by Franz Werfel
Iskuhi looked away past him, at bushes, faintly stirred by the night wind. "But suppose we'd met somewhere out in the world -- would you still have noticed I was your sister?"
"God only knows. Perhaps not."
She showed no trace of disappointment. "And I could see at once what you are to me, that time in the church, when we came from Zeitun . . ."
"That time? I never used to believe one could turn into another person. I used to think one goes on adding to oneself, developing. The truth's just the other way. One melts in a fire. What's happening now to you and me, and our whole people, is a smelting process. That's a stupid way of putting it. But I can feel how molten I am. Every bit of dross, every unnecessary part of me, has gone. Soon I shall only be a piece of metal, I feel. And that's the real reason why Stephan's done for. . . ."
Iskuhi caught his hand. "Why are you saying that? Why should Stephan be done for? He's a strong boy. And Haik's certain to get to Aleppo. Why not he?"
"He won't get to Aleppo. . . . Just think what's happened. And he has all that on him."
"You oughtn't to say things like that, Gabriel. You'll be doing him harm, with them. I have every hope for Stephan."
Suddenly Iskuhi turned her head to watch the sick-tent. Gabriel thought, without knowing why: She wants Juliette to be dead, she must want it.
Iskuhi had jumped to her feet. "Can't you hear something? I think Juliette's calling."
He had heard nothing, but followed Iskuhi. She rushed to the tent. Juliette was writhing on the bed, like a bound woman, trying to free herself. She was neither awake nor quite unconscious. Whitish scurf covered her bitten lips. From her glowing cheeks it was obvious that fever, in the last few minutes, had touched the limit of the possible. She seemed to recognize Gabriel. Her hand strayed and caught his jacket.
He scarcely understood her muttering question: "Is it true? -- Is all this true?"
Between her question and his reply came a little pause full of icy stillness. But then, bending down over her, he stressed each syllable, like a hypnotist: "No, Juliette, that's all not true . . . it's not true."
A shuddering sigh: "Thank God. . . . It's not true."
Her body relaxed. She drew up her knees, as though to creep back happily, innocently, into her womb of fever. Gabriel felt her pulse. A wild, yet scarcely perceptible little beat. It seemed doubtful if she'd get through next day. Quick -- that stimulant from the medicine chest. Iskuhi thrust the spoon with the strophanthus mixture between Juliette's teeth.
Juliette came to herself, tried to sit up, and moaned: "And -- Stephan's milk too . . . don't forget!"
For Pastor Aram there began an annoying day. He had buckled a lantern on to his belt and gone out before it was light to climb down the rocks to the sea and test the first result of his fishery. The raft was ready, and they had ventured out on this windless night, with draw-nets and little lanterns, to fish, in the ordinary way, off the coast. The idea of it obsessed Tomasian. It seemed not only to hold the possibility of a necessary change of diet and abundant supplementary supplies. It was more than that even. It was their only real salvation from the ever-increasing threat of famine. Surely, if they worked hard enough, it ought to be possible to make the sea yield up its daily ration of two to three hundred okas of fish. No matter how strictly they might economize, in six weeks the last sheep would have been killed -- and that by the most optimistic reckoning. But if he, Aram Tomasian, could only get his fishery to flourish, new courage, new endurance, new strength to resist, would come from the sea. The very thought of the sea, as the inexhaustible source of all life, would work a miracle.
And so, in the greenish light of early morning, the young pastor climbed down to the beach, along a path rebuilt by order of the Council. Yet, as he climbed, he was thinking neither of sheep nor milk, nor even of his own fishery. His little son was just sixteen days old -- his eyes as big as the eyes of all Armenians. But they saw nothing. And still this baby had not cried. The only sound it ever managed to bring out was a toneless whisper. Every day the truth seemed more cruelly plain. His son was born blind and deaf.
Yet the fiery birthmark on his body was spreading -- that mysterious sign which Musa Dagh seemed herself, with some invisible seal, to have burned into the flesh of the pastor's child. Since no ordinary medical aid seemed of use, Hovsannah had nearly got to the point of consulting Nunik, if she could find her. But now, since the Turks had invaded the valley, the old women of birth and death were seen no more on the Damlayik.
