by Evelyn Weiss
Yuri simply continues talking.
“I speak as one soldier to another, Kılıç Pasha. Like you Turks, we Cossacks also have our honor. A Cossack will keep any promise that he makes.”
“So?”
“I made a promise to defend this little girl. I will do that with my life. So you and your men can expect to die, if you take another step toward her.”
“We are the ones with the guns.”
Yuri says nothing. He simply stands and looks: the cell seems filled with his presence. Kılıç Pasha stares at him. Then he makes a movement with his head, and the soldiers step back.
“Very well. Leave the girl – for the moment. Bring the other prisoner, the older man in the cell at the end of the corridor, into this cell. We will keep all the prisoners together.”
The two soldiers leave the cell; within a minute, they reappear. Between them, they hold General Aristarkhov. Like Yuri, he’s been allowed to wear his uniform in the jail. He looks none the worse for his imprisonment; in fact, he has his usual bold, noble bearing. He looks at each of our faces in turn, as if viewing a range of pictures in a gallery. Then he turns to Kılıç Pasha.
“Unlike the rest of these prisoners, I represent the Bolshevik Russians, who until recently were the rulers of Baku.”
Kılıç shrugs. “What is that to me?”
“It is of the utmost importance. Under the treaty of Brest-Litovsk, which was signed by your own ruler Talaat Pasha, Russia retained sovereignty over Baku. By invading the city – and by taking me prisoner – you have put yourself in breach of that treaty.”
Yuri interrupts the conversation. He looks straight into Kılıç Pasha’s handsome face.
“I’m not a supporter of General Aristarkhov. But what he says about the treaty is true. Do you want a resumption of the war with Russia? Or to put it more precisely – do you want Talaat Pasha and the Turkish government to blame you, Kılıç Pasha, for reopening hostilities with Russia?”
Kılıç pauses, and Yuri presses home his argument.
“If war does break out with Russia, I’m sure Talaat Pasha will forgive you. He is such a compassionate man.”
Axelson can’t help it: he bursts into a loud guffaw. Aristarkhov seizes his opportunity.
“As I have a high position within the Russian government, I would be very happy to agree a mutually satisfactory settlement for the future of Baku with you, Kılıç Pasha. I can make an agreement with you that will not violate the terms of the Brest-Litovsk Treaty – but that will secure for the Ottoman Empire the oil supplies that it so desperately needs.”
The professor stands, and steps forward. “Gentlemen. Such an agreement must include the safe passage out of Baku for all these persons here in this cell. Kılıç Pasha – as a man of honor – can you include that in your agreement with General Aristarkhov?”
Kılıç is thinking. He looks at each of our faces; the professor’s wise demeanor, lined with exhaustion; Yuri’s calm, almost smiling face; Rufus and the young girl, both wide-eyed and anxious, and Aristarkhov’s proud, unbowed bearing. Finally, Kılıç comes to a decision.
“I will speak to you first, General Aristarkhov – alone. Then, maybe, I will talk to others in your group. For the present, none of you will be harmed. You will all be kept here in this cell. Do not try to cause any trouble.”
There’s no electric light, but a tiny grille looks out onto a small courtyard, level with our cell. The courtyard is surrounded by high, blank walls, but a little daylight filters down from the blue square of sky high above. I go over to the girl and sit next to her, a silent effort to give some comfort. At one point we hear a scream from outside: a piercing, squealing sound. The girl looks into the distance, as if we’re not surrounded by stone walls, and says one word.
“Sara.”
There’s silence outside now. The girl is looking straight ahead; each of us glances at her, hardly daring to breathe. But after a few moments the professor shakes his head fatefully. He speaks to the girl.
“Who is Sara?”
She replies in English, with that strange American twang. “Sara was my sister. I want to be with her.”
“Where is she?”
“In heaven.”
The professor pauses. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him so tentative, so uncertain. After a few minutes, he echoes her statement. “You say you want to see Sara in heaven?”
