One Nation Under Seige: A World War One Era True Story of Survival and Valor

ONE NATION

UNDER SEIGE

A World War One Era True Story of

Survival and Valor

William P. Chad

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: 1-800-839-8640

© 2013 William P. Chad. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 9/10/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1266-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1267-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1268-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013915401

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgement: To Ruth

Prologue: Mission Bethesda

Chapter I: Before the Storm

Chapter II: To Be or Not To Be

Chapter III: Angels of Death

Chapter IV: Lucifer of Malatia

Chapter V: Acts of God

Chapter VI: Memories Have A Name

Chapter VII: Choked to Death

Chapter VIII: Once a Bey Always a Bey

Chapter IX: Deutschland Über Alles

Chapter X: End of War

Chapter XI: After the Storm

Chapter XII: Turmoil on Earth

Chapter XIII: Danger Still Lurking Around

Chapter XIV: Facing the Beast

Chapter XV: Beware of Dogs

Chapter XVI: Cities on Fire & Greeks on Death Marches

Chapter XVII: In the Grips of Death

Chapter XVIII: Mass Exodus & Karma in Action

Chapter XIX: Once a Dog Always a Dog

Chapter XX: Out of Turkey

Epilogue: Road to Freedom

Important Data

Resources: External Links

Foreign Words & Expressions

About the Author

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The Author: William P. Chad

Acknowledgement

To Ruth

Dear Cousin,

At the time of your father’s passing away I was writing for a periodical in Boston. His departure had such an impact on me that I wrote and published the following poem in his memory,

LIKE A STRANGER

I knew the man…

His voice was spring calling onto the Earth

After a late winter breeze; it was

On the bare limbs of the awakening trees,

Spoken from the very Soul of the Universe!

It was everywhere, falling like silence

In an empty room; he spoke of memories

And in memory he stored the vast knowledge

Of all gone by now centuries.

I knew that man so well

And, yet, every day he was

A goodly Stranger; and like a Stranger,

He brought with his presence

A freshness of joy for joy

Was in his smile; and all the while

He lived, he lived that smile.

These were the avenues he trod:

First of all, he was a man of God

Then, he loved his wife, his child…

And then, he loved his fellowmen.

And when he moved up there, he left

A century of ’choes to an empty youth.

And, yet, in me, the thoughts he left

Are the Disciples of Truth!

Prologue

Mission Bethesda

Between the Villages of Chasnig and Karnag, in the suburbia of Malatia City, there is an awesome Canyon known to the local inhabitants as Een Dara.

Close to the inlet of the rock-ribbed ravine, The Mission Bethesda with its high walls encircling the entire compound of forty rooms strikes the eye of the traveler as a Christian Isle surrounded by a Moslem Sea. The Turkish Crescent along with the red, white and black Deutsche Flag flown above the building affirmed its Christian origin and protective German patronage.

Standing on the black, flat roof-deck of The Mission, one receives a most dazzling view of the Büyük Vadi below the environs of the North-Eastern Range of the Cappadocian Mountains, which stagger the imagination. But to anyone surveying the landscape from the rooftop of Bethesda, his eyes would invariably focus onto the gaping entrance of the Een Dara where tragic events have taken place at the beginning of the 20th Century A.D.

In the irrevocable past, legends assert that Saints have hidden inside the Een Dara from their pursuing enemies, including St. Bartholomew, one of the Twelve Apostles of Jesus. Prior to World War One, The Canyon was used as a hideout by brigands and marauding Chetheji. In fact Claw Chief, one of the most bestial, kill-crazed, barbarous Kurdish cutthroats of the district, who was often called upon by the local Officialdom to fulfill the promise of a Jihad against ‘the Christian pigs in our midst’, has maintained his headquarters in there for a long time.

No doubt, it was the atmosphere of doom on that April morning of 1909 that alarmed Schwester Jensine Oerts, a Danish Medical Missionary who was at Bethesda taking care of Hedwig Christoffel, a victim of typhoid fever. While on the roof-deck for her devotional, she saw a band of wild Kurds with long unkempt hair, scantily clad and armed to their teeth, flowing towards The City from The Canyon.

The massacres, which have struck the Tarsus District in Southern Anatolia, spread to the Anti-Toros Mountains thus to Malatia. But the expected onslaught had not occurred, yet. The Young Turks have deposed the Red Sultan, Abdul Hamid, and the Resident Governor has mysteriously died on the same day, at noon.

A young Army Officer, who opposed bloodshed, has declared himself Mutasarief, scattered the Kurds back to their dens, and dispatched hawkers all over The City proclaiming that, ‘The Master has forbidden the killings.’ Hence an uncertain peace has occasioned.

Garabet Chaderjian of Sivas has brought his mother, Sheshoon Nana, and his young bride, Makroohi, to Malatia in order to function as an Assistant to Herr Pastor Ernst Christoffel, the founder of the German Mission School Blindenheim of Bethesda, in Turkey. Garabet has moved his family in there during such a terrible time for the Armenian People, and by doing so he saved their lives, only to lose his own.

This is the story of that bride, Makroohi Chaderjian nee Beshgetoorian, and the events of her life from the beginning to the end of the Savekeyet - The Butchery of the Christians, which came to pass before, during and even after World War One era in Asia Minor.

Unfortunately, History has its way of repeating itself. Therefore, nowadays, more than ever, it is paramount to bring such a story to light, hoping to awaken the consciousness of Peoples all around the world to such a degree that could inhibit the spread of religious radicalism and to prevent Genocide.

Lord have mercy on us all. Amen!

