Forty Days of Musa Dagh

by Franz Werfel

  But Bedros Hekim, on the left, in a bitter, weary little voice, straight out of his heart, spoke the contradiction: "Gabriel Bagradian, my child, think that these next few days won't be empty, but full of devils, and bless the night."

  Bagradian stopped, not answering either, and spread his arms, barring the way. They understood, turned, and left him.

  Juliette's fever had not diminished. Her swoon seemed to lie more heavily on her than ever. She was lying now, stretched stiffly, not stirring a muscle, occupied only with her breath, which came, short and shallow, over scurfy lips. Was it the crisis of this fever, which killed or ebbed within a few days?

  Iskuhi paid no heed to Juliette. Let her live or die as she might decide. Iskuhi no longer thought of the ominous threatenings of her brother Aram, who had told her he would cast her off if by midday she had still not left the Bagradians. Gabriel was standing in the tent, so upright that his head almost touched the canvas. But he seemed further away than the feverish Juliette, and not to know that she was beside him. She had crept across to him and pressed her head against his knees. Stephan's death moved her less than Gabriel's patience. Only she could tell how shy and needy his spirit was.

  And yet Gabriel had decided to take on his shoulders a burning world, the whole Damlayik. His own had cut his tendons; first Juliette, and now his dead son. And still Gabriel stood upright. What was she, what was Aram, what were all the others compared to him? Insignificant insects! Uncouth, filthy peasants, without a thought in their heads, without a feeling in their hearts, unable even to see who it was had stepped down to them. Iskuhi felt bowed down by her own weakness, her own worthlessness. What could she do or offer to make herself worthy of Gabriel? Nothing! She put forth her open hand. Like a beggar. She was begging for a tiny mite of his pain, of the load that was on him. Her face glowed with devotion and agonized longing to serve, as she grovelled there before the man who still gave no signs of perceiving her presence. She began to whisper, ardent, disconnected nonsense, which startled and shamed her as she spoke. How poor she was, how horribly poor, that she had no power in her to help him with. At last, out of her despair, she became maternal, almost unconsciously: It's not good to stand up when you're in such trouble. In trouble you ought to lie down. Sleep . . . He must get to sleep. Only sleep would help him -- not Iskuhi. She undid his leggings, fumbled with the laces of his shoes, forced him to lie down on her bed. She even managed, superhumanly, to use her lame arm to do it more quickly. It was a difficult job but, since Gabriel began himself to undress mechanically, it was done at last. As she covered him up, she gasped with exhaustion. She felt a quick, expressionless glance pass over her.

  "I'm lying soft." That was all Gabriel was thinking. For weeks he had only slept on the hard earth on the north trenches. His teeth began chattering. This shivering ague was half a pain and half a comfort. Iskuhi curled herself up small, in a corner, so that he might not know she was there until he wanted her. She prayed that a heavy sleep might overcome him. Yet the sound he made was not the heavy breathing of a sleeper, but a faint hum, a long and even moaning, like the women's dirge. Gabriel was still looking for Stephan in the empty horror of his grief. And could not find him.

  Yet this droning sound seemed to ease his heart, since it never ceased until the minute at which, as a rule, the August sun pierced the chink in the door with a long ray.

  This ray darted through the tent, and Juliette's face lay flaming under it. Then Iskuhi saw that the sick woman's state had suddenly changed. Beads of sweat stood on her forehead. Her eyes, wide open, stared; her head was raised, listening. Something had roused Juliette's deepest enthusiasm. But she was finding it very hard to express this emotion. Her sick tongue made what she said scarcely intelligible.

  "Bells . . . Gabriel . . . Listen! . . . Bells . . . Hundreds of bells . . . You hear?"

  The dirge on the couch broke off, suddenly. Juliette, full of excitement, tried to sit up. She strained her weak voice to a cry of triumph: "Now the whole world's French!"

  And what she said was true enough in its way -- though her ear was deafened to its truth by the carillons of her patriotic dream. With Stephan's spilt blood, with the death of this only son, whom she had given the Armenian people, the whole world had indeed become French for her.

