Four days later, Uncle Manuel died.
Nevart and Naomi had no tears left, and in utter silence all watched as his body was lowered into its grave.
Calls came to them from the church square and Father Sarkis stopped his prayers. Women and children had been seen climbing their way toward Salor, fifty, sixty in all. The priest rushed through the last of the ceremony and Mgro’s family followed him to gather more information.
They were from the village of Danz and, like so many Sassountzis, were seeking higher ground. Their men had sent them, and they would stay until called home.
There was no han in Salor as there was in the larger villages for travelers to pass a night. Instead, with the priest’s guidance, the newcomers unloaded their blankets and food and clothing to settle in the church, and when that was filled, they looked to other homes for shelter.
Yeraz took control of this organization at once. She was no longer the wife of the village leader, and some murmured as much to one another, but no one stepped forward to dare say she was not capable.
She let all know that if they did not have room indoors, then the nights were lovely and more than warm and the rooftops would do very satisfactorily.
Yeraz herself took an elderly man, his two daughters-in-law, and three grandchildren. She hoped he and Uncle Hagop would have much to discuss and decipher. She worried at the old man’s loneliness and guilt at still being alive.
A week passed and the people of Danz joined them in the fields and on the threshing floor, making it clear from the first that they would work as hard as the families who sheltered them.
At midday, Anno drew away from the others in the fields to nurse Sossè under a shade tree. She would wean her soon, she remembered telling Daron. That had been one month ago.
Anno watched Takoush beat the wheat and wished she would come to her. She felt Takoush was avoiding her. Anno did not remove her eyes from her friend until at last Takoush looked her way. Her hesitation was brief, and then, head bent, she walked to Anno. She knelt at her side, but did not speak.
Anno turned warm eyes on her and searched her face.
“Anno, my cycle is late,” Takoush whispered.
“It happens.” Anno smoothed Sossè’s hair. “It will come when it comes.” Then her hand froze.
She felt Takoush’s stare, close beside her, and her breath. Anno’s head, suddenly heavy, turned.
“Ah, noooo.” Sossè’s head dropped as Anno’s arms slackened, and Takoush reached across Anno to steady the baby with both hands.
Sossè coughed and spluttered, but still Anno could not respond. Takoush lifted the startled child to her shoulder and gently patted her back, soothing her with soft words.
Anno’s eyes followed her. Takoush was calm, so calm.
Uncle Haig’s wife reassured Anno that the men should be returning soon. At any time the sentries would let them know they were spotted and oho! There would be such a rush to feed those hollowed bellies.
“You will be separated from him at times, again, Anno girl, especially if he follows his father’s work. A merchant is often away from home.”
Anno had always liked Uncle Haig’s wife. As a child she had watched, fascinated, as the large, boisterous woman spoke and then laughed out loud at her own words, almost as if everything she did was for her own entertainment. But now, Anno heard the falseness in her words, as they came from a woman who was letting the unfamiliarity of fear enter her.
“Yes.” Anno hugged her, her arms barely able to enfold the woman’s shoulders. “We shall hear some good news soon.”
C H A P T E R 48
Yeraz lay staring up at the black ceiling. She had intended to wrap herself in Vrej’s blanket from now on, but the nights were almost as hot as the days and she only fingered it.
She used Vartan’s pillow and Vrej’s blanket and lay, a widow, alone in a corner. The tears always flowed at night and still she made less noise than those around her, who slept. The people from Danz had moved to the roof, but Uncle Hagop had not, and it was his snores she listened to most of the night.
They were rhythmic for the most part, with tapping sounds from his tongue as he shifted position. Then she heard something else. Such a low knock, then it stopped. Then, there, she heard it again, three low knocks.
Her heart seemed to stop. Could it be Vrej? Could it be he had returned, or, Holy God, Raffi? But why would her sons knock and then wait? Why not burst into their own home as they had always done?
