Panian Karnig, Goodbye, Antoura. A Memoir of the Armenian Genocide, 2015

One time, we climbed over the wall and headed for the garden of the “small house.” We saw no lights from the house. Our leader climbed over the short fence, but as soon as he jumped down, Father Francis’s dog started barking, waking the old man and bringing him to the balcony. Our leader jumped back to the other side, and after a short consultation we had to flee. The dog had awakened the entire village.

By this time I had joined a new group led by Yusuf, a bold and serious boy. “Follow me!” he said. “I know the house of a villager nearby with a small orchard!”

There was nobody inside the house. Yusuf said the owner had gone to a city to find bread. The famine had reached his door.

How did Yusuf know all this? There was no time to ask. Stumbling in the undergrowth, we followed in his tracks. In the orchard, silence and darkness surrounded us. We tried to find some fruit, but to no avail. We couldn’t even distinguish the different types of trees in the darkness.

We gave up on the trees and tried to find something in the bushes. We found a few lonely pumpkins and some dried-out tomatoes, eggplants, and beans. We stuffed our loot into our pockets. Then we found some small potatoes and onions as we dug into the soil. It was a poor result, but after an hour of searching, it was all we could find.

It was almost dawn. In the distance, we heard the crowing of the roosters and the barking of Father Francis’s dog. Our team reached the orphanage wall, but we heard sounds of conversation from the other side. So we went around the wall, to the back of the chapel, and climbed over the wall there. This was not an easy task, but Yusuf helped us all get across.

We tiptoed to our dormitories. I snuck into my bed and got under the blanket. The other boys didn’t even stir.

“Mamma, Mamma,” whimpered someone from nearby in his sleep. It had been two years, yet the boy still called for his mother, who was probably long dead.

The ringing of the bell soon roused me. Along with the other boys I left the dormitory, trying to shake off my drowsiness.

In the courtyard, Yusuf signaled to our team to gather in the corner. We

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were experienced in these matters by now, and we left the mass of orphans one by one, in order not to draw attention to our movements.

Once we were alone, Yusuf extracted some plums and a few dried-out tomatoes from his pockets. “Eat up,” he said. “They’re not very ripe, but they’ll help you forget about your hunger.”

We had to wait another three hours until breakfast. We each went our separate ways and stealthily ate the bitter tomatoes, which tasted horrible. Soon the bell rang again, and we waited in line to enter our classrooms, ready to begin another day filled with insults and beatings from cruel teachers, with meals of tiny buns and bland, colorless gruel of a suspicious origin.

The targets of our food raids—the storerooms and the vegetable gardens—had been exhausted.The administration had increased its surveillance, and Father Francis’s dog was always making a racket. Some boys had even disappeared lately—perhaps they had been killed by that dog.

We had become scavengers and thieves, putting life and limb in danger for a few scraps. Yet we had to survive.

Yusuf led another raid that night. In the moonlight, we tiptoed down the stairs, but instead of heading toward the chapel, we went toward the gymnasium; the area was not usually patrolled by too many guards.

Once over the wall, we found ourselves in a thicket, walking through thorny bushes. We traced a curve in the woods and once again found ourselves in the graveyard. Two days ago, two orphans had died. I saw their mutilated body parts littering the ground, chewed up by jackals.

The stench of the bodies was unbearable, so we ran across the graveyard as quickly as we could. We passed the small house, the big house, and Father Francis’s house. We went up a hill and down again. In the distance I could spot the sea, with the lights of a few fishing boats bobbing up and down. There were small, one-story houses all about us, and endless lines of trees—probably orchards belonging to the villagers.

The team walked on in complete silence. It had been an hour since we had left the orphanage. We had never come this far before. After another few hills, Yusuf finally came to a halt. “See that fruit?” he said. “Those are carobs. First, go up into the trees and have your fill. Then, fill up your bags!”

We had seen this fruit during our deportation, but we had never thought it was edible. The carobs looked like black horns, hanging limply from the branches.

Overcoming my inhibitions, I obeyed Yusuf, picked one of the carobs, and tentatively bit a small piece off. It was really delicious! It was as sweet as jam. I devoured a few of them, spitting out the seeds. I then climbed onto a branch and, straddling it, began filling bags. I quickly filled up two of them. I paused to rest, but the temptation was too much—I began eating again.

The moon was right behind the peak of a mountain, not too far from the horizon. Yusuf began jumping from branch to branch, rushing us along: “Quick! Fill up the bags and let’s get out of here!”

I had filled three bags, and the others had done just as many. Our supply would surely last even more than the usual two weeks.

“Thank God!” I whispered to myself. “We’ve found the cornucopia!”

I was about to jump down when I heard the sound of running feet coming in our direction. I froze. Was it just a random passerby? The sound came closer and closer. Up in the branches, I squinted to see through the leaves.

Some men skidded to a halt right beneath the tree. They saw us in the branches. There were three of them—all young, with long mustaches and beards. My heart was in my throat.

