“Please don’t tell your grandfather that you’ve seen me,” she pleaded.
“He’s my uncle,” replied the boy. “And why shouldn’t I tell him?”
“Do you know what will happen to me if I’m found?”
“You’ll be deported, just like all the other Armenian swine.”
“And I’ll die.”
“Then you must deserve to die,” the youth replied.
Marta noticed a silhouette at the door to the little inn. She ducked. “What are you doing out here, Saad my boy? It was the voice of the driver.
“Nothing, uncle. I couldn’t get to sleep so I came out here for some air.”
“But I heard voices,” the man persisted.
“That was just me talking to myself.”
“Well get in here and go to sleep. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us tomorrow.”
The boy was gone. Marta’s heart raced. He had covered up for her.
“Pssst! You in there, wake up.” It was Saad’s voice. Marta burrowed her head out. He was alone. “Here is some bread and milk.” He handed it to her and watched sullenly as she tried to drink the milk. She was extraordinarily thirsty, but her lips and tongue were so parched and swollen that she couldn’t seem to navigate the earthen mug of milk. This food was so precious to her, but her body refused to take it in. As she dribbled more milk down the front of her shirt than down her throat, she groaned in despair. Saad reached forward and broke off a bit of bread, dipped it in the milk, and handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “This should make it easier.”
“Thank you,” Marta said solemnly, looking into Saad’s brown eyes.
“Don’t think I’m going to help you for nothing,” the boy said. “You’ll have to pay me.”
“I will,” replied Marta. She thought of the two remaining gold pounds from Kevork that were sewn safely in her seams. She reluctantly drew out one and handed it to him.
“Is this all you have?” ask Saad, turning the coin over in his hand.
Marta hesitated. She desperately wanted to keep the last coin, because her journey was far from over. But it would take nothing for Saad to catch her in a lie, and to anger him meant certain death. “I have one more coin,” she replied.
“I’ll take it too,” he said, holding out his hand.
Marta reluctantly gave it to him. Saad grinned with delight, and put both coins in his pocket. Then he walked back into the inn.
An hour or so later, Saad and his uncle got back into the wagon and continued their journey. As the cart rocked back and forth, the milk and bread that had so soothed Marta’s parched mouth now sloshed perilously in her stomach. Adding to her distress was the stuffy warmth of her hiding place. While her sojourn in the cave had been confining, this was smothering. Quietly, she burrowed through the piles of shoes and clothing and worn household goods until her hand touched the wooden slat at the back of the cart. Then, with the wood at her back as her guide, she slowly inched her way into an upright position, pulling away items from the top of her head as it broke the surface. She drank in a huge gulp of fresh air and revelled in the bit of breeze as it tousled the short hairs on the top of her head. From this position, she could clearly see the brightly coloured cloth that was wrapped around the driver’s head. If he turned around this moment, he would see her. Marta untangled a grey cotton shirt from the topmost layer of the pile and placed it over her head, covering the view completely from the front, yet still letting in a welcome breeze at the sides.
Bits of conversation between Saad and his uncle drifted back to her. She learned that they were taking their booty all the way home to Aintab, which was just a week’s walk from Marash. If Saad would keep her secret, there was a chance that she would make it back to the orphanage alive.
As the wagon continued on its bumpy ride, Marta realized that she desperately had to attend to some personal needs—but just how does one surreptitiously pee in a wagon? The urgency of the situation increasing every minute, Marta burrowed back down to the bottom of the wagon. Her hands darted back and forth on the planks of wood that made up the bottom platform, searching for gap or a hole. The floor was unfortunately thick and solid and Marta was near desperation when she pulled at a plank of wood that came free in her hand. With relief, she positioned herself over the opening and emptied her bladder, watching as the contents spilled onto the dusty road below. She could only hope that neither Saad nor his uncle would turn and notice the streak of wet on the road.
