All the Light There Was (17 page)

As the first long tress fell to the kitchen floor, Jacqueline’s mother said, “Are you two crazy? Why are you cutting it so short? Maral, your mother’s going to cry when she sees what you’ve done.”

“It’s the style,” Jacqueline said. With a snip of the scissors, another lock of hair dropped, and then another.

When it was done I shook my head, surprised by how weightless it felt. I put my hand to the ends.

“I knew it,” Jacqueline said triumphantly. “See how nicely it curls? Think about all those girls who have to put waves into their hair. Do you like it?”

I examined myself in the hand mirror. “Do you think it looks good?”

Jacqueline said, “It’s perfect. What do you think, Mairig?”

Auntie Sophie said, “Okay. So it’s nice. Maybe your mother won’t be too sad.”

B
Y EARLY AUGUST, RUMOR
had it that General Leclerc and the Americans were just over the horizon. The whole city was waiting, and when people got tired of waiting, they took action. First the police went on strike, disappearing from the streets and slipping out of their uniforms. The next day our letterbox was empty because the postal workers had walked off the job. The following day my father was thrilled to hear static where Radio Paris was usually found. There were no newspapers, electricity was cut, and gas was suspended. The Métro was shut down, and with the tires on our bicycle flat and beyond repair, we had no way to move around the city except on foot. Out of habit my father went to his shop, but customers were rare. I strayed only a few blocks from home, and my mother went no farther than our courtyard. One morning I ventured out to discover that posters had been plastered all over the walls of Belleville calling for a general strike and insurrection. We had heard nothing from Missak, who was, as far as we knew, living at the print shop.

The following Sunday morning Missak showed up at home looking as though he hadn’t slept in days. His voice hoarse and taut with excitement, he reported that the battle for Paris had begun the day before, with street fighting in the Latin Quarter and around the Gare de la Villette.

“Finally,” he said, “Paris is rising up.”

That afternoon a truce was announced via loudspeakers on cars that cruised the neighborhood. Missak and I went out to see what was going on, joining the jubilant crowds who had poured into the streets to celebrate. But a neighbor reported that the fighting was continuing in small pockets around town, despite the official announcement.

Vahan Kacherian waved to us from the corner, and we went over to say hello. Just then a column of German army trucks sped up the hill and people scattered in fear. Missak, Vahan, and I dashed into the Kacherians’ courtyard.

Once inside, Vahan beamed. “The Boches didn’t stop, and they probably won’t stop until they get to Berlin. With any luck, my boys will be home by Christmas.” He patted my arm. “Then we’ll have some raki to celebrate!”

I remembered the day four years earlier when we had watched from behind the slatted shutters in the Kacherians’ apartment as the German troops marched down the hill toward the heart of Paris. It seemed unreal that the long night was almost over.

On Monday morning, Missak was up early, claiming he had to return to work at the print shop.

My mother pleaded, “Oh no, Missak. Stay home. It’s too dangerous.”

“My boss needs me.”

My mother retorted, “I’m your mother, and I need you. Why should you roam the streets when there are bullets flying in all directions?”

My father interjected, “Azniv, he’s a man now. And he’s not stupid, are you, boy? You will keep your wits about you and your head down.”

“You are actually going to let him go?” my mother asked.

“It’s his decision, Azniv. And as they say, if disaster is on its way, it can strike you even while you sleep in your bed.”

When my mother was in the other room, I took hold of Missak’s hand and examined his fingernails.

“Brother, there isn’t any ink here. It doesn’t look like you’ve been doing any printing at all.”

“There’s other work to do.”

“With guns?” I asked.

“Guns, grenades, Molotov cocktails,” he said, laughing and miming the tossing of a flaming bottle.

“I’m glad you think that’s funny. Missak, please don’t be an idiot and get yourself killed now.”

“I’m coordinating the printing and distribution of leaflets. Dull, I know, but someone has to do it.”

He left, and we had no word from him for days. With no newspaper and no radio, we relied on street gossip and Resistance handbills for news. There were gun battles on the quays along the Seine, and random shootings of passersby by enraged German soldiers as they fled. My mother was panic-stricken about Missak’s whereabouts and safety.

