by Franz Werfel
THE OLD SHEIKH: "That is true, but beside the point." (To the Captain): "Did these Armenians see in you, a Turk, only an enemy, or could you manage to gain their confidence?"
THE CAPTAIN: "Their dehumanized misery is so great that they have ceased to be able to distinguish between friend and enemy. . . . Whenever I came into a camp, they came round me in swarms. . . . Usually there were only women and old men, all half naked. . . . They roared with hunger. . . . The women scraped up my horse's dung to pick out the undigested oat grains. . . . Then later they almost tore me to bits with their prayers. . . . I'm loaded up with petitions, and messages, which I can't deliver. . . . Here, for instance, this letter . . ."
(He finds a filthy slip in his pocket and shows it to Johannes Lepsius.)
"This was written by one of your Christian priests, of your persuasion. He was squatting beside his wife's unburied corpse . . . she'd lain there three days. . . . A very small, thin man, there was scarcely anything left of him. His name was Harutiun Nokhudian, his home was somewhere on the Syrian coast. Most of the people in his neighborhood took refuge on the top of a mountain. I promised to have the letter delivered to them. But how?"
JOHANNES LEPSIUS (petrified by the horror of all this, has long since ceased to feel his cramped legs under him; on the letter which he takes from the captain he can read only the inscription, written in big Armenian letters, "To the priest of Yoghonoluk, Ter Haigasun"): "So even this request will have to go unfulfilled, like all the others."
AGHA RIFAAT BEREKET (his amber rosary has vanished into his sleeves; this frail old gentleman from Antakiya bows several times in little, swaying movements to the sheikh): "No, this request shall be granted. . . . I myself will take Nokhudian's letter to his friends. In the next few days I shall be on the Syrian coast."
THE OLD SHEIKH (turns with a little smile to Lepsius): "What an instance of God's power! Two brothers, strangers to one another, meet here, in this great city, so that the prayer of a wretched man may be granted. . . . But now you probably know us better. This is my friend, the Agha from Antakiya. . . . He's not in the prime of life, as you are; he has seventy years on his shoulders. And yet, for months, he has worked and travelled on behalf of the ermeni millet -- good Turk as he is. Why, he's even obtained audiences with the Sultan and the Sheikh ül Islam on their behalf."
AGHA RIFAAT BEREKET: "He who guides my heart knows its purposes. But unluckily the others are very strong, and we very weak."
THE OLD SHEIKH: "We are weak because these lackeys of Europe have stolen religion from our people. It is as the Türbedar said it, though in harsh words. Now you know the truth. But the weak are not afraid. I cannot tell whether your efforts for the Armenians are dangerous to you. But they can be very dangerous indeed both to the Agha and the captain. If a traitor or a government spy denounces them, they may disappear into jail forever."
JOHANNES LEPSIUS (bends over Sheikh Achmed's hand, but the kiss remains uncompleted, since the pastor finds that he cannot conquer his shame and reserve): "I bless this hour, and I bless your brother Nezimi, who brought me here. I had given up hope. But now I can hope again, that, in spite of all convoys and concentration camps, some part of the Armenian nation may still be saved, with your help."
THE OLD SHEIKH: "That rests with God alone. . . . You must arrange a meeting with the Agha."
JOHANNES LEPSIUS: "Is there any chance of saving these men on Musa Dagh?"
THE TüRBEDAR (angry again, this sympathy with rebels is too much for his Osmanic heart): "The Prophet says: 'He who goes to the judge to plead for a traitor is hünself a traitor. Since, wittingly or unwittingly, he stirs up disorders.'"
THE OLD SHEIKH (for the first time he has lost his dry shrewdness of manner; his eyes look a long way out, his words are indecipherably ambiguous): "Perhaps those who are lost are already in safety, and those in safety already lost."
Then the sheikh's servant and the thick-set porter with the kind eyes brought coffee and lokum, Turkish sweetmeats. Sheikh Achmed with his own hands presented the coffee cup to his guest. Johannes Lepsius would have liked, before saying good-bye, to turn back their conversation to the Armenians. But he could not succeed. The old sheikh impassively refused all further discussion. But the Agha Rifaat Bereket promised the pastor to visit him that same night in his hotel. In three days he would have to leave Istanbul.
