The Seamstress of Ourfa

by Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  “She doesn’t talk,” Armenouhi says. “We don’t know whether she can hear or not, only that she never speaks.”

  Pastor Ghizirian puts his arms around Hripsime’s shoulders and kisses her sooty forehead. “Please take her with you,” he says. “If this baby survives, a part of all of us will live. If I can save just this one, I will die happy.”

  Khatoun reaches out to Hripsime and is about to take her in her arms when Begum Șenay stops her with a grabbed wrist.

  “Not yet,” she smiles at the pastor. “We’ll take her, but maybe we should leave the blanket for someone else.” She slips it from Hripsime’s shoulders and steps back as it drops to the floor. “It’s alive!” she mouths at Khatoun, shuddering.

  By now Arshalous has returned with six more women. The gendarme that accompanied them seems relieved. He’s been hanging outside, sticking his head in at intervals and now he barks at them from the doorway, “Hurry up. I need to piss again.”

  “Uncouth lout,” Begum Șenay snorts. “Ignore him.” She pushes the women ahead of her, holding the torch high. As they trail back through the dark hall the voices follow.

  “Remember Antranig, from Sivas.”

  “Haik from Erzinjan.”

  “Arevalous, Apraham, Apel. From Kharpert. Remember us.”

  “Go with the light.”

  “And the light remain with you.”

  The door bolts shut, the gendarme darts down the stairs and the guards playing pishti look up from their game in irritation.

  The women are halfway across the yard when the officer calls out to them, two streams of cigarette smoke snarling out from under his nose.

  “Happy?” he asks, tossing the crumpled letter they gave him into the courtyard. “By the way, Bayan, your two women left – said they’d rather walk home than stay here another minute.”

  “But I told them to stay put!”

  “What can you do? Young girls. They never listen. We had a nice chat. I offered them an escort but they refused. You’ll probably find them on the road home. Hope they’re safe, unchaperoned like that.”

  “Thank you for all your help,” Begum Șenay snaps back. “I’ll be sure to tell my husband.”

  The araba is just where they left it, only now the gendarme with the leaky bladder sits next to Bayram, gesticulating wildly as he regales him with stories. Bayram seems rapt, holding a bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  “Bayram!” Begum Șenay screeches. “Smoking? Drinking?”

  The gendarme takes the bottle out of Bayram’s fist and flicks the cigarette away. “He was only holding them for me while I took a piss.”

  “Again? What’s wrong with you?” Begum Șenay snaps.

  The gendarme laughs. He sticks the flask into his pocket and leaps down. “You haven’t taken the pretty ones have you?” he asks. “The pretty ones are worth cash to us.” He makes a fist with one hand and pokes his finger in and out as he saunters past.

  The sky above is black, pinpricked with stars. The moon, a silver sickle. The veil enveloping Begum Șenay billows like an angry cloud.

  “Hey, pezevenk!” she calls after his retreating shadow. “Maybe if you kept your little prick in your pants it wouldn’t be burning with syphilis. Or was that a present from your mother?”

  The air freezes and the gendarme stops. Above them, the exhausted travellers hang still and Pastor Ghizirian can be seen in the light of the mangal working his lips. Nine women melt into one behind Khatoun and hold their breath. And then, the sound of one person clapping. The officer, watching from his doorway.

  “Asker – get over here!” He dismisses the gendarme with a curt nod and walks up to Begum Șenay, stopping inches away from her, his eyes bright. “Vay, vay, vay, what I’d do for a woman like you!” he sighs, a long exhale of rancid breath. “Go on, get out of here and take your precious cargo with you before you get me into trouble.”

  He extends his hand, helps Begum Șenay climb up next to Bayram and stands aside as Khatoun and the girls scramble over each other’s laps into the back. Slowly, he walks their fillies to the gate, slaps one on the rump to set them off and laughs.

  The heavy gates slam shut behind them with a thud. The Millet Khan, hearth and home to travellers for centuries. Ourfa, most civilised of cities, welcoming to all. The scent of roses is overwhelming. As the araba trundles away Khatoun pulls the curtain aside for air and looks back. Two figures guard the entrance, one standing forward, the other hanging back. A cloud obscures the moon, the officer’s laughter soars over them with jagged wings and when the moon reappears, the figures have gone. Not even their shadows remain. The Millet Khan is silent.

