Between the Two Rivers: A Story of the Armenian Genocide

by Aida Kouyoumjian

  “Will you show us how to do what you do?” a few girls asked.

  She instantly demonstrated the craft of crocheting and allowed each girl to replicate the finger maneuvers, inserting the hooked needle in and out of a complicated pattern of threads. “Very good,” she commended one, and “You have perfect fingers,” she said to another.

  Why can’t Adrine show me how to put letters together in the same way? Mannig dangled her legs above the gurgling brook. Her sister was smart, she thought, but not instructive.

  A sudden pounding on the gate halted voices, chatter, and chores. The whole courtyard dropped into silence.

  “Open the gate! It is me, Dikran. Open the gate!”

  Dikran? Mannig’s heart skipped a beat. How easily she forgot her hero of the rummaging days. They had become inseparable after he rescued her from the gang of scavengers fighting over dung. He had even collaborated with the supervisor to find Adrine and guide her to the orphanage. Yet Mannig, engrossed in her sister’s presence, had stopped thinking about him. How unconscionable to completely forget him.

  “Open the gate! I must speak with you!” Dikran’s voice filled the courtyard.

  Mannig leaped to her feet and darted to the gate, but the supervisor stood up, waving her arms to stop. “You are not welcome here, Dikran,” she cupped her mouth, shouting. “Go back to wherever you came from.”

  “But I must speak with you,” Dikran yelled.

  “There is nothing you can say to me,” the supervisor insisted.

  “You don’t understand. The priest sent me.”

  The supervisor held still, mouth open.

  “I bear news from Baghdad,” he continued. “I came to tell you about a new development. Please open the gate, so I can explain why I am here. It is getting late and I must return to Mosul before dark.”

  Mannig stood as motionless as the rest of the orphans, scrutinizing the supervisor’s next move. Silence swallowed the courtyard babble.

  “It is good news,” Dikran implored. “Please open the gate.”

  His desperate voice triggered Mannig’s resentment of the supervisor’s ban. She remembered her love for Dikran and regretted having to put aside the shared memories of want and disappointment between them; ashamed how swiftly she had engrossed herself with Adrine, leaving scarcely a moment for thoughts of him. I must help him. Defiant, she sneaked around the supervisor’s tunic to unlock the door.

  “Tail your sister,” she nudged Adrine. “Help her open the door.”

  Mannig barely restrained herself from hugging Dikran. Only his arched eyebrows remained familiar; otherwise, he appeared tall and muscular, hair swinging to his shoulders.

  The supervisor studied him, head to khaki pants.

  He darted toward her.

  Mannig followed in the wake of his swooping steps. The sound of his clicking heels carried above the gurgling water and a sneeze from the back of the courtyard. His speedy and purposeful stride showed the urgency of his mission.

  “Do not get near the children!” the supervisor commanded, acid tones edging her voice. “Stop where you are.” She lifted the hem of her tunic and waddled toward him. “I don’t want the children to hear anything you have to say. So what is your news? Speak to me.”

  “The news comes from Baghdad. It concerns everyone,” he exclaimed. Pointing to the earthen jug, perched by the brook for cooling and filtering the drinking water, he asked, “May I have some?”

  Mannig handed him her tin cup. “I am so glad you are here,” she whispered, her words co-mingling with the water gurgling from the jug’s spout.

  He nodded and gulped the whole cupful. Wiping his chin with his sleeve, he faced the supervisor. “I have big news. Baghdad contacted the priest.”

  She sat down and gestured for him to do the same. Mannig, Adrine and others squatted nearby.

  “We have received orders,” Dikran began. “The priest is … he has been told to assemble all the orphans to be moved to Ba’qubah.”

  “What is Ba’aaq…?” the supervisor stuttered.

  “Ba’qubah is a town near Baghdad.”

  She glanced here and there, as though unashamed of her ignorance. She signaled for him to continue.

  “We have been instructed to transport the orphans to Ba’qubah.”

  “And who is this we?” she sneered.

  “The Armenians of Baghdad … and Cairo and even Paris,” Dikran explained, nodding respectfully as he related the details. “The world has finally heard of our plight. They know how the Turks killed us, massacred our families, stole our property. Boghos Nubar Pasha heard our cries and felt our pain. He spearheaded a movement to do something about our suffering … and is doing everything possible.”

