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
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
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