Aleppo 1919, Wisconsin 1920
by Rebecca Keller
During the Armenian Genocide of 1915, 1.5 million Armenians died at the hands of the Ottoman Turks, often on forced marches through the desert. Many of those who survived ended up in Aleppo, Syria. The heartbreak of what is happening in Syria now reverberates all the more deeply for some of us whose ancestors found safety there once. This story is based on my husband’s grandmother, who survived the death march and was taken in as a servant by a Syrian family.
Aleppo, 1919
The man appeared as she was getting water. She did not know him, but the sight stirred something tender within and lit a cold spark in her chest.
“Taleen?”
He said her name as people used to. She set down her bucket and eyed the man. He pressed his hand flat against his chest. "I am Hagop. Your father was my mother’s cousin."
She knew the accent. The tamped-down sadness in his eyes. The fear. He was from a village like hers. He wore a hat with a scarf hanging sideways from the visor, as if the sun would damage one side of him. The scarf moved when he spoke. "The war is over. There is a place, Vee-skon-shun, in Ah-mer-eek. My sister’s husband, he has a cousin there."
She quickly glanced at the house, where the people she worked for now would look out the doorway if she took too long, before asking.
"How old?"
Hagop swallowed. "He …maybe 35. No more." Then his voice changed. "From village near to you. By Sepastia. He works in Ah-mer-eek," he paused. "Since before the war."
She knew then why he needed a wife. It was the reason all the men in places like Vee-skon-shun needed wives. She tried not to think about what happened to his first wife, because it was what happened to her mother and her sister. And her whole village.
Sometimes the bitterness curdled her voice.
“No.” she said
Hagop whispered, "Taleen, he is Hye. You are Hye. You do not belong in this place, working for them." He jerked his head up the hill.
She wouldn’t turn. “I am safe.” She faced him, looking directly at the eye she could see. “And the woman is kind. They are good people.”
“But they are not your people. And one day, when life becomes hard, they will remember that.”
She looked away.
“Taleen, you know it is true. Your old neighbors, your Sepastia neighbors, their wives were good too. Then what happened?”
She stared at him then, and the breeze that meant that the evening meal should be cooking lifted the cloth on his hat. He held her gaze, and pulled it off. He was missing part of his face. "After they shot me I fell in the ditch like the rest. They thought I was dead. I thought so too."
One eye glared like onyx above a scarred hollow where his cheekbone should have been. She could tell he had tried to grow a beard to cover the scars but they were like rippled water.
"We lived Taleen. We lived. We must come together. It is the only way. I am going to Vee-skon-shun too. They have a wife for me there."
She heard her name, the way the people on this side of the desert and the mountains say it, called out from the house.
Hagop pressed a scrap into her hand. "Do you have someone who can read this?" She recognized the writing of the people who lived here and below it, letters from her own alphabet. “Show it only to someone you trust.”
They called her name again. Hagop touched her arm. He said, "I work with the leather seller." He put his hat back on. "I can get you to a ship."
Taleen had to hurry, walking as fast as she could without spilling. When she entered the house the woman took the water and looked at her sternly. She had taken too long.
The steamy kitchen filled with the scent of food: garlic, lamb, bulgur—and hunger struck her. The names of the foods were awkward, the seasoning different. But still, not much different. The son sat in the corner. She had never noticed before, but now she felt his gaze on her as she bent over the stew. She turned and saw a flash in his eyes.
Perhaps she could become one of them. Forget her people, her village, her God. What good had He done her family? Forget mother and father and Berghooie and all the others. Forget Aram. Aram, with his long lashes and hands that smoothed the wood, the tools that moved with the songs he sang. The white scar on his cheek. When the soldiers pulled him away he arched backward to look at her, and it seemed like she could see his scar for a long time.
The next day she smiled at the son and felt him watching her.
But that night she dreamed again of Aram. He was wearing a hat that covered his face. A long piece of leather trailed from his hand. As he walked, the leather became a net, and then her mother and father and cousins picked it up and carried it with him through the market to a ship. He looked over his shoulder at her, and this time she could not look away.
Wisconsin, 1920
He was not bad looking for someone so much older, and his job at the foundry was good. There was light and water in the houses, and food. And no soldiers.
