The Ghosts of Anatolia Read online

  “I’m honored to meet you, sir,” Vache said respectfully, removing his fez. “I hope you plan to stay for a while.”

  “Unfortunately, I can only stay a few days. It’s a busy time in the capital.”

  The old man grunted and nodded. “I expect so.”

  The door opened and Stepannos and Mikael bounded from the house wearing baggy cotton trousers and white shirts. Each boy had a knapsack slung over his shoulder.

  “Stepannos!” Bedros called out. “Come here for a moment.”

  Stepannos exchanged anxious glances with Mikael before turning and walking to his uncle.

  Bedros placed his hands on the teen’s shoulders. “Stepannos, I’m sorry I got so angry with you last night. What we talked about is a very sensitive subject now that there’s a real possibility of war with Russia—especially in Istanbul. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Stepannos replied contritely.

  “Good. I want you to study hard at school today. You’re a bright young man and learning to read and write should be your first priority.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, then,” Bedros said. He patted the top of the boy’s cap. “Be on your way. We’ll all go for a ride out to the river when you get home. Maybe we’ll catch some fish for dinner.”

  Stepannos turned, and running to the back of the cart, climbed into the bed with the other boys. Old man Vache grunted, and flicking the reins, turned the wagon in the barnyard. It bumped along the pebble-strewn incline down to the road. Mourad waved after them and stood watching until the wagon crested the embankment at the edge of the property.

  Bedros turned and sighed. “Perhaps I was too harsh.”

  “It was a good lesson for Stepannos. He’ll think twice before he mentions Andranik again.”

  “Andranik,” Bedros muttered with a sigh. “Sometimes I don’t know whether to praise him or curse him.”

  “Are they really training with Russian troops in the Caucasus? I heard a rumor in Chunkoush.”

  “I’ve heard those rumors, too, but who knows what they’re really up to. I do know they’ve gotten the attention of the Ottoman leaders. Armenians in the Empire must not cast their lot with the Andraniks or any other resistance group, or they risk disaster. A Muslim assemblyman gave a blistering speech in support of the Germans two weeks ago. At one point, he held up the front page of a Hunchak newspaper published in Paris last summer. The headline was an appeal for Armenians to take up arms against the Ottoman Empire.”

  “Dear God,” Mourad muttered. “Surely the leaders in Istanbul realize how many of our young Armenian men have loyally reported for duty.”

  “I keep telling them, my brother—every chance I get.”

  “Maybe we will learn something more at church on Sunday. Are you planning to go?”

  “Yes, of course, but I must return to Istanbul Monday morning.”

  Mourad heard the whinny of an approaching horse, and setting his hammer down, walked out of the barn. A man wearing a turban and worn worker’s clothing trotted his horse to the barnyard. A young boy sat astride the horse in front of him.

  “Good afternoon, Kemal,” Mourad said, waving.

  “Mourad!” Kemal replied cheerfully. “Are my eyes playing tricks, or is that your long-lost brother returned to mingle with the peasants?”

  “It’s wonderful to see you again, my friend,” Bedros said. He grabbed the reins to steady the horse, and Mourad pulled the boy down to the ground.

  Kemal dismounted and, grinning broadly, embraced Bedros. “Don’t they feed you in Istanbul, my friend? You’re skinny as a fencepost.”

  “The grippe had its way with me last winter, and I still haven’t gained back what I lost.”

  “Thanks be to God, you were spared. What you need is a few weeks of Kristina’s cooking to put some flesh back on your bones.”

  “Unfortunately, I can only stay a few days,” Bedros said. “I was deeply saddened to hear of your father’s passing. He was a loyal servant of God.”

  “It was a great shock to our family, but God is merciful. His time had come and his suffering was short. Bedros, you remember Özker, my youngest son from my second wife, Nahid?”

  “Yes, of course. Hello, Özker. You’ve grown like a weed. I hear you’re quite a cotton picker.”

  The young boy didn’t reply. He peered warily up at Bedros and scooted behind his father, then tugged at Kemal’s pants. “Where’s Sirak, Papa?”

  “He’s behind the barn feeding the horses,” Mourad replied. “You boys can play, but don’t stray too far from the house.”

  “Can I, Papa?” the dark-skinned boy asked eagerly. His unruly black hair fluttered in the gusting breeze.

