Armenian News Network / Groong
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
THE STORY OF AN ARMENIAN BOY
BY
NAHABED CHAKRIAN - (1904 - 1993)
Armenian News Network / Groong
January 5, 2022
by Abraham D. Krikorian
and Eugene L. Taylor
Probing
the Photographic Record
LONG ISLAND, NY
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
About Nahabed Chakrian
Foreword
Acknowledgment
Notes
Memoir of Genocide: The Story of an Armenian Boy
Translated by Abraham Der Krikorian, Ph.D. (with maps added)
Appendices:
Documents
Suggested Readings
About
Nahabed Chakrian
By
Florence Chakerian
Nahabed Chakrian was born November 15, 1906. His baptismal given
name is from an ancient Armenian-Parthian loan word naha-pet,
signifying chief of the people, patriarch or
prince. He survived the exile and
massacre, was rescued, and at age fourteen began a new life in America.
In
time Nahabed matured, bridged two cultures, learned trades and established a family. He was a formal man. In his
relationships with family and friends he reflected his Armenian culture and
heritage. He was active and trim and, by
temperament, a romantic.
In
his memoir Nahabed Chakrian
introduces his home, nearby villages and members of his extended family but
adds little else about daily life. What
follows, at length, are episodes from his memory of exile. Anecdotes of survival alternate with descriptions
of trauma and death in the desert. Near
the end he summarizes life and family in the United States.
After
immigration to Providence, Rhode Island and an initial
adjustment, he moved with his father, stepmother, and stepsister to Bridgeport,
Conn. Nahabed
did not have the opportunity for formal education, as was the case for many
survivors. His son, Hagop, described his employment
as a dishwasher at Bridgeport’s leading hotel which eventually led,
fortuitously, to an apprenticeship with the hotel pastry chef. When this training established him, he
married Vartouhi Manoogian, seventeen, in 1925. He was then nineteen years of age. But a problem arose. Hagop
explained that the policy of the hotel required all pastries to be baked fresh
each day and the unsold discarded. When a hotel superior objected to Nahabed’s distribution of the day-old pastries to the
staff, he resigned.
Employment
elsewhere included a textile factory, the Rogers Silver Company and, during the
Depression, the Works Progress Administration for the Merritt Parkway Project
in Connecticut.
He
was active in the Armenian Church of Bridgeport then being established. Hagop remembers his father in its drama group, “The roles
were very dramatic.” Nahabed’s one lost opportunity, perhaps to fame and
fortune, was an invitation from Peter Paul Halajian
and Calvin Kazanjian, candy makers, to contribute $300 towards the launching of
Almond Joy and Mounds. He just didn’t
have the required sum.
Nahabed,
self-educated and an ardent reader, ‘… was always writing-- pages and pages,
including poetry,’ his daughters, Jean and Madeline, recall. Hagop adds, “Always
talking about politics and world problems.
He was stubborn, too, and unable to admit he could be wrong.”
His
hobbies included reading, acting, singing, tavloo
(backgammon), and cards. He chose to
believe that the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr.Watson
were not fiction.
In
1929, with the onset of the Depression, when finding employment became a
problem, Nahabed moved his family to New York City.
Introduced by a life-long friend to a photoengraving firm, he completed
training as a cameraman, continued working in this trade for a half-century,
and retired only after a mild stroke.
Twenty
years after the deaths of his father, Caloust, and
his wife, Vartouhi, Nahabed
moved to California to be near his daughter and relatives. Two years later, in
February 1975, he married Mary (Maryam) Piligian,
a widow with grown children, whose parents were originally from his home
village in Sebastia. In his Memoir he described his
last years enriched with loving appreciation and affection for her and her
family, who were then added to his own.
All
who knew him agree that Nahabed lived with
impassioned intensity. He believed it
imperative to impress upon family, friends and the world, the exile, massacre and devastation of the Armenian nation and to
expose those responsible. With the
passage of years he committed his testimonial to
writing (now lost) and finally to cassette tapes beginning in 1988.
He
surely would have realized some small satisfaction in the rising tide of
discussion following the recent September 2005 controversial, first-ever
conference in Istanbul by intrepid Turkish scholars exploring the history of
the Genocide.
He
had heart surgery followed a few years later by a final heart attack when
living in the Ararat Nursing Home. He wife, Mary, had died. Nahabed
Chakrian’s death was on December 24, 1993 five years after the death of his sister, Gulizar, January 29, 1988. They are buried in Forest Lawn
Memorial Park, Hollywood Hills, in Los Angeles. Their families-- children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren—live today in New
York, California and Yerevan, Armenia.
Shake
Bedikian, in Los Angeles and David Joseph Hazarian, in New York are Gulizar
Chakrian Hazarian’s
surviving children.
Nahabed’s
sons and daughters are Jean Zvart Derbabian,
in Los Angeles, and Charles Hagop (“Jack”) Chakrian, Madeline Markarian, and Armand Chakrian, in New York.
Gulizar
and Nahabed hold a special place in our hearts and
minds.
Foreword
to the Translated Memoir
An initial attempt at a translation
of this memoir from Armenian to English was made by a native of what is today
the independent Republic of Armenia, reared in the language of Eastern
Armenia. Baron (Mr., courtesy
title) Nahabed Chakrian,
however, uses for the most part Western Armenian, a language that today has
both a different style of grammar and vocabulary. In addition to Baron Nahabed’s
taped memoir in western Armenian, even that is made somewhat distinctive since
he learned Armenian as a boy, and then was successively exposed to provincial
Ottoman Turkish, then Arabic (as spoken by Bedouins at that) and again Turkish,
this time the Constantinople dialect, and later in America, English, of course!
The expansion of his vocabulary over
the years, coupled with his life’s experience with a more learned form of
Armenian (albeit self-taught), largely in his adult years, has resulted in a
distinctive mix of rather eloquent, in some cases flowery language, including
here and there, even a touch of Eastern Armenian! In a few places he elects to use English
words like “train” with an Armenian American accent, trehnn;
in other places he uses the more formal Armenian. In still another place he uses the English
word balloon; in another he uses the word story to indicate level in a
building. In short, the way Baron Nahabed talks is a blend of how and where he grew up, where
he was and what he experienced, and when and where he was as he read into a
tape recorder what seems to be an account of his memories, expressly written
for the memoir.
Because Baron Nahabed’s
language reflects in large measure the way Armenian immigrants to America
spoke, it seems appropriate here to insert in transliteration, albeit in crude,
phonetic form, some of the words or phrases used by him. In this way any reader who is familiar with
Armenian may be apprised of his rather free choice of language in any given
situation. Clearly, Baron Nahabed is not necessarily consistent in his choices; he
often uses different words for the exact same purpose in different parts of his
story. It will further be appreciated as
well that Armenian as spoken by villagers from Sebastia
in the Sivas region had its own peculiarities.
The first translation into English of
the tapes was, as it turned out upon vetting in mid 2005 by Dr. Krikorian of
Belle Terre, Long Island, shown to be very incomplete and very often quite
inaccurate, not just imprecise or incorrectly
nuanced. Moreover, all the tapes had
apparently not been gone through, certainly not very carefully if they had
been, and certainly had not all been translated. This was due, in part, not only to time
considerations, but also to the original translator’s lack of expertise in
English.
After a cursory assessment of the
initial attempt at translation was made by Dr. Krikorian, it was decided that
it would be best for him to undertake a fresh translation. The translation, such as was done by Dr.
Krikorian, a retired professor of Biochemistry and Cell Biology, at SUNY at
Stony Brook, was facilitated to the extent that his Mother
was a genocide survivor, a villager from Kerope, Körpe, in Kharpert province in eastern Turkey. His father was a volunteer, gamavor, who served in the French Armenian Legion in
Cilicia during the First World War.
Growing up in Worcester, Massachusetts amongst an Armenian immigrant
community, largely villagers, who spoke what might be referred to as ‘pre-1915’
and ‘immediately post-1915 Armenian’, along with more than a smattering of
Ottoman Turkish, he was exposed daily to conversational Armenian. And, as so many offspring of immigrants did,
he attended Saturday morning Armenian language classes. Later in life, he undertook the study of the
Armenian Genocide, indeed all things Armenian.
The Armenian he grew up with then turned out to be uniquely suited to
undertaking the translation. Indeed,
that form of Armenian is justifiably viewed by some as rather dated today. It verges on being unintelligible to those in
the present-day Republic of Armenia.
At
the same time as benefiting from the aforesaid advantages, the translation was
made difficult on several other accounts-- perhaps it is best to describe them
as technical reasons. First, the tapes
do not comprise, strictly speaking, a narration. Rather they are a reading of what was clearly
written down. Whether it was written in
its entirety or in the form of very detailed, rehearsed as it were, notes, is
not discernible. We guess it was written
in its entirety. (The text is not to be
had and might have been inadvertently discarded after his death.) It seems he did not destroy them since he
states that any reader, rather than listener, should excuse him for any
shortcomings. Baron Nahabed
reads at a fairly rapid pace most of the time.
In other sections, it appears that he, like so many of us, sometimes
cannot read his own handwriting, and struggles to keep the flow of reading. One can hear the pages turning.
For whatever reason, the level or
intensity of the reading, even with the volume turned up to the full extent on
a high quality audio tape player, was not uniform
among the tapes, or even within a given tape.
This meant that in order to translate, one had to go through it
virtually sentence, by sentence, first listening and getting the gist; then
re-winding and listening again and translating, and then again rewinding and
re-playing to make sure the translation was precise. Adding to this tedium was that the several
tapes made by Baron Nahabed (eight in all) were done
at different times, and were not well labeled, and as luck would have it, there
are long gaps and interruptions in the recordings. It has taken far more effort and time than
one might wish to admit to put them into what seems to
be a final sequence. (Incidentally, and very understandably, the final ordering
of the tapes by the first translator turned out to be incorrect, and this in
turn was reflected in the occasional incoherent flow of the initial
translation.) But it was not just the
lack of proper labeling; in some instances that has presented problems. Baron Nahabed
sometimes repeated a section, albeit on a different tape, perhaps thinking that
he had forgotten to record that part. In
such cases, he clearly went back to his text or extended notes to read them,
usually at a quicker pace than that of an earlier narration etc.
In the final analysis, these are all
minor quibbles, but it gives a feeling for the kinds of problems that might be
encountered in such efforts. It is both
fortunate and remarkable that this old gentleman, who had seen and gone through
so much in his childhood and youth, had the ability to organize his thoughts
and recollections so well, and furthermore, the determination to read them into
a tape recorder in his advanced age.
What seems even more remarkable is that his recall was vivid. We leave it to specialists to comment on how
and why such vivid recall is the ‘norm’ rather than the exception among
survivors of the Armenian Genocide. (The
translator’s Mother, friends and survivor-relatives
uniformly related to him as a child that the memories of those horrible years
were burned into their memories, readily admitting that their long-term memory
was often better than their short-term memories in later life. Indeed, the translator recalls vividly
hearing their stories related in remarkable detail, equal to Baron Nahabed’s in the least.
His Godmother, now 98 years old, similarly has vivid memories even
though she was a bit younger than Baron Nahabed.)
To continue
this commentary and attempt at analysis, Baron Nahabed’s
tapes are significant, not only for their content, but because of the
interesting narrative style. Baron Nahabed quickly ingratiates himself to the listener because
of his style and the sincerity he projects.
He provides what might be viewed as an apologia at the very outset,
pointing out that he is not endowed with any particular sagacity or scholarly
skills etc. Parenthetically, we think he
is clearly being too modest. Baron Nahabed is generally steady in his reading, breaking into
distinct and heart wrenching sobs in only a very few instances. And, he is generally
quite restrained. He is very glad to
offer thanks and recognition to those who showed him and others he was with,
any degree of kindness. And, in some
instances, he even sounds a bit like an Armenian priest, Der Hayr, or Protestant
minister, Badveli,
in the bestowing of praise and hagiological incantations upon those dear to him
who had departed this world. Only near
the end of his reading does Baron Nahabed seem to
express his anger, even fury, at the denial of the Genocide committed against
the Armenians by the Ottoman Turks, by successive governments of Turkey. He also gives a tongue thrashing to the
Germans for their complicity, and even goes so far as to call the French
[France] whores, pornig
Frantsatsi, for
having ‘sold out’ and abandoned the Armenians in Cilicia to the vengeance of
the Kemalist Nationalist Turks, even though she had ‘promised’ the right of
return and protection to Armenian survivor-refugees.
It goes
without saying that there should be no doubt as to the veracity of what Baron Nahabed relates.
Baron Nahabed is totally credible. In fact, one might call his style
understated. On a couple occasions he
titillates those listeners who may choose to read lurid details on what he saw
at Der Zor, and the other ‘killing fields’ of the
Syrian Desert. He gives details plenty
enough, but also passes over some places and says that he does not wish to
dwell on such and such a topic. One can
surmise that he knew that providing the additional gruesome details or bringing
up long-suppressed memories would have been enervating in the extreme for him.
More than a few times he asks
forgiveness on the part of the listener/reader for any of his
shortcomings. He deeply regrets not recalling
the names of several whom he held in high regard, and to whom he would be
grateful till the day he died for the help and kindness rendered him. (In one case, he apparently woke up in the
middle of the night and recalled names that he quickly wrote down, lest they
escape him once more.)
In a few cases, such as one in which
he relates the sexual exploitation of a young male friend of his by loosely
imprisoned troops from British India, Baron Nahabed
makes no bones of his boyhood naiveté, and failure to understand what was
happening to his friend who was “used like a woman.” He seemingly smiles at
himself for being so innocent. Indeed,
one can occasionally hear in a low tone, as if in the background, exclamations or chuckles.
He certainly seems to have had a good sense of humor. Moreover, one can readily identify with him
as he periodically shuffles his notes, and script, sometimes annoyed and
exasperated, trying to find where he is or where he left off, saying, "Pssssshhhhh!' and even pausing in one place and exclaiming
in English '"What the hell is this?"
Even
as Baron Nahabed has asked, more than once in his
tapes that he be excused for any shortcomings in his narration, the translator
and editor, Abraham Der Krikorian, Ph.D., and editor Florence Chakerian, both ask that he forgive us for any shortcomings
in these attempts to render his incredible, but all-too-typical story of
Armenian Genocide survivors, into English.
His Badmiutun,
his story, deserves to be told in its entirety and with as much faithfulness to
the original narration as possible. We
hope that Baron Nahabed would approve of this
concerted attempt to do the events justice
To
the above by Dr. Kikorian, I add an immeasurable debt
of gratitude for his many hours of thoughtful, literal translation. As
explained above, he rescued the manuscript and my commitment to Nahabed’s family.
Dr. Krikorian can be reached at Post Office Box 404
Port Jefferson, New York 11777-0404
Notes:
Nahabed
was my husband’s paternal first cousin. When I learned he had left his story of
exile, on tape, in care of his family, I offered to transcribe and preserve
them.
An
agreement for the translation was arranged in Albuquerque with a person whose
first language is Armenian, to be assisted in English by her husband, an
American. Charles Hagop Chakrian,
Nahabed’s son, paid a professional fee. We realized
only later that the translation was very superficial, totally incomplete and quite unsatisfactory. By chance--and surely
Providence--Dr. Krikorian learned of my problem and generously offered to help.
Dr.
Richard Hovannisian, Professor of History and Armenian Studies at the
University of California, Los Angeles, in reply to our letter wrote, in part,
on 7/21/2003: “We do not have an interview with Mr. Chakrian…the
tapes should definitely be copied for preservation…probably someone would have
to go over it to put into more readable and fluent English. We would be thankful to receive a copy…”
The
family recalls, however, that a student from UCLA did interview Nahabed “two or three times” at the Ararat Retirement and
Nursing Home, in California, sometime between 1900 and 1993. It may be that the student didn’t turn in the
assignment. I venture to guess the
student may have been intimidated by the sheer volume and intensity Baron Nahabed offered as a subject!
I
trust that the editing into established English syntax, though not always
consistent, is acceptable and remains faithful to Baron Nahabed’s
distinctive narration.
The
original tapes, with added audio DVD disks duplicated by Dr. Krikorian, and the
manuscript of the Memoir are for the family. Additional copies of the Memoir
are available for related family members.
The
tapes are duplicated, as recorded, and unedited for the time lapses, interruptions and other problems that Dr. Krikorian
discusses in detail. His annotations throughout the text provide a glossary and
illuminate Baron Nahabed’s use of language, custom, place-names, and events.
The
translator and editor added the subheadings. Some information, though sought,
is still missing. The variant spelling of names and places reflect historical
and geographical changes since 1920.
Florence Chakerian
Albuquerque, New Mexico
December 14, 2005
Tape I, side 1
Introduction
“This
story is not a treatise, guk’t mi cheh.[1]
(See Endnote1 at end of the Memoir Proper). I have neither special power, garoghutiun, nor do I have any special intellectual
capacity, imatsanagutian, grace, shnorh, or imagination, yerevagayoutian. Nevertheless, I attempt to undertake this
story with these limitations. Before the deportations, deghapoghoutiuneruh,
I received some schooling for a year and a half from Melikzadek
Balumian of Zara village, Orghormiadz
Hohkin.[2]
Because I so wanted to study, I never forgot whatever I had learned from my
lessons at that time. During my wanderings in the deserts of Arabia, I would,
from time to time, find pages from the Holy Bible and Gospels that had been
scattered about by the winds. I would keep them, and by burying them in the
sand, I could retrieve and read them. In
that way, for a period of over four years, I read these pages over and over
again, and never forgot my Armenian tongue, neither my reading nor
writing. After the war, when I found my
father and we went to Bolis, [Constantinople,
the capital of the Ottoman Empire,] I wanted to continue my schooling but my
luck was that I could not. Therefore,
whatever I have wanted to learn through life has been self-taught.
“For
these reasons, I wish to beg the pardon of all those who might read my notes in
the future, and find errors—which I am certain they
will find.[3]
These writings and these memories have been written and recorded very
many years after the events. But despite my age and possibly failing, memory,
what I have recorded is the truth and not a single word has been superfluously
added. If I could only remember every
detail of those four years in the past, of what I saw, what I heard, what I
experienced, I would certainly be able to fill several volumes. I am sure educated persons have already
written volumes about similar experiences.
I myself have not read a single one of them.
“One
group of exiles, gaghtorner,
[euphemistically referred to by some as émigrés],
went towards Baghdad, others were driven, kisheltsihn, towards Damascus and
others in still different directions.
The exiled groups, gaghtorneru, who went these two routes [Baghdad and Damascus] were not slaughtered, godoras —they were tortured, charcahrvetsahn, and experienced different, zanazan, torments, danchank, but they were not slaughtered, godorasi chi eghahn. Having said this, I once again beg your indulgence and request your forgiveness for any mistakes. I, Nahabed Chakrian, offer this account, with respect, to honor all my descendants and those who might wish to learn.
“July
24, 1988. Today, it is 74 years
[actually 73 years] after the events of the exile, aksor, of all those Armenians
born in Turkey, Dadjigastan,
[land of the Turks, or Dadjigs,] towards
Arabia, during the First World War and during which many lost their lives. I am trying to relay to the best of my
ability all that happened. My sister, Gulizar, and I underwent the deportations and became exiles
and survived that Great Tragedy, Medz Yeghernin, [eghern
normally means crime and collective murder; but is used to designate that
calamitous event of premeditated genocide].
Home
“I
will return now to my biographical background.
I was born in one of Sebastia’s villages in a
place called Araksa, or Alakilise
almost, qrete,
fifty-five miles, mughon,
from the capital.[4]
All the nearby villages were
Armenian. Kayrat village [pronounced Kye-raht, emphasis on first syllable] consisted of about fifty
or sixty Armenian families. Tekelu [pronounced Tekeh-loo,
emphasis on both syllables] forty houses.
Zara village, built in former times by the Armenian Queen Sara as
a summer residence, became a village of both Armenians and Turks. The village of Kharaboghaz,
four miles away, was Armenian. [Note: Kharabogaz,
despite it being a purely Armenian village had a Turkish name, meaning ‘Black
Throat’]. I personally am not familiar
with Kharaboghaz but according to my
grandmother it was not a very big village.
