Nobody's Child

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

“Tomorrow at dawn,” she said.

  “I need to see Mariam,” he said.

  Miss Younger looked at the man in front of her. So he didn’t know. She wished she didn’t have to be the one to tell him. “She is not here.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Rustem Bey, frowning.

  Miss Younger sighed, then held her head in her hands. “Captain Mahmoud Sayyid took her with him this morning.”

  “Say you are jesting.”

  “I wish I were,” said Miss Younger.

  “Do you know the business he is in?” he asked.

  “I can only guess,” she said.

  Without saying another word, Rustem Bey got up from the chair and left, slamming the door behind him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mariam sat up with a start. There was the sound of a key in the door. It was thrown open wide, and the elderly woman in the chador stood there, a basin of water in her hands and a towel draped over her arm.

  “Clean yourselves,” said the woman. “You will be wanted downstairs shortly.”

  Wanted downstairs for what? wondered Mariam. She didn’t even want to think of the possibilities.

  “This woman is injured,” said Mariam. “She needs medical attention.”

  The elderly woman’s eyes flickered with concern above the yashmak. She placed the basin of water on the floor just inside the room and handed the towel to Mariam. The old woman’s eyes were drawn to the thin line of blood on Herminé’s face, and then to her skirt. She frowned.

  “This will come to no good,” she said, shaking her head in disapproval. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

  Mariam looked at the woman’s eyes and saw the sincerity. “Thank you,” she said.

  Mariam’s legs were stiff from lying on the cushions, and her abdomen still hurt from the Captain’s punch. She didn’t see any advantage to making herself look better for whoever would be waiting for them down below. In fact, Mariam surmised, it might be better to look worse. She was more concerned about Herminé’s health than anyone’s appearance. Mariam dragged the towel and basin of water close to Herminé’s cushion.

  “Does your face hurt?” asked Mariam.

  “No,” the woman replied. “But I feel very weak.”

  Mariam dipped a corner of the towel into the water, then blotted the woman’s wound. The dry blood came off, revealing a razor-thin slice underneath. When a thin line of fresh blood seeped through the newly cleaned spot, Mariam decided that she would be better off to leave the dry blood alone so that the wound wouldn’t open up again.

  Mariam looked at the woman’s skirt and noticed that the splotch of blood seemed very fresh.

  “Can I help you remove your skirt?” asked Mariam.

  Herminé nodded.

  Mariam reached behind the woman’s skirt and loosened it.

  “Let me help,” said Ani, frowning in concern at her mother.

  Ani sat down on a cushion behind her mother. “Lean on me,” she whispered into her mother’s ear.

  Herminé propped herself up from the cushion she was lying on, then leaned heavily into her daughter’s lap. Mariam was able to loosen the skirt and pull it completely off.

  Herminé wore beautifully embroidered white lace petticoats beneath, covering her from waist to knee. The petticoats were ripped and glistening with fresh blood.

  “God have mercy,” cried Mariam. She ripped away the petticoat and tried to staunch the blood, but it was impossible. Mariam looked up into Herminé’s eyes and saw that they were glassy. She looked beyond her and into Ani’s eyes, which were round with fear.

  Herminé’s shallow breaths were faint. “Promise me,” she whispered hoarsely to Mariam. “Promise me that you’ll look after Ani.” The effort to say these words was almost more than Herminé could give. She closed her eyes from the effort and relaxed into her daughter’s arms. Soon, her breathing became more regular.

  Ani placed one hand on her mother’s forehead. “She’s very cold.”

  “We must make her comfortable,” said Mariam. She shook out the woman’s blood-soaked skirt, then gently tucked it around her waist like a blanket.

  Ani snuggled into her mother and wrapped her arms around her, trying to warm her. “Are you going to be all right, Mairig?” she asked.

  “Yes, love,” said Herminé. “I am just going to take a little nap right now.”

  Ani stayed, holding her mother. Herminé’s breathing became shallower with each breath drawn, and then stopped altogether.

  As Mariam watched, she sensed that Ani knew intuitively when her mother had died. She watched the young girl squeeze her eyes tight as if to hold in the tears. Then she opened them and looked sadly at Mariam. “Her spirit is at rest now,” she said. “She is with my father, brother, and uncle.”

