Constantinople's Cherry

I - 5. Kayan yıldız

Kiraz felt right like that first night in Eda Yıldız's room, like her surroundings were closing in on her. As she turned, the road revealing a clear neighbourhood, Kiraz's breath got stuck in her throat.

She clutched her fists together not to let out a scream of fright.

It wasn't a neighbourhood that was before here eyes, it was its ruins.

The plight of her people felt suddenly overwhelmingly too real. Far from the state of conservation of Semiha Yıldız's mansion, houses here were completely thorn down.

Burned for most, by the dark ashes that marred the remaining bricks and stones walls.

The fright she had earlier only increased, layered in pain now. It was her people's lives in ruins below her eyes, as she walked through. Homes that once held the memories of happy moments, the stories of families, destroyed.

Daily life's objects lay in the ruins, a sewing machine here, a bicycle with only its body remaining. A broken mirror chimney stove in a wall-less ghost house.

Kiraz felt dread in her veins, she had known and seen many many things. Heard about the Nazi camps, read about them, and only perhaps, gas chambers had provoked this level of fright in her. A fright so deep, that Kiraz thought of reversing her steps and returning back home, to Paris, forget these frightening ghosts of the past rather than dig and face their frightening face.

But determination always ran deep in her, it hadn't faltered when she had endangered her life to protect jewish friends, she could do this too. She owed it to her father, Serkan Baltayan.

Her eyes fell on one only structure that seemed intact, less ruined perhaps. As Kiraz walked closer, she realised that it was a small church.

She stepped the stairs of its porch, it was probably empty, last testament of her people's community.

It was old and half in ruins too, but certainly in a better state. Kiraz pushed the door with dread and stared inside.

To her surprise, it wasn't empty, benches aligned and candles were lit at the altar. Kiraz walked in surprise, towards it. She hadn't grown very religious, she was almost agnostic, but being here, she couldn't help feel a sense of spirituality in the place.

"Welcome to our church." A voice almost startled her to death, she held her heart and watched a middle aged priest come from the side of the altar.

"I didn't wanted to scare you." He apologised. "Are you a traveller ?" He asked, not many people visited this church.

Kiraz inhaled. "No uh um... I'm looking for traces of my father, he was an armenian from this community. I'm from Europe, I learned of his identity very recently and I am looking to find out his story." Kiraz explained.

"Ohh..." A sombre look marred the priest's face.

"I was told his house was here, but nothing is left, do you know where he could be ? His name is Serkan Baltayan." Kiraz asked with hope.

"There's so much to remember... to say, I don't remember names. But, most of the village's Armenians were decimated in 1915." The priest said with a painful look in his eyes.

"What happened ?" Kiraz asked fear lacing her throat.

The priest seemed like he needed 1 while to collect himself.

"The army, sent from Constantinople deployed here in Anatolia, there were six armenian dominant vilayets here, all destroyed and emptied out. That morning, orders of deportation were shouted in the village's streets, and everyone was gathered and dragged out of their homes. Most followed orders, forming a cortege down the main road, walking to their deaths. Some resisted here thought. I think about 50 families did. The men...they were all aligned by our garage, the long wall you probably saw on the left side of the church, and shot down in masses. The women and children..." The priest had terror in his eyes.