Forty Days of Musa Dagh (39 page)

 

 

Gabriel equably watched this desecration. Poor Juliette. But what was
this by comparison with the next hours, days, weeks? He felt deeply
troubled. He remembered Iskuhi, creeping away to hide in her bed. She was
nothing to him -- and yet he pitied her most of all. These beasts had
crippled her, and she had to face this horror a second time. Bagradian
tried to think of a method for getting the muafin and saptiehs past
Iskuhi's door.

 

 

And, indeed, heaven seemed well disposed. Iskuhi, who had crept under
the sheets, heard the trampling steps and rumbling voices of the worst
of all deaths come closer and closer. She stretched herself out stiff and
covered her lap with her right hand, while she ceased to breathe, and the
ravaged, kaleidoscopic face bent nearer and nearer over hers. But this
ravager only snuffled her for a second and vanished. Outside, the steps
clumped on past her door, the voices rumbled farther and farther off;
they seemed to be going downstairs again. Then she heard them dimly on
the ground floor. Sudden, perfect quiet. Had they gone? Iskuhi sprang
out of bed. To the door on her stocking feet. She pushed open a chink
of it. Christ Saviour, were they really gone? She almost fell back into
the room again as she heard the cracking of a lash. . . . Voices -- men's
voices raised. She recognized Gabriel's among them. Holding her lame arm
tight, that it might not hinder her, she dashed to the staircase. Below,
the following had occurred.

 

 

Thinking that now the worst was over, Gabriel had pointedly stopped
in the hall. He had said to the müdir: "You see, we've got nothing
hidden. Anything else?"

 

 

That freckled political idealist had done his duty. He had seen to it that
the Armenian effendi and his family should at least not escape the Turkish
government. The Kaimakam's special instructions concerning Bagradian
had been to the effect that he was to march with the first convoy,
under drastic supervision, to Antakiya, where that district authority
in person, as he himself put it, would "take a squint at them." In the
müdir's view this ended official proceedings. Such illustrious victims
ought not to be goaded too soon to desperation. Far better to give them
a certain confidence in the government's inscrutable designs, while
intensifying, little by little, the sharpness of what they would have
to experience. Today ought to be mild -- preliminary. So again the müdir
hesitated, trying to think out effective exits, scrutinizing his beautiful
fingernails. Unluckily he had reckoned without the police chief. That
troubled mind was still unreconciled to the fact that this insolent giaour
should be strutting about in a padishah uniform, with padishah medals
and sword. But he still did not quite know what to do about it. Nor had
he managed to shake off his ignoble embarrassment. Since nothing more
effective occurred to him, he tried to roll the staring eye. He planted
himself, corpulent and challenging, before Bagradian.

 

 

"We haven't seen everything yet. . . . Up there. . . . There were several
doors we didn't open."

 

 

If Gabriel had managed to control himself, all would no doubt have
ended happily. But he sprang on to the lowest step of the staircase,
spread his arms out wide, and shouted: "That's enough!"

 

 

Now, at last, the muafin had his case. He bore down with obvious pleasure
on Bagradian, to hold a fist up under his nose. "What's enough, you pig
of an Armenian? Say that again. What's enough, you unclean swine?"

 

 

That second, in Bagradian's mind, completed one of those highly complicated
mental processes which engender our fates. It was an instant of sheerest
reflection. Gabriel realized clearly that his life, and not only his, was
now in the balance. "Give in," he thought, "and step aside. Let them go
up again, and up there bribe the animal with ten pounds. . . ." While his
reason debated all this with impressive clarity, he himself was shouting,
as never before: "Step back, gendarme. I'm a front-line officer."

 

 

This brought the muafin to the very center of his aim. "An officer, are you?
For me you aren't even a stinking dead dog." And with a quick tug he wrenched
the silver medals off Gabriel's tunic.

