By Sempad Shahnazarian

Chapter Ten (Continued)

  A week later, they arrived at the railroad station in Damascus. Other groups from various parts of the country had joined them and together they were waiting for the train to leave. Suddenly, there was a commotion in the crowd. An old colonel followed by a lieutenant came over to see the travelers. The lieutenant called for silence in a loud clear voice. They wanted to know if there was anybody amongst them who was well versed in both the Turkish and French languages.

  Sempad raised his hand and said, “yes sir!”

  “Come over here, my boy.” the colonel nodded.

  In his excitement he hurried through the crowd without even saying good-bye to Beto, who cried out: “Good-bye Sempad! Good luck!”

  He was immediately taken to Headquarters and introduced to a Jewish veterinarian, Doctor Samsonoff, who had studied in Germany. He could speak French, German and Russian but not Turkish. He took Sempad downstairs and fitted him with a new uniform. He took him out to the drill field where ten soldiers came to attention as they saw the doctor. He introduced him to his men, saying: “Sempad effendi is your sergeant from now on. You must obey him and do whatever he orders you to do. “He then turned to Sempad and said: “You are the boss now!”

  Sempad, the new sergeant, turned toward his men and ordered: “Ilery march! Forward march!”

  Dr. Samsonoff had a bacteriology laboratory and an animal hospital under his supervision. Sempad’s work consisted of translating correspondence from Turkish to French and vice versa. He also helped him in the laboratory by preparing slides from the blood samples of sick animals for microscopic study. In back of the laboratory there extended an area of orchards, whose owner gave Sempad and his men oranges, dates and plums as a token of friendship.

  After he got well acquainted with Sempad, he said one day: “I am not a Turk. I am an Arab. It hurts my heart to see Armenian women and children walking down the streets in tatters. I know how they used to live in their own homes. They had everything, churches, schools, food, clothes, land and cattle. We all know how industrious and intelligent they are. The Turks could not stand it so they had to try to annihilate them! The general massacres have made the survivors of the genocide look for bones and rotted watermelon rinds in the gutters.

  Go downtown someday, take a walk around and you will understand what I am trying to say. I have an Armenian man working for me here. He comes from Sassoun. I don’t know where that place is.” Then, turning around, he called the man who was breaking the ground around a tree: “Come over here, Seto!” He came in a hurry. After introducing him to Sempad, the Arab walked away and left them alone.

  After a little questioning, he gave Sempad a gruesome picture of the seven months of fighting in Sassoun.  Thousands of people had taken refuge in the folds and caves of the gigantic ridge defending themselves against the Turkish regular forces and the Kurdish mobs, with no arms and ammunition of their own. They depended on what they could wrest from the enemy after killing them with knives and hatchets. It took a superhuman effort to stay alive for seven months without food, ammunition or medical care. They fought with the hope that the Russian army, spearheaded by the Armenian guerrillas, would soon come to their aid! This did not happen! They retreated and were unable to help the fighters who struggled, heroically, until they perished one after the other.

  “When I was in Sassoun, I happened to meet the Miller of Sourp Garabed Monastery, Petros, who had just gotten there with a valiant priest Stepan Vartabed. Nine Vartabeds were tricked into attending a meeting at the mayor’s office and were killed on their way there. The Turkish forces then began to attack the Monastery and bombard the Cathedral. Petros, Stepan Vartabed, Kazrig (the teacher) and a few shepherds took a stand outside the walls behind the rocks and cliffs and began to punish the Turks heavily. They never expected what was happening to them. After a couple of days of fighting, Kazrig was mortally wounded. The shepherds had a strategy of their own. They joined our guerrillas after successfully making their way to Boulanuk.”

  “Petros and Stepan Vartabed considered their fighting against the regular army units a hopeless cause. They fought their way out of enormous dangers and took refuge in the Sassoun Mountains. They both contributed greatly to the fighting there. After months of hopeless struggle they all succumbed one after another and Sassoun became an immense graveyard. Petros decided to carry on his work by organizing groups of guerrilla fighters. They roamed all over the Taurus and Amanos ridges to help, whenever possible, the relicts of the Genocide who were hidden in caves and forests. I have great respect and sympathy for that man.”

  After having listened carefully to that narration, Sempad exclaimed: “Bravo! Bravo, Petros!”

  Seto told Sempad about the Musa Dagh fighters also. They had fought for forty days against all odds and had been fortunate that a French warship had given them a lift to Alexandria, Egypt. From the refugees’ camp, hundreds of Armenian young men had joined the Armenian Legion, Legion d’Orient, which was organized under French sponsorship at Cyprus Island. After a intensive training they were in trenches facing the Turks and waiting on orders from General Allenby for the big offensive.

  This news gave Sempad a new outlook and new hope. He would do everything possible to cross the front over to the Allied forces and fight against the Turks.

  One Sunday, he asked for the doctor’s permission to go to church. On his way he took a walk in the so-called downtown district. Jewelry stores shone with oriental opulence. Clothing stores exhibited silk, cotton and woolen goods of every description. Hardware stores had products ranging from cauldrons and kettles down to smaller articles. Bakeries displayed stacks of bread on tables emitting the most appetizing fragrance. On a corner, shish kebab was being barbecued on a charcoal fire and giving out the most wonderful aroma, hovering around like a haze. A woman, emaciated and sickly looking and holding the hands of two little girls in rags stood looking at the juicy meat. The sight of it was driving them crazy. They kept looking at it when instinctively, the women approached the stand and extended her hand, begging: “A bite for my children, please!  May God bless you!” They threw them a bone that fell in the mud. A dog, from nowhere, grabbed it and disappeared down the side streets with a little girl after it.

