The Ghosts of Anatolia (9 page)

Dr. Charles stepped out of the hall. “Now, now, Elizabeth, don’t be telling stories about me behind my back.”

“Dr. Charles!” Mourad exclaimed. He stared in disbelief, unable to conceal his shock at the doctor’s obvious decline. He was pasty and frail, and had lost a great deal of weight. “Are you okay, sir?”

“I haven’t been well the past few weeks, but I’m doing much better now, thank you. It’s good to see you, too, Mrs. Kazerian.” The doctor stepped around the desk and lifted Sirak’s pant leg. “How’s our boy here?”

“We kept him off of his feet for four weeks—just like you ordered, but we’ve been encouraging him to walk a little more each day.”

“Excellent,” Dr. Charles said. He palpated Sirak’s foot and toes with his fingertips, carefully inspecting the skin on both the upper and lower surfaces. Then he pressed on the defect in the side of his foot. He checked the pulses and looked up with a twinkle in his eye. “You must be praying, like I told you, Sirak. Your foot’s healed up very nicely. You should be able to ride that horse of yours now.”

“I’ve already been riding—right, Papa?”

Charles frowned at Mourad. “He’s been riding?”

“Only very carefully, with me leading him slowly around the corral,” Mourad replied sheepishly. “We’ve been very cautious.”

“I guess that’s okay; but no hard riding. Do you understand me, Sirak? I don’t want you to get a non-healing sore on this foot before the circulation is fully restored.”

Sirak pouted and nodded his head up and down. Yes, sir,” he replied disappointedly.

Charles patted him on the head. “Good boy. How have you been, Mrs. Kazerian?”

“I’m well, Dr. Charles. Please accept our entire family’s sympathy for Julie’s passing. She was a remarkable woman. Her faith and strength
helped me through those darkest days when Sirak was so terribly ill. She’s with our Lord now.”

Dr. Charles sighed. “She was, indeed, a remarkable woman. I wish you’d met her before she got so sick. She was so energetic and spirited.”

“I know she was. Even in sickness, her spirit was a comfort to us all.”

Dr. Charles’ smile faded and his jaw began to tremble. “Then you know why I miss her so much,” he whispered. He brushed his sleeve across his eyes and stoically clenched his jaw.

“I’m sorry, too, Dr. Charles,” Mourad said. “When should we bring Sirak back to see you?”

“Sirak’s doing fine. He’s much better than I expected this soon after a viper bite. You must not return to Diyarbekir until the unrest has past. I’m glad to see you, but I’m surprised you came today after the proclamation was publicized.”

Mourad frowned. “What proclamation?”

“The Proclamation of Jihad against England, France and Russia.”

“No!” Mourad replied. Taking a deep breath, he glanced at Kristina. The color had drained from her face. “This is the first we’ve heard of it. Dear God, what a calamity.”

“It’s the worst thing that could’ve happened. The tensions between the Turks and the Armenians, Greeks and other Christian minorities have increased dramatically since word of the proclamation reached Diyarbekir. I’ve treated dozens of Armenians and Syrians who were seriously beaten, and two men died. You must leave the city at once.”

“Thank you for your concern. We’d best go now so we can make it home before dark.”

“That would be wise.”

“How long do you plan to stay here in Diyarbekir, Dr. Charles?” Kristina asked.

“I’m leaving Anatolia. As soon as I get my affairs in order, I’m returning to America to live with my sister and her husband on their farm in Oklahoma. I want to find a suitable replacement, so it will probably
be next summer before I leave. Now that Julie is gone and the army has taken my hospital, there’s no reason to stay.”

“I’m sorry to hear this, Dr. Charles,” Mourad said sorrowfully. “The Empire needs good men like you—now more than ever.”

“There’s something else I feel I must say, Mr. Kazerian. There are evil forces on the march here in Anatolia. I see them on the faces of people on the street, and I hear them in the conversations of the soldiers I’m treating in this hospital. I fear civility will vanish completely as the Empire stumbles into this godforsaken war. It already has in the eastern parts of the country near Bitlis and Van, and to the north into the Caucasus. You must take steps to safeguard yourself and your family. One of those steps is to stay away from Diyarbekir. Purchase the supplies you need for the winter and don’t bring your family into this city again until the evil one has been vanquished. Now, more than ever, the devil’s handiwork is visible all around us.”

Mourad stared into Dr. Charles’ sad eyes. His mouth grew dry as parchment.

