Forty Days of Musa Dagh

by Franz Werfel

  The steward did not seem in the least surprised. "Oh, yes, there'll be some deserters. The poor lads must be having a bad time."

  "I saw only one.

  "That may have been Sarkis Kilikian."

  "Who's Sarkis Kilikian?"

  "Asdvaz im! Merciful God!" Kristaphor in a vague, helpless gesture indicated that really it was impossible to say exactly who Sarkis Kilikian was. But Bagradian ordered out his men, by now all awake: "Go out and find this Kilikian. Take him something to eat. The chap looked hungry."

  Kristaphor and Missak set out, with tins of food and a lantern, but came back in the end without having found him. Apparently they had ended by feeling scared.

  The evening had been anxious, the morning was deceptive. The world looked vaporous. They all felt restless. Sunrise was quite invisible. All the same they climbed one of the treeless knolls, from which they could scan the sea and surrounding country emerging gradually through the haze.

  Bagradian turned. "One could manage to hold out here for a few weeks." He said it as though in defense of the maligned beauties of Musa Dagh.

  Gonzague Maris seemed to have passed a better night than anyone else, he looked so fresh and full of life. He pointed out the big spirit factory near Suedia, its chimneys just starting to belch forth smoke. This factory, so he told them, was owned by a foreign company. Its manager was a Greek, whom he had got to know in Alexandretta. He had seen him only the other day and heard some rather interesting rumors. First, a combined peace effort by the American president and the Pope was well under way. The second concerned the Armenian transportations. These were only intended to affect the Armenian vilayets, not Syria. He, Gonzague, could not tell how much all that was to be relied on, but this factory owner was considered a most reliable sort of man and had private interviews every month with the Wali of Aleppo on army supplies. Gabriel was filled for a few seconds with the conviction that all danger was past, and what had seemed so near was already retreating into the distance. It felt as if he himself had beaten back fate.

  He burst forth, in gratitude: "Just look! Isn't it lovely here?"

  Juliette was impatient to get back home. She hated being seen in the early morning, by men especially. In the morning, she insisted, only ugly women look their best, and no ladies exist at 6 a.m. Besides, she wanted at least half an hour's rest before mass. When she had got engaged to Gabriel, she had obliged him by ceasing to be a Roman Catholic and entering the Armenian Orthodox Church. This had been one of the many sacrifices which she never forgot to mention when they quarrelled. She picked holes, as her habit was. The Armenian rite was not nearly ornate enough to please her. But what shocked Juliette most was that Armenian priests should all wear beards, and usually long ones. She could not abide a bearded man. Their way back was down the shorter path, which led through the ilex grove to Yoghonoluk. Krikor, Gabriel, and Shatakhian went ahead. Avakian stayed. He took this chance of making a few improvements on his maps. Bagradian had given orders not to strike the tents for the time being. Some of the stable-boys were to stay up on the Damlayik to guard them. Perhaps they would soon be having another picnic. One reason for this was Gabriel's superstitious fancy that such preparedness might help to break the power of fate. The wretched donkey-track lost itself here and there in shrubs and undergrowth. Juliette in thin shoes, and with pampered feet, kept voicing her horror of such impediments. Then Gonzague would assist her, with a resolute grip. They had begun a vague and often interrupted conversation:

  "I can never stop remembering, Madame, that we're the only two foreigners here."

  Juliette anxiously tested the earth she trod. "You at least are a Greek. . . . That's not quite so foreign."

  Gonzague let her surmount her difficulties unaided. "What? . . . I was brought up in America. . . . But you've been a long time married to an Armenian."

  "Yes. I've got some reason for living here. . . . But you?"

  "Usually I find my reasons afterwards."

  A steep place had set them running. Juliette paused to get her breath. "I've never really understood what you want here. . . . You aren't very frank about it, you know. . . . What can an American who's not trading in lambskins or cotton or gallnuts find to do in Alexandretta . . . ?"

  "Though I may not be frank -- careful just here, please -- I'm perfectly willing to tell you that . . . I was engaged as accompanist by a touring vaudeville troupe . . . not much of a job . . . even though my host Krikor seems to think so highly of it. . . ."

  "I see. . . . So you left all your actress friends in the lurch. . . . And where's the vaudeville troupe now, then?"

  "It had contracts for Aleppo, Damascus, Beirut. . . ."

  "And you simply left them?"

  "Quite right. . . . I just ran away. . . . It's one of my foibles."

  "Ran away? . . . A young man like you?. . . Well, you must have had some good reason. . . ."

  "I'm not so very young as you seem to think."

  "Mon Dieu, this road! . . . My shoe's full of stones. . . . Please give me your hand. . . . Thanks." With her left hand she kept a firm hold on Gonzague. With her right she shook out the shoe.

