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Part 1
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7 | 8 | 9
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12 | 13
In the Throes of Starvation
Story of an Armenian Girl (Part four)
by Serpouhi Tavoukdjian
Starvation is a dreadful thing! We heard of some who turned
cannibal and ate human flesh. One day when I begged for food,
mother said to me, "Serpouhi, will you ever complain of dry
bread if we get home and have food again?" And I cried out
in my hunger, "Oh, no, mother, never! Ill will never
complain of anything ever again!"
Walking day and night, without food or drink, my whole family
became sick, with the exception of myself. We had eaten hardly
anything but grass for days. My older brother Lazarus, and my
two sisters, Ahavne and Rebecca, were so sick they could hardly
go on, and it seemed that each step must be their last. But
urged by oaths and bayonet points and gun butts and frequent
beatings, they managed somehow to crawl along.
One night, when our guards allowed us to stop for a little
rest, we all dropped won by the roadside. We knew the respite
would be short. Mother arose from the ground, and tears streamed
down her cheeks as she did what she could to ease our
sufferings.
I was lying on a great rock, with my face turned up to the
stars, and there I talked over our great trouble with my
heavenly Father. He alone could help us in our distress. I spoke
out loud to Him, and then trusted Him to answer as He saw best.
But still I could not sleep. So I repeated Bible verses which
father had taught us to know and love. Most prominent among
those I remember were, "All things work together for good
to them that love God," and, "The angle of the Lord
encampeth round about them that fear Him, and delivereth
them."
Before daylight dawned, the dreaded signal to march came.
Neither Lazarus nor my sisters could stand, so we hurriedly
gathered a few of our belongings and slipped out of sight in the
darkness. We would join the group of our countrymen that would
be stopping there the next night, and thus have a day of rest. Arasig and I gathered some grass to eat, but we were careful to
keep hidden behind the rocks so that no chance Turk passing by
would see us. We knew that would mean more trouble, and probably
death.
As evening brought other refuges, I, the only one who was
able, slipped out of our little tent and around our rock
shelter, and into the crowd to listen and carry back to mother
whatever new I could gather from the camp talk. While I was
listening, I saw one of the Turkish guards peel oranges and
throw the peeling on the ground. I made one dive and grabbed it,
and hurried back to my dear sick ones.
Brother Lazarus was lying so still on the bare earth. He did
not answer when I spoke to him, so I ran to his side and said,
"See, brother, what I have brought for you to eat."
Still he did not move nor answer nor make any sound. His eyes
were closed. I tried to open them, but could not. I tried to
open his mouth, but his teeth were tightly shut. I could not
understand what had happened to this jolly big brother, who had
always been so loving and kind to me. I turned to mother and
asked, "Why doesn't Lazarus speak to me?' She came close to
us then, and her eyes were wet with tears as she took my hand
and stroked it and said, "My dear Serpouhi, brother is
dead-starved!" We knelt and prayed beside him, my mother,
Arasig, and I,-the girls were to sick to move,-prayed that we
who were still alive might be faithful, even as he had been, and
meet this dear one again in a better, happier, fairer land than
this.
Then mother called in some of our camp neighbors, and they
helped us carry his body into a near-by field, where they placed
it in a shallow hole, with his limbs bent, just as he had died,
and covered it over with stone. He was just a few months past
eighteen! I sobbed my heart out there beside his pitiful grave.
Mother finally took me away, and we left our beloved Lazarus
alone among those wild, wind-swept, rocky foothills-yet not
alone, for does not our heavenly Father keep watch over His
faithful children, living or dead?
Very early in the morning we were ordered to march again.
Because we did not move fast enough, the Turkish guards came and
pulled up the stake and let our tent down, and shouted at us to
"Hurry, hurry!" Mother spoke to them and told them
that my sisters were not able to raise their heads as they lay
there on the ground, to say nothing of marching. She begged a
little respite for them. Could we not please stay there a little
longer-another day?
The Turk in charge was a big, burly, hard man. Mother's plea
did not interest him at all. What were two dying Armenian girls
among all those thousands? His fierce-looking face flushed, and
his big mustache twisted to long points at the ends, fairly
bristled. He raised his hand and struck my mother. This was too
much for me, and I ran to him crying, "Oh, please, please,
do not strike my mother. She is so good." But he paid not
attention to me, and struck her again, as he spoke an oath. It
was his privilege to beat us and abuse us if he chose, and he
did. Why not? The more of these Armenian "pigs" who
died from starvations and abuse along the way, the fewer there
would be to murder outright at the journey's end.
