by Franz Werfel
The müdir smiled. It was his turn now to get what they wanted, without any shouting and rolling of eyes, by sheer astute political methods. His voice had a kind, thoughtful note in it, as though he were trying to give the Armenian his excuse. "How long have you been head-priest in the village, if you'll forgive my question, Ter Haigasun?"
The vague benevolence of this put Ter Haigasun on the alert. He answered softly: "About fifteen years next autumn, after the vintage."
"Fifteen years? Wait. So, in the year of the great revolution, you'd been just eight years in Yoghonoluk. Now try and remember. Didn't you receive some chests of rifles in that year, allotted you to do your share in the struggle against the old government?"
The müdir asked this by sheer intuition; he had only been in office since the war broke out. He supposed inductively that Ittihad would have sought the same allies in Syria as in Macedonia and Anatolia. He did not know he hit the mark. Ter Haigasun turned his head to his acolyte, who had still not dared to come down the church steps. This quick movement beckoned the other priest as witness. "Perhaps your priests may have to do with weapons, Müdir. That is not the case with us."
At this dangerous juncture the village clerk began to whine: "But we've always lived here in peace. This has been our country for thousands of years."
Ter Haigasun stared absently at the müdir. He seemed to be trying hard to remember. "You're right, Müdir! The new government did distribute arms at about that time, in various places all over the empire -- even to Armenians. If you're old enough, you'll also recollect that all communes receiving them had to give a written acknowledgment when they arrived. The Kaimakam, who was a müdir like yourself in those days, organized the distribution. He'll be sure to have kept all the receipts -- one doesn't throw away an important document of that kind. Well, I don't suppose if there'd been any weapons in the villages, he'd have sent you to us without the receipt for them."
This was undeniable. And it was true that in the last few days the Record Office of Antakiya had been turned upside down to find such receipts. Most of the nahiyehs had delivered them -- only the Nahiyeh of Suedia and the surrounding district seemed really to have been sent no weapons in 1908. The Kaimakam certainly declared that he seemed to remember the contrary but could give no proof of it. So that Ter Haigasun had quietly found the right way out.
The conviction he displayed envenomed the pleasantly diplomatic smiles of the müdir, whose voice became edged. "What's a written receipt? A mere scribble. What does that prove, after all these years?"
Ter Haigasun waved an indifferent hand. "If you don't believe us, look and see for yourselves."
The police chief, eager to put an end to this long, superfluous discussion, brought down his whip with a swish on the priest's shoulders. "Yes, we'll look all right, you son of a bitch. But you two are under arrest, you and the Mukhtar. I can do what I like with you. Your lives are at my sole discretion. If we find any weapons, you'll be nailed up on the door of your church. If we don't, I'll have you roasted over a fire."
The saptiehs bound Ter Haigasun and the clerk. The müdir took out a little nail file and got busy on his exquisite fingers. This scraping and polishing worked like a gesture of regret at the necessary harshness of government measures, the indication that he, a civil servant, had nothing at all to do with the armed executive. That, however, did not prevent his giving a bored hint to the policeman.
"Don't forget the churchyard. That's a very favorite hiding place for munitions."
