Nobody's Child
Page 18
There was a small swatch of brightly coloured cloth tied in a knot. He opened it. A gold coin. All of the gold coins that had been sewn into Kevork’s clothing had disappeared during the deportation. Kevork looked at this one carefully and realized that it was very old. Huda must have hoarded this away as her one piece of security. A sob caught in Kevork’s throat. It was an incredible act of generosity.
Kevork walked through the desert all the way to Aleppo. He was terrified of being recognized as an Armenian and deported again, but the groups he passed seemed not to notice him. With his sun-darkened skin and his thwab and guttrah, he was given free passage.
Within a week, he stood at the gates of Aleppo.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“I won’t go!” screamed Parantzim. “This is my home.”
Mariam sat down on the floor beside the little girl and pulled her to her lap. “I am your mother now, and your home is with me,” she said.
“I like it here,” said Parantzim. “There is food and beautiful clothing. And if I have to go, why do Ayesha and Leyla get to stay?”
Mariam wiped the angry tears from Parantzim’s face with the cuff of her robe and then she whispered into the little girl’s ear, “It is not safe here anymore.”
“That is a lie,” said Parantzim. “I love it here.”
Mariam looped one arm under the girl’s legs and another around her back, and then she struggled to stand. Parantzim was heavier than she realized, and they both fell down. “Why are you taking me away like this? It is not fair,” the girl wailed.
Rustem Bey appeared at the door. He looked down on the floor at Mariam sprawled out with Parantzim. “Let me help you,” he said.
He lifted Parantzim up with a single arm, then extended his free hand to help Mariam to her feet. “Come,” he said. “The carriage is ready.”
He walked quickly through the corridor towards the front entrance. Ede Kadin stood in the hallway, her mouth half-open with surprise. “I’ll explain later,” said Rustem Bey, as he walked past her with the flailing girl over his shoulder and Mariam at his side.
When they stepped out into the sunlight, Mariam automatically covered her face with a yashmak. She realized that she didn’t have to do that anymore. She was free! But somehow, she’d feel funny being outside without it on.
Rustem put Parantzim in the carriage first, and then he helped Mariam with the step. He looked in confusion at the ground once Mariam was sitting inside the carriage. “Where is your bundle of clothing?” he asked.
“I came here with nothing,” said Mariam, “and I will leave the same way.”
“But you’re welcome to the clothing I had made for you,” said Rustem Bey, a hurt look on his face.
“Thank you,” said Mariam. “You are very generous. You always have been. But I wish to leave it behind.”
“I don’t,” interjected Parantzim weepily. “If I have to leave, I want to take my pretty clothing.”
“You’ll have no need for it at the orphanage,” said Mariam firmly. “Now please be quiet.”
Rustem Bey told the driver where they were going, and then he hopped into the carriage and sat across from Mariam. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened to Ani and Taline in front of Parantzim, but he could see how shaken Mariam was.
“I am sorry about the girls,” he said.
Mariam looked up and met his eyes. They were filled with tears. “I appreciate all you have done,” she said.
They rode the rest of the distance in silence.
When the carriage passed through the orphanage gates, Mariam held her yashmak to her face and peeked out the carriage window. She saw that the grounds were again filling with children. So many orphans. It made her heart ache.
The carriage pulled up just outside of Miss Younger’s office, and Rustem stepped down first. He held out his hand and helped Mariam down.
A group of ragged boys ran past just at that moment, and they looked at Rustem Bey, and then at Mariam and Parantzim.
“Turkish murderers!” one of them yelled. Another picked up a stone and threw it, hitting Parantzim on the side of the head as she stepped down. Parantzim screamed, then clung to Rustem Bey. “Please don’t leave me here,” she wailed.
Rustem reached down and picked Parantzim up. He nuzzled his face in her hair and swallowed back a sob. “Listen to your mother,” he said. He gave her one last hug, then set her down on the ground beside Mariam.
Mariam grabbed Parantzim’s hand and whispered, “I am doing this for you.”
Just then, the door of the office opened, but it wasn’t Miss Younger who stepped out. It was a monocled man with a starched white shirt rolled up to the elbows.
“Hello, hello!” he said, holding out his hand in welcome.
Mariam stood quietly by Rustem’s side, holding Parantzim protectively in front of her.
The man peered into Mariam’s eyes above the yashmak. “You’ve been living with a Turk and now you and your daughter want to be Armenian again, is that right?”
Mariam nodded. Where was Miss Younger? she wondered.
“Thanks, good fellow,” said the man to Rustem. “It was good of you to bring them.”
The man started to lead Mariam by the elbow, but she stopped. She walked over to Rustem and lifted her yashmak, then stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “You are a true friend,” she said. “Thank you.”
Rustem Bey was nearly overcome with tears, and he didn’t want Mariam to see that, so he turned brusquely away and walked back to the carriage.
“Let us go,” said the man to Mariam.
She followed him. “My name is Mr. Brighton,” he said. “I’ve come from America.”
What could she say?
He led Mariam and Parantzim to a building that used to be one of the dormitories for the female missionaries. “This is the Rescue Home for Women,” said Mr. Brighton.
