Anyush (11 page)
Authors: Martine Madden
S
ometimes Jahan thought he had failed Anyush. That if he had acted in her best interests, he would have said his goodbyes or not come to the church at all. But the fates had conspired to bring them together, and he was glad of it. Had he not taken shelter from the storm, she would have found the church empty, and had the army not rescinded orders to join the Fifth Army on the Eastern Front, he might never have seen her again. But they had found each other that night, and oh what a sight she had been! His lieutenant had said that Armenian women were different, and Anyush certainly was. Jahan had expected her to be shy, hesitant and self-conscious, but when they had made love that first time she was none of those things. In the same way she had thrown herself into the water to save his neck, she had come to him wholeheartedly, and he delighted in every second of it. He hadn’t been able to look at her long enough. Her skin was so pale it seemed to be a source of light in itself, a soft radiance glowing against the dark granite stone.
After they had made love, he had undressed her fully, letting his eyes linger slowly over her, from the upward tilt of her small breasts, to the depression above the jutting edge of her hip bone. His fingers had run along the protuberances of her spine to the rising mounds below, across
her taut belly and into the hollows between her ribs. Just below her left nipple he had discovered a small brown birthmark, a smudge or thumbprint left by her creator’s hand.
Did he regret what happened? Not for a moment. As they had walked home their separate ways, he had only been able to think of when he might see her again.
A
nyush didn’t sleep that night. In the early hours when a faint glow lit the horizon she stood outside the cottage listening to the waves tumbling on the shore. It was a peaceful sound and she closed her eyes. She might have expected to feel troubled by what she had done, but all she felt was a quiet calm. She prayed for the day to come quickly so that she could be with him all over again. Every part of her hummed like a wire in the wind. She was drunk from his touch, his smell, the way he had looked at her as if he had never seen a woman before. Being with Jahan was the only form of happiness she desired. And she
was
happy. She fell asleep finally as the sun came up and an hour later rose from her bed, the happiest girl in the Ottoman Empire. But others were not so lucky.
‘I need to see Dr Stewart,’ Parzik said.
Anyush found her friend slumped on the clinic steps and brought her inside.
‘
Inch’ skhal
? Tell me, what’s wrong?’
‘They’re going to hang Vardan’s father. They’re going to do it in a few days.’
Anyush stared at her. She had to be mistaken. Aykanian was innocent. Everybody knew he was.
‘Who said this? It’s only gossip. Rumour …’
‘They told Vardan. The gendarmes. They’re going to make him watch.’
Parzik hung her head, tears dripping into her lap.
‘Dr Stewart will know what to do,’ Anyush said. ‘He’ll put a stop to it.’
But Dr Stewart had bad news of his own. ‘There is nothing I can do.’
‘
Doktor, efendim
, you could talk to them. Tell them he’s innocent.’
‘Believe me, I have exhausted every avenue on Mislav’s behalf.’
‘It is not too late,
Doktor
. I beg of you …’ Parzik knelt at his feet, touching her forehead to his boots. ‘Please,
Doktor
… you are the only one who can help him.’
‘I’m sorry. Really I am.’
On the day of the hanging the entire village gathered in the square. A platform was set up at one end where the wedding party had been, and a scaffold erected. Bayan Stewart told the children to remain in the house, but Thomas and Robert climbed out a window and slipped into the crowd behind where their father and the priest stood next to Vardan. Sosi and Anyush stood either side of Parzik, and nearby her mother and Gohar linked arms. The sun rose and began to sink towards the west, but still the heat beat relentlessly down. People retreated beneath the lemon trees or leaned against the platform, looking every now and then towards the southern end of the square. Husik was standing at the back of the scaffold, his eyes roaming over the rope and gibbet, and his father, a little behind, waited to catch the first glimpse of the prisoner. The day wore on and still there was no sign of Aykanian. Anyush’s arm ached where
Parzik’s fingers gripped through the fabric of her sleeve. Vardan’s new wife was pale and drawn, and had hardly spoken. Every few seconds she glanced over to where Vardan stood by the scaffold.
Finally, a lone gendarme walked into the far end of the square, followed by ten or twelve more. Vardan’s father shuffled along in the middle of them. Aykanian had always been thin, but the stooped, stumbling old man trying to walk with bound ankles drew a collective breath from the crowd. Every bone and sinew in his body was visible, his thin skin straining to hold them together. He was muttering to himself, mumbling with his eyes fixed on his feet as though unaware of others around him. A sob escaped Vardan’s lips, and Parzik’s trembling fingers covered her mouth. Some of the older women began to keen and others counted off what time was left to the old man on their prayer beads. At the steps to the scaffold Aykanian hadn’t the strength to climb but was pushed and prodded so that he stumbled and fell. His face hit the wooden step with a sickening thud, and before anyone could stop him Vardan ran over to where his father lay bleeding at the foot of the platform.
‘Get back … move away,’ a gendarme shouted, but Vardan remained crouched beside the old man.
‘Papa …
hayrik
,’ he whispered, wiping blood from his father’s face. ‘I’m here … it’s me, Vardan.’
