“Food tasted like ash in my mouth and everything was dim. Then I found your mother. When we were married, the whole camp celebrated with us like they were our cousins. Because we had no real family—no parents, no grandparents, no aunts, no uncles. We were orphans, but most everyone there had lost as much as us, and some a little more. Azniv and Shakeh were my new family. It was my job to take care of them. Little by little, the sun came back. And when your brother was born, we named him for my brother.
“This world is made of dark and light, my girl, and in the darkest times you have to believe the sun will come again, even if you yourself don’t live to see it.”
I asked, “Is that an Armenian proverb?”
My father smiled faintly. “I made that one up myself.”
O
N A SUNDAY AFTERNOON
in January, I layered on my warmest clothes and left the apartment carrying a bouquet of fabric flowers. I had made them from scraps of material, with a large white button sewn into the center of each. They were bound to a knitting needle wrapped with green yarn to resemble a stem. It was a homely tribute to Auntie Shakeh, whose absence I had been feeling keenly.
As I approached the rue de Belleville, I saw Zaven leaning against the wall on our corner. It seemed like an odd place to be loitering on such a cold morning.
I waved to him. “So nice to see you. You never visit us anymore.”
“I’m a workingman. You don’t see your brother much either, do you?”
“Only on Sunday.”
“Where are you off to?” he asked.
“Père-Lachaise.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll join you.”
He fell into step beside me. He was wearing his gray cloth coat with the collar turned up and no scarf, no hat, no gloves.
“Aren’t you cold?” I asked him.
“It’s good for the circulation,” he said.
“And hunger stimulates the appetite.”
“Of course. And when the well runs dry, you appreciate the water.”
I laughed. “Now you sound like my father.”
The skies were clear and blue. The smell of wood smoke hung on the air as we made our way up the hill. Walking with Zaven dispelled the melancholy of my pilgrimage. Now the cold air and the exertion of the climb were exhilarating.
“How’s your mother?” Zaven asked.
“She’s working, eating, sleeping. But she doesn’t smile, and she hardly talks.”
“I should come spar with your father to liven things up.”
“You should. He worships the Americans these days. And he’s happy that the Russians are holding out against the Germans. But he still thinks—”
He completed my sentence: “—that Stalin’s an assassin.”
After reaching the cemetery, we made our way past rows of marble mausoleums to the divisions far up the hill where the Armenians were buried. We passed in front of the tomb of General Antranik and then the ornate marble mausoleum of Boghos Nubar Pasha. Finally we arrived in a corner and stood before the smallest, simplest stone:
SHAKEH NAZARIAN
, 1907–1942.
As I knelt down and pushed the knitting needle into the frozen earth near her name, the sadness welled up inside me again. Zavig sat down on the stone border and gestured to a spot next to him, where I came over and settled.
“You managed to bring your aunt flowers in the dead of winter,” he said.
“We manage to find something to eat, even if it’s turnips. We manage to stay warm, even if it’s by burning crates or hiding in our beds.”
“You shouldn’t be so bitter, young lady.”
“You sound like Missak. He acts like he’s sixty years old and I’m his granddaughter.”
“Your brother was born an old man.”
“And how were you born?” I asked.
“Me?” He grinned. “Tell me what you think.”
“You were born smiling. And what about me?” I asked.
“You’re complicated.”
“You’ve known me since I was born. I’m as plain as bread.”
“Look,” he said, almost abruptly, “your lips are blue, and this stone has frozen my backside. Let’s get a hot drink.”
On the way down the hill we stopped at a café—fake coffee for Zaven, and for me a weedy imitation tea, no milk, no sugar. But it was hot. And I enjoyed sitting at a table with him as if we were on a date, even though we didn’t say much. In the Old Country, families arranged marriages for their children, so girls didn’t go about in public with boys who were not their relatives. It occurred to me that if this was a date, it was the first one I had ever been on, and that it was a date with the boy that I had long desired.
Zaven interrupted my reverie. “What are you smiling about?”
“Nothing. How’s your sister?”
“She’s skinny and nervous, but she’s okay. I promised I would help with her math homework this afternoon.”
