Between the Two Rivers: A Story of the Armenian Genocide

by Aida Kouyoumjian

  “In a year or two, you will marry a wonderful American,” the stocky man said.

  “An American-Armenian,” the other nodded.

  The men spoke slowly and deliberately so that Mannig heard everything they said; however, the words whirred around in her head, their meaning incomprehensible. Their penetrating stares oppressed her. She snuggled closer to Diggin Perouz and tucked her feet under the divan.

  They described a glorious future with a good family in a grand house in a faraway place—even farther away than her uncle’s country. But why so far from here? She loved the orphanage. Why leave a place where she was so happy? Or leave a classroom where she excelled? Or be separated from classmates she adored? And most of all, why bid adieu to the teachers who encouraged her? Why, indeed?

  She pictured the people in Brooklyn caring for her as the Bedouin of the desert. They had rescued her from the scorching desert, nurtured her, and treated her as one of their own. She cared for them, too, and was grateful for everything, but she remained a stranger. She felt like an alien among the natives—an odaar—and never bonded with anyone. In America, she’d live in an Armenian home, but her heart would remain in Ba’qubah. If she went with these men, everything she loved would end.

  “Is my sister going to the New World, too?” she asked.

  “No. We can only take you with us,” the stocky person said.

  “You are the lucky girl,” his associate said. “The luckiest person in the world.”

  “So what do you say?”

  “We must depart Ba’qubah tomorrow.”

  “Can you pack your things for an early departure?” the stocky one said, standing up.

  Mannig leaned back into the divan and folded her arms. A life without Adrine? Life without her sister would be empty.

  Adrine was the one and only link to her family. She confirmed her identity. They shared childhood memories. She had opened the avenues to learning more about her perished parents. She cherished her time with her one and only surviving sister.

  For a long time Mannig focused on the carpet, spread flat under her feet. She wiggled her toes in the fuzz. She closed her eyes and reminisced about all the warm moments spent with Adrine. Filled with love for her sister, she heard her heart beat faster. Overwhelmed, she murmured, “I cannot be separated from my sister. Adrine is the only family I have. I want to stay with her.”

  Barone Mardiros jumped up like a champion at the end of an athletic competition. “Nothing further needs to be said,” he said with finality. “Come, Mannig. Let’s go … you may go.” He strode toward the entry and held the flap open.

  Diggin Perouz stood up to leave, too, but lingered on and on in the customary Armenian way. She clarified a few details with the two from America and then kissed the Bishop’s hand. She gestured to Mannig to follow her out of the tent.

  Barone Mardiros stepped out behind them and touched Mannig’s shoulder. “You are a very special person,” he said. “They were urging you to make a decision that is difficult even for adults to make. They should not have expected you to choose family over comfort in these times of hardship.” He reached out and shook her hand. “You were outstanding—both in the Bishop’s presence and,” he cleared his throat, “your speech … you aroused everyone’s passion. I congratulate you on your performance.” He winked at her, reached inside his trouser pocket, and handed her candy. “This is the last of the sweet and sour candy. I was touched deeply by your words about this place. But you really delighted me when you addressed me as the Father of the Orphanage and not the Father of the Orphans.”

  

  What a strange experience! Mannig rushed back to her tent in a daze and was welcomed back to normalcy by familiar faces and doting voices.

  The sisters from Van hovered over her.

  “What wanteth the Bishop?”

  “Why wert thou in the big tent so long?”

  “How is the pavilion furnished?”

  Mannig plopped on her mattress. “They wanted to take me to America.”

  “Really?” Vanoohi said in a high pitched voice that she immediately hushed to mid-range, surprised at her own exuberance.

  “How lucky art thou,” Takouhi whispered with sparkling eyes.

  “When might ye be leaving us?” Vanouhi asked.

  “Thou shalt be missed, dearly,” Takouhi sighed.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Mannig said nonchalantly. She glanced around to see if her own sister wished to question her, but Adrine lay on the mattress, eyes tightly shut and body bundled up in her quilt.

  Mannig guessed that Adrine might not really be asleep.