At the Seraskeriat, Dr. Nezimi Bey took leave of Lepsius. They had walked the whole long way almost in silence. The Turk imagined that what he had just seen so impressed the pastor that his thoughts were too eagerly occupied to enable him to say a word. That was true, but in a different sense. A man set on one object has his head full to bursting of new ideas. The pastor was not so much thinking of this mysterious new world in which he had just been spending a few hours. He was thinking of the breach into the interior, which such miraculous hazard had suddenly opened. He kept squeezing Nezimi's hand, to express his thanks, without saying a word. And such words as Nezimi said passed almost unheeded. The Turk was advising him to pay great attention, in the next few days, to all the minor incidents of his life. Any man honored by Sheikh Achmed with "The test of the heart" would be sure to encounter many incidents which, if seen in their true light, would be full of meaning. Alone, outside the Seraskeriat, Lepsius stared up at the windows of Enver's citadel. They glittered in the late afternoon sunlight. He rushed for a cab. "To the Armenian patriarchate!" Now all the spies in the world meant nothing to him. He burst in on the cadaverous patriarch. Monsignor Saven's thought was miraculously on its way to being realized. Old-Turkish circles were helping the Armenians, though nobody had known it so far. The best among the Turks were enflamed with inextinguishable hate against their atheistic leaders. This fire must be used for their special purposes. . . . Monsignor Saven put his fingers to his lips imploringly. Not so loud -- for Christ's sake! The pastor's quick mind was organizing a vast new scheme of assistance. The patriarchate was to get into secret touch with the great orders of dervishes, and so lay the foundations of a manifold and extensive work of assistance, which should grow till it became a definite rescue work. The religious strata among the Turks must be strengthened in their fight by a new, strong impulse, and powerful opposition to Enver and Talaat developed in the people itself. Monsignor Saven was far less optimistic than Dr. Lepsius. None of all this was unknown to him, he whispered, in a scarcely audible voice. Not all orders of dervishes were of this kind. The greatest, most influential, for instance, the Mevlevi and Rufai, were blind haters of the Armenians. Though they detested Enver, Talaat, and the other members of the Committee, they had nothing against the extermination. Lepsius refused to let his confidence be shaken. They must grasp any hands held out to them. He suggested that the patriarch himself should go in secret to see Sheikh Achmed. Nezimi Bey would arrange a meeting. But Monsignor Saven was so horrified at this daring suggestion that he seemed relieved when the temperamental pastor left his room.
Lepsius dismissed his araba at the farther side of the bridge. He would walk the short way back to the Tokatlyan. After months of heavy depression, he felt today as marvellously lighthearted as though he had some great success to look back on. Yet really he had done nothing at all, only glimpsed a faint chink of light, from behind the iron door. His mind was so full of projects that he walked on further and further, past his hotel, along the Grande Rue de Péra. A deliciously cool evening had descended. A clear green sky shimmered above the tree tops of a park-like boulevard. This was one of the best parts of the town. Here there were even street lamps, which now began to light up, one by one. A car, at a moderate pace, came on towards him. It was lit up within. An officer and a fat civilian sat talking excitedly. Sudden vague terror parched Lepsius's throat. He had recognized Enver Pasha -- the glittering youth with the fresh complexion and long, girlish eyelashes. And his neighbor, with his fez on one side and his white waistcoat, was no doubt Talaat Bey, as that minister appeared in many photographs. So now Lepsius was again facing the great enemy. In h
is heart, strangely enough, he had always wanted to. He stood enthralled, looking after the car. It had not gone on a hundred and fifty yards before two shots rang out, one after another. A jarring of brakes. Indistinct figures sprang out of the shadows. Sharp voices began to brawl. Were they calling for help? The pastor shivered in every limb. An attempt to assassinate! Had fate overtaken Enver and Talaat? And would he be called as a witness? He was drawn irresistibly to the scene. He did not want to see, yet could do no other. But he came reluctantly nearer the shouting group. Someone had lit a garish acetylene lamp, around which idlers gaped, giving loud advice. The chauffeur lay, cursing and grunting, under the car. But Enver and Talaat Bey stood peacefully side by side, puffing cigarette smoke. It was merely a puncture. The front tires had met some sharp obstacle on the road and burst; the machine was damaged. But the really ridiculous thing was that Enver had ceased to be Enver, Talaat, Talaat. The one had become a very ordinary-looking officer, the other a still more insignificant business man or civil servant. The white piqué waistcoat was the one reality that remained. Lepsius cursed his fervid imagination, which could raise such spooks. "I'm crazy," he grunted to himself.
