Nobody's Child

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  The three groups of people could not move nearly as fast on foot and cart as Captain Sayyid did on horse, and soon the white horse was no more than a dot in the distance. Walking alongside the deportees were eight zaptiehs — civilian soldiers.

  Each zaptieh was dressed in a secondhand Turkish army uniform, and each carried a rifle with a bayonet. With the Captain gone, the zaptiehs took over.

  Kevork watched in anger as one of the zaptiehs prodded the grandmother on foot with his bayonet. “Move it,” he said. “We don’t have all day.”

  Just then, Mr. Karellian handed the reins to Anna and jumped down from the orphanage cart. He caught up to the grandmother. “Mairig,” he said, “please take my place in our cart.”

  The woman looked up at him gratefully. Mr. Karellian held her bundle as she slipped it off her back.

  “No stopping,” yelled the zaptieh, and then he jabbed Mr. Karellian in the leg with his bayonet, ripping his trousers.

  “This will help us go faster,” said Mr. Karellian to the zaptieh.

  “Then do it,” said the soldier. “But don’t stop walking.”

  Mr. Karellian slung the woman’s load onto his own back, and then he took her by the elbow and led her to the oxcart. The zaptieh wouldn’t let the cart stop even for a moment to let the old woman on, so she ended up walking beside it for several minutes. Anna wrapped the reins around her wrist to free up one hand, and then she reached down to the grandmother to help her up. The grandmother stumbled once, but then stepped up into the seat beside Anna.

  Kevork watched as Mr. Karellian fell into step beside the woman’s two grandchildren.

  As they walked through the streets of Marash towards the southeastern gates, they created something of a sensation. Ordinary Turks came out of their houses to watch. Women stared out from latticed windows.

  Kevork shook his head in disgust has he passed two men on the street corner, sipping lemonade and pointing at him. Did they consider this entertainment?

  Suddenly, a young Turkish man ran out from nowhere and plunged into the middle of the deportation group. He picked up the granddaughter walking beside Mr. Karellian.

  “I got one,” he cried with excitement to a cluster of young men who were smoking and cheering him on. He threw the girl over his shoulder like a sack of cloth and ran down through a back street.

  The grandmother let out a curdling scream. She tried to stand up in the cart, but Anna reached out and grabbed her sleeve, trying to get her to sit back down. The woman pushed Anna’s hand away. She lost her balance and fell out of the cart, landing in the dirt on her hands and knees. Mr. Karellian ran over to her and tried to help her up. “Anoush,” she cried. “Anoush.” She raised one hand and pointed in the direction the man had run off with her granddaughter.

  A zaptieh came over and pointed his rifle in her face. “Get up,” he said, “or I will shoot you.”

  Mr. Karellian pulled on her arm to try to get her up, but the woman’s legs buckled under her. She could sit up, but she couldn’t stand.

  The zaptieh shot her.

  She crumpled into a heap.

  Her grandson ran to her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “Mari Baji,” he cried. “Please get up.”

  A group of women in veils clustered in the street, watching. One child, hiding behind the skirts of the women, ran forward and scooped up a stone. He threw it at the grandmother in the road. “Dirty Armenian traitor!” yelled the child.

  A veiled woman stepped forward and grabbed the child’s arm. “Stay out of it,” she scolded.

  The zaptieh walked up to the boy and his grandmother and prodded them both with the toe of his boot. “Either get up or die here,” he said.

  Mr. Karellian picked up the grandson. The boy was perhaps twelve years old and very strong. He flailed in Mr. Karellian’s arms. “Let me go,” he cried.

  “Please be quiet,” said Mr. Karellian. He continued walking away from the grandmother’s body, her bundle on his back and her grandson struggling in his arms.

  Kevork watched the scene in dismay. The zaptiehs would not put up with a scene like this for long. He turned to Marta and said, “Let us go up there.”

  The two of them walked quickly and caught up to where Mr. Karellian was struggling with the boy. “Come and walk with us,” Kevork said to the boy.

  The boy stopped his struggling long enough to look up at Kevork.

