The Ghosts of Anatolia Read online

  “So we’re prisoners here?” Kristina murmured.

  “You’re free to leave any time, Mrs. Kazerian, but I beg you to stay, at least until I can arrange safe passage for you and your children. Believe me, there are worse places. Thousands of Armenians arrive in Aleppo every day. These women, children and old people come in desperate caravans carrying everything they own on their backs. The survivors are crowded into khans, unoccupied houses, courtyards and even vacant lots. They die by the hundreds every day.”

  “Dear God,” Kristina gasped.

  “Our Merciful Father has guided you here to the Gregorian Church, and by His grace, you and your children are safe.” Father Leonian stood up behind his desk. “Well, I must contact my friend. He’s a Chechen, but you can trust him. He’s guided countless Europeans and Americans to safety over the past six months. If he’s in Aleppo, he’ll likely come to the church around midnight, so be prepared to leave.”

  Elizabeth took the cleric’s hand. “Thank you, Father. You’re very brave to take these risks for people you’ve just met.”

  “Yes, God bless you, sir,” Kristina chimed in.

  “It’s the least I can do to help my brothers and sisters who are persecuted simply because they’re Christians. I’ll let you know when I make contact with your guide.”

  Elizabeth slipped into the pew and awoke Kristina with a gentle tug on her arm. “It’s time for me to say goodbye.”

  Kristina sat up and rubbed sleep from her eyes. She glanced at the children. Sirak and Izabella were sprawled across the bench and Mikael was lying on a pallet beneath them. “He found the guide?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “He’ll be here a little after midnight.”

  “What time is it now?”

  Elizabeth held up her timepiece and struggled to read the dial in the dim candlelight. “It’s eleven forty-five.”

  “I’ll miss you so much,” Kristina said sadly.

  Elizabeth dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’ll miss you, too. What will I do without you?”

  “Shhh,” a woman in the pew behind them whispered. “The children are sleeping.”

  Kristina led Elizabeth out of the pew. She wrapped her arm around her friend and walked her up the aisle. “How long will it take you to reach Alexandretta?”

  “Three or four days.”

  “I wish we could go, too. We’ll go stir crazy waiting to travel on to Jerusalem.”

  Elizabeth embraced Kristina. “Mourad is waiting for you there. I just know it.”

  “I pray you’re right.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Thank you for being such a good friend. Your support meant so much to me these last few months.”

  “It was you who supported me,” Kristina said.

  “We supported each other. That’s what friends do.”

  Then Elizabeth handed Kristina a note. “This is David’s brother’s address in Oklahoma. Write me when you can. I’ll be worried sick about you and the children.”

  Kristina folded up the paper and slipped it into her pocket. “Remember what we talked about in Chunkoush back in September?”

  “September? Has it really been that long?”

  “Do you remember?”

  “Yes, of course; but I didn’t listen to you.”

  “No, thank God. If you hadn’t married David, you’d have missed the wonderful times you shared together and we wouldn’t be here today. But everything else I said that day still holds true.”

  “I’ll never love anyone the way I loved David.”

  “Maybe not, but David would want you to be happy. Someday there will be another man—one who wants a family. Don’t miss that opportunity when it comes.”

  “You still feel that way after all that’s happened to you and to your children?”

  Kristina smiled. “Absolutely. Children bring despair and heartache, but they also bring unbridled joy and contentment.”

  Elizabeth didn’t respond, but reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bag. She pressed it into Kristina’s hand. “I want you to take this. It’s five hundred lire.”

  Kristina’s eyes widened with surprise. She shook her head. “I can’t accept this.”

  “I want you to have it. You’ll need transportation and supplies, and God knows what else, to reach Jerusalem. I’ve got more than enough money to get home. Please, take it.”

  Kristina gave Elizabeth a heartfelt hug. “God bless you. Someday I’ll find a way to repay you.”

  “No you won’t. It’s my gift to you and the children.”

  “You’re truly an angel. Please ask your guide to get word back to Father...”

