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True redemption is when guilt leads to good. Khaled Hosseini
Emre was sick, and panicked. He had known what he was doing and that it would be considered treason. Because Armenians were the enemy. And, Chris was supposedly a spy. Emre thought back to just a few months ago, at his father’s party with Mikael, Chris and Ana. How could the world change overnight? He hadn’t expected his father to react so severely when he used his name to help Mikael, but his expectations had been turned upside down.
He was not a medical student. He was a soldier.
Mikael was not his friend. He was an “Armenian.”
Chris was not his carousing partner at the opium dens. He was a spy. (Really, he was a journalist. Emre knew he was a journalist. He knew the difference. But, it seemed he was the only one).
The world was upside down. Crazy. Confused. Awful.
And Emre was just trying to stay upright.
When his subterfuge had been discovered, he might have had the vague expectation that he would be able to escape the consequences. He had gotten out of scrapes before. Mention of the name “Ogan” was usually sufficient.
He should have known better. His father’s reaction to his assisting Mikael made that clear.
He was not a medical student.
He was not the son of an influential man.
He was a soldier.
He was a nobody.
A noise outside his cell door made him jump in fright. Was it time already? Was this it? His last few minutes on the Earth? He took a deep breath, determined to meet his fate with dignity.
A scratching noise, a sound of the lock opening, a rectangle of pale pre-dawn light.
Two men stood in the doorway. One was pale-eyed, and clearly not a Turk. A white European, or an American. The other man was his height and looked like he could be Emre’s brother. His twin brother. Emre stared.
A softly accented voice told Emre that the first man was European, after all. “Emre Ogan?”
Unable to tear his eyes away from his doppelganger, Emre absently answered with a nod.
“We must get you out of here. Please come with me.” He noticed that his twin was dressed in a white shirt and uniform pants and boots similar to his own. What were they planning? “Please, come now.”
Slowly and uncertainly, he moved toward the men, “Who are you? Why do you look like me? What are you planning to do? Where are we going?”
“Please, Emre. We must be quick. We are going to save your life. Brave actions like yours in a mad world should not be punished with death.”
It was only after he heard the door clang shut behind them that he realized his twin was not with them. “Wait! No! I would never ask someone to die in my place!”
“Please, Emre. There is much that you do not understand. I will explain everything, but we must go before we are discovered. Joseph will be well, you must trust us.”
He and the man moved along the walls until they reached an opening concealed by some trees. As they flitted from tree to tree, avoiding the guards, he regarded his strange companion. “You said you would explain. Who are you? What is your name? How is it possible that ‘Joseph’ will ‘be well?’”
The man crouched near a stream and bent to drink. “We are a group that seeks to right injustices. We fight for what we think is right. My name is Nicholai. We have ways to fool those who would execute a good man into thinking that they have succeeded when they have not. I must ask you to trust us, and not probe further into our methods. There are certain things that you are better off not knowing.”
Emre frowned at the man. “You are very strange, Nicholai. Why have you come here at such a time, when you so clearly do not belong? Foreigners are not greatly favored here and now. You may very well be arrested as a spy, yourself.”
To his surprise, Nicholai smiled sharply and chuckled humorlessly. “We are not often greatly favored anywhere at any time. Did you count the cost when you warned the American government of the peril that your friend was in?”
Emre was silent. Clearly, he hadn’t. There was right, and there was wrong, and counting the cost was what a coward did.
The sharp retort of a volley of rifles tore through the air. Emre gulped, his eyes filling with tears. He was afraid he would vomit. Nicholai put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Trust our methods, Emre. Joseph is well, I assure you. We must get you to the sea.”
He and Nicholai snuck away from the compound. Emre didn’t really trust the strange man, or his “methods,” but he also didn’t feel that he had any choice in the matter. What was he going to do? Go back and insist on being shot?
In a bit of a daze, Emre found himself at the coast with a group of other refugees. At some point, he lost sight of Nicholai, but he had a feeling that was by design. Deciding to count himself lucky and not question how he came by that luck, he boarded a boat and was soon on the French cruiser Guichen, having been lucky enough, again, to not run afoul of Turkish artillery seeking to sink their lifeboats. He found out from the crew that many had not reached the refuge of the Guichen, but had perished at sea. He looked in vain for Mikael, Ana, or Chris, but did not find any of them. Curled in a sad bundle on the deck, he resolved to leave his old life and his old friends behind. Emre Ogan was dead. Long live Emre Demir.
A few weeks later, he disembarked on the shore of the Mediterranean, in Sicily. For the first time in his life, he could not count on his father’s name or money. All he had was his wits and his charm. And luck. One could not discount luck.
He soon found that there was work to do.
Although Emre has always been a bit aimless, a privileged son of a wealthy and powerful father, what he has seen and experienced had sobered him. It is sobering to see the suffering of those that do not have his advantages. It is sobering to see the violence and hatred that his own people unleashed on those that did them no harm. It is sobering to be a refugee himself.
