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Ten Wells
(A short story based on a true family story told to me by an Armenian descendant)

“Blood, everywhere there was blood. Some of it was bright and fresh, some was dark and matty.”
These words that seeped from the trembling lips of my Grandpapa after he sat me down in his study shortly on his Eighty-Fifth birthday. I knew there was tragedy in his past but I know the details. He, for unexplained reasons, decided I was the family member he would entrust with the ugliest of our family history and the responsibility that this knowledge would give me. This is the story he shared with me that day.

“It was 1915 and I was 10 years old. I was the youngest of 11 children. Our family, the Kasians, lived in the town of Pashkan, North of Ankara (Angora) in the Country of Turkey. Actually it would be more accurate to say that my family owned the town and all the country around the village. The land had belonged to my family for as long as generations could remember. Our home sat up high on the hill overlooking the village below. A ride to the village in a carriage took about an hour and a half. According to my grandfather, as the ranch grew, so did the village. Somehow word got out that working for my family was good and the village grew and prospered. Until 1915 it was never as issue that the village was mostly people of Turk descent, while my family was Armenian. We respected their Muslim beliefs and they respected our Christian following. Rarely was our religious history ever a topic of discussion. My father, my grandfather and my uncles dished out orders and our workers followed them.

I was named Matous Kasian probably for no good reason since at that point I think my parents were tired of coming up with names. I changed my name to Marcus Cash once I made it to America so you all could have a fresh, optimistic beginning. Your father decided to reconnect you to your Armenian heritage by giving you an Armenian first name, Armen.

In 1915 rumors of ethnic tension throughout the Ottoman Empire were heard, but we never thought it would ever affect our family or anyone in our region. My uncle Azad, who was the most traveled of the Kasians, was the most worried. He spoke of revolts amongst the Greeks and of all of the Ottoman losses in Europe. He told us that the Turks were becoming paranoid of any other race including all the Armenians. He pleaded with my grandfather to enrich his Turkish government contacts to insure our family's future in the region. My grandfather dismissed his worries stating how the whole region worked for him so any loss to my family would mean a loss of work and livelihood for all the region's Turks. “Besides they are our friends.”

More stories of terror made their way to our home. We heard of Turks massacring Armenians. We heard of Armenians murdering whole Turkish families. My grandfather continued to dismiss the stories as fabrication or at least exaggerations. He couldn't imagine such absurdity in the world crafted by him and our ancestors. But people were changing. I felt the change but I wasn't able to express my concerns. I was the youngest; no one listened to me. There was something different in how the Turks looked at me. My Turkish friends seemed to no longer be around. They never came over. When we went into town there was something in the way the Turks looked at us, there was something terrifying in the way they looked at me.
It started with two cows to one man who then promised to not talk to anyone about our family being Armenians. Then there were two more people and 4 less cows. And then there were lots of people and no more cows.

Once the bribing had begun, my grandfather stopped saying things like no one will ever turn on us. I noticed him and my father often sitting down together and talking quietly. I noticed my brothers and sisters whispering amongst themselves. I noticed that laughter had left our house.
One day my grandfather leaned over and grabbed the front of my shirt with his clenched fist and pulled my little body towards his crazed looking face. His eyes pierced through me though they didn't seem to actually be looking at me. He repeated three times one sentence of the same words. “If ever something really bad happens and you cannot find any of your family go to the Orals and ask them for help”. His eyes were so crazed that I could not verbally respond; I only managed to nod my head. The Orals were our Turk neighbors who lived just over the hill to the west of our ranch house.

Within days 10 horse carts were assembled. No one would tell me what was going on. “Don't worry about it Matous.” “Everything will be ok.” All I knew was all 10 carts were gone the next morning; disappeared in the middle of the night along with all of my brothers and sisters.

Some days later a hoard of people came. I was locked in a room. I couldn't see what was happening. I just heard a lot of angry words and what I think was my father and grandfather pleading. And then there was just the sound of anger and the cry of pain. Tears fell from my suffering eyes as I curled into a corner. I remember my mind leaving my body and looking back on myself sitting in the corner with my knees pulled up to support my drooping head and my trembling arms wrapped around my legs to support them. I think I rocked back and forth a little and mumbled words of nonsense to block out incomprehensible sounds seeping through the cracks in the walls.

I remember being pulled from the room that was my prison. I don't know if it were moments after the invasion of our home or if it were hours later. Or maybe it was days later, I'm not sure. I remember having difficulty walking as I was mostly dragged to our courtyard where I saw the bodies, where I saw all the blood. There were bodies that resembled my family but were now just a lifeless pile of flesh and blood. They were then lifeless entities, but they are still alive in my nightmares.”

At this point my Grandfather mumbled words I could not make out. His head hung low, his hands ground into his weeping eyes as if they might possibly wipe away the visions that a lifetime had not been able to dispose of. After about 10 minutes of silence, my grandfather got out of his chair and reached up on his bookshelf and retrieved a box that looked as old as he was. He sat back down next to me, and eventually his fumbling decayed fingers got the box open and he pulled out an envelope with a note that looked as old as the box. He then said, “This letter is for you Armen, do with it whatever you wish.” He then said without looking at me, “please leave me now Armen, and please never mention this conversation or this letter to me again.”

I obeyed his wishes though after reading the letter it was very difficult. There was so much more I wanted to ask him. He died three months later and what he told me that day and what was in the letter were the only clues left of the life he had kept hidden from everyone.
When Armenia and Iran finally signed a truce, I sat down with all the members of the family and shared what my grandfather told me and what was in the letter. The letter was addressed to him from the Orals; the Turkish family who lived near my ancestors and who had eventually helped my grandfather escape. I told my family what Grandpapa had told me and I read them the letter.

“Dear Matous, if incredibly good fortune was able to get you out of Turkey as we planned, this is the part of your family story that was not told to you to protect you in case everything went as bad as it did. The ten horse carts that you saw assembled held your family's treasure - baskets of gold coins. Each of your siblings was instructed by your father to take a basket of the gold coins and place your family's wealth in the bottom of each of the 10 wells spread throughout the thousands of acres that comprised the Kasian property and then hide the wells existence. We do not know how many of your brothers and sisters were able to accomplish their task. All we know is that they, your parents and your grandfather were all killed the day the mob came to your home. You were kept alive when the mob realized all your family's gold was not to be found. They hoped that you would some day tell them where it was hidden. Of course, you did not know and were unable to tell them no matter what they did to you. We kept an eye on you while you were forced to be their servant and developed a plan for your escape with our network of sympathetic Turks who tried to help save as many Armenians as we could. Fortunately you remembered what your grandfather told you and eventually made it to our home. We did not tell you the rest of the story then for we knew this information would remain dangerous to you until you had left Turkey. We pray this letter gets to you and that some day a Kasian can return to a peaceful Turkey and reclaim at least some of what was good in your tragic past.”

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