by Franz Werfel
Aram Tomasian shouted: "Blessed are the dead, for with them it is all over."
Here, for the first time, an indescribable moan passed through the listeners. It was not an outcry, but a long, sighing, groaning breath, a huge, swelling sigh, as though not human beings were sighing, but the suffering earth itself.
Aram's voice sharply capped this threnody: "We, too, want to get death over as fast as possible. Therefore we must defend our homes, so that all of us, men, women, children, may find a quick death."
"Why death?"
This had come from Gabriel Bagradian. A light, somewhere deep down in his consciousness, seemed to ask him, even as he heard himself: "Is that I?" His heart beat quietly. The strained vacillation was past and gone -- for ever. Great certainty possessed him. All the muscles of his body were relaxed. He knew with his whole being: "For this one second it's worth while to have lived." Always, when talking to these villagers, his Armenian had seemed labored and embarrassed. But now it was not he who spoke to them -- and this knowledge brought him complete peace -- it was the force which had brought him here, down the long, winding road of centuries, the short, twisted path of his own life. He listened in amazement to this power, as it found the words in him so naturally.
"My brothers and sisters, I haven't lived among you. That's true. . . . I was a stranger to my home and no longer knew you. . . . And then . . . no doubt because of this, God sent me back from the big cities of the West to this old villa, which was my grandfather's. . . . And so now I'm no longer the guest, almost the stranger, I was among you, for my fate will be exactly the same as yours. . . . With you I shall either live or die. . . . The government means to spare me less than any of you, I know that. . . . They hate and persecute my kind worst of all. . . . I'm forced, just like all of you, to protect the lives of my wife and family. . . . And so, for weeks now, I've been carefully thinking out what possible ways we have of defending ourselves. . . . Listen here, I was terribly scared at first, but I'm not now, any longer. . . . I' m full of hope. . . . With God's help, we aren't going to die. . . . I' m not telling you this as a vain fool, but as a man who's seen what war is, as an officer. . . ."
His thoughts found clearer and clearer words. The intense, concentrated labor of the last few weeks was coming in useful. The number of fully thought-out problems gave him more and more inner certainty. This certainty of systematic thought -- thought, as he had learned it in Europe -- raised him far above these dully resigned prisoners of fate. This same sensation of playful mastery had been his as a young man when at examinations he found that he could answer some question with an exhaustive knowledge, which at the same time selected its own method of answering. He disposed of Aram's desperate speech without once mentioning it directly. It would be a senseless attempt, to defy the saptiehs in the streets, at house doors. It might perhaps be surprisingly successful for a few hours, but would only lead all the more inevitably, not to a quick death, but to a slow one, by torture, with the rape and befoulment of all the women. He, Bagradian, also wanted resistance. To the last drop of their blood. But there were better places to fight in than the valley, the village streets. He pointed in the direction of Musa Dagh, whose peaks, towering behind the roof, seemed to look down and take part in the great assembly. They probably all remembered the old stories in which the Damlayik had offered help and protection to escaping Armenians. "And it would need a very big force really to surround and storm the Damlayik. Jemal Pasha needs every man he can get. He has something more important to do than turn out a few thousand Armenians. We shall easily finish off the saptiehs. A few hundred determined men with rifles are all we need to defend the mountain. We have the men, and the rifles too."
He raised his hand, as though for an oath. "I engage myself, here, before you all, to lead that defense in such a way that our women and children will live longer than they would on a convoy. We can hold out for several weeks, maybe for months. Who knows? Perhaps by then God will grant that the war may be over. Then we're certain to be relieved. And, even if peace doesn't come, we've still always got the sea behind us. Cyprus, with its French and English battleships, is near. Mayn't we hope that one day one of those ships will come down the coast, and that we shall reach it with our signals, and get help? But, even if there's no such good fortune in store for us, there'll still be plenty of time for dying. And then at least we shan't need to despise ourselves as defenseless sheep."
