There was one framed painting that seemed somehow out of place, propped up on the back of Paula’s dresser. It was the oil done by Gramma Pauline. Paula loved that painting. When she looked at it, it was as if she could feel the warmth of her grandmother’s love envelop her.
Paula’s eyes lifted from the painting and back to her own reflection in the dresser mirror. She turned towards the full-length mirror on the opposite wall to get a better look, then let out a tiny gasp of pride at the tall sleek figure that was her own. She looked back at her posters of models and dancers and smiled. Paula had no reason to feel out of place in this room of well-toned women. Another day had arrived and yet she had still managed to banish more fat and more of the awkward Paula of old.
Reassured by the mirror, Paula stepped on the scale that she kept beside it and watched as the indicator stopped at 126. “Yippee!” she trilled. “Down another pound.”
She pulled on a bra and underwear. Zipping up a pair of baggy jeans and pulling a teal-coloured baby T over her head, and her Doc Martens onto her feet, she stood again in front of the mirror and smiled with pride.
Her favourite poster was one of Calista Flockhart, sitting gamine-like on a park bench in a T-shirt and jeans. Paula figured she looked almost as good as Calista.
The heady aroma of bacon reached out and clutched her stomach before she even rounded the corner to the kitchen. In the past year, as her weight dropped from 150 to 126, Paula’s sense of smell had become sharper. She walked into the kitchen and saw her mother and father who were already sitting at the table eating breakfast. Erik was no longer there, although his cereal bowl containing a few stray bloated Cocoa Puffs, indicated his recent departure. She knew that Erik was probably sitting on the front steps, playing his Game Gear in solitude—away from the wrath of his father’s eyes and waiting until the last possible moment before heading off to school.
Paula’s father was savouring his bacon and eggs, while her mother nibbled on a piece of dry toast. Paula poured herself a bowl of toasted oats and sat down at the table with her parents.
Mrs. Romaniuk set down her toast and frowned at her daughter, “Is that all that you’re having for breakfast? You’ll be starving by mid-morning.”
“Leave the girl alone, Em, she’s old enough to know what she’s doing.” Mr. Romaniuk said.
Paula swirled her spoon around the bowl and watched as the little rings of oats bobbed in and out of the milk. She concentrated on the look of her cereal and the smell of her cereal, though she was almost afraid to eat it. By the time her parents had finished their breakfasts and kissed their daughter good-bye, Paula still hadn’t eaten. Once both of her parents had left the house, Paula ate one spoonful of what was now mush, then pushed away her bowl.
Paula ran upstairs again and stripped down to her bra and underwear. She stepped back on the scales. Still 126. Thank God, breathed Paula with relief. She threw her clothes back on and left for school.
Paula’s daily walk to school always managed to fill her with a quiet sense of joy—even more so since she had embarked on her eating regimen. It seemed that since then, her senses had become sharper. What used to be a simple walk from point A to point B now could be experienced as a feast for the senses. On this fine autumn day, Paula’s sense of touch was so acute that she could feel the slightest breeze with her fingertips and could almost count the individual stones of gravel as they crunched below her Doc Martens. As she passed by her neighbours’ houses, her heightened sense of smell identified what each of them had for breakfast. But the best was sight. Grass was electrically green and flowers—even weeds—were outrageously brilliant. Paula savoured the growling of her stomach and gave silent thanks for the choice she had made.
Paula’s face was adorned with a radiant smile by the time she walked through the double doors of her high school. She relished the stares of the guys and the covert looks of jealousy from the girls. Thinness was power.
In English class, she listened with rapt attention but was shocked to realize by the end of the period that again, she hadn’t absorbed a word. While her eyes were focused on the teacher and what he wrote on the chalkboard, Paula had been distracted by food. She had been imagining that the blackboard was a huge Hershey bar and the chalk was vanilla icing. Her sense of smell was so acute that she could smell breakfast on the lips of the boy beside her—Cream of Wheat sprinkled with brown sugar. It took all of her concentration to stay in her seat and not jump up and lick his lips. She would never do that though, because there was no sense in risking the calories.
She shook her head to try to dispel the colliding images of food. How would she be able to keep up her good marks if she couldn’t concentrate? Even when she brought home her usual 90s, her father would ask jokingly, “What happened to the other 10 percent?” She didn’t want to even think of his reaction if her marks suffered. Already, she had received a few bad marks, but she had been able to hide that fact from her parents by being very selective in choosing which tests to bring home. She had also become adept at forging her mother’s signature. But if she didn’t get her act together soon, her parents would find out.
“Hey, Paula! Do you want to go to the mall after school?” At first, Paula didn’t even recognize the voice. She could, however, tell that whoever it was had eaten strawberry jam on toast that morning. She looked up and saw her best friend Mandy standing by the side of her desk with a couple of other girls from the class. Mandy’s expression was one of mild hurt, although Paula couldn’t quite figure out why.
“I can’t go tonight, Mans, I’ve got to exercise.” Paula tried to focus on Mandy’s angry green eyes, but the scent of strawberry jam was overpowering.
“Suit yourself,” said Mandy. “But there are more important things in life than aerobics.”
