Nobody's Child Read online

  NOBODY’S CHILD

  To my dear friend

  Lee Ann Krekorian-Chan.

  NOBODY’S CHILD

  Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  Copyright © Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch, 2003

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Editor: Barry Jowett

  Copy-Editor: Jennifer Bergeron

  Design: Jennifer Scott

  Printer: Webcom

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Skrypuch, Marsha Forchuk, 1954-

  Nobody’s child / Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch.

  ISBN 1-55002-442-6

  1. Armenian massacres, 1915-1923 — Juvenile fiction. 2. Death marches — Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

  PS8587.K79N63 2003 jC813’.54 C2003-905439-X

  1 2 3 4 5 07 06 05 04 03

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on recycled paper.

  www.dundurn.com

  Dundurn Press

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  Dundurn Press

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  Contents

  Book One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Book Two

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Acknowledgements

  Resource List

  BOOK ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  April 1909 — Adana, Turkey

  They travelled on foot. That set them apart from the other migrant barley harvesters. The others travelled with donkeys or an oxcart. What also set them apart was that their group included women and children.

  Mariam’s father and uncle kept pace a few steps in front of the others in their group, and right behind them walked Mariam’s mother. They each carried a cloth sack of supplies on their backs. They each brought their own large sickle.

  As Mariam put one foot in front of the other, she kept her eyes fixed on the small glittering sickle looped into the left side of her mother’s belt. Mariam Hovsepian didn’t like to think that her mother, Parantzim, was only fifteen years older than she was. Would she look that old at twenty-five? Mariam closed her eyes for a second and then opened them again. The edge of her mother’s coarsely woven wool skirt was stiff with dirt from the road and there was a patch of sweat on her back. The gauzy veil that she wore to keep the sun off her head and face kept slipping off, and several times Mariam reached down and picked it up off the dirt and handed it back to her mother.

  Onnig, Mariam’s four-year-old brother, was riding on Parantzim’s right hip. The sway of the movement had lulled him to sleep for most of the day, but now he struggled to get down. Parantzim held him firmly but gently in place and cooed in his ear. Mariam knew that her mother did not want to slow the group down by letting him walk.

  Beside Mariam walked Marta, her little sister. She was seven years old, but tall for her age. Marta was built sturdily, and she wore her unruly hair tied back with a strip of leather. On Marta’s hip was balanced Bibi — her beloved rag-cloth doll.

  “Are we there yet?” asked Onnig wearily.

  This was their sixth day of travel. They had already stopped at several farms along the way, but nobody had wanted to hire a whole family of field hands.

  “I told you we should have left them at home, Hovsep,” Aram said, in a voice filled with annoyance.

  Mariam understood why her father’s older brother was upset. Last April, her father and uncle had been able to find good paying jobs in the barley fields within a single day of leaving Marash. And here they were now — so close to Adana that its distinctive stone bridge across the Jihan River could be seen in the distance.

  And still not an offer.

  What was her mother thinking, dragging the whole family on this journey with the men? She and her brother and sister would have been much better off staying at home with their extended family. And her mother should have stayed at home too.

  But while she agreed with her uncle Aram, Mariam also understood why her mother insisted on coming with her husband. And also why she wanted to bring the children. Parantzim had heard rumours of political unrest. There was talk that the Armenian district in Marash was going to be raided while the men were gone for the harvest.

  “Parantzim and your children should have stayed at home with our mother and my wife and children,” said Aram.

  “We’ve been over this a thousand times, brother. What’s done is done.”

  The conversation drifted back to Parantzim, and Mariam could see that her mother’s ears burned pink in shame.

  As the little group reached a narrow dirt laneway of another farm, Hovsep said wearily, “Wife, children, rest here while Aram and I see if there is work to be had in these fields.”

  Gratefully, Mariam sat down in a patch of dry grass and pulled the leather strapped sandals off her feet and gingerly rubbed the blister that had formed at the back of her heel. Marta plopped down beside her, and Onnig struggled down from his mother’s hip, full of energy and ready to play. Parantzim dug a water skin from the folds of her robe and sat down beside her children.

  “Water, please?” asked Onnig, opening his mouth expectantly. So Parantzim squeezed a thin spray of tepid water into his mouth. Then she gave the skin to Mariam, then Marta, and then finally took a sip of water herself.

  They had barely settled down when Hovsep came running down to them. “There is work for us here, even for you, Parantzim,” he said excitedly. “The boss is showing Aram where we can set up camp.”