She lived there when she went there as a young bride with her first
husband.[5]
“Now,
ayzhm,
let’s turn our attention to our village and locale. It consisted of approximately 450 houses or
families and derived its name from the church, Alaksa,
in Turkish, Alakiliseh. My family surname, maganoun, is Chakrian. I have not encountered this name, before or
after—except in our family.[6] My grandfather’s given name was Hovsep; my
grandmother’s, Diruhi; my father’s, Caloust [var. Kaloust] and my
mother’s, Varteni.
I had three sisters, Gulizar [equivalent of
Full of Flowers or Flora], Giultana [equivalent of
Rosina or Rosamond], and Tshkouhi [Queen or Queena,
equivalent of Regina], and four brothers, each of whom lived no longer than a
week or month. [Note: A brief statement or proverb in Turkish follows at this
point but am unable to translate. It seems
to start with the Armenian word now, ayz’m and the Armenian phrase ‘let me turn’ to, dahrnahm,
followed by Turkish…]
The Turkish Soldiers Arrive
“In 1914 my father was to be found in Bolis, the capital Constantinople. At the beginning of the month of January 1915
some 1500 Turkish soldiers, zinvohrner, were brought to our village. Half the people were ejected from their homes
to make room for them, and the other half were interspersed among the
families. In that manner the soldiers
were accommodated, haytatetehtsihn.
For two months the villagers were obliged to provide meals for the soldiers
every day. How many families struggled
to do so! After two months the village
became depleted. When the soldiers
finally left, the entire village was emptied of food.
“My father was a miller, charghatsban, but as I mentioned,
he was in Bolis at that time. The mill in our village stayed closed and
after providing the 1500 soldiers meals and bread for nearly two months, all
the villagers were completely exasperated and without provisions.[7] There were a couple of other villages that
had mills but only one was open in a Turkish village named Adamfaki,
[now called Adamfakizir] some four to five miles
away. The owner of the mill and village
leader, kiughi beduh, one
Ibrahim, was a friend of my father and for quite a few years my father had
dealt with him. So, my grandfather and
three unrelated women decided to go to that mill to grind flour since there was
no other choice. They went, but on their
way back, about two miles from the village, they were attacked by a couple of
deserter soldiers, paraghtsakan zinvorneru,
hiding in the mountains. The four of
them, including my grandfather, were brutally murdered, charachan spannuverayn, by the soldiers who then
stole their flour and their donkeys, avanagneruh.
“The bodies were found within hours by a shepherd, hoviv, and very
quickly the news reached the people in our village. Our village priest was
concerned that the bodies be brought to the village cemetery so that they
should be put to proper rest. I was
affected so much by the death of my grandfather that I became ill and confined
to bed, angoghin,[8] the next day.
“The
next day, near afternoon, my sister Gulizar and I
went to the stream for water to make tahn from madzoon bought the day before from a
Kurdish woman. [Madzoon,
Armenian, diluted with water, makes the refreshing drink tahn.] As we approached, armed Kurds on guard at
the spring appeared from behind the trees.
Terrified, we rushed back without any water. Already the gendarmes, [pronounced genderhr-mehnneruh]
had begun to separate the men and older boys, and were
moving them towards the mill. Till then
the gendarmes had been sitting and had not been close by.
“We
tried to hide my Uncle Melkon under two small
blankets, vermugs, while my sister Tshkouhi
and I sat on him. Three to four minutes
passed. But when my Uncle couldn’t
breathe, he pushed us aside and thrust himself out from beneath the blankets.
“With
a sad, dukhur,
countenance, kissing my aunt and the rest of us, he reached into his pocket and
took out his purse, kusag,
pouring all the money, tirahmuh,
into the lap of my sister Gulizar. Sadly, he gave us his final departing words
that to this day ring in my ears. ‘My
dear ones, more or less I cannot say…to go, there is, but there is no return--’ Here his words
remained incomplete, ges-hahd. Two gendarmes had reached us. One of them saying roughly, ‘Stop
complaining! Son of a pig! Mi dirdiral, Khinzer oglu khinzer.’ They pushed him towards the mill. Cries or
shouting in those mountain gullies went unheard. Ten to fifteen minutes later, the gendarmes
had already finished their detestable, garshili, deeds.
“The
leader of the gendarmes ordered the people be moved on their way with whips, kharazaner. We
were again forced to embark upon the road.
It was the last we saw of our older boys and men.
“When
we lost my Uncle Melkon, my sister Gulizar became the head of the family. My aunt was a delicate woman; my mother weak;
and my second sister, Giuldana, inexperienced, anvarzh. My little sister Tshkouhi
and I were helpless. If my older sister
had not been burdened, pergnavornadz,
with a nine-month old baby girl, the situation might
have been easier.
“As
the days and weeks went on, the situation became more difficult to bear. The cursed gendarmes delighted in making
people take indirect mountainous routes, rather than more leisurely direct
paths, and chased and drove the exiles to deliberately cut their number. I felt
that I, too, would have this fate, vijaguss, of dying in childhood. They had but one purpose, nbadag. Day by day, the children and the elderly were
becoming weaker. Those with physical
disabilities could endure little more.
We became concerned, mainly, with looking after ourselves. Ninety-five out of a hundred had reached this
state.
“Eventually,
after several days, we reached a mountainous place. On our left it was reminiscent
of Sebastia, and on our right, a lake, lijovmi. [Lake, most assuredly Lake Goeljuk] We
exiles settled down. It was not yet
mid-day. The wind was a little strong
and the lake a bit stormy, alegosial.
“What
we saw, first, was hundreds of massacred bodies, face down in the water, their
intestines fallen out like inflated balloons.[10] I had never seen such a sight in my
life. The horror is still deep in my
heart. It is frozen permanently; I can’t
forget it.
“Tens
of people from our caravan, unable to tolerate more agony, threw themselves
into the water. It was there, you see,
where my sister Gulizar, following the example of
other women, raised her first-born baby daughter and threw her into the lake.[11] My sister, Guildana,
horrified, plunged in to get the child out.
But Gulizar grabbed [khulelov] the baby from her arms and again threw her-- further out, deeper,
aveli khoruhnk--
into the lake. Human feelings and
parental love was weakening, dugaranah, and losing under the
strain and stress.
An
Example
“After
that event, some five groups from different villages and cities joined us. Our number, mer kanaguh, increased substantially. One was a column, garkmi, from Chimisgedzek;
another of Sebastatsi women; a group from Zeytoun and others from elsewhere. Following several days on the road and one
and a half days from Urfa, we settled somewhere in the mountains. The sun was nearly set.
“Suddenly,
the quiet was broken. About a hundred
feet from us, a man from Tekelu, who had
survived thus far by dressing as a woman, was running. They grabbed him and tied his hands behind
his back. They stripped him and
suspended him head down from a tree.
They wanted to make an example of him, saying ‘Let it be known, and see
what would happen to any coward who would attempt to deceive the Ottoman
government.’ A sword was drawn, and the
naked body, top to bottom, split in two.
The onlookers, fingers in their mouths, were horrified. In that dreadful place we spent the night,
but I don’t think anyone who had seen such a horrible thing was able to close
his eyes and not recall what happened.
We had become somewhat accustomed to the numerous and various trials and
tribulations happening on the road of exile in our convoys, but we had never, yerpek, seen a
body cut asunder!
“The
following morning at sunrise we were ordered on the road again. We hadn’t been on the road for more than
fifteen or twenty minutes when I saw those moving on ahead were being driven to
the left. They turned their heads and
closed their eyes when passing by. When
our turn came, we saw on the left side of the road about eight or ten feet
ahead, the naked body of a young man with shaggy black hair and a bloody,
gaping bullet, kuntag, wound, some eight fingers in
width. This sight horrified and saddened
the deportees. It was as though a sign
signaled our own future and fate.
“We
reached Urfa the afternoon of the next day. Without going into the city,
the first guesthouse on the right side of the road became filled with
deportees. [Curiously, Baron Chakrian uses the word huiranots, rather
than the more widely used Turkish word khan]. We, too, were to be found in that group but
an hour later we were taken out and moved to the city into another
‘guesthouse’. For the first time in the
deportation, the people of villages and cities became separated-- mothers from
their children, family members from family members, villagers from the same
village, and city dwellers from the same city.
Out of a 100, some 98 of us never saw loved ones again.
“They
located us quite close to the market, shugah. By that time
we had changed, as though half-animal, gess anasoonih, and unashamed [of our appearance; there are
many photographs of the
pathetic condition of these exiles.]
“Urfa
was a clean, spacious and beautiful city.
In the center of the market there was a beautiful well-provided garden
with trees [Note: Not able to distinguish whether the Armenian word for trees, dzar, or flowers, dzaghig,
is used here] and a coffee house [Note: the Armenian suhrjahran rather
than the Turkish word khayvakhaneh
is used] where, in particular, the wealthy of the city would frequent. I had the luck to go there twice—not to pass
time or for amusement, but to beg. Not
once, though, did I find anyone who put his hand into his pocket, be he Armenian or Turk, to give me either five or ten paras. [Note: the copper Turkish coin, a
para, was a fortieth of a piaster,
about a ninth of a cent]. Every evening,
however, before sunset the local gardeners, who had not sold their fruit, would
distribute it to the beggars and the poor.
In that beautiful city we stayed two weeks.
“There
were two kinds of ovens, purrehr,
there to bake bread. One was for
unleavened bread and the other for yeast bread. [Note: the rather uncommon
Armenian word for ‘yeasted’, tutkhvahdzin is
used.] Those unleavened breads have to
be used without cooling or drying. Once dried, it hardens and becomes brittle,
rock-like.
“In
Urfa I met an Armenian passerby.
I don’t know what work he did.
Each evening before sunset, he shopped in the market and then took a
little orphan, vorp, to his home. His wife would be waiting and have a table
ready. They had no children of their own. They seated the child, boy or girl,
with them. In those two weeks I was fortunate enough to meet him twice and
invited to be seated at the same table and treated as if I were theirs. Even after 74 years since those days, I’ve
never forgotten the kindness and benevolence of their hearts. And I will never forget unto my own grave to
ask the Lord God to bless his soul and to pray that this fully worthy man has
been taken unto His Kingdom.
But
those plotters, tavajanneru, had a different purpose. Their plan was to separate and render us
completely helpless. After having moved
the deportees on, half had been kept behind.
In that way, again, different things happened to different groups. People became separated from one another--
mothers from children, sisters from brothers-- once more. All the people ejected from the city, all the
people who had been distributed amongst all the khans of the city when assembled and taken together, were about
35,000.
“We
reached the desert. There in the open we
spent the night. Next day, again at
night after having traveled, we spent another sleepless night in the open. I had a bad feeling that something was about
to happen and it did. That unforgettable
tragedy I have never forgotten and shall not until my grave for it remains deep
in my heart like a fixed piece of metal.
I had planned to take this secret to my grave if I had not decided to
commit this crime, yegherkuh,
to writing.
“
Around ten or ten thirty-two gendarmes came to where we were sleeping and took
my sister, Gulizar, crying and screaming, away. She was raped by six Turkish gendarmes.
“We
reached a small village in the desert called Maljanaghad
(?) and spent the night on the outskirts
about a mile away. For the first time we
could see the railroad, yergatoughi, and the train at a distance. I had
heard about trains but never had seen one.
We stayed a day and a half. My
mother was craving something sour, tuttou. That became a
reason for me to go towards the train hoping to find it for her. I hadn’t realized,
however, I would be able to see it up close. When near I was amazed! It seemed to have a soul, hoki. Pshrrpsr,
it was hissing and blowing. Had I time
and been able, I would have stayed the whole day, fascinated. But, I had gone
there to find something sour for my mother.
I found nothing but a bit of bitter lemon from the storekeeper. That train was going to Haleb,
Aleppo.
“We
were on the road again. After a short
while we reached a place with a creek or brook, arvagmi muh.
This had a narrow bridge, negh garmujov. Only
two people could closely pass or only one with a donkey. It became very congested. The exiles from other cities and towns that
had not traveled through Kharpert, who thus were not worn out and
decrepit, were uncertain how to cross through this narrow passage. They went into the water uncertain of its
depth; it was, however, only up to their waists. [Note: Baron Chakrian
is a bit hesitant here and seems to be struggling with his script.]
“Everyone
was pushing. Neither my two sisters nor
my mother were near me. My aunt and my
younger sister remained on the donkey in the midst of all this confusion. We waited nearly two and a half hours in
order to cross that damned, anidzial, narrow bridge to get to
the other side! Tshkouhi,
who was sitting as usual on the back of the donkey behind my aunt, succeeded in
getting off the animal and stood waiting for a few moments with my hand in
hers. I don’t remember in what way or
for how long we remained in that pushing and shoving crowd.
“Suddenly
I felt that my sister was no longer near me.
I was surrounded [long, emotional break in the narration here] and, as
much as I looked around, [it was as if] she had evaporated! I couldn’t leave my aunt on that donkey to go
looking for my sister. And where would I
look? Finally, during that separation, I
was able to somehow struggle across.
Crying, I didn’t know what to do.
My mother and two sisters were not around. Then, I heard a cry, ‘Brother, Brother, Yeghpayr, Yeghpayr.’
Looking toward the sound, I saw Tshkouhi, sitting on
the bank of the stream, waiting, her shoes off and her feet in the water.
“I
have yet to understand, and probably never will, how the women and men in that
great confusion had the courage and stamina to cross that bridge.
“Meanwhile, we were yet in another area of
water. I’m not sure exactly what it was,
whether a river, ked, or an, arvak, small river or stream, but it was not
a lake, voch lij. Here and there the running water had settled,
widening into gullies, with standing water in the partitioned ditches. Other places the running water entered into
cracks and crevices. I could see that by moving the donkey
[next to a height] I might be able to help my sister. We neared a wall and I helped her up and from
there onto the donkey in back of my aunt.
But again, after another ten or fifteen steps, we came to a spot where
the donkey had to jump, tsadgel. When he jumped, my sister thrown off the rear
of the small animal, tumbled into the water.
The donkey, with my aunt aboard, [long pause] ran away—braying, running
rapidly, arak, arak, and joined the
multitude.
“I
looked around on all four sides, chorss gormuhss, no one remained near us. My sister was seated in the water,
crying. As I helped her to the bank, a
gendarme appeared. He gave my back a couple
of sharp blows with a whip, saying, ‘Khinzer oglu, khinzer! Ulu nerederi olsun, son of a
pig…’ mounted his horse and left.
Scarcely two minutes later he returned with some young Arabs. They were apparently twin brothers, yergvorgiag yeghpaynehrayn. Striking me again with the whip, he grabbed
my sister and handed her to those Arabs.
One, holding her by the right hand and the other by the left, they
turned and took her slowly, slowly to the right, as if they were taking a young
child learning to walk… [Note: Here is one of the few times that Baron Nahabed finishes his sentence with the ‘hallmark’
expression of many Sepastatis, ‘gor’]…
and moved into the distance. Moments
later, from amidst the crowd, my two sisters and my mother came into view. I cried out, ‘Mother, Mother, look, look! The gendarme took Tshkouhi
from my hands and gave her to the Arabs!
Look, they took her away.’
“‘Aman,
mercy… I am struggling with my tortured soul.
What can I do?’ ” my Mother said with a final,
desperate resignation.
“When
we joined the group again we saw the exiles were now
surrounded by guards, bahaban,
mounted police and native Arabs. It
seemed then that a new soul or spirit, nor
hoki egav, came upon her. She began to cry, “
‘My Tshkouhi, my Tshkouhi.’
”
“It
was the last we saw of my little sister.
What was to be the fate [literally what was written on her forehead] of
my dear little sister? Into what kind of
peoples’ hands had she fallen, what kinds of trials and tribulations would she
endure? Would she grow up and marry a
Muslim? Would she turn Muslim and have
Muslim children? And lose knowledge of
her Armenian birth and language in her new life? I imagined and wondered all these things. I
still yearn that this happened [and that she was not killed.]
[It seems
appropriate to insert and include several maps of the region that show places
along the Euphrates River and the situation of Rakka, Aleppo
and Der Zor]
Fig.
1.
Enlargement
from a map of
Western
Asia from the Persian Gulf to the Mediterranean
showing
the route of the University of Chicago Expedition of 1920.
From
“James Henry Breasted, 1924” pg. 47.
James Henry Breasted
(1865-1935) did an immense amount of work on the region for the University of
Chicago. See especially “Pioneers to the Best American Archaeologists in the
Middle East 1919-1920”, ed. by Geoff Emberling.
The Oriental Museum Publication Number 30. The Oriental Institute of the
University of Chicago.
Fig. 2.
Full page reproduction of a
map of Eastern Turkey in Asia, Map sheet number 44 of Deir ez
Zor.
From”Maps of the
Ottoman Empire. Eastern Turkey in Asia. Sheet 44. Deir ez
Zor. Publisher: London: British War Office. Scale
1:250,000,
compiled by Intelligence Division War Office by Major F.R. Maunsell; derived from multiple expeditions 1839-1906.
Because the map is large and the page size relatively small (Fig.
2), making it difficult to examine, we have included an enlargement of the left hand side of the map (Fig. 3) and the right hand side
(Fig. 4)
Fig.
3.
Fig.
4.
Fig. 5.
Still further enlargement of map (Fig. 2)
starting with Rakka on the upper left to
area below Halebie.
(For the view of the Euphrates Valley North from Halebie see Fig. 7 below.)
Fig.
6.
Enlargement of map to show Rakka especially – see at approximately 9 o’clock.
Fig.
7.
View of the Euphrates looking North from the ruins of Halebie.
This is an enlargement from Fig. 4.
Fig.
8.
Fig. 8 is a Key for Figs. 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6.
Fig.
9.
Enlargement of the Library stamp providing information on the
sources for the Deir ez Zor
maps that we have copied and provided
for examination.
Four
days later, we reached Rakka city and the
deportees settled near the shore of the Euphrates River, Yeprad kedi yezerki. We stayed three or four days. We could go to the city to shop if one had
money to spend. And, even though I say
“city”, kaghak,
it now really was more of a small town rather than a village, but it consisted
of once grand houses. Years earlier it
apparently was a rather important ‘royal’ city but it seems later that either
Armenians or Assyrians, Assori, had settled there. We stayed three days on the sand, avazi vrah of the
riverbank. [Note: Baron Nahabed said three or four
days above].
“On
the third day my Mother died, mahatsav. I don’t have the will to describe it in great
detail since even after all these years, each time I remember, I am seized with
intense grief, sastig guh huzvihm. Amongst
the Sebastia group settled on the banks were
Gypsies. [Note: the
Armenian word kunchou
is used rather than the Turkish word chingeneh or posha]. They were
uncouth, ignorant and quarrelsome, gurvazan. In fear of them we didn’t say anything about
my Mother because, had they known, imanayin, they certainly would have taken the body from our hands and
thrown her into the Euphrates. Early the
next morning my two sisters and I dug, as well as we could, a hole in the sand
and buried her. The same evening the
local dogs from the scent uncovered the body, ate her, leaving only the
bones. We gathered these remains and
threw them into the Yeprad,
Euphrates. In that way my poor Mother’s
sorrows and pains finally came to an end—a remorseless fate, ankhuij jagadakir!
“We
went back. A few days later my Aunt closed her beautiful eyes for the last time. We buried her body in the sands of Arabia
close to our ‘lair’ where we lived. What
kind of a tragic fate! [Note: again he uses jagadaqir,
literally signifying ‘writing on the forehead.]
She never had children; she dedicated herself to the children of her
sister. She was kind, unusually
beautiful and lovable. She was born in Kharaboghaz, grew up in Alaksa,
and married at a very early age in the flower of her youth [Note: read rather
rapidly as if reciting a hagiody]. Here in Arabia, Arabio metch, in the deserts she was to close
her beautiful eyes… her heart of gold.
Bid rest and peace, khaghaghoutiun, to
your tortured body, my sweet, noble, azniv, beautiful Aunt.
Peace upon your tortured sufferings.
What a troubled world, darabial ashkharh! Her
Mother-- my Grandmother-- we lost when we left her
under a tree in Divrig. Her husband was torturously killed, and her
dear sister, my Mother, became food for beasts. And she, here in the depths of Arabia, sealed
her beautiful eyes in suffering. Rest
and peace upon you, my dear Aunt, your suffering and
trials are at an end.