“And all my family. They live in heaven now. I don’t want to be here on earth anymore. I want to be with them, to fly away, so I don’t have to see the bones again.”
Axelson speaks gently and slowly. He doesn’t bother with the usual tones and cadences of his hypnotic voice. He simply asks.
“Tell me your story.”
For a brief moment, light slants through the grille; the beams touch specks of dust in the air, illuminating them like tiny stars. The girl begins to speak.
“I am Mariam. I don’t remember my mother: she died when Sara was born, when I was two years old. We grew up with my Father and Grandma. Father was kind and gentle, but he could not be with us during the day, because he worked in a bank in our city, Tarsus. He worked hard, but his work paid for a beautiful house. My Grandma looked after our house, and we had two servants too.
One day, about three years ago, the soldiers came to our street. It was a Sunday, and we had just got home after church. I looked out of the upstairs window and I saw the men in their Turkish Army uniforms, standing outside Mr Gulbenkian’s house. Then a few moments later, Grandma said ‘There are soldiers at our door, too.’ And Father said ‘I will go and talk to them’.
He was there at the door talking to them for a long time. The soldiers were showing Father a piece of paper, they said it was an order from the government. The order said that Father must go away with them. The soldiers were explaining to him ‘It is wartime – men like you must work for the Ottoman Empire’. Father held me and Sara very close, he kissed us and said goodbye to us. Then he was gone.
A few days later, I was walking home from school when I saw lots of furniture and carpets in the middle of the road, and a man was shouting out prices. I went over and looked, and I recognised the furniture. I said to the man ‘This is Mrs Poghossian’s rug!’ He laughed at me and told me there was a new law. Nothing could belong to Mrs Poghossian, or to any Armenian, any more. Everything we owned belonged to the Turkish people now. I didn’t understand, so I went home.
Grandma was out on the street in front of our house, and all our furniture was there, and Sara was there, crying, and there were men carrying out our carpets. They said we had to leave our home, because there were new homes for all Armenians, in a place called Syria.
I said to one of the men ‘How will we get to Syria?’ and he said ‘These soldiers will get you to Syria.’ The soldiers were standing there, holding guns. They stood around all the children from my school, and their mothers, and all the old men who lived on our street. All the younger men had gone already, of course.
I thought Syria would not be far, but I was so sad we were leaving, and scared, because I did not understand. I wished Father was there. The soldiers said we had to march. We marched right out of Tarsus into the countryside, and did not stop until it was dark; we were glad it was summer, because the night was not too cold. But when I woke in the morning, I heard wailing and crying. ‘Anoush has gone!’ An older girl, Anoush, had disappeared. And then we realised others had gone too – many of the young women; they had been taken away in the night. And I felt very afraid, but the soldiers said we had to move on.
After that I can’t remember well; the road was hot and stony, Sara and Grandma struggled to get along. The road went on for ever.”
Mariam pauses. We all sit quietly in the gloomy cell, waiting for her to resume. A hundred things are going through my mind. It’s silly of me, but her American accent gives me the feeling that she’s not talking about some faraway place in Turkey. It’s like the illusion I had on the streets of Yekaterin
burg: I see the houses and people of my hometown.
The little beam of light has gone now. I glance out through the grille into the courtyard. It’s just a blank space, a few yards square. There are tall brick walls on every side, and a concrete floor. In the centre of the floor is an iron hatch. Perhaps it’s a place of execution; a place where a gallows could be erected, and the hatch could function as a trapdoor below a noose.
I hear Mariam’s voice again.
“At last, the long walk came to an end. We came to a town, and the soldiers said ‘This is Osmaniye, it has a train station. You will wait in a nearby camp for the train to Syria.’
They put us into a village of tents. I was so scared, because the tents were surrounded by iron spiked fences: it was like being in a cage. And Grandma was shouting, many of the women were shouting, asking for food and water, but there was none.
