The Ghosts of Anatolia (27 page)

Isa mounted Tiran and pulled Sirak up on the horse. Hakan climbed up into the driver’s seat, and flicking the reins, turned the wagon.

The cavalrymen wove through the unruly throng to the gate. They broke into the open and the horses kicked up a billowing cloud of dust that swept up the wall to the guard posts. The major galloped in behind them. The wagon and the other two soldiers followed close behind.

Sirak peered up at the guards atop the wall as the brigade trotted through the breach. A grinning Turk, with a full black beard, dipped his rifle in mock salute.

Isa zigzagged Tiran through the tangled knot of travelers waiting beyond the gate to enter the city.

Finally, the soldiers and wagon broke clear. They thundered south down the road to Ras ul-Ain through rocky terrain strewn with black basalt boulders and patches of yellowed grass and sagebrush. The meandering Tigris River cut a winding path through the landscape into the distance.

Sirak peered out across the expansive countryside toward a distant line of hills cloaked in angry dark clouds.

The sergeant pointed. “Sirak, do you see that gap in the hills, there in the distance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s where we’re headed. God willing, we’ll make that pass by midday.”

Sirak gazed out across the inhospitable panorama. “How much farther do we need to go after we reach the pass?”

“Another day, if the weather holds out.”

Sirak recoiled at a rank smell that filled his nostrils. Glancing around, he tensed with fear. He pointed at a line of rotting, headless corpses just off the road. “
What’s that
?”

“Traitors!” Sergeant Isa snarled disdainfully. He turned Sirak’s head toward the river. “Don’t look!”

Sirak covered his nose and glanced at his equally shaken brother. “What’d they do?”

“They plotted to destroy the Empire.”

Sirak’s eyes darted back and forth at dozens of animal carcasses lying in trenches on both sides of the road. They ranged from bare-boned skeletons to a huge ox, buzzing with flies. “Are these their animals?”

“No, Son, most of these animals were lost to thirst and hunger. This is a harsh and unforgiving land. Tell me about Musa,” he said, changing the subject. “You named him Tiran?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You raised him from birth?”

“My papa gave him to me when he was born. We trained him together until he was over a year old, but then the bad soldiers took him.”

Isa smiled ruefully. “These things happen in war. You must not blame the soldiers. They were only following orders. I worked on a procurement detail myself right after the war started. I hated it, but it had to be done. We must all sacrifice for the Empire. How about if I make you a deal? If you feed and water Tiran all the way to Ras ul-Ain, then, when this war is over, I’ll give him back to you.”

“Really?” Sirak squealed excitedly.

“Absolutely.” Isa gave him a kindly grin. The golden cap on his front tooth sparkled in the early morning sunlight. “Musa’s earned a leisurely retirement. I can get another horse.”

“But how will I find you?”

“I’ll write down the directions to my family farm when we get to Ras ul-Ain. It’s only an hour’s ride from here. You can come get him when you return to Diyarbekir.”

“Okay! Mama,” Sirak yelled. “Isa promised to give Tiran back to me when the war is over!”

Kristina smiled and waved from the back of the wagon.

Major al-Kawukji guided the group south along the main road to Mardin. Half a kilometer from Diyarbekir the road skirted the Tigris, where the lazy river cut a swath of green through the otherwise barren wasteland. They passed irrigated islands of cultivation where peasant farmers grew crops of wheat and rice. They were dutifully tending their fields and paddies beneath the unforgiving sun.

Sirak and Mikael lapsed into forlorn silence when they rode past the spot on the riverbank where they’d watched their father and brother float down the river with scores of other Armenian men and boys. Now strangely serene, the bank was dotted with the makeshift tents of a band of nomadic tribesmen who were gathered around a smoky pit a few meters up from the water.

Sirak caught the icy stare of a leather-faced old man who turned to scrutinize the odd procession. Dressed in traditional garments, he was watching over a mixed herd of sheep and goats that were foraging in the tall grass along the riverbank.

Glancing ahead to the wagon, Sirak caught a glimpse of his mother and Nurse Barton peering out at the incongruous scene. He muttered pensively beneath his breath.

“What did you say?” the sergeant asked.

