The Ghosts of Anatolia (40 page)

“How long is our journey?”

“Nine or ten days, depending on the weather and how the old mare holds up. We’d better be on our way.” Jeremiah took Sirak’s bag and tossed it into his wagon.

The men turned at the clatter of an approaching wagon. Fatima, Nazira and their husbands rumbled up the street and rattled to a stop.

“Thank God,” Naziria called out in relief. “I thought we’d missed you.”

Azusa and her daughters shared a tearful goodbye with Izabella before showering Sirak with farewell hugs and kisses. Finally, Ammar wrapped his arm around Sirak’s shoulders and walked him to Jeremiah’s wagon. He slipped a pouch into Sirak’s hand. “I’ve already paid Jeremiah. Use this gold to help you get settled in Jerusalem.”

“But
Abee
,” Sirak protested.

“Please take it. You’ve surely earned it.” He gave Sirak a long hug. “Goodbye, my son.”

Sirak kissed Ammar on the cheeks. “Goodbye,
Abee
. Thank you for everything.”

Ammar sighed restively. “I asked Jeremiah to bring us back your letters. Please let us know how you’re getting along.”

“I promise,
Abee
. We’ll be fine. Please don’t worry.” Sirak jumped up into the bed and leaned out to help Izabella.

“
Ummee!
” Izabella sobbed. She clutched at Azusa’s dress and twisted her face in despair.

Azusa pulled gently away and Ammar hoisted Izabella up to Sirak in the wagon. Her whimpers became frantic wails. Sirak sat her down on a stack of carpets and held her in his arms.

The wagon jerked forward and rumbled down the dusty street. Ammar, Azusa and their children shouted goodbyes.

Sirak waved one last time. “It is finished,” he muttered.

Sirak consoled Izabella throughout the trip to Damascus, and beyond to Kahdem. The irony of finally riding into Kahdem—the city where their ill-fated Armenian refugee caravan was headed—did not escape Sirak. He dared not mention it to Izabella.

Three more days of arduous travel in the Syrian Desert took them through a bleak wasteland dotted with small villages that were sparsely populated by Arabs, Turks and Kurds. They stopped each night to rest with merchants or innkeepers Jeremiah had patronized for decades.

On the fourth night they stayed at an austere outpost dwelling owned by a crusty old Jew named Elijah with whom Jeremiah had traded for more than thirty years. The man’s wife doted on Izabella, and even managed to engage her in feeding their animals—including a pair of cats that vied unremittingly for the girl’s attention. It gave Sirak his first respite from his sister’s incessant fretting since the wagon departed Rashayya.

They set out early the next morning and headed for the city of Amman. Sheer mental and physical exhaustion, brought on by unrelenting angst, finally brought merciful sleep to Izabella. Sirak seized the opportunity to move up to the driver’s seat beside Jeremiah. The young man rode in silence for nearly an hour. This suited the taciturn Jew just fine. He’d
made the trip alone hundreds of times over the preceding four decades and had come to delight in solitude.

Finally, however, after a brief stop to water the horse, Sirak steeled himself to ask the burning question that had lingered on his lips since
Abee
introduced them in Rashayya. “Can I ask you a question?” Sirak suddenly blurted out.

The trader shifted in his seat. “Yes, of course.”

“You have Armenian customers in Jerusalem?”

Jeremiah nodded. “Yes, many.”

“Do you know a man named Mourad Kazerian?”

“Mourad Kazerian?” Jeremiah repeated. “No, I don’t recall anyone with that name.”

“How about Stepannos Kazerian?” Sirak asked hopefully.

“No, I don’t recall anyone named Kazerian. But there are several thousand Armenian residents in Jerusalem, and three times that number scattered throughout Palestine, so that doesn’t mean they don’t live there. Are these men relations of yours?”

Sirak nodded disappointedly. “My papa and brother. The last time I saw them, they were on a raft floating out of Diyarbekir. Papa yelled for us to meet them in Jerusalem. That was in 1915, and I was seven years old.”

“Fourteen years is a long time.”

“It’s a very long time. They could be anywhere by now. I never realized there were so many Armenians living in Jerusalem. How will we ever find them, even if they are somewhere in Palestine?”

“Your best bet is to start with the leaders at Saint James Convent. The Patriarch has taken in hundreds of Armenian refugees over the years and his subordinates may know them, or at least know if they’ve been there. I’m sure the convent keeps records of all the refugees who reached Jerusalem during and after the Great War.”

