I hear Mariam’s voice again.
“At last, the long walk came to an end. We came to a town, and the soldiers said ‘This is Osmaniye, it has a train station. You will wait in a nearby camp for the train to Syria.’
They put us into a village of tents. I was so scared, because the tents were surrounded by iron spiked fences: it was like being in a cage. And Grandma was shouting, many of the women were shouting, asking for food and water, but there was none.
There were so many of us in our tent, several families. Nothing happened for two days, then someone handed out water but no food. Grandma became very weak, she could do nothing but lie on the ground under the tent.
And then bread was handed out. They gave some to me but not to Sara, so I shared mine with her and Grandma. But Grandma couldn’t eat.
We were so crowded, and itchy; our clothes began to be full of insects. ‘Fleas and lice’ said Grandma, but she was too weak to do anything; she just lay there with the insects biting her. I tried to pick them off. And she said ‘Don’t bother, Mariam. Let them bite.’
I don’t know how long we were in the tents, but I had a headache – so, so terrible. I also had a fever, like I was on fire, and I could not look at the light, I had to keep my eyes closed. My whole body ached. Then one day, I found I could look around again, and the headache was less. But I felt so tired, like I wanted to lie down forever.
The next day, Grandma started to get ill, just like me. The fever was so bad, she said she was in a fire from Hell. And she was coughing and covered in sores, not just from the insect bites but from the illness. And then she seemed to come awake again. She could not sit up, but she looked at me and Sara, and told us she had a dream. In her dream, the soldiers – the ones who took Father away – got out guns, and killed him.
Sara started shouting ‘They killed my Father! The soldiers killed my Father!’ It was the middle of the night, and two soldiers came into our tent, they told her to shut up, but she kept on shouting. And then they dragged her away, and other soldiers held me down while they took her away. I could hear her screaming, it went on and on. And then suddenly it stopped.
Grandma did not wake up the next morning; her eyes were open and her skin was cold: I knew she was dead. Grandma and Sara had both left me, and gone away to heaven. I didn’t know what to do, I just cried and cried, but then other men came, and they pulled me out of the tent, and made me stand up. They were not soldiers, but they had guns, and they pushed me and everyone else at the camp with the guns, to make us move to the train. The train was a line of many wooden trucks, like boxes. All of us who were still alive were pushed up steps into the trucks. There were about a hundred people with me inside the truck. Then the men slammed the door and bolted it.
But the train didn’t move. It got very hot in the truck. So many people had the fever; we lay piled on each other on the floor of the truck. And then the train started moving, for hours. Finally, it stopped.
The doors of the truck opened. Those of us who could move sat up, and looked out. Someone said ‘Is this Syria?’ and there was a soldier there, a big tall man with a whip, and he said ‘For you, this is Syria.’
Then the big man hit a woman with the whip, she was screaming and couldn’t stop, but his shouting was louder, telling us again and again to get out of the truck. There were no steps; we just fell down by the tracks. He was whipping people until we were all out of the truck, and other men were doing the same in each of the other trucks. And then the train started moving again, and it went off into the distance, leaving us all lying beside the tracks.
I had little strength left, but I looked around. It was a flat, stony white plain, and so hot, as if the air was on fire. And I looked out, and among the white stones, I could see bones. There were bones everywhere. A few had rags of clothing, and I could tell by the style of the clothes that all these bones had been Armenian people.
None of us moved. We were weak, we had no food or water, and everyone had the fever. All we could do was lie in the hot sun, like meat on a burning griddle.
When I awoke, I could hear strange voices. Then a man came over, and then a woman. I was lying in a bed, in a cool, white room.
Later, I learned that the man and his wife were missionaries. They were called Karl and Paula Clements, and they were from America. They had been travelling from Damascus to Tehran, in Iran. They had found me alongside the railway line; I was the only person still alive. They had taken me along with them, and we were in a hospital in Tehran when I woke up.
From Tehran they brought me here to Baku, to the orphanage that they were in charge of. They taught me to speak English, and I had many other lessons too, and on Sundays we all went to the Armenian church in Baku. I hurt so much, inside, with the bad memories. But I loved Karl and Paula. I was at the orphanage for two years. Then, Karl and Paula were taken away by the Red Guards.”
There’s a sound, and Mariam looks up: we all do. The door is flung open: a soldier stands there in a scruffy, torn uniform, and barks at us. “Interrogation will be conducted now! I need Agnes Frocester.”
31
Through the trapdoor
The soldier leads me down the stairs, back to the lobby with the statue of blind Justice, and opens a door into an office. As I’m led through the door, I glance back across the lobby. General Aristarkhov is there, sitting on a bench against the far wall. A soldier with a gun sits on another bench, guarding him. Then the office door closes behind me. Kılıç Pasha and I are alone.
He sits in a padded leather chair, behind a wide desk covered with lists and maps; heavy books hold down the curled corners of the largest map. His hand goes to the pocket of his trousers; he pulls out a packet of cigarettes.
“Smoke?”
“I don’t, thank you.”
“Very well – Agnes.” He smiles. “Your Western names, they can be quite attractive.”
Kılıç lights his own cigarette, all the while looking at me with those huge deep eyes. His teeth are white and regular; his hair is immaculately groomed. I realise that he’s very aware of his striking good looks, and their impact on others, especially women. He smiles again.
“A drink? You look like you could use one. It would help you relax a little, loosen up, you know? These Russians have left a bottle of vodka here. Judging by the label, it’s the finest quality.”
I refuse politely as he gets out a bottle labelled “Smirnov” and puts it on the table. He smiles again as I watch him pour a large measure into a glass.
“You want to say something, don’t you, Agnes? Speak your mind, please.”
“I – didn’t realise that Muslims drank.”
He sips his drink before replying. “I was right – it’s very good vodka! And your question, Agnes – it’s exactly the one I expected you to ask. But you may be surprised by my answer. I’m not a Muslim.”
“Oh.”
“The Qu’ran, just like the Bible, talks about a merciful and compassionate Deity. But I believe in your Mr Darwin, and the survival of the fittest. Mercy and compassion are for the weak.”
I don’t answer him. He puts down his glass, and then he takes the cigarette and stabs the glowing butt into the finely-veneered table. A burnt stain radiates from it: he watches the little black pattern for a few seconds, as if fascinated by it. Then he looks straight into my eyes.
“I have faith in strength, in power. I am a member of the Young Turk movement, and I believe in the destiny of a wider, pan-Asiatic Turkey. My inspiration is the power wielded by the ancestors of the Turks: Asian heroes such as Attila the Hun and Genghis Khan. The power of the Turkish race – before it was softened and weakened by religion. Power without mercy.”