Yeraz’s skin tingled. It seemed only she heard this knock, as low as it was, and there, it came again. One, two, three.
She rose, ever so slowly, and wrapped Vrej’s blanket around her shoulders and held it in place with clenched fists. She stared at the inside of the door. Then, with trembling hands, she opened the door a crack and peered out.
One man stood there. He looked at Yeraz and automatically averted his head, almost in shame. The furred vest and cap, even in this heat, made Yeraz think, and then she believed she knew who this man was.
“Merhaba.” She believed she had greeted him properly in Kurdish, Leaving the door open, still a crack, she rushed back into the room. She fumbled for her veil, and wiping at her eyes and face, adjusted it. It would not do. She flung it aside and covered her hair completely beneath a scarf. She then pulled the blanket more securely around her body and turned back toward the door. She looked foolish, she knew, and untidy, but all that mattered was that she discover why this Kurd had traveled through a moonless night to her door.
She stepped out into the night.
The man was confused to see her again. He asked for Vartan.
This, then, was Turgay’s son. Almost two years ago he had stood over Anno and asked with pained eyes, “Have you everything you need for her care?” He could not have chosen a darker night.
Yeraz clenched her teeth to still her jaw. “My husband is dead.” It was the first time she had spoken the words out loud and she had to piece them together in Kurdish.
Arsad was perplexed.
Yeraz explained that he had just died. He had not taken ill. He was trying to help protect another village. She did not finish with “It was one of your race who killed him.”
He bowed his head very briefly, and then, as if he remembered why he had come, began to speak urgently.
“My tribe, I know, will continue to remain neutral while these killings of Christians continue. Our bey has traveled and seen much of the slaughter and”—he hesitated—“the violations of the women and the children that are taking place at the commands of the Turkish officials. He has said to all of us that even if Mohammed Himself were to condone this and call this just, he cannot.”
Yeraz nodded imperceptibly.
“But you are Christians and we cannot help you.”
Yeraz stared into his eyes and steeled herself for his next words, the reason behind his dangerous trek.
“Why do you continue your work in the fields from dawn to dusk? Your sheep graze, you gather your fruit for the next winter…” He shook his head furiously. “You must not think of next winter. You must think of now. Tomorrow. I warn you, Salor will not be spared. No village will.”
Yeraz could not tear her eyes from his.
“It is more difficult to attack Salor, because of its isolation, yes, your people are right. But it is not impossible. I cannot tell you when, because I do not know, but we watch you…” He shook his head baffled. “You must prepare.” His hands reached out to her, to the air between them, his fingers poised as if he alone could shake them into action.
“I do not know how safe the mountains are. I do not know where the attack will come from, because we do not participate in the talks and the planning.” He shook his head helplessly. “I can only warn you it seems. May Xuda have mercy.” His head bowed and Yeraz stared into the gnarled fur of his cap.
Abruptly, Arsad turned and left. She stared after him and then into the hardened twist of the grapevine that Vartan’s mother had planted long a
go against the garden wall as a warm welcome to all.
At dawn, Yeraz gripped the handle of the church doors with both hands and pulled them open. She crossed herself and made her way past the still-prone bodies to a back room. There, she knocked on the door, not nearly as cautiously as Arsad had.
She heard Father Sarkis call from inside.
“It is I, Yeraz Vartanian, Father. Forgive the early hour, but we must speak at once.”
By mid-morning all the village knew of Yeraz’s visitor, although his name was never revealed. No one cared to know. Messengers were sent to the neighboring villages and hamlets at once, telling them of the warning Salor had received. Living their days, using their seclusion and elevation as a reason to believe they would be spared, was no more. Pray God, their men and sons would return soon, but for now, the sentries would be doubled. Girls could see for a distance as well as boys. Escape routes into even higher mountain ranges were again reviewed.
The villagers of Danz gathered together and decided to return to their own homes. They had thought to seek safety, but Salor seemed no safer than where they had come from. They would return to their husbands and fathers. How foolish they had been, they murmured.
