At dusk, the oarsmen moored the boats to boulders along the bank and erected two camel-hair tents—one for the females, the other for the males. The boatmen stewed eggplant with lentils in black iron caldrons, flavoring the meal with spices of cumin and cayenne, while Adrine watched attentively. She then helped them break the bread into wedges. Again the orphans dunked a chunk and lapped the stew.
At dawn, they sipped strong sweetened tea, broke camp, and floated downstream again, repeating the routine for the next four days. Mannig wished for yoghurt—but never tasted it again.
While floating by fishermen casting their circular nets off the round guffa boats, Mannig felt a tightening of her stomach muscles. The curse? Instead, images of a scary experience in a similar vessel engulfed her. It had happened crossing the Euphrates River on the deportation route. The gendarmes shoved and pushed the deportees—ten to twelve—into each guffa. A child had fallen off the edge of the packed boat and disappeared into the swift current. When nearing the opposite bank, Mannig, unable to hang on to the side of the boat, slipped off into the cold water. Someone from shore dashed in, seized her arm, and pulled her out. Touching the part of her arm where her unknown guardian had grabbed her sobered Mannig momentarily. Scooting closer to her sister in the kalak relaxed her.
Meanwhile, Mustafa was informing the guffa fishermen that he was taking the Armenian children to an orphanage.
The fishermen donated four fish for the “poor Armenys.”
Within the hour, the kalaks pulled ashore, the nightly tents were erected, and Mustafa made his announcements. “We are preparing masgouf this evening,” he said while the oarsmen gutted the fish and butterflied each flat, keeping the heads. “This is its brain,” he added, pointing a branch from a palm frond at a cavity in the half-split head. “If it were bigger, the fish would not be caught in the net! But God made its brain tasty just as He did the eyeballs. After the fish has been roasted, we will allow the oarsmen to reward themselves with the fish heads.”
Mannig’s fascination continued as they skewered the fish—opened like a book—with branches from a palm tree. One oarsman held the butterflied fish upright—head, tail, spine, skin, and fins—while another dug the thick ends of the skewers into the ground until all four fish circled the fire with the flesh-side facing the flames.
Mannig’s mouth watered at the aroma permeating the smoke. Delicious … did I ever eat fish in Adapazar? While everyone sat around the fire, chatting and giggling, Mannig sensed she, too, must be getting used to the water-motion. She ignored her cramps; now her hunger struggled with the wait.
As soon as amber bubbles fizzed on the flesh, the boatmen freed the fish from the skewers and laid each one, skin side down, on the dying coals for a few more minutes. They sprinkled salt, curry, and turmeric on top and laid the sizzling meal on fronds.
One boatman dug his fingers into the soft tissue and ate, encouraging the rest to follow his example—it did not matter how hot the morsel was, in the palm or the mouth.
The whitish meat tasted better than anything Mannig had ever eaten. She scraped the blubber hidden near the skin with each chunk and devoured bite after bite, unaware that the fish bones ought to be manipulated with the tongue and spit out.
Suddenly, she choked.
Her hacking cough spurred Mustafa to dash over. He grabbed her off her feet and gave her a big shake.
Mannig wheezed, face flushed and eyes flooded with tears.
Mustafa whacked her back again and again until she excreted the mouthful of fish and bones and gasped for breath.
Did I die? Then come back to life?
Mannig’s coughing subsided only after Mustafa insisted she chew on some bread and swallow it. Right then and there the sight of fish repulsed her. For her, the feast was over.
She laid her head on her bundle and stared at the full moon rising in flaming orange and casting rainbow hues on the Tigris. The deep blue sky, crowded with stars, resembled an enchanting shawl embroidered with glitter. Unmoved, she gazed at this familiar scene of the past few nights. Even thoughts of the prospective orphanage evaporated from her head. The aching in her throat was in that moment the core of her life.
Upon hearing Mustafa’s bedtime announcement, “We sail early in the morning,” she rolled over and closed her eyes, only to sit up, eyes wide, as he continued, “Tomorrow, we will be in Ba’qubah.”
Picture 1 - 23.8 Mannig Kouyoumdjian—portrait taken in Baghdad, Iraq, circa 1936.
