by Franz Werfel
Time pressed, and Tomasian found himself obliged to hire a yayli for himself -- a two-horse cab, of which there were dozens on every rank. At first the owner refused even to think of facing all the discomfort of such a journey. As far as the coast behind Antioch? He clutched his fez, astounded at such foolery. However, after many protestations, many "Inshallahs" and "Allah bilirs," a price was settled, two thirds of which he insisted on being paid in advance. Since Aram knew that every other cabman would have acted in exactly the same way, he gave him the money. The pastor chose the road to Alexandretta in spite of its windings. He hoped in a day and a half of quick driving to reach the place where it forks to Antioch, and from there to be at home within twenty-four hours. But, just before sunset on the first day, the driver climbed down off his box, inspected damaged hoofs, wheels, axles, and declared that he had had quite enough. His horses were fagged, his carriage overloaded, it wasn't his business to cart Armenians all over the world -- and so he was going straight back home, to be sure of getting to Turont, where he had relatives, in reasonable time. No prayers availed on him, not even the offer of almost double his fare. He had had his money in advance, it was all he wanted, the Turk magnanimously announced. He would do even more; he would take them back all the way to Turont for nothing, where they could spend a delectable night in the excellent beds of the first-class khan of his relations. Tomasian raised his stick and would have given the insolent brute a thrashing had not Hovsannah held his arm. Upon which the man threw their luggage out of his yayli, jerked his reins, and left these five people stranded in the midst of a wilderness. For an hour they walked on along the road in the hope of coming to a village or getting a lift. But, far and wide, there was nothing, no cart, not even a barn, no huts, no village. They had to spend another night in the open, and it passed more slowly than the first, since no one had reckoned on it. The curve of the road shone under the faint moon like a dangerous scimitar. They lay down as far from it as they could, on the bare earth. Yet even that mother of all proved ill disposed towards Armenians. Damp forced its way up through the rugs; poisonous airs from the swamp, alive with insects, enveloped them. Kevork and Aram kept guard, the pastor tightly grasping the hunting rifle which the Marash fathers had given him for the journey.
But the depths of their misery was touched only in the next fifty hours, during which these wanderers reached Yoghonoluk. It was a miracle that no harm came to Hovsannah, that Iskuhi did not entirely collapse. The pastor made the mistake of not sticking to the highroad, off which he struck far too early on to a cart-track, in the south-westerly direction. After a few miles along it, the cart-track trailed off into nothing. They were lost and wandered for hours. In the last stage of their way of agony Kevork displayed great physical strength and carried the women by turns on his back for long distances. (They had soon had to leave their luggage.) The pastor plodded on with only one thought -- not to lose direction, given him by the clouds above the mountain along the coast. Again and again they discovered cart-tracks, which they could follow for a couple of miles and which spanned the waterfalls in little bridges of rotting planks. Here and there a kangni, an ox-cart, would also give them a lift for some long distance. They were not molested by human beings. The few peasant Moslems they came across were friendly, gave them water and cheese. They would not have defended themselves had they been attacked. Numb to the pain of their aching limbs, their bleeding feet, they stumbled on in a coma of exhaustion. Even the sturdy Aram walked half in a dream, lost in a world of juggling images. Sometimes he burst out laughing. Sato showed remarkable indifference to pain. She limped on agonized feet, swollen black and blue, behind Iskuhi, as though all her vagabond escapades had been meant to harden her to such toil.
When Gabriel saw the five, on the church steps, they were still possessed by exhausted dreams. Yet, since they were young, since the sudden sense of having been rescued rose within them, since faces of people whom they knew, the pastor, the priest, the doctor, hovered before them, since tremulous words were in their ears, and all the warmth of a home-coming enveloped them, they came quickly to themselves, and this leaden, superhuman strain melted without transitions into a state of excited animation.
Pastor Aram Tomasian kept insisting: "Don't think of the old massacres. This is far worse, far more gruesome, far more relentless, than any massacre. And, above all, it's far slower. It remains with you, day and night." He pressed his hands against his temples. "I can't get the horror out of my mind. . . . I keep seeing those children. . . . If only Woodley can save them. . . ."
Dr. Altouni was in silent attendance on Iskuhi. But the other men kept questioning Aram. A confused outburst of only too natural inquiries: "Will it stop at Zeitun?. . . Isn't the colony in Aintab already on the road? . . . What do they say in Aleppo? . . . Any news from the other vilayets? . . . And we . . .?"
The doctor had unrolled the bandage and was bathing the darkly suffused arm in warm water. He laughed sharply. "Where can they deport us to? We're already deported on Musa Dagh."
The noise of the crowd in the square had become audible in the room. Ter Haigasun cut short these confused inquiries. He turned his timid, yet at the same time very resolute, eyes on Bagradian. "Will you be so kind as to go out and say a few words to the people? Make them go home."
