Creative Writing | 1915

    The refugees who had escaped Kars by night were using the train on their way to Alexandrapol. The train tracks were bloody, the air cold and unwelcoming, as if the air itself wanted to genocide the Armenians as well.

    “Is this what our lives were supposed to be? Is this how God pays us back for our loyalty and righteousness? Dear Lord,” muttered a woman in clothes made of torn scraps sewn together. She was holding her baby and sitting with her two daughters on the wagon’s wooden floor.

    “God is dead and we have killed him,” said a man in his 50s, his face full of wrinkles, a mustache that went well beyond his lips, and arms that looked like they had more scars than blood cells.

    “Don’t you even dare to say that again, donkey! Pretending like you’re more literate than us, quoting Friedrich Nietzsche," said another man. He was wearing leather boots and a shirt stained with black paint and ash. His eyes were as big as walnuts.

    “So what? You’re gonna tell me this was God’s plan? To massacre us all, along with my four sons, in Diyarbakir during the resistance? You think this is biblical?” he snapped.

    Another man stood up, having noticed that they were going to argue the entire journey to Alexandrapol. “Damn it, will you three shut the hell up for once? This is exactly the reason why we’re being slaughtered. We lacked the unity to stand up for ourselves,” he shouted. Even the people inside the wagon, those who had not cared at first about the argument, were startled by his assertion. They stared in absolute amazement, nodding and muttering to themselves.

    “I also had a son once,” the man continued. “He died right in front of my eyes, in my very own bed. I never forgot his last words: Take good care, father, and continue giving my dog the love he couldn't have for so long. And you bastards think you’re the only ones who have lost their sons or daughters, or mothers, or whoever else there is in this desert of evil?”

    The man stared into everyone’s eyes, as if he had personal words for each of them. Some muttered to themselves in agony, and some tried to make their kids fall asleep to the loud noises of artillery and train tracks.

    Later, a woman approached him. “Was he your only son?” she whispered.

    “That– that doesn’t matter now. He died for the good of our people, for our existence,” he said, turning his back to the people and sobbing into the bags of wheat and potatoes.

    The sound of the train tracks was deafening; they shattered the hearts of the fleeing refugees. Nobody dared to even move a muscle. Only the kids were clueless enough to scream and yell out of pure curiosity and confusion. The bell rang, reminding the passengers of the distance left before Alexandrapol, modern-day Gyumri.

    The women grouped together in the corner of the wagon discussed their futures in that new, unknown, and not much better place. Some wondered to themselves what kind of jobs they’d be given– a nurse, a worker in the field? Some thought of sewing carpets in the city factory. Their relatives had told them they’d make fair money– five rubles a month. The men, on the other hand, were in great despair. They had no ambitions to start a new life in Eastern Armenia under the Tsardom of Russia.

    “None of us speaks Russian, nor has even heard Russian once in our lives– how are we going to survive in this unwelcoming Alexandrapol?” declared Hakob, an ordinary man and friend of all, sitting on a rolled-up carpet he had brought from home.

    “You dummy, we can still use our Armenian there. We’re going to Alexandrapol, not Azov!” shouted a man sitting by an elder who held himself up with a wooden stick that barely held up his weight.

    “Easier said than done. What are we going to do there? We have no professions. I sold fruits in the bazaars of Kars. Ashot cut wood and sold it to people in winter. Hrant did dirt-cheap construction in my neighborhood and fed his entire family on that. If we want to go back to our old jobs, it’s going to take us months, even years! I have to search for a source of cheap goods and sell them to people once again– that is, if the people in Alexandrapol aren’t too hesitant to buy fruits from a man like me, who just arrived in the city, instead of from their well-known market men. Ashot has to go to the forests alone at night with fear in his blood, trying to avoid getting caught by the militia. And Hrant? Don’t even get me started– he has to search for a different job to save up money so he can purchase the tools to do housework again. And this, after years and years of maintaining a reputation of being a great builder. And you think the fact that we’re going to another Armenian city will save us? Turks are everywhere!”

    The men sat in silence; their hearts were broken by this reality.

    “Look at us. We’re supposed to be the heads of our families– men who lead, men with arms full of absolute power and hearts full of hope. Yet we’re already giving up before reaching our destination. We have to lead, to endure these challenges, to resist tyranny.” This alone gave the men enough hope for the future. It calmed them, lifted their spirits.

    “Okay,” started Hakob. “I have a relative or two with ties in Ararat Valley. I’ll import my fruit from there! Hrant, you’ll take a loan from a branch of the Royal Russian Bank, and all of us will help you pay it back. After some time, you’ll make your money back twofold, and help us build our new homes in the city.”

