Between the Two Rivers: A Story of the Armenian Genocide Page 9

  In the quiet courtyard, under the setting sun, they looked thinner than she. Hunger dulled their eyes, and ragged clothes revealed skin and bones. Despite suspecting how much better off she was—setting her apart from their condition—she crouched like them.

  It had been declared aloud as well as in writing that she owned two names—Mannig and Maria—an official age and a birth date. It didn’t matter how they had concocted her identity. What mattered was that she belonged to the orphanage. She felt as beautiful inside as those names sounded, even without a surname.

  Mannig’s eyes veered from the sunlight across the courtyard fence toward the shadowy silhouette of the registrars. The Barone was immersed in his writing; his bronze complexion sparkled. He is handsome. His partner called him Barone Mardiros. The name sounded melodious and masculine. Even more, its uniqueness pleased her, for she knew no one else by that name. I won’t forget it. She wondered if he had truly been convinced of her destitution or her overwhelming need of the orphanage. Either way, he must be a gentle man, one fitting Haji-doo’s sayings: ‘If it is written in the heart, it will be written by the hand.’

  She gazed at the sky, scantily clad in clouds. The last rays of light formed a halo of silky yellow cords intertwined with satiny-crimson. She felt born today, created anew. Today was, after all, her birthday. Her heart stirred. Sitting upright, she welcomed this new beginning.

  10—The Telegram

  Mardiros returned to Sebouh Papazian’s house in Mosul at midnight—exhausted but unaware of it, hungry without craving anything, disheveled but not grimy.

  The day had fulfilled all his expectations. Grouping Armenian orphans in the northern region of the Tigris River in three days had indeed required his engineering skills. Collecting and resettling them into a building energized him. Coordinating means for their survival recharged his ego. Is this really me? The sweeping changes in his lifestyle invigorated him.

  Working in Mosul put him smack where his volunteerism meant something. The poor orphans. He housed as many as 200 children in a nearby khan. He must send Dikran on a search-and-rescue mission again. There must still be a few astray. He scrutinized his image in the mirror of the garderobe. Rubbing his three-day whiskers, he noticed smile lines near his hazel eyes. Notwithstanding his age of 30, he exaggerated a few deeper grooves around his mouth. God’s gift to me—for guaranteeing the children’s future. He grabbed the joy of the moment. Being accountable refreshed a hidden need, unbeknown to him.

  “Barone Mardiros?” Sebouh knocked on the door. “This telegram came for you after you left this morning. I carried it with me all day, but our paths didn’t cross.”

  Mardiros read the enlarged black letters on the yellow paper. Without changing his demeanor, he stared at Sebouh, who obviously had read the same message himself. “We expected this, but it came sooner than I hoped.”

  “Come have tea with me,” Sebouh said, and led him downstairs, holding the lantern in one hand and wiping his forehead with the other. “We both need a respite.”

  “Let me have cognac, instead,” Mardiros said, grabbing the half empty bottle off the nightstand and following him to the parlor. He had brought the snifter from Baghdad for his host, but Sebouh preferred to abstain; Mardiros refrained from his nocturnal pleasure in deference to his friend. Tonight might be his last in Mosul.

  He sat on a carpet-covered divan in the parlor and shifted a few satin covered cushions behind his back. He noticed Sebouh caressing a lacy pillow on his settee. He misses his late wife. Anyone would, in surroundings replete with a woman’s touch. Sebouh’s wife of barely two years had died while giving birth to their daughter, Stella, but her feminine imprint of comfort and cheer had graced the house soon after the Big War ended, even with the limited resources available in Mosul.

  Mardiros filled a glass tea cup with cognac for himself and watched Sebouh swirl an extra fourth spoon of sugar in his tea. They both preferred their drinks strong. Neither said anything. The jingling spoon in the tea cup and the sniffing of brandy filled the silence for a few minutes. Their daily work for the past month had satisfied them both, especially since they had secured a khan to house the orphans, the primary function assigned to them by the Middle East Relief.

  They were too exhausted to eat the gatta Sebouh’s housekeeper had prepared before going home. As agreed, she had taken Sebouh’s little girl with her for the night, not knowing when he might return from his field work. Occasionally, he walked home at noon to see Stella, eat lunch, and ‘rest the legs of a forty-year-old man.’ He wished younger fellows would appear on the horizon to carry on the dedication to ethnic survival, but he often complained to Mardiros about the coming generation being too engrossed in themselves to see the long term benefit of rescuing the Armenian orphans.

