Let’s Go Behind the Scenes of So Hard to Do - Part 4

People have asked me why I chose to give the hero of my story an Armenian background. My Basmajian surname might be a big hint! Plus, my parents planned to name me Aram, if I’d been a boy (my dad had naming rights for boys; my non-Armenian mom decided for the girls).

I never learned the language, unfortunately, but my Grandma Mary used to tell us stories in her heavily accented English. In this creative non-fiction flash, I’ve tried to capture what she must have experienced as a young girl.

The Turkish ferry was crowded. In this heat, waiting was excruciating, but finally they pulled away from the dock and started across the rocky-edged Sea of Marmara, pushed by a breeze that whisked away the stench of fish. In four hours, if all went well, the journey would be over.

Mary arranged her long skirt just so, plumping up the crinolines to maximum volume.  She grinned and kissed her big brother Zehver on both cheeks. He patted her head and winked, then turned and walked away.

It was so much fun, this game they played. Even though she was only ten years old, he trusted her completely.  She was his emissary, his little spy. Nobody else was in on this—not their mother, or Mary’s older sisters, or their neighbors in their sleepy village of Chengiler.  As long as she stood by the rails and didn’t move around too much, their secret would be safe.

A grandmotherly woman approached her, blocking the sun with a frilled parasol. “Where are your parents?” she asked in Turkish.

Mary beamed at her. “They’re meeting me. I’ve been visiting my auntie in Constantinople.” Her accent was perfect.

“It’s too dangerous for a little girl—ˮ

Mary drew herself up to her full four foot height. “Not so little. I was born in 1885, you know.”

If only the nosy lady would leave. Mary longed to move but couldn’t. It was all part of the game.

She waved, as if she’d spotted a friend across the deck. The old woman gave her one more penetrating look and walked away.

Mary drew a sigh of relief. When she turned back toward the sea too quickly, she made a clanking noise. That wasn’t good. She forced herself to freeze in place. She could do it; she’d done it before, many times. Every trip she’d taken had been a great success. No one else had such an excellent record. She was her brother’s best agent.

By journey’s end, her legs shook and she was damp with sweat, despite the fresh wind that ruffled her hair. This was the dangerous part she loved, the part her brother said no one else could do as well. She moved like a skater to the ramp and glided off the ferry, merging with a family group containing several children. The soldiers, who were stopping several adult men, never even glanced at her.

Zehver waited for her further up the path and around a corner, near a grove of apricot trees. Under the hot sun, the ripening fruit smelled as sweet as safety. “You did it again,” he said, and took her carefully into his arms.

“Of course I did. I’m your top spy.”  Mary’s chest swelled. In spite of her aching bones and joints, she was exhilarated.

When her brother’s comrades arrived with their horse and cart, Mary finally unloaded her burden. She unclipped the belt at her waist and laid it down, along with all the guns that hung from it.

                                                *****

Later that year, Zehver was betrayed by a companion and ambushed at a clearing in the woods. He died in a volley of soldiers’ bullets. 

Mary never ran guns again.