he says.
“By oxcart?”
“You can’t stay here, hanim. You must all go.”
“And what about our men?” Mairig asks. She picks at the cross at her neck, digging one of its points into the hollow of her neck where a scar is beginning to form.
“They are being held for questioning. That is all. The men will be released later, at which point you will all be reunited.”
“Like the students at Gemerek were questioned?” Mairig asks the question in English. Her eyes dart to where Lucine and Bedros are standing, then return to the governor. She does this when she thinks the children are listening, but their English has improved. And they know about the dozen students who were killed in the town of Gemerek.
“You mustn’t believe everything you hear,” the governor responds in Turkish.
“And what about my brother, Nazareth? Is there any news about where he is stationed?” she asks, fingering the tiny cross at her neck again.
“No, hanim. I’m afraid there’s very little I can do. These orders are from central government.” He clicks away at the worry beads in his hand. “Unless, of course . . .”
Mairig waits.
“Your eldest daughter consented to take an oath to Allah and became my bride, then as my extended family, I could offer all of you some measure of protection.”
When Mairig does not respond, the governor adds, “Please understand that I may not be in the position to make this offer again.”
“Yes, yes, I understand. But it’s not possible. She is betrothed to someone else,” she says finally.
“Oh? To whom?”
Yes, to whom? wonders Lucine.
“Armen Haritunian, from Kharpert,” Mairig answers, pressing the cross further into her skin.
Armen was a young suitor whose nose was so far up in the air that Uncle Nazareth took it upon himself to put laxatives in his lokma. The sounds that came out of his rear as he scurried out the door were enough to dissuade Anush from the match. The name of Armen Haritunian is always followed by peals of laughter in the family.
“I see. Well, I may be able to hide Anush and Lucine. Temporarily, of course, until things settle down.”
His words sting Lucine to the core. She tightens her grip on Bedros’s branch, wishing it were made of steel. Mairig must be shocked at the offer too, because she drops the tray of pastries she is about to serve. Bits of flakey dough and sugared walnuts scatter across the rug. Aram squeals with delight on her hip.
Mairig’s eyes trace the path where her pastries have fallen. After a long silence, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s a generous offer. I know aiding an Armenian is punishable by death and I thank you, but I don’t think I can bear to leave anyone behind.”
The governor nods, tucks his worry beads into his sleeve, and rises.
“I will look after your property until you return. Until then, may Allah be with you.”
FOR SOMEONE WHO doesn’t want to leave, Mairig moves in a frenzy. She goes from room to room, fussing over their things. She puts things inside the oxcart, then takes them out again. She has Anush and Lucine sew secret pouches into their clothing where they tuck lira, coins, and jewelry. Everything else, they will leave behind. All their treasures—the Oriental rug with red silk, the silver trays that were part of Mairig’s dowry, and the dozens of books that made up the library—will be abandoned. Bedros’s job is to bury some of these in the courtyard.
Mairig tucks the deed to the house inside one of Hairig’s history books and asks Bedros to bury it separately. Lucine helps Bedros pick a spot in a deep but small hole under the mulberry tree where their father likes to sit. She wonders if Hairig will ever read under that tree again and if anything will ever be as it once was.
All this preparing feels useful until Lucine remembers what they’re preparing for. She thinks of the chicken women wringing their hands, and the panicked look on the men’s faces when
“By oxcart?”
“You can’t stay here, hanim. You must all go.”
“And what about our men?” Mairig asks. She picks at the cross at her neck, digging one of its points into the hollow of her neck where a scar is beginning to form.
“They are being held for questioning. That is all. The men will be released later, at which point you will all be reunited.”
“Like the students at Gemerek were questioned?” Mairig asks the question in English. Her eyes dart to where Lucine and Bedros are standing, then return to the governor. She does this when she thinks the children are listening, but their English has improved. And they know about the dozen students who were killed in the town of Gemerek.
“You mustn’t believe everything you hear,” the governor responds in Turkish.
“And what about my brother, Nazareth? Is there any news about where he is stationed?” she asks, fingering the tiny cross at her neck again.
“No, hanim. I’m afraid there’s very little I can do. These orders are from central government.” He clicks away at the worry beads in his hand. “Unless, of course . . .”
Mairig waits.
“Your eldest daughter consented to take an oath to Allah and became my bride, then as my extended family, I could offer all of you some measure of protection.”
When Mairig does not respond, the governor adds, “Please understand that I may not be in the position to make this offer again.”
“Yes, yes, I understand. But it’s not possible. She is betrothed to someone else,” she says finally.
“Oh? To whom?”
Yes, to whom? wonders Lucine.
“Armen Haritunian, from Kharpert,” Mairig answers, pressing the cross further into her skin.
Armen was a young suitor whose nose was so far up in the air that Uncle Nazareth took it upon himself to put laxatives in his lokma. The sounds that came out of his rear as he scurried out the door were enough to dissuade Anush from the match. The name of Armen Haritunian is always followed by peals of laughter in the family.
“I see. Well, I may be able to hide Anush and Lucine. Temporarily, of course, until things settle down.”
His words sting Lucine to the core. She tightens her grip on Bedros’s branch, wishing it were made of steel. Mairig must be shocked at the offer too, because she drops the tray of pastries she is about to serve. Bits of flakey dough and sugared walnuts scatter across the rug. Aram squeals with delight on her hip.
Mairig’s eyes trace the path where her pastries have fallen. After a long silence, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s a generous offer. I know aiding an Armenian is punishable by death and I thank you, but I don’t think I can bear to leave anyone behind.”
The governor nods, tucks his worry beads into his sleeve, and rises.
“I will look after your property until you return. Until then, may Allah be with you.”
FOR SOMEONE WHO doesn’t want to leave, Mairig moves in a frenzy. She goes from room to room, fussing over their things. She puts things inside the oxcart, then takes them out again. She has Anush and Lucine sew secret pouches into their clothing where they tuck lira, coins, and jewelry. Everything else, they will leave behind. All their treasures—the Oriental rug with red silk, the silver trays that were part of Mairig’s dowry, and the dozens of books that made up the library—will be abandoned. Bedros’s job is to bury some of these in the courtyard.
Mairig tucks the deed to the house inside one of Hairig’s history books and asks Bedros to bury it separately. Lucine helps Bedros pick a spot in a deep but small hole under the mulberry tree where their father likes to sit. She wonders if Hairig will ever read under that tree again and if anything will ever be as it once was.
All this preparing feels useful until Lucine remembers what they’re preparing for. She thinks of the chicken women wringing their hands, and the panicked look on the men’s faces when
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