Evan's Gallipoli (10 page)

LATER The market was busy. But there were lots of beggars. Poor people with bundles and crying babies. I got my pomegranates. Then I bought a pound of rather gluey sweets and gave them out to the children. They opened their mouths like little birds and smiled. It made me feel better, which Father would say is the merit of charity. There was a man in the market buying flour. He was wearing a sleeve band with a red star on it. He was mumbling to himself. In English!

‘Flour, they call it,' he muttered. ‘All chickpeas and sawdust. If there's a spoonful of wheat in any of it, I'll be surprised.' I had got close to him and he saw me and said to me, ‘You, boy, do you speak Greek?' and when I told him that I did, he said, ‘Would you be so kind as to ask the trader, who is a pirate, how much he wants for his very inferior flour?' I did as he asked, not mentioning the pirate.

The dealer grinned and told me that this was Kyrie Robert, and that he belonged to the Society of Friends, who fed refugees. They were very devout. And foreign. And he would have to pay 2000 lire for the load of flour.

I relayed this to the kyrie, and he went red in the face and said in Turkish, ‘Tell that godless fraud that it's a thousand a load and no more,' so I did that.

It was entertaining, bargaining, even through a middle man. The middle man has the most fun. And both of them were very good at insults. Both Turkish and Greek have very complex insults, like ‘illegitimate offspring of an unnatural union between a spavined camel and a diseased whore'. God forgive me, I enjoyed saying them, because they roll off the tongue so beautifully. They eventually settled for 1500 lire a load, the trader to deliver it to the refugee camp by sundown. Then to my surprise the trader offered us a glass of raki and a floury cake each and the kyrie accepted for both of us. I do not like raki but I was worn out with all that interpreting and I was hungry—I am always hungry these days. I bit into the floury cake. Then I felt eyes on me. There was a little ragged girl, leading by the hand an even more ragged little brother. They weren't looking at me but at my cake and they were starving. So I gave her half my cake.

Kyrie Robert laughed. He has a big, loud, jolly laugh. I haven't heard anyone laugh like that since I was at home. It makes you want to laugh too. He slapped me on the shoulder and said in English, ‘Here is a St Martin in truth!' and I told him, slipping into English, that I was not called Martin but Evan. I asked him who St Martin was. He stared at me for a minute then told me that St Martin was a Roman soldier who saw a beggar in the snow. He knew that if he just gave his cloak to the beggar he himself would freeze to death, so he took his sword and cut his cloak in half.

I thought this was very sensible and said so.

Kyrie Robert asked me where I came from and I said Australia. He asked me if I wanted a job as an interpreter. I said I didn't because I had to care for my father. He looked at me again. He has very bright blue eyes. Then he said, ‘No papers, eh? I might be able to do something about that. Come along to the camp tonight, Martin.' He seemed like a good man.

I asked Tasi about him later. She said that the Friends were very good people and it did not do to cheat them because they were very close to God. So I'll go to his camp tonight. Abdul is coming too. He doesn't like the Friends because they feed all of the hungry, not just hungry Turks. I am out of patience with Abdul. There are so many people he doesn't like. Jews, Christians, gypsies. All of whom have been kinder to us than Turks, who try to kill us.

LATER I never saw or smelt anything like that camp. It was dreadful. On one side there are heaps of bodies. They are people who have starved or died of disease. But there are lots of live people in tents, whole families mostly of women and children. They were silent. No singing, no talking. Just the smoke of their little fires going up into the night. Kyrie Robert had a tent of his own. When we entered, Kyrie Robert was talking to a young man in Turkish dress. The man seemed to be teaching him Greek. His name is Demetrios. Kyrie Robert seemed pleased to see me. I introduced Abdul, who bowed politely. Demetrios took his leave.

‘Now, Martin, here are papers. Pick a couple which match you and your father and your brother,' he said, offering me a huge box full of passports and laissez-passers. ‘Don't worry,' he added. ‘All of these people are dead. They won't mind.'

Abdul and I sat down on the grass to rummage. Fairly soon I found a passport for an old man who resembled Father, and one for me. Abdul found one for himself which even let him keep his own name. Mine was now Mehmet. God has a sense of humour. I still hated Mehmet.

‘But this is Bulgarian territory now,' I said to the kyrie. ‘Won't we be in trouble for being Muslims?'

