Nobody's Child
Authors: Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch
N
OBODY'S
C
HILD
To my dear friend
Lee Ann Krekorian-Chan.
OBODY'S
C
HILD
Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch
Copyright © Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch, 2003
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Editor: Barry Jowett
Copy-Editor: Jennifer Bergeron
Design: Jennifer Scott
Printer: Webcom
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data
Skrypuch, Marsha Forchuk, 1954-
Nobody's child / Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch.
ISBN 1-55002-442-6
1. Armenian massacres, 1915-1923 â Juvenile fiction. 2. Death marches â Juvenile fiction. I. Title.
PS8587.K79N63 2003Â Â Â Â Â Â Â jC813'.54Â Â Â Â Â Â Â C2003-905439-X
1Â Â Â Â 2Â Â Â Â 3Â Â Â Â 4Â Â Â Â 5Â Â Â Â 07Â Â Â Â 06Â Â Â Â 05Â Â Â Â 04Â Â Â Â 03
We acknowledge the support of the
Canada Council for the Arts
and the
Ontario Arts Council
for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the
Government of Canada
through the
Book Publishing Industry Development Program
and
The Association for the Export of Canadian Books
, and the
Government of Ontario
through the
Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit
program, and the
Ontario Media Development Corporation's Ontario Book Initiative.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on recycled paper.
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B
OOK
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C
HAPTER
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April 1909 â Adana, Turkey
T
hey travelled on foot. That set them apart from the other migrant barley harvesters. The others travelled with donkeys or an oxcart. What also set them apart was that their group included women and children.
Mariam's father and uncle kept pace a few steps in front of the others in their group, and right behind them walked Mariam's mother. They each carried a cloth sack of supplies on their backs. They each brought their own large sickle.
As Mariam put one foot in front of the other, she kept her eyes fixed on the small glittering sickle looped into the left side of her mother's belt. Mariam Hovsepian didn't like to think that her mother, Parantzim, was only fifteen years older than she was. Would she look that old at twenty-five? Mariam closed her eyes for a second and then opened them again. The edge of her mother's
coarsely woven wool skirt was stiff with dirt from the road and there was a patch of sweat on her back. The gauzy veil that she wore to keep the sun off her head and face kept slipping off, and several times Mariam reached down and picked it up off the dirt and handed it back to her mother.
Onnig, Mariam's four-year-old brother, was riding on Parantzim's right hip. The sway of the movement had lulled him to sleep for most of the day, but now he struggled to get down. Parantzim held him firmly but gently in place and cooed in his ear. Mariam knew that her mother did not want to slow the group down by letting him walk.
Beside Mariam walked Marta, her little sister. She was seven years old, but tall for her age. Marta was built sturdily, and she wore her unruly hair tied back with a strip of leather. On Marta's hip was balanced Bibi â her beloved rag-cloth doll.
“Are we there yet?” asked Onnig wearily.
This was their sixth day of travel. They had already stopped at several farms along the way, but nobody had wanted to hire a whole family of field hands.
“I told you we should have left them at home, Hovsep,” Aram said, in a voice filled with annoyance.
Mariam understood why her father's older brother was upset. Last April, her father and uncle had been able to find good paying jobs in the barley fields within a single day of leaving Marash. And here they were now â so close to Adana that its distinctive stone bridge across the Jihan River could be seen in the distance.
And still not an offer.
What was her mother thinking, dragging the whole family on this journey with the men? She and her brother and sister would have been much better off staying at home with their extended family. And her mother should have stayed at home too.
But while she agreed with her uncle Aram, Mariam also understood why her mother insisted on coming with her husband. And also why she wanted to bring the children. Parantzim had heard rumours of political unrest. There was talk that the Armenian district in Marash was going to be raided while the men were gone for the harvest.
“Parantzim and your children should have stayed at home with our mother and my wife and children,” said Aram.
“We've been over this a thousand times, brother. What's done is done.”
The conversation drifted back to Parantzim, and Mariam could see that her mother's ears burned pink in shame.
As the little group reached a narrow dirt laneway of another farm, Hovsep said wearily, “Wife, children, rest here while Aram and I see if there is work to be had in these fields.”
Gratefully, Mariam sat down in a patch of dry grass and pulled the leather strapped sandals off her feet and gingerly rubbed the blister that had formed at the back of her heel. Marta plopped down beside her, and Onnig struggled down from his mother's hip, full of energy and ready to play. Parantzim dug a water skin from the folds of her robe and sat down beside her children.
“Water, please?” asked Onnig, opening his mouth expectantly. So Parantzim squeezed a thin spray of tepid water into his mouth. Then she gave the skin to Mariam, then Marta, and then finally took a sip of water herself.
They had barely settled down when Hovsep came running down to them. “There is work for us here, even for you, Parantzim,” he said excitedly. “The boss is showing Aram where we can set up camp.”
The accommodation was little more than a barn. And when the girls and their mother stepped inside, they were welcomed with rude sexual hoots and guffaws from the other migrant workers. Mariam looked over at her mother and noticed that her expression was frozen into a mask of indifference. With forced dignity, Parantzim turned to her husband and addressed him formally. “We will sleep under the stars, Hovsep-agha. It's too filthy in here for humans.” And she turned her back on the loud catcalls and stinking humanity.
Her sister rolled out a carpet on one side of Onnig and Mariam rolled hers out on the other. Aram collected some twigs and brush to make a fire, and Hovsep drew water from a nearby well. Parantzim broke into their thin store of food yet another time. She filled a pot with water and threw in a cupful of dried wheat berries. She rooted around in the food bag and found an onion. She peeled it and added it to the pot.
While the pilaf cooked, Parantzim untied the large cloth that held a stack of dried Armenian flatbread. She removed two platter-sized pieces of the bread, then tied the cloth back up. She shook out another cloth, spread it onto one of the carpets beside the fire, and placed on it
the flatbreads side by side. She squirted some water onto each piece of bread and then quickly distributed the droplets of water evenly over the surface with the palms of her hands. Within minutes, the bread was moist and fresh and ready to eat. She knew her family was too hungry to wait the hour it would take for the pilaf to cook, so she took out what was left of a salted roast of lamb, cut a few slices, and set it out.
While the pilaf cooked, Parantzim ripped off bits of flatbread and wrapped each one around a slice of salted lamb. She gave one small wrapped sandwich to each family member to stave off hunger pangs until the pilaf was ready.
Mariam's wrap was finished in two quick bites. She was so tired that she didn't think she'd be able to stay awake long enough for dinner, but as the pilaf cooked, the savoury aroma bubbling out of the pot made her stomach grumble.
Everyone received a piece of flatbread and they ate the pilaf family style, each breaking off bite-sized pieces of the bread and dipping it into the communal pot. Mariam dipped every last piece of her bread into the pot, savouring each bite. She was fast asleep moments after finishing.
She dreamed of a soft bed and food to eat and servants to cater to her every need. What a grand life that would be. But when the sun beat down on her in the early hours of the morning, she opened her eyes and found that she was still just the daughter of a lowly migrant worker.
