They Were, are No More (Կային, Չկան)։ Aharon and Vahan (No. 7)

“They Were, (and) are no more” (Կային, Չկան) is the title of the last chapter of Antranig Zarougian’s “The Greats and the Others” (Մեծերը եւ Միւսները) book where he casts a glimpse of the way an intellectual group of writers related to each other, as poets, novelists, journalists, and editors who propelled the post genocide Western Armenian literature to new heights that subsided with their passing away. The attached is abridged translated segment from that chapter. Vahe H. Apelian

“There was a commemorative event in the evening devoted to two great Armenians who had passed away recently within the same time frame, Nigol Aghpalian¹ and Hamo Ohanjanian². Shavarsh Nartouni presided the event. Before inviting the main speaker, among a few others, he also invited me, as the guest who happened to be in Paris, to briefly convey my thoughts and sentiments about the great men.  

- “Pay attention to this speaker, listen to him,” told me poet Aharon Dadourian³ who happened to be sitting next to me.

         The speaker was a tall and a slender person who moved gracefully. He talked with an impeccable Armenian weighing each sentence. He was not rhetorical and did not attempt to leave an impression. A nobility permeated his overall demeanor, from his facial expression to the way he wore his dress and his tie. 

- “It’s Simamento⁴ you hear,” murmured Aharon to my ear.

Siamento? Indeed, Vahan Yerjanian is Siamento’s brother. It suddenly dawned on me why he had set up our meeting, early that day on the phone, at 11 p.m. in Café de la Paix⁵. It became obvious that he wanted us to meet after the event. Serendipity might come to my rescue, I thought, as I could secure his lawyer’s persuasion to convince Aharon, whom I had not been able to, during the past two days. I had been tasked with a mission and was authorized to speak on behalf of the newly formed Karen Yeppe Jemaran of Aleppo that was in desperate need for a teacher who was an expert in Armenian language and literature. Aharon was the only one that had the qualifications  given his expert knowledge of the classical Armenian (krapar), as well as his Armenian language and literature expertise.

I was even entrusted with the authority to sign a contractual agreement with him. But he refused to come to Aleppo. All the efforts I vested in convincing him failed. He was a strange man. He would joke in the midst of a serious conversation, or would recite in krapar, and even not shy to tell a tasteless joke. 

After the event was over, I approached Vahram and asked him if he would mind to have Aharon join us as well. 

- “On the contrary,” he said, “it is pleasant to have his companionship. I always feel enliven whenever I meet him.”

We were sitting in the historic restaurant on the Opera square. All of us asked for coffee when the waiter asked for our order. 

- “No,” said Yerjanian, “such a meeting could not be held over coffee alone. I am indebted to you. After I read your “Letter to Yerevan”⁶, I should have written to you. But my laziness got better hold of me. This is the time to redeem myself.”

The “redemption” was a bottle of champaign that was opened with a loud voice. I should say that it was not an ordinary champaign, neither was its cost as I happened to be privy as the evening’s account was settled.

Vahan Yerjanian was also incapable convincing Aharon to accept the offer. As a last resort I let him know his brother’s recommendation. Aharon had no job in Paris and no source of income. It was his merchant brother Kevork from London who supported him by regularly sending him monthly stipends.

- “For God’s sake, take him with you,” had told me his brother, “I will continue on sending him allowance every month. With the favorable exchange rate, he will be much better off there. He might even not need the salary you would be giving him. Let him go and be useful to the young Armenian boys and girls.”

Alas, we could not budge his stubbedness.  The only thing that our joint efforts succeeded doing was changing Aharon’s cheerfulness. He became solemn, pensive and suddenly he stood up. He was a large man with snow white hair. He pointed towards the Opera and said as if to make a declaration.

- “Do you think I am staying in Paris because of these dark stones?”  - Paris was dark in those days and did not have the brightness it has now – “or because of them?”. There were girls sitting a bit further down, “I stay here…”

He took a deep breath and looked upward as if sniffing the air and declared:

- “There is something about this place that attracts me…..”

We remained silent.

- “Excuse me, it’s getting late. I might miss my metro liner.”

And he left. The stairways that led to the metro station was not far. My last recollection of him was his snow-white hair that gradually disappeared from my view.

Decades ago Aharon was looked upon as a second Taniel Varoujan, when he made his mark in the literature in Constantinople. 

After Aharon left, a sadness came upon us and we did not speak for a while. It was I who broke the silence and asked Vahran:

- “Why don’t you write?”

He appeared dismissive as if he was being asked an unimportant question. But I knew that there was a poet that lived in him. I have read poetries in “Shant” journal in Istanbul that bore his signature. They were powerful poems and were “siamentoesque”. I could surmize why he did not write, but I wanted to hear it from him. In order not to leave my question unanswered he said

- “What to write and why to write?”

After the martyrdom of Siamento, and not long after the armistice, Vahan Yerjanian’s poems first appeared, surprising many. However,  people started gossiping that he is usurping his brother Siamento’s unpublished literary works. But when he continued to write with the same breath and with the same tempo about issues and events that Siamento could not have known, such as about the assassination of Talaat, the rumors and the gossips did not abate but changed their tone claiming – “Have we not said that anyone who can put together beautiful words, could write much like Siamento?.”

