The Seamstress of Ourfa

by Victoria Harwood Butler-Sloss

  “Yes, yes, hanum, bayan, efendi, efendi to our faces but they chop us just the same!” Mertha howls, dragging the blanket with her and slumping at Khatoun’s feet. “Why? Why? Why?”

  Thooma stands alone at the balustrade smoking furiously. “Why? Because they hate us. Because we have better jobs and work harder and send our children to school and educate our girls and learn foreign languages.” He rants over his shoulder, his profile sharp and angular against the glowing sky. “Because we sleep in beds, because we love our families, because we have two arms and two legs, because, because, because. Who in hell knows why!” He flicks his cigarette over the edge into the street below.

  “They don’t hate us,” Iskender says, “they hate what we stand for. In every thriving city they see us and people want to emulate us – to wear Western dress, to become more global. To travel. And that challenges the nationalists, the ultraconservatives, the fundamentalists; our values are threatening their control over people, so they blacken our name and hate us for the very same things they want.”

  Thooma turns to face them, “They claim to be enlightened on one side but on the other it’s all about how many giavour they can kill and how much closer they’ll get to paradise with its gushing fountains and dark-eyed houris.”

  “When you meet the unbelievers in the jihad, strike off their heads.” Aram reaches up to his puckered face, his fingertips tracing the stitches that pull angrily at his swollen cheek, “I imagine the poor fellow that did this to me is severely disappointed.” His laugh is hollow and Mertha lets out a little sob.

  “Whoever kills, unless for a soul, or for corruption done in the land – it is as if he had slain mankind entirely. And whoever saves one, it is as if he had saved mankind entirely. Isn’t that also in their book?” Khatoun asks.

  “Yes, it is,” Iskender looks surprised. “As with everything, there are two sides or more to every story. War itself is terrible – look at what’s happening throughout Europe right now. But it is religion that turns war evil. We can carve out territories over a dinner table and argue politics with educated fervour, but when ‘God tells us’ we are right, we become despicable and bloody. We take carte blanche to commit the worst crimes in the world. People are just selective in the way they interpret things.”

  “They’re murdering us because we let them. Because we’re stupid,” Thooma persists, walking over. “What about that farce with the ransom? Not bad enough that everyone gave in their guns, we were stupid enough to go along with the ransom too. Six thousand gurush for the return of all prisoners and our continued safety? Extortion, that’s what that was. Once they had their pile of gold, they killed all the prisoners and turned on anyone stupid enough to be in the street.” He pats Mertha on the hand, remembering too late that she was one of the women who ran to hand in their gold bangles in the hope that it might save lives.

  The sky is shedding large flakes of ash and the Armenian Quarter glows a fierce red. The group pass round the bottle, even Mertha taking a healthy gulp before handing it back to Ferida who washes out her mouth and spits soot onto the floor.

  “That day is burnt in here,” Ferida says, tapping her head. “It was noon, the hottest part of the day. The children were outside, playing with the neighbour’s girls. Everything seemed normal. Then it went quiet. A single moment of silence and I remember looking up from my dolmas and then, that sound I had never heard before. Like a woman in childbirth, but worse. The hair rises on my skin to remember it. And suddenly people everywhere. Running, screaming. Madness. Dragging the children indoors. Pushing the neighbour’s children out the back to their grandmother…”

  “A day like that and then everything goes quiet and you think the worst of it is over. Everyone is friends again, efendi, efendi. And again we end up here,” Thooma sighs. “It’s senseless.”

  “Yes, senseless,” Ferida says, “for us to end up here. But Aram, you still haven’t told us everything that happened. After all this time of not seeing you, how did you end up here?”

  “How did I end up here?” Arum drums his fingers on his knee. “It began about a month ago, after the deportation order came in. After the slaughter. Everything had calmed down. Relatively. It was September twenty-ninth. I was in the Armenian Quarter. We were in the middle of a meeting, figuring out the next move, when the police came looking for Mgrdich. They surrounded the house saying they were looking for deserters. They knocked a hole in the roof and began to break in from above. The first policeman to jump down was shot in the head. The soldiers outside went berserk. They began to shoot at us from all directions. It was exactly what Mgrdich had been waiting for. He opened his hand, the bird flew and the church bells rang – the signal to begin the resistance.”

