by Franz Werfel
Only one person stood aside, with inscrutably folded arms -- Hrand Oskanian, naturally. That somber schoolteacher had met with yet another rebuff. No leading role had been allotted him -- no, not even a fairly respectable second. While his colleague Shatakhian had been given a seat on the Committee of Defence, Ter Haigasun, in his deep hatred of the other, silent pedagogue, had condemned him to go on "teaching school" and keeping the children in order. That was the priest's revenge for the fact that at the communal elections Hrand Oskanian, the poet of Musa Dagh, had been elected by hundreds of votes. Icily reserved, Oskanian was already wondering whether or not to leave the assembly and go home. Then he grew proudly conscious of the fact that the many by whom he had been chosen looked up to him with trustful eyes and that, moreover, the priest would be more riled by his presence than by his absence.
Shortly after midnight the council was suddenly suspended. As often happens in such cases, it had occurred to no one to make sure of that on which the whole future would depend. Fifty Mausers and two hundred and fifty Greek service-rifles still lay buried in a grave in the cemetery. They must be dug up instanfly and carried up the Damlayik before morning, with the munitions. Though Gabriel did not mistrust Ali Nassif's report, there was still always the possibility that in the course of the next twenty-four hours fresh saptiehs might come to the villages, to make a sudden search for arms. A deputation of six went off, posthaste, to the churchyard of Yoghonoluk, situated beyond the village on the road to Habibli. The two grave-diggers came last. The rifles, thanks to Nurhan the armorer's foresight, had been laid in bricked graves. They awaited their glorious resurrection enveloped in rags, in air-tight coffins, bedded in straw. Only four weeks previously Chaush Nurhan had inspected them summarily by torchlight and found them in perfect condition. Scarcely one breech-lock had rusted. Nor had the cartridges suffered in any way. That night these heavy chests, fifteen in all, were hauled up forever out of the graves. It was hard work. Since not many hands were there to do it, Ter Haigasun, who had flung off his cassock, did a muscular share. Later a couple of the strong shaggy donkeys of the district were fetched, so that at last, towards morning, led by Chaush Nurhan, a secret caravan set out for the northern mountain pass through the deserted villages of Azir and Bitias.
Not till an hour before sunrise could Ter Haigasun get back to the selamlik of Villa Bagradian. The garden looked like a corpse-strewn battlefield. Not even the people of Yoghonoluk had gone home. Ter Haigasun, like a general among the dead, had to step across the motionless sleepers.
Thanks to the energy of Bagradian -- who kept urging them on -- the members of the sub-committees had done some very useful work. The main lines of the conditions of defence and rationing had been laid down. A muster of the fighters had been drawn up and approximate calculations made of the amounts and kinds of obtainable foodstuffs. Provision had also been made for the building of a colony of huts, a hospital shelter, and a larger government barrack. With Ter Haigasun's return the General Council reassembled. Gabriel briefly reported decisions taken to the chief. With Aram Tomasian's energetic support he had managed to get nearly all his suggestions accepted. Ter Haigasun gave his assent to everything, with an absent-looking face and half-closed eyes, as though he did not believe that this new life would be made subject to resolutions. Both lights and men were on the wane, yet their eyes still showed more excitement than fatigue. A glorious morning began to glitter, deep silence descended on them all. The men stared out of the window at the gentle light of this bud of dawn, unfolding petal by petal. The pupils of their eyes shone, strangely dilated. No sound in this selamlik of the night watch save the scraping of two pencils -- Avakian's and the communal clerk's -- engaged in drafting a protocol of the most important resolutions.
When the sun shone full and golden into the room, Gabriel put an end to this comatose dreaming. "I think we've all done our duty tonight, and that nothing's forgotten."
"No. We've forgotten one thing -- the most essential thing." Ter Haigasun remained seated as he spoke, but his resonant voice brought all who had risen back to the table. The priest raised deep, significant eyes. He stressed each syllable:
"The altar."
Then added with calm matter-of-factness that a great wooden altar must be set up, in the center of the camp, as the holy place for prayer, the service of God.
Toward five o'clock -- the sun was high by now -- Gabriel came into Juliette's room on the top story. He found there a number of people who had sat up all night with Madame Bagradian. Stephan, for all his mother's commands and entreaties, had not gone to bed. Now he lay on the sofa, fast asleep. Juliette had spread out a rug over him. She was standing leaning out of the window, with her back to the people in the room. Everyone here gave the impression of being alone, apart from the others. Iskuhi stiffLy sat by the sleeping Stephan. Hovsannah, Pastor Tomasian's wife, whose fears towards morning had driven her to the villa, sat sunk in an armchair, staring out at nothing. Mairik Antaram, less affected than any of the others by this night of alarums and excursions, listened at the open door to the buzz of voices from the council-room. But a man was also in the room. Monsieur Gonzague Maris had been keeping the ladies company all night and, although at the moment nobody noticed him, he seemed to be the only person present who was not lost in his own thoughts. His beautifully brushed hair shone in the sunlight, unruffled by either his vigil or these events. His observant, indeed alert, velvet eyes, under the blunt angle of their brows, strayed here and there among the women. He seemed to be reading every wish, as it passed across these haggard faces, in order, gallantly, to fulfill it.
