My mother said that the house in Golozan lay under a curse. When we saw Jewish families beginning to return to their former homes in Kuhna Shahr, we decided to go back as well. Of the seventy Jewish families who had abandoned the town, forty returned to the ruins, including ours. We cleaned and arranged what remained of the house and brought in the livestock we had taken with us — animals given to the Jews by the Ottoman general. For two months we knew a measure of peace, repairing the ruins and trying to resume our lives. Then Simko grew stronger in the district, and the Kurds returned.
Each day brought new reports and new decrees. Kurds entered Jewish homes and loaded onto their horses whatever they could find. Night after night another house was robbed, and there was no one to complain to and nowhere to turn. Once again, all we could do was sit and await our fate.
One night Kurds entered our stable. After they left, we discovered that not a single object or animal remained. Food was scarce throughout the country, and the animals they took had been our only hope for milk, cheese, and something to eat.
Five of us remained in the house: my mother, one grandchild, and three siblings1. We went into the garden, gathered bunches of green grass, washed them carefully, seasoned them with a little salt, boiled them, and ate. We survived this way for several days. There was no oil and no bread. We still had money, but apart from grass there was no food to buy.
My elder brother suggested that we take a little money from our mother and try the ‘Ajam quarter; perhaps we might find bread or bulgur there. Our stomachs were already swollen from eating grass. We went from door to door asking for food, but everyone told us that the effort was useless: the shortage affected the entire district, and the residents had nothing either.
We turned back empty-handed. Near the market we saw a man having his horse shod. He noticed us, ran towards us, and threw himself against my brother’s chest. I froze in fear; then I was astonished to see the man kissing my brother on both cheeks. My brother looked equally bewildered.
“Do you not remember me?” the man asked. “You saved my friend and me from death! I am Hossam — you saved Yusuf Ali and me!”
Then my brother remembered. During the period when he rode armed with the Christian forces, he had encountered two ‘Ajam captives being led towards the town by two Armenians. He feared that they would be killed as our father had been. Dismounting, he confronted their captors and ordered them to release the men. “You are disobeying Surma Khanum‘s orders. Leave these two and go.” When they continued to curse him, he threatened to shoot and fired into the air. The captors fled in alarm, and my brother escorted the two freed men safely to Ula.
Hossam was still overcome with emotion. “You saved our lives, yet you never even told us who you were,” he said. My brother replied, “I am a Jew from this town. My name is Shaban2, and my father’s name is David.” Hossam embraced him. “May I be a sacrifice for your faith, Shaban,” he said. When the horse had been shod, he invited us to share tea and raisins and told the gathering crowd how my brother had saved him.
My brother explained that we had come to the quarter in search of food. Nothing remained at home, and although we had money, we had been unable to buy anything. “Shaban Efendi,” Hossam said, “you know that we too have almost nothing. But wait here a little; perhaps I can help.” He ran to find Yusuf Ali, who soon arrived to offer his own thanks.
The two men fell silent for a moment, considering what they could do. Then they asked for our address and embraced us before leaving. We returned to Mother empty-handed and once more went into the garden to gather grass. In our hunger, it tasted like baklava.
As we prepared to sleep, someone knocked at the courtyard gate. We feared the Kurds had returned to take the little that remained, but Hossam and Yusuf Ali were standing outside. On their backs they carried a sack containing fifty kilograms of wheat. “Take this,” they said. “It will keep you going for a while. We will return later.” My brother asked the price, but they answered, “No. We still owe you far more,” and left.
That night there was a celebration in our house. For twenty days nothing but grass from the garden had passed our lips. Mother put some of the wheat in a pot with a little salt, boiled it, drained it, and served it to us. We fell upon the food as though it were a magnificent feast, giving thanks for the two men who had brought the sack.
We divided the wheat into small portions so that it would last. We were afraid to take it to the mill, where some might be taken on the road or during grinding. Instead, we boiled the grains whole and sometimes fried them, sustaining ourselves in this way through those difficult days.
Yet even this rescue was temporary. A few days after the wheat arrived, we heard a commotion outside the gate. Five armed Kurds rode into the courtyard. They went from room to room and loaded up everything they found, leaving us without possessions. There was no one to appeal to, and no one knew who the robbers were — and the wheat too was gone.