The Ghosts of Anatolia Read online

  “Fucking murderers!” al-Kawukji bellowed in anguish. He dropped his rifle and slumped to his knees beside Isa’s body. “Isa, my friend,” he sobbed.

  Al-Kawukji mounted his horse, and repositioning his sword, turned toward the wagon. Elizabeth, Kristina and the children were huddled in the rear. Hakan sat in the driver’s seat with a rifle across his lap. Two riderless horses were tied to the tail of the wagon.

  “Okay,” the major called out, “we’ll take the next few turns on the run. If we get ambushed, don’t stop. Keep going, no matter what. Mikael, are you ready?”

  “I’m ready,” Mikael called back from the wagon bed. He held up a rifle.

  “Okay, move!” al-Kawukji shouted. He galloped past them with his rifle clutched beneath his arm.

  The wagon lurched around the first bend, and tipping onto two wheels, rumbled down a steep incline. It splashed through a muddy furrow, rattled into a narrow clearing and slid sideways through a patch of underbrush. Jostled about in the bed, the women and younger children clung desperately to the sideboards.

  Al-Kawukji galloped across a dry riverbed and through a series of short switchbacks. Peeking back over his shoulder, he re-gripped the reins, galloped to the next turn and rode to the top of a ridge. Finally, he tugged on the reins and stopped in the middle of the road.

  The wagon thundered through the last turn and Hakan jerked back on the reins. “Whoa!” he bellowed. The wagon clattered to a stop.

  “Is everyone okay?” Major al-Kawukji called out.

  “I’m okay,” Elizabeth gasped.

  Kristina pulled herself to her knees and clutched wide-eyed Izabella. “We’re okay, too.”

  “Whee!” Sirak shouted. He jumped up on the tailgate and patted Tiran on the head. “Can we do it again?”

  The major shook his head and grinned. “No, little fearless one, we must save the horses. We’re still four or five hours from Mardin.”

  “Can I ride Tiran, Major?” Sirak pleaded. He smoothed back the horse’s glistening mane.

  “That’s up to your mother.”

  Kristina nodded. “It’s okay, if you stay beside the wagon.”

  Major al-Kawukji untied Tiran, and pulling him along the sideboard, held him steady. Sirak climbed onto the horse’s back and grabbed the reins. Shifting his weight forward on Tiran’s back, he smiled at his mother. “Don’t worry, Mama, we’ll protect you.”

  CHAPTER 33

  June 22, 1915

  Major al-Kawukji led his charges along the winding road deep into the windswept hills of southern Anatolia, approaching the ancient city of Mardin from the north. Sirak rode Tiran for nearly two hours, but tired of the constant jostling and returned to the wagon. Enduring a scorching sun and bothersome insects, the tiny caravan pressed on doggedly through the middle of the second morning.

  At first they passed only occasional travelers and military units headed in the opposite direction. Early in the afternoon, however, the trickle of traffic headed north became a flood, and an unsettling trend developed. Many travelers ran headlong into the brush the moment they spotted the wagon and horses.

  “Where are all these people from?” Elizabeth asked anxiously.

  “Mardin,” Major al-Kawukji replied. “Or from the railway station in Ras ul-Ain.”

  Elizabeth glanced up at another large group that appeared around the next curve. They, too, scattered like mice into the brush. “Look!”

  “They’re terrified,” Kristina gasped.

  Sirak and Mikael climbed into the driver’s seat with Hakan. They watched with amazement as the same response played out time and again. Fleeing in panic from the road, each group hid in the brush until their wagon passed.

  Finally, a rundown ox cart overloaded with household goods headed directly toward them. The driver—an old Turk wearing a fez—nodded at the major.

  “What’s going on up ahead?” al-Kawukji called out to him. “What are all these travelers running from?”

  “The army is rounding up all the infidels in Mardin and the surrounding villages,” the man yelled back. “The city is total chaos. Be on your guard.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Al-Kawukji replied. He glanced worriedly at Elizabeth. “We must hurry to make it to Ras ul-Ain before dark.”

