on foot, he left the compound.
As soon as he was beyond the gates, Miss Younger rushed to the bloodied body that had been Paris. Miss Younger gently picked it up and carried it away.
Deportation
Most everyone had left the central courtyard—the “adults” to tie up the last details of their lives, the children to run off their pent-up energy. Not a few followed Miss Younger.
Marta remained in the courtyard, as did Kevork. Now that they were alone, he clasped her hand in his. “Whatever happens,” he said. “We will be together.”
Hand in hand, they walked to the spot where the Captain’s horse had stood. “Do you think Mariam will get out of this alive?” Marta asked Kevork, kicking the dirt with the tip of her boot, as if by hiding the impressions of the horse’s hooves, she could change her sister’s fate.
“Mariam’s more resilient than she looks,” replied Kevork.
That night, as Marta lay in her dormitory bed, her mind jumbled in confusion with all that had happened. Where was her little brother, Onnig? And what about her grandmother? She now also recalled an aunt and cousins. They too had been staying with her grandmother. Had they all been killed, or were they among the first of the Armenians to be exiled from Marash? And Marta was sick with fear over the fate of her sister, Mariam. Should she have insisted that Mariam dress up as a boy, like she had herself? Would Mariam be safer with the Captain, or on thedeportation march? These problems spun through Marta’s head until the early hours of the morning when she finally fell into an exhausted sleep.
At seven a.m. sharp, Turkish soldiers on horses arrived at the orphanage gates. Each carried a whip. The officer in charge was again Captain Mahmoud Sayyid, who jumped off his horse and looked at the handful of doomed Armenians, each of whom carried their worldly possessions on their backs.
Marta, Kevork and Miss Younger stood nervously beside a wagon, packed to the brim, with a donkey ready to pull it.
“What’s in the wagon?” asked Captain Mahmoud Sayyid, strutting in front of them.
“I am sending extra supplies,” said Miss Younger.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said
“... But...” started Miss Younger.
“Leave it here!”
At this point Mr. Muller, one of the German missionaries, approached Miss Younger and the Captain and asked if he could speak to him “man to man.” Miss Younger walked away in frustration. Marta watched the conversation with curiosity and noticed the sunlight gleam on several Turkish gold pounds as they passed from Mr. Midler’s hands to the Captain’s hands. Then the officer walked away, ignoring the wagon.
The handful of deportees from the orphanage were escorted out the gates with the sobs of anguishedteachers and orphans at their backs. By the time they got to the centre of Marash, they were joined by thousands of others.
With the hot sun beating down, the column of deportees slowly snaked its way out the gates of Marash and in the direction of the desert. Marta, in her boy’s outfit, kept close to Kevork, and the two of them made an effort to stay towards the end of the column, amidst a cluster of men. Mr. Karellian and Aunt Anna were with them too, but Tante Maria had somehow disappeared from sight. Marta prayed that she had been spirited away by Miss Younger. Marta also prayed for Miriam’s survival.
Just in front of them hobbled elderly women and men, and when someone had trouble continuing on, the able-bodied men would take turns assisting them. There was also a cluster of adolescent girls who had somehow been designated as “adults” and sent on this exile. The men tried their best to protect them from the bands of Turkish youths who jeered from the side of the road. Marta saw the humiliation in the faces of the taunted girls and she was grateful not to be one of them.
Soldiers rode up and down the long column with whips that cut at the heels of stragglers, but the pace was tortuously
As soon as he was beyond the gates, Miss Younger rushed to the bloodied body that had been Paris. Miss Younger gently picked it up and carried it away.
Deportation
Most everyone had left the central courtyard—the “adults” to tie up the last details of their lives, the children to run off their pent-up energy. Not a few followed Miss Younger.
Marta remained in the courtyard, as did Kevork. Now that they were alone, he clasped her hand in his. “Whatever happens,” he said. “We will be together.”
Hand in hand, they walked to the spot where the Captain’s horse had stood. “Do you think Mariam will get out of this alive?” Marta asked Kevork, kicking the dirt with the tip of her boot, as if by hiding the impressions of the horse’s hooves, she could change her sister’s fate.
“Mariam’s more resilient than she looks,” replied Kevork.
That night, as Marta lay in her dormitory bed, her mind jumbled in confusion with all that had happened. Where was her little brother, Onnig? And what about her grandmother? She now also recalled an aunt and cousins. They too had been staying with her grandmother. Had they all been killed, or were they among the first of the Armenians to be exiled from Marash? And Marta was sick with fear over the fate of her sister, Mariam. Should she have insisted that Mariam dress up as a boy, like she had herself? Would Mariam be safer with the Captain, or on thedeportation march? These problems spun through Marta’s head until the early hours of the morning when she finally fell into an exhausted sleep.
At seven a.m. sharp, Turkish soldiers on horses arrived at the orphanage gates. Each carried a whip. The officer in charge was again Captain Mahmoud Sayyid, who jumped off his horse and looked at the handful of doomed Armenians, each of whom carried their worldly possessions on their backs.
Marta, Kevork and Miss Younger stood nervously beside a wagon, packed to the brim, with a donkey ready to pull it.
“What’s in the wagon?” asked Captain Mahmoud Sayyid, strutting in front of them.
“I am sending extra supplies,” said Miss Younger.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said
“... But...” started Miss Younger.
“Leave it here!”
At this point Mr. Muller, one of the German missionaries, approached Miss Younger and the Captain and asked if he could speak to him “man to man.” Miss Younger walked away in frustration. Marta watched the conversation with curiosity and noticed the sunlight gleam on several Turkish gold pounds as they passed from Mr. Midler’s hands to the Captain’s hands. Then the officer walked away, ignoring the wagon.
The handful of deportees from the orphanage were escorted out the gates with the sobs of anguishedteachers and orphans at their backs. By the time they got to the centre of Marash, they were joined by thousands of others.
With the hot sun beating down, the column of deportees slowly snaked its way out the gates of Marash and in the direction of the desert. Marta, in her boy’s outfit, kept close to Kevork, and the two of them made an effort to stay towards the end of the column, amidst a cluster of men. Mr. Karellian and Aunt Anna were with them too, but Tante Maria had somehow disappeared from sight. Marta prayed that she had been spirited away by Miss Younger. Marta also prayed for Miriam’s survival.
Just in front of them hobbled elderly women and men, and when someone had trouble continuing on, the able-bodied men would take turns assisting them. There was also a cluster of adolescent girls who had somehow been designated as “adults” and sent on this exile. The men tried their best to protect them from the bands of Turkish youths who jeered from the side of the road. Marta saw the humiliation in the faces of the taunted girls and she was grateful not to be one of them.
Soldiers rode up and down the long column with whips that cut at the heels of stragglers, but the pace was tortuously
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