End of Tape
I, side 1, Turn tape over to continue
Note:
Although end of side one of Tape one was cut off, he apparently backed-up on
the other side, realizing that he might have lost some narration. Nothing is
lost.
A
Thieving Guide
“Now,
for more than four months we had been moving here and there without a home,
without the head of a household, anderagan, and kept here in the Arabian desert, begging.
“A
week after my Aunt’s death, the women decided, voroshel, that we return to Rakka. We had reached that unfamiliar place, the
Headquarters of the Gendarmes [Note: the Gendarmerie
were the Para-military police of the Empire], and under the escort of
gendarmes. In what way did this decision
get made? But everyone knows female
stubbornness, hamarutiunuh,
and evidently it was the cause of it.
[Note: it hard to comprehend how the women could have ‘decided’ on their
own to go to anywhere since they were under ‘escort’. One wishes that Baron Nahabed
had more precisely explained the situation.]
A day later, they found an Arab who spoke a little Turkish; he was
barely intelligible. He was to be our
leader, arachnort, to Rakka.
“Early
the next the morning we got on the road under the leadership of that rascal, surigal. The weather was cloudy and dreary. After one or two hours on the road, he
stopped short, saying, ‘para, para,’ money, money, mousareer,
mousareer (in Arabic), demanding money, all
the while rubbing the fingers of his right hand. The women put together a small amount and
gave it to the rascal. That day, as we
traveled drearily, with feelings as dreary as the weather, that rascal halted
ten to fifteen times until late at night demanding money. Early in the morning
before we moved on again, an elder, a bearded Arab introduced himself as the
authority, mukhtar, of that region, shurchan. The women prostrated themselves, kissing his
feet and hands and, crying, told him the story of their disaster. Appearing kind and sympathetic, he turned to
that rascal guide, and read him the riot act in a stern voice, khisd tsayn ovmuh, although we didn’t understand a word. The rascal, reddening, took flight, khuysiguh turav. The Arab, turning to the women, calmly told
them not to worry, that no evil would befall them again. ‘I will send my children to guide you all the
way to the city. May God be with
you.’ Saying this, he left. Shortly, two young boys came to serve as our
guides. A light rain had begun, and
after getting on the road, we reached Rakka by
the next afternoon, the place where four and a half months earlier we had
dwelled in the desert.
We
saw that the tiny city had changed substantially. In that short time, much construction had
occurred. Before, there were only one or
two stores, khanut; now twelve. One oven for baking bread, now three. Four nuravajar shops [nur means pomegranate; vajar means merchant or
seller. Whether the word was generically
used for any kind of fruit not known.]
One pakalavaji,
seller of paklava.
One shop for tel khadeyif, two
tailors, and two shoe shops. The whole
central street of the place had changed, filled with newly arrived Armenian
exiles from many places. We paused in
front of an Armenian tailor shop opposite a government building. The two brother guides, having finished their
business fully [Note: use of the archaic word liuli], turned and left.
“Half the day had passed chilly, now it turned cold and began to rain. We were trembling. “Allah ashkinah”, [meaning “Dear God”-in Turkish; normally an Armenian might say, Asdvadz vehrehn var etchir, “God, please come down from above!] The women and we three boys were crying. Minutes later, out of the government building, descended a zaptieh [a Turkish policeman, pronounced by Nahabed as zaptiah]. He looked at us, turned, and went back in. He was followed by a young man, who announced haughtily, gorozapar, ‘My name is Nishan. Follow me.’
“We walked in the heavy rain, leaving that heartless place, reaching an open space surrounded only by four walls that now served as a public toilet, artouarzart by the city folk. ‘Stay here,’ he said and disappeared, anhaydatsav. This was no place to stay. The stench was terrible. We couldn’t remain there breathing that horrible smell. Crying and moaning, voghpalov, we returned to the front of the government building. A zaptieh [Turkish policeman, again pronounced zaptiah] emerged, saw our lamentable lot, said ‘Vagh, Allahan, vagh’…[all in Turkish, but Baron Nahabed repeats the Turkish in Armenian] ‘Dear, dear, Good God, dear, dear! What sort of a lot is this? Follow me!’
“Stepping into the city street, we turned right and paused in front of a door. Two soldiers, zinvorhr, came to join him. They opened the door and we saw twelve camels. He directed the soldiers to remove them and took us all inside. ‘Now wait here and I’ll be back.’ He returned shortly with the soldiers who carried two baskets, goghovnerov, of warm bread, fresh from the oven. They distributed two to each of us and said we could stay until further decision, voroshoumn, from the authorities. That place was for us like Paradise, Trakhd, spacious, layn, and warm. I had not eaten bread for over four months. At first, the bread remained in my throat, gogort, and I seemed to choke on it. We stayed here for almost three months.
Forty Thousand Exiles on the Road to Der Zor
“Each morning, while there, we would go to the deserts to find fuel, varelaniut, for the ovens. In the afternoon, we returned to the city with the load, pernerov. They brought us all one or two loaves of bread in return. One morning we went to the desert as usual, and as we were returning towards the city with our loads, we saw both sides of the road lined with soldiers, four by four, pasharvadz chors, chors. They took our fuel, gave us each one or two loaves of bread, and led us to the banks of the Euphrates River where thousands of exiled people were waiting. Within an hour or two, all the exiles found there, were moved to the right side of the Euphrates.
“Several
hours later, in that multitude, ayd pasmutyunin mech, we found my two aunts, horakuirs—father’s
sisters and Gulizar, the daughter of one of my
aunts! We waited several days as other
exiles arrived joining our group. Four
days later forty thousand exiles were on the road toward Der Zor.
We
reached Der Zor after traveling two weeks. Here, to give a more detailed picture of our
travel on the road to Der Zor, I am stubborn and will
say no more. I will only say that we
didn’t enter the city; we passed by on the outskirts, al yezerken antsank. At Der Zor there,
the Euphrates River divides in two. [Note: I think this is incorrect. It needs to be checked on a period map since
the course and dimensions of the river have changed.] The exiles settled in the desert some two
miles distant from the river. We stayed
there three days. Amidst the 40,000
exiles, only some seven or eight thousand had tents for protection from the sun. The rest were scattered throughout the
desert.
After
Easter we were set on the road again. [How did they know the dates and Holy
Days?] The crowd began to sing. [Mostly Turkish words of the song recited
here but not translated into Armenian—the only words I can figure out are Zadig, Easter and chadrr,
tent—I have consulted Dr. Verjine Svazlian’s
“The Armenian Genocide in the Memoirs and Turkish-language Songs of the
Eye-witness Survivors” Yerevan, 1999, but have found nothing suggestive.]
“Now
I only remember this much. We were going
to Baghdad. The heat of the Der Zor Arabian desert was unbearable, andaneli, especially for the
physically weak. After a week on the
road we reached Mudurluk
[mudurlukmi, Baron Nahabed
explains, bashdonagan kiughmi,
literally a functionary town - perhaps more properly a regional government
center]… and there for three days in the desert we rested, tatar. They distributed some flour to us. On the fourth day, they put us on the road
again. But things were different. The head gendarme was a 30-35
year old good-looking, tall, partsr hasagov, man.
Before
the sun had barely risen, he would get the exiles on the road, and by ten or
ten-thirty when the sun was unbearable, he would find a spring, aghpiur, or a
place with a stream, arvag
for a place to rest. I want to stress, vor sheshdem,
this because it is very important: We had traveled twenty days under this man’s
leadership. He had beaten sixteen Arabs
to death [?] who tried to rape, purnaparel, women or girls or kidnap, arevankel, children or to beat, dzedzelou, or otherwise attempted to rob, goghoptelu, or
put a person through an ordeal or take to task, ports arelu.
“Two
other incidents are imprinted in my mind, still clear. The first, on one day late in the afternoon
when stopping near the riverbank, we saw Arab women, Arabouhiner,
and men, Arabner, wandering among the
exiles. The Arab women, freely speaking,
ariman khoselov,
were there for the purpose, midumo,v of selling bread, hahtz and tan, diluted
yoghurt, but the males, dughamarti, came with another purpose.
“Suddenly
we heard a woman scream. The women and a
few lads like myself ran in that direction and saw an Arab, twenty-five to
thirty years old, pulling by her arm -- an eight or ten year
old blonde-haired girl from the hands of her mother. The head gendarme came in time with three
helpers. They grabbed the Arab, and presented him to the leader who took him to the
edge of the stream, pulled off his white shirt, shabik, completely undressing
him, bolor mergatsutsin. They tied his feet and hands and whipped
him. With every blow, harvadz, he
furiously demanded in Turkish ‘Ermeni?…[not intelligible to me, other
than the query pertaining to the Armenians, Ermeni?] Beaten in this way, the breath was taken out
of him, shi’nchanatz hanets.
“On
another day a disturbance occurred, araq muh badahedtsav. It remains deep in my heart. We were settled on the banks of the
river. It was afternoon when uproar, aghmugmi, broke
out; the attention of the people turned to where it was happening. We saw a woman, about forty or fifty years
old, her mouth bloody, lying trapped in the swift current with a donkey, his
tail in her hand. [Nahabed
uses the Turkish word for donkey, ishoun, from the esh or donkey], aboreli arartimi metch, niuyn avanagihn
hed.
Gulizar Has a Plan
“Twenty days further on the road as we followed the
curving river bank, we settled and rested. On the third day I saw my sister Gulizar whispering with a woman about the same age, hasagagits, from
our village. With the curiosity of a
young kid, yerakhayutian
hedakurkirants,
I began to listen. They were planning to
go to the desert to beg among the Arabs.
They stood up, wandering off like the [Arab] women who would come and
stroll among the deportees, and thus they distanced themselves. How many times did my sister turn around and
try to make me go back? But, I stubbornly persisted, following at a distance, and
after we had gone quite away from the caravan she coolly relented. One hour later, passing a hilly area, we lost
the deportees from our view. From a
distance we saw ten or twelve tents in the desert and headed towards them. From the first tent we reached, a young man
emerged. He examined us coolly and
signaled us to go inside. With her hand
our female companion warned us to back off.
But we went ahead and that was the last we saw of her.
“His
elderly mother was seated under the tent scrutinizing us closely. It was near sunset. When we tried to leave the tent, she prevented us with a hand movement, and said some things,
none of which we understood. We spent
the night, with heavy heart, in the tent.
Next morning another Arab woman, about forty years old, came. From her appearance, the way she was dressed
and the respect she was given, it was apparent she was the wife, dirouhi, of
the chief of those tents. The young
fellow and his mother showed her much deference and attention. They did not appear to contradict whatever
she was saying. We were unable to
understand one word. From her actions and attitude it
became apparent that she wanted to take my sister with her. I began to really cry. She gave me a careful look, and the same to
my sister, but it was clear. She turned
to speak to the old woman and her son; they listened with heads bowed. Turning to my sister and me, she signed for
us to follow her.
“Now,
I cannot remember her name, and I hurt very much over that. From seven in the morning
I would take the lambs, garmougneruh
to pasture, arod. The first week she came with me. After staying for about half an hour, she
went back to the tent. At nine thirty or
ten I would hear her calling, ‘Hehd, Ali, hehd! Here, Ali, Here!’ They had given me the name Ali. She would come and take me back to the
tent. ‘Nam, Ali, nam’ she would say. She would take her hands and place them on
her face to indicate that she meant me to sleep. [Note: Baron Nahabed
says nap, instead of nam. It is clearly a slip of the tongue.] She would say ‘Ali, rest and take a sleep.’
She took care of me like a, harazad, mother or grandmother. I will never forget that when I began to
count from one to ten in Arabic she was as happy and proud as a grandmother
whose grandchild, tornig, had taken the first steps in walking
or first syllables, vanguh. She enjoyed every correct word I learned in
Arabic and left the tent to tell the other Arab women. I want to offer my gratitude and respect to
her and her family. Even though I have,
unfortunately, forgotten their names, I will never forget the way they treated
me and will always be forever grateful.
An Important Change
“We remained about five weeks at that place. Later her two sons, zavagneruh, came and made
preparations to move all the sheep and goats, and all else needed, to be
integrated into their own group. As luck
would have it, the village where we had gone to beg was located on the left
bank of the river and the exiles were now settled on the opposite side. After having taken care of all the
preparations, the older son took me on his back, and swimming, we crossed to
the left side. The following day, the
remainder of the people came, bringing my sister, Gulizar,
with them.
That
family was the head family of Shoun [?] village
[sounds like shoun kiuighi]. They had three male offspring, two married,
the youngest still a bachelor, amouri. Our family’s
Village Headman, Kiughaderuh,
ten or twelve years older than his wife, was kind, respectful, and worthy of
her. He gave me the business of grazing
the lambs in their summer pastures, yaila, summer dwelling place, [note from the designation yaila it is clear
that these were nomadic or semi-nomadic Arabs].
We Leave
“The sun was setting and we had been away from the
village for a month at several yaila-s, summer
pastures. When I returned with the
lambs, my sister whispered to me that a gendarme, accompanied by a military
physician, had come to say if we wanted to leave with them
they could take us to Shaddadieh. They added that if there were other Armenians
in the area who wished to come with us, they would kindly take them as
well. My sister believed them. In that area there were five or six Armenian
adolescents. I explained the situation
to them. Five of them agreed to come in
a half hour to join us. But when the
time came to get on the road, not one of them showed up. In the evening at six o’clock we started on
the road. Neither the head of the
household or anyone in the family opened their mouths to say a word.
“Now,
you see, they already knew about the time of our arrival. A fifty to fifty- five
year-old man came out with a servant and beckoned his two guests to
enter, directed us to the attention of another servant and left to join his
guests. The servant, holding a candle,
signaled us to follow him. We were led
to a tiny cell, khoutsmuh,
[pronounced ‘koohtsmuh’] bare and only covered
with a mat, khusir. ‘Sleep here tonight,’ he said roughly and
went out leaving us in the dark.
“Thirsty,
hungry and exhausted, we lay down on the floor of the cell and in a few moments we were in the world of dreams. When we awoke in the morning
we saw sunshine through the narrow window.
Minutes passed. What were we to
do? Then, a nine or
ten year old boy came introducing himself in Armenian as Hagop. The master, Efendi, had instructed him to take us to
his [i.e. Hagop’s] sister’s
where she was to feed us. We followed
him entering a clean kitchen, makour khoharanotsmuh, where his sister, smiling, introduced
herself as Untziag…[not
absolutely sure if it is –Utsiah or Utsiag, or Untsiah, etc. but
U[n]tzag—signifying tiger or leopard, is a girl’s
name, albeit uncommon] … She gave no last name.
“‘We are Urfatsis’ ” [from the city of
Urfa] she said with a smile on her face, zhup’d eress.
She added that seven or eight months earlier Baron Mudur [I cannot be sure of the name yet since in Turkish
the word mudur
can signify a precise position or office of responsibility, as a chief,
---we’ll see hopefully if he is the mudur and hence referred to with the title of respect Mr. or
Baron or really a Mr. Mudur, pronounced by Nahabed miudurr or mew-durr]… had taken them out of the hands of the Arabs and
brought here.
“‘I
do the cleaning and cooking of the meals.
Other than that we have no reason to be here.’ ”
“With
fresh lavash [lavash is an Armenian flatbread, tarm lavashov] and preparing tea
[Armenian word tay
rather than Turkish word chai] she
fed us. Then in the afternoon, Hassan
[Hassan has not been hitherto mentioned, does Nahabed
mean Hagop?] came and took us to the village where
there were four Armenian women in a small public house or inn, icovanimuh mech.
[Note that Nahabed uses an archaic term for inn]. He told them that Baron Muidur was sending us to stay with them; he dropped us off
and left.
“One
of the women was from Marash, another from Kharpert,
and I have forgotten where the others were from. Ninety out of a hundred of the population, punagchoutianuh,
in that village were Armenian Assyrians who had come from Mardin [he pronounces
it Mehrdihn. Also Baron Nahabed clearly says Hai Assorinayn,
viz. Armenian Assyrians. He does not say
Hai yev
Assori, yev meaning
‘and’. Exactly what an “Armenian Assyrian” is escapes this translator. Perhaps Nahabed
means Armenian-speaking Assyrians, rather than Turkish, Arabic or
Persian-speaking Assyrians. Mardin, was
a sanjak (subprovince
or county) of Diarbekir Vilayet.
Assyrians, as Christians, were also deported by the Turks.]
“My
sister went daily from door to door looking for work. In this way about two weeks passed. One day I got the idea [literally, blew into
my mind, khelkuss putchess]
that I should go to Muduirluk to see Hagop. But he was
not there at the time, bahoun.
While I was talking to his sister, Muidur Ali came to
the kitchen, in his hand a Turkish coffee pot, a jezveh,
which was covered with dried coffee grounds turned to gravel from years of use.
‘I
thought Hagop was here,’ he said. “ ‘I wanted him to
take this jezveh
and to try to clean it a bit if he can.’ ”
“Miudur Efendi, [Mr. Mew-door], I will take
this and try to clean it to the best of my ability.” I was blushing.
“‘Takk
eh...oghlum,’ ” my boy, and
passed it to me. I took it from his
hands, shaking with excitement and embarrassment. At the river- bank I began to
scrub with all my might using water and sand.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw what was beneath the surface! It began to shine like copper, bughintsi behss.
After an hour of even more vigorous rubbing and rubbing that coffee pot,
surj amanuh, began
to shine like gold. I left, happy,
hoping that that he might be pleased enough to give me a gift. When he saw my pleasure with the shining
coffee pot, he asked my name. I told
him.
“
‘Dughass,’ my boy, he said, in
Armenian, “‘From today I am going to call you Buzdig,
Little One. That word, buzdig,
is Armenian isn’t it?’ ”
“Yes,
sir,” I said, blushing again.
“You’re
going to be my coffee maker, ihm kheyvajiss, and you are going to stay here.’ ”
He
turned to Hagop’s sister, “ ‘Teach “Buzdig” how to make coffee.’ ” With that he left us.
“I
immediately ran to my sister to tell her the good news knowing it would make
her happy. Now she would have less worry about my care. From that day I stayed there. I learned to make coffee and my name remained
Buzdig.
“After
returning to Baron Muidurs’s, several days passed and
on the fifth, an Arab shaykh with his
wives came to visit, aytseloutyan. He was sitting upright on a beautiful saddle,
netsoug. After the initial courtesies and greetings,
and before going in, Miudur gave me the bridle, santsuh of the
horse. “ ‘Buzdig, take the
horse aside and mix some barley, qari, and
grain-feed and give it to him.’ ” I
obediently took the bridle, and was leading him on the left side, when suddenly
the horse, without falling or jumping, pushed and
stepped on two of my left toes squashing them and taking off the skin. Passing the bridle to Gutsiag
[Hagop’s sister] they immediately took me inside and
seated me on a chair. They brought in a
lambskin and wrapped my entire foot. [Note: I have heard from Kharpertsis, the use of freshly killed lambskin being used
to treat wounds and severe fractures, especially those that have penetrated the
skin, with great success—even in the USA when all else failed with orthodox
medicine. It must have been a standard
treatment.]
“Shaking
his head from side to side, he said to me, ‘Buzdig,
my boy, do not walk much on this for several days.’ He left to join his guest. In three or four days I could get down onto
the flat floor and go to the water’s edge to soak my foot. A week later my foot was better and the pain
was gone.
“A
month later Miudur sent for one of the officers, usbanneruh, under
his authority, with instructions that he not forget
what had been conveyed to him. After a
few hours, the officer came back with a twenty to twenty-two
year old Armenian village woman from Aintab and her brother who looked
my age. They were Turkish speakers and
didn’t understand Armenian. Her name was
Mariam and the brother was Garabed. Now
we were three males working at Miudur’s—Hagop, Buzdig and Garabed. Afternoons
we went to the desert to collect fuel.
The ‘toilet’ dung, literally ardaknadz turikuh of cows and oxen served very well for burning. [Note: It is surprising that Baron Nahabed does not use the Turkish word tezek or the Armenian word teshkur anywhere
in his description of finding dung for use in making fuel. Generally treeless areas had long been
reduced to using prepared dung pats for fuel.] In this fashion, two or three
weeks more passed.]
