The Hunger by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch Page A

slow, nonetheless. By nightfall, the deportees were only a mile outside the eastern gates of Marash. The soldiers let theirprisoners prepare food and settle down to sleep under the stars.
    Since they had so recently departed, the stores of food were still plentiful. Marta and Kevork were each issued a small loaf of bread drizzled with olive oil, a few ounces of hard cheese, and a flask of water.
    Marta marvelled at the oily bread and was amazed at how hungry the sight of it made her feel. She took a huge bite and relished in the sensation of olive oil dripping down her chin. She ate every last crumb of bread and every bit of cheese with a vague sense of triumph. The Turks may wish us to die, she thought, but I’m not about to co-operate.
    The next morning, one of the women complained that her legs hurt and she couldn’t walk. Aunt Anna tried to pull the woman to her feet, but she just sat back down on the ground, refusing to budge. A soldier who couldn’t have been any more than seventeen was passing by. “Get that woman on her feet!” he screamed. Anna looked up at him. “You’re Armenian,” she said. “What are you doing fighting with the Turks?” The young soldier paled.
    Just then, Captain Mahmoud Sayyid came riding by. He looked at Anna, and then at the woman.
    “I’ll get her to move for you,” he said, flicking the whip across the woman’s face. The other deportees hurried by the scene, averting their eyes. The woman who had been whipped slumped downonto the roadside. With quiet dignity, she looked into the eyes of her tormentor. “Kill me now, if you must,” she challenged.
    Anna tried to pull her to her feet, but she refused to move. Another soldier passed by. He surveyed the scene, then casually took out his gun and shot the woman in the chest. She fell back, dead.
    The other deportees who were still forming the column close by, turned their heads away and walked on. Anna, who was spattered with the woman’s blood, had slumped down to the ground in a faint. The Armenian soldier got off his horse, picked her up, and hoisted her across his saddle like a sack. The body of the woman was left where it was a warning to all who would be tardy.
    Each day of marching was like the last. Every day, a few more people would refuse to go further, and they were either left at the side of the road to fend for themselves in the wilderness, or they were shot.
    Marta, still dressed as a boy, was thankful that she blended in. Aside from her, there were a few other girls dressed as boys, and Anna, whose strange paleness repelled the soldiers. All of the other females left in the column were children and grandmothers.
    As the days wore on, the column of deportees inched closer to the heat of the desert. Each day, the stores of food became scarcer, as did the water. Martawas grateful for the Turkish gold pounds sewn into her clothing. She traded one of the coins for a leather pouch filled with raisins and a flask of water. She supplemented her daily ration of a stale piece of mouldy bread and a cup of water with her own life-saving supply of nourishment.
    Anna and Mr. Karellian walked at the end of the column, keeping their eyes open for stray children. Once, while the group was resting at the end of a gruelling day, a Turkish woman came by, inspecting the children, looking for a suitable boy. She spotted a relatively healthy four-year-old and squatted by his side.
    “Would you like to be my son?” she asked, handing the boy a cup of water. He drank it greedily. Anna walked over to the woman. “You Turks belong in hell,” she said. The woman looked up sadly. She paused, looked back at the little boy and said, “I can’t change the world, but I can save a little boy.”
    The child wanted to go with the woman, so Anna shrugged her shoulders and called after him, “Go! But always remember: you are Armenian.”
    One day, the gendarmes ordered the deportees to divide into two groups. One was for all the married people,