by Franz Werfel
"My friend, I must ask you particularly to beg Juliette Hanum not to come back to the hospital tent. I shall be losing a very good assistant. But frankly her health is more important to me than her help. Even apart from any danger of infection, I'm worried about your wife, my son! We others are a hardy sort of people, and scarcely a mile away from our homes. But your wife has changed a good deal since we've been on the Damlayik. She sometimes gives me very queer answers, and she seems not only to suffer physically. She isn't strong enough for this life. How could she possibly be? I advise you to look after her more. The best thing for her would be to stay in bed all day, and read novels, and get her mind far away from here. Luckily Krikor could supply a whole townful of ladies with enough French novels to make them forget their troubles."
Altouni's warning startled Gabriel into a sense of guilt. He remembered that it was almost two days since he had last spoken to Juliette.
Hapeth Shatakhian now began a vehement complaint at the undisciplined state of the boys. Impossible to make them come to school. Ever since Stephan Bagradian and Haik had captured the howitzers, the whole cohort of youth had got out of hand. They felt themselves full-grown fighters, and were constantly cheeky to the grown-ups.
The mukhtars fully endorsed the teacher's complaint. "Where are the days," yammered he of Bitias, "when boys weren't even allowed to speak to men, but had to use humble signs in addressing them?"
But Ter Haigasun did not feel the problem of sufficient immediate urgency to discuss. Suddenly he asked Bagradian: "How does our defence really stand? What's the longest you'll be able to hold out against the Turks?"
"I can't answer that, Ter Haigasun. Defence always depends on attack."
Ter Haigasun turned shyly resolute eyes, the eyes of a priest, directly on Gabriel. "Gabriel Bagradian, tell us what you really think."
"I have no reason to want to spare the Council, Ter Haigasun. I'm perfectly sure our position is desperate."
Then Gabriel made an important suggestion. Absurd as the hope of rescue might appear, the Council must not allow itself to await inevitable destruction in effortless indolence. To be sure the sea looked as horribly empty as though ships had never been invented. But no stone must be left unturned. And after all, God knew whether, against all probability, there might not be an Allied torpedo boat outside the Gulf of Alexandretta.
"It's our duty to suppose there is, and it's our duty to act on the supposition, and not miss a possible chance. And then what about Mr. Jackson, the American Chief Consul in Aleppo? Has he heard of these Christian fighters in need on Musa Dagh? It's our duty to let him know about us and demand protection from the American government."
So Gabriel explained his plan: two groups of messengers would have to be sent out, one to Alexandretta, the other to Aleppo -- the best swimmers to Alexandretta, the best runners to Aleppo. The swimmers' task would be easier, since the Gulf of Alexandretta was only thirty-five English miles to the north, and they could find their way across the summits of almost deserted mountains. Their real object would be to swim out to any warship in the gulf. It would need the greatest strength and determination. The runners to Aleppo would not need to be so determined, but they would have an eighty-five-mile road to cover and would be able to walk only at night, never using the highroad, and in constant danger of being shot. If these couriers managed to reach Jackson's house, the camp might be as good as saved.
Gabriel's suggestion, which after all afforded some vague hope of rescue, and served in any case to alleviate the impending certainty of death, was most eagerly and generally discussed. It was decided to send out two swimmers. One young man might be enough to send to Aleppo. There was no sense in uselessly exposing lives. Two people can hide better than three, and one person finds it easier to slip past saptiehs and customs officials than two. On Ter Haigasun's suggestion, the swimmers and the runners were to be chosen from among the volunteers. The runners (either one or both, it was still not decided) would be given a letter to take to the American consul; the swimmers, another addressed to the suppositious naval commander. To prevent these letters from falling into Turkish hands, should either of the messengers get arrested, the leather belts which the couriers wore were to be split open and the letters sewn up inside them.
Ter Haigasun appointed a day and hour at which to demand volunteers, and arranged the method of the announcement. The münadirs should be instructed to drum it that same evening around the camp. Gabriel offered to write the letter to Jackson. Aram Tomasian undertook the other, to the ship. He at once went apart from the rest and drafted the text to give to the swimmers, in spite of all the noise of a new point under discussion. From time to time he seemed carried away by his composition, would suddenly spring up and read out a passage, with the majestic intonation of a parson learning his sermon by heart. It did not take him long to finish it. It has been preserved as a document of the forty days:
To any English, American, French, Russian or Italian admiral, captain or other commander whom this may reach:
Sir! We beseech you in the name of God and human brotherhood -- we, the population of seven Armenian villages, in all about five thousand souls, who have taken refuge on that mountain plateau of Musa Dagh, known as the Damlayik, and three leagues northwest of Suedia above the coastline.