He soon found that his medical training, though incomplete, could be of use with the Red Cross, providing first aid and a helping hand to the many Armenian refugees. He was well capable of bandaging wounds and tending to the sick. He remembered fainting dead away in his first autopsy, but it was distant – he did not have the luxury of squeamishness. He thought often of Mikael, and wondered where his talented friend was. He prayed that he was well, and hoped that he would be able to complete his well-earned medical degree.
Even in Mikael’s absence, Emre took him as an example – he could work hard, he could learn, he could be of use, just as Mikael had.
It was not just the Armenian refugees that needed his help. One afternoon, he was passing a tavern when loud shouts caught his attention. There was a fight in progress, and he stepped back, but stood by – he knew that winners and losers alike might need assistance. He did not speak Sicilian well, but the shouts of the combatants made it clear enough.
Soon enough, the fighters were separated, with two men, a somewhat scrawny man and his much larger friend, looking a bit worse for wear. From their dress, Emre took them to be sailors. Emre went up to the men, who drew back in suspicion, and gestured to his Red Cross armband. With a combination of gestures and halting Sicilian, he made his intentions known, and both men relaxed somewhat. He went first to the smaller of the two men, but he drew back, saying “Sto bene. Penso che Martin potrebbe essersi rotto la mano.”1 More gestures revealed that the man’s friend (Martin?) had a swollen hand. Martin seemed to be irritated at the attention, but acquiesced grudgingly with a sour “Va bene, va bene, Nino”.2
Martin’s hand, unfortunately, was a problem he did not feel qualified to treat, so, with some difficulty, he persuaded Nino and Martin to accompany him back to the Red Cross tent . Fortunately, the tent was not busy – one or two nurses and several orderlies were moving from patient to patient, but there did not seem to be any emergencies. Emre caught the attention of a tall, auburn-haired nurse, who strode over to examine Martin’s hand.
After palpating and manipulating his hand for a few minutes, she pronounced it sprained, not broken. She bandaged his hand and advised Martin to rest it and apply ice at certain intervals, then she smiled and told them, in beautiful, lilting Sicilian, “It is always good to be cautious about these things. Had it been broken, and had it healed incorrectly, you might have lost the use of it.”
Martin turned slightly pale at that. It seemed he was not only a sailor, but someone that aspired to be a writer. “Ah, Martin, niente scarabocchi sui tuoi quaderni a tarda notte!” 3Nino teased. Accepting an ice pack, Martin and Nino took their leave, thanking Emre and the nurse for their care.
Emre turned to the nurse. “My name is Emre Demir. I’m new. I have had some medical training, but I appreciate your reassurances about Martin’s hand. I was concerned that I would misdiagnose him. How fortunate that you knew what to look for.”
The nurse returned his compliment with a dazzling smile. “So many of the men here seem to overlook the skills we have as nurses. Thank you for your trust. My name is Roberta Pacinotti.
Roberta was about Emre’s age, and quite lovely. Her eyes were mesmerizing, a beautiful blue green that reminded Emre of the Mediterranean on a bright Summer’s day. She was nearly as tall as he was, as well, and he was struck with the desire to get to know her better. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Signora Pacinotti. Have you been here long?”
“Do please call me Roberta. I’ve been here about two months. And you?”
“I’ve only been here for a couple of weeks. I escaped here from the Ottoman Empire.” Emre rubbed the back of his neck and felt his shame rise. “I want to help the Armenians in any way I can. My family, and other Turks like them, have set in motion terrible events. I hope to do my small part to relieve their suffering. How can I be of assistance right now, Roberta?”
Roberta said nothing to either condemn or excuse him, but put him to work tending to a small family that seemed to be suffering from a fever. As he bathed their heads and assisted them in drinking some water, he watched as Roberta moved about the tent with grace and confidence, reassuring a frightened grandmother, bandaging a small child, taking stock of their supplies with efficient kindness. As his charges drifted off into fitful dreams, Emre approached Roberta as she surveyed their stock of medicines with a critical eye. “I hope we get some more supplies in soon. We have enough for a few days, perhaps, but not much longer.” She looked worried.
Emre wished, certainly not for the first time, that he still had access to his father’s money. It had never been a serious concern in all his life. He was finding out how a lack of resources caused terrible suffering for those that did not have his privileges. As he pondered this, a new shift of nurses and orderlies started to arrive in the tent. The head doctor, Dr. Savarese, came up to them. “Ah, Emre, Roberta! How do you fare today? Is all well?” The man was a short, round man with a shock of white hair and small, squinting eyes behind thick glasses. He had been living in semi-retirement before the war had prompted him to begin practicing medicine among the refugees and war wounded.
Roberta told the Doctor her concerns about the supplies, and he assured her that more were on the way.
