Kevork and the Vartabed miraculously clung to life. Each night, as the priest gave the newly dead their last rites, Kevork would collapse in exhaustion and sleep wherever he fell. In the morning a zaptieh would kick them awake and force them on their march to nowhere.
After ten days of marching into the desert, the thousands of survivors had dwindled to about a hundred — a handful of starving and disease-ridden humanity. Any food or water was long gone. The cool blue wetness of the Euphrates River sparkling just beyond reach was an added torture. Crazed with thirst, each day one or more of the deportees made a run for the river. The ones who didn’t make it were shot by zaptiehs who were grateful for the target practice. The ones who did make it died in agony as their stomachs swelled and burst with the sudden intake of salt water. Over the days of marching in circles past the Euphrates, more and more Armenians, desperate for just a taste of water even if it meant sure death, ran to the river.
One morning, Kevork awoke to a blood-curdling cry.
“Chechen bandits.”
The marauders fell upon the pathetic group and hacked away at them with knives and sabres. Kevork was clubbed over the head, and he fell to the ground. By the time the Chechens were finished, the hundred or so survivors were reduced to twelve: eight men and four women. Four of the men were lashed together and led up a hill out of sight. There was gunfire. And then silence. A few moments later, the Chechens came back.
One of the Chechens pulled Kevork to a standing position, and then he lashed Kevork and the Vartabed to the two remaining men. They were led up the same hill. When they got to the top, the Vartabed fell to his knees in prayer. Because they were lashed together so tightly, Kevork and the other two men fell to their knees, too.
The Vartabed addressed one of the Chechens. “I would like to administer the sacrament of the dying to these men and myself before you execute us.”
The bandits were taken aback. Then they fell to their knees in front of the priest and asked for understanding. “We are only following government orders,” one man cried. “And the hand of God directs the Turkish government.”
“May God forgive your sins,” said the Vartabed Garabed.
Then he administered the last rites. When he was finished, he scooped a handful of sand and held it up to heaven. “This is the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he said, and he placed a single grain of sand on the tongue of each doomed man.
When the Vartabed had finished, the Chechens untied the men, then lined them in a row. The Chechens did not blindfold them, and so Kevork found himself staring down the barrel of a rifle. Then he heard the deafening sound of gunfire.
One by one, the men fell as the bullets hit. The one intended for Kevork whizzed past his abdomen, grazing his skin. He screamed and fell to the ground as he had seen the others do. With none of the prisoners left standing, the Chechens left. Within minutes, another group of Chechens came to finish off the work begun by their brothers. They clubbed Kevork over the head and he lost consciousness.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
One thing that Mariam had trouble getting used to in the haremlik was the lack of privacy. The room that she and Ani shared had two doors in it, but no locks. At various times of the day, Guluzar Hanim, Ede, or Nura Hanim would burst through unannounced. Sometimes it would simply be to walk through to another room, but at other times it was to sit and chat. Everyone knew everyone else’s business.
Living in an orphanage, and a crowded house before that, Mariam was used to having lots of people around. But at Anahid Baji’s or even at the orphanage, there was a deep sense of the individual. Here in the haremlik, it was as if no one had the right to private thoughts.
So Mariam was surprised when she heard a tap-tapping on the door one day as she sat alone in the room, staring out the latticed window. Who would be knocking? she wondered. She walked over to the door and opened it, and there stood Rustem Bey.
“We need to talk,” he said.
Mariam opened the door wide and stepped aside so he could enter, her face flushing hot at the thought of being alone with him in a room where the main piece of furniture was a bed. Rustem seemed to understand her discomfort, and he took two pillows from the bed and positioned them on the floor facing each other, and then he sat down on one of them. Mariam sat down on the other.
“I am sure the ladies have told you that I like you,” he said.
Mariam looked up at him and smiled. “It seems to be all they talk about,” she said.
“I wanted to formally have my family ask your family for your hand in marriage,” Rustem Bey continued, “but then the deportations began.”
