The remaining bites of Mannig’s orange tasted the sweetest of them all.
27—Happiness is …
On New Year’s Day Mannig settled into her usual routine. Like a horsewoman, she dashed to ‘Turkey’ to relieve herself. She squatted as a mourner might; then strutted away from the latrine like a queen. The frigid water she dabbed on her cheeks from the Tigris felt like a wet kiss. She slurped a cup of sweetened hot tea from the bubbling caldron by the kitchen tent. To increase her satisfaction, she took longer gnawing on a chunk of bread. Belly full, she still hungered, only now it was knowledge in Mr. Eghishe’s class.
Ignoring her chattering classmates, she sat on the floor in the front row, a cushion for a seat. She pulled on the hem of her new uniform to cover her knees and, as usual, erased one of the pages of her notebook in preparation for the day’s lesson. A shortage of supplies made Mannig memorize every word she wrote down. She would then erase the page completely to make room for Mr. Eghishe’s latest lesson.
He was very informative. He uttered every word with gusto, often spraying his words at the pupils in the front row. On such occasions, Mannig tucked in her chin and shut her eyes. “Come Monday, it shall be January sixth,” Mr. Eghishe began the lesson. “That day is called Epiphany, the holiest of days for Armenians.” Because of a shortage of blackboard and chalk, he spelled out E-p-i-p-h-a-n-y and allowed time for the pupils to write it down. Using her knee as a desk, Mannig entered the new vocabulary word on the erased page of her notebook. Next to the word, Epiphany, she drew the ‘equal’ sign, anxious to jot down its meaning.
“On Epiphany, we celebrate Christmas,” he continued. “The Bishop of Baghdad shall be here to enlighten us about the divine nature of Christ.”
Mannig remembered Haji-doo, her grandmother, mention Christ, and consequently insisting the Dobajian children kneel beside her. Will the bishop make me pray?
“In AD 300, Armenia became the first nation to adopt Christianity as its state religion,” Mr. Eghishe continued, over and above Mannig’s wandering thoughts.
Will we pray on bended knee like Haji-doo?
“Christ empowered our kings to lead a great nation. The people’s prayers have guided our warriors to defeat the fire-worshiping Persians, and …”
What good did Haji-doo’s prayers do?
“We have survived as Armenians for so many centuries because Christ protected us …”
Why didn’t Christ protect my family from the whips of the gendarmes?
“… neither a nation nor a king anymore,” Mr. Eghishe continued. “Only Christ keeps our history, language, and faith intact.” His voice was lost in the shadows of Mannig’s grief for her lost family.
The taste of the orange given by the Patron Saint of the New Year soured in her memory. Too disheartened to continue, she flipped her notebook closed and let her mind wander for the rest of his lecture until she sensed her classmates standing up in deference to Diggin Perouz who had inconspicuously entered the tent-classroom.
“Diggin Perouz will continue now,” Mr. Eghishe said, departing for his next lecture at the boys’ tent. Unlike previous days, Mannig wasn’t sad to see him go, even though she wondered as usual whether he taught the boys the same subjects or difficult lessons because they were smarter. I’m certain Christ is the subject of all his lectures today.
“We have much to do,” Diggin Perouz began, gesturing to the pupils to sit down. “I want to add to what Mr. Eghishe has already told you …”
Mannig’s spirit sank into her roots. Not more about Christ!
“We must prepare for January 6th,” Diggin Perouz said. “Important dignitaries are coming. When they visit your tent-classroom, you must all be present, in clean uniforms and with groomed hair. They will probably ask academic questions—about every subject that you have been studying with Mr. Eghishe and me.”
Mannig agonized over her inattentiveness to Mr. Eghishe’s lesson on religion—he may have called it history since he scrambled Armenia’s history with Christianity. Might Vanouhi’s notes explain the missing links in her understanding?
“I know you are all very studious girls,” Diggin Perouz said. “Like gold in the mud, I am confident you will shine.” She raised her voice with enthusiasm. “You could also impress the visitors culturally by organizing a show in their honor.”
Mannig’s ears perked up.
“You can sing patriotic songs,” she continued. “Some of you can recite poetry and others can narrate ancient stories.”
