The Ghosts of Anatolia (12 page)

Özker slipped his arm around Sirak’s back and the two boys walked away toward the barn.

Mourad and Kemal stood watching them for several moments. Özker tossed Sirak the ball and took up a position a few meters away. Sirak dropped the ball on the snow-covered ground and gave it a glancing kick. The ball spun toward the barn and Özker ran after it.

“Thank you,” Mourad muttered. “I’m grateful for anything to take his mind off the horse. A young boy should never endure so many heartaches. The tea should be ready by now. Let me take that bag.”

“I should feed and water my horse before we go inside.”

“Just tie him to that post. I’ll send Stepannos to tend to him.”

Kemal tied his horse to the post and, hoisting the second bag of flour onto his shoulder, followed Mourad to the front door. “You boys come inside if you get too cold!”

“We will, Father,” Özker yelled.

Sirak kicked the ball against the side of the barn and Özker caught it. He heaved it back to Sirak and he kicked it high into the air. Diving to his right, Özker landed face first in a mound of snow. Rolling over, the
young Turk struggled to his feet. He was covered head to toe in white powder.

Sirak brushed snow away from his friend’s face with his fingertips and broke out in laughter. “You look like a winter fox that crawled into a hare hole.”

“It’s inside my coat!” Özker squealed. He opened his coat and brushed snow off his tunic. “Brrr, that’s really cold. Hey, let’s go see the ice on the pond!”

“No, I’m not allowed. Mikael fell through the ice and nearly drowned when he was a little boy. He would have, if Alek hadn’t pulled him out. Besides, I’m too cold.”

“Okay,” Özker muttered disappointedly. “Hey, I know; let’s play in the barn!”

“Sure! Do you ever feed chickens?”

“No, that’s Verda and Lale’s chore. I clean the horses’ stall.”

Sirak stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at Özker as though he’d been punched in the stomach. Turning away, he walked to the barn and kicked at the snow.

Özker ran after him. “What’s wrong, Sirak?”

“Cleaning the horse stalls was my chore, too. Now they’re all gone except for old Rock.”

“I’m sorry, Sirak. I forgot.”

Sirak glanced toward the snow-covered corral. “I wonder what Tiran’s doing right now?”

“Maybe he found Alek.”

“That’s what Papa says. I hope he’s not scared of the guns.”

“Tiran wouldn’t be afraid of the guns,” Özker scoffed. “I’m sure he’s very brave, just like you, Sirak,”

“Come on, let’s go feed the chickens. I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”

The boys walked across the barnyard and Sirak opened the barn door. He led Özker to several pens stacked against one wall. Some of the
chickens whistled and clucked at the sight of them. Sirak grabbed a pail of feed, and taking a handful, opened one of the doors to let a rooster eat out of his hand.

“Pepper here’s my favorite. He’s always happy to see me.” Sirak held the pail out to Özker. “You feed those two. That’s Natty and Tia.”

Özker took a handful of the feed and reached inside. Both hens clucked contentedly and pecked at his hand. “It tickles!” he squealed.

Sirak grinned and tossed feed into another pen. “Özker, do you hate Christians?” he asked pensively.

Özker glanced over his shoulder with a puzzled expression. “No, I don’t hate Christians. My mother told me not to hate anybody. Why?”

“I heard Mama tell Papa the Muslims in the walled city hate Christians. Many Christians have been killed there since the war started,” Sirak said.

“You’re a Christian.”

“Yes, and everyone in my family’s a Christian, too.”

“Do you think I hate you, or my father hates you?” Özker asked.

“No, of course not. Papa says that your father is a kind and religious man, and if there were more men like him, the Empire would be a better place for everyone. But our neighbor, Abdul Pasha, hates us.”

“Abdul Pasha hates everybody.” Özker dropped the rest of the feed into the pen and locked the door. “Mother reads the Quran to me every night at bedtime and helps me memorize the important parts. I learned a passage that reminds me of you.”

“Really? What does it say?”

“
Thou wilt find the nearest in friendship to the believers to be those who say, we are Christians. That is because there are priests and monks among them and because they are not proud.
Father said that passage reminds him of your papa, too.”

“That’s written in your holy book?” Sirak asked.

“Yes, it is. Mother says there’s no harm in us being friends, no matter what other believers say. So we’ll always be friends, Sirak, even when we’re like the old men in town who only gossip and play chess. You must remember this.”

