by Franz Werfel
"Blessing and praise to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost -- "
He could get no further. Between him and the shape against the leaf-screen, his own detached voice dinned in his ears: "Why do you stand about fooling in broad daylight? What good is this Mass of petition?"
Ter Haigasun watched the ascending cloud of incense. But his own voice, and the shape against the leaves, persisted: "What a devil this God of yours must be, to ordain a year like this for His pious Armenians."
Ter Haigasun had begun the ritual vesper: "Almighty God, holy and eternal, have mercy on us. Keep us from temptation and all its arrows."
And now the answer seemed not to come from Kilikian, but solely out of his own heart: "You don't believe! You don't believe in any miracle! You know quite well that, this time tomorrow, four and a half thousand Armenian corpses will be lying all over the Damlayik."
The deacon gave Ter Haigasun the thurible, so that he might give incense to the people. Intense, causeless thirst assailed him. Now no one was leaning against the screen.
But the voice was as close as ever: "You'd like to kill me. Kill me, if you have the pluck to do it."
The thurible crashed out of the priest's hand. That second produced an entirely new Ter Haigasun. With barbarian shouts he snatched up one of the heavy silver candlesticks and brandished it high. But to fell his enemy he rushed, not on the shape before the leaf-screen, no, but into the midst of his congregation.
Without this attack of delirium, brought on by hunger, there would probably have been no "putsch." Even the deserters in the South Bastion were Armenians, full of respect and fear for the altar. But the long-haired thief had collected his troops round the government hut, ready to storm. When the tumult rose, at the end of the altar square, he took that for the signal. Ten of his people, with a view to producing the necessary chaos, began firing in the air. The others bashed in the doors, found the munition supplies, and in a few seconds had dragged them out before the hut. What happened on the altar steps happened with such dreamy quickness that neither Gabriel nor the mukhtars were quite aware of the incident. Its dreamy quality was the essential thing, and not the quickness, since perhaps it took a good two minutes. When Ter Haigasun, brandishing his candlestick, had hurled himself into the midst of his faithful, general confusion had set in. People had dashed in all directions. Gabriel caught a glimpse of the priest, struggling through the crowd to reach some deserters. He, too, had not known who it was had invited the pack to this Mass and assembly. Ter Haigasun seemed to be looking for a definite individual. In the next instant he was surrounded, hemmed in by armed men. They wrenched his candlestick away from him, pushed him about from one to another with loud cries, in the end tore him to the ground. Then shots clattered down on the rear of the crowd. People rushed apart with mad howls of terror. The yammering mukhtars tried to run into shelter with their wives. Gabriel, with drawn revolver, forced his way into the męlée to free Ter Haigasun. A deserter, following close behind him, brought down his rifle-butt, with all his strength, on Gabriel's skull. Gabriel collapsed. Had this crack on the head smashed his sun helmet, it would have been all over with him. But the rifle-butt did no more than drive the tough cork helmet far down on his face, and the savagery of the stroke was mitigated. Gabriel fell stunned, not really wounded. Others had meanwhile roped Ter Haigasun with strong hemp cords to one of the corner posts of the altar-frame, driven deep into the ground. The priest struggled with astonishing vigor, but in silence. If he had had the knife, which as a rule he carried in his cassock pocket, he would have finished off one rascal at least. The mukhtars stood a long way off, quaking and moaning. They had not even the strength to run for safety. And their wives and daughters, with inhuman screechings, tugged them back. The crowd still understood nothing. Half-crazed now by the crackling rifle-fire, it stampeded forward to the altar. But since, as they came there, the front lines were trying to get back, there arose an unholy vortex of terrified bodies, yelping with fear and pain. Already some of the worst deserters, who for months past had not touched a woman, were darting in from the outer edge of it, like cuttlefish, to grip in their dirty claws here a woman and there a girl. Another more sober group stormed the hut to plunder the wretchedest poverty.
Meanwhile there were signs of resistance. Some determined people pressed forwards to free Ter Haigasun. Two minutes more, and perhaps the square might have run with blood since, threatened with superior numbers, the criminals were already loading their guns. But fate, run mad, again surpassed herself. The wind blew up in a sudden gust, as it had so often in these last days, a whirlwind sweeping round the square. Since no one any longer watched the altar, the wooden lights and a vase of flowers were blown down. Ter Haigasun still tugged silently at the thick cords which lashed him to the altar-frame. From time to time he stopped to get up fresh strength, and, with every jerk, the frame swayed. His bloodshot eyes looked round for the other priests, the singers, Asayan the sacristan. They had all run off, or else dared not venture too near their superior, who was being guarded by deserters, no doubt to give plunderers of munitions their chance to get away in peace. Among those deserters around the altar stood Sarkis Kilikian. He watched with interest Ter Haigasun's attempts to wriggle free, not, it seemed, personally concerned in any of these incidents and fortunes, but merely inquisitive. After a time he slouched away. His weary-looking back seemed to be saying: "I've had quite enough of this. And it's about time." But scarcely was Kilikian out of sight when the terrible thing began to happen. Later Ter Haigasun connected Kilikian with this fire, merely because his disappearance coincided so strikingly with its outbreak. But in reality the Russian merely passed along the altar steps, not even touching the screen of leaves, about three feet behind the altar-frame. The jet of flame which now leapt skywards was at least three times as high as the plaited leaf-screen. A puff of wind from the sea turned it inwards at once, and spread it wide, on the right. Winged tongues of fire and scattering sparks detached themselves, to leap on to the roof of the nearest hut. This hut was Thomas Kebussyan's solid residence, with the inscription on the door "Town Hall." The fire at first seemed to set to work rather gingerly, as though it had a bad conscience to surmount. But when the twig-roof of the mayoral residence had begun in the next minute to crackle and flame, there was no more holding it. As a row of lamps lights up on a city boulevard, so did this conflagration dart round the square, flaring up out of nearly every hut simultaneously. The gang may have lit some of these fires, to hold people back and to cover their retreat. And now a banner of flame waved above the government barrack. One thing only remained certain, that these criminals, as the fire began, had rid the Town Enclosure of their presence.
