“Mama called Baba Bedros-Jahn,” Adrine said with characteristic brevity.
“Imshee!” A vendor’s warning came from behind; he carried herbs and seedlings on his back. He dashed by the caravan of children heading toward the entry of the sooq.
Adrine yielded to him, but her gaze focused on his load. “I remember,” she said, looking at Sebouh, “my father’s name was Bedros, and my mother designed a pansy flower bed in the shape of his name, in English.”
“Where did she learn English?”
“She graduated from an American school …” Adrine abruptly dropped her jaw, closed her eyes, and furrowed her eyebrows.
“Perhaps my questions upset you?” Sebouh apologized.
“No, no,” Adrine shook her head, gaining composure. “I, I don’t know why I forgot the name of her school … I think it was a university.”
“Aha! Was she a teacher then?”
“I don’t think so. She devoted her life to raising us,” Adrine whispered, tearfully.
Seeing Adrine’s saddened expression, Mannig felt a lump in her throat.
Sebouh walked in silence, occasionally sped up and then slowed to allow the twenty orphans to catch up with them.
“My uncle’s wife was a teacher,” Mannig heard her sister say above the ruckus several boys were making, squabbling over a game of marbles. They held Mannig’s attention momentarily—until she realized her sister had not finished answering. “Uncle Mihran’s family lived in Boleess, and he managed the sale of flour that my father shipped to him from our Adapazar mills.”
“Vye!” Sebouh Effendi sighed. “Your father ran a flour business? Such enterprises did very well before the Big War, and especially during the conflict.”
“My father also was a partner in a pawn shop,” a tinge of pride sounded in Adrine’s voice, “but everything is gone now, I suppose.”
“If only those butcher gendarmes had spared the Adapazaris,” Sebouh moaned, shaking his head. “With your father’s status and friends, he would surely have spearheaded the rescue of the orphans now, as we, the Baghdadi communities, are doing.”
To Mannig’s disappointment, silence ensued between the two. Don’t stop … I want to hear more. Family ties trumped any dreams she had of being educated. Moments earlier she couldn’t wait to arrive at the real orphanage. Now, the two-hour walk to the dock seemed too short.
“My grandmother was a Haji-doo.” Adrine’s rhythmic phrases matched her steps.
“That’s quite an honor,” he said. “I don’t know of anyone in Baghdad with a similar title.”
“According to my father,” Adrine continued, “she insisted on going to Jerusalem to fulfill her vow after surviving the Ottoman persecutions during the 1880s.” Adrine’s voice cracked, and the trapped tears glistened in her doe-like hazel eyes. “She carried the Bible all day long, and whenever she caught us being idle, she would make us go down on bended knee and pray to Jesus.” Wiping her runny nose with her sleeve, she added, “She fell off the donkey during our deportation, and the gendarme shot her. What was the use of all that praying?”
“What makes you say such things?” His voice sounded disappointed but not chastising. “Look at you and your sister. You survived. Obviously, she prayed for your welfare. Did you know we did, too? We, the Baghdadis? We prayed for everyone during the persecution, ever since 1915, even though you were strangers to us.”
Adrine cupped Mannig’s hand, bringing both girls to tears.
“World relief organizations now estimate over two million Armenians perished in these lands,” Sebouh said. “We prayed and entreated throughout the Big War persecutions. We prayed for all of you, for God to watch over you and deliver you to us. Praying was all we could do. The savage Turks, of course, intended to massacre us in Baghdad, too. Fortunately, the Allied forces advanced from Basra to Baghdad, defeating the Ottomans before they carried out their heinous plan to annihilate us. God protected us so that we could use our good fortune to relieve the misfortune of the orphans.”
The trek across enclaves, bazaars, and residential quarters leading toward the river filled the gaps in Mannig’s knowledge of her beloved family. So Baba called Mama Heranoush-Jahn, and she was the daughter of Reverend Baghdassarian, Protestant pastor in Izmid. “My mother wanted me to get an education similar to hers,” Mannig heard her sister say. “So I was enrolled at the American Missionary School.”
“What school did I go to?” Mannig asked, remembering that she and Setrak, her deceased brother, had gone to a different school just beyond their orchard.
“You went to the Apostolic Grammar School because …” she hesitated.
