Anna’s Dream

Translated by Vahe H. Apelian 

Mikle Babayan (Մայքլ Բաբայան) posted a copy of this article on his FB page. It is written by Anna Der Minassian, Roupen Der Minassian’s wife, twenty years after her husband's death in 1951.  It was published in “Varak” («Վարագ») monthly in 1971, No. 73. Anna was born and raised in a Jewish family. She espoused her husband’s cause and learned Armenian. Anna narrates anectodes and remembrances and thus paints a picture of some of those who valiantly colored our recent history. The original piece is title “An Apparition” or “A Vision”, (Տեսիլք Մը). The verb tenses are kept as in the original piece. The italics signify personal notations.

Courtesy Mikle Babayan Collection

“It is five o’clock early in the morning. Roupen and I are awake. It is cold and snowing. The snow covers the window much like a drapery. Roupen is sitting on the bed with a cigarette between his lips, a blanket on his shoulder. The typewriter is on his lap and is typing. I try to follow him, but my fingers are getting numb. I place them under the blanket, and I fall asleep and dream.

The door opens. Silhouettes fill the room. There he is, Doctor H. (Hamo) Ohanjanian. The only person who resumed his life over again, if that can be said. Next to him is N. (Nigol) Aghpalian, the flute in his hand. The same flute he used to play in Yerevan to forgo his hunger pains.

I remember doctor Der Tavtian (first name Hovsep per Mikle Babayan), who was reserved and not talkative. I remember when I was sick and with the children. One morning someone knocks the door. I am surprised to see that it is the doctor. What is he doing here in the wee hours of the morning? “I was on a promenade” he says. In order for him to do the “promenade” he had to catch two buses, pass through Paris and continue his journey with a cart.

M. (Mikayel) Varantian is telling a story and everyone is laughing heartily. “The rooster woke me up early every morning. So, I purchased it from the lady paying her a hefty price. The next morning a rooster woke me up again early in the morning. The landlady had purchased another rooster with the money I had paid her!”

Here he is Aram; the great Aram. I remember his amusing story about the two overcoats. Yervant, Roupen’s brother, had purchased two coats of the same kind, one for Aram, and the other for Roupen. Both of them were living with Yervant. On the first day, Aram tears his coat, which had been hanging on a nail. Distraught, he returns home and finds Roupen’s coat hanging. He switches his coat and wears Roupen’s coat and leaves. After a few days Aram meets Roupen expecting to be reprimanded by him. But Roupen is calm and composed and says nothing. Aram in vain searches for the tear on Roupen’s coat but does not see any. Puzzled, and having exhausted his patience, he confesses his mischief to Roupen and both look for a tear but find none. They remain puzzled.

Yervant’s wife, having noticed the tear, had mended it.

Rostom did not have a winter coat in Bulgaria. At the urging of his wife, he manages to get a coat. During that time Bedros Semerjian was in the prison and was likely to be condemned to death. Rostom sent his new winter coat to him and spent the winter without it. 

Armen Garo, you also passed away. I knew you before your death. We lived in the TROSHAG’s building. You often visited and played with Roupen’s younger son (they had two sons). You knew that you were condemned. There was no cure for your disease. You used to say, “if it were possible for you to go to Armenia and breath the air there, you will be cured.”

Vahan Minakhorian, is that you? Limping from the day you hurled yourself down the bridge not bearing to witness the depravity of the Turks to your students. I saw your room in Belgrade on the sixth floor. I placed flowers on your tombstone that Arshaluys Asdouazadourian had it built. Did you feel the presence of a friend?

Yervant Der Minassian (Roupen’s brother) entered and is looking around. I remember, whenever you visited us in Yerevan you opened the drawers and checked Roupen’s clothes and under wears. You are still looking for a drawer. There is no closet. Roupen’s clothing’s are in this bag. Each piece is clean and is mended.

Here is Levon Shant, always stoic, covering his sensibilities. He passes away much like Socrates, conveying his thoughts to his student.

Here comes Arshag Jamalian. Those who knew you cannot forget your liveliness, and your joyful disposition, always ready to recite poetry for hours on end.

K. (Kasbar) Ipegian, are you here seated with tears of joy and a book in your hand, your daughter’s first poetry?

Courtesy Mikle Babayan Collection

And you dear baba-jan (պապաճան-it is thought it is an endearing reference to her husband for his fatherly concern)– always fatherly. At the very last moment when everything was lost, even the hope, and each and every one of us scattered taking our last leave of each other, you said calmly “boys, wear well, it’s cold outside”.

Here is Sosse Mayrig. She entered and embraced me. She looked around, as if she is looking in the silhouettes for her three children she lost.

Moshegh, you were a handsome young man and devoted to Roupen. I heard that you had got sick hearing the death of Roupen. Was it the cause of your untimely death?

Who are you? You may be Alishan (Father Ghevenot Alishan) who sought out for Roupen in the last days of his life.

I woke up. I look around me. There are no apparitions anymore. Roupen is continuing to write. I read what he writes, and tears pour from my eyes. Roupen had written:

“That generation with its devotion, moral ethics and revolutionary zeal was born once in our lifetime and did not come about in this world anymore. Its zest (համ) and essence (հոտ) were different.”

The original piece, courtesy Mikle Babayan