Hollywood, California Wm. P. Chad

December 5th, 1985 WPCSig1.jpg

CHAPTER I

Before the Storm

There is a wide cycloid terrain in Central Asia Minor, Northeast of Malatia: the provincial Capital of Mamouret-ul-Aziz, where the Tokma River winds and twists its way through the fertile Büyük Vadi before meeting the greater Euphrates River. This Big Valley is surrounded by a great breast of hills and rock-ribbed mountains from whose Canyon’s small streams flow down to meet the bed of the Tokma Su. Along the banks of its tributaries, Kurdish hamlets survived the change of seasons. There are groves of apricot trees and white mulberry orchards. The leaves of the mulberry trees are fed to the silkworms and its fruit dried into raisins then fermented to distill the forbidden liqueur, Raki. There are wheat fields and chickpea plots that stretch across The Vadi’s floor like a patched quilt of varied greens and golden grains. Its plantations of grapevines give a special pride to their owners. The ruby-red grapes are as famous throughout the land for the moist raisins they form into, as are the sour-sweet dried mesh-mesh fruits, which have the taste of the earth and sun baked into them.

The days are monotonous and slowly moving for most of the natives. Each person is a duplicate of its parents, each house a hatchery in the boredom of uncertainty and fear of change. Children are born but many of them are dying at an early age. Some are crippled and others are deprived of sight by a myriad of diseases for which there is no adequate medical aid.

The seasons are unreasonably difficult but beautiful. When the rains come down from high skies above bringing in the much needed water, they tell stories of far-away lands before reaching the Büyük Vadi. Such water may have caressed the leaves of the palm trees of Syria after catching the sunrays in the arches that span between the clouds moving away from The Valleys of Lebanon. It could have been carried along by the gulf-stream near the shores of Arabia only to be turned into a crystal of ice onto the slopes of the Caucasus Mountains. It may have hovered over the streets of Constantinople forming a part of its murky fog, and glistened on the young grass blades of April in Grecian fields. Having sailed up to the heavens above, it could have been part of the cloud mountain echoing with thunder. At the close of long seasons of still weather, it can have hung in fleecy veils many miles above the Earth then descend many times over in showers to refresh the Earth; it sparkled and it bubbled in mossy fountains in the country, a post prelude to Spring when the meadows and fields are lush with the deep green of planted grains and the breezes are laden with a thousand invigorating ambrosial fragrances. A multitude of flower scents are fanned by the air currents into The City from the orchards below, in the foothills. Peasants sit in the shade of fig trees, on doorsteps or in courtyards, legs crossed under their limbs, arms folded across the chest, waiting for the Geneses of things to come.

The summers are radically hot and the Anatolian sun sears the Earth. Autumn paints The Vadi with muted browns and gold like ormolu. The curving hills are checkered with soft tan, coral pink, and the infernal bronze of dried grasses.

Dew points appear and disappear and before long a cold chill stirs the air. The caustic clouds of winter freeze the soil shortly thereafter. The frolicking white season begins with its dervish winds. They whirl down from The Steppes and The Highlands into The Valleys. Creased with pleats of white, etched against the sky, the mountains stand majestic and silent in their new frocks of deciduous snow, while here and there a huge black boulder seems to have ripped through the glossy satin surface, like a grotesque ornament …

It was the Fifth Year in the reign of Mohammed the Fifth, Reshad, Sultan of Turkey, who ascended the throne on April 27, 1909, after Abdul Hamid, the Red Sultan, was deposed by the Young Turks. It was, also, the Tenth Month of the Christian Calendar of 1913.

An early winter tipi has dropped snow over the housetops and into the quaint narrow streets of Malatia. The snow drifted down upon The Courtyards and walled gardens. The little ponds and pools even the rivers turned their surfaces into ice. The mummified trees stood against the garden walls with their swaddling flakes of loosely packed snow. The October wind came down hard from the nearby mountains into The City and the snow swiveled around in eddies creeping inside through the doors that hung loosely in their hinges. The mud-brick homes had their narrow stone barred windows set high, facing the streets with intricate lattices, which effectually prevented anyone on the street from looking in if tall enough to glance inside. The windows opening into The Courtyards and gardens were set low and they did not fit in perfectly. The wind sang its asthmatic song through the cracks of the apertures and the cold air whistled in its tiresome song while the early morning stars, specks of pulsating light, stood with bravado upon the still dark but slowly fading away clear night sky, until sunlight consumed their luminous bodies into nothingness.

In the distance, from the balcony of the minaret, one could hear the Muezzin chanting the Ezon-sharki, the call to Morning Prayer,

"Allah-il-Allahu, Allah-il-Allahu, Allah-il-Allahu" …

His clear melody of veneration went out over the still inert city in a soul-stirring, provocative cadence.

"I witness that there is no other God but Allah!

I witness that Mohammed is His prophet.

Come to prayer. Come to prayer.

Come to the house of praise.

Allah is Almighty. Allah is Almighty.

There is no God but Allah" …

In the Armenian Quarters of The City, whose Christian Ancestors had inhabited Malatia long before the hordes of Turks invaded Asia Minor in the 11th Century A.D., Sheshoon Nana Chaderjian was holding her newborn grandson while the mother of the unnamed child slept the sleep of exhaustion. His father, Garabet, sat on the floor beside the bed of his wife, Makroohi, with the devoted concern of a novice husband coupled with mixed emotions. It had been a difficult first birth and Makroohi yelled during the entire course of her labor,

Never again, never again, never again …

For a very passionate girl whose sensual appetite was not easily satisfied, he wondered,

Never again what?

Garabet became aware of the initial Ezon of the day, an indication that he should be on his way to the place of his employment. Nearly an hour walk, he had to thread through the inner city and a labyrinth of narrow streets with endless flat-roofed parapets of white washed fronts and heavily grilled windows. He then had to cross the North Bridge over the Kirk Gozi, the main tributary of the Tokma Su bordering the Kishla. From there, it was a brisk walk up an incline between the estates of the Malatia’s Senator, Hashim Bey, and its Mutasarief, Nader Bey, before reaching his destination, the Christian Mission School for the handicapped. The school, supported by The Mission Board of the Lutheran Church of Germany, was meant to be a House of Mercy by its founder, Herr Pastor Ernst Cristoffel, who was reconstructing the original dilapidated buildings into a walled compound, has named it Bethesda. The place was once known as the Char Dag, and the name persists to this day in Malatia.