  4. DECLINE AND TEMPTATION

  Stephan was buried on the thirty-first day of Musa Dagh. On the thirty-second came the great catastrophe.

  Whose fault was it? That was never really cleared up. The mukhtars blamed one another. It remained, however, undeniable that one of the first, most important orders of the Council had been contravened with criminal negligence, with catastrophic results to the whole community. And not only had the responsible mukhtars failed to put a stop to this "new custom," they had winked benevolently -- let them say what they liked, accuse one another, keep on insisting that the pasturage in the Town Enclosure was all used up. Perfectly true. The sheep needed fresh fodder. And this new grazing-ground was close under the North Saddle, well ensconced among rocks in the barren region of Musa Dagh, as good as unknown to strangers and inaccessible. That was no excuse for trusting the shepherds, who here as everywhere else in the world were dreamy old men, with a few little boys to help them. This sleepy fraternity, whose very nature inclined to the sheep it tended, still fancied that these were piping times of peace. Never should the flocks, the most precious of all the people's possessions, have been left without an armed guard -- not even in the camp grazing-ground. But the mukhtars had trusted in God, in the closed-in pasturage, in the natural indolence of the Turks, and had, as usual, neither among themselves nor with other leaders, discussed these secret infringements behind their backs. So that the Turks, thanks to excellent spies, had an easy job and very profitable.

  Two infantry platoons and a saptieh detachment were given orders to turn out at night and quietly climb Musa Dagh, behind the pass, by Bitias. Neither men nor officers needed reminding that quiet was necessary. The half-company, carrying muffled lanterns, stalked its way to the sleepy shepherds and their sheep. To the very last minute the mülasim in command did not believe that they could ever get there without a struggle. All the greater, therefore, the soldiers' astonishment at finding only a few old men in white sheepskins, who quietly, without any fuss, let themselves be killed. Before sunrise, at double-quick time, as though their booty might still be torn from them, they drove the herds safely back to the valley.

  This cut the nerve of those on the Damlayik. Every sheep, wether, lamb, of the community, most of the goats, and all the donkeys -- these used from time to time as carriers and riding animals -- had disappeared. By the widest calculation of all the animals of any kind still left in camp, they might manage with the greatest economy to last out another three or four days. After that, stark famine.

  Early that morning, when Ter Haigasun heard this appalling news, he summoned the Council immediately. He knew exactly the effect that this would have on the people's minds. Since the outburst of hatred against Juliette, a causeless, purposeless embitterment had been growing hourly in the enclosure. It only needed a spark to fire the mine.

  Only one leader besides Bagradian did not take part in this critical sitting, although he was present at it. Apothecary Krikor had been unable, since the previous morning, to leave his bed. Neither warmth nor medicine availed him. The one thing he longed for was peace, relief from pain. But, since he lived in the government hut, almost in the house of parliament itself, peace was precisely the thing most unobtainable. He had put up a thick wall of books between his bed of pain and the cares of the world. He lay unable to move a limb. But once again it was apparent that no wall of the spirit, no poetry, science, no philosophy, is impenetrable enough to keep away the vulgar din of political strife. Today the din, even from the first, was alarming. The mukhtars especially raised their voices. Each, and as a body, they did their best, by shouting, to stifle their own conscience.

  Ter Haigasun at last came out into the middle of the room and
commanded them all to sit down. He found it hard to control his voice.

  "Any army in the field," he began, "punishes such a crime as this with instant shooting. But we aren't a mere military battalion, but a whole, suffering people. And we're waging war, not against an equal force, but a force a hundred thousand times stronger. Now realize what your lying carelessness means! I ought not to shoot you, you miserable mukhtars -- I ought to have you torn slowly limb from limb. And I swear to you I'd do it with pleasure, without the slightest fear of God's punishment, if it would be of the least use to any of us. But I'm forced to keep the appearance of unity in this Council to save our authority as a body. I'm forced to leave you treacherously careless mukhtars to your office, because every change of membership might be a danger to public order. I'm forced to take the blame of this on myself, and, with lame reasons and base excuses, defend the Council against the just wrath of the whole people. What Wali, Kaimakam, bimbashi, yüs-bashi, could not succeed in doing, you, the responsible leaders, have managed brilliantly. This is the end of us!"