  He, however, stuck to his question: "How old do you think I am? . . . Guess."

  "I'm really not in the mood for guessing just now."

  Gonzague, serious, as if conscience-stricken: "Thirty-two."

  Juliette, with a short laugh: "For a man . . . !"

  "I'm sure I've seen more of the world than you, Madame. When one gets pushed about as I have, one comes to see the truth. . . ."

  "Heaven only knows where all the others are. . . . Hullo . . . I do think they might answer us."

  "We're getting on all right. . . ."

  Juliette stopped again, as the road became steep and full of shrubs.

  "I'm not used to climbing about like this -- my legs ache. Let's stop a minute."

  "There's nothing here for us to sit on."

  "I tell you, Gonzague, you'd far better get away from Yoghonoluk. . . . What can they do to you? You're an American citizen. . . . And you don't look the least bit Armenian. . . ."

  "But? French?"

  "Oh, you needn't go and imagine that!"

  The little stream that flowed through the ilex gorge lay across their path. Not so much as a tree-trunk to cross by. Gonzague lifted Juliette over, big as she was, with an easy swing. His narrow shoulders had not looked as though he could do it. She felt his cool fingers around her hips, but they did not stir her. The path was becoming less steep, and they quickened their pace.

  Gonzague broached the essential question: "And Gabriel Bagradian? What makes him stay on? Hasn't he any chance to get out of Turkey?"

  "In wartime? . . . Where? . . . We're Turkish subjects. . . . Gabriel is liable for service. . . . They've taken our passports. . . . Who can make out these savages? . . ."

  "But, really, Juliette. you look sufficiently French. . . . No, really, you look more like an Englishwoman."

  "French? English? . . . Why, what do you mean?"

  "Well, with a little courage you -- I mean you especially -- could get anywhere."

  "I'm a wife and mother."

  Juliette was walking so fast that Gonzague had to keep a little behind her. She seemed to feel the breath of his words: "Life is life."

  She turned abruptly. "If that's your way of looking at it, why do you stop in Asia?"

  "I? It's wartime now for all the men in the world."

  Juliette's haste increased again. "It's easy for you, Gonzague. If only we had your American passport . . . You could easily follow your troupe to Damascus or Beirut. Why waste your time in this God-forsaken hole?"

  "Why?" By now Gonzague could keep close up behind Juliette.

  "Why? If I really knew that, perhaps you'd be the last person I could say it to, Juliette."

  Truly the spirit had guided Gabriel to stage his eleventh-hour "dress rehearsal." In the hall of the villa the pock-marked Ali Nassif awaited him. "Please, Sir, I've come for those medji
djehs you promised me when you gave me something on account."

  Gabriel drew forth a Turkish pound and with a steady hand gave it to Ali, as though, now, all were in order, and he could hear what he had paid for without impatience.

  The old saptieh took the money cautiously. "I'm going clean against my orders. But you won't give me away, Effendi?"

  "You've taken your money. Say what you have to say."

  Ali Nassif blinked around dubiously. "In three days the müdir and the police chief will come to the villages."

  Bagradian leaned his stick in a corner and freed himself from the field-glass slung over his shoulders. "I see. And what good news will the müdir and police chief have to bring us?"

  The policeman rubbed his stubbled chin. "You'll be having to leave here, Effendi. The Wali and the Kaimakam have commanded it. The saptiehs are to collect you and your people from Suedia and Antakiya and lead you eastwards. But I can tell you you won't be allowed to halt in Aleppo. That's because of the consuls."

  "And you -- will you be one of the saptiehs, Ali Nassif?"

  The pock-marked Ali protested noisily: "Inshallah! I thank God! No! Haven't I been living twelve years among you? As commandant of the whole district? And there's never once been any trouble. Yes, I've kept order day and night. And now, because of you, I'm losing my good job. Oh, ingratitude! Our post is being disbanded altogether."

  And Bagradian, to comfort the poor fellow, pressed a few cigarettes into his hand. "Now tell me, Ali Nassif, when is your post to be disbanded?"

  "I have orders to march to Antakiya this very day. The müdir will come here with a whole company.

  Meanwhile Juliette, Iskuhi, and Stephan had reached the house. The sight of Ali Nassif aroused no suspicion in them. Gabriel shepherded the saptieh out of the hallway and into the gravelled square in front of the house. "According to what you've been saying, Ali Nassif, the villages will be left without police supervision for three days."

  Gabriel seemed to consider that suspicious. The saptieh anxiously lowered his voice. "Oh, Effendi, if you give me away, I shall be put to death, and worse. I shall have a scroll pinned on my chest with the inscription, 'Traitor.' . . . All the same I'll tell you everything. For three whole days there won't be a single saptieh in the villages, because the post is being reconditioned in Antakiya. And then you'll all be given a few days to pack up in. . . ."