  “I’m staying right here,” she said to the sisters. “At the orphanage. In Ba’qubah. The best place in the whole world … in the whole New World or in … this old one.”

  “Art thou crazy?” Vanoohi said. “Going to America and getting married is the ultimate fate for anyone. Every girl giveth her life for marriage.”

  “Remember Sona?” Takouhi said. “She married by correspondence. She knew not a wit about the man, his age, work, or his family—not even what country he liveth in. She grabbeth the proposal and left us. Most girls can’t even dream about America. Thou, on the other hand, let the prize bird escapeth from thy hand!”

  “Thou canst not mean to tell us thou actually refuseth such an offer,” Vanouhi said.

  Mannig nodded. “I don’t want to leave the orphanage. I don’t want to live somewhere else. I like our life. I’m as free as the wind. I sing and dance when I want to. I love our wonderful teachers—I learn and discover so much from them. Why leave?”

  “And thou canst not do all that in America?” Vanouhi snickered.

  “I don’t know,” Mannig whispered. “I’m happy here. I would miss this wonderful place, and I couldn’t bear losing all of you. Even the thought of separation put a terrible ache in my heart. Why would I want to go anywhere else?”

  Mannig wanted to hear immediate affirmation from her sister. There was no movement on the mattress—not a toss or a turn from Adrine, no shushing or yanking the quilt.

  Mannig resignedly slipped inside her own quilt, next to her sister, still seeking approval for her decision. She relished the nearness and warmth of her sister’s company on the same mattress. Sleeping side by side is worth more than going to America.

  “Good night, Mannig-Jahn,” Vanouhi whispered as she covered the brazier with a screen for the night, secured the exit flap, and blew out the lantern. “We love thee, too, Mannig. Thou maketh us happy, too.”

  The things that Mannig understood about the sisters from Van only made her more conscious about her own sister. They cared for her continuously, braided her hair, sewed her uniform, and taught her dances. Adrine, on the other hand, remained aloof—a sister in name, only.

  Typically, Adrine remained silent much of the time, creating a gulf between her and the tent mates. She kept to herself, always apart from others. Her body language spoke of her separateness—she walked at a distance from the others and spoke only when they posed a direct question. She came in and went out without greetings or smiles. She studied her notes and slid beneath her quilt without a sound. Mannig seldom heard approvals or complaints from her sister.

  At eighteen and older than her tent mates, Adrine had retained much of the formal education received prior to the deportation. Assigned to teach, she organized the orphans’ routines with few missteps or complaints and rarely spoke outside of the classroom or showed emotion. Mannig wondered if her sister’s peculiarity was the result of the awkward role assigned to her—to live in a tent housing mere students. Was she a teacher or a sister? Couldn’t she be both? Either way, she was still an orphan among orphans. She seldom smiled and if she did, the smile had a stern edge. When Adrine holed herself up in an oasis of silence amid mountains of chattering tent mates, Mannig often suspected the memories of the rape must be haunting her sister.

  From her side of the mattress, Mannig studied her sister’s face in the flickerin
g beams coming from the dying coals in the brazier. Adrine’s long lashes brushed against her pale cheek bones and her shallow breathing barely fluttered her nostrils.

  If Adrine had eavesdropped, would she rejoice over Mannig’s decision to stay or, like the sisters from Van, think she had missed the opportunity of a lifetime? Except for a sliver of a forced edge to her sister’s thin lips, Mannig failed to detect sorrow or joy on her face.

  Adrine is asleep, after all. Mannig planned to retell the whole sequence with the bishop and the gentlemen from America in the morning.

  She might have relaxed and fallen asleep but for one serious question needling her. Why did Barone Mardiros prefer being called the Father of the Orphanage instead of the Father of the Orphans? Only Adrine could clarify it for her—she understood hidden meanings, solved puzzles instantly, and understood why people acted in certain ways. She relied on her intellect, and she was endowed with a lively one.

  Mannig hesitated confiding in the sisters from Van about Barone Mardiros. No one ranked as high as her own sister, despite her elusiveness. What luck that they shared a mattress! It would have been cozier if they shared the same quilt, but everyone knew it was a privilege to own a personal quilt.