  The supervisor wiped her mouth and interrupted him. “And who may he be?”

  “He is Armenian. He is known as the Patron of the Egyptian farmer. Apparently he came to prominence by improving the Egyptian peasants’ lot. While the Ottomans still ruled, their Sultan bestowed upon him the title of ‘Pasha’ around 1900. They say the man’s statue is located in the center of Alexandria with the inscription, ‘Father of the Egyptian Farmers.’ ”

  “After twenty years as a Pasha, he must be very rich,” the supervisor said. “So, is he sending us money?”

  “I don’t know. But he collaborated with Armenian leaders of the world to collect the orphans from the desert, from the villages and from the city streets. And transport them to Ba’qubah.”

  “How far is Ba’qubah from here?” Lala asked, switching her focus from her crochet needle to Dikran.

  “Long weeks of walking from here,” he said. “We will either be going in a boat down the Tigris or taking the train. Either way, we will be transported in groups—maybe twenty or fifty at a time.”

  “Why to this Ba’aaq …?” the supervisor stuttered again.

  “There is a real orphanage in Ba’qubah.”

  A real orphanage? Mannig perked up. A real orphanage certainly meant schooling. No matter what language, finally she’d learn to read and write.

  Ignoring Adrine’s passive demeanor and the supervisor’s colorless expression, she exclaimed, “When can we go?”

  18—A Night at the Church

  Images of a teacher, desks, and books in a real orphanage transported Mannig into ecstasy.

  The joyful news overshadowed all her recent good fortune—reuniting with Adrine, enjoying the company of other orphans, developing pride in her heritage, finding shelter within the stone building, securing survival until adulthood. She looked forward to schooling, even at the expense of separation from what she had cherished up to now.

  The supervisor assigned Adrine to lead the first group of a few boys and twenty girls to Mosul, each carrying a bundle and waiting in line. Mannig’s heart beat quickly as the prospect of fulfilling her destiny. “Let us go! Let us go!” She stepped ahead of her sister.

  The supervisor’s tearful embrace of each orphan seemed never to end. Dikran said they’d meet again. Mannig pulled on Adrine’s sleeve and sneaked a glance at the supervisor. “Why all this fuss? We’ll see each other soon. Let’s go.”

  The trek to Mosul along the scraggly palms and spotty streams seemed so much shorter than Mannig remembered. Once within the city, the complex intercrossing of one alley into the next seemed endless, especially when Adrine insisted on halting the foot-caravan to count every member of her troupe. Finally, the church appeared in the haze of dusk, veiled by smoke and bustling with hagglers.

  “Khoobooz!” chanted one who held a large flat-bread. “Mye-uh,” enticed another, fanning the steaming, sweetened turnip.

  Adrine hesitated by the wrought-iron gate and peaked. “Just as Dikran predicted,” she said, raising her shoulders. “Indeed, the homeless Armenians have flocked here.” She dropped her bundle by the brick-wall fence and stood on her toes, peering into the courtyard. “Does anyone see the priest? He’s supposed to have instructions for us.” She turned around and addressed the orphans, “I
need to go in and find him. Wait for me here …”

  “No, no,” a few in the rear sighed, interrupting her.

  “Don’t leave us alone,” echoed trembling voices.

  “I’m not abandoning you,” Adrine faced fretful eyes staring at her. “Listen to me. If we all go in now, we’ll get lost amid the hordes of people, and we will lose sight of one another.” She gazed above the heads of the pushers and shovers inside the courtyard and raised her voice above their cacophony. “If we ever become separated, God knows we will never find everyone. So do what I tell you. I promise I will come back. Stay here—in one cluster.”

  Masses and searching voices clashed in the courtyard.

  Mannig heard nothing beyond the loudness of her heartbeat. Images of heaving crowds hurled her back into the deportation days. Similar commotion had preceded Sirarpi’s suffocation in the boxcar … Haji-doo’s fall off the donkey ... the gendarme’s barrage of bullets … “Don’t leave me!” She tightened her grip on Adrine’s wrist.