‘Possibly,' said the kyrie. ‘See if you can find a Christian.' So I kept looking, right to the bottom of the box. There I found a French passport in the name of René Dubois, which also had a note ‘
deux fils
', meaning two sons, ‘
Pierre et Andr
é'. The picture didn't look a lot like Father, but would pass. An old man with a long beard, with a sort of look of Father. Peaceful. Serene. And a bit out of focus. I showed it to Kyrie Robert. He sighed.

‘Poor old Dubois,' he said. ‘A man of God. But it did not preserve him from malignant malaria, unfortunately. These low-lying areas. Good, boy, take it. He would have been pleased. Can you speak French?' he asked me, in French.

I replied that I could manage. I was waiting for him to ask me for money. He had dreadful need of it. But he didn't. He offered me tea instead. Abdul and I accepted and I asked the kyrie what had brought him to Thrace. He said that he had heard that things were very bad here and had had a concern. So he had packed up loads of food and vaccines and things and just set off. A concern must be a serious thing. He had a few helpers but they were out scouring the countryside for food. His refugees had nothing. The Bulgarians were turning people out of their villages and sending them away. At the same time, people who had been driven out by the Turks were coming back, all of them starving and verminous and diseased. And the villages were not willing to house them because they carried cholera and typhoid and dysentery and the people had barely enough to feed themselves.

Demetrios came back with a tray and set it down. Then he stood beside it, saying nothing, but heaping rice and carrots onto a plate and holding it out.

‘I'm not hungry,' said Robert.

‘You must eat,' said the young man. ‘I have to stand here until you finish. Do you want to keep me standing all night while you make up your mind?'

Then Robert offered the food to us, but we said we had eaten. So he had to eat it. I amused him by talking about the cook in that fishing village who'd complained of having nothing but fish to cook. Demetrios gave me an approving nod. It must be very hard to eat in the midst of the starving. We went back to the gypsy camp. That Kyrie Robert is a very good man. And now we have papers. But I could not sleep. I kept seeing that silent camp, with the little columns of smoke going up. And the great heap of the dead.

August 28th

The gypsies went out as usual. I feel unwell. Maybe I am coming down with something. I shall stick to boiled water today. God knows what's in these stews we are eating. Except for beans. There are always beans. Father has gone back to weaving baskets with the girls. Sirius sits at his feet. I don't have to watch Father so I might try to sleep some more.

August 29th

I am unwell. Dysentery, I think. Abdul is trying to buy some opium for me. The gypsies have sent me and Father to stay in a tent downhill from the camp, in case it is cholera.

Probably September 2nd

I was sick for several days. The gypsies have moved on, leaving me and Father, Sirius and Abdul behind. But I am writing this so it wasn't cholera. I can't afford to die and leave Father alone. I am better now. We have moved into a room in the house of a widow. There are a lot of widows in Thrace. It was once a very nice house, with high ceilings and plush wallpapers. The windows are all decorated with fretwork. There is a piano, too. And a bathroom. The widow is a youngish woman whose husband was Bulgarian. The Turks sent all the Bulgarians home to Bulgaria a few years ago. She says that he died on the way. Because she is Greek Orthodox she did not have to go. But now she is very poor and spends all her time mourning over her lost silks and servants. She is pleased to have us because she thinks we are French. I can't eat much yet but she cooks well. The room is bare but clean. Father seems to like being in a house again. He calls the widow Madame, which she likes. I'm still weak and sleepy.

Probably September 3rd

I'm still not sure of the date. I asked the widow and she said she doesn't know. I feel safer now that we have papers, even though they make us into different people. Father has taken a shine to the widow. He sits and reads the Bible with her. He really is an amazing man. I didn't know his French was this good. But Madame speaks a dialect with a lot of words in it that are not French. They sit in the little garden under the vine and discuss spiritual matters. Sirius sits at Father's feet as usual, listening. It must be nice to lose your mind. There's a lot of mine that I would love to lose. Memories. Things I have seen which I wish I had not seen. When I was sick I had dreadful dreams. Mud, blood, shells shrieking overhead. Abdul sat with me and gave me water flavoured with lemon juice to drink. He was very kind. I was wrong to be so cross with him. As soon as I am really better we shall take the road again.

