Nobody's Child (21 page)

Parantzim adapted to harem life right away. She and the other young girls bonded immediately. The peals of their laughter and the thumping of their tiny feet could be heard all through the day as they played one game after another. Even Guluzar Hanim came to tolerate Parantzim, although she insisted she be called by her Turkish name: Sheruk-rey-ah.

Mariam spent long hours in the garden, walking around and around and around. She felt like an animal in
a cage, but the walking settled her mind. She had heard whispers from the Armenian servants that the people who had been deported had been forced to walk around and around and around in the desert until they died.

She also set up writing lessons for the four little girls. “This is allowed,” remarked Guluzar Hanim, happening upon them mid-lesson one day, “as long as you stick to teaching them in Turkish.”

Mariam taught all four girls in Turkish, but it was Armenian folk tales in Turkish that she used for the writing lessons. She also took Parantzim and Taline aside whenever she was able, and she would tell them Bible stories in whispered Armenian. She tried to get Ani to sit with them during the lessons, but Ani rarely did.

One day Ede — Rustem's sister — came up to Mariam as she taught the younger girls. “Could I sit in too?” she asked timidly.

“Of course,” said Mariam.

Even after the little girls tired of the lessons, Ede would stay on. “I would have loved to go to school,” Ede confided in her.

Mariam was surprised at this. She had assumed that Ede and the others were happy with their existence.

T
he woman brought in a clay basin and strips of clean rags. She drew back the cloth that was covering Kevork and looked at the bullet wound in his side. She dipped one rag into the liquid. Kevork wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell.

“Goat urine,” she said.

She gingerly draped the urine-soaked rag on the bullet wound. Kevork gasped in pain. She left it there for a moment or two, then took it off. It was covered with bits of blackened crusty blood.

“It is not healing,” she said, frowning.

She moistened another rag in the vile liquid, and as she draped it on the wounded area, Kevork passed out.

When he awoke, Kevork thought he was seeing double. The wizened Madonna face was gazing into his with concern. “We must try something else.”

Beside her was another old woman. This woman was frailer looking, but her black-brown eyes
sparkled with intelligence. “Hold his shoulders,” she said.

Kevork's Madonna repositioned herself so that his head was resting on her lap. She looped her arms under his armpits and held him tight.

The smaller woman took a wad of clean rags and said to Kevork in Arabic, “Bite on this,” then she placed it between his teeth. She flipped the cloth down and gently prodded the wound with her fingertips. Kevork groaned in pain.

She looked up at him and met his eyes. “The bullet is still in there,” she said. “It is surrounded by pus. It won't heal until we get the bullet and the pus out.”

Kevork nodded, then clenched his teeth on the cloth. The last thing he remembered before passing out was feeling the woman's hands pushing hard at his wound, as if she were squeezing a massive pimple.

When he woke up, the second woman was gone, but Kevork's Madonna was still there, sitting in the corner, mending garments. Her eyes brightened when she noticed he was awake.

“The bullet came out,” she said, smiling.

She set down her mending and walked over to him. She pulled down the linen and showed him his side. The skin was healthy and pink. No longer was the wound swollen and ragged with putrid edges. Now there was a hole the size of a coin. The edges were clean and straight and looked freshly cut. A thin healthy scab was already starting to form.

The sight of it made Kevork feel woozy. He closed his eyes and lay back down.

He felt the cool dryness of the woman's hand on his forehead. “The fever is gone,” she said. “You'll be feeling better soon.”

What woke Kevork the next time was the absence of pain. The woman wasn't sitting at his feet, doing her mending. He sat up, then marvelled at the fact that he could sit up. He flipped back the linen that covered him. His whole abdomen was wrapped in clean white linen, held together with strips of cloth tied in knots. He gingerly poked at the cloth right above the bullet wound and was amazed that there was only a dull ache. He looked around him and saw that there was a wooden tray covered with a square of cloth sitting on the ground beside him. He removed the cloth. A jug filled with water, an empty cup, and a bowl filled with something white and gooey.