  A loud knock resounded through the vestibule. Vartan hurried out of the offices and Father Leonian followed a moment later. Vartan removed the bar from the door and pulled it open. A wiry, dark-skinned man, with a long unruly beard stepped inside.

  “It’s good to see you again, Movsar,” the priest said. “How’s travel to the Mediterranean these days?”

  “Very risky, my friend. But it’s still possible, if you know the right people.”

  Father Leonian smiled. “That’s why we contacted you. This is Elizabeth Barton—an American friend who wants to go home.”

  Movsar bowed politely. “It’s my pleasure to guide you to safety, Mrs. Barton. I trust that Father Leonian informed you about my modest fee?”

  “Oh, so now you call fifty lire a modest fee,” the priest teased.

  The Chechen threw back his head, and howling with delight, revealed a line of decayed teeth beneath his unkempt mustache. “Fifty lire would have been unimaginable for a trip to Alexandretta before the war, but now, considering the risk, it’s a pittance. I’ll collect my fee before we leave.”

  Elizabeth handed the Chechen a roll of bills. He carefully counted the money before thrusting it into his pocket.

  “I’ve arranged safe passage for you and two other women on a German freighter scheduled to leave for Belgium in five days. From there you can catch a ship bound for New York. The captain will expect thirty-five lire. Have you ever ridden a horse?” he asked skeptically.

  “I was raised on a farm, Mr. Movsar,” Elizabeth replied confidently.

  “Excellent!” Movsar handed her a baggy black dress and veil. “Put this on.”

  Elizabeth slipped the dress over her clothes and Kristina helped her with the veil.

  Mosvar grinned approvingly. “You are my wife, Aset. Do not speak to anyone who’s not traveling in our party from now until we reach the ship in Alexandretta. I will speak for you. Do you understand?”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Then let’s be on our way.”

  “Thank you, Movsar,” the priest said solemnly. “I’ll pray for your safe passage and return.”

  Kristina turned and embraced Elizabeth. “I’ll be praying for you.”

  “I’ll pray for you, too. Write me as soon as you’re safe.”

  Vartan unbarred the door and pulled it open. Movsar took Elizabeth’s arm and led her into the night. The door boomed closed and the patter of footsteps faded into silence.

  CHAPTER 36

  July 2, 1915

  Abdul held a loose plank against the side of the wagon. “Erol, fetch me more nails. Hurry!”

  Erol ran into the barn. He sprinted out the door a moment later, and bowing his head obsequiously, handed his father a box of nails.

  Abdul seated a nail. Stepping back, he crouched to make sure the plank was level before pounding the nail home. He drove in several more nails and handed the hammer to Erol. “Put this back in the tool box.”

  Abdul lifted a pitchfork of hay and carried it to the corral. He tossed it over the fence and headed back for another load. Suddenly, he turned and squinted toward the main road.

  Four riders on horseback trotted down the gently sloping trail and pulled up outside the barn.

  “Good morning, Abdul,” Baran called out. The Turk wore tattered work clothes and a red fez.

  “I told you not to come
back unless you got a deferment,” Abdul replied gruffly. “What do you want?”

  “We’ve come for our wages. We won’t wait any longer.”

  “I can’t pay you anything more until I sell my harvest. I told you that last week.”

  “That’s not soon enough,” Baran said angrily. “We’ve got hungry families to feed.”

  “Well, I don’t have it.”

  “Then pay us with flour and rice,” another rider bellowed. “My sons are bloated with hunger.”

  “I haven’t got enough food for my own family.”

  Baran dismounted his horse. He handed his reins to another rider and walked toward the barn door.

  Abdul ducked through the fence and rushed to cut him off. “Stay out of my barn, you bastard!”

  Baran whirled to face him. “I just want to check your stores. If you’re as short as you say, then we’ll leave.”

  “Get the hell off my land!” Abdul shouted. “I told you, I don’t have enough to feed my own family.”

  Baran turned to walk to the barn door. “Just let me look and we’ll be on our way.”

