Between the Two Rivers: A Story of the Armenian Genocide

by Aida Kouyoumjian

  “As you know, Eghishe Vartanian is the only teacher,” she sighed, and flung a black crocheted shawl over the wide collar of her white blouse. “I have appointed the older girls to teach the younger ones whatever they know of reading and writing. You will meet the pretend-teachers tomorrow. Oh,” she looked at him, delight emanating from her voice. “One of those girls just arrived from Mosul. She must have received an excellent education in Adapazar before deportation. In one week, she has assisted me in classifying students according to their grades.” Stepping outside the tent, she looked at the glittering canopy of the deep dark sky. “That girl is my star! We will talk more tomorrow. Good night.”

  He waited until she walked past one tent and entered hers before he went in and pulled off his boots. Even if his thirty-year-old body could ignore its exhaustion, he knew he would function better after a good night’s sleep. Before touring the camp or meeting the pseudo-faculty, he must ride to Ba’qubah and send a telegram to Sebouh … the Mosul orphans must be transported directly to Basra … not in kalaks, for heaven’s sake! By train and only after the line was running again.

  He lit his bedtime cigarette and stretched his aching legs on the wobbly cot. Inhaling while resting his head doubled his fatigue. Mosul orphans? Only a few months ago he had finished registering them. Adapazar? It reminded him of the little imp conniving her way into the orphanage. She was from Adapazar.

  Could she be Diggin Perouz’s prize?

  23—Father of the Orphans

  Confident in Diggin Perouz’s ability to allot the yardage of fabric to the orphans and distribute the shoes, Mardiros deprived himself of his essential daybreak drink, Turkish coffee, and bid her adieu. For nearly an hour, he cantered non-stop to Ba’qubah.

  Chasing and babbling children slowed him down along with farmers bearing produce and vendors hauling their carts toward the village sook. Pedestrians ogled his British Topy and khaki britches. He laughed at their remarks: “He is Lawrence’s twin,” and “The Englaizees are coming,” only to surprise them with his native Arabic.

  “My clothes are like an Englishman’s,” he said, “but I am Armeny. I am with the Armenian orphans.” He dismounted and approached a huddle of young men. “Where is your telegraph station?”

  They pointed in his horse’s direction. “Go. It’s not far.”

  He hoped the ‘not far’ was literal, and not just the men’s customary way of trying to impress a stranger with their knowledge.

  Seeing black graffiti on a rolled-down tin door that spelled teleghraff in Arabic, he straightened his shoulders and relaxed—no need to travel to Baghdad just to send a message. He dismounted. Padlocked? Of course! A pastoral community would be unlikely to depend upon modern technology.

  “Ehlen,” an elderly man said, leaning on his cane. With his free hand, he pulled on the corner of his white cotton Kaffieh scarf, flipped it over his Aggaal and tucked it under the shiny jet-black coil that secured his head gear. Approaching the bay gelding, he touched the horse’s cheek with his palm and murmured words of endearment into its ear.

  Mardiros greeted the perceptive man and, pointing to the sagging wires from the telegraph shed made of sun-dried bricks, asked, “Who can send a telegram for me?”

  “Hamid,” the sage said, his gnarled fingers brushing the horse’s silky mane.

  “Can you find Hamid for me?”

  “Can’t,” the man replied, sliding his palm along the horse’s neck.

  Mardiros assumed the information required a price. He dismounted, patted dust off the loins of his horse, and facing the man, offered him a cigarette.

  “La, la!” the man refused.

  Mardiros put a cigarette between his own lips and held the case open, allowing the informant to change his mind.

  “La, la! I am a narghille fellow,” he said, pointing to a brass-based water pipe sitting on the ledge of the kebab stand across the station.

  Mardiros lit his own cigarette and tried again. “Take a few anyway.”

  The man took a couple, carefully sliding them into the side pocket of his tawny tunic. “Turkee?”

  “La, Englaizee,” Mardiros labeled the cigarettes being English, not Turkish.

  “Moomtahz!” the man uttered. “Excellent!”

  Confident of having established a rapport, Mardiros asked, “Do you know where I can find Hamid?”

  “Across the river.”

  Mardiros quickly mounted his horse. “Where is the bridge?”

