noticed from the start. For five days they held their position until their ammunition ran out. Reinforcements marched in just in time to drive the Turks away. All the surviving defenders were ordered back to the Garden City.
They trudged back, eyes hollow and bloodshot, hands and faces blackened.
The ringing in his ears from the gunshots and explosives came to him even more loudly in the relative silence of their journey. His body craved sleep, but he brought one boot forward, then the other. Then his ears would suddenly fill with the sound of her laughter.
He felt a new, daily yearning to be with her.
AS HE ENTERED the Walled City, Raffi looked around him in disbelief. Fifteen thousand more refugees had dragged in.
The food stores were nearly depleted. Even the fighters’ rations were cut back. He sat to eat and the plate handed him was nearly empty.
Raffi was given one day’s leave and he headed straight to the sewing compound.
All he knew was that her name was Noushig and he owned two pairs of socks that she had knit herself.
He entered the schoolroom and searched the table
where he had seen her last. There was no one there. He searched the room, walking its entire length, even leaning over tables in case she had bent to retrieve something from the floor. He did not see her. He asked a passing woman where she might be.
“Noushig has gone to make a delivery to the American hospital,” was her reply. “She left not long ago.”
Raffi made his way to the southern edge of the Garden City, where the American compound was, and its hospital. He wondered how often she made this trip, because it was far and could be risky. The Turks’ ammunition was limitless and they fired all day, often at nothing.
Once he was inside the compound, the church stood before him. It was his first glimpse of Western architecture. The church had glass windows that reached from floor to ceiling under a slanted roof, but it was modest, not at all like the structures he had seen in Constantinople. He hurried past its closed doors to the adjoining hospital.
He left all his weapons at the door before entering, as was the requirement there. Inside, his eyes ran up and down rows and rows of beds, rank with people. They had even tucked some of the sick under the beds for lack of space.
Raffi saw that the men were separated from the women and children and he found himself peering into the women’s ward.
There was very little noise, save for the sound of the bombardments coming from outside. People were bandaged heavily and most stared blankly into space. These were the refugees, his people, who had survived at least in body. Limbs missing, emaciated, children clutching at mothers who could not respond, left with no strength to cry in protest.
As the Poppies Bloomed Page 19