As the Poppies Bloomed

by Maral Boyadjian

  Anno shifted Sossè to her right breast now. Her daughter’s eyes, large and unblinking, locked with her own and Anno marveled at their silvery, shifting depths. Yeraz had said that eyes this shade would not hold. So unique a shade was only a gift of birth and would surely deepen with the days. To Anno they resembled the reflection of a cloudy sky on a water’s surface.

  A clatter of metal and wood sounded downstairs. Feet pounded the earthen stairs and Anno knew already, from the gait and the weight of the ascent, that it was Kevork. His head appeared and Nevart turned to him.

  “We have finished for the day,” he confirmed and disappeared again. The evening meal was laid out.

  He and Daron would be standing guard tonight along the eastern length of the village. There would be another hasty evening meal and a long evening of short conversations. There would be nothing to keep them from hearing, from being forewarned.

  C H A P T E R 43

  May came and brought a spring so brilliant, so forceful in its arrival, that its detail could not be ignored, and Daron and Anno, together with Sossè, returned to their tiny room.

  There were the blossoms in the orchard, some still folded and tightly anchored in promise to leafy green branches, soil that now yielded to the plow and hoe and turned richly red. It brought the return of the starling, the dove, the crane, and the stork, all greedily padding and tufting their nests, from the very roofs of houses to the widened banks of the rivers.

  A male nightingale sang below Anno and Daron’s window now, nestled in the brush. Anno lay with her back tightly pressed into Daron’s chest. His arm gathered her to him as he slept, and she lay wide-eyed, her gaze on the airy patches of dust illuminated in the dazzling morning rays. No sound came from Sossè’s cradle and Anno scarcely breathed.

  We are those particles of dust, she thought. We inch our way forward, as if permitted, or unseen, and then we are blown away, unexpectedly, and left floating again.

  Daron began to move. He had stood guard again until past midnight and was now allowed these extra hours of sleep past daybreak. His body, unaccustomed to sleeping with the sun, would rise soon, she knew.

  “Anno?” His breath was on her skin.

  She hugged his arm tightly to her in response.

  “Anno, your poppies have bloomed again. Did you see?”

  He spoke into her hair and she smiled, his words muffled and low. He would not speak of what else he knew, what was discussed during those cold night hours seated on the hard ground, the men clutching their outdated, outnumbered shotguns and farm tools. Her finger ran over the etchings of her bracelet.

  “Yes, I saw them,” she whispered back, “but there were a very few.”

  “No. No. I meant on the far side of the orchard, they have bloomed well.” His lips moved over her shoulder. “Today, let us take Sossè there. Wrap some bread and cheese for us. We can sit in the grass and let the sun warm our backs a bit.”

  He had grown almost gaunt this winter. While food was plied on Anno at every turn, Daron’s very jaw and cheekbones had gained new prominence. His heavy-lidded gaze was framed in shadows now, and amid all this, he could speak of poppies and outings and dare to plan even a single hour. Then, she decided, so must she.

  “Anno, wake that child.”

  Her milk had soaked through her bindings and onto his bare arm. He rose on one elbow to peer into Sossè’s cradle, hoping for movement.

  “No.” She pulled him back to her. “Not yet.”

  The day being Sunday, Anno trailed back from the church square with the other women, wishing to hurry but not daring. Her late rising this morning had been her allotment for shirking her duties and she now maintained a dutiful proximity to her husband’s family.

  They had emerged from their room that morning making a great fuss about the extra washing Anno must tend to, with Daron carrying her wet bindings and sleeping clothes. Anno held a satiated, bubbly Sossè, whose eyes shone and feet kicked at the sight of her grandmother.

  All surely knew the true cause of their delay, and none begrudged them their love. On the contrary, Naomi turned anxious eyes on Kevork at that moment. He sat with his eyes downturned and she wished, again, that her son might soon, God willing, know the joys and holiness of marriage.