The child had suffered much in Hovsannah's womb, on the way from Zeitun to Yoghonoluk. This was the logical explanation. It did not satisfy Hovsannah. She felt herself punished by God. It was not for nothing that Hovsannah had been reared a Protestant. A child should be God's blessing. This child was God's punishment. God sends His punishment for sin. And Hovsannah was unaware of having committed any. Yet, since sin undoubtedly there was, it must be in others, and clearly in those who were most about her. Aram had certainly not sinned. Hovsannah was an avidly faithful wife, whose marriage, as he knew, was spotless. Where, then, was this sin, this taint, which branded her sinless child? There was always, first and foremost, that prime mover of God's wrath, Juliette Bagradian. In her, the adulteress, the fashion-maniac, the godless woman, the foreigner, Hovsannah perceived the epitome of all sinfulness, whose taint infects like a disease. Yet they lived shamelessly in proximity to her, in her very tent, slept in her bed, ate off her plates. . . . And Hovsannah's thoughts did not end there! Slowly the truth had forced its way into her heart and, once perceived, she embraced it greedily: Iskuhi! It was not to be doubted! Hovsannah knew how it stood with her young sister-in-law. She too was an adulteress in her heart, without control, without belief, desperately resolved to be a sinner. Had she not always, even in Zeitun, been stubborn, preoccupied with herself, crazy for pleasure -- even in the days when Aram demanded of his wife the bitter sacrifice of sharing her house with such a woman. But Aram had always refused to look at the truth; it had always been a sheer impossibility to say one frank word about Iskuhi, his dear little sister. In the moment when Hovsannah Tomasian had run weeping from the christening of her child, she had seen the hidden connection of all these things, in an indistinct and poignant vision, without really knowing anything. But now she knew all! She knew that her child was accursed of God. She no longer wept. With clenched fists she measured out the length of her tent -- five paces -- up and down, like a madwoman in her cell. And last night she had refused to go on keeping silence and demanded of Arani that he take her to Father Tomasian's hut. In the stench of sin surrounding the Bagradians, her child would never be free of God's punishment.
The pastor, who suffered much at his wife's dementia, gaped at her, unable to understand. "What's it to do with us and our child that Juliette Bagradian is a sinner?"
Hovsannah had plucked the child away from her breast. She had felt her rising anger poison the milk in her. "So even you want to be blind, Pastor?"
He had done his best to clarify her senseless rage. Then at last he had lost his temper with her and reproved her sharply. Iskuhi was risking her life, he had said, for the sake of a stranger. And all the thanks she got for her Christian goodness and pure charity was to be slandered so vulgarly -- and by her -- by her own sister-in-law! He, Aram, understood Hovsannah's present condition; he was willing to forget what she had just said, and forgive her for saying it.
But Hovsannah laughed scornfully. "You can convince yourself, Pastor, of the way in which your tenderhearted Iskuhi nurses the sick. Just stick your head inside the tent one night. You'll find them together. Sometimes they go out shamelessly for walks in the middle of the night . . ."
Hovsannah's laugh, and her words, kept sounding in the pastor's ears all the way down the cliffs to his fishery. He could think of nothing else. The cold truth became more apparent with every step. God had punished him in this child for his own great sin in Marash, his betrayal of the orphan children. He himself was the guilty one, and not
Iskuhi. Down on the shore, among the rocks, Aram, to make bad worse, learned that his great idea had so far only produced the most meager results. In spite of the calm sea, the raft had come to bits as they put out, and three young fishermen had almost been drowned. In view of such dangers the results were extremely unsatisfactory: two small baskets of tiny silver sprats and jellyfish. The catch would just have been enough for one big soup tureen. Tomasian mocked them savagely, and gave fresh orders. The salting-ground had been more successful than the fishery. A good haul of salt could be carried up to the Town Enclosure.
Aram scarcely remained there fifteen minutes. His uneasy heart drove him back. He had no clear idea what he could do to save Iskuhi. Had he not, even in her childhood, always respected and been reserved with her? And besides -- it was the only way with Iskuhi. Her personality, in spite of all her quiet, friendly submissions, had something as hard and unyielding as a crystal in it. It would not be encroached on.
In Zeitun and on Musa Dagh, the pastor had given proof enough of his courage. But now, as he reached the shrubs which fenced off these rocks, he was undecided and faint of heart. Perhaps the straightest solution would be to go straight to Bagradian and have it out with him. But -- no! How could he ever dare to bring out such an evil suspicion to a man of Bagradian's rank, who compelled respect. A man whom fate had just struck so cruelly, driven as he was to desperation for the life of his only son! Tomasian saw no way out of it. He had almost made up his mind to leave it alone, at least for the present. Yet, before turning into the Town Enclosure to speak to his father, he resolved to take a last, quick look at Hovsannah. He encountered a very different person. Iskuhi sat before Juliette's tent, gazing out with unseeing eyes in the direction in which Gabriel had just disappeared. She did not notice her brother till he was close to her.
Aram sat down, facing her, on the ground and strove uncomfortably to find words: "It's a long time since we've had a talk with each other, Iskuhi."
This she dismissed with a gesture, as though no human memory could suffice to measure the gulf between past and present.
Aram felt his way slowly: "Hovsannah misses you very much. She's always been so used to having you help her. . . . And now there's this poor little child, and so much work to do."
Iskuhi interrupted impatiently: "But surely, Aram, you must know that just because of the child this is about the last time I ought to go in to see Hovsannah. . . ."
"I know you've undertaken to nurse here. That's very good of you. . . . But perhaps now, your own family needs you even more."
Iskuhi seemed very surprised. "The hanum in there hasn't got anyone. . . . But Hovsannah's up out of bed and has all the people she wants to look after her."
Pastor Aram swallowed hard several times, as though he had a pain in his throat. "You know me, Iskuhi, how I hate beating about the bush. Will you be perfectly frank with me? Placed as we are, anything else would be ridiculous. . . ."