Aykanian looked at him with a mixture of confusion and fear. He shook his head and turned away.
‘I said move back.’ Using his boot, the gendarme kicked Vardan into the dust.
‘Give them a moment,’ Dr Stewart said. ‘It’s Aykanian’s son … his boy … he only wants to say goodbye.’
‘I know who he is,’ the gendarme said contemptuously. ‘Now get him away or I’ll hang him alongside the old man.’
Father Gregory helped Aykanian to his feet as Dr Stewart led a weeping
Vardan back to the crowd. The priest finally got the old man up the steps to the scaffold.
‘
Hayrik
…
hayrik
…’ Vardan cried as the noose was put around his father’s neck. Parzik buried her head in Anyush’s shoulder and Gohar made the sign of the cross. The old man was still talking to himself, a torrent of words spilling from his mouth as if he knew he hadn’t long more to say them. He shook his head from side to side as the rope burned against the loose skin of his neck. At a signal from the commanding officer, the rope was pulled taut so that Aykanian teetered for a few seconds on the tips of his toes. With a bang the trapdoor flew open and Vardan’s father fell into the void. There was complete silence. No one uttered a sound as the old man’s legs kicked, and his mouth opened, and his lips swelled and turned blue. It was only when the body had become completely still that a long and terrible cry welled up from his son.
For three weeks following the hanging the Jendarma refused to allow Vardan to take down his father’s body. The decaying remains would serve as a warning, they said, to other Russian sympathisers. Finally, through the intervention of Dr Stewart and Father Gregory, permission was given to bury Aykanian and he was laid to rest in the Armenian cemetery adjoining the church.
Diary of Dr Charles Stewart
Mushar
Trebizond
May 13th, 1915
A new admission caused a stir on the men’s ward today. I was glad of the distraction because the mood in the hospital has been gloomy ever since the hanging. Nobody speaks openly of Aykanian but I am constantly hearing snatches of whispered conversation and bitter words. Perhaps I’m imagining it, but some of this vitriol appears to be directed at myself. Nobody can stomach the unpleasant truth that guns and rifles
were
found on the Aykanian farm. There was no denying the evidence, a fact people seem happy to overlook.
Late this morning Anyush informed me we had a new patient in one of the private rooms on the male side. I walked in to see guns, cartridge belts, powder horns, swords and daggers decorating the walls, and sitting on the bed like the Sultan himself was the outlaw, Murzabey. He’s a powerfully built man in his middle years with the weathered features of a bandit and a deceptively brilliant smile. For as long as I can remember he’s been the leader of the renegade Shota tribe, but unlike Mahmoud Agha and the hill tribes around Trebizond, he is a violent man and is wanted throughout the province for various crimes. Hetty has treated one of his wives for puerperal fever and I saw him once years ago when he lost his right hand in a pitched battle against the local gendarmes. He is not a man you would easily forget. The stories circulating about his cruelty are legion. He keeps tight and extortionate control of the lands to the south and west of Trebizond and brutally dispatches any man threatening his position. The landowners throughout the province live in fear of him and even Mahmoud Agha makes him annual ‘gifts’ of sheep and horses to remain in his favour. In the real sense of the word, he is legendary, so why he should have installed himself in my hospital I couldn’t imagine.
Entering the room, I saw Manon finish dressing Murzabey’s leg, as six of his men
trained their rifles on her. In fluent Kurmanji she told them to drop the rifles or they would have to dress the leg themselves. Murzabey was scowling at her when he saw me in the doorway.
‘
Selamın Aleyküm
, Doktor Stippet,’ he said. ‘You come just in time. I want you to look at my leg.’
Manon informed me that he had a leg ulcer and that she’d already treated it and bandaged it accordingly. I assured Murzabey there was no need for me to look at it again.
‘The
kuledoken
is not you, Dr Stewart. You will decide what is wrong with it.’
I was about to tell him that I had every faith in Manon and that she had treated his leg as I would myself but decided to humour him. I unwound the perfectly applied bandages as my nurse swept imperiously from the room. The wound was friable and smelled of rotting flesh, but had been expertly debrided by Manon and treated with zinc paste. There was nothing further to be done. I told him he needed to have the wound dressed daily and gave him an appointment for the clinic.
‘You will not find me at any clinic,
Doktor
,’ he said. ‘As you can see my men are eager to be gone.’
He then reminded me that, although he had lost his hand all those years ago, I had saved his arm and he was quite sure I could fix his leg into the bargain.
‘It is not for nothing you are called “Big Doktor Stippet”.’
‘Then take this doctor’s advice,’ I told him. ‘If you do not look after the leg, it will become gangrenous and you’ll lose it. Then there is nothing that I or any doctor can do for you.’
For the first time since entering the room Murzabey was silent, staring at me out of those remarkable green eyes. The men standing around the bed moved in close as though braced for the order to slit my throat, but, to my relief, Murzabey smiled.
‘Very well,
Doktor
, I will do as you say, and you will fix my leg like new. Send the
kuledoken
back to do up my bandages. Tell her the rifles will point only at the door.’
His laughter rang in my ears as I left the room.