Paula watched as Mandy’s cloud of red hair disappeared through the classroom door. Strawberry blonde, she thought to herself, stomach grumbling.
Mandy’s just jealous of me, rationalized Paula. She could stand to lose a few pounds herself and she’s just mad at me for having more control than she does. Paula waited until the group of girls was down the hallway and then she got up from her desk and walked alone to her next class.
Paula was proud of the fact that she had only purged a few more times since that dreadful appointment with Doctor Tavish. She wanted to lose weight by controlling what she ate, not by vomiting, and she felt that this was a battle she could win. She held her hands knuckles up and regarded them with pride: the scabs had mostly healed. When she did have to vomit, she now used the spoon.
She was so close to her goal that she could taste it.
One thing Mandy wasn’t all wrong about, though, was that there was more to life than exercise. Like getting good marks. If she aced that history project, it would make up for the quiz that she daydreamed through the other day. Instead of going to aerobics after school, Paula stopped off at the Brantford Public Library.
She walked up to one of the computer card catalogues on the main floor and chose “keyword subject” and typed in “Armenian history.” No hits. She tried “history Armenia.” Again no hits. Changing her strategy, she clicked on “general subjects” then typed in Armenia. She got eight hits, all folk lore, music, or travel. Maddening! Using the same “general subjects” search, she typed in “Armenian”. As all the usual hits like “music” and “folk lore” popped up on the screen, Paula noticed a new heading:
Armenian Massacres: 1915 – 1923
Massacres? What was going on? From the photos Paula had found on the Internet, she knew that something terrible had happened, but she had assumed it had been a result of the First World War. A massacre was much more sinister. And the years were exactly when Gramma Pauline had been there.
Paula clicked on the “show more” button and a listing for two books appeared: The Road from Home, The Story of an Armenian Girl by David Kherdian, and Passage to Ararat by Michael Arlen. Paula noted down the call numbers, then headed to the stacks.
She found The Road from Home nestled between a traveller’s guide to Turkey, and a history of Turkey. This confused her even more. What was an Armenian book doing amongst all these Turkish books? Paula drew the book from the shelf and read two brief paragraphs on the first page:
September 16, 1916—
To the Government of Aleppo
It was at first communicated to you that the government, by order of Jemiet, had decided to destroy completely all the Armenians living in Turkey … An end must be put to their existence, however criminal the measures taken may be, and no regard must be paid to either age or sex nor to conscientious scruples.
Minister of the Interior TALAAT PASHA
August 22, 1939.—I have given orders to my Death Units to exterminate without mercy or pity men, women, and children belonging to the Polish-speaking race. It is only in this manner that we can acquire the vital territory which we need. After all, who remembers today the extermination of the Armenians?
ADOLF HITLER
Paula snapped the book shut and held it to her chest. This was all so confusing and upsetting! Extermination of the Armenians? How could she not have heard of this before? Her knees buckled beneath her, and she collapsed in a heap between the aisles, still clutching the book. Her heart pounded wildly and she felt faintly ill. What had her grandmother lived through? As she sat there on the floor, her eyes were drawn back to the gap in the stacks from where she had removed The Road from Home. She drew down a book called Turkey by Roderic H. Davison and turned to the table of contents, scanning the chapter headings. One was called “From Empire to Republic, 1909-1923” so she turned to that.
She read about the overthrow of the Ottoman Empire’s Sultan, Abdulhamid, by the Young Turk revolution, and about the increasing promotion of all things Turkish and the oppression of minorities. She skimmed the pages, trying to find a mention of Armenians. A few pages into the chapter, she found a single paragraph:
While the battle for Gallipoli was at its height, and while the Russians were pushing into eastern Anatolia, the CUP government began to deport the Armenians.... One of the great tragedies of the war ensued, as more than a half million lost their lives from massacre, exhaustion, malnutrition, and all the hazards of the long march under primitive conditions. Talat, minister of the interior, explained the deportations as a military necessity, since some Armenians were cooperating with the Russians and the danger of revolt behind Turkish lines in the East had to be averted. He admitted that excesses had occurred, and that innocent people had perished.
What shocked her almost as much as the information was the way that the death of so many was brushed off in a paragraph. Paula’s whole concept of modern history was crumbling before her. She wrapped her arms around her legs and wept. She wept for her grandmother, and she wept for the thousands whose deaths didn’t merit ink on a page. After awhile, she got up off the floor and carefully placed the books back on the shelf. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she walked out of the library.
She was letting herself in the front door when she heard the telephone ringing. Dropping her books in the front hall, she grabbed the phone.
“Is this Paula Romaniuk?” the strangely familiar voice inquired.
“Yes,” replied Paula.
“This is Doctor Tavish. I was expecting to see you in my office once a week, remember?”
Doctor Tavish’s mildly angry tone mortified Paula. “Oh Doctor T,” she said, trying to think of an excuse for her absence. “I’ve had the flu and couldn’t get in to see you.” The moment the excuse tumbled from her lips she wished she could have called it back.
The was a pause at the other end of the line and then Doctor Tavish said, “Hmmm, this is the first time I’ve heard of someone staying away from the doctor’s office because they were sick!”
