Between the Two Rivers: A Story of the Armenian Genocide

by Aida Kouyoumjian

  A handsome young fellow was hugging his secret love. The man flaunted a gorgeous broom moustache and eyes that gleamed blissfully beneath healthy eyebrows. Mardiros resented him from the pit of his soul. He turned his back, one eye on the duo’s encounter, the other on his powerlessness. Needless to say, he lost interest in dancing.

  He replaced the taunting “Plaisir d’amour” with Caruso’s melodramatic “Celeste Aida.”

  His heart throbbed in his throat; his pain rose higher than the sky, deeper than space. Would this Dikran taint his beautiful Mannig? His garb—that of a cameleer or even a muleteer—was enough to repel anyone. The man had probably not bathed for months.

  Mardiros gulped down his self-respect and stooped low to ask Sebouh, “Who is this fellow?”

  “He looks familiar,” Sebouh said, “but I cannot place him. He must be one of the older orphans who trickled into the orphanage last night.” He faced Adrine and, gazing into her face, asked. “Your intelligent eyes are alive with memories. Do you know him?”

  “Don’t you remember?” she said. “The supervisor expelled him from the Mosul orphanage.”

  “Why?” Mardiros exclaimed unabashedly. “Maybe he shouldn’t be here at all.”

  “A pretty girl got him in trouble,” Adrine said.

  “I remember vaguely,” Sebouh mumbled, furrowing his brow. “I am amazed that you recognized him, my dear Adrine. Didn’t that happen two years ago?” He leaned toward Mardiros and whispered, “As I recollect, a girl—a much older girl—tempted this poor naïve boy into illicit acts. They were caught by the supervisor. Even though he was an outstanding helper, I agreed to expel the two. We needed to protect the morale of the orphans—as well as their morals.”

  Mardiros kept silent. He ought to forbid the fellow, this Dikran—or whatever his name was—to inflict any harm on his Mannig. He felt obligated to stop it. Well, first, he himself must certainly purge any of his modern ideas. If he himself danced with Mannig, then this Dikran could do so, too. The ancestors, after all, had been wise to perpetuate segregation rather than adopt current trends. Boys must stay with the boys, and girls with the girls—first matrimony, then unity. Seeing anyone bonding with his beloved angered him. “Why … is he … embracing M-M-Mannig?” he stuttered.

  “They were inseparable,” Adrine said, “until Garina enticed Dikran with adult pleasures.”

  Inseparable? Mardiros dared not question its meaning. Ignorance was preferable. He must keep an eye on this Dikran, night and day. “Sebouh Effendi,” he said, urgency in his voice. “You, yourself, ought to go to Basra tomorrow instead of me. The AGBU officials will be glad to see you. I need to stay here … for some … p-p-paper-work … that I must c-c-complete.” He took a long breath to stunt the stuttering that engulfed him when he lied or was angered. “You d-d-don’t mind, do you?” He breathed again. “AGBU is expecting news from Jerusalem. The sooner we learn about the future plans for the orphans the better.” He took another quick breath. “I’ll c-c-cover for you ... do you mind going to Basra?”

  “No problem,” Sebouh said. “While there, I could go to the bathhouse for a good washing. And …” he leaned toward Mardiros and whispered, “I wanted to buy something special for Adrine. She has put more life into this orphanage than anyone else. She can certainly teach my classes. She is very capable. She deserves something special.”

  Another brilliant idea came to Mardiros. “Did you say that Dikran was a good helper? Take him to Basra with you. He can haul the gunnysacks of rice onto the cart.”

  Sebouh nodded.

  I wish Dikran would stay in Basra permanently. His irresistible desire for Mannig blinded his honor or pride. Mardiros wanted Sebouh to do his work in Basra and then return to the orphanage—solo—without Dikran. He never wanted to see that boy’s face again. “See to it that the Basrawis give this fellow permanent work in Basra. He should stay there.”

  Sebouh gave him a quizzical look.

  Without shame or blame, Mardiros invented a policy. “We are expected to encourage independence. He looks grown up enough to be on his own. Don’t you think so?”