  The subdued village mayors sank into their seats. Ter Haigasun's eyes commanded Tomasian to speak. Aram was feeling very uncomfortable. Though he had nothing directly to do with the herds, he was the chief superintendent of the enclosure and held responsible for everything connected with food supplies. The pastor's narrow face looked extremely pale. His long, pointed fingers were playing with his black moustache, which he seemed to hate. The air at that moment was electric with a still antipathy between Gregorian priest and Protestant pastor, which usually never came to the surface.

  Aram Tomasian stood up. "In my opinion it would be better to say nothing more about who's to blame. Since what's the use? What's done's done. Ter Haigasun himself tells us that we've got to show unity. We can't look back, we must look ahead, and rack our brains to find alternative supplies."

  This sounded reasonable enough. But the pastor's speech had been unsteady.

  Ter Haigasun's fist crashed down, dismissing it: "There are no alternative supplies."

  But suddenly in a quiet corner an ally rose to support the mukhtars. Hrand Oskanian, who once, for Juliette's sake, had shaved every day, which, without soap, was in itself a quietly heroic proceeding, now looked like a wild man of the woods. His huge black beard fuzzed out round his nostrils; uncombed, wildly bristling hair crowned his low forehead. This somber schoolteacher, pigeon-breasted, with long, swinging arms, really did look not unlike a dressed-up ape. Perhaps this usually silent little man meant what he said. Perhaps he was only seizing his chance to revenge himself on Juliette and Gabriel, or on Ter Haigasun, or on all his other superiors. In any case the same old story came out of him, in a fierce rush of exploding syllables:

  "Do you still refuse to see the truth? I've been preaching it for the last week; I've been shouting my lungs out to convince you. Now at last you've your proof! Yet Ter Haigasun wants to shoot our own people! I ask him now, what reasons has he for wanting to hide the truth from the Council? Why does he keep on saying we've been betrayed? Who's he trying to shield? If there'd been no traitor in the camp, would the Turks ever have known of this new pasturage? Never! Never! These meadows are completely hidden; shut in among rocks. No one, unless he knew the ground, could ever have found them. But Gonzague Maris nosed about all over the place. And this is only the beginning. Next thing will be, we shall have the Turks in the middle of the camp. That Greek will lead them up the steep paths, on the rock side, which he knows every inch of -- where the mountain isn't even defended. . . ."

  The mukhtars did not need to hear that twice. This new interpretation of events, though they did not in the least believe in it, restored all their former prestige. Thomas Kebussyan was delighted.

  Anyone with a fixed idea has the chance of infecting other people with it, even big crowds. That is the secret of successful political propaganda, which obtains its effects by the simplest means: a limited, but telling, vocabulary, a demoniacally penetrating voice. The mukhtars and several of the others readily surrendered to the excitement induced by Oskanian's loud persuasiveness -- on their behalf. Teacher Hapeth Shatakhian could scarcely manage to make himself heard. He glowered with wrath against his old rival, whom he had had to put up with by his side for eight long years.

  "Oskanian," he shouted, "I know you. You're nothing but a swindling charlatan. You always have been -- at every hour of your insolent life. You're trying to throw mud at innocent people. You spit at Gonzague Maris because he's an educated man, almost a Frenchman, not like you and me, born in a dirty village and forced to spend our whole lives in it. I, at least, by the kindness of Bagradian's brother, had the chance of studying some time in Switzerland -- but you weren't good enough, so you've never stuck your nose farther than Marash. I won't have foul-mouthed apes saying this against the Bagradian family, whom we've all got so much to thank for. And, as for you, Oskanian, you're not only slandering the Greek, but Madame Juliette, because she thought you so ridiculous, with the pompous way you used to sit, saying nothing, you silly dwarf -- you and your poems -- your calligraphy . . ."

