Forty Days of Musa Dagh (38 page)

 

 

The saptiehs bound Ter Haigasun and the clerk. The müdir took out a little
nail file and got busy on his exquisite fingers. This scraping and polishing
worked like a gesture of regret at the necessary harshness of government
measures, the indication that he, a civil servant, had nothing at all to
do with the armed executive. That, however, did not prevent his giving
a bored hint to the policeman.

 

 

"Don't forget the churchyard. That's a very favorite hiding place for
munitions."

 

 

Having said so much, he turned off for a little constitutional, down
the village street, leaving all the rest to the skew-eyed muafin.
At a word from that ferocious commander the saptiehs split up into little
groups. A few remained to guard the prisoners. Ter Haigasun was made to
sit on the church steps in his heavily embroidered vestments. Meanwhile,
with wild vociferations, the saptiehs began to invade surrounding houses.
From behind the walls came the instant din of cracking furniture,
splintering glass; windows flew open. Rugs, blankets, cushions, mats,
straw chairs, icons, and all the numerous other articles of household
gear came whizzing down -- to be surrounded at once by the looting
populace. More fragile objects came out after them -- oil lamps, looking
glasses, shades, pitchers, jugs, crockery, which smashed under a chorus
of regretful yammering from the eager bargain-basement ladies. All the
same they grabbed up the fragments and bundled them together in their
charshaffes. This din and devastation crept round the square, from house
to house, before it continued along the village street. For three horrible
hours the two bound men crouched on the steps, before the saptiehs returned
from their expeditions. Its results were worse than disappointing -- two
old blunderbusses, five rusty sabres, thirty-seven sheathed knives, which
really were no more than pruning-knives or large-sized penknives. The
saptiehs, either because they had no spades, or were too lazy to have
used them, had refrained from desecrating the churchyard. The police
chief bellowed and raved. This cunning swine of a priest had cheated
him of a report which ought to have bristled with arms. What a setback
for the Antakiya police! Ter Haigasun was jerked to his feet again. The
staring and the swollen eye both glowered on him. The breath that came
puffing in his face stank of hate and ill-digested mutton fat. He turned
his head, with a little grimace of disgust. In the next instant two blows
with the hard butt of a leather whip had caught him full across the cheek.

 

 

For a few seconds the priest lost consciousness, swayed, came awake again,
stood amazed, waiting for the blood to flow. At last it gushed out of
his nose and mouth. A strange, almost blissful sensation possessed him
as he stood there, bending his head far forward, that his poor blood
might not stain the garment of Christ's priest. Some distant angelic
voice seemed to say in his mind: "This blood is good blood."

 

 

And it was, in effect, good blood, since the sight of it made a certain
impression on the young müdir from Salonika, just back from his afternoon
siesta. He was a fiery advocate of extermination but did not like to have
to witness it personally. Ittihad, in this müdir, had by no means its
most relentless exponent. He struck a balance, avoiding any display of
sentimentality. Time pressed. There were six more villages to visit.
And, since even the muafin had stilled the itch to assert his position
and prove his authority, he waved magnanimously. The priest and clerk were
set free. They were sent home. So that, in Yoghonoluk, the day had passed
off smoothly enough, far more smoothly than such days usually did, in these
towns and villages. Only two men, who made some show of resisting domiciliary
inspection, were shot in the process -- only two young girls got raped
by the saptiehs.

 

 

 

 

Gabriel Bagradian had to wait a full twenty-four hours before it became
the turn of himself and his house. Once again they sat up all night.
Exhaustion forced its way through their limbs, like a soft mass, stiffening
slowly. The many inhabitants of the villa -- Juliette, Iskuhi, Hovsannah,
Gonzague Maris, who had recently taken up his quarters there -- kept
dropping off to sleep for minutes together, where they sat. This vigil
was entirely aimless, since the saptiehs' visit was not expected before
next morning, nor indeed even before midday. Yet nobody thought of
leaving the others and lying down. Bed -- that soft kingdom of pillows,
that cool security protected by its draped mosquito net, that loving
mother, protector of the civilized human being -- how remote it seemed,
even now! They had lost their right to such oblivion. When, early next
morning, the cook Hovhannes sent fresh coffee, eggs, cold chicken, on
fine porcelain dishes, into the dining-room, they were almost uneasy in
spite of their hunger and thirst. They ate quickly, as if the house might
fall about their ears before they had finished. Had they still any right
to eat up such good things in the old way, without a thought? Surely
it was unwise to encroach on the provisions of the Damlayik. All their
thoughts were centered on Musa Dagh. Gabriel had on his Turkish officer's
uniform. He was wearing his sword and medals. He would receive these
saptiehs as their superior.