The effect of this speech was by no means clear. It looked as though now, for the first time, these people were being roused out of their torpor to the full consciousness of their fate. Gabriel thought at first that either they had not understood him or were rejecting his scheme with howls of rage. This solid mass fell apart. Women screamed. An impact of hoarse, masculine oaths. A lurching, this way and that. Where were the furrowed and resigned grief-stricken peasant faces, and where the veils of deathly quiet? A savage brawl seemed to begin. The men yelled at one another, they shouted and tugged at each other's clothes, each other's beards even. Yet all this was far less disputation than it was a wild unburdening, a blowing sky-high of the rigid impotence, the stealthy consciousness of death -- violently released by these first words of trust and energy.
What? Among these thousands, who now bellowed and raved in this unchained torrent of desperation, had there not been one to conceive this very simple thought in the long days of suspense allowed them? A thought so close to them by tradition? Had it needed a "gentleman from Europe," a "strong man," to come and speak it? Yes, the same thought had occurred to many among these thousands, but only as an idle daydream. Nor, in their most secret conversations had it ever forced its way to utterance. Till a few hours before they had all still told themselves, lost in their artificial stupor, that this nemesis might draw in its claws and drift away across Musa Dagh. After all, what were they? Wretched villagers, a persecuted race on a beleaguered island, without a city at their backs. There were few Armenians in Antioch, and such as lived there were money-changers, bazaar merchants, speculators in grain, and so by no means the right sort of agitators and allies. And again, in Alexandretta there was only a very small, rich colony -- bankers and war contractors -- who lived in ornate villas, just as they did in Beirut. Such anxious magnates had not even a thought for the petty mountaineers of Musa Dagh. There was not one such individual as old Avetis Bagradian among them. They bolted the shutters of their villas and crept into the darkest corner to hide. Two or three, to save their lives and property, had gone over to Islam, submitted themselves to the blunt, circumcising knife of the mullah. Oh, those people in the far northeast had an easy time of it -- those citizens of Van and Urfa. Van and Urfa were the two big Armenian towns, full of weapons and traditional defiance. There were clever people there, the deputies of the Dashnakzagan. There it was easy to talk of resistance and to organize it. But who would dare speak such impious thoughts in wretched Yoghonolulk? Armed resistance to the civil and military powers? Everyone born in these parts felt in his bones a respect, mingled with terror, of the state. The state, the hereditary enemy. The state -- that is to say, the saptieh, who could arrest or thrash you for no reason; the state -- that is to say the filthy government office, with its picture of the Sultan, its text from the Koran, its spittle-covered tiles, where one paid one's bedel. The state meant huge, forbidding barrack squares, where one served as a private under the fists of the chaush, the onbashi, and where a special form of bastinado had been devised to punish Armenians. So that therefore it is more than comprehensible that -- apart from Pastor Tomasian's futile outburst -- it should have been a stranger, a freed man, not a native, who hurled down the first systematic thought of resistance into this crowd. Only such an emancipated foreigner had the necessary freedom from guilty feelings to enable him to speak out such a thought. And the people was still far from feeling at home in it. It looked as if this brawl would never end. It kept increasing. Voices snarled, and fists were shaken, in a fashion altogether incongruous to these usually shy women and grave
men. Naturally, too, the children, whose mothers were either nursing them or carrying them pickaback, sharpened the general hubbub with their wails. No doubt even they could sense in their souls the peril of this moment and with shrill sobs struggled against impending death. Gabriel looked down silently into the whirlpool. Ter Haigasun came towards him. He touched Bagradian's shoulder with all ten finger tips. It was the embryonic attempt at an embrace, a gesture at once of blessing and abnegation. Gabriel may perhaps have read in the depths of those resolute, humble eyes: "So we've joined forces then, without saying a word to each other." This attempt at an embrace at once embarrassed and held Gabriel rigid. Ter Haigasun's emaciated fingers slipped down off his shoulders.
