Forty Days of Musa Dagh (36 page)

 

 

He would certainly have died off soon enough in that den of filth and
disease, had fate not had more cunning benefits in store for him.
The murdered Galitzin was succeeded by a Prince Vorontsov. This new,
unmarried governor was later joined by his sister, also celibate, in the
government residence at Baku. Princess Vorontsova bore her virginity
with iron self-abnegation. Energetic and full of the best intentions,
she was in the habit of instituting in every government district to
which her brother was appointed a unique mission of reform. Those who
are relentless with themselves are apt to be equally so with others,
and so in time this exalted lady had developed into a veritable sadist
of neighborly love. Her devout eye, wherever she might happen to be,
was first directed upon the prisons. The greatest poets of the Russian
land had taught that the nearest thing to the kingdom of God is often a
den of thieves. In the prisons it was usually the young "intellectuals"
and "politicals" who aroused her zeal. Along with other selected convicts
Sarkis Kilikian was now marched off every morning to au empty barracks
where, in accordance with Irene Vorontsova s curriculum, and under her
active co-operation, his spiritual healing was briskly attempted. Partly
it consisted in strenuous gymnastic exercises, partly in a series of moral
lectures. The princess saw in this young Armenian the attractive child of
Satan himself. It was worth while fighting for such a soul! So that she
herself took a hand in disciplining him. When that dried-up satanic body
had been broken in by several hours of exhausting drill to the bridle-rein
of salvation, the soul was led out to grass. To her great delight she
was soon able to note the amazing pace at which Kilikian came cantering
down the paths of virtue. Her hours with this taciturn Lucifer produced
in her, too, a feeling of divine illumination. At nights she dreamed
of the next few pages of the catechism. And, of course, so apt a pupil
must be rewarded. She procured him more and more special privileges. It
began by their taking him out of irons and ended by his being moved from
prison into a small, empty room in barracks. Unfortunately he did not
long make use of his privileges. By the third morning after his removal
he had disappeared -- and so, by one more bitter experience, enriched
Princess Vorontsova's knowledge of how hard it is to fight the devil.

 

 