Garabet rose to his feet and put on his long, heavy black overcoat and his red fez. For the most part, the Armenians of Anatolia dressed as Turks did.

Sheshoon Nana’s eyes followed her son’s movements with disapproval.

Today of all days, the day of your son’s birth, must you go, my son? she asked. The day of your son’s birth … she repeated as though afraid he has failed to hear her grumble because Garabet continued to get dressed.

Dear Mother, he said softly. Today and all days, I must go.

"Phoof! My son, such loyalty is better deserved elsewhere. What has it brought to you? More work, yes. What will it get you? Once again, more work. Appreciation, no! I, myself, have not seen it. It is not German to show appreciation."

She glanced at the child in her arms.

Look, she added. You wanted a boy and she gave you a son with so much difficulty. It was not the same with me. Your father did not leave me when you were born.

There was always concern in the scolding of his mother who has never failed to bring a pleasant smile to his usually somber face. Smoothing his mustache, he realized that he grew older although he seemed years younger than his age. He crossed the room toward his mother and smiled down at her. The youngest of her ten children, and her favorite, he meant the whole world to her. Her other nine children, had perished during one massacre or another in Sivas. There were some grandchildren still living, but she did not know where they were. She returned his smile, resignedly.

He took her face into his hands, kissed her gently on each eye and said to her,

I must go, and you know it, Mama.

So you must son, so you must! she reproved.

Five little fingers reached up in their sleep and touched his hand. He looked at his son in his own mother’s arms.

Is the child all right? he asked. He doesn’t cry much …

He is asleep, my son, asleep. Children do not cry all the time. Sometimes they do it at night, but not always. It was a long trip he just ended today. He had to endure nine dangerous months of survival in the womb then cross over into this world of giants with his tiny feet, wow! I’ll wager, someday, when he will have reason to shout, the world will stand still and listen to him.

Garabet straightened up.

"My son, I have a boy, I am a father. Herr Christoffel will be pleased," he said and lifting the collar of his coat up against his neck he left the room. When he was in the open passageway leading to the street exit between the two apartments of the building, he heard the jarring voice of the baby…

He is a loud mouth, Garabet thought as he opened the door and walked out into the snow-carpeted byway. He pulled the door shut behind him. As he walked away he thought,

Mother is right. That voice will echo beyond Malatia! He smiled with delight. That’s my son, my boy.

Inside the Chaderjian flat, the child’s demanding voice has awakened his mother. All the shushing and rocking done by his Grandmother, Sheshoon Nana, would not quail the sudden eruption of rebellion he expressed at having been thrust into a new world from his mother’s amniotic cave.

Makroohi raised herself a little onto her pillow. She echoed her husband’s comment,

The baby has a loud voice, Sheshoon Nana. I have not been told what the child is?

It is a human, Sheshoon Nana teased.

Sheshoon Nana! She was used to her mother-in-law’s occasional good-natured banter. Is the baby a boy or a girl?

Sheshoon Nana’s large, youthful, pitch-black eyes, which Garabet has inherited, beamed with un-aging brilliance. She chuckled,

It’s a boy it’s a boy it’s a boy! She moved to the bed and laid the child in his mother’s outstretched arms.

Makroohi gave the boy her breast and instantly there was peace in the room. The maternal fear that there might be something wrong with the newborn has clouded Makroohi’s face. She looked at her mother-in-law for assurance.

Sheshoon Nana noticed Makroohi’s expression of concern. She asked,

What is it, my child?

He has no hair!

I predict, she laughed, hiding her tooth-sparse mouth with her hand, He’ll have so much hair that we will name him Samson. Hair he will have, fear not. She moved toward the fireplace where some couscous was slowly cooking with its usual ‘put-put’ clatter.

Makroohi pressed the child gently against her body. She winced. There was some pain in her breast where the baby was feeding. His eyes were closed and his mouth instinctually worked itself, suckling. There was some pleasure in his feeding for her as well. She looked about and noticed that her husband was absent.

Has Garabet gone to work? she asked.

"Ahman, yes, the Grandmother answered poking the fire with a stick. He left a few moments ago, hari-ef! I asked him not to leave, but he had to go."

Yes, he had to go, Makroohi repeated to reassure Sheshoon Nana. Your son is a good provider. If he did not work for the demanding German Missionary what else would he do? Work for a Turk? I, myself, would not like it.

There was a soft tapping at the door. Sheshoon Nana stopped stirring the porridge-like cereal, which she was preparing for their breakfast and went to the door. It was Pearlanteen, their immediate neighbor from across the hall and wife of their Landlord, Sarkish Elmarian. She whispered,

Has the child come, Makroohi must have given birth by now?

Yes, yes, she did, the proud Old Lady whispered and opened the door wider to let her in. It has come. Please come in. It is a boy!

A boyyy… Parlanteen cooed noisily as she advanced into the room. I told Makroohi it would be a boy, I knew it. I knew it from the way she carried him, just like me a year ago when I had my Adoorshin. I knew it! Her voice had a timbre when excited, which made it sound high-pitched and annoying.

The way she carried him. A lot of difference that makes, Sheshoon Nana remarked.

Haba! Don’t you see it’s a boy, as I said it would?

The Old Lady evoked the sign of the cross. Even though her son was now a proselyte Protestant because Makroohi’s father had been a Congregational Minister, Sheshoon Nana still adhered to her old habit retained from being raised in the Armenian Mother Church.

God save us from volunteer soothsayers, she said. Yet, you are right. We have a boy; yes we have one. He is Nanain’s sonny boy, Son-in-Law to the King of Joy!