The next night, when the wagon was tied up to the front of yet another small inn, Saad came out with a loaf of bread, a handful of olives, and a pitcher of water. He watched Marta curiously as she ate. “You look like a skeleton,” he said.
But she was alive! The Turks were not going to win this time. She dunked her bread in the water to soften it up and popped it into her mouth gratefully. Never had food tasted so good.
Several nights passed uneventfully, with Saad bringing her food, then staring at Marta as she ate. One night he came empty-handed, “Pay me first.”
“I have no more money,” responded Marta.
“You are a lying Armenian pig. You people always have more money.”
“Honestly, Saad. I have no more money. Check for yourself.” And Marta stood up, turning her pockets inside out.
Saad stepped forward and carefully ran his fingers over every seam in her ragged outfit. When his search proved fruitless, he frowned and said, “I’m not keeping you for nothing. Maybe I should just tell my uncle about you now!” This last was said a bit too loudly.
“Tell your uncle what?” The uncle was standing at the door in his nightclothes, hands on hips.
Marta quickly ducked back into the cart and covered herself.
“Nothing uncle.”
“Liar,” muttered the uncle as he came out to investigate. “You were talking to someone in the wagon. What is going on?”
Marta had ducked to the bottom of the junk by this time and was trembling in fear.
“Get me the pitchfork. You’re hiding an Armenian, aren’t you?”
Marta could hear Saad’s shuffling footsteps.
“Here,” he said to his uncle nervously. “But you’re wasting your time.”
The uncle climbed up to the driver’s seat of the wagon and leaned over the pile of rags. With tremendous force, he pushed the pitchfork into the deepest part of the pile. He missed Marta’s head by an inch. She could hear him curse as he tried to pull the pitchfork free of shoes and clothing. Marta used the opportunity to pull herself over to the loose plank that had served as a toilet, and with her heart pounding in her throat, she lowered herself down through the opening and clung to the axle before the weapon could come down a second time. The man poked every spot of the wagon load as Marta clung in terror underneath.
“I guess you can stop talking to the wagon now, boy,” chuckled the uncle maliciously as he walked back to the inn.
“Are you all right?” called Saad tremulously.
Marta shook with fear as she gripped onto the axle. She did not answer.
“He killed her,” cried Saad as he stumbled back to the inn.
Marta dropped down onto the dusty laneway in exhaustion. Her hands were blistered from gripping the axle with such force. She knew she had to get away from the wagon quickly, but there was no place to hide. The area had no trees large enough to hide behind, and the dwellings were few and far between. There was only one place to go—onto the roof of the inn. Marta scrambled up as quietly as she could, then lay flat, trembling with fear.
Early the next morning, Marta watched from her rooftop abode as Saad went to the wagon and feverishly threw items out of it onto the ground. He shook his head in confusion as he got to the bottom and still hadn’t found Marta’s dead body. That’s when he noticed the missing plank. Crouching under the wagon, he traced an outline of Marta’s rag-bound footsteps and then looked in the direction it pointed. The inn.
He followed her steps to the inn, and Marta lay frozen on her
belly in fear as he climbed onto the roof.
He crouched down beside her and looked her in the eye. “You told me the truth about your money,” he said. And then he reached into his pocket and drew out both of Marta’s gold coins. “We can each have one.”
Marta was stunned by this unexpected generosity. She took the coin, then leaned forward and gently kissed Saad on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said.
Saad smiled. Then he got up and left.
She heard the wheels of the wagon creak away some hours later, yet she still stayed on the roof, afraid to come down in the daylight. Once night fell, Marta waited for the noises of the inn to subside, and then climbed down. She ran down the road to Aintab, putting as much distance between her and the inn as she could.
Keeping the road in sight while remaining unseen was difficult, but Marta managed to get to Aintab in four days. She stayed hidden at the outskirts of the city until it was night and then crept in. She walked up and down the still streets, sure that even the soft rhythm of her rag-bound feet was loud amidst such silence. She walked for hours. Then, as the first rays of morning were lighting up the streets, she spied the distinctive silhouette of an Armenian church. At the top of its tall cone-like dome, a crucifix stood out in sharp relief against the dawn. The door opened a crack as she pushed on it. Marta looked in—empty. And looted.
