Anyush (19 page)

‘The army needs boots. What better way to help the war effort?!’

Same old argument, same old harangue. Across the street the woman had gone, the shutters open and bolted in place. Shadows moved to and fro in the room beyond and he could hear the faint sound of the pianoforte. It was coming from below them, Dilar or Melike practising a tune.

‘Armenians are a misfortunate people,’ his father was saying. ‘They deserve our pity and our charity, but they are not a breed to become involved with.’

‘Ah, but there lies my problem,’ Jahan said, turning to him with a smile. ‘I am already involved, Papa. In fact, I’m going to be married to an Armenian girl as soon as I can get leave or temporary discharge.’

‘What nonsense is this?’

‘You are about to have one of the unfortunate breed for a daughter-in-law.’

‘Is this your idea of a joke?’

‘I’m getting married, Papa. Nothing could be simpler.’

‘You are throwing away your career–’

‘It has nothing to do with my career.’

‘… on an Armenian peasant!’

‘It might be kinder, especially in front of Maman, not to speak about my future wife in that way.’ Jahan got to his feet and looked down at his father. His face was suffused unevenly with colour and his lips were pale and tight. ‘I feel sorry for you, Papa. Really I do.’

‘Sit down, Jahan!’

‘Tell Maman I’m not staying for dinner.’

‘Jahan …’

Captain Orfalea stopped in the doorway and looked back to where his father was sitting.

‘You have been very fortunate in life. You have parents who care about you and three sisters who are devoted to you. But should you think of doing anything rash, it would be wise to remember that this city is not kind to orphans.’

Colonel Olcay Orfalea

J
ahan’s father stood at the balcony and watched his son disappear into the evening crowd. After a while, he became conscious of the wind blowing up from the river and the chill settling across his shoulders. He closed the balcony doors and went inside, taking a seat at the bureau opposite the window. When he had decided what he wanted to say, he took a pen and ink and wrote a letter to Colonel Kamil Abdul-Khan, requesting a transfer for Jahan. Sealing it into an envelope, he put the name and address in Sivas on the front. The second letter was more straightforward and required little or no forethought. It was addressed to the barracks’ postmaster and instructed him that all post sent or received by Captain Jahan Orfalea was to be redirected, unopened, to himself, Colonel Olcay Orfalea, at the above address on Grand Rue de Pera. Before sealing it, he put a substantial bundle of kuruş into the envelope and left both letters on the salver in the hallway for posting in the morning.

Jahan

T
he boy was stripped to the waist and sweating profusely as he dug. His hands were blistered from the quicklime as well as the spade, and it would be a few days before he would grip a gunstock without wincing. Unblocking the barracks latrines was a job for the hamals, but the back-breaking, foul-smelling work was also useful as a punishment detail. Jahan watched him dig for a time, before turning away from the nauseating stench and the swarm of black flies hovering over the pit. He was sorry he had lost his temper with the boy. Jahan was usually not so concerned with minor breaches in regulation, but the punishment had more to do with his irritable humour and the argument with his father. His bravado of the previous day had deserted him, as Olcay Orfalea knew it would. They understood each other too well. Jahan was fully aware of the lengths to which his father would go, because the colonel did not make threats lightly. It would be unthinkable to be turned away from his home, from the company of his mother and sisters, but what was the alternative? Never to see Anyush again? Losing his family would cause him infinite sadness, but if he had to chose, there was only one decision he could make.

‘Captain Orfalea. Sir …’ His aide beckoned from a safe distance.

‘You have a visitor, Captain.’

‘Who?’

‘A lady.’

Madame Orfalea was sitting drinking tea in the barracks parlour.

‘You need to bathe,’ she said, drawing away as he kissed her. ‘As a matter of urgency.’

‘Give me a few minutes,’ Jahan said, and went to his quarters to wash.

When he returned, it was to see the aide peering through the open door at his mother.

‘Thank you Refik. That will be all. What are you doing here, Maman?’

‘I was out for a stroll and was hoping you might escort me home.’