  Once home, Anno helped with the setting of the noon meal. Kevork and Daron had gone to check the sheep, which, although well tended, were grazed in fields much closer to the village than was normal for the far-flung bounties of early spring. They did not want their flocks, their greatest source of livelihood, so far from sight and protection.

  A dense broth of well-seasoned bony lamb meat was served. Piles of newly gathered herbs were laid ready to be wrapped in doughy, disc-shaped bread. This particular meal was a favorite of Daron’s, and when he returned to seat himself at the table, Anno watched to see how well he would eat. She watched all the men reach for only meager servings, their pleasure in a warm, filling plate of food having waned long ago. The broth found its way past the crevices of steaming bone and meat to chase itself around half-empty bowls. The rich juices settled and were never soaked with the men’s usual appetite into tearings of crusty bread.

  The women’s portions were no different, but still, the food was not wasted. Their villages had been laid to waste times enough that hunger was real to them. Whatever was not eaten would be gathered together and served again as their evening meal.

  It was not long for the cleaning to be done and for Anno to mix the yogurt and water and pour it into a bottle. She wrapped the cheese and lavash and dropped them all into a sack, ready for their outing.

  Nevart watched Anno closely. Disapproving of the sack’s simple contents, she reopened it to add pickled turnips and a round of gata. She pulled Sossè’s cap down lower about her ears. She was glad of their decision but bit back words of warning. They were no less aware of the dangers than she. They must claim whatever happiness they could.

  The bright green hills were dotted with livestock and the sky was speckled with birds. The breathtaking field of wildflowers they came upon made Anno stop for a moment just to breathe. The extraordinarily long winter was truly over, and their very earth did not care to alter its cycle of millennia by mirroring its people’s worries and fears. It would burst forth and bloom when it was its time.

  Not wishing to crush even a single flower, they spread their old carpet on the very edge of the grassland and marveled at the contrasts of red poppy dotted with grape hyacinth. They did not speak at first, but only breathed in the silence, the sweet scent of grass and soil. The breeze that came their way, they vowed, was created solely by the wings of thousands of fluttering bees to which the field seemed to belong. Even Sossè stilled in Anno’s lap at the enormity of the space before her and the colors of a world she had never before seen.

  Anno turned her head so that Daron would not see her tears. They flowed painfully for the beauty of their land and for the nomads the devil had sent to drive them out.

  “Anno,” Daron said, squeezing her hand, “do not cry for something that might never happen.”

  She did not answer, but instead laid out a clean cloth over the carpet and laid Sossè on her back so that she might enjoy the vastness of the sky. She shook the bottle of tahn so that the yogurt and water formed a frothy surface and passed it to Daron to drink.

  They had chosen their spot well so that as the sun moved further west, its rays would filter over them through the leaves of a solitary hazel tree.

  Sossè’s eyes tired and closed and Anno moved closer to Daron. She wished he would sleep a bit as well, but he did not remove his gaze from the hills. Their fate was left to the discretion of untrained, unattached Kurdish Beys and clans, and attack on them could come at a whim.

  She would use this opportunity instead to feed him if he would not rest. She reached inside the sack.

  “Anno,” Daron began, “do you ever think of places like America?”

  She halted, incredulous.

  “I mean, to go t
here and live,” he continued.

  She could only stare.

  “Others do go, you know. From other villages, they do leave and go.”

  “I…” she faltered, “We do not know anyone who has done that.”

  “No, not from here. But I believe my mother has a relative who lives in a place called Nev York. That is in America.”

  Anno wanted to speak, to ask, did the women go too, or just the men? Was it for always or just to work and send money back? But she found all she could add was, “I would like, someday, to see Van.”

  Daron smiled. “The watermelons?”

  “Yes.” They were said to grow as long as your arm, and a donkey could carry no more than two at a time, one hanging off each side of its back.

  Daron had never been to Van either, but for him it was still not far enough.

  “Anno, I am thinking of Sossè and of other daughters we might have. When they grow, they too will have to cover their heads and faces and arms and live in deference to someone else’s fears and beliefs. I do not think Van is far enough.”

  She said, stricken, “This is my land, Daron. Yours, mine, and our daughter’s. They will not drive me out.”

  Daron nodded tiredly. “I want you to know my thoughts, Anno. That is all. You do want to hear them, do you not?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was shaken. “Of course.”

  “And I want to know your thoughts and so you have said. This is our land and they will not drive us out. Nor Sossè.”

  “Nor Sossè,” Anno repeated, her eyes dark.

  Sossè slumbered beneath the rustle of the heavy leaves. Anno tried to imagine a large body of water and a ship. A ship that would carry them all to some different type of place… She stopped. She could not even conjure an image of the ship itself.

  “How long have you thought things like this?” she asked.

  “Only lately. When we married and you put on this,” he tugged at her veil. The band across her forehead had shapes of leaves using threads of gold and brown and green, and the long plain veil covered her hair entirely. “More often after Sossè was born.”

  Daron turned, away from Anno, and then jumped to his feet. Surprised, she followed his gaze and saw Kevork running toward them. They had not been gone even one hour. Daron ran to meet him and Anno’s body braced for the news he would bring.

  Kevork’s face was colorless in spite of his fast sprint in search of them. He halted feet away from Daron, his arms heavy at his sides, barely breathing hard from his exertion. His eyes, leaden with regret, held firm with Daron’s. “It has started,” Kevork told them, “in Aghpig.” That was a village not forty miles north of Salor. “Fifty Kurds and two Turkish gendarmes have captured an entire herd of sheep and four shepherds. Two messengers brought the news. Two of our people went to notify the villages to the south of us. There were two boys there, with the herd, that the Kurds did not see.”

  They hastened back to Anno, still talking. “Those boys went back and told the villagers. Whoever was armed went after the Kurds.”

  Daron’s eyes lit with hope.

  Kevork shook his head. “All was lost.”

  Anno had risen to her knees. Her legs quivered beneath her as she refilled the sack with their few items. She saw Daron’s and Kevork’s strained gestures. When they reached her, all that was left to gather was Sossè and the carpet she lay on.

  They hurried home as quickly as they dared without jarring their baby, who, still asleep, was clasped firmly against Kevork’s chest. Daron had tossed all else on his back and gripped Anno’s hand, harder than he knew, as they hurried over the irregular course home.

  C H A P T E R 44

  Mgro spoke of the joining of villagers in Kermav and Vartan listened.

  “They were able to steal the entire herd in Aghpig and were greatly encouraged by it, of course.”

  It was dusk and another day had passed uneventfully in Salor. But their knowledge of the massacres taking place in all the Armenian vilayets, and now in Sassoun, closed in on their minds and their movements.

  Vartan and Mgro’s friendship, a near lifetime late in forging, pleased and consoled them both. Vartan understood now why he had never been approached by Mgro, in all these years, for neither advice nor mediation. His stomach still twisted uncomfortably at how he had so completely misjudged the man.

  Vartan’s voice, a deep baritone, came to him clearly. He spoke, as always, not one more word than necessary, restrained and weighed. “Kop and Iritsank were not able to fight off their attacks. They joined forces in Kermav, but it was not until Semal sent fifty armed men as well that the Kurds retreated.” He shook his head. It took the joint forces of five to six Armenian villages and hamlets, with their rusted remnants of weapons, toted by farmers and their sons, to beat back one Kurdish attack. “The villagers have not returned to their homes in spite of the Kurds’ defeat. They have all remained in Semal,” he added.

  “The livestock? The crops?” Mgro’s thick brows were perpetually furrowed these days.

  They walked home now from their own fields. How could they be left neglected at this crucial time of year, for even a day? Did those villagers not expect to ever return?

  “The men go back and forth and tend to everything alone. The livestock have been moved to other villages for safekeeping.”

  Their strides matched, stalwart and deliberate, marking the ground beneath them. The attacks were to the north of them, but only two days’ walk.

  Mgro waited for Vartan to speak of something else, and then did so himself, uneasily. “We should hear from Raffi soon, and Aram, whatever their news.”

