Nobody's Child (23 page)

What surprised him was that others in the encampment didn't seem to be as bothered by the bugs as he was. It wasn't that they were more used to the lice, they just didn't seem to get them. One day, he asked Huda about this.

She looked at him in amused surprise. “Do you mean to tell me that you have been living with us all this time and you still don't know how we kill lice?”

He looked down at his feet in embarrassment.

“When you're out watching the camels,” she said, “wait until the sun is directly overhead, and then take off your clothing and lay it out in the sun. The lice will fry up and die.”

The next day, Kevork did just that, ensuring that he had a place in the shade to wait while his clothing baked in the sun.

“I am still covered with lice,” he complained to Huda when he brought back the camels at the end of the day.

“They can't be coming from your clothing,” she said, her brow creased in thought. “I should cut your hair.”

She had him strip down to nothing but a piece of cloth around his waist and then she cut his hair. As it fell into the sand around him, lice skittered away. Kevork remembered when he was Kevork and he had cut Marta's hair. The memory made his heart ache.

“Now your beard,” she said.

The dirty hair and beard blew away in tufts. Kevork started to feel like the person he used to be.

But he stayed Khedive for another year. He was treated just like Ibrahim Hassan's other son, Aman. And a year
of fresh air and sorghum helped him grow strong. He longed to get back to Marash and reclaim his old life, but life as Ibrahim Hassan's son was so comfortable and secure that he kept putting it off. Then Maulvi Bakar came back.

“Khedive, my son,” said Ibrahim Hassan. “We can now make your place in this family official. The Maulvi Bakar can perform the circumcision ritual and you shall be a full Muslim.”

Kevork had no intention of being circumcised. Wearing Arab clothing and living like an Arab was reversible, but circumcision? That was for life.

He did not want to hurt Ibrahim, who had been so kind to him, but what could he do? The only thing to do was to buy himself a little bit of time and then think of some way to leave.

“Father,” said Kevork as convincingly as he could, “it is my desire to be an obedient son. When will the circumcision take place?”

“Today,” said Ibrahim Hassan with a smile. “The Maulvi Bakar is preparing himself for you now.”

The time for dallying was gone. Kevork knew that he had to leave his adopted family immediately. But he couldn't leave without saying goodbye to Huda. He found her, standing at a distance from the encampment, gazing out at the desert.

“It's time for me to leave.”

She turned to him with tears in her eyes. “I know, my son,” she said. “You must live among your own people.”

Kevork dried the tears from her cheek with the sleeve of his thwab. “Thank you for everything,” he said. “You have been a mother to me.”

Huda took one deep breath to control her sobs, and then she looked him in the eyes. “You must leave quickly,” she said. “My husband will be deeply hurt when he realizes that you do not wish to be his son.”

She hugged him fiercely for an instant, then pushed him away. She fumbled with the folds in her robe and pulled out a skin of water and a packet tied with a thin strip of cowhide. “Take these,” she said. “Walk towards the setting sun.” Huda pointed out the direction. “Aleppo is a week's walk away. It is a mostly Arab city, so the Armenians are safe. Perhaps you'll be able to build a life for yourself there.”

He tried to give her one last hug, but she pushed his arms away. “Go,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “Get out of here!” Then she turned and walked back to the encampment.

As he walked away from the group of desert wanderers, his mind was in a turmoil. “Am I mad? Leaving behind the security and anonymity of desert life and walking straight back into Turkey?”

He also felt guilty about deceiving his adopted father. Ibrahim Hassan had accepted him with open arms and had treated him exactly the same as if he had been his son by birth. But there was a difference, and Khedive — no, he was Kevork — Kevork knew the difference: Ibrahim Hassan only loved the lie. Kevork could not live the rest of his life pretending to be someone else. Better to die an Armenian than live a lie.

Kevork also had the slim hope that Marta was still living. Seeing Huda alive and well after decades of Muslim life also gave him hope that Mariam still lived,
that perhaps even his mother was still alive and he might find her one day. But he would never be able to find any of them if his own identity was hidden.

