By Sempad Shahnazarian

Chapter Six (Continued)

 Ancient pagan beliefs were still practiced there, by killing snow white lambs on the threshold of the cathedral, as sacrifices to their gods. On the plateau, just outside the Monastery, horseback riding, wrestling, lancing, discus throwing, dancing, running and acrobatic exhibitions were displayed. The cathedral was crowded during the services. They prayed and sobbed and kissed the shiny floor that covered the remnants of Mamigonian princes. They caressed and hugged the huge round granite columns that supported the three cupolas, standing solemnly in the clear space. Epileptics were placed at the entrance of the little chapel, next to the altar, where Holy remnants of Saint John were encased in a golden casket, in the form of a hand. They remained there all night, praying and crying for divine intervention with the forces of Nature.

  At the main entrance of the courtyard, there stood a chapel dedicated to Mariam Asdvadzadzin Virgin Mary, which was called Deeve-doon...House of the Devil.

  It was here, where according to tradition, our Christian fathers threw the idols, the priests and priestesses into a bottomless pit after having destroyed the temples. They covered the pit and built the chapel on it. The moaning could still be heard when you lay your head against the window.

 On every step of that Biblical ground, one could encounter places with all sorts of mystical stories about them. Tourists went around with guides and jotted down notes of importance in their notebooks.

  The Armenian Revolutionary Federation was having its convention there. The meeting ground was on the mountainside, just outside the walls, overlooking the seething and jostling crowds, down below. One of the speakers was from the Sorbonne University in Paris. He electrified the atmosphere when he exclaimed in his speech: “We must awaken in the hearts of our people, the sleeping lion. We must not let our religious teachings interfere with our struggle for freedom. We must be objective in facing the problems of life. What we want now is a certain degree of freedom and autonomy, so we can develop our aptitudes and talents to contribute to civilization and progress.

  Let us not forget that all of these beautiful mountains and plateaus have been stained by the blood of our fathers and mothers. They belong to us! They are ours! We demand autonomy! We must cling to that idea and fight for it. This is going to be our first step toward complete freedom and independence.”

  Sounds of enthusiasm filled the air.

  A young spectator suddenly came forward, bowed to the audience and began to sing. “Haratch-nahadag-tzeghiss-anmahner!”  Forward immortals of my martyred race.

  The entire crowd listened silently, with flashing eyes, to this revolutionary march, and then a thunderous applause shook the ground. In that excited atmosphere a student mounted a boulder, congratulated the singer and began to speak.

  “Europe is awakening, and its intellectual class is inculcating a new spirit into its politics, a more humane spirit. The misgovernment of Turkey has changed the attitude of Europe toward our Cause. A new outlook can be seen on the horizon, a more beautiful and more dignified outlook.

  Europe has finally decided to send a body of observers to the eastern vilayets, the core of millions of Armenians, in order to study the situation for a possible creation of an autonomous Armenia. At the present time, such an arrangement would satisfy us. Let the future take the second step.”

  Thus, speakers followed one after the other. At the end, Vartan Vartabed, an old revolutionary priest with a long gray beard spread over his chest, stood up and blessed the convention with the sign of the Cross, saying:  “If you have faith in your courage and will not let anything weaken your determination, then, God may bless you, and will answer your prayers. Have a nice time!”

  The whole crowd formed a circle and began to dance to the melodies of the flute and drum until late at night.

  I was sitting with my mother, grandmother, aunt Zumrout, Arsen and Satenik in the shade of a huge walnut tree, watching the spectacle, when two of my childhood friends ran toward me, exclaiming: “Hello, Sempad!  How are you? We are so glad to see you!”

  “Thank you, I am glad to see you, too.”

  “When did you get here?”

  “About a month ago.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. If I had known you were at home we might have gone mountain climbing together, to pick khavardzil, wild pears and apples and talk about our good old days. How are you doing in school?”

  “Just fine. One more year and I’ll be back home for good.”

  “One! I am so glad. You remember those days when the government used to close our schools and we used to come over to your stable, lock the door and study our primer. You remember how Naneh, your grandmother, used to help us read and write.