Having said so much, he turned off for a little constitutional, down the village street, leaving all the rest to the skew-eyed muafin. At a word from that ferocious commander the saptiehs split up into little groups. A few remained to guard the prisoners. Ter Haigasun was made to sit on the church steps in his heavily embroidered vestments. Meanwhile, with wild vociferations, the saptiehs began to invade surrounding houses. From behind the walls came the instant din of cracking furniture, splintering glass; windows flew open. Rugs, blankets, cushions, mats, straw chairs, icons, and all the numerous other articles of household gear came whizzing down -- to be surrounded at once by the looting populace. More fragile objects came out after them -- oil lamps, looking glasses, shades, pitchers, jugs, crockery, which smashed under a chorus of regretful yammering from the eager bargain-basement ladies. All the same they grabbed up the fragments and bundled them together in their charshaffes. This din and devastation crept round the square, from house to house, before it continued along the village street. For three horrible hours the two bound men crouched on the steps, before the saptiehs returned from their expeditions. Its results were worse than disappointing -- two old blunderbusses, five rusty sabres, thirty-seven sheathed knives, which really were no more than pruning-knives or large-sized penknives. The saptiehs, either because they had no spades, or were too lazy to have used them, had refrained from desecrating the churchyard. The police chief bellowed and raved. This cunning swine of a priest had cheated him of a report which ought to have bristled with arms. What a setback for the Antakiya police! Ter Haigasun was jerked to his feet again. The staring and the swollen eye both glowered on him. The breath that came puffing in his face stank of hate and ill-digested mutton fat. He turned his head, with a little grimace of disgust. In the next instant two blows with the hard butt of a leather whip had caught him full across the cheek.
For a few seconds the priest lost consciousness, swayed, came awake again, stood amazed, waiting for the blood to flow. At last it gushed out of his nose and mouth. A strange, almost blissful sensation possessed him as he stood there, bending his head far forward, that his poor blood might not stain the garment of Christ's priest. Some distant angelic voice seemed to say in his mind: "This blood is good blood."
And it was, in effect, good blood, since the sight of it made a certain impression on the young müdir from Salonika, just back from his afternoon siesta. He was a fiery advocate of extermination but did not like to have to witness it personally. Ittihad, in this müdir, had by no means its most relentless exponent. He struck a balance, avoiding any display of sentimentality. Time pressed. There were six more villages to visit. And, since even the muafin had stilled the itch to assert his position and prove his authority, he waved magnanimously. The priest and clerk were set free. They were sent home. So that, in Yoghonoluk, the day had passed off smoothly enough, far more smoothly than such days usually did, in these towns and villages. Only two men, who made some show of resisting domiciliary inspection, were shot in the process -- only two young girls got raped by the saptiehs.
Gabriel Bagradian had to wait a full twenty-four hours before it became the turn of himself and his house. Once again they sat up all night. Exhaustion forced its way through their limbs, like a soft mass, stiffening slowly. The many inhabitants of the villa -- Juliette, Iskuhi, Hovsannah, Gonzague Maris, who had recently taken up his quarters there -- kept dropping off to sleep for minutes together, where they sat. This vigil was entirely aimless, since the saptiehs' visit was not expected before next morning, nor indeed even before midday. Yet nobody thought of leaving the others and lying down. Bed -- that soft kingdom of pillows, that cool security protected by its draped mosquito net, that loving mother, protector of the civilized human being -- how remote it seemed, even now! They had lost their right to such oblivion. When, early next morning, the cook Hovhannes sent fresh coffee, eggs, cold chicken, on fine porcelain dishes, into the dining-room, they were almost uneasy in spite of their hunger and thirst. They ate quickly, as if the house might fall about their ears before they had finished. Had they still any right to eat up such good things in the old way, without a thought? Surely it was unwise to encroach on the provisions of the Damlayik. All their thoughts were centered on Musa Dagh. Gabriel had on his Turkish officer's uniform. He was wearing his sword and medals. He would receive these saptiehs as their superior.
Gonzague Maris advised most strongly against it: "Your military fancy dress will only get on their nerves. I don't think it'll be
to your advantage."
Gabriel was unmoved: "I'm an Ottoman officer. I've duly reported at my regiment, and so far no one has degraded me."
"That'll be done soon enough."
So Maris spoke, but his thought added: "There's nothing you can do for these Armenians. They're solemn lunatics -- always will be."
At about eleven that morning Iskuhi suddenly collapsed. First a brief faint, then uncontrollable shivering. She dragged herself out of the room, insistently refusing any help. Juliette wanted to go after her, but Hovsannah raised a warning hand.
