The two soldiers leave the cell; within a minute, they reappear. Between them, they hold General Aristarkhov. Like Yuri, he’s been allowed to wear his uniform in the jail. He looks none the worse for his imprisonment; in fact, he has his usual bold, noble bearing. He looks at each of our faces in turn, as if viewing a range of pictures in a gallery. Then he turns to Kılıç Pasha.
“Unlike the rest of these prisoners, I represent the Bolshevik Russians, who until recently were the rulers of Baku.”
Kılıç shrugs. “What is that to me?”
“It is of the utmost importance. Under the treaty of Brest-Litovsk, which was signed by your own ruler Talaat Pasha, Russia retained sovereignty over Baku. By invading the city – and by taking me prisoner – you have put yourself in breach of that treaty.”
Yuri interrupts the conversation. He looks straight into Kılıç Pasha’s handsome face.
“I’m not a supporter of General Aristarkhov. But what he says about the treaty is true. Do you want a resumption of the war with Russia? Or to put it more precisely – do you want Talaat Pasha and the Turkish government to blame you, Kılıç Pasha, for reopening hostilities with Russia?”
Kılıç pauses, and Yuri presses home his argument.
“If war does break out with Russia, I’m sure Talaat Pasha will forgive you. He is such a compassionate man.”
Axelson can’t help it: he bursts into a loud guffaw. Aristarkhov seizes his opportunity.
“As I have a high position within the Russian government, I would be very happy to agree a mutually satisfactory settlement for the future of Baku with you, Kılıç Pasha. I can make an agreement with you that will not violate the terms of the Brest-Litovsk Treaty – but that will secure for the Ottoman Empire the oil supplies that it so desperately needs.”
The professor stands, and steps forward. “Gentlemen. Such an agreement must include the safe passage out of Baku for all these persons here in this cell. Kılıç Pasha – as a man of honor – can you include that in your agreement with General Aristarkhov?”
Kılıç is thinking. He looks at each of our faces; the professor’s wise demeanor, lined with exhaustion; Yuri’s calm, almost smiling face; Rufus and the young girl, both wide-eyed and anxious, and Aristarkhov’s proud, unbowed bearing. Finally, Kılıç comes to a decision.
“I will speak to you first, General Aristarkhov – alone. Then, maybe, I will talk to others in your group. For the present, none of you will be harmed. You will all be kept here in this cell. Do not try to cause any trouble.”
There’s no electric light, but a tiny grille looks out onto a small courtyard, level with our cell. The courtyard is surrounded by high, blank walls, but a little daylight filters down from the blue square of sky high above. I go over to the girl and sit next to her, a silent effort to give some comfort. At one point we hear a scream from outside: a piercing, squealing sound. The girl looks into the distance, as if we’re not surrounded by stone walls, and says one word.
“Sara.”
There’s silence outside now. The girl is looking straight ahead; each of us glances at her, hardly daring to breathe. But after a few moments the professor shakes his head fatefully. He speaks to the girl.
“Who is Sara?”
She replies in English, with that strange American twang. “Sara was my sister. I want to be with her.”
“Where is she?”
“In heaven.”
The professor pauses. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him so tentative, so uncertain. After a few minutes, he echoes her statement. “You say you want to see Sara in heaven?”
“And all my family. They live in heaven now. I don’t want to be here on earth anymore. I want to be with them, to fly away, so I don’t have to see the bones again.”
Axelson speaks gently and slowly. He doesn’t bother with the usual tones and cadences of his hypnotic voice. He simply asks.
“Tell me your story.”
For a brief moment, light slants through the grille; the beams touch specks of dust in the air, illuminating them like tiny stars. The girl begins to speak.
“I am Mariam. I don’t remember my mother: she died when Sara was born, when I was two years old. We grew up with my Father and Grandma. Father was kind and gentle, but he could not be with us during the day, because he worked in a bank in our city, Tarsus. He worked hard, but his work paid for a beautiful house. My Grandma looked after our house, and we had two servants too.
One day, about three years ago, the soldiers came to our street. It was a Sunday, and we had just got home after church. I looked out of the upstairs window and I saw the men in their Turkish Army uniforms, standing outside Mr Gulbenkian’s house. Then a few moments later, Grandma said ‘There are soldiers at our door, too.’ And Father said ‘I will go and talk to them’.
He was there at the door talking to them for a long time. The soldiers were showing Father a piece of paper, they said it was an order from the government. The order said that Father must go away with them. The soldiers were explaining to him ‘It is wartime – men like you must work for the Ottoman Empire’. Father held me and Sara very close, he kissed us and said goodbye to us. Then he was gone.
A few days later, I was walking home from school when I saw lots of furniture and carpets in the middle of the road, and a man was shouting out prices. I went over and looked, and I recognised the furniture. I said to the man ‘This is Mrs Poghossian’s rug!’ He laughed at me and told me there was a new law. Nothing could belong to Mrs Poghossian, or to any Armenian, any more. Everything we owned belonged to the Turkish people now. I didn’t understand, so I went home.
Grandma was out on the street in front of our house, and all our furniture was there, and Sara was there, crying, and there were men carrying out our carpets. They said we had to leave our home, because there were new homes for all Armenians, in a place called Syria.
I said to one of the men ‘How will we get to Syria?’ and he said ‘These soldiers will get you to Syria.’ The soldiers were standing there, holding guns. They stood around all the children from my school, and their mothers, and all the old men who lived on our street. All the younger men had gone already, of course.
I thought Syria would not be far, but I was so sad we were leaving, and scared, because I did not understand. I wished Father was there. The soldiers said we had to march. We marched right out of Tarsus into the countryside, and did not stop until it was dark; we were glad it was summer, because the night was not too cold. But when I woke in the morning, I heard wailing and crying. ‘Anoush has gone!’ An older girl, Anoush, had disappeared. And then we realised others had gone too – many of the young women; they had been taken away in the night. And I felt very afraid, but the soldiers said we had to move on.
After that I can’t remember well; the road was hot and stony, Sara and Grandma struggled to get along. The road went on for ever.”
Mariam pauses. We all sit quietly in the gloomy cell, waiting for her to resume. A hundred things are going through my mind. It’s silly of me, but her American accent gives me the feeling that she’s not talking about some faraway place in Turkey. It’s like the illusion I had on the streets of Yekaterinburg: I see the houses and people of my hometown.
The little beam of light has gone now. I glance out through the grille into the courtyard. It’s just a blank space, a few yards square. There are tall brick walls on every side, and a concrete floor. In the centre of the floor is an iron hatch. Perhaps it’s a place of execution; a place where a gallows could be erected, and the hatch could function as a trapdoor below a noose.