They left the barracks and walked arm in arm through Üsküdar and into the residential district of Stamboul, past Seraglio Point, which marked the border of the Muslim Quarter with the City of the Infidel, and into Galata beyond. The two German warships, the
Goeben
and the
Breslau
were berthed on the southern side of the bridge, dwarfing the shipping agencies and banks that bordered that part of the Golden Horn. Fleeing from a British naval vessel, the ships had been given safe harbour by the Empire and were responsible for closing the Dardanelles and bringing Turkey into the war. Jahan counted many Germans amongst his friends, and his father had been instrumental in setting up the German Military Mission, but he deeply resented the Empire’s participation in a war not of its own making. As well as the termination of training projects and the channelling of all resources away from new developments, he had seen a return to the pre-Balkan arbitrary promotion of untrained officers and the drafting in of young inexperienced German officers on fat salaries, while Ottoman foot soldiers subsisted on low wages paid once every five or six months.

‘It’s so easy to forget we are at war,’ his mother said as they crossed into Galata. ‘I’ve heard rumours that there are British submarines in the
waters off the Dardanelles, waiting to pick off our ships.’

‘The war will be decided in the Dardanelles. Every able-bodied soldier will be drafted there in the next few weeks.’

Madame Orfalea shivered and hugged her son’s arm tightly. They continued on through the familiar streets of Galata, past the theatres, patisseries, bars and the opera house. But as they approached the Grand Rue Madame Orfalea insisted they keep walking, climbing up through the narrow streets of Pera onto Taksim Square towards Galata Tower. At the very top they stopped to look at the view below.

‘The sun is hot. Let’s sit in the shade for a moment.’

They took a seat in a small café where they could watch the city and the ships plying their trade along the Bosphorus.

‘Your sister was in something of a state this morning.’

‘Which one?’

‘Dilar of course. She’s worried that France is about to declare against Turkey.’

‘Armand?’

‘Yes, poor Armand. It is one thing to fight for your country but quite another to fight against the homeland of your future wife.’

‘Does she want to postpone the wedding?’

‘On the contrary, she wants to bring it forward. They plan to move to Paris as soon as they get their travel permits.’

A waiter came and placed two tiny cups of coffee and a stand of pastries on the table before them.

‘Your father is upset. It bothers him that he cannot fight.’

Jahan sipped his coffee, aware of his mother’s eyes on him.

‘He told me of your conversation.’

‘Did he?’

‘He mentioned your … friend.’

A strong breeze blew up from the harbour, lifting the corners of the
cloth covering the small table and knocking the sugar basin. They waited while the waiter rushed over with clips for the cloth and a fresh basin of sugar.

‘This girl,’ his mother began, ‘your father said she is …?’

‘Armenian.’

‘And you’ve brought her here? To Constantinople?’

‘She’s still in Trebizond.’

‘But you intend bringing her?’

‘Yes. As soon as I can arrange it.’

A ship’s horn blew in the distance and the parasol of a woman at a nearby table sailed past. With a snap, Madame Orfalea closed her own parasol and put it by her feet. Jahan watched, knowing there was more to come.

‘Jahan,’ she said, leaning across the table to put her hand on his arm, ‘
écoutes
. Your father is the kind of man for whom pride is everything. Pride in his country most of all. When you threatened … when you spoke of leaving the army to marry this girl, it flew in the face of everything he believes in. Everything he has worked so hard for. This war will not last for ever. By the end of the year, two at most, it will all be over. I know … I understand how things are. You fell in love. It is natural at your age. I know that right now nothing seems more important, but I’m asking you … begging you, for my sake, Jahan, not to do anything for the moment. If you provoke your father, he is capable of things he would regret but never undo. And with his health as it is …’ She shook her head, her eyes unnaturally bright. ‘You have my word, Jahan, when the time is right I will talk to him. I know how to get around him.
Je t’en pris
, Jahan. I’m asking that you do this for me.’

Jahan looked down the hill over the jumble of tiled roofs and flat roofs, past the clutter of masts and rigging on the water to the huge iron bulk of the German warships. Across the Horn to the mosques and minarets
and wind-towers on the Stamboul side. His mother was watching him, expecting an answer, but how could he wait? How could he abandon Anyush to chance? But if he
did
do as his mother asked, he would have an ally in the battle with his father, the one person capable of interceding with him. Jahan would have to hope that the Stewarts were influential enough to keep Anyush safe and that the demands of war would keep Ozhan distracted.

‘Very well, Maman,’ he said. ‘I will do as you ask. But don’t expect me to wait too long.’