Mariam could feel the heat of embarrassment on her face. She looked down at her hands.
“So I must ask you this,” said Rustem. “It doesn’t matter how you answer. You are welcome to the safety of my house as long as you wish.”
Mariam stayed silent, dreading the question.
“Would you want to marry me if you were asked?” he asked.
Mariam’s mouth filled with tears. No words came out. She shook her head no.
Rustem Bey’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “I thought that would be your answer,” he said.
Mariam took a gulp of air, then wiped the tears from her eyes. “It comes at the wrong time,” she said. “I cannot think of marriage when death surrounds us.”
“Then you may have said yes in different circumstances?” he asked.
“I must be honest,” said Mariam. “I could not live like this, sequestered in a garden and a set of rooms, with nothing more than sweets and kittens to keep me occupied. I respect you, but I don’t like this way of life.”
A frown of hurt formed on Rustem Bey’s face. “It is wealth, not culture, that keeps our women idle. Wealthy Armenian women are no different.”
Mariam could have blurted out that wealthy Armenian women were mostly dead or worse right now, or marching towards the desert, but she held her tongue. “I like you as a friend,” she said. “And I thank you for saving my life.”
Rustem’s frown disappeared. He reached out and grabbed her hand. “I will always be your friend.” He looked into her eyes and said, “I am sorry that you are not happy here.”
Mariam regarded him with surprise. “Happiness is not important right now,” she said. “I am alive. But when I look outside, I see Armenians being rounded up. Deported. I feel guilty being here. And I feel useless.”
Rustem Bey was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“You have?”
“Yes,” he said. “I feel useless, too. I asked Miss Younger if I could do something to help, but she told me no. To only keep supplying food. I would like to do more.”
Mariam squeezed his hand. “Could you take me there?” she asked.
“To the orphanage?” asked Rustem Bey. “You would be arrested.”
“But if I were fully veiled and accompanied you on a food delivery, couldn’t I go?”
Rustem Bey nodded. “If you wish,” he said. “But it would be risky. You would have to pose as my odalisque, and you would have to let people think you had converted.”
“I could do that,” said Mariam.
“Even with Miss Younger,” said Rustem Bey. “If word got out that I was harbouring Armenians, my house would be burnt down, you would be executed before my eyes, and then I would be killed.”
“I understand,” said Mariam firmly. “I will play the part.”
Mariam found the heavy veiling oddly cool and comfortable as she took Rustem’s hand and he helped her step up to the wooden bench on the oxcart. It was piled high with flour and raisins and olives and other foodstuffs. Rustem pulled himself up beside her and then took the reins.
The oxen walked slowly through the streets of Marash, and Mariam looked out of the narrow opening between her head covering and the yashmak on her face to see streets that no longer looked familiar. There was a quiet desolation to the place, as if removing the Armenia
ns had cut the heart out of the city.
Mariam swallowed back tears as the mighty gates of the orphanage appeared. Rustem handed her the reins, and then he hopped down from the cart and rang the bell. Mariam’s mind was filled with the image of the first time she had come here so many years ago. Then, it was Paris who had answered the door. Little Paris, who was killed by Captain Sayyid. And it was Mariam’s fault.
This time, the door was opened by Parantzim, the new orphan who had arrived just days before the deportation. Mariam was pleased to see that the girl smiled broadly and had a healthy glow about her.
“Is Miss Younger in?” asked Rustem.
Parantzim’s eyes darted from Rustem Bey to the lady in veils, and then to the cart loaded with food. “She will be happy to see you, sir,” she said. “Let me take you.”
“Would you like to ride on the cart?” asked Rustem.
“I would,” was the enthusiastic reply.
Parantzim was so light that Rustem picked her up without effort and sat her beside Mariam.
Without speaking to Parantzim, Mariam tugged on the reins and the oxen walked forward. Rustem walked beside the cart.
They encountered Miss Younger, head bent down in thought, walking towards her office. She looked up in surprise when she heard the cart approach. Mariam noticed her eyes rest first on Parantzim, and then on Mariam — an unrecognizable lady in veils.
