The Hunger (12 page)

But there was nowhere else to hide. She had to distance herself from exactly who it was that she was stepping over as she made her way to the mouth of one of the caves. As the stench of rotting bodies wafted around her, she looked up at the night sky and focused on the moon. She straightened her back and tried to breathe in a bit of the air above the stench. She took one huge last gulp, then ducked down, into the cave, amidst the corpses. A deep blackness enveloped her. Marta held her breath as long as she could and tried to use her hands as eyes as she entered ever deeper into the cave. Her hands touched paper-thin flesh cold on the bone. She tried not to think of the hands that had caressed babies, and the feet that had walked miles in the desert in hope of life, but ending up here. Through the blackness, she imagined hundreds of dead eyes staring up at her. Yet she wasn’t afraid. She crawled deeper into the cave, through openings so small that no well-fed soldier would be able to enter. No one
else had penetrated the cave as deeply as she. Marta was alone. Her place of refuge was a cavity in which she could not sit up nor stretch out her legs. She curled herself like a baby in the womb and fell asleep.

Marta dreamt that she was hovering above herself, watching the body of Marta sleep amidst the dead. She thrashed about, but kept on hitting her arms against the walls. She woke up to the sound of someone screaming. It took her a moment to realize that they were her own screams. She shuddered, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She woke again. Had hours passed? Or even days? Marta didn’t know. Her throat was parchment dry.

Suddenly, she could hear screaming, and this time it wasn’t her own. She held her breath and listened. Not just screaming, but voices too. Coming from the mouth of the cave. She could hear one loud voice. It sounded like an auctioneer—

“... who’ll give me a gold pound for this one? Two? Yes … you! How about three … anybody for three?”

She recognized the voice. It was one of the gendarmes. Marta was paralyzed with fear. “But they can’t reach me all the way in here,” she reminded herself. Her heart was beating so hard that she was sure the people at the mouth of the cave could hear it.

The “auction” went on for what seemed like an eternity. While Marta was safe in the womb of the
cave, she listened in despair as other women suffered a fate that could be her own any day. When the auction finally ended and the crowd dispersed Marta was struck by the sudden thundering silence. The sounds of weeping and groaning had become the norm since the deportations. Now she was enveloped in a cold timeless death.

It wasn’t the stench of the cave that made her finally leave. The smell of death had become all too common for that. It was that she would starve if she stayed any longer, but there was a slim chance of survival if she emerged. Marta crept towards the entrance of the cave, past the heaps of corpses. When she reached the entrance, she tried to stand up, but wobbled like a newborn. She sat back down and looked around.

The black of night was almost bright compared to the darkness of the cave. Marta could see the outlines of the deportation encampment in the distance, and the shimmering seduction of the Euphrates just beyond.

She looked longingly at the river, but she had seen what death by salt water looked like.

Marta’s legs were so weak that she could not stand up. How could she get away from this place if she couldn’t even get onto her feet? She dragged herself along the ground and searched through the clothing of the bodies closest to the mouth of the
cave. She didn’t quite know what she was looking for—there was so much she needed after all. Marta removed a tattered cloak from the corpse of an old man and wrapped it around her body for warmth, oblivious of its scent of death. What she needed more than anything was water. She found a cane under the body of a woman who was still clutching the remains of her newborn infant. And then a miracle! A tiny bit of brackish water in a skin container around the mother’s waist. Marta drank it up greedily. The sensation of the drops of water on her parched tongue brought untold joy to her heart. She would not let the Turks win. She was determined to live in spite of them. She fastened the empty skin at her waist, and slowly, painfully, hobbled on. As she carefully picked her way through the corpses, she spied a heel of dry bread on the ground. She picked it up and pressed it to her chest, so thankful was she for this tiny bit of nourishment. As she was about to bite into it, her eyes focused on the tiny tooth marks of its former owner. She looked down by the ground and realized that it had fallen from the hand of a boy who had died within his mother’s embrace. Mother and son both looked surprisingly peaceful in death. His shaggy black hair was grimed with dust, and in the moonlight, just for a moment, it reminded Marta of Erik’s sandy blonde hair. She gasped in sorrow.