 

 

Later Bagradian asserted that his hand had never touched his sword.
The fact was that, in less than a second, he found himself sprawling on
the ground. The sword splintered against the wall. One saptieh was kneeling
on Gabriel's chest, the rest were tearing off his uniform. Gonzague and the
women rushed out of the selamlik. Stephan's shouts mingled with the tugging
grunts of his father. It was not a minute before Gabriel lay there stripped
to his boots. He was bleeding from a few flesh wounds. His life would not
have been worth a para, had Gonzague Maris not saved him from instant
slaughter by turning all the attention to himself. Though his gesture was
careless, it told with the sharpest effect. His voice had that impressive
note in it which obtains the iciest quiet in the midst of commotion.
He had pulled out his papers and stood holding them high above his head.
This gesture caught everyone's eyes. The müdir stared at him, perturbed.
The police chief turned in his direction; even the saptiehs let go
of Gabriel.

 

 

Gonzague unfolded his documents with all the calm of a secret agent sent
by Ittihad to keep a sharp eye on the conduct of local authorities. "Here
you are. Passport of the United States of America, with a visa from the
General Consulate in Istanbul." He stressed these insignificant words
in such an authoritative staccato that he might have been apprising them
all of some secret diplomatic mission of decisive importance to Turkey.
"Here -- teskeré for the interior, autographed by His Excellency in person.
You understand me, Effendi?"

 

 

It was not this empty flourish with a passport that had saved Bagradian's
life -- it was the desperate trick which made them forget him. For some
minutes it confused the müdir. In the various instructions issued for the
guidance of deportation authorities, it was indicated over and over again
that the methods of applying this measure must be kept as unobtrusive as
possible in the presence of Allied and neutral consuls. For an instant the
müdir really imagined that he must be dealing with a confidential agent of
the American embassy. A glance at the papers, however, assured him that
this person was harmless. But he was really glad that the foreigner's
interference had prevented bloodshed. He returned Gonzague his papers,
with mocking ceremony.

 

 

"What do your passports matter to me? You'd better make yourself scarce
as soon as possible -- or I'll have you arrested."

 

 

The constable's confusion abated more slowly. Blood impressed him far
less than paper. In the course of his career documents had often been
inconvenient. You were never sure what they might not do to you in
the end. He decided to let Bagradian go on living, at least for the
present. The thing could be done just as well on a highroad, without
witnesses who held American passports. The muafin put his revolver,
already primed, back in its case, took another swollen and staring glance
at this naked officer, spat a huge gobbet, and gave his saptiehs the
curt order: "Get along now for those horses and mules."

 

 

The müdir had missed his effective exit. He had to content himself by
following the armed executive in as thoughtful and detached a manner as
possible, leaving no resonant echo of personality.

 

 

Gabriel, breathing hard, had scrambled up. Shame, and no other sensation,
possessed his, mind. Juliette had had to witness this horror -- she and Stephan. His eyes sought his wife,
who stood there rigid, her face averted. Gabriel tottered, then controlled
himself. Behind his back he felt something tremble -- Iskuhi. Then his
few scratches began to burn. They were not worth mentioning. Iskuhi,
silent, on stocking feet, crept close. Her imploring eyes sought Samuel
Avakian. The student came with a coat to cover Gabriel's sweat-streaked
body.

 

 

 

 

A favorable turn of events. The müdir, the police chief, and the saptiehs
left the villages that same day to turn their attention to Armenians
in Suedia and El Eskel. It was one of the best-considered nuances of
the Turkish government's migration policy that it never specified
the exact day and hour of a given march. Since the deportation was
officially a wartime measure of military necessity, and since also
it was semi-officially punitive, the "moment of surprise," which gave
banishment its peculiar poignancy, must not be neglected in either of
these interpretations. But Pastor Harutiun Nokhudian had managed by heavy
bribes to elicit the fact that the first convoy had been fixed to leave
on July 31. Between then and now a hundred extra saptiehs would reinforce
the first contingent. The thirty-first would be a Saturday. Counting
today, Thursday, that was two days. The Council of Leaders decided on
the night of Friday to Saturday to move their populations up to the
Damlayik. They had good reasons for their decision. Friday was the
Turkish day of rest. Past experience made it extremely probable that
saptiehs in the Christian villages would vacate them on Friday for the
Turkish and Arab villages in the plain, in which there were mosques,
relations, amusements, and women. And, with the saptiehs, the plundering
riff-raff would also probably vanish for the day, since they felt with a
certain amount of justice that, once there was no saptieh to interfere,
the Armenians, in spite of being unarmed, would make quick work of them
with scythes, axes, and hammers.