  The accommodation was little more than a barn. And when the girls and their mother stepped inside, they were welcomed with rude sexual hoots and guffaws from the other migrant workers. Mariam looked over at her mother and noticed that her expression was frozen into a mask of indifference. With forced dignity, Parantzim turned to her husband and addressed him formally. “We will sleep under the stars, Hovsep-agha. It’s too filthy in here for humans.” And she turned her
back on the loud catcalls and stinking humanity.

  Her sister rolled out a carpet on one side of Onnig and Mariam rolled hers out on the other. Aram collected some twigs and brush to make a fire, and Hovsep drew water from a nearby well. Parantzim broke into their thin store of food yet another time. She filled a pot with water and threw in a cupful of dried wheat berries. She rooted around in the food bag and found an onion. She peeled it and added it to the pot.

  While the pilaf cooked, Parantzim untied the large cloth that held a stack of dried Armenian flatbread. She removed two platter-sized pieces of the bread, then tied the cloth back up. She shook out another cloth, spread it onto one of the carpets beside the fire, and placed on it the flatbreads side by side. She squirted some water onto each piece of bread and then quickly distributed the droplets of water evenly over the surface with the palms of her hands. Within minutes, the bread was moist and fresh and ready to eat. She knew her family was too hungry to wait the hour it would take for the pilaf to cook, so she took out what was left of a salted roast of lamb, cut a few slices, and set it out.

  While the pilaf cooked, Parantzim ripped off bits of flatbread and wrapped each one around a slice of salted lamb. She gave one small wrapped sandwich to each family member to stave off hunger pangs until the pilaf was ready.

  Mariam’s wrap was finished in two quick bites. She was so tired that she didn’t think she’d be able to stay awake long enough for dinner, but as the pilaf cooked, the savoury aroma bubbling out of the pot made her stomach grumble.

  Everyone received a piece of flatbread and they ate the pilaf family style, each breaking off bite-sized pieces of the bread and dipping it into the communal pot. Mariam dipped every last piece of her bread into the pot, savouring each bite. She was fast asleep moments after finishing.

  She dreamed of a soft bed and food to eat and servants to cater to her every need. What a grand life that would be. But when the sun beat down on her in the early hours of the morning, she opened her eyes and found that she was still just the daughter of a lowly migrant worker.

  In the morning, Mariam awoke to the aroma of fresh coffee. Her mother had lit a fire just big enough to boil a bit of water in the long-handled pot and then threw in a handful of freshly ground beans.

  “You’re old enough now,” said Parantzim, handing her oldest daughter a chipped demitasse cup of the rich dark brew.

  Mariam nodded gravely, then breathed in the heady aroma before taking her first sip.

  Parantzim gave Onnig and Marta each a piece of flatbread and a dried apricot and they ate quickly, quenching their thirst from a stream nearby.

  Mariam savoured her coffee to the last dregs, then she did what her mother always did: she turned the demitasse upside down in the saucer and gave it half a turn. Parantzim sat down beside her oldest daughter, balancing her own demitasse of coffee. She regarded Mariam’s inverted cup resting on the ground beside her.

  “Would you like me to tell your fortune?”

  Mariam’s eyes sparkled. “Yes,” she said. And she handed her mother her cup.

  Parantzim placed the pad of her index finger on the bottom of the upturned cup. “It’s cool enough now,” she said. She turned the cup right side up and peered inside.

  Mariam looked in too.

  The coffee grounds had made a pattern of black-brown rivulets down the side of the cup. Parantzim pointed to a splotch just below the cup handle. “That’s you,” she said.

  Mariam nodded.

  “You are surrounded by people who love you.”

  Mariam smiled. She knew that.

  Parantzim frowned. “They all love you,” she said, “but the people on your left love you for your good heart, while the people on your right love you for … I can’t make it out.”

  Mariam looked at her mother. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” said Parantzim, frowning. “There is much love. Yet …” She set down the cup. “This is all nonsense, anyway,” she said. “I never believe the coffee grounds.”

  Parantzim finished her own coffee, and Mariam noticed that she didn’t invert her cup. Her mother stood up, then brushed stray bits of dust from her gown. “It is time to go to the fields,” she said. “Keep an eye on Onnig and Marta.”

  Then she and Hovsep and Aram gathered their tools and walked towards the fields.

  Mariam liked to pretend that she was Onnig’s mother, so she balanced him on her hip. Marta balanced her doll on her own hip and then the two sisters wandered away from the campsite to pick the colourful spring anemones that grew so abundantly under the wild olive trees that dotted the meadows. Mariam was amazed by the vast variety of spring flowers. Being a city girl from Marash, she was used to cultivated flowers, but not these lush wild ones in every imaginable colour. She made a long chain of giant daisy-like pale mauve flowers and draped it around Marta’s neck. Marta grinned with pleasure at the adornment.