  Mannig rolled over, turning her back to her sister, and gazed at the brazier. Her body melded with the mattress, her eyelids grew heavy. She fell half asleep but remained conscious of her own breathing. Thoughts about absolutely nothing echoed through her brain, her chest, her limbs ... For how long? Ten seconds? A whole minute?

  Then, gradually, she sensed Adrine’s arm snaking inside her own quilt, scaling up her neck and gently resting on her shoulder. A warm and moist breath against the nape of her neck followed the firm cleaving onto her thin arm. With their bodies pressed together and arms intertwined, Mannig felt a warm gladness swell inside her.

  Her longing to find a place in her sister’s heart had been satisfied in the still of the night.

  Adrine approves my decision.

  She smiled.

  29—To Basra

  A crowd of orphans scampered with the tumbling thistles in the desert wind, scurrying toward the train tracks in the outskirts of Ba’qubah. Some lugged pillowcases filled with belongings, others carried large kerchiefs holding goods. The young ones latched onto their taller companions—speculating about the imminent train ride to Basra. They all had high hopes for the new orphanage in the big port city of southern Iraq. They longed for a taste of life beyond the familiar tent world. Might they locate lost relatives when joined with the others?

  In spite of the excitement in the air, Mannig’s spirit remained unmoved. She lingered among them, yet apart. Unlike her tent mates, she had taken her time packing her possessions. With no sense of urgency, she repeatedly folded and straightened her pretty floral dress, visualizing the way it clung to her body like skin.

  Barone Mardiros had brought a handful of cotton dresses in different powdery shades of green. “These are for the younger girls,” he declared. Although Mannig disliked being labeled, ‘young,’ she was proud to own the beautifully feminine garment. Not since Adapazar had anything so refined covered her body. The supple feel of the fabric revived images of twirling in her yellow organdy dress in their cozy parlor while Mama played the violin. She shed a tear for those happy days gone forever. Perhaps she would also find joy in this graceful outfit. Warm, colorful, and happy times awaited her—no more the drab days in shades of gray. The orphans were told to travel in their newest outfits, so she donned her navy uniform and tightened its belt to show off her waist. Then she rolled her pretty dress into her tent-cloth uniform before wrapping her ration of bread and dates and putting it all into one big bundle.

  The square kerchief of belongings hanging off one shoulder and her school notebook tightly grasped in her hand, she tagged Adrine, who was assisting with the evacuation. Heavy-hearted, Mannig didn’t wish to admit that their happy life at the Ba’qubah orphanage was over. She kept her eyes fixed on her sister who, with cupped hands, called out to the orphans to head out toward the train tracks or dashed about from tent to tent making sure everyone had departed.

  The two joined Diggin Perouz and Barone Mardiros in escorting flocks of orphans toward the makeshift train station—smack in the middle of nowhere—far beyond the edge of the campsite and near the solitary and glistening train tracks that ran north and south.

  “You are an amazing person,” Diggin Perouz was saying to Barone Mardiros. “How did you persuade the conductor to make an unscheduled stop here just for us?”

  “It was his idea,” the Barone said, switching hands with his suitcase and valise. “Boarding so many orphans in the middle of the wasteland was more practical than trying to do it at the tiny station in town. You know Sebouh Effendi’s orphans from Mosul are on this train already. The conductor warned me of overcrowded cars.”

  Overcrowded cars? Mannig held her breath.

  The ominous phrase awakened terrible memories. Would this be a repetition of the dreadful train ride? Forced into a cattle car packed with shoulder-to-shoulder deportees? The stench? Humidity? Death from suffocation?

  “If Sebouh Effendi gets off in Baghdad, as I am planning to do,” Diggin Perouz continued, “there will be two fewer passengers to Basra.”

  “No, no,” Barone Mardiros said. “We need him in Basra. We need you, too, of course. But it is understandable that Dr. Papazian wants you to return home.”

  “My husband has been anxious over my lengthy absence,” she said. “I think he feels I have neglected him too long. I will continue with our special Relief work from Baghdad, of course, and if there is really a great need in Basra, I will join you sometime later.”