When, with alarming suddenness, the leaf-screen sprang into flame above the altar, the crowd had burst asunder like a shell. Everyone forgot the criminals, no one so much as thought of the altar, with its bound priest, and the many presumably dead. With queer, almost whimpering noises, the people rushed down their lines of huts. No hope! Nothing to put it out with! Only -- let them save what was to be saved! The essentials of life. It seemed not to occur to anyone to ask: "Is it worth while?" But the mukhtars, the village notables, those doddering ancients so palsied with terror a minute ago, so lamed with fear as to be quite unable to help Ter Haigasun, had suddenly legs. Their money was burning! The lovely, well-smoothed-out pound notes which they had stored in corners of the huts, under their bedding, waited forlorn for rescuing hands. The old men, with their wives and daughters, went scurrying homewards.
One last, violent wrench, and then Ter Haigasun ceased to struggle. The rough cords, through the stiff silk of his vestments, had taken the skin off his arms and chest. Ice-cold sweat poured down his spine. Flakes of blazing wood kept falling over the altar, which had partly already begun to burn. Now and again, these flaming embers scorched the priest. His hair and beard were already singed by them. The heavy altar curtain blazed in a sheet of flame. So be it! The square was empty. Screeching families
pranced round their flaming huts. Why call for help? A priest who dies a martyr, lashed to his altar, has earned sure forgiveness of his sins. A jet of loose flame scourged past Ter Haigasun. If only the Turks had been his assassins! Why his own people! Armenians! Dogs! Wild dogs! Dogs! A bellowing rage, which threatened to burst his head, broke out of him. Wailings of despair from round the huts. But when Ter Haigasun's furious shout, "Dogs! Dogs!" went howling across the square, it startled the money-grubbers, who left their vanity, ran to the altar to untie their priest. Before the first of them had reached him, the loosened post gave way and the frame crashed down in a burst of fire. The priest fell forward. They picked him up. Quickly cut his bonds. Ter Haigasun could go a few steps, but was soon forced to lie on the ground.
Bedros Hekim came out at the right minute, just as a few old men and women were taking pity on Gabriel, still unconscious. The doctor saw at once, before he had even felt his pulse, that Gabriel was still alive. With many groans old Altouni sat and took Gabriel's head on his knees. Cautiously he loosened the cork helmet, which the rifle-butt had driven so far down as to cover the eyes. The instant they were free Gabriel opened them. He thought he had only been asleep. All this had happened in some unbelievably short time -- in an interval "outside time," so to speak. First, he gradually felt the burning weight of his own skull. The doctor lightly fingered over his scalp. No blood. Only a huge lump. But perhaps the stroke had done inner damage, burst a vein in the forehead. Bedros gently spoke Gabriel's name.
Gabriel stared incredulously and smiled. "What's been happening here?"
Bedros Hekim laughed shortly. "If only I knew that myself, my son."
Tenderly he took Gabriel's cheeks between his brown and shrivelled hands. "Anyway, nothing's happened to you, I know that now."
Gabriel sprang to his feet. He refused at first to use his memory. He just managed to say in a drunken voice: "What about that surprise attack? . . . Have we made it? Jesus Christ, the South Bastion. . . . Now we're done for. . . ."
But Ter Haigasun, too, was on his feet again. And his voice seemed to issue from another drunkenness, a clear, superconscious intoxication: "Now, no more!"
Bagradian did not hear him. The crackling and roaring was too loud to hear oneself speak. The fire ate its way step by step from hut to hut. And groups of trees on the edge of the Town Enclosure were already bright with flames. More and more families, with their arms full of rescued goods and chattels, had collected on the altar square, awaiting an order, an objective. Some of the women had used their last ounce of strength to bring their sewing machines into safety. All eyes sought the leaders. But there were none, since both Bagradian and Ter Haigasun were still absently staring out at nothing in a kind of coma. And Dr. Altouni didn't count. No mukhtar, no teacher, showed himself; they were all too busy saving their property.
