The Ghosts of Anatolia Page 22

  Sirak and Mikael lapsed into forlorn silence when they rode past the spot on the riverbank where they’d watched their father and brother float down the river with scores of other Armenian men and boys. Now strangely serene, the bank was dotted with the makeshift tents of a band of nomadic tribesmen who were gathered around a smoky pit a few meters up from the water.

  Sirak caught the icy stare of a leather-faced old man who turned to scrutinize the odd procession. Dressed in traditional garments, he was watching over a mixed herd of sheep and goats that were foraging in the tall grass along the riverbank.

  Glancing ahead to the wagon, Sirak caught a glimpse of his mother and Nurse Barton peering out at the incongruous scene. He muttered pensively beneath his breath.

  “What did you say?” the sergeant asked.

  “Jerusalem,” Sirak repeated sadly.

  Isa smiled. “What about it?”

  “That’s where my papa is now.”

  “Your papa’s in the Holy City?”

  “Yes, he and my brother, Stepannos, are both there. Have you been there?”

  “No,” Isa replied thoughtfully, his forehead glistening with sweat. “Al Kuds is very far from here, but I hope someday to lay my eyes on the great mosque erected on the spot where the Prophet ascended into Heaven.”

  “We’re headed there to meet my papa. How far is it?”

  “It’s a journey of many days—thirty or forty, depending on the weather.”

  “What if we travel by train?”

  “Maybe twenty-five days by train, but you still must travel by horse or on foot beyond Aleppo. It is a difficult journey.”

  Sirak sighed sadly. Twenty-five days, he thought to himself. How will I ever find my way back to Tiran?

  After more than an hour of riding, the cavalry pulled up at a fork in the road and waited for the trailing wagon.

  “May God protect you, Major,” the wiry leader shouted.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” al-Kawukji replied. “I’ll see you back in Diyarbekir.”

  The soldier turned and scanned the distant hills. “God smiles on you. It looks like there’s rain ahead. Take care in the pass, especially at night. The bloodthirsty nomad tribesmen will slit your throat for the women and horses. I wish we could escort you further, but my orders are to patrol the river to the east.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. We’ll be on our guard. I’ll see you next week.”

  The cavalry trotted off in a cloud of dust and the major led the wagon down the southern fork that led directly toward the notch in the distant hills. As they rode away from the river, the terrain became an arid, inhospitable wasteland that was dotted here and there with patches of olive and emerald. These oases were invariably crowded with the makeshift shacks of lowly peasants who eked out an existence on the unforgiving, barren land.

  The closer they got to the hills, the more rutted and treacherous the rocky dirt road became. From time to time, they passed travelers headed in the opposite direction, toward Diyarbekir—including entire families that carried what little they owned on their backs. In one group, Sirak spotted a dark-skinned young boy hobbling along the road holding his mother’s hand. His hair was mottled with alopecia and he was dressed in filthy, ragged clothes. Staggering under his own weight, he bore the inimitable look of the incurably ill. Staring indifferently at the ground in front of him, he suddenly glanced up, and squinting through slit-like eyes, smiled at Sirak.

  Sirak waved and returned his smile. He wondered where the boy had been and where he was going.

  The hills grew larger and darker the further they traveled. As the tiny caravan made its way through mile after mile of monotonous wasteland, the oppressive heat and humidity soared. The sweat streamed down the faces of the travelers and saturated their garments. Then, as if sent by God, a merciful drizzle began to fall, followed a short time later by a blinding downpour that forced the wagon to the side of the road. It rained hard for nearly two hours, but ended as quickly as it had begun.

  They pressed on for several more hours through insufferable heat and biting insects making slow, but steady, progress toward the hills. Along the way, they passed several dilapidated inns that had once fed and sheltered wealthier travelers on the arduous journey through southeast Anatolia. All of them were abandoned, used now only as cover for vagrants and homeless people. Several had been burned to the ground.

  A little after midday, they reached the starting point of the sinuous trail into the hills. Major al-Kawukji pulled up his horse and directed Hakan into a grassy clearing beneath a stand of trees.