  “We heard them,” Ferida says.

  “Church bells ringing as a sign to pick up arms,” Mertha weeps. “It’s sacrilege!”

  “Church bells that had been silent for twenty years, don’t forget,” Iskender says. He looks at Khatoun, recalling the day he’d been at her house trying to muster up the courage to ask for her hand when the Apostolic bells had rung out the last time. Khatoun never averts her gaze, staring ahead at the smoke billowing across town from the rooftop, just as she had done then.

  “That’s why Mgrdich used the bells,” Aram explains. “Twenty years ago the Turks rang them to announce the massacres. Mgrdich was just a kid with a slingshot, running around the hills fetching ammo for the resistance. But it made an impression on him; our church bells, our massacre. This time he had his little brother ring the bells as a sign to resist. People responded immediately. Those that could. Finally, we were going to fight.” His face lights up for a moment beneath the red sky. “We seized the police, got their guns and began defending ourselves. They surrounded us, then sent in an envoy asking for calm, saying the police had made a mistake and if we gave up there would be no reprisals.”

  “Honey-tongued envoys, dripping with lies,” Iskender says.

  “Exactly. But Mgrdich had waited too long for this opportunity. He sent back a message, laying it bare. No deal. The first night passed quietly. We dug in and set up barricades. In the morning the army arrived expecting to carry out a massacre like they had in ninety-five. They advanced from numerous positions and we let them. The lone voice of one Moslem priest was heard pleading for peace and then even he shut up.”

  “Yes. We heard that too. I was right here, on the roof,” Ferida says. “Watching from that corner. Couldn’t see anything, just heard the ruckus and his voice above it all. On and on he went. Pleading to God, to Allah, the wives, the mothers, the fucking mules…”

  “Well, his pleas went unanswered. The Turks kept coming. When they’d advanced deep enough into the Quarter we attacked. It was amazing. They were stunned, suffered heavy losses and had to retreat. They thought they had another Musa Dagh on their hands. They were embarrassed; that’s why they sent in so many troops after that. Maybe six thousand regulars and another ten thousand fanatics.”

  “Oh yes,” Iskender sighs. “The boots marching past the doors. Khatoun hid the girls under mountains of fabric. Just to be on the safe side. Even the walls shook.”

  “We were completely surrounded,” Aram says. “But we played them like idiots. Kept drawing them in. The alleyways, the side streets – they were so easily trapped. We had the upper hand for a long time. But about a week ago it was clear we were losing, simply by numbers. We only had about three hundred fighters, mostly civilians, including the women. And out of those, perhaps fifty of us properly trained to use weapons, Mgrdich’s sister and wife amongst them.” Aram accepts the bottle from Ferida, takes a sip and continues. “We were under constant shellfire and running out of ammo. Most of us down to hand weapons. I knew it was over days ago. We’d lasted a month.”

  “And?” Ferida asks.

  “And?”

  “You knew it was over and then suddenly you turn up in our kitchen with your face undone.”

  Aram stares at Ferida and exhales, slowl
y, deliberately. “And I kept some bullets. Mgrdich always said it would be better to die by your own hand than murdered. I saw families torch themselves because they had no bullets left. Mothers and children doused in kerosene, sitting calm, waiting. My first thoughts were to get out and come here. To tell you I love you.” He looks around the group. “All of you. And I have bullets.”

  “And I still have that gun,” Thooma declares. “Somewhere.”

  “It won’t be necessary,” Aram says, his voice steady. “I brought my Webley.” He digs into his waistband and extracts a revolver. “Six bullets,” he pronounces, flicking it open and showing them the full chamber before snapping it shut again and placing it on the ground between them.

  “The children…” Mertha whimpers as everyone stares at the revolver, “…they’re…”

  “…downstairs. It’s okay, Mayrig…” Khatoun takes her mother’s hand in hers. “Shhh.”