“I’m sorry to be so plain-spoken,” Charles continued, “but this is no time to mince words.”

“Thank you for your candor,” Mourad muttered. “Kristina and I will always be grateful for everything you’ve done for Sirak. God bless you.”

“Thank you,” Charles said. “Sirak, you take care of your family and your horse, okay?”

Sirak nodded soberly.

“That’s my boy. Well, Elizabeth and I need to get back to surgery. Goodbye, Mr. Kazerian. Goodbye, Mrs. Kazerian.”

Kristina took Nurse Barton’s hand. “Goodbye, Elizabeth; I will pray for you.”

“And I will pray for you and your family,” she replied. She hugged Kristina one last time.

“Don’t forget what we talked about back in Chunkoush,” Kristina whispered. “I hope you return home soon, too.”

“Don’t worry, I’m scheduled to leave my post in January or February.”

“God bless you.”

“God bless you, too, Kristina.”

Mourad carried Sirak to the hospital courtyard. Kristina tailed behind, clutching fearfully to her husband’s coat. The number of soldiers had tripled and lunch was in full swing. The din of several hundred voices reverberated off the building and walls surrounding the yard.

Mourad headed down the street to the wagon. Kemal was perched in the driver’s seat, conversing with a scruffy beggar dressed in a threadbare coat and tattered pants. Flora, Izabella and Özker were watching a crew of workers hoist large, pitch-black basalt slabs out of the bed of a horse-drawn wagon parked at a construction site across the street.

Kemal caught sight of the Kazerians walking toward him. “Mourad!” he called out.

The old beggar turned and abandoned Kemal. He limped awkwardly toward Mourad using a walking stick to support his weight and swiveling his hips to and fro in a rhythmic struggle to maintain his balance. The beggar’s clothes were caked with dirt and a rank odor hung in the air surrounding him. “Sir, could you spare some
kurus
to feed my family?”

Sirak recoiled against his father’s chest—mortified by the beggar’s wall-eyed, broken-toothed appearance.

“Off with you!” Kemal bellowed. He jumped down from the wagon and rushed to grab the old man’s arm.

“Let him be, Kemal,” Mourad said. Fishing in his pocket, he pressed a few shiny coins into the man’s outstretched palm. “May God be merciful to you and your family.”

“God bless you, sir,” the old man muttered deferentially, clutching the money to his chest. “Please accept my words of warning given in thanks. Steer clear of the eastern gate of the city. The gendarmes there take great delight in tormenting Christians who cross their path, and accuse them of every sort of offense. The worst is an evil soul named Osama Malek. He’s stationed there in the late afternoons.”

“Thank you for this warning, sir. We will heed your advice.”

“May God repay your kindness tenfold,” the old man said. He turned, and looking up the street, wandered away toward the hospital.

Mourad helped Kristina and the children back into the wagon. He climbed up into the driver’s seat beside Kemal.

“I’ve seen this tramp near the Great Souk,” Kemal said. “I would not trust his words.”

“I’m not inclined to dismiss the beggar’s warning so lightly, especially after our encounter at the gate this morning.” Mourad glanced up the road. “The Bozikian Traders are just a kilometer shy of the northern gate. Once we’ve finished there, we’ll lose less than an hour leaving by the north gate.”

The wagon rumbled through narrow streets for nearly half an hour before crossing a small bridge and turning toward the open-air market where Mourad intended to purchase his winter stores. In marked contrast to their trip a few weeks earlier, the street leading to the souk was eerily hushed. Instead of bustling crowds, there were only a few stragglers milling about a pile of debris at the side of the road. Two old men in fezzes turned to gawk at the wagon rumbling past.

Mourad slowed the wagon to a crawl a short distance up the street. “Merciful God,” he whispered, “they burned the church to the ground.”

Sirak stared in horror at the empty churchyard where the centuries-old Armenian Orthodox Church had stood in all its glory only weeks earlier. All that remained were a few basalt blocks and piles of charred debris scattered haphazardly across the grounds. Several men were loading remnants into a horse-drawn cart.

Turning the corner in dumbfounded silence, the true magnitude of the calamity unfolded before them. Rather than the lively succession of shops and warehouses of old, the street was lined with abandoned stalls and buildings—most of which had been obliterated by fire. In the middle of the block, the doors of a large warehouse were standing open, and a huge sign reading “BOZIKIAN TRADERS” swung loose over the doorway.