 

 

These special circumstances, therefore, exactly predetermined the choice
of time. The Council of Leaders reckoned on the following developments:
The returning saptiehs, arriving on the morning of Saturday, would find,
instead of the whole people, only Pastor Nokhudian with his five hundred
Protestants in Bitias. The pastor -- this ruse came from Gabriel -- was to
tell the müdir a long story of how, notwithstanding his supplications, all
the people had packed their belongings in the night and set out of their
own accord into exile. Their reason for this had been their terror of the
saptiehs, and of the police chief especially. He could not say exactly
which roads they had taken, since people had set out in small groups in
every conceivable direction: one group towards Arsus and Alexandretta,
another southwards, but all with the intention of avoiding inhabited
places. The largest group had certainly meant to find its way to Aleppo,
to take shelter in the big town. Pastor Nokhudian, whose mildness and
Christian spirit of obedience had caused many to mistake him for a coward,
revealed his heroism. This deception which he undertook to practice meant
at the least death, as far as he was concerned. The instant the Turks
discovered the stratagem, it would be all over with him. He shrugged
his shoulders. Where was there no danger of death? The fighters on the
mountain had to gain time. This feint would postpone discovery several
days and give them sufficient grace to complete the defences.

 

 

The Council met in Ter Haigasun's presbytery. The priest was very
disfigured from the blow of the constable's whip. His right eye and
cheek were swollen; a violet weal striped his whole face and half-way
up his forehead. He had lost two teeth, and it was easy to see he was
in great pain. Gabriel's scratches, on the other hand, could scarcely be
felt under Altouni's plaster. The physical brutality he had suffered --
the first, in all his sheltered, remote existence -- had drawn him even
closer to all the rest. At this sitting the Council discussed a very
disquieting, adverse circumstance, which unluckily it was already too late
to remedy. In peaceful years the villagers had been in the habit of buying
grain in July, after the harvest, from Turkish and Arab peasants in the
plains. They themselves scarcely grew any grain. This year, dazed with
the threat overhanging, they had put off buying their usual provisions
against the winter. This delay was now a serious matter. The villagers had
flour, potatoes and maize, but in very insufficient quantities. To hold
out with these for any time would necessitate the greatest economy. And
since Armenians were used to much bread and little meat, this lack of it
was a terrible problem for the leaders. Added to which, for the first
few days there would be no chance on the Damlayik of baking, since the
brick ovens would have to be dug into the earth. Pastor Aram therefore
decreed that, till Friday evening, every tonir must be kept alight in
the villages, so that as many flat cakes as possible might be ready
before they left the valley.

 

 

Ter Haigasun concluded the session with the announcement of a solemn mass
of petition for the following morning, Friday. After mass the bells were
to be taken out of the church tower, carried to the churchyard in solemn
procession, and buried. There the whole people should take leave of them,
praying before the graves of its fathers. Ter Haigasun furLher announced
that he intended to take several barrel-loads of consecrated earth up
to the Damlayik. Those who died up there, in the camp or in battle,
should not have to lie quite abandoned in the merciless wasteland, but
should be given a handful of their ancient, consecrated ground on which,
at least, to rest their heads.

 

 

On the Friday morning the saptiehs did in fact take their departure,
to the last man, into Mohammedan country. Müdir and muafin had ridden
to Antioch. The Church of the Ever-Increasing Angelic Powers was fuller,
long before the appointed time, than it ever had been since it was
consecrated. The atrium and the square nave over which rose the tall
central cupola, the two side aisles, and even the platform upon which
rose the high altar could scarcely hold the congregation. Since the
church, according to very old custom, had no windows, sharp amber
blades of sunlight, like the eyes of the Trinity, pierced the oblong
slits in the wall, shaped like arrow slits in a fortress. But these
crossed shafts of light did not illuminate; they merely served to dim
the candles and cast a network of curious shadows upon the crowd. Today
there were not only hundreds of faithful, come to Yoghonoluk to mass
from the smaller villages, but also all the priests and choir-singers,
to assist at this last high mass "on solid ground." Never yet had the
choir sung its choral, announcing at the foot of the altar the vesting
of the priest in the sacristy, in so full a voice: