An Armenian Family Torn Apart: A Story of Resilience and Hope

By Marig Ohanian

Born in Ankara, Turkey, to an Armenian family, Haroutioun Ohanian and his siblings, Victoria, Vahan, and Simon, were children of the genocide. They witnessed death and destruction and experienced starvation and deportation. They lost their parents. The children survived because aunts and uncles took care of

• Language: English
• Publisher: way out properties llc
• Release date: Aug 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952932045

Marig Ohanian

Marig Ohanian was born in Paris, the daughter of a French mother and an Armenian father. She has written numerous articles for historical reviews and magazines and is the author of three books:Tiridates III, King of Armenia: on the origins of Christianity in Armenia, and for younger readers, Le Voyage de Sibil en Grèce and Un rubis pour le roi.

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PREFACE

For some people, the word Armenia evokes visions of Noah’s Ark and Mount Ararat. For others, it is a reminder of a people who, although nearly exterminated, knew how to go on living—sometimes far from Armenia’s borders—through unbreakable courage and tenacity. Since the dawn of time, these wanderers have often faced bitter defeat. Whenever and wherever this happened, they found the strength to rebuild their lives in some other place.

An ancient civilization, Armenia dates back to the thirteenth century BC. It will never be extinguished.

Today, Armenia is an independent, landlocked country that sits, not entirely comfortably, between Turkey to the west and Azerbaijan to the east, Georgia to the north and Iran to the south. It is not a large country. As of 2019, its population numbers just three million souls.

Legend has it that when creating the world, God sifted the soil. He spread the good soil in many places. Not knowing what to do with the rocks that remained, he threw them down in Armenia, which explains the tough and insuppressible nature of Armenians.

Sardarabad, in the center of the country, is an impressive place of pilgrimage. On an isolated plateau stands an enormous portico from which hang many bells, placed there to represent the country’s numerous Christian churches. Nothing is more poignant than to hear these bells as they sway in the wind. It seems as if they sing with the voices of all those massacred Armenians who came before. It is a song of fortitude, optimism, and hope, a song that claims this land forever for these Christian people.

My father, Haroutioun Ohanian, a survivor of the Armenian genocide of 1915, rarely spoke of those dark days of his youth in Turkey and Greece. But shortly before his death, I asked him to tell me his story so that it might be recorded for future generations. As I listened to his narrative, I saw how deep were the emotions that these memories of his family and friends had rekindled.

A few years before his death, my father gave me a sheet of paper on which he had written these words:

My mother, in the most painful moments of her life, alone in the house with her four children, had incredible courage, to endure a situation that seemed to be hopeless. She always had a kind word for her children, striving to give them courage as she busied herself to find some food for the day, always thinking about the next day, knowing that it would be even more difficult than the last.

The writer and poet Arshag Chobanian understood what mothers had faced when confronted with the atrocities of the genocide. His poem for a woman caught up in these horrors was often recited to us by my mother, who would repeat:

When she had a moment to herself,

When, in the dead of night,

She was brought to her knees

By worry and despair,

She would think first of her children,

Who, when she took them in her arms,

Saw all too easily that her tears flowed in torrents.

This history is entirely true. Many of those I have written about were known to me personally. The names, places, and events are and were exactly as described.

The book was first published in France in 1988. It is my great regret that none of the main characters in this story—my father, my aunt Victoria, and my uncles Vahan and Simon—lived to see its publication.

PROLOGUE: JULY 1948

It had taken the steamship De Grasse ten days to cross the Atlantic, plowing on at a relentless sixteen knots through wind and rain, sun and fair weather, smashing aside the waves that crashed against her steep bow.

The ship, built in the United Kingdom for a French shipping line, had been named after French Admiral François Joseph Paul de Grasse, who helped the United States win its War of Independence. From the start she had been intended for the transatlantic run between the U.S. and France, but her career had been rudely interrupted by the Second World War. She had been docked in Bordeaux, where a retreating German army sank her to block the approach to the harbor.