What had made Ter Haigasun light on Gabriel, the Parisian, who had nothing in common with these villagers? It should by rights have been the duty of Kebussyan, the mukhtar, to speak to the crowd. Or had the priest his own secret reasons for his request? Bagradian started and felt embarrassed. None the less he did as Ter Haigasun told him, though he took Stephan out with him by the hand. Armenian was his native language, yet in this first instant, as he found himself facing this crowd -- which meanwhile had increased to about five hundred -- it felt like impertinence to use it, an unwarranted interference with their affairs. He would almost rather have spoken Turkish, the army language. But only his first words made him feel embarrassed, and then came a clear rush of syllables, the ancient speech within him began to germinate, to spin itself out. He asked the inhabitants of Yoghonoluk, and whoever else had assembled here from the other villages, to go home quietly. So far the only irregularities had occurred in Zeitun, and nowhere else, and their true cause would be investigated. Every Armenian knew that Zeitun had always been exceptional. For the people round Musa Dagh, who belonged to an entirely different district, and had never been mixed up in politics, there was not the very slightest danger. But in just such times as these law and order were more than ever necessary. He, Bagradian, would see to it that from now on every important event was regularly reported in the villages. And, if necessary, all the communes should meet in an assembly of the people to discuss the future.
Gabriel, to his own surprise, found that he was speaking well. The right words came of themselves. A pacifying strength went out of him to his hearers. Somebody even shouted: "Long live the Bagradian family." Only one woman's voice wailed: "Asdvaz im, my God, what's going to happen to us?"
If the crowd did not disperse immediately, it at least broke up into smaller groups and no longer besieged the church. Of the saptiehs only Ali Nassif still prowled; both his comrades had already made themselves scarce. Gabriel went across to the pock-marked Ali, who for some time had seemed to find it hard to make up his mind whether to treat the effendi as a great gentleman or a khanzir kiafir, an unbelieving swine, who, in view of the latest turn of events, was officially not even worth answering. This very indecision caused Bagradian to take a high-handed line: "You know what I am? I'm your master and official superior. I'm an officer in the army."
Ali Nassif decided to stand to attention. Gabriel felt significantly in his pocket. "An officer gives no baksheesh. But you will receive from me these two medjidjeh in payment of the unofficial service which I am about to explain to you."
The rigid Ali was becoming more and more acquiescent. Bagradian jerked his hand to let him know he might stand at ease. "Lately I've been seeing some new face
s among you saptiehs. Has your post been increased?"
"There were not enough of us, Effendi, for the long roads and the heavy service. So they sent us some extras."
"Is that the real reason? Well, you needn't answer unless you like. But how do you get your orders, your pay, and so on?"
"One of the boys rides to Antakiya every week and brings back the orders."
"Well, Ali Nassif, listen to your unofficial service. If ever you get any orders, or hear any news of your command, which seems to be important to this district -- you understand? -- you're to come to me at once, at my house. There you'll receive three times what I'm giving you now."
Then, with the same negligent haughtiness, Bagradian turned away from the saptieh and went back to the sacristy.
Dr. Altouni had finished examining the arm; he was saying scornfully: "And to think that in Marash they've a big hospital, instruments, an operating-theatre, medical libraries -- and yet that ass of a doctor didn't so much as dress it properly. What can I do? I've got nothing here but a rusty forceps for pulling out teeth. We shall have to put the arm between two slats. It seems in an awful state. She must have a good long rest in bed, in a pleasant room. And the same, of course, for your wife, Aram."
The old builder, Tomasian, was in despair. "I've so little room since I sold my house. How shall we ever manage?"
Gabriel at once offered Mademoiselle Tomasian a room in the villa -- one with a pleasant view out on to the mountain. Dr. Altouni's instructions should be carefully followed.
The old doctor was overjoyed: "Koh yem -- splendid, my friend. And this poor little creature -- Sato, isn't it? -- will you take her, too, so that my honored patients may be together? My old bones will thank you."
It was arranged. Aram and Hovsannah went with Tomasian's father, taking with them Kevork the dancer, whom the old man suggested that he could use in his workshop. Gabriel sent Stephan ahead to bring Juliette news of all these events.
The boy came breathless into the house.
"Maman! Maman! Something's happened. We shall be having people in to stay with us. Mademoiselle Iskuhi, the sister of the pastor at Zeitun. And a little girl, with her feet all bleeding."
This surprising news affected Juliette strangely. Gabriel had never before brought strangers to stay in the house without having asked her permission. His relationship to her had in it a kind of hesitation where guests were concerned, especially Armenians. But when, within the next ten minutes, he arrived with Iskuhi, the Altounis, and Sato, Juliette was kindness itself. She, like so many pretty women, fell an easy prey to feminine charm, especially the charm of a young girl. The sight of poor Iskuhi moved her and aroused in her all the instinct to help of an elder sister. As she gave all the necessary orders, she kept saying to herself with satisfaction: "She's really unusual. One seldom sees such delicate-looking faces among them. She looks like a lady, even in those ragged clothes. And she seemed to speak such good French, for an Armenian." The room was soon ready. Juliette herself came to wait on Iskuhi; she even brought her a very pretty lace nightdress of her own. Nor did she hesitate to sacrifice her own expensive scents and eaux de toilette, although these treasures were irreplaceable.