  Like a Plum

  Ourfa, Summer 1915

  Khatoun Agha Boghos (dictated to Iskender Agha Boghos)

  Their two heads almost touch. Khatoun and Iskender Agha Boghos, husband and wife, bent over the desk in his room. Paper, ink, pens. The contents of Iskender’s drawer scattered in front of them.

  “There are sonnets, and they’re fourteen lines. And haiku which are short – two thoughts balanced with a connecting one. And epic poems that are a book long. And then of course, there’s how to organise sentences together to makes verses. And rhyming, which is when we make words sound the same. And alliteration…”

  “Shush,” Khatoun says, her hand on Iskender’s lips. “Slow down.”

  “Yes,” Iskender exhales. “Slower. Yes.” He’s over excited. His wife had come to him. In his office. Asked for his help. He didn’t know what to say. Where to begin.

  “Words,” he sputters. “There are just words. Let’s start there. With simple words.”

  “Such as?”

  “Ah…” Iskender strokes his moustache. “Ummmm…”

  “Ouagadougou?”

  Iskender laughs. “That’s the name of a place.”

  “A place…you want to go to? I’ve heard you say it many times.”

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know. I simply like the name; the way it sounds in my mouth. Oua ga dou gou. Round, like a plum.” He swivels in his chair and points to the wall, “There it is.” Coloured pins, squiggly writing, a curling brown edge. His map of the world. Unframed. Stuck to the wall with mastic. He reaches up and taps some of the pins back in place. “Beirut. I always wanted to go there. To take you. Our honeymoon that never was. Kathmandu. There too. And other places. All over the map.” He waves his hand in a graceful arc over the fading world.

  “Why?”

  “Ah. Different reasons. The mountains. The sea. The culture. A little peace for everyone. And you?” He reaches out, tentatively lifting Khatoun’s chin, smudging it with ink. “Where would you go?”

  Khatoun closes her eyes. “My old bedroom. You sleeping. Leafy patterns on the wall from the trees outside. Peppers drying in the sun. A sky, blue as a bird’s egg. That’s where I would go.”

  “See. You don’t need my help. That’s poetry. Let’s write that.”

  “No.” Khatoun shakes her head. “That’s the past. This is now. Let’s write this. You always said poetry comes from the heart? Then write this. I’ll say the words, you write them down.”

  “As you like.”

  “I like.”

  Iskender picks up the pen, fills it with indigo ink, taps it, blots it, reaches for a page of vellum.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Those Mothers.

  they come from Kharpert, from Van and Marash,

  walk broken, blood feet staining the ground.

  the women hold children, place them around.

  a hundred small voices migrating like birds,

  in a day, they are gone.

  did you take one, my sister, as a thing of your own?

  give it your name? find its wood comb?

  tell me, oh sister, as more of us pass

  will our friendship turn dust? will it last?

  will you choose me plump raisins and brush out my hair,

  touch feet under the blanket? will w
e still share?

  I drape you in silk, shroud myself in white muslin

  walk to my church, watch my people turn ashen.

  will you cry for me, old friend, as I walk my goodbye,

  think not I am earth but a bird free in the sky?

  tell me, oh sister, as most of us pass

  will our friendship turn dust? can it last?

  Walk

  Ourfa, August 1915

  Khatoun

  A dove croons above, making them start. Begum Șenay looks up and frowns at the pale pink streaks threading the sky.

  “That’s deep enough,” she murmurs, “you can stop now.”

  The gardener empties his shovel, leaps out of the hole and scrapes his boots clean at the side. Begum Șenay smiles graciously and leans into his neck.

  “You know I’ll be wearing your balls as a necklace if anyone hears of this.”

  The gardener nods, steps back a pace and relights the cigarette he’d tucked behind his ear. The dug earth smells fresh, edible. Khatoun stands amongst the shadows behind Begum Șenay, her arms around Hripsime, who droops around the bundle in her arms, protecting it from the night air. The shadows sigh, the dove flutters to the ground and a light breeze stirs up the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. The bird hops forward, dips its beak into its chest, ruffles some feathers and trills. This time an answer echoes from the orange trees.

  “Hrrrrooo hrrrooo!”