We have taken refuge here from barbarous Turkish persecutions. We have taken up arms to preserve the honor of our women.
Sir! You no doubt have heard of the Young Turkish policy which seeks to annihilate our people. Under the false appearance of a migration law, on the lying pretext of some non-existent movement for revolution, they are turning us out of our houses, robbing us of our farms, orchards, vineyards and all our movable and immovable goods and chattels. This, to our personal knowledge, has already been done in the town of Zeitun and its thirty-three dependent villages.
Pastor Aram went on to describe his experiences on the convoy between Zeitun and Marash. He told of the edict of banishment issued against the seven villages, and gave vehement descriptions of the desperate plight of the villagers in camp on the Damlayik. His appeal ended as follows:
Sir, we beg you in the name of Christ!
Bring us, we implore you, either to Cyprus or any other free territory. Our people are not idlers. We want to earn our bread with the hardest possible work insofar as we are given a chance to do it. But if this is too much for you to grant us, then at least take our women, take our children, take our old people. At least supply those of us able to bear arms with guns, munitions, and enough food to defend ourselves to the last breath in our bodies against our enemies.
We implore you, sir, not to delay until it is too late!
In the name of all the Christians up here
Your most obedient servant,
Pastor A.T.
This manifesto was drafted in two languages -- on one side of the sheet in French, on the other in English. The two texts were carefully revised under the aegis of Hapeth Shatakhian, that accomplished linguist and stylist. But the task of copying them out, in minute and beautifully shaped letters, was, strangely enough, not entrusted to teacher Oskanian, famed far and wide as possessor of the best calligraphy, in every alphabet, but to Avakian, a far less expert artist. Hrand Oskanian leapt out of his seat and glowered at Ter Haigasun as though he were going to challenge him to a duel in front of the assembled Council. This new humiliation bereft him of words, his lips moved but could form no sounds. But the priest, his mortal enemy, only smiled blandly at him.
"Sit down and be quiet, Teacher Oskanian, you write far too beautiful a hand for this job. Nobody who saw all your squiggles and flourishes could ever believe our position was desperate."
The black-haired dwarf advanced on Ter Haigasun with his head high. "Priest! You've mistaken your man. God knows I am not anxious to do your scribbling!" He shook his fists in Ter Haigasun's face as he added in a voice unsteady with rage: "There's no calligraphy left in these hands, Priest! These hands have given proof of somethi
ng very different, much as it riles you!"
Apart from which absurd little incident the sitting had been held in perfect amity. Even the sceptical Ter Haigasun could hope that, whatever happened in the near future, peace at least would reign unbroken among the elect.
Again after that day's council Gabriel went to look for his wife, both in her tent and the place where she received her visitors. Here, too, Oskanian and Shatakhian had come in vain, as they had so often in these last days, to pay their respects to Madame. Hrand Oskanian especially had been extremely disappointed at not being able to display himself to Juiiette as the Lion of the South Bastion. He could only set his teeth and admit that a tailor's dummy like Gonzague was more welcome than a powder-blackened hero. But mistrustful and silent as he was, he never got as far as suspicion. Madame Bagradian was too supremely far above him to allow of one such unseemly thought. When Gabriel caught sight of the teachers, he turned away quickly. He wandered indecisively on from Three-Tent Square towards the "Riviera." Where, he wondered, would Juliette be at about this time? He had turned towards the Town Enclosure when Stephan ran across his path. The boy was as usual surrounded by the whole Haik gang. The dour Haik himself walked on a few paces ahead, as if to set a distance, proclaim his leadership, his own doughty independence. But the poor crippled Hagop kept obstinately beside Stephan while the others swarmed noisily round them. Sato lurked as usual in the rear. The boys paid no heed at all to the presence of the commander-in-chief; they tried to swarm past him without saluting, without even noticing he was there. Gabriel called sharply after his son. That conqueror of the guns detached himself, came slouching out from among his fellows, and approached his father with the solemn pomposity of an ape, which he had managed to learn from his new comrades. His tousled hair hung over his forehead. His face was scarlet and damp with sweat. His eyes looked filmed over with the very intoxication of conceit. Even his kilt was stained and torn with peculiar heroism.
Gabriel sternly inquired: "Well, what are you messing about here for?"
Stephan gurgled and looked round vaguely. "We're running -- having a game . . . we're off duty."
"Having a game? Big chaps like you? What are you playing?"
"Oh, nothing special -- only . . . playing, Dad!"