Meanwhile Pastor Harutiun Nokhudian was doing his best to subdue the crowd. The small, spare man had to struggle with his wife as he was doing it, who thrust herself against him and did her best to prevent his saying anything imprudent. He could only manage to make himself heard by degrees. His reedy voice had to strain itself to its highest pitch: "Christ strictly enjoins us not to withstand authority. Christ strictly enjoins us not to resist evil. My office is the gospel. As the shepherd of my flock, I must disapprove of all recalcitrance."
This pastor, whom Bagradian always considered as an ailing, timid little man, showed great resolution in defending his own point of view. He described the consequences of armed resistance as he foresaw them. Such a revolt would at last give the government its right to change an infamous decree into a ruthlessly vindictive extermination. And then death would have ceased to be a meritorious discipleship to Christ's passion, it would have become the lawful punishment of rebels. Not only would the souls of all these here assembled be cursed by God for impious rebellion, but its last effects would inevitably be felt by the whole people -- it would be used against all Armenian sons and daughters. They would have given their masters the welcome pretext to brand the Armenian millet before the whole world as disturbers of the common peace -- as traitors. A good woman, even if her husband ill-treats her, has no right to surrender her house to strangers. Such was the view of Harutiun Nokhudian -- whose own domestic arrangements did not go very far to bear out his contention, since the wife of his bosom was his tyrant, and not only in what concerned his health. His strained vocal cords nearly gave out.
"And which of us shall say for certain that our banishment must necessarily end as Ter Haigasun and Aram Tomasian prophesy? Are not God's decrees inscrutable for them also? Has He not the power to send help from all sides? Are there not human beings everywhere, who can pity, even among Turks, Kurds, Arabs? If we keep our trust in God, shall we not find food and shelter everywhere? Even among strangers? Is it not possible even now, while we despair, that help may be on its way? If it does not reach us here, at least it may reach us in Aleppo. If not in Aleppo, at least we may hope for the next halting-place. Our bodies may have to suffer bitterly, but our souls will be free. If we have to choose between sinful and innocent death, why should we choose to die in sin?"
Nokhudian could not finish his speech, for his thin voice was thrust out of the way by the deep, decisive tones of a woman. Could this bellicose matron in black really be little mother Antaram, the doctor's wife? Was it really Mairik Antaram, the helpful, the succouring, the little mother of village mothers, from whom the very people she helped and advised scarcely ever heard a long speech? She was so excited that her black lace shawl had slipped half off her hair, not yet entirely grey and parted down the center. Her bold nose jutted imperiously from her flushed face. That vigorous torso, springing up from between wide hips, held high her erect head. The clear blue eyes were netted in a thousand belligerent wrinkles. And yet Antaram Altouni's magnificent wrath made her look young again.
"I'm a woman." The full voice, by its sheer challenge, got absolute quiet with its first sounds. "I'm a woman, and I speak for all the women here. Many of us have suffered. My heart has failed me again and again. It's a long time since I've cared whether I die or not. I don't mind how soon I do die. But I'm not going to die like a cur on the highroad. I'm not going to lie out rotting in the fields. Not I! Nor do I mean to go on living in a concentration camp, among all those rascally murderers, and the poor women they've befouled. None of us women means to do it -- no, not one of us! And if you men are so cowardly that you'd rather stay on here and be slaughtered, we women alone will arm ourselves and go up on Musa Dagh with Gabriel Bagradian."
This spirited appeal raised a far noisier tumult than the last. It looked as though at any minute now these madmen might whip out knives against each other and so anticipate Turkish blood-letting. The schoolteachers, headed by Shatakhian, were already preparing to rush the crowd and act as police -- Ter Haigasun quietly beckoned them back. He knew his people better than all these teachers and mukhtars. Such vociferations were not vindictive. Empty excitement. The mind of these thousands had still not really digested the thought of banishment. Now it had slowly to assimilate the challenging voices of the speech-makers. A glance from the priest said: "Just leave them alone." He watched the tumult with patient eyes. Women's voices, roused by Antaram, were more and more gaining the upper hand. Ter Haigasun also prevented would-be orators -- Oskanian, the teacher, for instance -- from saying more. He was right. The din, with nothing there to fodder it, died down, sooner than was expected. In a few minutes this tumult had stifled itself, and only grunts and sobs were left over. Now was Ter Haigasun's chance to clear things up and bring them speedily to a head. He waved his right hand to get them quiet.