Anyush

Mushar, Trebizond, 30 July 1915

B
efore Anyush could make her journey to the village, she had to leave the laundry at Kazbek’s cottage. Husik had not appeared and only his father stood on the porch steps, prayer beads swinging at his wrist. She walked quickly on towards the town, touching the letter in her skirt pocket. It was the last letter she would send, her final hope that Jahan would write. She had written everything she wanted to say, offering her love, her prayers for him and for the child she was carrying. Nothing was left unsaid.

Anyush stayed on the path skirting the wood, careful to keep beneath the trees. She took the letter from her pocket again and looked at the address. Grande Rue de Pera. It seemed so foreign, so far away. She slid her hand over her belly and felt it strain a little against the folds of her skirt. For a thin girl, it was becoming difficult to hide. Unwed mothers were dealt with severely in the village, and the only hope for her baby and herself lay in marrying Jahan. She had to find him and tell him what he could not know. What he would want to know.

‘Anyush.’

Husik sprang out from behind a tree.

‘Don’t do that!’

‘Did I frighten you?’

His eye fell on the letter in her hand and he snatched it from her fingers.

‘Who are you writing to, Anyush?’

‘Give it to me.’

‘Nobody has ever written to me. Can’t I have this one?’

‘Husik, give me the letter.’

She tried to take it from him, but he held it just out of reach.

‘I wonder what’s written inside. Maybe I’ll have a look.’

‘Don’t you open it! Don’t you dare!’

‘You’d better have it, then. But you’ll have to catch me first.’

He took off, and she had no choice but to follow. Rounding the bend and coming on to the long straight stretch of road, she could see nothing only the dark silent wood on either side and the church spire in the distance.

‘Husik …?’

A flock of crows shook out their wings, calling forlornly in the canopy above her.

‘Husik, I’m not in the humour for this.’

A volley of shots rang out, sending the birds shrieking into the afternoon sky.

‘Over here.’

He was standing on the path, listening, her letter forgotten. She snatched it from his hand.

‘You shouldn’t be out here,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring you home.’

‘I’m going to the village.’

‘The village isn’t safe. I’ll post your letter for you.’

‘No!’

‘Don’t you trust me?’

His pale face looked into hers. She did trust him. She would have trusted Husik with her life but not with this letter. Pushing it into her pocket, she turned in the direction of the town.

The post office was a flat-roofed, ramshackle building on the corner of the square, leaning at an angle up against the Tufenkians’ shop and doubling as the town hall. Until recently, it had been run by Dikkran Gulakian, an uncle of Sosi’s, but her uncle had been conscripted and the post office was now run by Bekir Hisar. The Hisars were neighbours to the Charcoudians, helpful at harvest time and the main buyer of any surplus vegetables from Gohar’s small plot. Hisar greeted Anyush warily as she came through the door.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said, barely glancing at the letter. ‘The village is swarming with gendarmes.’

He franked the letter and put it in a bag on the floor.

‘Go!’ he hissed, nodding to where a group of uniformed guards had gathered on the street outside. ‘If they find you here …’

He beckoned her behind the counter to a back door. ‘Hurry!’

But the men were already on the threshold.

‘Allah, help us!’ Hisar whispered.

The gendarmes crowded inside, six or seven of them spreading like bees in the cramped space. They were young, somewhere in their early twenties.

‘Well, look what we have here! Told you I spotted one. And all on her own too.’

The gendarme turned to Hisar. ‘She doesn’t belong to you, does she?’

Bekir shook his head, his eyes cast to the floor.

‘Didn’t think so. No decent Turkish girl would parade herself through the town.’

He moved closer to Anyush, near enough that she could see drops of sweat in the tufts of hair on his upper lip. ‘You’re Armenian, aren’t you?’

There was no way past him and no access to the rear door. The circle closed around her.

‘What did you say? I didn’t hear you!’ He grabbed her by the arm. ‘Don’t you think she looks Armenian?’

They laughed, pushing her over and back between them from one pair of hands to another.

‘Someone must have cut out her tongue because I didn’t hear an answer. Are you Armenian, whore?’

Her voice had deserted her. She felt as though she were falling, weightless and helpless at their feet.

‘I asked you a question. Are … you … Armenian?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah … we have an answer! Now what do we do with Armenian whores? Any ideas?’

Suddenly there was a tremendous burst of glass as the small shop window exploded in a thousand shards. The gendarmes fell to their knees and hunkered down around the walls and in front of the counter.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Somebody’s shooting!’

‘It’s a revolt!’

‘Armenian rebels!’