  “Burned down!”

  Mardiros agonized. He knew very well how the Ottoman military burned the bridges upon their retreat from the British forces at the end of the war. None had been replaced. Two years earlier, the Falloujah Bridge had met a similar fate. From the balcony of the Kouyoumdjian Qasr, his family’s summer mansion on the west side of the Euphrates River, he had watched it sink into flames. The infrastructure of the post-war Iraqi government proceeded as nonchalantly as a scorpion, even in Falloujah—the strategic juncture between Baghdad and Jordan.

  Insignificant Ba’qubah couldn’t have a new bridge yet. He shook his head. Ahkh! The Tigris was too wide to cross on horseback.

  College texts describing the rivers of the Middle East in his irrigation engineering classes graded the Tigris as one of the world’s greatest rivers. At the Ba’qubah site, it ran deep and fast until it met its sister, the Euphrates, at Shat-El-Arab, due north of Basra at the southern tip of Iraq.

  The task of finding a telegraph operator was as daunting as locating orphans on these lands in the aftermath of war. Like a yo-yo, he dismounted again. “Where are the bellems?” He asked about a boat.

  The fellow whispered into the stallion’s ear and released the bridle. After tethering the horse to a large rock beside his kebab stand, he gestured to Mardiros to head west. Instead of uttering his customary one-or-two word answers, he ululated and one of the congregated boys approached. “Mahmood,” he said, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder and positioning him to lead Mardiros to the river.

  Completely trusting the Arab with his stallion, Mardiros followed Mahmood while a jabbering pack of boys trailed behind them.

  Mahmood, swaying his hand-woven cloak striped in ecru browns and mustard yellows, hopped and jogged ahead of Mardiros toward the river, seemingly happy to guide a man in Western attire.

  Mardiros marched, erect and determined, leading with his broad shoulders—developed as a star athlete of track and gymnastics at Roberts College in Constantinople. In Mahmood’s wake, Mardiros’s stride set their pace until they reached the riverbank.

  Mahmood kept his palm outstretched like a beggar’s while the children ogled the bakhsheesh.

  Mardiros jingled several 5-Fils pieces into Mahmood’s hand, and the boy immediately fisted the coins and dashed out of sight, the children yelling at his heals for a piece of his luck.

  Knowing Hamid’s whereabouts, the first boatman, sitting idly at the stern of his bellem, agreed to row Mardiros across the Tigris for 50 Fils. “Worth two loaves,” he grumbled, his hands sizing the circumference of the Arabic flat bread. He then ran up the bank and yelled, “Anyone want to go across?” “I can take three more passengers …” and lastly, “This is the one and only crossing for today.” He waited a while and then repeated his call. Indignantly, he waved his left arm and scampered back to the boat. Holding its stern, he pushed it off the land and waved his salaams to the other boatmen.

  Mardiros hopped into the boat without rocking it too much then swiftly scooted to the bow. He faced the boatman in silence for half-an-hour while the man struggled with the current.

  “Hamid works with the fellahin these days,” the boatman said, pointing to the wheat fields and pocketing the fare. “When you’re ready to return to the village, meet me several yards up stream. That will be 100 Fils each way.”

  Rascal! He ups the fare because he knows I have to get back.

  Within three hours, Mardiros found Hamid. The two stepped into the bellem, and plop! His legs demanded relie
f. Age catching up? Passing the age of thirty fell short of the magic people claimed. Might the wonder be in pursuing new passions? Memories of his impetuous teen days or the thrill-seeking of his twenties waned in comparison to the exhilaration he felt at the orphanage. He shrugged his shoulders as though to toss out youthful joys and lit a cigarette. Inhaling smoke guided him into darker thoughts of isolation and helped him retreat from the trivia of life. For a moment, his eyes glazed, his neck drooped, and his back hunched. Why am I here? Who am I?

  A fresh gust from the surface of the river reawakened him.

  Noticing Hamid and the boatman ogle his cigarette, he held his case open. “Hamid, take … one for yourself and light another for the boatman.”

  The boat glided quickly and the boatman’s cigarette, half smoked, was still between his lips when they arrived.

  Mardiros handed him two 100 Fils, and having forgotten the man’s demand for the increased fare, added a bonus by habit.