  Gabriel glanced at the windows of the house, as though fearful that Juliette might be looking out of them. "Have you had to send in lists of inhabitants, Ali Nassif?"

  The pock-marked face blinked with sly fidelity at Gabriel: "Hope nothing for yourself, Effendi. They're going to be particularly hard on the rich and learned. They say: 'What use is it to us that poor, hard-working Armenians should die off, if the effendis, the money-bags and lawyers, stay on in our country?' There's a special bad mark against your name. You've been reported at headquarters, Effendi. They've talked of you again and again. And don't go and imagine they'll spare your family. You're to be taken together as far as Antakiya, but after that they mean to separate you."

  Bagradian eyed the policeman almost joyously. "You seem to be one of the great and initiated. Has the müdir opened his heart to you, Ali Nassif?"

  Ali nodded solemnly. "Only for your sake, Sir, did I labor so. I stood in the offices of the Hükümet and, remembering you, I strained my ears. Oh, Effendi, in spite of your miserable paper pound, I have earned a great reward in the hereafter. What is a paper pound worth today? Even if they will change it in the bazaar for you, they cheat you. And see, my successors will have more than a hundred gold pounds, and all the medjidjehs they find in the villages. Your house will be theirs alone, with all that is in it. You can take nothing with you. And your horses also will be theirs. And your garden, and all its fruits. . . ."

  Bagradian stopped this flowery enumeration: "May they have joy of it."

  He drew himself up. But Ali Nassif would not stir from his disconsolate place. "Now I have sold you all this for a scrap of paper."

  And so, to get rid of him, Bagradian emptied all the piastres out of his pockets.

  When Gabriel entered the presbytery, he saw to his great surprise that Ter Haigasun must have known of the catastrophe several hours before Ali Nassif brought him the news. Thomas Kebussyan was with him, together with the six other mukhtars, two married village priests, and Pastor Nokhudian from Bitias. Grey and waxen faces. This thunderbolt had not cleared away that cloud of morbid coma in which for weeks these people had been creeping about their business; it had only thickened it. They stood leaning against the walls, seeming to grow against them like plants. Only Ter Haigasun was seated. His face was bent back, almost in shadow, but his hands, resting quietly before him on the desk, flamed white, in a rigid shaft of sunlight. When anyone spoke, it was in a scarcely audible whisper, not moving his lips. Even Ter Haigasun only whispered, as now he turned to greet Bagradian:

  "I've told these mukhtars to call their people together, the instant they get back to their villages. This very day, and as soon as possible, all the grown-ups, from Wakef to Kebussiye, must come together here in Yoghonoluk. We shall hold a big meeting to decide what's best to be done."

  Pastor Nokhudian's tremulous voice came out of a corner: "There is nothing to be done. . . ."

  The mukhtar of Bitias came a few steps out into the room.

  "Whether it's any use or not, the people must come together to hear speeches and speak themselves. It'll make it easier."

  Ter Haigasun let these interruptions pass as he sat there frowning. He went on to tell Gabriel of his decisions: "In this general assembly the peoples are to choose delegates whom they trust and who will take over the leadership. Discipline is the only weapon left us. If we keep law and order, even out there, perhaps we shan't die."

  As he said "out there," Ter Haigasun opened his half-shut eyes to glance searchingly at Gabriel.

  Thomas Kebussyan wagged his bald head. "We can't hold a meeting in the church square. Nor in the church. There are the saptiehs. . . . And others, too. God knows who wouldn't creep in and listen, and then betray us. And besides the church is too small for all of us. So where?"

  "Where? That's very simple." Bagradian spoke for the first time. "My garden has a high wall all round it. The wall has three doors which you can bolt. There's enough room for ten thousand people. It's as good as a strong fortress."

  This suggestion of Gabriel's decided it. Those who, from despair or will-less passivity, longed to let themselves be destroyed without any irksome show of resistance -- and those who made heavy weather of everything -- could raise no objections. And what serious objection could they have had against the proposal that folk of this Armenian valley should get together, in this death-agony of their race, and choose leaders -- even leaders as helpless as they? This place of assembly was secure, they need fear no intensification of punishment. Perhaps what contributed to this feeling was the superstition that Bagradian had powerful connections, which he might use in behalf of the seven villages. With dead movements and dragging steps, the mukhtars left to assemble their communes. Since Yoghonoluk was the central village, the last stragglers would be in Bagradian's garden by four that afternoon. The mukhtars themselves were to undertake to guard the entrances, so that no outsider should be let in. Ter Haigasun stood up. The bells were already ringing. He would have to get ready to vest for mass.