  “For just a while. I’ll come get you when it’s time to go.”

  Özker sprinted headlong across the barnyard. “Sirak! Where are you?”

  The three men watched until the boy disappeared around the side of the barn.

  “Where does the time go?” Kemal lamented. “It seems like only yesterday he was suckling at Nahid’s breast. Well, Mourad, how’d we do?”

  “Not as well as I’d hoped, but better than last year—four thousand two hundred lire.”

  “Forty-two hundred lire,” Kemal repeated. “It could’ve been worse. I took my wives to Diyarbekir yesterday, and we ran into a friend of mine with a larger harvest who managed only four thousand liras from an army buyer. God willing, we’ll get more for the second picking.”

  “I hope you’re right. We must pray the heavy rains stay away and there’s no war.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Kemal said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small strip of paper. “I picked up a copy of the Agence in Diyarbekir. I’m afraid it’s bad news.” He handed it to Mourad.

  Mourad took the paper and read for a moment. “Oh, my God! The government ended the protections.”

  “What?” Bedros exclaimed in horror. “Let me see that.” He took the news bulletin and read the feature story. “I can’t believe it,” he muttered. “As of October 1, all the treaty rights of foreigners are to be ended. This is a disaster. Enver Pasha has turned against us.”

  Sirak picked up a smooth flat stone and hurled it across the pond.

  “Four skips!” he shouted. “Özker, did you see that? Four!”

  Özker selected a stone from the bank and tossed it across the pond. It dove directly into the water with a loud kerplunk. Frustrated, he picked up another stone and threw it twice as hard, but still managed only two skips. “Come on, Sirak, we better go back now. Papa may be looking for me.”

  “No he’s not. He’ll call for us when it’s time.” Sirak heaved another rock, and running along the edge of the pond, jumped over a knee-high rock.

  “Ahh!” he screamed. Tumbling to the ground, he splashed onto his side in the shallow water.

  Özker sprinted to his friend. “Are you hurt?” he yelled, before stopping dead in his tracks. A meter-long, olive-colored snake, with a brown zigzag band down its back, slithered away into the nearby brush. “Viper,” he gasped.

  Sirak struggled to stand up in the ankle-deep water. He took two steps and dropped face first into the murky pond.

  “Sirak!” Özker screamed. He splashed into the water and rolled him over. Grabbing Sirak’s ankles, he dragged him into the grass along the shallow bank. “Sirak, open your eyes!”

  Sirak was pale as bleached cotton. He convulsed involuntarily and water gushed from his mouth and nostrils. He coughed weakly and half-opened his eyes. Then his eyes rolled up into his head.

  Özker stared down in shock. “I’ll get your papa,” he cried out. He stumbled to his feet and dashed headlong through the adjacent field. Running along the corral fence, with his hair whipping in the breeze, he sprinted into the barnyard toward Kemal, Mourad and Bedros. “Sirak!” Özker exclaimed breathlessly. He grabbed his father’s jacket sleeve. “Sirak!”

  “Calm down, Özker,” Kemal said. “Sirak what?”

  �
�He got bit!” the boy cried out.

  Mourad’s face twisted with alarm. “Bit by what?”

  “A viper! He’s at the pond!”

  Kemal picked up Özker and followed Mourad to the end of the corral. Dashing down a row of belt-high cotton, they emerged from the field at the dry end of the pond.

  “Where is he?” Mourad shouted, glancing around the perimeter of the pond.

  “Behind those rocks,” Özker sobbed.

  Mourad bounded along the shoreline to the cluster of boulders. He caught sight of Sirak lying on the ground. “Merciful God, no!” he cried out. He knelt next to his son and grasped his hand. “Sirak, open your eyes!”

  Bedros knelt beside Mourad. “Dear God. Look at his foot.”

  The foot was grotesquely swollen and discolored a mottled purplishred. Telltale puncture wounds dotted the center of the engorgement.

  “He’s still alive,” Mourad muttered anxiously. He gathered his son’s limp body into his arms and rushed back through the cotton field. Jogging around the end of the corral and through the rear barn door, he set Sirak in the bed of an old wagon littered with wisps of cotton. “We must find a doctor,” Mourad exclaimed. “Bedros, tell Kristina to bring water and blankets.” He jerked a rope down from a hook and crawled up into the wagon. Ripping the leg on Sirak’s trousers, he tied the rope tightly around his calf.