Gawking in disbelief, Mourad pulled the wagon to a stop. His eyes wandered over the earthen warehouse floor that was littered with paper scraps, cloth sacks and other debris.

“This warehouse belonged to an old friend of my father’s,” Mourad muttered sadly.

“I’d heard there was trouble in some of the Armenian areas,” Kemal offered consolingly, “but I never imagined this.”

The wagon jerked forward and rolled slowly away from the scene of devastation. Mourad turned into an adjacent residential neighborhood. All of the homes on the street had been abandoned and ransacked. Several had been razed.

“Mother Mary full of grace,” Mourad whispered. “What now?”

“I bought my winter stores at Berker’s Warehouse in the Hakan Souk near the northern gate,” Kemal said. “It’s less than a kilometer from here. If we plan to leave through the Harput Gate, that’d be more convenient anyway.”

Mourad glanced back at the horror-stricken expression on Kristina’s face. “What other choice do we have? Let’s try it.”

Kemal guided Mourad through a residential neighborhood, and into a commercial district filled with fabric merchants, tailors and cobblers. A somber hush hung over the wagon as even the young children were silenced by the solemnity gripping their parents. Weaving through a busy intersection, Kemal directed Mourad into a lot overflowing with carts and wagons drawn by horses, mules and donkeys. Some wagons were filled with carpets, wares or grains intended for barter, but most were empty. In the back of the lot, dozens of men were milling around an expansive warehouse where teams of laborers rushed about like ants servicing the vehicles parked outside an enormous set of doors. “Berker Trading” was printed in Arabic script on the building facade.

A paunchy, middle-aged Turk hurried impatiently from wagon to wagon, barking orders in Arabic. His gruff, ill-tempered voice resounded across the souk. “Half
cheki
of flour!” he shouted to a waiting crew.

In the blink of an eye, the crew swarmed around the wagon in front of them. They stacked bags of flour high in the bed. When they finished loading, the driver secured the tailgate and led his horse away on foot.

Mourad edged the wagon forward until he was only a few meters from the open warehouse doors.

“Hold up there, idiot!” the acerbic Turk growled. He scrutinized Sirak and Özker standing in the bed. “You’re too close to the cart ahead of you! What do you want?”

“Please, sir, forgive me,” Mourad called down to the trader. “My mule has a mind of his own. I want a half
cheki
of flour, and one quarter
cheki
each of rice and beans.”

The man stepped forward and peered into the bed of the wagon. Kristina and Flora lowered their eyes, but Izabella and the boys stared back in wide-eyed silence.

The man shielded his eyes from the blazing afternoon sun. “Do you have money?” he queried brusquely.

“Yes,” Mourad replied evenly.

“Fifteen hundred
lire
,” the Turk snarled.

“Fifteen hundred
lire
!” Mourad gasped incredulously. “That’s outrageous!”

“Take it or leave it, infidel. You’re fortunate to find anyone who’ll sell to the likes of you.”

Mourad took a deep breath, and biting his tongue, glanced at Kemal. “I’ll pay you eight hundred,” he offered evenly. “That’s at least twenty percent above the market price.”

“Fifteen hundred,” the man repeated. He impatiently pulled at his beard. “That’s my price.”

Mourad scowled at the Turk for a moment, and then flicked the reins. “Thief!” he muttered beneath his breath.

The Turk followed along beside the wagon. “Fuck your God and sacred book, Armenian dog,” he bellowed. “And take those whores and infidel-loving pigs with you.”

Kemal clenched his fists in anger.

Mourad stretched his arm across Kemal’s lap to calm him and fought a nearly irresistible urge to let loose a swift kick to the man’s mouth. He wove the wagon through dozens of other carts and wagons and maneuvered it away from the warehouse. They barreled down the road through a fabric souk just inside the city walls. Seething with anger, he finally jerked the wagon to a stop on the side of the road and wearily dropped his face into his hands. “Dear God, help us. What should we do? We’ll never make it through winter without provisions.”

Kemal glanced up at the sun. “It’s still three hours until sunset. Let’s try the Hakan Souk. Then, if we hurry, we still have time to leave through the northern gate and make it home before dark.”

Mourad pondered the suggestion for a moment. “Maybe we should forget about it and take Kristina and the children home now. I can try the Hakan Souk tomorrow.”

“Do what’s right for you and your family, my friend, but the situation in Diyarbekir grows more volatile by the hour. I think we should try the Hakan Souk today.”