Nobody's Child Read Online Free PDF Page B

thinking on Kevork’s part, she thought, to take charge with Onnig. Not that it made a whole lot of difference in the long run. Would the devastated village be any safer for them than the cave of graves?
    â€œAllah is great. Some of you live.”
    The voice startled Mariam from her thoughts. It was the boss. The Turk who had given their family a job and a place to stay.
    He stood before the weary group on the path in the middle of his barley field. He was pushing a wheelbarrow. Mariam could see that it was filled with sickles and other farming implements. He had been collecting the tools that had been left scattered in his fields when the attacks occurred. Mariam could feel a new wave of sadness rise in her throat: each sickle represented one Armenian, and here they were, piled up like so much garbage.
    Mariam’s first reaction was a feeling of hatred for this man. He was a Turk, and it was Turks who had killed her family. But he looked kind and distraught, and not at all threatening.
    â€œYou are the only ones I have found alive,” he said. “My name is Abdul Hassan. Come back to the migrant camp where you will be safe.”
    As Anna stepped forward to speak to the man, Mariam noticed that a wave of fear crossed his face and he gripped the blue ceramic bead that hung from a strap around his neck — his amulet to ward off the Evil Eye.
    Anna was of course familiar with the effect her appearance had on people, so she lowered her eyes and said, “Thank you for your kind offer, sir, but we must get back to the village.”
    â€œAs you wish,” said Abdul Hassan. “But at least let me feed you.”
    He manoeuvred the wheelbarrow to turn down the pathway. They followed, Onnig whimpering quietly, still in Kevork’s arms.
    The Turk’s house was a few hundred yards beyond the barn where the male migrant workers had stayed. It was two storeys tall and made of mud bricks like those in the village. It was bigger than the homes in the Armenian district, but not as large as many in the Turkish district. Instead of a bricked-in courtyard, the garden could be seen from a distance. A goat and a few chickens ran free.
    A stout woman with her hair completely covered under a long veil and a gauzy yashmak over the bottom of her face stepped out of the cottage and shielded her eyes with one hand so she could get a better look at her husband and his guests. She surmised the situation quickly, and disappeared back through the doorway. Moments later she came out carrying a rolled up carpet.
    â€œThis is my wife, Amina Hanim,” he said to Anna and the children. Amina bowed deeply.
    Her husband took the carpet from her, and she went back inside. He spread the carpet on the ground. “Please sit down,” he said. “I will be right back.”
    Mariam looked at Anna with a question in her eyes, and Anna nodded imperceptibly. “Very well,” said Mariam. “I guess we’ll sit.”
    Mariam sat down, then reached up to Kevork, who was still holding onto Onnig. Kevork loosened the little boy’s grip around his neck and placed him in his sister’s lap. Onnig had stopped whimpering and was looking around in curiosity.
    Marta settled in beside her sister, then Anna and Kevork found spots on the carpet too.
    Mariam looked at the strange group. Here they all were, sitting on a carpet waiting for food. They had been orphaned by Turks, yet here they were, being fed by Turks. It was all so odd.
    Amina Hanim came out with a tray holding a large earthen pitcher and several tall clay glasses. She knelt down and placed the tray in the middle of the carpet, lifted up the pitcher and poured a creamy thick beverage into each of the glasses, then gave one to each of her guests.
    Mariam sniffed the contents of her glass, then sipped. It was a delicious yogurt drink the Turks called
ayran
and Armenians called
tan
.
    Abdul Hassan came out of the house, bearing a platter of food. He set