  At that moment, the key in the handle sounded again and the door opened. Mariam expected to see the old woman. But instead it was a man smelling of liquor. He wore a Turkish army jacket and carried a gun, but his trousers were not army issue. They were cheap and filthy, covered with blood and dirt stains.

  He quickly took in the scene and surmised that Herminé was either dead or almost. “Get up,” he said, pointing his gun first at Mariam, then at Ani.

  Mariam stumbled to her feet, but Ani stayed where she was, gazing defiantly at the man. Mariam reached over to her and tugged her hand. “Come with me,” she said. “I told your mother I would look after you.” Mariam had no idea how she was going to look after Ani. All she could think of was to keep the girl alive one minute at a time. She couldn’t plan further than that.

  Ani gently pushed her mother’s body forward just a bit so that she could get up. As the girl stood, Mariam saw that her mother’s blood had seeped onto the girl’s skirt and arms. Ani followed Mariam’s gaze, then looked back into her eyes. “I am not washing it off,” she said. “This is all I have left of my mother.”

  Indeed, thought Mariam grimly. And she wasn’t about to suggest Ani wash it off. Perhaps the sight of blood would jolt sense into whoever was waiting for them down below.

  It was simply a matter of asking the right questions in the right places for Rustem Bey to determine the most likely place to find Mariam. Captain Mahmoud Sayyid’s reputation was well known, and many men anticipated this latest sale. Rustem just hoped that he wasn’t too late.

  It frustrated him to have to backtrack all the way home to fill a purse with gold, but Rustem Bey knew there was no point in travelling to the former Topalian mansion without money — white slave traders didn’t deal in handshakes.

  When he got to the Topalian mansion, he saw that he was not the first to arrive. There was a cluster of manservants standing just outside the street gate, talking in low voices and smoking cigarettes. As Rustem Bey strode past them with determination, he heard one of the servants chuckle, and then heard his name mentioned. “I didn’t think he was one who had to buy his women,” a voice said.

  He walked through the garden and up the steps and pushed open the heavy wooden double doors. The cavernous room that was devoid of carpets, paintings, and art treasures was now filled with men. Rustem was shocked to see prominent members of Turkish society conversing in bored clusters. He noticed that quite a few regarded his appearance with equal surprise. Amidst the wealthy Turks, there were two farmers, probably looking to buy cheap slaves as field hands. There was also one sun-darkened man in a thwab — a loose flowing robe in off-white. On his head was a guttrah — a large square of cloth worn on the head for sun protection. It was held in place with a circlet of black goat’s hair and sheep’s wool. In spite of his simple Arabic dress, Rustem recognized the man as Jamal Aman, whose fabulous wealth was earned by choosing women for the odalisque market in Smyrna.

  A door opened at the far end of the room and a figure dressed in black stepped through. She was followed by a procession of twenty or so women. In spite of the fact that they were dishevelled and bloodstained, Rustem could see that they had been chosen for their looks. The tw
o farmers noticed this too, and they both headed for the door.

  Rustem pushed his way to the front of the crowd to get a better look. Many of the “women” were not much more than children, their eyes round with apprehension. Rustem searched each face. If he could, he would save them all. He felt the gold coins in his purse and sighed. Would it even be enough for one?

  He craned his neck, looking for Mariam, but she wasn’t there.

  Just then a door opened, and a ruffian in half a Turkish army uniform stepped through. He had two women by the elbow, and Rustem Bey’s jaw dropped. He recognized them both. There was Mariam! She was bent slightly over as if in pain, but she did not seem to be too terribly injured. And there was little Ani Topalian. Rustem’s family and the Topalian family had known each other for generations. When word got out that the Topalian mansion had been ransacked, Rustem had feared the worst for the Topalian brothers, but he had thought that Herminé and her children, Ani and Hagop Junior, were safe. He knew they had been visiting relatives in Canada, but he’d had no idea they had come back to Turkey. He gazed at the blood on the little girl’s dress and shuddered to think of what it might mean.