Among the literary circles the prevailing supposition was that Vahan Yerjanian did not continue to write and maintained a silence just to safeguard his brother’s literary preeminence and memory. Arshag Chobanian was also of the same opinion for he had talked to me with conviction about Vahan Yerjanian’s poetic instincts. 

If that was true, it was a unique expression of a brother’s love. But I wanted to hear it from him. But he never said anything in that regard, not even a word, even though I hinted about it over again. He continued to evade the subject. 

The night was progressing. After a drizzle, the air had cleared. The late-night pedestrians were dwindling, as we were facing the imposing features of the opera building and were experiencing the effects of the champaign. In the background we could hear the arrangements of the empty chairs. The whole thing had created the moment when we let go of our guards, our hearts want to empty our inner thoughts  and our lips would lend to confession we would not have dared otherwise.

But Vahan Yerjanian did not open up. We got up and he accompanied me as we started walking towards the hotel I was staying for it was not far away, saying nothing all the way. I was the one who was carrying on a conversation, until we arrived at the door of the hotel. Up until then he had always spoken with me deferentially, addressing me in plural. There, near the door at Edouard 7, just before he said goodbye to take leave of me, he addressed me in singular and bared it all.

- “You know Zarougian”, he said, “I have always considered little Massis is an unnecessary appendage next to the Great Massis.”

He turned his back on me and walked away.

During the past forty years I have spent numerous nights in Paris but the most memorable remains that night and also the saddest.

Every time I sit at that corner of Café de la Paix, it becomes impossible for me not to remember Vahan Yerjanian with his noble gestures and gentle soul and also Aharon’s imposing height as he descended down the stairs of the metro station.

Vahan Yerjanian, that night, ceased for me being Siamento’s brother but became a man in the full sense of the word. A person who possessed a lofty soul and who did not need to have the association to a famous name to chart his course in life. 

Vahan Yerjanian, the poet who did not write, will continue to live in my soul.

Aharon, the author of magnificent books, that I have difficulty reading now.

Admirable men, both of them.

They were, are no more.

Notes 

1.      Nigol Poghosi Aghbalian (Armenian: Նիկոլ Պողոսի Աղբալեան), 1875, Tiflis – August 15, 1947, Beirut. He was an Armenian scholar, public figure and historian of literature. In 1928, he became one of the founders of Hamazkayin Association and subsequently founded the Hamazkayin Djemaran (Lyceum) in Beirut together with Levon Shant.For the rest of his life Nigol Aghpalian remained a close colleague of Levon Shant. He taught history of Armenian literature and archaic Armenian in Djemaran. 

2.     Hamazasp "Hamo" Ohanjanyan (Armenian: Համօ Օհանջանեան), 1873 Akhalkalak, 1873 – July 31, 1947, Cairo, Egypt. He  was an Armenian medical doctor, revolutionary, and politician of the Armenian Revolutionary Federation. He served as the third Prime Minister of the First Republic of Armenia from May 5 to November 23, 1920.

4.     Aharon Dadourian (in Armenian Ահարոն Տատուրեան), September 19, 1887 -  January 31, 1965. He was known by the pen name Aharon (Ահարոն), born in Ovadjek (near Constantinople, Ottoman Empire) and died in Montmorency, France was an Armenian writer and poet, teacher.

4.     Atom Yarjanian (Armenian: Ատոմ Եարճանեան), better known by his pen name Siamanto (Սիամանթօ), 15 August 1878 – August 1915. He was an influential Armenian writer, poet and national figure and an editor of Hairenik Daily. He was killed by the Ottoman authorities during the Armenian genocide.

5.     Café de la Paix (French pronunciation: ​[kafe də la pɛ]) is a famous café located on the northwest corner of the intersection of the Boulevard des Capucines and the Place de l'Opéra, in the 9th arrondissement of Paris, France.

6.     “Letter to Yerevan”, 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 Tzarukian 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. 

Its translation was published by the 120-year-old Hairenik Press, as the first and only English translation of Tzarukian's “Letter to Yerevan.”

The translation was a collaborative effort between the former director of the Armenian Revolutionary Federation (ARF) and First Republic of Armenia Archives and former editor of the Armenian Review Tatul Sonentz-Papazian and former editor of the Armenian Weekly Rupen Janbazian. It features an in-depth introduction by another former editor of the Armenian Weekly and the volume’s English editor, Vahe Habeshian, as well as six original illustrations by Yerevan-based artist Meruzhan Khachatryan.”

 

 

They Were, are No More (Կային, Չկան)։ Arshag Chobanian (No. 6)

 “They Were, (and) are no more” (Կային, Չկան) is the title of the last chapter of Antranig Zarougian’s “The Greats and the Others” (Մեծերը եւ Միւսները) book where he casts a glimpse of the way an intellectual group of writers related to each other, as poets, novelists, journalists, and editors who propelled the post genocide Western Armenian literature to new heights that subsided with their passing away. The attached is an abridged translated segment from that chapter. Vahe H. Apelian

Arshag Chobanian

“ I was with Arshag Chobanian¹ in the Ajemian restaurant. He was playing backgammon with Levon Mozian². Right after seeing me, he said:

- “I will be with you right away.”

And indeed, soon after he got up. He even did not wait long enough for me to sit. Levon Mozian held my arm and said to me:

“My friend, know this. Chobanian lost the past three games, but he let go of the winner instead coming at him with a vengeance to the very end. Something that has never happened before, which makes me believe that you are a very important person for him. I hope you realize that.”

