My father is a learned man who teaches history in the college in Marash, a small city at the foot of the Taurus Mountains. When the government forces the school to shut down, he believes it is just the beginning. “What is next?” he demands angrily to anyone who will listen. “Surrender our books? Surrender our guns? Surrender and no harm will come to us?”
By the following summer, soldiers are everywhere. They patrol the street outside our house, and we begin to stay inside and speak in whispers. Even though it’s warm, we shutter our windows, as do our neighbors. Pa is more and more distressed. When he and my mother argue into the night, I pretend to sleep.
Pa says we must leave. “Now, before it’s too late.”
My mother is a simple woman who has lived her whole life in our village. She has never lived anywhere else. How could they leave? Impossible. “This is our fatherland,” she says. Her voice trembles.
“Fatherland? What does it mean if they take fathers?” Pa’s voice rises in frustration.
My mother refuses to go. “We can blend in,” she argues softly. “We can change our names. We can pray to their God.”
“After restrictions are posted? After conscription? After names are put on a list?”
“Hush. We can become invisible.”
In September, neighbors’ homes are occupied. Even Ma is shaken. When caravans are attacked, Pa is frantic and clutches his hair in his fists. It is time to flee. It is still possible. Others have. The Mouradians. The Kevorkians. The Seropians. Whole families. Families still whole.
“But they had help,” Ma cries. “Family overseas.”
“It takes more,” Pa insists. “More than family.”
“What? Money? Ours is worth nothing now.”
“No, no, no. Something else. A wedding band, a pocket watch.”
But for us, there is only a knock on the door in the middle of the night. When I wake up Pa is gone.
Now under the edicts, Ma must wear a chador. Under black layers, she peeks out through red-rimmed eyes. Women are forced to convert, taken as slaves. “We are next,” Ma wails. It is women who are most vulnerable, but I am an eleven-year-old girl and don’t see myself as vulnerable or invulnerable. The most important thing is to remain untouched. To survive. These people will not stop until we all disappear. Desperate, she finds the name of a distant relative in Beirut. “Uncle,” she pleads, “save us.”
Weeks pass. After Uncle writes back, she folds and refolds the tissue thin telegram, reading it again and again as if she can change the tear-stained words. We must leave before it’s too late but escape to Beirut has become treacherous and he can arrange only one passage. He is sorry. So sorry.
Ma cannot leave me here alone, but the Sisters of Mercy will take me in, a blessing. They have transformed the Mesrob Mashtots School into an orphanage.
“But I’m not an orphan.”
“No. It is refuge. A lifeboat.”
But there is no sea.
Arrangements are made and it’s settled. We leave today, after supper.
“Finish your yalanchi.”
I suck on precious rice wrapped in a tender grape leaf, my last meal.
At this hour, mourning doves coo in the dry breeze. We follow a narrow footpath and begin the climb up Aratz. Marash’s red rooftops sink with the sun. Though it weighs nothing, we take turns carrying my meager bundle. Ma calls me anoush, sweet one, and sings cradle songs, Gigi, Gigi, Gigi Go, Ninim, Nini, Nini, no. Pebbles lodge in my shoe, but we don’t dare stop.
Pink tufa, red, gray rock, black rock, guided by moonlight. The orphanage is perched at the top, and by the time we reach it Ma is winded and squats near the door. I pull the bell and Anahid, the missionary at the Sisters of Mercy greets us. She’s pretty with dark wavy hair, wearing a simple gray dress, but it is the large silver crucifix around her neck that draws my pious mother’s attention, and she rises to her feet and crosses herself, her lips moving in silent prayer. Then she takes some papers out of my bundle and hands them to Anahid who murmurs something, reads over them, and nods. It is late. There is nothing and everything left to say. “I will send for you. Soon. Soon.” Ma’s sweet breath warms my ear.
I reach for her, but Anahid catches my arm. “You are safe.” Anahid assures me. “You are safe here.” I stumble over the threshold, and when I turn around, Ma is already on the descent, a billowing black cloud.
It is Anahid and the Der Hye, the young black-robed priest, who preside over the Sisters of Mercy. The orphanage consists of the chapel, a kitchen, a garden, and our sleeping quarters. There is a dozen or so girls, most like me from Marash, but some from as far away as Adana and Bitlis. We wear identical uniforms, scratchy dresses that hang to our ankles. My cot is between Dulcie, another Marash girl, and Yelsabet, a baby who whimpers in her sleep. Every night, I rock Yelsabet, hushing and patting her as I’ve seen village women do, shifting her from hip to hip. Her mewing frightens me less than the mad shrieks of the other girls who have suffered horrors. There is nothing to be done for them—their wounds are permanent, their anguish permanent.
