Like Water on Stone Page 6
They tied their hands
and they point and poke their guns
at Kevorg and Misak, taken
with their hands tied.
Baron Kaban
comes to our home.
He stands beside Papa
in his Muslim prayer shawl.
He tells them
Papa’s honest,
not a revolutionary.
He tells them
our family has
three daughters
and two sons at home.
But we are two daughters,
only two.
Anahid is not with us.
Only two.
Baron Mustafa arrives.
He says the same.
Soldiers believe them.
Why would Muslims
lie for gavours?
Kevorg and Misak,
taken,
my two brothers,
their hands tied.
Mustafa and Kaban
leave when the soldiers do.
It would seem wrong
for them to stay with us.
Mama holds me and Mariam close.
We pray for Shahen,
safe at school,
Kevorg and Misak taken.
We pray the Turkish soldiers
didn’t go there first.
They point and poke with their guns
but they do not shoot.
The next hours, we stay on the roof,
watching for Shahen.
We almost don’t breathe.
Our eyes on the path,
Papa pacing.
Kevorg and Misak taken,
their hands tied,
imagining Shahen home.
Mariam’s silent.
Her eyes on the path.
Scratching the roof with her stick,
imagining Shahen home.
Mama makes me hem a new kerchief.
She makes me embroider its edges
with the pattern of an unwed girl.
My eyes stick to the path,
imagining Shahen home,
Vahan home.
Papa pacing.
Kevorg and Misak taken.
With each stitch
the needle stabs
my fingertip.
Blood spots stain
the white cloth red,
like the forbidden wool
deep in my pocket
that I cut
from the carpet
because the bird
looked dead.
Misak and Kevorg taken.
Mama sews too, her hands
like a hummingbird’s wings,
taking in one of her dresses.
Their hands tied.
Our eyes stick to the path,
imagining Shahen home.
Papa pacing.
Kevorg and Misak taken, hands tied.
We are ready when Shahen comes,
not down the path’s center
but behind one tree to another,
not taken,
almost silent,
till his sounds and steps
burst open
when he sees Mama
running
with a small bundle of her work
clutched to her side,
Papa two steps behind her.
I hold Mariam tight.
I keep watch from the roof.
They smother him with kisses.
They pull him inside.
My eyes on the empty path.
Flapping clothes surround us,
hanging in weak gray light.
Kevorg and Misak taken,
hands tied together.
Inside my parents speak
and speak
and dress him.
At dusk
they introduce him
to us,
our sister.
Shahandukht.
Mariam
Where’s Misak?
Where’s Kevorg?
Why did soldiers take them?
Where are they?
Mama says they’re
with the soldiers
working for the army,
the bad soldiers
with teeth like dogs
and pointed guns
who tied their hands,
and all day
Mama cries
and sews
and cries
and sews.
Shahen wears her dress.
Shahen
Papa so thick,
so certain,
so simple.
He lost three sons
in one day:
my brothers
to soldiers,
and me
to a scarf and dress.
Mama knows my shame.
Still, she shows me
women’s tricks,
like how to pull
a new dark hair,
if one should grow
on my chin or lip,
out from the root
by the nails
of my thumb
and finger.
“To shave
would make it
thicken,”
she tells me,
though she knows
I have no need.
My brothers will return someday,
standing tall like men
with full black beards.
They must.
Ardziv
I followed the soldiers
with every fit
Armenian man.
Papa spared
because his limp
would slow him.
They walked them
in a line
along the river
for miles,
pushing
and poking
with guns,
their hands tied.
They stopped.
They stripped them.
They turned them.
They shot them.
They threw the bodies
into the river.
Bodies washed up and lodged
between stones
on the river’s edge.
Vultures swooped down
to eat them.
I’ve taken carrion
from vultures before.
Sometimes eagles do this.
But that day I flew off.
I found a goat
away from his herd,
tore his muscles to pieces
with my beak and talons
until I could eat no more.
I flew upriver
and left the carcass behind.
Shahen
My brothers are gone, taken.
As a child, I was spared.
The soldiers came to school that day.
They looked at all our faces.
They took anyone with bristles
and left the baby-faced behind.
They argued about some of us.
But my case was clear.
In their eyes,
I was too young to fight.
Then Father Manoog told us,
the baby-faced,
to hide in the cliffs
behind the old fort
till the sun was low,
and like a child, I obeyed.
Then I crossed the bridge
to home.
I want to fight the Turkish soldiers.
I want to work the mill.
“No,” Papa tells me.
“To keep you safe
dressed as you are
you must do women’s work.
I will work the mill alone,
what little work there is,
till harvest next comes in.
By the end of a year,
this trouble will pass.”
He speaks fine,
but he cannot look at me.
And Mama sews like a machine.
Mariam asks for Kevorg and Misak
/> while Sosi and I chop bitter onions.
We eat food brought out from storage.
Cabbage leaves with black age spots,
withered beets and carrots,
cracked wheat retrieved
from the mill room floor
and the soldiers’ raking guns.
Mama and Sosi still bake bread.
Our hens lay eggs.
Kaban sends one goat each week
from Kurdish mountain herds.
We do not roam
the woods for greens.
We have mint
that grows by the stream.
We do not go to market.
By the end of a year, I will grow
and I’ll show Papa
that I’m the man he’s not.
He lacks the courage to leave here.
For him all life is like a song,
with different voices blending.
Now Mama embroiders
more kerchiefs
for me.
Sosi, her lips and cheeks like berries,
hides when soldiers come.
One soldier pokes my skirt with his gun.
He eyes my flat chest,
proof to him that I’m pure.
Proof to me that Papa’s an old hen
hovering till the soldier is gone.
I can act.
Like a letter,
I will go to America.