  The last tenor note blaring from Caruso came to an end. Mardiros gazed at the sky. The moon reminded him of Mannig—one lit the sky, the other his heart. Her light shone on Dikran tonight, but he knew how to end the glow tomorrow. There was enough silence for reflection, enough moon to douse the stars. He lowered the gramophone lid and latched it. He picked it up to leave but was confronted by a contingency of orphans urging him to sit.

  The sea of heads, faces and scarves cascaded beyond the row of the shortest orphans lined up in the front. Overwhelmed, he looked at Sebouh and Adrine. Their eyes were twinkling with mischief.

  “The orphans have a surprise for you, Barone Mardiros,” Adrine said, sitting beside him while Sebouh signaled to the staff to be seated as well.

  A voice from the sidelines said, “Everybody together at the count of three ….” and at the count of three, in unison, the orphans recited the English alphabet to the melody of an ancient Armenian song. They repeated their ABCs up and down the scales several times—some forte, others pianissimo—enunciating each letter succinctly and sequentially. The alto voices harmonized with the prominent sopranos, and the boys’ a cappella sprinkled an interesting staccato on and off, resulting in a marvelous rendition.

  Mardiros scanned the orphans’ expressions—jubilant, impish and eager. Their voices came as whispers of love. Sebouh must be the culprit. Who else would teach the English alphabet? Familiar with the melody, he wished Sebouh had confided in him beforehand so he could have accompanied them with his flute. That might have made for an exquisite entertainment. Accompanying the chorus would have won the orphans’ hearts, especially Mannig’s. That possibility has been the only reason he had packed his instrument and brought it with him.

  Listening to the sweet voices, he let his unfulfilled feelings dissipate into the night. He became immersed in the splendor of their affection, gratitude and pride.

  “Encore, Encore …” he yelled, jumping up to applaud at the conclusion. His voice dried up when he realized the children’s ignorance of European expressions. “Repeat! Repeat! Sing again. It is lovely,” he yelled in Armenian.

  The children only giggled and squirmed, then parted in the center, clearing a path for Mannig to come forth. She carried a bunch of wildflowers in riotous colors.

  Startled at her sudden appearance, he choked and his heart burned in his chest. He stumbled to his feet, his eyes glued on her.

  She knelt before him, head low, and held the bouquet out to him.

  “For you, Dear Father of the Orphanage.”

  34—To Jerusalem

  Reclining on a chaise lounge behind his tent, Mardiros doused himself in the farewell rays of the late winter sun soaking Iraqi’s southern plains.

  After touring the tent classrooms, he rested. Infusing a bit of his knowledge into the Arithmetic Tent of the advanced students and demonstrating classic penmanship at another to the younger ones inflated his ego. Even though his engineering degree existed mainly in the form of a diploma, it enhanced the quality of his teaching.

  After a quick soup and bread lunch, relaxing on his cot reminded him of his own school days. Alas, the affluence of his youth! His wealthy classmates had all been dressed in crisp linen uniforms and his surroundings had consisted of ornate, mahogany-walled classrooms. His teachers had been trained specialists. Had he ever valued those amenities at the time? Unlike the thrill he noticed on the faces of the orphans—in spite of their circumstances—he never even once thought of the privileges bestowed upon him during his education. These orphans relished everything —as dowdy as they were, seated on a pillow on straw mats, devouring every word uttered by the volunteer instructors, none of whom were trained in the subjects they taught. It was obvious to Mardiros that, prior to imparting their knowledge to the orphans, the teachers themselves spent hours the evening before mastering the subjects. The orphans then spent compara
ble numbers of hours memorizing everything.

  “Barone Mardiros! Barone Mardiros!” Sebouh’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Sebouh dismounted his horse and tethered it to the tent line. “I have news.”

  Sebouh’s return from Basra so soon surprised Mardiros. He jumped up. “I expected your return late this evening,” he said. Hoping the news concerned Dikran’s employment outside the orphanage, he asked, “What is the news?”

  Sebouh handed him the square sheet of a telegram.

  Mardiros skimmed it. Seeing how apprehensive Sebouh looked, he re-read it:

  British ship Shuja will transport orphans STOP

  Gharibian team will escort them STOP

  Depart on January 25, 1922 STOP

  Signed Holy See of Jerusalem STOP

  Armenian Church END

  “I did expect this message,” Mardiros said, “but not the short notice of only three days.”