Pearlanteen went directly to the boy’s bed, leaned over and peered at the feeding baby.

Makroohi, he looks just like you, she remarked.

You think so?

I, myself, think so.

"Ahman, who knows? Sheshoon Nana chided gently. This was her grandson they were talking about. Even he may look like his father when he will have hair on his head."

He doesn’t have any hair, Pearlanteen gasped. But my Adoorshin did, black like mine. He takes after my side of the family.

I have been assured by a most knowing person, my son will have hair. And she should know for she had ten of her own. And they all had hair on their heads.

This is true except for my granddaughter, Ardemis, who was born hairless, Sheshoon Nana confirmed. They say that those of us who have fair-hair children are white Armenians of royal blood.

A sudden and loud knock at the outside door has startled them. They looked at each other in panic. None seemed to breath, none spoke. They listened intently. What now? They couldn’t tell whether it was a friend asking admission or a foe such as an irate Turk, or a marauding Cheteh, a brigand that has come to rob them. They waited for a second knock. The only sound in the room one could hear was the crackling of the fire and the ‘put-put’ of the cooking porridge. Pearlanteen paled. Frightened, she could hear her heart’s gallop. Even though it was her building, Makroohi made no effort to go to the gate.

Who could be out there at this early hour, she asked.

No one answered her. Sheshoon Nana rose to her feet with some difficulty for she was of an age that made her joints stubborn to motion. A second knock was heard then a third followed. The Old Lady pulled a shawl over her shoulders and moved toward the front door. She opened the door slightly then she peered out with caution. It was a friend, the Danish Medical Missionary. She was known as the Chap-chalee for Schwester Oerts was never without her ornate shapka in this mid-Anatolian Moslem city, which was so stringent on Islamic traditions, where all women must cover their heads.

Jensine Oerts had learned to speak Armenian and Turkish with an accent. This helped her in dealing with the powerful customs and superstitions while offering Christian advice and medical aid.

"Paree-looss, the European said in Armenian. Sheshoon Nana, may I come in?"

Pressing the snow behind the door against the wall with some difficulty, Sheshoon Nana opened it wider.

Please do come in. What an honor! She bobbed her head in consent. Come in, we have a new baby born to my son this morning, she continued chattering while guiding the guest to their quarters.

In the meantime, Pearlanteen had taken the baby into her arms and was standing in the middle of the room making cooing sounds to him. His unfocused eyes shifted to Schwester Oerts who peered down at him like a curious child examining a nest of robin eggs. She asked,

It is what?

It is a male child, Pearlanteen answered.

"Yes, Schwester Oerts, it is as I wished, a boy," Makroohi said.

It is a healthy child, Schwester Oerts expressed a professional opinion, and his name is … ? she asked.

It is not for me to decide without his father and Sheshoon Nana, Makroohi smiled. It has been suggested that we might call him Samson; he has so much hair.

Schwester Oerts laughed at Makroohi’s pleasantry. Then she opened her purse and began fingering through a maze of mysterious articles she kept inside. The large leather handbag she carried with her, as a constant companion, was a reminder that she were as much European as were the hat secured to her hair with a long hatpin and her clothes. But she hid her face behind the traditional black veil, which was mandatory in Malatia, a fanatical Mohammedan stronghold where women covered their face in public and in the presence of men. She removed a gold coin from her purse and extended it to Makroohi.

A gift for the child, she said.

Makroohi’s dark eyes brightened. She was timid by nature and bashful by disposition. She looked up at Schwester Oerts with warm appealing eyes. She blinked then shook her head while thinking,

One gold coin; as much as Garabet makes in one week, She then said to the kind Dane,

"I thank you I thank you Schwester Oerts. It is most generous of you, but I cannot take it."

It is a gift, the European said. She repeated, A gift, for the Danish Missionary knew that Makroohi, by custom, would not offend herself as well as the giver by rejecting a present. But she also knew that, by the same traditional Sunna, the Armenian woman would refuse three times before accepting it.

Makroohi looked up and caught Pearlanteen’s eyes tacitly encouraging her to accept it then she said,

Yes, a gift. I thank you, but, no, I cannot take it.

It is the custom in my country, Schwester Oerts explained with finality in her voice, to bring a gift to a newborn baby.

Just like the Bible, Baby Jesus, and the wise men in Bethlehem? Makroohi asked.

Yes, a custom that began in the Orient with the birth of the Christ Child, The Missionary emphasized and put the coin in Makroohi’s hand. The Sister respected the Sunna but she’s also got tired of its time wasting practice.

Makroohi kissed the European’s hand and put it up to her forehead, as was also the custom in the Orient.

Bethesda, the German Mission School where Garabet was the Assistant Administrator, was built on the slopy hills, close to the inlet of Een Dara, a Canyon of hidden caves, subterranean rivers and mysterious Christian shrines. At the extreme end of The Canyon, the Kurdish hamlet of Ağrı Dağı was also the hideaway of Claw Chief, a ferocious elder Cheteh whose grandson, Ebrahim Chavosh, was the first on Governor Nader Bey’s list of ‘wanted dead or alive’ criminals. Some of the Young Chieftain’s followers, having been caught at their ‘chosen occupation,’ were already suffering the Turkish hospitality in the vermin infested, damp jails of the Hukumete-Bina while waiting for their transfer to an island penal colony.

The Christian Mission School was located near the magra of the Cheteheji since it was established, but it has never been a target to the plundering raids of the marauding Kurd neighbors so far.