  “Shht! Siktir git birdie!” Begum Șenay flicks her çarshaf at the dove. “Siktir git or shut up!” She looks up at the grilled windows and grimaces. “Hayde,” she mouths to Khatoun, her hand agitating tight, nervous circles in front of her. “People will be waking up soon.”

  Khatoun nods. She steps out from under the jasmine, pushing Hripsime ahead of her.

  “It’s time, jan.”

  Hripsime stops in front of the hole, kneels, and uncovers the baby. Perfect. Pale blue in the dawn. The stubborn dove cocks its head to one side and then the other. “Hrrrrooo,” it croons. Begum Șenay kicks a clod of mud in its direction and the bird pecks at it. “Hrrrrooo.” Șenay is about to flap like a hawk, her çarshaf suddenly useful when another sound stops her. A shapeless tune hummed so low, so as not to disturb the infant, it is barely audible.

  “She has a voice now?” Begum Șenay asks, staring at Hripsime. Khatoun shrugs. It’s the first sound she’s heard from the girl since they sprang her from the Millet Khan. They hang back, unnerved, not wanting to disturb.

  It is not long, Hripsime’s odd little melody. When she finishes, she hands her baby to the gardener who steps back into the hole, places it on the bottom and clambers out again, a trickle of earth showering the child as his boot slips. The dove has found some tasty morsel and is flicking it silently back and forth in its beak. Khatoun helps Hripsime to her feet and Begum Șenay gives the gardener the signal to start shovelling again. With expertise, he takes a rose bush and plants it over the child, digging a circle around the roots to catch water. When he is done, the women hurry to the back entrance of the walled garden and Begum Șenay bids them good-bye.

  Khatoun walks fast, urging Hripsime on. She wants to be home before anyone sees them and she keeps to the alleyways, stepping around the dogs that sleep huddled together in the gutters in pairs. Both women are wearing baggy shalvar and flowered headscarves, same as the cotton farmers south of the city. Khatoun carries a basket under her arm. Shrivelled but highly valuable potatoes and a handful of spinach. If anyone were to stop them, the potatoes would be a handy bribe. Fortunately, the streets are empty and before the sun can expose them they are at the back door that leads straight from the narrow alley into their kitchen. A grey shadow leaps to its feet as they enter and nuzzles Khatoun’s palm with wet kisses.

  “Grundug!”

  “You’ll get yourself killed one day,” Ferida’s voice hisses from the corner next to the stove. She stands with an exaggerated wheeze, crosses over to the table and hands them each a glass of tea. “And what is she doing here? I thought she was supposed to deliver a baby any day now?”

  “She did, jan. It passed with the light.”

  “And now what? Now there’s no baby she’s been discarded?”

  “Sent here to recuperate, away from prying eyes.”

  “Kaknem! I suppose you’re still bleeding, aren’t you?” Ferida’s eyes slice the air between the two of them. “She shouldn’t be out of bed. Are you both stupid?” She stares at Hripsime with pursed lips and suddenly, with no warning, begins to cry. Short, angry little sobs escape her lips as she thumps her chest a few times then slumps into the chair and rolls her head from side to side on the table.

  “Vay, vay, vay,” she moans. “Vay, vay, vay.”

  Hripsime crosses over to her and puts a hand on her shoulder, “Umme Ferida, stop. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “Vay, vay…what?” Ferida sits upright and stares at Hripsime. “She has a voice now? I thought she couldn’t hear or speak?” She talks to Khatoun, ignoring the fact that Hripsime is inches from her face.

  Khatoun nods, “She has a voice. She can hear you, jan.”

  “Asdvadz!”

  Hripsime pulls a chair out and settles down next to Ferida. “Please don’t cry, Umme Ferida,” she says, cradling the warm tea in her hands. “God took my voice with my husband and he has given it back to me now that our Sirvart is in his embrace. My little rose is buried and at peace now.”

  “Asdvadz hokin lousavore. And your name?” Ferida asks, wiping her nose on her sleeve and crossing herself. “Have we at least got that right?”

  “Yes. My name is Hripsime. Hripsime Aznavourian.”

  “And where are you from? How far did you walk before you got here?”

  “All the way,” Hripsime says with a wry laugh. “I don’t know. Far.”

  “Potatoes,” Khatoun declares, holding the wrinkled spuds up. “Begum Șenay gave us some. And a little spinach.”

