made of white porcelain with tiny blue flowers dancing their way toward a gold-leafed rim. From Paris, Mairig likes to say. Forgoing the delicate handle, Hairig places his dye-stained fingers around the rim, a habit Mairig detests. With her hiding in her room, there is no one to chide him about the proper way to lift a cup.
“I want to explain some things to you.” There is a long silence, during which Hairig stares into the rising steam of his coffee cup. “Turkey has entered the war,” he says finally. “I know what you witnessed the other night must have been upsetting. But you mustn’t be frightened. Many things change when a country is at war. We have to prepare for what may be some difficult days.”
Upsetting? Losing a favorite trinket is upsetting. Spilling one’s soup is upsetting. Having your uncle dragged out of the house by soldiers is another thing entirely.
“Who are we fighting, Hairig?” Bedros asks. Her little brother, his eyes wide with excitement, has brought his slingshot to the table. The perfect symmetry of his face is interrupted only by a scar that goes from the center of his left eye to the top of his left cheek.
“We are not fighting anyone, my lion. We are trying to sell carpets, but our government has sided with Germany against the French, British, and the Russians,” Hairig says.
“What about the Americans?” Lucine asks, thinking of her beloved teacher, Miss Graffam, who hails from someplace called Maine.
“They have not entered the war as of yet,” Hairig says.
“You told us about all this in the winter,” Anush says, bouncing Aram on one knee.
“Yes, but things have gotten worse, particularly for Christians. We are viewed as an internal threat, an enemy living within the state. The Armenian intellectuals in the capital were rounded up and arrested a month ago. The politicians, poets, priests, and composers have all disappeared.” His voice trails off. All four children follow Hairig’s eyes to the spot at the center of the table where his words have landed.
“Under the circumstances, I cannot export my carpets anymore. I have made some difficult decisions,” Hairig continues, his voice hollow.
“Yesterday I dismissed most of my men. For now, I will do what’s left of the dyeing myself. Anush, you and Lucine will help Mairig with her responsibilities.”
“I can help, Hairig,” says Bedros, raising his hand like an eager schoolboy.
“Good,” says Hairig. “You will all stay home from school for now, until things are clearer.”
Clearer? How much more clear could things be?
“We will have to wait and see which way the tide is turning. The best thing to do now is to cooperate and show our government that we are not a threat.”
Lucine bites her lower lip to keep from speaking. With Mairig in bed and Uncle Nazareth gone, there is no one to reason with Hairig. “Uncle Nazareth would tell us to leave,” she says finally.
“Your uncle is not here and we have seen where his ideas got him,” says Hairig. “I’m afraid your lessons at the American school will have to be postponed. I will send a note to Miss Graffam.”
“No.” It’s out before she can retract it, but the idea of giving up her lessons and waiting indoors for the gendarmes to come back is too much. “Miss Graffam will help us. We can go to France or England. Mairig speaks French and my English is improving,” Lucine begs, but Hairig’s eyes are still focused on the thick mud of his coffee cup.
“Men and women of God do not represent their governments, Lucine,” he says.
“I’m not staying in this house and hiding,” Lucine says. “For what? What exactly are we waiting for anyway? We should try to find Uncle Nazareth. We could leave now, before it’s too late.”
“Lucine, be quiet.” It is Anush, the keeper of all things pretty and fair and normal.
“No, I will not be quiet. And what do you know? You’ve got your nose so far into your dowry chest, you can’t see what
“I want to explain some things to you.” There is a long silence, during which Hairig stares into the rising steam of his coffee cup. “Turkey has entered the war,” he says finally. “I know what you witnessed the other night must have been upsetting. But you mustn’t be frightened. Many things change when a country is at war. We have to prepare for what may be some difficult days.”
Upsetting? Losing a favorite trinket is upsetting. Spilling one’s soup is upsetting. Having your uncle dragged out of the house by soldiers is another thing entirely.
“Who are we fighting, Hairig?” Bedros asks. Her little brother, his eyes wide with excitement, has brought his slingshot to the table. The perfect symmetry of his face is interrupted only by a scar that goes from the center of his left eye to the top of his left cheek.
“We are not fighting anyone, my lion. We are trying to sell carpets, but our government has sided with Germany against the French, British, and the Russians,” Hairig says.
“What about the Americans?” Lucine asks, thinking of her beloved teacher, Miss Graffam, who hails from someplace called Maine.
“They have not entered the war as of yet,” Hairig says.
“You told us about all this in the winter,” Anush says, bouncing Aram on one knee.
“Yes, but things have gotten worse, particularly for Christians. We are viewed as an internal threat, an enemy living within the state. The Armenian intellectuals in the capital were rounded up and arrested a month ago. The politicians, poets, priests, and composers have all disappeared.” His voice trails off. All four children follow Hairig’s eyes to the spot at the center of the table where his words have landed.
“Under the circumstances, I cannot export my carpets anymore. I have made some difficult decisions,” Hairig continues, his voice hollow.
“Yesterday I dismissed most of my men. For now, I will do what’s left of the dyeing myself. Anush, you and Lucine will help Mairig with her responsibilities.”
“I can help, Hairig,” says Bedros, raising his hand like an eager schoolboy.
“Good,” says Hairig. “You will all stay home from school for now, until things are clearer.”
Clearer? How much more clear could things be?
“We will have to wait and see which way the tide is turning. The best thing to do now is to cooperate and show our government that we are not a threat.”
Lucine bites her lower lip to keep from speaking. With Mairig in bed and Uncle Nazareth gone, there is no one to reason with Hairig. “Uncle Nazareth would tell us to leave,” she says finally.
“Your uncle is not here and we have seen where his ideas got him,” says Hairig. “I’m afraid your lessons at the American school will have to be postponed. I will send a note to Miss Graffam.”
“No.” It’s out before she can retract it, but the idea of giving up her lessons and waiting indoors for the gendarmes to come back is too much. “Miss Graffam will help us. We can go to France or England. Mairig speaks French and my English is improving,” Lucine begs, but Hairig’s eyes are still focused on the thick mud of his coffee cup.
“Men and women of God do not represent their governments, Lucine,” he says.
“I’m not staying in this house and hiding,” Lucine says. “For what? What exactly are we waiting for anyway? We should try to find Uncle Nazareth. We could leave now, before it’s too late.”
“Lucine, be quiet.” It is Anush, the keeper of all things pretty and fair and normal.
“No, I will not be quiet. And what do you know? You’ve got your nose so far into your dowry chest, you can’t see what
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