  Khatch oknia intz” Cross, help me! Those days are gone...I hope, forever. They can’t close the schools anymore. Thanks to the Constitution!”

  “You should say thanks to the Fedayis,” said Petros, who had been hiding behind a group of people to surprise Sempad. Then, impulsively running toward him, took him in his arms, joyfully, saying:  “I am sorry, I went to Sassoun for a week to see my relatives and friends. How are you, Sempad? I know you haven’t seen any of the boys around. They have all gone back home as teachers at the elementary schools.

  Regarding what our friend was saying about the virtue of the Constitution, I must repeat what I said. We should thank our Fedayis for that miracle. Had it not been for them, or for us, you would still be studying in the stables, in secrecy.

  There are certain things we should not forget. They might always be a source of inspiration. I would like to tell you folks about an episode during the insurrection of Sassoun. Twenty of us were digging all night, under the command of Sempad’s father Der Kerope, on Dzovassar Mountain. In the early morning hours we were attacked by the Turks and Kurds. One of our men was gravely wounded.

  Der Kerope, who was dressed up like a cherkez, crawled over to the side of the wounded man Mardo, to administer his last Communion. I was watching them. Mardo lowered his blood-stained face and kissed Der Kerope’s hand. The Turks kept on firing. Der Kerope aimed at them carefully and squeezed the trigger and began to say the Lord’s Prayer...”

...Boom!!

 “Our Father who art in Heaven...”

...Boom!!

  “Hallowed be Thy name!!”

  ...Boom!!

  “Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done!” 

...Boom!!

  “This is the kind of philosophy our clergy needs to preach. He bent over Mardo again, took a wafer, Nushkhar, out of his pocket, and administered Holy Communion. He made the Sign of the Cross over his face, placed the rest of the wafers in his pocket, grabbed his rifle again and took another position in the gully and kept on firing. Of all the events I have seen and incidents that I have been through, this one remains unforgettable. It has stuck in my memory as a meaningful, beautiful and heroic act. That was about five years ago. We did not fight in vain. Europe is earnestly becoming interested in our destiny.

  We can sing and speak out loudly in Armenian, now. Nobody can stop us. When you come home next year, Sempad, you will see a different and more beautiful building in place of the old one. I know the Turks cannot stand all the freedom we are enjoying now. They can see how fast we are prospering in every field. They cannot stand that very long.

  Our fields produce more grain now. Our vineyards produce more grapes and wine. Our carpenters can build better houses and better barns. Our blacksmiths can make better plowshares and horse shoes. Our children learn faster, not only in their own language, but in other languages also, such as French, German, English and Russian. The Turks cannot compete with us in any line of human endeavor.”

  “Of course they can,” cried Sempad, sarcastically. “They can rob, kill and plunder.”

  “Times have changed. They can’t do these things now, as freely as they did before,” said an old man.

  “Can’t they?” said Petros. “Deep seated jealousy, ignorance and barbarism will some day explode, to our great surprise, and blow away your optimistic ideas. Turks can never be trusted.”

  Silence reigned for a moment and then my mother said, “I wish Petros was wrong.”

  “So do I,” said Petros.

  Down below, all along the southwestern wall of the Monastery, thousands of pilgrims moved to and fro, in front of hovels and stands of green branches of willow and oak, buying wild apples and pears, cheese, madzoun yogurt, gum, silk materials, yazma silk kerchiefs, shish-kebab, etc. Hundreds of men, women and even children danced in circles, and in straight lines to the tunes of the flute and drums. The plateau was punctuated by smoking fires where lambs and steer were being barbecued.

  Away in the distance, the Moush plain spread like a beautifully ornamented carpet with Meghraked Honey River joining the Aradzani Euphrates river and running from one end of the plain to the other and disappearing into the folds of  the gigantic mountains.

  There were hundreds of villages in that area, where people lived and practiced their ancestral customs. They were devoted to their soil and their cattle, praising and respecting the hard working men and worshipping the light as the highest meaning of life. There, people get up in the morning, wash their faces and make the sign of the Cross exclaiming; “Ya pari loussou kakhtzrig Christos -- Oh! Sweet Christ of Good Light!” Thus, murmuring bits of prayers, they walk into their fields, with scythes and rakes on their shoulders, or in the lumbering carts pulled by bulls or buffaloes, others go to their shops. Old men and women walk slowly and dreamily into their churches. The children noisily fill the streets on their way to school. The cowboy waits diligently at the edge of the village to drive the cattle to the pasture where they graze all day until the sun perches on the mountain and the shadows become longer.

