Nobody's Child (15 page)

She looked outside and gasped. In better times, the window had looked out onto a carefully tended garden at the back of the house. Spring flowers and fruit trees were in full bloom. There was a beautiful man-made pond surrounded by flagstones, and a fountain in the shape of a dolphin, water streaming from its mouth and cascading into the pond.

It should have been an idyllic scene. But the pond was congested with three bloated, rotting corpses of men. Over the fragrance of fruit trees and flowers, there was the scent of death.

She turned to look inside the room. Next to the woman who had spoken to her, there was a girl of no more than twelve. She was a delicate beauty with cascades of hair so black it was almost blue. Her face was white with sorrow. She sat with her knees clutched up to her chin. Now that there was light in the room, she could see that the other woman was older — perhaps in her thirties. There was a resemblance between the two, and Mariam deduced that they were perhaps mother and daughter. The mother was injured. She wore a simple grey skirt and blouse, but there was a mottled stain of blood on the front of the skirt. There was also a thin dried slash of blood on the side of her face. The woman breathed shallowly, as if in pain.

It was too much for Mariam to take in all at once. She crumpled into a heap on one of the pillows and burst into tears.

The girl crawled over to Mariam and wrapped her arms around her. “It is all right,” she said. And then she dissolved into tears, too.

A rush of memories came back to Mariam. Being comforted by her mother so many years ago, Anahid Baji's strong comforting arms. She felt so badly for this little girl, and guilty that she had let herself be seen as so weak that she had to be comforted by a child.

Mariam took a deep breath. “I'll be strong,” she said. And then she introduced herself.

“My name is Ani,” said the girl. She crawled over to the injured woman lying on the pillow and put her hand lightly on the woman's shoulder.

“This is my mother, Herminé Topalian,” she said.

Mariam's hand flew to her mouth. “Topalian?” she said. “So this is your house.”

“Yes,” replied Ani. “And those bodies in the garden are my brother, father, and uncle.”

Miss Younger watched with her mouth set in a thin line as the nurse washed Paris's body, then covered her with a shroud. “This cannot go on,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

She stepped out of the front door of the hospital and the midday heat enveloped her like a furnace. Where did the Turks think they were deporting these people to? She had seen them marching in the southeast, seemingly into the desert. It was April now, and the sun was already hot. What would it be like in a month or two months from now?

With these thoughts on her mind, Miss Younger walked with determination down the main road of the orphanage complex in search of Mr. Muller, one of the other German missionaries. She found him in the kitchen with Mr. Karellian, parcelling up bundles of food.

“I need to talk to you,” she said to him.

Both Mr. Muller and Mr. Karellian looked up from their work. Mr. Muller set the bundle he was assembling down on the table and stepped outside with her.

“I cannot go out in the city alone,” Miss Younger said, with agitation in her voice. “I need you to accompany me.”

“Where is it that you want to go?” asked Mr. Muller.

“I must speak to the German consulate,” said Miss Younger. “There must be something we can do to stop these deportations.”

“I will go with you if you wish,” said Mr. Muller, “but it will do no good.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Miss Younger.

“Our government is fully aware of the Armenian situation,” said Mr. Muller sadly. “In fact, I have heard that the German government has even provided assistance to the Turks in the form of weapons and manpower.”

“That is absurd,” said Miss Younger heatedly. “Here you and I are: German citizens, helping these Armenians who are being persecuted by the Turkish government, and you're telling me that our government is helping the Young Turks in the persecution?”

Mr. Muller shifted on his feet. “Not exactly,” he said.

“Then what do you mean?”

“Germany and Turkey are on the same side in this Great World War that has just recently started.”

“I know that,” said Miss Younger.

“The weapons and militia they have sent is for the war effort, but it is also being used against the Armenians.”

“I must talk to our consulate,” said Miss Younger. “They must stop.”

“I would suggest that you do not,” said Mr. Muller.

“Why?”

