The Ghosts of Anatolia Read online

  The conductor turned and headed back to the front of the car before Elizabeth could question him further.

  Shifting in her seat, Elizabeth caught Kristina’s mortified stare. “It’ll be fine. If they do come to speak to us, let me talk to them.”

  Kristina made the sign of the cross and let out an anxious sigh.

  Elizabeth reached beneath the seat and fished through the bottom of her bag. Counting out several more banknotes, she stuffed them inside the envelope.

  The train screeched to a stop in a dimly-lit station. Gazing out the window, Kristina spied dozens of people crowded onto the platform. Suddenly, a group of gendarmes caught her eye. Waiting for the doors to open, they hurried to the train.

  “Ras Ul-ain Central Station,” the conductor shouted.

  Izabella and Sirak pressed their noses to the window. They peered at the commotion on the platform and several passengers got up to retrieve their belongings, including the trio in the seat in front of them.

  “Mama, is this Jerusalem?” Sirak asked hopefully.

  “No, Son, we’re still in Ras Ul-ain.” Kristina glanced warily out the window at a gendarme waiting to board the car. “I want you boys to listen to me. If a policeman comes onto the train, I don’t want you to speak to him. Do you understand? Nurse Barton does the talking.”

  “Why, Mama?” Sirak asked innocently.

  Kristina grasped his knee. “Don’t ask me why; just do as I say.”

  Sirak nodded woundedly. Standing in the aisle, he peered toward the front of the train.

  The gendarme boarded a moment later. He exchanged pleasantries with the conductor and asked the passengers in the front row for their documents.

  It seemed an eternity before the gendarme reached the back of the car. He glanced at Kristina and the children while checking the documents of the couple in front of them.

  Kristina’s pulse raced and beads of sweat ran down her neck. She watched the passenger in the seat in front of them pull several letters and books out of his luggage and hand them to the gendarme. The policeman glanced at the books and handed them back, but placed the letters in a basket overflowing with newspapers, letters and other confiscated materials. Finally, he handed the couple back their documents and stepped back to Nurse Barton and the Kazerians.

  “Documents,” he said gruffly.

  Elizabeth handed him hers. “Sir,” she said coolly, “my name is Elizabeth Barton. I’m an American nurse. I’ve been working at hospitals in Anatolia for the past five years, including the Missionary Hospital in Diyarbekir. This is my sister, Kristina, and her children. They don’t have their documents because of a fire that broke out in our quarters just before we left Diyarbekir.”

  “Sister,” the man repeated skeptically. He glanced at Elizabeth’s documents for a moment, and then stared at Kristina and the children. “Where were you born?” he asked Kristina.

  “She was born in Syria,” Elizabeth replied. “My parents adopted her when my father worked in Damascus many years ago.”

  “Can she speak for herself?” the gendarme asked frustratedly. “Where is your husband?”

  “I, I don’t know, sir,” Kristina stuttered. “He joined the army at the beginning of the war and we haven’t heard from him since.”

  “And your husband, madam?” he asked Elizabeth. “Where is he?”

  “He died of typhus two weeks ago. That’s why we’ve decided to leave Anatolia.”

  “Where are you headed?” he asked Elizabeth.

  “To Aleppo, and then on to America.”

  “Well, before you can travel any further, you’ll need to obtain new documents for your sister and her children. The mayor’s office opens at nine tomorrow morning.”

  “But we’ll lose our seats on the train,” Elizabeth protested.

  “That’s not my concern. Please collect your belongings.”

  “Wait,” Elizabeth said, holding Kristina in her seat. “I forgot; I do have documents.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the white envelope. She handed it to the gendarme.

  The gendarme opened the envelope and spread the banknotes. “Do you have gold lire?”

  “That’s all I have, sir.”

  “Then my fee is two hundred paper lire.”

  “Two hundred lire,” Elizabeth snapped. “That’s outrageous!”

  He handed her the envelope. “Two hundred,” he repeated sternly. “That’s my fee.”