  A few kilometers north of Mardin, an army detail herding a large group of detainees appeared in the middle of the road ahead of them. A young Turkish officer on horseback was the first to spot them. Breaking away from the others, he galloped toward the wagon.

  “Damn it,” al-Kawukji grumbled beneath his breath. “Don’t anyone say a word. Let me do all the talking.”

  The brash lieutenant trotted up to the major. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Good day, Lieutenant. It looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

  “Yes, sir. We began a northern sweep this morning and I’ve already rounded up more than one hundred fifty infidels who escaped from the city. Where are you headed, sir?”

  “To Ras Ul-ain. How’s the road, Lieutenant?”

  “Crowded, sir. All the roads have been choked with traffic headed to the internment centers ever since Governor-General Reshid issued his orders early this morning.”

  Al-Kawukji peered up the road at the prisoners. “Armenians and Syrians?”

  “Not only them—Maronites, Nestorians and Europeans, too. Are those horses tied to the wagon available, sir? We could sure use them.”

  “The chestnut stallion belongs to me, but you can take the other one. It belonged to one of my men who was murdered by Kurdish bandits.”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir. Those damned chetes are creating havoc all over Southern Anatolia. Would you like me to take those detainees off your hands?”

  “The lieutenant governor-general ordered me to personally take them to Ras ul-Ain. The brother-in-law of the dark-haired woman is a member of the Ottoman Assembly.”

  The lieutenant stared at the wagon. “The Ottoman Assembly, huh? What about the European woman?”

  “An American nurse from Diyarbekir, and my mistress.”

  “Your mistress?” the young soldier blurted out. He glanced into the wagon once again.

  Elizabeth’s face and clothes were smeared with dirt, and her tangled hair was blowing haphazardly in the warm breeze.

  “She cleans up well,” al-Kawukji whispered. “She’s headed to Aleppo and, unfortunately for me, then back home.”

  The lieutenant laughed and rode over to Major al-Kawukji. “It’s your lucky day, sir,” he whispered. “There’s plenty of young pussy up there to go around.” He chuckled. “Take any girl you like except for the slender brunette in the blue dress up front. I’m taking her home with me.”

  “No thanks, Lieutenant,” the major replied good-humoredly. “I’ve already got one.” He motioned toward the wagon, where Izabella was standing at the sideboard with her mother. “I’ve taken a fancy to the young one.”

  The lieutenant erupted into laughter. “I see, sir. I’m fond of the young ones myself. Well, you’d better be on your way if you plan to make Ras ul-Ain before dark. Take the direct route to the west of Mardin to avoid the heaviest traffic. You’ll see a sign a kilometer up the road. I’ll just take that extra horse.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for your advice, Lieutenant.”

  The lieutenant rode up to the wagon and untied the black horse under Sirak’s watchful eyes. He rode back to the caravan and passed the horse off to one of his men.

  Major al-Kawukji led the wagon through the disheveled and dejected detainees. Tied together in groups of twenty or more, the soldiers forced them off the road so the wagon could pass.

  Sirak stared at the crestfallen prisoners as the wagon rumbled past them. None of them looked up. “Where are they taking them, mama?”

  Kristina wrapped her arm around Sirak’s shoulders. “I don’t know, Son. Home, I hope.”

  Sirak nuzzled against Mikael, and the two boys watched in silence until the wagon rattled around a bend in the
road.

  The major took the lieutenant’s advice and led his charges through the barren countryside via the direct road to Ras ul-Ain. That route allowed them to bypass much of the traffic created by the sudden deportation of thousands of non-Muslim citizens from Mardin and the surrounding villages. A few kilometers beyond the fork, they passed a sprawling, makeshift camp dotted with improvised tents and surrounded by dozens of armed soldiers and gendarmes.

  Izabella scooted between her mother and Sirak and clutched the sideboard as they rumbled past. Sirak waved at a group of women and children standing together just inside the perimeter. A young boy waved back. A gendarme on horseback rode out and screamed obscenities. He shooed the group back to the center of the enclosure.

  Sirak glanced up at his mother’s angst-ridden face. “Is he going home, too, Mama?”