But when, an hour later, Agha Rifaat Bereket sat in his room, he had quite forgotten the incident of the car. The Agha, in his turban and long blue cloak, was most out of place in this European hotel bedroom. Certainly he had nothing in common with the hard wooden chair on which he sat, the harsh, cold light of electric globes. Lepsius could see that this old gentleman, the Syrian caliph of the Sheikh of the Thieves of Hearts, was making a considerable sacrifice. Lepsius begged him to take five hundred pounds of his German relief fund, and use them, if he possibly could, on behalf of the men on Musa Dagh. Yet, in this, the pastor did not act as rashly as many might suppose. Those little twinkling hands, he could see for himself, would be a safer deposit for his money, and probably would put it to better use, than all the powerless consulates and missions. Perhaps, at last, it could really be spent as they intended. Rifaat Bereket wrote out a very formal receipt, in elaborate calligraphy. It covered an entire page. He handed it ceremoniously to the German.
"I will send you a letter with particulars of all my purchases."
"But -- should you not succeed in getting your supplies on to the mountain?"
"I have very good documents. . . . Don't be afraid. Whatever I have left over I will share out among the concentration camps. And you shall receive particulars."
Lepsius asked him to address his letter to Nezimi Bey. That would be safer. He must, by Allah's mercy, be prudent! They could not risk this new way being blocked.
"So after all, I haven't come back to Istanbul for nothing." Dr. Lepsius, back in his room, having conducted the Agha to the street, was convinced of that. His pious visitor had left something of himself behind in the little bedroom, a deeper peace than heretofore. In the certain knowledge that today his work had advanced, the pastor got into bed. But now the men in the tekkeh came to life again, their strength, their eyes and faces, came crowding in on him. Till now he had not realized so clearly how much more forceful, larger than life, were these personalities, which today it had been granted him to meet: Sheikh Achmed, his son, the Türbedar. His thoughts strayed off into long disputations with them, which brought him sleep. But sleep did not last. Dull thunder woke him in the night. His windowpanes were rattling very oddly. This clatter was a familiar sound. The guns of the French and English fleets knocked for admission. He sat up in bed. His hand fumbled for the switch. But he could not find it. It was like a sharp stab in the heart. Had not Nezimi warned him to scrutinize every little incident? Anything might have its special significance. That "attempt" on Enver's and Talaat's lives. It had been a facet of truth, no empty delusion, but in deep organic relationship with Sheikh Achmed's power. Lepsius longed to close his eyes against some glimpse of a God-forsaken pit which gaped beneath him. A deep awe invaded his spirit. Had he been granted a glimpse into the future, or only surrendered to some obscurely murderous thought in himself? The guns growled. The panes rattled. Absurd! Absurd! he tried to tell himself. But his feverish heart already knew that God had re-established His justice, before the scales had broken under their load.
2. STEPHAN SETS OUT AND RETURNS
Haik and the swimmers set forth under the eyes of the whole people, gathered at twilight round the North Saddle to see them go. It was the first time Gabriel had been absent from a public occasion of such magnitude. Yet nobody seemed to miss the leader, the man who had beaten back the Turks in three great battles, the general whom these folk of the seven Villages had to thank for the few remaining thousand breaths they might still be permitted by fate to draw.
