Murder and Revolution

by Evelyn Weiss

  I hear the rumble of a truck. My heart seems to stop.

  “There’s no cover on the road leading back up to the village. If we go now, they’ll see us.” Yuri hisses at us as he picks up the two axes. “We’ll have to hide behind those rocks, there. Leave no trace that we’ve been here.”

  He points upstream, along the edge of the ravine, to a pile of huge boulders. The rumble grows closer. We scamper over to the cover of the rocks.

  Through a gap between two boulders, we watch the soldiers arrive. First, a strange car appears, its engine snorting. It’s covered with iron plates, like a kind of metal tortoise. A heavy gun is mounted above the driver. A soldier stands and holds the gun, his legs braced to keep steady as the car jolts along. The car pulls to a halt on the far side of the ravine.

  Then a truck arrives, and parks alongside the car. Its front looks like a large car, but its body is like a covered wagon in the Old West, with a canvas covering stretched over high hoops. A group of soldiers emerges from it; every one of them has a rifle. Moments later, they are all fixing the familiar saw-toothed bayonets to the muzzles.

  An officer in a tall fez steps out of the armored car, walks over to the edge of the ravine, and peers at the remains of the bridge. He shakes his head angrily in frustration, then goes back to his men and begins to shout orders.

  One by one, the soldiers start to descend the rocky slopes of the ravine. The gully is deeply cut, but not impossible to scramble down into. After a few minutes, soldiers’ heads appear above the near edge of the ravine. After half an hour all of them, including the officer, are gathered on the road just a few yards from us. Thankfully, they seem to have no suspicion that we are nearby. The officer gives more orders: the soldiers form into a column and begin to march up the road, bayonets shining in the midday sun. I watch them recede, the fading sound of their marching, and I breathe.

  Yuri gets up; he stands, looking down into the gully as if tracing the lines of the rocks with his eyes.

  “We’re lucky: they have left no-one behind to guard this area. The ravine looks quite easy to cross, if we’re careful.”

  I don’t understand him. “Why should we cross the stream? We need to go back up the road towards the villages, as soon as the soldiers have gone. Surely that’s the quickest way to Armenia?”

  “We don’t know how long the soldiers will be searching for people in this valley. I’d guess a day at least, but quite possibly more. Then, when the troops give up and leave, we have a fifteen-mile walk to the Armenian border, including a three-thousand foot climb up to the saddle, over very rough hillsides.”

  “So?”

  Yuri smiles. “Professor – do you have any idea how far it is to Iran?”

  “A day’s walk to the border, I would think, if we went down this road. Just below here, the road will descend into a deep canyon. Then it should lead into the main valley, and join the Persian Road from Istanbul to Tehran. Tabriz, an important city of Iran, is on that road, beyond the border.”

  “One day’s walk to Iran. Or, a couple of hours’ drive.”

  Yuri points across the ravine, at the armor-plated car.

  34 The Persian Road

  We all look at the squat iron vehicle. Yuri continues. “It’s worth scrambling across this stream, to see if we can get the car started. If it won’t start, all we’ve lost is a few minutes.”

  We cross the ravine; it’s not too difficult, even in my long dress. But we can’t get the armored car to start.

  “What about the truck?” I suggest.

  Axelson nods thoughtfully. “The truck will be slow and difficult to drive on this mountain road. But once we get into the valley, and onto the main road, it should be all right. Let’s try it.”

  There’s room for the three of us to sit side by side in the cab. Yuri sits in the driver’s seat and turns a key; the professor turns the starting-handle. The engine fires up immediately, and the truck lumbers forward.

  The road twists around corners, edging its way above yawning drops. Even though the sun is high, the canyon below us is deeply shadowed. We pass more ravines cut into the slope, and cross more rickety wooden bridges. The road itself is made of piled rocks, and we bump and bounce over them. Yuri’s eyes scan for boulders and potholes. He smiles as the professor and I shake in our seats. “It feels worse than it is. This thing has solid tyres and very primitive suspension. But look ahead; there’s the main road.”

