At dusk, the battalion camped by the cemetery just outside Deurt-Yole. The night swiftly spread its jewel-studded cloak over the land and the sea, and the coyotes, from behind the bushes, began wailing a ghastly melody.

Tattoo was sounded and everybody plunged under the bivouacs and disappeared from sight.

“...What are you thinking Arsen?” asked Vartan, whispering.

“...About millions of things.”

“...Mostly?”

Arsen kept silent.

“...I understand...Hasmik’s memory is torturing you...”

“...I wonder if she...is...”

“...You never can tell...Fate is incomprehensible”...said Vartan, philosophically.

In the morning, Arsen jumped from his sleep terrified. A bushel of oranges was being emptied onto his face, with Vartan still pouring it, laughing heartily.

“...What’s this?” exclaimed Arsen with surprise and amazement.

“...Just come out and see for yourself” answered Vartan ecstatically.

They threw the flap open and scrambled out of the bivouac.

What an amazing sight!

A large strip of orange trees, loaded with ripe fruit concealed Deurt-Yole from sight.

The morning mist had vanished. The sun beamed from the top of the mountains, overlooking the vineyards, the orchards and the Gulf of Alexandrette. It was cool, fresh and pleasant. The first company was left in Deurt-Yole, and the rest of the battalion continued its way and was stationed in Kourt Koulak about twenty miles away.

The march through the streets of Deurt-Yole was shocking. An infernal silence hung over the village. No living soul could be seen around. Every house had its miniature orchard, in the backyard, enclosed by stone walls. Branches, overloaded with fruit, hung over the streets, interlaced, spreading a carpet of fruit all around. A wild cat, now and then, would sneak in and out of the broken garden gates. Stone walls were torn, here and there, and some house doors still remained creaking on their rusty hinges.

The air was heavy with the intoxicating scent of the fruit.

Two church steeples stuck their crosses high through the trees, watching, tearfully the heard-rending sight of the massacred town.

The legionnaires stationed at the Kelegian Orphanage, a three-story stone structure, all ransacked of its equipment and its pupils.

A few days after the occupation of the village, some survivors of the holocaust, ragged, emaciated and gruesome-looking began to be seen, here and there.

They sneaked, fearfully, in and out of the houses, and at night, they lay their poor heads on the bare floors of their houses to hear only the whisperings of their dead.

Two weeks later the town presented an entirely different picture. The news of its occupation circulated quickly, and here, from the caves and hideouts, survivors began trickling in.

Immediately, a campaign got under way to clean up the streets, the gardens and the houses of rubbish, rotten garbage, dead dogs and cats and of unburied decomposing corpses.

Fires were being built out in the streets and vacant lots, as sanitary measures.

Men, women and children were engaged in this most important work. House doors and garden gates were being repaired and dead trees removed and burned.

A group was frantically working to clean the church, which had been converted to a stable. Manure covered the floor. Scraps of saddles, feeding bags, harnesses and dirty straw were scattered all around. They shovelled them into heaps and then carried them away and dumped them into special ditches to be burned.

Then, the women got busy with their water jugs. They scrubbed and washed the floor of the church; the altar, the loft, the walls and the windows. They scrubbed and scrubbed. There was plenty of water in town. Many streams crossed the streets. A crude scaffold was prepared to reach the ceiling. They washed and scrubbed the entire ceiling, too. Not a single spot was left untouched. No filthy breath of beasts and unbelievers should remain at any spot.

They cleaned the courtyard and its walls in the same manner. When everything was spotless, and their conscience clear, they made preparations for the reconsecration of the church.

The third Sunday, the church was being reconsecrated with a High Mass. The old priest performed the ceremony, and some of the legionnaires sang in the choir.

The congregation followed the service in deep silence and devotion, and the spirit of religion warmed them up. Their lips began murmuring prayers and their eyes shone again with the spark of life.

The Legion had furnished plenty of candles for the occasion, and the church was generously illuminated. Living skeletons stood absorbed in the ceremony. The old priest in his sacred vestments, which he had carried in a bundle on his back throughout his entire death march, read, tearfully, passages from the Bible and blessed, now and then, the congregation with the sign of the cross.

The scent of incense once again pervaded the House of God, seeping out the doors and windows like the murmurs of prayers from the hearts of the survivors.