They signaled to us to come down. The two full bags I had placed beside me fell with a thud onto the ground. I tried to carry the third down with me. As I scampered down, one of the men grabbed me and deposited me on the ground. I was terrified.

Yusuf, Nishan, Kevork, and I stood before these swarthy, healthy men. We were full of shame and scared out of our wits. Would they beat us? Kill us? We were like four condemned men facing our three judges, awaiting our verdict. I hoped they would take pity on us, considering our age and our miserable circumstances.

They emptied our measly bags into three large sacks. Then they ordered us, in a language we didn’t understand, to climb back up the tree and pick the rest of the carobs. We continued working until their sacks were full. At that point, just as the sun was about to rise, they waved at us and walked

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away.They seemed to be nervously eyeing the horizon, which was now pink with the sun’s first rays.

We stood under the tree, in shock, exchanging terrified glances. “Thank God that’s all they did!” said Yusuf.

“They could have killed us,” added Nishan.

“It’s almost dawn. Get back up the trees and fill your pockets with any carobs you find. That’s all we have time for!” ordered Yusuf.

We jumped into the branches and began picking carobs at a feverish pace. We weren’t sure we’d make it back to the orphanage in time, but we had to try our best. As we walked back, I followed my friends with a troubled mind. It was a deserted area, and if they had murdered us, nobody would have been the wiser. I thanked God for watching over my friends and me.

The moon set behind the mountains. We kept up a hectic pace, wading through thick thorny vegetation, cutting our shins and our feet with every step. Suddenly, Nishan stumbled against something, and with a muffled cry of pain he stopped. His toes were covered in blood. Yusuf plucked a couple of leaves from the bush behind him, spat on them, and tied them around Nishan’s battered foot. He figured out that Nishan had tripped over the skull of either an ox or a cow.

“Don’t cry,” he said to Nishan. “This skull belongs to you now. You can smash it into the powder and eat it!”

Nishan took the skull and limped after the rest of us. We were exhausted from walking, but we had to go on. I trudged on, wondering when we would be free of this terrible life, of hunger and thirst, of terror and fear, of trauma and pain.

As we climbed over the hill, we saw Father Francis’s home through the leaves of the trees. Back in familiar territory, we hurried down the slope heading toward the graveyard, startling a jackal that fled from us in the underbrush, whining as it ran.

We climbed over the wall behind the gymnasium and emptied our pockets. Yusuf hid the carobs and a few bones under large rocks, concealing it all with twigs and leaves.

We snuck into our dormitories and crawled into bed. Just as we did so,

the morning bell rang. I tried my best not to look too tired and to go about my day as if nothing extraordinary had happened during the night.

During the afternoon, while we were all out in the courtyard, Yusuf gathered our team together. “Whatever we brought last night, we’ll share with our other friends. Are you all in agreement with this plan?”

We approved unanimously. The leaders of the raiding teams had decided that from now on the bounty of each raid would be shared among all the teams. We would share resources and blunt competition among ourselves.

By that point there were more than forty of these teams active in Antoura, each consisting of four to six boys, and each with a leader who received the blind obedience of those under his command.These leaders were the liaison among the teams, but the other members didn’t even know the boys in the other teams. Secrecy was absolutely essential. We were all between the ages of seven and twelve, yet we functioned like an army, keeping everything to ourselves. One loose tongue could undermine our operation. There was an agreement that if a team was caught, its members would take their punishment without ever implicating or denouncing others.

We never discovered who had established this system of raiding parties and the rules that governed their activities. He must have been a rather unconventional boy.

Once in a while, a boy would be expelled from a team for having let something slip, but even then, he was not excluded from enjoying the bounty of the raids—he still received a small percentage of the booty.

If not for the bravery and daring of the boys in these teams, the number of boys who died in the orphanage might have doubled. Many of these boys were true adventurers. I was a timid person, easily perturbed and easily frightened, and the thought of theft seemed absolutely repulsive to me. But the instinct of survival led me into their ranks. Since Krikor’s escape, I had no other choice but to become a bold thief.

We weren’t doing this because we enjoyed it. We had been pushed into a corner by the administration, and we were being starved to death. Even at that early age, I understood that God would forgive our sins.

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.

A few weeks later, Yusuf led us on another raid, heading in a completely new direction. As we went down a hill, I saw small clearings in the woods, occupied by the ruins of what used to be respectable homes surrounded by gardens or fields. They were all abandoned now; the orchards around the homes had been left untended.

There was no time to count, but I think there were at least two dozen trees in the first orchard we entered—apple, pear, plum, and fig trees. The fruits were small and sweet, and as we filled our pockets and bags, we filled our stomachs, too.

“What luck! No barking dogs, and no thieves to steal from us,” commented Nishan.