  Kevork swallowed back tears as he looked into the young boy’s eyes. Pain and loss were etched clearly there. Kevork felt as if he were looking into a mirror.

  For some reason, the sight of Kevork and Marta settled the boy enough that Mr. Karellian could put him down. He walked between Marta and Kevork, and Mr. Karellian, limping, walked back to the oxcart and Anna helped him back up.

  “What is your name?” Kevork asked the boy.

  “Onnig,” he said.

  Onnig. The name brought back a flash of painful memories. Kevork wondered about Marta’s brother, Onnig. And Anahid Baji, Ovsanna, and the children — Aram and Gadar. After only a few moments on the deportation march, Kevork’s hopes of ever seeing them alive again had all but vanished.

  He looked over at Marta and saw that her thoughts were his own. Furtively, so that the zaptiehs wouldn’t see, he reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. She looked up at him and their eyes met. “We shall survive this,” he said. “I promise.”

  By midday, they had passed through the southeastern gates of Marash and were marching out towards the desert. In the distance, Kevork could see other clusters of carts, donkeys, zaptiehs, and Armenians. As they walked, their little group fell into step and merged with the other deportation groups.

  There were oxcarts and donkeys as far as the eye could see. The beasts and carts were stacked high with household items, food, and bedding. Beside the carts walked people: babies carried on the backs of young mothers; grandmothers and grandfathers so old and crippled that they had to be tied onto the carts like the furniture.

  The eight Marash zaptiehs were joined by dozens of others, some on horses, most on foot.

  Referring to these men pointing bayonets as “soldiers” was rather a stretch, Kevork realized. Rumour had it that the Young Turk government had emptied the prisons and issued uniforms and weapons to any criminal who wished to assist the army with the march. These scruffy “zaptiehs” were clearly distinguishable from regular army men.

  Captain Sayyid sat astride his white stallion and wove up and down the deportation line, exhorting mothers with babies to walk faster and old people to stop dawdling. As he circled around the back of the line, Marta muttered something under her breath.

  Kevork looked at her sharply. “Just make sure he doesn’t hear you,” he said.

  “I want to know what he’s done with my sister,” said Marta.

  Kevork didn’t want to think about it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was the brightness of the light working its way in through the window that made Mariam finally wake up. There was an indistinct rumbling in the distance, and she could feel the ground shaking slightly beneath her. The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was Ani, anxiously hovering above her. Ani was no longer in the dress covered with her mother’s blood. Her face was washed, and her long hair was pulled up and braided into a coil on top of her head. She was wearing something pastel yellow and cottony.

  Images jumbled back into Mariam’s mind: the Captain, the auction, Rustem Bey … Mariam was so confused. “Are we safe?” she asked Ani.

  “I believe so,” said Ani. “Thank God you have awakened. I was beginning to think you were going to die, too.” The words caught in her throat, and a sob escaped.

  Mariam wanted to put her arms around the girl. Hadn’t Herminé’s dying request been for Mariam to look after Ani? Yet here the roles were switched. Mariam tried to sit up, but knives of pain shot through her stomach and she fell back down.

  “Be careful,” said Ani. “You passed out last night and are probably we
aker than you realize.”

  Mariam turned her head to look at her surroundings. She was in a small room that had two intricately carved wooden doors. The walls were hung with deep crimson silk, and the enamelled black ceiling had a pattern on it similar to the swirls of carvings in the doors. She moved her hands to feel what it was that she was lying on. Something soft and slippery. She moved her woozy head just slightly. From the corner of her eye, she could see that she was lying on a feather-filled mattress covered with snow white silky sheets.

  “Take a small sip,” said Ani, holding a small crystal glass.

  Mariam obeyed. The cool edge of the glass touched her lips and then a sweet peach-tasting liquid wet her tongue, chasing away the recent remnants of bile.

  “It’s called sherbet,” said Ani. Then she set it down.

  “Where are we?” asked Mariam.

  “We are in the women’s quarters of Rustem Bey’s family home,” said Ani. “The haremlik.”

  The word sent a shiver down Mariam’s spine. She grabbed the blanket that covered her and pulled it to her chin. The strangeness of the cover made her momentarily forget her fear and she held it up to her face. It was pure white, and it was thick and fluffy, as if filled with feathers or wool. She folded it down and held up her arm. Like Ani, she was wearing something loose and yellow and cottony. She held her hand up to her face saw that the dirt and blood of the day before had been washed away.

  Ani watched Mariam’s dawning comprehension, and explained. “A servant brought a tub of hot water into the room. I stayed here on guard the whole time she sponged you clean.”

  The image brought a sad smile to Mariam’s lips. Ani, a twelve-year-old girl from a pampered and wealthy home, had acted as a bath attendant to Mariam — a homeless orphan. A gasp of sadness filled her throat when the realization came: now Ani was the same as she. A homeless orphan. Yet she was nobody’s child. She was in control. Mariam vowed to follow Ani’s lead and become stronger and in control herself. It was the least she could do for Herminé’s memory.

  Mariam’s eyes followed the source of light that had awakened her. It was streaming in through a large window that was covered with elaborately carved wooden latticework. The sight gave Mariam a jolt. How many times had she seen women’s eyes staring out from latticed windows just like this? And now she was on the other side. What was that indistinct rumbling she heard?

  “Please help me up,” she said urgently to Ani.

  Ani sat close to Mariam, holding one of her hands, and with one arm behind Mariam’s back, she pulled her to a sitting position. Mariam grimaced in pain. “I must get to the window,” she said.

  Leaning on Ani for support, Mariam stood. Ani led her to the latticed window, and they both looked out.

  Their window gave a bird’s-eye view to the street below. From where Mariam stood, she could see right down into a single oxcart stacked high with household items. She looked down upon the heads of the people who were walking beside it, but from this angle she didn’t recognize them. Behind the cart walked two men wearing filthy ripped Turkish army uniforms and brandishing rifles.

  Mariam pressed her cheek up to the latticework to see if she could see further down the street. In the far distance, she could see more carts and people.

  Ani stood beside her with her arm still around Mariam’s waist. “I wish there was something we could do to help them,” she murmured.

  Mariam felt the same way. She felt guilty being in this room and relatively safe when her sister was most likely on the very street she was looking down at.

  Without warning, one of the doors opened and a woman stepped through.

  “Good morning, Hanim,” said Ani, unwrapping her arms from Mariam’s waist and bowing deeply to the intruder.

  Mariam gripped the window frame for support and turned around.

  Mariam had seen Turkish women at the public baths, and she had seen them fully veiled at the market. At the baths, women were either naked or loosely draped, and in the market or on the street, all that ever showed were the eyes and hands. Years ago, after the Adana massacres, Mariam had spent some time in Abdul Hassan and Amina Hanim’s home. Amina Hanim was very conservative in her dress, even when she was unveiled in the house or working in the field. Mariam had assumed that all Turkish women were similarly conservative, but nothing could be further from the truth when it came to Guluzar Hanim.

  Guluzar Hanim’s hair was pulled back and braided, much like Ani’s, but it was held in place with two emerald-encrusted combs. Mariam was mesmerized by the woman’s face, which was painted. Lips and cheeks were rouged, and the eyes were accented with thin black lines. To Mariam, her face looked as if it were a beautiful painting on porcelain. The woman wore matching circlets of simple gold around her neck and wrists, and delicate gold chains studded with tiny jewels fell from her ears. Mariam had never seen a pierced ear before, and the thought of how the ear jewellery was fastened made her queasiness come back.

  The woman wore a simple long tunic that fell straight down to her ankles. It was a deep emerald green silk brocade and it had hip-deep slits up both sides. Underneath, the woman wore trousers in a lighter weight material of the same colour, and on her feet were delicate jewelled slip-on flats.

  Mariam let go of the window frame and tried to bow.

  “Sit,” said Guluzar Hanim in a frosty voice. And then she sat down on the bed and patted the spot beside her. Mariam sat. Ani stayed standing, looking anxiously on.