Enthralled, Mannig raised her hand and waved it. “Can we dance, too?”
Diggin Perouz smiled. “Actually, Mannig, I have something else in mind for you,” she said, scrabbling through layers of her skirt until she retrieved a piece of paper from her pocket. “I have composed a message of gratitude. It expresses our thankfulness for everything the philanthropists have done for our camp. I want you to read it.” She handed the paper to Mannig. “Can you do that?”
Although disappointed about the dancing, Mannig delighted in the assignment. Diggin Perouz equates me to the taller and older girls in my class.
“When you read about our appreciation to our guests,” Diggin Perouz said, “I want you to address it to the head of the philanthropic delegation—Barone Mardiros. Do you remember him? The Father of the Orphans?”
Who could forget him? Mannig nodded.
Mannig was thrilled to have such an adult responsibility bestowed upon her. She practiced reading the message so many times she knew it by heart. It became her passion. It occupied every waking moment, becoming the central focus of her existence. She mouthed it on her way to ‘Turkey’ and later on while in bed, referring to the paper for accuracy. By January 6th, she could recite it backward and forward.
Like all the girls, Mannig took extra care with her appearance on January 6th. The freshly washed navy uniform clung neatly to her body and her soft, braided hair hung gracefully to her shoulders. She joined the long line of orphans applauding the arrival of Bishop Moushegh of Baghdad and the dignitaries who trailed in his wake.
She craned her neck, looking for Barone Mardiros. Was he tall enough to stand out amid the procession? She wanted a glimpse of him before showering him with gratitude.
The Bishop’s miter swayed above the procession. Behind him, four balding heads bobbed above the columns of orphans.
Mannig stood on her toes and focused on the fifth man, flaunting a thick head of hair. Is that the Barone? She hopped up for a second glance and caught a glint of his hazel eyes. Ah, yes! That was he. Her anxiety decreased and she felt a surge of confidence. Above all, she wanted to make Diggin Perouz proud. She waited patiently to give the performance of her life.
Mannig was slated to appear at the finale of the show. She lined up with the group of performers on the makeshift stage in the kitchen area. Facing the dignitaries seated on the benches intimidated her.
The Bishop sat in the center with the miter in his lap, waiting. The dignitaries flanking him were also waiting. Diggin Perouz was at the end of the row.
Mannig scanned the audience for Barone Mardiros. He sat stage left. I must remember his location when my turn comes.
Mannig’s temples throbbed, and beads of sweat dotted her forehead. She wiped her sleeve across her face just as the chorus lurched into song. Her dry throat kept her from singing with the chorus—she just mouthed the lyrics of the patriotic song. The audience’s applause encouraged her. She glanced at the guests of honor again and caught Diggin Perouz staring at her. I must please her. From then on, Mannig heard her own voice amid the sopranos.
Adrine stood center stage and read two full pages about Armenia’s early history. Vanouhi read a fable and Takouhi recited parts of an ancient ballad.
Following the enthusiastic applause, Mannig broke ranks with the others and stepped forward, only a yard from the audience. She turned sideways and faced Barone Mardiros. Clasping her hands behind her, she began: “Dear Father of the Orphanage.” She smiled, vaguely aware of ha
ving said something unscripted. Instead of getting embarrassed and stammering through the rest of her speech, she felt overwhelmed with passion for the camp. Instead of reciting the message exactly as written, she concentrated on its meaning. She loved the ground where she stood, and this love gave her a huge surge of energy. Her heart and soul went into her expression of thankfulness for the orphanage. She sensed her place in the universe. I am who I am, she thought, the one doing the right thing at the right time in the right way with the right spirit. With vibrant face and mellow voice, she eloquently related her admiration for the benefactors. Her fervor was greeted by loud applause when she bowed at the end.
The Bishop rose to his feet, applauding; the dignitaries, too, gave her a standing ovation; and to Mannig’s surprise, the other orphans clapped their hands red. She felt a strong sense of connectedness with everyone. She hugged them and received cuddling squeezes in return; the praise raised her spirits and the success excited her. She had agreed to recite the message in order to please the Diggin and impress Barone Mardiros. The adulation and praise from her camp mates was a wonderful surprise.
