Nobody's Child

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  “He has?” exclaimed her companion in surprise. “By whom?”

  “The Young Turks,” replied the pregnant woman. “They’re going to be putting the Sultan on trial.”

  Mariam’s heart soared at this tidbit of information. Her parents had been supporters of the Young Turks when they briefly came to power in 1908. The Sultan’s counter-revolution had been a shock to all. The Young Turk government had been promising freedom and democracy — even to non-Muslims. For the first time in weeks, Mariam felt like grinning.

  As fall approached, there was a chill in the air, so Mariam lit the tonir before covering it with the sleeping carpet. Once they were all snuggled up under the carpet and ready for the usual evening of storytelling, Mariam announced, “It is time for us to leave the village.”

  Kevork had just settled into the warm carpet, but the announcement brought him up short. “Where would we go?”

  “Home,” said Mariam. “We have family in Marash.” Kevork didn’t want to say it out loud, but he wondered whether her grandmother and aunt were still alive. Didn’t the massacres happen there, too?

  Mariam saw the look of pain on his face. “There is no way of knowing without going there,” she said. Mariam knew what Kevork’s real concern was: if they left, how would his parents find him? But they had waited long enough. “Besides,” she continued, “with the Sultan deposed, it has to be safer for Armenians.”

  “We have money, a roof over our heads, and a supply of eggs and goat’s milk,” said Kevork. “It could be worse.”

  “We must get back to our family,” said Mariam. “And once winter approaches, we’ll have trouble travelling.”

  Kevork brushed his hand softly against the blue veil cover of his pillow. “I can’t leave.”

  Mariam was silent. If there were a chance that her parents were alive, she’d be acting the same way.

  Anna propped herself up on one elbow and looked at her nephew. “If your mother is alive,” she said, “she is no longer the mother you knew. Put her out of your mind.”

  Kevork’s face blushed bright red. “Don’t say things about my mother. She was taken. She couldn’t help it.”

  “The fact is,” replied Anna, “that she ran off with a Turk.” Anna had never been particularly fond of her beautiful sister-in-law.

  Kevork swallowed back tears. The last thing he wanted was for his aunt to see how sorrowful he was at her statement. Armenian women who were taken by Turks had a moral duty to kill themselves. And she’d had a knife in her hand …

  The scene flashed in his head again: the Turk had knocked the knife away. His mother couldn’t kill herself. Was she alive? Did she wish she were dead? Honour or no, Kevork was glad there was still a chance that his mother was alive.

  Mariam looked from Kevork to Anna. This was an ongoing discussion between the two. “It is not up to you to judge,” she said to Anna. “You have never been in that situation.”

  Anna flinched.

  “If either your mother or father is alive,” continued Mariam, “they’ll come here. You can leave them a note.”

  “How?” asked Kevork. “As soon as we leave, this house will be taken over by Turks.”

  “We can only hope that the new owners will pass on your message.” Not a perfect solution, but what was?

  The next few days were spent preparing food and packing.

  Anna slaughtered the chickens, and they ate well for those last few days. Sevo would travel with them.

  For Kevork, leaving the village was like closing a door on unfinished business. With sadness in his heart, he removed his mother’s veil from the piece of carpet he had been using as a pillow and rolled it into a blue rope. He tied it around his waist like a belt. Then he went up into the rafters and searched through the items his mother had stored there. He found a pure white kite in the shape of a bird that his father had made him. How many days had he stood on the roof with his father as they threw the kite into the air and watched as it caught in the wind? He would have loved to take the kite with him, but he knew it wasn’t practical, so he ran his finger against the wooden frame in a tribute of farewell, then set it aside.

  He found a wool vest that his father would wear during the cold winter months when he travelled, selling Anoush’s carpets. Kevork tried it on. It was way too long, reaching down to his knees, but he kept it on anyway, for memory as much as warmth. There was also a stack of swaddling cloth that had been used both for Kevork, when he was a baby, and for Arsho. He took a single length of it and held it to his face, breathing deeply. Who would look after Arsho’s grave? He folded the cloth and tucked it into his blue belt.