  “Stop it. There are no gendarmes here,” Adrine said, pulling her arm but unable to free it. “You are hurting me! I must find the priest …”

  Mannig clung to her like a leach.

  “The priest will tell us about the orphanage,” Adrine yelled.

  “The orphanage?” Mannig relaxed her grip.

  “Of course,” Adrine said, pulling herself free. “Now listen to me, all of you. Squat here, against the wall … don’t wander … put down your bundles … don’t get separated … I must find out what we must do next. I will return, I promise.”

  Mannig had barely scooted onto her knees when Adrine reappeared with a man. Might he be the teacher? She sprung up in due respect to authority. She dashed and grabbed her sister’s hand while the others surrounded them.

  He seemed rather thin and gaunt, with a long nose—more like a mini-eggplant than the typical Armenian dolma profile. He looked familiar. Where had she seen him before?

  “You are fortunate, my children,” he said, glancing at Adrine, “to be under the custody of this young maiden. She may be only slightly older than you, but she assumes responsibilities fit for an adult with remarkable dependability.”

  Adrine’s fingers wiggled inside Mannig’s grip; her limbs tensed on and off but her face remained placid, her gaze half-lowered. For the first time, Mannig thought her sister beautiful.

  “I have good news,” the man continued. “The Middle East Relief has established an orphanage. With God’s power, you will be transported to Ba’qubah.”

  His velvety voice conveyed masculinity and his message authority.

  He sounds like someone I’ve heard before. The Barone’s friend? The one who had winked before registering her as a nameless and ageless starveling?

  Mannig feared he might identify her as the one who had feigned destitution, who had failed to pass muster with the Barone. It behooved her to be prudent by keeping out of his way. She buried her chin in the fold of her arm and, falling behind Adrine, avoided eye contact.

  “Many Armenians wish to protect the survivors of the Ottoman atrocities, especially the children,” the gentleman continued, his words more like a speech than instructions about how to proceed. He scanned Adrine’s group of twenty orphans, then addressed her, “Many great people from all over the world care about the welfare of the orphans. They assigned me to collect all of you in the Mosul area and plan your transport to Ba’qubah. I, too, will join you there, but not until I send the last orphan.” Lowering his voice, he added, “I may even bring my little daughter with me.”

  How miraculous for a little girl to have a father.

  Mannig peeked at him through a hole in the sleeve of her gingham tunic. She wanted to see what a father looked like. Clean shaven, he appeared gentle, as a father should. Unlike the refugees, this man wore a fitted suit and a tie with a silky sheen.

  He wants to send his little girl to school with us …

  “I am grateful to this young lady—your leader,” the gentleman continued, putting his hand on Adrine’s shoulder. “She protects you as she would her young siblings. What is your name, please?”

  “Who, me?” Adrine seemed surprised. “I am Adi.”

  Her Arabic name? Mannig’s jaw dropped. She must miss her life with the khatoon.

  “Adi,” he said. “Beautiful! Unusual Armenian name.”

  “I was christened Adrine,” she said, “but Moslawis called me Adi.”

  “Adrine, jahn,” the man said, adding the tag of endearment. “I need you to monitor these children from now on until Ba’qubah.” He put his hand in his coat pocket and brought out a pencil and paper. “Now tell me,” he hurried his speech as if to avoid Adrine’s question or objection to such an awesome responsibility. “I need your family name, and the city of your deportation. Barone Mardiros needs this information to prepare for you and your children.” He winked at her. “He has housed 600 orphans already. Where did you say your home was, Adrine-jahn?” he asked again.

  Mannig guessed that the man talked a lot and quickly to prevent Adrine from interrupting. Why else would she open and shut her mouth, gaze at him, then at her feet? Mannig wanted to shout at him. Adrine said nothing, but noticing her sister’s lips tightening and face turning pink, she exclaimed, “We are from Adapazar. We are sisters.”

  “God has blessed you greatly,” he said, his eyes still focused on his paper. “The first miracle is your survival of the massacre; the second, that the two of you are together.

  “A-d-a-p-a-z-a-r,” he said aloud as he wrote the letters. “Good. Now, what did you say your family name is?”

  Family name again!