 

 

Gonzague Maris advised most strongly against it: "Your military fancy
dress will only get on their nerves. I don't think it'll be to your
advantage."

 

 

Gabriel was unmoved: "I'm an Ottoman officer. I've duly reported at my
regiment, and so far no one has degraded me."

 

 

"That'll be done soon enough."

 

 

So Maris spoke, but his thought added: "There's nothing you can do for
these Armenians. They're solemn lunatics -- always will be."

 

 

At about eleven that morning Iskuhi suddenly collapsed. First a brief
faint, then uncontrollable shivering. She dragged herself out of the
room, insistently refusing any help. Juliette wanted to go after her,
but Hovsannah raised a warning hand.

 

 

"Let her be. . . . It's Zeitun. . . . She's terrified. . . She wants to
hide. We're having to go through it all a second time." And the pastor's
young wife hid her face in her hands, her heavy body shaken with sobs.

 

 

This was about the moment at which the police squad, the muafin and the
müdir turned into the grounds of Villa Bagradian. The sentries posted by
Gabriel came breathlessly scurrying to announce them. Six saptiehs were
placed outside the doors of the garden wall, six more in the garden,
six in the stable-yard. The müdir, the muafin, and four men came into
the house. The Turks looked fagged. In the last twenty-four hours they
had played havoc in the villages, looting and breaking up the insides of
houses, arresting men and thrashing them till they bled, they had done
a little raping, and so in part actually realized the festive program
arranged for them by the government. Luckily, therefore, their thirst
for action was somewhat slaked. This huge Bagradian family mansion,
with its thick walls, cool rooms, full of strange-looking furniture, its
silencing carpets, acted no doubt as a kind of restraint. The red window
curtains of the selamlik had been drawn. Intruders into the rich dusk
of the room found themselves in the midst of what looked like an august
gathering of European ladies and gentlemen, respectfully surrounded
by their servants. This impressive company waited stiffly and never
moved. Juliette kept fast hold of Stephan's hand. Only Gonzague lit a
cigarette. Gabriel came a step nearer the committee, his sword caught up,
in prescribed officer's fashion, in his left hand. The field uniform,
which he had had made in Beirut before he left, made him look taller. He
was certainly the foremost man in the room, and this quite apart from
his inches. Gonzague seemed to have been wrong. The uniform was having
its effect. The police chief glanced uneasily at this officer with the
row of medals on his tunic. The fierce eye clouded with melancholy,
the half-shut one closed up altogether. Nor did the freckled müdir
seem altogether happy in his part. It had been far easier to be a
convincingly watchful providence in the stuffy rooms of wood-carvers,
silk-weavers. Here in these civilized surroundings the delicate nerves
of Salonika were providing a handicap. Instead of striding pitilessly
on to take possession of this cursed house in the name of his race, of
Ittihad, of the state, the young gentleman nodded and clutched at his
fez. He began uncomfortably to remember a certain talk with Bagradian in
his office. His moral conflict caused delay and prevented his finding the
right opening. Gabriel watched him with such contemptuous gravity that
really the tables seemed almost turned -- it was as though a tall, warlike
Armenia were facing a red-haired, cringing, half-breed Turkey. Bagradian
seemed to grow and grow, as the müdir suffered under his dwarfishness,
which so inadequately embodied the heroic quality of his race. In the
end he could manage to do nothing but produce a vast official document,
against which, so to speak, to steady himself, and rap out his business
as brusquely as possible.

 

 

"Gabriel Bagradian, born Yoghonoluk? You are the owner of this house,
the head of this family? As an Ottoman subject you are liable to the
decrees and enactments of the Kaimakam of Antioch. You, together with
the rest of the population of this nahiyeh, from Suedia to Musa Dagh,
are ordered to set out eastwards, on a day shortly to be specified.
Your entire family to go with you. You have no right to raise objections
of any kind against the general order of migration -- neither as concerns
your own person, nor those of your wife and children, nor for any other
member of your establishment. . . ."

 

 

The müdir so far had behaved as though he were reading an incantation;
now he squinted up, over the document. "I am to draw your attention to
the fact that your name is on the list of political suspects. You are
closely connected with the Dashnakzagan party. Therefore, even on the
convoy, you are to be subjected to close daily inspection. Any attempt
at escape, any insubordination against government or executive orders,
or infringement of transport discipline, will render, not only you,
but your relatives, liable to instant execution."