  Al-Kawukji mopped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. “It’s too hot to go any further. We’ll wait here for a few hours and rest the horses. Hakan, water the horses and tie them over there beneath the trees in the long grass. Sergeant, you and Bekir stand guard in those rocks where you can see the road in both directions. Stay alert and signal me immediately if you spot anything worrisome. I’ll send the boys with food and drink.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied. He and Bekir trotted up the hill and climbed onto a rocky ledge overlooking the narrow curve in the road.

  Kristina and Elizabeth spread blankets on the ground beneath a tree and unpacked several loaves of bread and a small block of cheese. They set the food on the blanket and prepared a portion for the soldiers.

  The major plopped down on one of the blankets. “Where’s Sirak?”

  Hakan chuckled. “With the horse. Look at them.”

  Al-Kawukji glanced around and chuckled at the sight of Sirak standing with his arms wrapped around Tiran’s foreleg. The horse whinnied and playfully nuzzled his head. “Let me ask you, who seeing that could say the horse didn’t belong to him?”

  Kristina laughed at the spectacle. “They were inseparable from the moment Tiran was born. It truly is a miracle.”

  “Isa could find another mount in Ras ul-Ain, but, unfortunately, there’s no chance the horse can get on that train.”

  “Just let them enjoy being together while they can,” Kristina said. “Sirak’s a bright boy. He’ll understand Tiran can’t go with us.”

  “Sirak should eat while he has the chance,” Elizabeth said. “He must keep up his strength.”

  Kristina passed the bread. “Don’t worry, I’ll take him some after we finish. So, Major, where’s your home?”

  “My family owns a small farm near Sinop—on the Black Sea.”

  “I’ve heard of it. How did you come to be a soldier?”

  “I joined the army when I was seventeen years old. My father was a fisherman, but the sea doesn’t suit me. My stomach seizes violently when I even look at swells.”

  “When did you come to Diyarbekir?”

  “Two months before the war started, although I was stationed in the east near Erzerum for the first six months.”

  “My eldest son reported for service a year ago, but I haven’t seen or heard from him since. Perhaps you know him—Alek Kazerian?”

  Al-Kawukji stared at the blanket. “No, I don’t know him.”

  “I just wish I knew where he was,” Kristina lamented. “Major, how much longer will this war last?”

  “I really don’t know. But the end is written—the Empire is destined to lose.”

  “Really? What makes you so certain?”

  The major sighed. “A blind man could see it. We joined the wrong side. The army could’ve held off the Russians for years, but not when they’re in an alliance with the British and the French, too. Even Enver Pasha’s alliance with the Germans won’t make a bit of difference.”

  “Major, why are my people being deported?” Kristina asked thoughtfully.

  “There’s no simple explanation. To be sure, Pasha doesn’t trust your people and he blames them for many of his own failings. He foolishly sent the army into the mountains in the dead of winter. Our troops were annihilated by weather and disease. Now he blames the Armenians for his own stupidity. Without a doubt, there were Armenians fighting with the Russians, and
in the heat of the battle, some of our own Armenian soldiers went over to the other side in Sarikamish. But there were many others who fought to the bitter end.”

  “But why are they arresting the Americans, too?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” the major replied. He glanced up at the rocks where Isa and Bekir were standing guard.

  “I’ll tell you why,” Elizabeth said, “to eliminate witnesses. Reshid is determined to hide his depraved acts from the rest of the world—atrocities like the torture and murder of my husband.”

  A long silence fell over the group. The major glanced up at the sun. He stuffed another chunk of bread into his mouth.

  “Am I right, Major?” Elizabeth asked.

  The major didn’t reply. He broke off a chunk of cheese.

  “Am I, Major?” Elizabeth persisted.

  Al-Kawukji stood up. “Yes, you’re right. I must relieve my men now.” He walked away, cradling his rifle.

  Kristina watched him until he disappeared. “He’s a good man.”