  Abdul spun Baran around and knocked him to the ground with a powerful punch to the jaw.

  The other riders dismounted their horses and fanned out around him.

  Muhammad—the oldest of the four—held up his hands. “We only want what’s owed to us, Abdul.”

  Baran rose to his feet and inched toward Abdul. “There are four of us, Abdul. Don’t be a fool.”

  “Stay away!” Abdul yelled. He slowly turned in a circle and threateningly jabbed the air with his pitchfork. “I’ll kill the first man who sets foot in my barn.”

  “Papa?” Erol called out anxiously from the barn door.

  “Run, boy!” Abdul bellowed. “Tell your uncle to get the gun.”

  Erol ran headlong across the barnyard to the house. Baran sprinted toward the barn door, but Abdul tackled him before he got halfway across the yard and punched him in the mouth.

  “You son of a whore,” Baran grunted. He struggled to roll Abdul off.

  Suddenly, the youngest of the men, a Kurd named Ibrahim, pulled a knife from his belt. He lunged forward and plunged the gleaming blade into Abdul’s side.

  Abdul’s eyes bulged in surprise. He rolled onto his back and groaned with pain. “You stabbed me?” he demanded in disbelief.

  Baran jumped to his feet and wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “We warned you.” He jogged into the barn and ran back out a moment later. “You bastard! You’ve hoarded at least two hundred bags of flour and rice. Ibrahim, go get the wagon.”

  The younger man handed Baran his knife and ran to his horse. He galloped up the trail toward the main road. A minute later, a horse-drawn wagon rumbled into barnyard and pulled to a stop at the barn door. Baran stood guard over Abdul, and the other three men began loading flour and rice into the wagon.

  The front door of the house creaked open. Hasan stepped tentatively outside. Erol and Sabriye came behind him.

  Baran held up the knife. “Stay in the house. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

  Sabriye pushed past Hasan and rushed to Abdul’s side. “You stabbed him in the back?”

  “I didn’t do it,” Baran said contritely. “Ibrahim stabbed Abdul after he punched me in the mouth and threatened to kill us.”

  Sabriye knelt on the ground and wiped beads of perspiration from Abdul’s forehead with her veil. “Can you get up?”

  Catching his breath, Abdul gurgled unintelligibly.

  “Hasan, bring water! Hurry! Why did you do this, Baran?” Sabriye asked the Turk. “After Abdul supported you and your family for all these years. Why? He has a family to feed, a child on the way!”

  “We just wanted what was due,” Baran answered. “We have families, too. I’m sorry it came to this.”

  “He’s bleeding to death. Can you at least help me carry him into the house?”

  Baran turned to the other men. “Let’s take him inside.”

  Tarkan tossed a bag of rice into the back of the wagon. He hustled over, peered down at Abdul and shook his head. “He’s dead.”

  “He’s not dead, you idiot,” Sabriye huffed, pointing to the house. “Come on!”

  Erol opened the door and Baran and Tarkan carried Abdul inside. They laid him on the sofa in the front room, and Sabriye knelt beside him. He opened his eyes, let out a long sigh, and closed them again.

  “I’m sorry, Abdul,” Baran said remorsefully. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. Why are you so damned stubborn?”

  Abdul opened his eyes again and looked up at Baran. “Fuck you,” he gasped weakly.

  Baran ignored his insult. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave plenty of flour and rice for your family.”

  Sabriye blotted Abdul’s ashen face with a cloth. “Could you ride to the village for help?”

  “Of course,” Baran replied. “I’ll go find the doctor.” He looked up and spotted Flora and Jasmine hovering in the hall with the children. Both women were wearing veils. “Don’t worry,” he reassured them, “I’ll take care of you until Abdul gets well.”

  Getting no reply, he rushed out of the house.

  CHAPTER 37

  Two months later, August 5, 1915

  Mikael ducked into the darkened pew beside Sirak.

  “Did you get any bread?” Kristina asked.

  “Only one piece,” he replied frustratedly. He held out a dry crust. “Most of it was covered with mold.”