Sirak smiled gratefully. “I will remember.”

Özker thrust his hands into his coat pockets. “Brrr, I’m cold! Let’s finish feeding these chickens and go see if your mother has something to eat.”

Sirak set his bucket against the wall. “I’ll feed them later. Mama baked sweet bread this morning. We’d better hurry before Stepannos and Mikael eat it all.”

“Let’s go!”

The boys dashed out of the barn, and matching stride for stride, sprinted to the front door. Sirak shoved the door open.

“Hello, Özker,” Kristina called from the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”

Özker glanced at his father and Kemal nodded.

“Yes, Mrs. Kazerian. I’m starving.”

“I’ve baked the Armenian sweet bread you love. Sit down by the fire and I’ll bring you some.”

The wood in the hearth crackled and smoked, and intermittently spewed hot embers onto the floor. Stepannos, Mikael and Flora—bundled in winter coats—sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace. Izabella was in Flora’s lap.

Sirak and Özker held their hands out and playfully sparred for the heat.

Sirak scooted in beside Flora, and making room for Özker, smiled at his father.

Mourad smiled back and gratefully nodded at Kemal.

Kristina and the girls had gone to bed, and Mikael and Stepannos were slumbering by the fireplace. Sirak and Özker had fallen asleep on the floor near their fathers’ feet.

Kemal peered through darkness lit only by dying embers in the fireplace. “It’s late, Mourad,” he whispered. “It’s time to head home.”

“You’re welcome to stay until morning.”

“No, I can’t. Fadime and Nahid will worry. Can I have a private word with you before we leave?”

Mourad gathered himself to his feet. “Of course. I’ll help you with your horse.”

The two men stepped softly through the front room, and slipping outside into the crisp night air, headed to the barn. The scent of burning firewood wafted on the gentle breeze.

“Mourad, I’ve heard whispers the army suffered a devastating defeat on the Russian frontier.”

Mourad frowned. “A defeat?”

“Yes, they say it was a rout. Shocking rumors are spreading about thousands of soldiers being lost—entire corps vanishing.”

“God Almighty.”

“Do you know where Alek is stationed?”

“No. We haven’t heard a word since the day he left home.”

“They say the Russian Army has driven deep inside Anatolia—nearly to the outskirts of Van. And there’s something else you must know. There are reports of many Armenians joining the Russian volunteer regiments. Turks in Diyarbekir are calling for revenge.”

Mourad stared back, unable to find his tongue.

Kemal grasped Mourad’s shoulder. “Your family isn’t safe here anymore. You must leave Anatolia now.”

“But, where do we go?”

“Go join Bedros in Istanbul. He has perks and privileges there. The capital may be the only place in the Empire where Armenians are safe. And from Istanbul you could arrange safe passage out of the Empire.”

Mourad stood contemplatively for several moments. “Who knows, maybe the situation isn’t any better in the capital. I haven’t heard a word from Bedros since his letter in October.”

“It’s got to be better than here.”

“How can I move my mother to Istanbul? It’s a long, hard trip, even for healthy people. How could she survive that in the dead of winter?”

“Mourad, you remember, of course, that my father and yours were good friends?”

“Yes, yes they were. We know that.”

“Before Father died, he told me his biggest regret in life was not doing enough to save their common friend, Adom Tomassian. Did you know him?”

“Yes,” Mourad replied solemnly. “We all knew Adom. He was a leader in our church.”

“Well, then, you know what happened to him.”

“My father spoke of it many times. He blamed his killing on the Bloody Sultan.”

“Truly, Sultan Abdul Hamid must bear much of the blame, yet Father said we all bore responsibility because we didn’t do enough to stop the killing. It haunted him until the day he died,” Kemal explained. “Mourad, I don’t want to bear this burden. You must act now, before the situation spins out of control.”

Mourad stared into his friend’s unwavering eyes. “Okay, I’ll do it.” He squeezed Kemal’s hand. “It’ll take a week or so to prepare for the journey, but then we’ll go.”

“You must stay at my farm until you leave. It’ll be much safer. I’ll return first thing in the morning to help you move your family.”

“Are you sure?”

“I insist. Tell Kristina to pack only what you need to live for a week. We’ll return later to gather belongings you plan to take with you to Istanbul.”

“Okay, we’ll be ready. I should’ve accepted Abdul Pasha’s offer,” he said with regret.