I will not let them win, she vowed. Then she broke off a small chunk of the bread and forced it onto her swollen tongue—as much a sacrament as nourishment.

She needed to find another hiding place before dawn. The soldiers and neighbouring villagers were always on the lookout for runaways. And if Marta were found, death was the least of her worries.

Leaning heavily on the cane, she hobbled along, keeping clear of the road. She would look ahead and determine a place to try for—a stray bale of hay, a bush, or a shack. Then she would shuffle quickly over to that object and collapse. This procedure was repeated again and again. Marta had managed to get a mile or so away from the cave and the deportation encampment when the first glimmers of dawn appeared over the horizon. She knew that she was far from safe. She spied a wagon about a quarter of a mile up ahead. It was filled with something, she didn’t know what. Should she try to get there before the dawn gave her away? What choice did she have?

It took all of her energy to get to the wagon. She looked inside. It was filled with a variety of personal items—clothing, baskets, worn boots, stolen from dead and not-so-dead Armenians. She awkwardly climbed into the cart, burrowing down under as far as she could, and promptly fell asleep.

Saad

Marta woke up with a start. The wagon was moving. Where it was going was not so important at this point—as long as it was away. Marta could hear the driver talking—an elderly man speaking Turkish. Every once in a while a youthful voice would answer. The rhythmic motion of the moving wagon, and the warmth of the items on top of her combined to make it impossible for her to stay awake. She drifted off, dreaming that Kevork was holding her in his arms, rocking her gently.

When Marta finally did wake up, it was because the cart had stopped moving. Marta was chilly. She drew her cloak tightly around her shoulders. Did that mean it was night time? Maybe the driver had stopped somewhere for the night. Her mouth was dry like the desert sand. Her tongue had cracked, and her lips were covered with sores. Should she risk looking to see where she was? If she stayed hidden in the wagon too long she was bound to be discovered. Besides, she had to find food and water.

Slowly, and quietly, Marta burrowed her way to the top of the items in the wagon. She looked around. They were in a tiny hamlet and it was dark. The horses had been stabled, but the cart had been left in the open in front of a public house just as it had been when she had crawled into it. As she
took in her surroundings, Marta was startled by a pair of eyes staring in at her from the passenger seat of the wagon.

“You’re one of those Armenians, aren’t you?” Her heart pounded in fear. The voice was that of the Turkish driver’s youthful companion.

“What are you doing out so late at night?” Marta asked, surprised at her bravado.

The boy was taken aback. “I... I... couldn’t sleep.” Then he said, “it isn’t me who has to explain anything. You’re the one hiding in somebody else’s wagon.”

“Please don’t tell your grandfather that you’ve seen me,” she pleaded.

“He’s my uncle,” replied the boy. “And why shouldn’t I tell him?”

“Do you know what will happen to me if I’m found?”

“You’ll be deported, just like all the other Armenian swine.”

“And I’ll die.”

“Then you must deserve to die,” the youth replied.

Marta noticed a silhouette at the door to the little inn. She ducked. “What are you doing out here, Saad my boy? It was the voice of the driver.

“Nothing, uncle. I couldn’t get to sleep so I came out here for some air.”

“But I heard voices,” the man persisted.

“That was just me talking to myself.”

“Well get in here and go to sleep. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us tomorrow.”

The boy was gone. Marta’s heart raced. He had covered up for her.

“Pssst! You in there, wake up.” It was Saad’s voice. Marta burrowed her head out. He was alone. “Here is some bread and milk.” He handed it to her and watched sullenly as she tried to drink the milk. She was extraordinarily thirsty, but her lips and tongue were so parched and swollen that she couldn’t seem to navigate the earthen mug of milk. This food was so precious to her, but her body refused to take it in. As she dribbled more milk down the front of her shirt than down her throat, she groaned in despair. Saad reached forward and broke off a bit of bread, dipped it in the milk, and handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “This should make it easier.”

“Thank you,” Marta said solemnly, looking into Saad’s brown eyes.

“Don’t think I’m going to help you for nothing,” the boy said. “You’ll have to pay me.”

“I will,” replied Marta. She thought of the two remaining gold pounds from Kevork that were sewn safely in her seams. She reluctantly drew out one and handed it to him.