  For Mardiros, the house was a place for the two adults to sleep. Since Mardiros often arrived late at night, he saw the little girl on rare occasions.

  “I see they need you in Baghdad more than I do here,” Sebouh said, breaking the silence soon after each sipped his beverage. “I wonder if they’re aware of the magnitude of effort needed to do the best for the children in Mosul. I don’t know how we’ll manage.”

  “You will, I am sure,” Mardiros said, offering Sebouh a rolled cigarette from his silver case. “You know this town inside and out. And there’s no doubt in my mind they will send me back to complete our mission.”

  “I shall miss your company, and I shall miss the luxury of smoking your Englaizees.” Sebouh used the Arabic endearment for English cigarettes. He leaned over the burning coal in the brazier to light it. “Rolling our local brands is becoming difficult. My arthritis gets worse every day.”

  “You can have all of mine,” Mardiros said, emptying his silver case, engraved with his initials, M.H.K. He set the rolled cigarettes on the glass-top table and dropped the case back into his vest pocket. He watched his friend inhale, as if observing him for the first time. The man’s brows closed on small beady eyes in a longish face; his bulbous nose nearly brushed the cigarette cuddled between thin lips. “Barone Simon Gharibian alerted me that I will be a roving emissary. I will be back, and I will bring as many packs of cigarettes for you as I can.” They smoked in silence.

  Mardiros liked Sebouh, not just as a colleague in the fields of orphandom, but as a friend. Staying under Sebouh’s roof eliminated the solitude within the four walls of a hotel or the tenant-guest formalities of a pension. Being with a like-minded compatriot rejuvenated him. Silence about shared experiences and tired limbs filled the emotional void, and neither needed to expound on his day’s work. Otherwise, there was not much in common between them—Mardiros came from an aristocratic family whose father was a Pasha, while Sebouh was a shrewd businessman trading carpets with the Kurds, the Turkomen, and the Persians—a self-made man.

  With the ending of The Big War and the revelations of the Armenian massacre, social distinctions had faded, and the two gentlemen’s philanthropic goals meshed into one. They plunged into the business of preserving their ethnic heritage. Mardiros sensed a rebirth of energy for a life of service by escaping the decadent, self-indulgent boring life of Baghdad. Sebouh needed an involvement beyond his own self-pity for the death of his wife. In helping the orphans, they saved themselves from becoming apathetic toward other people and cynical about life in general. Mardiros realized that in meeting the needs of the orphans, they had met their own needs as well.

  Both Mardiros and Sebouh dedicated their lives to rescuing the children, and both received tacit acknowledgement for their deeds. Their friendship flourished in the absence of the affluent life in Baghdad. Mardiros knew Sebouh would do absolutely anything for him, and he would do the same for Sebouh.

  Mardiros referred to the telegram again. “Aren’t you surprised how orphanages are needed in locations besides Mosul?” He resumed reading it. “I’m unfamiliar with Ba’qubah or Nahr El-Omar.”

  “Ba’qubah is near Baghdad.” Sebouh exhaled rings of smoke. “It prides it
self on its citrus groves. But Nahr El-Omar—I don’t know it, but I suspect it is somewhere close to Basra.”

  “Why? Why down that far south …” Mardiros checked the telegram again. “Oh, I see. The British are donating their military tents in Nahr El-Omar. Their forces were centralized in Basra.”

  “It is a curious telegram. What do you think is the overall plan of the World Relief Organization?”

  “I suspect funds are scarce, but I will learn more in Baghdad, of course,” Mardiros said, flipping his shoes off and propping his legs up across the divan. “I’m sure we’ll continue the search and rescue children and,” he raised his brandy, “learn how to pitch tents! That is, after we get acclimatized to Iraq’s southern region. Aren’t you astonished at their claim that there are hundreds of orphans in that area?”

  “I suspect the high numbers account for their urgency … that’s why they are summoning you.”

  Mardiros sat up, held the telegram to the lantern and read aloud:

  COME TO BAGHDAD stop

  SPECIAL MISSION FOR YOU stop

  NEED FUNDS stop

  HUNDREDS OF ORPHANS IN BA’QUBAH AND NAHR El-OMAR stop

  TO BE HOUSED IN DONATED BRITISH TENTS stop.