  “Sebouh Effendi and I will manage for a while, I’m sure,” he said. “The Basrawis are assisting, of course. Do you realize this train will transport nearly 700 orphans? That’s a lot of children. We will be packed in.”

  We will be packed in? Packed? Pack …? Mannig held her breath again, but only for a minute. A screeching train whistle diverted her attention. While the orphans yelled in jubilation, she held her breath. Her pulse quickened with the shrieking train sounds; sweat rolled down her spine. The cacophony overwhelmed her. She clung to her sister’s skirt and hid behind her, attempting to block out ghastly memories of overcrowded cars. The train will be packed …

  A flashback hurled Mannig into the onset of the deportation. Sirarpi, her beautiful little sister, and she, separated from the rest of her family, were hurled into a cattle car packed with deportees. Crammed full of bodies. Compressed for breath. Crowded to suffocation. Mannig had slithered, clawed the car floor, crawled between the people’s feet and stuck her nose into a hole in the wall of the car to breathe the fresh air of life.

  Could I get smothered to death like Sirarpi?

  Covering her ears and saying a prayer, she blocked the resurgence of the dreadful past.

  The smell of black smoke swirling around the approaching engine startled her. Her bundle slipped from her shoulder and plopped onto the soil. The hissing steam raised a riot of dust and gave her the jitters, causing her to let go of her notebook. It, too, fell to the ground.

  The onrush of orphans flooded the gates of the cars.

  I won’t board this train.

  Mannig’s arms swept around and clung onto her sister’s waistband. Panicked, her fingernails fiercely dug into her sister’s legs. She rooted herself into the ground, resisting movement toward the train.

  “Adrine-jahn,” Diggin Perouz called from the open window of the passenger car. “What are you waiting for? Hurry and climb up!”

  “I can’t,” Adrine called back, trying to free herself from Mannig’s grip. “What is the matter with you?” she yelled at Mannig. “Let me go! Are you crazy? The train will go without us.”

  Mannig shook and shuddered, digging her heels into the ground and refusing to be dragged a centimeter to the left or to the right.

  Her staccato screams halted Adrine’s advance. “What is sca
ring you?”

  Mannig opened her mouth to explain, but her throat dried up. Panic had put her in a daze, and the surrounding noises diminished like echoes inside a clay barrel. Fear boomed in her heart. She felt suspended in a nightmarish silence.

  Then a voice stirred her. “Everything will be all right.”

  Eyes still closed, she wanted to hear the same voice again and again.

  “There is nothing to fear,” the voice continued. “Give me your hand, and let us walk together.”

  His words restored her breathing; his tone, a normalcy to her pulse.

  Those words were meant for her; every phrase, directed at her; the tone, purely personal. She understood the sentences—all were tailored for her. Each pause filled with hope and the syllables accented with the flavor of love suggested all was well.

  Tears stung behind her lids, and Mannig opened her eyes.

  Hands stretched out to her, and Barone Mardiros stood at her side like an angel, looking at her with his dewy hazel eyes.

  He leaned forward, holding her left shoulder, then the right. All at once, he gazed at her eyes, fixed on her face. He didn’t sneer as if she were an impudent girl, nor did he look away in indifference. They stared at each other for a long moment—melting down all of Mannig’s fear in the restless atmosphere of boarding the train.

  She surrendered to him.

  Reaching for his hand, she glued hers in his. Without holding back, she followed him.

  Suddenly he stopped and looked back. “Your bundle, Mannig,” he said, and dashed back to pick it up, dragging her along.

  He climbed into the nearest car, fully packed with over-excited orphans. Some stacked belongings on racks above; others squeezed them under the wooden seats. Barone Mardiros stopped just inside the door, unable to proceed down the aisle.

  Over and above the heads, Diggin Perouz indicated a vacant seat beside her. He stepped forward, but Mannig’s grip held him back. He looked at her once, up at Diggin Perouz, and then raised two fingers, meaning he needed two seats, to which Diggin Perouz shook her head.