“To hell with Pasha,” Kemal growled. “I’ll watch the farm while you’re away, and when everything settles, you’ll return. Everything will be the same as it was before. You have my word on this.”

Mourad embraced Kemal. “Thank you, my friend. You’re a true man of God.”

Kemal lifted Sirak up to the driver’s seat atop the wagon. He walked to his horse and, adjusting his saddlebags, untied the scruffy-looking mare from the barnyard post. Swinging up onto the horse’s back, he reached down for his son. He positioned Özker in front of him astride the horse and pulled the boy’s cap down on his head. “Okay, let’s take it slow.”

“Mourad, did you remember the note for Alek?” Kristina yelled from the rear of the wagon.

“Yes. It’s in the spot we agreed on in case of emergency.”

“What if he forgets?”

“Don’t worry, he’ll remember.”

Circling around the barnyard, Kemal trotted up the snow-covered path. The wagon clattered after him.

Mourad peered up at the bright blue sky and glanced over his shoulder. Kristina and the children were huddled together behind three crates of clucking chickens and two chests of belongings. Izabella was asleep in her mother’s lap, her beloved doll, a gift from Uncle Bedros, clutched in her small hands. Mourad’s ailing mother, bundled from head to toe against the cold, stared back with a cheerless, vacant expression. He gave her a forlorn smile, but she quickly glanced away.

Mourad’s eyes fell on the Khatchkar cross hanging on the front door of the house. He tapped out the sign of the cross. “Father, give us Thy protection,” he whispered.

The rickety wagon crested the hill and Sirak turned in his seat to catch one last glimpse of the snow-cloaked farmhouse, the only home he’d ever known.

Sensing Sirak’s apprehension, Mourad smiled and patted his son on the knee. “Don’t concern yourself with the things of this world, Son. Put your faith in God.”

The wagon turned west onto the main road, and Sirak’s eyes wandered to three columns of smoke rising into the sky in the distance. He glanced at his father, but Mourad hadn’t noticed. The latter’s eyes were fixed on the bumpy road ahead, as his horse splashed through a puddle of melting snow.

Kemal, however, had noticed the smoke. Feeling a sense of foreboding, his thoughts drifted to another time and place. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled apprehensively. “
Allahu Akbar
,” he whispered.

Özker turned around. “What did you say, Papa?”

“Nothing, Son, nothing at all.”

The wagon bumped slowly over the uneven country road for half an hour before Kemal turned onto a narrow trail that meandered through snow-draped spruce trees. Paralleling the bank of a frozen stream, the path opened onto a small clearing nestled between the river and a line of rocky cliffs. In the middle of the field, a small farmhouse, its chimney billowing smoke, stood a stone’s throw from a dilapidated barn.

Kemal rode to the front door and the wagon clattered to a stop beside him. The door burst open and Fadime and Nahid, both wearing veils and long black dresses, stepped gingerly through the snow. Sabiha, Verda and Lale rushed past them, giddy with excitement.

“Flora!” Sabiha called out happily.

“Hello, everyone,” Flora called out.

Özker jumped down from the horse and ran to the wagon. “Let’s go, Sirak! I’ll show you my river. Most of it’s iced over, but we can throw rocks in the rapids.”

Mourad lifted Sirak down to the ground and crouched beside him. “You can throw rocks, Son, but stay back from the water. Do you understand?”

“I know, Papa—the ice is dangerous.”

“And the water is cold. Be very careful.”

Sirak nodded. He turned and sprinted across the snowy pasture. “Özker, wait for me!”

Mourad watched the boys until they ran behind the barn.

Kemal walked up beside him. “They’ll be fine.”

“I know. This is a blessing for Sirak. He won’t have to see our empty corral, or Tiran’s tackle in the barn.” He let out a long sigh and looked to the river. The boys were skipping along the bank hurling stones. “Thank you, Kemal.”

“Please, my friend, thank me no more. We are brothers, and I know in my heart, you’d do the same for me.”

Mourad nodded solemnly. Walking to the rear of the wagon, he picked up his mother and carried her to the house.

Kemal rushed ahead to open the front door. “This way, please. We’ve prepared a bed for her in Father’s old room.”

They stepped through a living room that was simply adorned with a pair of divans, a chest and a slew of hand-woven cushions and carpets. The Quran sat open on an ornate stand at the end of one divan.