The door swung open and Muammer Bey, the governor, entered the house. She didn’t dare look up, fixing her eyes instead on the yellow-and-brown marble of the worry beads hanging from his hand; they looked like the gouged eyes of a dozen slain tigers. He clicked one round orb against the next. One, two, three . . . stopping at twelve, though there were twenty-one more to go. Lucine knew there were thirty-three beads in all because she counted them on one of his last two visits, when he had tried and failed to persuade Hairig to give him Anush’s hand in marriage. Everywhere in the province young Armenian men were being taken from their homes, but only the Melkonians had the honor of a visit from the governor himself. There was a time long ago when the governor was considered a friend in their house. He would spend Friday evenings playing backgammon with Hairig, but Lucine liked him best for his magic tricks. If you caught him in the right mood, Muammer Bey would pull a pebble out of your ear.
But there were no magic tricks and pleasantries that day. Muammer Bey ascended the stairs, two by two, with two young soldiers at his heels. One minute her uncle was upstairs sleeping soundly, and the next, he was gone. Her parents clamored to the front door, and Lucine was relegated to the back of the house with her siblings. She didn’t get a chance to say good-bye or to take one last look at his face. There was no more talk of going to the hamam that day. And today would be no different.
Downstairs, Hairig is already seated at the dining table, waiting for his morning coffee. He is dressed in his three-piece suit, an affectation he assumed many years ago when he was courting Mairig, who was and still is enthralled with the West. His red fez and stained leather apron sit on the table, in bold contradiction to his European clothes—a reminder that he never quite managed to meld who he is with who she wanted him to be.
Anush hums softly to herself, as she enters the room carrying plates of black olives and white cheese in one hand and the baby in the other. She places a half-eaten loaf of bread at the center of the table, before serving the tea and coffee. Her cheerful sounds and everyday movements are an affront to Lucine. Aram presses his cheeks into her chest, sucking in air in place of mother’s milk.
“Where is the fresh bread?” Bedros asks, eyeing yesterday’s loaf.
Anush looks at Hairig before turning to Bedros. “There is no bread anywhere. There’s a queue outside the baker’s shop, but his door is closed and the windows are boarded up.”
Her words send shivers down Lucine’s spine. Months ago, the government charged several Armenian bakers with poisoning the bread of Turkish troops stationed in Sivas. Groups of Armenian men, regardless of their profession, were imprisoned, until a medical inquiry proved the charges baseless. The bakers returned safely to their homes. But where were they now? Why were they not at their ovens?
“Never mind that,” Hairig says.
Steam rises from his tiny coffee cup, a delicate thing made of white porcelain with tiny blue flowers dancing their way toward a gold-leafed rim. From Paris, Mairig likes to say. Forgoing the delicate handle, Hairig places his dye-stained fingers around the rim, a habit Mairig detests. With her hiding in her room, there is no one to chide him about the proper way to lift a cup.
“I want to explain some things to you.” There is a long silence, during which Hairig stares into the rising steam of his coffee cup. “Turkey has entered the war,” he says finally. “I know what you witnessed the other night must have been upsetting. But you mustn’t be frightened. Many things change when a country is at war. We have to prepare for what may be some difficult days.”
Upsetting? Losing a favorite trinket is upsetting. Spilling one’s soup is upsetting. Having your uncle dragged out of the house by soldiers is another thing entirely.
“Who are we fighting, Hairig?” Bedros asks. Her little brother, his eyes wide with excitement, has brought his slingshot to the table. The perfect symmetry of his face is interrupted only by a scar that goes from the center of his left eye to the top of his left cheek.
“We are not fighting anyone, my lion. We are trying to sell carpets, but our government has sided with Germany against the French, British, and the Russians,” Hairig says.
“What about the Americans?” Lucine asks, thinking of her beloved teacher, Miss Graffam, who hails from someplace called Maine.
“They have not entered the war as of yet,” Hairig says.
“You told us about all this in the winter,” Anush says, bouncing Aram on one knee.
“Yes, but things have gotten worse, particularly for Christians. We are viewed as an internal threat, an enemy living within the state. The Armenian intellectuals in the capital were rounded up and arrested a month ago. The politicians, poets, priests, and composers have all disappeared.” His voice trails off. All four children follow Hairig’s eyes to the spot at the center of the table where his words have landed.
“Under the circumstances, I cannot export my carpets anymore. I have made some difficult decisions,” Hairig continues, his voice hollow.
“Yesterday I dismissed most of my men. For now, I will do what’s left of the dyeing myself. Anush, you and Lucine will help Mairig with her responsibilities.”
“I can help, Hairig,” says Bedros, raising his hand like an eager schoolboy.
“Good,” says Hairig. “You will all stay home from school for now, until things are clearer.”
Clearer? How much more clear could things be?
“We will have to wait and see which way the tide is turning. The best thing to do now is to cooperate and show our government that we are not a threat.”