Chobanian pointing his index finger, warned:

“I will see you in the evening, Levon. Revenge….”

We secluded ourselves in a corner. “In a corner” is way of saying because the whole restaurant is the size of a corner. Ajemian, the owner of the restaurant, is another version of Hrair Sassouni. For the second time he reminded me that he is related to Kourken Mahari³, who must be his “khalo.”

Not long after Shavarsh Nartouni⁴ arrived. It was prearranged that we three meet to sort our upcoming trip to Venice to celebrate the 100^th anniversary of “Pazmaveb”⁵ (Բազմավէպ) Three of us were to represent three generations at the celebration.

Having experienced my visa situation and how Hrair Sassouni managed to secure a visa extension for me, I was all too enthused to tell them my story. But it turned out they too had a visa issue because they were not French citizens and lived in the France as Nansen⁶ residents. Consequently, they had not been able to get a visa for visiting Italy. Thoughtlessly the following came out from my mouth.

- “But until now, have you not been able to become French citizens?”

Chobanian frowned at me looking bewildered, and said:

- “ Young man, I have helped many to become French citizens. But I refuse to be one. As long as we maintain our Nansen status, we keep our Armenian identity. By acquiring French citizenship, we become French in France. I was expecting that you would have known this important distinction.”

I was reprimanded.

Arshag Chobanian…

He was an uncompromising idealist who lived in this cynic world with his dreams and with his faith of what is right, safeguarding the unblemished  characteristics of a proud writer. 

When I left the restaurant that day, it was cold and raining but I did not have a trench coat on me. Today, the sun is shining with all its splendor on Paris. But where are Chobanian with his ideals; Nartouni with his advocacies, Levon Mozian and the ever talkative Ajemian who was Kourken Mahari’s relative?

They were, are no more.  

Notes

1.       Arshag Chobanian  (Արշակ Չոպանեան), 1872-1954.  He was born on July 15 in Beşiktaş, Constantinople, Ottoman Empire and passed away on June 8 in Paris. France. He was an Armenian short story writer, journalist, editor, poet, translator, literary critic, playwright, philologist, and a novelist.

2.      Levon Mozian: Armenian writer (1890 - 1958), Writer, Editor, Journalist, Printer, Bookseller, From: Ottoman Empire. Passed away in France.

3.       Kourken Mahari (Ajemian) (August 1, 1903 – June 17, 1969).  Poet and novelist was born in Van. His father, Krikor Ajemian, was an important member of the Armenagan Party (the first Armenian political party, founded in Van in 1885). Mahari became an orphan in 1907, when his father was shot by his brother-in-law, an A.R.F. member, in a confusing incident. In 1915, after the heroic self-defense of Van during the genocide, the future writer migrated to Eastern Armenia with his family. They lost each other on the road of exile, and Mahari lived in orphanages in Dilijan and Yerevan until he found his family again.

        He published his first poems in the press during the first republic, and later, in the Soviet period, he studied at Yerevan State University. He published five collections of poetry and short stories between 1924 and 1931, but his fame in the 1930s was cemented by the first two books of his biographical trilogy, “Childhood” and “Adolescence” (1930). Meanwhile, he had married and had a son. He became a member of the Writers Union of Armenia in 1934.

          The wave of repression unleashed in Armenia after the assassination of Aghasi Khanjian in 1936 reached Mahari too. Trumped-up charges were brought against him and he was condemned to a ten-year exile from 1936-1946 in Siberia. After returning to Yerevan, in 1948 he was condemned, through new trumped-up charges, to life exile. In Siberia, he met Lithuanian student Antonina Povilaitite, who had also been condemned to life exile. They married and lived with the hope of change. Stalin died in 1953, and Mahari and his wife, together with their newly-born daughter, managed to return to Yerevan in 1954. Their daughter would die shortly thereafter, and they would later have a son.

After seventeen years of exile, the writer returned to his homeland in bad health, but with the inner strength to continue his writing. He became one of the leading voices in the literary life of Armenia during the 1950s and 1960s. He published the third part of his trilogy, “On the Eve of Youth” (1956), a volume of poetry in 1959 and a collection of short stories, “The Voice of Silence” (1962), where he reflected the Siberian years.  Another Siberian memoir, “Barbed Wire in Flower,” was first published posthumously in the weekly “Nayiri” of Beirut (1971); it was published in Yerevan only in 1988. He received the title of Emeritus Cultural Activist of Armenia in 1965.

          Mahari published his most important book, the novel “Burning Orchards,” in 1966 (there is a translation in English), an account of Armenian life in Van before World War I, during the self-defense of the city, and afterwards. It created a lively controversy because of some of his views, and he was forced to rewrite it; the second version was published in 1979 in a curtailed form. The final edition was only published in 2004, edited by Grigor Achemyan, Mahari’s eldest son, who has published several unpublished volumes and has prepared an edition of unpublished works in thirteen volumes.

          Kourken Mahari passed away in Palanga (Lithuania), on June 17, 1969, and was buried in Yerevan. (Wikipedia).

4.     Shavarsh Nartouni (Շաւարշ Նարդունի), 1898-1968. His baptismal name was Askanaz Ayvazian. He was born in Armash, Ottoman Empire and passed away in Marseille, France. He was a physician by training but was more involved in literary endeavors. For decades he also edited “Hye Pouj” (Հայ Բուժ – Armenian Medicine), a medical monthly.