When he was several hours away from the encampment, Kevork sat down for a few minutes' rest. He took a tiny sip of water, then opened the packet Huda had given him. She had filled it with thin strips of sun-dried beef — a precious treasure indeed!

There was a small swatch of brightly coloured cloth tied in a knot. He opened it. A gold coin. All of the gold coins that had been sewn into Kevork's clothing had disappeared during the deportation. Kevork looked at this one carefully and realized that it was very old. Huda must have hoarded this away as her one piece of security. A sob caught in Kevork's throat. It was an incredible act of generosity.

Kevork walked through the desert all the way to Aleppo. He was terrified of being recognized as an Armenian and deported again, but the groups he passed seemed not to notice him. With his sun-darkened skin and his thwab and guttrah, he was given free passage.

Within a week, he stood at the gates of Aleppo.

“I
won't go!” screamed Parantzim. “This is my home.”

Mariam sat down on the floor beside the little girl and pulled her to her lap. “I am your mother now, and your home is with me,” she said.

“I like it here,” said Parantzim. “There is food and beautiful clothing. And if I have to go, why do Ayesha and Leyla get to stay?”

Mariam wiped the angry tears from Parantzim's face with the cuff of her robe and then she whispered into the little girl's ear, “It is not safe here anymore.”

“That is a lie,” said Parantzim. “I love it here.”

Mariam looped one arm under the girl's legs and another around her back, and then she struggled to stand. Parantzim was heavier than she realized, and they both fell down. “Why are you taking me away like this? It is not fair,” the girl wailed.

Rustem Bey appeared at the door. He looked down
on the floor at Mariam sprawled out with Parantzim. “Let me help you,” he said.

He lifted Parantzim up with a single arm, then extended his free hand to help Mariam to her feet. “Come,” he said. “The carriage is ready.”

He walked quickly through the corridor towards the front entrance. Ede Kadin stood in the hallway, her mouth half-open with surprise. “I'll explain later,” said Rustem Bey, as he walked past her with the flailing girl over his shoulder and Mariam at his side.

When they stepped out into the sunlight, Mariam automatically covered her face with a yashmak. She realized that she didn't have to do that anymore. She was free! But somehow, she'd feel funny being outside without it on.

Rustem put Parantzim in the carriage first, and then he helped Mariam with the step. He looked in confusion at the ground once Mariam was sitting inside the carriage. “Where is your bundle of clothing?” he asked.

“I came here with nothing,” said Mariam, “and I will leave the same way.”

“But you're welcome to the clothing I had made for you,” said Rustem Bey, a hurt look on his face.

“Thank you,” said Mariam. “You are very generous. You always have been. But I wish to leave it behind.”

“I don't,” interjected Parantzim weepily. “If I have to leave, I want to take my pretty clothing.”

“You'll have no need for it at the orphanage,” said Mariam firmly. “Now please be quiet.”

Rustem Bey told the driver where they were going, and then he hopped into the carriage and sat across
from Mariam. He didn't want to talk about what had happened to Ani and Taline in front of Parantzim, but he could see how shaken Mariam was.

“I am sorry about the girls,” he said.

Mariam looked up and met his eyes. They were filled with tears. “I appreciate all you have done,” she said.

They rode the rest of the distance in silence.

When the carriage passed through the orphanage gates, Mariam held her yashmak to her face and peeked out the carriage window. She saw that the grounds were again filling with children. So many orphans. It made her heart ache.

The carriage pulled up just outside of Miss Younger's office, and Rustem stepped down first. He held out his hand and helped Mariam down.

A group of ragged boys ran past just at that moment, and they looked at Rustem Bey, and then at Mariam and Parantzim.

“Turkish murderers!” one of them yelled. Another picked up a stone and threw it, hitting Parantzim on the side of the head as she stepped down. Parantzim screamed, then clung to Rustem Bey. “Please don't leave me here,” she wailed.