Sirak glanced up the road as the wagon jostled through a sharp turn. It emptied into a clearing offering a spectacular view of a stark, foreboding desert plain ahead of them. The road ahead twisted and turned through
the wasteland like a snake. “Unbelievable,” he mumbled in awe. “What is this place?”

“This desert plateau extends for more than twenty-five kilometers to the north of Amman. It’s beautiful country this time of year, but don’t venture here in the summer.”

“Beautiful wasn’t the word that came to mind. Frightening seems more appropriate to me. How long will it take us to make it through that?”

“It’ll take us three more days to reach Amman, if the weather holds up.”

Sirak frowned. “Where will we stay tonight?”

“At an inn just two kilometers beyond that rise in the distance. We should arrive there just before sundown.”

Sirak sighed restively and lapsed into a brooding silence. Jeremiah left him to his thoughts for nearly an hour before offering him the canteen.

“Go on, drink the rest,” Jeremiah said, with a yellowed, toothy grin. “There’s plenty of water in the back and more where we’re stopping tonight.”

Sirak took a long drink. He tied the water bag and set it beside Jeremiah on the seat.

Jeremiah shook the empty bag and tossed it into the bed. “I’m curious, why do you want to be a physician? My brother likes medicine well enough, but it took him years of training and hard work to get established. Even today, he nearly works himself to death caring for his patients.”

Sirak glanced at the old Jew. He leaned against the wooden seat and peered out at the expansive desert.

“I’m sorry,” Jeremiah said. “You don’t need to tell me if it’s an uncomfortable subject. It’s really none of my business.”

“I’m not uncomfortable. I was just thinking about what you said about your brother. It reminded me of the man who introduced me to medicine. His name was Dr. Charles; he was an American missionary doctor. I was playing with a friend when a viper bit my foot—I was just
seven years old then. Dr. Charles saved my life. Then, after the situation in Anatolia deteriorated, we fled our neighbor’s farm and went to live in Diyarbekir with the doctor and his wife; she was a nurse. Dr. Charles let me follow him around the wards and he nearly worked himself to death caring for his patients, but he loved doing it. Most of the patients were wounded and sick Ottoman soldiers. I’ll never forget how much those men appreciated what Dr. Charles did for them. He was a great man. Unfortunately, he was killed.”

Jeremiah nodded understandingly. “After everything you’ve been through, I guess medical training doesn’t seem like it’d be too difficult.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Working hard is good for me. And helping sick people is the best way for me to repay Dr. Charles and everyone else who helped me.” Sirak reached into his pocket and retrieved the old leather-bound Bible he’d carried since his mother gave it to him in Anatolia. “I started reading my Bible again before we left Rashayya. I’ve decided to devote my life to God and medicine, just like Dr. Charles.”

“What about family? Won’t there be time for that, too?”

Sirak shook his head. “No, no family, except for Izabella.”

Jeremiah smiled and patted Sirak on the knee. “Young man, you’re young. I’ll pray God sends you the right woman and gives you the wisdom to recognize her. Only family and God can bring the happiness and contentment you deserve.”

Sirak stared at the old man’s face. The skin around his eyes was a roadmap of lines and creases. The eyes themselves had fleshy vascular bumps in the corners and the pupils were clouded with cataracts.

The old man coughed and cleared his throat. “That’s all the advice I can offer you about love and family. God knows I myself have been an abject failure in this regard.”

“Where is your family?” Sirak asked.

“I only have my brother. There was a woman I cared for many years ago, but I lost her to another man. I was too busy with my business to keep her or find another. I constantly travel to buy and sell these stupid
rugs and baskets.” He sighed melancholily. “So you can see, I’m not the one to advise you about women and marriage.

“There’s one piece of counsel I can offer you. Search for your family in the Holy City, and then leave it as soon as you can. If you stay, Jerusalem will only bring you misery and sorrow. Fighting will undoubtedly flare between the Zionists and the Arabs, and when it does, the city and everyone in it will be consumed by war.”

“Sirak!” Izabella cried out from the wagon bed. “Sirak, where are you?”

Jeremiah slowed the wagon to a stop.

Sirak jumped down and ran to the rear of the wagon. He climbed into the bed. Izabella was sitting with her back against the sidewall and her eyes were glazed with terror.