Triggered at Tarsus, there has been an indiscriminate massacre in April of 1909, which spread sporadically North into the Toros Mountains hence to Malatia. Kurd brigands were employed by The Turkish Government and given a free hand to ‘destroy, murder the unbelievers,’ and pillage the homes of Christians as payment for their ‘work.’ But the expected onslaught had not occurred in Malatia, yet. As the Kurds had gathered in Malatia Main Square, waiting for orders to begin their brutal decimation, the Resident Governor has died. It was then that a young Army Officer declared himself Governor, quailed the uprising and sent the Kurds back to their former occupation of ‘waiting in the sun.’ The Christians of Malatia were spared carnage for now and the Governor, who dispatched hawkers throughout The City announcing that the Master has ‘forbidden to kill,’ has restored the peace.

Bethesda was placed in such a strategic location that anyone, who happened to be on the roof of The Mission, could observe the outlet of The Canyon and witness any activity, either entering Een Dara or departing from it. Even though four years earlier, having seen Kurds armed to their teeth flowing toward The City, it was felt that the structure was fairly safe from every direction. The Mission gave one a sense of security due to its high walls encircling the whole of the forty-room compound. Like a pair of guarding sentinels, both German and Turkish Flags were flying high over the main building, which looked South, toward The City.

Ernst Christoffel, the German Administrator of Bethesda, had big plans in regard to The Mission. Having bought more land to the right of Een Dara, where the hills gently sloped away from the entrance of The Canyon, toward Meme Dagi, he planned to build a home for the aged in that place. There were already several elderly women whose families had been murdered or liquidated by diseases. They were useful to him in creating intricate tapestries, which were then sold in the local market place.

In addition to the aged, thirty blind or crippled children and teenagers also resided at The Mission while learning a trade that will eventually make them self-sufficient.

Besides Garabet, there was a staff of two teachers and several construction workers still adding compartments to the inner setup. Garabet’s duties varied from Assistant and Cook for the German, to Purchasing Agent for the School. Dogs and cats, chickens and livestock roamed the compound with mutual ease. Bethesda was a stockade of a sort, a Christian Isle in a Moslem Sea.

Herr Pastor Ernst Christoffel was a tall, lean man in his late thirties. His bearing gave one the impression of a supreme Prussian aristocrat commanding instant respect. If incited, Herr Cristoffel had an explosive temperament and this made him out-shout anyone on the subject of God, the Fatherland, and his prerogative as a Citizen of the World where Germans were, ‘the Master Race.’ Whether it was because he presented a venturesome imagery, which the illiterate peasants shied away from, or merely a symbolic respect for the only country the Turkish Government had openly declared its alliance to, the Armenians never quite understood his demeanor. But the officials of Malatia did because they felt his presence while the German One of the Char Dag was among them. To them he was a reminder that Germany and Turkey had mutual interests, politically and financially, against the rest of the world. Nader Bey regarded the German Missionary’s presence in Malatia as an official recognition of his city being an important outpost in The Empire. He, also, knew that Malatia was a Sultanate with many cities unknown to the Germans. Herr Christoffel, on the other hand, regarded Malatia as a godless hellhole and its officials depraved beyond salvation. The City Proper boasted of several Hamam-Bina, which were used by women in the early morning hours and by men during the rest of the day. These Bath Houses have virtually been turned into dens of iniquity. There were several unumhaniji, bawdy houses where lootilik and orospuji serviced their clients while breeding venereal diseases for which there were no adequate treatments.

The land on which The Mission was built upon was purchased from their nearest Turkish neighbor, Hashim Bey, The Senator, and the land was good. There were acres of wheat, mulberry orchards and vineyards.

The mineral-rich waters of Een Dara were piped into the compound due to an arrangement with The Senator who shared the water supply with them. The water flowed down by means of a series of clay pipes to The Mission and gushed out of the mouth of a stone lion into a centralized stone cistern with several outlets to let off the excess flow into a reservoir at the back of the building.

The spring of 1914 arrived early to The Valley. The fields and meadows were lush and green, enriched with wild flowers, grasses and wheat sprouts. The seasonally arriving swallows returned to their habitual breeding place and made new mud nests on the raw rafters of the unfinished rooms of Bethesda. The air was heavy with the smell of blossoming fruit trees, and wild bees were sharing the same habitat with the birds, which prayed on them to feed their fledglings.

The City Proper had its own peculiar traits. On certain days, in the Main Square, near the Hukumete-Bina, crowds of people, like multicolored ants stirred from their holes, would cascade into the open while following the cry of the postman, "Posta galdee, posta galdee!" They would trail the Post Carrier to the Gate of the Government-House Building where the bag of correspondence was dumped onto a table at the entrance of the Hukumete-Bina. This in turn would create a pandemonium, for each person expecting mail had to sort it out for himself then claim it without aid from officials. The folks would begin their restless shoving, nose blowing, or coughing a foul breath into another’s face and sneering obscenities at others in the crowd.

Garabet was in the market to do the shopping for The Mission with blind Habesh, a venerable assistant Turk man of Abyssinian ancestry whose seeing-eye donkey, Bahbek, knew her way back to Bethesda without human guidance. When the Armenian heard the mail call, he sent Habesh back to the Char Dag with the provisions he had purchased for Bethesda and followed the crowd to check the mail.

Easily identifiable by their occidental scripts, he found two letters. One of them came from Denmark for Schwester Oerts, and the other one from Germany, addressed to the German Missionary by his sister Hedwig, who went back to the Fatherland some months earlier. Then Garabet went home to have lunch with his wife and son, whom they have named Wilhelm at the insistence of Ernst Christoffel, after Wilhelm the Kaiser.

"Ja!"

Garabet was back at Bethesda early that afternoon with the letter from Hedwig. He found Herr Christoffel at the fountain. They spoke briefly of this or that before the German opened his correspondence. Standing erect in The Courtyard, he scanned the letter while Garabet stood by waiting for any instruction coming his way. As the German read each sentence, he punctuated it with a heavy thigh of ‘oomph!’ This letter was only a short message, and he read it twice then he placed it into its envelope.