But where can one escape to from the Russian Caucasus? To the Turkish
Caucasus. It was not a month before Kilikian had to admit that he had
acted rashly in exchanging Paradise for hell. When, half famished,
he tried to find a job in Erzerum, the police soon had him in charge.
Since he had neither come up for inspection nor paid his bedel, the
local magistrate soon condemned him to three years' hard labor as a
deserter. Scarcely had a Russian jail released him when a Turkish one
offered him hospitality. In the jail of Erzerum the inscrutable moulder
of our destinies put his last touch upon Kilikian. He was invested there
with that enigmatic indifference, sensed by Bagradian in the ghost outside
"Three-Tent Square," an "indifference" which the word itself can only
suggest, without expressing it. They let him out in the last months before
the war was declared. Though the army doctor marked him unfit for service,
Kilikian was promptly enrolled among the recruits of an Erzerum infantry
regiment. The life he led in it bore some remote resemblance to a human
life. It also proved that his outwardly weedy body had reserves of
inexhaustible toughness. And army life, in spite of all its restraints,
seemed in a way to suit Kilikian. His regiment in that first winter of
the war did its share in Enver Pasha's memorable Caucasus campaign, in
the course of which that pretty war god not only used up a whole army
corps, but was himself almost taken by the Russians. The division which
covered the staff's retreat, and so saved Enver's liberty and life, was
composed almost entirely of Armenians. It was an Armenian who bore that
Supreme Commander on his back out of the line. (When Shatakhian placed
Sarkis among these Armenians, Gabriel, who suspected him of embellishment,
glanced inquiringly at Chaush Nurhan; but the old man nodded with measured
seriousness.) But, whether or no Kilikian fought with these brave men,
Enver Pasha's gratitude, at least to the whole nation to which Kilikian
belonged, had soon expressed itself. Scarcely had Private Kilikian's
frost-bites begun to heal -- scarcely, that is to say, had he moved his
army blanket from the brick floor of a very congested hospital to the
brick floor of an equally congested barrack-room -- when the War Minister's
order was read out to them. It thrust all Armenians out of their companies
in disgrace, disarmed them, degraded them to the rank of inshaat taburi,
the despised labor battalions. They were herded together from every hole
and corner, their rifles taken, and they themselves sent in wretched
droves southwest, to the hilly neighborhood of Urfa. There, starved,
and threatened at every turn with the bastinado, they were set to work
heaving blocks of stones for a road that was being built in the Aleppo
direction. A special order forbade them to protect themselves with
carrying-wads against the jagged edges of their loads, though in the
very first grilling hours of work their necks and shoulders streamed
with blood. Whereas all the rest groaned and complained, Sarkis went
stumbling in silence from quarry to road, road to quarry, as though
his body had long ago forgotten what pain meant. One day the captain
summoned all the men of the inshaat taburi, among whom, by chance or
as a punishment, there happened to be a few Mohammedans. They were told
off from the rest. But this unarmed herd of Armenians was marched under
the escort of an officer about an hour's distance from its quarters
into a pleasant valley, tapering between two low hills. "Those are the
hills of Charmelik," an innocent happened to remark, who came from these
parts and was thankful for the day's freedom. But on the gentle slopes
of this valley more awaited them than thyme and rosemary, orchids and
pimpernels and melissa -- strangely enough, they found themselves facing
an armed platoon. They suspected nothing. They were ordered to form up
in one long rank along the hillside -- and still did not suspect. Then,
suddenly, without ceremony or preparation of any kind, the platoon on
their right wing opened fire. Cries filled the air, less of fear than
boundless amazement. (A woman among the listeners here interrupted Teacher
Shatakhian: "Can God, among His angels, forget those screams?" She began
to sob and only with difficulty controlled herself.) Sarkis Kilikian was
clever enough to fall with the others. The bullets zipped over him. For
the second time he escaped a Turkish death. He lay on, among corpses and
helplessly dying men, till it should be dark. But, long before dusk this
flowery valley, consecrated to the practical application of Enver Pasha's
national policy, was visited a second time. The corpse dismantlers of
the neighborhood were anxious not to waste any government property still
worn by these "executed" men. They had a special eye on sound pairs of
army boots. As they quietly worked they kept grunting out one of those
songs inspired by the recent decree of banishment. It began with the
onomatopoeic line: "Kessé kessé sürür yarlara." -- "Killing, killing,
we rout them out." They came to Kilikian's boots. He kept his legs stiff,
almost to cracking point, to imitate rigor mortis. The pilferers tugged --
cursed -- if it had been a little harder than it was, they might easily
have hacked off his feet to save themselves trouble. But at last even
these industrious fellows departed, with another song on their lips: "Hep
gitdi, hep bitdi!" -- "All away, all away!" In that night Kilildan began
his monstrous wanderings. His days were spent in many hiding places; at
night he strayed along unknown paths, over steppes and marshy ground. He
lived on nothing, that is to say, on what grew everywhere out of the
earth. Very seldom did he venture into a hamlet to knock in the dark at
the door of an Armenian house. Truly it was proved beyond doubt that
Sarkis had a devil's body, superhumanly strong. The skeleton cased in
leather that he was managed not to perish on the roads but reached Dört
Yol in the first days of April. Without caring about the danger Kilikian
went straight to his father's house, out of which weeping people had led
him twenty years ago. The house had remained faithful to his father's
trade; a watchmaker and goldsmith was living in it. The well-known sounds
of filing and tapping came from the shop. Sarkis went in. The frightened
watchmaker was already trying to hustle him out when he gave his name,
whereupon the new owner consulted his family. The deserter got a bed in
the same parlor where the horror had been. After twenty years there were
still bullet marks on the wall. Kilikian stayed two days in this place
of refuge. Meanwhile the watchmaker had procured him a rifle and some
cartridges. When they asked if there was anything else they could do for
him, he begged only to be given a razor, before vanishing through the dark
again. A few nights later he met two other deserters, in the village of
Gomaidan. They seemed reliable and experienced in the ways of life.
They recommended Musa Dagh as a good and safe place on which to hide.

 

 

That is the story of Sarkis Kilikian, "the Russian," as it emerged from
Teacher Shatakhian's account, Chaush Nurhan's assenting silences, and
the occasional comments and additions of other listeners, and as it was
formed and reflected in Bagradian's sensitive mind. The European could
only marvel and be aghast at the fateful burden of such a destiny and at
the strength which had not broken down under it. But this respect was
tinged with horror and the desire to see as little as possible of this
victim of jails and barrack-squares. That night, after long consultation
with Chaush Nurhan, Gabriel decided to assign the Russian and the other
deserters to the defence of the "South Bastion." It was the strongest
part of his whole defence, and also the farthest from camp.