Kevork was so weak that lifting up the jug took a real effort. The water tasted like nectar as it wet his lips. He scooped a small bit of the goo with his fingers and placed it on his tongue. An image flashed in his mind: the Vartabed and his last Communion of sand. Kevork let the food dissolve on his tongue and then he washed it down with a sip of water. He said a silent prayer for the soul of the Vartabed, then said another for the thousands of other lost souls. And he prayed for Marta.

The tent flap opened and Kevork squinted at the sudden beam of light. When the tent flapped closed again, Kevork could see. His Madonna had returned.

“You're looking healthy,” she said, grinning.

“Thank you for saving my life,” said Kevork.

“I wish I could have saved more,” replied the woman. “We saw thousands of Armenians being marched in the
desert, past our settlement in Rakki, but the soldiers were watching us, not letting us intervene.”

“How is it that you speak Armenian?” asked Kevork.

The woman's eyes sparkled. “I was born Armenian,” she replied. “These Arabs saved me, much like I did you, many years ago.”

“Saved you from what?” asked Kevork.

“The earlier massacres,” replied the woman. “In 1896, the Sultan ordered the Armenians to be killed. I was not much older than you at the time.”

Kevork blinked in wonder. The woman was not yet forty.

“My Armenian name was Zarouhi,” she continued. “But the Arabs call me Huda — a better Muslim name. Please call me that.”

“Thank you, Huda, and my name is Kevork.”

“Kevork … Kevork …” said Huda. “Here, you shall be Khedive, agreed?”

Kevork nodded. He had been reborn.

“Now, promise me something,” Huda said.

“Anything.”

“You must not leave this tent until I tell you it is safe.”

“Are there still Turks in the area?”

“We are being patrolled regularly,” replied Huda. “And they will kill us all if they find you.”

So Kevork stayed in the tent. Huda brought him food and sat with him when she had the time. Kevork was strong enough to stand, and so he would alternate from sleeping, to sitting, to standing in the middle of the tent — the only place that was tall enough for his
full height. It was a boring existence, but the boredom was like a balm to Kevork's soul.

Kevork lost all sense of time. His side healed and the wrappings came off. Huda brought him a length of cloth to hide his nakedness. The hair on his head grew long and shaggy, and when Kevork felt his face, he realized that it was covered with a beard. It was days or weeks later when Huda announced that it was now safe for him to leave the tent. She laid out some Arab-style clothes. After so much time in solitude, Kevork was almost afraid to go outside.

“Are the deportations over?” he asked Huda.

“No,” she said. “They've simply moved on. Dress. I will be back for you shortly.”

After she left and the tent flap closed, Kevork looked at the clothing she had left him. There was a
thwab
— a loose flowing linen robe — and there was also large square of cloth known as a
guttrah
and a length of rope made of goat's hair and sheep's wool. There were also sturdy leather sandals. He drew the loose robe over his head and was pleased with how cool and comfortable it felt.

Kevork had seen guttrahs worn by Arabs and he had a good idea of how it would go on. He folded the cloth on a diagonal, making a large triangle. He placed the triangle on his head with the long straight side over his forehead. One corner was pointed towards the back and the other two were positioned over each shoulder. He took the length of rope and wrapped it around his head twice, tying the knot at the back.

He picked up the sandals and examined their design. As a shoemaker, he appreciated their craftsmanship. They
were made of several layers of tanned camel hide, cut in the shape of a sole, and the layers meticulously stitched together at the sides. The top was made of two broad straps of soft sheep leather stitched together in a
Y
shape and fastened to the sole on either side of the foot and on the inside of the big toe. There was also a separate strap of sheep leather to enclose the big toe itself. Kevork slipped them on his feet and wriggled his toes. They were sturdy, yet cool and comfortable.

Huda opened the tent flap and entered. Kevork saw her look him up and down, and then a huge grin appeared on her face. “No one would guess that you were Armenian,” she said approvingly. She stepped up to him and adjusted the guttrah slightly. Then she led him out of the tent.

