37 — Family History
Hamak Arsadian yawned as he slowed his truck to turn right from the four lanes of Iran Road 21 onto the two lanes of Iran Road 15. He used his turn signal — a rare courtesy in Iran. As he slowed he inched toward the left lane to maximize the amount of arc available to the big rig. Unknowingly, he caused the driver in the sedan next to him to get nervous and slow as well. For the driver of the Toyota pickup truck driving in the left lane at over 120 kph and coming up rapidly on the sedan, this inconvenience was not acceptable. The young driver accelerated and turned his wheel to steer his pickup through the right hand lane and onto the asphalt shoulder of the road. Arsadian was just starting to turn his wheel hard to the right as the pickup truck shot past him on the right hand shoulder at close to 130 kph.
“Fucking rabiz,” blurted out Arsadian as his mind raced to interpret just how close he had come to a serious accident, using the Armenian slang word roughly equivalent to “redneck.” The pickup truck passed by so fast that Arsadian was 20 feet further into his turn before he realized that his foot was no longer on the gas pedal. He pressed back down on the pedal to complete the turn and begin the last stretch of his journey to the rendezvous point. His heart was now racing and his face turned red the way it always did when anger overcame his ability to control it. Being tired now seemed a distant feeling. He took some deep breaths to calm himself, trying to think about anything other than how angry he was at that moment. The face of his mother popped into his mind, as it often did in times of stress.
She had died 27 years earlier when he was 15, and he was no longer sure if his image of her was from real memories or just a projection of one of the many photographs of her he kept in his possession at all times. But he knew for certain that her death changed everything about his life and his view of the world. The breast cancer that metastasized to her vital organs had made him hate at first. Hatred of God for taking his mother. Hatred of the medical profession in Armenia that he viewed as nothing better than primitive witch doctors. Hatred of his father for allowing this to happen, including yelling at his father one night for not taking the entire family to the U.S. where, the young Hamak was certain, his mother would be cured.
When his mother returned from her last visit to the clinic in Yerevan with a single bottle of pain killers, the teenage boy knew from his father’s reaction that his mother was home to die in her own bed. Hamak stayed home from school for two weeks to take care of his mother as a growing tumor relentlessly attacked her liver. His father had to continue to work each day delivering goods by truck to the various businesses of Yerevan, giving up his lucrative Iranian excursions in order to be home every night for his wife. The family, always living day to day in the best of times, was struggling to pay bills resulting from his mother’s illness — despite ostensibly free medical care as a Republic of the Soviet Union. Like all families, the Arsadians had not planned or budgeted for the costs of unexpected death. Doctors and pharmacists who demanded bribes for real drugs. Bed pans and basic supplies to care for the bedridden. The cost of a burial plot and headstone — burial being the only option available under the beliefs of the Armenian church. The bills mounted. But regardless of the growing debt, every night his father came home and took over the duties of caring for a woman facing death at the age of only 39.
The experience made Hamak grow into a man, the carefree days of youth now extinguished completely, ground into the dust of the harsh realities of life and death. But the moment that his understanding of the world changed was the day his mother summoned her fading reserves of energy to talk to her first born child. His father was working and his younger brother was in school. It was a few minutes after 9 in the morning on the second Friday after his mother’s return from the clinic. “What can I get you, mother?” asked the teen as he approached the bed.
“Sit, my son.” Her words were slow and labored. Hamak complied and sat down in an old wooden chair his grandfather had made. The sun’s rays pierced the stale air of the small bedroom, illuminating myriad dust particles floating randomly about the room. The woman reached out with her left hand and Hamak placed his palm underneath hers, careful not to hurt the woman who had always been the pillar of strength in the family but was now as fragile as crystal. “You must do something for me.”
“Of course, mother. What do you need?”
“Swear to me that what I tell you now you will keep secret. Swear on my soul.”
“What? Why?” Hamak’s reaction was typical for a teenager, whether in Yerevan or Atlanta.
“Just swear to me.”
“Okay. I swear that I will keep what you say secret.”
“On my soul. Swear on my soul.”
“Mother?” The teen was confused and felt blind-sided. The mother gathered enough strength to give him “the look” that told her son that he was on his last chance to choose wisely.
“Okay, okay. I swear on your soul.”
The mother managed a faint smile. “You must go and fetch a man and bring him here.”
“Why?”
“Just listen. He lives close by. Go to the corner here,” she raised her right arm to point in the correct direction, “and walk to Losifian Street. On that corner is a house with red awnings.” The mother noticed her son’s eyes react. “You know it?”
“Yes. But who do I ask for and why?” The boy had spent his whole life in this neighborhood. He knew every building and home for blocks in any direction.
The mother winced in pain. She had grown used to the constant dull aching in her abdomen, but occasional sharp throbbing pain hit her. She willed herself for the next few words. “Ask for Rabbi Rothstein.”
“Rabbi? A Jew? Why?”
The mother looked her son in his eyes. “Because, Hamak, I am a Jew.”
“What? That is crazy. We are Christians.” The boy’s voice was raised.
“Yes, son. Your father is Christian and you are baptized. But I was born a Jew and you were born a Jew, as was your brother.”
Hamak let go of his mother’s hand and stood up. “You are crazy in your head. It is the drugs.” He began to pace the room. The Jewish community in Yerevan in the middle of the 1980s was very small, only about a thousand or so. Anti-Semitism existed but the country had always been fairly tolerant, especially when compared to the other Republics of the Soviet Union. Still, Hamak had friends who told him stories of Jews with devil horns hidden under their hats or scarves.
“Your father made me promise to never tell you this. But it is true and it is your right to know. Have you never wondered why we never see or discuss my family?” She struggled to reach for a cup of tea close to the bed. She was not thirsty, but she knew that her son would return to her side.
Hamak rushed over to pick up the cup for her as he thought about her last question. “Here.” He handed her the cup. His voice was tender again.
“Thank you.” She took the cup. “Now listen to me. Go and fetch Rabbi Rothstein. Tell him you are my son. He will come. He will tell you that I am not crazy. But do not tell your father. He will be angry.”
Hamak just stood there looking at his mother. The weight of her pending death hung on him, threatening to crush his very soul. But now that weight seemed to double. The only thing worse, he thought, was if she had revealed that Rabbi Rothstein was his real father. The thought made him chuckle involuntarily.
“This is funny?” asked his mother.
“No, Mother. It’s just that…” He took his mother’s hand again. “It’s just I am confused. I don’t understand this.”
“I know. This is not easy. When your brother is older, you will need to tell him. But you must wait. Now that you know the truth, you are free to decide the path you take in life. Just do not hurt your father. Now please go.”