  He felt the weight of the gold coins in his purse and prayed to Allah.

  The clerk sitting at the desk had stood up and was walking over to where the women were lined up. He had a sheaf of paper in his hand. He called names out one by one, and as he did, the girls stepped forward.

  “Mari!” he said.

  A girl in her mid-teens with a torn dress and hair that looked like it had been hacked short with a knife stepped forward.

  “Who will start the bidding?” said the clerk.

  “One lira,” yelled out a servant hopefully.

  “Six,” said one of the merchants.

  “Eight,” said Jamal Aman, the white slave trader from Smyrna.

  “Eight lira,” said the clerk. “Do I have ten?”

  Silence.

  “Sold to Jamal Aman for eight Turkish lira.”

  At the announcement, Mari screamed, then collapsed on the floor. Jamal Aman motioned to his manservant, who was watching the proceedings from the door. The servant walked up to the front and gathered the girl up into his arms, taking her outside. Jamal Aman counted out his eight coins and handed them to the clerk.

  Rustem Bey was sickened by the proceeding. To think that a human being could be sold for less than what a bolt of cheap cloth might cost.

  The clerk called the next girl, and the next. Like the first, they were both purchased by Jamal Aman. Rustem Bey speculated that the actions against Armenians hadn’t started yet in Smyrna. Otherwise, Jamal Aman wouldn’t have been so eager to buy so many.

  The others in the room were obviously feeling that there would be a glut on the market of girls, and so there was no need to spend too much right now. Rustem had mixed feelings about this. It meant that he would almost certainly have enough to buy both Ani and Mariam, but it also meant that the girls who were being purchased would be forced on a long and uncomfortable journey through desert heat. He shook his head at his thoughts. What was he thinking? If the deportations weren’t happening in Smyrna, there was a chance that these girls might live. It was a grim situation all around, but he tried to rationalize with himself that at least these girls might be better off than the other Armenians of Marash. What he tried not to think about was whether they might actually prefer to be dead.

  “Ani!” said the clerk.

  As Ani Topalian stepped forward, Rustem cursed under his breath. How could he bid on Ani first? What if he ran out of money for Mariam? He drew out his purse, then opened it and quickly did a count. The most any girl had sold for so far had been forty Turkish lira. Rustem had almost one hundred Turkish lira in his purse. He should be fine.

  “This is Ani Topalian,” said the clerk. “I will start the bidding at twenty lira.”

  Rustem’s heart sank. He had hoped that the clerk wouldn’t mention who she was. There were some who would like to own her simply for the prestige of it. Not to mention that she was very pretty.

  “I will bid twenty,” said Ali Fadil.

  Rustem turned and looked at the man in surprise. Ali Fadil was a Marash jeweller too, and he and Hagop Topalian’s unfriendly rivalry was well known.

  “Twenty-five,” said Rustem Bey.

  He saw Mariam’s head jerk up at the sound of his voice. She looked him in the eyes. He couldn’t tell if it was with gratitude or anger.

  He also saw that Ani was staring at him, her mouth slightly open with shock. He met her gaze and tried to convey to her that it would be fine.

  “Thirty,” said Ali Fadil.

  Ani looked at Ali Fadil with unmitigated hate. She looked over to Rustem and frowned.

  “Thirty-five,” said Rustem Bey.

  “Forty-five,” said Ali Fadil.

  Murmurs circulated throughout the room. Forty-five Turkish lira for a mere slip of a girl in a market overstocked?

  “Fifty,” said Rustem Bey, then held his breath. He could not bid more. He couldn’t risk not having enough for Mariam.

  “Do I have fifty-five?” said the clerk.

  Silence.

  “Sold to Rustem Bey for fifty Turkish lira.”

  Rustem walked up to the clerk and counted out the coins. Then he walked over to Ani and took her by the arm. He did it in such a way as not to hurt her, but he couldn’t risk looking soft in this group. “Come with me,” he said sternly.

  Ani looked up at his face with confusion and hurt. It cut him to the quick that she doubted his motives.

  “Mariam!” said the clerk.

  She was the very last one called.

  “I will start the bidding at ten,” said the clerk.