“I’m here, Izabella.”

“Don’t leave me alone. Is there any water?”

Sirak jumped down and ran to the front of the wagon. Jeremiah tossed him a full water bag.

“I need to ride with my sister now. Thank you for your advice.”

“It was my pleasure. I’ll stop to rest and water the horse in about an hour. If you fall asleep, I’ll wake you.”

Sirak smiled. “Thank you for everything.”

“You’re most welcome. Don’t forget to pray for a kind and understanding wife.”

Sirak chuckled. He turned and ran to the rear of the wagon and climbed into the bed. “Okay!” he shouted.

The wagon kicked up a cloud of dust and rumbled away down the road.

September 19, 1928

The wagon bumped into the bustling city of Amman, and the travelers took lodging at a small inn. They enjoyed a leisurely rest day, with plenty to eat and drink, before they set out on the last leg of their journey. After three grueling days, they entered rocky Palestine and crossed the River Jordan on a mule-drawn ferry. They climbed into the hills to the east of the Holy City and skirted the Mount of Olives before Jerusalem sprang into full view. In the ebbing afternoon light, Sirak stared out at the golden Dome of the Rock and the imposing stone walls surrounding the city.

“Oh Jerusalem, we heed thy call,” Jeremiah muttered pensively.

Sirak’s eyes tracked from one guard tower to the next around the perimeter of the ancient city. “The walls are enormous. I didn’t realize Jerusalem was a walled city.”

“These walls were re-built by Suleiman the Magnificent in the early sixteenth century.”

“It’s magnificent, even more beautiful than I’d imagined.”

“Don’t let its splendor deceive you.”

Sirak turned and gazed into the older man’s eyes. “What has this city done to you?”

“My younger sister and her twin boys were killed by the typhus fifteen years ago. Then, two years ago, an uprising spread to the Jewish District and a band of Arabs killed my brother’s wife and daughter. A day doesn’t go by without my feeling the heartbreak of losing them.”

“I’d heard there was a lot of fighting here the last few years.”

“And it’s getting worse. For centuries, Arab, Christian and Jew lived side by side here in Palestine, but now the British have sown the seeds of unremitting rioting, sabotage and murder.”

“Why do you stay?”

“Where would I go?”

“Well, I doubt Jerusalem could be any worse than what we survived in Diyarbekir and Aleppo. We’ll stay here until, God willing, we find Papa and my brother, Stepannos.” He turned back to the city. “Where’s Saint James Convent?”

Jeremiah pointed. “It’s inside the walls in the southwest corner of the Old City—see there, beyond the golden dome. We’ll enter through the Jaffa Gate and travel a short distance to the convent. I must stop to deliver carpets to a friend who manages a fleet of carriages outside the Jaffa Gate, but we’ll arrive at the convent well before dark.”

The wagon rumbled along the ancient Jericho Road and through a series of rutted switchbacks before bumping down a rocky hillside toward the city. Beyond Suleiman’s stone walls, bathed by the last rays of the afternoon sun and reflecting pink beneath the clouded sky, Sirak’s eyes wandered across the spires, towers, domes and minarets scattered throughout the Holy City.

Jeremiah pointed out the Church of Saint Mary Magdalene and the hilly area of Gethsemane. Then the wagon turned south along a road that ran parallel to the great walls. They skirted Mount Ophel and lurched through a mass of travelers clad in every sort of traditional garment.

The wagon wove along the great wall past the Dung and Zion Gates, and turned at the southwest corner of the city. Pandemonium reigned
outside the Jaffa Gate, as countless worshipers, merchants and beggars converged on the fabled western entrance to the city.

Jeremiah pulled the wagon to a stop near a line of horse-drawn carriages and a heavily- bearded man leapt up from the ground to greet him.

“Jeremiah, my friend, you’ve returned safely.”

Jeremiah gave the man a warm hug. “Yes, Eli, and I found the rugs you wanted.” Jeremiah led the man to the back of the wagon. “These are my new Armenian friends, Sirak and Izabella. I’m taking them to the convent.”

“Welcome to Jerusalem!” Eli said boisterously. “May God grant you peace and happiness.”

“Sirak, hand down those rugs that are lying along the sideboard,” Jeremiah said.

Sirak passed him the rugs and Eli helped him unroll them on the ground.

“They’re magnificent. How much do I owe you?”