Picture 2 - 38.3 Mannig and Mardiros Kouyoumdjian celebrating their marriage in Baghdad, Iraq, in 1922.
Picture 3 - 85.5 Orphanage in Nahr-el-Omar, Iraq, 1920. Mannig is seated front row, first from left. The orphanage consisted of several tents, each designated as a class for a special skill. This tent was reserved for teaching crochet. Mannig was an expert.
Picture 4 - 31.2 Orphanage grounds in Basra, Iraq, 1921. Mardiros brought his personal gramophone and discs to teach the orphans the foxtrot.
From right to left: Mannig, unidentified girl, Adrine, Mardiros, his right arm on His Masters Voice. All others are unidentified.
Picture 5 - 90.5 His Excellency Hagop M. Kouyoumdjian, born 1841, died 1913. (Photograph taken in Baghdad in 1913.) Mardiros’s father, decorated by the Ottoman Sultan for his philanthropic contributions.
Picture 6 - 73 The five Kouyoumdjian brothers, photographed in Baghdad in 1913. Seated, from left: Karnig Kouyoumdjian (the eldest), Khosrof Kouyoumjian (five years younger). Standing, from left: Toros Kouyoumdjian; Mardiros Kouyoumdjian (center); Dikran Kouyoumdjian. Toros and Dikran were twins—ten years older than Mardiros. Mardiros was the youngest in his family.
Picture 7 - 343.4 The Hagop Kouyoumdjian family in Baghdad, 1913. The father and mother, Hagop Kouyoumdjian and Managuile Kouyoumdjian, are seated in the center, flanked by one daughter and three daughters-in-law. The five sons are standing in the back, along with four granddaughters and one grandson. Mardiros, age 23, is the first from right, standing in the back row. Seated on the floor are two grandsons and two granddaughters.
21—White City
A borderless field of white tents spread as far as the limits of the Ba’qubah horizon.
Where is the orphanage?
Mannig’s gaze searched for a stone building. Off the kalak and standing on the river dike, not one structure fit her concept of a school—not beside, behind or beyond the peaks of the tents. Her hopes for a school fluttered away, mere figments of her imagination. Will I ever see a school? The setting sun reddened and the evening shadows lengthened, trailing Mustafa’s wake. He guided his kalak passengers toward the so-called orphanage in Ba’qubah, a village 50 kilometers northeast of Baghdad, reputed for its innumerable hectares of citrus fruit groves.
“The Assyrians live in this section.” Mustafa pointed left of Adrine, to a path defined by sturdy ropes securing rows of canvas tents. “The Chaldean refugees settled in the sector beyond them.”
Mannig pulled on Adrine’s sleeve. “Who is he talking about?”
“Homeless Christians, I think,” Adrine said in a whisper. “These camps must be for people who survived the Turkish persecution, like you and me.”
“And across them,” Mustafa continued, “is the Armenian site—that’s the largest camp. When the Big War ended, the Englaizees donated their army tents to the Middle East Relief and they, in turn, settled the refugees here. Now we have a tent city more expansive than Ba’qubah or its orange groves.” He cleared his throat, spit a blob next to his foot, and lifted the heavy canvas flap of a vacant shelter. “This family must have moved on. Who knows? Perhaps they’ve settled in Persia … Oh, Iran … they’re calling that country Iran now. Rumor is that people can find work just across the border. Jobs in our Arab lands are scarce, especially here. I hear that this territory will be called Al-Iraq. A new name for an old country hasn’t made our businesses more prosperous.”
Names of countries flitted beyond Mannig’s comprehension. She wanted to ask Adrine, but her sister’
s vacant look reflected similar ignorance about the immediate geography, least of all knowledge of national boundaries established following the Big War.
When I’m in class, I’ll ask my teacher—teachers know everything.
As if to clarify the facts for himself, Mustafa sought Adrine’s attention. “Settling the refugees here has been good for the people of Ba’qubah … unexpected trading and bartering is always good. The locals would really benefit if there were site constructions. I think everybody suspects tent settlements are migratory.” He stepped outside the narrow path of one campsite’s margin and into another. “Now we are in the Armenian camp … very big,” he said. “Maybe four hundred families live here.”
