The Winter Thief

82

The night Kamil arrived, another group of women and children poured in through the monastery gate. These had come farther than the first group, through the forest, without coats and shoes. They were cut and bruised, freezing and in shock. Their men had been killed or escaped into the hills.

Everyone in the commune was mobilized to cook and pass out water, to tend to the wounded and comfort those who could be comforted. Some of the children sat listlessly, thumbs in their mouths or twisting their hair, while others swarmed together and squealed and bickered, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

The refugees came all through the following morning. By noon there were at least a hundred people taking shelter at New Concord commune. The stench of excrement, mixed with blood and fear, spread a pall over the grounds.

Kamil climbed halfway up the stairs that led to the top of the wall that circled the property. He looked over the crowded yard, worried about what to do with all these people. The new refugees were a complication in his effort to disband the commune. They couldn’t just abandon them, and he doubted they’d be able to make it through the mountains to Trabzon on foot.

Omar climbed up beside him and said, “From the women’s description, I’d say the attackers are Kurdish irregulars.

“What we expected.”

“They’ll come here next. It’s almost as if they were waiting for you. The refugees are their calling card.”

“We have to protect these people.”

Omar nodded and climbed back down. Kamil saw him speaking to Apollo, who then called for attention. In a voice that carried across the yard, Apollo made a statement in Armenian, which Kamil didn’t understand. Omar told the villagers in Turkish that they should organize the cooking, cleaning, and managing the outhouses. Seated on an overturned trough, Siranoush Ana rapped her cane against the wall and, when she had everyone’s attention, began to issue assignments. The women looked relieved to have something to do, to have been called out of themselves and the unbearable memories of their own arrival a week earlier. Yedo and his cousins began to dig latrines.

Meanwhile able-bodied members of the commune took rifles from the storage room and placed stockpiles of ammunition at strategic points. The monastery had been built for defense. One of its two towers remained, along with a sturdy crenellated wall that ringed the property.

Kamil called his thirty soldiers to order. “You are Ottoman soldiers,” he reminded them. “You are representatives of the most civilized empire in the world, serving a sultan who cares for every peasant in his land as much as for every pasha. It is your duty to obey the orders given by your superiors, but it is also your duty to fight for civilization. The refugees that have arrived appear to have been driven here by the sultan’s irregular troops. These troops were given orders to keep the peace, and some have exceeded those orders by terrorizing the population. But I don’t want to hide from you that these troops were sent by our great padishah, just as you were. I see our mission as protecting the people in this compound. If these troops attack us, then our missions will conflict, and you must decide for yourself whether you are willing to remain here under my command. If we end up fighting them, that might be considered treason. As your commanding officer, I assure you that you are free to leave my command, and I will note it down as a transfer, not a desertion. You are free to go.” Kamil pointed to the gate. Not a man moved. The soldiers remained at attention. “Have you understood me?” Kamil asked. “If we fight, we may be fighting the sultan’s army.”

“Yes, pasha,” they responded briskly in unison. “As you will it.”

Kamil allowed himself a smile at the loyalty of the men who had accompanied him through such hardships already. For many this would be their first battle. He prayed it wouldn’t be their last. He hoped it wouldn’t come to fighting. If he could speak with the other troop’s commander, he was sure they could escape bloodshed. Perhaps the excesses were the work of rogue soldiers, not the central command.

Still, it was prudent to be prepared for the worst. He stationed some men along the protected walkway at the top of the wall and others by the gate. Since the ground-floor windows had been bricked up and others blocked with insulation, once the door was locked, those inside the monastery building would be relatively safe.

The afternoon passed as slowly as if it were mired in clay. More refugees arrived, including a dozen or so local men, out of ammunition or having lost their weapons. Kamil issued each man a firearm, grimly aware that the guns were from the stolen shipment, and posted him at a station. The refugees all told more or less the same story. A group of armed Kurdish tribesmen had swooped in unannounced, rounded up whatever men and boys over the age of ten they could find, and shot or felled them with an ax to the back of the head. They had broken down the doors to the homes and taken gold and other valuables and carried off some of the young women, then left. Some reported meeting a man in a black uniform who had asked them in broken Armenian whether any strangers had traveled by in recent weeks.

Kamil heard the thunder of hooves before he saw anything on the road. From the sound, he estimated at least a hundred men. As they came closer, Kamil saw that they filled the valley. He scanned the battlements to make sure his soldiers were in position. He had set men to guard the doors and windows of the monastery and some of the older boys to fetch ammunition.

“Two hundred, at least,” Omar commented. He checked over his weapons, a rifle with extra bandoliers across his chest, a pistol and an ax tucked into his sash, and a large curved knife in a scabbard at his side. He grinned. “Well, I’m ready.” The police chief’s face was charged with anticipation.

Kamil too had a rifle in his hand, extra ammunition slung across his chest, and a pistol in its holster at his side. He bent over and checked that the knife in his boot slipped out easily. But he still hoped that the troop commander would approach the monastery first to parley or to allow them to surrender. All Kamil needed was one chance to identify himself as a representative of the sultan. Surely then they wouldn’t attack. He had set the sultan’s standard, a pole topped with the regimental insignia, high on the wall where the approaching troops could see it.

Apollo and Vera, both armed, climbed up beside Kamil and looked out over the battlements. He heard their sharp intake of breath. Elif emerged from the monastery, and Kamil noticed with a stab of apprehension that instead of a gun, she carried several knives, one tucked into her cummerbund, another in a scabbard at her side. When she turned to speak to someone, he saw the large curved knife in a scabbard on her back, where she could reach over her shoulder to draw it. Kamil’s heart beat rapidly for a few moments, and then he calmed himself and focused his mind. He accepted a cup of water from Vera and, after drinking, let a few drops spill to the earth to inaugurate this final journey. “May our path be open,” he whispered to whatever gods inhabited this wild place.

Just then he noticed a blur of motion at the gate. Sakat Ali was unlocking it and pushing it open. A moment later Elif descended upon him. Sakat Ali doubled over, clutching his right arm, and Elif and several soldiers pushed the gate shut again and locked it.