 

 

 

 

On the third morning they all went back to the villages. Only a few
dependable sentries stayed on the Damlayik with the stores and munitions.
Ter Haigasun himself had given the order. The saptiehs, come to look for
arms, must find no empty or half-empty houses. Any noticeable absence
of young men could have been masked neither by Pastor Noldiudian's band
of the devout in Bitias nor by a part of the people left in the valley
for that purpose. Bagradian had expected the priest to give this order.
Perhaps it had also an educational intention concealed in it. The young
men of Musa Dagh, who so far knew of atrocities only by hearsay, must
now come face to face with the living reality; their subsequent fight
must be to the last point of desperation.

 

 

At the exact hour foretold by Ali Nassif the saptiehs entered Yoghonoluk,
about a hundred strong. There was obvious contempt in this. The authorities
had sent a handful of men to clear a considerable district. The Armenian
sheep would be certain not to put up a fight when led to the slaughter.
The few instances to the contrary, so welcome to the government, proved
nothing. How could a weak, mercantile people hope to stand up to the
warrior race? The answer to this question was the hundred gendarmes
detailed for Yoghonoluk. But these were no longer stout assassins in
the genre of Abdul Hamid. No more trusty, pock-marked faces, whose
loyally menacing wink had often indicated that a quid pro quo would
make them easier to deal with. Now it was plain, inhuman cruelty --
quite single-minded. These saptiehs did not, like their predecessors,
wear lousy lambskin bonnets, nor the trumped-up uniforms, composed of a
tunic and nondescript mufti, of the good old days. They were all clothed
in the same yellowish-brown field uniform recently issued. Round their
heads, in the manner of bedouins, they had bound the long, trailing sun-
and sweat-cloths, which gave them an unmistakable aspect of Egyptian
sphinxes. They arrived in regular formation, not marching perhaps
with the true mechanical step of the West, but still, no longer in
the uneven roll of the East. Ittihad had exercised its power even on
these Antioch saptiehs, so far from Istanbul. The sporadic flames of
religious hatred and fanaticism had been skilfully fanned to the cold,
steady flare of nationalism. The deportation squad was commanded by
the muafin, the police chief of Antioch. The young müdir with the pink,
lashless eyes and freckled hands came with it. The men, whose arrival
had long been heralded, came swinging at midday into the church square
of Yoghonoluk. Strident Turkish bugle calls resounded, and drums were
tapped. But in spite of these commanding admonitions, the Armenians still
remained indoors. Ter Haigasun had issued the strictest orders to all
seven villages that people must show themselves as little as possible,
must avoid all crowding together, and walk into no provocative traps. The
müdir read out his long decree of banishment to a public consisting of
saptiehs, a number of stragglers with the troops, and the closed windows
of the church square. This order was at the same time posted up in several
places on the church walls, on the council house, and on the school
building. After which administrative measure the saptiehs, since now it
was dinner time, encamped where they stood, lit fires, and began to cook
up their kettles of fuhl, broad beans with mutton fat. Then, squatting
and chewing, as with flat cakes of bread they scooped up their portion of
the stew, they looked round them idly. What well-built houses! And all
made of stone, with firm roofs and carved wooden verandas! Rich people,
these Armenians -- rich everywhere! At home in their own villages they
were thankful when the roofs of their hovels, black with age, did not
give way under the many storks' nests. And the church of these unclean
pigs was as massive and imposing as a fort -- with all its angles
and buttresses. Ah, well, Allah was about to pay them back something
for their pride! They've had a finger in everything, haven't they --
governed in Istanbul, raked in the money like a harvest. Other people
had had to put up with anything, till at last even the sleepiest patience
gave out. Not even the müdir and the muafin could conceal their interest
in the splendors of this village square. Perhaps, for the space of half
a second the police chief felt the insecurity of a barbarian confronted
with a superior civilization. But then he boiled with redoubled hatred,
remembering Talaat Bey's famous words, quoted again by the Kaimakam as
they mustered to set out: "Either they disappear, or we do."