September 4th

Now Abdul is ill. Poor boy. There is not a lot I can do for him. We still had some opium left from my illness so I am giving it to him and it seems to stem the fluid loss. If he isn't better by tomorrow I shall go and see Kyrie Robert and find out if there is a doctor in this godforsaken place. And I need some more lemons.

September 5th

Abdul is very hot, tossing and crying. I left him with the widow and walked out to the refugee camp. I brought a bag of sweets with me and gave them away in a few minutes. Then I had nothing else for the poor little children. There are just too many of them. Thousands. All hungry and lost and scared. They fought each other for my lollies. Fought and kicked and screamed. I had to fend them off and shove through them. It was horrible.

I finally found Kyrie Robert in his tent. You could hardly see him for documents. He was swearing in a variety of languages. I don't think he is going to run out of rude phrases any time soon. He smiled when he saw me and greeted me by my new name, Pierre Dubois. He had remembered it. Demetrios came in while I was there. He brought an actual sandwich, made with real bread and ham, and stood over Kyrie Robert until he ate it, grumbling about being favoured with luxuries. I wish Demetrios had offered me a ham sandwich. I have been pining for ham or bacon. I asked about a doctor for Abdul.

Kyrie Robert sighed. ‘Hasn't been a real doctor here for centuries,' he told me. ‘But Demetrios' mother, Kyria Ana, is good. Can you introduce young Pierre to your respected parent?' he asked.

Demetrios told him that his mother was down at the cholera camp but he would take me there.

Kyrie Robert shook his head. ‘No, just send her a message and ask her to call at the house. You don't want to go down there,' he told me. He was right, I didn't. I had seen enough horrors already to last me the rest of my life. So I am writing this while waiting for the kyria to grace us with her presence. She's taking her time. I am worried about Abdul.

LATER She came at last. The widow didn't like to let her in. She is a little lady in deepest black. Demetrios came with her. I escorted her to our room and then she made a gesture which meant ‘go away', so Demetrios and I went into the garden where Father was reading the Bible. He paid no attention to us.

Demetrios said, ‘Don't worry, my mother is very wise.

I'm sure that she can help.'

I asked him how, and he said she used spells and herbs. I could not comment on the spells so we talked about herbs. Abdul is calling me.

September 6th

Kyrie Ana came back this morning. Abdul is much better. She made a noxious tea for him to drink and said I should feed him plain boiled rice for two days and then he would be well. She didn't ask for payment. I hardly liked to offer. But I said, ‘How much do we owe you?' and she said what I thought was right. I gave her as much as I could spare. She took it and went. She comes and goes like a mouse. There's a sort of whisking noise and then she isn't there at all. The widow has told Abdul that the kyria is a witch and a sorcerer and he is wailing that she has stolen his soul. I never heard such nonsense.

September 7th

Still looking after Abdul.

September 8th

Abdul says he has to speak to an imam about the kyria. I don't know where we are going to find a Muslim cleric in Thrace. But he is really upset and isn't getting better as fast as he should. I did not know what to do. I went back to poor Kyrie Robert, who has enough troubles without adding mine to his burden. His shadow, Demetrios, was there but Kyrie Robert was not. I told Demetrios what was wrong with Abdul and he laughed and said he would send us the hidden imam. He said this as though it was some kind of joke. I can't see it, if it is. I'm sitting by the door because I want to let the imam in without alerting Madame. She has done enough damage.

LATER Strange! The person who came to the door was a Greek Orthodox priest who said his name was Theodoros. They wear a black garbadine and a cross. You can't mistake them. Madame knelt for his blessing, which he gave very gracefully. I didn't say anything about Abdul because he couldn't be the reason that the priest had called on us. Then he asked me where the sick person was, so I led him up the stairs and left him with Abdul. I haven't heard anything from the room but the murmur of voices. The priest is a youngish man, as big as Kyrie Robert, with a pale complexion as though he had not seen much sun. Could he be the hidden imam? Would an imam pretend to be a Christian in order to stay with his flock? I don't think the Christians would be very Christian about this if they knew. He is a very brave man. I bowed to him as he went out and he gave me a shy smile. Madame asked him to stay for some tea but he said he had other people to see. Abdul seems much better and isn't wailing about his soul any more. So that's good. But it was strange.