  Iskender flicks his cigarette over the balcony and takes the final two out of the packet. He crushes the pack, lights both cigarettes and hands one to Aram. The two men consider each other for a long time without speaking, the silence between them eloquence itself.

  “So,” Iskender says eventually, pushing the gun towards Aram with his foot. “What’s next?”

  Aram groans, picks up the revolver and slides it back into his belt. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “You love each other. You stay indoors. You dig a hole and bury yourselves or run headlong, unafraid and naked to your destiny. Take your pick. After today, we vanish.”

  “Agh, Mgrdich,” Ferida murmurs, standing. She stretches up in time to catch a sliver of moon behind the ashy clouds and starts to laugh. “Mgrdich tekrar oynamış! Still up to your old games. Are they true – all the crazy stories we heard about his life?”

  “Probably,” Aram smiles.

  “I heard he stole a whole stack of carpets once, in some kind of disguise…”

  “Stole them back, you mean,” Aram snorts. “Yes. From under their noses. And sold them for arms. They belonged to Armenians once. Requisitioned and stuck in a warehouse. The guard on duty was so confused. Told his boss, ‘Of course it’s empty, efendi. You came here twice already and took everything!’ The boss was furious. Those carpets had been under lock and key for years. Mgrdich liberated them, and then, for a laugh, rode to the town square in yet another disguise, screaming, ‘Who is this damned Mgrdich? Wherever he is, I’m going to find him and kill him!’ before he rode off.”

  The huddle of people on the roof laugh. “Oyna, Mgrdich! Oyna! Keep playing!”

  Aram leans forward, takes Ferida’s hand and pulls himself up. “And now, Ferida jan, if I don’t get to bed I’m going to evaporate. Your whisky has worked wonders.”

  “The bathroom first,” Ferida says. “You stink.”

  “Thank you, Aram,” Thooma calls out as Ferida leads Aram down the stairs. “We’re glad you’re safe.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “God bless you.”

  “The light be with you.”

  “And with you.”

  Slowly the family unravels, wandering the perimeter, picking up shoes and cigarette butts and taking one last look at the belching city before following them down into the house, leaving the roof empty. A small patch of darkness where they sat on the floor is all that remains and soon that too is buried by the ash that continues to fall and settle like sifted flour.

  In the bathroom Ferida has cut and pulled the clothes from Aram’s broken body.

  “Let it seep out of you,” she says, pouring warm water over his naked back. “I’ll be back with clean clothes. Let me go and burn these before I catch your lice.” She holds his tattered clothing to her chest and is about to leave.

  “Ferida jan.”

  “Yes?”

  “What I said upstairs…I meant it.”

  “You said a lot of things.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean, jan. Me too.” She puts her hand on the door but he stops her again.

  “I have a question.”

  “What?”

  “Why do you always fold down the backs of your shoes?”

  Ferida turns and stares at him. “Because I can’t reach down to cut my toenails. When I wear the heel up it pushes my foot forward and my nails dig in…”

  “Sht,” Aram puts his finger to his lips. “Come…give me your foot and your scissors. I’ll cut them…”

  At their bedroom door, Thooma takes Mertha’s ashy cheeks in his hands and kisses her on the nose. “You better wash this pretty face before you go to sleep. And no more crying. We’ll find out in a few days what has happened to everybody. Until then we stay calm.” He gestures at Khatoun to get her mother into bed. “I’m going to sit up for a while. Iskender and I have a few things to discuss.” He takes a few steps backwards, turns and winds down the stairs to the little office where he knows a lump of hashish is waiting with the last of the scotch.

  Mertha leans her face against the wall, waiting until she hears the office door click shut downstairs before allowing Khatoun to lead her to her bed. The covers are still in a jumble on the floor where they were hurriedly thrown earlier. Khatoun eases her distraught mother out of her clothes and sponges her down with a cloth soaked in rose water.

