Pigeons
Michael walked beside his grandfather as they made their way down Myrtle Street towards the falls. Cool autumn air rushed through the wide alleys between the mill buildings. The late afternoon sun sank towards the horizon as Michael adjusted his hand within the safety of his grandfather's. His grandfather set a slow pace and Michael jumped a little as he walked. His grandfather smiled down at him, humming a refrain from Mass.
"God has been good to us, Michael," his grandfather said. They left the asphalt of Myrtle Street for the well trodden dirt path that ran along the canal's bank towards the waterfalls. The water moved sluggishly in the canal, dirty from mill run-off and heavy with windblown leaves and branches. The path led them to a small park, a handful of benches around a large bird bath. Dozens of pigeons moved in and around the bath, their feathers bright, the birds fat. His grandfather led him to a bench with its back to the west and they sat down in the warm rays of the sun.
From his long coat Michael's grandfather took out a small, brown paper bag. He unrolled the top and held the bag open for Michael. Michael reached in and took a handful of stale breadcrumbs. His grandfather did the same, calling gently to the birds as he tossed a few crumbs onto the beaten ground in front of the bench. A few of the pigeons noticed, coming close to peck at the bread. Michael did the same and more birds followed the first.
"I did not know how America was going to be, Michael. I had heard many things," he looked at Michael, "and you cannot believe all of those things."
Michael threw the last of his bread crumbs and looked at his grandfather.
His grandfather smiled down at him. "More?" he asked, holding out the bag.
Michael shook his head. "No thank you, Papu."
His grandfather nodded. He took another handful for himself, throwing the crumbs closer to the bench, the birds drawing nearer.
"I miss Greece, Michael," his grandfather said softly.
"Why did you leave?"
"Hmm? Why did I leave?" he smiled then sighed. "I left because I had to, Michael." His smile faded and he cast another handful of bread upon the ground. "You know, Michael, that I fought in many wars?"
"No, Papu."
"No? No, I don't suppose I speak of it. But you are getting older."
The pigeons drew closer, following the bread crumbs to where they lay around his grandfather's heavy working shoes.
"When I was young, Michael, I grew quickly. I was this tall when I was fourteen, and I would hunt Turks in the mountains and in Armenia. I have scars in many places. I killed many men, Michael. Many men. Some Turks. Some Greeks. All deserved their deaths." He cast out more crumbs, some landing on his shoes. The pigeons ate greedily, twenty or thirty gathered around them, wings fluttering and the birds cooing. More bread crumbs followed, some landing on his grandfather's pants.
Michael watched the birds flutter effortlessly up to his grandfather's lap, the bread disappearing quickly.
"For years I killed men, Michael. I butchered them in villages, in their beds, at their dining tables. I slew them at prayer and in the sanctity of their mosques." His grandfather laughed. "I burned their buildings down around their corpses. Then the wars came, Michael. 1912. 1913. I fought Turks there as well. When the wars ended I joined the French Foreign Legion, and killed muslims in Africa." His grandfather paused, giving the pigeons on his lap more bread. "But with the coming of the Great War, and the tales of the starving Armenians, I returned to Greece. I found my old friends, my dear friend Nicholas Stefanos led us, and we gathered our arms to us again. We went into Armenia to see what, if anything, we could do, Michael." His grandfather handed the bag of bread to him. Michael took it, scattering the crumbs upon the bench and his grandfather's legs.
Wings flapped and his grandfather's hands stole unobtrusively among the pigeons. The large hands closed around a bird, a broad thumb snapping the neck before it could call out in surprise. The flock continued its feast, ignorant of its comrade's fate. Michael's grandfather slid the limp bird into his coat and Michael replenished the crumbs rapidly vanishing from his grandfather's lap and the bench.
"Armenia was terrible, Michael. We followed a trail of death. Armenians butchered, villages burned. The path was not cold, the corpses fresh. The Turks enjoyed themselves longer and longer at each stop. They did not know that we followed. Did not know that we hunted them." His grandfather reached out, took and killed another pigeon, sliding it into his coat with the first.
"We found the Turks after two days of hell. The village they were in was small, and they had piled the bodies of the Armenian men in the center of the village. We could hear them in the houses, raping the women and children. They had even stacked their weapons outside, for they were soldiers, and would stay the night once they finished." His grandfather looked down the path for a long minute. "House by house we took them, the noise of the taking hidden by their own evil. We bound them, two hundred and fifty one of them, Michael. Bound them by their hands and brought them weeping to the village's stream."
Another bird died in his grandfather's hands. "I was twenty-six, Michael. Taller by a head than all others, even the Turks who we took that day. I had killed many more men than my friends. Survived more wounds and more fights. It fell to me to serve as the left hand of God, to deliver His judgment. My friends guarded the Turks. The Armenian women and children brought us coffee and food, and all watched. All watched, Michael, as I drowned the Turks. I stood hip deep in the stream and held each beneath the water. I served the will of God and did not feel the chill of the water, nor did my arms ache as the Turks fought for their lives. From the evening to the dawn I killed them. I did not stop. Brought to me alive and begging, dragged away dead. My friends beat those who struggled, shot some in the belly until all knew that drowning was the only death we would grant them. Some we let the women castrate, but mostly the women watched.
"They all watched me, Michael. The living and those I was to kill." He smiled at Michael, and Michael smiled back, dipping his hand into the bag again.
His grandfather killed another pigeon. "Two more, Michael, and we shall have enough for the soup."
Michael nodded and waited for the killing.