  Signed: Simon Gharibian

  “We have almost 200 orphans here,” Mardiros said. “There may be twice as many in the surrounding areas whom we haven’t collected yet. Apparently, there are more in the south than in Mosul.”

  “The high number of children is both good and bad,” Sebouh said. “The good is—the Ottoman butchers failed to annihilate our race, and the bad is that we are now compelled to rescue many more.”

  Mardiros stood and stretched his arms. “I must leave first thing in the morning. I hope there is a train to Baghdad.” He killed his cigarette butt in the green ceramic ashtray. “If there’s a train at all! Without established departure and arrival schedules, we are at the mercy of whim. Initially, I wanted to drive my automobile here, but I debated over the availability of petrol. When I return, I will drive up and see that we complete the Mosul project.”

  Sebouh nodded. “I’m relieved you recruited a few Arabs to supply basic foodstuffs to the khan on a daily basis. But we are short on older girls to cook for the children. Many of the grown-up survivors are working for Arab families, and it is impossible to entice them to give up on their employment for the sake of Armenianhood.”

  “That’s just a temporary setback,” Mardiros said. “I fear locating teachers a bigger problem.”

  “I’ve asked my merchant friends to inquire among their customers,” Sebouh said.

  “Good!” Mardiros stepped out of the parlor. He stopped by the door and looked at his friend. The flickering rays from the lantern accentuated the man’s tired demeanor. “I am leaving you with awesome responsibilities. I’ll see that the powers-behind-the-throne in Baghdad realize your perseverance.”

  11—Dunk the Chunk and Sip the Soup

  As soon as the children began the trek from the Armenian Church toward the orphanage, images of the kindergarten in Adapazar flooded Mannig’s head. Going to school! Going to school! Visions of chanting the alphabet, playing arithmetic games, and skipping rope in a stone-tiled courtyard in the shadow of the Armenian Apostolic Church, twirled in her head and energized her lively gait. Above all, she saw herself happy, seated at her metal-framed desk, copying the teacher’s marks off the blackboard hanging on the adobe wall. I must recite all of Miss Romella’s lessons for our vorpanotz teacher. She wanted to be admired, affirmed, and validated once more.

  She remembered being praised for reciting the alphabet. She mouthed Ayp-Pen-Kim-Ta … the first three letters—but stopped short. What comes next? Meg-Yergoo-Yerek … No! Those are numbers! What about the rest? Everything she learned in kindergarten, she had forgotten. She drifted with the flow of orphans like a grain of dust, oblivious to the wind and rough ground that made hiking the alleys of Mosul toward their new home such an arduous task. Why did I forget?

  The caravan of children shuffled at lava’s pace, neither its head nor tail visible in the debris-tossed footsteps. An hour into the trip, the Mosul Mu’adthin’s noonday chant of “Allah u-Akbar” filtered through the air; the caravan listened to the chanting in respectful silence. Mannig skirted rocks and stones. With great deference, she swerved around patches of animal droppings—someone in Mosul needed the dung. Not I. Muck-grabbing scuffles belonged to the past; only brain-training days lay ahead. An orphanage would be a place for better things. Schooling.

  “There’s our khan.” The guide pointed straight ahead.

  The typical building with a flat roof and tawny bricks by the banks of the Tigris River stirred oohs and aahs and muffled the shuffling of the staggering children.

  Mannig shoved and pushed past the others, flailing her arms with excitement, rushing to reach the orphanage first. Unable to handle the narrow uphill path, she stumbled and dropped her rolled-up bedding. She groped for it, panicked at the memory of losing the bundle with her yellow dress three years ago.

  She remembered being perched atop the bags on the wagon with Mama and Baba and her family of eight, ‘the day they deported us from Adapazar.’ The wagon barely squeaked across the narrow bridge on the Sakarya River, agitating the load and riders. Frightened, she clung to her mother. In the shakeup, her bundle of clothing had rolled off and vanished into the gurgling water. The memory of that loss gripped her heart with pain. I could have lost this, too. She clutched her bedding and fell back in line.

