The gendarme places the flat part of his foot on Arsineh’s shoulder and pushes her onto her back. She pulls her knees up in defense, but it is not enough to stop his bayonet from piercing her stomach and slicing it like a ripe piece of fruit.
Though there is blood everywhere, no sound escapes from Arsineh’s lips. Her eyes remain open as the blood seeps out of her.
“You owe me three paras,” says the gendarme.
Just then Berberian arrives with Miss Graffam at his heels. He screams and rushes toward the gendarme, knocking him on his back, not far away from the dying Arsineh and her unborn son. Berberian’s meaty fists pound into the gendarme’s face. Over and over again, until a single bullet, launched from the gun of the commander on horseback, plunges into the butcher’s neck.
Lucine presses Bedros and Aram’s faces to her chest and squeezes her own eyes shut. She doesn’t want to see where Berberian will land when he falls. She doesn’t want to see anything ever again.
“WE ARE GOING to be flies, Bedros,” Lucine whispers to Bedros. “Do you want to be a fly?”
“A fly?” asks Bedros.
“Yes. We’re going to pretend that this long line of marchers is a slow-moving serpent and we three are flies on its back. Soon we will fly away. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes,” he says simply. It is all she needs.
They come to the end of the bridge, where the rest of the company of Sivas is gathered near the river. Groups of people from Amasia and Samsun are also waiting there. A young woman with one long, unruly braid rushes toward the river only to be intercepted by a gendarme.
“Keep away. All of you,” he shouts to the deportees.
Miss Graffam, who has been bandaging someone’s leg, stands up to confront him. He sees her quick steps and points his bayonet in her direction.
“You, no more,” he says.
“The river is only a few meters away,” she insists. “We will go single file.” She says the last two words in English, holding up her finger to signify one person.
The gendarme interprets the gesture as an insult to his manhood. He says something about not being one of her students. He curses with gusto, stopping only when his commanding officer approaches.
“What’s the problem here?” the commander asks.
“Your man won’t let us drink,” Miss Graffam says. Her hands do not rest on her hips the way they did when children disobeyed her at the school. They hang low at her sides in what Lucine interprets as exhaustion and defeat.
“I believe your pitcher is full, madam.”
“Yes, but one pitcher is hardly enough for everyone.”
“It is for their own protection,” the commander says.
“For their protection,” repeats Miss Graffam.
“Young ladies in the previous caravan were deliberately drowning themselves in the river,” he says. “We can’t have that, can we? Our job is to protect you, all of you.”
“Protection is not the word I’d use to describe what has been happening here,” she says. Her teacher’s hands are at her hips again. It is a mistake and Lucine wishes she could warn her.
“I do not condone what happened earlier,” he says, pointing back to where Arsineh and her family now lie. “But the truth is, they would have died eventually anyway.”
“You do not condone?” Miss Graffam raises her voice.
“We are doing our best, madam,” the commander says, his face reddening. “I have one man for every five hundred deportees.”
“Yes, and why is that?”
“Why?” The commander raises his voice above hers. “Because we are at war, that is why. We are soldiers, not mother hens.” He steps closer, his face centimeters away from Miss Graffam.
“Do you think I want to be escorting this heaping pile of shit you call your flock? We are being attacked on every front by people who worship your god, their god.” He keeps his eyes on her, but his finger points at the deportees. “If you hadn’t filled their minds with all sorts of ideas, they wouldn’t be in this mess.” Lucine wonders if this is true. There are rumors that those who convert to Islam will go unharmed.
“This has nothing to do with God,” Miss Graffam whispers. “Let me remind you that Germany, your ally in this war, is a Christian nation. Please, let them have a little water.”
“You’re right, this has nothing to do with God. These people attack us from within our own borders. Collecting arms and waiting patiently to join the Russians and the English when they invade our borders. Every country has the right to do away with traitors.”
“These people are not revolutionaries—”
“Enough,” he interrupts, shouting. “In this country, madam, we do not discuss politics with women.” Then, composing himself, adds, “Tonight you will come to Malatya with me. The governor of the province has requested your presence.”
“I will do no such thing,” says Miss Graffam.
“You can and you will,” he states simply.
“Who will escort these people when you leave?”
“Others. Replacements.” He shrugs, walking away from her.