Orhan's Inheritance by Aline Ohanesian

morning of Uncle Nazareth’s disappearance, Lucine tiptoed past her sister’s bed, careful not to touch the door, which creaked at the most inopportune times. In the darkness of the hallway, she stepped over the seventh floorboard, knowing it too would betray her if given the chance. Downstairs Mairig was already busy preparing for their trip to the public baths. Lucine could hear her slippered feet brushing against the stone floor of their kitchen, filling the damp air with the smell of stuffed cabbage and soap. Lucine’s plan was to slip out the front door, take her uncle’s horse for a ride, and disappear into the nearby fields, thus avoiding all the ogling and nakedness of the community bath. She managed to get to the door and unlock it before the smell of Turkish coffee wafted up the stairs to awaken her father. But before she could open it, a violent banging came from the other side.
    The door swung open and Muammer Bey, the governor, entered the house. She didn’t dare look up, fixing her eyes instead on the yellow-and-brown marble of the worry beads hanging from his hand; they looked like the gouged eyes of a dozen slain tigers. He clicked one round orb against the next. One, two, three . . . stopping at twelve, though there were twenty-one more to go. Lucine knew there were thirty-three beads in all because she counted them on one of his last two visits, when he had tried and failed to persuade Hairig to give him Anush’s hand in marriage. Everywhere in the province young Armenian men were being taken from their homes, but only the Melkonians had the honor of a visit from the governor himself. There was a time long ago when the governor was considered a friend in their house. He would spend Friday evenings playing backgammon with Hairig, but Lucine liked him best for his magic tricks. If you caught him in the right mood, Muammer Bey would pull a pebble out of your ear.
    But there were no magic tricks and pleasantries that day. Muammer Bey ascended the stairs, two by two, with two young soldiers at his heels. One minute her uncle was upstairs sleeping soundly, and the next, he was gone. Her parents clamored to the front door, and Lucine was relegated to the back of the house with her siblings. She didn’t get a chance to say good-bye or to take one last look at his face. There was no more talk of going to the hamam that day. And today would be no different.
    Downstairs, Hairig is already seated at the dining table, waiting for his morning coffee. He is dressed in his three-piece suit, an affectation he assumed many years ago when he was courting Mairig, who was and still is enthralled with the West. His red fez and stained leather apron sit on the table, in bold contradiction to his European clothes—a reminder that he never quite managed to meld who he is with who she wanted him to be.
    Anush hums softly to herself, as she enters the room carrying plates of black olives and white cheese in one hand and the baby in the other. She places a half-eaten loaf of bread at the center of the table, before serving the tea and coffee. Her cheerful sounds and everyday movements are an affront to Lucine. Aram presses his cheeks into her chest, sucking in air in place of mother’s milk.
    “Where is the fresh bread?” Bedros asks, eyeing yesterday’s loaf.
    Anush looks at Hairig before turning to Bedros. “There is no bread anywhere. There’s a queue outside the baker’s shop, but his door is closed and the windows are boarded up.”
    Her words send shivers down Lucine’s spine. Months ago, the government charged several Armenian bakers with poisoning the bread of Turkish troops stationed in Sivas. Groups of Armenian men, regardless of their profession, were imprisoned, until a medical inquiry proved the charges baseless. The bakers returned safely to their homes. But where were they now? Why were they not at their ovens?
    “Never mind that,” Hairig says.
    Steam rises from his tiny coffee cup, a delicate thing