The Winter Thief

90

They finished burying their dead, including Yedo and five of his cousins. The body of Sakat Ali had been found that morning in the stable, his throat apparently cut by his own knife, still clutched in his hand.

Omar told Kamil that he had heard Sakat Ali approach him in the night. “I took him outside for a little talk before he said good night. As we suspected, he was an Akrep agent. He followed you to Karakaya and saw you shoot Vahid.” Omar looked at Kamil appreciatively. “At first he thought Vahid was dead, but regrettably he wasn’t. Looks like you blew off part of his right hand, though. Our spy fixed his boss up and hired someone to take him to Trabzon, then came back here to kill you. And that was his last assignment.”

“Thank you.” Kamil found the words inadequate for the immensity of saving his life.

“Vahid might die on the way, but I don’t see it. The devil has a thousand lives.”

A priest from among the refugees said a prayer for the dead. Vera placed a bouquet of meadow hyacinths on Gabriel’s grave, one of a long row marked only with piles of stones. Then they focused on organizing the living.

Kamil set out at the head of the column of close to two hundred frightened and desperate men, women, and children who had no homes to return to. They passed the Kurdish corpses by the side of the road. Mothers hid their children’s faces in their skirts.

Rapids from the early-spring melt had made the river unnavigable and cut off the road to Rize on the coast, closer to them than Trabzon. Levon and his men rode ahead of the train of refugees, checking the road and forest for ambushes and foraging for food and supplies to feed the mass of fleeing people who had once been their neighbors. Omar and the remaining soldiers brought up the rear, making sure no one was left behind. In this manner, they plodded through the mountains. Kamil sent one of his men ahead to alert the governor of Trabzon that they would need food and shelter when they arrived. He wondered whether Vahid had arrived alive or whether they would pass his carcass on the road.

The road followed the river until the flat land gave out and they were forced to climb the hills along narrow paths, passing through ravaged villages blazing with rare yellow rhododendrons. Their numbers swelled as they moved through the valley and survivors from isolated communities joined the refugees. Most of them either had relatives in Trabzon or wished to escape the province on one of the ships in the harbor.

The journey to Trabzon was long and miserable. Although the end of March, it was still winter in the mountains. Winds ripped through the gorges, and clouds settled so low that they drenched the skin. Days were warm as long as the sun shone, but then they were plagued by swarms of biting insects. At night the temperature plummeted, and people built small fires or dug themselves into the forest loam for warmth. Children whimpered in fear as wolves howled and jackals yipped on the hillsides. Levon’s men occasionally brought sacks of clothing and boots that they distributed. Kamil assumed they had gathered them from abandoned villages along the way. There was no sign of the Kurds. Were they not willing to fight without Vahid?

When the refugees reached the town of Ispir, the mayor put them up in homes and stables, and the town’s women baked bread almost continually. The mayor insisted on billeting Kamil with his own family.

Some of the refugees who had relatives in Ispir decided to stay, but after a few days it became clear that the town couldn’t sustain its generosity toward the rest. The townspeople were running short of food, and tempers flared. Kamil ordered those who wished to go on to Trabzon to resume their march through the mountains.

Levon’s men hunted wild boar, goat, and deer, which they roasted and then distributed among the refugees, along with bread and leather sacks of salted olives, cheese, dried fruit, and whatever they could forage. Fish were plentiful in the river and easy to catch in nets. Still, it wasn’t enough for the enormous number of refugees as others joined the column. Fights broke out.

Elif, Alicia, Vera, and others rode back and forth along the long line, handing out food and looking for stragglers, people who were too weak to go on. When the terrain allowed, they used carts to transport the old and ill, but some of the passes through the mountains were too narrow or too steep and treacherous, and they had to be carried on donkeys or on people’s backs. At times they waded through mud up to their knees. The rocky terrain destroyed the horses’ shoes, and some of the animals fell lame and had to be left behind. Omar had insisted on walking with his stick, in order to free up transport for others. But after two weeks on the road he fell ever more behind.

“You’re too proud to be seen on a donkey?” Kamil taunted him.

“I’m too proud to throw an old woman off a donkey so I can get on,” Omar retorted, sitting on a rock by the side of the road. His face was red and sweating, and the bandage around his leg was crusted with blood. “Just leave me here.”

“You’d rather die here?”