  “It’s Dobajian,” Adrine whispered.

  “Adrine Dobajian of Adapazar,” the man said, writing it down.

  Dobajian. Dobajian. The name echoed in Mannig’s head. If her sister is Adi, no, Adrine Dobajian, then, was she Mannig Dobajian? Is Mannig my real name? She was called many things: Maria by the baker trading the dung she collected for bread; Y’abnayya by the khatoon who had promised to take her under her wing, but who made her scratch the bottom of her feet; Manyook in lewd dialect. Hearing it from her sister’s mouth relieved any anxiety about her identity. Adrine knows everything. Embarrassment wouldn’t ever tie her tongue again as it had when the Barone registered her at the church.

  “Well, Adrine Dobajian of Adapazar,” the man said. “I am Sebouh Papazian of Baghdad. You may have heard of me—they call me, Sebouh Effendi.”

  Barone Mardiros and now Sebouh Effendi—more names to remember.

  Haji-doo had instructed her grandchildren about the Armenian custom of calling men Barone, meaning mister. Effendi? When Baba dealt with Turkish businessmen, he addressed them, Effendi. Was Sebouh Effendi a Turk? Nooooo! He speaks like us. She relaxed, recalling how Armenians adapted by becoming bilingual—in their ethnic language and in the speech of their host country.

  “I came to Mosul for the Armenian cause,” Sebouh continued. “When we settle every displaced person, I shall return to my home in Baghdad.” He explained that the train had departed with a full load of refugees already. “We can’t wait for the train to transfer you; it won’t get back for several weeks. So I made arrangements for your group to travel in boats down the Tigris River.”

  Sighs of anxiety rose sky-high.

  “Not right now,” he said hurriedly. “It’s too late today. Everyone rests here until tomorrow.” He gestured for them to follow him across the courtyard and then into the sanctuary. “Adrine, Jahn. See that you and your children sleep here tonight.” He winked at her when stressing the word children and, before he departed, handed her a large sack filled with bread. “This is the only available food for tonight,” he apologized. “When the other children arrive, they will also sleep here. Will you see that all get some to eat?”

  Mannig waited for Adrine to find a spot on the stone floor of the church before she too dropped her bundle and leaned against it. The smell of emptiness surrounded the stark granite walls
. Unlike the Adapazar church, the pulpit was glaringly drab—bare of icons, paintings, brocade-draped pedestals, or glowing candles. No aroma of burning incense, what Mannig loved best about church. A few haphazardly stacked benches barricaded the marble tub used for infant baptisms.

  The narrow slits of windows in the dome of the cross-shaped structure allowed light to stream in from the fading sun’s rays. The dank taste of shadows quenched the cool of the night while the novel tarragon leaves of the white bread channeled her thoughts to adventures-yet-to-come. She touched her sister’s shoulder to ask a question or two—actually quite a few—but Adrine ignored her. She was waiting for the next batch of children.

  When nearly 200 arrived, she handed them bread, returned and plopped by her bundle. Closed her eyes—without a word.

  Mannig snuggled closer to her, scanning the innumerable orphans sprawled across the sanctuary. She ought to emulate her older sister and close her eyes …

  What if Jesus came and there was no room in His house?

  19—Down the Tigris

  Sebouh Effendi led Adrine’s group to the riverside early the next morning.

  His leather shoes scraped against the pebbles of the sun-baked alley; he took fast steps, increasing Mannig’s urgency need to board the boat. She hurried ahead of the orphans’ strides but remained trailing Adrine, her flimsy sandals barely brushing the ground.

  The ever-vigilant Adrine was swinging her head back and forth, checking on the children in her care, when Sebouh Effendi tapped her on the shoulder and insisted she relax. “Don’t worry. The children will not wander.” He waited for her to catch up and walk beside him.

  Mannig grabbed her sister’s hand, kept abreast with them, and relished this excellent opportunity to eavesdrop effortlessly on their conversation. Any impatience Mannig felt to sail down the river and promptly start school at the new orphanage evaporated. Adrine’s responses to Sebouh Effendi’s inquisitiveness about her life in Adapazar completely enthralled Mannig.

  “What was your father’s name?” he asked.