  The boatman was so excited that he reached to kiss his hand.

  Mardiros determinedly snapped his hand away. “Shukran,” he said in thanks and bid him farewell.

  Quietly, he followed the operator through the sook. The crowd was at its peak, with fresh deliveries atop donkeys jingling their way beside pedestrians and merchants.

  The tranquil scene at the kebab stand made him smile. His stallion nibbled on barley in a burlap nosebag draped from his head and the old man, fingering his subha, prayer beads, reclined on a mat woven of palm fronds—saddle and satchel resting beside him. Without disturbing the old man he stood behind Hamid, anxiously waiting for the unlocking of the station’s padlock. Hamid rolled open the screeching tin door, and Madiros followed him into the shed.

  The man pulled wires, wound exposed ends together, and sparked connections. He split another pair and joined others. “Works,” he said. He blew dust off the telegraph bench and rubbed his sleeve on the key until the copper lever shone in the dim shed. “Has not been used in two years.” He tapped the lever. No reaction. He withdrew his dagger from his waistband and tightened a screw. He flipped a switch on and off, shook wires back and forth, and for a few minutes listened keenly to the metallic gurgling of the system.

  Mardiros held his breath.

  Hamid’s lips parted and his thick mustache barely exposed a smile.

  Mardiros took the breath of relief for a fait accompli. Innovation did what technology promised.

  Hamid tapped the key pulsating fast and slow and transmitted the message to Sebouh in Arabic:

  Change original plans STOP

  Communiqué from Baghdad forthcoming STOP

  Halt transport orphans to Ba’qubah STOP

  Signed—Your friend, Mardiros

  Mardiros pressed his shoulders together and then, with a sigh, tightened them further. I pray no child will be lost in the shuffle. He was not a religious person, but he was dedicated to Armenianness—where deep-rooted Christianity defined its heritage. He pleaded for the sake of the orphans.

  Even if a few children were already floating down the Tigris—stupid idea—they ought to arrive at Ba’qubah before the commencement of the final transport to Basra. In a few days, I’ll send a more comprehensive telegram from Baghdad, demanding the children be transferred by train and only by train … directly … and directly to Basra.

  He let his tense shoulders collapse and handed the telegrapher one Dinar—equivalent to 1000 Fils—trying to gauge if his reaction to the amount was contentment or disdain.

  “In-shah-Allah, your message is in Mosul now,” Hamid exclaimed, his trust in God’s willingness for the deed. “Perhaps the delivery boy will hand it over to your man tonight.” He then counted the ten 100-Fils coins, and dropped them in his pocket. “Shukran,” he said in thanks.

  Mardiros stepped outside and saw his gelding saddled, satchel attached to one side and prepared for his return. His eyes scanned the horizon above the flat-roofed buildings—still two hours until dusk. The smell of smoke from the kebab stand beckoned to a growling stomach. He had neither eaten breakfast nor sipped tea all day. He smiled. My fatigue is not due to old age but to hunger, after all.

  “Come,” he said to the operator, offering him a bite. “Essufra da’eema—a spread, always.”

  “La, Wa-Allah,” the man excused himself, padlocked the station, and departed in a hurry.

  Mardiros approached the sage. “Your coal is hot,” he said, unsuccessfully shooing flies off the bowl of ground meat. “Smelling your tikke is not enough. Let us taste it.” He kicked off his boots. Even without them, his steps creaked on the yellow palm-frond mat. He reclined with a grunt and crossed his legs. He reached for a string of prayer beads in a basket for customers. “Shakku makku?” He asked about world events.

  “Allah Kareem—God is merciful,” the sage replied, raising his gaze heavenward in thankfulness, and squeezed a palm full of lean ground lamb onto a flat metal skewer. He dipped his hand in a cup of water frequently as his gnarled but nimble fingers pressed up and down the skewer, pressing the meat tightly together—all the while blowing away the relentless flies. With a second naked skewer, he spread the pyramid of burning coal across the brazier. The minute he placed the kebab to be grilled, the tantalizing rosemary smell mushroomed. He fanned the coals with a palm-frond fan, its blackened, burned rim barely escaping the shooting sparks. In minutes, the tikke kebab sizzled while the round Arabic bread beside it turned ochre toasty. The bread in one hand, he slid the foot-long sputtering-kebab onto the bubbly side of the bread. He sprinkled salt generously and added a few grains of coarsely pounded peppercorns. He topped the meat with thinly sliced onions marinated in crushed sumac. He folded the wrap in threes and handed it to Mardiros.