  Kemal heaved a sack of feed into the wagon. “Prop up his head on this. I’ll harness the horse.” Kemal rushed to the back of the barn and led a powerfully built draft horse from his stall. He harnessed the beast and rushed to the rear of the wagon. “How’s he doing?”

  “His breaths are very shallow,” Mourad whispered frantically. He brushed a strand of Sirak’s hair back from his eyes. “Dear God, save my boy.”

  Kemal jumped up into the driver’s seat. “You stay with him, and I’ll drive to the hospital.”

  Kristina rushed through the barn door carrying a basket and several folded blankets. “Is he conscious?” she gasped.

  “No, but he’s breathing,” Mourad replied. He jumped down from the wagon and helped her into the bed. Climbing back up, he knelt beside his son’s motionless body.

  Kemal pulled Özker up to the driver’s seat, and taking the reins, clattered into the barnyard.

  “I’ll stay with the children,” Bedros shouted as the wagon rumbled past. “Where are you taking him?”

  “The military hospital in Diyarbekir,” Kemal bellowed.

  “No,” Mourad yelled, “the American Missionary Hospital in Chunkoush.”

  Bedros nodded. “Kemal, I’ll get word to your wife,” he called after them. He watched the wagon crest the rise and disappear down the road headed east. He glanced down at wide-eyed Izabella. The little girl was clutching her doll to her chest.

  Suddenly, she burst into tears. “Is Sirak hurt?” she sobbed.

  Bedros picked up the tearful little girl. “Yes, my little angel. Your brother is very sick, and now we must pray very hard for God’s mercy.” He drew Flora to his side and they walked solemnly to the house.

  After an hour and a half of bone-jarring travel along a rutted dirt road, the wagon climbed into the barren hills below Chunkoush. As they rumbled through the arid countryside, they passed several groups of travelers journeying along the narrow road through the rock-strewn landscape. Most of the people were on foot. Some were headed toward the Armenian village, but most were headed away.

  “Emergency! Clear the road!” Kemal shouted each time the wagon slowed for another group.

  The wagon crested a steep switchback and rounded a long sweeping turn. “Whoa!” Kemal shouted. He pulled up on the reins and slowed the wagon to a crawl.

  Mourad braced himself against the sidewall and lifted his hand to shelter his eyes from the bright afternoon sun. A motley unit of soldiers was scattered across the road. A lieutenant on horseback rode at the front of the unit. The rest of the foot soldiers were dressed in cotton shirts and trousers. Most wore the fez popular with the Turks. Only a handful had weapons.

  “Please, sir, let us pass,” Kemal called out to nobody in particular. “My boy was bitten by a viper.”

  The leader dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and trotted to the wagon. A rather young man, with handsome features, he pulled up at the rear of the wagon. “I’m Lieutenant Gashia of the Ottoman Third Army.” He peered into the wagon at the lifeless boy lying in his mother’s arms. “Did you say a viper?”

  Mourad stood in the wagon bed. “Yes, a viper. My son’s barely alive. Please, sir, let us pass. We need a doctor.”

  The lieutenant spun his horse around and shouted at the unit of men. The soldiers scattered into the rock-strewn trenches on both sides of the road. “Follow me!” the sergeant barked. “The hospital is very close.”

  Lieutenant Gashia galloped up the hill and the wagon rumbled after him trailing a cloud of dust. Winding through a set of steep switchbacks, the road suddenly flattened onto a plateau, and the scattered rock and earthen buildings of Chunkoush came into view. The village contrasted sharply with the barren wasteland they’d just crossed and the bare hills in the distance, although there were only scattered pockets of olive green where the determined roots of small trees and shrubs eked out enough water to survive.

  Lieutenant Gashia galloped through the gate of a rock-walled compound of single-story buildings. Leaping from his horse, he ran inside the largest structure.

  Kemal eased the wagon to a stop beside the front entrance. “Stay here with the horses, Özker.” He tied the reins to a post and rushed to the rear of the wagon. “Is he alive?”

  “I don’t know,” Mourad whispered. He handed Sirak down to his neighbor.

  Kemal clutched the young boy to his chest. “Allahu Akbar,” he mumbled.

