Grandma's Secret

  Sylvia Melikian passed away peacefully in her sleep, just like she had prayed for all her life.  Her service was short, but well attended by the Armenia community which she had always associated with by working for the St. Cyril Eastern Orthodox Church at various capacities from tidying the altar to typing out the Sunday announcements.  There was little doubt Sylvia Melikian would be missed.

Angie Trombley sat near the front, wiping her eyes as her husband Robert sat stoically, like a stone-gray statue against the cold gray sky since Grandma Sylvie was more of a stranger to him than the loving grandmother that she had been to his wife. He wisely talked Angie into leaving the children home even though they both saw her as a magical fairy godmother whenever she came through the door like a tornado until the past six months when she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  Blithe was ten and understood death in terms of a ten-year-old.  The year before, one of her classmates was killed in a car accident and the class went to a special service.  Buddy, on the other hand, had no concept of death as most first graders did not and his habit of asking questions to fill the silence would be embarrassing.  It was best to leave them home with Mrs. Henning, their elderly neighbor who baked the best cookies and then passed them out to the neighborhood children. 

Some of the service was said in the native Armenian tongue, but when it came time for eulogies, the speakers spoke English, praising the late Sylvia Melikian for her unflapping patronage to the church.  Angie spoke last and her words spoke of the deep love she had for her grandmother, speaking of how she used to turn plain old ingredients into works of art in such effortless magic.   When she had finished speaking, she folded her paper, put it in her handbag and walked down to her grandmother’s casket and kissed saying, “I will miss you, grandma.”

She was not ashamed of her tears as she walked back to her place in the congregation.

“Wonderful words.” Aunt Bessy remarked quietly as Angie nodded a “thank you.”

The civil war in Lebanon started unobtrusively, no one was even aware that Israel was invading from the southern border after the assassination of Bachir Geyemel.  He had been elected president of Lebanon but was blown up Beirut Phalange headquarters by Habib Tanious Shartouni, a member of the Syrian Social Nationalist Party before Bachir could ascend to the presidency.  This meant nothing to Sylvia Melikian who was working hard at the Lebanese American University to graduate with her bachelor’s in computer technology.  Her whole family was so proud of Angie as she proved that women could achieve a college diploma in a country that was joining the wave of technology that was sweeping the globe in 1982.  But before she could take the finals for the semester the Syrian army laid part of one of the most beautiful cities to waste.  Other invaders would follow and soon the Lebanon Civil War turned the Paris of the Middle East into one of the most dangerous places in the world due to these invaders.  Some of them were armed by the Soviets and others armed by the United States until it was impossible to tell one of the others.  Classes were suspended and Sylvia sat at home pining to return to the university, but she kept busy as her grandmother prepared Armenia pastries with her store of cooking supplies.  Nazook and Gata turning the stale sulfuric air into something more appealing with the scent of walnuts and ground cardamom that made father and his four daughters, and his solitaire son forget the ugliness of war just for a while.  One day grandmother said she had run out of walnuts, so she sent her daughter to the market a few blocks away to purchase a pound.  At nightfall, mama still had not returned.  Papa grabbed his rifle and went to search for her.  It did not take long when he found his wife’s body crumbled in a shallow ditch with a single red circle in her forehead that looked like it belonged there with the rest of her makeup, but such was not the case.  He picked her lifeless body into his arms and let out a wail of despair that could be heard throughout the entire city. 

Aman met his sister at Sylvia’s apartment.  A few days ago one of Sylvia’s friends had found her sitting in her chair as though she was napping, but when she got closer saw that her friend was not napping.

Aman was a pain in the rear as far as Angie was concerned.  Growing up in Beirut, he had been a soccer nut and found that soccer was not as big a deal in Baltimore.  He also believed that women were only good for one thing and his misogynous manner was highly superior, not to mention insulting and degrading when around women, but she also knew he had a tender side as he openly grieved his mother’s death for many days, burning a candle in his room that papa would blow out after he fallen asleep.

“The place smells like Ben Gay and mothballs.” He sniffed upon entering her shrine where she had pictures of all her children and grandchildren filling the entire walls of her tiny efficiency apartment where she had lived for almost twenty years. Looking at the memories staring back at him as he passed, Aman shook his head, “So sis, what are we going to do with all of these photographs?  She has everyone one of them in gold gilded frames.”

“We give them back to the person in the picture.” She shrugged, opening a closet and an avalanche of toilet paper fell on her.