  “Maybe,” Elizabeth said warily, “but he knows a lot more than he’s willing to tell.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s something he’s not telling us. Maybe Reshid sent him to do away with us.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Kristina scoffed. “Why travel two days across the desert to kill us? If that was his scheme, he could’ve done it early this morning, and nobody would’ve been the wiser.”

  “Maybe he was ordered to get us as far from Diyarbekir as possible.”

  “Nonsense. You’re always so suspicious of people, especially when they treat you with kindness. I’m willing to accept his help as a simple act of humanity. Besides, what choice do we have?”

  “None,” Elizabeth replied uneasily. “None at all.”

  The travelers set out for Mardin again a few hours later. The narrow road wove monotonously south and their pace slowed to a crawl. Although the sun was lower in the sky, its sweltering rays weren’t blocked by the parched hilltops that rose above the road.

  “How much farther, Major?” Hakan asked. “My horse isn’t accustomed to such hard work.”

  “Two hours more. We’ll stop well before dark.”

  Al-Kawukji turned at the sound of horses galloping up the road. Four men on horseback rounded the bend and bore down on them. They wore scruffy clothes and white turbans. The youngest was just a boy.

  “Good afternoon,” one of them called out. He was a swarthy man with a long beard and mustache.

  “Good afternoon,” the major replied. “I’m Major al-Kawukji.”

  The man wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “Good to meet you, Major. My name is Adem from Elbis. Could you spare us feed for our horses and a loaf of bread?”

  “I’m sorry, but we’re short ourselves, with a long journey ahead of us.”

  “I understand. Where are you headed?”

  “We’re taking the women and children to Mardin.”

  “That’s where we’re headed, too. Well, actually, we’re riding to my uncle’s farm just west of the city.” He peered past the major at Kristina and Elizabeth sitting with Hakan and Izabella on a slope behind the wagon. Mikael and Sirak were standing in the rocks at the top of the slope. “We’ll take them to Mardin for you.”

  “I appreciate your offer, but Mardin is just our first stop. We’re taking them on to Ras ul-Ain to meet the train to Aleppo.”

  “Ras ul-Ain isn’t far out of our way. We’d be happy to relieve you, if you can spare us some food for our horses.”

  “Dear God, no,” Kristina whispered beneath her breath. She glanced worriedly at Elizabeth.

  “Thank you,” the major replied, “but we’re meeting a detachment of cavalry in Ras ul-Ain. You can buy food and supplies from the villagers at Kabu Oasis.”

  “Yes, God willing, I’m sure you’re right. We’ll be on our way then. Good afternoon.”

  The man rode past the major, and his companions trotted up the trail after him. All four men ogled the women as they passed. The leader whispered something to the rider next to him, and the man laughed out loud.

  Major al-Kawukji watched the riders until they disappeared around the bend in the road. “Kurdish chetes,” he growled contemptuously. “They’re probably some of the criminals who were released from the Central Prison in Mardin.”

  “Maybe we should stop here for the night,” the sergeant suggested. He glanced over his shoulder at the women. “We could hide the wagon in the trees and sleep up there in the rocks.”

  The major let out a worried sigh. “No, we can’t stop yet. We’ve got to make it to Ras ul-Ain tomorrow before the arrest orders are issued.”

  “What about the Armenians, sir?” Private Bekir asked pointedly.

  “What about them?” the major asked brusquely.

  “Well, I just thought...”

  “Don’t think, Private. Just do as you’re told.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Quiet now, here they come.”

  “Who were those men, Major?” Elizabeth asked worriedly.

  “Just some Kurdish villagers looking to buy feed for their horses.”

  “They’re headed to Mardin?”

  “That’s what they said. Are you ready? We’ve got to ride for two more hours before we stop for the night.”

  “I’m ready. I’ll tell Kristina.”

  Al-Kawukji glanced up at the westward progress of the sun. “We’ll ride in five minutes.”