Irregular
Horsemen
“One
day three hundred irregular horsemen came to Shaddadiyeh,
and after an hour’s rest, they assembled and left towards Der Zor. Each
individual, anhad,
were given orders and they left in ranks.
A week passed and the columns returned.
In another twelve days they went back, but this time there were only one
hundred fifty passing by.
“A
week later they exiled Miudur [aksoretsihn] with his
family. This must have been at the order
of the nahabed, the headman, of Der Zor. Before he left he complimented my sister and the rest of us for how
hardworking we all were. In this way our
contacts with Miudur Ali ended. It was a good passage. May he be looked upon by God favorably, and be given peace.
“He
took with him his new wife; her brother; Gutziag and Hagop. I do not know
when and exactly from where they had emigrated in Turkey. They were Circassian. Anyone in their presence could immediately
perceive they were emigré Cherkesses,
except for their language, parparuh, which
was different. They were
well-mannered, courteous, respectful, aveli harkanknerov ayn.
“Their
chief was Suleiman Bek who had a brother, Omer, but
he was under the command of Suleiman. My
sister and I entered into their service, anonts dzarayoutian . My sister’s job
was to bake lavash, flat bread, every
day for one hundred fifty people and to prepare five to six lambs, sheep, or
goats. My job was to supply fuel from
the desert, to bring water from the river for the animals and to pour water
into leather bags and hang them in their tents.
Within a few hours the water in the bags cooled by evaporation.
A Thief
“One
day I was on my way to the desert to collect fuel. I used the front of my white Arab shirt as an
apron, filled it with whatever I found, then added it to the spot, kharar, for fuel storage. I was some distance from the river and saw on
my right side a young Arab who was working in the fields. He began to shout in Arabic —not a word of
which I understood. Leaving him behind,
I climbed a small hill and picked dung until my apron was full and turned to go
back. Then I saw that that young Arab,
swimming to the right side had taken my collection from the kharrar. From fright, I dropped my collection. He took the shirt off my back, yanking it all
away rendering me naked, mergatsoudts. My shirt on his head and taking my fuel, he
jumped into the river. Crying, I ran
back to the Chechens’ tent. They were
sitting under the tent, but upon seeing me, they stood up immediately. Suleiman Bek
saying, in Turkish, ‘… [Cannot translate].
Crying, I gave my story.
“Immediately,
fifty people got on their horses, headed by Suleiman Bek,
and rode towards the river. Scarcely a
half hour passed when they returned with this thief of a fellow—wearing my
shirt and with my collection. They had
tied his arms, and after giving him a good thrashing they threw him on the ground. Giving me the whip, mudrag, Suleiman Beg said, ‘Oghlum Buzdig, ….’ In Turkish [unable to
translate other than My boy, Buzdig, …]. I avidly took the whip, and
whipped the young fellow with as much nerve as I could muster. They detained him for the whole of two
days. On the third day, three old Arabs
came with four sheep and three goats with which to secure his release. Had he known I worked for them, he would
never have taken a stone from me. After
a long refined, parag, talk, they were able to untie and free
him, azagetsihn.
“By
the next week, 25,000 deportees arrived in Shaddadiyeh. One day, before sunset, it was announced that
all males were to be separated out to work on the railroad tracks. They were taken to the desert where hundreds
of Arabs were waiting. Their hands were
tied behind them, they were searched for money and valuables, and then given to
the lap of an Arab to examine again. And
if they found anything wearable, or of value, they were killed with daggers, tashouyn or axes,
gatsin-nerov. The Cherkesses were
not restrained… [Note: literally not kept with their hands tied]… throughout
this catastrophe, yeghernihn.]
“Early
in the morning before sunrise, those criminals, vojakordzneruh, returned and this
time they took women, diknaik, an archaic word based on ek and
children, manougdneruh to the desert and they would meet the
same fate. Once a week or every few
weeks the exiles would come-- 15,000, 20,000 -- sometimes more, sometimes less.
“In
three centers, gentron-neroo metch, Shaddadiyeh, Hassijeh,
and Suvari, they would for the first time be
confronted by 300 Chechens from Der Zor, about 150
from Shaddadieyeh, 75 at Suvari
and the other 75 at Hassijeh. To these three centers, exiles came from
various provinces in Turkey, nahanqnereh Dajikastani, and were gathered like sacrificial lambs, voghc’abess garmougner for
the sacrifice. In four or five months a
million and a half Armenians were sacrificed, voghc’agetz yeghan in these three places.
“I
suppose, gardzehm,
that it was some three months later, that one evening, 20,000 deportees--
males, who had been first taken two days earlier, were sacrificed, nahadagz eyn, and the
following day by women, ginereh
and children manougnereh.
“This
particular day, as luck would have it, in order to gather dung for burning, I
wanted to go to that side. The boatman
was a dirty and ugly Arab, and he knew that I served, guh dzarayay, those Chechens… [Note: Baron Nahabed says Chechens, not Cherkesses
here. Perhaps he is using the terms
interchangeably and even though they are ethnically similar, they are
different.] “… He did not say or do anything when I jumped on the boat. The first thing I saw stunned me. The people on the boat were bloody! You see, these poor people, supposedly being
moved to the other side, had been slashed and daggered, tashuyn aradz ayn, and
many in that condition had been thrown into the river.
“My
heart heaved as we reached the other side.
I leaped out of the boat into the desert. After about twenty or thirty steps I heard
the sound of a child, yerakha. Turning, I saw a three or
four year old blonde-haired little girl.
I don’t know how she had been left there. Had her mother been killed, or had she not
been able to take her with her? There,
under a bush, tupi’muh,
she had been left, and because of the obscurity she was not seen by the
boatmen. I approached her. She did not know Armenian. I started to talk to her in Turkish. From the other side of the river, at a
distance, a Chechen who was looking all around, saw that I was talking to a
little one. He shouted to the boatman
and ordered her to be thrown into the river.
The little girl said that her mother was Antaptsi
[from Aintab] and our conversation stopped.
In order to carry out his orders, the guy came and with one hand picked
her up with a swipe, puhshqehlov,
from the back of her clothing, took her toward the river, and without any
hesitation, arants
dadamseloo
threw her in. The poor little girl’s
body got lost in the water, her face emerged with her mouth open to get air,
and then the current of the water took her away from my view. Completing my necessary work, I returned to
my place, my heart broken, and quite depressed, pavagan suzvadz.
After that I never went to the right side of the river.
“For
four and half months that same crime, niun yeghernuh was carried out without remorse, ankhuij.
And with the blood of a million and a half Armenians the plains of
Arabia, Arabio dashteruh,
were stained. Curse that heartless
Germany, nuzov, ansirt Germaniaov who gave that ass or donkey Turk, avanag Turkihn, that
idea, qaghaparuh. Curse that heartless Turk, anesk ansirt Turkihn, who executed remorselessly, ankhuij qorsatrets zany.
[Baron Nahabed hesitates a lot and is having great
trouble reading his handwriting].
“In
the last caravan, two weeks before the slaughter, verchin garavani godormani ergu shapat arach, by order of instructions from Zekkri Bey, I went with a friend to his village and house
to deliver some necessary things. He
assured us he was certain that everything would be finished within a couple of
weeks and that he was going to return and bring my sister back. [Not clear here.] After one and half days we reached the village,
which had the name of Suvari—all
Chechens. Zekkri
Bey’s house, punagaranuh,
was prosperous and built well. They
lived in one story [uses English word, mi
story mi mech]
End of Tape
I, side 2. This cut-off
mid-sentence. It picks up on Tape II,
side 1. However, the ‘proper continuation’ of this tape starts on side ‘B’ [not
the expected A]. He has written on it in
Armenian “This is side 2” but he has crossed it out and thus will be ignored
here.
Even though
the narration at the end of tape 1. is cut off, it is not lost since Baron
Nahabed backs up, as it were, and picks up on the following tape. However, here he reads his text considerably
more quickly [and the recording is rougher here, as is the soundtrack—it also
sounds like a much more nasal and raspy voice; perhaps he has a cold?]. He picks up the part that they reach the
village in one and a half days---all Chechen and the
Balance
served as a hotel, huiranots. End of
Tape I, side 2.
This cut-off
mid-sentence. Note it is not absolutely
clear that the use of the English word ‘hotel’ is precise here. In large Turkish homes, it was usual to have
a large room for receiving guests etc., ‘holding court’ as it were etc. This was the divan room. Whether Baron Nahabed is talking of a ‘real’
hotel, or a divan room is not fully clear.
It could well be a guest-receiving room since the ending of ‘notz’
[signifying place] is used rather than ‘dun’ [house]. This note is added to
indicate that it is not easy to always be certain.]
Continue
“And
in a large room, [along] with a hotel, spent the entire day. His mother slept in the hotel. There they cooked, and there they ate and
passed the day. In this section, there
was another room divided into two sections; in one, he and his wife, gunochuh, in one
part and the two children in the other would sleep at night. They also had a building, shenk, divided into two
parts. One part was for the goats, and
the other for twenty-five sheep. Five or
six short steps further on was his brother’s house, where I recall [curiously
he uses word ‘stress’ here, sheshdadz ehm], his three children-- two sons and one daughter
lived.
BREAK
IN READING.
“There
they changed my name, and called me Ibrahim. My job was to take care of the horses, and
their waste, geghd. I had to feed and water the chickens and
geese, haveruh yev saqueruh, bring
water from the river, and take care of their manure. I had to fill four large storage pots made of
clay, gaveh shinvadz poghokner. I also took take care of two little girls when
needed. Additionally, I milked the sheep
and goats, once a day. This was an
everyday routine.
“When
Zekkri Bey sent me to his village, he told me that
there were two Armenians living there.
He said to expel them, vurundeh usav, two or three times. It was true that there was a middle aged Armenian couple, zuq mi Haeri, mart yev
gin, micahasad, an Armenian man and his wife
there when we arrived. But at the time I
had neither the heart nor did I agree to do so, voch ahl hamartsaynotiunuh,
and they remained in the service of their head for two more weeks. One day, our neighbor Rashid came from Shaddadiyeh, and seeing them there, took the
Armenians away towards Rus-ul-Ayn.
There, off the roadside, he struck and killed them. He returned boasting about the brave work
done, yev bardzetsav ihr eradz kacakordtsutiunuh .
No matter how much they had pleaded and fallen to his feet, begging to
spare their lives, khunayeh ints gyanhkuh, he carried out his orders.
“I
remained in the village a year. I am
only going to mention some of the important things that happened during this
time.
“I’ve
mentioned milking the sheep, and the goats, and delivering them to a shepherd
for pasture outside the village in a flock, hodimuh mech. One early morning I
was waiting for the shepherd and saw a mounted man leading two horses to the
river. He looked at me and stopped about
fifty steps away, shouting, ‘There are arbid here—be careful, be careful!’ In Arabia, arbid
is the name of a very poisonous snake, touynavor
ots mun eh, whose venom
is not always fatal, mishd maghanatsuts
cheh.
[Note: I have been unable to verify this snake despite contact with
scientists fluent in Arabic. It is
probably Bedouin Arabic dialect.]
As a country boy, I was not afraid of snakes. As if he was my father, on his saying that, I
dropped the milk pail, gatih amanuh, and
ran toward it. When I got there, I
looked around and saw a snake. [Baron Nahabed corrects himself here, and says he did not
see any snake, or anything like one.]. I
looked around in all directions and all I saw was a black rope, coiled. When I moved to pick it up, the horseman,
whipping the horse, rushed toward me.
From the sound of the hooves that black imagined ‘rope’ raised its head
and positioned itself [literally ‘planted’ himself, dungavetsav, half-way up, with a
hiss!
“At
that moment, a shepherd arrived with other people, and within ten to fifteen
moments we made a circle and threw stones to kill it. We had to be careful that any stick or stone,
tsubuh gam karuh,
thrown was at a distance so that it would not hit anyone on the opposite
side. At the same time, it was important
that the person on the other side be able to grab the stone and throw it again,
in the event we missed. The snake would
turn its head, half-raised, hissing and jump, attempting to strike whoever was
closest to him, but he was unable reach anyone.
We had him surrounded. This
lasted about five or six minutes. One
woman chucked a rock, missed the snake and the rock rolled away landing about
fifteen steps distant.
“Forgetting
caution, and since the rock had fallen closest to me and as I had already
thrown the stick in my hand, without thinking I ignorantly, anuskheli jumped to that side to
retrieve the rock. The viper, izhuh, [Note:
I think it is a generic term, not a zoological one] at the same moment, turned
its head suddenly and seeing that I was closest, leapt towards me in a raised
position. He fell five or six feet away
with a hiss. Meanwhile I had turned to
stone, unable to move from my place, my mouth open. The shepherd, who was closest to where I was,
swiftly, as if by flying, sword in hand, rushed and like a guardian angel with
one blow slashed it in two. I sat down
on the ground breathless, with weak knees, happy that I had survived. That became my first trial of being saved.
“Almost
a year later, I encountered my second trial.
With a shepherd in the employ of one of Zekkri
Bey’s brother’s children, we went to the desert to gather wood. We started to collect in a rocky place sticks
and brush for fuel. The weather was
warm. Some five or six feet from me, a viper,
izhmuh,
hissing, came cutting my path. It had
gone on some ten or fifteen feet, and I, as soon as he crossed, bent over and grabbing a stone threw it at him. The stone missed him, vuribetsav, but the snake turned
back hissing and it seemed that it was after me. The experience that I had gained the year
before had been a lesson. But the snake
was not the same kind of snake. And the
mere throwing of a cold stone at him was not going to cause him any danger,
especially since the stone had not touched him.
It was good that the place was flat and stony. When he turned back towards me, I took flight
and by looking back I could see where he was.
Because of the stony ground it could not immediately catch up. I was always some ten and fifteen feet ahead
of him and could stop, pick up a rock and throw it.
“The
Arab woman with me, mortified and petrified, stayed put under a bush, tupi muh dag. This
situation continued for some 15 to 20 minutes.
At each of my turns, I would gain some twenty feet or twenty-five feet,
and each time I bent down for a stone to throw, we could be even. Finally, exhausted and sweating, my strength
cut, and with the hope of a final effort, I bent for a rock and threw it at
him. Luckily, it hit him right in the
head, and he began to writhe. With new
strength, I jumped and grabbed that damned thing’s neck with my hands, and finding a sizable stone and putting his head on
the ground, I killed it. Exhausted and
half-dead I fell to the ground. I don’t
know how long I stayed in that position, tirki mech, until Nahoneh [?] [The Arab
woman], dressed in her Arab clothes, came with her apron moistened from the
stream, and rubbed my face to revive me, ushki perelu.
After this second encounter I had nothing further to do with snakes, nor
do I ever want to have anything to do with them!
“I
had yet another trial. One night I was
sleeping soundly when awakened by Zekkri Bey. He said one of the goats was having trouble
giving birth. I had to call the shepherd
for help but he was located outside the village [Note, Nahabed
uses the term nujjerissuh for
shepherd. This is an archaic word. The
Turkish word choban
was more commonly used to designate a shepherd. Nahabed
talks also about a hoviv,
a male shepherd, rather than a hovivouhi, a female shepherd, or shepherdess.
Yet, somewhere in this narration he mentions
hoviv when he clearly is taking about a
woman. No matter, this is yet another
example of Nahabed’s rich vocabulary and his tendency
to use many alternatives for the same thing.] There was only one road to go there and on
that road there were four or five houses with vicious dogs, gadkhur shooner oonayn...[Note: the word gadkhur
literally means ‘mad’ or ‘enraged’] so much so that people were afraid to
pass by, especially at night.
“That
night was dark and moonless. There was
another way to leave town from the other end of the village, but that involved
turning through the desert. It would
have taken too long; I decided that I would take the road past the houses and
dogs. As I neared the houses with those
dogs, I began to walk quietly, quietly not making noise. After passing the second or third house, the
dog, awakened, barked and reached me. In a moment five angry dogs surrounded
me. With a staff, qavazan, in my hand I tried to protect myself as I walked
and chased them off as much as I could.
Trying to escape, my feet gave way under me and I fell into a deep
ditch. When I opened my eyes I saw their blue fiery eyes. All five ferocious dogs with their heads down
were looking at me. As long as I stayed
there, and I did not dare try to get out, the dogs remained. After a long wait, the dogs ‘cooled off,’ usahadadz,
dropped the matter of the ditch and returned to their own homes. And after waiting an additional half hour,
pushing myself, slowly, slowly on my knees, I managed to get out.
“
I looked around carefully to see if I was free of those beasts but something
was missing. I rubbed my head with my
hand and the ‘secret’ emerged. When I
fell into the ditch, I had lost my hat, my Cherkess
hat made of lambskin. I returned in the
dark to look for it, groping, hoping to find it. Trying to find a black hat in a pitch-black
pit was impossible. I did finally find
it and emerged out of the pit. On my
belly I crawled slowly away until I felt that I was free and safe enough to get
on my feet. I reached the shepherd’s
tent, and awakening him, told him what happened. We quickly got on the road. By the time we got to the place where the
dogs were, it was dawn and those damned beasts
recognized him. When we reached home,
the goat had already given birth. My
difficulties, my fear and my tribulations, darabankus,
remained with me.
Misunderstanding
“Several
weeks later, one of our neighbors gave a feast but only for the men, minag dughamartosts hamar. About sixty or seventy men, with eight, nine
or ten of them sitting cross-legged, dzalabadig on the floor, were waiting. The meal consisted of boiled lamb or
mutton. In five or six pans, tuyleru mech, [Note: normally a tuyl would be
more of a bucket than a pan but pan makes better sense] lavash, flat
bread, which had been readied ‘ovened’, hurvadz, was waiting [to be eaten]. They did not have to wait too long for the
lamb; the meat was ready as well. In every bucket there was lamb meat with
broth. Among the men in that group the
eldest was at the head of the table, seghanabed, host.
Saying [in Arabic] ‘Bismillah ir-Rahman
ar-Rahim’ [In the Name of God, the Merciful, the
Compassionate] with his ‘hungry’ arms, teveruh sovkadz, and mixing pieces of lamb with the lavash
he became the first to take a piece to begin eating. Then every other diner followed him doing the
same.
“I,
who was turning about in that group, saw a Kurdish woman, a beggar. When I went and spoke to her, I knew that she
was disguising her identity under a Kurdish costume. To give her lavash and meat, I bent
down to tear off a piece. At that moment someone pulled me up by my two ears,
hit me in the face with a couple of slaps, and shouted, at me ‘eretsveh.’[Not sure here of the exact
word. Sounds like this. Fortunately, Nahabed
translates into Armenian, anoti shoun, hungry dog]
“ ‘Know your place! Who leaves
you hungry?’ ” It was a brother of Zekkri Bey’s wife.
“I
ran home crying with a bloody nose and mouth.
Zekkri Bey’s mother and wife, seeing me in
that state became very upset. They asked
who denied me the possibility of eating some of that meal. I explained who it was and why. And, hearing about the Kurdish woman and
understanding that a wrong had been done, his wife went the next day to explain
the misunderstanding that had led to my being beaten. A day later, Zekkri
Bey’s brother-in-law came to ask forgiveness from his Grandmother,
Medz Mamayi. It seemed that for my part, I had taken an
ungracious step, and behaved like a hungry wolf, and the honor, badivuh, of the
family had been compromised. Thus it ended in this fashion. The woman who had come was Armenian, dressed
as a Kurd wandering through the nearby villages, until my sister and me,
finding out, pampuss duhvink,
we gave our word. We left for the place where my sister was, Ras-ul-Ayn.
“I
found my sister one day when riding to Ras-ul-Ain on a donkey to take wheat for
milling. There was, fortunately, a mill
beside a small lake where the water worked the millwheel. On that day, my sister had come with two
women to the mill near the lake. I saw
her by happy accident. We had been apart
for over four months. In astonishment
and tears of happiness, we held one another with wrapped arms. My sister
related her story that after the slaughter had finished, godorasuh verchatsadz er, and before the Chechens
had turned to go back, they gave her to an Arab man. But six months later she ran away, entering
into the household of a rich Chechen as a servant, spashuhi. The house belonged to the richest Chechen in
Ras-ul-Ain, a prince by the name of Rashid Bey.