Poor mother gathered our few belongings, weak and sick as she
was. We rolled up the tent, and now that Lazarus was gone my
little brother undertook to carry this heavy load so that we
might have shelter.
But my sisters could not stand up. They were too weak. It was
impossible. And still it seemed that we just could not leave
them and continue alone. I ran out to look for help. But every
one was busy with his own troubles. Others on every side were as
sick as Ahavne and Rebecca. Others everywhere were dying. Many
were already dead, and there was no time permitted to bury them.
No one would listen to me. And then, at last, I heard some one
mention carriages that would carry those who were sickest and
could not walk. This humane aid did not come from the Turks, but
from other. Among the few Armenians who renounced their
Christianity and accepted Mohammedanism in order to save their
lives, were rich merchants, some millionaires. Their hearts were
touched by the suffering of the fellow countrymen, and they were
able to arrange to give them this help.
I rushed back to mother and told her. Then we went and found
the carriages. And when those in charge heard our story, they
tenderly lifted my two sick sisters in, one at a time, and drove
on out of sight with out precious ones. Of course, we could not
walk fast enough to keep up with the carriages. In fact, mother
could hardly walk at all. I had really to pull her forward, step
by step, as I walked backward, facing her and holding both her
hands. We were in fear and suspense for the safety of the girls,
but no mercy was shown us, save that which came form the hand of
God.
We walked, and walked, and walked, through sunshine and rain,
through heat and cold. Two days passed, and we had not caught up
to them. Weary and starved and thirsty, we prayed for rest, no
matter how.
My foster brother, the young man who had been betrothed to my
sister Miriam, and who seemed like one of our family, was also
in the caravan. He had been for a long time an officer in the
Turkish army, but when the deportation started, and he learned
that his two sisters were among the exiles, he felt that he must
be with them and help them as he could. Also he was very anxious
to see my sister Ahavne, to whom he was now engaged to be
married. He therefore ran away from the army, and escaped
capture and punishment by joining us on the march. He was now
sick from long starvation, and after Rebecca died, we were
separated and did not see him again. We found his sisters a long
time afterward, and they told us he died from hunger.
As we journeyed through the night, we heard voices at the
side of the road in the darkness, speaking the dear familiar
words of our own tongue. These Armenians had a tent, and invited
us to stay with them until the morning. This we were glad to do.
We hoped that we could snatch a little rest, and joint he long
ling again before our Turkish guards missed us. It rained very
hard just after we stopped, and our clothing was soaked, because
the tent was small, and there were many people, and we could
hardly get inside. Morning came, and when the sun arose, we
tried to dry out, but the wind was cold, and how we shivered!
The people who had asked us in were preparing a little food.
For the first time in her life, mother begged just a few bites
for her starving little ones. They refused to give us even a
crumb, though my brother and I cried pitifully at the sight of
food. "This is the last we have," they said.
"When this bread is finished, we will never have any
more." When mother tried to turn our attention away to the
drying of our clothes, she broke down and burst into tears and
cried with us. We were all so hungry.
Not long afterward, these people went on and left us, and we
were alone by the roadside. Why did we not slip out of sight and
try to escape? Where? There was no escape. Wild Bedouin tribes
and roving bands of soldiers roamed through the hills. There
were only Turkish villages near, and we could not hope for
kindness from them. Death was on every side.
And then the thought of the two sick loved ones who had been
carried on ahead, spurred us to join the forlorn ranks of exiles
again. It seemed that we had no strength with which to move, but
sometimes love is more powerful than human energy. We struggled
to our feet, and once more I began to pull mother along by
holding her hands. She begged us to leave her to die, but that
we could not do. Long ago our shoes had worn out, and now our
feet were tied in rags. May brother Arasig could walk faster
than we, and he said now that he would go ahead and try to
locate my sisters if they were at the next camping place, and be
ready to take us to them when we arrived.
Poor little brother! I can see him yet as he stumbled
away-his swollen abdomen, his body only skin and bones, his eyes
sunken, and it seemed the very apathy of death on his face. How
he lived and walked on I do not know!
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