“I would be afraid that if you cause too much fuss, we will be ordered home. And then what would happen to these children?”

Miss Younger was silent for a moment. She had not considered that point. “Then what can we do?” she asked, tears of frustration forming in her eyes.

“We can only carry on as best we can,” responded Mr. Muller sadly. “I wish there was more that we could do.”

“Perhaps your course is the best one for the moment,” said Miss Younger. “Continue packing up food parcels.”

“I shall,” he said. Then turned and walked back into the kitchen.

Miss Younger held back tears of frustration as she walked back to her own office. She had to think this through and determine what she could do without causing more harm.

She sat down at her desk and drew out a blank sheet of paper. She dipped a pen into ink and then stared at the sheet, willing herself to come up with some sort of plan.

A sharp knock sounded on the door. She looked up, startled, and called, “Come in.”

Rustem Bey opened the door and stepped in.

“Please,” said Miss Younger, surprised, “sit down.” She set down her pen and motioned with her hand towards the one chair in front of her desk.

Rustem Bey sat on the edge of the chair and placed his hands on his knees. He looked at the blank piece of paper in front of her and said, “I hope I am not disturbing you.”

“It is fine, Rustem,” she replied in a tired voice. “What can I do for you?”

“Would you share with me what is happening to the orphans here in light of the newest measures against the Armenians?”

Miss Younger sighed. “I appreciate your concern, Rustem. You have always been a good friend to me and the other missionaries. We have been given assurances that the children will not be harmed.”

Rustem Bey breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back on the chair. “Thank God,” he said. “I had been told different.”

“What had you been told?” asked Miss Younger.

“My mother told me that the deportations were happening even within the orphanage.”

“She is partly right,” replied Miss Younger, meeting his eyes. “The older orphans have been deemed ‘adults' and they're set for deportation. Also, the Armenian trade teachers and staff will all be deported.”

“My God,” said Rustem Bey. “Are the Young Turks mad?”

“It seems to me that the whole world has gone mad.”

“I want to help you,” said Rustem. “I can hide some people in my warehouse.”

“I cannot let you do that,” said Miss Younger. “If you are caught, the Armenians you hid will be executed before your eyes, you will be killed, and your house and warehouse will be burned. Not only can I not let you risk that for your own sake, but for ours, too. Remember, you are my only secure source of food for the orphans.”

Rustem Bey stood up and planted his hands on Miss Younger's desk. “I cannot stand by and watch while these people are being deported,” he said.

Miss Younger knew exactly how he felt. Hadn't she just said something similar to Mr. Muller?

“Let us bide our time,” she said. “There will be opportunity for you to help, but not right now.”

Rustem regarded her with frustration. He removed his hands from her desk and sat back down in the chair. He was silent in his thoughts, as was Miss Younger.

“When will the soldiers be back?” he asked.

“Tomorrow at dawn,” she said.

“I need to see Mariam,” he said.

Miss Younger looked at the man in front of her. So he didn't know. She wished she didn't have to be the one to tell him. “She is not here.”

“What do you mean?” asked Rustem Bey, frowning.

Miss Younger sighed, then held her head in her hands. “Captain Mahmoud Sayyid took her with him this morning.”

“Say you are jesting.”

“I wish I were,” said Miss Younger.

“Do you know the business he is in?” he asked.

“I can only guess,” she said.

Without saying another word, Rustem Bey got up from the chair and left, slamming the door behind him.

M
ariam sat up with a start. There was the sound of a key in the door. It was thrown open wide, and the elderly woman in the chador stood there, a basin of water in her hands and a towel draped over her arm.

“Clean yourselves,” said the woman. “You will be wanted downstairs shortly.”

Wanted downstairs for what? wondered Mariam. She didn't even want to think of the possibilities.

“This woman is injured,” said Mariam. “She needs medical attention.”

The elderly woman's eyes flickered with concern above the yashmak. She placed the basin of water on the floor just inside the room and handed the towel to Mariam. The old woman's eyes were drawn to the thin line of blood on Herminé's face, and then to her skirt. She frowned.