5.   “Pazmaveb” (Բազմավէպ)  is an academic journal covering Armenian studies. It is published by the Mechitarist monastery in San Lazzaro degli Armeni, Venice, Italy. According to Robert H. Hewsen, it is the first Armenian scholarly journal. It is the longest-running Armenian publication still being published.

6.    Fridtjof Wedel-Jarlsberg Nansen (10 October 1861 – 13 May 1930) was a Norwegian polymath and Nobel Peace Prize laureate. He gained prominence at various points in his life as an explorer, scientist, diplomat, and humanitarian. He introduced the "Nansen passport" for stateless persons, a certificate that used to be recognized by more than 50 countries.

 

They Were, are No More ((Կային, Չկան): Hrair Sassouni (No. 5)

“They Were, (and) are no more” (Կային, Չկան) is the title of the last chapter of Antranig Zarougian’s “The Greats and the Others” (Մեծերը եւ Միւսները) book where he casts a glimpse of the way an intellectual group of writers related to each other, as poets, novelists, journalists, and editors who propelled the post genocide Western Armenian literature to new heights that subsided with their passing away. The attached is an abridged translated segment from that chapter. Vahe H. Apelian

“ After Rue Richer, the next sanctuary was the “Haratch”1 journal. But there was an important matter I needed to settle first. I have no visa. When I presented myself to the French consulate in Aleppo to get a visa, the consul was M. Delbek (Տելպեք). Even though we knew each other, he pretended not to know me and hence offered me a cool reception and asked me dismissively:

- “Why do you want to visit France?”

Just to have said something, I said:

- “To admire the country.”

He responded with a sharp rebuke:

- ‘But sir, you had ample opportunity to admire France in here, but you lost it.”

His remark was obvious. Syria had just gotten rid of the French mandate with a struggle and the Armenians had naturally sided with the local Arabs. I was supposed to humbly put up with his rebuke and accept his remark and move on. My status as an applicant gave me no other room. However, his one remark, his demeanor and his overt scorn turned into a debate.

- “You, Armenians, are an ungrateful people.”

I realized that my ears started buzzing and I started feeling hot and flushed.

- “Are you telling us that we are ungrateful when, it is simply our gratitude towards the Arabs that compelled us to stand against the French whom we valued. Let us face it. Even if all the Armenians sided you, could you have stayed  a day longer?”

I should have stopped here. What I had said could have construed as tolerable. But something else stirred in me and I blurted it out at the cost of endangering my getting a permit to visit France.

- “Mr. Consul, do you remember the events in Cilicia? There too, the Armenian believed in France, but were abandoned. I was four or five years old, but I remember. We were displaced and were in Aintab. An early morning my mother woke me up and told  me while crying – ‘Get up, get up, the French have left last night, the Turks now will rush in.” And holding me by my arm and carrying a bundle of rags under her  other  arm we fled to the Armenian quarter so that the Turks would not slain us. The previous night the French army had left without alerting. Even the Armenian combatants were forbidden to stay put to protect their compatriots. You tell us now that we are ungrateful.”

I was moved and I was left with the impression he too was mellowing down. He fixed his gaze at me for a long time while tapping his desk with his fingers and finally said:

- “Well, well, since you say that you will go to Italy from there, I will issue you a transit visa for France. But admit that you were not in your brightest during the last event.”

It was the first time that I was leaving for overseas and I had no clue what “transit visa” meant. I felt elated and pocketed my stamped passport and left the consulate feeling secure and triumphantly entered Paris. It is after my arrival that I realized the visa the son-of-a-gun Derbetk had issued was only for two days' stay. I had to renew my visa if I wanted to stay longer. 

I am now standing in the hall of a government office in front of a closed door trailing a long line waiting for my turn. They invited the attendants three at a time. Finally, my turn arrived after an intolerable wait. I entered the office  along with two other Lebanese. I was in between the two. The lady who was going to grant us an extension for our visa was a fat lady, around fifty years old, unsmiling, and bitter looking. The first Lebanese received his extension. I extend to her my passport. Seeing the picture of the Syrian eagle on the cover, she flew into a rage.

-“Sir, you do not like us, we do not like you, we are even. So, get out of here.”

I had not realized that there was such a hatred against the Syrians. I was standing still with the passport in my hands. I could not utter a single word. Nothing of the sort I had said to the French Syrian consul, I dared say here. Aleppo was Armenia to me. Here I am like the legendary king Arshag2 on Persian soil. The witch dismissively gestured at me  with her hands to leave and make room for the next applicant, much like she would have, had she been annoyed by a fly.

The Lebanese who was standing behind me hurled a gross insult at her on my behalf. I cannot write the expression here, but it had the  Arabic words that souned much like a “kiss” and “mother”. It was refreshing to hear it. But it would not help me in any way.

It was total fiasco. I was visiting Paris for the very first time and before even visiting the Eiffel tower, I was being kicked out. I felt dejected and depressed and went to Hrair Sassouni’s restaurant in Place d’Alexandrie, next to a large tree. My last hope rested on Arshag Chobanian but I was going to see him the following day and thus offered no immediate solution. I explained my predicament to Hrair.

-“ You do not need to go to anyone else, come tomorrow morning and we go and arrange it for you.”

- “But already two days have passed. Tomorrow means that I have overstayed my visa and that scares me.”