  “Twenty,” said a voice from the threshold.

  It was a familiar voice. Rustem Bey turned, then frowned in confusion. Captain Mustapha Sayyid? Why would he be bidding on a girl he already owned?

  “Twenty-five,” said Rustem Bey.

  “Thirty-five,” said Captain Sayyid.

  He was driving up the bidding; that was his game, Rustem thought to himself. He turned and looked and saw that the Captain was looking right at him and smirking. He must know of my feelings for Mariam, thought Rustem Bey with a sinking heart. I hope I have enough.

  “Forty-five,” said Rustem Bey.

  “Fifty,” said the Captain.

  “Fifty-five,” said Rustem Bey, his heart in his mouth. He didn’t have fifty-five Turkish lira in his purse, but he’d worry about that later.

  “Sixty-five,” said the Captain, a broad smile of triumph on his face.

  The room was silent.

  “Seventy-five,” said Rustem Bey. He could feel a trickle of sweat dripping down the side of his face.

  The Captain was silent.

  “Sold to Rustem Bey for seventy-five Turkish lira,” said the clerk.

  No one said a word as Rustem, with Ani by his side, walked over to the clerk and opened his purse. “I don’t have it all here,” he said under his breath to the man. “But I can get you the rest if you wait.”

  The clerk looked at him and his brow wrinkled in annoyance. “These are cash transactions. You know that. Either you pay now, or the girl goes to the next highest bidder.”

  Rustem Bey looked around the room. The other men were watching him, but no one stepped forward to lend him money. Suddenly, he felt a hand in his, and then the heaviness of gold coins. He opened his palm. In it were two very old and valuable Ottoman gold coins. One was so rare that he had never seen one like it, except in paintings. “Use them,” whispered Ani to him under her breath.

  He held his palm out. The clerk’s eyes widened with greed. “I’ll give you your change,” he said hastily, fearing that Rustem Bey might think twice about what he was doing. He counted out thirty of Rustem Bey’s own Turkish lira and handed them back to him. With Ani holding onto his sleeve, he walked up to Mariam, smiling broadly.

  Mariam’s face was drained of all colour. She looked him
in the eyes, and then her knees buckled and she collapsed on the ground. He scooped her up and carried her out the door. Ani followed close by his side, clinging onto his sleeve for her life.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It seemed fitting that the last person Kevork saw as they walked away from the orphanage the following day at dawn was Miss Younger. In spite of the fact that soldiers trained their bayonets on her, she stubbornly accompanied the deportees right to the orphanage gates.

  “If you come any further, I will shoot you myself,” said an angry Captain Sayyid. He pointed his rifle at her, and as far as Kevork could tell, the man was hoping she would take another step.

  Miss Younger angrily brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand, then stood at the open gate, less than a hand’s breadth away from where the orphanage grounds ended and danger began.

  Kevork looked over at Marta, who stood beside him. Her face was set with a fierce determination and her eyes were dry. That was good. Kevork did not want Captain Sayyid to know she was a girl.

  In addition to the oxcart from the orphanage, which Mr. Karellian and Mr. Muller had expertly packed tight with food and supplies, there were two families waiting in the street.

  One of the families had an oxcart, and household furniture was packed tightly and tied down. On the very top was a high-backed chair securely fastened with ropes looped around each leg and around the back. A very elderly Armenian woman sat in it. On her lap was a baby, blue in the face from crying. In addition to the old woman and baby in the oxcart, there were two adolescent girls, one younger boy, and a mother who looked to be in her thirties. These four were standing beside the cart, waiting for orders.

  The other family consisted of a grandmother, a young boy, and a teenaged girl. They had no oxcart, and not even a donkey. All of their worldly goods had been bundled into large sacks of cloth and tied to their backs.

  “Let’s go,” shouted Captain Sayyid. Then he spurred his stallion and led the way.

  The oxcart with the grandmother and baby began to follow first after the Captain, then came the grandmother and children on foot. Behind them was the orphanage oxcart, driven by Mr. Karellian with Anna by his side. Behind the cart walked the other adult Armenians from the orphanage, and a few children deemed “adult,” with Kevork and Marta at the very end.