Snow Falling



My Grandfather Medzadur (photo not dated)

I  put my hands against the cold glass by my bed.  It wasn't a bed really, but a lezhanka under the window.  It was my lezhanka, to the left of my parents's bed, and under the window of our bedroom. The window had one of those huge sills, so if you wanted, you could even stand on the lezhanka and put your elbows on the sill and look out the window.  But on that day, I didn't put my elbows on the sill.  Instead, I stood on the lezhanka and put my hands right on the glass and blew on it.  On the glass.  My breath left a foggy mark on the glass, because it was so cold.  The glass, not my breath.  And the reason it was so cold was that it was winter.  And the reason, I was standing on the lezhanka and looking out, was that it was a really, really big day.  It was winter. And not just winter, but it was big day, because it was (are you sitting down!), because it was the first day of snow.  Snow was coming.  It was falling softly, so softly, that it seemed like the fog of my breath on the glass.  It came down so softly that it was like many little breaths having come together and suddenly covering everything. You could see through it, the fog, but it touched everything.  The snow came and came, and came.  And, I just stood there.  On the lezhanka, with my hands on the glass, with my mouth open.  Watching. 

 

Tereshkova, first woman in space

  

  "You know how you were born?", my mother asked. 
I knew I had been a quick delivery, but liked hearing the story anyway. My mother had a way of describing my birth as though it had been someone else's. My childhood, my cuteness, my curls were described as a matter of a past long gone and belonging to someone I didn't know, even while talking to me. It was always a fun story, though, so I smiled and nodded in return to her question.  She looked into the air in front of the couch where we were sitting  and continued.
     "I go to the hospital and they just call Herminka, and we were waiting for her". It had taken me years, literally decades to figure out who these people were and how they interconnected.  Since no one told me anything, I sort of had to do it all myself.  Herminka was my mom's OB/GYN and also a childhood friend from Bulgaria.  I saw her in Sofia as an adult and really liked her.  She'd left Armenia in the late 60's to go back to Bulgaria, something she was envied for as I remember. I grew up with her memory, along with the many other ghost members of my parents's community of friends.  Memories of these ghosts always accompanied events, conversations and all interactions in general.
    Remember, when so-and-so was in Varna or Cairo? Oh, they weren't stupid enough to come here.  No, they go to Lebanon or Canada or Australia. Such and such see them at airport in Paris, on way to New York or maybe Brazil, al chap chem kider... that much I don't know...  This is what I heard all the time, and so the confusion was overwhelming and it took me a couple of years to figure it out. To be honest, it's still a work in progress.
     "Herminka go to hospital, we start talk and then before we even have a room, PHOT, you were there, like gymnast!". My mother smiled at the image.  I smiled too.  I liked the onomatopoetic "PHOT", a short version of "PHOT DEI", to describe a sudden event. I liked the image of a baby catapulting into the world. Catapulting like a gymnast landing a summersault off a balance beam.
     "They call you Tereshkova," she said.  "You know who that is?", she turned to ask.
     "Yeah, the first woman in space," I nodded.
     I wanted to ask how she'd felt when first seeing me, but all I could do was smile. Tereshkova, hmmm.  So, that's what my name was.  Not bad.
     All these years, I had thought that I had had no name. Literally.  I hadn't been properly named when born and the issue of my name had been a point of contention.  The top contenders were Hripsemeh and Verjine, but these didn't work. Thus, I walked around for a year with no name. Finally, through no fault of my relatives, a name took.  This was my family's lore.  A tale told at parties and dinner, about how they couldn't think of a name and no one could agree.  There were other contenders as well.  Gayane was my brother's choice and Knarik was my uncle's.  In fact, there was even a gift sent from the guys at the factory where my father and uncle worked.
    "What's the child's name?" my uncle was asked.  Not being certain, he said, "Knarik". So they sent the gift to little Knarik.
    Eventually came a point when a decision had to be made.  I was beginning to respond and walk. They had to call me something. My uncle apparently started to call me "Anahit". This is one version of the story.  Other people had started calling  me by other names, but finally something took. As different names mutated and changed while completing the circuit, something took.  Anna.
    So, that's my name now.  Anna.  I like it, but to tell the truth, I have always found it odd that it was a process and not an act. For the longest time, I thought this was how it was for everyone.  Imagine my surprise upon seeing a name book and learning that for most people it worked out differently.
     When my mother told me the Tereshkova story, I somehow felt more complete. My name, the thing that came to people's mind when I sprang into this world -- literally, according to my mom-- was Tereshkova.  The first woman in space.  Not to shabby, I'd say. I was so excited, I could have burst.  Tereshkova. Wow. 