There were so many of us in our tent, several families. Nothing happened for two days, then someone handed out water but no food. Grandma became very weak, she could do nothing but lie on the ground under the tent.
And then bread was handed out. They gave some to me but not to Sara, so I shared mine with her and Grandma. But Grandma couldn’t eat.
We were so crowded, and itchy; our clothes began to be full of insects. ‘Fleas and lice’ said Grandma, but she was too weak to do anything; she just lay there with the insects biting her. I tried to pick them off. And she said ‘Don’t bother, Mariam. Let them bite.’
I don’t know how long we were in the tents, but I had a headache – so, so terrible. I also had a fever, like I was on fire, and I could not look at the light, I had to keep my eyes closed. My whole body ached. Then one day, I found I could look around again, and the headache was less. But I felt so tired, like I wanted to lie down forever.
The next day, Grandma started to get ill, just like me. The fever was so bad, she said she was in a fire from Hell. And she was coughing and covered in sores, not just from the insect bites but from the illness. And then she seemed to come awake again. She could not sit up, but she looked at me and Sara, and told us she had a dream. In her dream, the soldiers – the ones who took Father away – got out guns, and killed him.
Sara started shouting ‘They killed my Father! The soldiers killed my Father!’ It was the middle of the night, and two soldiers came into our tent, they told her to shut up, but she kept on shouting. And then they dragged her away, and other soldiers held me down while they took her away. I could hear her screaming, it went on and on. And then suddenly it stopped.
Grandma did not wake up the next morning; her eyes were open and her skin was cold: I knew she was dead. Grandma and Sara had both left me, and gone away to heaven. I didn’t know what to do, I just cried and cried, but then other men came, and they pulled me out of the tent, and made me stand up. They were not soldiers, but they had guns, and they pushed me and everyone else at the camp with the guns, to make us move to the train. The train was a line of many wooden trucks, like boxes. All of us who were still alive were pushed up steps into the trucks. There were about a hundred people with me inside the truck. Then the men slammed the door and bolted it.
But the train didn’t move. It got very hot in the truck. So many people had the fever; we lay piled on each other on the floor of the truck. And then the train started moving, for hours. Finally, it stopped.
The doors of the truck opened. Those of us who could move sat up, and looked out. Someone said ‘Is this Syria?’ and there was a soldier there, a big tall man with a whip, and he said ‘For you, this is Syria.’
Then the big man hit a woman with the whip, she was screaming and couldn’t stop, but his shouting was louder, telling us again and again to get out of the truck. There were no steps; we just fell down by the tracks. He was whipping people until we were all out of the truck, and other men were doing the same in each of the other trucks. And then the train started moving again, and it went off into the distance, leaving us all lying beside the tracks.
I had little strength left, but I looked around. It was a flat, stony white plain, and so hot, as if the air was on fire. And I looked out, and among the white stones, I could see bones. There were bones everywhere. A few had rags of clothing, and I could tell by the style of the clothes that all these bones had been Armenian people.
None of us moved. We were weak, we had no food or water, and everyone had the fever. All we could do was lie in the hot sun, like meat on a burning griddle.
When I awoke, I could hear strange voices. Then a man came over, and then a woman. I was lying in a bed, in a cool, white room.
Later, I learned that the man and his wife were missionaries. They were called Karl and Paula Clements, and they were from America. They had been travelling from Damascus to Tehran, in Iran. They had found me alongside the railway line; I was the only person still alive. They had taken me along with them, and we were in a hospital in Tehran when I woke up.
From Tehran they brought me here to Baku, to the orphanage that they were in charge of. They taught me to speak English, and I had many other lessons too, and on Sundays we all went to the Armenian church in Baku. I hurt so much, inside, with the bad memories. But I loved Karl and Paula. I was at the orphanage for two years. Then, Karl and Paula were taken away by the Red Guards.”
There’s a sound, and Mariam looks up: we all do. The door is flung open: a soldier stands there in a scruffy, torn uniform, and barks at us. “Interrogation will be conducted now! I need Agnes Frocester.”