To my sister I said if I had the opportunity, I would run away and join
her. “ ‘If you run away and get
here, you will be free’ ”, my sister said, attentively, ushatirelov. “ ‘No one hesitates,
hamartzager,
to come for help at this household.’ ” We kissed goodbye and separated; I went
back to Suvari. Four months passed.
“My
first opportunity, badehoutioun-us, came when my neighbor Ahmed asked
his mother, Mama’in,
to give me permission, to bring his horse back from the pasture, arodihn. The horse was chained, shighta i zarguvadz er, [literally struck with chains], at
the leg so he could not go very far from the pasture. [Note: it is not certain from this if the
horse was hobbled.] The mother gave
permission for me to fetch the horse.
When Ahmed gave me the key for the lock, he said, ‘Don’t be afraid; he
is very gentle shad hez
eh.’
“After
inquiring where in the pasture the horse was, and
thanking the Mother, I left.
“
‘Be careful, be careful,’ ” ikawem, in Arabic, said
the old mother, kindly. [Note:“resist” viz. resist temptation, kawem
means resist] “‘You have no need for
freedom.’ ”
“Taking
leave, I departed, in my heart agitated, alegosial,
unsure of what these steps would hold in store for me. I had made my decision. The consequences, hedevank,
were in the hands of God. When I left
the village I changed my route and took the path to
Ras-ul-Ain. My heart was still uneasy
about the future, and I began to run.
Finally, without mishap, I reached Ras-ul-Ain and the house my sister
had pointed out to me.
“My
sister graciously acknowledged my arrival and introduced me to the lady of the
house, dan dirouhi,
“ ‘This is my brother, on whose behalf I spoke.’ ” The lady of the household greeting me with a
smile, z’ubidovmi,
and turning to my sister, said, “ ‘Do not worry my girl, anhok eghir agchigus,
no harm will befall his head here. Take
him and feed him, he will be hungry!’ ”
“A
week had passed since my coming to Ras-ul-Ain when that damned
Zekkri Bey’s brother’s son, ‘planted himself plumply’
in our yard, chacur dunguvedzav mer pagihn mech. [Note
the colorful imagery]. My heart began to
pound, my mouth fell open; I was tongue-tied. Knowing very well what an elevated state his
heartlessness could rise to, I was certain that if I passed by him, I would not
reach Suvari alive!
To my great surprise he only threw a cold look at me, unzi bagh agnargmi nedets, and
then, after talking respectfully with the lady of the house for five minutes
before politely taking leave, he again gave me a cold look and departed. That was the last I saw of him.
“Some
two months after what I just related, my sister and I ran away from Ras-ul-Ain,
and joined a workers’ camp, gordsavohrnerou panagihn. They were
working like slaves, keri-bes,
dropping railroad tracks. The Germans
were building a railroad line from Haleb to
Baghdad. We joined them.
“No
longer was there fear. News began to
circulate that the Headman of Der-Zor, Der Zorihn Nahanakbeduh, had issued a new order, widely
distributed, that any family harboring an Armenian, male
or female, would be severely punished if the government was not notified. Families were found who ignored that order
and because of the potential punishment involved, it was the reason we had fled
from Ras-ul-Ain. We heard that workers
under German supervision were free from the punishment of the order.
“She
began her account by saying that about a couple of weeks later, some 50,000
exiles came to Shaddadiyeh. Four days later, before sunrise, six or seven
Chechens went to where the exiles were, to say that upon new orders, males
would be separated and taken with them to build a new road for railroad
tracks. But this time, that dirty trick
did not work, geghdzubadi khapvankuh cheh qordzehr. None of the exiles moved. The Chechens, infuriated, took out their
pistols, adurjanagnikn hanelov,
cursing and firing shots into the air, hayhoyelov, and oghodzalo. But this
time [as well] there was a different quality, hanqamank, to the operation [viz.
there was some opposition]. Among those
exiles there were some Zeituntsis, of whom three or
four, had been able to keep hidden in their pockets, always at hand, some old
guns, hin huratsanner. When the Chechens began to attack and shoot,
it seems that those Zeituntsis had an agreement as to
their fate, ‘If we are going to die, let us die with our families.’ They fired and killed [uses the word satkel here]
three beasts, yerek gazaner, [i.e. Chechens.] The
other four ran away, and went back, joining up with the other 147.
“Nearly
a hundred Chechens on horses had gone out in the desert and were all over. It was getting dark, my sister said,
beginning to cry, and two or three hours later they left. It was not apparent what they had gone for,
or where they had gone. When dawn came,
it became clear what was happening. The
entire exile population in the desert was interspersed with thousands of Arabs,
armed with guns and sabers, zenkerov yev turerov. As I have described before, some ten to
fifteen feet distant from a Chechen tent there was the dry tsor, [called a wadi in Arabic
(and English), i.e. a dry river bed] which joined the
river in the middle [here Nahabed uses the Turkish
word ortahnan]. On the right side of the river, there was the
village, where on the outskirts the Arabs armed with swords and guns were
scattered.
“The
exiles had nowhere else to go. Arabs in
the rear, Arabs on the right side, Arabs on the left side; and if they went
forward, only the middle of the river and a narrow side opposite, to the right
of which were some three hundred Chechens.
[Not certain of the layout that Nahabed is
trying to describe. He hesitates
considerably in his reading, stumbles on a few words critical to understanding
etc. It would be good to try to draw a
map of the options the Armenians had or did not have. See below]
“‘The
Arabs opened fire on the encampment of exiles on three sides with an attack, yerek gormihn grahgetsin hartsagoum ov mee,’ said my sister, much saddened. “ ‘The
Armenians had nowhere else to go,’ ” she continued, crying.
“Either
to go forward and end up in the middle of the river, or where there were three
hundred Chechens, or to the ten to fifteen feet deep dry wadi, or to the other side of the dry tsori [wadi] where the three hundred armed Chechens and close to one hundred fifty
Arabs were waiting, armed, for the slaughter. Behind them the sword and the
bullet, in front of them the same. One
side, the river, if they could reach it, before them the dry wadi where there were four hundred armed
Chechens and Arabs waiting.
“The
screams arose, vynasoonuh purtadz ehr. Behind them
the sword and the bullet; in front of them the same. On one side the river, if they could reach
it; in front of them the dry tsor, wadi, where
400 armed Chechens and Arabs were waiting.
The firing and screams of the suffering had begun vynasoonuh yev graghuh uskhutsadz ehr. The exiles
had no alternative but to go back or forward or left. From three sides the Arabs were approaching
with swords and daggers, surov yev tashouynerov, and killed with bullets all they
encountered. In front of them 450 people
were approaching. Indiscriminately and ruthlessly they fired upon them. An hour later the sun was obscured from the
gunpowder smoke, varot mukhen.
“‘But
the suffering screams and massacre had not finished vynasunuh yev chartuh cherr verchatsadz,’” said my
sister again bitterly.
“
‘ The gun-powder smoke was such that one could not see anything but only hear
the screams of the victims filling the air. For nearly three hours this went
on, and finally stopped,’ said my sister. “‘It took about an hour for the sky
to be cleared of the smoke, and for anything to be distinguished, uskusetzahn zanazanvil,’ [as to what had happened].
“‘The
first thing that struck my eyes was that the dry tsor, wadi before us, as far as
they eye could see, was full of endless dead.
As far as one could see the desert was covered with the dead. From the 50,000 exiles, only about 650 people
were left on their feet, all of them wounded to one degree or other.
“
‘When the gun smoke finally cleared, and the air brightened, then a crier, mounedigmi, with
a loud voice began to shout and announce if anyone at fault was still alive, he
would be forgiven, antsahnkuh asor heduh nerial eh. And, that to those who could endure walking to a populated
village, bread would be given. [Note the
phrase, an geghadz deghuh gurnah timel,
is not absolutely clear.
Nevertheless, that the few wounded survivors would be “forgiven” and
given bread is incredible!]
“Hearing that news, those who had fallen
under bodies, pushed them aside and rose up, yielding an additional 150
people. It became the task of the Arabs
and anyone among the agonized Armenians, orhashadz Hyerun, who could pick up a body
with help, to collect the dead into piles.
The corpses were stripped of their clothing and examined before the eyes
of a Chechen. If money was found, the Cherkesses took it.
The Arabs took the wearable clothing.
Bodies were heaped by the thousands.
This took many hours, and when finally done, fuel was poured on the
mounds, varelaniut tapetzin,
[something liquid like kerosene] and set on fire. The air became foul. When all were thoroughly incinerated, upon orders
of Suleiman Bey, screens, magher, were brought, and the ashes screened to recover any
swallowed gold coins.
“This chore took a day and a half, and
after that, the executioners’ work, tahij inelou qordzuh, of the
Chechens was complete.
“In
that bloody fashion, on the orders of the beastly Turks, nearly one and
one-half million innocent Armenians, ameghuh hayeruh zohetsin, were
sacrificed, without shame, without remorse for that heartless design from the unChristian, unpitying, anqout, heartless Germany.
“Now,
let us return to where my sister and I escaped.
From Ras- ul-Ain we went to join the workers’ camp on the railroad
tracks for the Germans. After two
changes of trains, we reached a farm-like place, aqaragimuh numahn deghmuh,
on the right a roadway for a distance of a mile or more. There were mountains on each side. From one side to the other, in the middle,
was a dry tsor,
wadi. A week had hardly gone by, when a
Kurd Beg [Kurdish Chief or notable] came, and after talking with him for
fifteen or twenty minutes, a German came and informed us that we were to go to
that Kurd Beg’s farm to work. The Kurd was about thirty-five to forty years
of age, a well-built individual.
“His
farm was on the right hand side of the wadi, towards Hisuss [not sure, it sounds like this]. There were four Armenians. Two brothers, Dortyoltsi, from Dörtyol, and two men from Marash, Marashtsis, the aykin, orchard
manager, and his helpers. We joined
them. After we had been working there
for two weeks, one afternoon the weather changed and with dark clouds the sky
‘closed up’, gohtsvetsav. When we went to sleep, angoghin gatsink, literally ‘went to bed on the
quilts,’ that night, the rain had already begun, and soon became more
intense.
“We
arose in the morning and saw that no one was left in the tsori. Miraculously, hrashkov, one
member of an Armenian family out of seven hundred workers remained alive! His name was Vartan. He was a thirty-five to
forty year old fellow. His story
I’ll relate.
“In
the evening the rain had started when they were already sleeping in the open,
protected only to the extent possible. A
bit later they feel the water beneath them.
Waking up, they see the water quickly rising. In the dark he and his wife, looking around,
see at a distance, a telegraph pole, heraqireli pyedu. The water
had already reached their knees “[The exact word for pole Nahabed
earlier used payd,
wood]. Already screams had broken out,
and people were trying to find something safe to hold onto. Closest to him was the telegraph pole, some
fifty steps away. His wife, holding the
youngest child, with great difficulty was trying to reach it. The water had now
reached up to their waists. She reached
it and began to climb up, gusgusti maqlelstil.
Because the boy was so young, he was unable to hang onto his
mother. She tried to hang onto the child
with one hand, even as she hung onto her husband’s neck with her other
arm. The water steadily rose. The poor man realized that he would have to
climb still higher. He gave her
permission to drop the child; he fell into the current of rushing water. And she, after remaining there for over an
hour hanging on to her husband, also fell into the water and drowned. The poor man, unencumbered, then climbed up
further, staying on top, qaqatuh,
until morning. By then the rain
lightened and the floodwaters began to recede.
He jumped down. The entire place
was in ruins.”
End of Tape
II –first side, i.e. side “B”—Note: the part starting with the rains siding and
flood receding and being able to look about and see that no one was around is
also repeated on Tape 4 of 4 Begun July 24 1988 # 4 of
4. This tape label is light blue and has
hand printing on it in black ink. ] Turn over tape from side ‘B’ to side with
light blue label labeled Begun July 24 199 #2 of 4”
“When
the weather improved, we were able to go out and saw the dry tsor was destroyed. There was no one left. All were dead; 650 people drowned, except for
that man who had miraculously been saved.
Unfortunately he was unable to save his wife
and child. They remained unburied.
“After
four or five weeks in the same location, the workers were again all mixed up in
the camp and we went in this fashion from one station to another station, gayaneh gayan, going
forward towards Baghdad. Stopping here
and there, staying for shorter times or longer periods, we moved on getting
closer. I remember only three names --Hassijeh, Tell Avaff [Terhavat?] and Mussayebin. [Note: I have located this on a map of the
railway system—but under the name Nusaybin; also
spelled Nissibin.
It certainly sounds like Baron Nahabed is
saying an ‘m’ rather than an ‘n’, however.
I have a pretty good run-down on the railroads of Turkey published
mainly in German but a quick look does not reveal the other two stations. This needs more research.]
“The
Germans were attempting to lay railroad tracks to Baghdad but the dream never
was realized and Nusaybin became their last
station. When the war was over and we
reached Nusaybin, passing by the station, it
looked like a city was under construction in the desert.
“There
were many workers there laboring on various tasks under the supervision and
direction of the Germans. There, on that
day, we spent the night on the ground in the open air. The next morning, early, the rain began. There were about forty to fifty Armenians in
our group including three boys my age, and we tried to find shelter under an
old tent made of hair [Note: probably of so-called keche, goat-hair felt]. I was so
hungry and cold that I began to cry. A
stranger, medium height with long mustache and with an authoritative demeanor
came asking in Armenian of my sister, ‘What is your name?”’ My sister bashfully answered, ‘Luzaderim’, [not sure what this means—sounds more
Turkish than Armenian but it might be a title of respect like ‘Illustrious
Sir’, lusader,
and pointing to me, said, ‘This is my brother.
His name is Nahabed.’ He turned around, saying, ‘Come with
me.’ In fifty or sixty steps we reached
his large tent, ihr
untatrsag vuranuh. Inside we found a young woman whose name I’ve
now forgotten. Giving us her name, she
told us to do whatever we needed --dry our clothing, fill our stomachs, rest,
and she left the tent. Lo! Many years
have passed and I have forgotten many names of peoples and places but am ever
grateful for kindnesses shown.
Daily Ration
“We
spent two weeks under this tent. Each
morning we went to work doing the tasks assigned to us. We started work at seven o’clock and had an
hour break at noon. At that time we were entitled to receive a piece of bread about the
size of a hand. We worked until five
o’clock. In the winter season, dzumervan yeghanag, it
didn’t snow but it would get very cold at night. And if, in addition, it rained, the waters
would “hold the cold” until morning before warming by the sun.
“If
you worked, no matter what job you did, you would be given a daily ration of
food. A two- centimeter black metal tag
with a number stamped on it was issued.
You didn’t have a name, only a number.
Each afternoon we waited our turn in a row, and upon showing our number
we received our portion of bread. Even
today, after the passage of seventy-four years, it seems as if it was yesterday
that I had to wait my turn every afternoon to get bread issued by the number on
the metal tag. There were about two
hundred people waiting in a line to get the small piece of bread every
afternoon. Little by little, small
fellows like me would go forward, pushing bit by bit. One day when my turn came to get the bread, I
realized that I lost that damned small tag. I looked for naught through the pockets of my
tattered clothing until the German distributing the bread ordered me to move
aside so that the others could get theirs.
After giving bread to ten to fifteen people, he came out of his place,
grabbed me and began to slap me until I fell down, my
nose and mouth bloody. He kicked me in
the ribs until I lost consciousness.
That damn number remains on my mind engraved like it was today, number
seventy-two, (72).
“About
five or six weeks later, a big argument occurred between the stranger, named
Murad Agha, and the woman in the tent. I
don’t know what it was over. But she
left and we never saw her again. A week
hadn’t passed when one Sunday; Murad Agha summoned us to his tent and explained
that he needed someone to keep the tent clean and to cook daily meals. If my sister agreed, then neither of us would
have any need to work for the Germans for our daily bread. My sister happily accepted the offer.
“Now
I want to say a few words of explanation about Murad Agha and his occupation. He had three brothers, Samuel, the eldest;
the second himself, Murad Agha; the third, Kurken;
and the fourth, Ohannes, the youngest. Though Samuel was the eldest brother, Murad
was the head of the family. His job was
to provide wood from the hills for the locomotives because at that time they
didn’t use coal. The steam, generated by
burning wood, operated the train. He
received this responsible position through the help of his brother Kurken, who had gone to school in Germany. When War broke out, Kurken,
who had graduated from military school and knew five languages, returned to his
home country, Hairenik. Because he was born in Turkey, his
qualifications and connections led to the responsible position of supplying the
wood, a job he undertook with his brothers.
I only saw him once. He was a
very smart and attractive man.
“Murad
Agha had fifty-five employees under his command. Forty-one Armenians, nine Arabs, four Kurds
and one Cherkess.
Every morning, except Sunday, at sunrise we went to the mountains with
mules, choreenerov,
to collect wood and returned before sunset with the loads. There were two young Armenians among them who
liked to gamble, with my boy’s mindset.
One was from Dikranagert, Dikrangertsi, Armo, and apparently short for Aramkehr [?]; the other was from Adana, Adanatsi, and
named Khoren.
This latter one in particular could be seen gambling with people with
every opportunity in the evening. You
could see them seated in the street on Sundays at sunset under some shelter or
roof or by a wall, wherever there was some protection, with two or three or
four male companions playing some game of chance, bakhdakhaghi metch.
“What
was the game of chance that they played? [Something that I cannot
decipher—sounds like a two syllable name for the
game---phiss bast] One would have cards in his hand
and would ask the other to request a specific card to be drawn. ‘Which of the fifty-two cards do you want [me
to draw]?’ Or,
‘Which card are you looking for, ‘girl’ or ‘boy’ [presumably King or Queen
etc.], a ‘ten’ or a ‘one.’ The choice is
yours.’ Upon shuffling the cards, and
distributing them, ‘one for you, one for me’, if the card you have selected
falls on you, then you win; if the selected card falls on the person running
the game, then he wins. Whatever happens
to be the case.
“One
Sunday, my friend, Karnig and I went for a stroll,
around afternoon. After walking for a
short time, we saw Khoren sitting against the wall
with four Indian prisoners. We went near
them and took a seat at Khoren’s side. Soon after, every time Khoren
would begin the game of chance, he would lay the cards on the ground so we
could see as well, and join in with five or ten para coins. About half an hour later, the Indians had put
about five ‘golds’ [referred to as oskis in Armenian; altuns in Turkish] on the ‘table’ [ground], and had every intention of playing until either they won
and increased their winnings or had exhausted their money supply. I was seated on the right side with Karnig, and every time he waged a five or ten khurush I too
would put down five or ten luma
[curiously Nahabed uses a currency that applies to
the Armenian Republic; it seems much more likely that he means Turkish paras]… in the hope that I might win the
five ‘golds’ piece. At the least we
hoped we could win one or two khurush.
“Suddenly,
from behind, a man pulled me up by my ears, slapped my face, dropping me to the
ground.
“With
a stern look, he yelled, “‘you naughty kid, Dzo ambidan. What influence have I had on you so that I now
see you with disreputable ner-do-wells, khaydaragneru hed. If I ever see you again in a situation like
this gambling I will really let you have it. I’ll kill you. Go on! Get lost!’ ”
“
Lowering his voice, he added, “ ‘Starting this week I am going to increase your
pay by two khurushes. Now,
go on get lost! And don’t let me see you
ever again in an unlawful, aboreni, place like this!’ ”
“I
ran away, my face red from the slap.
Now, this young man was from Adana and his name was Yeprem;
he worked for Murad Agha. He was his
accountant, hashvabah,
and kept track of all expenses. That
first slap, at a time when I needed it in my youth from a big brother, had
shown me my error. But had he only given
me a slap, I would probably have continued on the sly. By explaining and giving me more wages, it
taught me at a critical time, and I was saved from the bad habit of
gambling. I am ever grateful to Yeprem for what he did.
I am sure he is long departed from this earth and wish him rest and
peace forever.
Hagop
“Next
to our tent, almost ‘glued’ to it, pagadz, there was another tent where there were Indian
prisoners. Some time
earlier, they adopted an Armenian boy and we saw every day that they took good
care of him, bathing him and clothing him nicely. A few weeks later, I became friendly with
him.
He answered, “‘Do you know why they take care of me
and bathe me every day?’” He was crying.
“‘Can
I tell you a secret?’” he said with a dour face. “‘But once I tell you must
never tell anyone else.’”