She let her eyes rest with vague hostility on her brother. "I am being quite frank with you."
Now he began to get uncomfortable and strove to build a bridge above her innocence. If it were only a question of a companion, a friend, someone with whom she sympathized -- of anything not desperately serious. He felt hotly anxious that she should tell him so, sternly reprove, and inform him sharply that her sister-in-law's suspicions were all a lie.
"Hovsannah's very worried about you, Iskuhi. She keeps saying she's been noticing certain things. We quarrelled half the night about it. That's why I ask you, so please forgive me. Is there anything between you and Gabriel Bagradian?"
Iskuhi did not blush, nor did she display the least embarrassment. Her voice was quiet and steady: "Nothing has happened yet between me and Gabriel. . . . But I love him, and I mean to stay with him to the end."
Aram Tomasian sprang up, horrified. He was a jealous brother. Any news that she was in love would have been unwelcome. This blow, so calmly delivered, hurt all the more. "And you dare say that so calmly, to me -- to my face!"
"You asked for it, Aram."
"Are you like that, Iskuhi, you? I just can't realize. And what about your honor, your family? Don't you, in Jesus Christ's name, remember he's a married man?"
She raised her head suddenly to look at him. The conviction in her face was irremovable. "I'm nineteen -- and shall never be twenty."
Pastor Aram blazed out at her indignantly: "In God you'll grow older, since in Him your soul is immortal and responsible."
The louder Aram became, the softer Iskuhi: "I'm not afraid of God."
The pastor struck his palm against his forehead. I'm not afraid of God! He mistook for the most hardened defiance words that had really expressed the deepest certainty.
"Do you know what it is you're doing? Can't you feel the stench in which you live? In there, there's that woman lying unconscious, sick to death. A shameless adulteress! But you're betraying her a thousand times worse than she ever betrayed. You're leading a worse, more brutish life than the lowest Moslem women. . . . No, I'm doing the Moslems an injustice. . . ."
Iskuhi clutched at the rope with her right hand and held it tight. Her eyes grew bigger and bigger. Tomasian thought his words were taking effect. God be praised, he had still some influence over his sister.
He began to moderate his just wrath: "Let's be reasonable, Iskuhi. Think of the consequences -- not only to you and me, but to Bagradian and the whole camp. You must rectify this terrible disorder. You must finish at once -- make a clean sweep. At once. Father shall come along and take you home."
A deep breath forced its way out of Iskuhi. She leaned far back. Only now did the pastor perceive that her dolorous movement was not the result of his objurgations, but that something which had happened behind his back was filling Iskuhi with horror. When he turned, it was to see Samuel Avakian, breathlessly in search of Bagradian. The student could scarcely stand upright. His face had become a twitching mask, tears were streaming down it. Iskuhi pointed feebly towards the North Saddle. He would find Bagradian there. Then, without noticing Aram, she hid her face. She knew everything.
It was one of Sato's peculiarities never to sleep two nights in the same place. She was entirely lacking in that sense which most of us have, that we can always go back to the same place to sleep in, a secure shelter in a community, even for the half of life we spend in the dark. Not only did she refuse to sleep two nights on the same ground, but would often change her bed in the course of one.
She slept curled up, without rugs or pillow. Her dreams, though they were like superimposed photographic images, were not always merely illusory. Now and again they kept pointing like stubborn fingers, informing Sato of events in her immediate neighborhood or beyond it. That happened tonight. Sato had gone to sleep among those clumps of arbutus and myrtle from which she had watched Gonzague and Juliette. Something told her Nunik was near, and indeed at the head of a long procession.
So Sato jumped up and went racing off to find Nunik, guided by the instinct of her dream. It was still dark when, leaving behind her the many-folded plateau of the Damlayik, she struck off south of the burning woods and crossed the mountain ridge. At this place, apart from many red-berried shrubs and clumps of isolated trees, the ground becomes more barren and stonier. The flames had darted so far on spread wings. Charred trees and single islands of glittering shrubs bore witness to the great conflagration. But the fire itself had withdrawn its outposts. The springs and streams which ran to the valley, though not dried up, had begun to force new channels for themselves and bubbled up like medicinal springs, steaming on the frontiers of the kingdom of flames.
Sato encountered Stephan's funeral train in a little, treed-in gully which led on upwards to the last defense posts on the south side. More than this fire, and the consequent necessity to come by the longest way round, had forced Nunik and her train to ascend so slowly. The real hindrance lay in the age and decrepitude of her followers themselves. Nor did the fact that four blind beggars, with wild, prophetic hea
ds, carried the bier increase the speed of the cortege. Nunik had appointed them coffin-bearers, since they were the only men available whose arms and legs still had some vestiges of strength. She strode on ahead of them. Wartuk and Manushak guided them, past bushes, tree trunks, and blocks of stone, as one guides a team of slowly nodding buffaloes. Stephan's white-shrouded body had been laid out on one of the ancient, richly carved biers, half a dozen of which still stood unlooted in a corner of the churchyard of Yoghonoluk.