  Each of these villages resembles a beehive that feeds on fragrant flowers, produces honey, gives birth to industrious generations, creates devices of self-protection against the destructive forces of Nature, and continues to live and to always produce honey. Turks can’t stand the sight of these beehives...

  The time was up for the pilgrims. The bells began to ring deeply and thunderously and everyone began to pack.  We packed too, and after bidding good-bye to Petros and other friends, we began trudging along the path down the slope, thousands of feet down into the Moush plain with twelve hours of walking to cover.

   It was my day of departure from home to school, in Constantinople, many miles away.

  Arsen took the cattle to the herdsman in the morning, at the edge of the village and ran right back home. He was out of breath when he got home. Seto, my cousin had killed the steer, skinned it and had cut the meat into small cubes. My mother and aunt Zumrout were already cooking the meat in a big earthen kettle on a fire of dried manure.

  Hours later, they filled a five-gallon tin can with the perfectly cooked meat, covered it with a layer of melted butter and closed it tightly.

  All this work was done in an atmosphere of taut silence.

  When are we going to see him again?  This question revolved in everyone’s mind. My mother and aunt looked furtively at me, every now and then, without uttering a word for fear they may burst into tears.

  After all the preparations had been completed, they all surrounded me.

  “You are going to finish school this year, aren’t you?”

  “Soon after you finish school, you will be coming home won’t you?”

  “You aren’t going to forget us, are you?”

  During all these tearful questions and weeping, Satenik had her arms around my neck, weeping, and Arsen had been holding my hand affectionately without saying a word.

  Late in the afternoon, the caravan moved on, with the steer in the can tied on the back of a mule with the rest of my bundles.

  My sister and my brother, my mother and my aunt, together with practically all of the children of the village followed the caravan silently as if it were a funeral procession. Eyes were the only means of communication. We had been so engulfed in our thoughts and preoccupation we did not realize how far we had gone from the village.

  “It’s time to return now,” I managed to say in a trembling voice.

  “Come on, Satenik, Arsen! Let’s go!” said Mother, pulling them out of my arms. For a moment I was in everybody’s arms, while the caravan was moving.

  What an unforgettable moment!

When Sempad finished relating his experience, he noticed that his father was highly moved and was sort of whistling to conceal his tears. After a moment of silence, he said: “Your description of the pilgrimage, and the narration of the incident on Dzovassar, by Petros, and the speeches of the students and the love and devotion of your mother, my sister and the children make me whistle in this way. Forgive me Sempo, for my weakness.  It’s because I love my home and my country, immensely. I am homesick.”

  The landlady knocked on the door, opened it, and went reverently to Der Kerope, kissed his hand and said: “I have cooked something special for you today, Khaourma, braised lamb.”

  “Oh yes, Hairig, I forgot to tell you what I have brought here with me. I have a tin can full of cooked steer meat.”

   “Don’t tell me they killed the young bull we had.”

   “Yes, Hairig, they did, and we are going to taste it now.”

  They went to the dining room, where the landlady Maria had set the table, with a heap of khaourma and the cooked steer on a large plate in the center with three plates on the sides.

  Her baby was asleep in the crib. They took their seats at the table. Der Kerope said a prayer and they began to eat.

  “So this is our steer,” exclaimed Der Kerope, in a pensive mood.

  At this time, the baby woke up.

  “She is only two years old, Hairig! Her father died last year.”

  Maria took the baby out of the crib and let Der Kerope bless her.

  “She likes Sempad so much,” Maria said.

  “I like her too,” said Sempad. “She is such a nice happy baby. She very seldom cries.”
 

  “You mustn’t worry about that. He has been here over four years, and my late husband and I have been treating him like a family member.”

  The following day, in a tearful embrace with Sempad, Der Kerope left Constantinople for Moush.