  Sooner than we expected, we are out of the shadowed jaws of the canyon into a wide main valley. Our dirt road joins a highway, made of smooth, sun-baked clay. Yuri turns the wheel to the left, and the truck eases out into the road. He puts his foot on the gas pedal, pressing it to the floor; I can feel the movement in my stomach. The professor peers around for any sign of Ottoman guards.

  “Have we got enough gasoline, Captain Sirko?”

  “The gauge says we’ve got plenty.”

  We’re on the valley floor, speeding alongside flat, tilled fields. Mount Ararat has disappeared. Above and behind, all I can see are the brown-grey bluffs edging the canyon we descended. Even they now look small and far behind us. The clay road runs straight ahead, towards a distant jumble of buildings. I see roofs and gables, and the tall minaret and dome of a mosque. The professor points. “That must be Doğubayazıt; I noticed it on Rufus’s map. The last Turkish settlement before the border of Iran.”

  Yuri slows the truck as we approach the first houses of the town. I see faces in the doorways, and children playing by the roadside. They stand up excitedly, shouting and waving to us. We wave back. Soon we’re at the centre of the little town, and Yuri slows the truck to a walking pace as we weave through busy crowds. Everyone’s heads turn to look: in this remote settlement, a military truck must be a rare sight. In our Western dress, the three of us are clearly visible inside the cab. People look surprised, but not alarmed. Everyone smiles, and street sellers shout to us, offering flatbreads, pomegranates and oranges.

  Finally, we get to the end of the maze of narrow streets, and the bustle of the town lessens. Soon we are beyond the last houses, and Yuri increases the speed again; we’re racing along, and the road starts to rise. We enter a barren zone of stones and rubble. Ahead of us, the valley is enclosed by a high but flat skyline: it’s totally level, as if drawn by a ruler. The professor gazes at it.

  “Another lava flow. The road into Iran must cross it, somehow. I think we have less than a mile to go.”

  The sides of the road are littered with black, blocky boulders. The road itself becomes a ribbon of dark gravel, and soon if starts to bend and weave among rocky outcrops, snaking its way upwards. Yuri grips the wheel and glances at us.

  “The wagon’s engine is struggling with these gradients. And all these little stones are like ball bearings; the tyres keep slipping.”

  I look back. In this open, treeless valley I can see a long way. A mile or so behind us on the road is a square, dark shape. It’s moving very fast.

  “They’re after us.”

  It’s agonizing. I can see that it is the armored car we saw at the bridge. It’s speeding towards us, while our truck struggles to climb the gravel road. Yuri turns the wheel left, then right, then hard left, over and over again, and changes gear constantly. “The main thing is to keep moving, however slowly. We can’t afford to lose momentum; we’ll stop or even slip back.”

  Ahead of us is a hairpin switchback. Yuri takes it at speed, spraying stones behind us; the wagon lurches horribly to one side as we career round the bend. But ahead, now, the road is less steep. Soon, it’s level, and we’re moving fast again. And then, the road simply ends, on a pancake-flat plain of lava. A smooth, dead-level black expanse stretches before us: we can drive anywhere we like. Yuri pushes his foot to the floor; the engine roars as we rush faster and faster towards the safety of the unseen border.

  But the armored car is behind us. Its angular shape grows with frightening speed. I see a soldier standing, his hands on the gun. The first shot is fired
.

  A hole appears in the cab, just behind my head. I’ve no time to think, but Axelson shouts. “Their shooting is very accurate –”

  A second bullet has holed the engine. Oil and water spray out onto the windshield.

  Yuri swings the wheel violently to the right; we’re thrown across the cab, as I hear his voice “There’s no cover out here at all. A fairground shooting gallery.”

  Axelson manages an answer. “So you’re trying to dodge them?...”

  “No.”

  The whole truck bounces and rattles as if a giant is shaking it. I can barely see ahead through the oil-spattered windshield. There are a few more bumps and bangs, then everything around us goes dark.

  “Headlamps still work!” shouts Yuri.

  The professor peers out. “A lava tube!”

