EN ROUTE FOR CONSTANTINOPLE—A NIGHT AT BILIDJIK UNDER THE FROST-LADEN
SKIES
ONE does not expect comfort in an unheated railway carriage, with snow a
foot and a half deep, and the temperature 15° below zero. As we left
Angora we also noticed that one of the carriage windows was missing, and
a courteous official kept back the train to insert one from another
compartment! We were grateful, indeed, for even then the cold was hard
to bear.
The little engine is now ploughing its way _downhill_ but still slowly,
since halts are needed to renew its strength for the double task of
“traction” and sweeping away the snow.
We are well supplied with food for a five-days’ journey, so that over a
cheerful meal we can almost forget to feel frozen, and soon find we have
covered the thirty-five hours to Eski-Chéir.
From Eski-Chéir to Kada-Keuy, where the lines have been cut, is a short
distance; but, mercifully, it is not so cold as in the mountains. From
there we travel in a yaili (native carriage) which has evidently seen
better days and, let us hope, better springs. They have been removed
altogether from one side, and we should have been easier without the
worn remnants on the other! As there are no seats, one has to be propped
up by any available rugs or cushions, unless you prefer lying down at
full length. But the little cart is lined with red-cotton brocade, while
green curtains, looking-glasses, and tassels complete the “decoration”!
It must be delightful to saunter along on a summer’s day; and draw your
curtains for a night in the open; but even the straw, the mattress, and
many rugs cannot transform the yaili to a _train de luxe_ in winter.
To catch “the express” at Bilidjik we have to drive in two and a half
hours a distance that requires a much longer time. So, with good horses
and a fearless driver, we rattle away, up hill and down, over bumps and
stones. The luggage is thrown out, my thermos is shaken to pieces, and
we are flung violently against the roof! Bruised and bleeding, we hold
on in grim silence; since time, too, flies.
[Illustration:
The Yaili, or Native Carriage, with Drawn Curtains.
]
Even at this pace we cannot escape the oppression of desolation. On
every side lie smashed engines, burnt railway carriages, and villages in
cinders. As dusk falls, only a fatalist, in a country of fatalists,
could venture the rush down sharp descents cut through a precipice of
800 feet!
Fate, indeed, preserved us, only to prove its irony; for when we reached
the once prosperous Bilidjik, still beautiful in its ruins, we hear that
a landslip on the line has made traffic impossible for some days to
come. In Anatolia, one must be ready to do as the Anatolians; and we are
faced with the prospect of a night under the frost-laden skies. There is
not even a chair to be found, though “kindness” quickly contrives a seat
for me from a pile of logs. Here I can rest awhile; and by brisk walks
at short intervals probably keep up my circulation until the welcome
dawn....
Someone, however, suggested that we should beg for shelter in one of the
luggage-vans already crowded with men and women—naturally, in separate
compartments. One thought of the poor villagers we had seen huddled
together in their holes on the mountains; and realised that even the
floor of a luggage-van may be a “luxury.”
Here turban-headed men are sitting on their prayer-carpets, some sound
asleep in that uncomfortable attitude, others eating, and others
praying, but none uttering a word of complaint.
Looking around for a seat amidst the wilderness of food and bed-clothes,
I suddenly hear a few cheery words in English, to my amazement and
delight. Here is one of the American Relief Workers, prepared and
thankful to spend the night among the strange crowd. With the
resourcefulness of his nation, he is provided with a large hat-box that
will serve as seat or table, and contains both food and bed-clothes.
From his “seat,” therefore, he quickly extracts some sandwiches of most
delicious pea-nut butter, making a cup of tea for me on his “table.”
All eyes are drawn to the neat dispatch of these preparations and the
marvellous ingenuity of his packing. From that veritable box of Pandora
came solid alcohol, tins, kettles, goblets and card-board plates. The
food itself was kept in clean, little linen bags.
It was, indeed, a strange lesson in efficiency and practical hygiene,
delivered in the wilderness! His unpractical, Eastern neighbour is
meanwhile struggling with a bit of old newspaper, from which a most
unappetising collection of honey and eggs and nuts and bread are
tumbling in dirty confusion, as the broken eggs and printer’s ink
trickle in a discoloured stream on the floor.
“If only you would send out a good company of missionaries in hygiene,”
I cried out, in my excitement, “the other gospels would follow as a
matter of course. The world will be a far better place when America
comes to the East and preaches the need for exterminating the house-fly
and other insects with the fine zeal she is now devoting to the
extermination of the Turk.”
My new friend—I had almost said compatriot—laughs good-naturedly at my
enthusiasm; and in a few moments, despite my sympathy with Anatolia, I
am again compelled to recognise that I am, after all, a woman of the
West.
When someone brought in a blazing mangal and carefully closed every door
of the crowded luggage-van, the American soon found a polite excuse to
jump out. Five minutes later I, too, ventured to open the door and call
out to ask him for a helping hand. Both of us knew it was far better for
us to die of cold in the fresh air than to choke in those thick charcoal
fumes. I will hold a light while he digs out a hole, for sleep on the
bosom of Mother Earth.
But now two charming Turkish boys, the sons of Moueddine Pasha, in our
party, are telling me that they are terribly distressed at my
discomfort. It is in vain for me to assure them that no one could blame
_them_. Somehow, they find the _Commandant de la place_; and, at his
direction, gallantly tramp back for two and a half hours, to bring me a
mattress from the Governor’s house which, placed on three standard
oil-boxes, forms my bed. Meanwhile, the Commandant, who is familiar with
Europe and speaks fluent German, earnestly begs me to excuse this
terrible reception. “It is the work of Lloyd George,” he adds, as for
every disaster in Anatolia the same cause is proclaimed. Ask a peasant
who killed his sons, and he will reply without hesitation, “Lloyd
George.” Our late Premier has now become super-bogeyman of the Near East
for Moslems and Christians alike.
All through the night strains break on my ears of the Anatolian
folk-songs; the expression of that strangely resigned happiness of a
long-suffering people which we of the West must half-envy and, at the
same time, half-despise. Average human nature is only too apt to neglect
those who never complain; and if others appeal for them, to say—as even
America has said—“It is too big a problem for us to tackle.”
With so much goodwill around me, the night passed far more quickly than
even my natural optimism could have foretold. And before stepping into
the yaili that will carry us on to Broussa, I try to express to the
kindly peasants a little of the gratitude and admiration in my heart.
“We do not lack anything,” they assure me. “All we want is to save our
Fatherland. It would be wrong of us to use up the wood and material for
building houses that may be required in the war.”
Then, for farewell, the old Bible-greeting of “God be with you.”... “And
bring us peace,” is all I can find voice to reply.
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