Both Mannig and Sebouh Effendi looked puzzled by her pause, and together, they asked, “Because ...? Why ...?”
“It was a funny story,” Adrine smiled, an expression Mannig had not seen in a long time. “To appease Haji-doo’s devout apostolic roots, Baba enrolled you and Setrak at the Armenian school. To honor Mama’s protestant ancestry, he consented to send me to an American school.”
“We owe much to the Americans,” Sebouh Effendi said. “Money from their people and Protestant Missionaries now enable us to rescue the orphans. Actually, the gendarmes spared the Protestants from deportation because of their missionary connections. Besides, I’ve heard that non-apostolic families have relocated in Europe now.”
“Europe?” Adrine gazed at him. “Romania is in Europe, right? My mother’s brother lives in Romania. She made me memorize his name and address just before she died in Deir Zor.”
“Poor soul, your mother,” Sebouh said, touching her shoulder. “Two hundred thousand refugees died in that town. Humanitarians these days call Deir Zor the world’s largest Armenian cemetery.” He looked back to check on the children. “Your mother must have been a very smart person. She trusted you and your memory to carry on your heritage.”
In silence, he glanced at her, then back at the group trailing them.
“We probably can locate your uncle,” he added, “with Barone Mardiros’ help. When he returns from India, where he’s raising funds for the orphanage. The directors of our organization in Baghdad plan to send him to Europe on a similar mission. We will speak with him about your uncle … and give him his address. After we get settled in Ba’qubah, of course.”
Mannig’s heart leaped with joy and pride for having a smart sister. How else could she memorize anything in the midst of homelessness, death, and heartbreak? Wherever Romania was, it promised family. She squeezed their clasped hands.
Barone Sebouh expelled a gigantic sneeze. “I always get a headache near large bodies of water,” he said, taking short and controlled breaths through flaring nostrils. “This moist air signals the nearness of the river.” He slowed his pace to blow his big nose into an embroidered white handkerchief and faced everyone behind him. “We’ll see the boats soon. As I told you before, I cannot go with you today. I must complete my mission here first. I promise to see you in Ba’qubah very soon.”
Past a grove of eucalyptus trees and grazing goats, Mannig halted, as did the rest of the orphans, at the bank of the Tigris River. Nervously, she gaped at Sebouh Effendi’s “boats.”
“Oooh.”
“Nooo!”
Cries of “Impossible!” and “Never!” reverberated around the group.
20—The Kalak
Everyone gaped at the rafts hitched to inflated animal skins. Sebouh Effendi raised his arm and faced them, and the murmuring and tearful whimpers subsided.
“Don’t worry about the kalaks,” he said. “They look crude, but they’ve functioned on these rivers for centuries. They transport people, livestock, and merchandise daily.” He grabbed Adrine’s arm and signaled to the others to follow him down to the riverbank while he greeted the men reclining against the trunks of palms.
“I know the boatmen,” he said, facing the children. “They are skillful and dependable. Over the past two months, they have delivered several groups to Ba’qubah safely and with perfect expe
rtise. When you get hungry, they’ll prepare food; if you have any trouble, they’ll fix it. How many of you speak Arabic?” Almost all the children raised their index fingers as if in a classroom. “Good! If you see a problem or anything unusual, just tell any one of them.”
Suddenly stirring, the reclining fellows jumped up and left their shady spots. A flock of grebes, bobbing along the shore, quacked into flight barely a yard above the water. The men wrapped their head-kerchiefs and rushed toward the kalaks. “Eh-len wu seh-len, Sebouh Effendi!” they greeted him in Arabic.
“Salaam aleykum, Mustafa,” Sebouh addressed their leader. “Inteh hadhur?”
“Yes, Effendi, we are ready.” Mustafa answered, pointing to the men and the three rafts. “My boatmen loaded the vessels with provisions, and they have rested long enough.”
The sight of the vessels tethered to stumps along the muddy bank shriveled Mannig’s expectations. She hid behind her sister and peered at the rafts of timber supported by inflated animal skins. A dozen ballooned goatskins encircled the boards of a kalak, holding it taut, steady, and afloat. The tied ends of the animal limbs piercing the air above the surface of the river reminded Mannig of the sloshing water in a similar animal skin tied to her sister’s back on the deportation route. She had focused on those legs and avoided straying off into the hot and mirage-producing desert.