“Is this all you have?” ask Saad, turning the coin over in his hand.

Marta hesitated. She desperately wanted to keep the last coin, because her journey was far from over. But it would take nothing for Saad to catch her in a lie, and to anger him meant certain death. “I have one more coin,” she replied.

“I’ll take it too,” he said, holding out his hand.

Marta reluctantly gave it to him. Saad grinned with delight, and put both coins in his pocket. Then he walked back into the inn.

An hour or so later, Saad and his uncle got back into the wagon and continued their journey. As the cart rocked back and forth, the milk and bread that had so soothed Marta’s parched mouth now sloshed perilously in her stomach. Adding to her distress was the stuffy warmth of her hiding place. While her sojourn in the cave had been confining, this was smothering. Quietly, she burrowed through the piles of shoes and clothing and worn household goods until her hand touched the wooden slat at the back of the cart. Then, with the wood at her back as her guide, she slowly inched her way into an upright position, pulling away items from the top of her head as it broke the surface. She drank in a huge gulp of fresh air and revelled in the bit of breeze as it tousled the short hairs on the top of her head. From this position, she could clearly see the brightly coloured cloth that was wrapped around the driver’s head. If he turned around this moment, he would
see her. Marta untangled a grey cotton shirt from the topmost layer of the pile and placed it over her head, covering the view completely from the front, yet still letting in a welcome breeze at the sides.

Bits of conversation between Saad and his uncle drifted back to her. She learned that they were taking their booty all the way home to Aintab, which was just a week’s walk from Marash. If Saad would keep her secret, there was a chance that she would make it back to the orphanage alive.

As the wagon continued on its bumpy ride, Marta realized that she desperately had to attend to some personal needs—but just how does one surreptitiously pee in a wagon? The urgency of the situation increasing every minute, Marta burrowed back down to the bottom of the wagon. Her hands darted back and forth on the planks of wood that made up the bottom platform, searching for gap or a hole. The floor was unfortunately thick and solid and Marta was near desperation when she pulled at a plank of wood that came free in her hand. With relief, she positioned herself over the opening and emptied her bladder, watching as the contents spilled onto the dusty road below. She could only hope that neither Saad nor his uncle would turn and notice the streak of wet on the road.

The next night, when the wagon was tied up to the front of yet another small inn, Saad came out with a loaf of bread, a handful of olives, and a pitcher
of water. He watched Marta curiously as she ate. “You look like a skeleton,” he said.

But she was alive! The Turks were not going to win this time. She dunked her bread in the water to soften it up and popped it into her mouth gratefully. Never had food tasted so good.

Several nights passed uneventfully, with Saad bringing her food, then staring at Marta as she ate. One night he came empty-handed, “Pay me first.”

“I have no more money,” responded Marta.

“You are a lying Armenian pig. You people always have more money.”

“Honestly, Saad. I have no more money. Check for yourself.” And Marta stood up, turning her pockets inside out.

Saad stepped forward and carefully ran his fingers over every seam in her ragged outfit. When his search proved fruitless, he frowned and said, “I’m not keeping you for nothing. Maybe I should just tell my uncle about you now!” This last was said a bit too loudly.

“Tell your uncle what?” The uncle was standing at the door in his nightclothes, hands on hips.

Marta quickly ducked back into the cart and covered herself.

“Nothing uncle.”

“Liar,” muttered the uncle as he came out to investigate. “You were talking to someone in the wagon. What is going on?”

Marta had ducked to the bottom of the junk by this time and was trembling in fear.

“Get me the pitchfork. You’re hiding an Armenian, aren’t you?”

Marta could hear Saad’s shuffling footsteps.

“Here,” he said to his uncle nervously. “But you’re wasting your time.”

The uncle climbed up to the driver’s seat of the wagon and leaned over the pile of rags. With tremendous force, he pushed the pitchfork into the deepest part of the pile. He missed Marta’s head by an inch. She could hear him curse as he tried to pull the pitchfork free of shoes and clothing. Marta used the opportunity to pull herself over to the loose plank that had served as a toilet, and with her heart pounding in her throat, she lowered herself down through the opening and clung to the axle before the weapon could come down a second time. The man poked every spot of the wagon load as Marta clung in terror underneath.