Meanwhile, a few blocks up the hill from us on the rue de Belleville, men had pulled up the cobblestones and built a barricade. When my mother heard about it, she asked my father to go see if Missak was there.

“All the white hairs on my head have Missak’s name written on them. If you find him, Garabed, you grab him by the scruff of the neck and bring him home.”

When my mother’s back was turned, I slipped out the door behind my father.

“What are you doing, girl?” my father asked as I caught up with him at the foot of the stairs.

“I want to see what’s happening.”

“Your mother’s going to be angry at both of us,” he said.

“So maybe now there will be a white hair with my name on it.”

The barricade was assembled of paving stones and whatever else the men had been able to lay their hands on, including broken shutters, an old baby carriage, and metal bed frames. Trees had been cut down and tossed on top of the pile. The boys and men of Belleville stood around the barricade armed with ancient pistols, their grandfathers’ hunting rifles, and iron rods. Missak was nowhere to be seen.

From the men on the barricade we heard there was heavy fighting in the Latin Quarter and around the Hôtel de Ville. Even though many Germans were leaving Paris under orders, the remaining troops were well armed and battling in the streets against poorly equipped Resistance men. There were also German snipers on rooftops around the city, which made moving from place to place hazardous.

“We’re not going to just sit and wait for Leclerc’s guys and the Americans, you know. We’re fighting to liberate Paris,” one boy said. He looked to be about fourteen and was holding a rusty sword.

Another man added, “Yes, well, we haven’t seen a Boche here yet. But if they do show up in Belleville, we’ll damn well liberate ourselves.”

The waiting game continued, with most stores closed and people cooped up in their apartments. My father’s shop was near enough that he still went there each day, primarily as an escape from my mother’s anxious handwringing and groaning, which were getting on my nerves as well. Jacqueline came by to find out if we had heard anything from Missak, which we hadn’t. Then Jacqueline and I went to see if Donabedian would let her use his phone to contact Baron Hovanessian at the law office. She had been unable to get to work for almost a week, and when she called, her boss told her that the Germans had used tanks against some of the Resistance barricades in the city center, but he thought the worst of it was over.

Finally, on Thursday evening, the electricity came on again, and my father turned on the radio and twisted the dial until he found a voice. We heard an announcement from something calling itself the Radio of the French Nation saying that the first French troops led by General Leclerc had entered the capital. Missak came home late on Saturday, and instead of greeting him with joy, my mother collapsed into sobs. By Saturday evening, the liberation had been accomplished. That night all the churches of the city set their bells ringing. My father, Missak, and I headed to join a crowd at the Parc de Belleville, where we watched celebratory fireworks showering over the Hôtel de Ville.

The following day we heard on the radio that General de Gaulle was on the Champs Élysées, and then the American soldiers, who would soon be on their way to their next battle, streamed into Paris.

Jacqueline came by to invite Missak and me to a gathering in honor of the Armenians in the American army who were passing through town. The next afternoon, taking the Métro for the first time in weeks, I met Jacqueline and Missak at her office and then the three of us walked the few blocks to an Armenian restaurant in the diamond district that was already crowded with revelers. Just inside the door, I was almost bowled over by the heady smells of lamb, butter, and spices.

Jacqueline said, “Look at that food! Who cares about the Americans? Come on. I want something to eat.”

The side table was spread with a royal banquet. As we held out our plates to be served, I whispered into Jacqueline’s ear, “How in the world did they get all this food?”

The Armenian American soldiers were jolly and round-cheeked while most of us were thin and pale from a four-year regimen of root vegetables. But it felt as though they were our cousins, and, as often happened with Armenians, some of them
were
in fact distant cousins. The patron of the restaurant broke out bottles of raki he had been holding in reserve for this occasion. Soon a troupe of Armenian musicians started to play, and everyone, fueled by food and raki, began singing.