  Mourad jumped down from the wagon and took the boy’s limp body in his arms. He ran to the front door.

  A tall, fair-skinned man in a white doctor’s coat hurried outside behind Lieutenant Gashia. The gaunt physician pressed his fingertips to the boy’s neck. “His pulse is very weak,” he muttered worriedly. He pulled Sirak from his father’s arms, and pushing past the lieutenant, rushed into the hospital. “Elizabeth,” he shouted, “bring the emergency cart to treatment room one. Hurry!”

  Dr. Charles grabbed the last cloth from a basin. “Get me more,” he muttered.

  The countertop in the cramped treatment room was crowded with bottles and jars filled with every sort of bandage and suture. The strong smell of alcohol wafted through the air.

  In the muted light of a kerosene lantern, Nurse Barton watched the missionary-physician cleanse Sirak’s foot and ankle. The dark purple skin over the lower appendage was stretched taut and a large weeping gash extended vertically from the top of his foot to well above his ankle. The grotesquely swollen digits only vaguely resembled human toes.

  Charles dropped the cloth into a basket and loosely wrapped the limb with a stretch of white cloth. “Let’s hope that the alcohol will cleanse the wound.” He gazed down at the unconscious little boy. “Well, Elizabeth,” he said, with a forlorn sigh, “the rest is up to our great and merciful God.”

  “It’s a miracle he’s still alive. God must be looking out for him.”

  Dr. Charles reached into his trousers for a pocket watch and held it up to the flickering lantern. “Already three in the morning,” he uttered tiredly. “I’ll update his parents and bring them in to stay with him. I must check on the other patients. We have a busy clinic in the morning. Get some rest.”

  “I’m fine, Dr. Charles. Julie was asking for you. You should tend to her. Don’t worry, I’ll come get you if the boy takes a turn for the worse.”

  “What did we ever do without you?” He rested his lanky arms on her delicate shoulders and smiled appreciatively, then left the room.

  Elizabeth looked thoughtfully after Dr. Charles. Then she cleared the unused supplies from the bed.

  Mourad, bleary-eyed, with deep furrows in his forehead, bolted up from h
is chair when Dr. Charles entered the cramped waiting room. He reached down and gently squeezed his wife’s arm. “Kristina, the doctor’s here.”

  Kristina bolted up. She clutched her hands over her heart. “Doctor, tell me my son’s still alive.”

  “His pulse has strengthened. It’s truly a miracle. I suppose the snake’s bite was dry. Otherwise, a small boy couldn’t have survived the venom. I’m worried he’ll lose his foot, but I’m confident the worst is over.”

  “God bless you, Doctor,” Mourad whispered. He wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Can we see him?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Please come with me.”

  They walked down a shadowy corridor past several darkened rooms and stepped into the treatment room. Nurse Barton was sitting on the edge of the bed sponging Sirak’s forehead. She glanced up and smiled. “He’s asking for you, Mrs. Kazerian.”

  Kristina sat on the edge of the bed and took Sirak’s hand. She tearfully kissed his forehead, and his sunken eyes fluttered open. His tongue darted across his parched lips.

  “Can I have some water, Mama?” he pleaded weakly.

  Kristina glanced up at Dr. Charles and he nodded.

  “Of course you can, my little mouse.” Fighting to maintain her composure, she brushed tears from her eyes.

  The nurse handed Kristina a cup of water, and the latter held the cup to her son’s lips. Sirak took several sips and dropped his head back down on the pillow.

  “I love you, Mama,” he whispered.

  “I love you too, my little mouse.” Kristina sniffled. She leaned down and gave him a tender hug. “Now you need to sleep so you can get well.”

  Sirak didn’t respond. He took a deep breath and, closing his eyes, exhaled contentedly.

  Dr. Charles stepped across to the bedside. “Mr. and Mrs. Kazerian, I’m sorry, but I must examine the other patients. I’d appreciate it if you’d talk Nurse Barton into getting some rest. We have a busy day tomorrow, but, as usual, she won’t listen to me.” He glanced with amusement toward Elizabeth. “I’ll be in my quarters. Don’t hesitate to send for me.”

  Mourad pulled himself up from the floor and grasped Dr. Charles’ hand. “Doctor, my wife and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts. We’ll stay with him. Nurse Barton, I insist you go get some rest.”