THE PASHA
1915
“Hovaness! Hovaness!” shouted the Pasha, while pounding furiously upon the wooden door. “It’s me, Pasha Babacan. Let me in! The soldiers are coming!”
Young Aharon looked up at his father, seated at his desk, with his round, brown eyes filled with fear. He watched as his father, Hovaness, reluctantly pushed himself away from the desk and moved hesitantly toward the front door of their Armenian home, wondering if this could be a trick. Pashas, who were high ranking Turkish officials, would not normally knock and ask to come into a Christian home; they would just barge in and take whatever they wanted. So, why now the formality?
“Hovaness, hurry,” pleaded the Pasha, “We don’t have much time!”
Slowly the door opened and the short, stocky man with a heavy mustache peered outside and nervously asked, “Pasha, is there a problem?”
Aharon had crept closer toward the front door to listen.
“Hovaness, the soldiers are coming to evacuate Kharpet and you and your family will be forced to join the others on a deportation march to the Syrian Desert.” The middle-aged Pasha looked down at his hands and nervously clutched them in despair. He sighed and took a deep breath. “Hovaness, we’ve been neighbors for many years, you are an honest man, but I am powerless to stop the Gendarmes from killing your people.” He hesitated, “I can’t save your family, but I can save your youngest son.”
“Aharon?” whispered Hovaness.
“Yes, Aharon,” stated the Pasha. “I promise that I will take good care of him and raise him as if he is one of my own. I will take him away from all this to Istanbul.”
“AHARON,” commanded Hovaness, “Come here!”
The short, muscular, young boy about 10 years old stepped out from his hiding place and moved toward Hovaness. “Yes Baba,” he sheepishly replied.
“Son,” said Hovaness, placing his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “You need to go with Pasha Babacan. He will take you to safety. Do everything he tells you and you will survive.”
“But Baba,” pleaded Aharon, as he looked up at his father, “What about you and Mama?”
“We will be in God’s hands. Now go with the Pasha!” Hovaness moved his eyes from his son to the Pasha, “Pasha, please take good care of him.” Hovaness bent down to kiss his son’s eyes and whispered to him, “You are the light of my soul. Never forget your family.”
As the Pasha reached out to take Aharon’s hand, Hovaness cried out, “Pasha, wait. I have something for you!” He turned and moved deeper into the house towards the European desk where he had been working earlier. He opened a drawer and removed a small bag of coins. He walked back to the front door. “Pasha, take this. The bag of gold will help you with Aharon. May God keep you safe.” A tear escaped from Hovaness’s eye, it rolled down his cheek, as he watched his son leave with his Turkish neighbor for the last time. He quickly closed the door and began shouting orders to the rest of his family to barricade the windows and doors.
When Aharon and the Pasha reached the top of the hill leading to the Pasha’s summer home, Aharon heard the thunder of horses and shouting of soldiers. He turned his head, looking back, and saw the Gendarmes dismounting. They broke down the front door of his childhood home with their bayonets drawn. Aharon started to move, but the Pasha’s strong arms restrained him. He heard screams – his mother’s. A baby cried, and then stopped – his sister. There was yelling, then more screams, and finally silence. Aharon’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. The Pasha, softly but firmly ordered him not to make a sound, “Now let’s continue our journey and don’t look back again.” Tears streamed down young Aharon’s face as he obediently put one foot in front of the other, wondering if anyone survived.
As they continued to walk, the Pasha contemplated how he was going to incorporate Aharon into his family; as an adopted son, a distant relative, or as a serving boy. Maybe the latter was the best for all involved, he thought.
1920
Life was different in Istanbul, not better or worse, just different. The Pasha was good to Aharon as his serving boy. He didn’t beat him, as the other Turks did to their Christian servants. Nor did he abuse him, and his wives were not cruel to him by depriving him of food. The Pasha was true to his word, he made sure that everyone treated him kindly.
