The Dark Valley (3 page)

Hatam’s daughter’s reply was also always the same:

“Didn’t I?”

Badi would then grunt wearily, take off his moccasins, empty them across the threshold, and place them on the floor for the following day.

Meanwhile, his wife would keep an eye on the kitchen stove, fix the lamp’s wick, and spread the worn carpet on the swept floor.

They would eat a modest meal—bread and cheese, and whenever available, herbs from the pasture, and sometimes even dear food sent by neighbors.

Badi’s child, Habud, had already grown so big that he could help his father, but Badi did not want Habud to learn his trade.

“He should learn to read and write so that he can find my grave when I’m gone.”

“When he’s grown, I’ll marry him off. He’ll have a hearth and home, learn a craft, and bring home food. As for me, when I’ve reached my senior years, I’ll reap the harvest and put to rest my weary feet that will have scrambled mountains and valleys.”

* * *

Badi had a patriarchal demeanor and temper, but he was also honest and righteous. He wanted his child to follow his path, to be hospitable, to love tradition, to respect his elders, and to be a well-mannered man in the village.

Then one day Habud asked his father a question:

“Father, why is it that in our herd the Isans have nine cows, but we only have one?”

Badi snorted.

“Are you comparing yourself to them? Your father is a cowherd, while Isans’ brother Zaki—bless his soul—was a man of honor and dignity. Whenever an administrator would come to the village, he would stay at their house. Brother Zaki was even awarded a medal in the days of the governor. And his sons were smart: they split his single property in half.”

Badi looked after the Isans’ nine cows all year long, and in return he received one sack of wheat, a pound of sugar, which was never enough, and a little money.

Habud did not like the fact that his father had to go around houses every month to collect his share for looking after the cows and the cowshed. It offended Habud’s pride when he had to go from door to door to collect food or money in place of his father.

Whenever Habud entered the Isans’ shop, the younger brother would mock Habud and say: “When did the month go by for you to come?” or “How many weeks does your month have?”

Habud never received what he lawfully deserved. Either the Isans would say that they had nothing to give or, if Habud persisted for too many days, they would get angry and say: “Who the hell are you? Have your father come over here and we’ll make a deal with him!”

Habud knew that his father was a timid and humble man. He would agree to whatever they said, if only to keep good relations with the well-to-do villagers.

“They are rich, and we must live in their shadow.”

This is how Vands’ Badi explained the situation as he gave his collected coins to Hatam’s daughter for saving. The money would be needed someday: Habud’s wedding was still to come, along with a new dwelling.

“He’s growing. There’s not much time left,” Badi would sometimes say to his wife, and both would look at Habud and miss him already.

“If I’m still alive next spring, I’ll plan a wedding.”

Hatam’s daughter did not believe that there were suitable girls in the village. She thought that Habud would want a girl from a neighboring village, and she lamented the fact that she could never free herself from work and duties to go and see whose daughter was eligible.

“If you pass by the trade route through the mountain this spring, buy me some wool, will you, so that I can spin it and make a blanket.”

The old couple put their heads together and considered the future. When will there be noise in the house? When will people come and go? When will the happy sounds of a young child resound in their ramshackle hut?

And sometimes they would discuss what trade or skill Habud should learn. His mother wanted him to become a village clerk or a servant to the village constable. Badi, on the other hand, wanted him to learn a trade.

“I don’t want dirty bread on my plate,” he would say. Vands’ Badi knew that the penman was fond of bribes and that the villagers did not like him at all. Badi did not want for his son to be cursed after his death.

Habud agreed with his father. He also disliked Avan-the-Penman, who sniffed like a hunting dog, looking for someone to rip off so that he could get a chicken in exchange for scribbling a couple of words.

Avan-the-Penman was very close to the Isans. He was always in touch with them and often arranged to do much of his work in their shop.

Habud, however, had other ideas: he wanted to go to Baku and learn a trade. He was often on the verge of entreating his father, but his mouth would not let him utter a sound.