Immediately after the ceremony, Mannig felt a tug on her sleeve.
Diggin Perouz stood at her side. “Follow me,” she said.
28—Where is America?
Diggin Perouz did not compliment Mannig on her performance. Although baffled at the silence, Mannig trailed her respectfully. Thank goodness, she is walking normally, not like an angry person. Perhaps she would not reprimand her for adlibbing the text.
The orphanage supervisor stopped by a large tent reserved for guests. Mannig was perplexed to be standing at the edge of the pavilion with its sky-piercing peak. Light streaming from its mosquito-screened windows raised her curiosity.
Casting a faint smile at Mannig, Diggin Perouz rapped at the entry flap. “May we enter?”
Barone Mardiros appeared, lifting the flap. “We’ve been waiting for you. Won’t you come in?”
The day-like illumination of the interior dazzled Mannig. Accustomed to a single lantern in her tent that faintly lighted the path to her mattress, she was amazed by the brilliance that emanated from several lanterns hanging along the periphery. I’m in a palace. She looked sideways and then lowered her gaze to avoid the penetrating beams. She stepped in. The plush carpeting hugged her feet.
“Remove your sandals,” Diggin Perouz murmured, removing her own. “Let’s not muddy anything.”
Enjoying the warm fuzz on her bare feet, Mannig wanted to comb her fingers through the fringes; she was reminded of her work in the Carding Cave. I could separate the orange from the brown and the black. Or was that at the Weavers’ Web or perhaps the Teaser Gazebo? How Garina’s labels for those stations at the Mosul khan had amused her! Garina … the Sup had expelled her for having sex with Dikran. Good riddance! But she missed Dikran. How could she forget him?
“Wait here.” Diggin Perouz’s voice jolted Mannig back to the present. While she still relished the wondrous sensation on her feet, she watched how the orphanage supervisor’s ankle-length striped skirt swayed as she approached the man seated in a chair. A silver cross on a long chain shimmered on his black robe. He looked familiar, but not the two gentlemen in brown suits and ties flanking him.
“You have managed to create an amazing orphanage,” the man in black said, letting Diggin Perouz kiss his hand. She knelt at his feet. “I’m so grateful to have come from Baghdad to witness the accomplishments of your beautiful children. Beautiful children.”
Aha! He is the Bishop—minus his brocade cape and miter.
He urged her to rise. “It was a very impressive program, Diggin Perouz.”
“Their performance in your honor, Your Most Holiness, has also made them very happy,” she said. After fixing the ruffled collar of her white blouse, she shook hands with the two gentlemen and again with Barone Mardiros.
The choreography of who sat where intrigued Mannig. The two gentlemen, one stockier than the other, deliberated back and forth before they occupied a divan across from the Bishop. In the meantime, Barone Mardiros pulled up a folding chair for himself. He straightened the creases of his khaki trousers, sat down and crossed his legs.
Mannig tensed. Her knees were locked, rooting her at the edge of the carpet, the knots of the fringe teasing her toes. Why am I summoned to this scene? Her eyes blazed when Barone Mardiros struck a match to light his cigarette. His wide forehead glistened in the flickering flame, and a plume of smoke veiled his elongated hazel eyes. His whole demeanor gave an impression of gentleness. A handsome man. She thought of him as a benefactor—someone who brought needed amenities to the orphanage—uniforms and shoes. Perhaps the oranges were his gift, too. A kind man. Might he even be the Patron Saint of the New Year?
She liked the way he looked at her. Quickly, she lowered her gaze, partly for the sake of decorum, partly from wonder. She snuck a glimpse at him again—he was still staring at her. She looked at the other gentlemen and disliked the way they scrutinized her.
Each ogled her, whispered to his partner and nodded. They squinted at her hair, snuck a glimpse at her waist, and focused on her feet on the carpet. Their inspection lingered too long for comfort.
Mannig clamped her jaw shut and felt her toes cramp and knees stiffen.
“Come here, my child,” Bishop Moushegh said, extending his arm.
