Nobody's Child by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch Page B

leaving?” he asked.
    Mariam stepped forward in greeting. “The time has come for us to find our way back to Marash.”
    The Turk’s brow frowned with worry. “You cannot walk all the way back.”
    â€œWe walked most of the way here,” said Mariam.
    â€œYou were with a large group then,” replied Abdul Hassan. “Now you are just children and one vulnerable woman.”
    â€œWhat shall we do?” asked Mariam.
    The man was silent for a moment, deep in thought.
    In the silence, words that Anoush had said to Mariam ages ago came back to her:
If they kill the Armenians, who will harvest the grain?
    Indeed. The Turk and his wife were alone in the field, threshing. The wheat was already going to seed. Mariam knew that if Abdul Hassan didn’t get his crop in, he would face ruin.
    Mariam caught Anna’s eye and saw that she was thinking the same thing: perhaps if they helped Abdul Hassan with his harvest, he would help them get to Marash. “Perhaps we can help you?” Mariam asked.
    The Turk looked at her hopefully, but not really understanding.
    â€œWe’re children and one woman, that’s true,” said Mariam. “But we’re strong. We could help bring in your wheat.”
    The Turk’s eyes filled with gratitude. “Even one extra set of hands would be a blessing from Allah,” he said. “We’re about to lose the whole crop.”
    Amina Hanim took Mariam by the hand. “First we eat, then we work,” she said, with a weary smile. Then she led the group up towards the house.
    When the barn came into view, Mariam felt a shiver up her spine. Were the souls of all those barley harvesters in that barn, or in the caves where they died, orhad they flown to heaven? She said a quick prayer for them, and then another as they passed by the spot where she and her family had camped out in the open.
    Amina Hanim followed Mariam’s gaze to the spot that held so many memories. “You’ll all stay with us in the house,” she said firmly. “You are like family now.”
    When the two-storey house came into view, Mariam noticed that it didn’t look as prosperous as it did before. The garden was overgrown with weeds and there was an indefinable uncared-for quality about the place.
    Instead of leaving them outside like Abdul Hassan had before, Amina Hanim motioned them to follow her into the house. They paused just inside the threshold, not knowing what to do.
    Mariam had never been in a Turkish home before and was curious. The central room was clutter-free and almost totally devoid of furniture except for a low table and a number of large cushions on the floor. There were closed doors on either side of the main entrance. Mariam guessed that one door led to the men’s quarters, and the other to the women’s — although why they needed that when there were just the two of them was beyond her. There was also a set of stairs leading up to the second storey.
    â€œPlease sit down,” said Amina Hanim, indicating the cushions on the floor, then she hurried out into the kitchen. Abdul Hassan sat down with his guests.
    They had barely settled down into the cushions when she came back, bearing a platter of bread, olives, and cheese, which she set on the table. She scurried out again, and then moments later came back with a tall pitcher of water and clay tumblers.
    â€œMy apologies for the simple fare,” she said. “My days are spent in the field.” She set the pitcher and tumblers next to the tray and then stood over by the doorway.
    â€œSit with us, wife,” said Abdul Hassan. “There are things we need to discuss.”
    A faint smile fluttered across her face, then she sat down on a cushion close to her husband.
    Once their guests had eaten, Abdul Hassan said, “You cannot walk to Marash. I would take you right now, but my crop is going to seed.”
    Mariam nodded in understanding, anticipating