He wanted to see the world, as his friend said, who had worked in Baku and had only returned because he had fallen ill. The two of them would sit on the friend’s rooftop for hours, and Habud would listen to his friend talk about how much power machines have, how there is a switch that turns on the light without having to use fire, how oil is extracted from an oil well, and thousands of other things like that.

Habud would listen intently and feel an irresistible urge to see it all. But as soon as he would return home, the warm fire that was in his heart would extinguish, and he would come to terms with learning a trade in the village.

Then one day, Habud’s father took him to Davit-the-Carpenter’s workshop. The craftsman refused to take Habud at first, but in the end he promised to teach the boy his craft in two years’ time. That evening the craftsman came around to Vands’ Badi’s house. They ate, drank, put aside their grievances and worries, and became dear acquaintances from then on.

…It was past midnight, but neither Badi, nor Hatam’s daughter was sleeping. They were thinking about the following day, and they felt satisfied and lucky. Next to them, Habud slept quietly. He was their only hope in hard times.

* * *

And then one morning an unusual event took place in the village. The village messenger was shouting through the village at the top of his lungs.

“Hey, people! The Czar has decreed the conscription of young men! They must gather in the city. There is war against Germany…”

Those who had recently been to the city told of large posters hung on walls, of people talking about the war in the streets, of the amount of young men needing to be conscripted, of the war that had spread over many countries, and of the world having turned upside down.

The villagers gathered in groups in front of the Isans’ shop. A literate person began to read the paper aloud. The villagers listened to the names of unknown places, cities, and nations, and foresaw an expensive war resulting in massacre and hardship.

The elder of the Isans’ brothers argued that the war had its benefits for the people, that the Russian Czar’s lands were safe and had a large population, and that the German king would be defeated.

“This is Russia we’re talking about—she has one foot in Siberia and another in India. How can anyone defeat her?”

Some of the elderly villagers said that according to the Ephemeris seven nations were to go to war, bread was to become expensive, and the Czar’s taxes were to increase.

Of all of them, the penman was the happiest. The young wealthy villagers had gathered around him, bribing him to fake birth certificates in order to send others in their place so that they could stay in the village to do as they wished. Meanwhile, small loans and old grievances also paved their way into the village.

The posters on the city’s walls had affected the once peaceful village where people used to get along. Now it was as if the lamb was living with the wolf.

* * *

Habud was beginning to notice the changes that were taking place in the village. Paint had become more expensive in the Isans’ shop. There was a lack of brushes and cloth, and the price of sugar had gone through the roof.

The Isans kept the brushes in their house to sell later.

“The roads are blocked. This paint was made in Germany. Where else will you find this quality of product?”

For Habud, the worst spirit in the village was that of the penman. One time the penman had said something dirty to the Khachums’ bride when he was supposed to deliver a letter. He had touched her, and the bride had run away crying.

The news had quickly spread and a few people had been determined to make him pay, but the village messenger had threatened them:

“I will personally drive anyone to Siberia who dares to start a fight in the village. Have you any idea what times we’re living in?”

Since then, Habud’s dislike for the penman had grown even more. He had become the evil spirit and the bloodsucker of the village. As for the Isans’ shop: Habud no longer went there. At home, they no longer drank tea with sugar.

The elder of the Isans’ brothers said that everything would return to normal if the village cowherd’s son would join the army.

Vands’ Badi would talk about the pasture, about the ruined church in the valley, about cows that needed to give birth, about a bridge that had fallen near the pasture. Sometimes he would ask Habud about the war.

“Habud, aren’t those Germans Christian?”

“They’re Christian.”

“Then why are they allies with the Turks? God forbids such an alliance, doesn’t He?”

Habud smiled at his father’s concerns. He would think about the Isans, the penman, and those who were fighting in remote places, losing arms and legs, freezing in the cold, and receiving crosses from the Czar for their courage.