“What time?”
He smiled and shrugged. “A while ago.”
When we reached my corner, Zaven asked, “Should I walk you to your door?”
“No need,” I said.
He paused. “You want to do this again next Sunday?”
“Go to the cemetery?”
“Or someplace else. Whatever you like.”
I wondered what my brother would think. “Maybe I should check with Missak . . .”
“Don’t worry,” Zaven said. “I already talked to him. It’s okay.”
I was suddenly annoyed, imagining the two of them discussing me as though I were a piece of livestock. “Oh, it is, is it? You two already talked about me and decided it was okay? What if it wasn’t okay with me? What if I didn’t like the idea?”
He winced, ducking his head. “That’s the risk, isn’t it? But I hoped you would.”
My anger quickly burned out because I had, in fact, been waiting a long time for him to ask me.
“So, what do you think?” he asked.
“Come by our house next Sunday in the early afternoon. But no cemetery . . .”
He grinned, took my hand, and kissed the rough wool of my mitten.
I floated the rest of the way home. He had kissed my hand. What a romantic thing to do. I paused at the bottom of the stairwell to run the scene through my mind again, sighing happily. Then I ran up the stairs two at a time, out of breath as I reached our landing.
When I walked in the door, Missak was in the front hall.
“So, how was Zavig?” he asked.
I said, “Stay out of my business.”
“You think it was a coincidence he ran into you this afternoon?”
“Thanks, but we won’t need any more help from you.”
“We?” He laughed. “Already you’re a
we
?”
“What are you two fighting about?” my father called from the front room.
“Nothing,” we said in unison.
That night I pulled a bag of yarn from the armoire and sorted through the remnants. There was almost enough black yarn for a hat, but any scarf from it would have to be striped. I went to the bedroom and dragged the suitcase of Auntie’s clothes from under the bed. Inside was a thick black sweater.
I hesitantly approached my mother with the sweater as she stood over the sink in the kitchen peeling rutabagas.
“Mairig, would it be okay if I took this apart and used the yarn?” I asked.
My mother paused in her work. “It’s easy to unravel a life. What will you make?”
I said, “A scarf, a hat, and mittens.”
“And who will wear them?”
I tried to sound natural, as though this were nothing out of the ordinary, but I felt a thrill of excitement when I said, “Zaven.”
“We all love that boy, don’t we?” My mother looked at me knowingly.
An hour later I had two fat balls of black yarn in my lap. Sitting in Auntie’s chair in the front room, I quickly cast on the stitches and began to knit.
When Zaven knocked at our door the following Sunday, I pointedly ignored Missak’s raised eyebrows and smirk. I pretended there was nothing unusual about this visit. But as Zaven entered the front room, my father clapped him on the back and said, “If it were anyone but you, I would chase him off with a pitchfork, but I will accept you as a suitor for our Maral.”
I glared at my brother, who gestured that it wasn’t his doing. I turned accusingly to my mother, who pointedly avoided my eyes.
Zavig laughed. “Such a formal word, Uncle! We are good friends.”
“Don’t be a fox sneaking into my barnyard,” my father replied.
I said, “And I suppose that makes me a chicken.”
My mother asked, “Do you two have plans?”
Zaven replied, “I thought we’d go for a walk at the Buttes Chaumont.”
My mother said, “On a cold day like this? Ah, but you’re young. Just make sure you bundle up.”
In the front hall as we were putting on our coats, I said, “I have something for you.”
I handed the new woolens to him, and he turned them over admiringly. “Nice work, Maral.”
“What are you waiting for?” I asked. “Put them on.”
He pulled the cap over his ears, wound the scarf around his neck, and slid his hands into the mittens.
“How do I look?” he asked.
Of course he looked terribly handsome. “Are you fishing for compliments?”
“Who me?” He laughed.
As we walked toward the park he said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t think of anything else to do today. I’m short of cash.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s more cheerful than Père-Lachaise. And I like to walk.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. I’m happy to spend the afternoon with you no matter where we are.”
I blushed at this and then he took my hand, his black mitten clasping my gray one.