- “Come tomorrow at 9 a.m. and do not think,’ he said carrying  with his French wife to the kitchen a carton container full of vegetables. 

I was wondering whether I should believe him or not when he returned smiling, looked confident, and was very amicable. I was seeing this man for the very first time. From his demeanor and his dress, he appeared to me a street-smart man. I knew that there were some among them who were adroit, enterprising  and could get things done. But there were also those who were simply more of a loudmouth than anything else. Which among them was Hrair? I could not dismiss from my mind the dog gampr3 that threw me out. I was envisioning diminutive Hrair in front of that ferocious woman and was sinking more in my despair. But I had no other avenue. I had to wait for tomorrow. I was in a shipwreck.

The next morning, I met him before nine o’clock. We are in the official building. Hrair saluted an official, exchanged joke with another behind a counter. He looked for someone and located him and three of us entered an elevator that took us right in the dog's den. There were a few there. They were all Frenchmen. Among them there was someone who was seating at the edge of a desk with one of his legs touching the floor, the other midair,  exchanging pleasantries with that woman. I noticed that she knew how to smile. 

No one was paying attention to us. They hardly took notice of us and continued their pleasantries.  Hrair’s friend, without asking anyone else, took the square visa stamp, and noted fifteen days on my visa and stamped it and we went down. The whole thing did not last more than five minutes. There were no words exchanged with the lady who would have stamped my visa. I am ecstatic. 

When we were in the streets, Hrair posed a moment, and tapped his breast with his palm and with a pompous air, said:

- “Go and tell khalo4 (Garo Sassouni) the kind of status Hrair has attained in Paris.”

But immediately, a bit pensive and almost whispering as if there would be people who would be hearing us, he added:

- “I am joking my dear unger (comrade). It was not a big deal. In the evening they will be showing with three or four friends for dinner and drink a few bottles of wine and that is all to it. Things are done this way here.”

And then, he produced a bundle of cash and gave it to me saying: “When you return to Beirut, give it to our khalo. It’s a gift for the boys. Let him accept it, it's from me.”

Forty years later I am in the Place d’Alexandrie. The big tree is still there. The only things that do not die in France appear to be the trees. 

But where is Hrair, his restaurant and thousands of the other grown-up orphans like him? Where are they?

They were, are no more.

 

Notes

1.       Haratch ('Forward') (Armenian: Յառաջ) was an Armenian daily newspaper based in France. Haratch was founded in 1925 by Schavarch Missakian. The newspaper was famous for attracting high profile names in Armenian literature and journalism.

2.       King Arshag Legend claims that King Arshag spoke forcefully when stepping on the portion of the rug, in the Persian king’s palace, under which it contained soil from Armenia but not when away from it.

3.       Gampr, Gampr (Armenian: գամփռ gamp’ṙ) is an Armenian breed of flock guardian dog native to the Armenian Highlands. 

4.      Khalo, a Kurdish word for uncle, endearingly used.

They Were, Are No More (Կային, Չկան): Aram Andonian (No. 4)

 “They Were, (and) are no more” (Կային, Չկան) is the title of the last chapter of Antranig Zarougian’s “The Greats and the Others” (Մեծերը եւ Միւսները) book where he casts a glimpse of the way an intellectual group of writers related to each other, as poets, novelists, journalists, and editors who propelled the post genocide Western Armenian literature to new heights that subsided with their passing away. The attached is an abridged translated segment from that chapter. Vahe H. Apelian

“ The following day, I was in the Noubarian Library with Aram Andonian.¹ He was the first to speak.

- “Let us go to eat and then we talk”

And after tapping with his hand at the knee of his leg on which he limped noticeably, he said:

- “The First War made me lame. During the Second War my son was injured  in the only battalion of the French Army destroyed in fifteen days, that fought valiantly. As a result, he lost one of his legs.

After the lunch, as an attractive server started serving us coffee, he turned to me and said:

- “Tell Shirian that if I do not have coffee, but  I offer coffee served by such a beautiful girl,” gesturing amicably to her.

Andonian must have been a regular there because the girl smiled and seemed to accept the compliment although she understood not a word of the language we spoke. Such gestures do not need a translator.

After the lunch we stayed together for three hours in the library. A few years there was an uproar in the Armenian newspapers over  Professor Ardashes Apeghian², visiting Paris, which was under occupation,  accompanied by  a few Gestapo officials and had picked a few books from the Noubarian Library and taken them with him to Berlin. There was a sense of shame in me as well. I thought I had a share in the crime committed by an ideological Armenian intellectual who had robbed an Armenian library with the help of the Nazi police.

- “Do not pay much attention to the uproar in the Armenian newspapers.” Said Andonian. “There was not much in what he took. He has already returned most of them. He took with him those he needed for his personal research, although I suspect that serious scientific research can be expected from that person…..”

Then suddenly, he said:

- “ Let us leave such nonsense. See those…”

“Those” were three or four notebooks with black covers. They were mid-size, in small tiles lined sheets of papers. All the pages of the books were densely  filled in with a sharp pencil in small size letters. It was a genocide diary. On some of the pages there were drawings of emaciated bodies, cadavers, sullen faced bandits, horsemen with raised swords……….

He read to me a few pages from each notebook that had dates, names, and occurrences.

