Anyush (24 page)

He had been instructed to present himself at the headquarters of the National Guard. The three-storey stone building was located in the central square, its main axis running the length of one side, with two further wings taking up the adjoining sides. A centrally placed campanile towered over the arched doorway in the middle block, and rows of classical windows flanked it. At the rear of the building well tended gardens extended to the banks of the Kazil river, lending the structure the appearance of a chateau in France rather than a soldiers’ barracks. In the anteroom where Jahan was asked to wait, the ceiling was decorated with ornate plasterwork and religious pictures. Jahan looked at them closely. Not Ottoman or Islamic. Christian probably. There was something about this place that nagged him, something he couldn’t remember.

Jahan took a seat and thought about the conversation he’d had the
previous day with Armin. A rumour was circulating around the German barracks that Armenians were being deported to Syria. Whole villages, Armin claimed, were being emptied of their Armenian population and moved to the desert near Deir al-Zor. Jahan listened with growing unease. In Constantinople he had seen for himself the empty Armenian premises, windows broken and shopfronts defaced. Newspapers rife with nationalistic fervour and anti-Armenian propaganda, and at every street corner talk of how the Nationalists were going to restore Turkey to its glory days with no place for Armenians or Greeks. Jahan decided then that he had to find Anyush. Whatever her reason for not writing, he had to know she was safe. As soon as he could get leave he would make his way to Trebizond.

Muffled laughter could be heard on the other side of the panelled doorway. From what Jahan knew of Abdul-Khan, not many people laughed in his company. Before Olcay Orfalea had been invalided out of the army, Abdul-Khan had served under him for a number of years. The colonel had been to the Orfalea house on Grande Rue a number of times, and Jahan could remember his mother’s uncharacteristic dislike of this pale, stocky man with a look in his eye that was subordinate to no one. Whatever the reason for coming to the great man’s attention, the captain understood that it did not augur well.

The door to the colonel’s office opened and a group of men in the costume of the Shota militia strode across the room and disappeared through the door. The Shota, a band of renegade highlanders, were considered the most dangerous criminals in the region and had been outlawed across the Empire. There was a price on their chief’s head in every small town and province. Before Jahan could wonder what they were doing at the National Guard headquarters, an aide put his head round the door and told the captain to go in.

The colonel was seated behind a desk that seemed too small for him.
On the wall at his back hung a large framed portrait of the three Pashas who ruled the Empire through the Committee of Union and Progress. Abdul-Khan was not short in stature but his girth made him seem as round as he was tall. The buttons of his tunic strained at his belly and a fold of skin spilled over a damp-looking collar. Black hairs from a sparsely grown beard stuck out like porcupine quills and sprang in wiry tufts from his nose. Only his moustache grew luxuriantly down either side of his mouth and mirrored the bushy eyebrows that gave his face a deceptively hang-dog look.

‘Well, well! Olcay Orfalea’s boy. Your mother’s son to look at and I gather your father’s in every other respect. Sit.’

Jahan pulled out a chair and sat opposite him.

‘So how do you like Sivas?’

‘Well enough, sir.’

‘Not Constantinople of course but it has its charms. You look pale, Orfalea. Is there something the matter with you?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You sure? I wouldn’t want it said we weren’t looking after the colonel’s son and heir.’

‘Lack of sleep, sir.’

‘For all the wrong reasons I’ll bet!’ The colonel laughed. ‘Take yourself off to Mother Yazgan’s place behind the bazaar. She’ll fix you up with a nice little virgin. Tell her I sent you.’

The colonel leaned back in his chair and extended a well nourished leg beyond the corner of his desk. ‘You’ve been stationed in Trebizond, I hear. Are you familiar with the area?’

‘We were in a small village just outside Trebizond, sir. But yes, I know it.’

‘Good. I have an assignment for you. A chance to demonstrate some of your father’s mettle. You’ve heard of the Armenian resettlement plan?’

‘Rumour only, sir.’

