“At the beginning of the month they took all the young men from Ourfa too – Armenians and Assyrians. Thousands of them sent to build roads outside town, at Kudemma and Kara Keopru. They took their guns and gave them shovels and picks. Work, work, work.” She slides a perfect circle of warm, flat bread onto the table and Khatoun tears off a piece, dipping it into her tea and popping it in her mouth. “Only about thirty Assyrians survived,” Ferida mutters. “They took the men and…” she claps her hands together, the flour dust puffing into a ghostly little cloud, “Kara Keopru became Kurmuzu Keopru. The Black Bridge is now Red.” She slaps another piece of dough onto the oven. “Bastards.”
Outside, a distant azan echoes from the rooftops and the local rooster, bereft of his mates, though miraculously still alive, replies.
“The call to prayer is so beautiful,” Hripsime says, her head to one side. “Even though it’s not for us.”
“Don’t believe everything that is heard,” Khatoun says. “Trust the eye, not the ear.”
“What?” Ferida asks.
“It’s the opposite to the azan…Iskender told me…never mind.” Khatoun goes back to the bread, pulling off another piece and eating it.
“Is it one God, Khatoun Hanum?” Hripsime asks her. “Is it the same God that watches us all and sees us fight amongst ourselves like children? I’ve often wondered that.” She coughs again, another phlegmy issue into her rag. Khatoun hands her a clean handkerchief and Hripsime mops up her face and neck. “Because it doesn’t make sense. How can everyone be sure that their belief is the right one and everyone else is wrong?” She traces the veins along the smooth work surface of the wooden table with her finger.
“What are you talking about?” Ferida spits. “One God? For all of us? Have you lost your mind? We’re all different.” She slides another circle of bread onto the table. “Eat. That is God. God is my hands and your womb. In her crusty eyes that can still sew. That rooster outside? He’s God as much as the idiot on the other side of town singing his song. Existence. That’s God. I’ll tell you something, though. People that think they’re doing God’s work? They’re the worst, not the best. There’s another opposite for you. ‘God told me to do this!’ Pah, of course he did, with a nice personal message in your ear. One God? At times like these I wonder if there even is a God.”
“You sound like my mother,” Hripsime says. “Ouf.” She pushes her chair back and stands. Her mouth opens as if she is about to say something, but instead, she clutches her head, sways against the table and crumples to the floor, taking the cups with her. A pool of blood blooms from under her shalvar.
“You see! I told you she shouldn’t be out of bed!” Ferida yells.
She scoops Hripsime’s skinny frame into her arms, kicks the doors open and pushes through the girl’s dormitory into a small room at the back. Khatoun pulls the quilt off the simple metal cot and Ferida lays Hripsime down. The other girls, woken suddenly and dragged in their wake, clamour round the door in a tight knot, their faces still creased by sleep.
“Serpuhi, a basin of water,” Ferida snaps. “Arshalous, help me undress her. One of you, get me a clean nightdress. Hasmig, Manoush, sheets – rip them up. I need bandages.”
They strip Hripsime naked. She is red hot to the touch with a loose pouch of belly and sores oozing along the length of her spine and crusting the inner edges of her knees. She is bleeding heavily between the legs. The smell of iron and rotting flesh.
“Oosht, all of you. Out!” Ferida barks, using a hastily folded pillowcase to stanch the blood. “This isn’t a market place. Vay vay! Let’s have some air. Lolig, you finish the bread. Bzdig Shoushun, the children. Washed, dressed and fed. I made yoghurt. Look on the shelf, under the cloth. Hayde! Let’s get moving!”
One by one the girls unfurl from the doorway leaving Arshalous in the room with a basin of water. She soaks a sponge, dribbles water across Hripsime’s chest and wipes her limbs down. Khatoun settles at the top of the bed, cradling the girl’s stubbly head in her lap. Ferida scoops up the bloody clothes from the floor. A small square of sunlight blinks at the window and the fountain bubbles merrily outside in the courtyard. Hripsime opens her eyes, squinting against the light. When she sees her friend Arshalous she breaks into a smile.