"Let her be. . . . It's Zeitun. . . . She's terrified. . . She wants to hide. We're having to go through it all a second time." And the pastor's young wife hid her face in her hands, her heavy body shaken with sobs.
This was about the moment at which the police squad, the muafin and the müdir turned into the grounds of Villa Bagradian. The sentries posted by Gabriel came breathlessly scurrying to announce them. Six saptiehs were placed outside the doors of the garden wall, six more in the garden, six in the stable-yard. The müdir, the muafin, and four men came into the house. The Turks looked fagged. In the last twenty-four hours they had played havoc in the villages, looting and breaking up the insides of houses, arresting men and thrashing them till they bled, they had done a little raping, and so in part actually realized the festive program arranged for them by the government. Luckily, therefore, their thirst for action was somewhat slaked. This huge Bagradian family mansion, with its thick walls, cool rooms, full of strange-looking furniture, its silencing carpets, acted no doubt as a kind of restraint. The red window curtains of the selamlik had been drawn. Intruders into the rich dusk of the room found themselves in the midst of what looked like an august gathering of European ladies and gentlemen, respectfully surrounded by their servants. This impressive company waited stiffly and never moved. Juliette kept fast hold of Stephan's hand. Only Gonzague lit a cigarette. Gabriel came a step nearer the committee, his sword caught up, in prescribed officer's fashion, in his left hand. The field uniform, which he had had made in Beirut before he left, made him look taller. He was certainly the foremost man in the room, and this quite apart from his inches. Gonzague seemed to have been wrong. The uniform was having its effect. The police chief glanced uneasily at this officer with the row of medals on his tunic. The fierce eye clouded with melancholy, the half-shut one closed up altogether. Nor did the freckled müdir seem altogether happy in his part. It had been far easier to be a convincingly watchful providence in the stuffy rooms of wood-carvers, silk-weavers. Here in these civilized surroundings the delicate nerves of Salonika were providing a handicap. Instead of striding pitilessly on to take possession of this cursed house in the name of his race, of Ittihad, of the state, the young gentleman nodded and clutched at his fez. He began uncomfortably to remember a certain talk with Bagradian in his office. His moral conflict caused delay and prevented his finding the right opening. Gabriel watched him with such contemptuous gravity that really the tables seemed almost turned -- it was as though a tall, warlike Armenia were facing a red-haired, cringing, half-breed Turkey. Bagradian seemed to grow and grow, as the müdir suffered under his dwarfishness, which so inadequately embodied the heroic quality of his race. In the end he could manage to do nothing but produce a vast official document, against which, so to speak, to steady himself, and rap out his business as brusquely as possible.
"Gabriel Bagradian, born Yoghonoluk? You are the owner of this house, the head of this family? As an Ottoman subject you are liable to the decrees and enactments of the Kaimakam of Antioch. You, together with the rest of the population of this nahiyeh, from Suedia to Musa Dagh, are ordered to set out eastwards, on a day shortly to be specified. Your entire family to go with you. You have no right to raise objections of any kind against the general order of migration -- neither as concerns your own person, nor those of your wife and children, nor for any other member of your establishment. . . ."
The müdir so far had behaved as though he were reading an incantation; now he squinted up, over the document. "I am to draw your attention to the fact that your name is on the list of political suspects. You are closely connected with the Dashnakzagan party. Therefore, even on the convoy, you are to be subjected to close daily inspection. Any attempt at escape, any insubordination against government or executive orders, or infringement of transport discipline, will render, not only you, but your relatives, liable to instant execution."
Gabriel seemed about to reply. The müdir refused to let him speak. His stilted and involved official phrasing, in such contrast to the usual floweriness of the East, seemed to inflate him with satisfaction.
"By extraordinary edict of His Excellency, the Wali of Aleppo: Armenians on the march are not permitted to make use of such conveyances, sumpter or saddle animals as they may think fit. In certain exceptional cases leave may be obtained to make use of any customary vehicle of the countryside, or of an ass, for the weak and ailing. Have you any requests for such special treatment?"