Once she was raised, she underwent two years of repairs and refitting. Indeed, the De Grasse was the first French liner to resume her Atlantic schedule, crossing regularly from France to New York and back again. Now, here she was, nosing into the port of Le Havre, guided by tugs and accompanied by pilot boats and other vessels sounding their horns and spraying water jets. Passengers lined her decks, some trying to catch a first glimpse of a country they had not seen before, some just relieved they would soon be on dry land and away from the nauseating Atlantic swells.

On the quayside, ropes and hawsers were being readied and space made for the luggage and cargo that would soon be piled high until claimed and collected. There were watchers here too; friends and family come to meet these brave travelers disembarking in this Normandy port. Among them were three smartly dressed Frenchmen, scanning the high sides of the De Grasse trying to catch sight of their sister and her daughter.

The three brothers—Haroutioun, Vahan, and Simon—had arrived early, impatient to greet their beloved Victoria, whom they had not seen in so long and whom they were afraid they might miss among the throng: an anonymous American among so many.

The eldest of the brothers was Haroutioun. He had been through so much in his life, as they all had. Like his brothers, he had been an orphan and a refugee; he had survived wars and uprisings. He had been a salesman, a barber, a carpenter, a book-binder, a waiter, a chocolate maker, a soldier, a carmaker, a clothing manufacturer, and a market trader. He had run his own businesses. His brothers had similarly enterprising, if less varied, backgrounds, and all had wives and families. But nothing had prepared them for these anxious moments.

Then, at last, she was there, walking toward them, arms flung out, hurrying her daughter along.

The year was 1948. The brothers had not seen their sister in twenty-seven years. Their family had been torn apart by the Armenian genocide. Now they were together again.

This is Haroutioun’s story, and that of his family.

Victoria and her brothers Vahan, Simon, and Haroutioun in 1948,

together again after twenty-seven years.

BOOK 1

1914 to 1925

CHAPTER 1

Gathering Clouds

Genocide is an ugly word that describes an ugly, unforgivable act: the wholesale murder of one people by another. It is to the disgrace of the human race that its history contains many such events. One occurred during the last throes of the Ottoman Empire, between 1915 and 1923. The victims of this outrage were Armenian.

Their homeland, now the Republic of Armenia, lay between the sprawling Ottoman Empire, governed from Istanbul, and Russia. Living within the Ottoman world, the Armenians were a people apart. They had their own religion—they were Christian, not Muslim—they spoke their own language, they followed their own traditions. By Ottoman standards, they tended to be well educated and well off. Under Ottoman rule, the Armenians had long been discriminated against, both politically and financially. They had been excluded from high office and made to pay arbitrary special taxes. They had been the victims of mass arrests and murders long before the close of the nineteenth century.

In 1914, however, another factor came into play: Europe went to war. The Ottomans declared allegiance to Austria-Hungary and Germany; the Russians, to France and Britain. The nervous Turks suspected the Armenians of siding with the enemy. Now those Armenians living under Turkish rule had reason to fear for their future as never before.

One such family was that of Marie and Nerses Ohanian, a common Armenian surname that is immediately recognizable as such. In 1914 Marie was thirty; her husband was eleven years older. The couple lived happily with their children, in Ankara in a house that Nerses had built with the help of friends.

Nerses, who spoke both Armenian and Turkish and was well liked, was a traveling draper by trade, a seller of fabrics. He did not have a shop; instead, he took long trips to take wares to his customers, accompanied only by his old horse. With ears erect and nostrils steaming, it pulled a cart laden with light, shimmering silks, soft, smooth wools, and other exotic fabrics that slipped through the hand with sensual pleasure.

A family photograph taken two years before the war began shows Nerses staring out proudly, though with a touch of uncertainty. He is wearing his Sunday best: a suit that would have passed for fashionable in Paris or London, a stiff collar, and tie. He sports an impressive moustache and a smart fez. Beside him, Marie, as might be expected of a draper’s wife, is in an ornate dress; her long, dark hair is pinned up. Even after bearing five children, she has a tiny waist, probably with the help of stiff lacing. Between them sits their youngest son, Simon. Standing in front are their daughter, Victoria, wearing a dress and a bow in her hair, and the two older boys, Haroutioun and Vahan, who are in sailor suits and straining to stay still for the photographer.

Her husband’s frequent absences must have heightened Marie’s concerns about the worsening situation in Turkey. The children would have been alert to her fears.