A good omen.
She relaxed her grip and followed Adrine to the edge of the river.
Her sister’s grip tightened on her arm—soothing and reassuring. Without apprehension, she followed her lead.
Floating down the river might be exciting.
Mustafa pulled up the hem of his white robe and, swaddling his sinewy thighs, waded into the water with one foot; the other, on land, supported his weight. Gesturing to a passenger, he said, “Ta’alee. Come. I will lift you onto the kalak.”
Adrine nudged Mannig to go first. Before she could object, Mustafa picked her up and plopped her onto the raft. “Ya-Allah,” he said. “Go … sit down.” Within the minute, eight girls sat snuggly on their buttocks beside her, each cuddling her own bundle.
“Allah wiyanneh!” Chanting, ‘God is with us,’ Mustafa gestured to begin the voyage. Two boatmen pushed the raft into the flowing river by running along the bank before they hopped aboard. One man sat in front with a paddle, his back turned to the passengers; the other, Mustafa, at the rear of Mannig’s kalak.
Mustafa framed his sun-baked face with his black and white checkered head kerchief, and yelled, “Wahid. Ithnayn. Ya-allah.” He repeated the numerical chant, “One. Two. In God’s name,” with each dip of the paddle. His contorted expression kept pace with his calls, and his fretful gaze veered back and forth between his passengers and the two other kalaks.
Sebouh Effendi’s figure diminished on the shore and his hand stopped waving. The three rafts floated downstream with little maneuvering by the boatmen, even though they spoke with each other about the white caps, surging currents, or the occasional lazy stretch of water. Mostly, they discussed how to swerve around the water buffalo or steer clear of their floating dung.
The rafts drifted fast and free. The air cooled, chasing the sun’s warmth. Touching the water made her tingle, like a winter day transitioning into spring. Mannig held her breath only once—heard no splash, no splatter, only the swishing of the current beneath the planks.
She wiggled her hips, moving her bundle aside to snuggle beside Adrine. A twinge in her belly made her abnormally weak. Her insides felt drained of energy—tummy contracting, thighs numbing. Just one look at her sister’s composure reassured her about the voyage, while the cool air circulating above the water reminded her of being alive. I’m imagining bad stuff. She endured the cramping in her belly, refused to be affected by the sounds and sights along the eastern shore—as the bank grew nearer to the floating raft. Mangy reeds clung along the west bank of the wide Tigris, and a string of green eucalyptus trees zigzagged the horizon of the opposite bank.
The kalak flitted by giggling children playing in the water, chattering women rinsing clothes, and braying donkeys carrying water in earthen jugs. Grunting men, not far from the shore, pulled a similar raft upstream with taut ropes off their shoulders while sweaty boatmen rowed the raft. After drifting for over two hours, Mustafa hollered across the water to his partners in the other two kalaks, signaling them to row ashore. As soon as they tied the raft to a stump, Adrine disembarked. “Don’t get lost!” she said to the orphans dashing hither and thither to relieve themselves. “I will wait for you by the boats,” she yelled, her voice trailing the children running in search of a discreet spot to pull down their panties. Seeing the six boatmen rolling the hem of their white gowns up to their chests and wading waist-high to urinate in the current, Adrine instantly turned her back and scampered beyond the bank to relieve herself, Mannig in tow.
Out of nowhere, a female chant filled the air. “L-a-b-a-n. L-a-b-a-n. Fresh yoghurt anyone?”
Mannig stood mesmerized by the Bedou woman coming down the embankment. She balanced a stack of cylindrical drums—the load above her head as tall as her female frame. How many bowls? Mannig stood still, counting … Meg-Yergoo-Yerek … and to her surprise, she remembered the sequence just like her kindergarten days in Adapazar. “Nine,” she yelled. “The woman has nine things on her head.”
Wearing woven sandals and swaddled in a gown of knitted camel hair, the Bedou swayed her hips, in rhythm with her chant. “L-a-b-a-n. L-a-b-a-n. Fresh yoghurt anyone?”
Mustafa approached her. The two haggled in high pitched voices.
Finally, she consented to barter four bowls of her yoghurt for a basketful of his dates. Keeping her balance, she slowly bent her knees until they touched the ground. Resting her rump on her heels, she said, “Remove the top drum first.”