  Mariam’s prized possession was her mother’s small sickle. She sharpened it before the journey, then wrapped it in a cloth and stuck it in her belt. Marta had her doll, Bibi, and Onnig had become so attached to Arsho’s small pillow that they decided to take it with them.

  Mariam watched Anna go through the house one last time, but she realized that there was nothing of sentimental value for Anna to take with her. What must have her life been like before? wondered Mariam. She and her siblings had lost their parents, and Kevork had lost everything.

  What was it that Anna had lost? She watched the woman coldly turn her back on the house, and then watched as her eyes lit up when Kevork and Marta and Onnig appeared. It seemed to Mariam that while the others had lost their loved ones, Anna had gained the only family she had ever known.

  Anna and Mariam each wore rucksacks, and Kevork carried Onnig on his back. Marta, her doll on one hip, was in charge of Sevo, whom she led on a rope. Even Sevo had a job. Strapped across her back were several skins of water and Onnig’s pillow.

  As the little group walked down the main street and out through the village gates one last time, Mariam was struck with how much had changed in her life, yet how the world around them didn’t seem to care. An outsider who walked through this village now wouldn’t see anything amiss. What was once a thriving Armenian district was thriving once more. Gathered around the well were women with yashmaks covering their faces, gossiping while their husbands played dama under a tree. A barefooted boy darted past, nearly colliding into Mariam, as he chased one of his friends as they played “Turks and Armenians.” It looked just the same as in April, except these people were all Turkish.

  As they walked past what used to be the church, Mariam put her hand to her chest and gasped. She smelled the sharp scent of charring meat and her mind was filled with the grotesque images of the burning church. She realized with a start that her nose wasn’t fooling her.

  In the midst of the rubble of the church, a man had set up a barbecue and was selling freshly grilled lamb on a stick. He smirked when he saw the Armenians pass.

  “Let’s go quickly,” said Mariam. The sooner they were out of this place, the better.

  They went up to the cave grave one last time to pay their respects.

  “I won’t go,” said Onnig stubbornly. He threw his wildflower bouquet down on the ground, then walked over to where Sevo was standing and put his arms around her neck.

  “You don’t have to,” said Mariam. “Stay here with Kevork and Anna. We’ll be back in a minute.” She picked up the wildflower bouquet from the ground, then kissed her brother on the forehead. “I’ll put this on their grave for you.”

  Mariam pulled a veil over her hair and smoothed down her dress with her free hand. Kevork and Anna and Onnig with Sevo stood at the end of the pathway leading to the cave that doubled as a grave. It would be easier for her and Marta to visit the grave this one last time without their brother anyway, Mariam rationalized.

  The girls knelt side by side on the cold ground in front of the cave. Mariam could only hope that their parents’ souls were now at peace. She felt a surge of grief fill her throat as she placed her bouquet and then her brother’s down on the cold stone. She willed herself not to cry, but she noticed through the corner of her eye that her sister’s bouquet glistened with a single hot tear.

  From
the pathway, Kevork watched the sisters at the grave. In one way, he envied them. At least they knew where their parents were. If his mother was still alive, how would she ever find him now? And what about his father? Was he really dead, or had he just taken off? At least Marta and Onnig and Mariam knew that they had been loved and that they hadn’t been abandoned. Kevork felt so utterly alone. He also felt, that by leaving the village, he was abandoning any hope of ever finding his parents. He looked down at Sevo, whose mournful eyes looked back up at him, as if she understood his worries. He scratched her fondly between the ears and was thankful that at least he had her. Then he looked at the little boy whose arms were wrapped so tightly around the goat’s neck, and he realized how much more he could have lost. Kevork at least had his memories. Would Onnig have that?

  Kevork reached down and gathered Onnig into his arms, hugging him tight.

  Mariam finished her prayer, then stood up, brushing the dust from her skirt. She reached down and tapped Marta on the shoulder, letting her sister know that it was time for them to leave.