“‘Fine,
shad lav,
I’ll never tell anyone.’”
“‘You
must swear by God that you will never tell anyone about this secret.’ ”
Vay Babam, Vay! [Turkish exclamation, something
like ‘Good Father!’ or ‘Ye gads’] “ ‘What kind of a ‘super
secret’, soskali qaghnikeh, is
it that you give so much importance to it?’ ” I said with a laugh. But when I saw the tears running down his
face, the smile on my face dried up.
What could that secret be? So
much that it saddened him so much?
“‘Very
good, I swear to you that your secret will always be with me, until Kingdom
Come.’ ”
“After
some deep thought he began, ‘Do you know why they take care of me, look after
me and bathe me?’
“Without
thinking I again gave my answer. He in turn responded with a sad face.
‘Every
night, either one or the other, uses me like a woman.’
“I
did not immediately understand that explanation. And I answered, “How much can you work in the
evening? And what kind of work can you
do? Certainly
your work cannot be that heavy.”
“Again,
that look, on his face. And he explained again, ‘Like a woman they
use me from behind-- one or the other uses me every night.’ Crying and asking that I must never reveal
that secret, ‘They
will kill me afterwards [Note: ensee verchuh guh satkenetsehn, again Baron Nahabed
uses the term for killing animals]… if they ever suspected that I told you,’ he
said, tears in his eyes.
“Be
assured that I will never tell anyone,” I comforted him, all the while
believing what I had said.
“Many
months passed, and the secret remained a secret with me. One day Murad Agha leaving his work in the
care of his brother Samuel, went to Haleb
[Aleppo] for a couple of weeks. I don’t
know for what reason. He returned with
six boxes of oranges [dup is the word
he uses for box or crate]. He placed
them just outside where I slept every evening.
And I, never having eaten an orange in my life, several nights later was
visited by the Devil who entered my stomach [Note the colorful metaphor, satana poruss mudav] urging me to try one and to see its taste. The boxes were stacked one on the other right
outside where I slept, right at my head.
The fragrance was emanating sweetly, sweetly, right at my head. My nostrils were filled. For a full week I struggled with my soul and
I could not sleep for many nights wondering about their taste. In our country, Sebastia,
I had never seen or eaten an orange.
What do they taste like? Are they
sweet, anoush eh, bitter, legh ehi, or sour, tutou eh?
“After
a week of struggling, I couldn’t resist any longer or prevent myself from not
eating one. I stuck my hand out and felt
that the box was made of thin wood. I
carefully inserted my hand into one of the spaces/cracks, jeghkuh, between one of the slats
of the wooden box and after that my task became easier. I finally retrieved one orange and ate
it. After that I threw two or three
pieces of peel behind the neighboring tent.
After having had an orange for the first time, and seeing that it was so
sweet and delicious, I was unable to resist.
I would eat one orange every night without thinking that I would get
into trouble if Murad Agha discovered what I had done. I threw the orange peels over to the tent
behind where the Indians lived. This
happened until there were no oranges.
And when it came to the last box, they were all empty.
“The
Indians, poking about one day, saw the pile of peels. Nothing else was left. The Indians never gave much thought to it all
and did not view it as being particularly important. But two of the Indians were apprehended and
brought to Murad Agha’s tent. Their
shoes were removed, and they were subjected to the falaka until they fainted. [Note: this punishment was common in the
Orient and more usually known in Europe as the bastinado. The feet were
beaten with a rod, sometimes so severely that they swelled and even ‘burst’
from the oedema.] There was no concern
when the Indians repeatedly said they had no idea where the orange peels had
come from. I was happy; I wanted to see
them punished. I felt I couldn’t keep
the secret any longer.
“I
told Armo what ‘soup’ those Indians ‘were eating’ [i.e. the reason for their punishment.] I related what poor Izmirtsi
Hagop had told me while crying, and what had happened
to him. I explained that I had been
sworn to secrecy to never tell. Armo told me not to worry, and that I had done the right
thing. ‘You wait here. I will now go and
tell Murad Agha what you have related.
Murad Agha knows very well how to deal with such shameful people.’ And shaking his head, he went to Murad Agha,
talking with him in a low voice. I saw
from Murad Agha’s face how angry he became.
He took a rod, shook his head, and said, ‘I’ll give those
cursed…[expletive]…a lesson that they will never forget as long as they
live.’ He beat them [i.e.
the Indians] and they were marched to the police station, oskidanadun. Because he was held in high regard and respect
by both the damned Germans and the cursed Turks, they
were arrested. The two scoundrels, sriganeruh,
entered into custody and I never saw them again.
“A
word about Armos’s bravery. In the evening, all the mules and horses
would remain tied with one sentinel, meg bahag ov. Each night a different worker was selected
for guard duty. One evening when it was Armo’s turn, I was awakened by a loud noise. Running out of my tent I saw, by moonlight, Armo riding off on a horse.
He was gone. Everyone was
awake. Some were not sure who the
sentinel on duty had been. A half- hour passed, but Armo
hadn’t re-appeared. When he finally did
come into sight in the moonlight, with him were three horses. He explained that two Cherkess
thieves, interrupted by Armo while stealing the
horses, began a struggle, recognized they were in trouble, and fled to save
their lives. He followed them. After
that, in the eyes of Murad Agha and all the workers, Armo
became elevated to the status of a hero.
An
Accident
“Murad
Agha, had, in addition to those horses, a riding horse, neezuyq, which he had bought from
an Arab for 50 gold coins, voski, each. One day
when he was busy with something or other, he said to me, ‘Nahabed,
take the horse to the river and water him.’
Saying, ‘Fine, shad lav,’ I took the horse and started towards the
river. I had gone fairly far when I
moved the horse toward higher ground rose up and jumped on him. We rode toward the river. Reaching it I wanted to go over the bridge to
the other side.
“The
bridge was made of wood, about five or six feet in width, in order to
accommodate the width of the railroad tracks.
Because the support for the tracks of the railway from one side to the
other switched from wood to metal, of half a centimeter thickness, and a foot
and a half width; the middle was closed but not secured either with bolts or
nails. It was covered with soil. The soil had fallen through in places and in
between the river below could be seen.
[Note: All this is a bit
confusing. Nahabed
is not very clear, and hesitates and struggles with
his reading. He seems to be talking
about the support system for the bridge.
It seems likely that there was wooden scaffolding even as they were erecting
metal supports. It may also have to do
with the gauge of the tracks changing a bit as well. Fortunately it does
not matter too much.]
“
I, seated on the horse, had never gone across that bridge, and crossing about
halfway, the horse began to jump sideways, left to right. A moment later as a result of this jumping,
the metal in the middle gave way, and the horse swayed toward the river. He tried again to get up toward the bridge
without success, and before we knew it in a moment we fell into the river and
became submerged in the depths of the water.
When I surfaced, I saw that the horse had reached dry land, tsamag. I swam
and also reached dry land. Approaching
the horse, I saw he was badly injured.
On his right leg up and down, ach srunki veren vrah,
from beneath his stomach there was the start of a gaping wound about two
fingers in width. I was frightened to
death and I quickly closed the crack with soil… [more likely a clay-like soil]
and powdery dust, poshi,
could mean ash but not likely here]… and grabbing the bridle I began to lead
him back across the river. Half way across it began to occur to me what a mess I was
in. What kind of explanation would I be
able to give to justify crossing the river?
What was I going to say to Murad Agha?
Until I reached the tent, I struggled to find an explanation. When back I took the horse and tied him in
his place.
“A
half hour later, the workers, upon seeing the horse, ran and told Murad Agha.
The storm broke loose, potoriguh purtav! Murad Agh called me
when he saw the horse’s condition. I had
to come up with an open and believable--at least half-believable-- explanation
near to the truth! I said that on the
way the dogs were barking and attacking us and the horse got away from me and
ran off. Jumping over thorny shrubs he
became injured. As for me, as a result
of running after him I fell and broke a tooth.
And from fear, I had said nothing.
If you look, the wound has been closed with soil/clay. The first person seeing the horse upon our
return told Murad Agha that it was quite likely or probable, shad havanagan eh. Murad Agha knew quite a lot about that horse’s
disposition and behavior; he believed the story. In that lucky way I got out the dilemma. And, after three or four weeks, the horse’s
leg wound had healed.
“Several
months later, one evening my broken tooth began to ache. I woke up from the pain. I couldn’t go back
to sleep. When Armo
returned, I went to him crying from the pain.
“‘Why are you crying?’ ” I explained, and he said smiling, “‘it’s
nothing.’ ”
[Note:
a long psssshhhh
sound of exasperation from Baron Nahabed. And an indication that he is confused. And with an “Ehhh”
he turns off the machine!]. LONG BREAK
IN RECORDING, then a little bit of music sound and then again SILENCE! Again a bit of music
and a LONG SILENCE until the end of the tape.
Next tape labeled Nahabed Chakrian Original II ? Baby Blue label.
[Note: This is where the confusion begins to reign
supreme. The more I think about it, I
cannot figure out the proper sequence of the tapes. He starts off talking about after having left
Mussayeen [spelling?] they went to five or six station camps. And he talks of finding a little girl and
keeping her for about a month, and going to the desert
to play with her one Sunday for a couple of hours. This seems to be a brief repeat of what has
been related much earlier. He follows
this with a bit on the Germans separating out some two hundred workers from
their GROUP AND putting them on a train and taking them to Tell Havaf. He says very calmly, “My sister was separated
and put into that group.” No further
explanation is given. He appears quite
matter of fact (stoic?) about it. LONG
BREAK.
Then it appears that Baron Nahabed is looking for his
sister from whom he seems to have been temporarily separated. He sets off on a train journey as a
free-loader and eventually finds his sister Gulizar. So, against this brief commentary we begin
what is probably the best reconstruction—at least until such time a better one
becomes apparent.]
“In
this way, two weeks passed during which I was waiting for an opportunity, aritimee. Then, a train arrived from Tell Havev which was to make the return journey. I had decided to get on that train and
reunite with my sister. I looked all
around and saw that there was no one there—not a single man. In one section of one of the wagons [cars]
there was a place for the conductor [Note: Nahabed
uses the English word for conductor, albeit with an accent, conductuhrihn vyruh gar.] I got up and took a seat, praying that no one
would see me before we got on our way.
Hardly a half hour had passed when the Conductor came to the spot I had
found. Upon seeing me, he gave me a good
slap to my face [literally ‘pasted’ my face with a slap, abdagmi paktsoots eressiss,]
and asked who told me to get on the train and where was I going? Crying, I explained my predicament to
him. He gave it some thought, crossed
his arms seemingly bewildered, and then shaking his forefinger at me, warned, “
‘Don’t you ever eat this soup again, ays abouruh chi udess,’ ”
[Meaning, ‘Don’t you ever dare do this again.
You’ll be sorry!’] He added that
when we reached our destination, I should quickly get off the train and get
lost so no one would see me. We
arrived. I jumped off and ran away.
“But
where was my sister? Where was I going
to look for her? All the workers after
finishing their labor had gone back to their places. In that cold, [presumably it is winter?]
where would I go, where would I look? I
decided to spend the night under a wall, and the following morning I would
[long break here, one can hear pages turning] go from group to group of workers
leaving to differing jobs. I had to find
her in one of the groups.
“It
was a moonless night. It was quite cold;
I sat down under a wall, tired and hungry.
At sunrise I woke up to dogs barking. The air was still cold. On my feet, rubbing my eyes, I could see the
streets were virtually deserted. I
started to walk to warm up. Some time passed
before the call began, yerouzeruh uskusetz, the
workers, group by group, were leaving with their leaders. Three groups went by, with heads hung low,
like prisoners, but I didn’t see my sister.
When the fourth group drew closer, I did see my sister Gulizar walking, her head lowered and with a very sad face,
pis dukhour. “Sister! Sister!” I shouted. Hearing my voice, she raised her head not
believing her ears. Seeing me [there is a noisome background interruption
here that precludes understanding what might
have been said. It appears moreover,
that the continuation of the sound track is not
completely logical. This is followed
with garble and some noise. The sound
continues. Note that I do not say that
the story picks up. It does not, or so
it seems to me.] Temptation
“Two
days later, upon entering the tent, I saw that it was empty. And recalling the offer of a few days before,
I got on my knees, and I pulled out the box.
Putting it under my sleeping quilt, yorghan,
I took out a handful of tobacco and put it in a rag, kurchi mi mech duree, and stuck it in my
breast. The same evening when I reminded
the man of what he had said a few days earlier, his face beamed. He put the tobacco to his nose and said. ‘Good for you
my boy, aferim dughass, [the
term aferim is
Ottoman Turkish and signifies a term of praise or encouragement. Dugha is one of several words in Armenian for boy]… you
clearly appear very intelligent to my eyes.
If, from time to time, you bring me some of this smoking tobacco, I am
going to relate some very beautiful fairy tales to you.’ And in this way, I began to do this for three
or four months.
“One
day, as usual, I was in the tent on my knees getting a handful of smoking
tobacco. I had put it in the rag when I
saw the shadow of a man in the front of the tent before me. There I was, turned to stone with the smoking
tobacco in my hand. A moment later,
turning my head, I saw Murad Agha, watching me, silently, motionless. And when he saw me startled, with my mouth
open, he turned around and left the tent—all without a sound. I don’t remember how long I stayed turned to
stone in that position. I pushed back
the tobacco that was in my hand into the box, under the sleeping quilt. And, distressed, ashamed and crying I left
the tent. I saw that Murad Agha, some
twenty to twenty-five feet away was sitting on a big stone, smoking. I ended up falling at his feet, asking for
forgiveness. Now, dropping the cigarette
[Note he uses the English word cigarette.
Apparently Murad Agha rolled his own cigarettes from the loose tobacco],
he took my shoulders with both hands, raised me up, and said very sweetly, “ ‘Nahabed, my little boy, manchuguss,…[
diminutive for manch, boy, son]… I am not going to ask you
to whom you were going to take the tobacco.
I do not want any retribution to emanate from my hand on that
account. Whoever, it is, that man cannot
be a good man. I am telling you now that
you better stay away from men like that.
He has taken advantage of your inexperience and has taught you to
steal. Stay far away from men like
that. And do not take bad advice from
men like that. You are still an
inexperienced young man, and should not take lessons from the likes of them.’ ”
“Putting
his hand in his pocket and taking out his purse, he took out some coins and put
them in my hand. “ ‘You like raisins. Go
buy some raisins. But stay far away men
who give you this sort of bad advice.’ ”
“Saying this, he dismissed me. After sixty-eight years, I still recall this
as if it had just happened the day before.
I will never forget the kindness and the good advice he gave me, and
still hear his kind voice in my ears.
Recall that I had forgotten the name and particulars of Murad Agha. The particulars have, however, just shone in
my mind and I now remember. I hasten to
relate them in this connecting aside, changel, before…[Note: Nahabed
uses a Turkish word for latch, accessory note or appendix might be a good
equivalent]… I forget them again. Indeed, these last couple of years my recall
for such things is continuously diminishing.
Murad Agha came from Iskanderun, and his
family name was Aivazian.
“I
will return again [later] to Murad Agha and try to relate what happened the
last four or five months.
“One
afternoon some Kurd émigrés, Kurt gaghtakaneru, came to our place. I wanted to find out who these newly arrived
émigrés were so I wandered around to see what was what
among them. Suddenly, I heard my
name. As I was looking, one of them
hugged me from behind, crying and calling my name, ‘Nahabed,
Nahabed.’ She
wrapped herself around my neck, crying.
She was so close I couldn’t see her face. I heard another voice calling ‘Shushan,
Shushan!’ Finally, turning my head, I
saw a short woman in rags hugging me. Shusan stopped kissing, hugging
and crying, and turning aside to the other woman, said ‘Ovsana,
it’s Nahabed, it’s Nahabed!’ Ovsana Tsarugian wrapped herself around me, crying. I took them to my sister and there was more
hugging and kissing, more happiness and tears.
“They
asked so many questions about the past three years. Questions and answers about what happened;
they went from one to another exchanging stories. Unlike us, they had not reached Baghdad. As they passed through Kurdish territory,
their caravan was taken in by a village where they lived for two and a half
years. When they learned the British
army was nearing their village, becoming fearful, they left living a nomadic
life like us, taparagan mezi bess. They had
been driven away, finally ending up in the place where we were. [Note: the word here translated as ‘driven’
is qushpeovl. The connotation is more of a transitive verb
signifying “to chase away or shoo away.”]
They hoped to find work along the train tracks.
“With
the help of Murad Agha the two of them found jobs in a
flourmill, and stayed until the declaration of the tashnakrutiunuh.
[Note: The word literally signifies the writing of the Allies. It seems to be an archaic and obsolete word
for cessation of hostilities.]
“One
Sunday it blew into my mind, midkuss putchetz, that I should go to Mussayebin
city, [Nisibin?] a mile away. It was a small city, much more like a village
than a city. It had three shops. A general store, a shoemaker, and a tailor. You could walk from one end of town to the
other in about twenty to twenty-five minutes.
Wandering about, I eventually came to a very small store, almost
toy-like, with an open front, before which was a man—blind in one eye—roasting bishoo in oil, [although Nahabed
uses the term khorovadz, more accurately
‘roast’ it is better to use the term frying, which is more usually but not
exclusively referred to as dabgel, a
dough rolled into a three centimeter circle. He had them lined up on a wooden board like a
table. I asked him in Turkish, ‘Baba,
Father, how much do they cost each? Baba, Kac paraldur?’ ‘Two
for five para,
Boy,’ he answered, turning to me. [Nahabed repeats in Armenian, ‘Hyrig
(Father), how much does one cost?’ ‘Two
cost five para.’ I took from my pocket ten para, a coin the size of a ten-cent piece, and put it in his hand. And passing to his right, the side with his
blind eye, and where the fried fritters were piled. I took one and put it in my mouth. And with repeat performance of two additional
turns, I took an extra one into my mouth and thus ended up having twelve. [Note: I am not sure what the fried dough is
called. It is not enunciated
clearly. There are a number of such
fritters in the Near East and none, unfortunately, sounds like the word Nahabed uses.]
“After
all that, thirsty, I took a long walk to the river for water. But in order to get there, I had to pass by
several ditches thick with growing plants.
I wandered. Feeling in my pockets
I found a lemon drop in an empty box of guntakhod
wood. I added some water and began to
drink the combination, until full and fell asleep on the riverbank. When I awoke the afternoon had essentially
passed. I got up quickly, rushing back
to our tent. My sister was in a panic
because of my absence. She had worried
for hours without news. ‘Where were you
all this time without telling me? Where
did you go? I was sick with worry,’ she
shouted angrily, giving me a slap on the face.
I cried, walked out of the tent and sat on a
rock.
SUBSTANTIAL
INTERVAL HERE OF PAGES SHUFFLING.
“News
began to circulate from mouth to mouth that the German armies had been defeated
and the English armies were very close to Baghdad. Who could believe that the Germans were going
to lose the War? It was just a rumor
that was going around. More weeks
passed. One day Murad Agha, with a sad
face, summoned me. Sitting on a little mound, he turned to me as I approached
and gently said the situation was turning for the worse and dangerous. ‘Two of my brothers have already escaped, and
I will probably do the same this evening, if I am able. God only knows what our future will be.’ Reaching into his pocket he took out five red
‘golds’ coins, garmir oskinerov,
saying, ‘Keep these carefully so you don’t lose them. I don’t know what the future holds for
us. It may be that we will not see each
other again. I didn’t want to say
anything to you just yet. Tomorrow or
the next day, when I have gone away, you give my final regards to all.’ He had a large package in his hand with two
guns---one a small English gun
[LONG BLANK INTERVAL. END OF THIS SIDE OF TAPE]
[Turn over to
side with no label.]
“And
the other was a rather large rifle, zenkmun er. ‘Take these, and if you are in need, try to
sell them,’ he said. ‘Come on my little
boy, Hydeh, Manchuguss,
go now. May God be with you and may he
keep and protect you.’
“He
became emotional; and for me, too, it was a very emotional moment. I fell to his feet with tearful eyes. Bending down, he lifted me up with both
hands, set me down, all the while holding me close. ‘Go, my little Boy. Go. God be with you all.’ That was the last we saw of each other. The following morning Murad Agha had
gone. I have never forgotten his
generosity, kindness and gentleness.
