“Well?”
Axelson replies, choosing every word. “We are all three of us Jews, from overseas. We are a diplomatic mission to the Turkish government.”
“I know nothing about the Turks, except they have paid me and others to help them capture Baku. Now that we are victorious, the Turkish Army is allowing mercenaries like me to plunder the city first, as is traditional in the Ottoman Empire. We’ve been told we may do anything we like to the women – except Jewish ones.”
He lowers his gun, sliding it down the professor’s cheek, then pointing it away from us. There is almost a concerned look in his eyes, as if he is giving us advice. “You three Jews – take care, above all things, that you are not mistaken for Armenians.”
Then he steps away from us, and waves us cordially on our way.
We walk on. None of us say anything: we are all stunned by the encounter. I feel chilled to the bone by the man’s words. The air is now strangely quiet: the buzzing sound has gone. The street is empty. We’re now just one block from the courthouse. We turn a corner, and I step immediately into a deep pool.
Blood covers my shoes.
I lift my head, my eyes look in front of me, like an automaton. My skin is like ice: I feel blood drain from my face, my arms and legs. I have no control of my body: there’s warmth running down the inside of my thighs, as my bladder opens involuntarily.
The street is completely covered with naked bodies. All of them are children.
“Come this way.” The professor is pulling me back from the scene: he’s noticed an alley leading away from the horror. On one side the alley is closed in by a long wall; on the other, buildings tower above it, and scores of windows look down on us. There could be armed men at any window. But we just walk, without speaking. I don’t even look up at the windows for snipers. I’m almost unaware of my surroundings; I put one foot in front of the other, and after two minutes the open door of the courthouse appears in front of us.
Wordlessly, we go in. There is no-one at all inside. The marble floor, the ornate pillars, and the classical-style statue of blindfolded Justice, a nude woman holding a sword and scales, all seem like an obscene joke. I see the rooms and corridors of the courthouse passing before my eyes, as if in a dream. We come to a door marked “Cells”, and push it open. Then we follow a flight of steps upwards.
At the top of the stairs, a passageway is lined with heavy wooden doors. Each has a small window in it, and at the first window, I see a face.
“Agnes!”
The face I see, the voice I hear, is Yuri’s. But the sound seems to come to me across a great empty distance.
The slaughtered children fill my sight; I don’t know what is real anymore. I must be dreaming, because one of the murdered victims is right in front of me, in the cell-lined corridor, standing and speaking as if still alive.
The little girl is talking to me, talking to Rufus, and to the professor. In my crazy dream, she is speaking in English, with an American accent. She’s about twelve years old. Brown hair frames an oval, olive-skinned face, and she wears a simple white smock. The dead child is holding out a bunch of keys and pointing to the cell doors, Axelson is taking the keys from her, speaking to her, this flesh-and-blood ghost…
“You fainted for a moment there, Miss Agnes.”
Professor Axelson is speaking. I open my eyes. I’m sitting on a wood-slatted bed in Yuri’s cell. Four faces surround me; the professor, Yuri, Rufus – and the girl. I speak.
“Was it real – what we saw, out there on the street?”
The professor nods gravely. “Baku, I’m afraid, has become a human slaughterhouse. We can only hope that our ship is in the harbor – and that it hasn’t been sunk by the bombardment. Perhaps we can still get there. This young girl is Armenian: she came up here to the prison cells to hide. We must take her with us: to leave her in Baku would be the cruellest form of murder.”
I look at the girl, my eyes staring and blinking stupidly. Get a grip, Agnes. I try to speak sensibly. “Do we have keys for the other cells? Are there other prisoners in here?”
Yuri looks at me. I hear the voice I’ve missed for so long.
“I’m glad to see the color coming back to your cheeks, Agnes. And to answer your question – yes, there is one other prisoner in these cells, someone you know. I couldn’t believe it when I saw him brought in here! But let’s forget old grudges. I’m going to try the other keys, one by one, in his cell door, and release General Aristarkhov. Then all of us must get to the harbor.”
Yuri stands up, holding the bunch of keys. But he gets no further. Our eyes all swivel to the open door of the cell. It’s filled by the figure of a tall, powerful man. Behind his shoulders stand two soldiers, brandishing guns with saw-edged bayonets.
The man’s uniform is pale brown, like sand: his chest is covered with medals, and a gold chain extends from his shoulder to his waist. He wears a tall fez, below which I see a startlingly handsome face, like that of a Mediterranean god. My gaze takes in his perfect olive skin, his strong classical nose, and eyes like deep, limpid pools. Judging by his uniform, he’s a very senior officer, but his physique beneath the uniform is athletic and youthful. His full lips part in a smile, as he speaks in perfect Russian.
“Don’t think about trying to escape. Baku is now part of the Ottoman Empire, and you are all my prisoners.”
30
The memory of bones
There’s a moment’s silence, then the man stares at Yuri.
“Give me those keys.”
Yuri looks at the light glinting on the soldiers’ bayonets. He drops the bunch of keys into the man’s outstretched hand. The man looks at us all with those clear, deep-brown eyes, and speaks again.
“Now, all of you – hand over that Armenian child. She is not part of your group. She is booty for the mercenaries and irregular soldiers.”
Yuri is still standing in the middle of our cell. He holds the intruder in his gaze; his voice is low and polite, but seems to echo off the walls.
“Who are you, sir?”
The man’s face hardens. “I’m Commander Kılıç Pasha, of the Ottoman Army of the Caucasus.”
“Kılıç Pasha, I am Captain Yuri Sirko of the Tsar’s Astrakhan Cossack Host. The Armenian girl is under my personal protection.”
The man glances back at his two soldiers; he speaks contemptuously. “Take the girl away.”
The soldiers step forward. One of them angles the point of his bayonet towards Yuri’s neck. But Yuri looks unblinking into Kılıç Pasha’s eyes, and speaks again in that soft but compelling voice.
“I have some knowledge of Turkish soldiery. You have a strong code of honor.”
“You are right: we are men of honor, who abide by our promises. We pledged not to harm any Jews in the taking of Baku, and we are honoring that promise. But our pledge does not extend to Armenians, or to any legitimate prizes, including the female population of any city that resists our Empire. So, my decision about the girl is final.”
Yuri simply continues talking.
“I speak as one soldier to another, Kılıç Pasha. Like you Turks, we Cossacks also have our honor. A Cossack will keep any promise that he makes.”
“So?”
“I made a promise to defend this little girl. I will do that with my life. So you and your men can expect to die, if you take another step toward her.”
“We are the ones with the guns.”
Yuri says nothing. He simply stands and looks: the cell seems filled with his presence. Kılıç Pasha stares at him. Then he makes a movement with his head, and the soldiers step back.
“Very well. Leave the girl – for the moment. Bring the other prisoner, the older man in the cell at the end of the corridor, into this cell. We will keep all the prisoners together.”