Short Stories

Fingers

by Dursaliye SAHAN

As she fed the thick material rapidly into the machine her left hand moved to the next piece in the bundle. With every piece the rattle became a little quicker. The sound of the clothes stick would also quicken as the pile of clothing on the rock by the side of the stream rose higher.

She had liked the sound of the clothes stick and she also liked the rattle of the machine. She had sometimes stopped and straightened her headscarf and dreamt of which boy she would marry as she watched the water flow by... She now had no time on the machine to stop and think but occasionally she would slow it down and wonder who her children would marry when they grew up, what work they would do and, most of all, try to calculate how much Miho had lost gambling the previous week.

She would often remember the small hamlet where she had been born. She missed its air, water, grass, earth, animals and the smell of dried animal dung. In the last years before she had come here the smell of gunpowder had become all-pervasive. Even the plants had turned a different shade of green. The earth had become a greyish yellow as if it had vomited. Summer and winter became confused. There were village guards, soldiers, Apocular (1)... They had been poor before but now they would be short of food by the end of winter. She had most of all felt sadness about her mother and sister. She had also felt sorrow about her elder brother and grandfather but the loss of her mother and sister had wounded her heart in a different way and knotted her insides. She had never thought it would happen to them, even though there were funerals in the hamlet most weeks. Why hadn't it occurred to her that her mother and sister might die?!

She had cried for days. Then she had thought God was punishing her. Two days before her mother died she had heard that her betrothed Huseyin had been killed while doing his military service. She had suddenly felt great relief. She had not told anyone apart from her sister. She had not said anything when everything had been agreed, but she had never liked Huseyin. She had only seen him from a distance. He was very large. She had looked at her mother, who snapped at her: "What are you saying, girl? What more do you want? Of course a man should be large, what do you want with a small one? Who better would have you? People must have governments and women owners." She and her sister had wondered if God would be offended, but she had been relieved anyway.

She had her eye on Miho. His family had three oxen and his mother didn't like any of the girls in the village.

One Friday her betrothed Huseyin's body was brought to the village. A NCO had brought the body and four pieces of paper to the headman of the village. They were documents of martyrdom for Huseyin's mother, father, betrothed and to the other villagers. His mother pushed away the certificate, saying: "I didn't give birth to my child for him to be a martyr. I didn't bring him up to be the target of stray bullets," as she wept at the head of the coffin, too small for her well built son. Zilan had also cried into her headscarf as it was not considered respectable for young girls to laugh or cry publicly, or to speak in a loud voice. Talkative, laughing, shouting girls and newly-married women were frowned upon. "Women should not speak, they should remain quiet," her mother would say.

A week had not yet passed before Rustem Agha [landlord] sent an envoy asking for her hand in marriage. Her heart had missed a beat. Rustem Agha had two wives and 14 children. 17 people lived in his little two -room house. He was called a landlord on a count of his 60 'cediklik' of land. They also would only just make it through the winter. But it was apparent that the oversexed man wanted a new bride, a young woman. Her father had said, "We'll think about it," in a reluctant way. He had obviously thought that the bride price would be low. Three days later her elder sister had been shot when taking the sheep to the meadow to join the other flocks. The crops had yet to be reaped.

It was not clear whether the Apocular or the village guards (2) were responsible. She had frozen when she saw her sister lying lifeless facedown on the grass. She would constantly see her bent body. The end of her clothes was visible. She had a pair of baggy cotton trousers exactly the same.  Their mother had made the trousers for them the religious festival before she died. When her sister's body was being washed on the funeral slab she had taken her sister's trousers and her own without washing them and put them away in her chest. She still had them. Whenever she saw them her eyes would moisten. On every Ramadan festival she would take the trousers out of the chest without showing them to anyone and press them to her face, breathing the smell in deeply. How they had laughed as they had pressed the thin sheets of pestil (3) and worked the embroidery canvas on the long winter nights. While her mother had knitted socks from goat's wool they had prepared cushion covers and sheet corners with red, green and indigo threads coloured with plant dyes. They would string row after row of beads. They learned together how to count to ten.   "Don't go beyond ten," her sister said, "ten is not bad, if we learn to count our toes that will be enough for us". How she had cried. After they had died she had counted the days one by one until ten. Then she had gone mad as she could not count any more. Her pain intensified.

It was as if she had thoroughly lost her sister. She really wanted to be able to count her toes. She couldn't ask her father and her grandfather couldn't count either. She asked her 9-year-old brother but he could only count to five. She told him to ask older children but he didn't.

One day while beating clothes at the stream she found a new method for counting her toes. She would give each one a name: husband, bride, child, earth, millet, food, fire, soldier, gun, corpse.  While joyously counting she saw village guard Husam.. he was watching her try to count her bare toes and staring at her in a strange way. She had not been frightened. What could Squat Husam do? Still she had slowly gripped the stone under her hand when Miho suddenly appeared from between the bushes. When Husam saw Miho he was startled, saying: "I thought you were the Apocular", and hurried away. Miho asked her if he had said anything. Zilan's mind was on her toes as she asked excitedly: "Miho, do you know how to count?"

Miho was surprised, answering: "Of course." Zilan asked him: "Miho, could you teach me. Tell me once and it'll be enough." She wanted to be able to count the nights since her sister and mother had died and know how many days had passed. Miho started to scratch the surface of the earth. Zilan's heart sank. Miho, too, could only count to ten.