I was pulled into a line of dancers snaking around the room. When I glanced back to find my brother and Jacqueline, I saw that they were in the corner talking, their heads so close together they almost touched. The look on Missak’s face was earnest and bashful. The usually sardonic Jacqueline was gazing at him adoringly.

When the line broke up at the end of the song, I went in search of something to drink. As I was standing in a dark alcove of the room sipping a glass of water, a tall young man in an American uniform approached me and said in Armenian, “I hope you won’t think this is rude and I’ll understand if you say no, but we’re leaving tomorrow to join the fighting in the east. I’d like to be able to say that I kissed a girl in Paris. What do you think?”

The earnest look on his face charmed me.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“New York City,” he said. “The Bronx.”

“What’s your name?”

“Hrant. But they call me Harry. What’s your name?”

“Maral. Where are your people from?”

“The mountains of Zeitoun,” he said.

“That’s why you’re so tall.” I tipped my head back to stare up at him.

“You’re very pretty, Maral,” he said. “You remind me of a girl I know back home.”

“Your girlfriend?” I asked.

“Just a girl from church. You know what, Maral? I think we need a drink!” he said. He raced off and returned with two glasses of raki.

“Genatz!”
I held up my glass.

“Vive la France.”
He saluted and then threw back the drink in one gulp.

I followed his example and drained mine as well. The raki burned going down, starting a small internal fire. I felt lapping flames travel under my skin from my head to my toes. Suddenly life was clean and bright and easy.

“So what do you say?” he asked.

“What do I say about what?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

He said with enthusiasm, “The kiss! What else?”

Here was a brave American soldier who had helped liberate Paris. He was about to march off into battle and anything might happen to him. Even with my mother’s horrified face flickering in my mind, how could I have told him no? I pushed my mother aside, and there behind her was Zaven, a tiny forlorn figure in an oversize sweater. But I wasn’t feeling any pity at that moment.

I looked up at the tall Zeitountsi and answered, “Why not?”

We moved deeper into the alcove so we were out of sight. He quickly leaned down and put his mouth to mine. It was an exuberant and celebratory kiss—nothing romantic or passionate—and when we broke apart, both of us started laughing.

“So now you can say you kissed a girl in Paris,” I told him.

“Would you mind trying that again?”

“Oh, not at all,” I replied, smiling.

He put his arms around me and kissed me. But this time, I was pulled down into a whirlpool of dark water. I shut my eyes and forgot where we were. My head was spinning so fast that I was dizzy and breathless when we separated.

“Wow!” he said in English.

Just then my brother appeared beside us. “Maral, what do you think you’re doing?”

I said, “Harry, this is my brother, Missak. Missak, this is Harry. He’s from New York. The Bronx, in fact, right, Harry?”

Missak took hold of my elbow. “That’s enough, Maral. If you’ll excuse us, Harry, we’re going home now.”

As Missak led me away, I called back over my shoulder, “Good luck, Harry! May victory be ours.”

Missak said, “Is it the short hair that makes you act like a fool?”

“Oh, don’t be such an old goat,” I said. “It’s the raki.”

I
N THE WEEKS FOLLOWING
the liberation of Paris, known and suspected collaborators were arrested. Women who had consorted with German soldiers in what was called horizontal collaboration had their heads shaved in public. Food was still rationed and hard to procure. The Occupation may have been over, but the war was not.

In October, I started classes at the Sorbonne and a part-time job in the English library. I loved the university—from the notebooks, to the lectures, to the marble and wooden staircases worn smooth by the thousands of students who had trod them before me.

Most of the other girls had an array of pretty dresses that they wore with matching sweaters and brightly colored scarves. I missed Victor Hugo’s democratizing smock, which had disguised the shabbiness of my clothes. After carefully eyeing the sweaters of the other girls, I knit myself an approximate replica. When I mentioned to my mother that I had only three presentable dresses, she sewed me two white blouses out of a flea-market tablecloth, a blue wool skirt out of a remnant her boss had given her, and a brown dress from a length of cheap cotton. The new clothes were almost hopelessly out of fashion, but I said thank you and convinced myself that intelligence was a more important attribute than style.