Our mornings are organized around Bible study and needlework, embroidering intricate spirals that Anahid calls God’s eyes. In the afternoons we tend the garden, chop and cook, scrub and pound thick Kazakh rugs. On Sabbath we prepare the Der Hye’s special meal. We roll phyllo dough with long cedar sticks, pressing gently to keep it from tearing, each needing its own coat of butter, a precious commodity. We layer the dough in tapsis and soak it in cassia bark syrup, and I imagine the scent wafting all the way to Beirut, but of course the aroma only reaches the soldiers who devour it and lick their sticky fingers like unruly children.
Any day I expect to hear from Ma but there is no word. Days turn to weeks, to months. On Palm Sunday, Anahid washes the Der Hye’s feet in butter as the early priests had done for Jesus. On Easter, I discover bright red spots on my undergarments, and Anahid provides me with the white gauze we use in the slaughter of Spring lambs. Over the warm summer months when I shed my cloak, I discover curves where the small of my back rises to my buttocks and breasts like ripe figs. Though I teeter on the cusp of loveliness, it is more curse than blessing. It is dangerous to attract notice, Dulcie warns. Haven’t I seen Der Hye’s hands tremble when he holds communion to our lips? When it is my turn to sip the Lord’s blood, I fix my gaze on the Virgin, her white plaster foot, her cerulean robe. I wish I was invisible. Aren’t prayers simply wishes?
In autumn an early frost is followed by a harsh winter and we yearn for greens and curse fallow fields. Our food stores begin to dwindle and stale crusts become our nightly portion. Anahid’s thin hands flutter over her heart where her crucifix, bartered away for salt, once hung. Dulcie and I pick through mouse turds in the bulgur and soak the last remnants of grain in brine. Anahid promises the Red Cross will soon arrive with special packages of Christmas food, cookies and fruits, sweets and potted meats, but no one comes except desperate mothers with emaciated children who trek through shoulder-high snow but must be turned away. Dulcie, Yelsabet, and I huddle against the fierce wind that seeps through the walls. We splinter chairs and tables for firewood, but we can never get warm. Hunger is a knot in our empty bellies. We go to bed hungry. We awake hungry. We are thirsty but our thirst is unquenchable. Anahid leads us in prayer for Spring’s budding quince, for barren lands to become vast wheat fields. But Ma’s promise is my prayer. I will send for you.
Before long, contagion rampages through the orphanage. Coughing, retching, fevers. One by one, we succumb. Yelsabet is a ragdoll, too weak to cry out. Dulcie’s arms and legs turn to bone knobs, her hacking shatters brittle ribs, her flesh yellows. A lock of hair out of place sets her off and she writhes and moans in soaked bedclothes. When black sores cover her tongue, Anahid and I take turns pressing the compress to her fevered brow.
One morning Dulcie’s cot next to me is empty. Anahid says she is now with God and her family in paradise. I am quarantined with sorrow.
In April, the snow melts and the mountains emerge brown as dung. There is news: the capitol has fallen, and the fate of the orphanage is precarious. Anahid pales, her eyes hollowed, her face creased with fear. In the days that follow, men in black coats—European delegations—British, French arrive. There are whispers and closed doors. Documents must be located and arrangements made for the youngest and most vulnerable of us to be evacuated. Yelsabet, adopted by a delegate, clings to me until Anahid must finally wrench her away. We will never see each other again. Over the next weeks, the delegates pack up, and our numbers dwindle. For those who remain, those girls robust enough, there must be different plans. Reunification with family? Maybe in some cases, of course. If it is possible. For the first time since my arrival at the orphanage, my spirits lift, since the plan for me is obvious. I will be sent to Beirut. To my mother.
When the day finally arrives, Anahid rouses me at sunrise: I must hurry. No time for questions. Go. Go. Go. Just outside a wagon is waiting to ferry me away. Two massive draft horses swat flies with matted tails and sniff the cool morning air. The driver holding the reins is familiar, an old toothless man I recognize.
“Hagop?”
He squints down at me, his folded eye an empty socket.
“Hagop?” I am sure of it now—one of the first men in Marash to be conscripted.
“No, no, no. Hassan. My name is Hassan.”
“But you are from Marash, no?”
He shakes his head firmly.
“You know my mother. Saranoush Margoian?”
“Saranoush?” He pauses, rubs his gray stubbled chin. “No, you are mistaken. I know no one with that name.”