She stepped through the threshold and was instantly enveloped in a vast coolness. Bits of dawn shone through the shattered windows and she could make out the familiar cross-like shape of the stone interior. In spite of the shards of glass that littered the floor, Marta felt safe.
She gingerly picked up bits of glass and set them to one side, and then cleared away torn prayer books and rags and other bits of dirt. When she was finished, there was a clean space large enough for her to lie down in. She curled into a ball and covered herself with the cloak. She fell into a vast sleep, her cheek pressed against the cool stone floor.
She dreamt that she was floating above herself, hovering beneath the arches that held up the dome of the church. She looked down at the tiny form that was Marta, huddled amidst the shattered debris. It wasn’t loss that she felt at the sight, though. It was triumph. Her heart beat strongly in a body that wouldn’t surrender.
Adila
She woke up with a start when someone’s foot crashed into her spine. Peeking out from under her cloak, she saw a woman covered from head to toe in black. Her work-worn hands were massaging a sore shin. Marta could hear her muttering away to herself in Armenian. Armenian?
“Excuse me, Mairig” Marta said excitedly, as she sat up, the cloak falling away from her shoulders.
“Ahhhh, it’s a ghost,” the woman screamed.
“I’m not a ghost, I’m an Armenian girl.”
The woman, who was still gasping for air, said nothing.
The old woman was indeed an Armenian, but she had lived in a Turkish harem in Aintab for decades.
“Please help me,” Marta begged.
She took the veil from her face and squinted her eyes at Marta. The woman was not as old as Marta had thought, perhaps only forty. She wrung her hands together nervously, as if fighting an inward battle. “I must help you,” the woman murmured more to herself than to Marta. “Could God forgive me otherwise?”
She advised Marta to cover herself and wait. She hurried out the door muttering, “What will I do with her? What will I do with her?”
Marta waited. The woman did not come back that day. Marta was hungry and her bladder was full, but she dared not move.
At mid-morning the next day, the woman came back. She lifted her skirts and took out a chador, identical to the black garment she herself was wearing. When she removed her veil, Marta realized that the woman’s face was freshly bruised.
“I told my husband that my sister’s daughter has come to stay with us. He wasn’t happy, but how could he refuse to help family?”
The woman’s Moslem name was Adila, changed from her birth name of Anah when she was kidnapped. She never used her husband’s actual name. He was simply, “my husband.”
Marta had heard quite a bit about Turkish harems, so she was quite shocked to see Adila’s abode. The house was in the poorest part of Aintab, and was nothing more than a glorified mud shack. There was a hallway of about six feet wide by six feet long which entered into the men’s living quarters, or salemlik. This was perhaps twelve feet square. The only furniture in this room was a built-in sofa made of dry hardened mud protruding from the wall. The floor was covered with brightly coloured carpets.
The haremlik, or women’s quarters, was the back portion of the room divided off with a single sheet of cloth. Though Adila shared this portion of a room with another woman, it was much smaller than the salemlik. It featured no built-in sofa; the women slept on the carpeted floor. Beyond the haremlik were two small rooms. One was the bathroom—no more than a hole in the ground and a pail of water. The other room was the “shower” a small cubicle furnished with an upper ledge holding pail equipped with a spigot.
The other woman was older than Adila by a decade, and Turkish by birth. The “first wife” ruled Adila. This wife, known as Idris, was not happy with Marta’s arrival.
“The last thing this house needs is another female,” she said.
Adila was anxious to get her new charge cleaned up before her husband returned home for the evening meal, so she hurried Marta off to the public baths down the street.