‘It’s no rumour. The Armenian population is being moved to the interior and you will escort the Trebizond Armenians to Erzincan. You will be relieved of the convoy there and return here to Sivas.’

‘You mean … only Armenians, sir?’

‘You heard right the first time.’

Abdul-Khan picked up a pen and started writing on a document in front of him.

‘But, sir …
efendim
… when you talk of Armenians … you mean the military population?’

‘I mean the lot of them. Every last one. When you leave Trebizond, there will be no Armenians in it.’ He signed his name at the bottom of the page and put the pen down. ‘Is that clear Orfalea?’

‘I … yes, sir … but women and children? Is it necessary to-?’

‘All of them!’ the colonel said, banging his fist on the desk.

A pewter cup toppled over and dropped to the floor, coming to rest near Jahan’s foot. Bending down, he picked it up and placed it on the desk beside Abdul-Khan.

‘This is war,’ the colonel said, looking directly at him. ‘Armenians across the Empire are deserting to the Russians. We will remove traitors from our borders in any way we can. Every man, woman and child of them. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Speak up. I didn’t hear you.’

‘Yes, sir. But sir … I’ve been relieved of my command. I have no rank.’

Abdul-Khan smiled and handed him the document he had signed. ‘Congratulations, Captain. You’ve just been reinstated.’

The covered market was hot and crowded and smelt of sweating bodies, henna and overripe fruit. The captain and the lieutenant were moving in single file through the main thoroughfare, standing aside for the veiled women at the fruit and vegetable stalls. Propped against a pillar in the spice market, a beggar held up his stump as they passed by.

‘Why does he choose me? Someone who’s been disgraced?’

‘That’s just the way of it,
bayim
.’

‘Not with Abdul-Khan.’

A dog raced between the stalls, a large fish in its mouth.

‘And why the Trebizond Armenians? There are other companies closer than we are.’

Small cupolas in the roof filtered pools of light into the teeming, sunless space. At the end of the main walkway they turned left and entered the gold souk. Reflections from the jewellery and brass weighing scales cast a yellow glow on the whitewashed barrel-vaulted ceiling and along the walls. On both sides, dealers set out their trays of gold, and groups of black-clad women fingered the goods and haggled. A bracelet studded with lapis lazuli caught Ahmet’s eye and the stall-owner materialised in front of him. ‘Very beautiful. Perfect for your mother,
efendim
. Or your wife.’

Ahmet threw it back, but Jahan picked it up again. The stones were the colour of the sea at Trebizond. ‘How much?’

‘Persian lapis,’ the gold-seller said, wiping the disappointment from his face. ‘Very good quality.’

‘Your best price?’

They haggled for a while before finally agreeing on half.

‘I saw Shota in there,’ Jahan said, putting the bracelet into his pocket. ‘In the colonel’s office.’

‘Couldn’t be Shota,
bayim
.’

‘I’m telling you they were. I was as near to them as you are to me. One
of them had no right hand.’

‘Murzabey?’

‘Yes, and by the looks of things he wasn’t about to be arrested either.’

Leaving the gold souk, they walked beneath the twin columns of the Northern Gate into the sunlight. Pushing past the shoppers, they headed towards the Gök Medrese.

‘Let me buy you a coffee,
bayim
.’

The coffee house faced the immense stone pillars of the Northern Gate and the twin minarets of the Gök Medrese, the city’s thirteenth-century religious school. The tables were empty except for two old men sitting in a far corner. Jahan and Ahmet took a seat at a table near the pavement and the lieutenant ordered. Over by the souk veiled women in brightly coloured skirts passed through the main gateway. The waiter arrived with two cups of coffee and a dish of figs.

‘Maybe this isn’t as bad as I thought,’ the captain said. ‘Maybe the Armenians are better off this way.’

‘
Bayim
?’

‘They’ll be out of Ozhan’s reach. If they leave, I mean. I can’t see Ozhan moving to Syria, can you?’

Ahmet stirred his coffee.

