HOME
The shortest way from the Ottoman bank to Hasskeui is up the Rue
Voivoda to the guardhouse at the corner, and then down the hill through
the old neglected Turkish cemetery to the pestilential quarter of Kasim
Pasha; thence the road, hugging the dingy arsenal wall for nearly half
a mile, leads up the hill over the fallen stones of another cemetery,
to the lower edge of the Ok Meidan. Even in daytime the way is lonely
and often unsafe. In the shadow of the arsenal wall many a pedestrian
has been waylaid by the idle soldier, and gruffly ordered to empty
his pockets; even if he yields, but has not enough to satisfy his
assailant, he may receive the thrust of a knife. The Jew, returning
from his day’s labor in Galata or Stamboul, walks home that way to save
the boat hire; if sunset overtakes him, he stops at a little café in
Kasim Pasha, to wait for others belated like himself; when a dozen or
more have collected, they continue their way, relying upon their number
for safety. The guardhouses, which seem to be more for the protection
of government property than for the safety of the people, are arranged
within sight and shouting distance of each other. Should you venture
there at night, you would be stopped by the guard, and if ignorant of
the usual password, would be arrested and thrown into prison.
Takvor almost felt his way up the hill through the darkness. Not a
street lamp shed its usual flickering ray on the walk; in not a window
was a light visible; only the stars looked faintly down. The watchman,
fatigued by the grewsome work of the day, forgot to thump with his
resonant wooden club the hours of the night. Once and only once did a
sound in the distance break the silence. A garbage gatherer was still
at his work. He had stopped his rumbling cart to increase its burden,
and again all was silent. Unobserved by the sleepy sentry, Takvor
slowly felt his way past the first guardhouse, and then down the hill
and into the cemetery. Beneath the thick cypress trees the stars were
no longer visible, and in the extreme darkness the faint outlines of
the marble tombstones, with their great turbaned heads, seemed like
white-robed ghosts arrayed along his path. At the foot of the hill he
was able to avoid the guardhouse by making a detour. On he went through
Kasim Pasha to the arsenal. Here he removed his shoes, hoping to escape
the guard’s attention, and silently passed along, hugging the wall.
“Kim der o? Who is that?” gruffly cried the Turkish sentinel, running
his words together into a monosyllabic grunt.
“Yavanji deyil! It is not a stranger,” replied Takvor, imitating the
gruff voice of the soldier.
The old password that he had learned years before seemed to be still
in use, for the sentinel was silent, and he passed on. By the faint
light of the olive-oil lamp at the next guardhouse he could see the dim
form of the sleeping sentinel leaning against a post, and he walked
noiselessly by. To avoid the two remaining guards, he followed the
valley through the cemetery, picking his way among the fallen stones
and bushes to the Ok Meidan, and then in a moment he was on the hill
overlooking Hasskeui and the Golden Horn.
He was extremely tired. His nerves, weakened by his confinement in
prison, were all unstrung by the experiences of the day. He dropped on
a stone to rest,--on the very stone where he had sat with Armenouhi two
years before,--and turned his eyes apprehensively in the direction of
his home.
At two o’clock in the morning, two hours after leaving the English
store, Takvor was still on the hilltop, undecided whether he should
awaken his father and mother, or remain where he was until daybreak.
The rising moon was dispelling the darkness and revealing the outlines
of the towering minarets in Stamboul and the dark waters of the
Marmora. He gazed beyond the dull roofs of Hasskeui to the bit of the
Golden Horn reflecting the moonlight, and seemed to see a dark object
moving along the surface of the water. At last he distinguished the
form of a large kaiyik. In a moment a second boat glided across the
illuminated spot, and was followed by several others so closely that
he could not count them. It seemed strange to him, for boats were not
permitted at night. The splashing of the oars could now be heard, for
the boats were approaching Hasskeui. Perhaps they were bringing Jews
and Armenians, who, like himself, had escaped death, and were returning
home in the darkness. He listened in vain for the sound of feet.
Five minutes passed, and then, simultaneously, in almost every part of
the town, the air was suddenly filled with the crashing of doors and
windows, followed by the shrieks of women, and the despairing “Aman!
aman!” of men.
He could see the Armenians fleeing from their houses toward the hill,
and there was yet time for him to escape across the valley to Shishli;
but he must in some way warn his parents, that they might escape with
him. When he reached the village, he found in the streets the same
tall, sinewy Kurds and Lazis going on with their fiendish work.
“O merciful Heaven!” he cried on approaching his home; “have I come too
late?”
Two gigantic Kurds were dragging his unconscious father from the house,
while his mother begged piteously for his life. One of the savages
tried to calm her with promises of safety.
“Take our money, but spare him,” she pleaded; “if you kill him, kill me
too.”
The Kurd only laughed.
“No, my beauty; we have a better use for you.”
The Kurd’s club descended on the unconscious man’s head. Yester threw
up her arms and dropped dead on the body of her husband.