"Herr Garabet, oomph!" He cleared his throat …

Garabet knew that whenever the German prefixed his name with a conventional title in either Armenian or Turkish, even German, he had arrived at an uncompromising resolve. Garabet was clearly an asset because he spoke fluently all three languages.

"I think it would be wise, don’t you agree, that you and your family move to Bethesda before the summer heat hits The City? It is much cooler over here in the mountains."

It is much cooler in the mountains, Garabet agreed and wondered why the German was structuring such a proposal.

Move over here. It will be better for the mother and the child, Willie; and for the Grandmother, Sheshoon Nana.

Willie? Garabet asked. He has changed his son’s name before I became accustomed to the other, he thought to himself not knowing that Willie was a diminutive for Wilhelm, and he answered,

I will have to discuss the wisdom of that with my wife, Makroohi.

Discuss what?

Discuss the possibility of moving in here with my family.

The man was not accustomed to resistance from his subordinates. He raised his voice audibly in German, which Garabet understood perfectly.

It is entirely possible, Herr Garabet, he said and shoving the letter into his pocket, marched away toward his quarters still grumbling in German.

In the two-room apartment of their city dwelling, Garabet sat at the dinner table toying with his supper and reflecting on Herr Christoffel’s offer of moving his family to Bethesda.

It puzzles me, he said. "I do not understand his sudden generosity. The unbearable summer heat in The City has never before motivated the German One to invite us to move to The Mission even for the summer months only.

I think that he must have some other reason than the cool atmosphere of the mountains, Makroohi said. Eat, my husband, your pilaf is getting cold.

Yes, yes, eat my son, it is not wise to think on an empty stomach, Sheshoon Nana added. "Would you like some more tahn?"

He gave me no other reason, he said to Makroohi then answered to his mother,

"Yes, Mother, I will have some more tahn."

Placing her hands onto the surface of the table to prop herself up, Sheshoon Nana rose slowly to her feet. She went to the part of the room they considered their kitchen, took a cup full of yogurt from an earthen receptacle and began to beat it with a wooden spoon in order to flap it smooth before diluting it with water to the fluid state of drinking tahn. She noticed that they were out of water. She picked up the empty pitcher and walked out of the room to go to the well in The Courtyard.

There were a few moments of silence following the older woman’s departure before Makroohi voiced a never-ending desire,

Garabet, I wish you would consider leaving Turkey and going to America. I, myself, think that would be a very good move.

The subject had surfaced before many times. It was very close to Makroohi’s heart. She wanted to go to the ‘New World - America,’ where the desire of countless generations before her to live without fear or prejudice, was an inherent dream. But it always angered Garabet. He felt that he would rather be secure in the little they had than be adventurous and looking for greater gain or any change, which might threaten the security he felt while working for the German.

Woman, how do you propose I do this thing you repeatedly suggest?

I have made you angry, she replied.

No, my wife, but you ask thus and thus of me. It is impossible. I will not ponder upon it. America, America! It would be easier to pass through the eye of a needle than…

I think that you are afraid, she pressed on.

I would have to go alone first to earn your passage. I do not wish to leave you and the child and my aging mother. He quickly came to a decision.

"We shall move to The Mission, he firmly said then added gently, He calls our child by a new name. He calls him Willie!"

Willie? Makroohi asked. "Research it in the Bible before he gives him a name no one can pronounce. Willie? It is much easier to say Villie than Willie or Wilhelm. Garabet, does Herr Christoffel…? But it is not for me to ask, it will anger you."

Sheshoon Nana returned, just as Garabet said,

You can tell me, I shall not be angry.

What has happened? What am I being accused of? the Old Lady demanded.

Nothing, Garabet answered. Why should you be accused?

"Haba! I always say that if anything out of the ordinary occurs in a household it’s either: the eldest or the youngest, the cat or the dog that get blamed for it. The child is too young to be blamed; we have neither cat nor dog; so I will accept the blame. What has happened?" She asked and began blending water and yogurt together.

Sweet mother, Makroohi said. "I was not talking about you. I was just wondering if Herr Christoffel means to charge us…"

I know what you think, Garabet intervened. I assure you, my wife, I assure you that this is one thing I will not let him do to us. He pays little enough.

Ah, yes, he pays little enough, Sheshoon Nana repeated as she poured the tahn into Garabet’s empty glass.

Let us be realistic, Garabet said somewhat defensively. "The money he has comes to him from The Mission Board in Germany. It is all he has, and this is all he can pay."

One gold coin a week, Makroohi exclaimed, I have heard that in America the streets are paved with gold!

Garabet ignored the commentary about America for he too had heard an identical legend about the gold in the streets of America. He merely said,

I shall not take less.

Yes, my son, do not take less, Sheshoon Nana said and sat down in her place around the table.

I will pass through the eye of the needle first, Garabet said under his breath.

Sheshoon Nana muttered,

I thought she was complaining about my taking the child to the market with me when I went shopping.

Does she do that often? Garabet asked Makroohi.

Makroohi’s expression was one of resigned compromise, for she was capable of speaking with her eyes without uttering a sound.

The morning sun shone benignly over Bethesda, its rays being absorbed by the newly painted inner portion of the main building. But they were visible in the lion’s pool, sparkling from the waves on the surface of the water, which were caused by the gentle spray coming out of the mouth of the aslant (lion) statue. Blind students sat onto straw mats taking Braille lessons while making use of their tactile sense, in the opposite side of The Courtyard. Herr Christoffel and Garabet stood near the fountain discussing Mission problems. Each had two shadow images silhouetted on the cobbled stone surface of The Courtyard, one from the sun and the other from the reflection of it on the whitewashed inner walls.

Are you going to charge me rent if we come to live here? Garabet asked sheepishly.

Taken aback, the German cleared his throat explosively and said,

"That is not my intention. You shall receive a regular salary, plus, since the boy Willie came, forty more paras. When my sister Hedwig comes, Oomph! Ah, I have not told you. Ja! Hedwig is returning this week on Saturday with her groom, Herr Hans Baurenfeind. It is my intention to go to Germany once they are here. Ja! I think it is the best thing to do."