  “I’m upset about the Gharibian team,” Sebouh blurted out and handed him a second paper listing the names of the escorts. “You and I are excluded. I think they don’t need us any longer.”

  Mardiros grabbed the list and read it several times. His blood rushed to his temples, first in disbelief, then with anger. “But these men have no experience with orphans.” He swallowed a lump of resentment. “They are cronies. I wager you—their assignment is the fruit of bribery!” His heart sank with disappointment. “What did WE do wrong?”

  “They have other plans for us,” Sebouh said and handed him a third paper. “They compliment us for our unprecedented success. But they want us to stay in Baghdad and continue to raise funds for the orphans.”

  “That’s g-g-good and well,” Mardiros shouted, needing to lash out at someone. “B-b-but my work is best with the orphans …” He visualized being separated from Mannig and surely losing her to some dimwit in Jerusalem. “No, I don’t like this arrangement at all.”

  “I had the time to vent my hurt feelings all the way riding back from Basra,” Sebouh sighed. “Eventually, I reconciled myself to this predicament.” His eyes lowered, he seemed to wonder about his statement. “I must plan for a new future—perhaps get back to managing my businesses in Baghdad.” He wiped his forehead and offered to inform the orphans himself, immediately. “The orphans must embark within the next three short days.”

  Mardiros became lost in thought. Life for the orphans in Jerusalem promised a good future. But separated from them, his life amounted to nothing. It hurt to think his adventures of the last few years were headed to a conclusion. How will I bear a stuffy life all over again?

  His eyeballs throbbed with self pity and heart drowned in despair. Resigned, he put on his Topy and sunglasses—wanting to thank whoever invented the tinted eyewear that hid a multitude of emotions. Shame overwhelmed the pity he felt for himself.

  Baghdad promised to be a wasteland for his talents. Mingling with the rich, trifling with the ladies and dancing with their unmarried daughters had lost their appeal—not even for the sake of raising funds. Furthermore, he foresaw his mother and sisters-in-law heckling him to settle down and get married. He preferred growing old while visualizing a dance with Mannig on the veranda of his home overlooking the Tigris. Gloom-ridden pain trickled down his spine. He hoped to close the floodgates to his tears before he accompanied Sebouh to announce the voyage to Jerusalem.

  Sebouh headed toward the community tent, ringing the hand bell nonstop.

  Mardiros followed him.

  The kitchen crew stopped their clean-up and followed Sebouh, who now climbed on a bench, still ringing the bell. The endless ringing deafened Mardiros but he was sustained by the sight of the orphans huddling nearby. When the flow of children slowed down and the horde surrounded them, Sebouh silenced the last reverberation with his hand. He waited until all had quieted down before unfolding the telegram and waving it.

  “This piece of paper contains big news for all of you.”

  The hush amid the orphans stifled Mardiros.

  “You will be transferred to Jerusalem,” Sebouh began.

  A thunderous cry of joy arose so instantaneously that a wave of excitement floated above their heads.

  Mardiros suffered even more.

  The kitchen crew dropped their brooms and screamed in delight. Clusters of girls hugged and hopped and hollered.

  Mardiros sighed heavily. Nothing could be sadder than losing Mannig. He could not bear the thought of her absence from the camp, her departure from his life, her voyage on a ship and eventual life apart from him. With folded arms, he sat on a bench—his heart as dry as dust.

  All the while, laughter and squealing rose to high heaven.

  

  Impatient as the wind, Mannig turned to Adrine and they both—incredulous looks on their faces—wrapped their arms around each other. Not wanting to part, their tears stained each other’s cheeks. They jumped up and down, hugging neighbors once and each other over and over.

  Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Jerusalem!

  Like a carved cross dominating a fireplace mantle in a parlor or dangling around the neck of a priest, Jerusalem represented an image. To Mannig, the name revived the echo of her memory. Her grandmother had earned the Haji-doo title for her pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Now the image was becoming Mannig’s destination. Will I walk where she walked? And will I feel as if I am touching my grandmother again? It would not be like going back to Adapazar and to her wonderful musical childhood. She understood the irrevocability of life. Her memories sufficed—her yellow organdy dress, jigging to Mama’s music while Baba, in his green velvet chair, proudly caressed Sirarpi in his lap and Setrak poked the coals in the brazier.

