Forty Days of Musa Dagh Read Online Free PDF Page B

thought

of war -- of Juliette and Stephan -- oppressed him. His sense of duty as a

Turkish officer had evaporated. He hoped now that the battery in Aleppo

had forgotten him and he felt no desire to attract attention. But it

struck him how well informed these Antioch officials seemed to be,

of all that concerned him.
     
     
The müdir's red-rimmed eyes transmitted his satisfaction. "So that now,

Effendi, you are, so to speak, a soldier on leave. So, for you, there

can be no question of any teskeré."
     
     
"But my wife and son . . . ?"
     
     
As he said this (it seemed to mystify the müdir), Gabriel felt for the

first time: "We're in a trap. . . ."
     
     
That same instant the double doors into the next office were pushed open.

There entered two gentlemen. One was an elderly officer; the other,

doubtless, the Kaimakam. This provincial governor was a big, puffy-looking

man, in a grey, crumpled frock coat. Heavy, dark-brown pouches under

the eyes, in the sallow face of a dyspeptic. Bagradian and the müdir

rose. The Kaimakam paid not the least attention to the Armenian. In

a low voice he gave some directions to his subordinate, raised a hand

carelessly to his fez, and, followed by the major, walked out of the

office, since he seemed to have finished his day's work.
     
     
Gabriel stared at the door. "Are you making distinctions between officers,

then?"
     
     
The müdir had begun to tidy his desk. "I don't quite know what you mean,

Effendi."
     
     
"I meant, are Turks and Armenians to be given separate treatment?"
     
     
This seemed to horrify the müdir. "Every Ottoman subject is equal before

the law."
     
     
That, he continued, had been the most important achievement of the

revolution of 1908. That certain habits of pre-revolutionary days should

still persist -- as for instance the preferential treatment of Ottomans

in military and government offices -- that was one of the things that

could never be altered by act of parliament. Peoples did not change

as quickly as did their constitutions, and reforms were far easier on

paper than in reality. He concluded his excursion into political theory:

"The war will bring a great many important changes."
     
     
Gabriel took this for a hopeful prophecy. But the müdir suddenly jerked

his freckled face, which, for no apparent reason, was twitching with hate.
     
     
"Meanwhile let us hope that no incidents will force the government to

relentless severity with certain sections of the populace."
     
     
     
     
When Gabriel Bagradian turned into the bazaar at Antioch, he had made

up his mind on two points. If they called him up, he would not shrink

from any sacrifice to buy himself clear of the army. And he would await

the end of the war in the peace and quiet of his house at Yoghonoluk,

unmolested and unperceived. Surely, since this was the spring of 1915,

it could only be a few months before peace was signed. He reckoned on

September or October. Surely none of the Powers would dare another winter

campaign. Till peace he would have to make the best of things and then --

back to Paris, as fast as possible.
     
     
The bazaar bore him along. That deep surge which knows none of the ebb

and flow, the hurry, of a crowd along a European pavement, which rolls

on with an irresistible, even motion as time flows on into eternity.

He might not have been in this God-forsaken provincial hole, Antakiya,

but transported to Aleppo or Damascus, so inexhaustibly did the two

opposing streams of the bazaar surge past each other. Turks in European

dress, wearing the fez, with stand-up collars and walking-sticks,

officials or merchants. Armenians, Greeks, Syrians, these too in

European dress, but with different headgear. In and out among them,

Kurds and Circassians in their tribal garb. Most displayed weapons.

For the government, which in the case of Christian peoples viewed every

pocketknife with mistrust, tolerated the latest infantry rifles in