  “Yes. I don’t know how far we’ll get, but it’s better than being a sitting target out on the lava flow.”

  In the light of the headlamps, a tunnel of black rock stretches ahead of us, smooth-walled and flat-floored. Axelson shouts. “Be ready to brake, Captain. The lava tube may come to a dead end at any moment.”

  Our engine roar reverberates through the tube, but we’re not the only ones. There’s the higher, sharper note of the armored car’s engine; and we’re lit by the beams of their headlamps. Yuri glances back. “Their vehicle will handle this place better than ours. But the twists of the tunnel make it harder for them to shoot at us.”

  The car’s closer now; we’re lit starkly in the beams of its lamps. The tunnel starts to dip, then runs downwards; gravity’s pulling us. We hurtle along as if on a rollercoaster. But despite the slope, the tunnel is now dead straight. I take one last glance behind us. The soldier is hunched, ready to shoot. He fires.

  The rear of our truck erupts in crackling flames: a wave of heat hits me. I can smell my hair scorching.

  “Yuri – the gasoline tank?”

  “We’d be dead if it was. It’s just the canvas covering on fire. But it may ignite the gasoline –”

  My head lurches forward, striking the windshield like a hammer with the momentum of a sudden stop.

  Yuri is down from the cab already, pulling me out of my seat, dragging me away from the flames just as he did long ago… the professor clambers down. We’re running down the tunnel into blackness. Behind us there’s a massive blast of fire. Exploding fragments of the truck fly at us; my back, my legs are hit by debris, like bullets.

  But Yuri’s grinning.

  “I braked. We stopped so suddenly that the armored car will have crashed into the back of the truck.”

  We stagger along down the tube, away from the blazing wreckage. Ahead, I can see a tiny disk of light in the dark. After a few more stumbles in the blackness, the tube levels out and becomes wider. Shafts of sunlight descend, like a white veil, across the mouth of the tunnel. Suddenly, we’re standing in a gaping opening, as if under the arched door of a church.

  Ahead of us, beyond a tumble of black stones, is a small stream. Axelson breathes heavily. It’s the biggest sigh of relief I’ve ever heard.

  “That stream is the border.”

  We pick our way through the rocks to the water. A few yards before we reach the stream, I look down at my feet. I’m walking on lush green grass. Along the water’s edge, there are shrubs and bushes, and the grass is spangled here and there with flowers. I step into the water, not bothering to keep my oil-stained shoes dry; the water is deliciously cooling, and crystal clear. My feet are on rippled sand, just a few inches below the surface. But here and there I see deep, rocky pools. Fish move lazily in the depths.

  We all stand on the sand in the stream, looking back to the lava tube. From here it appears nothing more than a black hole in a wall of rock. But I smell burning, drifting out from the cavern. Yuri too sniffs the air.

  “They won’t be coming after us. We may as well rest for a few moments, and drink some water. Filtered through lava beds for purity: you could probably bottle this and sell it.”

  I drink, and never has anything in my life tasted so good. Then I splash my face, again and again. Upstream, I hear the leaves of the bush rustling; it’s a bird, hopping from branch to branch. It begins to sing.

  The far side of the stream is steep and rocky, a kind of low cliff, like a wall defending the border of Iran. We wander, our minds blank with the knowledge of our escape, up the bed of the stream. Then Yuri points.

  “Look. It’s like stairs.”

  Above a deep pool in the stream, someone has laid flat stones, a series of steps going up the far bank, almost as if a fisherman has built his own private staircase up from the pool. But for us, it allows us to easily climb the far bank, onto Iranian soil. As we ascend the staircase of slabs, we see the Persian Road again; the steps join onto it.

  As if to reassure us that our escape is actually real, a large boulder stands at the side of the road. It’s chiselled with carved, curved lettering. Axelson laughs with joy.

  “It’s Persian script. I think it says ‘Welcome to Iran.’”