As he gave this disconnected information, Stephan eyed his father rather strangely. He seemed to look up at him and say: Dad, why are you trying to keep me down out of the position I've had such trouble to get, among all these chaps? If you snub me now, they'll all begin ragging me. Gabriel did not understand the look.
"You don't look like a human being, Stephan. Do you really dare to let your mother see you in that state?"
The boy did not answer, he only stared at the ground in anguish. So far at least his father had been speaking French. But the order that followed came in Armenian; it was spoken so that the whole camp heard: "Off you go now, straight to the tent and wash, and change your clothes! And report to me tonight when you're fit to be seen!"
Then, when Gabriel had gone a few angry steps further south, he suddenly stopped. Had the boy disobeyed him? He was almost certain that he had, and indeed when, after a while, he went back to the sheikh-tent, he found no Stephan.
Gabriel tried to think of a punishment. This was not merely a case of a boy's disobeying his father, it was a breach of camp discipline. But it would not be easy to punish Stephan. Gabriel went across to his trunk, which was kept in his tent, and pulled out a book. Dr. Altouni's advice that Juliette should read, and so get her mind off gruesome reality, had given him the same inclination. Perhaps, for the next few, slack hours, he could manage to forget reality, both outside and inescapably within him. For today, nothing need be feared. The day wore on. Scouts from the various outposts came in every hour with their reports. Nothing new in the valley. A patrol had ventured nearly as far as Yoghonoluk and returned to report that it had not met a single saptieh. Gabriel glanced at the title of his French novel. It was by Charles Louis Philippe, a book he had enjoyed, though he only half remembered it. But it was sure to be full of little cafés, with tables and chairs, out on the pavement. Wide sunbeams on dusty Faubourg boulevards. A tiny court with an acacia and a moss-green, closed-in fountain in the middle. And this poor court had more of the spring in it than all the glamorous myrtles and rhododendrons, anemones and wild narcissi, of Musa Dagh on a March day. Old dark wooden stairs, worn smooth as sea shells. Invisible footsteps clattering up them.
As Gabriel opened the book, a little three-cornered note fell out of it. The child Stephan had written it a few years previously. That, too, had been in August. Gabriel had attended the big conference assembled in Paris between the Young Turks and Dashnakzagan. Juliette and the child had been staying in Montreux. At that famous "congress of fraternization" it had been resolved that the liberty-loving youth of both peoples should act side by side to build up a new fatherland. Gabriel had, as we know, tried to keep his promise by having himself, with other idealists, inscribed as a reservist officer on the lists of the Istanbul training school when war clouds gathered over Turkey. Stephan's little letter had lain since then, innocent of any gruesome future, within pages describing the Paris of Charles Louis Philippe. It had been written with immense pain, in stiff, French, copy-book letters:
Mon cher papa! How are you? Will you stay a long time in Paris? When are you coming to see us? Maman and I miss you very much. Here it is very pretty. Lots of kisses from
Your loving and grateful son,
Stephan
Gabriel, seated on the bed in which Gonzague Maris slept, examined the shaky childish handwriting. How could that prettily dressed little boy sitting in a sunny room at Montreux, scrawling on Juliette's thick linen notepaper (which retained its scent), be one with the young scamp of an hour ago? Gabriel, as he sat there thinking of Stephan's restless animal-eyes, of the throaty chatter of the herd, did not know in the least that he himself had been transformed as much as his son. A hundred details of that far-off day in August came back to life in him, darting into his mind from that simple letter. No massacre, no gruesome brutality, seemed more poignant than this withered leaf, shed from a life that might never have been.
After attempting the first five pages of Charles Louis Philippe, Gabriel shut the book. He did not think that now, as long as he lived, he would ever be able again to fix his thoughts on one. It would be just as impossible for a navvy to turn his hands to minute carving. With a sigh he stood up off Gonzague's bed, and smoothed down the coverlet. He noticed then how, across the bed end, Maris had laid out his clean clothes, carefully washed. Thread, scissors, mending wool, lay beside them; for the Greek did all his own darning and mending. Gabriel could not tell why the sight of this washing warned him of some approaching departure. He went back to his trunk and threw in the novel. But he pocketed the child Stephan's letter. He came out of the tent thinking of the station at Montreux. Juliette and little Stephan had awaited him. Juliette had carried a red sunshade.
Gabriel stood outside Hovsannah's tent. He asked through the chink in the door if he might come in to see the new mother. Mairik Antaram asked him inside. In spite of all Mairik's efforts the baby seemed determined not to flourish. Its tiny face was still a brownish color, and as wrinkled as immediately after birth. Its wide-open eyes stared without seeing.
