In the spring of that year, the Turks had begun to deport the Armenians. First they rounded up the intellectuals in Constantinople—Krikor Zohrab, Daniel Varoujan the poet, Rupen Zartarian, Ardashes Harutiunian, Atom Yarjanian “Siamanto,” Yervant Srmakeshkhanlian the novelist—more than two thousand in total taken to imperial holding centres, many tortured, most killed. Then the Turks forced every remaining Armenian civilian to march into the desert without supplies. The Empire was dying and in its last throes killing with paranoiac ferocity all dissidents. Now even race could be a mark of treachery. The women were raped before they were throttled, and the Euphrates was strewn with corpses. Under the pressure of the Great War, the Empire that so recently had been reforming towards democracy now attacked without mercy whoever was not, and did not want to be, a Turk.
The messenger told Haj Hassan that his friend and colleague Fuad Murad had also been summoned to the trial, and had already left Nablus for Aley. Hassan assured the messenger that he would set out at once, and sent him on his way. Hassan shut the door and found his wife Nazeeha, who had been listening, in tears. It occurred to Hassan that his uncle Haj Tawfiq Hammad, who represented Nablus in the Ottoman parliament, might intercede for him with the authorities. He composed a message to Tawfiq and sent it with his servant to the telegraph station in Nablus. He would wait one more night on his farm for Tawfiq’s reply, and catch up the hours lost the following day.
That evening, after their meal of lentils and lamb, every member of the family disappeared to sleep or pray, except for Hassan, who took the opportunity to sit in his garden. Nazeeha wanted to join him, but he sent her away. He looked down from the ledge at the swimming pool glittering with starlight, and listened to the irrigation system watering the pomelo trees below.
In his study he packed a small bag for the journey—two fresh shirts and a pair of his best French trousers; the Quran; a bar of soap—and as he was buckling the straps the maid entered with a visitor. It was his friend, the merchant Haj Taher Kamal.
“Jamal Basha has become an anxious and bloodthirsty man,” said Haj Taher at once. “You must not go, it will be certain death. Al-Lamarkaziya, Al-Ahd—every group that wants independence is a threat. It will not be a fair trial.”
“We never asked for independence,” said Hassan. “We are the Decentralisation Party. We ask only for reform.”
But Haj Taher was convinced of his danger, and urged Hassan not to go to Aley. Hassan did not entirely disagree with him, but he had made up his mind, and of course he was counting on Tawfiq. Haj Taher meant well, but he was not a politician.
A telegram from Tawfiq arrived before midnight: yes, he would intercede. Hassan could be sure of a pardon.
He woke at sunrise, kissed his sleeping wife, mounted his horse, and rode north through the hills. By the time the sun had started to heat the air he reached Jenin, where he stopped at his cousin’s house to exchange his horse for a carriage and driver. He napped in the carriage seat as his man drove them on. Through the wooden wall he listened to the uneven contours of the road, and woke to the quiet roar of wheels on rocks as the temperature dropped by Lake Tiberias. He ate one of the pieces of bread he had brought and offered the other to the driver. As they approached the Litani River he began once again to feel hungry, but all they had left was a bag of seed for the horses, so he requested a stop at the travellers’ inn that was coming into view on the hilltop ahead.
While the driver fed the horses, Hassan approached the building. The exterior had recently been refurbished and plaster clung to the leaves of the carob tree outside in a sticky crust. The innkeeper appeared in the doorway, a short, black-eyed man in a dirty apron. No food, he said. Haj Hassan scowled, and the man remembered they might have a couple of eggs left over after all—if effendi could wait just a moment. Handing Hassan a newspaper to read, he limped out of sight.
Hassan sat on a stone in the now midmorning sun and opened the paper. There were the usual deaths and births, news of the British rebuffed at Gallipoli, and a long review of a book about a Syrian immigrant in America. He skimmed the review. Turning the page he read the title: “Eleven Nationalists Crucified in Beirut.”
In the middle of the list was the name of his friend, Fuad Murad. Murad was already dead! And his own name was listed, with a photograph—Hassan Hammad was a wanted man. The photograph was two years old and showed him clean-shaven. He touched his beard and rose to leave. He found his driver relieving himself against a tree, and at the sight of him felt another spasm of panic. The driver had made a poor choice of tree and was struggling to avoid the splatters as his piss cascaded down the knots, and while he was occupied Hassan made a quick decision. He mounted the driver’s seat and whipped the horses into action, ignoring the yelps of confusion behind him.
He crossed the Litani River by a crumbling bridge, only letting the horses stop to drink on the other side. From there he drove east, away from Beirut but otherwise in no particular direction. Whenever he saw a village he took a circuitous route—he could not risk being noticed as the only stranger in the souq that day.
After an hour and a half of eastward meandering he came upon a Turkish soldier alone by the side of the road, his ankles white with dust. The soldier stood and hailed Hassan. Gold buttons shone down his front, and a bayonet glinted by his side. His large moustache was waxed in the Ottoman style and a box of oranges lay on the ground by his chair. Hassan stopped the horses and dismounted, and the soldier demanded in accented Arabic to see some identifying papers. His eyes narrowed, taking in Haj Hassan’s attire.
“Is this your carriage?”
“Yes,” said Haj Hassan. He continued, in fluent Turkish: “I’m looking for a place to eat, do you know of anywhere nearby?”
Apparently delighted by Hassan’s flawless Turkish, the soldier clapped his arm and offered him an orange. Haj Hassan accepted and began to peel it; the zest spat at his dust-covered hands. The soldier added the rind to a small pile in the box, and as they each ate a segment Haj Hassan decided it was necessary to damp any suspicions he had already aroused. He told the soldier that he had in fact set out with a driver, intending to visit his family in Beirut. But when he asked to stop at a caravanserai, the driver had robbed him and escaped. Taking pity, a kind old shopkeeper lent him this carriage, on oath that he would return it.
“I have no papers, nothing,” he added, watching the soldier’s face for a reaction.
“My lodgings are nearby,” replied the soldier. “And I have a telegraph machine, if you would like to send a message to your family.”
Hassan hesitated. The man might appear trustworthy, but he was still a Turk. And if he had guessed Hassan was on the run he might be hoping for a reward. Hassan considered his options. He could run fast. He would leave one of the horses unharnessed in case he needed to flee.
The soldier led him to a small hut downhill from the road, above which the zigzag of telegraph wires swung gently in the wind. As the soldier entered, Hassan unbuckled the tugs from one of his horses and fastened the saddle strap with a length of rope to the carriage frame, presented a handful of seed to the big lips, and rubbed the warm muzzle. Inside, the soldier was already boiling water on the stove. In the corner stood a table covered in electrical equipment: an upright box resembling a radio, its sides crowded with differently sized knobs and copper tubes; another box beyond covered in more knobs, with coils and armatures bracketed to every perpendicular plane and gleaming.