  “Hm,” Ferida stabs her chin in Hripsime’s direction and snorts. “Her dowry? That’ll go a long way.”

  Khatoun busies herself with her basket, unloading the precious vegetables and wrapping them in a cloth before storing them deep in a crock. She refills their cups and joins the others at the kitchen table. Grundug sighs, coiling himself back around Ferida’s feet now that everyone has settled. Hripsime takes a sip of her tea and sets it down in front of her, her fingers tracing the flowered rim of the pretty cup. She looks up at Khatoun and Ferida and shrugs.

  “I walked here from Erzerum. We had a farm near Tortum. It’s very different to here. Rain, rivers, a waterfall. Our summers were filled with apricots and cherries. My husband was a fruit farmer. Like a butcher smells of meat? He smelt of fruit and blossom. A big man. Some would say fat, but to me, perfect. His smile was like the sun. Vartan. Always telling jokes, filthy jokes. Always at the wrong time, too.”

  “Apricots. Now that would be a fine thing today,” Ferida sighs.

  Hripsime digs into her pocket and brings out a clump of dust. She wipes it clean on her sleeve and hands it to Ferida. “Plant it. It’s the kernel. I sucked on it for weeks but it might still grow.”

  “Thanks, jan,” Ferida inspects the seed briefly before pocketing it with a smile.

  “It was a Sunday. We were packing fruit, despite church. We had to get them out before they spoiled and tap!-tap!-tap! with his stick, Becki Baba, the night watchman, came round in the daytime to call our attention. The order was to pack our belongings and be ready to leave in three days. They were moving us because of the war they said. Out of harm’s way. I was not yet showing. I thought, ‘I’ll be okay.’ They said, ‘Just the women, children and elderly’. They would take Vartan the next day to join the army; to build roads. All of the men would go. My father, my uncles, my three brothers, my sister’s husband.”

  Hripsime rummages in her pocket again and brings out a rag. “The tea. It’s making me sweat.” She wipes the back of her neck and her forehead and carries on, talking in between dabs.


  “Our last night together Vartan and I made love – of course we did – even though my mother-in-law told me not to because of the child. In the morning I packed a parcel of food for Vartan and we collected in the town square to say goodbye. All the women were there and it rained tears from heaven. A group of gendarmes took the men in a long line to the outskirts of our village. I knew as he left that I would never see Vartan again. He knew too. When the square was empty I found his parcel of food. Neatly left, like he would, on the bench. An hour later we heard shots. Then we saw smoke over the hill. My mother came to my mother-in-law’s house and together we crept through the orchards towards the next valley. We knew the paths. Half of the women came slowly-slowly through the trees and bushes. Our men had been tied together with rope and attacked with axes. The few that had survived had been shot. That was the shooting we’d heard. And then the soldiers had started a fire to get rid of the bodies but the rain put it out. That’s why we have good apricots in Tortum – the spring rains.”

  Hripsime coughs and spits stickily into her rag. She takes another sip of tea. “My mother was looking for my brothers when I found Vartan in pieces. I gathered him together and began to dig a hole with my hands to bury him, like the other women were doing. But before I could finish, the gendarmes came and ordered us back to the village. They told us the men had been trying to escape, that they had been shot as deserters. Ashes, soot, mud, blood and rain. I left Vartan there unburied and gave my voice up to God. Until today,” Hripsime smiles. “Now I have buried the last of him.”

  Ferida shakes her head. “I’m sorry about the baby.” Her hand is resting in the soft patch between Grundug’s ears where she’s been absent-mindedly picking at his hair. As she stands he follows her over to a large earthenware pitcher, hoping for another pat. Ferida pours water over her hands. “Not now, shouniges,” she says, scrubbing her fingers with a small brush. “I need to make bread.” She takes a lump of dough that has been resting and pummels it flat. “The bastards,” she mutters banging the bread onto the floured surface. “We hear the same story again and again – ever since they declared Seferberlik. ‘We need the boys! We need the men! Our army needs you.’ Army? Kaknem! They know our women are helpless without the men. And where is this grand army of men they have taken? Dead! Every single one of them. Used like pack horses to get the roads built and then what? Chopped down like trees.” She lifts the circle of dough and slaps it onto the smooth sides of the oven. A soft sizzle accompanies the heart-warming smell as the bread immediately begins to bake.