‘There’s one of them!’

They crowded through the door as a stocky, dark-haired figure ran across the square and disappeared into the maze of alleyways. Just as Anyush thought her knees would give way, Hisar’s bony fingers grabbed her by the arm. He pushed up the counter and led her to the lane outside.

‘Go to Dr Stewart’s house. They’re moving in the opposite direction,
so if they don’t catch that poor bastard you’ll have enough time. Go now. Run!’

Although moments before she could hardly stand, she ran as fast as her legs would carry her, praying over and again that Husik would not get caught.

The following morning, Anyush waited by the river where Husik brought the cows to drink. She had spent a restless night, not knowing if he had escaped the gendarmes.

The first of the cattle ambled down the track, shuffling and raising dried mud into the morning air. The cow’s dusty hide was stretched over her frame, and the bones of her pelvis thrust upwards from her rump. There were fewer of them than before, less than half a dozen. Some had been taken by the army and others had died of starvation so that Kazbek’s herd had been reduced to a few hollow-eyed beasts. Anyush tried to see past the animals to the back of the line, but to her horror she saw Kazbek flicking and prodding at them with a stick. He peered at her from his glassy eyes.

‘
Selam, efendim
,’ she said, falling into step beside him.

He flicked the switch over and back, the sound cutting through the cow’s lowing and the clodding fall of their feet.

‘I was wondering,
efendim
… about Husik?’

‘Husik is none of your concern.’

‘Yesterday … in the village …’

‘Nothing happened yesterday.’

‘But,
efendim
, he–’

‘Did you hear what I said? Nothing!’

She hung back, wary of the stick’s whip and flick.

‘Tell him I’m grateful,’ she called.

Kazbek stopped and turned around. He looked at her coldly, spitting on the ground by her feet. ‘I’ll give him no messages from you. Mad like your mother! You’re nothing but trouble. Stay away from him, you hear?’

He flicked his switch at the beast nearest him and followed after it, disappearing into the rising cloud of dust.

Gohar Charcoudian sat on a chair in her nightgown as Anyush took down the brush from the mantlepiece. With the passing of years more of the old woman’s scalp was visible through the strands of her thinning hair. Anyush brushed from the hairline to the nape of her grandmother’s neck with the firm strokes the old woman loved.

Gohar was quiet, her swollen fingers lying in her lap and her misshapen knees poking through the fabric of her nightdress. Her arthritis was bad again, and although she never complained she was in constant pain. A gust of wind rose, rattling the small window. Gohar closed her eyes, and just as Anyush thought she was nodding off she reached up and caught her granddaughter by the hand.

‘When were you going to tell me?’

The door to the cottage flew open, and Anyush’s mother came into the room. A strong wind whistled into the corners and blew Gohar’s nightdress up over her knees.

‘I need to speak to you, Anyush,’ Khandut said, pulling the scarf from her head. ‘To both of you.’

Gohar struggled to cover herself, and Anyush caught the unmistakable stench of their landlord.

‘I’ve been to negotiate the rent. I don’t have to tell you we have no
money and no way of paying, but Kazbek and I have struck a deal. He’s willing to write off the debt and drop the rent on the top field.’

‘We’ll owe him nothing?’ Anyush asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘But that’s … that’s wonderful,’Anyush said. ‘Isn’t that good news,
Tatik
?’

Beneath her granddaughter’s touch, Gohar had tensed like a spring. ‘What were his terms?’ the old woman asked. ‘What did you offer him in return?’

Khandut was looking at the empty grate. Soot had fallen onto the hearth and she tipped at it with the toe of her boot. ‘He wants a wife.’

‘You’re going to marry him?’ Gohar whispered. ‘You’re going to live there? In
that
house?’

‘I never said anything about marrying him.’

‘So what did you agree? Are we to understand … Oh dear God, no!’

‘What’s the matter?’ Anyush asked.

‘Tell me you didn’t.’

‘There was no other way.’

‘You sold her? To him? To that monster?’

‘I had no choice.’

‘
Me
?’ Anyush said. ‘You’re talking about
me
?’ The hairbrush fell from her hand.

‘It is the answer to our problems. We’ll never have to worry about rent again.’

‘Marry Kazbek?’ She looked in horror from her mother to her grandmother.

‘You don’t mean it. Tell me you don’t.’

‘You can’t send her to live in that house.’

‘If you have a better idea, then let me hear it.’