All the Light There Was Read online

  “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 door?”

  “No need,” I said.

  He paused. “You want to do this again next Sunday?”

  “Go to the cemetery?”

  “Or someplace else. Whatever you like.”

  I wondered what my brother would think. “Maybe I should check with Missak . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” Zaven said. “I already talked to him. It’s okay.”

  I was suddenly annoyed, imagining the two of them discussing me as though I were a piece of livestock. “Oh, it is, is it? You two already talked about me and decided it was okay? What if it wasn’t okay with me? What if I didn’t like the idea?”

  He winced, ducking his head. “That’s the risk, isn’t it? But I hoped you would.”

  My anger quickly burned out because I had, in fact, been waiting a long time for him to ask me.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked.

  “Come by our house next Sunday in the early afternoon. But no cemetery . . .”

  He grinned, took my hand, and kissed the rough wool of my mitten.

  I floated the rest of the way home. He had kissed my hand. What a romantic thing to do. I paused at the bottom of the stairwell to run the scene through my mind again, sighing happily. Then I ran up the stairs two at a time, out of breath as I reached our landing.

  When I walked in the door, Missak was in the front hall.

  “So, how was Zavig?” he asked.

  I said, “Stay out of my business.”

  “You think it was a coincidence he ran into you this afternoon?”

  “Thanks, but we won’t need any more help from you.”

  “We?” He laughed. “Already you’re a we?”

  “What are you two fighting about?” my father called from the front room.

  “Nothing,” we said in unison.

  That night I pulled a bag of yarn from the armoire and sorted through the remnants. There was almost enough black yarn for a hat, but any scarf from it would have to be striped. I went to the bedroom and dragged the suitcase of Auntie’s clothes from under the bed. Inside was a thick black sweater.

  I hesitantly approached my mother with the sweater as she stood over the sink in the kitchen peeling rutabagas.

  “Mairig, would it be okay if I took this apart and used the yarn?” I asked.

  My mother paused in her work. “It’s easy to unravel a life. What will you make?”

  I said, “A scarf, a hat, and mittens.”

  “And who will wear them?”

  I tried to sound natural, as though this were nothing out of the ordinary, but I felt a thrill of excitement when I said, “Zaven.”

  “We all love that boy, don’t we?” My mother looked at me knowingly.

  An hour later I had two fat balls of black yarn in my lap. Sitting in Auntie’s chair in the front room, I quickly cast on the stitches and began to knit.

  When Zaven knocked at our door the following Sunday, I pointedly ignored Missak’s raised eyebrows and smirk. I pretended there was nothing unusual about this visit. But as Zaven entered the front room, my father clapped him on the back and said, “If it were anyone but you, I would chase him off with a pitchfork, but I will accept you as a suitor for our Maral.”

  I glared at my brother, who gestured that it wasn’t his doing. I turned accusingly to my mother, who pointedly avoided my eyes.

  Zavig laughed. “Such a formal word, Uncle! We are good friends.”

  “Don’t be a fox sneaking into my barnyard,” my father replied.

  I said, “And I suppose that makes me a chicken.”

  My mother asked, “Do you two have plans?”

  Zaven replied, “I thought we’d go for a walk at the Buttes Chaumont.”

  My mother said, “On a cold day like this? Ah, but you’re young. Just make sure you bundle up.”

  In the front hall as we were putting on our coats, I said, “I have something for you.”

  I handed the new woolens to him, and he turned them over admiringly. “Nice work, Maral.”

  “What are you waiting for?” I asked. “Put them on.”

  He pulled the cap over his ears, wound the scarf around his neck, and slid his hands into the mittens.

  “How do I look?” he asked.

  Of course he looked terribly handsome. “Are you fishing for compliments?”

  “Who me?” He laughed.

  As we walked toward the park he said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t think of anything else to do today. I’m short of cash.”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s more cheerful than Père-Lachaise. And I like to walk.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way. I’m happy to spend the afternoon with you no matter where we are.”

  I blushed at this and then he took my hand, his black mitten clasping my gray one.

  We reached the shallow pond in the middle of the park and saw it was frozen over. I stood leaning against a tree trunk watching as Zaven began to slide on the ice at the edge of the pond. When he was halfway around, he gingerly stepped toward the middle to see if it would hold. He inched his way farther onto the sheet of ice.

  “It’s solid,” he shouted. “Come on.”

  I shouted back, “It’s too dangerous.”

  He had made h
is way to the middle of the pond. “I promise you, it’s solid. Watch.” He jumped up and down on the ice.

  “Stop that! You’re crazy!”

  “No, I’m not. Don’t be a coward.”

  “Who are you calling a coward?”

  “Then come out here.”

  I slid my boot onto the icy edge, excited and fearful. He took a step toward me and waved for me to come closer. I took another step toward him. I inched to the center, pausing with each step to check that no fissures appeared beneath my feet. There were no signs or sounds of cracking ice. It was solid, as he had promised.

  When I reached him, we stood facing each other, our breath making clouds on the air.

  “Now what do we do?” I asked him.

  “This,” he said, breaking into a run and skidding across the pond.

  I chased after him and slid a few feet.

  “Come on, you can go faster than that.” He flew over the ice.

  I followed suit but lost my balance and landed in a spill at his feet. He pulled me to standing. Then we zipped back and forth across the ice until we were panting.

  “It’s getting late,” he finally said. “We should head back.”

  He put his arm around me as we strolled down the path leading to the park exit. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, the way his arm weighed on my shoulder, but I was afraid to say anything or pull away. All of this was new to me, but I saw him after school once walking with his arm around a girl on the rue St. Antoine. I had also passed him when he was sitting in a café with a girl on the place de la Bastille. He hadn’t seen me either time. Neither of the girls was Armenian. They both had short, stylish hair. One of them wore red lipstick. It made me feel drab and old-fashioned to remember it.

  When we reached my corner, he asked, “Can I walk you home?”

  “You don’t need to,” I said.

  “I’d like to.”

  When we entered the dim stairwell of our building, Zaven paused before the bottom step.

  “Maral,” he said.

  My heart beat faster.

  He asked, “Would you mind if I kissed you?”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all,” I said.

  I closed my eyes, he put his lips to mine, and it was like a match set to dry leaves. When we separated, I was breathless.

  “Oh,” I said. “I had better go now.”

  “Until next week,” he called.

  As I flew up the stairs, my feet barely skimming the treads, I thought, So what that my hair is long and I still wear knee socks to school—he has chosen me.

  13

  THE END-OF-YEAR EXAMS LOOMED ahead of me like a tall mountain range. I had no time for anything except preparing to scale them. In the one bit of good luck the war had brought, at the request of the Agriculture Department oral examinations were canceled for all students because people were needed in the fields. Our teachers were appalled at this interference with the regular program, but I was relieved we had to contend with only the written tests, which would be difficult enough. Each lunchtime, I went to the school library to prepare study guides, and in the evening, I pored over these outlines until my vision was blurred. I woke up early to study before school. I recited mathematical formulas while brushing my teeth.

  My father muttered, “This girl’s going to ruin her eyesight and her health.” But it was said with pride.

  My mother shooed me out of the kitchen. “I don’t need help with the dishes, girl. Go, go to your books.”

  I set aside a few hours every Sunday afternoon for Zaven. Sometimes we had midday Sunday dinner with my family and sometimes with his. Our mothers always found something special for the meal, whether it was dumpling stew made from the meat of two squirrels Missak had hit with his slingshot or Auntie Shushan’s cabbage leaves stuffed with rice and minced black-market sausage.

  Zaven’s mother taught me how to crochet doilies. His sister wanted to show me her schoolwork. One afternoon, his father offered to make me a pair of pumps, and he asked Zaven’s brother, Barkev, to take the measurements. Barkev and I went to the front hall, where I climbed onto a low stool and stood barefoot on a piece of cardboard. Barkev knelt on the floor in front of me running the stub of a yellow pencil around the edge of my foot. I looked down at the top of his dark head as he brushed his fingertips and the point of the pencil along my bare skin.

  “That tickles.”

  “Don’t move,” Barkev said.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Lift your foot.”

  I followed his instructions, and he wrapped the tape measure around the ball of my foot, his fingers warm on my skin. Then he made notations on the side of the cardboard.

  “Done,” he said. “I don’t know why your boyfriend didn’t do this.”

  When Zaven and I left the apartment a few minutes later, I said, “I don’t think Barkev likes me.”

  “Either you’re joking or you’re blind,” Zaven said.

  “What?”

  Zaven shook his head. “As smart as you are, you can be pretty slow. You want to go to the park?”

  The weather had warmed, and our favorite place had become the Buttes Chaumont. That spring we spent hours exploring the park—its artificial lake and waterfalls, the grottoes and the hanging bridge. Each Sunday we went, another kind of flower had burst forth: daffodils gave way to hyacinths, which were followed by scarlet tulips. The ornamental fruit trees put on their show, the bright petals drifting down like confetti onto the lawns and sidewalks. I hated to leave as dusk approached. At that hour, the trees were alive with birds calling to one another while the sky moved through darker and darker hues.

  One Sunday afternoon it started to rain, and we took refuge under an enormous beech tree with deep purple leaves, sitting with our backs against its smooth gray trunk. Zavig put his arm around me and I leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder and watching the rain falling beyond the sheltering canopy of the tree.

  I said, “It’s like a house under here. This is our parlor. We need some chairs and a table.”

  “Where would we plug in the radio?” he asked.

  “No radio. We don’t want any bad news in this house.”

  “What will we eat?”

  “The kiosk will be our dining room, and the servers will bring us trays of ice cream and tall glasses of mineral water with almond syrup.”

  “Sounds too sweet.”

  “Do you want a beer?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, a beer, then, and a cheese sandwich.”

  “Ham and cheese.”

  I added, “And chocolate cake for dessert.”

  “Don’t talk about food. My stomach is rumbling,” he said.

  “You know,” I said, rubbing my cheek against the softness of his worn cotton shirt, “you smell good. Like damp leaves in a garden on a rainy day.”

  He laughed. “That’s the dirt we’re sitting on.”

  “You’re so romantic,” I said.

  “And yet you like me anyway.”

  I looked up at him. “When I was little I decided that I was going to marry you, but I knew that if I told Missak, he would laugh at me. And I thought maybe you would laugh at me too, and so in my head I told you off.”

  “You had a fight with me that I didn’t know about.”

  “Yes, but then we made up. And I still wanted to marry you.”

  “Well, let’s get married then.”

  My heart swooped inside my chest.

  “How does that sound?” he asked.

  I answered carefully, “It sounds perfect. But I won’t be seventeen until next month. And I have another year of school and another round of exams . . .”

  “There’s no rush,” he said. “Your education is important.”

  “You know, since I started lycée, when I was eleven, I’ve always felt proud to be working toward my bac. But I’ve never been able to imagine what I might do after.”

  “No idea?” he asked.

  “I’ve always wanted
to get married and have children. And sometimes I thought I might go to the école normale and become a teacher.”

  “I can see you at the front of the classroom. Mademoiselle Pegorian. Or Madame Kacherian.

  “Look,” he continued, turning to pat the tree, “see all the lovers who have been here before us.”

  The silver trunk was scarred with initials. He pulled a penknife from his pocket and carefully carved in the bark M.P. + Z.K., surrounded by a heart.

  I ran my fingers over the rough edges of the letters. “These trees can live for hundreds of years.”

  “And our initials will still be right there, and you’ll still be mine.”

  In the days that followed, as I sat in the classroom, my mind strayed to this moment under the tree. In the back of my English notebook I wrote a list of names: Maral Kacherian, Madame Maral Kacherian, Madame Zaven Kacherian, and Maral Pegorian Kacherian. I copied them in long columns from the top to the bottom of the page. In the margins, I drew hearts around our initials, like the image Zaven had carved into the tree. Then I decorated the empty spaces with birds and flowers.

  I was staring dreamily at this page in class when my English teacher tapped me on the shoulder. “I don’t believe that will be of any use to you on the examination you will take in a few short weeks.”

  I quickly closed the notebook, my face flushed with embarrassment. “I am sorry, Mrs. Collin.”

  “Girls your age often find it difficult to strike a balance between study and romance. But I would suggest for the next few weeks you focus on the former. You are an excellent student and it would be unfortunate if you didn’t perform as well as you ought.”

  When I got home that evening, I carefully tore the thin page out of the back of my notebook and slipped it beneath the stack of cards and mementos I stored in my bureau’s top drawer. Then I went to the table in the front room, where I spread out my study guides and notebooks and got back to work.

  14

  ZAVEN AND I SAT on a bench under a plane tree in the Parc de Belleville. The sprawl of city buildings shimmered in the bright summer sun.

  “I can’t believe exams are over,” I said.

  “How does it feel?” he asked.