After the death of Andonian these diaries were not in the Noubarian Library anymore. I found out that Ardavast  had taken possession of his father’s  notebooks. I looked for him. I had people look for him. Puzant Topalian searched him. Garbis Jerashian undertook the work of a detective looking for the address of Ardavast among the countless addresses in Paris and eventually found him. He appealed to Artavast to return the notebooks to the library. He categorically refused. His responses for monetary rewards were vague. I heard with my own ears, although it was not authenticated, that Ardavast in a moment of rage had wanted to burn all his father’s manuscripts…..

I have never met Ardavast in person. He likely has a gentle soul and a kind heart, although understandably bitter for what life had in store for him. If there is anyone who reads these lines assumes the task and succeeds in having him return his father’s manuscripts, surely will merit a grateful Armenian nation.

It is impossible to come to terms that an Aram Andonian’s  son – an Ardavast – could destroy or obliterate his father’s trust that besides being personal, is also  national.

Nonetheless, what happened to those black covered valuable manuscripts?

They were, are no more…. 

 

1.      Aram Andonian was born in Constantinople. There he edited the Armenian journals Luys (Light) and Dzaghik (Flower) and the newspaper Surhandak (Herald). Andonian then went on to serve in the department of military censorship of the Ottoman Empire. He was arrested by order of interior minister Talat Pasha of the Ottoman Empire on the eve of April 24, 1915, and joined the large number of Armenian notables who were deported from the Ottoman capital. Andonian was deported to Chankiri, then, halfway there, returned to Ankara and was deported again to the camps in the Ra's al-'Ayn and Meskene. However, Andonian survived in Aleppo in the underground.[3] When British forces occupied Aleppo, a lower-level Turkish official, Naim Bey collaborated with Aram Andonian in publishing his memoirs, an account of the deportation of the Armenians. The Memoirs of Naim Bey were published in 1920, and are sometimes referred to as the "Andonian Telegrams" or the "Talat Pasha Telegrams." The telegrams are purported to constitute direct evidence that the Armenian genocide of 1915–1917 was state policy of the Ottoman Empire. They were introduced as evidence in the trial of Soghomon Tehlirian.

According to Robert Melson, Andonian's report on post-1915 deportations and killings of Armenians are crucial for the research of that period.

          From 1928 to 1951 Andonian directed the Nubarian Library in Paris, and succeeded in hiding and saving most of the collection during the German occupation of Paris. He also worked to collect eyewitness testimonies of the genocide.

He is the author of a Complete Illustrated History of the Balkan War (Vol. 1–5, 1912–1913), published originally in Armenian. (Wikipedia).

2.      Artashes Abeghyan (also Abeghian) (Armenian: Արտաշես Գաբրիելի Աբեղյան 1 January 1878, Astabad, Nakhchivan – 13 March 1955, Munich) was an Armenian philologist, historian, educator, activist and politician of the Armenian Revolutionary Federation. He was the son of Armenian scholar Manuk Abeghyan, who was behind the Armenian orthography reform in the 1920's. He graduated from Nersisian School.During the period of the First Republic of Armenia (1918-1920), he served as a member of parliament.

From 1926 to 1945, he was professor of Armenian Studies at the University of Berlin, and wrote prolifically in German on Armenology. During World War II, Abeghyan headed the Armenischen Nationalen Gremiums (Armenian National Council) in Berlin, a collaborationist body created by Nazi Germany. He also wrote for the ANG's newspaper titled Azat Hayastan ("Free Armenia"). His home was destroyed by the Allied bombing of Berlin, after which he fled to Stuttgart. He settled in Munich in 1947, where he taught Armenian Studies at the University of Munich until his death in 1955.

 

They Were, are No More (Կային, Չկան): Levon Shirian (No. 3)

“They Were, (and) are no more” (Կային, Չկան) is the title of the last chapter of Antranig Zarougian’s “The Greats and the Others” (Մեծերը եւ Միւսները) book. The book casts a glimpse of the way of an intellectual group of writers as poets, novelists, journalists, and editors who propelled the post genocide Western Armenian literature to new heights that subsided with their passing away. The attached is a an abridged translated segment from that chapter. Vahe H. Apelian

- “Tell the boy to come here. We do not devour people. Let him not be scared…."

The person who is speaking at the other end of the line is Aram Andonian¹ who is instructing Megerditch Barsamian. The “boy” in question is I. I  had taken the handset to set up an appointment with Andonian, when at that very moment a stranger entered the shop and grabbed the handset from my hands and started talking on my behalf.

- “Aram, you know that we middle easterners are addicted to coffee and in this town only you and I know how to make middle eastern coffee. But  poor fellow, you do not have coffee. Therefore, I am taking the boy with me. Tomorrow he will meet you, by then I am hoping that you will procure coffee, if you can that is, good luck. Bye for now…."

Without asking me and after setting up my appointment on my behalf, he introduced himself

- Levon Shirian (Լեւոն Շիրեան)

His name did not ring a bell. I did not know any writer or a party activist by that name or anyone else for that matter. I hoped he was not also one of those who had made a fortune on the black market and was more than eager to show me the trappings of the fortune he made during the war. The war had recently ended and among the widespread misery in the country there were those who had made a fortune. There were a good number of them.  You could even tell them from twenty steps away, from the way they walked, dressed and the air of contentment they carried on their faces.