Photo Assignment

O

                                                                      The Photo Assignment

 

 I decided to take a picture of my parents in our apartment in Hollywood.  Having set up black sweats as the non-reflective surface and a reading lamp as the source of light, I asked them to sit in the corner of the living room.  My father sat in the armchair and my mother on the little table next to it, and then I placed their hands together on the black sweats placed between them. Suddenly, their demeanor changed and they became a young couple in love.  It was funny at the time, because I had never seen that side of them before.  The picture took a moment or two, I took several shots and soon she ran to the kitchen, while he remained seated.

                “So, how did you meet?”  I asked.  It was the first time I’d asked this question.  My parents did not usually allow for such personal questions and having heard different versions, I decided to clarify the record.                      

                 “Arten Alicin mitchotsov  handibadz ei .  Well, I had already met her through Alice,” he said.  Alice, my godmother was a Ekiptahai—an Armenian from Egypt, like my father and his family. One of the vorps, orphans of the Genocide, she had grown up in an orphanage and after marrying had moved to Armenia and next door to my mother and her family.   

Yev, meg orm, trolleybus nsdat ei, yev inkn al ners mdav.  Yes getsa, iren ators dvi. Teghin hakust hakvatds er. Gortzen verch er.   “And one day, we were on the trolleybus and I was sitting and she came in, and I stood up and gave her my seat,” he said.  “She was wearing a yellow dress.  It was after work.”

            “It was a blue dress.  Light blue, and it was before work.  We were going to work,” my mother said, rushing in from the kitchen with her hands gesticulating and lips pursed. Gabuyt er.  Pats gabuyd, yev kordz en arach er.  Kordzi gertaink gor.   She said this and rushed back to the kitchen.

             Nei sene.  Nstadzeink , xosil sksank yev kino gar kaghakum,  gartsem Humphrey Bogar er…“Anyway”, my father continued,” We were in the train, and we started talking and there was  a movie playing in town.  I think it was a Humphrey Bogart movie…”

             My mother rushed in again again, “Johnny Weismuller!” she yelled in disbelief, shook her head, ran back to the kitchen.

                Ayo, Tarzan er.  Iren usi ki yegur ertank gortdzen verch  . “Yeah, Tarzan, was playing”, he agreed, “ I asked her if she wanted to go after work.”

                My mother was still in the kitchen, with her back to us but clearly listening.

                Yev ange verch, gertai tprods, iren g hantibei yev dun g kailenink. Misht kidei vor tasaranner, tsani varen gukar.   “So after that, I would go to school and pick her up.  I always knew which classroom she was teaching in, because you could hear from the street.”

                Mek, mek arajin hargn er, mek mek yergrort. “Sometimes she’d be on the first floor, sometimes on the second,” he continued.

                Misht yergrort! “Always second!" came from the kitchen.

                My father shook his head.

                Ink minag er an aden, yev iren het dun g kaileink. Gortzen verch gertai, g vertsunei yev g kaileink, mek mek al gerdaink hour duni kov eghadz bardez.   “She was alone then, so I would walk her home from the school.  I would go after work and pick her up and we would walk. Sometimes, we would go to the park by her father’s house.”

                Tbrotzink kovi. “By the school”, her voice came again.

                My father again shook his head, but this time kept looking at the kitchen, afraid he’d get more details wrong.

                “How come she was alone?” I asked though I already know the answer.

                Eh, an aden, Armennal yev haryrn pandn ein. “Well, this was when both Armen and her father were in prison,” he said.

                “Oh, I thought dedeh was already back when you met,”  I said.

                "No, her father came back a year after we met,” my father said. Che, hayrn mek dari verch veratartsav.

                Armenu ange verch yegav, nuyn isk iren pand katsink desnalu. “Armen came back a while after that, and we even went to see her prison.  That’s where we met.”

                My father met his future sister in law while she was in prison.  Maybe that’s why they didn’t get along. 

“Wait, you went to prison to see Armen, “ I asked.  In twenty years of living next to each other, he hardly ever went to see her.

                Ayo. Kides, an aden vdankavor er an aden adank martots hel xosil. Martik gvaxnain, payts imin vejs cher. Yergu ankam chi mdadzetsi.

.           “Yes”, he said and nodding toward the kitchen, added , “You know, it was dangerous then to talk to people like her, but me—I didn’t care. People were scared, but I never thought about it twice.”

               The kitchen was silent.

                “Wait, you met Armen in prison,” I asked again.

                Ayo, kani m ankam katsink. Ange verch, inku grnar dun kal mek mek.

                “Yeah, we went a couple of times,” he said.  “She was allowed to make home visits after a while.”

                 “Twice".  Yergu ankam katsink. “We went twice,” came from the kitchen.

                “Wow!”, I said.  “What a man! Everyone was afraid, but you weren’t!”

          They looked at each other conspiratorially and smiled. This was just between them.

                “Eh, Silva! Desar? Kone megu usav!”  he yelled, smiling at the kitchen. “Hay, Silva, you see that? At least, somebody is saying it!”.   

                He was smiling and shaking his head and she, still in the kitchen, was smiling as well.