  Elizabeth sighed. She reached beneath the seat, slipped several more banknotes from the side pocket of her bag and handed them to the gendarme.

  The man counted the money and stuffed the envelope into his pocket. “Do you have any written or printed materials?”

  “I have books and letters,” Elizabeth replied. She glanced at Kristina.

  “I’ve got a few letters, too,” Kristina admitted.

  “Give them to me.”

  Standing up, both women rummaged through their bags. They handed him several letters and books.

  The gendarme pointed at the overhead rack. “What about this bag?”

  “There are no printed materials in that bag,” Kristina replied. “It contains my children’s clothes.”

  The man tossed the letters into his basket and thumbed through the books one at a time. He handed Elizabeth each book he finished, until he came to the last book—The Holy Bible. He opened it and glanced up. “Are you Christians?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth replied candidly, “we are Christians.”

  “How about you, young man?” he asked Sirak. “Are you a Christian?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sirak replied, “I’m a Christian, too.”

  “Does your God protect you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sirak replied, with a definitive nod. “He saved me when a viper bit my foot. See, right here?”

  “Your God must be a very powerful. What is your name, young man?”

  “Sirak, sir.”

  “And your last name—what is it?”

  “Kazerian, sir.”

  “Kazerian,” the gendarme repeated with a smile. “Are you Armenian, Sirak?”

  Sirak peered up at his mother. She was white as a sheet. She stared at Sirak, but did not speak.

  “Yes, sir,” Sirak finally replied, “I am Armenian.”

  “And your brother and sister, are they Armenian, too?”

  Sirak glanced at Izabella and Mikael, and then looked up at the gendarme. “Yes, sir, they’re Armenians, too.”

  Kristina closed her eyes and gripped the back of the seat in front of her. Her heart was pounding.

  The gendarme stood silently regarding Sirak for several moments. Finally, he handed Elizabeth her Bible. “Such honesty is deserving of reward. But I advise all of you to adopt the surname Barton and deny your Armenian heritage until you are far away from the Ottoman Empire. Have a good night.” The gendarme walked to the rear of the car and disappeared down the stairs.

  Elizabeth sat back in her seat and sighed with relief.

  Kristina took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. She traced the sign of the cross across her chest.

  The train pulled out of the Ras Ul-ain Central Station a little after one in the morning and rumbled west through dark, featureless desert. A long delay ensued in Jerablus—an ancient city sprawled along the banks of the Euphrates River—and Elizabeth was forced to pay yet another bribe, this time to a conductor who threatened to give their seats to a French family. Elizabeth slipped him one hundred lire. A young couple at the front of the car was removed from the train. It was four in the morning when they finally rattled out of Jerablus.

  Sirak fought to keep his eyes open. Finally, he drifted off to a restless sleep.

  The train approached Aleppo a little before six the next morning. Just north of the city, on a road that paralleled the railroad tracks, Mikael spied a large caravan of people—mostly women and children—trekking south toward Aleppo. Most of the travelers were on foot, although a few had horses or donkeys.

  “Look at them
all,” he muttered loudly enough to wake up Sirak.

  Sirak wiped the sleep from his eyes and stared out through the window at the disheveled and exhausted travelers. One young woman in a tattered white dress caught his eye. Laboring with her baby behind the main body of refugees, she stumbled to her knees, then struggled to her feet and staggered after the others.

  Sirak glanced at his mother. “Mama, are they going to Jerusalem, too?”

  “I hope so,” Kristina replied with a sad smile. She patted him on the head and hugged him to her chest.

  The train screeched to a stop beside a platform teeming with passengers. Gathering their bags, Elizabeth and Kristina helped the children off the train.

  Before they could reach the terminal, a young lieutenant stationed outside caught sight of them. “Are you Armenians?” he asked Kristina.

  “No, sir, I’m Syrian.”

  “Let me see your papers.”

  “I’m an American and this is my adopted daughter and her children,” Elizabeth interjected. “Their bag was stolen in the Ras Ul-ain station. Here are my papers.”