There were no in-laws to please either.
But the others from his village watched her. She could not speak to them, not really. She knew only Turk. Some people in her old village had spoken Ermeni, but they used it only in whispers, and so she never learned. Her parents said it was not wise, that her people’s language was somehow tainted. But on the march, there had been some who spoke only Ermeni. They looked to her, wanting her to somehow explain what the soldiers were saying. As if understanding the soldier’s words would make it all comprehensible. She remembered one starving little boy, his eyes with a terrible black shine that asked why? And the soldiers kicked him, mockingly. It only made it worse that she understood what they said as the boy died.
There were so many, why did this boy’s eyes glow in her nightmares like coal? She would never forget how she couldn’t speak to the child, to say a prayer he understood, a kind word in his own language, to cry for her own people in their proper tongue. She knew only the language of the soldiers.
When some of her Vee-skon-shun neighbors heard her speak Turk they blinked and looked away. Like the language hurt. She listened to the radio to learn Ah-mer-eek-han, but it was chalk on her tongue. So she tried to not speak much.
But the husband was kind enough, and soon a child was coming. He said, in Turk, “If it is a boy he will be Kevork. A girl will be Anoush.”
Anoush was fine but she did not like Kevork. She protested but he held up his hand. A darkness rose in his eyes, a stormy anger like she’d never seen before. “Kevork was my son. Anoush was my daughter. The new children will have those names.” He looked at her, “And you are Nazely.”
And then she understood. Nazely was his wife. His first wife—the one who counted. She, Taleen, was a replacement, a poor substitute. She had nothing. She had no country and no language, and now not even a name.
But Anoush and Kevork would be safe. Her children would have names that stayed with them their whole lives and be their own forever. Because of her.
She would be the one her children remembered. Because, despite everything, she lived.
Rebecca Keller’s honors include two Fulbrights, grants from the National Endowment for Arts, the Betty Gabehart prize, the Richard Sirota Award, and two Pushcart nominations. Her stories have appeared in Calyx, New Fairy Tales, Alimentum and other journals. The book of her art and essays, “Excavating History” is published by StepSister press.
by Rebecca Keller
During the Armenian Genocide of 1915, 1.5 million Armenians died at the hands of the Ottoman Turks, often on forced marches through the desert. Many of those who survived ended up in Aleppo, Syria. The heartbreak of what is happening in Syria now reverberates all the more deeply for some of us whose ancestors found safety there once. This story is based on my husband’s grandmother, who survived the death march and was taken in as a servant by a Syrian family.
Aleppo, 1919
The man appeared as she was getting water. She did not know him, but the sight stirred something tender within and lit a cold spark in her chest.
“Taleen?”
He said her name as people used to. She set down her bucket and eyed the man. He pressed his hand flat against his chest. "I am Hagop. Your father was my mother’s cousin."
She knew the accent. The tamped-down sadness in his eyes. The fear. He was from a village like hers. He wore a hat with a scarf hanging sideways from the visor, as if the sun would damage one side of him. The scarf moved when he spoke. "The war is over. There is a place, Vee-skon-shun, in Ah-mer-eek. My sister’s husband, he has a cousin there."
She quickly glanced at the house, where the people she worked for now would look out the doorway if she took too long, before asking.
"How old?"
Hagop swallowed. "He …maybe 35. No more." Then his voice changed. "From village near to you. By Sepastia. He works in Ah-mer-eek," he paused. "Since before the war."
She knew then why he needed a wife. It was the reason all the men in places like Vee-skon-shun needed wives. She tried not to think about what happened to his first wife, because it was what happened to her mother and her sister. And her whole village.
Sometimes the bitterness curdled her voice.
“No.” she said
Hagop whispered, "Taleen, he is Hye. You are Hye. You do not belong in this place, working for them." He jerked his head up the hill.
She wouldn’t turn. “I am safe.” She faced him, looking directly at the eye she could see. “And the woman is kind. They are good people.”
“But they are not your people. And one day, when life becomes hard, they will remember that.”
She looked away.
“Taleen, you know it is true. Your old neighbors, your Sepastia neighbors, their wives were good too. Then what happened?”
She stared at him then, and the breeze that meant that the evening meal should be cooking lifted the cloth on his hat. He held her gaze, and pulled it off. He was missing part of his face. "After they shot me I fell in the ditch like the rest. They thought I was dead. I thought so too."
One eye glared like onyx above a scarred hollow where his cheekbone should have been. She could tell he had tried to grow a beard to cover the scars but they were like rippled water.
"We lived Taleen. We lived. We must come together. It is the only way. I am going to Vee-skon-shun too. They have a wife for me there."
She heard her name, the way the people on this side of the desert and the mountains say it, called out from the house.
Hagop pressed a scrap into her hand. "Do you have someone who can read this?" She recognized the writing of the people who lived here and below it, letters from her own alphabet. “Show it only to someone you trust.”
They called her name again. Hagop touched her arm. He said, "I work with the leather seller." He put his hat back on. "I can get you to a ship."
Taleen had to hurry, walking as fast as she could without spilling. When she entered the house the woman took the water and looked at her sternly. She had taken too long.
The steamy kitchen filled with the scent of food: garlic, lamb, bulgur—and hunger struck her. The names of the foods were awkward, the seasoning different. But still, not much different. The son sat in the corner. She had never noticed before, but now she felt his gaze on her as she bent over the stew. She turned and saw a flash in his eyes.
Perhaps she could become one of them. Forget her people, her village, her God. What good had He done her family? Forget mother and father and Berghooie and all the others. Forget Aram. Aram, with his long lashes and hands that smoothed the wood, the tools that moved with the songs he sang. The white scar on his cheek. When the soldiers pulled him away he arched backward to look at her, and it seemed like she could see his scar for a long time.
The next day she smiled at the son and felt him watching her.
But that night she dreamed again of Aram. He was wearing a hat that covered his face. A long piece of leather trailed from his hand. As he walked, the leather became a net, and then her mother and father and cousins picked it up and carried it with him through the market to a ship. He looked over his shoulder at her, and this time she could not look away.
Wisconsin, 1920
He was not bad looking for someone so much older, and his job at the foundry was good. There was light and water in the houses, and food. And no soldiers.
There were no in-laws to please either.
But the others from his village watched her. She could not speak to them, not really. She knew only Turk. Some people in her old village had spoken Ermeni, but they used it only in whispers, and so she never learned. Her parents said it was not wise, that her people’s language was somehow tainted. But on the march, there had been some who spoke only Ermeni. They looked to her, wanting her to somehow explain what the soldiers were saying. As if understanding the soldier’s words would make it all comprehensible. She remembered one starving little boy, his eyes with a terrible black shine that asked why? And the soldiers kicked him, mockingly. It only made it worse that she understood what they said as the boy died.
There were so many, why did this boy’s eyes glow in her nightmares like coal? She would never forget how she couldn’t speak to the child, to say a prayer he understood, a kind word in his own language, to cry for her own people in their proper tongue. She knew only the language of the soldiers.
When some of her Vee-skon-shun neighbors heard her speak Turk they blinked and looked away. Like the language hurt. She listened to the radio to learn Ah-mer-eek-han, but it was chalk on her tongue. So she tried to not speak much.
But the husband was kind enough, and soon a child was coming. He said, in Turk, “If it is a boy he will be Kevork. A girl will be Anoush.”
Anoush was fine but she did not like Kevork. She protested but he held up his hand. A darkness rose in his eyes, a stormy anger like she’d never seen before. “Kevork was my son. Anoush was my daughter. The new children will have those names.” He looked at her, “And you are Nazely.”
And then she understood. Nazely was his wife. His first wife—the one who counted. She, Taleen, was a replacement, a poor substitute. She had nothing. She had no country and no language, and now not even a name.
But Anoush and Kevork would be safe. Her children would have names that stayed with them their whole lives and be their own forever. Because of her.
She would be the one her children remembered. Because, despite everything, she lived.
Rebecca Keller’s honors include two Fulbrights, grants from the National Endowment for Arts, the Betty Gabehart prize, the Richard Sirota Award, and two Pushcart nominations. Her stories have appeared in Calyx, New Fairy Tales, Alimentum and other journals. The book of her art and essays, “Excavating History” is published by StepSister press.