A flurry of memory came to Marta as she stepped through the doors at the hamam. How long had it been since she had been clean? At the orphanage, the children would be taken to the public baths once a week. The girls’ time was Tuesday morning, and she always looked forward to it. She also remembered the many baths that she had taken with her mother and sister. If only she knew where Mariam was now. Was she still alive? Marta had a feeling that she was. An image of Onnig flashed through her mind too. Her little brother had been too young to bathe with the men, and he considered it quite a treat to splash around in the warm pool, playing with the other children.
“Remove your clothing, please.” Marta was startled out of her reveries. An enormously fat bath attendant who was naked, save for a towel around her ample middle, stood beside her. She tried to hide a look of distaste as she regarded Marta’s attire. Marta undid her tattered cloak and handed it to the attendant, who wrinkled her nose and held it away from her body with a finger and thumb. “You can put your clothing here,” she said, placing the cloak in a pile on the floor, far away from the other bathers’ bundles.
Marta sat down on the stone ledge in her open cubicle and slowly began to unwind the rags that bound her feet. They were encrusted with layers of dirt and her heels and toes were covered with calluses. She set the rags down beside her on the ledge, then unbuttoned what was left of her shirt. She rolled the shirt and rags into a bundle and placed them on top of the cloak. She untied her leather belt and her men’s trousers dropped to the ground. Marta looked down and gasped at the sight of sharp hip bones nearly protruding from her skin. She placed her hands on her hip bones and carefully traced upwards towards her chest. Each rib bulged against a thin layer of skin. Where breasts should have been was nothing but skin-covered bone. Her pants went into the same pile of rags.
The attendant handed her a pair of pattens—the wooden sandals on a platform sole that bath goers wore to keep their feet away from the slippery wet floors.
“Follow me,” the attendant said, leading Marta to a small room with a stone platform in the middle. The attendant laid a towel on the platform and Marta lay down on it. The woman threw pails of hot water over Marta, soaking her thoroughly, then she threw a few cups of cold soapy liquid onto her and began to scrub her vigorously with a loofah. Marta obediently turned this way and that, while the woman pummelled away the months of dirt with the soapy foam. Shampoo was lathered into her hair, and Marta felt scabs and dead bugs worked loose and washed away. More pails of hot water were thrown onto her, and then pails of cold water.
Marta watched a dirty stream of soapy water splash off the platform and down to the drain below. When she was finished, the woman led Marta to the communal area—a huge stone pool of steaming water. Adila was already there with a towels wrapped around her. Her shoulders relaxed noticeably when she saw Marta, looking clean and almost human, walk into the room. Marta stepped into the warm pool and plunged down, ducking her head under. It felt so good to be clean again. She quickly came up for air and hoisted herself onto the side of the pool beside Adila, who handed her towels to dry and cover herself with.
Adila then gave her an embroidered bag filled with clothing. “Put these on,” she said, “and put your rags into this bag so we can burn them at home.”
Marta went back to her cubicle and pulled out a light cotton outfit of the sort that Turkish women wore. It consisted of a pair of baggy striped trousers, a plain long-sleeved shift that reached almost down to the hem of the trousers, and a long loose vest to go over that. She pulled out a worn pair of women’s cloth shoes and put them on. It felt so good to be in clean clothing again. And the outfit was surprisingly cool and comfortable. She looked at herself in the little wood-framed mirror that was also in the bag. It was too small to see all of her, but what she saw was not Marta, but a fragments of a strange thin Turkish woman. She held the mirror up to her face and saw that her hair had begun to grow back. Now that it was clean, she could see that it was almost chin-length. The eyes were Marta’s, although the hollow hungry cheeks belonged to someone else.
Over the indoor clothing went the black hooded chador. She waited at the exit as Adila paid for them both.
When they got home, Adila threw the bundle of Marta’s rags into the fire before Marta could tell her about her hidden coin. Marta poked around in the ashes with a twig and found it. Adila wanted her to give it to her for safekeeping, but Marta was desperate to keep this last coin close. So with a mallet and nail, Adila pierced a hole through the centre of the last gold coin and slipped it onto a thin strip of leather.
The Hunger Page 10