The squalor of the surrounding tents jarred Mannig’s memory of her own enclave in Adapazar. Instead of an enticing profusion of steaming yeast from bakeries, the air was weighted with dung smoke. Packed mud paths loomed ahead in place of cobblestone lanes. This can’t be Armenian. The voices, on the other hand, contradicted her first impression; they seemed genuine. Wistfully, she listened to a woman’s sing-song call, “Aram! Hosse yegoor!” commanding a boy to come hither; then another, “Despina? Oor ess aghcheeg?” seeking her daughter’s whereabouts.
I wish Mama summoned me.
Mannig swallowed a painful lump, remembering how her mother had died. It was during the horrible influenza epidemic while they were held hostage by the Ottoman gendarmes in Deir Zor.
“Some children found their relatives or older siblings,” Mustafa continued, guiding his group across the campsite. “So they left the orphan-city and reunited with their families. Now they live here.”
Depressed by the impoverishment of the refugees, Mannig hoped she and Adrine would never be sent here. Discreetly, she released her grip from her sister’s and trailed at a distance. With a fearful heart, she prayed for the sight of the orphanage. After they were registered and settled, she could resume a relationship with her sibling in secret.
“How far before we reach our destination?” Adrine asked Mustafa.
“As soon as we cut across this part and get close to the river again, we’ll see the orphan-city. It, too, stretches across a wide territory. There are more than six hundred starvelings …”
“Eh-len wu seh-len, Say-yid Mustafa,” a woman’s guttural voice greeted him in an Arabic, heavily laced with an Armenian accent. In spite of her slightly hunched stature, the woman’s attire and demeanor set her instantly apart from the refugees. The wide collar of her white blouse broadened her shoulders beyond its normal size, slenderizing the appearance of her otherwise wide hips inside a long black skirt.
“Wu salaam aleykum, khatoon Perouz,” Mustafa returned her greetings. Facing his children, he added, “She is your mistress. You better behave for her.”
Diggin Perouz smiled broadly, accentuating a sliver of separation between her two front teeth. “We have been waiting for you since yesterday. I’m glad you got here safely. Selamat, thank God. I brought oranges to welcome you. How many children do you have this time, Mustafa?” As the two exchanged information, she handed a beautiful thin-skin orange to each child with a few left over in her bag.
The spherical and velvety touch of the fruit in her palm satisfied Mannig’s expectations; perhaps life at the orphanage would be perfect. Comforted by its feel, she even recalled its taste after so many years. While she debated whether to save it for later or gobble it right then, all attention was drawn to a girl gagging and spitting skin and pulp.
Diggin Perouz dashed to her side. “Poor child,” she said, bringing out another orange from her bag. “You must only eat the inside of this fruit. Peel the skin like this, and see these wedges? You eat them, not the skin.” After her demonstration, she headed toward a large tent containing #10 cans of gee, gunny-sacks of grains, and stacks of military utensils and metal dishes.
Following a set routine, the Diggin handed a tin mug to each orphan, while Mustafa passed out bowls. She talked with him continuously, leading the group toward a tent where the air was permeated with smoke and spices.
Two women holding ladles waited by a caldron dangling above a smoldering hearth.
“Children,” the Diggin instructed. “Fall into line.”
When pushing and shoving ensued, she sized up Adrine from head to foot and compared her with the other children, saying, “You’re a tall one … and look older than the rest. We need order here. How about letting the youngest child go to the front? We always feed the little ones first.”
At the sight of food, Mannig’s aloofness from her sister was quickly forgotten. She nudged Adrine to be the first in line, but was prodded aside and positioned behind four smaller orphans. Her hurt feelings lasted only a moment. What if, instead, she had been reprimanded by name and their relationship had been revealed? Surely, the two sisters would be denied admittance to the orphanage and sent to live at the Armenian camp.
Being anonymous and number four in line is very good.
Demurely, she extended her metal bowl to be served. The cook’s heavy ladle clicked against the rim of her bowl. Garlic smell wafted from the thick soup of barley, wheat, and rice embellished with onions and tomatoes. She slid her finger up the spilled broth streaming outside her bowl and licked it, preparing to move on.
“Wait.” One of the serving women grabbed her sleeve. “Your dry bones need this,” and she dribbled a layer of melted gee on the soup.