  The officer glanced through her papers and handed them back. “What’s your destination?”

  “America, but we’re staying here in Aleppo tonight.”

  “Madam, your daughter and grandchildren must obtain replacement papers. The mayor’s office is a few blocks north of the station.”

  “Thank you, sir. We’ll be sure to go this afternoon, but first we need a warm bath. Can you recommend a nearby inn?”

  “You’ll find several just down the street from the train station. Just go left out the main entrance.”

  “I appreciate your help, sir.”

  The officer nodded and headed off to another group of passengers. One of his men—a young private—lingered behind. He waited for the officer to engage another group before approaching Kristina.

  “I’m Armenian, and believe me anyone who sees you will know you’re Armenian, too. Don’t go anywhere near the mayor’s office. You and your children will be forced into one of the detention centers outside the city. It is unspeakable what is happening to our people there.”

  “Where should we go?” Kristina asked.

  The soldier glanced once again toward the lieutenant, then whispered. “Go to Father Leonian at the Gregorian Church. He’ll help you. I must go now. May God protect you.” The private hurried after his unit and disappeared into the station.

  Kristina turned to Elizabeth. “Dear God, what should we do now?”

  “Take his advice.” She picked up her bag. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Nurse Barton negotiated with an old Turk outside the station, and soon they were bumping along the uneven streets of Aleppo in the chaff-strewn bed of a horse-drawn cart. The driver headed directly to the Jdeide Quarter—home not only to the Gregorian Church, but also the Syrian Catholic Church and the Greek Orthodox Church.

  Sirak peered out at the ancient city dominated by the massive walls of the citadel. In the distance, the dome and minaret of the Great Mosque loomed majestically atop a hill.

  As he stared into the distance, he felt the weight of Izabella’s stare. Sitting in Kristina’s lap, she was peeking out from beneath her mother’s arms. He smiled and reached out to brush her hair back from her eyes.

  The cart bumped on for several blocks before turning onto a wide avenue and making a U-turn in the middle of the street. They pulled to a stop in front of a rather plain church.

  Tying his horse to a post, the driver helped the women and children down from the cart. He lined up their bags along the side of the building, climbed back into the cart and drove away without uttering a word.

  The street in front of the church was strangely deserted. Kristina picked up Izabella and followed Elizabeth to the main entrance.

  Elizabeth tugged on the wooden door. “It’s locked,” she muttered with surprise. She rapped her knuckles on the frame. “I hope someone’s here.”

  Nearly a minute passed before a small peephole in the middle of the door clinked open. The door swung wide open and a giant of a man wearing soiled worker’s clothes stood before them.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “We need help,” Elizabeth replied. “An Armenian soldier at the train station told us to come here. He said Father Leonian would help us.”

  “What was the soldier’s name?” he asked suspiciously.

  Elizabeth turned to Kristina. “I forgot his name. Do you remember?”

  “I think it was Majarian.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Mikael said. “It was Private Majarian.”

  The man picked up their bags and set them inside the door. “Come in.”

  The women and children stepped inside a dimly lit vestibule and the man secured the door with a heavy bar.

  “I’m Vartan. Wait here and I’ll tell Father Leonian.”

  Vartan hobbled off. Weaving his way through a clot of people, he ducked through a small door on the opposite side of the vestibule.

  Taking a few steps into the main hall, Sirak gawked at the mass of people crowded into the pews of the darkened church. Bedding and other belongings were strewn haphazardly in the aisles. “Mama, do all these people live here?”

  “They must.” Lifting Izabella into her arms, Kristina peered at the gold and white altar adorned with an ancient painting of Jesus. Off to the side, an ornate red and gold bishop’s chair was covered with an icon-studded golden cupola. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

  Sirak tugged at her dress. “I can’t see it, Mama.”

  Kristina handed Izabella to Elizabeth. She picked up Sirak and walked a short distance down the aisle.

  “Is this your first visit to Gregorian?” a clear baritone voice asked.