Rustem reached down and picked Parantzim up. He nuzzled his face in her hair and swallowed back a sob. “Listen to your mother,” he said. He gave her one last hug, then set her down on the ground beside Mariam.

Mariam grabbed Parantzim's hand and whispered, “I am doing this for you.”

Just then, the door of the office opened, but it wasn't Miss Younger who stepped out. It was a monocled
man with a starched white shirt rolled up to the elbows.

“Hello, hello!” he said, holding out his hand in welcome.

Mariam stood quietly by Rustem's side, holding Parantzim protectively in front of her.

The man peered into Mariam's eyes above the yashmak. “You've been living with a Turk and now you and your daughter want to be Armenian again, is that right?”

Mariam nodded. Where was Miss Younger? she wondered.

“Thanks, good fellow,” said the man to Rustem. “It was good of you to bring them.”

The man started to lead Mariam by the elbow, but she stopped. She walked over to Rustem and lifted her yashmak, then stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “You are a true friend,” she said. “Thank you.”

Rustem Bey was nearly overcome with tears, and he didn't want Mariam to see that, so he turned brusquely away and walked back to the carriage.

“Let us go,” said the man to Mariam.

She followed him. “My name is Mr. Brighton,” he said. “I've come from America.”

What could she say?

He led Mariam and Parantzim to a building that used to be one of the dormitories for the female missionaries. “This is the Rescue Home for Women,” said Mr. Brighton.

Mariam still said nothing.

Mr. Brighton continued. “You must learn to abandon Turkish ways. When you emerge, you'll be fully
Armenian. If we let you out with the orphans and surviving adults the way you are, you'd be ostracized.”

Mariam nodded. Now she was one of
Them
.

He held the door open for her, and she and Parantzim stepped through. It was furnished just like her dormitory room of old with a row of simple beds and a table at one end with a pitcher of water. There was a window at the far end of the room, and a woman sat there, looking out the window. She wore a Turkish housedress, and Mariam could tell by looking at the outline of her back that she was heavy with child. The woman turned when she heard the door click shut.

Mariam gasped. It was her sister, Marta.

K
evork stayed on in Aleppo. There was a dire need for shoemakers in this Arab city, and there were no Turks on the hunt for Armenians. Just to be safe, Kevork kept with his adopted Arab-style of dress. But he used his real name, in the hopes that Marta or Mariam would somehow find him.

As he walked through the bazaar to his booth each morning, Kevork listened to the buzz of gossip. When Turkey lost the war, his heart skipped a beat. Would it be safe to travel back to Marash? If only he knew.

And what he really wanted to know was if Marta lived. In his heart, he felt that she was still alive. But where was she, and how could he find her? The orphanage called to him like a beacon, but he had to wait until the time was right.

Most of what Kevork made in his shop were sandals in the Arabic style. He had become quite proficient at
them. But one day a foreigner came in, bearing a Turkish-English dictionary and a strange request.

“Boots,” said the man, struggling with his Turkish.

Boots in the desert? wondered Kevork. It brought back memories.

He flipped through his dictionary once again. “Mountain,” said the man.

Boots? Mountain? What was he talking about?

The man pointed to his feet, then mimicked walking up a hill with exaggerated motions.

“Marash … mountains … walk … walk,” said the man.

Marash?

All at once, Kevork knew who this man was. Just the day before, Kevork had been sipping coffee with one of his friends when he had heard about this man. He was Leslie Davis, the new consulate from America. Unlike other government officials who travelled everywhere with a whole entourage, this Leslie Davis walked all over the place: up hills and mountains, through the desert, through back streets. He did this without servants or a carriage and was considered quite mad.

Kevork nodded enthusiastically. Boots? Yes!

“Marash,” said Kevork, pointing to his chest. “Me, from Marash.”

The American frowned, not understanding.

Then Kevork took a chance. “Me Armenian,” he said.

Leslie Davis nodded in understanding. “You, me, Marash together.”