When warning came from the sentries, it was planned, all but the men would race from the village. Bread and cheese, root vegetables and dried yogurt were already wrapped and stored in the coolest corners of their dwellings. They would be gathered and without a glance back, the men ordered, the women and children would escape.
The men could not go to Talvorig for more swords, more cartridges. Talvorig itself was under attack.
Some spoke of not waiting, of hiding in the woods, in the caves, this minute. They would not wait for the attacks to come. Then they remembered the wolves and the bears and hesitated to leave without the comfort of numbers.
Leaving never occurred to Anno. Daron was coming back. She could feel it. She just did not know which day.
Still they carried on with their work. Standing idle would drive them mad, and they slept better at night when tired.
Anno wished she had weaned Sossè. Then she could have taken her turn standing sentry with the others. Takoush had already joined them. She said she would be the first to see Kevork’s return that way. Still, her cycle had not come.
“Takoush, what will you do?” Anno hissed at her.
“It is simple, Anno. When Kevork returns, we will be married.”
Anno glared at her. “Our brothers, so well trained, did not return, Takoush.”
Something passed over Takoush’s face at the truth of Anno’s words, but then she lifted her chin. “If he does not return, then I shall drown myself.”
Now Anno was dreaming. Takoush was screaming at her for taking her baby. Anno, uncomprehending, stared at her own stomach, swollen and aching. In her dream, she could not speak, could not tell Takoush that of course she had not, would not ever do that to her. The child inside her pressed down and twisted and Anno felt a terrible discomfort. Takoush’s face pressed closer, screaming still.
Anno jerked awake. Her heart pounded and her neck was bent painfully.
She heard noises coming from the front room. Steps. Heavy booted steps. Nairi and Sossè slept deeply and did not hear. She swung her legs to the side of the mattress and stood. Daron was home! She had searched for him so foolishly during the day. Of course they would make their way through the night. She should cover herself. She heard more commotion than one man could make. He and Kevork had most probably returned together!
In the dark her tears began to fill her eyes with joy as she picked up something to cover her shoulders with. She lifted a head scarf in her fumblings. It was small, but she did not care. She wanted only to see him, to hold him!
She raced into the front room and stopped short. Daron’s grandfather was lying still on the floor. Near him, Nevart lay limp against the wall.
It was like her dream again. Anno tried to scream, to speak, but could not. There were three, four, she did not know. Naomi struggled furiously with one and then Anno remembered Sossè behind her and the entire room blurred. Holy God, Sossè would be next, and with that realization she did scream. She screamed for help but saw that Naomi lay with her mouth gaping open and there was just one Kurd now and he was before her.
She moved quickly. She led him away from her little room where Sossè lay. Her back sidled against the wall, toward the kitchen area. The utensils clanged together and crashed to the floor. What did not fall she threw at his face.
He stared at her through her thin nightdress.
Where were the other Kurds? Where had they gone? she thought frantically. Again she screamed, unable to control herself any longer. He moved closer. She picked up a ladle, she thought, and hit him repeatedly on the head, on his ears. He closed his fist and struck her against her jaw. Anno fell to the floor. There, she saw boots, many boots, and they were making their way to her bedroom, where Sossè lay. And Nairi. She crawled after the boots. She crawled to her bed and reached under her pillow. The boots did not stop, did not turn toward her. She did not know why. She could no longer hear. But with her tiny knife now in her hand she reared up and stabbed at the boot. Someone caught her hand. She squeezed her fingers around the knife’s handle, not relinquishing its hold. Long nailed, determined fingers pried at hers. She stabbed at his hands, at the air, believing with her entire soul that she would save her daughter from death with just one blade.
He snapped her wrist and Anno’s knife fell into his hand. He fumbled at first with its smooth, tiny handle but then leaned forward and with one wide sweep sliced Anno’s throat.
C H A P T E R 49
Uncle Hagop’s voice bellowed, to Yeraz, to himself, and to the walls that stood between them and the pillage that had come to Salor.
Yeraz felt him fly around the room. He held their remaining pistol and rushed toward the door. Then he whirled and ran back toward the grain room.
Blood pounded in Yeraz’s head as she gathered her prepared bundles. She could not see or grasp what was before her. She saw only visions of her daughters. And Kurds.
Uncle Hagop, clutching a pistol and a hoe, ran again for the door. He turned to Yeraz at the last moment. “Leave it, my daughter! Run from here,” he choked, and was gone.
Yeraz bent to retrieve the bundles she had dropped and straightened to find herself looking into the bloodshot eyes of a man. She stood before him, motionless. The Kurd came toward her, a stocky man with dark curls, and quite young, she saw. Her stillness confused him, and her soft voice as well, as she spoke.
“You do this devil’s work for those Turks. You may kill the very last one of us, but do not think you will benefit from it. You are a race of scavengers, and this land of ours…it will not yield for you. You do not belong to it. Remember me. Remember my curse.”
DARON APPROACHED THE village. He and Vrej came alone. Mihran was somewhere behind and would likely hobble in a few hours after them. The rest would not come. Kevork would not come. They had died days ago.
They hurried, almost running at times. Rounding the last knoll, they raised their arms in greeting to the sentries. There were none.
Daron felt his breath strangle and his eyes sting as they ran past the benign fields and then the orchards to catch the first glimpse of the village dwellings. Like rag dolls, they fell to their knees. There was no movement, no sound. They knew.
Vrej rose first and staggered up the lane, past bodies strung together and shot, past women stripped and mutilated. He fell and stood again and stumbled the remaining distance home. He did not need to push open the door. It hung awkwardly, slanted and broken. Yeraz was by the kitchen, where he always found her, her glad, warm eyes covered with blood.
Vrej held her hands to his cheek and rocked with grief.
DARON HARDLY KNEW that he was half crawling past the vegetable garden, trampled and torn. He found himself at the foot of the mud staircase. His boots pounded on each step as he ached and strained to hear some sound from with
in. Reaching the top step, he slowly turned and looked inside. He gripped the hair on his head when he saw the bodies and a gurgling sound came from his throat. He stepped among them and struggled to recognize their faces through the blood.
Choking from grief and from the sights and smells, he stood on the edge of the toneer and spun around, wild-eyed. He was not mistaken. Anno’s body was not here. He looked again. Anno, Sossè, Nairi! They were not here. He knew where he must look next.
Kitchen utensils lay scattered on the floor. Daron stepped over them and turned the corner into his and Anno’s room.
Here he found them, hardly disturbed at all. Tiny Sossè’s belly was stabbed but her face was untouched and her lids lay closed and smooth. Nairi’s throat had been sliced. And Anno’s.
Anno’s beloved face was caked with blood. It ran from her ear and her mouth and her teeth were bared and feral. She had tried to protect what he could not. He fell to his knees and his hands came away from his head with tufts of his own hair as he gathered her to him. He threw back his head and, scarlet-throated, screamed her name.
LUCINE, TAKOUSH, AND the others watched each other between the flaps of the Kurds’ tents whenever they could. They would not remain together. They would be sold off.
Takoush watched the filthy flaps fold and billow, fold and billow. “Kevork’s son will live,” it seemed to say.
E P I L O G U E
California, USA 1976
"You look good.”
“Shut up.” Her back was to him, but he sat on the corner of their parents’ bed and she could see him fully in the mirror’s reflection. “Like, we should get into it. Today.” She tried to sound serious but her mouth turned up anyway and they both laughed.
In their secret brother-sister language, “good” had always meant “gross.” It had taken their mother a while to understand why a sweet, thoughtful compliment from one to the other often ended up with slaps or shoes flying.
As the Poppies Bloomed Page 23