  “My son wants to marry you, but I will not allow it.”

  Mariam was taken aback. She had not yet got bearings of her surroundings. Then this woman came bursting in and said such an incomprehensible thing.

  Mariam’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  “It doesn’t matter what you say,” continued the Hanim. “I will make the decisions.”

  Mariam nodded. Not necessarily in agreement, but out of shock.

  “You and Ani may stay here and recover as long as you obey me,” said the woman. “But you are guests in my home and I do not want disruption.”

  “Hanim,” Mariam said when she finally found her tongue, “thank you for your kindness.”

  The Hanim blinked. This wasn’t what she had expected. She stood up. “Come through this doorway, down the hallway, and into the garden when you have freshened up,” she said. “You can meet the other residents of the haremlik.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  For Kevork and Marta, the deportation march became a drudgery of sorrow. One day blended into the next, and as the days passed, it got unbearably hot. Water and food became scarce. They were marched to Tel Abiad, a community on the banks of the Euphrates River, south of Urfa. Kevork was astonished to see thousands upon thousands of Armenian men, women, and children — half starved, with blistered feet, and open sores showing through the rags on their backs. Tel Abiad was a sort of transshipment centre. Armenian families had been rooted out of their homes from every part of Turkey and sent to this place in the desert.

  One day Kevork said, “Look at that man over there. Does he look familiar?”

  “No,” said Marta. “Who do you think it is?”

  “I am sure that is the Vartabed Garabed,” said Kevork.

  The Vartabed had been a true friend to Anna over the years. He had visited her about once a month at the orphanage, sometimes bringing her a book of prayers or a painted postcard showing a holy scene. Once when he was visiting, Kevork had noticed the sorry state of his boots and had offered to repair them, but the Vartabed refused, saying the precious leather would be better used for an orphan’s feet than his own.

  Kevork and Marta walked over to where the emaciated man was resting. It was indeed the Vartabed. Kevork knelt reverently in front of the startled priest and said, “God bless you, Very Reverend Father.”

  “Kevork!” exclaimed the Vartabed with delight. “I am relieved to see that you are alive.”

  The Vartabed looked over at Marta, but didn’t recognize her in her boy’s di
sguise. “Are you from Beitshalom too?” he asked.

  “I am from Bethel,” said Marta, looking him in the eyes.

  “But …” the Vartabed started. Then he squinted his eyes at her. “Yes, son,” he said. “You are a healthy fellow, aren’t you?”

  Marta suppressed a sad smile. The Vartabed was a singularly bad liar.

  Kevork was alarmed by the priest’s appearance. He and Marta had been able to scavenge bits of food and had also been able to purchase a flask of water and some raisins with one of the gold coins that his father had left him from local desert Kurds who wandered through the deportees, selling food and water at outrageous prices.

  It was quite apparent that the priest had not eaten for some time. He was a thin man anyway, but now he had wasted away so dramatically that it was a miracle he could still live. Kevork felt around in his pocket and pulled out a handful of raisins.

  Kevork grabbed the priest’s hand and opened his palm. He placed the raisins in it. “Eat, please,” he said.

  Father Garabed looked down at the raisins in his palm and frowned in confusion. Then he put them in his pocket.

  “When were you deported?” asked Marta.

  “My parish was one of the last groups of Armenians to leave Marash,” replied the priest.

  “Were the Hovsepians with you?” asked Marta.

  “Nobody knows what happened to Ovsanna or Anahid Baji,” replied the priest sadly. “They were not among the deportees when that area was rounded up.”

  “Do you think they may have escaped?” asked Kevork

  “To where?” asked the priest. “Their only escape would be heaven.”

  Kevork looked over at Marta and saw that tears were filling her eyes. Being careful not to be seen, he quickly slipped his hand into hers and gave it a squeeze. “They’re at peace,” he said to her.

  “What about the children?” asked Kevork. He didn’t know whether he wanted to hear the answer, but for Marta’s sake, he knew he had to ask.