Sosi
Shahen
Come tie with me,
Shahen jan.
The work is good.
The knots’ colors
down each row
add up to make
the pattern.
Pass the weft
with this shuttle
to bind the edges,
then beat it
with the comb.
Pack the fibers tight.
Will you try?
Sosig, I can’t.
Come on, Shahen.
Time will pass
as we tie. First,
a few red knots
for the edge. Next,
the bird’s blue belly.
Take the end
of the thread
and go over
one warp thread,
then under the next
and back to
where I start,
then snip.
You try.
This is your work.
Not mine.
Come on, Shahen.
The loom will hide you.
Come tie this knot.
Here, I tied it.
Will you cut the end?
Don’t give me a knife.
I’ll finish the bird.
Anahid and I
would race
to the middle.
You’ll win.
We’re not racing.
Just tie.
My fingers cannot
do such things.
Last summer seems
so far away.
Anahid’s baby
will be coming soon.
Think of something
else to say!
That’s women’s talk.
I’m not Mama
or digin Palewan,
about to be a
grandmother.
I miss the music,
don’t you?
Not one bit.
We’d all have left
if Papa wasn’t
fooled by music.
At least you
must miss
Anahid.
Yes.
Misak and
Kevorg too.
This carpet
full of birds
will be yours.
You can take it
to America.
I’ll never go now.
You will.
You’ll see.
You’ll go soon.
Take the red now.
For the background.
That’s right.
Over, under,
back, and tie.
Snip.
Over, under,
back, and tie.
Over, under,
back, and tie.
Snip.
Over, under,
back, and tie.
Ardziv
Soldiers were close again.
I flew tight circles around the mill.
Papa stood outside looking up,
shaking his head.
I hovered in the air above him
as he reached both hands
into the sky,
spread his five fingers
toward me,
through me,
palms up,
open to the sky.
“Forgive me.
I was wrong.
I fear my sons are dead.
Their spirits come to me
each night.
No land is worth
a child’s life.
Protect them.
Please.
The ones who still live.”
Then he drew his palms
back into fists,
his eyes still high in the sky,
looking through me,
and he pulled these fists
down to his gut.
I landed on a lower branch,
a silent witness.
He raised his arms to the sky again,
opened his palms,
then pulled both open hands
down to his heart.
Then he touched the ground
with his right hand,
kissed the back of his hand,
then forehead,
chest,
left,
right,
and let his hand rest
on his heart,
his eyes and mouth
squeezed shut,
taking no breath
for one long minute.
He swallowed.
Breath came again.
His eyes opened
and met mine.
He shivered.
He bowed
his head
to his chest
and went
inside.
I made a promise
to the empty sky.
These three young ones
would not die.
Sosi
I rise before the sun,
before Mama can say no,
and go to the river
to see my vines.
I fill a basket with leaves
for dolma.
They must be picked
while still bright green
and supple,
each leaf the size of my palm
plucked from below
the new growth.
The apricots are hard and green
but soaking in the sun.
Soon they will be ripe.
Soon I’ll be an auntie.
Mama’s pacing on the roof when I return.
She takes the leaves from me and then,
as though we’ve never made dolma before,
as though I have not picked the leaves myself,
she tells me,
“They must be bright green
or else they’ll be too tough.”
She sets the black pot on the rooftop fire,
salted water inside it for blanching.
We excise the stems with sharp knives.
We set the leaves in the pot to wilt,
then pull them out to cool.
Mama mixes the filling.
Rice, olive oil, allspice,
cinnamon, and mint from the edge
of our stream.
“Roll them tight, Sosi jan,
tight as you can, Sosi jan.
Fold the leaf edge in
as you roll, Sosi jan,
so the rice
stays trapped
inside.”
Shahen
I wake before dawn
>
to church bells,
an urgent shake.
Mama, Papa, a goat,
and the butchering knife.
Papa says, “Bring your sisters to the highest field.
Tell them you are checking on the sheep.
Don’t come back
unless we come for you.
Wait till it quiets,
then go south
to Aleppo.
“Stay high in the mountains,
heading southwest
till you see the desert
from the ridge.
Be careful when you cross the Euphrates.
Trust no one
till Aleppo.
Find the Forty Martyrs Church.
The Soorp Hayr there
helped your keri
get to New York.”
He holds me for one second.
He wakes the girls.
Mama wraps a vest around me,
pulls me close in one motion, saying,
“Wear this.
It will keep you full
and safe.”
My head fits
into the curve
between Mama’s head and body.
We pull in one breath together.
She pushes me away, looks me right in the eyes.
“You are very young to be a man.
Take good care of your sisters.
Now go.”
Mama wraps Sosi and Mariam
each in a new vest,
her hug squeezing
all breath from them.
Papa pulls her back,
puts Mariam in my arms,
adds a double knot
to the laces of the charukh
enveloping her feet.
“Go now. They are coming.”
“Who?” Mariam says.
Mama takes the pot from the table.
Papa pushes us through the door.
Mama follows.
Papa grips the goat and the knife.
Summer is here, but words
from springtime last year
come out from deep inside me.
“Let’s see who can get to the sheep first.
Misak and Kevorg
said we have new lambs.”
Sosi looks back at Mama and Papa,
then at me.
“We’ll be back!” she says.
She grabs the black pot from Mama
and starts to run.
I run.
Sosi runs.
Mariam whimpers
as I squeeze her too tight,
her ear pressed to my chest,
her legs around my waist.
Behind us we hear the squeal
of the butchering of a goat,
followed by the death quiet.
I hear Mama
running toward the river screaming.
“My girls, my beloved girls,
how could you kill them?
You should have killed me instead.”
We hear more screams
and sounds of guns from far away.
We hear soldiers near Mama.
We hear Mama’s sounds