In the cart I curl up against sacks of seed. Hagop is no longer Hagop. After that, we both fall silent.
We begin our descent. The bumpy ride makes me drowsy but I try to stay alert for Marash, for my home. I drift off, wake with a start. I don’t recognize anything. Churches lay in ruins, khatchars unearthed, lacy white minarets pierce the lapis sky. The creaky wagon lists, my belly sours, but we cannot stop. Down valley, flooded fields. The horses snort and whinny, their hooves sink in the soft mud, and Hassan must climb down to free them. In the distant fields, green shoots, orange poppies, and blue aster. The road winds through newly planted fields until a high-walled estate come into view. Finally, we slow and stop in front of a fine stone house. My heart quickens. We are here. My uncle’s house.
“Oh! Beirut!”
Hassan turns around, laughs hoarsely. “Beirut? Beirut? We’ve hardly gone 40 hectares, you foolish girl.” He points to a signpost where a name has been scratched away, a new one etched over it. El Joundi. Occupiers. No Beirut. Never Beirut. “The Master is a high-ranking colonel, who will return from Constantinople any day now.”
The wagon stops at the sprawling house and Hassan unpacks the seed, ties the horses. “You will fetch water, tend the fire, bake peda.” Hassan shows me the well, the clay oven, a basket. “Return to the orphanage each night. With food, with bread.”
A little dog, flea-bitten, rheumy-eyed, follows me on arthritic hindquarters and I hold out my hand. “Come, Miko.” Miko is the name of my goat back in Marash, but he growls and scampers away.
Hassan bows to a boy crossing the corral. The Master’s son is smaller than me, perhaps younger, though my experience with boys is limited and I am unsure. Nevertheless, he cuts a splendid figure with a violet sash around white silk breeches and beautiful tooled riding boots with silver spurs that flash in the sun. He mounts a white stallion, shouts commands in a high voice, and the fine animal responds, cantering to and fro, shaking his silky mane like a flirtatious girl. It is a lovely dance, a performance, and at its conclusion the boy lays his smooth cheek against the creature, stroking and caressing him, offering sugar.
Ma always said heathens love dogs and horses more than people.
I get to work. I drag the grate onto the rocks and gather kindling, but it takes several fumbling attempts before I am able to grow even a small flame. While I wait for the fire to grow hot enough, I mix the flour and water, flatten the soft dough. When it’s ready, I toss them onto the grate where they puff and blister. Slap, slap, hiss. Smoke fills my lungs, but I move steadily filling the basket. Slap, slap, hiss.
After the pedas are stacked to the rim, I carry them into the house. “Orphan?” Madame El Joundi calls out. “Come here.” Her voice sounds like an untuned dudek.
In her chamber, she reclines on a chaise draped in crimson velvet. I have never seen such opulence. Such luxury. Such freedom. Inside, she is not wearing a chador. Instead, she is magnificent with a corpulent midriff and silver tasseled slippers. Her dimpled hand languishes on her high forehead, and her fleshy forearm is adorned with a gleaming gold bracelet, a serpent’s head biting its tail. She pokes her thumb into the V of the serpent’s tongue. That bracelet! I have never seen such a precious thing before. The snake eye is a ruby. A pomegranate seed. I inch closer. My nose stings from her overpowering fragrance. Gardenias.
“Maman, Maman!” The boy struts into the room, clods of earth spilling from his spurs onto the polished floor. Though he has a shadow of mustache above his lip, he bears resemblance to his mother and takes his place next to her.
“Ha. Now orphan is covered in soot.” She lifts a peda from my basket, nibbles the crust. Her rouged lips pucker. She spits a white lump on her silken bedclothes. “This is not fit for dogs. For beast.” The gold viper strikes my cheek, draws a bead of blood. The slap is sudden. Unexpected. She raises her hand once more. I flinch, but the boy catches his mother’s hand before she lands another blow. The gold snake slithers down her arm.
Her son tears off some peda, stuffs his mouth, rubs his belly in wide circles. “Nom, nom, nom.”
His mother’s face softens. She is charmed. He is her delight. Her pet. She giggles. I am forgotten.
“Nom, nom, nom. More, Maman, more!”
“You.” She swivels her attention to me, snaps her fingers. “Why are you standing there? Out of my sight, motherless girl.”
Motherless. The word stings, echoes, in my skull, my bones. It rises like the smoke from the fire, an evil tendril.