  Kristina looked down and smiled dolefully. “I don’t know, little mouse, but I hope so.”

  Izabella tugged at Kristina’s dress. “Mama, I need to pee pee.”

  The major turned his horse to the wagon. “I don’t want to answer any more questions. We’ll stop in fifteen minutes to water the horses. Can she hold off until then?”

  Kristina nodded. She gathered Izabella into her lap and whispered words of comfort into her ear.

  The badly rutted road twisted and turned through parched, sun-baked wasteland for several more kilometers. Finally, they reached the crest of a precipitous descent, and a sweeping view of the Mesopotamian Plains opened up to the south. Desolate and harsh, the gently rolling, sandy-brown hills appeared completely devoid of life. Far to the east, the city of Mardin sprawled down a sloping hillside beneath majestic vertical cliffs. Constructed over the centuries from indigenous yellow-brown calcareous rock, the city seemed to sparkle invitingly in the blistering rays of the afternoon sun.

  Sheltering her eyes with her hand, Kristina gazed out at the distant plains. “It’s magnificent,” she whispered. She handed Izabella to the major, jumped to the ground and took the little girl’s hand. “Izabella, let’s go behind those rocks. Mikael, don’t wander off too far, and keep an eye on your brother. This is no time for another viper bite.”

  “Okay, mama. Can we hike to the top of the hill and come right back?”

  “Ask Major al-Kawukji,” she called back over her shoulder. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

  Sirak jumped up and down beside Mikael. “Can we, sir?”

  “What about your horse? Don’t you think he’s thirsty, too?”

  Sulking disappointedly, the young boy stuck out his bottom lip and walked back to the wagon.

  The major chuckled. “Hakan and I will take care of him.”

  Sirak grinned and turned to run after his brother.

  “But you can’t expect to get Tiran back if you don’t take care of him.”

  Sirak stopped dead in his tracks and kicked dejectedly at the dirt.

  Hakan glanced at al-Kawukji, and the major grinned mischievously. “I’ll give him his water,” the old Turk called out to Sirak.

  “Be back in five minutes,” al-Kawukji yelled. “We’ve only got three or four more hours of sunlight.”

  “Thank you, Hakan!” Sirak called out gleefully. He ran up the hill after Mikael.

  The spiteful sun became a sliver of red beneath a line of distant clouds and set below the horizon by the time the wagon jerked to a stop outside the East Ras ul-Ain train station. The lot teemed with frenzied people, some of whom looked like they’d camped outside for days. Again, a commotion ensued when the major trotted his horse in ahead of the wagon. Dozens of people, apparently fearful of being detained, melted away into the nearby slum neighborhood.

  “You’re wasting your time,” an old Turk called out to them from his perch atop a wall outside the station. “There aren’t any tickets available—at least for a month.”

  “A month?” al-Kawukji asked incredulously. “Heading to Aleppo?”

  “Heading anywhere. Even the Mosul trains are booked solid. If you have enough money, there’s a scum clerk inside selling tickets for outrageous sum—enough to buy a farm.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s the fat man wearing a black uniform. I think he’s the supervisor.”

  “Thank you,” Major al-Kawukji grumbled. Tying his horse to the tailgate, he walked around the side of the wagon. “Do you have money to pay a bribe?” he asked Nurse Barton.

  “I hope so. I brought every kurus we had.”

  “I’ll go bargain with the clerk. How much can you spend?”

  “Whatever it takes,” she replied determinedly.

  The major nodded. “Mrs. Kazerian, how much money do you have for tickets?”

  “I’ve got one hundred ten lire and a gold necklace and earrings. I’ll pay whatever the man asks.”

  “Kristina, you’ll need your money to travel to Jerusalem,” Elizabeth interrupted. “I’ve got plenty for everyone. It doesn’t matter how much he wants; just get us tickets on the first available train.”

  “We can’t take your money, Elizabeth,” Kristina said.

  “Yes you can. Major, I’ve got enough money and I insist on paying for all the tickets. Kristina needs everything she has for her journey to Jerusalem.”