End
of the War
“Now
all the Germans were scrambling. Not one
German could be found in our place. A
week later, Tashnakrutiunuh
was declared. Four years had passed in all.
It was announced that all exiles should go to the government building to
register their names. The government was
to return them to their birthplace, wherever that was. What a miracle, eench hurask!
The War was over. We were now
free to go back to where we were born. That
night I couldn’t sleep for hours, and a thousand and one dreams passed in my
mind of all sorts of beautiful things. I
was very happy with the idea that we were finally going back to the village. All the views and panoramas were engrained in
my mind and heart, the village, the mountains,… [Baron
Nahabed mentions both ler and sar, each of the words are the
same, perhaps sar
is a bit more ice capped?]…the summer pasture, yaylan, where we went every year
for two or three months to prepare butter and cheese. All these came and went
in lists and lists, sharan sharan,
before my eyes, and thus I stayed awake.
“Suddenly
everything changed. I realized that
there would be no one left there—my Grandfather, my
Grandmother, my beautiful, dear Aunt, my two sisters, my father, all had gone
in exile, zork gatatz ayn. They were
no longer! All these people who were
beloved by me, that place that I loved would be very different. All this seized me. I realized that even if I did get there,
there was no one, no family or friends I cared about left. Then I recalled, midkus ungav, [literally, fell into my mind] …
“that my father was in Bolis, [Constantinople]
when the War broke out. In the dark a
light came on-- Bolis! In our country! [Note
that Baron Nahabed viewed Bolis
as in his country. That is one of the many tragedies of the
Armenian genocide. The destruction of
the Armenians was a matter of the destruction of ‘subjects’ [‘citizens’ (if we
are to stretch it more than a bit) of the Ottoman Empire!]. I cogitated for a number of hours. Why shouldn’t I go to Bolis
if the government wants to send me where I want to go? The more I thought about it, the stronger
became my conviction for this goal.
“Up
in the morning the first thing I did was to tell my sister what I was
thinking. My sister thought a while, and
then said, ‘My dear, aghvoruss,’
she smiled, ‘Bolis is a big city; how are we
going to find him?’
‘Surely
someone must know him, no? Hargav, meg muh zain guh jashnah [Note:
hargav
means ‘necessarily’ and is used to connote a positive stance, or certainty.]
‘Is it not true that he has lived there more than five years?’ My sister shook her head, saying no
more. Shushan [Susan, anglicized] who
was sitting with Ovsanna [Hosannah, anglicized],
chimed in, khosk arav, adding
a word, because when the War broke out her husband was in Bolis.] ‘If we go the village, what are we going to
do there if there is no one left. Is
this not so, Ovsanna?’ she said, stroking her
head. Ovsanna
gave no response, other than to nod her head in agreement.
“The
following morning, the decision made, I went to the designated place and
registered our four names for return to Bolis. Four or five days later an English general, zoravar, came
with a column of troops. And by the
following afternoon, they were augmented by an additional force of soldiers, panagmuh zinvohrner.
There was no more fear. The War had
ended. There was no fear of evil to
oneself or hesitation to go from place to place. No fear of German cruelty, or bullies who
would shout in your face ‘Sacramento!’
[Note: I am not sure what this expression means or refers to.]
“I
believe that four days had passed after the English liberation when ten to
fifteen Turkish [?] soldiers came to our place.
Under the authority of a standard order, one of them began to read the
names of all those who were grouped there.
Those whose names were read were motioned to step to one side. In this way about a hundred people were
separated. They took all whose names
were called to the station where a train, trenmuh, was waiting. They placed us in an orderly fashion into two
cars, closed the doors, and after a little while, the train set out. The cars were normally filled up with
animals, but for people like us, mer bess anhadneru hamar, it seemed a kingdom, arkayutiun mi ner, we who had walked for hours and
days, hungry and thirsty. There was only
one problem. We couldn’t see out. The doors were closed; there were no
windows. Only by looking through the
cracks in the cars could we see a little.
“The
train stopped at many places and there were many delays; it took a week to
reach Haleb city [Aleppo]. We didn’t see a
thing because it was at night. Neither
were we allowed to get off, nor did they tell us where we were. After three hours we reached a station in a
place whose name I’ve now forgotten. It was between two mountains near the city
of Aintab… [pronounced by Nahabed as Antep]…where the
Germans had built a beautiful, large building, with three or four rooms and a
large hall, now empty. But I recall that it was impossible to see the walls and ceiling,
because they were covered with huge flies, khoshorr khosshorr janjerov.
“We
stayed at that place for three days, I don’t know why or for what purpose. About a half mile from the train station
there was a small village populated by Turks, now with about 150 Turkish
soldiers living there. We moved and in the evening reached another train station where we
remained till morning. At sunrise, the
doors of the wagons were opened and we saw before us six clean, well-dressed
men. The leader gave his name in
Armenian; I’ve now forgotten it. He
announced they had come officially on behalf of the [Armenian] National
Committee, Azkayin Miyutianihn gormehn yegadz ehn. Further, he
said, now that the tracks to Ankara were closed because of snow we were unable
to continue by train. The Azkayin Miyutiunuh
would take us to the city and advise us when travel by railroad would again be
possible in the spring after the snows melted.
The Askayin Miyutyunuh
would take responsibility for our future travel to our designated sites.
“We
were taken to the American College in Adana. Another group was taken elsewhere. Two days later, forty people, including the
four of us, were taken to the Apkarian Vajarani Getronuh, the Apkarian Central School.
We were gathered in a large room with many people from different, zanazan, villages and cities-- from Sebastia, Gesaria, [Caesaria, Kayseri,] Ayvaz [I am
not familiar with this place], and two from Kharpert. The Miyutyunuh Azkayin fed us.
“About
a month later, the closed Armenian Church of Haleb
was re-opened. The Armenian Cemetery
outside of town was blessed. Some weeks
later the French force came to Adana.
There were many Armenian volunteers from America among them. At the same time, there was news that the
Allies, Tashnagitsneruh,
had spoken about giving Giligia [Cilicia] to
the Armenians. It had once been the
capital of the Armenian King Levon VI.
“During
the re-opening of the mother Armenian Church in Haleb,
and the blessing of the Armenian Cemetery, the majority of the Ottoman Turks with
their white head wrappings didn’t dare appear in public. They lost any desire to go out. A week later the English force arrived, and
there are some circumstances, baraka,
here that I do not want to go into. [Why
does he not go into detail?]
“When
the Armenian army, The Armenian Legion or Légion d’Orient,
under the command of the French, arrived, they settled in a barracks, zoranotsmuh, near
the Black Seyhun River, Sevoolig Serhun Kedee modh, outside the city near the train station. The news spread that they came from the USA
as volunteers, vorbess gamavohr. As soon as I head
that, I immediately thought that perhaps my Uncle, Horyeghpayr, father’s brother, and my other Uncle’s
son, Mirijan, who were in America, might be among the
volunteers.
“That
day, being very close to the station, I ran to the garrison, the first to get
there. The metal gates to the barracks
were closed and the whole enclosed with high metals bars. I climbed up the metal fence, [shimmying up?]. Two volunteers ran over asking where I was
from. Without hesitation, arants varanov, I
said, ‘I am a Sebastatsi’. One volunteer, hands to his mouth, called
out, ‘Sebastatsis, over here!’ But there was no response. Then I added, ‘I do not live in Sebastia. I
am Zaratsi, from near Sebastia.’ Again, with his hands cuffed towards his
mouth and a still louder voice, he shouted ‘Zaratsiner,
Zaratsiner!’
Four men came running. The first
question from all was, ‘Whose son?’ What
was my last name?
“I
am not a Zaratsi! I am Alaksatsi.
I am Caloust Chakrian’s
son, I said, feeling a bit ashamed. I had said Zaratsi
thinking no one would know the name of our village.
“‘Why,
boy, he is the son of our khunamee’s brother,’ ” they said laughing simultaneously! [khunamee, signifying in-law, or related through
marriage.] After a short talk, I gave
them the name of the school where we were living and its location. They promised to visit me as I left.
“Two
days later four Zaratsis did come to the Apkarian Varjaran to visit
us. They had all enlisted as soldiers
from the American city of Providence.
They knew my Uncle very well because my uncle’s
daughter, Iskouhi, was married to Harutiun
Minasian from Zara.
I myself had never seen my Uncle--her
father--for he had moved to America before I was born. Several years later he asked my father to
send his wife and daughter, Iskouhi, to
America from the yergir,
the home country. My father sent them on
their way. She was about ten years of
age [actually 14] when she and her mother joined her father in the USA [in
1908.]
“I
am now to give the names of the four compatriots: the first, Kevork Yeghiayan, the second Avedis Yeghiayan, my Uncle’s son. [Is Nahabed confused here?
Were not Yeghiayans
related only by marriage? Is he using
‘Uncle’ as a courtesy title?] The third, Soghomon Darbinian, and the fourth, Setrag
Balumian. That
visit lasted almost an hour and a half with many questions and answers. The volunteer, Balumian,
was the paternal cousin of Melikzadek Balumian, my teacher in our village! One or another of our new compatriots came to
see us until they were moved to another barracks in the lower part of the city.
“Everything
changed after the English army arrived about a week later. Those Turks who were hiding like mice in
their holes, came out again, mugerou numahn dzageruh mudadzayn dours elahn, wearing their white head wrappings. The Armenian soldiers were able to wander
about the town as they wished, but without arms or weapons. After several weeks the soldiers were taken
out of the garrison to yet another place.
“Changel [i.e., a connecting aside], one day
when I returned to the school, I saw a young soldier in Turkish military
uniform talking with my sister. He was a
complete stranger to me. My sister
explained that this man, Phillip, is from our village. After his mother died, his father had
remained a widower because there was no one of appropriate age. He then went to Erzerum,
found a new wife and brought her back to the
village. There were two children in the
family, a girl and a boy from the first marriage. When problems [within the family] became
difficult, Phillip took his sister and moved away from our village to Erzerum. After a few
years, his sister married and he, feeling freer, left for Bolis,
and was there until the outbreak of the War.
Before the War Phillip served a doctor and did so until the end of the
War. Nor did he wish to move too far
away from his sister.
“Phillip
offered to take my sister, Gulizar, to Bolis but she declined. I wrote a letter to my father saying that
from our family my sister and I remained alive and with us was Ovsanna Dzarugian and Diggin, Mrs., Shushan. I have forgotten her last name now but in
those days I remembered it well.
“If
you find our father alive, give this letter to him,” we said to Phillip as we
left.
“Returning
to the Armenian volunteers: While they
were still at the barracks, in my school room was a red-haired lad, garmir badani, and
the same height as myself. We became
friends. One day we decided to go to the
barracks early in the morning to stay around until their mealtime. We figured they would offer us something to
eat.
End of the
unlabeled side of the tape.
Next tape is LABELED ON ONE SIDE IN BABY BLUE tape.
Appendix ? “V”.
Continued…
“It
was too early and the place was closed.
The sun was not up, the weather still cold. We sat huddled near a wall. When the sun finally shone, made brave by
that, we decided to play verk
…[Not sure of the name, sounds like verk or some such. Bone
games are ancient] … knowing that it was probably getting near time for
breakfast, nakhajashu vray ehr. Surely they would give us something! Beneath the wall we began to play verk with a piece
of bone from the leg of a goat or sheep.
Throwing it in the air like a ball, and allowing it to land with both
sides upright, you are the winner. We
played about a half hour when we heard the noise of spoons and knives. The time was getting close. We cast anticipatory and eager glances. Then I heard my name from a distance, but looking around I saw no one. The whole area was completely unfamiliar to
me. I knew no one there nor did anyone
know me. I thought I must be mistaken
and continued to play again with my friend.
A moment later we heard the voice again.
My name was repeated—this time much clearer and much louder. But how could this be? Who in this place recognized me? It seemed that I was ‘cracking up’, gardzess tsindoradz ehm. Either that
or there was someone nearby with the same name.
If that was so, he was not visible.
But then a man waving both hands was running towards us, yelling, ‘meejdeh, meejdeh’ [or some such—I do not recognize the
word and am not sure of the sound, it could be veejdeh or even leejdeh. Baron Nahabed does
not enunciate here and there is a lot of paper rustling in this passage.] It was Hagop Eminian who lived with us in the same room. ‘Your father has come! Your father has come! I want my leejdeh,’ he announced happily.
[Note: Baron Nahabed enters into a garrulous
rendition of his reaction to the news.
It is long and drawn out.]
“To
explain about Hagop Eminian:
it happened that now and then I would go to a bakery nearby and buy eight or
ten loaves of bread. If I could sell
them in the downtown market, shuga, while they were still warm, that was good. If not sold, they were leftovers. Hagop Eminian…[Baron Nahabed is having
trouble reading his handwriting again!] frequently worked in the gardens. And whenever he had work
he would buy a loaf from me. If working,
he would pay me for the bread. If he had
no work, he would still take a loaf, and so a twenty to
twenty five year old would be in my debt. Hearing this news [i.e.
that my father had come], I asked him ‘Have you seen my father? Where is he?’
‘No,
I did not see him. But you have a
mother, and a sister, who are in Bolis, along
with Shushan and her husband.’ That same
Shushan we had one week earlier seen off for Bolis! Since he had not seen my father, I asked
again, “ ‘Where is my father?’ ”
“
‘He is at the train station,’ ” he
answered. When I heard the name of the
station, the question became all the more doubtful, gasgastseli. This was because, once every two weeks, my
sister would boil our clothes often infested with ochils, lice, [note that Baron Nahabed calls them ochils, not vochil]. I went
regularly to the train station for a chunk of wood for heating water to boil
all the clothing contaminated with the fleas and lice, luilnerov yev ochilnerov. If failing to go to the station to filch a
piece of wood, I deserved a whipping.
“ ‘Good, lav,’ I said ‘Hagop,
friend, [actually Baron Nahabed reads Hovsep by
mistake] if you are telling me a fib to make me go there [i.e. the station], I
won’t talk to you again.’ ”
“‘My
boy’ he said, ‘Have I ever spoken an untruth to you?’ ”
“
‘If it turns out what you tell me is true, and my father has come, then what
you owe me for the bread is now paid for.’ ”
“We
set off and reached Mur Vaghadan. As we neared the station, my emotions
rose. I saw my sister Gulizar, Diggin Ovsanna and a group of men.
I ran and upon joining them a large woman took me into her arms and gave
me a kiss.
“ ‘I am your Mother,
and this girl is your step-sister.’ ”
“I
asked, ‘Where is my Father?’
“‘Your
Father is at the station.’ ” I had no time for patience and turned to run to
the station. Diggin
Ovsanna calling, ‘Wait up a bit so I can come
too!’
“We
reached where the street turned right, and with an additional twenty to thirty
steps to the left, reached the station.
“There
at the side of the road was a ditch about two or three feet deep and fifty feet
wide--now filled with the water from the winter’s snow and rain and covered
with a thin layer of ice, sar gabvadz.
Opposite there were twenty- five wooden houses for soldiers, now all
apparently empty. As I approached,
perhaps the tenth one, I heard a voice call my name and saw hands waving. I immediately jumped into the ‘lake, lij, where the water reached above my
knees, and as the Turks say “Apak topal, kor topal”, [topal, lame, kör,
blind] …and half swimming, soaked, I reached the other side, where a man
bending down lifted me up and [a more than brief break here with an echoing
noise, and we are apparently to miss out on the reunion with his father, Caloust, in any great detail despite the long
‘introduction.’].
My
father had come with Alexan [hard to discern who he is/was—it is garbled] and
Shushan’s husband, Garabed, and another man from our village whose name I don’t
now remember.
“We
were hearing that Giligia [Cilicia, with its
main city, Adana] was to be given to the Armenians. For that reason, my father, and many
Armenians had come to Giligia. What deception! Inch khaphvank. For
my father and many other Armenians, it became a total lie. The whore French and
English, pornig Fransatsi yev Angliatsi went back on
their word and sold out Giligia for their own profit,
leaving it to the Turks. That, too, was
an added black fate for the Armenians, ayd uhl egav Hyeroon
sev baghtuh!
“My
father had rented a house on the right side of the Seyhan River in a small
village called Gavurköy, Infidel Village. How did it come about that my father got my
letter? He had not written me
anything. I should say a few lines, kani muh doghmee on that matter. [Here Baron Nahabed
explains the circumstances. We shall
simplify the somewhat complicated explanation, as follows: Shushan’s husband, Garabed, was with Caloust. The surviving, displaced men of Eastern
Turkey who were single, or widowers, or who believed their wives had perished,
sought to marry to escape conscription in the Turkish Army. Baron Nahabed says
his father, Caloust, had remarried for this reason
and had received his son’s letter from Diggin
Shushan, (the woman our narrator had seen off to Bolis)
on the very day her husband, Garabed, was to marry for the above stated reason
in the village of Tey Koz, Sev Tzov.]
Baron
Nahabed continues, “He had married again earlier but
his wife died in childbirth and after an interval he arranged to remarry. That exact day, as luck would have it, my
father receives my letter. And knowing
well that Garabed’s marriage was for that very day at
a village, he arrives just as the ceremony is about to take place. My father showed him the letter that says
that Garabed’s wife Shushan is alive and where she is
to be found. The ceremony is
cancelled. He sent money for his wife to
join him. Since my father wanted to go
to Giligia, he joined him and came to
Adana—from which place Shushan had left five days earlier! After spending a week with us, he went back
to Bolis.
“I
will return to my father and the letter that I had written him. My father, wanting to send us word he was
coming to Adana to join us, wrote a letter addressed to the Armenian
Church. The letter he wrote had a return
address, and despite my regular visits to church every Sunday, neither the
priest, nor the jamgotch,
sexton,[sometimes referred to anglizided by Armenians
as ‘warden’] or anyone else I knew said anything about a letter sent in care of
the church. Outside, in the church
garden, bardez, posted on a blackboard, karudaghdai, were
the names of letters received. I
received no such information. My father finally resolved the problem by
visiting the Church. At the time Diggin
Shushan had received no word about my father.
“Four
or five months passed while we were still in that Infidel Village when my
father decided that we would return to Bolis. Two weeks later, we were ready at the station
where, after passing a satisfactory examination, we were given our written
permits, ardonats’qriruh qrirehtsints, from
the Armenian Military authority, and were on our way. After two days on the road
we reached Bolis. We ended up in Kedekuigh,
Kadeköy, [today Kadiköy,
the ancient city of Chalcedon, of Ecumenical Council fame].
“After
about six months, we moved to Uzvunjukh section [Note: not certain. The enunciation is poor. Not sure if it is Oozvun
or Oozlun or Oozun, usun, means long in Turkish.] There, with one of our compatriot friends, my
father opened a bathhouse, baghnik, for men and women.
The hours for the men were from eight in the morning to one o’clock in
the afternoon, and for the women from one to four thirty, and again, the men
until nine o’clock. We stayed there
almost a year. Then a problem arose
between my father and his partner whose brother had joined him. The partner, Khatchig,
really did not understand much about operating the bath but he had contributed
three quarters of the money. The
situation was such that he said, “You give us our share and we will go out, or
you take your share and you leave!” My
father had expended quite a lot of money when he undertook going to Giligia from Bolis, and returning with us.
He was certainly in no position to ‘buy out’ the bath from the brothers,
so he took his share and left.
“ From
there we went to Samatia city, a Bolis
community that had Armenians and where Mother’s [i.e Nahabed’s step-mother, he is calling her Mayrig.] mother and father and two brothers
resided. Mother’s elder brother’s name, Karnig; his wife’s name was Mayram
[Mariam but Nahabed pronounces it Myrahm]. They had two sons, manch zavag, the first, Hagop,
the second, Jirayr, the little brother’s name. Garabed was now about twenty to
twenty-two years old, and Kapriel [Gabriel,
not sure here. Lots of hesitation
reading] was his son. Mother’s mother’s brother’s name [quite deliberate here, Mayrigihn mohr yeghporoun anounuh] was Aznif. [Long
pause. Nahabed
realizes has made a mistake. Aznif is a female first name. Note, on a final tape where Nahabed repeats this portion, he is a bit more clear in his reading—but not much—but nevertheless he
clearly says that ‘My Mother’s Mother’s name was Aznif, a well-deserved name. Aznif means
‘Noble’ or ‘Kind’] “That’s her name, his name Barsegh. By virtue of their being Gesaratsis
[from Gesaria, Caesaria] my
Grandfather did not know how to speak Armenian, and
was completely Turcophone [bolorovin Turkakosk ehr.]. Uncle Karnig [Karnig Kerihn] was
in terms of responsibility the senior, and had a job
nearby.