We reached the shallow pond in the middle of the park and saw it was frozen over. I stood leaning against a tree trunk watching as Zaven began to slide on the ice at the edge of the pond. When he was halfway around, he gingerly stepped toward the middle to see if it would hold. He inched his way farther onto the sheet of ice.
“It’s solid,” he shouted. “Come on.”
I shouted back, “It’s too dangerous.”
He had made his way to the middle of the pond. “I promise you, it’s solid. Watch.” He jumped up and down on the ice.
“Stop that! You’re crazy!”
“No, I’m not. Don’t be a coward.”
“Who are you calling a coward?”
“Then come out here.”
I slid my boot onto the icy edge, excited and fearful. He took a step toward me and waved for me to come closer. I took another step toward him. I inched to the center, pausing with each step to check that no fissures appeared beneath my feet. There were no signs or sounds of cracking ice. It was solid, as he had promised.
When I reached him, we stood facing each other, our breath making clouds on the air.
“Now what do we do?” I asked him.
“This,” he said, breaking into a run and skidding across the pond.
I chased after him and slid a few feet.
“Come on, you can go faster than that.” He flew over the ice.
I followed suit but lost my balance and landed in a spill at his feet. He pulled me to standing. Then we zipped back and forth across the ice until we were panting.
“It’s getting late,” he finally said. “We should head back.”
He put his arm around me as we strolled down the path leading to the park exit. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, the way his arm weighed on my shoulder, but I was afraid to say anything or pull away. All of this was new to me, but I saw him after school once walking with his arm around a girl on the rue St. Antoine. I had also passed him when he was sitting in a café with a girl on the place de la Bastille. He hadn’t seen me either time. Neither of the girls was Armenian. They both had short, stylish hair. One of them wore red lipstick. It made me feel drab and old-fashioned to remember it.
When we reached my corner, he asked, “Can I walk you home?”
“You don’t need to,” I said.
“I’d like to.”
When we entered the dim stairwell of our building, Zaven paused before the bottom step.
“Maral,” he said.
My heart beat faster.
He asked, “Would you mind if I kissed you?”
“I wouldn’t mind at all,” I said.
I closed my eyes, he put his lips to mine, and it was like a match set to dry leaves. When we separated, I was breathless.
“Oh,” I said. “I had better go now.”
“Until next week,” he called.
As I flew up the stairs, my feet barely skimming the treads, I thought,
So what that my hair is long and I still wear knee socks to school—he has chosen me.
T
HE END-OF-YEAR EXAMS LOOMED
ahead of me like a tall mountain range. I had no time for anything except preparing to scale them. In the one bit of good luck the war had brought, at the request of the Agriculture Department oral examinations were canceled for all students because people were needed in the fields. Our teachers were appalled at this interference with the regular program, but I was relieved we had to contend with only the written tests, which would be difficult enough. Each lunchtime, I went to the school library to prepare study guides, and in the evening, I pored over these outlines until my vision was blurred. I woke up early to study before school. I recited mathematical formulas while brushing my teeth.
My father muttered, “This girl’s going to ruin her eyesight and her health.” But it was said with pride.
My mother shooed me out of the kitchen. “I don’t need help with the dishes, girl. Go, go to your books.”
I set aside a few hours every Sunday afternoon for Zaven. Sometimes we had midday Sunday dinner with my family and sometimes with his. Our mothers always found something special for the meal, whether it was dumpling stew made from the meat of two squirrels Missak had hit with his slingshot or Auntie Shushan’s cabbage leaves stuffed with rice and minced black-market sausage.
Zaven’s mother taught me how to crochet doilies. His sister wanted to show me her schoolwork. One afternoon, his father offered to make me a pair of pumps, and he asked Zaven’s brother, Barkev, to take the measurements. Barkev and I went to the front hall, where I climbed onto a low stool and stood barefoot on a piece of cardboard. Barkev knelt on the floor in front of me running the stub of a yellow pencil around the edge of my foot. I looked down at the top of his dark head as he brushed his fingertips and the point of the pencil along my bare skin.