“Why not? It’s as good a place as any.” He looked around. “The sweet smell of pine, the sun on my face.” He grinned, but Kamil saw the effort behind it.

“It’s not very heroic after all you’ve been through to die at the side of the road like a hare that’s been hit by a cart.”

Omar frowned and focused on a woman sitting in a patch of vivid blue hyacinths breast-feeding her infant. She had deep circles under her eyes and the blank look of exhaustion. “My definition of heroism has undergone some revision.”

“As you like, you stubborn, selfish old mule, but think about your wife and Avi. Don’t you have some responsibility to them? You’re just too lazy to live.” Kamil stalked off.

There was plenty of water. It fell in sheets from the side of the mountain, surged in the rivers, and trickled in streams amid the stones. But the mass of people made sanitation a problem, and some became ill with diarrhea. When Victor fell ill, Alicia tied him to his horse so he wouldn’t fall off and stayed by his side. Omar rode on a donkey, up front where Kamil could keep an eye on him. When he became delirious, he too had to be tied to his mount. Too ornery to die, Kamil hoped, casting anxious glances at his friend’s slumped form.

It took them almost a month to get to Trabzon. The road behind them was studded with fresh graves, particularly toward the end of their journey. One of them was Victor’s. Another belonged to Siranoush Ana. Her daughter had carried her mother’s body on her back for five days before they convinced her to allow Siranoush Ana to be buried. At each burial, one of the surviving priests said prayers and they erected a wooden cross, hastily carved with the deceased’s name. At Siranoush Ana’s burial, the grim-faced Levon had cried like a baby.

The following afternoon, they passed through a meadow where hundreds of tiny yellow blooms had forced their way through the sheet of snow. Kamil rode off alone and dismounted on the pretext of examining the flowers-marsh marigolds, tiny goblets of sunlight. He picked one of the flowers and wrapped it in his handkerchief, then placed it inside his coat alongside the dead soldiers’ documents. He walked far enough away that no one could see his shoulders heave or hear his sobs.

When the minarets and church towers of Trabzon were in sight, a roar went up among the refugees and people began to push forward. Levon rode up next to Kamil and, pressing his fist against his heart in a gesture of friendship, met Kamil’s eyes. Kamil nodded his head in acknowledgment. Levon spurred his horse around and, together with his men, melted into the forest. Kamil wondered whether they would go back to their land or stay in the forest as outlaws. They had a thousand guns after all. He wished them well.

At the edge of the city, Kamil was met by the governor, this time not with a band but with a contingent of gendarmes. The governor looked stunned to see the train of refugees.

Kamil dismounted and went to speak with him. It didn’t escape his notice that it took the governor a good few moments before he bowed and uttered words of respectful welcome. Kamil realized that the governor hadn’t recognized him at first. No wonder. He was filthy, his clothing in tatters, and he now had a full beard.

“Thank you for meeting us,” Kamil responded. “These people need food, lodging, medical care. I presume you had word of our arrival. I sent a messenger some weeks ago. What have you been able to prepare?”

“The city elders have refused permission for them to enter, my pasha. They’ll have to go back.”

Kamil stared at the governor in disbelief. He flung his hand at the crowd behind him. “Take a look, sir,” he said, trying to keep his anger in check. “They are in no condition to go anywhere, and there is nowhere for them to go back to. They will remain here.”

At a signal from the governor, the gendarmes spread out and blocked the road. “I’m sorry, Kamil Pasha, but we’ve heard that they carry disease. We can’t risk letting them into the town.”

That, at least, was a legitimate concern, Kamil thought, his anger abating somewhat.

“I understand,” he said. “If they are not to go into town, perhaps a camp can be set up for them outside, where they can receive medical care.”

“We hadn’t expected such numbers. How many are there?”

“I don’t know. Two hundred? Three hundred? Quite a few died along the way.”

“We don’t have enough to feed them,” the governor stuttered, “or the resources to build that many houses. And we have only one doctor.”

“Surely as governor you can meet the expenses. This is a human disaster for which you are responsible.”

The governor shook his head and looked embarrassed. “These people are rebels. The government won’t allow me to pay a kurush to help them.”