  The last leg of the day’s journey proved uneventful. Late in the afternoon, they passed a few small villages and a contingent of haggard infantrymen headed north, but otherwise traffic was sparse through the desolate hills. The major considered stopping for the night at a small Kurdish village, but ultimately decided they’d be better off camping alone-—preferring not to place their security in the hands of strangers. They finally stopped in a clearing where an L-shaped rocky enclosure created a perfect view up and down the road in both directions. The blood-red sun dropped beneath a jagged hilltop and the sweltering afternoon faded into twilight.

  After another meal of bread and cheese, Elizabeth, Kristina and the children settled down on blankets in a small ravine. The soldiers secured the horses and wagon nearby.

  Major al-Kawukji gazed up the road. “Two of us will stand watch while the other sleeps, and we’ll switch every two hours. Who wants to sleep first? You, Isa?”

  “No, sir, it’s too early for me.”

  “I’m not tired either, Major,” Bekir said. “You should rest first.”

  “Okay, then, I’ll sleep first. Awaken me in two hours.”

  “Yes, sir,” Isa replied.

  The major fetched his bedding from the wagon and unrolled it across the ground. He checked his rifle, rolled over on his side and closed his eyes. His snore soon echoed across the clearing.

  Bekir mused aloud about the war and his family for the better part of an hour.

  Isa listened attentively and gazed up at the rising moon. Finally, he knelt on the ground to clean his rifle. When he finished, he reloaded and rose to his feet. Bekir had dozed against a rock. What the hell? Isa thought to himself. Why should both of us lose sleep? He sat beside the private and peered at the darkened trail below.

  Staring down at the shadowy, darkened road, Isa cradled his rifle in his arms. He listened for a long while to the chirp of a cricket. He nodded off briefly, but his head jerked up with a start. Rubbing his eyes, he rose to his feet and stretched. He ate the last of his cheese and took a deep breath before crouching back down.

  Isa scanned down to the bend in the road and stretched his arms into the air. He stared up through the trees at the moon and yawned loudly. He peered bleary-eyed at the dark road. Finally, yielding to the muggy night, his chin dropped to his chest.

  Major al-Kawukji bolted upright on his blanket. He glanced behind him. The women and children were asleep on the ground a few meters away. Peering through the darkness, he glimpsed the sil
houettes of two men scurrying across the ravine to the wagon and horses. He groped for his rifle and jumped to his feet. “Isa? Is that you?”

  The high-pitched whinny of a horse echoed across the clearing.

  Al-Kawukji ran toward the trees. “Isa! Bekir!” he shouted. “Bandits!”

  An instant later, a blood-curdling scream echoed through the darkness.

  Al-Kawukji spotted a man with a white turban climbing atop one of the horses. The horse broke for the road. The major raised his rifle and squeezed off a shot. The rider fell backwards off the horse to the ground. Running down the hill, the major caught a glimpse of two more men in turbans sprinting away from the rocks. He fired again, and the nearest man tumbled to the ground. Al-Kawukji took aim again, but lost the other intruder in the shadows. He dashed to the horses.

  Tiran was galloping in circles around the clearing. Spinning to face the major, the chestnut stallion whinnied defiantly.

  “Easy, boy,” al-Kawukji whispered. He grabbed the reins.

  Sirak and Mikael ran down the hillside. “Tiran!” Sirak shouted excitedly.

  “He’s okay,” al-Kawukji whispered. “You boys hold him here while I secure the other horses.”

  Sirak pointed toward a mound on the ground. “What’s that?”

  Aiming his rifle, al-Kawukji stepped warily toward the motionless figure. “It’s a bandit with his forehead bashed in. The horse must have kicked him.”

  The major ran across the clearing to the man he’d shot. Lying on his back and trembling with fear, the wide-eyed bandit raised his hand and gasped for mercy.

  “Go to hell!” al-Kawukji barked. He drew his sword and slashed the thief across the neck.

  Then he grabbed a knife that lay on the ground and ran back to the boys. “Stay here with the horses while I check on Isa and Bekir. Use this knife to defend yourselves and the women.”

  Al-Kawukji skulked warily up the hill to the rocky enclosure where he’d left his men. Stepping around a boulder, he gasped in horror. Isa and Bekir were lying on the ground in pools of blood. Their throats were slit wide open.