The priest raised the silver chalice, sang a few lines from the Bible and invited the congregation to partake of the bread and the wine. He knelt before the altar, and gave communion to whoever was ready for it.

People came out of the church revitalized and strong, crowding the courtyard.

Arsen, standing in one corner, looked wistfully around. His eyes searched in vain for her. He saw many familiar faces, but none could give him any comforting information. His heart sunk into a dark pit. He began feeling unbearably lonely and cold, when suddenly a scream pierced the air...and a feminine figure pushing through the crowd excitedly right and left, dashed toward Arsen and threw herself into his arms, crying with joy.

“...Arsen! Arsen! ”...

“...Hasmik, my darling!”...

After the church service, a mass meeting was to be held. A platform was prepared for the speakers, in the courtyard.

Vartan opened the meeting and invited the priest to say a prayer. He prayed and cried; and the audience, like a petrified crowd, was silent and motionless.

“...Ladies and gentlemen! This is not an ordinary day for us. This is the day of the resurrection of our home town. The presence of the Armenian Legionnaires here should make you feel safe and secure. Nothing should worry you from now on. With work and patience everything will turn out to be all right.”

Then, the speakers followed one another, and then Arsen.

“Two years ago we were driven to the burning sands of Arabia. Torture, hunger, death and exhaustion followed our steps. We died every minute...we remained alive but died slowly. My caravan was the same as your caravan. Only the names of the chiefs were different...Ours was Mustapha, yours Hassan or Ali or Mehmed. But, they were all the same...of the same blood...of the same infernal elements”...

“The massacre and the torture have driven you to the brink of insanity, I know. The sight of the bloody hatchets is still before your eyes. Everyone of you have gruesome stories to tell the world, I am sure. But, we are not here, today, to divert you with those stories. We are here to swear to start building what had been destroyed and writing what had been burned.”

“To survive as a nation, we must build our churches, our schools, our libraries and our homes.”

In the deep silence, in which the audience was listening, clatters of boots were heard approaching the gate. Everyone’s eyes turned toward them.

The captain of the first company of the Legion came in followed by a Turkish officer with a pistol and a short bayonet hanging from his leather belt. Three Turkish soldiers, armed to the teeth, followed them in, as guards.

Arsen’s eyes narrowed to two slits as he saw the oncoming figures.

The captain invited the officer to the platform, to face the crowd, and made an announcement which was translated by Arsen, as follows:

“In order to keep peace and order in this district, I have appointed Mustapha effendi as the head of the local gendarmery.”

“Mustapha effendi charges that we are harboring a criminal here...his wife Hasmik...who must be arrested and delivered to him, right away.”

Mustapha’s eyes shone triumphantly, when he looked at Hasmik and then to Arsen who had already recognized him.

Silence enveloped the crowd...infernal silence...A look of cold and merciless hatred came into Arsen’s eyes, who said in a deadly voice.

“...Defend yourself, Mustapha!” And in a flash, he pulled out his pistol and fired two shots at him.

He fell down at the foot of the platform in a pool of blood.

The crowd cheered wildly and rushed upon his bodyguards and seized them who had drawn their pistols out and aimed them at Arsen. In a moment the Turks lay on the stone floor, crushed and bleeding under the heels of the infuriated survivors of the massacre.

The captain was powerless before this uncontrollable outburst.

Mustapha was wounded in both shoulders. He was sent to the hospital by the Captain, but the doctors couldn’t save his arms. They both had to be amputated.

Several weeks later, Mustapha came out of the hospital blind and armless.

In order to make a living, he had to stand at the street corners and beg. He would crane his neck now and then, and stare motionless with his sightless eyes at the black space, as if he could see the ghost dancing on the bank of the river, and laughing diabolically at his fate.

Unknown forces hammered steadily on his forehead...A maddening drone sent flashes through his mind’s eye...Angry fingers kept digging into his brain and he screamed like an epileptic.

Then he would quiet down, for a moment, and shake his head violently, as if to dispel the satanic poison off his mind, and would remain silent, motionless and ecstatic.

He continued to live, but he died every minute. He felt the life pulsating around him with zeal and joy, but, he was unable to see, unable to embrace and unable to clench fists in fury.