“We are border guards: you are entering Iran!”
We wave back at him. His fellow sentry has woken now, and he’s standing up. The first guard calls to us. “Come and sit down for a few minutes! Rest after your journey! Where have you come from?”
He gestures us, with old-fashioned courtesy, towards the deck chairs. We all flop down into them. Waves of relief flood through me. The men offer us water, but we say we’ve had plenty. Both the sentries smile genially at us.
One of them repeats his question.
“Where have you come from?”
“Back there – Turkey.”
This time, the guard’s voice is slightly sharper. “The Persian Road? Doğubayazıt?”
Neither the professor nor Yuri reply. I look at my two friends. They are sitting, open-mouthed. Both have guns pointing into their faces.
The professor regains some of his composure, and starts to explain.“You misunderstand! We’re not from the Ottoman Empire, you know.”
The sentry looks closely at each of us in turn before replying to the professor. “I believe you. You three are not Ottoman citizens.”
The professor nods. “Exactly. We’re not Turkish.”
The guard replies. “I agree – you’re not Turkish.” He smiles slowly, then speaks again.
“But I am.”
We stare at him in dismay. He carries on. “For security, military forces of the Ottoman Empire are currently occupying all Iranian border posts. We have many problems to deal with. For example, I had a report today that one of our trucks was stolen.”
35
A quiet Ulysses
The professor tells me that we’re half a mile from Europe. Across a narrow strip of water, I can see the finger of land they call Gallipoli, where so many young men, many of them from faraway Australia and New Zealand, died in the disastrous battles of 1915. The terrible losses were senselessly futile: the land is now reoccupied by the Ottoman Empire.
We’re imprisoned in the Sultan’s Fortress at Canakkale. I look out through a little iron-barred window at the Dardanelles Straits, that divide Asia from Europe. In the water I can see rusty wreckage and broken masts: the pathetic remains of the Allied battleships sunk in the shallow waters of the Straits in the Gallipoli attack. The bodies of hundreds of British and French sailors lie in those iron graves.
Our journey to Canakkale, in handcuffs and railway trucks across Turkey, took two weeks. Since then, the professor, Yuri and I have been in this prison another two weeks. It’s now nearly the end of October, but even though summer is over, during the day our cell gets horribly hot and airless. There is no privacy at all. Every day, I feel grateful that the professor and Yuri are considerate and sensitive men.
Rumors abound; every day we hear a new, improbable story from our guards – the Kaiser has surrendered, Talaat Pasha has killed himself, Lawrence of Arabia and a band of Arabs have captured Istanbul. The guards also tell us that our letters of appeal to our nations’ ambassadors have been sent on to them. And I’ve received letters: one from Emily, who is now living in Moscow; another from Rufus. He, Mariam and all the Ararat villagers got across the Aras River, with the help of Armenian border guards. They are all now safely in Yeravan.
As I gaze out through the tiny window towards Gallipoli, I think: our guards don’t take their work seriously at all. It doesn’t help that none of them even have uniforms; they wear threadbare civilian clothes. I think they are given a little food, and no pay, to guard us. I’m sure they’d release us, if we had any Turkish cash to offer them.
In the last few days, the guards have spent much of their time joking with us through the little hatch in the door of our cell. We converse in a mixture of broken English and the few Turkish phrases we’ve managed to pick up. Despite their lack of discipline, they are in good spirits: they say that in a few days the war will be over, and we can all go home. One of them is calling to me now, through the hatch.
“Hey lady, are you looking forward to getting out of this hole? I am, for sure. I want to get back home, see my brothers, back in Tarsus. I’ve been here at the Sultan’s Fortress for four years.”
I nod. “I know a little girl who came from Tarsus.”
“I’ve heard about your Bible. Saint Paul, he was from Tarsus, you know? ‘I am a citizen of no mean city’ – that’s what Saint Paul said.”
“My friend was Armenian.”
“There’s some good shops run by the Armenians in Tarsus. Nice stuff, you know – clothes, carpets, furniture.”
I don’t tell him that all those shops will be gone now, but I smile at him. As I do, I hear a different voice; sharply edged.
“What are you saying to that prisoner, guard?”
The man salutes nervously. “Sir – ah…”
“Get back to your duties, or you’ll find yourself in a cell.”
Our cell door opens, and Kılıç Pasha walks in.
Yuri and the professor were both snoozing: now all three of us are shocked awake, staring at our visitor. His shoes gleam like quicksilver, his uniform is freshly pressed; he looks immaculate.
“I heard about your recapture. I also heard that you caused the deaths of two Turkish soldiers in an armored car. But you also did something far worse. You disrupted the Ottoman Empire’s solution to the Armenian problem.”
Professor Axelson returns Kılıç’s stare, replying boldly.
“You do realise, Kılıç Pasha, that me and my friends are nationals of three different countries – and that not one of those countries is actually at war with Turkey? Our appeals for release have been sent through to our own nations’ ambassadors.”
“Sabotage is a crime, no matter who commits it.” Kılıç looks into my eyes. “And on the subject of ambassadors – we used to have a United States ambassador in Istanbul. He was a thorn in our side. In fact he was a bit like you, Agnes – he constantly tried to interfere in the Armenian issue. Now we have expelled him, and severed all diplomatic ties with the United States. We will not listen to any appeals for mercy from America. And as for Russia, Captain Sirko – we have heard nothing at all from them in respect of your case.”
He pauses: I see the contempt in his eyes as he goes on. “So – neither of you will be released, not even if the war ends tomorrow. You have committed capital crimes, and will be dealt with accordingly.”
His gaze turns back to Axelson. “However, in your case, your letter was passed on to the Swedish ambassador, and we have received an initial response.” He calls to a guard. “Get this man out of the cell. Bring him to me: I need to interrogate him at length.”
It’s night. Through the barred window, I see stars: the Milky Way’s glittering trail across a sky of blue velvet.
“Yuri?”
“Yes, Agnes?”
“Hold me.”
There’s a noise in the corridor. Voices are shouting. Our cell door bursts open.
“Both prisoners are to come with us.”
I recognise all the guards in this prison. But I don’t know these three men who stand in the doorway of our cell. They shine a flashlight that glares in our eyes: the light glistens on the barrels of rifles. We stand, quickly – but despite that, one of them pushes the muzzle of his gun right into Yuri’s stomach. I hear the catch click, and I stare, frozen in shock.
“Move!”
I attempt to talk. “Please—”
A hand slaps my face, so hard that I see stars. Then I feel my hands being pulled behind me, and a rope is twisted around them. But someone is shouting at the soldier. “Tighter!”