..........

As she turned her head, Marie Ohanian’s long brown hair fell around her shoulders. It was already dark, and still her husband had not returned from his latest trip. She hoped she was worrying needlessly, but 1914 had already been a bad year, starting with the sudden death of her father.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a shout from her four-year-old son. Simon stood in the doorway of her bedroom, his face rumpled with sleep, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

Come here, little one. Why have you woken up? Have you had a bad dream? Do you feel sick? asked Marie as she swept her son up in her arms and allowed him to bury his face in the silky softness of her hair.

I’m thirsty, he said.

Marie touched his forehead. He wasn’t feverish. She released him, got a glass of water, and held it out to him. Simon smiled, his chubby face revealing its dimples. He was the rascal of the family, always up to mischief.

I hope you didn’t wake your brothers and sister, his mother whispered. Now, back to bed and to sleep!

Simon, pretending not to hear, asked why his papa wasn’t home yet and why he didn’t see his favorite red cow anymore. Questions, always questions, thought Marie. Patiently, she explained that Papa was still off working and that the pretty red cow was at his grandmother’s house, and she would bring it back with her when she came home from her stay in the country. Now, off to bed, and no more questions, she scolded.

Taking an oil lamp, Marie led Simon to his room, where the boy slipped into bed without complaint. She tucked him in and kissed him gently. Whenever Marie looked at him, she thought of Meguerditch, his twin brother, who had died at only two weeks old. She whispered her thoughts. If God had not taken Meguerditch from us, would he have looked like you? Would he be as lively, as mischievous, or as impish? Would he have loved you?

She stood up, glancing around the room. Shielding the lamp’s light, she leaned over her eleven-year-old daughter. Victoria was sound asleep, fists tightly closed, long hair spread out on the pillow. Marie was proud of how beautiful her daughter had become.

Very quietly, she crept into the elder boys’ bedroom. Both Haroutioun, eight, and Vahan, six, were fast asleep, too. Both were good, sensible, intelligent children. Awake, they were inseparable.

She wondered what the future held for them. Would she always be there to watch over them, protect them, and support them? Life was so uncertain. Marie shuddered at the thought and retreated to her own bedroom. She felt comfortable in her large home, even more so when lying between fresh sheets on her feather-filled mattress. But she could not stop herself from fretting about her husband.

His rounds were getting longer, and Marie wondered where he was tonight. His Turkish clients treated him well; he often slept at the home of one or another of them. She knew he enjoyed doing business in the countryside, around his old home, and at village fairs. But there were dangers everywhere now. A recent spate of random murders of Armenians had left her friends and family fearful. Even educating the children had become more difficult, now that two of the three Armenian schools in town had been closed.

Sleep did not come easily to Marie these days, and she often lay awake trying to think of happier times: of her childhood in the country, of her parents and their big house. It had been such a carefree life. The house had been a paradise for children, allowed to run free and to pet the animals whenever they liked. Living there, surrounded by wheat and corn fields, by pastures, orchards, and vineyards, had been good.

The grape harvest had been her favorite time of year. Along with her brothers and sisters, she had often sung a favorite song. She smiled because, without thinking, she had begun to sing it quietly to herself:

Roaming on the mountain, free,

You stop to stand beneath a tree

Where sunlight strikes your golden curls,

Turning them to shimmering pearls . . .

She remembered how her mother had hung the most beautiful golden bunches of grapes from the attic beams, where they matured all summer long. Her father used them to make his own wine and distill his own brandy. But earlier this year, without warning, he had suffered a fatal heart attack. In her mind’s eye, Marie saw her father, still strong as an ox, working at his forge, sparks flying from his hammer blows, surrounding him with a halo of fire. She saw him in his old gray hat, striding across the yard to his vineyards. She remembered with special fondness the happy picnics he had organized for her children, his grandchildren. Laughing, he would lift them with his strong arms into his horse-drawn carriage for a magical ride through the countryside.

As she thought of those carefree days, tears ran down her cheeks.