  They walked back down the path and found Onnig fast asleep in Kevork’s lap, his arms thrown loosely around the older boy’s neck. Kevork’s head rested on Anna’s shoulder and Anna held Sevo’s rope with one hand. The goat grazed contentedly. More time had passed than they had realized.

  They stretched, gathered together, and started their journey in earnest. As they walked down the grassy path towards the dirt road, Abdul Hassan came into view, and behind him was his wife, who was noticeably thinner than she had been the last time they saw her. Abdul Hassan had a sack of threshed fall wheat on his back and a sickle in one hand, and he looked exhausted. Amina Hanim’s face, which was not covered with a yashmak, was red from the sun, and the edge of her veil was rimmed with sweat. She too held a sickle and a sack of wheat.

  Abdul Hassan glanced at the rucksacks on their backs. “So you’re leaving?” he asked.

  Mariam stepped forward in greeting. “The time has come for us to find our way back to Marash.”

  The Turk’s brow frowned with worry. “You cannot walk all the way back.”

  “We walked most of the way here,” said Mariam.

  “You were with a large group then,” replied Abdul Hassan. “Now you are just children and one vulnerable woman.”

  “What shall we do?” asked Mariam.

  The man was silent for a moment, deep in thought.

  In the silence, words that Anoush had said to Mariam ages ago came back to her: If they kill the Armenians, who will harvest the grain?

  Indeed. The Turk and his wife were alone in the field, threshing. The wheat was already going to seed. Mariam knew that if Abdul Hassan didn’t get his crop in, he would face ruin.

  Mariam caught Anna’s eye and saw that she was thinking the same thing: perhaps if they helped Abdul Hassan with his harvest, he would help them get to Marash. “Perhaps we can help you?” Mariam asked.

  The Turk looked at her hopefully, but not really understanding.

  “We’re children and one woman, that’s true,” said Mariam. “But we’re strong. We could help bring in your wheat.”

  The Turk’s eyes filled with gratitude. “Even one extra set of hands would be a blessing from Allah,” he said. “We’re about to lose the whole crop.”

  Amina Hanim took Mariam by the hand. “First we eat, then we work,” she said, with a weary smile. Then she led the group up towards the house.

  When the barn came into view, Mariam felt a shiver up her spine. Were the souls of all those barley harvesters in that barn, or in the caves where they died, or had they flown to heaven? She said a quick prayer for them, and then another as they passed by the spot where she and her family had camped out in the open.

  Amina Hanim followed Mariam’s gaze to the spot that held so many memories. “You’ll all stay with us in the house,” she said firmly. “You are like family now.”

  When the two-storey house came into view, Mariam noticed that it didn’t look as prosperous as it did before. The garden was overgrown with weeds and there was an indefinable uncared-for quality about the place.

  Instead of leaving them outside like Abdul Hassan had before, Amina Hanim motioned them to follow her into the house. They paused just inside the threshold, not knowing what to do.

  Mariam had never been in a Turkish home before and was curious. The central room was clutter-free and almost totally devoid of furniture except for a low table and a number of large cushions on the floor. There were closed doors on either side of the main entrance. Mariam guessed that one door led to the men’s quarters, and the other to the women’s — although why they needed that when there were just the two of them was beyond her. There was also a set of stairs leading up to the second storey.

  “Please sit down,” said Amina Hanim, indicating the cushions on the floor, then she hurried out into the kitchen. Abdul Hassan sat down with his guests.

  They had barely settled down into the cushions when she came back, bearing a platter of bread, olives, and cheese, which she set on the table. She scurried out again, and then moments later came back with a tall pitcher of water and clay tumblers.

  “My apologies for the simple fare,” she said. “My days are spent in the field.” She set the pitcher and tumblers next to the tray and then stood over by the doorway.

  “Sit with us, wife,” said Abdul Hassan. “There are things we need to discuss.”

  A faint smile fluttered across her face, then she sat down on a cushion close to her husband.