“Rustem Bey,” Miss Younger said. “How good of you to bring more supplies. I was just about to put in another order.”
“These are a donation,” said Rustem.
“Thank you,” said Miss Younger.
“May we speak to you in private?” asked Rustem Bey.
“Certainly,” she replied. “Let us go to my office.”
Rustem lifted Parantzim down, and she scampered away. Then he held out his hand for Mariam. The two followed Miss Younger in silence.
Once the office door closed behind them, Mariam lifted up her veil. Miss Younger gasped. “You’re safe,” she cried. “Thank God.” Her eyes darted from Rustem to Mariam in confusion, trying to ascertain the relationship.
Rustem Bey did not illuminate her. They sat. “What is happening with the orphanage?” he asked.
Miss Younger walked over to the other side of the desk and sat down in her chair with a sigh. “Every day,” she said, “officials come with one excuse or another to take away more orphans.”
“But I thought you had been assured of their safety,” said Rustem.
“I have been. But Turkish orphanages have been set up, and these children are to go to them,” she said.
“These children cannot go to Turkish orphanages,” said Mariam. “They will forget that they’re Armenian.”
“But they will be alive,” said Rustem Bey.
“Perhaps,” said Miss Younger. “We cannot be sure what the motivations are. I have been ordered back to Germany, but I will not go.”
“What about the other missionaries?” asked Mariam.
“Some have already left, but a few are staying. I have sent telegrams to the American Embassy, and I am hoping that American and Canadian missionaries will arrive here to keep this orphanage open. In the meantime, I am trying to keep the children safe.”
“As you know,” said Rustem Bey, “I have offered to help.”
“I cannot let you risk your life to hide Armenians,” replied Miss Younger firmly.
“But what if Mariam and I adopted a child?” asked Rustem Bey. “Would that be acceptable?”
Miss Younger looked in confusion from Mariam to Rustem.
Rustem Bey stayed silent.
“Trust us,” was all that Mariam would say.
“Which child?” asked Miss Younger.
Without hesitation, Mariam answered, “Parantzim.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Kevork was awakened by the sound of buzzing flies. The sun had set and the air was chilly, but Kevork wasn’t cold. The bodies of the other men kept him warm. He was stiff and sore but amazed to be living. Kevork pushed off the body that had fallen on top of him. He sat up, but was dizzy from loss of blood. He looked down at the bodies surrounding him and found the Vartabed. He reached out and touched his cheek and was shocked to feel that it was warm. Could it be possible that the Vartabed had survived too? Kevork placed his fingers on the side of the priest’s neck. Yes, there was a fluttering of life. Kevork gently slipped his hands around the priest’s body to find out where he had been shot.
“Do not worry about me, Kevork,” murmured the priest faintly. “I am anxious to meet my maker.” And then his head lolled over to one side. Kevork felt for a heartbeat in the priest’s neck but couldn’t find one.
Kevork thought that he was deadened to all emotion, but the death of Vartabed Garabed hit him hard. His body convulsed with dry heaving sobs. The Vartabed Garabed was such a good man. Why had he died while Kevork lived? Kevork sprinkled a bit of sand on the priest’s body and said a prayer.
Kevork checked on the two other men. One was dead from a bullet between the eyes. The other man was breathing. Kevork pulled him away from the corpses.
Kevork forced himself to stand up and get his bearings. He didn’t want to leave the other survivor to go looking for shelter. Kevork was afraid that the man would gain consciousness while he was gone, look around at the other corpses, then give up and die. So instead of looking for shelter, Kevork mounded sand as support and warmth on one side of him, and then he huddled up closely to the man’s other side. Kevork fell asleep, not knowing if either of them would be alive at dawn.
It was the stillness that awoke him early the next morning. Since the first day of the deportation, Kevork had accustomed himself to being wakened by groans and screams of other prisoners as they were kicked awake. He had always tried to scramble to his feet at the first scream to avoid the kicks. But this morning everything was too quiet. He opened his eyes a tiny bit in the bright sunlight and moved his head from side to side, then struggled into a sitting position and touched the man beside him. Still warm. But he wouldn’t waken.