  A hundred yards ahead of us along the road, I see the first building since Doğubayazıt; a wooden shed, with the same welcoming script painted on its walls. Outside the shed is a bizarre sight. Sitting on bright green grass are three gaily striped deck chairs, such as might be found on the sea front of an English holiday resort. Two of the chairs are occupied by uniformed sentries, sitting idly. One of them appears to be asleep, but the other one sees us, stands up, and comes forward to greet us. He shouts in broken English.

  “We are border guards: you are entering Iran!”

  We wave back at him. His fellow sentry has woken now, and he’s standing up. The first guard calls to us. “Come and sit down for a few minutes! Rest after your journey! Where have you come from?”

  He gestures us, with old-fashioned courtesy, towards the deck chairs. We all flop down into them. Waves of relief flood through me. The men offer us water, but we say we’ve had plenty. Both the sentries smile genially at us.

  One of them repeats his question.

  “Where have you come from?”

  “Back there – Turkey.”

  This time, the guard’s voice is slightly sharper. “The Persian Road? Doğubayazıt?”

  Neither the professor nor Yuri reply. I look at my two friends. They are sitting, open-mouthed. Both have guns pointing into their faces.

  The professor regains some of his composure, and starts to explain.“You misunderstand! We’re not from the Ottoman Empire, you know.”

  The sentry looks closely at each of us in turn before replying to the professor. “I believe you. You three are not Ottoman citizens.”

  The professor nods. “Exactly. We’re not Turkish.”

  The guard replies. “I agree – you’re not Turkish.” He smiles slowly, then speaks again.

  “But I am.”

  We stare at him in dismay. He carries on. “For security, military forces of the Ottoman Empire are currently occupying all Iranian border posts. We have many problems to deal with. For example, I had a report today that one of our trucks was stolen.”

  35 A quiet Ulysses

  The professor tells me that we’re half a mile from Europe. Across a narrow strip of water, I can see the finger of land they call Gallipoli, where so many young men, many of them from faraway Australia and New Zealand, died in the disastrous battles of 1915. The terrible losses were senselessly futile: the land is now reoccupied by the Ottoman Empire.

  We’re imprisoned in the Sultan’s Fortress at Canakkale. I look out through a little iron-barred window at the Dardanelles Straits, that divide Asia from Europe. In the water I can see rusty wreckage and broken masts: the pathetic remains of the Allied battleships sunk in the shallow waters of the Straits in the Gallipoli attack. The bodies of hundreds of British and French sailors lie in those iron graves.

  Our journey to Canakkale, in handcuffs and railway trucks across Turkey, took two weeks. Since then, the professor, Yuri and I have been in this
prison another two weeks. It’s now nearly the end of October, but even though summer is over, during the day our cell gets horribly hot and airless. There is no privacy at all. Every day, I feel grateful that the professor and Yuri are considerate and sensitive men.

  Rumors abound; every day we hear a new, improbable story from our guards – the Kaiser has surrendered, Talaat Pasha has killed himself, Lawrence of Arabia and a band of Arabs have captured Istanbul. The guards also tell us that our letters of appeal to our nations’ ambassadors have been sent on to them. And I’ve received letters: one from Emily, who is now living in Moscow; another from Rufus. He, Mariam and all the Ararat villagers got across the Aras River, with the help of Armenian border guards. They are all now safely in Yeravan.

  As I gaze out through the tiny window towards Gallipoli, I think: our guards don’t take their work seriously at all. It doesn’t help that none of them even have uniforms; they wear threadbare civilian clothes. I think they are given a little food, and no pay, to guard us. I’m sure they’d release us, if we had any Turkish cash to offer them.

  In the last few days, the guards have spent much of their time joking with us through the little hatch in the door of our cell. We converse in a mixture of broken English and the few Turkish phrases we’ve managed to pick up. Despite their lack of discipline, they are in good spirits: they say that in a few days the war will be over, and we can all go home. One of them is calling to me now, through the hatch.

  “Hey lady, are you looking forward to getting out of this hole? I am, for sure. I want to get back home, see my brothers, back in Tarsus. I’ve been here at the Sultan’s Fortress for four years.”

  I nod. “I know a little girl who came from Tarsus.”