  This was unjust. Oskanian had never dared lift his eyes to Juliette. Now he stopped jabbering and, with quiet dignity, replied: "I don't need your Frenchwoman's good opinion. It's far more she who needs mine. We've had to see with our own eyes what sort of people they are, by God!"

  And now with accomplished demagogy the dwarf turned to the mukhtars. "I bless our mothers, our wives, our girls, before whom that stuck-up slut of a European ought to go on her knees."

  The slogan was dexterously aimed. Applause!

  Hrand Oskanian hurled himself full on his opponent. "I tell you, Shatakhian, you fool, that you've made yourself look silly a hundred times, with your 'accent,' your 'causeries,' and your 'conversation,' your affected . . ."

  He began to mimic Shatakhian's self-satisfied French to perfection -- with its lack of individual quality, its nasal vowels, and sonorous consonants. Their discussion how to avoid certain famine had degenerated into a farce. It was a proof of the ineradicable childishness in human beings that some of the Council went off into fits of laughter at Oskanian's parody.

  Bedros Altouni growled, leaning on his stick: "I thought Ter Haigasun called us here to discuss a catastrophe. I'm in no mood to see you perform, Oskanian. I've got more to do than you teachers, who I've noticed for some time have been playing truant from your own school -- and so have your children. As for you, Oskanian, I don't mind giving you the benefit of thinking you're merely a little wrong in the head. That young man came among us in March. He had a letter of recommendation to the apothecary. At that time not even the Wali of Aleppo knew anything about the deportations. Did the Greek come here then, fully intending to betray the new grazing-meadows on Musa Dagh to the Turks? One sees what logical heads they produce at the teachers' training-college in Marash!"

  Hrand Oskanian, like the budding politician he had shown himself, knew well enough that no illogicalities would damage him. It needs an effort to think things out, and nobody likes having to make one. But if once you can make the other man look small, that in itself is enough to get the meeting on your side, since people enjoy it, and to rouse such feelings is all that matters. So he answered sharply:

  "It may be, Doctor, that fifty or sixty years ago you managed to pick up a little bit of medicine. Who can prove that nowadays? Sometimes you seem to be able to find something in that old book you carry about with you. You've got that much in common with the apothecary, who for years did nothing else but harp on his library. I wouldn't mind betting that half those books of his are blank paper, neatly bound. But you old men are all alike when it comes to life. Otherwise you'd have known that, since war broke out, the government has been sending spies into Armenian districts -- and Christian spies, what's more, so that they mightn't be noticed."

  And he played his trump card to the mukhtars: "It all comes from the fact that these old jossers are as thick as thieves with the Bagradians -- who send poor little fools
like Shatakhian here to Europe, with the money they've managed to sweat out of us. Aren't these rich families the cause of all the troubles in the first place? These Levantines have nothing to do with us! The whole Armenian people has to be slaughtered to pay for their swindling business deals."

  This touched an important chord in the peasant souls. Thomas Kebussyan squinted before him, lost in memories: "Even old Avetis was that way. Nothing but business all the time -- in Aleppo, in Istanbul, in Europe. He was never here two months in the year. I've never cared to leave Yoghonoluk. Not that I mightn't have if I'd liked -- my old woman worried me enough . . ."

  Something began to move behind the books. Into the narrow gap between the walls of them came a groaning, hunched-up shape in a long white nightshirt. Krikor of Yoghonoluk, the celibate, had been wearing his shroud since the previous day. Since he did not want a Nunik or grave-digger to clothe him in the robes of renunciation, he had donned them himself, hard as it was to do so, knowing well that he would not survive to see the Damlayik taken by the Turks. His yellow cheeks had now such hollows in them that a five-piastre piece would have fitted in each. His shoulders were hunched up to his ears, his arms and legs swollen to disjointed clubs. When at last he managed to steady himself, between the two piled-up walls of his library, he did his best to bring into his voice the old, hollow, indifferent note of the sage. But that had ceased to be possible. His words came out tremulous, disconnected: