Nobody's Child Read Online Free PDF Page A

knife that had chopped the vegetables was still resting on the cooking hearth. She was in the courtyard, gathering figs for breakfast.
    Arsho was napping in her cradle, suspended by a rope from the rafters. One end of the rope had been tied to the loom so that as Anoush wove the intricate patterns into her prized carpets, Arsho would be rocked to sleep.
    But the morning coziness had been shattered when his mother stepped back into the house, fear in her eyes, but with resolute calm. “Hide,” she said urgently, pointing to the rafters.
    Kevork stepped onto the table-like top of the tonir and hoisted himself up. From his hiding spot, he watched as his mother threw the handful of figs on the tonir, and, with shaking hands, took the knife from the hearth and hid it in the flap of her waistband. Then, with careful urgency so as not to wake the child, she pulled the rope to Arsho’s cradle all the way up to the rafters and secured it with a knot. She was about to step onto the tonir to hoist herself up into the rafters beside her son when the door burst open. Kevork willed himself not to cry out in fear as he watched his motherquickly drop down onto his cushion and pretend that she was calmly eating her breakfast.
    A soldier holding a bayonet, smelling of smoke, stepped in. “Where’s your man?” he asked Anoush.
    â€œDead,” she replied.
    Kevork listened to his mother’s lie. His father was away, selling carpets, but the answer seemed simpler.
    â€œYou’re alone?” he asked, inspecting the dim interior with a quick glance.
    â€œYes,” she said.
    Kevork held his breath.
    Arsho whimpered.
    The soldier looked into the rafters and spied the cradle. Kevork willed himself to be invisible. “Typical lying Armenian bitch,” said the soldier, then spat on the floor. “What else are you hiding? Where are your weapons?”
    He walked over to where the cradle was suspended, then severed its rope with a single slash of the bayonet. The cradle crashed to the floor. Arsho wailed. The soldier raised his bayonet as if to strike the baby.
    In a flash, Anoush had the kitchen knife to the soldier’s throat. “Leave my daughter alone,” she growled.
    From above, Kevork shook in fear. What was his mother thinking? The soldier was twice her size. He had to save his mother. Without making a sound, he positioned himself to jump down on the soldier, but there was a loud crashing sound. The soldier and his mother struggled, knocking over the loom. Then his mother kicked hard at the pot, sending scalding stew splattering over the soldier, who cried in pain, but also over little Arsho, whose wailing became even louder.
    â€œThat’s enough,” said the soldier. Then he gripped Anoush’s wrist so tightly that the knife clattered to the ground.
    Kevork watched in horror as the soldier kicked the cradle hard, knocking Arsho onto the floor. The child stopped crying. Then the soldier picked up his mother, as if she were nothing more than a sack of cloth, and walked out the door.
    Kevork was utterly confused by what he had witnessed. The soldier had not killed his mother. He had taken her. Kevork had heard stories of things like this, but in the stories, the woman always killed herself to save her soul. A jumble of emotions rushed through Kevork’s mind. The Turk had knocked the knife out of his mother’s hand so she couldn’t kill him — or herself. What was happening to her now? Kevork tried not to think about it. The important thing was that she might still be living. But if she was living, did that mean she had lost her soul?
    Kevork was immobilized with fear and confusion and horror. It was his sister’s continued silence that made him finally lower himself down from the rafters and step onto the tonir. He walked over to where his sister lay amidst the bits of stew and upended cradle. She looked like she was sound asleep. A wave of relief washed over