As Emre and Roberta prepared to turn over the shift, he offered her a short bow. “Thank you once again for your assistance with Martin, Roberta. May I buy you dinner?”
Roberta looked at him for such a long moment that Emre began to feel a bit uncomfortable. Her beautiful green eyes didn’t betray her thoughts. Finally, she gave a short nod.
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
Emre offered Roberta his arm and he guided her to a little restaurant in the town square. After ordering their food, they settled in to sip at rich red wine and made polite conversation.
“Well, Miss Roberta, you know where I am from. From your accent, you seem to be from elsewhere as well. Tell me about yourself.”
“Oh, Emre, there is not much to tell,” Roberta demurred, slowly swirling the wine in her glass before taking another sip. “I am just trying to make my way in the world, like so many others. I was born in Rome, where I got my training. I’m afraid Rome was not kind to me, so I decided that moving South would be a welcome change. There is certainly much work to do here.”
“I am so sorry to hear that. I can’t imagine anyone not being kind to you, Roberta,” Emre said as he gave her a gentle smile. “Are you in touch with your family?”
Roberta quirked her lips and shook her head. “No, I’m afraid that once my mother died, my father did not know quite what to do with me. We fought, often, and he said many cruel things to me, especially when he drank. I’m sure he was quite glad to see me go.”
Emre dipped his chin and gazed into the depths of his wine glass. “I’m sure my father felt the same.” He sighed and looked out over the square. Less than a month since he “died.” Less than a year since he and Mikael had been sharing a bench in the classroom. How had his life altered so drastically? “My father and I did not agree with the way the Armenians were being treated. We had always gotten along well before then, I always thought. But, perhaps that was a child’s blindness.”
He sighed.
“One day, when my friend Mikael and I arrived at the medical school for the start of classes, Mikael was told that he could not continue his studies to become a doctor. I invoked my father’s name to get them to allow him to enter the school. Mikael was so smart. A much more talented student than me. I was always too interested in my social life.”
He met Roberta’s eyes. She tilted her head, studying him thoughtfully.
“My father was furious that I had done it. The very next day, he sent me to the front in a uniform.” Emre covered his eyes with his hands, then let his hands slide down his face and drop in his lap. “Until that moment, I never thought that people that I know and love could be so callous and cruel. I have heard so many dreadful stories. More, I have been witness to horrors, and stood by and let them happen. I lost track of Mikael. I hope he is all right.”
Roberta’s eyes darkened when he mentioned his cowardly inaction. “What would you do differently now?”
He met her eyes, willing her to forgive him. “I finally could no longer stand by. I reached out to help an American journalist who had been wrongly accused of spying. Someone must tell the truth of what is happening. I was nearly executed, but escaped with the help of some new friends.” His thoughts dwelt briefly on Nickolai and Joseph. Who had they been? Nickolai had been so sure that Joseph would be well, even though he never explained why or how. Emre wondered if he was a coward, again, for escaping his fate. Part of him felt that he richly deserved to be punished, but, in the end, he wanted to live.
He met Roberta’s eyes, which softened as she lightly touched Emre’s hand. . “What matters is what you do yourself, Emre. What your people have done is indeed terrible and cruel. But you are not your people.”
Emre thought that it would take many more reassurances and even more direct acts of amends before he would be willing to be as forgiving of himself as Roberta was. He felt very doubtful.
“I was a spoiled and pampered rich boy. I gave no thought to others until I saw my friends suffer consequences that I could not bear. I should have acted out of a sense of justice, not just out of friendship.”
“But, are not acts of friendship the seeds from which a greater sense of responsibility and care for others grow? Emre, if you were as bad a person as you paint yourself, you would not worry about your lack of action. You would not be here, trying to help others. I have known many bad people, Emre. None would worry about being bad people.”
She took another sip of her wine and fixed him with a look that, if it was not stern, was at least challenging. “There comes a point when dwelling on whether or not you are a bad person keeps you from actually doing the good that you can do. When remorse becomes self pity, it is indulgent. Would it not be better to focus on those harmed by your actions, rather than your deep regret over your previous lack of action? Do you seek their forgiveness? Or your own? It is not their task to absolve you, is it? If you want to be a better person, then do so. Do not trouble those that have lost so much to make you feel better.”
Emre felt braced up by her directness, and met her gaze with equal resolve. “You are quite right, Roberta. It would not do to continue to dwell on my shortcomings to the detriment of those that need help. It is not about me.”
Roberta smiled. “Yes, that’s right, Emre. You can do much good. Your willingness to help those you meet, even by chance, convinces me that you are a good person. As long as you continue to act with compassion, I will believe in you, even if you do not believe in yourself.”
Emre smiled at Roberta. She seemed so wise for her age, and so lovely. “Your faith honors me, Roberta. I look forward to proving myself worthy of it.”
Their dinner arrived as he said it, and they began to eat. The smiles that they traded over their plates gave Emre hope for his redemption, as the sun dropped below the horizon.