Mariam still said nothing.
Mr. Brighton continued. “You must learn to abandon Turkish ways. When you emerge, you’ll be fully Armenian. If we let you out with the orphans and surviving adults the way you are, you’d be ostracized.”
Mariam nodded. Now she was one of Them.
He held the door open for her, and she and Parantzim stepped through. It was furnished just like her dormitory room of old with a row of simple beds and a table at one end with a pitcher of water. There was a window at the far end of the room, and a woman sat there, looking out the window. She wore a Turkish housedress, and Mariam could tell by looking at the outline of her back that she was heavy with child. The woman turned when she heard the door click shut.
Mariam gasped. It was her sister, Marta.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Kevork stayed on in Aleppo. There was a dire need for shoemakers in this Arab city, and there were no Turks on the hunt for Armenians. Just to be safe, Kevork kept with his adopted Arab-style of dress. But he used his real name, in the hopes that Marta or Mariam would somehow find him.
As he walked through the bazaar to his booth each morning, Kevork listened to the buzz of gossip. When Turkey lost the war, his heart skipped a beat. Would it be safe to travel back to Marash? If only he knew.
And what he really wanted to know was if Marta lived. In his heart, he felt that she was still alive. But where was she, and how could he find her? The orphanage called to him like a beacon, but he had to wait until the time was right.
Most of what Kevork made in his shop were sandals in the Arabic style. He had become quite proficient at them. But one day a foreigner came in, bearing a Turkish-English dictionary and a strange request.
“Boots,” said the man, struggling with his Turkish.
Boots in the desert? wondered Kevork. It brought back memories.
He flipped through his dictionary once again. “Mountain,” said the man.
Boots? Mountain? What was he talking about?
The man pointed to his feet, then mimicked walking up a hill with exaggerated motions.
&n
bsp; “Marash … mountains … walk … walk,” said the man.
Marash?
All at once, Kevork knew who this man was. Just the day before, Kevork had been sipping coffee with one of his friends when he had heard about this man. He was Leslie Davis, the new consulate from America. Unlike other government officials who travelled everywhere with a whole entourage, this Leslie Davis walked all over the place: up hills and mountains, through the desert, through back streets. He did this without servants or a carriage and was considered quite mad.
Kevork nodded enthusiastically. Boots? Yes!
“Marash,” said Kevork, pointing to his chest. “Me, from Marash.”
The American frowned, not understanding.
Then Kevork took a chance. “Me Armenian,” he said.
Leslie Davis nodded in understanding. “You, me, Marash together.”
Kevork grinned broadly. He was that much closer to Marta.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank Arsho Zakarian, who opened her heart, her mind, and her books to me. The fine details of Armenian and Turkish life would not have been possible without her assistance. Sincere thanks to Carl Georgian, whose stories of his father Kevork Kevorkian (George Georgian) were the inspiration for my character, Kevork. The late Aram Aivaizian was also instrumental in making this book possible. His stories of being an orphan after the massacres were vivid and crisp. Aram also loaned me dozens of books and read early drafts of my manuscripts. Sincere thanks also to Linda Eley and Denise Kirk of the Brantford Public Library, who provided me with materials for this novel via inter-library loan. Sincere thanks to Herminé Najarian who took me into her home and cooked up an Armenian feast and told me stories of her father’s survival from the massacres. Also, a big thank you to Rosdom Yeghoyan, who clarified many small cultural details for me. Hugs and thanks to Mom and Bill for their speedy reading and eagle eyes.
A big hug to my husband, Orest, who helped me out of more computer glitches than I care to admit. I would also like to thank the private kidcritters in Compuserve’s Litforum. The timely and pertinent feedback from Polly Martin, Kate Coombs, Karen Dyer, Linda Gerber, Julie Kentner, Sheryl Toy, Lori Benton, Janet McConnaughey, Merrill Cornish, Linda Mikolayenko, and Rosemarie Reichel saved me much time and hair-pulling. I would also like to thank Natalia Buchok, Eliz Sharabkhanian, and Houri Najarian, who all read the completed manuscript and offered corrections for cultural accuracy. Sincere thanks to Dr. David Jenkinson, whose encouragement convinced me to try my hand at writing a novel set entirely in the past.
This novel would not have been possible without the encouragement and patience of my agent, Dean Cooke, and his assistant, Samantha North. I would also like to thank my editor, Barry Jowett, for his sharp eye and kind words.
RESOURCE LIST
Web:
A printable teacher’s resource guide can be found at the author’s website: http://www.calla.com
The Armenian National Institute has extensive information on the genocide at: http://www.armenian-genocide.org
Books:
Summer without Dawn
by Agop J. Hacikyan and Jean-Yves Soucy
Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 2000
ISBN 0-7710-3752-X
A fast-paced historical novel set during the genocide.
Survivors: An Oral History of the Armenian Genocide
by Donald E. Miller and Lorna Touryan Miller
Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1999
ISBN: 0520219562
Compelling interviews with 100 survivors, including women.
Film/DVD:
Ararat
by Atom Egoyan (director), 2002
with David Alpay and Arsinée Khanjian
This award-winning Canadian film is partly set during the genocide.