That evening, I return to the orphanage and during supper I bow my head, so no one notices my bruises. Der Hye blesses the peda, grateful for my offering. Anahid doles out each portion. Hope fades like sackcloth scrubbed in the Euphrates, and for the first time I feel truly alone in the world.
In the days and weeks that follow, I fill the shaker, tend the fire. Water, fire, bread. I moisten dough, let it sizzle on the grate. Water fire, bread. I fill the basket. Water, fire, bread. Water, fire, bread. The fickle sun hides behind a cloud, my breath mists, my thoughts dull, gray, muddled.
Clop, clop, clop. Horses carry me to and fro. Horses at the bidding of masters. Horses that dance. Clop, clop, clop. The Der Hye’s trembling hand. Madame El Joundi’s open hand. The bracelet. Precious. Ungodly. Fill the basket with peda but Madame is never satisfied. Too salty. The gold snake coils up to her elbow and she reaches for another peda. Too dry. She snarls in her unintelligible dialect, but I know it is not about the bread. Despite her complaints, her belly swells with peda until she finally tires of me.
Slap, slap, hiss. Miko’s rough tongue on my leg, a consolation. Slap, slap hiss. Every day is the same until it isn’t. On that day Master El Joundi stands before me, Madame’s precious bracelet adorning her son’s delicate wrist. If she misses it, there will be fury and all of us, the servants beaten or worse. In spite of this, I have little fear of him. He is still a boy. Or maybe I’ve been taught to fear men and my heart pounds. I hold out some bread, but he shakes his head. Petulant, a little boy. Or demanding, a man.
“Follow me.”
Inside, lanterns flicker on walls carved from the green cedar that grows near Marash. The sickening fragrance of gardenia. We wind our way through a maze of corridors until we come to a door. Inside, a small empty room, no windows. The boy makes a show of leaving the door unbolted, meaningless since there is really no way of escape. Nowhere to go. I will cease to be, like Pa, like so many others.
He leans over, brushes his slender fingers over the hem of my dress, appraises it, licks his lips like a satisfied cat. He unties his purple sash, carefully furls it, rolls it across the floor to me. “Disrobe,” he says softly. Harshly.
The most important thing is to be safe. To remain untouched. To survive.
He takes my dress, twists, struggling improbably to mold it to his body. The bracelet slips off, falls to the floor. I cover myself with his sash. The boy wears my dress. A strange mockery. He primps, cants his hips, his eyes glint. He pirouettes, curtsies, twirls. Hums. Laughs at his own joke. A merry clown.
My mouth is dry, my eyes squeeze shut. I float in deep blue water. Ice cold waves crash over me. Rocking, rocking, rocking. Where are my arms, my legs? My beating heart? Gone. There is no body. There is only my hollow breath. There are only my thoughts which are still my own. How much time passes? Seconds? Minutes? An hour? Tears stream down my face, but I wipe them away.
Quiet footfall in the corridor. Muffled voices. The door opens. The suffocating odor. Dreadful gardenias.
Madame El Joundi stares past me, to her son, her most precious boy dressed in orphan’s rags. Tries to make sense of what she is seeing. No sense? Nonsense? Shame?
“Maman! Maman!” Her son is on his knees. Begging? Keening. He claws at himself, ripping my dress. “Maman. Maman!”
In that moment I want nothing more than for her to be stripped of something she loves, and it is as if she can read my thoughts. She clenches her fists. “Get out! Get out!”
Many years from now, I will be asked what happened next. I will have learned about stories, how they can be powerful, how they can be necessary. How every version is different. This is the story I will tell. How I shoved everything into my basket and returned to the fire, the water, the bread, Miko barking, nipping my heels. How a hero named Hassan, no, no, named Hagop hid me in the wagon, how he struck the horses so hard they bucked, their white foam spraying wildly, their hooves kicking sharp stones that struck the cart like bullets. How the sky turned black, the moon rose, how the Sisters of Mercy appeared in a miraculous blue halo, a vision. How Hagop handed my basket to me for the last and final time and shrugged and said, “Bread—at least there’s that.” How in the chapel, I lit a single candle, lifted the bread out of the basket, and how the purple sash rippled over gray flagstones, a silent river of silk. How I set the gold bracelet along the hem of my dress. How even in the shadows, the snake eye was dull, lifeless. How I found a needle and thread and began to stitch.
This is how I was able to flee. This is how I was able to get away. This is how.
Vicki Derderian lives and writes in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Her fiction can be found in The Michigan Quarterly Review, The Louisville Review, Isele Magazine, Litmosphere, and elsewhere. She is working on a collection of short stories.