Kamil flung his riding crop down in rage and strode up and down the row of gendarmes while the governor waited, his face twitching with anxiety. He could send a telegram to Istanbul, Kamil considered, but to whom? And what would that accomplish if the administration believed these people were rebels? He could pledge his own considerable wealth, but he worried that it would take too long to arrange. Still, he decided to try. He’d send a telegram to Yorg Pasha.

A crowd of residents began to gather behind the troops and on the hillsides. Surely they would help these people, Kamil thought. He saw several prosperous-looking men advance on the governor. They appeared to be arguing.

Kamil heard Vera say his name. Her face was gaunt, her eyes caked with pus from an infection, and her lips were chapped raw. She had trouble articulating her words. “I might have a solution,” she said. “Come with me.”

Kamil told the governor that he had business in town and asked him, for humanity’s sake, to distribute bread, clothing, and blankets to the refugees.

The governor nodded. “The residents are eager to help.” Shoulders sagging with relief, he went to consult with the local men with whom he had just been arguing.

Vera led Kamil to a guesthouse near the port. “Gabriel told me he stayed here when he first arrived in Trabzon. Because the roads were still bad, he left his trunk behind. He gave me this key,” she said, pulling it from her pocket, “and told me that if anything happened to him to get the trunk. It was almost as if he knew he wouldn’t survive.” She regarded the house and then led him around the back and through a gate. “That must be it.” She pointed at a windowless stone shed. The key fit in the lock.

They squeezed inside. Kamil lit a lamp he found by the door, revealing a jumble of boxes and barrels and, behind them, a chest as high as Kamil’s waist.

“Gabriel said the gold from the bank would be in the chest.” Vera ran her hands across the dusty lid, her voice thick with feeling. “He didn’t have a chance to tell me what he wanted me to do with it. I know he’d approve of using it to help these people.” She looked at Kamil, concerned. “You’re not going to return it to the bank, are you?”

Kamil had no answer. Vera didn’t have a key to the chest, so he forced the lock. They drew open the heavy lid. The chest was crammed with furs and other household goods. Puzzled, they pulled everything out and examined it, piece by piece. When the chest was empty, Kamil climbed inside it with the lamp to examine the bottom. With the tip of his knife, he scored the leather lining and pulled it up, revealing a recessed latch. He manipulated it until a soft click revealed the outline of a panel, which he pushed aside. An extensive false bottom opened to view. Kamil reached in and extracted a necklace set with large emeralds, which he gave to Vera, then pulled out a handful of gold liras.

Vera stared at the jewelry draped over her hand. “God save us,” she exclaimed.

Kamil took in the sea of gold lapping at his feet. “It seems he has.”

Kamil didn’t tell the governor where the gold and jewels came from. It was about half of what had been taken from the bank, and he wondered where the other half was. With some shame, but seeing no other solution, he let the town think it was his personal fortune. He implied that it had been left with Yakup, who had stayed behind in Trabzon. He had removed the emeralds from the necklace so they couldn’t be identified. Neither the governor nor the residents seemed to think it unusual for a pasha to travel with so much wealth. Perhaps they were simply too relieved at having the problem solved to inquire too closely.

He sent Yorg Pasha a telegram to tell him he was safe and a longer letter to him and one to Feride with a ship leaving that morning for Istanbul. There was no sign of Vahid in Trabzon, although a local doctor said he had treated a man who had lost part of his hand. The sultan’s Kurdish irregulars had vanished.

Over the next few weeks, Kamil worked together with the governor and town leaders to erect shelters and purchase food and other supplies that had to be brought in by ship. A cold fog still enveloped the town in the mornings, but later the sun burned it off, revealing fields of forget-me-nots and wild tulips amid brilliant green meadows. Birdsong mingled with the sounds of sawing and hammering. The women refugees, now mostly widows, sat outside the doors of their communal shacks in flecks of sunlight, staring into space. Only the children, resilient as spring flowers, ran exuberantly underfoot.

Some of the money from Gabriel’s chest was used to hire ships to take people to Istanbul or other Black Sea ports where they had relatives who might take them in. Some families had decided to return to their villages under Levon’s protection. A photographer disembarked from one of the ships and, carting his box and tripod through the town, took pictures of the remaining refugees.

Kamil began to think of leaving. He trusted the governor and the sizable Armenian community in Trabzon to continue the relief effort as long as the money held out, as it would for some time yet. Kamil reminded himself that he faced a murder charge. The thought was so ludicrous that he laughed out loud.