Gabriel came a few steps nearer Juliette, but stopped and stared at Gonzague. "It's a fact, isn't it, that you have an American passport?"
A mocking, rather scornful twist crept across the lips of the young Greek. "Would you care to look at it, Monsieur? Or my registration papers as a journalist?"
His cool, slender fingers strayed to his pockets. Gabriel had ceased to notice him. He had hold of Juliette's hand. The hand was not cold, but the life had gone out of it, it was shamming dead. All the more vivacious, therefore, the eyes. There was in them a va et vient , an ebb and flow, as always at moments of conflict. Her nostrils quivered a little -- a sign of resistance well known to Gabriel. For the first time in twenty-four hours a cloud of fatigue began to descend on him. He hesitated. Within him, hollowness and the void. They watched each other's eyes in a long scrutiny, man and woman. Where was Gabriel's wife? He could still feel her hand in his, like an object, like unyielding porcelain -- but she herself had slipped away from him. How many days' marches and sea journeys away? But this time-devouring distance, longer and longer every second, not only increased from her to him, but from him to her. Here stood Juliette's tall and beautiful body, so near, so entirely a part of his. Every inch of it must remember his kisses, the long neck, the shoulders, the breasts, the knees and shins, the very toes. This body had born Stephan, had endured for the future of the Bagradians. And now? He could scarcely recognize it. He had lost the image of its nakedness. It was like having forgotten one's name. But bad enough as it was to find some French lady standing here, with whom one had once had a liaison -- this lady had become an enemy, she was on the other side, had a seat on the exterminators' councils, although she was herself an Armenian mother. Gabriel felt something huge and hard rise in his throat, without really noticing it. Only in the last half-second did he free himself of this choking sensation.
"No . . . that isn't possible . . . Juliette."
She put her head slyly on one side. "What isn't possible? What do you mean?"
He stared at the vivid colors outside the window, could distinguish no shapes. For several hours he had been making Armenian speeches, and French now crept back into his mind, outraged. He began, in a hesitant voice, in a hard, unusual accent, which seemed to set Juliette's nerves still more on edge: "I mean . . . you're right, I think . . . you mustn't be dragged into this. . . . Why should you? . . . You remember o
ur talk that night? . . . You must get away. . . . You and Stephan."
She seemed to be weighing her words: "I remember exactly what we said . . . that time. . . . Unheard of as it is, I'm in this with you. . . . I said so, then." She had never used such a tone before, but that was a matter of indifference. She threw a reproachful glance at Hovsannah and Iskuhi, as though in them she recognized the responsible parties.
Gabriel passed his hand twice across his eyes. He was again the man and leader of last night. "There's a way out for you and Stephan. Not a safe or easy one. . . . But you've got a very strong will, Juliette."
A sharp, testing look came into her eyes. Roused wild beasts have such a look before they spring, in one long bound, away past a man or a danger into freedom. Perhaps, now, every impulse to flight was crouched, ready to spring, in Juliette. But scarcely did Gabriel begin speaking when the glowering tension left her face; she became uncertain, dismayed, and sly.
"Gonzague Maris will be leaving us today or tomorrow, said Bagradian with the unanswerable decision of a leader. "He has an American passport. It's invaluable in circumstances like these. I'm sure, Maris, you won't refuse to get my wife and son into safety. You can take the hunting-trap. It's summer, and the roads in the valley are still passable. And I'll give you reserve wheels and all four horses. Knistaphor will go with you, as well as the coachman; those two can get away as your servants. Via Sanderan and El-Maghara it's only five or six hours to Arsus. I reckon you'll have to walk the horses most of the way. The fifteen English miles to the coast, from Arsus to Alexandretta, are a trifle, because you can trot for hours along the sandy beach. In Arsus, I believe, there's a small garrison. It won't be hard for Maris to frighten the onbashi there with his passport."
Kristaphor had come in to ask his master for orders. Gabriel turned to him sharply. "Kristaphor, is it possible to get to Arsus, via Alexandretta, in ten hours with the hunting-trap?"
The steward opened his eyes wide. "Effendi, that depends on the Turks."
Bagradian's voice grew sharper still. "I didn't ask you that, Kristaphor. What I really mean is: Would you trust yourself to get the hanum, my son, and this American gentleman to Alexandretta?"
Sweat stood out on the steward's forehead. He looked like an old man, although he was only forty. It was not quite clear what it was that moved him -- fear of a hazardous adventure, or the sudden prospect of saving himself. His eyes strayed from Bagradian to Gonzague. At last a furtive look of wild joy came into them. But this he controlled at once, either out of respect for Bagradian or so as not to give himself away. "I could do it, Effendi. If the gentleman has a passport, the saptiehs won't be able to touch us."