‘You know there are Armenian settlements in Syria? Whole towns of them. If fighting breaks out along the Georgian border, the Armenians will have to move anyway. Better to go with us than wait for the Russians.’

‘
Bayim
,’ the lieutenant said, placing his coffee spoon on the table, ‘there are things you should know. This is not–’

‘Hey, Jahan!’ A tall, uniformed figure in a ghutrah and agal waved over from the shadow of the Northern Gate. He was carrying his wooden boxes, and a troupe of small boys fanned out behind him like a peacock’s tail.

‘Lieutenant Wegner,’ Ahmet said, getting to his feet.

The men shook hands and the waiter brought more coffee. Behind
them the boys stood guard over Armin’s boxes.

‘I was at the Medrese,’ Armin said. ‘Trying to photograph the interior and I picked up some onlookers.’

‘
Gitmek
!’ the lieutenant shouted.

‘Leave them. They’re not bothering me.’

The boys retreated a little, keeping one eye on Ahmet and another on Armin.

‘I was in the bazaar earlier, trying to set up a shot of the gold souk, but I got ushered out. Thrown out actually.’

The boys seemed to understand and smiled.

‘What is it? Did I do something wrong?’ asked Armin.

‘You must never steal a photograph of another man’s wife,’ Jahan explained.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Women. It is forbidden to photograph them.’

The old men in the corner stared as the boys laughed louder, covering their mouths like girls.

‘But they were veiled. You couldn’t see anything.’

‘No photographs of women. Veiled or not.’

‘I see.’ Armin’s pale face coloured.

‘The Seljuk Keykavus is near here,’ Ahmet volunteered. ‘I show you today.’

‘Well, if you don’t have previous commitments.’

‘Seljuk is old hospital. Very old. You will like it.’

‘Ahmet is forgetting that we will be gone in a few days,’ Jahan said.

‘You’re leaving?’

‘For Trebizond.’

‘I’m joining von der Goltz there in a week’s time,’ Armin said. ‘Do you know the town?’

‘I was stationed near there for a year.’

‘Good. I will travel with you, then.’

They finished their coffee and Armin announced that he was finished for the day. ‘See you here tomorrow?’

‘Outside the souk.’

Armin left, walking through the crowds with long strides as the boys ran after him.

‘Captain,’ Ahmet said when Armin was out of earshot, ‘you should not have agreed to bring Wegner to Trebizond.’

‘Why not? He’s going there anyway.’

‘This evacuation,
bayim
. It is not what you think.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My cousin Naim was involved in relocations in Bitlis and Diyarbekir. They were told to bring Armenians to camps in the interior as you were, but the idea is not to bring them anywhere.’

‘That doesn’t make sense. They have to go somewhere.’

‘Not if they die on the way. They are marched without food or water until they collapse from starvation and exhaustion. Those that survive are handed over to the Shota.’

‘Shota?’

‘They’re tipped off in advance and the soldiers turn a blind eye. That’s what Murzabey was doing in Abdul-Khan’s office. There’s an arrangement. They take the younger women and …’ he shrugged. ‘You know the rest.’

‘Are you telling me … are you saying I will be marching these people to their deaths?’

‘I’m saying,
bayim
, that because of the way this is organised it couldn’t be otherwise.’

Jahan felt cold. The crowds on the street were too close, and the press of bodies threatened to smother him. He walked away from the coffee house, elbowing passersby out of his way.

‘Captain!’

Jahan kept moving. He had no idea where he was going, only that he couldn’t stop. People scattered right and left to avoid him. He tripped on something hard and immovable and fell against a tobacco stall, scattering the ground with cigarettes and broken matches. Someone swore and a crowd gathered. The tobacco seller’s face pressed up close, cursing and calling for the Jendarma.

‘Here,
hacı
,’ Ahmet said, pressing a note into his hand. ‘For the damage.’

He took the Jahan by the arm and steered him down a side alley away from the crowd.

‘My father,’ Jahan said. ‘This is my father’s doing.’