  Once their guests had eaten, Abdul Hassan said, “You cannot walk to Marash. I would take you right now, but my crop is going to seed.”

  Mariam nodded in understanding, anticipating what he was about to say.

  “If you stay with us and help us get in as much of the crop as we can before it goes completely to seed, I shall pay you.”

  Mariam was about to open her mouth. Payment wasn’t what they wanted. The Turk held up his hand for silence. “I will also take you myself to Marash. In my oxcart. God willing.”

  Mariam smiled. “Thank you,” she said. The turn of events came as a relief. She had felt uneasy about travelling by foot all the way to Marash, but she hadn’t been able to see an alternative. Just as her gut had told her in the spring that it was wrong to stay in this house then, now it was telling her this was the best choice.

  Her one concern was for Anna. Could she work in the fields in her condition? And would the Turkish couple let her live in their house, or would their superstitions exile her to the barn? Mariam regarded Abdul Hassan. This time he had barely taken notice of Anna. She looked over to Amina Hanim. The woman was staring at Anna. It was obvious that she wanted to ask a question, but didn’t know how.

  Anna, who always kept her eyes cast down in the presence of strangers, felt the heat of the gaze. She looked up and met Amina Hanim’s eyes. “Yes?” she asked.

  Amina Hanim quickly looked away. Looking at her own hands, which were rough and reddened with work, she said, “Hanim, can you work in the sun with your white skin?”

  Mariam smiled inwardly. The very thing she was wondering herself.

  “It is difficult,” she said. “The sun burns my skin rapidly.” She looked at Kevork, then Onnig, Marta, and Mariam. “But I would do anything to help these children.”

  “I can think of two possible solutions,” said Amina Hanim. “You could stay inside and look after the house. That would free me up to work in the fields.”

  Anna nodded.

  “You could also look after the little boy.” Amina Hanim gestured towards Onnig.

  “But that would be a waste of an adult,” said Anna.

  “Which leads me to my other possible solution,” said Amina Hanim. “You would be hot, but a thick paste of oil and clay might protect your skin. I have used it myself when the sun’s rays burn brightly.”

  “If the woman goes into the field,” asked Abdul Hassan, “who will look after the boy?”

  “I could,�
�� said Marta.

  Everyone turned in her direction. “I am almost eight, and Onnig is my little brother. I know how to look after him.”

  “But could you look after the house while everyone else is in the field?” asked Amina Hanim.

  “I have watched my sister and Anna bake bread,” the little girl replied gravely. “I think I could do it. And I already know how to sweep and to wash clothing and many other household chores.”

  Mariam smiled sadly at this exchange. Her little sister had grown up quickly since their parents died. She could wash clothing, sweep, shell nuts, milk the goat, collect eggs, weed the garden, and many, many other things. The only reason she had never made flatbread was that she and Anna had made several weeks’ worth at once, then dried it and stored it, taking out only what was needed each day.

  “There would be no need for you to make Armenian flatbread,” said Amina Hanim. “I make Turkish pide each morning before going to the fields.”

  The first time Mariam slashed her mother’s tiny sickle through an expanse of wheat, an image of Turks with bayonets on horseback filled her mind. The thought gave her energy, and she pretended the stalks of wheat were her parents’ killers. She slashed through them with a force she didn’t realize she had.

  “You’re very good at this for such a young girl,” said Amina Hanim, who was working not far from her.

  If only she knew what I was thinking, mused Mariam.

  Kevork was good at it too, and Mariam suspected that his thoughts were not much different from hers. Anna, on the other hand, had difficulty with the job. Although she was older than Mariam, she did not have the same strength, and the mud paste that she had to wear on her face and neck and hands made her exhausted with heat. After just a few hours, Anna sat down in the middle of the field. She tried to hold her face in her hands, but ended up smearing the mud concoction into her eyes and making them sting with the grit. She brought her knees close to her chest and hugged them tightly, smearing yet more mud.

  “I feel so useless,” she said.