Kevork's eyes had become so accustomed to the dimness of the tent that the midday sun was like fire in his eyes. He squinted. There was a group of children wearing flowing Arabic robes playing tag. Several men were sitting together, talking languidly as they sipped tiny cups of coffee. A couple of women were cooking something in a big pot over an open fire. Another woman was gathering up camel dung to be used as fuel for the fire. The group resembled a relaxed and happy extended family.

Huda took him over to the group of men and waited silently until one, the eldest, deigned to notice her.

“Well Huda, I see that your
giaour
is alive and well.”

“Yes, husband,” replied Huda. “This is Khedive.”

“Khedive?” said the husband. “A good Muslim name.” Then he looked at Kevork carefully, noting the bearded face and the properly tied guttrah. To Kevork
he said, “I will adopt you as my son if you prove worthy. Otherwise, you will have to leave.”

Kevork swallowed hard, and nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

“My name is Ibrahim Hassan, and I am the patriarch of this camp.”

Kevork bowed in acknowledgment.

“And this is my eldest son, Aman. Consider him a brother.”

One of the men who had been sitting and sipping coffee stood up and nodded his head in Kevork's direction. Kevork noticed that the man was really no more than a boy — perhaps his own age. Like Kevork, his face was bearded. But he was a hand shorter.

“Welcome to our home, brother,” said Aman.

Kevork held out his hand, and Aman grasped it firmly. “Thank you,” said Kevork.

The days and weeks passed in languid monotony.

Kevork did not feel like a terribly useful member of Ibrahim Hassan's household. He offered to make them sandals, but Ibrahim Hassan pointed out that they all had serviceable sandals, thank you very much. What else could be offer them?

Kevork was desperate to prove himself useful, and so when the old man suggested that he try keeping an eye on the camels as they grazed in the desert, he jumped at the chance. But he found it impossible to watch every one of the tall, gangly beasts. One would wander off in one direction, and another in the exact opposite direction.

Then Ibrahim Hassan explained. “Khedive, my son, you do not have to keep an eye on all the camels all the
time. They are smart, and will make their way back to us eventually.”

“But how do I get them to come in at the end of the day?”

“See that camel?” asked Ibrahim, and he pointed out one that didn't look any different to Kevork than all the rest. “That camel is the leader. Just watch over him. When it is time to round them up at night, jump on his back and lead him to our camp. The rest will follow.”

Kevork grew to enjoy the camel duty. Being alone in the openness of the desert for long stretches during the day gave him time to reflect on all that had happened to him. He also used the time to get a bearing on exactly where he was in the vast desert. The Euphrates was half a day's walk away, and he knew that he could follow the river to Aneh, and Deir-Ez-Zor. Would it be possible to get all the way back to Marash? That was his dream.

The food at the encampment was plentiful, but not very interesting. The women would make a big vat of gooey white sorghum. Everyone would stand around the pot and scoop out bits using their fingers as spoons. It was a bland and monotonous diet, but Kevork was thankful for any food at all.

Kevork wasn't the only one in the encampment who found the gooey mush monotonous. One day, Ibrahim came up to him and said, “Khedive, my almost son. It is time for you to prove that you can earn your keep — you will help Aman steal a cow.”

Kevork stared. “But stealing is wrong.”

Ibrahim Hassan laughed out loud, but his eye held a glint of menace. “You're starting to sound like a
giaour
— an infidel.”

“I will help my father steal a cow,” Kevork said, swallowing hard. “I would do anything for my father.”

The Arab grinned broadly.

“This is the plan,” said Aman, Kevork's adoptive brother. “In the dead of night, we go over to the next encampment. They have many fine cows. I will find a nice fat one and tie a rope around its neck.”

“What do you want me to do?” Kevork asked.

“You must stay close to me. Once I have found the right cow, you must twist its tail as I pull her forward.”

“Twist the cow's tail? Are you serious?”

“Of course,” said Aman. “Otherwise the cow won't budge. But twisting on its tail will distract it and it will walk forward.”