Mustafa stood on tiptoe and stretched his hands up to reach the top of the stack. He handed one to each boatman and, holding the woman’s free arm, helped her up to her feet again.
“Leave the empty drums on this stump, like you did last month,” she said, setting the basket of dates beside a toppled tree amid a grove of date palms. “I will collect them after I sell the rest. L-a-b-a-n!” she chanted and, swaying her hips, disappeared beyond the embankment.
Mannig squatted on the ground with the others, surrounding the yoghurt container made of tightly woven palm fronds and sealed with tar. Her mouth watered at the few trapped bubbles on the taut surface of the creamy white yoghurt, glistening in the sun.
Mustafa took a loaf from a bag of bread. “Dunk the bread in the laban,” he said, and slurped down a sample himself. “If any of you became nervous or nauseated on the raft, the laban will sooth you.”
So, that’s why my insides ached.
Mustafa set another basket by Adrine—date syrup oozing through its wicker fronds. “Wait a while for your stomach to rest with the yoghurt; after that, you should eat the dates.” Before he headed to join his five partners a few yards away, he signaled to the Armenian boys. “You eat with us. Leave the women on their own.” The male travelers segregated themselves from the nineteen girls.
Mannig dunked a chunk of the crispy flat bread and slurped the goat-milk yoghurt—the right food for her ‘nervous’ stomach. One bite sufficed. She liked the taste but felt full very quickly, while the unfamiliar ‘nervousness’ of her insides persisted. She snuggled next to Adrine, while the others gorged themselves with bread and yoghurt, topping each bite with a moist, sweet date.
Mustafa told everyone to relieve themselves again just before re-boarding for another two to three hours of gliding downstream.
Following Adrine’s lead, Mannig pulled down her panties. Only a scraggly boulder stood between them. She saw crimson stains. After a second look at her panties, she screamed, “Adrine! Come here. Quick, Adrine!” she sobbed, tears trickling down and mouth frothing in fear, more to herself than loud enough to hear. “I am dying … Jesus is punishing me,” she whimpered, resting her head on her sister’s s
houlder. “I don’t want to die. I have not done anything bad, or, or, or hurt anyone. I have not lived yet. I have not seen the world yet …”
“Calm down. No one is dying,” Adrine shushed her.
“Look at my panties … See? Isn’t this blood? I’m bleeding to death.”
Adrine gave her panties a fleeting glance and smiled. “Stop the theatrics. No one dies from that!” she chuckled. “Surprise, surprise. You’re becoming a woman, Mannig-Jahn. And at such an early age.” She bent down, ripped a strip off the hem of her faded green gingham gown, and tore it lengthwise in half. She hung one half on her arm and, holding the other, she explained: “We fold this half twice or thrice for thickness. Now it is chunky enough to absorb the discharge. Take it. Line it inside your panties. Yes—just like that. Later, I’ll look for a pin to fasten it to the panty, so it won’t slip down your legs.” She waited until Mannig pulled up her panty to hand her the second half of the strip. “When that gets soiled, you have to wash it and let it dry—in privacy, of course. Meanwhile, you can line your panties with the other strip.”
“Am I not dying?” Mannig whispered. “Isn’t this red blood?”
“It is blood, but you shall live,” a sober Adrine said. “Your amsagahn has started—the monthly curse for every woman.”
What curse? Mannig wanted to ask, but Mustafa was calling the stragglers. “Y’allah! Get on the kalak. We must cover a lot of distance yet. Y’allah, Y’allah! Hurry!”
Conscious of the bulge of cloth between her thighs, Mannig trailed behind Adrine onto the raft. Once snuggled next to her sister, she remained stiff and still. The troubles she had endured during the deportation hardly compared to the weakness in her lower back. Might holding my breath help? Struggling to do so for more than half a minute convinced her of the meaning of the ‘curse.’ She needed Adrine’s expertise but refrained from asking. Instead, she listed her questions in her head, amid the noise of rushing waters or Mustafa’s chanting back and forth with his oarsmen. Learning more about this curse must wait, Mannig convinced herself, as her eyelids weighted down. The bobbing of the kalak lolled her to sleep.
Between the Two Rivers: A Story of the Armenian Genocide Page 16