 

 

Gabriel seemed about to reply. The müdir refused to let him speak.
His stilted and involved official phrasing, in such contrast to the
usual floweriness of the East, seemed to inflate him with satisfaction.

 

 

"By extraordinary edict of His Excellency, the Wali of Aleppo:
Armenians on the march are not permitted to make use of such conveyances,
sumpter or saddle animals as they may think fit. In certain exceptional
cases leave may be obtained to make use of any customary vehicle of the
countryside, or of an ass, for the weak and ailing. Have you any requests
for such special treatment?"

 

 

Gabriel pressed his sword hilt against his thigh. The words dropped like
stones from his lips: "I shall go the way of my whole people."

 

 

By now the müdir had entirely shed his first embarrassment. He could
put some suave concern into his tone. "So as not to expose you to the
dangerous temptation of either trying to absent yourself, or, later,
of leaving the convoy -- I hereby take possession of your horses, your
carriage, and all other beasts of transport."

 

 

Then came the usual procedure, but slightly modified. The police chief
was still not quite sure how to deal with the uniform, sword, and medals
of this prospective deportee. He growled out the usual question about
arms. Gabriel sent Kristaphor and Missak to fetch in the long-barrelled
Bedouin flintlocks hung up as ornament in his hall. (This had of course
been arranged; all the useful weapons in the house were by now safely
on the Damlayik.) Scornful laughter bubbled out of the police chief,
as out of a kettle on the boil.

 

 

The müdir thoughtfully tapped these romantic fiintlocks. "You surely
aren't going to tell me, Effendi, that you live here in this solitude
without weapons?"

 

 

Gabriel Bagradian sought the lashless stare of the müdir and held it
steadily. "Why not? This is the first time my house has been broken into
since it was built in 1870."

 

 

The freckled one shrugged regretful shoulders. Such recalcitrance made
it impossible to do anything to mitigate Bagradian's fate. And so, much
against his will, he was forced to leave the field clear for the sharper
process of armed authority. The house to be searched for arms! The muafin
metaphorically rolled up his sleeves, though the officer's uniform worn
by this outcast still troubled his sergeant-major's mind, filling him
with a puzzled irritation. The staring right eye could not detach itself
from the medals on Bagradian's chest; apparently the chap had served with
distinction. It was quite impossible to decide how this deportee ought
to be handled by an Imperial Ottoman employee. To hide these irritable
doubts he conducted the search with as much din and pother as he could --
went stumping at the head of his saptiehs, with the müdir close upon
their heels yet still refusing to be involved. Gabriel, Avakian, and
Kristaphor followed. The Turks nosed in every corner, knocked on the
walls, overturned the furniture, smashed whatever was breakable. Yet it
was easy to see that this vandalism, perpetrated as a matter of course,
as if by mistake, hurt their self-esteem. They were used to making a
straight, clean job of it. But now their method of smashing bottles in
the cellar, with their rifle-butts, was most perfunctory. Nor was there
any real brio in their method of dealing with whatever flasks, jugs,
dishes, wine jars they found. (The most important provisions had all been
removed.) And these disillusioned saptiehs had expected a better cellar
in such a palace. Since these were all they could find, they took away
a couple of empty petrol tins, on which glittering toys the Oriental
sets great store. Then, sweating and disgruntled, the warriors took the
staircase by assault and began to rummage the upper story. Here they
did most in Juliette's bedroom and dressing-room, the scents of which
had attracted them so sharply from a distance that the other rooms were
entirely forgotten. The big wardrobe was prized open. Dirty brown fists
snatched last year's Paris models off their pegs -- frocks like the
softest petals, which now lay strewn in crumpled twists and heaps about
the floor. A particularly evil-looking gendarme pawed them with both
feet, like a stolidly rampaging bull, as though set on stamping these
European reptiles into earth. Nightdresses, batiste underwear, shifts,
and stockings met the same fate. The sight of these intimate garments
was too much for the police chief. He plunged both hands into the white
and rose-colored foam and buried his punchinello face in it. The müdir,
to indicate the fact that the legislature had nothing in common with the
executive, went dreamily over to the window to look at the garden. An
especially zealous saptieh had flung himself on the untouched bed and
was engaged, since he could think of no other method, in tearing open the
pillows with his teeth. Perhaps there was a bomb among the feathers. There
was always so much talk of Armenian bombs. Another swung his club over
the washing-stand. Crystal flasks, bowls, powder boxes, saucers, came
smashing down, giving out wave on wave of heady perfume.