Clarified butter tastes better than it looks floating atop the soup.
Joining the rest, Mannig squatted and lapped it up, perfectly satisfied. My dry bones needed that.
“We have prepared this special meal for you, as newcomers,” Diggin Perouz said, addressing Adrine. “We can feed the children with an extra meal like this only occasionally. But they will always have their fill at regular eating times.” She pulled out a gray head kerchief from her pocket and wrapped it around her plump cheeks. “When everyone is full, I will take you to your shelters.”
She filled a bowl and handed it to Mustafa. “Sit down and rest. Your tent has been kept vacant for you and your partners, and there are enough mattresses for all. Come to my abode later for a snack.”
“Laa, W’allah.” Mustafa slurped a few mouthfuls and thanked her with regret. “My men are in Ba’qubah already. I must join them and load the kalaks with supplies. Sebouh Effendi wanted oranges for the children in Mosul. He is waiting anxiously. So we’ll rest in the village before we head upstream.”
“Allah wiyaak,” Diggin Perouz said, bidding God’s watchful eye on him. She reached inside her skirt pocket and brought out an envelope. “Since I will not see you before you leave, will you give this to my brother-in-law?”
“Sebouh Effendi suspected you probably had a message for him,” Mustafa said, and, folding the envelope into thirds, he slid it inside his dizhdasheh, resting it above his belted robe.
“God willing, I will see you on your next assignment—Inshaa-Allah,” Diggin Perouz bid him farewell. She then faced the orphans. “I’ll show you your tents. There is a mattress for every two of you. Although they are laid on the tent floor, they are kept dry and comfortable. You must be very tired. Yes?”
Who cares about being tired?
Unable to contain her impatience any longer, Mannig burst out in defiance, “We want to go to the orphanage.”
“Aha!” Diggin Perouz voiced surprise. “We have someone with a tongue. What is your name, child?”
Equally surprised, Mannig cowered and remained silent.
“She is my sister,” Adrine said politely. “Her name is Mannig, and I am Adrine. She has been very excited about Ba’qubah.”
Oh, no! Why did I say anything? And Adrine blurted out our relationship! Oh, dear God. Don’t let her banish us out to the Armenian camp before we even enter the orphanage.
“Well, Mannig,” Diggin Perouz said. “You ARE in the orphanage. All these white tents make up our home. You ate soup at the orphanage kitchen. Its wafting smells will beckon you every morning, no
on, and evening. You will sleep in one of those tents, five to eight girls in each. Girls! So you need to regroup yourselves for the night. If you fail to make a good match, don’t worry. Tomorrow, we may rearrange again. You, boys, how many of you are there? One, two … Oh, there are just four of you. You will sleep in one tent.”
Mannig lugged her bundle and followed Adrine, right behind Diggin Perouz. She did not know whether to like this woman or not. According to Mustafa, she was the mistress; might she be the teacher, too? Oh, why did I even open my mouth?
“See those sheds?” Diggin Perouz pointed at a few small structures made of palm fronds lined at the edge of the river dike. “They are in Turkey.”
Perplexed gazes riveted from her to the sheds. What’s in Turkey?
“That’s where you go when you need to relieve yourselves,” she said sternly, but winking at Adrine, “Turkey deserves nothing but our latrines.”
Mannig detected both Adrine and the Diggin snickering.
“We hang a lantern on that special post to guide your way at night,” she continued orienting the new arrivals. “But if some of you must go to Turkey now, we’ll wait for you.”
Adrine held Mannig’s hand and led the way toward a shed, going in first. “I can’t say this is civilization,” she said upon exiting, holding the wobbly door ajar for Mannig.
With trepidation, Mannig stepped into putrid odors. Smells fuming toward the open roof assaulted her. Buzzing flies popping up clung to the mat-walls made of wicker palm fronds. A long-necked pottery pitcher filled with water sat on the floor-planks within reach for washing both the self and the hands. A narrow slit between two boards formed a hole, deeper than Mannig cared to know. Hearing lapping waves and feeling an upward draft, she guessed the waste somehow flowed into the river. What if she fell through the opening? Scared, she dashed out and decided never to go there at night, posted light or not.
Between the Two Rivers: A Story of the Armenian Genocide Page 17
