Free The Ghosts of Anatolia by Steven E. Wilson Page A

the babble and shouts of every sort of person—young and old—civilian and military—Turk, Arab, Armenian and Kurd—wandering through a hodgepodge of bazaars and shops just inside the gate. The odor came from the overpowering mélange of rot, perspiration and feces.
    Sirak’s eyes scanned across the frenzied scene and locked onto the brooding eyes of a uniformed gendarme who caught sight of the wagon from his post near the gate.
    The man stepped in front of the mule and held up his hand. “Halt! What’s your purpose in Diyarbekir?”
    “We’re taking my son to see his doctor at the Missionary Hospital,” Mourad replied calmly.
    “Aren’t you aware of the governor-general’s orders for all transportation and work animals to be surrendered to the army?”
    “No sir, we live on a farm an hour from the city. This is the first we’ve heard of this order.”
    Another older gendarme stepped outside of an adjacent guard shack and approached the wagon. “What’s the problem here, Yusuf?” the portly, middle-aged man called out to his associate. Rolls of fat beneath his chin quivered as he spoke.
    “This Armenian claims he hasn’t heard about the military requisition orders, sir.”
    The ponderous gendarme grumbled something beneath his breath, and grabbing the mule’s bridle, inspected his flanks and legs. “This old flea bag is worthless. Do you have other work animals back at your farm?”
    “No sir, we had to sell our other horse to buy seed this past spring.”
    The gendarme stared up at Mourad for a moment. “You people are all the same,” he finally said. “You can go now, but if you
are
hiding healthy animals, I advise you to immediately comply with the order and deliver them to the procurement center to the south of the city. Otherwise, you and your family members risk arrest and imprisonment.”
    “I understand, sir,” Mourad deadpanned, “but, regrettably, this is our only mule. Thank you for your generosity.”
    Mourad coaxed the mule forward, and pulling away from the gendarmes, wove carefully through a throng of people in the center of the road. After crawling along the main road toward the center of the city for over an hour, they turned onto a narrow side street. They bumped slowly past several diminutive homes and a small mosque built from monotonous black basalt. The basalt was quarried from the plateau on which the city was founded nearly five thousand years earlier.
    Mourad pulled the wagon to a stop just outside the main entrance to the Missionary Hospital. The reek of human excrement hung in the air. Sirak and Özker grimaced at each other, and shielded their noses and mouths with their hands.
    A motley band of soldiers loitered in the yard outside the hospital. Several men holding eating utensils were huddled around a large pot—apparently waiting for lunch. They turned en masse to stare at the new arrivals. One of the soldiers stood up and, shouting unintelligibly, made an obscene gesture toward Flora. The others erupted into boisterous laughter. Flora ducked her head, and frowned apprehensively at Kristina.
    “Kemal,” Mourad muttered beneath his breath, “you and Özker stay here with Flora and Izabella. Keep an eye on the wagon.”
    “Of course, my friend; I’ll park down the road by the mosque to get the children away from these roving eyes.”
    Mourad jumped to the ground and helped Kristina down from the wagon. “We shouldn’t be gone long.” He gathered Sirak into his arms and walked to the main entrance of the two-story hospital. They scooted past a stack of boxes just outside the door and stepped into a cramped reception area. A young, fair-haired woman, dressed in a white nurse’s cap and dress, was seated behind a small wooden desk.
    “Good morning,” she greeted. “May I help you?”
    “Yes, thank you. My name is Mourad Kazerian and we’ve brought my son Sirak to see Dr. Charles. The doctor treated him for a viper bite at his hospital in Chunkoush.”
    “I