Immediately after the death of their father, her brothers had taken over the house and farm. Kourken and Aram, who, like their father, were blacksmiths, continued to work the forge. Since their father’s death, it had been Yervant who had slaughtered a cow when his mother decided it was time to make basturma, spicy air-dried cured beef, or soudjouks, beef sausages. The traditional feasts were not the same without her father, though.

Yervant drove the trains to Istanbul for the French railway company, Société de Chemins de Fer Ottomans d’Anatolie. Marie’s children often asked him to take them to see the wheezing locomotive that ate fire and snorted steam. Marie was hesitant to allow it; with the way things were, she felt it was not prudent.

As she turned on her side and closed her eyes, she could not avoid more memories flooding back. Last summer, Haroutioun, fascinated by the poppies in the fields, had stayed in the sun too long. When he came home, his small face had been sunburned and he had been feverish. The doctor warned her that he was suffering from heatstroke and was gravely ill. Her sisters, Nevrik and Yepraksie, had helped her nurse the boy back to health.

Yervant drove the trains to Istanbul.

Marie was the eldest and the only one of the sisters to have married. Nerses had no family of his own, but he had soon been adopted by her family and was much loved by Marie’s parents, brothers, and sisters.

Nerses. Where was he? Would he be home tomorrow?

He was usually away for ten days at most. Twelve days had passed, and there was still no sign of him. What had happened to cause the delay? Marie tried to convince herself that he would return soon. It would be good to have him home for two weeks.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a noise. Had Simon called out again? Marie listened. Except for the ticking of the clock, the house was silent. She stretched. Though her eyes were heavy, she was still unable to sleep.

Marie decided that tomorrow she would air all the bedrooms in her mother’s town house. Soon the family would be returning from the country; perhaps then it would be better to stay with her mother. She would feel safer there with the children while Nerses was away.

She imagined the children’s gleeful shouts as they danced in the yard around the red cow, the supply of milk that went with them from town to country and back again. That thought brought to mind the aroma of lavash, the bread baking in her mother’s tonir, an oven dug into the ground.

Nerses would surely be back by Sunday. They would go to mass and breathe in the scent of incense as the wax candles glowed and the black-hooded priests sang out their familiar chants. Haroutioun, pious and proud in his choirboy robes, would look at his parents with an angelic smile. When the service was over, the children would jump for joy, excited by the treats their father would offer them. And the bells would ring out . . . And . . .

Marie drifted into a deep sleep. Outside, the full white moon lit up a sky filled with stars.

CHAPTER 2

The World Goes to War

Long ago, the borders of Armenia had extended from the Black Sea to the Caspian Sea, from north of Syria to Mesopotamia. The apostles Jude and Bartholomew had brought Christianity to Armenia, where it had thrived despite the persecution of its early adherents. In the fourth century, when Armenia’s King Tiridates III was himself converted to Christianity, the country became the first in the world to declare itself officially Christian. Gregory, the Illuminator, had been elected head of the Armenian Apostolic Church and the country’s spiritual leader.

Throughout its history, Armenia had fought Macedonian, Roman, Bulgarian, Greek, Arab, Mongol, and Persian invaders until finally losing its independence to the Turks. Those battles and their aftermath had shaped the Armenian character, making it as resilient as Mount Ararat, the symbol of the nation’s homeland and its cultural soul. Whether living in their traditional homeland or in exile, as Marie and Nerses did, the people had held on to their faith.

And in the eyes of the Turks, the Armenians who lived among them had this one overwhelming fault—they were Christian. When Marie was a child, Sultan Abdul Hamid II, the Red Sultan, had armed the Kurds against them. In 1896, thousands of women and young girls had been sent into harems. Three hundred thousand Armenians had been massacred. In the cathedral in Urfa, three thousand Armenians had been burned alive.

Marie thought often about the history of her people and their religion. Extremely pious, she was proud that Nerses had made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to visit the holy places. She knew that the hatred continued, as the frequent murder of Armenians made clear. But for the moment, she had more immediate concerns. Surely Nerses must be close to home by now. Had she not begged him, so many times, to give up his traveling around the country? Each time, he had told her he had no reason to be afraid. Hadn’t his dealings with Turks always been cordial and pleasant?