  “Come back Nounig...come back!” The mother hollered, wiping the tears from her eyes.

  “Damned Turks!” muttered Sempad and kept walking.

  Around the corner, he came upon a group of people watching what was happening in a puddle in the street. A little boy and a little girl of about four years of age, mere skeletons, were picking up watermelon rinds from the muddy water and eating them greedily. He saw a woman, crazed and dreary, sitting by the mud in rags with her legs wide open, unconsciously searching for lice in her pubic area! God-damned Turks! Look at how they have reduced a prosperous, intelligent and industrious people to such lamentable human waste! Only three years earlier they lived in their own homes and had everything they needed. Now, all they have are remains, left out in the streets... With these thoughts surging in him, Sempad kept walking until he arrived at the church. It was a well-built structure with a courtyard enclosed by a stone wall. A number of people were walking silently back and forth, looking at a list of names attached to the door. They were names of survivors in that area.

  He entered the church...a few people standing erect were looking silently at the altar...It was an atmosphere of dejection and gloom. He remained there for a while to consider the destiny of his people.

  When he walked out, he came across an impressive looking man with a long grayish beard wearing a black robe, standing at the entrance who was in deep thought. He bowed to him with respect, and stood on one side gazing at him.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” He asked. “You probably want to know who I am! Well I have been in God’s service all of my life, preaching His word, adoring Him and continuing to cultivate His faith in the hearts of our people, by building churches and monasteries, by perpetuating the ideas of His disciples and practicing everything the Bible says.” As he noticed a flutter in Sempad’s eyes, he roared: “What did all this amount to? Destruction...Ingratitude!!”

  “Whose ingratitude?”

  “Divine ingratitude!” he answered. “I don’t believe in Him anymore! I am an atheist now...I used to be a preacher!”

  Sempad looked around to see how other people were reacting and kept listening to him.

  “I just came here a couple of days ago from Der el Zore. Hundreds of people were massacred right before my eyes. They didn’t kill me so that I would suffer more by looking at these gruesome sights...a suffering worse than death itself! Omniscient!... Omnipotent!... Why not Omnicruel? What a farce! I believe that the Universe, as a whole, is a Being unconscious and apathetic to whatever happens at any time, any where.”

  During this conversation, a group of men and women had gathered around listening, guiltily, and walked away murmuring inaudibly and making the sign of the Cross over their faces. Sempad fathomed the depth of suffering of the unknown preacher and walked back to the laboratory.

  He had been with Dr. Samsonoff over two months helping him in his work and translating his correspondence. Under ordinary circumstances, he should have been glad that he had that kind of work to do. His dream, however, kept torturing him. He could not stand the routine nature of the work he was doing any longer. He wanted to be on the other side of the front with the Armenian Legionnaires, but how?

  One morning, disregarding the certain punishment he would get, if caught, he walked out while Dr. Samsonoff was still in bed, upstairs. Full of excitement and determination, he hurriedly went to Merkez Commandanlik, the human slaughter house, in the heart of the downtown area. At the gate there were two guards standing at attention face to face. After saluting them, he said: “I belong to the 26th Artillery Division.  On the way to the front, I remained behind and got lost. Please send me to where I belong.”

  “Get in!” said one of the guards, pointing to a door. It was a basement with a slate floor, dark, wet and cool. When his eyes became used to the feeble light, he saw a man in uniform sitting at a table on the most distant corner with two husky fellows, with whips in their hands, in Anatolian attire, standing silently. He walked to the table, stood at attention, and told the sergeant what he had told the guards outside. The sergeant told him to take a seat at the opposite wall, on a bench. There was deep silence. A moan came intermittently from somewhere. One of the Anatolians walked down to a little door in the wall, stooped down, opened it and yelled:  “Come on out, you dirty dog!”

  Sempad shuddered...Obscurity, graveyard silence, coolness, wetness...

  A moaning sound came out of the hole. He shuddered again and again and began to criticize himself for the unwise step he had taken...If Dr. Samsonoff found him there he would be doomed. With these thoughts in his mind he walked to the sergeant and again implored him to send him to his unit, as soon as he could.

  “Go sit down and wait for a while.” he said.

  The Anatolian called out again: “Come on out, I am telling you!”

    The moaning continued. He got to his knees, thrust his hand into the hole and dragged something out to the center of the floor. Sempad wondered if the man was dead or alive. All he had on was his trousers. They were full of blood and filth and his body was covered with horrible bruises. The two Anatolians stood on each side of him with long whips in their hands, waiting for the counting to begin the lashing! The sergeant began: “One, two, three...” until he reached one hundred. 

  The half-dead body had no energy left to shake, tremble or scream. Blood sputtered out of his mouth and the sergeant stopped counting. He was very devoted to his job telling his men to whip harder and harder...
 

  Sempad, half crazed with terror, walked to the sergeant again and appealed to be sent to his unit.

  “All right! All right! Sit down! I’ll send you where you belong.” the sergeant said. He began the counting for the next one who had just been dragged out of another hole. After three hours of anguish and agony they finally called his name to send him away.