Garabet stared at his shoes.

That’s why he wants us to move here, he is going away, Garabet thought to himself while the German continued,

"Oomph! I must go to the Mission Board and present my needs for Bethesda." He looked around the building. There were some carpenters working on the roof of the new addition, dove-tailed against the corner above a Rose Arbor, next to the main entrance. The double paneled door was open to the outside. Through it he caught sight of the hills across the wide expanse of fields in front of the building.

"Ja! They will agree with me, he emphasized. We shall built a Home for the Aged on the hill, over there by the entrance of Een Dara, my mountain," he pointed to Meme Dagi. Such a shelter for old people is needed.

He turned toward Garabet,

"You will go back to The City and bring the family over here today, ja?"

"Ja!" Garabet agreed.

He was quite content with the arrangement. He would get a small raise in salary and free rent, which in itself was a sizable saving. He immediately decided to put that money away for his son’s education.

By the day the Bauerenfeinds were expected to arrive, the Chaderjians had settled in a large compartment, which had an alcove ready to be utilized as their kitchen. At the end of the recess, there was a door opening into the boy’s area, next to a dark hallway connecting the bilateral-building. For discernible reasons Bethesda was structured into ‘Boys’ and ‘Girls’ Sectors.

The Baurenfeinds have taken the Orient Express train to Constantinople. They remained overnight visiting an old friend of Hans, Baron Neurath, who was the Conseiller at the German Embassy. Then they continued their trip into the interior of Asia Minor by a horse-drawn coach. It had been a grueling, tiresome journey with stops at flea-bitten khans and a dusty progression through small villages with unkempt children and noisy dogs chasing the carriage.

The highway from the North entering point into the Bűyűk Vadi comes suddenly over the top of an incline then falls sharply into The Valley. It follows the flow of the Kirk Gozi to the North Bridge entrance of The City. From the top of the slope one can view The Valley where the fields, belonging to Hashim Bey, sweep from the edge of the ancient highway to the Turkish Cemetery at the back acreage of Bethesda.

From the coach window, Hedwig pointed out The Mission to her husband whom she had talked into going over there for their honeymoon. It would have been difficult for anyone to think about Bethesda being anything other than a foreign establishment with the red, white and black German Flag in evidence alongside the Turkish Crescent fluttering on the high flat upper story’s roof of The Mission, safeguarding the German real estate.

In preparation for their welcoming reception, all the children at The Mission were dressed in their finest apparel, boys and girls alike, in tobe with holes for the head and arms, sewn like sacks from material woven in The Mission Workshops.

The children had been taught German songs and, as the coach approached the building, Makroohi lead them in singing the Deutsche National Anthem. They waved the Flags of both nations, which most could not see, for they were blind.

But those who could, have observed a carriage eclipsed in a cloud of dust being drawn speedily toward them by the heads of two horses, while making its appearance on The Mission Road. The horse-drawn carriage leaped over the dips and holes of the primitive byway until it came to an abrupt stop at the upper entrance of Bethesda. Herr Christoffel went to the door of the coach. Upon opening it there was only an impassive greeting between brother and sister. Not being an openly demonstrative man, although an affectionate person, he merely kissed Hedwig on the cheek, then stepped aside from the door while the smiling face of his brother-in-law came out. They shook hands, a form of greeting, which was alien to the Ismanli. Then chattering in their native tongue, they went into the building. Garabet and some of the other staff members feeling somewhat ignored removed the baggage from the interior of the coach.

Hedwig has expected the reception. Tired and irritated, she ignored it, but Herr Baurenfeind was deeply moved and sincerely impressed with the ovation offered to them. He hesitated with the intention of displaying some overt acknowledgement to the customs of this country, although he was unfamiliar with them then followed his wife and brother-in-law into the building. However, it seemed to him that they did a great deal of hand kissing and pressing their hands to their breast, lips and forehead. It was all very strange and exotic, as if he had stepped into an archaic world that existed before his time.

About half an hour past their arrival, even before the honeymooners had a chance to refresh themselves, the Mutasarief Nader Bey and the Belediye Reise, Mustapha Aga, the Mayor of Malatia City with a small retinue of Jandarmari came over for an official welcome call. How they had found out The Bauernfeinds were due to arrive on that date was a mystery, but Garabet thought that the intricate web of double agents each Provincial Governor maintained, might have been the reason.

It was a very festive event. The Turks had brought with them a huge platter of Paklava pastry, smothered in rose scented syrup and layered with crushed walnuts.

Whatever other program the Armenians of Bethesda had planned was cancelled with the unexpected arrival of the Turkish Officials from The City. The Governor and the Mayor were taken to Herr Christoffel’s private parlor where Garabet and his heavily veiled wife served them Turkish Coffee and the pastry Mustapha Aga has brought.

Watching Nader Bey munch the Paklava with the sweetly oozing liquid running out of his mouth then down his chin, Herr Baurenfeind was fascinated, but he soon lost his appetite. Whatever it was that the Governor was stuffing into his mouth, without the aid of dining utensils, became an unpleasant spectacle to watch. Nader Bey made gargling sounds to show his enjoyment while wiping his chin onto his sleeve and eyeing the platter for his next fragment of pastry. Then the view of the entire tableau has changed from unpleasant to disgusting to Hans Baurenfeind’s unaccustomed eyes. He had never before seen viands playing tag in a person’s hand and mouth, or hands pursuing food without the benefit of using silverware. It was at once grossly repelling. Periodically he glanced at his wife, Hedwig, who seemed untouched by the disgusting spectacle The Governor was making of himself. But Hedwig appeared to be focused on the conversation between her brother and the Mayor, which was in Turkish and more melodious and fascinating than the guttural speech of his native tongue. She understood some of it, and was genuinely enamored of the two portly visitors who had arrived to welcome them. And it was not just a mere polite attention that she was displaying. She had met them before. The mayor was a dear friend of hers since she and Ernst had made their arrival to Malatia, and Nader Bey since he came to power in 1909 to replace the resident governor, who had suddenly died. A portion of the Paklava fell onto Nader Bey’s lap. He brushed it away with his hand, sending it sailing onto an expensive prayer rug. Hans watched the whisked off portion as if it would ambulate like a spider and go away. He wished the Turks would depart. He was tired, and he needed to take a bath after the long trip.