  “Take anything you can get next time. We’ll scrape it off.” Kristina took the bread and carefully broke it into pieces. She handed Sirak one piece and Mikael another. “We thank Thee for this bread, Christ our God. We trust in your goodness and know you’ll provide for all our needs. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages, Amen.” She gathered Izabella onto her lap and tore off a bite. She pressed it into the little girl’s mouth. “Eat it slowly, angel.”

  Izabella screwed up her face. “It tastes bad, Mama.”

  “Eat it anyway. It’s all we have.”

  Mikael patted Izabella’s knee and offered her a bite of his bread. The emaciated little girl stared vacantly at the ceiling as she chewed. “Aren’t you eating, too, Mama?”

  “No, Son, you go ahead. Hopefully, there’ll be more later.”

  Sirak held out his bread. “Mama, please take some of mine.”

  “Thank you. Your father would be very proud of you, of all three of you.” Kristina tore off a morsel and slipped it into her mouth.

  The old woman who shared their pew stumbled back empty-handed, as cries of despair echoed from the rear of the church. “God have mercy. They’re starving us all to death.”

  Sirak held out his bread. “You can have the rest of mine, Mrs. Arulian.”

  “You’re so precious, but you need it more than me. Vartan went to find us more.”

  “We should’ve gone with Elizabeth. Nothing’s worse than starving to death,” Kristina mumbled. “No food and precious little water for over a month. Help us, dear God.”

  Father Leonian, his expression heavy with despair, walked past the pew to the altar. He slowly mounted the steps, turned to face the crowd and raised his arms. “May I please have your attention,” he called out hoarsely. “I have an announcement to make. We’ve distributed all the bread and rice we’re likely to get today, so conserve what you’ve been given. I sent Vartan to look for more, but there’s a severe shortage of food throughout Aleppo. Pray he finds enough for everyone.”

  “My baby hasn’t eaten in two days,” a young woman cried out frantically.

  “I’m sorry,” Father Leonian lamented. “Would some of you kindly share some bread with Mrs. Veorkian?”

  An old woman in the pew behind the young mother leaned forward and shared a portion of hers.

  “God bless you,” Father Leonian called out. “As you all know by now, Aleppo has sunk into utter chaos. More and more people are arriving from the nor
th every day, and there isn’t enough food to provide for them all. And now, there’s more news: The governor-general has ordered all Armenians in the city to join caravans leaving for Der-el Zor the day after tomorrow.”

  A murmur arose among the refugees.

  “I’d rather die here than starve in the desert!” an old man shouted above the clamor. “There’s nothing out there but sand!”

  “And bloodthirsty bandits and child-stealing devils!” a young woman cried.

  Father Leonian raised his hands. “The lieutenant governor-general promised to provide guards to protect the caravans. He also informed me that there’d be no more food brought to the church. So staying here is not an option. I’ve received his personal assurance that bread will be available to everyone traveling in the caravans. All of you must decide what you’ll take and what you’ll leave behind. Bring only what you can carry.”

  “We want to stay with you,” a woman shouted from the back of the church.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do to help you. I, too, have been told to join the caravans. We should all pray for God’s mercy and guidance. I ask each of you to join me in an appeal to God to end the war that’s brought this horrible crisis. Sunday service will be held at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll have another prayer service tomorrow night in preparation for the beginning of our journey the following day. God bless us all.” Father Leonian walked, head down, up the center aisle and disappeared into the vestibule.

  CHAPTER 38

  “Get off the road!” a gendarme shouted. “Let the wagon pass!”

  Glancing up at the blazing sun, Kristina took Izabella’s tiny hand and pulled her to the side of the road. Too tired and thirsty to speak, she motioned for Mikael and Sirak to wait beside her.

  A wagon loaded with Ottoman soldiers rumbled past and kicked up a cloud of dust.

  Sirak’s hair and face were caked with dirt. He covered his nose and mouth with his hand and peered up the road. The wagon barreled past the long line of refugees and disappeared over a distant rise.