“That won’t take long.” He complained as sarcastically as he could manage.

“It’s what we do as family.” She said matter-of-factly.

Then Aman grasped a picture of him at sixteen, a year after coming to America, when papa took them to Disneyland.  There was his image, a gawky sixteen year old wearing mouse ears.  Fact was he still had them stuffed in a box somewhere in the attic of his home back in Baltimore.  He smiled, “Well the owner of this picture now has it in his hands.”

Angie chuckled when she showed it to him.  There was so much stuff in her apartment that held such sentimental value, but the value dropped considerably once the owner was gone. This stuff would become another person’s treasure when found on a dusty shelf of the Goodwill.  They had two weeks to clear out the apartment and the more they could get done today, the less for later.  Latah promised to show up to help.  She was Angie’s youngest sister, but was unreliable and late, as usual.  Natalie had a stroke and was recovering.  She was the oldest sister who was close to getting social security.  It was hard to believe how old they had become and how much she missed mama and papa.

“What is your name, sir?” The guard with the rifle slung over his shoulder asked papa.

“Natal Melikian.” He answered as he passed the guard his passport. 

“And you?” He grunted.

“Sylvia Melikian.  I am his mother.” She said as if this would get her through the security line any faster. 

“I must detain you.” He said his eyes scanning the entire family with his bulging ebony eyes.  Yesterday there was a man who set off a bomb outside the terminal killing only himself in the process, but the idea that there would be more like him did not sit well with the authorities.  Papa decided that enough was enough and his brother had sent them a notarized letter saying that they would have a place to stay and employment once they got to Baltimore.  His restlessness was not sitting well with the armed guards in the area.  Grandma was a street vendor before the war, selling pastries out in the busy part of Beirut.  Her last day was when a customer was shot in the head as he was eating one of her pastries, his blood splattered all over her wares and apron.  She stood before her son, her eyes on his as she spoke softly to him, Natal, you must be patient.” 

“What for?” Papa asked. 

Her smile was the only answer she gave, but it was enough for now. 

For the next hour, the Melikians were held at gunpoint wondering why they were being detained. After the hour was up, the small squat officer returned without an expression on his ruddy mustached face, “You have secret papers.  Papers that would put all of us in jeopardy.  Until I have those papers, you will not be leaving.” 

Grandma rummaged in her purse and then handed the guard a stack of papers. She handed them to the guard who nodded without looking at the content of the stack of papers and waved them through. 

“Mama, what did you give him?” Papa asked with a half-smile. 

“My recipes.” She winked. 

“What a price we must pay sometimes.” He shrugged glad that everyone was now headed for the gate.  The plane ride was uneventful, papa and grandma slept most of the way while Latah, Natalie, Angie, Mahika, and Aman sat reading books on the long flight.  Sabid met his brother at the airport with his seven children and together like a large tribe, the family got jammed into the van and drove to his home. 

“I hate that she gave up her recipes.” Angie shook her head. “There are so many memories I have of her, you know.”

“Me too.” Aman echoed from the other room. He came into the kitchen holding a baseball jersey.  “I remember when we went to that Oriole game and she got Cal Ripken Jr.’s autograph.”

“Nice.” She had no idea who Cal Ripken Jr. was, but it made him happy.  Her hands found a music box.  It was pretty, but aged and worn like most of her things. The lock was jammed and there was no sign of a key to open it anywhere in sight, so she used a knife to pry it open.  It did not take much of an effort.  To her surprise, the music played, and the tiny ballerina moved as she had when it was brand new, twirling as the tinny music played note by note. It was then Angie remembered that her grandmother played the piano.  She once had a grand piano until the shelling began and the piano was destroyed when the ceiling collapsed after being struck by an Israeli shell.  No more music after that. 

“You people move over there.” The guard pointed.  For four days Sylvia and her mother had marched from their home up north to this hot desert town by a bunch of Turks in the army who were under orders to relocate the Armenians.  The sultan issued the orders because it was felt that the Armenians with their devotion to God would be of no use in this war against the British. “You people over there.” 

“Come along, Sylvie.” Her mother urged her young daughter with the pigtails.  As they moved, they heard the rat-tat-tat from behind and when Sylvie turned to look over her shoulder, she saw that the group who moved the other way as instructed, were being shot down by the machine guns the Turks had placed in the lorries. The people fell into a ditch that was there when they had arrived at Aleppo.   

The refugee camp was not much better than the outpost camps they had slept in on their long journey to this Godforsaken place.  Fleas and scorpions were everywhere and soon her arms were nothing but red welts where these nasty creatures had left their mark on her.  

Her nightmares were filled with papa answering the door and having the soldier run him through with his bayonet.  Papa grunted and fell to the floor, his black eyes wide open, but he was not seeing anything.  The soldiers rushed into her room and took her and her mama out of their home.  It was their home.  They had lived there as long as she could remember, but they would live there no longer.  The refugee camp would be their home, but then the British came, opened the gates, and told them to go home.  Go home? To what? Many of them decided to go to Beirut since the good people in that city had opened the doors to them.  This city was filled with people from every corner of the earth and believers of all religions imaginable.  Sylvia’s neighbors were Muslim and Roman Catholic, all living together as a community united in a proximity of a brotherhood.  And without a confirmation, Beirut became her home. 

       There was a tear in the side of the silk lining of the music box.  Angie had let it play down until the wind-up coil had run out, but now she saw the tear where it appeared as if there was some paper hastily stuffed into the material.  She picked up the box.  She turned it so she could see the papers stuffed into the material.  Slowly she began to pick at it.

     “Angie, c’mon we got lots of things to do.” Aman called from the next room where he had filled two crates of keepsakes from the tables and shelves in the main room. 

       “Yeah, yeah.” Sylvia called back as she used her long fingernails to pinch the papers and pull them free of the material.  The papers had been folded many times.  That was just like what her grandma would do.  She could fit bits and pieces into places no one else could fit them.  Once the papers were opened, she could see they had been torn from a small spiral notebook like the one her grandma used to carry in case an idea ever would cross her mind.  She had several of them throughout the house, but most of the writing was illegible.  Not this one, however. 

To my beloved granddaughter Angie. 

In desperation to get out of Beirut, I gave the guard my recipes knowing he was illiterate and would have no idea what I gave him was not what he was asking us for.  I knew my son did not have what he was asking for and all we needed to do was get by the guard and disappear.  I did what I had to do.  But then I remembered all the times when you helped me with the Nazooks and gatas so I could sell them in the streets.  When I got to America, I wrote down these recipes so you could have them.  Please in my memory, make these pastries and enjoy them.  It is my way of extending my love to you now that I am gone.

 Love you always,

Grandma

I wrote this knowing one day I would leave you and you would find these recipes. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Aman burst into the kitchen, sweaty and out of breath.  “Are you planning on helping or are you just going to read old stuff?”

As tears flowed down her face, she handed her brother the notes.

“Wow, I had no idea.” He sounded a bit humbled.

“All the way from home.” Angie swallowed.

“She handed that guard her recipes.” Aman let out a hearty laugh, “That is so rich.  All these years.”

“I wonder how she knew he was illiterate.” Angie wiped the tears off her cheek with the sleeve or her hoodie. 

“Look at this cool urn.  Gold.” He pinged it with his finger.

“Is it uncorked?” She asked, concealing a laugh of her own.

“Naw.  Still there.” Aman tapped on it.

“Good thing.  I think that’s grandpa.” She said as her brother nearly dropped the urn with an “Ugh.”

“That is creep-ee.” Aman put it on the table where it had come from.

“You know grandma was a keeper.  She didn’t throw anything away.”  Angie stuffed the box into her coat pocket, the note still inside. 

In the end they hired a couple of salvage men to haul off the stuff to Goodwill as Angie paid for announcements for Sylvia in the form of holy cards people could stick into their Bibles. 

“Flour...three cups.” Angie was in the kitchen wearing her apron when a couple of her daughters came sauntering in, both were in college, but it seemed even as young adults studying business and economics, both of them still had the curiosity of a child.

“Watcha making, mom.” Gracie asked, dipping a finger into the wet batter.

“What is it?” Faith asked, watching her mother swat Gracie’s hand.

“Nazooks.” She said as she checked the next ingredient on the recipe. 

“Na-whats?” Gracie looked at her mother with a quizzical expression on her face.

“Nazooks. Armenian pastry like your grandmother used to make.  I helped her when I was a girl...before the war.” She answered pouring in the almond powder.

“What war?” Faith took a swipe at the batter.

“When I was a little girl in Beirut.” She dipped her finger in the bowl and tasted it.  All the years evaporated, and she was once again standing in her grandmother’s kitchen with her grandpa reading the newspaper, patiently waiting for the first batch to come out of the oven.