Altouni again inspected Iskuhi's arm, with many bitter little jokes on the subject of the doctors in Marash. "Is it very painful, my dear?" No, she felt no pain in it now, only a kind of feeling, a numb feeling -- she tried to think of the word -- a feeling of not being able to feel it. The old doctor could see that all his skill would be of very little use to her. Still -- he could do nothing else -- he smothered her arm in a wide bandage, which sheathed her shoulders, up to the neck. The nimble dexterity still preserved in his old brown, wrinkled fingers became apparent as he did it. Soon after this Iskuhi was comfortable in bed, clean, cared for, and at peace. Juliette, who had helped with all this, was about to leave her. "If you need anything more, dear, all you have to do is to swing this big hand-bell hard. We'll send you up something to eat. But I shall be coming in to see you first."
Iskuhi turned the eyes of her people upon this benefactress -- eyes which still looked out into terrifying distances, and did not seem to notice this pleasant safety.
"Oh, thank you, Madame -- I shan't need anything. Thank you, Madame." Then came the thing which had never happened in all that fearful week in Zeitun, nor in the days with the convoy, nor on the journey. Iskuhi burst into storms of tears. The outburst was not convulsive, it was sheer weeping, without a sob in it, a grief, so to speak, without hill or valley, a release from rigidity, vast and inconsolable as the Asiatic steppes from which it came. As Iskuhi wept on quietly, she kept repeating: "Forgive me, Madame. . . . I never meant to do this. . . ."
Juliette would have liked to kneel beside her, kiss her, and tell her she was an angel. Yet something made these conventional words of comfort quite impossible. Some remoteness still enveloped this young girl, her experience wrapped her like a chrysalis. Juliette could not follow her own warm impulse. She contented herself with lightly stroking Iskuhi's hair and waiting in silence by her side till this quiet grief had fully spent itself, till the eyelids drooped, and the girl sank down into merciful nothingness.
Meanwhile Mairik Antaram had dressed and bandaged Sato's feet. The child was put to bed in one of the unused servant's bedrooms. Scarcely had she dropped into heavy sleep, when she let out her first blood-curdling scream. Her screams continued. In all these days she had never once shown signs of fear, but now, as she dreamed life over again, a hundred whips seemed to swish around her. It was no use shaking her repeatedly. She slept too heavily to be waked, so that after a time her moans and piercing howls began again. Sometimes these long-drawn wailings sounded as though the voice were clinging desperately to one saving name: Küchük Hanum.
As these hair-raising howls forced themselves out of the distant bedroom, Juliette met her son coming up the wide steps to the front door. Stephan was glowing with excitement. This new thing, this unknown, with its threat, electrified him and set his nerves pleasantly tingling. In November he had celebrated his thirteenth birthday and so was just reaching the age when sensations kindle most boys' enthusiasm. He would even stand at the window watching some unusually heavy thunderstorm, filled with the unholy longing that something out of the ordinary might happen. Now he stood and listened, agreeably horror-stricken.
"Maman, listen to Sato screaming."
"Iskuhi's eyes -- my boy has the same kind of eyes as Iskuhi." Juliette perceived it in a flash. And the subterranean snares and entanglements of life revealed themselves. She felt her first great terror for Stephan. She hurried him into her room and kissed him hard. Sato's screams still rang in the empty hallway.
Later that evening Gabriel Bagradian had invited the priest Ter Haigasun, Bedros Altouni the doctor, and Apothecary Krikor to come to see him. They sat together, in the dimly lighted selamlik, over chibuks and cigarettes. Gabriel wanted to know how these highly educated and very worthy notables of Yoghonoluk really viewed the position, how they intended to act in the event of an order of banishment, and what means the commune of Musa Dagh had at its disposal to avert the worst.
He could get nothing out of them. Ter Haigasun stubbornly kept his mouth shut. The doctor announced that, since he was already sixty-eight, the three or four short years he had still to live would be got through somehow. If anything happened to bring the end a little sooner, then so much the better as far as he was concerned. Ridiculous to trouble one's head for the sake of a few scurvy months. Was the whole of life really worth a single worry? The main thing was to save people anxiety as much, and for as long as, one possibly could. That he considered his chief duty, which he meant to fulfill, whatever happened. All the rest was no business of his. Krikor smoked his nargileh, profoundly at peace -- he had very prudently brought it with him. He selected, with an air of profundity, from among the glowing coals those which appealed to him most and pressed them down with his naked fingers on a roll of tobacco in the hubble-bubble. Perhaps he wanted to s
ymbolize to the others that he could grasp fire without being burned by it. Thought alone gives any right to reality -- not vice versa. Why want to do anything? All action is already in vain, and only thought thinks on forever. He cited a Turkish proverb, which might equally well have issued from the lips of the Agha Rifaat Bereket: "Kismetdén zyadé olmass." Nothing happens unless predestined.
These words afforded the opportunity of evading the troublesome problems of the hour. And Krikor's hollow voice became eloquent on the various theories of predestination, the relationship of Christendom to Islam, the Council of Chalcedony. The very words inebriated. The priest should be made to hear with amazement how much theology Apothecary Krikor had acquired.