The previous evening, I had become the victim to one of them, our own Hagop from our days in the orphanage. He dragged me to his house, kept me for dinner and ruined my evening. There was not a cup of water I drank, or a cup of coffee I sipped that was not accompanied by a lengthy explanation: “ Mon Vieaux, old chap, I hope you did not mistake it for glass. It’s pure crystal”, and when it came to the dishes: “Did you see the logo of the castle imprinted on them? When it came to old fashioned armchairs, “these are from Countess Matilda’s house!”

And now this Shirian, with his daring demeanor, carefree disposition, reminded me of Hagop. I looked with an apprehension to Barsamian covertly conveying my intention of declining the offer and expecting an affirmation from him. He understood my predicament and with an air assurance told me:

- “Go, go, you will not regret.”

We went. He was a cheerful man. His house resembled the untidy and unkept bachelor’s den. As far as I remember he lived next to his small socks manufacturing factory he ran. As to the coffee, although he had bragged about his coffee preparing skills it turned out to be the type that you feel like pouring it on the person after having taken one sip. But instinctively I knew that he did not lack the skills, he was simply in a hurry to show me a moment too soon his prized treasure. 

He opened the door of a room, much like people open the door of holy sanctum or holy of holies, slowly, ceremoniously and with reverence. And with a gentleness that contradicted his audacious personality, led me inside.

- "Step in please."

It was quite large room. All the walls were literally coated with books. What kind of books? Only and only pertaining to Dikran the Great. There is nothing unusual about a room full of books. But such a vast collection of books pertaining only to one person, Dikran the Great, and one subject, the empire he carved, is rare, especially that the collection had been realized painstakingly by the relentless efforts of a single person. I had not seen such a collection of books before and I have not seen since.

Hundreds of books in whatever language, suffice that the Dikran the Great’s name was mentioned in a single sentence or reference is made to Dikran the Great in any way. Then maps, sculptures, coins, and more maps, large and small, in Armenian, French, Latin or Greek. Any depiction of the empire Dikran the Great carved, that showed the outward boundaries of his empire and depicted the glory of Dikran the Great was in his collection.

Levon was standing still in the middle of the room and was savoring my  amazement and astonishment. 

- “What?”, he spoke finally and said: “seeing me in my work garmet covered with dust, you took me for a miller.”

Levon Shirian was an educated person. He was an ardent literary man and a committed Dikranophile.  His life’s mission had been amassing that library about Dikran the Great and the empire he carved.

After forty years, Levon Shirian and the library he had amassed that included rare books and maps are no more.

What happened to Levon Shirian and his collection? 

They were, are no more.

                                        *****

1.               Aram Andonian was born in Constantinople. There he edited the Armenian journals Luys (Light) and Dzaghik (Flower) and the newspaper Surhandak (Herald). Andonian then went on to serve in the department of military censorship of the Ottoman Empire. He was arrested by order of interior minister Talat Pasha of the Ottoman Empire on the eve of April 24, 1915, and joined the large number of Armenian notables who were deported from the Ottoman capital. Andonian was deported to Chankiri, then, halfway there, returned to Ankara and was deported again to the camps in the Ra's al-'Ayn and Meskene. However, Andonian survived in Aleppo in the underground.[3] When British forces occupied Aleppo, a lower-level Turkish official, Naim Bey collaborated with Aram Andonian in publishing his memoirs, an account of the deportation of the Armenians. The Memoirs of Naim Bey were published in 1920, and are sometimes referred to as the "Andonian Telegrams" or the "Talat Pasha Telegrams." The telegrams are purported to constitute direct evidence that the Armenian genocide of 1915–1917 was state policy of the Ottoman Empire. They were introduced as evidence in the trial of Soghomon Tehlirian.

According to Robert Melson, Andonian's report on post-1915 deportations and killings of Armenians are crucial for the research of that period.

          From 1928 to 1951 Andonian directed the Nubarian Library in Paris, and succeeded in hiding and saving most of the collection during the German occupation of Paris. He also worked to collect eyewitness testimonies of the genocide.

He is the author of a Complete Illustrated History of the Balkan War (Vol. 1–5, 1912–1913), published originally in Armenian. (Wikipedia)

 

They Were, are No More (Կային, Չկան): Rue Richer (No. 2)

“They Were, (and) are no more” (Կային, Չկան) is the title of the last chapter of Antranig Zarougian’s “The Greats and the Others” (Մեծերը եւ Միւսները) book. The book casts a glimpse of the way of an intellectual group of writers as poets, novelists, journalists, and editors who propelled the post genocide Western Armenian literature to new heights that subsided with their passing away. The attached is an abridged translated segment from that chapter. Vahe H. Apelian.

“ It is a narrow street. On both side there are shops and small restaurants and hardly a perceptible sideway. It looks more like the main street of a rural town, but from a far distance, this small street – Rue Richer – was the center of Paris for me and Paris was the heartbeat of the world.

In my youthful imagination this is where the Louvre Museum, the Pantheon, the opera, along with that all beauties about Paris should have been located. Napoleon Bonaparte’s tomb and the Eiffel Tower could not have been further away. That was all that Rue Richer was to me before I visited Paris for the very first time.  The taxi took me to a street that negated everything I had conjured in my mind.

Barber shops, grocery stores, cafés……….