The next day Zilan had worked out using her own method how many days had passed since her mother and sister had died when Miho again appeared between the bushes. He had learned how to count to 15, and there wasn't much use in learning more.

The next day Miho came again. Zilan was intending to ask him if he had learned to count when he said: "My mother wants to arrange a marriage for me with Gulizar. "Gulizar was a pretty girl. She was a very fast weaver. Her elder brother lived in Istanbul. No girl in the village had a bottom drawer like hers. Zilan said: "Congratulations." Miho looked Zilan in the eyes and said: "Zilan, I'm going away from here. "He mentioned far away places. He spoke rapidly. He swore that those who left were not infidels. As Zilan collected up her washing and was about to depart he took her hand and said:" Come with me, Zilan. They'll soon marry you off to someone like Rustem Agha in any case. Your betrothed has been shot. [adin ikiye cikti??] I won't come back until Gulizar has been married."

Zilan was about to say, "It's impossible" when she felt the warmth of Miho's palm in her hand. A man's hand had not touched hers before. How nice it was".

What had they talked about after that? It wouldn't be right to tell. Moreover, Gulizar was her friend. But Rustem Agha?

Miho spoke even more rapidly than usual: "Tonight they're coming to collect me the ones ... in the mountains."

So Miho, too. If her father heard she had talked to him he would kill her. "No good will come from them... The state is powerful... They kill the villagers.. It is wrong to go up in the mountains." The previous winter they had come to take her elder brother. He had been scared and did not want to go. Her father had given them half their winter provisions. Her mother had complained all winter that they would starve and not see the spring. Her father had looked up at the mountains, saying, "They are hungry, too... What can they do. Keep quiet and be thankful for what you have." He would also secretly advise her brothers: "Keep your distance from the ones in the mountains. When they come we'll feed them of course, as they are our people, but keep away from them."

If he heard now that she had run away with one from the mountains... Was Miho one of them? It was unheard of in her hamlet. If the military heard they would take her away immediately.

Miho shook Zilan by the arm; "When night falls and everyone goes to bed go down below the village and wait at the mouth of the old cave. Don't bring anything heavy, we have a long way to go. Wrap up warm, eat a lot of bread before you leave and drink water afterwards."

They had met up with the ones in the mountains towards morning. They had walked for a night and a day before reaching the camp. How lovely it was, how they had enjoyed themselves.

She and Miho had got to know and love each other in that camp. They had stayed there for 3 months. Their wedding had taken place there. Miho was as happy as a child. Had her sister's spirit seen her then with Miho?

In the camp a girl called Berivan had taught them how to count to 100. How easy it was. By the time they had arrived in London (in Zemheri) [4] she could recognise the letters. 8 years had passed so quickly. How much she had learned. She had met so many people. She had had three children. Miho had learned to gamble and had taken up smoking.

Betul, the Cypriot woman working on the next machine would ask her: "Why do you give your money to your husband? Let him go hungry, then he'll work. Don't let yourself be exploited." How could Zilan do that to Miho? Who apart from Miho knew her sister, mother, brothers or the plants they had gathered from the lower slopes of the mountains in spring to make soup? Or the story of the two pairs of cotton trousers from the hamlet? If Zilan lost Miho what would she do all alone in London?

- . -

Footnotes
1:Apocular - supporters of Abdullah Ocalan, leader of PKK, which waged a guerrilla war against the Turkish Government from 1984-1999.
2: village guards – villagers employed and armed by the government to fight against the PKK with the security forces and to act as informers in their village.
3: pestil – fruit pulp, usually apricots, grapes or mulberries, squeezed out into thin sheets. Eaten as a dried fruit. 
4: Zemheri – old term for depth of mid-winter, month of January.

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Come on smiling

It was raining. The whole street was wet and muddy. I was frozen. The weather was grey and people were not looking happy, neither was I. I was so tired and had no wish to do anything. I wanted to go home and just sit in front of the fire and have a very hot cup of tea. I mean Turkish tea, without any milk. (Have you ever tried tea without milk, just add a little bit of sugar. You should try it really. If you want to taste real tea.)

Anyway I was walking home quickly to have my hot Turkish tea. Suddenly I saw him. He was in a car. He looked at me and he smiled just for a few seconds and passed. No no, he did not think I was a hitch-hiker or I was looking for a man. Not at all. I am absolutely sure. He was in a blue car. He had brown and curly hair. He was about 35 to 40. (I was 27. 15 years ago I mean.) He had an olive complexion. He had a black moustache. I hated moustache but it surred him. He wasn't wearing a tie. He was wearing a white shirt with pink stripes. He had very white and smooth teeth. He looked very honest... Was he tall? I don't know. Was he fat? I don't think so. What did he do? I mean what was his job? I don't know really. Was he rich? I don't think so. Was he poor? I can't say anything because he had a car. But maybe he was working for a company; maybe the car was belonged to a company.

But I am sure he wasn't a macho man. He was such a friendly man.

Anyway. I always looked for some body (I don't care she or he), who looks like him, for become a friend, but I still haven't found him or she.

If you see somebody, it doesn't matter; if it is a woman or a man, just smile at him or her. You will make them very happy, maybe they will not forget your face like me. Who knows?