  Kristina turned. The middle-aged priest standing behind them was robed in black vestments, with paired golden crosses emblazoned across his chest. He had a rather ordinary face, with deep forehead furrows that had been fixed by incessant worry, but his pale blue eyes were filled with benevolence.

  “Yes. We just arrived in Aleppo an hour ago.”

  Smiling warmly, the priest reached out and ruffled Sirak’s hair. “Where are you from, young man?”

  “Seghir, sir,” Sirak said politely.

  “Seghir? In Anatolia?”

  “Yes,” Kristina replied. “It’s a small farming village east of Diyarbekir. This is our American friend, Elizabeth Barton. She’s been a nurse in Anatolia for several years—most recently at the Missionary Hospital in Diyarbekir.”

  “I’m Father Leonian and I’m delighted to meet you. How can I be of service to you?”

  “We have no place to go,” Kristina said. “My husband and son were deported from Diyarbekir Province, and we’re on our way to join them in Jerusalem. A soldier at the train station told us to come here.”

  “I’ll do all I can to help you, but I have a funeral to conduct. Find a spot in the sanctuary, and I’ll send Vartan to find you when I’m finished. I’d like to meet privately with you and Nurse Barton. Your children will be safe with the other families.”

  “Thank you,” Kristina said.

  Kristina and the children retrieved their bags and headed down the aisle. Several people acknowledged them when they walked past.

  Kristina ducked into an open pew near the front. “Let’s take this spot.” She took Elizabeth’s bag, slipped it beneath the pew and sat down.

  “Mama, I’m hungry,” Izabella whined.

  Kristina gathered Izabella into her lap. “I know you are. I’m sure they’ll give us something to eat a little later.”

  An old disheveled woman sleeping in the pew in front of them looked up. She nodded at Kristina and Elizabeth, and dropped her head back down.

  Kristina pulled Sirak to her side and reached for Mikael’s hand. Leaning back in the pew, she closed her eyes, nuzzled Izabella’s neck and gave thanks to God for bringing them safely to the Gregorian Church.

  Vartan stopped in front of a door at
the end of a long hall and knocked softly.

  “Come in,” a voice inside called out.

  Vartan opened the door and ushered the women into a dim office lit only by an oil lamp. Father Leonian was sitting at an old wooden desk covered with books and papers. He was dressed in a shirt and trousers. A faded painting of Jesus and his disciples hung on the wall behind him.

  The priest looked up over the top of his reading glasses and smiled. “Please sit down. I trust the bread Vartan brought you was edible.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Kristina replied.

  “We never know what the mayor’s office will send us, but at this point we’re grateful for anything we get.”

  “It was fine.”

  “What’s the situation in Ras Ul-ain and Mardin? We’ve heard rumors, but you’re the first travelers to reach us from southeastern Anatolia in over a week.”

  “It was terrifying,” Kristina replied. “We saw hundreds of Armenian people being herded like cattle on the road north of Mardin, and many more were detained in camps outside the city. I’m sure we would’ve been arrested, too, if we hadn’t been escorted by Major al-Kawukji.”

  Father Leonian’s eyes widened with surprise. “You had a military escort?”

  “Yes, sir,” Elizabeth answered. “The major knew my husband, Doctor David Charles. We worked at the Missionary Hospital in Diyarbekir.”

  “That explains how you made it. Where is your husband now?”

  “He was murdered two weeks ago at Diyarbekir Central Prison.”

  The priest winced at the news. “May God rest his soul. Nurse Barton, you’re in grave danger. Many foreigners have been arrested over the past few days, and we know some were sent to the prison in Mardin. You must leave Aleppo immediately.”

  “But where will I go?”

  “There’s a man I know. He’ll take you to Alexandretta for a fee of fifty lire. You should be able to arrange safe passage out of the Empire from there.”

  “But what about Kristina and her children?” Elizabeth asked dubiously.

  “Their best hope is to stay here with us. They’ll be arrested if they’re spotted on the road, and nobody—even the smugglers—will run the risk of being charged with aiding Armenians. Those who get caught defying the governor-general’s proclamation are immediately executed.”