Sometime later, very abruptly, the Turks rose and began the parting salutations of kissing hands followed by the salaam saluting ritual. These were strange customs to Herr Baurenfeind, and he did not know what was expected of him. When it was his turn to give his hand for the oriental observance, he shook hands with them and drew his own back before it was kissed. Somewhat embarrassed, Nader Bey giggled and looked shy and stunned.

"Allah ismarladic," he said as a parting salutation and both he and the mayor departed in a hurry.

Two weeks after the arrival of the Baurenfeinds, Garabet came home from The City with the news that Schwester Oerts had gone back to her home in Europe. Makroohi was in the alcove preparing dinner.

Some place in Denmark, he said and pushed the red fez back over his hairline then leaned against the wall.

It was a little sudden, was it not? Makroohi asked. When she was here last week she made no mention of it. Then Makroohi delayed her culinary labor to learn more about Jensine Oerts.

No, I heard about it before, but I must have forgotten to tell you about it, he said.

Makroohi returned to the tedious chore of jacketing chunks of ground meat combined with onions, parsley and rice into grape leaves.

"She must have given up on our German One," she said.

"Wrap it up like a dolma and put it aside. Our German One is not the marrying kind. I think Schwester Jensine knows that."

She’s going to find out when she will return then who knows?

Who knows? he agreed then added, I am tired. He stepped into the main room. From the pillar in the middle of their lodging, they had roped off an area and hung blankets in order to section it off as their sleeping cubicle. There was also an improvised wooden sofa along the wall, by the windows opening into the boys’ courtyard. The rest of the room was quite bare except for some furniture, which Herr Christoffel lent them, and Makroohi’s black trunk. This trunk has followed them wherever they moved. He looked about the room and returned to the alcove.

Where is my son, and my mother? he asked.

"I do not know. They are about the building. Sheshoon Nana feels lonesome in here. She liked The City better for she had Pearlanteen’s mother, Nana Hanim, to ‘gadabout’ with. They were a pair, those two. I miss her daughter, Pearlanteen, because she is my best friend."

Talking about me again? Sheshoon Nana asked as she arrived hot and perspiring with Villie perched on her back like an Indian papoose. The child was asleep. His hair had begun to sprout into tufts of platinum curls. Garabet removed the child from her back and teased his mother by imitating her,

"Gaz-a-gan, where have you been?"

"Oye, my aching feet, Sheshoon Nana complained and settled down onto the step leading into the main compartment. We went visiting Hashim Bey’s place, went over to see… Do you remember my old friend, Jauharut, the Kurd caretaker in there? He is the secret Christian who comes over here and wants to find out more about Jesus from you, Makroohi. Anyway, that’s where we were. His harem is full of young brides, but there are only a few children. Their women have dried out. But there is a nice man in there, the Doktor, let me think of his name, Rashid, that’s it. He was in there. He is so handsome, and looks a little bit Armenian, too. He took Villie into the house and showed him off. I have never heard such ‘oo-ing’ and ‘ah-ing.’ They had never seen a child with his kind of hair."

You took my child over there? Garabet asked.

"Your child, your child, ahman! Sheshoon Nana exclaimed then wiped the sweat off her face and down the neck of her dress. She lifted her huge breasts and swept her handkerchief under them. Like you care. The two of you, busy, busy, busy with them Germans. What are you, their servants? Now me; it’s a good thing that my Grandson has his Nana. Without me, he would be tied down in his crib, wet and alone, while you two are running around waiting on these foreigners."

When she says, ‘My grandson,’ Makroohi teased, One would think that he is the only living entity in the world.

He is the summer of my winter days, Sheshoon Nana said emphatically.

We must have more, Garabet said.

I would like to have five, even ten kids! Makroohi said.

Listen to her, Sheshoon Nana smiled, mopped her face then added, When this one was coming, she was screaming, ‘No more, no more, no more’!

Herr Cristoffel was somewhat reluctant to leave as soon as he had planned. But since Garabet, now residing at The Mission and knowing as much or even more of the affairs of the institution than he did, the German believed that Bethesda would be in capable hands in his absence and the overhauling and renovation of the building, which was his chief concern, would continue. Unswerving and loyal, Garabet had proven himself, time after time, not only a trustworthy assistant, but a faithful friend as well. As far as his sister and Hans were concerned, with their visits to interesting sights and enjoying their honeymoon, they would be a silent reminder to the Turks about German prestige by making their presence known like the Deutsche Flag above the building. With such assurance, Herr Christoffel departed for Germany early in June.

After the coach pulled away from Bethesda, and all those who had come out to see the German One leave have gone back into the building, Garabet stood alone on the road and watched the fast-moving vehicle taking his friend away. A sinking feeling of foreboding, nature’s warning of impending doom crept into his mind. Like a padding fever assaulting his whole being, it seemed to sweep over his entire body. Why that sensation of unfathomable forewarning struck his senses sick, he did not understand, but it has deeply upset him. It was as though the pervasive goose had crept over his grave. There were tears in his eyes when he stepped back into The Mission Compund. Now he felt that the responsibility Herr Christoffel had delegated to him, it was perhaps a little bit more than he had the experience to cope with, but he resolved to do his best and not disappoint him upon his return. He would manage, as the German One had