"It's all quite simple." He did not use too much of his voice but scanned each syllable very sharply, so that his words bored their way into the dull comprehension of the mass. "Two proposals have been made to you. Those are the only two ways we can go. There's no other way for us except these two. The one, Pastor Nokhudian's way, takes you eastwards with the saptiehs. The other, Gabriel Bagradian's way, leads us up, with our own weapons, on to the Damlayik. Each of you is perfectly free to choose for himself which way to go, as his will and understanding may dictate to him. There's nothing more to say about that, since all that's been said already. I want to make the decision very easy for you. Pastor Nokhudian will be so good as to stand over there in the empty yard, on the other side of those ropes. Let everyone who agrees with the pastor, and would rather go into exile, go across and stand with him. Those on the side of Gabriel Bagradian, stay here, where he is. No need to hurry. There's plenty of time."
Sudden, deep silence. Only Madame Nokhudian's rapid, almost yelping sobs became audible. The old pastor bowed his head, in its little cloth cap. A heavy load of thoughts seemed to bow his shoulders, drag him to earth. He remained a very long while in this thoughtful posture. And then his legs began to move. He trotted, in hesitant steps, to the place to which Ter Haigasun had assigned him. He lifted the clothes line with a clumsy movement over his head. The stable-yard reached almost to the villa. Only a stretch of grass, with a wall of magnolia bushes, lay in between. The big yard was completely empty. Stable-boys and house servants had both crowded to the meeting. Nokhudian's short little legs made the most of this way of decision; they needed quite a while to reach the magnolia bushes, where he took up his position, his back to the crowd. His wife, shaken with sobs, came after him. Another, still longer, emptier pause, with not a word in it. Only then did one or two people free themselves from the center of the crowd, force a way out of it, and, measuring out the intervening space with the same gentle, thoughtful steps, take up their stand beside Pastor Nokhudian.
At first there were only a few -- the elders of the Protestant congregation of Bitias, with their wives. But, little by little, the number of those who had chosen exile increased, until at last the pastor had almost his whole congregation, young and old. A few more joined them, from other villages; but these were old and burdened people, whose strength to resist had already failed them, or who, at the very end of their lives, really feared to set heaven against themselves. With their hands over their breasts as if in prayer,
they took the first steps of the road to Calvary. All this happened so deliberately, in so gently introverted a manner, that it looked less like a decision pregnant with consequences than a religious ceremony. It was as though these people were stepping modestly, slowly, into the grave, without first having stretched themselves out to die. One. And then another. A couple. And then several. Then another couple. Nokhudian's disciples at last increased to something like four hundred souls, not counting those of the Protestant congregation who, from sickness or some other cause, had had to stop away from the meeting. With him the pastor took a fair proportion of the inhabitants of Bitias, the second largest commune of the valley. The mass of people watched with fascinated eyes the hesitant steps of these others, resolved for obedience. Not a word of comment. Until, last of all, very late in joining Nokhudian's band, came a little, shrivelled-up man, lurching over his stick like a drunkard, and talking to himself. This figure of fun, well known to all the people of Kebussiye, who did not really seem to know what was happening, provoked a cry of arrogant hatred in the crowd. At first it was no more than the sight of a half-wit producing the usual malice. Then came the arrogance: Here were the brave, and there the cowards. Here the strong, the men of sterling worth, and there the cripples. It was only that one young man had bawled something derisive, and that a gust of laughter shook the crowd. But Ter Haigasun was already pushing his way into the densely packed mass, which he thrust away from him with both arms, as though he would reach to the very heart of this baseness, pounce on the giber, drag him out, and thrash him. His face looked dark with anger. His hood fell back off his close-cropped, iron-grey hair. Murder was glinting in his eyes: "What cur dared? What brutes are laughing?"