Gabriel pressed his sword hilt against his thigh. The words dropped like stones from his lips: "I shall go the way of my whole people."
By now the müdir had entirely shed his first embarrassment. He could put some suave concern into his tone. "So as not to expose you to the dangerous temptation of either trying to absent yourself, or, later, of leaving the convoy -- I hereby take possession of your horses, your carriage, and all other beasts of transport."
Then came the usual procedure, but slightly modified. The police chief was still not quite sure how to deal with the uniform, sword, and medals of this prospective deportee. He growled out the usual question about arms. Gabriel sent Kristaphor and Missak to fetch in the long-barrelled Bedouin flintlocks hung up as ornament in his hall. (This had of course been arranged; all the useful weapons in the house were by now safely on the Damlayik.) Scornful laughter bubbled out of the police chief, as out of a kettle on the boil.
The müdir thoughtfully tapped these romantic fiintlocks. "You surely aren't going to tell me, Effendi, that you live here in this solitude without weapons?"
Gabriel Bagradian sought the lashless stare of the müdir and held it steadily. "Why not? This is the first time my house has been broken into since it was built in 1870."
The freckled one shrugged regretful shoulders. Such recalcitrance made it impossible to do anything to mitigate Bagradian's fate. And so, much against his will, he was forced to leave the field clear for the sharper process of armed authority. The house to be searched for arms! The muafin metaphorically rolled up his sleeves, though the officer's uniform worn by this outcast still troubled his sergeant-major's mind, filling him with a puzzled irritation. The staring right eye could not detach itself from the medals on Bagradian's chest; apparently the chap had served with distinction. It was quite impossible to decide how this deportee ought to be handled by an Imperial Ottoman employee. To hide these irritable doubts he conducted the search with as much din and pother as he could -- went stumping at the head of his saptiehs, with the müdir close upon their heels yet still refusing to be involved. Gabriel, Avakian, and Kristaphor followed. The Turks nosed in every corner, knocked on the walls, overturned the furniture, smashed whatever was breakable. Yet it was easy to see that this vandalism, perpetrated as a matter of course, as if by mistake, hurt their self-esteem. They were used to making a straight, clean job of it. But now their method of smashing bottles in the cellar, with their rifle-butts, was most perfunctory. Nor was there any real brio in their method of dealing with whatever flasks, jugs, dishes, wine jars they found. (The most important provisions had all been removed.) And these disillusioned saptiehs had expected a better cellar in such a palace. Since these were all they could find, they took away a couple of empty petrol tins, on which glittering toys the Oriental sets great store. Then, sweating and disgruntled, the warriors took the staircase by assault and began to rummage the upper story. Here they did most in Juliette's bedroom and dressing-room, the scents of which had attracted
them so sharply from a distance that the other rooms were entirely forgotten. The big wardrobe was prized open. Dirty brown fists snatched last year's Paris models off their pegs -- frocks like the softest petals, which now lay strewn in crumpled twists and heaps about the floor. A particularly evil-looking gendarme pawed them with both feet, like a stolidly rampaging bull, as though set on stamping these European reptiles into earth. Nightdresses, batiste underwear, shifts, and stockings met the same fate. The sight of these intimate garments was too much for the police chief. He plunged both hands into the white and rose-colored foam and buried his punchinello face in it. The müdir, to indicate the fact that the legislature had nothing in common with the executive, went dreamily over to the window to look at the garden. An especially zealous saptieh had flung himself on the untouched bed and was engaged, since he could think of no other method, in tearing open the pillows with his teeth. Perhaps there was a bomb among the feathers. There was always so much talk of Armenian bombs. Another swung his club over the washing-stand. Crystal flasks, bowls, powder boxes, saucers, came smashing down, giving out wave on wave of heady perfume.