Having noticed my disappointment, Puzant, still in his blue work garment held me by my arm, took me to the end of the street and with the same boastfulness and emphasis Napoleon must have pointed the great Sphynx to his soldier and told them: ““From the heights of the Pyramids, forty centuries look down on us”, Puzant said:

- “Our neighborhood is modest, but see, Folies Bergere is here.¹”

*****

It was fifty years ago. Everything that reached us from France as beautiful literature, in a beautiful publication carried Rue Richer Street in its address. “Zvartnots” (Զուարթնոց)2, “Gyank Yev Arouesd” ( “Life and Art” -  Կեանք եւ Արուեստ)3, “Arevmoudk” (“West”-Արեւմուտք)4 and all their contributors iincluding “Araxe” (Արաքս) printing shop, were all here, on Rue Richer, behind a two paneled door that opened to an inner neighborhood. On the right  was Hrand Palouyan (Հրանտ Բալուեան)5, and on the left Puzant Topalian (Բիւզանդ Թոփալեան)6 and in between the two was Megerditch Barsamiam’s (Մկարտիչ Պարսամեան) 7 cellar bookstore as if to keep a harmonious balance between the two.

During the past fifty years I have been in Paris many times, at times twice a year. I have a lot of memories and sentimental remembrances about my visits there. Some of which I have written and published; others could be written but there are some that will never be written. It is fair that I frame my first visit to Paris, that is to say the Rue Richer Street.

 But before I start writing about it, should I not visit and see what is left on the Rue Richer Street from the old? I am immersed in such thoughts when suddenly, of all places and circumstances, I come across face to face to Vahram (Mavian)8, who happened to be in Paris on vacation from “the far distant Portugal”.  Ever cheerful and ready to crack a joke, but his demeanor changed, a sadness appeared on his eyes when he learned my intention and with an utmost solemnity told me:

- “Yes, the Rue Richer Street, let us visit it together.”

We set up a time to visit it the following day. But we did not go; not together nor by ourselves. There is no need to confirm what we already know.  None of the dear faces we knew is there anymore, absolutely no one. Visiting Rue Richer would be much like pursuing  lost souls in the ruins of Ani. Attempting to look for (Puzant) Topalian, (Megerditch) Barsamian, (Hrand) Palouyan would be much like playing an unpleasant game hoping that we can suddenly meet (Arshag) Chobanian (Արշակ Չոպանեան)9, (Nighoshos) Sarafian (Նիկողոս Սարաֆեան)10, (Shavarsh) Nartouni (Շաւարշ Նարդունի)11, (Nshan) Beshiktashlian (Նշան Պէշիկթաշլեան)12,  (Arshavir?) Khontgarian (Արշաւիր Խոնդկարեան)13 and the others.

It is much better therefore to hold on to the old picture as it was  and without retouching it let it remain hanging on the wall just as it was.”

They were, are no more.

 

Notes 

1.      The Folies Bergère is a cabaret music hall, located at 32 Rue Richer in the 9th Arrondissement.

2      Zvartnots (or Zwartnots / Zwarthnotz, Armenian: Զուարթնոց, was a literary review in the Armenian language founded in January 1929 by Hrant Palouyan and ceased publication in 1964.

3. “     Gyank Yev Arouesd” ( “Life and Art” -  Կեանք եւ Արուեստ), Armenian literary magazine edited by A. Barsamian in Paris from 1931-1940. 

4.    Arevmoudk” (“West”-Արեւմուտք), a literary magazine in Paris published by  Levon Mozian ( Լեւոն Մոզեան) from 1945 to 1952.

5.     Hrand Palouyan (Հրանտ Բալուեան) publisher of Zvartnots literary magazine.

6.      Puzant Topalian (Բիւզանդ Թոփալեան), 1902-1970. He was born in Aintab and passed away on April 30, in France. He was a poet, a painter, and an editor. 

7.      Megerditch Barsamiams’ (Մկարտիչ Ասատուի Պարսամեան), 1886-1965. He was born May 7, in Agn, in the Ottoman Empire and passed away on June 18, in Paris. He was a writer, literary critic, an editor, and a pedagogue.

8.    Vahram Mavian (Վահրամ Մավեան), 1926-1983.  He was born in Jerusalem and passed away in Lisbon, Portugal. From 1960 and onward, he was affiliated with the Armenian Department of the Calouste Gulbenian Foundation in Lisbon. He was a poet and a prose-writer.

9.      Arshag Chobanian  (Արշակ Չոպանեան), 1872-1954.  He was born on July 15 in Beşiktaş, Constantinople, Ottoman Empire and passed away on June 8 in Paris. France. He was an Armenian short story writer, journalist, editor, poet, translator, literary critic, playwright, philologist and a novelist. 

10.    Nigoghos Sarafian (Նիկողոս Սարաֆեան),1902-1972.  He was born on March in Varna, Bulgarian and Passed away in Paris, France. He was an Armenian writer, poet, editor and journalist.

11.   Shavarsh Nartouni (Շաւարշ Նարդունի), 1898-1968. His baptismal name was Askanaz Ayvazian. He was born in Armash, Ottoman Empire and passed away in Marseille, France. He was a physician by training but was more involved in literary endeavors. For decades he also edited “Hye Pouj” (Հայ Բուժ – Armenian Medicine), a medical monthly.

12.    Nshan Beshiktashlian (Նշան Պէշիկթաշլեան), 1898-1972.  He was born in Istanbul, Ottoman Empire and passed away in Paris, France. He was an Armenian poet, writer, satirist and novelist.

13.     Arshavir Khontgarian (Արշաւիր Խոնդկարեան)  ? Information I have about him is conflicting. Comments welcomed.