Between the Two Rivers: A Story of the Armenian Genocide by Aida Kouyoumjian

Author:Aida Kouyoumjian [Kouyoumjian, Aida]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Coffeetown Press
Published: 2011-08-15T04:30:00+00:00

19—Down the Tigris

Sebouh Effendi led Adrine’s group to the riverside early the next morning.

His leather shoes scraped against the pebbles of the sun-baked alley; he took fast steps, increasing Mannig’s urgency need to board the boat. She hurried ahead of the orphans’ strides but remained trailing Adrine, her flimsy sandals barely brushing the ground.

The ever-vigilant Adrine was swinging her head back and forth, checking on the children in her care, when Sebouh Effendi tapped her on the shoulder and insisted she relax. “Don’t worry. The children will not wander.” He waited for her to catch up and walk beside him.

Mannig grabbed her sister’s hand, kept abreast with them, and relished this excellent opportunity to eavesdrop effortlessly on their conversation. Any impatience Mannig felt to sail down the river and promptly start school at the new orphanage evaporated. Adrine’s responses to Sebouh Effendi’s inquisitiveness about her life in Adapazar completely enthralled Mannig.

“What was your father’s name?” he asked.

“Mama called Baba Bedros-Jahn,” Adrine said with characteristic brevity.

“Imshee!” A vendor’s warning came from behind; he carried herbs and seedlings on his back. He dashed by the caravan of children heading toward the entry of the sooq.

Adrine yielded to him, but her gaze focused on his load. “I remember,” she said, looking at Sebouh, “my father’s name was Bedros, and my mother designed a pansy flower bed in the shape of his name, in English.”

“Where did she learn English?”

“She graduated from an American school …” Adrine abruptly dropped her jaw, closed her eyes, and furrowed her eyebrows.

“Perhaps my questions upset you?” Sebouh apologized.

“No, no,” Adrine shook her head, gaining composure. “I, I don’t know why I forgot the name of her school … I think it was a university.”

“Aha! Was she a teacher then?”

“I don’t think so. She devoted her life to raising us,” Adrine whispered, tearfully.

Seeing Adrine’s saddened expression, Mannig felt a lump in her throat.

Sebouh walked in silence, occasionally sped up and then slowed to allow the twenty orphans to catch up with them.

“My uncle’s wife was a teacher,” Mannig heard her sister say above the ruckus several boys were making, squabbling over a game of marbles. They held Mannig’s attention momentarily—until she realized her sister had not finished answering. “Uncle Mihran’s family lived in Boleess, and he managed the sale of flour that my father shipped to him from our Adapazar mills.”

“Vye!” Sebouh Effendi sighed. “Your father ran a flour business? Such enterprises did very well before the Big War, and especially during the conflict.”

“My father also was a partner in a pawn shop,” a tinge of pride sounded in Adrine’s voice, “but everything is gone now, I suppose.”

“If only those butcher gendarmes had spared the Adapazaris,” Sebouh moaned, shaking his head. “With your father’s status and friends, he would surely have spearheaded the rescue of the orphans now, as we, the Baghdadi communities, are doing.”

To Mannig’s disappointment, silence ensued between the two. Don’t stop … I want to hear more. Family ties trumped any dreams she had of being educated. Moments earlier she couldn’t wait to arrive at the real orphanage.

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