Arabs, Armenians, Catholics
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they were playing marbles with discarded rifle shells. Their
shoes and woolen socks were homemade. Their toys were
handed down from an older brother or sister. They darted
around the soldiers and through the maze of streets with the
agility of rabbits. But shrapnel had caught many; scores of
them would carry lifelong scars.
Water, a precious item in the New City, was plentiful in
the Vank wells and storage cisterns, but rationed strictly.
Daily the refugees queued up in the central courtyard before
the main well. They received one loaf of bread a day, plus one
hot meal, which was usually stew or thick soup with vegetables, herbs, and meat thrown in.
I found the largest concentration of refugees in a vast,
cavernous warehouse, whose arched roof and walls were the
thickness of a dam foundation, and invulnerable to attack of
any kind. The floor was of damp, dark earth, and on it the
families had spread their rugs, blankets, and cooking pots.
Charcoal braziers took some of the chill away. The old folk
were lying down, the others were huddled in groups. At the
one end—from which came the only light—was the first-aid
station and "hospital," with a Dr. Semerjian in charge. Opposite, at the base of a wall overrun with mold, were seven
mounds covered by mats. Refugee families rested about them,
"What are these mounds?" I asked.
"Graves. The graves of those who have died since the 15th
of May."
"Do these people know the dead are buried in their midst?"
"How can one keep them ignorant of it?"
"But how can one sleep in the same room with the dead?"
Dr. Semerjian said: "It is better for the living to lie on the
ground above the dead than to join them. Anang tche, paregam? Is it not so, friend? Besides, there is no choice. Our
cemetery is under constant sniping."
One of the nurses spoke up. "Three days ago a fourteenyear-old boy died. He lies under that second mound. His
mother slept within ten feet of his body, and did not know