One spring day, while Aharon was sweeping the floor of the Pasha’s store, a woman wearing black, entered the small shop. She stopped and looked around the dimly lit room until she noticed the Pasha. She hesitantly approached him and kissed his outstretched hand. She then pulled a newspaper out of her dress. She handed it to him and pointed to something in it. The Pasha nodded and placed a coin in the woman’s hand. She turned and left, never acknowledging Aharon and his broom.
“Aharon,” yelled the Pasha, “Come here.”
Aharon dropped his broom and quickly walked over to the counter that the Pasha was standing behind. He laid the paper on the counter and pointed to a small ad. The Pasha’s eyes were moist as he spoke, “Aharon,” he said softly, “Someone is looking for you. It appears,” he stammered and began again, “It appears that your older brother, Manuk and your sister, Markret, from your father’s first wife, are looking for you. They live in America.”
Aharon looked stunned. They remembered him, but how did they know where to find him?
The Pasha stood up and pushed his red fez back, causing the tassel to sway back and forth. “Aharon, your place is with your family.”
“But I don’t want to go, Pasha,” pleaded Aharon, “I – I like it here.”
“Nonsense! It is better for you to be with what’s left of your family, in America. I will make the arrangements tomorrow.”
Aharon clutched the rail of the Magali Hellas, as the ship rocked on the ocean waves. His curled toe slippers pressed against the wood wall of the ship, and the folds of his baggy pantaloons whipped in the wind. How long had he been on this ship since it departed from Central Greece? He had boarded it at Piraeus in June, after sailing across the Sea of Marmara and through the Dardanelles Strait. The days seemed like weeks. The air downstairs in the steerage class was stale, too many sick people, he thought. That’s why he liked to spend as much time as possible up on deck, in the fresh air.
What would I do in this strange land called America? Would I even recognize my half sister and brother? It had been five years since he had lived with the Pasha in his household, and during those years, he spoke Turkish. Would I remember my Armenian to speak with my siblings? Will they even recognize me now that I’m grown?
Aharon knew that he should be happy, but he felt confused and apprehensive. The Pasha told him many wonderful stories about this country called America. He even showed him a picture of the statute that greets newcomers, while they are waiting on their boats. He called it the Statue of Liberty and said that she was a gift from France. He even told him that the copper that covered the statue was mined in an Armenian city, called Lori, in Russia.
Aharon was lost in his thoughts, when a man dressed in European clothes, joined him at the boat’s railing. He was older than Aharon and wore a red Fez hat on top of his round head. The tassel swayed back and forth with the rocking of the boat. “Mer Haba,” hello he said in Turkish, “Are you looking forward to seeing your family?”
Aharon nodded in reply.
“You know,” the man continued in Turkish, “American officials will not let you into the country with that bag of gold from the Pasha.”
Aharon turned and looked at the man, confusion covered his face, “Why?” he asked.
“Well,” responded the man, “government officials won’t allow you to enter with more than $30.00.”
“Uh,” Aharon paused, “how much is that in Turkish lira?”
“Let’s just say,” laughs the man, “that your bag of gold exceeds that amount!” He turned and walked away.
Aharon pulled out the small bag filled with gold coins that he was supposed to use to start his new life. He turned it over and wondered what he should do. If the government officials turn him away, would they confiscate the gold and send him back to the Pasha? He’d love to return to his old life – the one he felt comfortable with. But would the Pasha be furious with him for losing the gold and beat him or worse yet, turn him out and surrender him as a Gavoor, a Christian. Then what would he do? No! thought Aharon, he could not risk disgracing the Pasha, who had saved his life and treated him kindly.
Maybe, contemplated Aharon, he is supposed to use it as a bribe for the government officials to allow him into the country? He stood indecisively, trying to figure out what to do. Suddenly, he looked up and saw in the distance, a lady raising her green arm.
“Oh,” exclaimed Aharon, that must be the gift from France. He looked down at the bag of gold in his hand and then looked up at the Statue of Liberty again, who was growing in size as the ship neared the shore.
“Mar-sha-la!” he yelled in Turkish; May the Gods bless me and ward off evil. He raised his arm with the bag of gold from his former life and threw it into the ocean.