“Arshalous jan,” she whispers, “I had a funeral. I have seen my Sirvart find her way to heaven!”
“I know.”
“You should see her now – soft and round and happy. There in the corner,” she points to the light dancing by the window. “Now I know there is a God – my mother was wrong.”
Arshalous continues to wipe down Hripsime’s feverish body. “You found your voice,” she says. “You sound funny.” Both girls giggle which leads to a coughing fit that wracks Hripsime’s body. Eventually she stops and lies still, breathing heavily through her mouth.
“Enough chit-chat! Can’t you see it’s killing her?” Ferida barks, straightening up, the pile of soiled clothing clutched to her chest. “Ever since finding her precious voice she’s been gederderuhgederderuh about God non-stop. As if a girl her age knows anything about God. She should never have been allowed out of bed in the first place. Now I’ve got a lot more work to do. Her first baby, no doctor, dehydrated, thick with disease…My back’s already killing me and now I’ve got to boil wash this and make sure Lolig doesn’t poison us with her ridiculous cooking. Don’t any of you do anything stupid. In fact, don’t do anything at all. I’ll be back.” She slams out the door.
Hripsime closes her eyes. Arshalous covers her feet with a damp rag and sets to cleaning the wounds crusting her knees with a sponge and sliver of soap.
“Thanks, jan, I hope someday you have someone to wash your feet.” Hripsime coughs. “‘We are all headed for death but we go courageously.’ It was written on a rock. Somewhere between here and home. There were hundreds of messages scratched in the earth by the people who’d gone before us: ‘God walks by your side,’ and ‘Do not deny God for soon we will be in His bosom.’ They seemed to get more desperate the further we walked. It made my mother spit. ‘There is no God!’ she’d say and one day she took a stick and wrote ‘The mother denied the child,’ which is what we said in our village, when everything went upside down. My auntie used to argue with her – ‘There is a God and he will save us.’ She was younger than my mother and pregnant like me. ‘We’re having twins!’ she used to joke. Twins. They split her open like a fruit on the road. They had a bet – was the baby a boy or a girl. They held her down and sliced her open. It was a boy. They stuck him on a bayonet and held him up to the sky. First he was wriggling and then he died like a little bird. My auntie watched the whole thing, a pomegranate split open and then she closed her eyes. My mother refused to eat after that. What food she found she gave to us. She passed away soon after. But always, to the end, ‘There is no God! There is no God!’”
With this she falls silent and the room is peaceful, the rustle of sheets and trickle of water the only sounds. The sunny block of light from the window moves around the room, elongating into strange shapes across the wall and Hripsime begins to snore.
“Let her sleep,” Khatoun whispers slipping out from under her. She takes the bowl and sponge away from Arshalous. “We can dress her when she wakes.” She inspects the wounds and covers Hripsime with a light quilt before settling on the floor next to the bed with Arshalous.
A small spider swings on a thread underneath the simple bed frame. Above them the floorboards creak, sending down a shower of plaster as the children jump out of bed and hit the floor running. A series of chesty coughs follow Iskender down the stairs and into the kitchen. Eventually a door slams and the mournful tune of lost love on the saz winds its way through the house. The tac-atac-atac of sewing machines begins, the street sounds awake, a distant dog howls for its mate. Hripsime seems at peace, her chest rising and falling under her bony hands. Her face shines with perspiration; a gentle smile spread across her face.
“She’s my sister,” Arshalous
says watching the spider spin its web under the bed. “Not my real sister but you know…sisters of the road. We met in a camp in Malatia and were in the marches together ever since. I did have a sister. Arsinee. She had the longest hair. My mother used to say ‘Your hair is a spider’s web for husbands. You catch them in it and they can’t escape!’ Hey little spider – is that true?”
She puts her finger out, snags the insect under the bed then flicks her hand and watches the spider drop from a thread, dangle there for a moment then hurry back up. Arshalous drags it back to its web. “She finds food, Umme Ferida, doesn’t she? They say she grows potatoes in her pockets and herbs in her shoes. Is that true?”
“No. Yes. She does find food but no, she doesn’t grow anything in her pockets but yes, she has grown mint in an old pair of shoes on the roof.”
“So did my grandma. She planted in anything that held earth. Shoes and jars and pots. And she grew herbs and perfumed things and she made medicines and teas and her cooking was the best in the village. We lived in a white house and there was a hallway between their part and ours, and the animals lived downstairs – it was lovely and warm in the winter. Not every one in the village had a kitchen so people were always cooking at our house, but never mind, my grandmother loved our neighbours. We had a flat roof and there was a bridge to the next house and another to the next one and the next and on and on. And people used to come and go that way to get their medicines, over the roofs, and we used to play up there. It drove my mother mad. She said we were like mice – upstairs downstairs all day long. Moug, she called me.
“One day we were on the roof and they shouted ‘Stay up there – don’t come down, lie down and be quiet!’ and soldiers came and my father and uncles left with them with all their stuff tied in bundles. My grandma cried even though Grandpa was still with us, and when he tried to talk to her she hit him in the chest. My mother closed the door so I couldn’t see, but I heard them anyway. Then all the women came to our house, cooking like we were going to have a feast. Loaves and loaves and loaves of bread. It was crazy. And like a bazaar, everything was out - the blankets, the sleeping mats, the carpets – and the Turkish ladies came to buy things. Some stuff was sold. I know that because my mother cried when she counted the money, saying it was a crime. She got my handiwork and Arsinee’s out of the dowry chest and put it together with the things she had made as a girl. The things we had all sewn – birds and flowers and our names, she rolled them all into one bundle with her jewellery in the middle and she sewed it into a pouch and wore it around her belly.
“A few days later all the villagers met outside the church. Some people were staying behind with new names and they stood at the side of the road and watched as we left. My friend Hagop stayed behind and he wouldn’t look at me. He had a new name. Hassan. Instead, he threw stones at a cat. He’d never been mean before and it made me wonder if changing your name makes you suddenly hate cats.”
“I don’t think so,” Khatoun says with a smile.
“Well. Boys can be stupid sometimes. I wanted to bring my bird along but mother said no. That was sad because the bird sang and would have been great company. I let him go from the rooftop the day we left. He was called Janavar. He didn’t fly far, so he’s probably still there, in the village. We had a donkey too, that we did bring, and we sat in baskets on either side with little bags around our necks filled with nuts and raisins and bread to eat.
“In the beginning there were lots of people with carts and mules but not for long. Every night animals and people disappeared. The first night we camped under the stars outside a village and it was fun – although I missed my father and uncles – especially Uncle Shnork who liked to tickle and tell jokes. There were some boys there and we made a campfire and told stories. In the morning the boys were told to gather together and then they walked into the hills with the gendarmes. They smiled and waved when they left and then they were gone. I thought of Hagop Hassan and how he was maybe better off in the village, even though he’d turned mean. Only little boys were left with us now, like my brothers. One was five, the other seven – a bit like yours.
“The women were all crying and wanted to stay but as soon as the sun was high they made us walk again. We walked and walked and walked – I thought it would never end. As far as I could see behind us there were people and in front of us too. One night the soldiers told us bandits were coming and they could make them go away if they had some things to give them. All the women gave stuff; money, jewels, bracelets. It was all thrown down onto a big blanket that the gendarmes tied up and carried away. That night the bandits came anyway – chettes they called them. It was very dark. There were clouds over the moon. I was asleep when they came, screaming like devils, and my heart went bang in my chest. I saw girls like me pulled from their mothers and carried away. My mother threw dirt on my face and quick-quick cut off my hair without me even noticing until it was too late. People were running in all directions. I saw my grandfather opened with a knife. It went in so clean – like he was a doll and he stood there bright red then fell down. Next morning I found my mother alive but her eyes were too big for her head. My two little brothers were gone and my sister Arsinee had blood between her legs and a broken face. She looked at me then took her long hair and cut it with a knife like my mother had done to mine. My grandmother wouldn’t walk with us that day. She sat in the dirt, kissed me and said she would see me another time. Our donkey had disappeared with all our stuff. It was me, my mother, my sister, my aunt. We had our needlework and some bread but that was all.