As the moon slowly went down behind the nearby mountain and the eastern horizon brightened with the early rays of the sun, we walked back to the orphanage without much fear. It was a quiet, breezy night, which was particularly enjoyable on a full stomach. Our route seemed to be very safe; we never got near the houses, which meant that we were too far away even for the dogs to smell us.

The return trip was easy. We were going down a gentle slope. At some point, we startled an animal in the bushes, which bolted across our way and into the woods. It was another one of the hungry jackals that wandered the area, waiting for an orphan to die so it could desecrate his body.

The next day, as usual, each of us found a dark corner and ate our fruit with relish. Though I guarded my food jealously, and I did my best to eat secretly, the other boys could often see my jaws moving, and they realized I had food that they didn’t. Sometimes I felt like a villain, so I gave one of my friends an entire plum or a carob.

One morning, Yusuf gathered us together, and after making sure we weren’t being overheard, he told us that some other teams were trading their fruit for bread.

What a scandal! They barely gave us any bread at the orphanage. Why sacrifice that sustenance for a few pieces of fruit? Besides, a black market

created real danger for all of us. There would be envy, jealousy, and theft among the boys. It would lead to denunciations, arguments, and enmity. Yusuf agreed to speak with the other leaders about the problem.

During class, as Mullah Nejmeddin’s voice droned on, I kept thinking of those unfortunate boys who were sacrificing their daily bread for a few figs or a small apple. At our eleven o’clock meal, while nibbling my bread and forcing myself to spoon some cold, tasteless soup into my mouth, I kept noticing how some boys were not eating their bread, instead stuffing the buns into their pockets.

Later, in the courtyard, I observed some of those same boys. One of them walked around with a handful of grapes in his hand. Another was eating plums greedily in a dark corner.

That evening, Yusuf reported to us that the team leaders were putting an end to the trade of fruit and bread.They had also decided that from now on, each team leader would give away some of his team’s supplies to the other orphans in his class or his dormitory. Everybody would have a small serving of fruit every day, without having to sacrifice his bread.

The leaders added to their own responsibility. Now they had to feed dozens of additional boys. The raiding teams had to be more active than ever to steal more fruit and vegetables.

Yusuf and the other leaders created a schedule. Each night, only four or five teams left the orphanage—this minimized the chances of getting caught and ensured that different teams did not compete over the same turf. The leaders also organized the hideouts and the routes of each team, allowing for the proper storage and distribution of the stolen food.

The members of the raiding teams, including me, were becoming virtual professionals. We learned how to distinguish the other teams from guards and locals. We quickly climbed up trees and picked the fruit. We even saw better in the dark.

We no longer collected bones. We weren’t that desperate anymore. As we expanded the targets of our raids, we found more vegetables, more fruit, more nuts. Fortunately, we lived in a country where fresh produce could be found nine months out of the year.

educators, to guide us and impart their wisdom. The older boys were our role models. We took our cues from them, realizing that they did their best to be good examples.They encouraged us to keep our language alive, pray to our God, and never forget that we were Armenians.

We were always on the lookout for informers, which meant that we lacked trust among ourselves. The administration had succeeded in that arena; they had sown these seeds of distrust. But could we really blame the informers? They were weak-minded, to be sure, but they were hungry, and they were willing to do anything for an extra piece of bread.

But the administration must have realized the longer the battle went on, the more it lost to a bunch of Armenian children.

Did our teachers ever realize that they were the ones who strengthened our resolve against them? How could we strive to be like our teachers when they were brutal, sadistic fiends? How could we accept our new Turkish identities when the Turks tasked with our care mercilessly insulted and beat us at the slightest provocation?

All around me were the children and grandchildren of the Armenians who had gone to their graves in the pitiless desert of Syria. We had been spared only because we were still impressionable children. Yet the rebellious streak in us had not been squashed. Even after all the insults, the mistreatment, and the beatings, we continued to wage our desperate struggle.

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THE CAVES

IT HAD BEEN SIX MONTHS since the team leaders agreed to distribute their bounty to all the orphans, and the raiding teams were busier than ever. They provided fruit and vegetables to most of the boys once or twice a week.

There had been improvements in the procedures, too: boys stood guard while the teams went out, making sure that no staff members would interfere with the raids.

Despite the secrecy and stealth of these operations, some boys were inevitably caught and punished. Our team’s leader, Yusuf, was reported to the staff twice. The first time, the headmaster attempted to extract a confession, but Yusuf claimed complete ignorance about any thefts, categorically denied the charges against him, and insisted that he knew nothing about anyone who belonged to any raiding teams. He spent two days in confinement.

The second time he was caught, he was deprived of food for forty-eight hours. He was released only after receiving a warning in the strongest of terms.

Villagers began visiting the administration to complain that the ­orphans were robbing them. These men often issued a veiled threat; they stated that they had been merciful, knowing that the thieves were orphans, but they implied that in the future they might use deadly force.

The locals’ threats made the administration uncomfortable. After all, the Turks had come to Lebanon, taken over the monastery in Antoura, and