  “Let’s explore further,” Mariam suggested.

  In the distant horizon, they could see a strip of deep blue sea and the outline of an ancient Crusader castle. The sight took Mariam’s breath away. She had heard tales of the Crusaders since she was little. What must it have been like to live in such a splendid place so many centuries ago?

  “I want to go there,” said Onnig, pointing to the castle.

  “It’s much further than it looks,” replied Mariam.

  Not too far from the flower-covered meadow was a barren rocky area close to the farmer’s fields, and the children were drawn there. They found a series of shallow caves and even more patches of spring flowers and fragrant wild grasses. Onnig was restless, so Mariam let him down from her hip.

  While Adana itself was miles away, when Mariam stood on one of the big rocks she could see a patch or two of flowering bushes, and if she breathed in deeply, she could catch the faint spicy scent of mulberry blossoms. This area was known for its cultivated mulberry trees. She had never tasted the berries, which were reserved for the precious silk worms. The scent was marvellous enough.

  She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked in another direction. There was a small village within easy walking distance. Perhaps there were other children down there, she thought. Maybe they’d be able to find someone Onnig’s age and they could play together. With her eyes, Mariam motioned to her sister.

  “As long as we avoid the Turkish quarters, we should be all right,” Mariam reasoned.

  The children had learned early to always avoid the Turkish area of any village or city. It was common knowledge that Turks considered Armenians barely human, and retribution came swiftly to Armenians who got out of line. Mariam had never questioned this attitude. It was a fact of life.

  The trio headed down.

  The first thing they saw when they stepped through the stone gates was a haphazard row of clay one-storey homes that looked just like those in their own neighbourhood in Marash. Each home had a flat roof that doubled as a terrace, and each had a walled-in fruit and vegetable garden where a goat or a few chickens could run free. Just as in their own neighbourhood, the streets were narrow and maze-like, with dead ends and twisty turns. Mariam saw a photograph in a book once of a street in London. It amazed her that the houses were lined up uniformly along either side of a wide paved street. The strangest thing about the foreign English houses was that they were so far away from each other that you would never be able to walk from roof to roof. In virtually any town Mariam had ever been to, it was possible to travel blocks without ever setting foot on the ground. That’s probably why they have wide streets, mused Mariam. They needed them for all their walking. Some day she would love to travel to London and see that strange city for herself!

  The children walked through the maze of streets, backtracking several times when they reached a dead end. Then, suddenly, the street they were on opened up to a wide square. There was a communal well, the church, and open-air stores. Several wives gossiped by the well, while husbands watched two elderly men play a board game of dama unde
r the shade of a tree.

  Mariam knew it was the Armenian section right away because there were many women out in public, and the bottom half of their faces weren’t covered with veils.

  Mariam could hear the shrieks of children playing. She squinted her eyes from the sun so she could see beyond the well, and saw that a game of “Turks and Armenians” was in progress.

  “Look, Onnig,” she said, lifting him up so he could see better. “Would that be fun?”

  Onnig grinned. “I want to play.” He struggled down from her arms, then grabbed one of her hands and one of Marta’s. “Come on,” he said excitedly, pulling his sisters towards the other children.

  Mariam smiled as she watched two children play the familiar game. It could involve two or twenty children, as long as there were enough for two teams. No one ever wanted to be the Turks, however, and so straws would have to be drawn. Then the children would make a pile of stones in the middle of the play area. This was the “fortress.” And then each team fought for possession of the fortress. The children on the Turks side would call their opponents “infidels” and the children on the Armenian side would call their opponents “curs.” It was all in good fun, Mariam thought.

  A boy and a girl, both about her sister’s age or maybe a bit older, were chasing each other for possession of the fortress, screaming “cur” and “infidel” at each other as they ran. There was a woven carpet spread out under the shade of a tree where a woman sat with a girl younger than Onnig at her feet. She was keeping one eye on the older children playing while she shelled almonds into an earthen bowl. The little girl was making a pyramid of nut shells in the dirt beside the carpet.

  Mariam, her sister and little brother in tow, walked over to where the woman sat. “My name is Mariam Hovsepian, and this is my sister, Marta, and our brother, Onnig.”

  The woman met Mariam’s eyes and smiled. She was about the same age as Mariam’s mother, and she had the same kindly work-worn look about her.

  “Are you with the barley workers?” she asked.