Diggin Perouz gestured that she should kiss his hand.
Reluctant but obedient, Mannig stepped forward. The small step she took toward him made her fearful; he intimidated her more as a man than he did as a bishop. She wished she could relax but she couldn’t ignore everyone’s scrutiny. No matter what, I must not disappoint Diggin Perouz or Barone Mardiros.
She closed her eyes, stepped forward, and reached out to kiss the hand.
The warmth of his nearness dizzied her. She craned her neck and squeezed her eyelids shut. She felt as if she were floundering until a hand raised her chin.
“Not my hand,” Barone Mardiros was whispering. “Kiss the Bishop’s.”
Embarrassed, Mannig felt blood surge into her cheeks. I wish a dust-devil would yank me out … bury me in a desert fissure. Disoriented, she let Barone Mardiros direct her toward the Bishop.
“God has watched over you and continues to do so even as we speak, my child,” the Bishop said, extending the back of his hand to her.
Mannig dropped to her knees more in relief than out of respect for tradition. She kissed his hand and remained stooped, a pretence to shield herself from the curious adults. She focused on the paisley swirls of the floor covering.
“You may rise, my child,” she heard the Bishop say.
“Mannig, come and sit by me,” said Diggin Perouz.
“Maybe I should help her up.” It was Barone Mardiros’ voice.
Everyone inside this grand pavilion was a dignitary. Why am I here at all? Mannig obeyed the voices prompting her, wishing to escape anywhere, even where exits did not exist. She felt the Barone’s hand on her shoulder guiding her toward Diggin Perouz. Why is Diggin Perouz honoring me to share the divan with her?
“Sit down, Mannig,” Diggin Perouz said, tapping on the space beside her. “These gentlemen want to speak with you.”
The Bishop spoke first. “We are grateful to our Lord Jesus Christ for saving you from the great massacre.” He stood up and gestured with the silver cross on his neck chain for all to do the same. “Thank you, Lord. Thou hast answered our prayers of yesteryear and our prayers on this day. Our lives are the confirmation of thy great love for us. Amen.” He sat down. The rest followed suit.
Mannig copied Diggin Perouz in everything, even making the sign of the cross.
“Mannig—that’s your name, right?” the Bishop continued. “Mannig-jahn. Our Lord has spared your life for a purpose. He spared you from perishing in the wastelands of the Mesopotamian desert. Our hearts suffer for your precious family, whose bodies lie in the biggest Armenian cemetery on earth, but their souls serve our Lord in heaven. Manni
g-jahn. Let us pray in particular for their spirits that hovered between the two rivers, fluting out east and west throughout the Turkish plateau.”
Mannig swallowed a lump and dammed up her tears. In deference to the important people surrounding her, she refused to display her grief.
When all were seated again, Diggin Perouz touched Mannig’s arm and said, “These two gentlemen are from America. Do you know where America is?”
Mannig knew nothing, of course. The place was as far away as her uncle’s country, according to Adrine. “Is it in Romania?”
“No!” and “No!” filled the gaps between bouts of laughter.
“America is very far from Romania,” the Bishop explained. “It is even beyond the Atlantic Ocean, my child. It is so far away that it is called The New World.”
“Our guests from America want to say something very special to you,” Diggin Perouz said.
Mannig lowered her chin and, from beneath her dark eyebrows, gazed at them. The two gestured, debating as to who ought to speak first.
“We want to take you to America with us,” the stocky gentleman said.
“In a big ship across the great ocean,” his partner continued.
“We liked your speech.”
“You articulated your feelings very impressively,” the partner agreed.
The stocky gentleman sat at the edge of the divan and with a penetrating gaze addressed Mannig: “On behalf of an Armenian family in Brooklyn, we have come to select an orphan for adoption.”
“We believe you are the ideal child for them,” his partner added. “And we have chosen you.”
“You will live in a very nice house.”
“With a very nice family.”
“In Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn is in America,” the Bishop interrupted the gentlemen’s dialogue.
The Bishop might as well have said Brooklyn was on the moon, the sun, or a star. It meant nothing to Mannig.
Between the Two Rivers: A Story of the Armenian Genocide Page 22