Why was the order of the world the way it was? Why were neither of the Isans’ sons soldiers when three of Khachums’ Bakhsh’s boys were fighting? Why was sugar getting more and more expensive? Why were there meetings in the cities to collect money? How was it that Minas-the-Teacher had formed a group, had gone to Van, but refugees were suffering from cold and hunger?

Habud thought, but his crude mind stubbornly refused to give him answers, to break through that which was forbidden, and open the door to all those secrets.

* * *

Then one day Zaki-the-Messenger came to Vands’ Badi’s house by the Atans’ great walnut tree.

“Good day, Hatam’s daughter.”

“Ah, Zaki, I hope you have brought good tidings.”

“Of course I have. Why wouldn’t I? When your son comes home, tell him to go to the city. He has been conscripted into the army.”

It was as if Hatam’s daughter had been hit on the head with a large rock. Her knees shook, her eyes were blinded, and she fell right onto the threshold.

That evening the cowherd’s home was like a house of mourning. There was neither food, nor the regular conversations. Badi was sitting by the stove, drying his wet moccasins, and thinking.

“What’s going to happen?”

Badi had been prepared to expect anything, but not this. Ever. Hatam’s daughter was delirious. She was sitting next to Habud looking at him, looking at him voraciously like a dumb beast, and thinking. Habud was lying on the mat, thinking about how his old mother and father would cope after he was gone.

That night it seemed as if all the misery of the entire village had fallen onto Vands’ Badi’s roof. The hut was gloomy with heavy thoughts and questions that had no answers. Someone was tossing and turning in bed, another was moaning and crying, and the last was softly trying to restrain his tears from rolling down his cheeks.

* * *

The next day, Habud left for the city early in the morning. That day Hatam’s daughter forgot to wrap food in Badi’s handkerchief, and Badi did not look where his cattle were going or whether they were hungry or not. He could only think about his child.

“We’ll see whether he has the right build…”

For a moment Badi wished that they would consider his son crippled or armless, so that he could stay home. But immediately he was horrified at the thought and turned his hopeful eyes to the sky instead.

“Dear God, I am your created pauper. Please don’t do any evil.”

Vands’ Badi promised to offer a sacrifice if his child was freed from the conscription. But it was not to be. Habud had the right build, and he was to be sent to the rookie regiment.

Habud returned home with his friends to prepare for the journey back to the city the following day and from there to wherever he would be sent. Habud was glad that he would get to see many cities and learn different languages, but as soon as he saw his elderly parents, the bright light in him faded.

During Habud’s military examination, the elder of the Isans’ brothers and the penman had whispered to each other. They weren’t playing with him, were they? And the bitter hatred he felt toward the penman, who had touched Ohan’s wife and wanted chicks and chickens for writing a letter, and toward the Isans and all the others like them rose like a wave.

The bad news reached home quickly. Hatam’s daughter was dazed. She had her hand in her lap and refused to move away from her child. She could not touch anything. Everything around her seemed empty, as if a current had washed away everything…

But what of Habud’s wedding?

“Habud, is the war far from our province?” the mother barely managed to ask.

The child smiled faintly. What was he to say? How was his mother to know, and how was she to understand, that the world had turned upside down and that her child would have to travel over a thousand miles, past cities, to finally reach the fields where people were deafened by the sound of bombs?

Badi returned home in the evening. He instantly understood the situation, but all he could say was:

“Habud, bless you, but what about us?”

It was already past midnight, but no one was sleeping. Hatam’s daughter was preparing her child’s baggage, packing socks and handkerchiefs, fruits and sweet cake. She did not know the destination of anything she packed. Her tears flowed like torrents of water.

Badi was trying to comfort himself.

“It’s all in the service of the Czar. There’s nothing anyone can do. Where can you flee from the Czar’s territories?”

“Habud, take good care of yourself. Don’t do too many adolescent and irresponsible things. You’re going to a foreign country where there’s war. Who knows what can happen? Keep your thoughts toward home and send letters. Surely the news will reach us somehow.”