  “Okay, I’ll do my best,” al-Kawukji replied. He headed up the steps and disappeared into the depot.

  The station was total bedlam. Several hundred adults and children were sprawled across the floor, and belongings were piled high against the walls. Dozens of people were standing in each of the four ticket lines.

  The major scrutinized the clerks at the windows. He bypassed the lines and headed to the first window. A young European couple at the front was engaged in a heated discussion with the clerk.

  “You, sir,” the young man barked in broken Arabic, “are a shyster. Rest assured, we’ll be reporting you to the German ambassador! Come on, Gretchen, let’s get out of here.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Major al-Kawukji said, cutting in front of the next person in line—a dark-skinned old man with Kurdish features, “I’d like to have a word with this clerk.” He pushed to the window.

  Puffed with self-importance, the clerk scowled through the window, but cleared his throat nervously when he spied the insignias on the major’s uniform. “Good evening, sir. How may I help you?”

  “I’m Major al-Kawukji from Army Central Intelligence. I’ve brought five important travelers from Diyarbekir, and I want them on the next train to Aleppo.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s impossible. There’s not a single seat available until July 28.”

  “Do you mind?” the major barked gruffly at the man behind him. Pushing the startled man back, al-Kawukji leaned beneath the window. “Sir, these people must be on the next train. I understand priority seating is available if one pays a commission.”

  The clerk’s eyes widened with surprise, but he quickly recovered his composure. Glancing warily down the counter, he leaned against the window. “How many passengers?” he whispered.

  “I told you, five—two women and three children.”

  “Can they make the trip in three seats?”

  “I should think so.”

  “What are the nationalities of your travelers?”

  “One woman is American, and the rest are Armenian.”

  The clerk’s eye bulged even wider. “I’m sorry, but you must be aware of the governor-general’s orders. I can’t sell tickets to...”

  “I don’t give a damn about the orders,” al-Kawukji interrupted. “I want them on the next train.”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  Standing back from the window, Major al-Kawukji took a deep breath. He scowled once again at the man behind him and leaned down to the window. “What’s your name?” he demanded sternly.

  The clerk’s cheeks flushed. “My...my name?”

  “Yes, what’s your name?”

  “Ali Atta, sir.”

  “Ali, do you have sons?”


  “Yes, sir, I have two.”

  “How old are they and what are their names?”

  The clerk stared back with terror-filled eyes.

  “How old are they and what are their names?” the major demanded.

  “Hasan is fifteen and Okan is fourteen,” the clerk muttered warily.

  “Well, if you don’t want Hasan sent to the Russian front tomorrow, I suggest you find a way to get my charges on that next train. Do you understand me?”

  The clerk gaped at the major for a long moment. Sweating profusely, he glanced at two clerks talking nearby. “Okay,” he whispered beneath the window, “one hundred lire per person for three seats.”

  “One hundred lire!” al-Kawukji growled. “That’s outrageous! I’ll give you fifty lire total—for all five people.”

  The clerk stared at the counter for a moment and then closed his eyes in resignation. “Okay, bring them to the rear door of the last passenger car when the train arrives. Under no circumstances should any of them admit they’re Armenian.”

  “I understand. What time is the train expected?”

  “Twenty-one hundred hours, but it’s almost always late.” The clerk pushed three tickets and a white envelope beneath the window. “Put the commission in this envelope and hand it to the conductor when he asks for your tickets. Make sure his name is Sencer. He should be the first one on the car. Only one piece of luggage is allowed per seat—three total for the five of them. Everything else must be left behind.”

  “Very well. I’ll make sure they get on that train. Good evening, sir.”

  The westbound train to Aleppo pulled into the station a few minutes after midnight. Elizabeth and Kristina ushered the children to the last car.

  Kristina glanced back down the busy platform. “Where’s Sirak?” she called out frantically.

  “He’s saying goodbye to his horse,” al-Kawukji said. “Don’t worry, Hakan’s bringing him.”

  Elizabeth waited patiently for several other passengers to board the car ahead of them. “Row 16, A, B, and C,” she said. “That must be nearly the last row.”