Marie was not so sure. Because of his job, her brother Yervant had settled in Eski-Chehir, about a hundred and fifty miles by road from Ankara. Here, the hatred of Armenians was more open. Yervant had told Marie that they needed to be vigilant, that he was convinced the Turks still wanted to be rid of all Christians. Even so, he had invited Kourken to join him, and his brother had also found work with the railway company. Young Aram remained on the farm, though he had shut down the forge and rarely ventured outside the house.

At last, Nerses returned. He was very tired, and very happy to be home with his wife and children again.

His peace of mind was short-lived. On June 28, 1914, the world was stunned when Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, and his wife, Duchess Sophie of Hohenberg, were assassinated. The murders took place in Sarajevo, and the assassin was one Gavrilo Princip, a Bosnian Serb.

It took Austria almost a month to formulate a response. When it came, on July 23, it was clear the country intended to use the incident to settle old scores. The Austrian rulers placed the blame at the door of the Serbian government, issuing an ultimatum with a long list of demands. If these were not met within two days, they would declare war.

Serbia agreed to most but not all the demands. Austria declared war. Serbia, which had treaties in place with Russia, turned to its powerful neighbor. Austria sought reassurances from its ally Germany. Russia announced the mobilization of its forces, and Germany responded by declaring war on Russia.

France was bound by treaties to Russia and Belgium; England was an ally of France. Both declared war on Austria-Hungary and Germany. Meanwhile, Germany invaded Belgium to open a route to France. Soon nations across the globe, including British colonies and even Japan, were caught up in the fighting.

..........

In October events moved closer to home. Siding with the Austrian-German alliance, the Ottomans sank a Russian ship in the Black Sea. The response from the allies was to declare war on Turkey.

For Nerses, duty called. He would join the army.

Marie pleaded with him not to go. It was bad enough that he traveled along country roads on his own. Now he could be, probably would be, going into battle. This time, he would not just be late coming home; he might never make it back.

Nerses looked into the dark eyes of his beautiful wife, touched her thick, dark hair pulled into a bun. I have to go, he told her. I have left you many times to sell my fabrics. Always, I have returned home as I promised. This time, too, I will come back to you.

In a conversation repeated in many households, Marie told her husband that his first duty was to his family, keeping his wife and children safe. You forget that while you are away, we shall be in danger here, with nobody to protect us.

Nerses raised his eyebrows and smoothed his moustache—for him, a sign of profound emotion. Please don’t make things more difficult than they are.

Marie was too distraught to give up. She threw her slender hands in the air as she told him, "Pay the bedel that will exempt you from serving in the military. I don’t care what the cost is. You are more valuable to me, to us, than mere money."

Nerses took his wife’s hands. "I cannot pay the bedel. It would be too cowardly."

Marie wiped the tears from her face and tried again. "Like you, I hate the idea of buying your way out of going to war. But you have a family that depends on you. How many men who do not have families will pay to avoid service? Think of your children."

That is exactly who l am thinking of, said Nerses. I don’t want them to think their father is a coward. Don’t be afraid, Marie. I will come back.

He was not to be dissuaded. He joined up to fight for a country that thought little of his heritage or of him, and Marie was left to fend for her family. Like any soldier’s wife, she waited for news that never seemed to come, for letters that rarely arrived.

The daily routine kept her going. Now that the schools were closed, she spent many hours teaching her children. Victoria was smart, but she was no longer carefree. Her eyes betrayed her seriousness. Marie knew how Victoria missed her father. She worried for her daughter, fearing she might never see him again.

The boys missed their father too. They often asked when he would be back. But, being boys, they were quick to put aside such thoughts when playing with their friends.

Despite everything, Marie knew her family’s situation was far happier than that of many Turkish children who roamed the town, shoeless and barely clothed. For most people, it might well have been the fifteenth century, not the twentieth. Beggars filled the streets. The population was constantly ravaged by famine and disease. There were too few doctors to care for them—no surprise in a society where so few people could even read or write.

The days passed; the months went by.

One day, as Marie was stuffing eggplants with meat for lunch, Haroutioun asked for the millionth time if he could visit his grandma, who was back in Ankara again.

I have told you no! Marie replied. "You could have gone this morning with your brothers and Victoria, but you chose to stay with me. Now you