Kevork fell back in exhaustion and drifted into an uneasy sleep. He dreamt that Marta was still with him, touching his cheek tenderly. He opened his eyes. Two Kurdish children in rags were trying to pry open his mouth. Overhead were the vultures.
“I will not die now,” Kevork cried out loud. The children shrieked and ran away. Kevork sat up and looked around. The man was still lying beside him. Kevork felt for a pulse. Nothing.
Kevork wandered aimlessly looking for shelter — any kind of shelter. He walked past countless Armenians, all dead.
Then he saw a shadow. If only he could get to the shadow, maybe he would be safe. With ragged feet on scorching sand, Kevork walked towards the shadow. When he got there, it was gone. He squinted his eyes and looked up at the ball of fire in the sky. “Will you kill me today?” he asked the sun. But he didn’t die. He kept on walking towards imaginary shelters that would dissolve in the sand as he approached them. Kevork’s tongue was thick and his throat was parched. Death would be a relief when it finally came.
Then something strange happened. There was something up ahead — and as Kevork trudged forward, it did not disappear! He thought for sure it was another trick, but he walked towards it anyway.
It was a shack. Or at least it had been, years or decades ago. The desert had eroded it down to the hardened mud floor. Only a bit of straw and mud wall still stood. During the middle of the day, this ruin would provide almost no shelter from the burning sun. But now, past noon, there was a shadow already forming under one of the walls. Kevork collapsed into the meagre shade and fell into an exhausted sleep.
He woke up with a start.
A Kurdish child in rags, giggling. She threw a stone at Kevork.
It smacked him near his eye, but he was too weak to protest. When the child noticed Kevork was awake, she ran away.
Kevork lost all concept of time. It could have been hours or days that passed. Or maybe it was only minutes.
His body was on fire with fever and it swelled up. When Kevork held up his arm to look at it, he remembered all the bloated corpses. Is this what it feels like to die? he wondered. Maggots feasted on his wounds. He had not consumed a drop of water or a crumb of food for as long as he could remember. It puzzled Kevork that he could possibly be alive, but then, he thought, maybe he was dead and just didn’t know it.
Kevork heard a slight movement beside him and he opened one eye. An Arab boy in loose flowing robes was standing there, staring at him. He ran away when he saw that Kevork was awake. The next time Kevork opened his eyes, the child was back, this time with a wizened old Arab woman in tow. Kevork was surprised to see that her face was uncovered. In Marash, all Muslim women covered their faces. The woman bent down and wet Kevork’s lips with water from a goatskin. She said something in Arabic to the child, who ran away, coming back almost immediately with some Arab men.
She stood up to face the men, hands on hips. There was an argument. Kevork listened through a haze of delirium. Then Kevork was dragged on a blanket to a cluster of tents in the sand.
The next thing Kevork remembered was the sensation of soft, woollen blankets beneath his burnt skin. The few rags that he had been wearing were gone, and his body had been washed. He could feel the stickiness of some sort of ointment on his back. His body was covered with a soft, loose cloth, but he was naked underneath. He could see the faint outline of the sun trying to beat down on him through a tent of tightly woven wheat-coloured cloth. Through a haze of delirium, Kevork felt the cool firmness of a clay cup touching his lips, and then the heavenly moisture of a tepid meat broth. The cup was offered briefly each time. Just enough for a tiny sip.
Kevork had no sense of time. It was like slowly waking up from a bad dream. As his consciousness surfaced, more details of his circumstances emerged. He could see the leathery brown hand that held the clay cup. The wrist disappeared into a fold of linen. He looked up and saw the wizened Madonna face of the woman who had saved him.
Kevork tried to speak, but she held up the palm of her hand as if to stay “stop.” And then, in Armenian, she said, “Rest. You are safe.”
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