  Mardiros bit into it. “May Allah keep your hands delicious, forever,” he said, savoring the tasty combinations of the spices. He relished this leisure, convincing himself that delaying his return to Baghdad a day or more would cause no particular hardship. Inspecting the orphanage with Diggin Perouz would take up one day and writing his report to the World Relief Organization (WRO) another—giving him as much time to write a comprehensive a report as he had ever had. He prided in his evaluation of the “lost” Armenian children located by his scouts among the Arabs; likewise, the report about his fund raising efforts in India, Java, and Singapore. The 395,000 rupees collected from Armenians in the Asian regions had amazed the committee and provided WRO support for thousands of orphans. The Ba’qubah orphanage report must emphasize children’s educational needs. Definitely. The higher-up personnel trusted his judgment.

  While he was a celebrated personality among the directors of AGBU and WRO at home and abroad, he preferred the straightforwardness of field work. He experienced total fulfillment with the orphans and envisioned a long-range involvement in this philanthropy even after the children’s settlement in Basra.

  In his head he mapped out grandiose plans for them, but regrettably, a kebab like the one in his hand for each orphan must wait for a while.

  However, he decided to treat Diggin Perouz with one of these delicious local snacks. He let out a big belch in the traditional Arab appreciation for the food and, seeing that the sage lacked additional business, he said, “Make me two more wraps to take with me.”

  The vendor offered coffee. Mardiros preferred sweetened Turkish coffee, but he accepted the strong and bitter Arabic variety the man served in a small conical porcelain cup. A few sips sufficed. He paid the man with newly minted Iraqi coins.

  The vendor shifted the variety of denominations in his palm. “I’ve never seen 100 Fils.” He dropped it in his tunic pocket. “For my son.”

  Mardiros handed him another coin. “I bet this 500 Fils is also new. Give it, too, to your son.” He dropped the highest of the coin denominations into the vendor’s palm.

  The sage held back, but quickly accepted it when Mardiros insisted the taste of his tikke was heavenly. The man, swishing inside his pocket, brought out a handful of colorful candy-balls and d
ropped them into Mardiros’ hand.

  Mardiros gazed at the sweet and sour candy in yellow, pink, and green. Wouldn’t such candy thrill the orphans? But superfluous items remained beyond the budget.

  I could spend my own money.

  For the first time, he regarded his family wealth as a blessing. He realized he was privileged to aid the orphans not just with time, but with expenses, too. “Where can I buy more of these?” he asked.

  The sage smiled and, seeing a boy dawdling nearby, handed him a few candy drops and pointed his shoulders toward, “Hakim’s.”

  Mardiros stuffed the kebab snacks for Diggin Perouz into a pocket of his satchel, bid his salaams to the sage and, leading his stallion, tailed the lad to the mouth of the sook. He eyed a pyramid of the mini-marble sized balls. The pastel-colored candy glistened translucently in the rays of the setting sun and radiated a rosewater fragrance. “How many balls in a kilo?” he asked.

  “A kilo?” Hakim said, his jaw dropping with disbelief. “No one has bought as much as a kilo from me. A quarter of a kilo, yes, but let me see …” He grabbed a handful and let the balls cascade back onto the pyramid, “maybe 200 pieces in a kilo.”

  Mardiros figured one or two pieces for each of the orphans. “Let me see what one kilo looks like,” he said, jingling coins in his pocket.

  Hakim scooped up the sweets with two hands onto one of two metal plates of a makeshift scale. He held a polished stone and said, “Most people buy one stone’s worth … one quarter of a kilo.” He placed it and three others into the second plate. He picked up the leveling stick at its center and carefully raised it, lifting the two metal plates hanging on three equidistant strings. They almost balanced. With his free hand, he added a few more balls. “That is one kilo, effendi,” he said.

  “Give me five kilos, then,” Mardiros said, and opened his satchel for the first batch.