    “Thanks, guys! I won’t forget this!” Hrant said with excitement.

    “Ashot! We will come to the woods with you every night and help you cut trees so you can make more money. And as a thank you, you’ll provide us with wood for the colder months.”

    “Hakob,” Ashot hesitantly interrupted the speech. “I don’t really like what you’re planning for all of us.”

    Habkob was surprised. “What? What are you talking about? I’m giving you all solutions and hopes for the future. Don’t be so ungrateful– not like you could think of anything,” he shot back.

    Ashot stood up. “First off, you were the one who was so hopeless and unbelieving at first. Second– why do you involve our futures in a scheme in which we’ll have to provide and serve you? Just because you rant about how you're supposedly going to ‘help us’… but when it comes to you, no. You’re all strong all by yourself, and don’t have to share any of the fruits you sell.” 
The men, listening to Ashtot, turned their faces to Hakob, waiting for his reply.

    “I don’t need help. I can do it by myself! But you do need ours,” said Hakob defensively.

    “Yes– right. Then how about this? You do your own thing, and we’ll do ours too, without the ‘help’ you offer. No thanks,” Ashot spat. 
    “But-” 
    “No buts, Hakob– I’m done. We’re all done with you! Even during this difficult time, you still don the shroud of manipulation and the greed of profiting under the guise of helping. Aren't you supposed to be an Armenian?” Ashot asked with fury.

    “Cut it out, you idiots! There are only 3 kilometres left to the city, and each of you has already started accusing the other of being enemies,” said Babken, a well-known blacksmith who kept his father’s reputation high. 

    The passengers finally arrived at the station in the middle of Alexandrapol. Some locals looked on with curiosity, but others couldn't care less– most were busy with trade in the streets of the bustling city.

    One of the women suggested that the people go to a cheap hotel she knew was near the station– her cousin worked there, she said, and would fit them right in. Exhausted, everyone agreed. Before they slept, the women gossiped about the architecture they had seen and the clothes the noble class of Alexandrapol wore. The men stayed up late, planning their next move. Many great ideas were born that day– many that would be forgotten during their well-earned sleep, when genocide began lurking among them.

    In the morning, four men were found strangled in their beds. Each of the bodies had the same pattern imprinted on its throat. The women accused the husbands of other women, and the men accused the wives of other men. The entire day was spent trying to find out who the murderer might have been. The police refused to help, as they were too busy to investigate: most of them had been drafted into the war, and there were no forces left in the city for such matters. The men hid the bodies in the laundry room beneath the hotel until they could find a place to bury them.

    The morning after that, nine more– four kids, three adult women, and two adult men– were found strangled. This time, they were not found in their beds, but next to the bodies from the night before. Everybody stared in horror. As if what they'd seen happen to the Armenians in Kars wasn't enough for them.

    The men took matters into their own hands. Each night, they decided, one man would stay up and monitor the rooms, the hallways, every click in the night.

    The plan actually worked. For the next four days, no strangled bodies were found. They called it a success and thought they’d scared the murderer away until Ashot was found strangled on the ground in the hallway the night he was assigned guard duty. 
However, there were more than just the markings on his throat. The scent of oil– the sort of oil used to protect metal from rust– had been left on his shirt.

    Hrant smelled Ashot’s shirt. “Huh– we have a clue, I guess. This time, the murderer was sloppy.”

    “I’ll stay up and monitor the rooms this time. I will catch the murderer of my brother– my dear Ashot– myself!” said Hrant, his face growing red. He told everyone to leave and carried Ashot’s body to the laundry room himself.

    That night, during his watch, Hrant felt strange. He held a knife in case he needed to defend himself, kept his stance ready for a fight. The nauseating smell of decomposing bodies from the laundry room filled the hallways.

    The screeching of a woman pierced Hrant’s eardrums. He ran to the women’s rooms, where he saw a man strangling a woman using a thick metal chain. The man had a piece of black cloth covering his face. Hrant kicked the back of the man’s knees, pulled his knife out of his belt, and pierced his ribs several times, near the lungs. The man instantly froze and fell to the ground. Everyone rushed to the scene– some naked, some in pajamas.

    Hrant pulled the cloth from the man’s face. To their total horror, it was their very own friend and dear brother, Babken.

    “Babken?! How could it be?” yelled Hrant, terrified. He thought he was not going to get an answer from the man– he assumed he was already dead– but to his surprise, Babken responded: “I–I was the Turk among us,” he stuttered, hardly making any sense before shutting his eyes, spit flowing from his open mouth.