  Mannig dwelt on the memory of her grandmother—Haji-doo, clicking her prayer beads with one hand, hugging the black Bible with the other. Mannig choked up.

  She embraced Adrine again. “I am so happy,” she said, kissing her sister. At least the two had survived to remember their heritage.

  Adrine wiped her own tears. “I am, too. I wish we were leaving today. We don’t need three days to pack.”

  That evening the sisters from Van incessantly jabbered about the wonders awaiting them in Jerusalem: life within real brick walls, incense in the church, meeting young men, getting married. They spoke of weddings, marriage and children.

  “Thou wilt invite us to thy wedding, Adrine. Won’t thee?” Vanouhi asked.

  “When I get married, I will,” Adrine said.

  “Thou wilt too, Mannig. Won’t thee?” Takouhi asked.

  Mannig gaped. Getting married activated a unique niche in her thoughts, and Barone Mardiros immediately occupied it. Hah! A sarcastic echo rang in her head. She and the Barone? An impossible dream.

  “I intend to stay as I am,” she said and spread her boghcha, square kerchief, on the ground. She placed the new notebook, her treasure, at the bottom, carefully guarding against creasing the pages that had recorded everything of value—words, phrases and sentences about arithmetic, geography and history. Unlike the packing her mother experienced prior the deportation, Mannig’s decisions to discard this or pack that were non-existent. One boghcha sufficed for all her pitiful belongings. She double-knotted the corners and—voilà—she held all her worldly possessions on her arm.

  “Remain unmarried?” Vanouhi chuckled.

  “Thou wilt marry, when a nice fellow proposeth to thee,” Takouhi said.

  “I want to finish school,” Mannig said. Visions of becoming a teacher like Miss Romella, her kindergarten teacher in Adapazar, danced in her head. Romella had reappeared in her life again in Mosul and, like a soft touch in a hard world, filled a hole left by her mother’s death. Although her memories of Romella had gradually faded after she had married a war veteran in Mosul and Mannig had entered the orphanage, the memory of kindergarten resounded loudly in her head. “I will become a teacher,” she murmured.

  “Thou art a dreamer,” Vanouhi said, serving tea in small glass cups before bedtime.

  “Let her steep herself in dre
ams while she can,” Takouhi said. “She can’t dreameth throughout a whole lifetime—her eyes groweth dim, hair turneth white and joints creaketh like tin. Then she will wake up, and it will be too late.”

  “And I thought you were my friends,” Mannig said, losing appetite for the tea and the conversation.

  “Hey, lo!” Vanouhi stroked Mannig’s shoulder. “We art thy friends. We art actually schooling thee about realities. The most important thing in life is to have thy own family, real blood family. Thou and I and everyone in this orphanage are cut off from relatives. So we have to start our own new bloodlines. It is our solemn duty to perpetuate our Armenian heritage.”

  “Schooling will also perpetuate our heritage,” Mannig said.

  “Maybe it will and maybe it will not. But to get married with thy own kind and procreate is the only sure way.” With a sly expression, she whispered in Takouhi’s ear, and the two fell into giggles. “It is the enjoyable way, too.”

  Puzzled, Mannig looked at Adrine, who raised her shoulders impassively.

  “Much pleasure cometh in marriage,” Takouhi said, giggling some more.

  “That is also God’s way,” Vanouhi said seriously. “God creates children so they get married and beget children. I am sure thy mother wanteth the same for thee, too.”

  Noises outside the tent silenced them.

  “Mannig? Mannig Dobajian?”

  “That’s Sebouh Effendi’s voice,” Adrine said. “He is calling you.”

  Mannig dashed out and said, “I am Mannig Dobajian.”

  “I know who you are,” he said. “I just didn’t know in which tent I’d find you. May I come in?”

  Eyes sparkling by the lantern light, he scanned the neatly tucked bedding on the cots while he caught a whiff of the allspice aroma from the steeping tea pot. He glanced at the Van sisters and focused on Adrine. “Nicely kept tent. But don’t be alarmed. This is not an inspection. I came to fetch Mannig.” Turning to her, said, “Barone Mardiros wants to see you, Mannig. Will you come with me?”