But Stephan had lost most prestige. What a day of disasters! First, he had not been allowed to volunteer. He, the conqueror of the howitzers, had been considered too inferior to go with Haik! And not even that was enough! His father had rated him in public, degraded him in front of Iskuhi, in front of all the other fellows, whom he had scarcely won over to his side, to the rank of weakling. It was very natural indeed that the ambitious Stephan, wounded in his honor as he was, should not have realized the anxiety concealed in a few harsh words, and only felt contempt and dislike in them.
And yet, even so, it might all have come right again, had Maman, that very afternoon, not completed his father's cruel work. In spite of the coarse and hideous words, whose meaning Stephan could only half understand, he had still no real conception of the incident, so pregnant in consequences. Or rather, whenever he tried to visualize it, his thoughts became confused, his grief intolerable, as it struggled nearer and nearer the truth. Then, like a runner, he clenched both fists in front of his chest, astounded that a heart should have room in it for so much burning agony. All ambition and vanity had been silenced. Only this burning grief remained. Stephan had quarreled with his father. He had lost his mother, in some obscure fashion more grievous than death. As the hours dragged on, it grew clearer and clearer to him that he could go back neither to one nor the other. In a curious way he felt cut off from them. They had become enemies. For that very reason he must not go back to them, no matter how much all the child in him might cry out with longing to do so. Even before he took his great decision, he had made up his mind to avoid Three-Tent Square. It was out of the question to meet Monsieur Gonzague again and share his sleeping-quarters, now that in the eyes of all the boys the Greek had become a mean scoundrel. As evening approached, Stephan had made up his mind. He cut the knot of all these problems. He had crept into the sheikh-tent and hastily stuffed all that seemed to be necessary into his Swiss rucksack. Whatever else might suffer, he would never again eat at Maman's table, or sleep in his bed. He would live on his own, apart from everyone -- though how, it was still impossible to decide. Then, later, he stood a few minutes outside the doors of Juliette's tent. It was laced up tight from inside. Not a word, or sound, from within. Only the faint light of an oil lamp though the chinks. His hand was already reaching up for the drumstick of the little gong, which hung over the door. But he conquered his weakness and went striding off, with his rucksack on his shoulders, no longer stifling sobs. On the North Saddle he had come into the midst of the gathered crowds, waiting for the departure of Haik and the swimmers. No one would speak to him, the fallen hero! They all stared at him oddly and turned their heads. Often he heard such laughter behind him as froze his heart. At last Stephan lay down behind one of the defence works, where he could stay unscathed and watch it all without being noticed.
First the two swimmers were sent with a blessing on their way. Since they were Protestants, it was Aram Tomasian who addressed them. But Ter Haigasun made the sign of the cross over their foreheads. Then pastor and priest led the young swimmers past the first trenches and over the bend of the Saddle, to the point where the shrub-grass slope rose northwards. Thin smoke-streams from the distant forest fire impregnated this air -- it almost imperceptibly veiled the moon, causing its metallic light to tremble, in vibrant haze. It really
looked as though these swimmers and their escort were setting out into some beyond, steeped in light, but from which there could be no returning. The crowd would have liked to come surging after them. But the armed guards had formed a cordon and would only let relations come past it. Pastor Aram had arranged it so, in order that these last good-byes might not be encroached upon by strangers. The first farewells were said by distant relatives and the boys' godfathers. Each of these had some small gift to bestow -- a few remnants of tobacco, some precious sugar, or even only a holy picture or a medal. The priests took care that these first proceedings should not he too long drawn out, and scarcely had the more distant relatives bestowed their gifts when they departed, with Ter Haigasun and Tomasian. Only their nearest and dearest were left for a short while with the swimmers. A short, strangled embrace! The boys kissed their fathers' hands. The mothers turned away sobbing. They waved disconsolately. Then, even their parents had left them alone.
This, and what happened after it, filled the lonely Stephan's heart with a bittersweet grief. The swimmers were still not alone. Suddenly two girls were standing beside them. They were as like the boys as their two sisters. The crowd even was put to silence by the sight of these four young people, who disappeared together up the slope, hand in hand, into the vague, moonlit smoke-haze. But it was not long till the girls were back again, slowly coming downhill, each apart from the other.
