Orhan's Inheritance by Aline Ohanesian

Quarter of Sivas. Like the Melkonian house, they have been emptied of their men. Lucine stares at the women who scurry from home to home, like chickens before the slaughter. Perhaps bed rest is a much more dignified response than running about town wringing one’s hands.
    “I wish I could go outside,” Bedros says.
    Her little brother hasn’t been outside since the day Hairig left. He hasn’t taken a bath, since there are no men left to take him to the hamam. He hasn’t seen a slip of sky unless it was through a glass window.
    “We’ll be going away soon and then you can be outside all you want,” she says, ruffling his hair.
    “Even so, we’ve got no horse,” he says. “Just a big dumb ox that clip clops like the heavy-footed farmer’s wife with one thick-soled shoe.” Bedros imitates the poor woman’s bowlegged gait, making Lucine laugh. “What are they doing in there anyway?” he asks, gesturing toward the next room where Mairig and the governor sit.
    “Mairig is going to ask Muammer Bey for help.”
    “I want to listen,” he says. Lucine knows she should object, but the truth is she wants to listen too.
    “All right, but be very quiet. We can stand outside the doorway,” she whispers.
    From the open doorway, Lucine stares at the back of the governor’s fez with a mixture of fear and hate. She can hardly believe that this same man once amused her by making his handkerchief disappear. That was a long time ago. Before the governor started making eyes at Anush. And the last time he made something disappear it was her uncle Nazareth.
    Sitting across from Mairig and Aram, balancing his haunches on the tiny European furniture of which their mother is so proud, Muammer Bey looks uncomfortable. Drops of sweat gather around his fez, trickle down the back of his thick neck and disappear into his collar. He clears his enormous throat. Lucine can hear the clink of his worry beads banging against one another under his massive fingers.
    “I wonder where his magic handkerchief has gone,” whispers Bedros.
    “What are the charges?” Mairig asks the governor as she wrestles with Aram, who is trying to climb onto her head, his little fists pulling at her locks like ropes.
    “There have been several complaints about the location of your house,” the Governor says. “As you know, it should not be on higher grounds than those of your Muslim neighbors.”
    “And what about all the other men? Their houses are located in the valley.”
    “It doesn’t matter. The men are accused of political agitation, but that’s not the point. I warned Hagop this would happen.”
    “What is the point?” asks Mairig. “What is the point of arresting all our men?” She is beginning to sound like the chicken women on the street.
    “Madam, the Ottoman Empire is at war. Try to understand,” the governor says. “The Russians have crossed our borders in the eastern part of Anatolia. In the south, the British have conquered Basra and the Tigris-Euphrates delta. The Russians, French, and British, the bastards—excuse my language—are even now planning to dismember the empire bit by bit. Our courageous leaders, may Allah keep them, have wisely chosen to side with Germany.”
    Lucine cringes at the word bastard, knowing the governor would never use that language in front of her mother if Hairig were present.
    Mairig lifts her palm, interrupting his current events lesson. “I hear the news, Governor, I know what is happening to the empire, but the days of the sultan are far behind us, are they not? We have a parliament and a constitution. These men are innocent.” Mairig’s voice trails off, making her sound as if she’s pleading.
    “Be that as it may, the Christian minority is considered by some to be an internal threat. The government’s plan, and I think it’s a fair one, is to move the Armenians south of Anatolia.”
    “Where are we to go exactly?” Mairig asks, her eyes scanning his face.
    “To the Syrian Desert,”