“Are you taunting us old man?” And with one swift strike of fury, Hassan nearly decapitated the priest. The aging priest, numbed and blunted by the exhaustion of carrying the grief of his people, responded “Do as you will… there is no wealth here-at least none that you would appreciate…” As he looked up, Hassan menacingly addressed the priest, “Keshish, we came for the gold! Hand it over now, and we’ll go easy on you, otherwise…” Let us resolve our problem tomorrow.”Īs the two brothers approached, Aram Vartabed was working in his small garden, trying to gather the last remaining vegetables of the season from the dry soil.
It is there just waiting for the taking.” On the hill is the hermit Armenian priest, and word is that the old church contains enough wealth for the two of us to be happy for the rest of our lives. There still may be some riches to come by. “Dear brother, “Ali replied, “we cannot bemoan our lost opportunity. Why leave it for others to take further on their path of death? Why should we be deprived while others become wealthy?” Hassan, the older of the two, lamented, “that self-righteous bastard Abdullah, the head of the gendarmes, did not let us take the Armenians’ gold that should have been ours. It would come to pass that both greed and guilt would find their way into the hearts of their heirs in equal measure.Īt a table in the back corner of the teahouse, two brothers huddled and spoke in whispers. There was an undercurrent of greed and guilt – emotions never shared by the same people. While some trades were taken over, the quality of work was not the same. Gone was Nalband Misak, the blacksmith, and Najar Melcon, the carpenter. Gone were Chiftji Garabed and the five sons and twelve grandsons who had farmed his extensive fields and harvested his orchards. In fact, so fast that the remaining Muslims had not grasped the implications. Yet, nearly one-third of the houses were empty of their Armenian inhabitants. In the valley, the district center was a chaotic scene of soldiers and townsfolk. “Go in peace, my son, and may God protect you and your family.” Where? I do not know yet, but there must be someplace that we can live as Armenians.” As soon as I am able, I will move my family. The reasons are unimportant, but it is clear that no Armenian is safe. “That may be true, Father, but you do not know these people and what they have become. “Dear Hagop, what would anyone want of me here? Our sacramental books hold no monetary value, and I am a simple old priest with no material wealth.” Please consider moving temporarily to the city where it will be more safe for you until this disastrous war comes to an end.” In the teahouses and on the streets, the Mohammedan makes no secret of his plans. I am coming across numerous villages that have been emptied of Armenians. With a gentle smile, he received the response, “ Asdvadz bahaban” (May God protect you). Cherchi Hagop, the local peddler, had come to pay a visit as he passed from village to village plying his trade.īowing his head and kissing the hand of the priest, the humble peddler gave the customary greeting, “ Asdvadz oknagan, hayr sourp” (May God help you, holy father). With each new marriage, the task of affirming the minimum seven-generation separation of the newlyweds fell to the monk, a responsibility he took seriously.Īs he sat writing, the sound of someone approaching stirred him to the glassless window. How would future generations see the pages of his time when the coming darkness was all too visible on the horizon?Īram Vartabed was the most recent scribe of sacred rituals, toiling in isolation, preserving the precious family histories over centuries. As he paused to scan them, tracing the handwriting of his predecessors, he thought of the circumstances of each one-the quality of penmanship, the style of Armenian script, the torn and soiled pages marking times of turbulence. How old, he could not say any longer, the aging pages too faded to read. On this day in June, the celibate priest was busy transferring the most recent baptismal records from the churches in his jurisdiction to the logbooks begun centuries before. “He had never heard of anyone living here in his lifetime, and the whispers, rarely spoken, only hinted at a calamitous time long ago not to be discussed-or even remembered.” In truth, monastery was a generous description for the ancient, small chapel and its adjacent living quarters in desperate need of repair. Even a small garden would be a challenge to maintain this year, thought Aram Vartabed, the monk of the monastery in this unforgiving mountainside landscape. The winter snows had been light now, the spring rains few and far between. “It is by going down into the abyss that we recover the treasures of life”
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