31 Through the trapdoor
The soldier leads me down the stairs, back to the lobby with the statue of blind Justice, and opens a door into an office. As I’m led through the door, I glance back across the lobby. General Aristarkhov is there, sitting on a bench against the far wall. A soldier with a gun sits on another bench, guarding him. Then the office door closes behind me. Kılıç Pasha and I are alone.
He sits in a padded leather chair, behind a wide desk covered with lists and maps; heavy books hold down the curled corners of the largest map. His hand goes to the pocket of his trousers; he pulls out a packet of cigarettes.
“Smoke?”
“I don’t, thank you.”
“Very well – Agnes.” He smiles. “Your Western names, they can be quite attractive.”
Kılıç lights his own cigarette, all the while looking at me with those huge deep eyes. His teeth are white and regular; his hair is immaculately groomed. I realise that he’s very aware of his striking good looks, and their impact on others, especially women. He smiles again.
“A drink? You look like you could use one. It would help you relax a little, loosen up, you know? These Russians have left a bottle of vodka here. Judging by the label, it’s the finest quality.”
I refuse politely as he gets out a bottle labelled “Smirnov” and puts it on the table. He smiles again as I watch him pour a large measure into a glass.
“You want to say something, don’t you, Agnes? Speak your mind, please.”
“I – didn’t realise that Muslims drank.”
He sips his drink before replying. “I was right – it’s very good vodka! And your question, Agnes – it’s exactly the one I expected you to ask. But you may be surprised by my answer. I’m not a Muslim.”
“Oh.”
“The Qu’ran, just like the Bible, talks about a merciful and compassionate Deity. But I believe in your Mr Darwin, and the survival of the fittest. Mercy and compassion are for the weak.”
I don’t answer him. He puts down his glass, and then he takes the cigarette and stabs the glowing butt into the finely-veneered table. A burnt stain radiates from it: he watches the little black pattern for a few seconds, as if fascinated by it. Then he looks straight into my eyes.
“I have faith in strength, in power. I am a member of the Young Turk movement, and I believe in the destiny of a wider, pan-Asiatic Turkey. My inspiration is the power wielded by the ancestors of the Turks: Asian heroes such as Attila the Hun and Genghis Khan. The power of the
Turkish race – before it was softened and weakened by religion. Power without mercy.”
He pauses to put the glass to his lips again. After drinking, he holds it out to me. “Try it.”
“No thank you.”
“What if your friends were to be shot by my men, if you refused? I could order that, quite easily. Now drink the vodka, Agnes. Finish the glass. I want to see you lick your lips.”
I take little sips, listening as his voice goes on. “Long ago, my ancestors were the world’s most feared warriors. Modern Turks can harness the genes of our ancient ethnic origins.”
I say nothing; I just hope this meeting will soon be over. Under his watchful eyes, sip by sip, I finish the vodka. I taste the burning sensation in my throat. But strangely, my mind is miles away. I’m remembering the slogans of the Bolsheviks, their talk about creating a better world for the workers. Those ideas led to the hideous slaughter I heard in the cellar at Yekaterinburg. But this man’s notions about race and power seem even more repulsive.
Suddenly, Kılıç looks bored with his own monologue. He ask me a question, sharply.
“You saw that man, who was in the other cell, and who is now sitting in the lobby?”
“Yes.”
“What is his full name?”
“General Evgeny Aristarkhov. He’s a commander in the Bolshevik Army.”
“Was he involved in the Bolsheviks’ capture of the Tsar’s Winter Palace in St Petersburg? Did you see him there?”
“Yes, I did. He was commanding a group of the Red Guards.”
Kılıç nods, and I sense satisfaction in his face. Despite the simplicity of his questions, I have a feeling they are leading me into a trap.
“Before that, did you see General Aristarkhov at a place called Tri Tsarevny?”
“I did. He ordered me and Professor Axelson to leave.”