Chapter 1

July 2, 1923

Georgetown Boys’ Farm

As Aram slept, images flitted through his mind. Escaping the war in Turkey with his grandmother. Playing marbles with the other boys at the orphanage in Corfu. Leaning over the railing of the boat. Waving the golden veil his grandmother had given him.

Waving good-bye.

Leaving her behind.

Then Aram dreamt that his grandmother was bending over him as he slept. His cheek tickled as she brushed it with her fingertips.

“You are safe now, and so am I,” she said.

Aram snuggled deeper into his dream.

“Wake up, lazybones!”

The image of his grandmother evaporated. His cheek tickled again. Aram shielded his eyes from the sun overhead. He squinted.

Mikayel was standing over him. Aram remembered where he was—on a grassy hill at Georgetown Boys’ Farm in Canada. And he was safe.

Mikayel dangled something against Aram’s cheek, and he felt the tickle again. Through squinting eyes, he saw wiggling hairs. It was a funny-looking spider with amazing long legs. Aram knocked Mikayel’s hand away and sat up.

“What did you do that for?” asked Aram with annoyance, rubbing the dreams out of his eyes.

“You wouldn’t wake up,” said Mikayel. “Come on!” Then he ran down the hill.

Was it just three weeks since his grandmother had waved good-bye to him at the dock in Corfu? So much had happened since then. He and forty-five other boys had traveled halfway around the world, by boat, train, and ship. He was in Canada now, far away from war. And the missionary back in Corfu had promised to look after his grandmother.

Aram stood up and brushed the wrinkles out of his shorts. His blanket was damp with dew, so he shook it out before folding it. All the other blankets were gone. So were the other boys. He looked down at the valley and grinned in appreciation.

The farm seemed as wide as the ocean. To his left a creek wound through the valley, and fruit and willow trees grew everywhere. Directly below he could see the new dormitory and a red-bricked farmhouse. Aram was used to being in cramped quarters—on the streets in Ankara, Turkey, begging with his grandmother after his parents had been killed, or at the orphanage on the Greek island of Corfu with thousands of other children. He stretched his arms wide and breathed in the morning air. Then he threw his blanket over his shoulder and walked down the hill.

When he passed the long stucco dormitory at the bottom of the hill, Aram got a whiff of drying plaster. As soon as the building was finished, he and the other boys would sleep in there instead of on the hill, under the stars. He longed to go inside the new building and explore. Would it look the same as their barracks in Corfu?

Rows of picnic tables had been set up in front of the farmhouse. Aram took his seat beside Mikayel. The other boys were already sitting there, spoons in hand and stomachs grumbling. He looked down the rows of familiar faces and felt a twinge of sadness. Mgerdich wasn’t here. He had fallen from the train and now was in a hospital in France. Aram wondered if the ragged cut on his little friend’s face had healed. Would the hospital release him soon? Three other boys had also been held back for health reasons. At least Mgerdich wasn’t alone.

A pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar sat on each picnic table. Aram was so hungry that he felt like grabbing a spoonful of the golden sugar, but he knew that would be rude.

The door of the farmhouse opened and Reverend Edwards stepped out. He carried a huge steaming pot. Grunting from the weight of it, he set it in the middle of one of the picnic tables, and then he smiled. Mrs. Edwards followed with a tray stacked with bowls.

She set the tray down beside the pot. Pointing to Zaven, she motioned for him to step forward. Zaven scrambled out of his seat, an anxious look in his eyes. The reverend’s wife handed him a bowl and motioned for him to hold it up in front of the reverend.

Reverend Edwards swirled a huge ladle in the pot and drew it out. It was filled with something steamy, gluey, and gray. He glopped it into Zaven’s bowl and grinned. All the boys watched nervously as they waited for their friend to sniff it. Zaven wrinkled his nose in disgust. The boys groaned.

“Mmmmm!” said Mrs. Edwards, rubbing her stomach and pointing at the glop. “Oatmeal porridge.”

None of the boys spoke English, and Aram had no idea what oatmeal porridge meant. He knew it was something to eat in the morning. It looked as if Mrs. Edwards thought it was tasty. How he wished that the reverend and his wife spoke Armenian!

She motioned for the next boy to approach, and then the next. Each boy went up to the front, and each said, “Thank you,” which was one of the few phrases they had learned in English. When it was Aram’s turn, he thanked Mrs. Edwards as she served him the steamy mess. He carried it back to his place. He sat down and stared into the bowl. It looked even worse up close. Aram had eaten orange peels and apple cores. He had even eaten food out of garbage heaps, but he had never eaten goo—and lumpy gray goo at that! The smell reminded him of dirt after rain.

Aram looked around. All the boys were staring into their bowls, but no one had dipped in their spoons. Then Reverend Edwards served big bowls of the goo for himself and his wife. Aram watched as they sprinkled the glop with sugar and poured some milk onto it.

“Good porridge!” exclaimed Reverend Edwards.

Aram’s stomach grumbled. He sprinkled his porridge with a bit of sugar and poured some milk over it, too. As he dipped his spoon into the porridge, he looked up. All eyes were on him. He put the spoon into his mouth.

Horrible! Porridge tasted as bad as it looked. Aram was about to crumple his face in disgust when he caught a glimpse of the reverend and his wife. They looked so anxious to please. He didn’t want to hurt their feelings, so he swallowed it.

“How is it?” asked Mikayel.

“I haven’t decided,” said Aram, taking another spoonful. He didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to be the only one eating this stuff either.

Mikayel dipped his spoon into his porridge and tasted it.

           “Ugh!” He shoved the bowl away and crossed his arms. Other boys also tried a bit of the porridge. No one liked it except for Zaven, who dug in hungrily, unaware of the questioning stares.