Michael walked beside his grandfather as they made their way down Myrtle Street towards the falls. Cool autumn air rushed through the wide alleys between the mill buildings. The late afternoon sun sank towards the horizon as Michael adjusted his hand within the safety of his grandfather's. His grandfather set a slow pace and Michael jumped a little as he walked. His grandfather smiled down at him, humming a refrain from Mass.
"God has been good to us, Michael," his grandfather said. They left the asphalt of Myrtle Street for the well trodden dirt path that ran along the canal's bank towards the waterfalls. The water moved sluggishly in the canal, dirty from mill run-off and heavy with windblown leaves and branches. The path led them to a small park, a handful of benches around a large bird bath. Dozens of pigeons moved in and around the bath, their feathers bright, the birds fat. His grandfather led him to a bench with its back to the west and they sat down in the warm rays of the sun.
From his long coat Michael's grandfather took out a small, brown paper bag. He unrolled the top and held the bag open for Michael. Michael reached in and took a handful of stale breadcrumbs. His grandfather did the same, calling gently to the birds as he tossed a few crumbs onto the beaten ground in front of the bench. A few of the pigeons noticed, coming close to peck at the bread. Michael did the same and more birds followed the first.
"I did not know how America was going to be, Michael. I had heard many things," he looked at Michael, "and you cannot believe all of those things."
Michael threw the last of his bread crumbs and looked at his grandfather.
His grandfather smiled down at him. "More?" he asked, holding out the bag.
Michael shook his head. "No thank you, Papu."
His grandfather nodded. He took another handful for himself, throwing the crumbs closer to the bench, the birds drawing nearer.
"I miss Greece, Michael," his grandfather said softly.
"Why did you leave?"
"Hmm? Why did I leave?" he smiled then sighed. "I left because I had to, Michael." His smile faded and he cast another handful of bread upon the ground. "You know, Michael, that I fought in many wars?"
"No, Papu."
"No? No, I don't suppose I speak of it. But you are getting older."
The pigeons drew closer, following the bread crumbs to where they lay around his grandfather's heavy working shoes.
"When I was young, Michael, I grew quickly. I was this tall when I was fourteen, and I would hunt Turks in the mountains and in Armenia. I have scars in many places. I killed many men, Michael. Many men. Some Turks. Some Greeks. All deserved their deaths." He cast out more crumbs, some landing on his shoes. The pigeons ate greedily, twenty or thirty gathered around them, wings fluttering and the birds cooing. More bread crumbs followed, some landing on his grandfather's pants.
Michael watched the birds flutter effortlessly up to his grandfather's lap, the bread disappearing quickly.
"For years I killed men, Michael. I butchered them in villages, in their beds, at their dining tables. I slew them at prayer and in the sanctity of their mosques." His grandfather laughed. "I burned their buildings down around their corpses. Then the wars came, Michael. 1912. 1913. I fought Turks there as well. When the wars ended I joined the French Foreign Legion, and killed muslims in Africa." His grandfather paused, giving the pigeons on his lap more bread. "But with the coming of the Great War, and the tales of the starving Armenians, I returned to Greece. I found my old friends, my dear friend Nicholas Stefanos led us, and we gathered our arms to us again. We went into Armenia to see what, if anything, we could do, Michael." His grandfather handed the bag of bread to him. Michael took it, scattering the crumbs upon the bench and his grandfather's legs.
Wings flapped and his grandfather's hands stole unobtrusively among the pigeons. The large hands closed around a bird, a broad thumb snapping the neck before it could call out in surprise. The flock continued its feast, ignorant of its comrade's fate. Michael's grandfather slid the limp bird into his coat and Michael replenished the crumbs rapidly vanishing from his grandfather's lap and the bench.
"Armenia was terrible, Michael. We followed a trail of death. Armenians butchered, villages burned. The path was not cold, the corpses fresh. The Turks enjoyed themselves longer and longer at each stop. They did not know that we followed. Did not know that we hunted them." His grandfather reached out, took and killed another pigeon, sliding it into his coat with the first.
"We found the Turks after two days of hell. The village they were in was small, and they had piled the bodies of the Armenian men in the center of the village. We could hear them in the houses, raping the women and children. They had even stacked their weapons outside, for they were soldiers, and would stay the night once they finished." His grandfather looked down the path for a long minute. "House by house we took them, the noise of the taking hidden by their own evil. We bound them, two hundred and fifty one of them, Michael. Bound them by their hands and brought them weeping to the village's stream."
Another bird died in his grandfather's hands. "I was twenty-six, Michael. Taller by a head than all others, even the Turks who we took that day. I had killed many more men than my friends. Survived more wounds and more fights. It fell to me to serve as the left hand of God, to deliver His judgment. My friends guarded the Turks. The Armenian women and children brought us coffee and food, and all watched. All watched, Michael, as I drowned the Turks. I stood hip deep in the stream and held each beneath the water. I served the will of God and did not feel the chill of the water, nor did my arms ache as the Turks fought for their lives. From the evening to the dawn I killed them. I did not stop. Brought to me alive and begging, dragged away dead. My friends beat those who struggled, shot some in the belly until all knew that drowning was the only death we would grant them. Some we let the women castrate, but mostly the women watched.
"They all watched me, Michael. The living and those I was to kill." He smiled at Michael, and Michael smiled back, dipping his hand into the bag again.
His grandfather killed another pigeon. "Two more, Michael, and we shall have enough for the soup."
Michael nodded and waited for the killing.