“Jerusalem,” Sirak repeated sadly.

Isa smiled. “What about it?”

“That’s where my papa is now.”

“Your papa’s in the Holy City?”

“Yes, he and my brother, Stepannos, are both there. Have you been there?”

“No,” Isa replied thoughtfully, his forehead glistening with sweat. “
Al Kuds
is very far from here, but I hope someday to lay my eyes on the great mosque erected on the spot where the Prophet ascended into Heaven.”

“We’re headed there to meet my papa. How far is it?”

“It’s a journey of many days—thirty or forty, depending on the weather.”

“What if we travel by train?”

“Maybe twenty-five days by train, but you still must travel by horse or on foot beyond Aleppo. It is a difficult journey.”

Sirak sighed sadly.
Twenty-five days
, he thought to himself.
How will I ever find my way back to Tiran?

After more than an hour of riding, the cavalry pulled up at a fork in the road and waited for the trailing wagon.

“May God protect you, Major,” the wiry leader shouted.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” al-Kawukji replied. “I’ll see you back in Diyarbekir.”

The soldier turned and scanned the distant hills. “God smiles on you. It looks like there’s rain ahead. Take care in the pass, especially at night.
The bloodthirsty nomad tribesmen will slit your throat for the women and horses. I wish we could escort you further, but my orders are to patrol the river to the east.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. We’ll be on our guard. I’ll see you next week.”

The cavalry trotted off in a cloud of dust and the major led the wagon down the southern fork that led directly toward the notch in the distant hills. As they rode away from the river, the terrain became an arid, inhospitable wasteland that was dotted here and there with patches of olive and emerald. These oases were invariably crowded with the makeshift shacks of lowly peasants who eked out an existence on the unforgiving, barren land.

The closer they got to the hills, the more rutted and treacherous the rocky dirt road became. From time to time, they passed travelers headed in the opposite direction, toward Diyarbekir—including entire families that carried what little they owned on their backs. In one group, Sirak spotted a dark-skinned young boy hobbling along the road holding his mother’s hand. His hair was mottled with alopecia and he was dressed in filthy, ragged clothes. Staggering under his own weight, he bore the inimitable look of the incurably ill. Staring indifferently at the ground in front of him, he suddenly glanced up, and squinting through slit-like eyes, smiled at Sirak.

Sirak waved and returned his smile. He wondered where the boy had been and where he was going.

The hills grew larger and darker the further they traveled. As the tiny caravan made its way through mile after mile of monotonous wasteland, the oppressive heat and humidity soared. The sweat streamed down the faces of the travelers and saturated their garments. Then, as if sent by God, a merciful drizzle began to fall, followed a short time later by a blinding downpour that forced the wagon to the side of the road. It rained hard for nearly two hours, but ended as quickly as it had begun.

They pressed on for several more hours through insufferable heat and biting insects making slow, but steady, progress toward the hills. Along the way, they passed several dilapidated inns that had once fed and sheltered wealthier travelers on the arduous journey through southeast Anatolia. All of them were abandoned, used now only as cover for vagrants and homeless people. Several had been burned to the ground.

A little after midday, they reached the starting point of the sinuous trail into the hills. Major al-Kawukji pulled up his horse and directed Hakan into a grassy clearing beneath a stand of trees.

Al-Kawukji mopped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. “It’s too hot to go any further. We’ll wait here for a few hours and rest the horses. Hakan, water the horses and tie them over there beneath the trees in the long grass. Sergeant, you and Bekir stand guard in those rocks where you can see the road in both directions. Stay alert and signal me immediately if you spot anything worrisome. I’ll send the boys with food and drink.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied. He and Bekir trotted up the hill and climbed onto a rocky ledge overlooking the narrow curve in the road.

Kristina and Elizabeth spread blankets on the ground beneath a tree and unpacked several loaves of bread and a small block of cheese. They set the food on the blanket and prepared a portion for the soldiers.

The major plopped down on one of the blankets. “Where’s Sirak?”

Hakan chuckled. “With the horse. Look at them.”

Al-Kawukji glanced around and chuckled at the sight of Sirak standing with his arms wrapped around Tiran’s foreleg. The horse whinnied and playfully nuzzled his head. “Let me ask you, who seeing that could say the horse didn’t belong to him?”

