Evelyn Weiss - Murder and Revolution

Our journey to Canakkale, in handcuffs and railway trucks across Turkey, took two weeks. Since then, the professor, Yuri and I have been in this prison another two weeks. It’s now nearly the end of October, but even though summer is over, during the day our cell gets horribly hot and airless. There is no privacy at all. Every day, I feel grateful that the professor and Yuri are considerate and sensitive men.

Rumors abound; every day we hear a new, improbable story from our guards – the Kaiser has surrendered, Talaat Pasha has killed himself, Lawrence of Arabia and a band of Arabs have captured Istanbul. The guards also tell us that our letters of appeal to our nations’ ambassadors have been sent on to them. And I’ve received letters: one from Emily, who is now living in Moscow; another from Rufus. He, Mariam and all the Ararat villagers got across the Aras River, with the help of Armenian border guards. They are all now safely in Yeravan.

As I gaze out through the tiny window towards Gallipoli, I think: our guards don’t take their work seriously at all. It doesn’t help that none of them even have uniforms; they wear threadbare civilian clothes. I think they are given a little food, and no pay, to guard us. I’m sure they’d release us, if we had any Turkish cash to offer them.

In the last few days, the guards have spent much of their time joking with us through the little hatch in the door of our cell. We converse in a mixture of broken English and the few Turkish phrases we’ve managed to pick up. Despite their lack of discipline, they are in good spirits: they say that in a few days the war will be over, and we can all go home. One of them is calling to me now, through the hatch.

“Hey lady, are you looking forward to getting out of this hole? I am, for sure. I want to get back home, see my brothers, back in Tarsus. I’ve been here at the Sultan’s Fortress for four years.”

I nod. “I know a little girl who came from Tarsus.”

“I’ve heard about your Bible. Saint Paul, he was from Tarsus, you know? ‘I am a citizen of no mean city’ – that’s what Saint Paul said.”

“My friend was Armenian.”

“There’s some good shops run by the Armenians in Tarsus. Nice stuff, you know – clothes, carpets, furniture.”

I don’t tell him that all those shops will be gone now, but I smile at him. As I do, I hear a different voice; sharply edged.

“What are you saying to that prisoner, guard?”

The man salutes nervously. “Sir – ah…”

“Get back to your duties, or you’ll find yourself in a cell.”

Our cell door opens, and Kılıç Pasha walks in.

Yuri and the professor were both snoozing: now all three of us are shocked awake, staring at our visitor. His shoes gleam like quicksilver, his uniform is freshly pressed; he looks immaculate.

“I heard about your recapture. I also heard that you caused the deaths of two Turkish soldiers in an armored car. But you also did something far worse. You disrupted the Ottoman Empire’s solution to the Armenian problem.”

Professor Axelson returns Kılıç’s stare, replying boldly.

“You do realise, Kılıç Pasha, that me and my friends are nationals of three different countries – and that not one of those countries is actually at war with Turkey? Our appeals for release have been sent through to our own nations’ ambassadors.”

“Sabotage is a crime, no matter who commits it.” Kılıç looks into my eyes. “And on the subject of ambassadors – we used to have a United States ambassador in Istanbul. He was a thorn in our side. In fact he was a bit like you, Agnes – he constantly tried to interfere in the Armenian issue. Now we have expelled him, and severed all diplomatic ties with the United States. We will not listen to any appeals for mercy from America. And as for Russia, Captain Sirko – we have heard nothing at all from them in respect of your case.”

He pauses: I see the contempt in his eyes as he goes on. “So – neither of you will be released, not even if the war ends tomorrow. You have committed capital crimes, and will be dealt with accordingly.”

His gaze turns back to Axelson. “However, in your case, your letter was passed on to the Swedish ambassador, and we have received an initial response.” He calls to a guard. “Get this man out of the cell. Bring him to me: I need to interrogate him at length.”

It’s night. Through the barred window, I see stars: the Milky Way’s glittering trail across a sky of blue velvet.

“Yuri?”

“Yes, Agnes?”

“Hold me.”

There’s a noise in the corridor. Voices are shouting. Our cell door bursts open.

“Both prisoners are to come with us.”

I recognise all the guards in this prison. But I don’t know these three men who stand in the doorway of our cell. They shine a flashlight that glares in our eyes: the light glistens on the barrels of rifles. We stand, quickly – but despite that, one of them pushes the muzzle of his gun right into Yuri’s stomach. I hear the catch click, and I stare, frozen in shock.

“Move!”

I attempt to talk. “Please—”

A hand slaps my face, so hard that I see stars. Then I feel my hands being pulled behind me, and a rope is twisted around them. But someone is shouting at the soldier. “Tighter!”

I feel burning: the rope is tearing the skin off my wrists. My face is up against the wall, but I hear blows behind me. They are hitting and kicking Yuri.

I feel the cold metal of a gun barrel on the back of my neck. “This time, you’ll move.” I walk, pushed along by the rifle. With every step I feel the muzzle poke into the base of my skull.

Yuri and I are forced along a stone corridor, out into the courtyard of the fortress. Above, the vast bowl of stars is still shining down, glimmering on the cobbles below our feet. In the gloom, I hear a familiar voice.

“Miss Agnes! Captain Sirko!”

“Shut up. Now all three of you, get in the truck.”

There’s enough light for me to see that the professor’s hands, like ours, are tied tightly. All three of us are bundled into the back of a small open-topped military wagon. The three men, who I now see are indeed in Turkish Army uniform, come into the back of the wagon with us. Each points his rifle at one of us, close up against our skin.

I hear the engine start, and the truck begins to rumble across the courtyard. We pass under the gateway of the fortress, and streets and houses whiz past us in the night: we’re being taken away from Canakkale.

Despite my pain and fear, I’m aware of the fresh night air as we drive along. There’s a cool breeze, whispering through the twisted branches of Mediterranean pines. I smell the heady scent of oleander. We are leaving the town, and heading out along the coast. Here and there I see the distant silvery glimmer of the sea.

My face still smarts from the slap, my tied wrists are on fire and, as the truck bumps along, the muzzle of the rifle jabs at the arteries in my neck. But I feel alive in this moment; my senses are awake, as if drinking in the sights and scents of the Mediterranean night. We drive through an olive grove, the dark trees laden down with the burden of their fruit. Then we pass among lemon trees, and I smell the sweet freshness of the lemon blossom. The stars shine down on us all: us three captives and our three guards, as the truck rattles along the road in the night.

After about ten miles, there are no more farms or houses. I hear an owl hooting as we turn off the road onto a track. The truck’s wheels brush against undergrowth: the track is overgrown with weeds and grass. Few people must pass this way.

The rifle stabs into my neck again and again, as the truck rumbles along, jolting and bouncing on stones, scraping through bushes. There now seems to be no track at all. Finally, as if the driver is giving up, the wagon stops. There’s no point in waiting for another slap: I start to get up from my seat.