“Really, doctor. Things have been hectic, and I just forgot to come in.”
“Remember our deal, Paula. Do you want me to tell your parents about your medical condition?”
Paula’s heart pumped with anxiety at the thought of her parents finding out. “Doctor Tavish, I have good news! Since I saw you two weeks ago, I’ve gained a pound.”
“Really?” replied Doctor Tavish in a skeptical tone. “Just the same, I’d like you to come to the clinic tomorrow at four so we can have a little chat.”
Erik’s day at school had been lousy as usual. His math teacher had paired him up with Troy Smith so that he could tutor him. Unbelievable!
The one positive thing was that when he walked through the door to the house, he could smell something good. Erik couldn’t understand how his sister knew so much about food when she was so darned skinny.
Leaving his knapsack in the hallway, he walked into the kitchen to see what she was cooking up this time.
“Kasha,” she answered, as Erik lifted the lid to the big pot. “Baba Romaniuk taught me how to make it last year, but I kept on forgetting about it. I just added the broth, so it simmers for an hour and then it’s done.”
“Does that mean you have time to play some Civ II with me?” asked Erik.
Paula hesitated. “Hmmm. How about this? Let me look up some more stuff on the Internet, and then we’ll play for a bit.”
“Sure!” Erik grinned. He raced upstairs with his sister close behind.
Erik sat down in his computer chair and then opened up his Netscape Communicator. “What do you want to look up this time?”
“Use MetaCrawler again and search for ‘Georgetown Boys’ Farm,’” replied Paula, as she cleared a space on his bed and sat down.
Erik punched in the words then chose the option, “exact phrase,” then hit “go.” It timed out with no hits.
“Try ‘Armenian Massacre.’”
“Who?” asked Erik.
“I was just at the library today trying to look up stuff about Armenians and I ran across all these references to a massacre. Apparently, more than half a million Armenians were rounded up in Turkey and killed.”
“Are you sure?” asked Erik. “Don’t you think we would have heard about this in school if it really happened?”
“You’d think so,” said Paula.
Erik keyed in the phrase and hit “go.”
Seconds later, MetaCrawler showed twenty-five hits. Scrolling through the choices, Paula found constant references to 1.5 million dead, not half a million. This was all so confusing! She pointed to a site called “The Armenian Genocide: Dr. Martin Piege’s Report.” Erik clicked onto it.
As Erik clicked through the options on the site, he happened upon one called “pictures.” He clicked on that and grainy photographs began to form. The caption on the top explained that these were photos taken by a German officer in Aleppo in 1915. As one photo came into focus, Paula shuddered. An emaciated young woman with long dark hair piled on the top of her head lay dead, her arms embracing the corpses of two skeletal children.
Gramma Pauline was born in 1916—right in the midst of the worst assaults on the Armenians in Turkey. How could an Armenian baby have been born at that time? Paula couldn’t imagine the conditions that must have confronted her own great-grandparents.
Erik exited from the site back to the list of hits. This time, Paula chose one called “Armenian genocide: personal narratives.” Erik clicked on that site, and a page worth of names popped up, each one leading to a personal story. Paula chose one close to the bottom of the page and read how the writer’s great-grandmother had been sold to a Turkish family and worked as a slave. One phrase at the bottom of the narrative stood out. The woman said, “When Hider was planning his genocide in the 1930s, his rationale was, ‘Who today remembers the Armenians?’”
That same quote. Paula was stunned by it because the woman was right even now. Who today remembers what happened to the Armenians? Not her history teacher, and not the school librarian either. Even Gramma Pauline, who had been through it, said she had only sketchy memories.
“Do you think Gramma was one of the Armenians going through all of that?” ask
ed Erik as he scrolled through story after story.
“She was,” replied Paula. “And she was just a child too. Can you imagine how horrible her life must have been?”
“No,” said Erik. “Sure puts our problems in perspective.”
“You’re right,” said Paula. “It’s not like we have life and death situations to deal with.”
Erik closed Netscape and disconnected the modem, then popped in the Civ II CD.
“Are you starting a new game?” asked Paula, still trying to shake the frightening images from her mind.
“Yep. I can customize it. Any suggestions?”
“Sure,” said Paula. “Can you make us the Armenians?”
“When you customize the game, you can be anyone you want.” Erik scrolled through the options one by one. “Okay,” he said. “We’re the Armenians, and you’re Paula, leader of the Armenians.” Erik scrolled through other choices, “What do you want the temperature to be? Cool, temperate, or warm?”
“Let’s make it warm.”
“Okay. How about the climate? It can be arid, normal, or wet.”
“Let’s choose arid.”
“Okay. What other civilizations do you want?”
“Can we choose Turks?”
“Nope. That’s not one of the choices. Even if you customize the game, you can only choose from the game’s list of civilizations for everyone but your own.”
“Hmmm,” said Paula. “Then why don’t we make the other civilizations the English, Germans, and Russians.”
“Okay.” Erik could hardly contain his excitement. It was like the old days with Paula sitting here, playing a computer game with him.
The Hunger Page 4