  The lofty oak gate of the khan squeaked open and scraped the gravel-strewn entrance; Mannig felt that it was welcoming them. The sprawling courtyard full of chattering youth fit her notion of what a school should be—a big tangle of joviality. She loved the sight of clusters of girls hugging their new friends and boys bonding. It did not matter that she was by herself and no one looked for her; she sought no one either. She did not feel left out or isolated. Nothing mattered more than the happy children congregated in one building, looking forward to schooling as much as she did. The air, the cheery voices … just the idea of being within the boundaries of the vorpanotz … everything seemed perfect. My dream is becoming a reality.

  The smell of spices surprised her. She didn’t remember eating in kindergarten. Food in the orphanage? The idea of sharing a meal with classmates delighted her like syrup on baklava. She scurried toward the aroma wafting from a steaming caldron only to be stopped by a firm grip on her left arm. The screeched “Watch out!” prevented her from tripping over the steaming stew.

  The woman’s sinewy hand tightened before she released Mannig. She scanned the orphans in the courtyard and smiled, revealing a toothless mouth. Her gaze lingered as if she were counting her blessings.

  She wrapped the skirt of her tunic around her belt and picked up a wooden ladle.

  She scooped broth, grease floating on top, into a tin cup and handed it to Mannig. “This container is yours; you will need it for all your meals. Don’t lose it.” Pointing to a heap of wedges of barley bread on a towel, she added, “Take one, child. Dunk the chunk and sip the soup. Move on, now.”

  Mannig’s mouth watered at the warm cup in her palms. She squatted and relished the aroma, even though it was unfamiliar to her. The broth—hot, greasy, salty—was exactly what her stomach needed. After quenching her raw hunger, she bit into the barley bread. Akh! Her teeth wouldn’t cut through the thick, rock-like crust. She set the tin cup by her leg and, while anchoring her teeth into the chunk, she pulled it with both hands. Still, she failed to break it down into morsel size. She licked the crust for flavor before giving up. She resumed slurping the soup when she noticed the orphan crouched next to her, sucking her bread after bringing it out of the cup.

  Aha! So that’s what ‘Dunk the chunk,’ means. She copied the technique and devoured the softened bread, chunk after chunk. The stew of alfalfa roots, apple cores, and herbs steeped in boiling water would have been enough to satisfy hunger. Dunking the barley bread transformed th
e meal into a feast.

  After the last sip of soup and bite of bread, she sat in silence, gazing into space. Life was good, and its goodness made her drowsy. By and by, she climbed to the second floor balcony and unrolled her bedding. Contented, she fell asleep.

  

  She awoke to swooping and darting swallows. Birds. Singing non-stop. Happy sounds. She rolled over and watched a beetle scurrying on and off the edge of her quilt, groping for a path—the liquid luster of the violet and magenta of its shell surged beyond the crimson and auburn. Bewitched, she marveled at the joyful birds and brilliant creepers.

  I’m in paradise.

  Surprised to see a person next to her, she jumped up. Her bed-partner lay asleep, her long black hair covering her face. Her frail frame shifted. In my space? In the Mosul shelter, orphans selected a niche to settle in, free and separate, never sharing the same sleeping spot. She glanced at the rows of sleeping bodies sprawled along the balcony floor on either side of her. Two or three, all shapes and sizes, slumbered on a shared mattress. She peeked through the railing at the courtyard below. Dune-like forms lay asleep there, too, from one wall of the courtyard to the other—no one stirring. On this first morning at the orphanage, Mannig became aware of its confined environment. She was not alone anymore, but bound by its strictures. Only the fountain gurgled freely. Beyond the stone-lined pool, the bubbling water flowed across the courtyard and out the huge entry door. What happened to the sparkling water outside the walls of the khan? She dared not speculate. Residing in the orphanage mattered the most to her. Her heart fluttered like the erratic flight of the swallows in and out of the overhead awnings.

  It must be time to prepare for school. What about a uniform? She stroked her chest in search of the satin stitches of M and B for MangaBardez—meaning kindergarten—embroidered in pink on her gray smock. Her fingers stopped tracing the coarse burlap hanging from shoulders to knees. Adapazar existed a long time ago—three years? Five years? Did Mama pack my uniform? Even so, the gendarmes forced us to discard all bundles in Eski-sehir, except a jug of water per family. Her mama had cried at leaving her Singer sewing machine behind, and now Mannig’s tears threatened to gush for want of that dear outfit—but more for the distraught mother she vaguely remembered.