Բնագիրը կցուած է ներեւը։ Hagop Oshagan unexpectedly passed away in Aleppo during his visit. Antranig Zarougian was with him throughout his stay. The unexpected death happened on February 17, 1948 midnight at 10:30 pm, in Aleppo. Coincidentally Shavarsh Misakian, the eminent editor of Haratch Daily in Paris, happened to be in Aleppo as well. The attached is an excerpt from Antranig Zarougian’s book titled “The Greats and the Others – Մեծերը եւ Մոյսները”, published in Beirut in 1992. The title of the chapter is “The Solitary Giant – Մենակեաց Հսկան»։ My notes in the text are in italics.։ Vahe H Apelian
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| Hagop Oshagan |
The death
We were seating in the garden of the Armenian social club (agoump), talking about our visit to Deir ez-Zor. All arrangements were made to the last detail. We were to drive in two cars, along with Arcbishop – Srpazan - Zareh (Payaslian). I had already told my friend Kaspar who lived in Deir ez-Zor, to have the lunch prepared outside, in an open field along the banks of the Euphrates River, where Srpazan would have a requiem service. For that purpose, a scribe (tbir) was going to accompany us.
I imagined Oshagan and Shavarsh bowing their heads over the waters of the Euphrates River, like two ripened heads of the two wheat stalks that had miraculously escaped the bloody scythe that harvested their martyred friends, Zohrab (Krikor), Vartkes (Serengulian), Varoujan (Taniel), Siamento (Adom Yardjanian) and Agnouny (Khachatur Malumian), Khajag (Karekin), Zartarian (Roupen), Shahrigian. (Harutiun).
Suddenly, it was Shavarsh who said:
- Oshagan, let us go and have a picture taken together and have your fur hat immortalized with the rest of us.
- How many meters are we going to walk? Asked Oshagan
- Not much, I say hardly one hundred and fifty steps.
- No, that would not work for me. I cannot walk more that 100 meters.
- One hundred fifty steps make one hundred meters, said Shavarsh. We convinced Oshagan, if he ever got tired, we would slow our pace and walk slowly and so forth.
We were in the photographer’s studio. Oshagan was between the two of us, in front of the camera.
- Between two thieves, remarked the photographer.
- You said it wrong, replied Shavarsh. It would have been correct if you had said between two “tashnags dogs – tashnag shnehr” (obvsiouly making allusion to Antranig Zarougian’s famous poem – Letter to Yerevan – Tught ar Yerevan, (see note 1)
As the photographer was arranging us to sit still, Shavarsh, found time to remark and said.
- Oshagan, however you try to distance yourself from us and approach the Tekeyans, it will be us who would be coming to your defense.
- When the photographs will be ready, Shavarsh asked the photographer as we were getting ready to leave.
- I will try to make them available in two days, said the photographer.
Oshagan would not live long enough to see these photographs.
Hagop Oshagan had one more day to live.
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| First Row, Lto R: Yetvart Boyadjian, Shavarsh Misskaian, Hagop Oshagan Send Row, L to R: Minas Tololyan, Antranig Zarougian, Armen Anoush. |
***
It was midnight. I was in bed. I had just finished reading one of the Agatha Christie’s books and was ready to put off the light when someone started banging the door rapidly and forcefully. My mother opened the door. Outside, in the courtyard, seating on the stairways, holding his head with his two hands, it was Krikor Yeretsian who was sobbing
- What happened Krikor, what happened?
- The man left.
- Where did he go?
However stupid and odd that sounds, those were the words that first came out of my mouth as I grasped the happening.
- When did it happen?
- Half an hour ago.
- Our neighbor doctor Kantarjian came and confirmed.
We stepped upstairs, not for tea. I got dressed sat down with Yeretsian. There is an issue we need to settle. Should we tell Srpazan right away? Or should we wait and break the news early in the morning. I realized that it made no sense to wait until the morning. Srpazan should have gone to bed early to get his rest for tomorrow’s trip to Der ez-Zor. I thought it was better to break the news midnight rather than break the unexpected happening first thing in the morning.
Note 1: “Written in 1944 in response to Soviet Armenian writer Gevorg Abov's «Մենք չենք մոռացել» ("Menk chenk moratsel," "We Have Not Forgotten"), and published the following year, «Թուղթ առ Երեւան» (Tught ar Yerevan, Letter to Yerevan) made Zarukian a prominent voice in the Armenian Diaspora almost overnight—from the Middle East to Europe and the Americas. The poem was republished more than a dozen times in various Armenian communities—including in Syria, the United States, Lebanon, and Cyprus—up until the early 1990s, and as a result became a source of inspiration for tens of thousands.” (Amazon.com)
To be continued
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