“The walking continued. Some days we walked until our feet bled and at night we lay under the stars. I used to try and count them but I always fell asleep before I could finish. I love the stars for that – whoever comes, whoever goes – they’re always there. Every morning I saw dead people. My mother told me never to step over a dead body. She said since we couldn’t bury them in the normal way we could give them respect by not walking over them. The ones on the road you wouldn’t want to go near anyway. Black and full of worms and stinky. One day my aunt disappeared. My mother said the river had taken her. Then my sister was snatched again, by Kurds this time, and never returned. Then it rained. I hated the rocks and the wind and the insects, but I liked the rain. You can drink the rain. Some people ate the grains they found in horse’s mess. Not me. Sometimes food would come from somewhere – women with blue lines on their faces with yoghurt and milk. We stopped at Malatia and that’s where I met Hripsime and Djibour. Djibour, because she never stops talking. Why are you smiling?”
“Nothing,” Khatoun pats Arshalous on the knee. “Carry on. You were telling me about Djibour who never stops talking…”
“Yes. She and I would sneak around together when nobody was watching, looking for things to eat. She was at the khan when you came to get us but she didn’t want to go and live with the Bayan. She wants to go to the end of the march and wait there. She was promised to Altoun in America and she wants to be somewhere he can find her when he comes looking. Do you know where the marches end, Digin Khatoun?”
“I…No. I don’t.”
“Do you think Altoun will know where to find Djibour?”
“Yes. I’m sure he will.”
“Good. She’ll be married then. It was in Malatia my mother got a disease. She told me not to come near her – to forget her. So I did. One day I missed her so I went back to where she had been but she was gone. This is all I have left.” Arshalous bends forward, unpicks some tacking along her hem and pulls out a piece of fabric. Inside the simple muslin fold is another piece, stiff and sour smelling. She hands it over to Khatoun.
“This is for Umme Ferida. To make yoghurt. My grandma gave it to me to carry all the way from home. You have to warm milk to make it. If you can find some.”
“Ferida will know what to do, jan. Thank you.”
“And this. I have this from my Grandma too.” Arshalous slips her hands into her underwear, rummages around and pulls out a small pouch. “I�
��m sorry. I had nowhere else to hide it. It’s medicine milk. Milk of the poppy.” She leans back against the wall and smiles, a pink sliver of tongue in the gap where her front teeth should be. “I’m lucky nobody tried to mess with me because they would have found it and that’s worth twenty souls at least, Grandma said.”
“Yes, God smiled on you,” Khatoun says quietly. “Is that it? Do you have anything else hidden?”
“No. Just me.”
“Just you.”
“Yes.” Arshalous tips her head in her friend’s direction and smiles. “And Hripsime.”
“And how old are you?”
“I don’t know.” Arshalous fans her fingers out in front of her. “Something more than this. We celebrated my birthdays in the summer in Erzinjan but I don’t know how many. My mother was waiting until I was a woman to promise me and I don’t think I am yet. Do you know?”
Before Khatoun can answer a sudden squeal comes from the kitchen followed by frantic footsteps down the corridor and Ferida bursts into the room.
“It’s Loucia!” she cries. “Loucia is here!” She wipes her hands on her apron, spits on her fingertips and reshapes her eyebrows. “Get cleaned up and go and see her. She says she’s here for you and she can’t stay long. Hayde!”
It was a rare woman that could intimidate Ferida, but if that mantle were to be worn by anyone it would have to be Loucia, her elder sister who had emigrated to Damascus with her family years ago. In the last year she had moved back to Aleppo and letters had been tracing back and forth as often as was possible. Since teskeres had been revoked it was virtually impossible for anyone to travel and inconceivable that an unaccompanied woman should reach Ourfa from Aleppo. But here she was. Alone. No sign of her husband or three lanky children.
The Seamstress of Ourfa Page 19
