Photo Assignment

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                                                                      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.