Kristina laughed at the spectacle. “They were inseparable from the moment Tiran was born. It truly
is
a miracle.”

“Isa could find another mount in Ras ul-Ain, but, unfortunately, there’s no chance the horse can get on that train.”

“Just let them enjoy being together while they can,” Kristina said. “Sirak’s a bright boy. He’ll understand Tiran can’t go with us.”

“Sirak should eat while he has the chance,” Elizabeth said. “He must keep up his strength.”

Kristina passed the bread. “Don’t worry, I’ll take him some after we finish. So, Major, where’s your home?”

“My family owns a small farm near Sinop—on the Black Sea.”

“I’ve heard of it. How did you come to be a soldier?”

“I joined the army when I was seventeen years old. My father was a fisherman, but the sea doesn’t suit me. My stomach seizes violently when I even look at swells.”

“When did you come to Diyarbekir?”

“Two months before the war started, although I was stationed in the east near Erzerum for the first six months.”

“My eldest son reported for service a year ago, but I haven’t seen or heard from him since. Perhaps you know him—Alek Kazerian?”

Al-Kawukji stared at the blanket. “No, I don’t know him.”

“I just wish I knew where he was,” Kristina lamented. “Major, how much longer will this war last?”

“I really don’t know. But the end is written—the Empire is destined to lose.”

“Really? What makes you so certain?”

The major sighed. “A blind man could see it. We joined the wrong side. The army could’ve held off the Russians for years, but not when they’re in an alliance with the British and the French, too. Even Enver Pasha’s alliance with the Germans won’t make a bit of difference.”

“Major, why are my people being deported?” Kristina asked thoughtfully.

“There’s no simple explanation. To be sure, Pasha doesn’t trust your people and he blames them for many of his own failings. He foolishly sent the army into the mountains in the dead of winter. Our troops were annihilated by weather and disease. Now he blames the Armenians for his own stupidity. Without a doubt, there were Armenians fighting with the Russians, and in the heat of the battle, some of our own Armenian
soldiers went over to the other side in Sarikamish. But there were many others who fought to the bitter end.”

“But why are they arresting the Americans, too?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” the major replied. He glanced up at the rocks where Isa and Bekir were standing guard.

“I’ll tell you why,” Elizabeth said, “to eliminate witnesses. Reshid is determined to hide his depraved acts from the rest of the world—atrocities like the torture and murder of my husband.”

A long silence fell over the group. The major glanced up at the sun. He stuffed another chunk of bread into his mouth.

“Am I right, Major?” Elizabeth asked.

The major didn’t reply. He broke off a chunk of cheese.

“Am I, Major?” Elizabeth persisted.

Al-Kawukji stood up. “Yes, you’re right. I must relieve my men now.” He walked away, cradling his rifle.

Kristina watched him until he disappeared. “He’s a good man.”

“Maybe,” Elizabeth said warily, “but he knows a lot more than he’s willing to tell.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know, but there’s something he’s not telling us. Maybe Reshid sent him to do away with us.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Kristina scoffed. “Why travel two days across the desert to kill us? If that was his scheme, he could’ve done it early this morning, and nobody would’ve been the wiser.”

“Maybe he was ordered to get us as far from Diyarbekir as possible.”

“Nonsense. You’re always so suspicious of people, especially when they treat you with kindness. I’m willing to accept his help as a simple act of humanity. Besides, what choice do we have?”

“None,” Elizabeth replied uneasily. “None at all.”

The travelers set out for Mardin again a few hours later. The narrow road wove monotonously south and their pace slowed to a crawl.
Although the sun was lower in the sky, its sweltering rays weren’t blocked by the parched hilltops that rose above the road.

“How much farther, Major?” Hakan asked. “My horse isn’t accustomed to such hard work.”

“Two hours more. We’ll stop well before dark.”

Al-Kawukji turned at the sound of horses galloping up the road. Four men on horseback rounded the bend and bore down on them. They wore scruffy clothes and white turbans. The youngest was just a boy.

“Good afternoon,” one of them called out. He was a swarthy man with a long beard and mustache.