After this explanation Gabriel sent Kristaphor back to the kitchen to prepare a copious breakfast for everyone. He continued his instructions to Maris. Unluckily there was no American consul in Alexandretta, only German and Austro-Hungarian vice-consuls. He had made inquiries some time previously about these two. The German was called Hoffmann, the Austrian, Belfante; they were both well-disposed European business men, who might be expected to do all they could to help. But since they were both Turkish allies, it would be necessary to use the greatest discretion.
"You'll have to make up some story . . . Juliette is a Swiss, who has lost her passport in a travelling accident. . . . The vice-consuls must get you a railway passport from the local military authorities. . . . In the next few days they'll be opening the branch line to Toprak Kaleh. . . . Hoffmann and Belfante will be sure to know whether the commandant can be bribed. If so, it'll be all right. . . ."
Gabriel had passed a great many sleepless nights thinking out these directions for escape -- rejecting, altering, taking up again. There were various alternatives: one in the Aleppo direction, another to Beirut. Yet now his jerky indications sounded as though he had only just thought of them. Juliette stared; she seemed not to be understanding a single word he said.
"You must think out some plausible tale, Maris. . . . It won't be so easy to make them believe in the accident and the lost passport. . . . But that isn't the main thing. . . . Juliette . . . the main thing is that you, an obvious European, won't be suspected of belonging to us. And that in itself is enough to save you. . . . You'll be taken for an adventuress, or at worst for a spy. . . . There's certainly the danger of that. . . . You may be subjected to inconveniences and even perhaps have to suffer. But, after all, compared to what we're suffering here -- it's scarcely worth mentioning. . . . You must keep the one main object before your eyes -- a way out of this. Free yourself from this people under a curse, with whom you've got involved through no fault of your own."
With these words, which he brought out in a loud staccato, Gabriel's face suddenly lost its look of desperate strain. Juliette bent the upper half of her body a little backwards, an involuntary movement, which seemed to suggest that she was ready to do her husband's will. Gonzague Maris came a few steps nearer the couple -- perhaps to suggest that, though he was ready, he did not want to force any decisions. All the others seemed to accentuate the stiff lifelessness of their attitudes, as if to mitigate their inconvenient presence at such a scene. Gabriel had regained his self-control.
"Troop trains are the only ones still running. You'll have to bribe the commandant of every section of the line. . . . They're usually old people, who've stuck to the old ways, and have nothing to do with Ittihad. . . . Once you're in the train, you'11 have gained a good deal. . . . The hindrances will be frightful. . . . But every mile nearer Istanbul will improve matters. . . . And you'll get to Istanbul even if it takes you weeks. . . . Juliette, there you must go straight to Mr. Morgenthau. . . . You still remember him? . . . The American ambassador."
Gabriel felt in his pocket and drew out an envelope bearing a legal seal. This, too, his last will, he had for weeks been keeping ready for Juliette without her knowledge. He held it out, silently. But slowly she drew back her hands and put them away behind her back. Gabriel, with a slight tilt of his head, pointed through the window at Musa Dagh, which stood as though molten in the strong morning sunlight. "I must go up there. The work's beginning. . . . I'm afraid I shan't be able to get back today."
The outstretched hand, with its sealed letter, sank to his side. What kind of tears were these? . . . And Juliette can't control them," marvelled Gabriel. "Is she crying about herself? Or about me? Is she saying good-bye?" He sensed her grief, but could not recognize it. He glanced round quickly at the others, those silent ones, still scarcely venturing to breathe lest perhaps they influence this decision. Gabriel longed for Juliette, who was standing only a few paces away from him. He spoke clearly and urgently, like a man who must talk to the woman he loves, across foreign countries, into a telephone: "I've always known it would come, Juliette. . . . And yet I've never known it would come like this . . . between you and me."
Her answer came obscurely, drawn up out of depths, outraged, and not torn by any sob. "And so that's what you really thought of me!"
Nobody knew how long Stephan had been awake, nor how much he had clearly heard and understood of this conversation between his parents. Only Iskuhi suddenly stood up, in a startled movement. Juliette knew, and had often marvelled at the fact, that between Gabriel and her son there was a relationship as shy as it was profound. Stephan, usually eager and voluble, was mostly silent in Gabriel's presence, and Gabriel's manner with Stephan was also peculiarly reserved, serious, and sparing of words. Their long stay in Europe had obscured Asia, and yet not stifled it, in the souls of the two Bagradians. (In every house of the seven villages sons, no matter what their age, kissed their fathers' hands every morning and evening. There were even a few strict houses in which, at meals, the father was not waited on by his women, but by his eldest son. And, on his side, the father honored his eldest in a fashion tenderly severe, in accordance with a very ancient tradition, since a son is the next step on the shimmering staircase of eternity.) True that, in the case of Stephan and Gabriel, this relationship had ceased to express itself in the
ancient rituals prescribed; but it remained in a shyness which bound and separated them. Gabriel's attitude to his own father had been the same. He, too, in his father's presence, had always felt this constraint, this solemn shyness, so that he never dared a tender word or a caress. All the more shattering, therefore, the effect of the cry uttered now by Gabriel's son, as he realized that separation threatened them. He flung off the rug, rushed across to his father, and clung to him.