  “My heart cannot take this,” Mertha weeps. “My sons, my brothers, your uncles and aunties, their children, our friends! They’re all out there somewhere! Look at us in this house. We feel safe, but the walls lie. That should be us out there – falling to the ground as ash!” She buries her head in Khatoun’s lap and sobs miserably.

  “Have faith, Mayrig,” Khatoun croons. “The only way to cheat death is not to fear it.” She undoes her mother’s headscarf and combs through the feathery locks. “Come on, sleep now. We’re all together and we’ll be safe – I know it.” She moves her like a child, lifts the patterned quilt from the floor and covers her.

  She pauses at the door, waiting to hear the change in Mertha’s breathing that signifies she is asleep. As she is about to go, her mother’s sleepy voice calls out.

  “Khatoun?”

  “Yes?”

  “You were right to let Aram in.”

  “Yes.”

  “But please don’t open the door again. Promise me.”

  “I promise. Goodnight now. Sleep.”

  “Go with the light.”

  “Stay with the light. Goodnight.”

  The shadows engulf the room as she slips out into the corridor and closes the door behind her. Slowly she makes her way down the hall towards her room. As she turns the corner, past the bathroom, steam seeping under the door, Grundug standing guard, she hears voices. Bzdig Shoushun murmuring softly and the low whine of Alice crying coming from the children’s quarters. She stops and listens for a moment, trying to make out what they are saying before entering the room. The boys are asleep in their beds. Only Alice is awake, wrapped in Bzdig Shoushun’s arms in the middle of the room, a lamp flickering on the floor in front of them. As soon as she sees Khatoun, Alice stands and runs to her mother, flinging her arms around her neck.

  “Hello,” Khatoun smiles. “What are you doing awake?”

  “I’m sorry, Digin Khatoun,” Bzdig Shoushun says. “The poor girl can’t sleep. She’s scared.”

  “Afrem told me the whole city is on fire!” Alice wails, “And they’re going to burn us down!”

  “No,” Khatoun says firmly. “Nobody is going to burn us down – only you, if you jump up and knock over the lamp like you almost did. Come on, let’s put you to bed.” She leads Alice to her bunk, waving Bzdig Shoushun out of the room with her hand.

  She curls her body around her daughter’s, letting the girl rest her head on her arm, the lamp throwing patterns onto the wall next to them. She strokes Alice’s hair, watching the patterns dance. “Are you still awake?” she asks after a while.

  “Yes,” comes the whisper. “Are you?”

  “Yes, janavar. Otherwise how could I be
talking to you?”

  “Ha!” Alice shifts closer to her mother, their heads touching. “You sounded like you were sleeping.”

  “No, not sleeping, just dreaming.”

  “What are you dreaming about?”

  “What am I dreaming about? Let me see…I am in my bedroom in the afternoon – the late afternoon in summer. It’s dusk and I am lying on my high iron bed and the light coming in the window is beautiful. The curtains are two layers of fabric; cream over turquoise, the light soft blue. Outside I can hear the birds and the sounds of other people. I can hear music and rattling, like a piece of machinery. Then I hear some conversations in the distance – I don’t know what they’re talking about and every now and then there’s a bell – and then a sneeze and a dog, yes, a dog – the white one with brown paws like he’s wearing goshigs. And I feel happy here, it’s my secret. It’s peaceful because I am alone and at the same time I want to share it. To open the curtain and float out the window and over the rooftops. The sun is a soft blanket and I’m happy because I’m at home. It’s a very fragile place, just like an eggshell, and I have to hold it gently otherwise I will shatter it.” She pauses to kiss Alice on the head. “That’s where I go to be happy. Now you do the same. Tell me your favourite place to be in the world.”

  Alice looks at her solemnly in the dim light, her eyes the same dark hollow of her father’s. She twists her braid around her finger.

  “My favourite place in the world is in Grandma Mertha’s farm and I’m still little,” she says. “I remember the kitchen in the garden. The colourful cloths on the floor covered in tomatoes and peppers you made me promise not to put in my mouth. My favourite place in the world is our bedroom in that house and the big bed on the floor we all slept in together. Looking at the shadows on the wall.”