Mirijan, Nahabed’s Paternal Uncle
“Several months later, we got a letter from my Uncle’s son, Mirijan, saying that
he wanted me [Nahabed] to go to America. A second letter came, with another request
‘Uncle, you married twice. You know my
age and my personality. Therefore, I
leave it to you to seek and find for me someone suitable, and to send her to
America with Nahabed.
I am sure that I will be satisfied with your choice.’ With the receipt of this letter, the whole
situation changed.
“My
Father and Mother began to look for someone suitable. Several weeks passed, and another letter from
America. This was from my other Uncle’s
daughter, from his sister Iskouhie, and $650 dollars
was sent, asking us to come to America!
It seemed that a new sun shone!
The darkness had parted and we were in its light! And with a new zeal
and hope we began to search for a suitable person for my Father’s
brother’s son.”
END of this side of TAPE –No. 3
[Note: I am going
to insert here the FINAL TAPE (labeled Nahabed Chakrian Post-Exile Life &
Family, see title in Armenian) This tape seems to have more on it than the one
I had used initially. This too has a
baby blue label on the ‘first’ side. ]
“Six
weeks later our search was complete.
[Note Nahabed, by saying “our” acts as if he,
too, has been involved in the search for a bride!] And we found a young lady, oriortmi, Sophie,
twenty-eight or thirty years old who was from the city of Samatia,
the daughter of the Samatia school’s … [Not clear
whose daughter she is, Nahabed hesitates—perhaps he
means the Head Mistress sister’s daughter?]
The engagement took place and a ring was placed on her finger. Mirijan’s picture
was sitting there on the table, full faced and youthful. There were five or six men there and for them
there was a celebration for Sophie and Mirijan. We sent a photograph of Sophie with the happy
news that with the first ship we are getting on our way.
“Finally,
five weeks later we found a Greek agent [he uses the English word agent here]
who had rented a boat named “Gul Djemal, Handsome Rose”. This boat was small and had been used by the
Turks during the war. The Greek told us
that the boat would be ready. We rented
a team but when we got to the harbor we saw that the
boat was two or three miles from shore.
We could not go back, so the Greek renter of that ship, [intent on]
putting us in the boat took us to the open water and delivered us to the
ship. It took three days for the ship to
get close to the quay, karap ihn.
“When
it neared the quay, on the following day, I went to the section in Samatia, Psamatya where my
sister had been living for more than eight months after marrying, Nazareth Hazarian, the son of one of our village neighbors. That night I spent at my sister’s home. Because Pesa Nazareth, [Pesa here means
brother-in-law], was a baker, he
worked at a place near the Black Sea called Bey Kos [or some such, not
clearly enunciated] and came home only once a week. The following morning
we went to Bolis on the ship. We spent the day there and I returned with my
sister to her house that evening. When
all of us were together with my sister….”
[Here Baron Nahabed expresses regret that his
final hours with his sister were cut short]
“…that
visit became the last time that I saw my dear sister and [step-]Mother until
1966. Two years later my sister left for
France with a group of compatriots where they settled in La Ciotat
city. [south of Marseilles] My Aunt Myram, [father’s sister, Mayram Horakrochus] and family members, who
were still alive, were taken in by my sister at the end of the War. My Aunt had only lost one daughter; her
husband was in Bolis when the War broke
out. […This continues more or less
pretty exactly as what is related on the tape translated earlier. Only one key point emerges here—namely that
when Nahabed went to Hayastan in 1966 he says, “It was sad to learn that Nazaree Pesa had died.”
Turn over this tape to side without any labeling.
[Note this is not the ‘last’ tape from which I translated the insert. I hope this is clear.]
“The
following morning we went to Bolis. We spent the day there. I went back with my sister to her house. After spending the night there, in the
morning we started our way back on the boat [presumably a ferry] so as to be
able to spend time together. Within a
few minutes, my sister sadly said to me, ‘Dear Little Brother, Yeghpayr-jan,
again I am to be separated from you.
Only God knows when I shall have the chance to see you again.’
“Sister,’
I said, ‘Be certain that within one or two years you, too, will be united with
us.”
“With
a long sad look on her face, our conversation ended. When my father, wherever he was, returned
that night to the family, I don’t know why I didn’t go with my sister to her
home to spend the rest of the day together.
[Note: here Nahabed openly sobs and breaks
into tears as he records. What he says
is, understandably, a bit disjointed.]
And with good wishes she took her leave, the last time I saw her [for a
number of years but not forever!] I was
unable to see my dear Sister, and my [Step-] Mother until 1966.
“It
was two years later that my sister left with a group of fellow countrymen for
France. Because no one out of Aunt Myram’s entire
family was left, she had taken my sister in after the War. Out of my real aunt’s family, only one girl
had been lost, and her husband was in Bolis
when the War broke out. The eldest son,
Sarkis, went to Erzeroum to help, as I explained much
earlier, with the intent of bringing food to our village, during the Turkish
War. Oskian
had survived in Arabia by being taken in by the Arabs. After the War when the English were
collecting Armenian orphans and taking them to Haleb,
Oskian was amongst them. And eventually all of them were reunited in Bolis. All of
our fellow villagers who were still alive, from some twenty-eight families,
left for France living there until 1944.
“At
that time, a groups of Armenians from our village
emigrated to Hayastan [Armenian
Soviet Socialist Republic, ASSR]. Some
five or six families, my sister’s family among them, emigrated so I did not see
her until 1966 when I went to Hayastan
for the first time. I won’t go deeply
into that story, since in itself it would take several volumes. In France my sister had given birth to seven
children—two boys, three girls [Note, either Nahabed
has made a mistake counting or only five children of seven survived.]
“In
1938 I brought one of the boys from France to America. His name is David. He married here, he grew up here and he
became the father of six girls here. And
when I went to Hayastan for the first time in 1966 to see my sister, I
took David with me. It was then that I
got the idea of bringing my sister over here to be near me and to enable her to
live out her remaining years more comfortably and without worry. But every attempt was thwarted
and my hands remained tied until 1980 when I was able not only to bring my
sister, but one of her daughters, Shakeh, and her
husband Pesa
Muggerditch, [Pesa, is used
indiscriminately to designate spouse, groom or son-in-law], and four
children. By the time she arrived in
America from Hayastan, my dear sister
could barely walk. As the years passed
her condition worsened and this year, June 29, 1988
she closed her eyes forever and was released from her years of her travail,
pain and suffering. [Here Nahabed begins to weep.]
“Peace be upon you, khaghaghutiu, and may you be free of the tribulations darabkneru, that you suffered, qashetsir, during all those years
in the deserts of ‘Arabia’ and after.
“Now
returning to my Uncle’s son, Mirijan. One week after we appeared [in America with
his bride-to-be] Mirijan got married. A week had not passed when he rented a house
and we all moved in as well. And another
week had not passed when some misunderstanding and differences arose between my
mother and him, and they became exacerbated with time. So, a month later when my mother suggested
that we go to Bridgeport, Connecticut where two of her brothers lived—both of
them bachelors, yergoosna amouri. My Father and Mirijan
sat down one evening to do some reckoning of accounts hashiv desnalou. They did not see fit for me to watch or
participate in that important process of calculating. After a full two hours, my father came out,
flushed; the accounts had been settled completely. Mirijan and my
father had been at odds, bardagan hanedz er,
over the $600 that had been sent by Mirijan. Also, over the fact that we had resided and
eaten meals at that house for three weeks.
The calculations were over that.
My father did not want to haggle with him and had yielded on everything
that he [Mirijan] wanted. And in this way Mirijan
became inclined to be the [financial] guardian, der eghav, of the wife of his brother’s
son. [I think this is inaccurate and is
a circumspect way of putting it. In any
case, the idea is, I believe, that Mirijan ended up
agreeing to look after his Uncle and family until they
could get on their feet, even if they were not under the same roof!] Now we remained owing $600 dollars to Mirijan and an additional $650 to my first cousin Iskouhie and her husband, Pesa
Haroutiun—this bit is inserted from the very last
tape mentioned—the unemotional one.]
“It ended up that we would go one street distant from where they [i.e. Mirijan] lived where there
was a grocery store, nbaravajar, that was run by an
Armenian. He said, ‘I will rent for you
a place, and I will pay the rent for the house, and whatever foodstuffs are
needed by you can be obtained from this store.
The owner of this store is an Armenian.
Thus you will not have to struggle because of
understanding or language difficulties.
The owner of this store will give you a notebook, dedrag,
and he will also keep a notebook.
Everything obtained will be written down in the two notebooks. Every month I will come and examine both
notebooks and whatever is owed, I will pay from month to month. And whatever the initial payments are, I will
give it to you. [Note this is not clear
to me. It is a verbatim
translation!] Don’t you worry over it.
When you begin to work you can pay whatever you are able. On that account, do not have a care.’ But my Mother took
issue with that idea, hagaretsav ad gaghaparuh, so in the same week my new maternal
Uncle, Mor yeghpayr, came
from Bridgeport and took us to where he lived.
“Here
we stayed some fourteen years. There I
grew up… [this is from the ‘final unemotional tape. The emotional one does not say ‘here I grew
up’] …married, had five children, of whom one boy child, the oldest… [Note:
this is only stated in the ‘last’ unemotional tape]… died in his first year.
“In
1929 because of lack of work we moved to New York where my stepmother, Khort Mayruss [Note that Baron Nahabed
refers to her here as ‘step’ whereas till now he has called her Mayrig, Mother]…
and my wife died, and my father [Note: this is mentioned only in the
‘unemotional’ ‘last’ tape. Not mentioned
in the ‘emotional’ one]. As I have
explained, I have four [surviving] children.
Two boys and two daughters. My
first daughter married and now has one daughter. My second son took a wife and has one son. The other two, twins, miyus zuykeruh, boy and girl, Armand and Madeline, now live in New York. My daughter married and has
a ten- year old daughter, Jennifer, but her brother has remained a bachelor
till now. My first daughter, Jean, is
here in California. After I lost my
first wife, I did not re-marry for twenty years; even though I had two young
kids ten years old [Nahabed is having problems
reading and has made some blunders. In
one place he seems to be talking about his Father’s
family, then switches to his own! He is
clearly talking about his own kids.]
“Certainly the lack of a Mother in the household was a clear
disadvantage and life in the family was worth less. So when my twin
daughter Madeline got married, I left and came here to California and settled.”
[Lots
of rustling of papers and crackling, and turning of
pages and an extended ‘blank’ here. Then
he starts counting with considerable delay in between, “46, 45, 40, 48,
47…”. Then he turns the recorder
off. This second side of the tape is
blank. ]
Note,
whereas the tape ends on the note of counting, as given above, this less
emotional dictation continues after a break—with a theme of summing up—for lack
of a better heading.]
“My
second sister, Gultana, by ill fate, was separated
from us and went to Baghdad and closed her beautiful eyes forever from an illness,
without anyone to look after her. My
little sister, Tshkhuhi, her fate has always been
foremost in my mind. [Recall that she
was taken by the Arabs.] My big sister, Gulizar and I, after surviving, became separated from each
other for years. Sixty-four years later
she was to come here [to America] to join me, and soon to close her eyes
forever. And soon, I will be going, yess ahl bidi yertam,
to join her in eternity.
“My
dear father, and my step-mother, and my wife, Vartouhie--
I was to witness their being buried in New York. [And Nahabed
repeats himself in part and says, waxing poetically] And soon, I will be having my own end yess ahl bidi ginkehm ihm magatsutsuh, [literally
“I too will be anointing or sealing or closing my last showing] and will join
them all in Eternity. All my loved ones
by luck got dispersed to all four corners of the earth [this is little bit of
an exaggeration.]. Years later, I was
fortunate enough to be able to bring my dear sister Gulizar
here [to the USA]…[again repeats himself about joining her soon]. My heartfelt thanks to my dear beloved
sister’s daughter, Shake, for having daughterly feelings and arranging that my
grave be located just next to her mother, my sister, jist
qushduh.
“Now
I am going to turn to my second wife.
After coming to California I was free, and
could do pretty much what I wanted.
Here, one day, I went to the house of my Uncle’s
daughter Horyeghporus archigan dunuh, –Sister [his first cousin] Iskouhie’s—where
after an hour or two of conversation, the question turned to the possibility of
re-marriage. My Sister Iskouhie announced that she had a good female friend, who
was now without a husband. She had been
born in this country, but she was the child of one of our countrymen. Her parents had been from Cairo, Qayratsi, but
[originally] from the place where my Grandmother was
born. She told me about her and offered
one day she to take me and introduce me to her.
“Five
or six weeks passed and when one day I raised the issue of going to see her,
she hesitated. And it became apparent
that she had changed her mind about introducing us. In this way a couple of additional weeks
passed, and one day I went to her daughter Arshalouys’s
house. There, the conversation opened up
and I was able to establish the views of my Sister Iskouhie. “Dear Uncle, Keri-jan,” said Arshaloys,
“I also know her very well. If you wish,
I will take you there. She does not know
you. So, if you want, I will telephone
her, and if she agrees, I will gladly take you there. Eight or ten days later, I went with Arshalouys and we saw our compatriot widowed lady. After sitting a while, I expressed the wish
that I should to take us all to dinner. But Diggin Mayram [Mrs. Mary or
Mariam] stated that she had already planned to prepare a meal. I had not wished that on the first occasion
of our meeting to impose any heavy task on her, so I insisted very politely,
and gratefully thanked her, that we go out to a restaurant.
“We
went to a restaurant and when we returned and the time came to take our leave
[Note, there is an interruption. A woman
is saying something unintelligible and Baron Nahabed
says “Hello”] I asked Diggin Mayram if I could have the pleasure of seeing her that
coming Saturday. And, at the same time,
I asked for her telephone number. With
great politeness that happened. One or
two weeks later, she introduced me to her second child, Antranig
[a son] who lived quite close to where I was living. I found him in our first meeting very
cordial, hamagrankov,
sympathetic; he was sincere angeghs, well-spoken, lezuani, and besides being
modest, hamesd, he was very forthright. Thereafter, every time I saw him my affection
and feelings increased. And to be
even-handed, I must say here that whatever I wanted to have or do, my two
children were always very supportive and always treated everything I did with
the greatest respect.
“Almost
six weeks later Diggin Mari [Note: he is now
calling her Mari, not Myram] took me to her elder
son’s home, Antranigihn dunuh, [Antranig is a name, but here it means first-born or oldest
child.] He was married and the father of
two children, one boy and one girl, the first five years old, the girl four,
and their mother, Diane, with a happy, beautiful appearance, and very sincere
disposition. At first, I was not able to
make an assessment of the son. He was certainly polite, kaghakapar, but it was clear that
he was harboring some negative feelings.
He was not sure whether he should view me a friend or stranger. As time passed, my respect and affection
increased. [Nahabed
goes on at length; then says,
“May
God grant them health and bestow his blessings on them all.”]
“Now
I will turn to my beloved, ihm siretsialis. For
nine months we saw each other once or twice a week. Finally after
another nine months, my affections had grown. She had grown closer to my heart;
I decided after going to a restaurant for a meal, that I would ask her hand,
with the hope that she would accept my proposal. And so, in February 1975 our marriage took
place, mer busagaturoutiunuh deghi oonetsav. And I
am happy to relate that I was not wrong in my choice, unduroutiunasus mech chey sukhaladz. And
now, in view of the fact that I am deteriorated in body and soul, and had it
not been for the care that my beloved gave me, it is very probable that I would
have been still worse. My thanks and
indebtedness and respects to my beloved.
“A
few lines about Antranig, qanimh dogh Antranigihn massin. Finally he got married to a noble and good-natured Armenian
girl, aznif yev paresird hyehouhie mi hed, and was blessed with a very dear little girl.
“Today,
seventy years after, as I recall the events of the First World War, and
especially the massacre of the entire Armenians, manavandt Hayots inthanur chartuh,…[obviously
this is an overstatement. However, the
word inthanur
might also be interpreted as meaning ‘general’]… my heart is forced to become
stormy and my eyes fill with tears. I am
surrounded by dark obscurity, mut khavari, and when I think about the heartless advice
given by the Germans to the beastly Turk, its ally, to strike a lethal blow,
annihilate, vochtsutsaneh,
all the Armenians to be found in Turkey, Turkio metch, with that conduct, varmunkov they
would be ‘hitting two birds with one stone’.
The first was the settling of the “Armenian Question” which the Allies
had gotten closer to advocating [by giving it a degree of autonomy]; the
second, advancement and control [by the Armenians]… would be stopped that if
all the Armenians were removed from their dwelling places. And the beastly Turk carried out all of this
suggestion, telaturoutiounuh,
like a wild animal without any mercy, and stained with the blood of a million
and half Armenians the deserts of Arabia.
And that crime was carried out…”
[Now
follows a long diatribe that is repetitive, and says nothing that has not
already been said, and repeated. Nahabed is clearly very angry and ends the condemnatory
stance against the Germans and Turks.
Without a pause, he states his name “ Nahabed Chakrian.”]
FINIS
Endotes
[1]
This translation seems best although the
track is not perfectly audible here. The word gut’k is obsolete and can refer to a treatise
or harvest or compilation.
[2]
A term of respect for the deceased, on the
order of, ‘May his departed soul have been shown Mercy.’
[3]
Regrettably, as mentioned
in the Foreword, the written text that Baron
(a courtesy title/ Mr.) Chakrian used has
never been found, only the tapes have been preserved.
[4]
Sebastia is the Armenian
designation, Sivas, used exclusively today is Turkish. The word kilise
means church and ak means white in Turkish,
hence ‘Whitechurch.’ The town is today called Eskiyurt. Many
present-day villages can be located along with altitude, mean temperature, etc.
on maps via the internet site: http://www.fallingrain.com/world/TU/. This gives geographical data on almost all
the towns and cities in Turkey. Many
places with Armenian names have been changed, however, and it may be difficult
to locate some without prior knowledge.
Incidentally, the towns given by Baron Chakrian
are not to be found on the very general Armenian-language map in Yeghernabadoum, Story of Genocide, by Garabed
Kapikian, English précis version.
[5]
On the patriarchal
system, the new bride or hars, would leave her
parents’ and grandparents’ home to join the household of her husband, normally
that of his parents’/grandparents.
[6]
While not a common
surname, it is by no means rare. Now, the spelling is usually Chakerian.
Presumably the designator derives from the Turkish word for grey-blue, more than likely referring to ancestors’ eyes.
[7]
The
expression mukhuh marets
is used here, the ‘smoke has been quenched.’
The chore of keeping the fire of the family hearth burning was a
demanding task, and when it failed and there was no smoke, it was a disaster. All patience was exhausted!
[8]
The
word angoghin, pronounced un-goghheen, is used for ‘bed’ although it does not mean a bed
as we in the west perceive one. Heavy quilts filled with wool, yorghans in Turkish, angoghin
in Armenian, comprised bedding used on the floor rather than on an elevated structure.
[9]
Akbash
means “Whitehead” in Turkish. The breed
was more than likely that of a large dog known as the Anatolian guard dog, the
Kangal. They can have either black or white heads. They guard flocks and are especially known
for their fierceness, loyalty and bravery in battle
with wolves. They are outfitted with
spiked metal collars. Note by fc: In an earlier conversation which I recorded, Nahabed referred to his family dog as “Khulbes”
or “Khulbas” which he described as brown and
white. The dog was brought home as a puppy by his father from a Kurd village
where he worked as a miller. He added
that during the exile the Kurds shot the dogs who were protecting their homes.
[10]
Nahabed uses the English word
‘balloon’ here.
[11]
Lake
Goeljuk. See The Slaughterhouse Province: An American
Diplomat’s Report on the Armenian Genocide, 1915-1917 Leslie A. Davis, Edited
by Susan K. Blair, 1989, Aristide D. Caratzas, Publisher, New Rochelle, N.Y.
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