In this desperate pause there came at least help from the North Saddle. It is some proof of the uncanny quickness of these proceedings, the interval from Ter Haigasun's outbreak to this instant, that Avakian with ten decads only now put in an appearance, when all was over. Chaush Nurhan had sent at once to fetch him, the instant the deserters began to fire.
Avakian came running in horror to Gabriel. "Are you wounded, Effendi? . . . Jesus Christ, what's the matter? Your face! . . . Say something, please. . . ."
But Gabriel Bagradian said nothing. In a few quick steps past the flaming altar, he left the square, the Town Enclosure, broke into a run, and stopped at last on the summit of a little hill. Avakian followed without a word. Gabriel strained his head forward, listening sharply, trying to hear through the crackling flame. A long-drawn rattle of bullets in the south. Machine guns? And now again! But perhaps it was only deception, since the pain in his head threatened to burst it.
6. THE SCRIPT UN THE FOG
The junior officer had managed to discharge his impossible duty. He had laid down a field-telephone, not of course as far as Villa Bagradian -- there was probably not enough wire in the whole Fourth Army to do that! -- but at least as far as the village of Habaste, about four hundred feet below the South Bastion. It was a meritorious piece of service, considering how badly his men were trained and the many difficulties presented by the rocky terrain. General Ali Risa Bey, disguised in mufti for the benefit of observers on the Damlayik, had come in person to Habaste. The sun had just set when the primitive telephone on the little field-table before him began to buzz. It lasted a very long time, and there was still much surmounting of technical difficulties before, at the other end of the wire, the voice of the yüs-bashi became audible.
"General, I have to report, we've taken the mountain."
Ali Risa Bey, he of the clear, unmuddied countenance, the non-smoker and teetotaler, leant back in his little folding-chair, holding up the earpiece: "The mountain, Yüs-Bashi? How do you mean? You mean the south end of the mountain?"
"Quite so, Effendi, the south end."
"Thanks. Any losses?"
"None at all, not a single man."
"And how many prisoners, Yüs-Bashi?"
A technical defect became apparent. The general glanced keenly at the telephone officer. But soon the yüs-bashi's voice could be heard again, though not quite so distinct.
"I've taken no prisoners. The enemy trenches were empty. We'd thought they might be. Nearly empty. Only about ten men, counting, that is, four boys among them."
"And what's been done with all these people?"
"Our fellows disposed of them."
"They defended themselves?"
"No, General."
"That considerably lessens your success, Yüs-Bashi. These prisoners might have saved us a lot of trouble."
Even in this clumsy earpiece the major's wrath was still perceptible.
"It wasn't I gave the order."
The general's fervid coolness remained unruffled. "And what's become of all those deserters?"
"We only found the dregs of them, nobody else."
"I see. Anything more to report, Yüs-Bashi?"
"The Armenians have set fire to their camp. It looks like a considerable blaze. . . ."
"And what does that mean, in your opinion, Yüs-Bashi? What reasons do you suppose they have for doing it?"
The yüs-bashi's voice, revengefully acrimonious: "It's not for me to judge that, General. You'll know all that better than I do. Fellows may be wanting to clear off the mountain, in the night. . . ."
For two seconds, with pale grey eyes, Ali Risa Bey stared silently at distances. He gave his opinion: "Possibly . . . But there may be some feint at the back of it. . . . That ringleader of theirs has had the best of our officers several times. They may have planned a sortie."
He turned to his surrounding officers. "All outpost lines in the valley to be thoroughly strengthened tonight."
The yüs-bashi's voice came somewhat impatiently: "Any further orders, please, General?"
"How far have your companies got?"
"The third company and two machine gun groups are holding the nearest mound, about five hundred paces away from my base."
"We've been hearing machine gun fire down here. What's the meaning of that?"
"Only a little demonstration."
"That demonstration was highly deleterious and unnecessary. Your men are to remain where they are and take proper cover."
The voice at the other end had now become spitefully astute: "My men to remain where they are. May I have that, please, as a written order, Effendi? . . . And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, half an hour before sunrise, the artillery to open fire from the north. Set your watch exactly by mine, please, Yüs-Bashi. . . . Good. . . . I shall be up there with you just before sunrise and lead the business from the south. Thank you."
As he banged down the receiver, the yüs-bashi bared his teeth. "So he'll come along up in time for the walk-over, the goat's-milk pasha! And then he'll be 'the victor of Musa Dagh'!"
Gabriel turned back silently to the altar square. All the short way back he grip
ped Avakian's hand. The fire had eaten its way further and further along the streets. The sun had not long been down. But, in spite of surrounding flames -- the leaf-screen of the altar was still blazing -- the world kept darkening around Gabriel. Black, miserable shapes, voices of black desolation, eddied round the square in meaningless arabesques. The scales of Gabriel's whole life tottered. Had he not fully earned the right to let himself collapse a second time, this time forever, and know no more? Stephan was dead. Why start all over again? And yet, second by second, his splitting head began to fill with ever more lucid, purposeful thoughts.
