The Sandcastle Girls

by Chris Bohjalian

  I LEFT FOR THE SHUTTLE TO BOSTON WELL BEFORE BOB AND THE kids were awake, because I was hoping to catch the eight a.m. flight—which meant leaving the house before six. My husband’s last words to me the night before—though, in all fairness, he had kissed me and we had not gone to sleep angry—had been, “You know, don’t you, that absolutely no good is going to come from this?” His concern, presented lightly but with an undercurrent of honesty, was nameless dread. But he also understood that I would still be leaving for Massachusetts the next morning. How could I not? I would return the day after, in time for Anna’s end-of-the-year, elementary school choral concert. She was in the sixth grade, and this was her last one. In all fairness, it was a rite of passage that probably meant more to us than it did to her—she couldn’t wait to start middle school, just as her older brother was anticipating high school in September—but I had checked the schedule and had every expectation of being seated in the school auditorium by two o’clock in the afternoon.

  I arrived at Harvard’s Peabody Museum just before ten and went straight to the exhibit of photographs from the genocide. I recognized instantly the image from the group I had seen years earlier, when I’d been a freshman in college. What was different this time was that a name had been attached to the woman. Karine Petrosian. The photo was credited to a German Army engineer named Helmut Krause. Karine was sitting against a wall in Aleppo, Syria, naked, and I was struck by the way her whole body had shrunk so much that her black hair swallowed her face like a lion’s mane. The flesh on her arms hung like pleats in drapes. Her ribs and her collarbone were cadaverous. Standing beside Karine, looking down at her, were two girls in ragged smocks, each of them so thin that because I was a mother I nearly wept.

  The caption read:

  Karine Petrosian, age 25, Harput. Arrived via foot in Aleppo, July 1915. Daughter, Talene, died prior to arrival. Age unknown. Apostate, but nonetheless deported.

  There was an enormous amount of information in those three short lines, and I grew a little dizzy as I stood there, my legs unexpectedly unsteady. When I recovered, I read the lines over and over. And while there was a lot there, the caption also suggested that somewhere else there might be considerably more. Somewhere—to someone—Karine might have shared her story.

  The exhibit curator was traveling that day, but he would be returning to Boston that evening. A student docent gave me his e-mail address when I explained who I was.

  “And you think you might be related to this woman?” the student asked me, as together we stared at the photograph of Karine.

  “I don’t know. Probably not. But …”

  He turned to me, waiting.

  “But my grandfather was a Petrosian and he lived for a little while in Harput,” I said.

  “So you think this might be his sister?”

  “Or a cousin,” I said.

  He nodded and then added, not really understanding the significance of the three-word conjecture he was about to make, “Or a wife.” It was, given the casualness of his tone, merely one in a litany of possible relationships. Sister. Cousin. Wife. Imagine an SAT question probing the possible connections any man could have.

  That night, just after dinner, I e-mailed the curator from my hotel in Cambridge and he called me almost right away. The source of Karine Petrosian’s story was a German engineer, and this small biography existed on a scrap of paper attached—with random other sheets—by twine to a box of photographic plates. There was, however, much more information about Karine in the papers of a young Boston volunteer with the Friends of Armenia.

  “Elizabeth Endicott?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” he said. I was not completely surprised.

  The curator added that the story could not be found in the journal entries she had shared publicly with the Friends of Armenia. He recommended I read those (and was actually a little appalled that I had reached my mid-forties and never done so). Rather, he said, Karine Petrosian’s story could be found among Elizabeth Endicott’s private letters and in her diary. Apparently, both the letters and the journal entries were housed a mere five miles away at the Armenian museum in Watertown.

  IN THE MORNING I spoke briefly to Anna on the telephone as she was eating breakfast, and I wished her good luck at her concert. I reassured her that I would be back in plenty of time and wouldn’t miss a moment.

  “What have you learned about the photos?” she asked, her voice at once distracted and a little anxious. She had picked up on her father’s unease with this whole exercise. In the background I heard Matthew telling Bob about his frustrations with his math teacher.

  “Oh, not much. I figure I’ll learn more today.”

  “Are you having fun?” she asked me.

  “Not exactly. But I am finding it fascinating. I am very interested in what I am doing.”

  “Have you told Grandpa about this?” The question caught me off guard. I had not mentioned to my father what I was up to. I told myself this was simply because I really didn’t have a plan or a vision of where this research might lead. But, in hindsight, I must have suspected that he would be wary of what I might learn.

  “No. Do you think I should?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” she replied, and in my mind I saw her in her high-backed bar stool at the island in the kitchen where the kids scarfed down their Lucky Charms before walking down the hill to school. Then, before I could answer, she went on, “It will be weird if we’re related to the woman in the photo.”

  “In what way?”

  “She’s so …”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “She’s not like us. Even if she is related to us, she’s not like us. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just that she’s from a different world.”

  I found it interesting that Anna referred to Karine in the present tense, as if the woman were still alive.

  “She is from a different world,” I agreed. “That photograph was taken almost a century ago. But your Boston ancestors weren’t much like us either.”

  “Was your grandfather ever like that—like the woman in the picture?”

  “That … hungry?”

  “Yes. And that sick. And beaten.”

  “I hope not. I suppose not. But I honestly don’t know.”

  She was quiet for a moment before she suddenly blurted out, “I should get going. See you after the concert?”

  “Yup,” I reassured her. “I’ll see you there.”

  THE SEAT OF the chair is made of straw but the armrests and the frame are wood. Elizabeth sits perfectly straight as her father paces in this anteroom outside Ryan Martin’s office. The two of them are alone.

  “You are presuming much to expect he will ever return,” her father says. “I do not want to diminish your … friendship … with Armen, but what evidence has he given you that he reciprocates your feelings?”

  She smiles. “What evidence do you have that he is the sole reason I plan to remain here in Aleppo?”

  He pauses and stares at her. “I am not so distant, am I?” he asks rhetorically. “You are my daughter and my only child. We may disagree on occasion on what will give your life purpose and contentment, but our ends have always been the same.”

  “I am content now. Here. And certainly my life has more purpose at the moment than at any point in the past.”

  “Once William and Hugh and I have returned to America, your situation will feel markedly different.”

  “It will. I admit that. I will miss you. You know I miss Mother already.”

  “But you must not wait for Armen. You are, in this case, being naïve. You—”

  “Naïve?” she asks him. She feels scolded by the word. “Why? What do you know of him? Truly? Tell me.”

  From the office the American consul emerges. Both she and her father look at him sheepishly, embarrassed that he has heard their exchange. She honestly hadn’t known he had been at his desk.

  “Silas, may I?” he asks, his voice kind.

  Her fath
er nods but says nothing.

  “Elizabeth,” the consul begins, “I heard your conversation.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “No, I’m the one who is sorry. I wasn’t listening, but I couldn’t help but hear a few sentences.”

  “Go on.”

  “I, too, wonder if you are putting too much stock in the likelihood that Armen will return anytime soon to Aleppo.”

  She shakes her head. “I know, he might die in the Dardanelles. I understand that.”

  “That’s not what your father was implying. Am I correct, Silas?”

  “Indeed, I was not referring to the carnage on the peninsula.”

  “Then what?” she asks.

  “If Armen has joined the British Army,” Mr. Martin explains, “he is no longer a Turkish citizen. Aleppo—all of Syria and Palestine—is now enemy territory. A British soldier can’t simply climb aboard a carriage or train and waltz back here. When he signed on, it meant he wasn’t coming back.”

  She feels stunned. How, she thinks to herself, could she possibly have not understood that? A British soldier doesn’t take leave in Aleppo. He might just as easily rest in Berlin. She can’t recall when, in fact, she had last felt this … naïve. But then she recalls the letters he has written her that she has received thus far. She may be young, but she has not misjudged his feelings for her.

  When she looks at the two men, neither is capable of looking back. Her father is gazing down at his watch, which at some point he removed from his pocket. Mr. Martin is staring blankly at the books on the case built into the wall. She stands, nods at both men, and says simply, “Thank you. I’m going to change now and return to the hospital. I have rested long enough.”

  HOURS LATER Ryan Martin is almost at the great double doors at the front of the American consulate, still pleasantly full from the dinner he enjoyed with a pair of Swiss diplomats, when he notices a shadow leaning against the high wall beside them. Immediately he feels the hairs on the back of his neck grow rigid, but it is not so late that the street is empty. Behind him he hears the hooves on the pavement from two horses pulling a businessman’s elegant carriage; at the end of the block is another café where he can still see the lamps on the restaurant tables where diners are finishing their meals outside. Nonetheless, once the carriage is past him he walks a little taller and reminds himself that although there is certainly violence and crime in this city, no one here has ever robbed or assaulted him. Besides, this is a safe street.

  When he comes closer he sees the shadow is a Turkish private. Before Ryan has opened his mouth, the young man begins, “Effendi,” and bows.

  “Good evening,” Ryan says, still a little wary, but he feels as if he has seen this soldier somewhere before. He can’t place him, however, as much as he tries.

  “You are the American ambassador, aren’t you?”

  “Consul only,” he corrects him. “The ambassador is in Constantinople. My name is Ryan Donald Martin.”

  “I am Orhan.”

  “How can I help you, Orhan?”

  The private looks conspiratorially in both directions down the street as Ryan waits, wondering. Finally Orhan says, “I can tell you where the pictures of the Armenians are,” and instantly the diplomat recalls where he has seen this young fellow: Orhan was among the soldiers in the German engineers’ rooms that afternoon when a Turkish major confiscated the plates.

  “They weren’t destroyed?” Ryan asks. In his mind, he sees them on the floor of a Turkish officer’s quarters or in a corner beside some Turkish official’s desk.

  “No,” Orhan tells him, extending the single syllable so it sounds defensive and surprised.

  Ryan wonders if he should regret the way that he phrased his question a moment ago. Did he inadvertently compel this young private to admit that he had disobeyed an order? Quickly Ryan adds, “Well, I am very glad they are still in existence. Thank you for telling me.”

  “I know you want them,” Orhan says.

  Ryan nods. So, he thinks, this is why the private has come here. He wants a bribe to tell me where the plates are. He can’t help but smile a little mordantly to himself. He can’t imagine that any money he gives this fellow would be a worthwhile investment; either the plates will be with an official who has no plans to relinquish them, or the private is lying and the plates are long gone. After the way that Farhat Sahin deceived him, Ryan has vowed to take no Turk at his word. Clearly, however, this soldier recalled his offer to buy them from the major and has come to the conclusion that now he can make a little money himself by claiming he knows where they are.

  “How much?” Ryan asks, curious only.

  The soldier squints, mystified. He reminds the consul of a schoolboy struggling to answer a question that is beyond him.

  “How much?” he asks Orhan again, his voice betraying his annoyance with this whole process. “How much do you want for them?”

  The private, still looking a little confused, tells him, “I don’t want them. I want you to have them. Please. I was supposed to destroy them, but I couldn’t. So I hid them. And I have been praying and praying for guidance because I didn’t know what to do with them. And the answer to my prayers has come to me, and it is this: Give them to the American. He will know what to do with them.”

  “You’re giving them to me?”

  And then Orhan is telling him about the ancient monastery just east of Aleppo. Of a lone, tall tree with majestic boughs. Of the face of a virgin on the bark.

  “How deep is the box buried?” Ryan asks. Already his nascent elation is tempered by the reality that burying the plates with the film may have ruined them. He knows next to nothing about photography, but he can’t believe it can be very good for the plates to be dropped in a hole and covered with dirt. The private answers by placing his hand, palm open, parallel to the ground and perhaps three or three and a half feet above it.

  “Will you take me there?” Ryan asks.

  But instead of answering him directly, Orhan once more tells him of the tree, this time slowly and deliberately describing its location in relation to the crumbling walls of the monastery and the almost miraculous image of a girl on its trunk. And then, before Ryan can stop him, he is gone, walking briskly down the street, away from the café and into the dark.

  • • •

  SHOUSHAN TAKES HATOUN by the hand and leads her down an alley, the walls narrowing as they reach the dead end. There she points at a thin window with ripped oil paper instead of glass, at the bluish-gray curlicues of smoke that waft through the nicks. Shoushan mimes that she is smoking from a hookah, using her hands as if grasping a hose, while inhaling deeply and holding her breath. Then she rolls her eyes, giggling, and—before Hatoun is aware of what she is planning—she lifts the younger girl off the ground under her arms and positions her so she can peer through a tear in the oil paper. Inside Hatoun sees half a dozen old men sitting on the floor, their beards either salt and pepper or white as salt, some leaning with their heads against the wall, dozing, the others breathing in the smoke from their pipes. Hatoun is struck mostly because none of the patrons are talking; this place is so different from the cafés or the bars, where the men seem to argue and banter and laugh. She has overheard them discuss the war or the government or even the Armenian problem. But here? Inside this small, shadowy room? The men are deathly silent, each alone in his own world.

  Abruptly a young man parts the curtains and surveys his customers. He looks bored until he notices Hatoun’s face through the oil paper. His eyes grow angry and he stamps over to the window, pulling a knife from a scabbard attached to a loop on his baggy pants. Without explaining to Shoushan what she has seen, Hatoun jumps down from Shoushan’s grasp, takes her friend by the hand, and leads the older girl down the alley and back into the sunshine that marks the wider streets and boulevards in the city.

  Hatoun knows that two days from now the Americans are leaving—at least the men are. Mr. Endicott and the two doctors. They’re returning to t
he United States. Separately, Miss Wells is going to leave for the American mission in Damascus, but for how long is unclear. It might be just a short visit.

  But Elizabeth has said that she is going to remain in Aleppo, and the American prince doesn’t seem to mind. Perhaps he will allow her and Nevart to stay, too. She hopes so. There is so much in this city that terrifies her, but there is much that is interesting, too. And it seems that as long as she has Nevart at night and Shoushan by day, she will never wind up like her family or that blond girl in that strange children’s book. Alice.

  She reaches into her smock pocket and pulls from it Annika’s head. She kisses the doll’s forehead and in her mind renames the skull Alice.

  AFTER THE BATTLE, much of the brush has been burned black, but the fires mostly are out. Armen squats on his haunches and finds that the dirt is warm and a layer of ash—delicate and ethereal—coats the empty helmets, the boulders, and the tree stumps made jagged by artillery. He notes a single, snapped bayonet blade, also dusted with ash, and surveys the Turkish trenches they have captured. Though the shelling from the British dreadnoughts has churned up much of the earth here at the top of the ridge, evidence of the trenches’ solidity and permanence remains. Because the trenches are built in zigzags rather than straight rows, Armen guesses that no Turkish soldier could see more than eight or ten meters down the line—and so it was impossible for the Aussies and New Zealanders to enfilade any long stretch of the defense. The walls are made of sandbags and wooden beams, and the floors are duckboard platforms elevated a foot above the earth—and the muck. The dirt is banked into parapets and already he has discovered three periscope rifles among the debris.

  Now he finds another corpse half buried beneath a firing stand, the ground made muddy with the dead man’s blood. He grabs the Turk by his boots and pulls him onto a segment of the wooden platform that has been splintered by the bombs. Though Armen has tied a scarf around his mouth and his nose, the cadaver’s stink is unescapable. As he glances down at the man’s face, the eyes open but vacant and his hair matted with dirt, he notices the long gash along the upper part of his neck; the shrapnel from a shell carved a deep line from one end of his jaw to the other. If the fellow didn’t die instantly in the blast, he must have bled out quickly.