“This will come to no good,” she said, shaking her head in disapproval. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

Mariam looked at the woman's eyes and saw the sincerity. “Thank you,” she said.

Mariam's legs were stiff from lying on the cushions, and her abdomen still hurt from the Captain's punch. She didn't see any advantage to making herself look better for whoever would be waiting for them down below. In fact, Mariam surmised, it might be better to look worse. She was more concerned about Herminé's health than anyone's appearance. Mariam dragged the towel and basin of water close to Herminé's cushion.

“Does your face hurt?” asked Mariam.

“No,” the woman replied. “But I feel very weak.”

Mariam dipped a corner of the towel into the water, then blotted the woman's wound. The dry blood came off, revealing a razor-thin slice underneath. When a thin line of fresh blood seeped through the newly cleaned spot, Mariam decided that she would be better off to leave the dry blood alone so that the wound wouldn't open up again.

Mariam looked at the woman's skirt and noticed that the splotch of blood seemed very fresh.

“Can I help you remove your skirt?” asked Mariam.

Herminé nodded.

Mariam reached behind the woman's skirt and loosened it.

“Let me help,” said Ani, frowning in concern at her mother.

Ani sat down on a cushion behind her mother. “Lean on me,” she whispered into her mother's ear.

Herminé propped herself up from the cushion she was lying on, then leaned heavily into her daughter's
lap. Mariam was able to loosen the skirt and pull it completely off.

Herminé wore beautifully embroidered white lace petticoats beneath, covering her from waist to knee. The petticoats were ripped and glistening with fresh blood.

“God have mercy,” cried Mariam. She ripped away the petticoat and tried to staunch the blood, but it was impossible. Mariam looked up into Herminé's eyes and saw that they were glassy. She looked beyond her and into Ani's eyes, which were round with fear.

Herminé's shallow breaths were faint. “Promise me,” she whispered hoarsely to Mariam. “Promise me that you'll look after Ani.” The effort to say these words was almost more than Herminé could give. She closed her eyes from the effort and relaxed into her daughter's arms. Soon, her breathing became more regular.

Ani placed one hand on her mother's forehead. “She's very cold.”

“We must make her comfortable,” said Mariam. She shook out the woman's blood-soaked skirt, then gently tucked it around her waist like a blanket.

Ani snuggled into her mother and wrapped her arms around her, trying to warm her. “Are you going to be all right, Mairig?” she asked.

“Yes, love,” said Herminé. “I am just going to take a little nap right now.”

Ani stayed, holding her mother. Herminé's breathing became shallower with each breath drawn, and then stopped altogether.

As Mariam watched, she sensed that Ani knew intuitively when her mother had died. She watched the
young girl squeeze her eyes tight as if to hold in the tears. Then she opened them and looked sadly at Mariam. “Her spirit is at rest now,” she said. “She is with my father, brother, and uncle.”

At that moment, the key in the handle sounded again and the door opened. Mariam expected to see the old woman. But instead it was a man smelling of liquor. He wore a Turkish army jacket and carried a gun, but his trousers were not army issue. They were cheap and filthy, covered with blood and dirt stains.

He quickly took in the scene and surmised that Herminé was either dead or almost. “Get up,” he said, pointing his gun first at Mariam, then at Ani.

Mariam stumbled to her feet, but Ani stayed where she was, gazing defiantly at the man. Mariam reached over to her and tugged her hand. “Come with me,” she said. “I told your mother I would look after you.” Mariam had no idea how she was going to look after Ani. All she could think of was to keep the girl alive one minute at a time. She couldn't plan further than that.

Ani gently pushed her mother's body forward just a bit so that she could get up. As the girl stood, Mariam saw that her mother's blood had seeped onto the girl's skirt and arms. Ani followed Mariam's gaze, then looked back into her eyes. “I am not washing it off,” she said. “This is all I have left of my mother.”