The Ghosts of Anatolia Read Free Page A

when you and Liza and the children return. Especially now, with all the uncertainty...”
    “But we appreciate the sacrifices you’ve made for the Armenian people,” Mourad interrupted. His eyes shot daggers to silence Kristina. “Representation in the central government has never been more important.There will be plenty more birthdays and Christmases after you’ve completed your term.”
    Bedros tugged at his beard with his fingertips. “I’d like to see Mama now.”
    Mourad took his brother’s arm. “She stays in the back bedroom.”
    The two men walked down a short hall past two rooms. They stopped at a closed door.
    Mourad tapped lightly on the door. “Mama, Bedros is home. Can we come in?”
    There was no reply. Mourad pulled the door open and stepped into the small room.
    Muted light filtered through the faded-blue curtains. A frail-looking, gray-haired woman, covered with blankets up to her neck, was lying in a bed that nearly occupied the entire room.
    Mourad squatted beside the bed. “Mama,” he whispered. “Look who came to see you.”
    The feeble old woman opened her droopy eyes. After a few moments, a look of recognition swept across her face. “Bedros,” she whispered. “My son, God has answered my prayer.”
    Bedros leaned over the bed and kissed his mother on the forehead. He sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long, Mama. We wanted to come last spring, but Tania came down with the pox.”
    A worried frown furrowed her brow. “My Tania?”
    “She’s fine. We’re all fine. Garo and Aren reported for army duty, but I’m sure they’ll watch out for each other.”
    “Thank God,” she whispered.
    Bedros took his mother’s hands and sat gazing at her for a long while. Falling into a contented sleep, she didn’t stir as he lovingly massaged her twisted knuckles and fingers. Finally, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Rest well, Mama. I’ll come back later.”
    Bedros stepped into the front room and brushed a curl of wet hair back from his face. He lifted his nose into the air and took in a whiff of the spiced aroma wafting through the room. “You’ve prepared something wonderful, Kristina? Lamb stew?”
    “It’s my mother’s pilaf chicken with burghol. I hope you’re still hungry.”
    Bedros didn’t reply. His attention was fixed on a small painted statuette of the Madonna and Child on the counter. “I’m starving,” he finally said. “I didn’t carry enough bread to last the journey. I’d hoped to buy provisions at stops along the way, but as I traveled farther from Istanbul, I discovered that most of the inns—including the Bournouz Khan where we stopped with Father when we were boys—had been abandoned.”
    The front door opened and Mourad stepped inside with his older sons. “Welcome back to the living, Bedros. I take it you had no trouble resting. Your snoring nearly shook the walls down.”
    Bedros chuckled, and the laugh lines in his temples morphed into deep furrows. “You have said it! I haven’t slept that well since I left Istanbul.” Bedros stepped forward and wrapped a brawny arm around each of his nephews. “And what have you two boys been doing the past year? Up to no good, I suspect.”
    “We’ve been working with Papa on the farm most of the time, but we go to school in Chunkoush between the cotton harvests,” Stepannos said.
    “Promise me you’ll study very hard. Farming is honorable work, but it is bad for the back, and even worse for the money belt.”
    “Dinner!” Kristina called out.
    Flora set a loaf of bread on the unfinished wooden table set for four. Then, she placed two bowls of stew on a small crate on the floor. Mourad pulled out a chair for his brother. “Bedros, sit here next to me.” The men and older boys sat at the table, while Izabella and Sirak knelt at the crate. They all bowed their heads.
    “We thank Thee, Christ our God,” Mourad began, “for Thou hast satisfied us with Thine earthly