brother,” he said solemnly. He smiled and handed him the reins. “Send us letters. I want to know when you hear from Garo and Aren.”
“You do the same. We will pray for Alek. Remember what we talked about. No land is worth more than your family. You’re all welcome in Istanbul—anytime.” He handed Mourad a folded paper. “Take this just in case.”
Mourad unfolded the paper and scanned down the page. “What is it?”
“It’s a list of code words to use in letters. With these ciphers, each of us can let the other know what’s really happening.”
Mourad nodded and slipped the paper into his pocket.
The brothers walked out of the barn. Kristina and all the children, except Sirak, were waiting in the barnyard. The early morning rays of the sun shone across the rows of cotton plants heavy with ripening bolls.
Kristina handed Bedros a cloth sack. “Be careful, Bedros. Hopefully, this is enough bread and cheese to last until you reach Istanbul. Give Liza and the children our love.”
“Thank you, Kristina. Goodbye,” he shouted to the children.
“Goodbye, Uncle Bedros,” they called back in unison.
Bedros mounted his horse and waved one last time before trotting up the path to the road.
Mourad wrapped his arm around Kristina’s shoulders as they watched. Just before he crested the knoll at the edge of the farm, Kemal and his son, Özker, appeared on horseback. They paused for a few moments before Bedros trotted his horse toward the road.
“Good morning, Kemal,” Mourad called out.
“Good morning, Mourad, Kristina. How’s Sirak?”
Kristina smiled warmly. “He’s feeling better,” she replied. “He still can’t walk very well, but the swelling in his leg has gone down.”
Kemal patted his son on the shoulder. “Did you hear that, Özker? That’s very good news.”
“Can I see Sirak?” Özker asked.
“He’s sleeping now,” Kristina replied. “Come up to the house at lunch time. I know he wants to see you.”
“Are you ready for the second picking, my friend?” Kemal asked.
Mourad glanced at the field. “Those bolls aren’t picking themselves.”
Kemal swung Özker down to the ground and dismounted. He led his horse to the barn and helped Mourad hitch the workhorse to the wagon.
Stepannos and Özker headed out to the field. They began picking cotton and stuffing it into worn cloth sacks slung over their shoulders. Lines of sweat streaked down Mourad’s face and torso, as his hands darted from boll to boll picking the fluffy white cotton.
The men and boys finished one row and began another before Kemal tapped Mourad on the back and motioned toward the barn.
Mourad glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of three men on horseback conversing with his daughter, Flora. “Abdul Pasha,” he hissed. He threw his sack of cotton to the ground and walked down the row.
“Don’t give him the pleasure of seeing your anger, my friend,” Kemal called after him.
Mourad walked away without reply. He rounded the end of the row and walked directly to Pasha. The Turk was cajoling Flora as his older son looked on amusedly. The girl glanced uneasily at her father and clutched a basket of eggs to her chest.
“Flora, your mother needs those eggs in the house,” Mourad called out to her. He wiped the perspiration from his brow and tucked his hand-cloth beneath his waistband.
“Yes, Papa,” Flora said, then scurried away to the house.
Pasha smirked and stared after her, before turning his menacing, deep-set eyes on Mourad. “Greetings, Kazerian,” he wheezed. He erupted into a rattling cough. “Your daughter grows more beautiful every year.” He swung his leg over the horse’s back and lowered himself to the ground. “How old is she now?”
“How can I help you, Pasha?” Mourad asked pointedly.
The Turk’s eyes hardened beneath his bushy brows before a forced smile emerged below his unruly mustache. “You remember my elder son, Timurhan, born of my first wife,
“You do the same. We will pray for Alek. Remember what we talked about. No land is worth more than your family. You’re all welcome in Istanbul—anytime.” He handed Mourad a folded paper. “Take this just in case.”
Mourad unfolded the paper and scanned down the page. “What is it?”
“It’s a list of code words to use in letters. With these ciphers, each of us can let the other know what’s really happening.”
Mourad nodded and slipped the paper into his pocket.
The brothers walked out of the barn. Kristina and all the children, except Sirak, were waiting in the barnyard. The early morning rays of the sun shone across the rows of cotton plants heavy with ripening bolls.
Kristina handed Bedros a cloth sack. “Be careful, Bedros. Hopefully, this is enough bread and cheese to last until you reach Istanbul. Give Liza and the children our love.”
“Thank you, Kristina. Goodbye,” he shouted to the children.
“Goodbye, Uncle Bedros,” they called back in unison.
Bedros mounted his horse and waved one last time before trotting up the path to the road.
Mourad wrapped his arm around Kristina’s shoulders as they watched. Just before he crested the knoll at the edge of the farm, Kemal and his son, Özker, appeared on horseback. They paused for a few moments before Bedros trotted his horse toward the road.
“Good morning, Kemal,” Mourad called out.
“Good morning, Mourad, Kristina. How’s Sirak?”
Kristina smiled warmly. “He’s feeling better,” she replied. “He still can’t walk very well, but the swelling in his leg has gone down.”
Kemal patted his son on the shoulder. “Did you hear that, Özker? That’s very good news.”
“Can I see Sirak?” Özker asked.
“He’s sleeping now,” Kristina replied. “Come up to the house at lunch time. I know he wants to see you.”
“Are you ready for the second picking, my friend?” Kemal asked.
Mourad glanced at the field. “Those bolls aren’t picking themselves.”
Kemal swung Özker down to the ground and dismounted. He led his horse to the barn and helped Mourad hitch the workhorse to the wagon.
Stepannos and Özker headed out to the field. They began picking cotton and stuffing it into worn cloth sacks slung over their shoulders. Lines of sweat streaked down Mourad’s face and torso, as his hands darted from boll to boll picking the fluffy white cotton.
The men and boys finished one row and began another before Kemal tapped Mourad on the back and motioned toward the barn.
Mourad glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of three men on horseback conversing with his daughter, Flora. “Abdul Pasha,” he hissed. He threw his sack of cotton to the ground and walked down the row.
“Don’t give him the pleasure of seeing your anger, my friend,” Kemal called after him.
Mourad walked away without reply. He rounded the end of the row and walked directly to Pasha. The Turk was cajoling Flora as his older son looked on amusedly. The girl glanced uneasily at her father and clutched a basket of eggs to her chest.
“Flora, your mother needs those eggs in the house,” Mourad called out to her. He wiped the perspiration from his brow and tucked his hand-cloth beneath his waistband.
“Yes, Papa,” Flora said, then scurried away to the house.
Pasha smirked and stared after her, before turning his menacing, deep-set eyes on Mourad. “Greetings, Kazerian,” he wheezed. He erupted into a rattling cough. “Your daughter grows more beautiful every year.” He swung his leg over the horse’s back and lowered himself to the ground. “How old is she now?”
“How can I help you, Pasha?” Mourad asked pointedly.
The Turk’s eyes hardened beneath his bushy brows before a forced smile emerged below his unruly mustache. “You remember my elder son, Timurhan, born of my first wife,
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