  Vartan did not answer. All knew their absence had stretched too long.

  As they approached Mgro’s house, Vartan kept to the lane and raised an arm to wave his friend away, but Mgro did not continue home. “Our granddaughter has decided it is time to sit without aid. Come and see,” he invited.

  Vartan hesitated. The only place he went after a day in the fields was to his own hearth. But he reflected at how long it had been since he had seen Sossè or Anno. He would like nothing more now.

  Mgro clapped an arm across Vartan’s back and they walked through the garden. The doors were closed to his little store of goods for sale. No one had come to browse or purchase anything for almost a year now. They looked up to see Old Mariam clambering down the narrow staircase from the living quarters.

  The men almost smiled in pleasure at the sight of her, but she did not lift her eyes to them. She only paused long enough on the bottom step to pat Mgro’s arm and cup Vartan’s face in a confused greeting. Disappointed, they watched her back, more deeply bent than ever, as she teetered toward the lane.

  Unable to listen to her sons’ murmured whisperings and worries any longer, Mariam had thought how long it had been since Naomi had fussed at her to interpret her latest dream. Mariam had never let it be known how impressed she always was at their accuracy. She had decided that moment to visit Nevart and see what would pop out of Naomi’s mouth.

  There had only been one dream, Naomi told her, recurring in angles and pieces. “I see nothing but cutting and slashing and blood, Sister Mariam.” She related it with ice in her voice and Mariam stopped now to lean against the base of a tree. Her legs would not hold her.

  The next morning, Anno splashed her face with the cold basin water to wake herself. Behind her, she heard Daron’s deep inhale as he accepted the morning’s arrival and his soft rustlings as he parted the covers.

  She gave him a moment to rub his eyes. Still facing the wall, but before a sound came from her mouth, he spoke. “Tell Takoush that today Kevork will be in the tobacco fields.”

  Her heart warmed at his thoughtfulness. A meeting could at least be arranged, if not a marriage, and together, the four of them arranged two or three a week.

  C H A P T E R 45

  Uncle Hagop hurried from the church square. He no longer looked to Maratuk for his predictions. He felt powerless now to foretell even one day.


  The news received in the square was never good, but today’s talk was especially unnerving.

  “It seems that the Kurds are aggravated that we have resisted them at all,” Uncle Hagop nearly thundered at Vartan and Haig sitting in the courtyard. “Zengin Pasha in Moush had told them that their plunder of us would be simple and fruitful.”

  “What of it?” Vartan squinted at him.

  “Well, now the Turkish gendarmes from Moush have been put on alert in case they are needed for the next attack. They mean to surround Sassoun and finish us.”

  “Shenig, its location…it does not look good for that village.” Haig shook his head.

  The Kurds did choose Shenig next.

  “Your prediction was correct, Haig,” Vartan told him days later. “The Kurds approached the outer ridges of Shenig’s grazing land and the shepherds there. Two herds were easily rounded up and driven back toward the Kurds’ camp.”

  Haig waited, sensing there was more.

  “Not long after, nowhere near their own camp yet, the Shenig villagers stood ready to surround the Kurds and retrieve their livestock.”

  “And?” Haig’s apprehension grew.

  “And they did. And now the Kurdish clans are more roiled than they ever were.”

  YERAZ PUT A hand on Vartan’s arm as he and Vrej prepared to perch on the northernmost elevation of Salor for the night. “How will this end?” she implored.

  He covered her hand with his own. “It is only beginning.”

  In June the Kurds attacked the very village center of Aghpig. They were met with a furious retaliation from the men there, and with them came aid from neighboring Geligouzan. Sassountzis living in villages in the lowlands began moving to higher ground.

  In Salor, the men agreed they would remain here, in their homes. The villages to the east of them had decided the same. If attack should come, those armed would rush to each other’s aid.

  ANNO DID NOT want to hear. She kept her eyes shut. If she did not wake, then these voices would be just another dream. But the voices came to her, not shrill and unhinged as in her dreams, but weighted and drawn out.