What’s a nice girl doing in a place like this? It was one of those freezing Michigan winter evenings and there I was, just a snip of a girl, standing in the bitter cold waiting to catch a glimpse of my fellow Armenian, the scourge of the failed 1956 Hungarian freedom revolt, Anastas Mikoyan—also known by Nikita Khruschev as “my Armenian” and “my little rug merchant.” Could it have been affection or respect that led Khruschev to appoint his Armenian with the post of deputy premier of the Soviet Union in 1955?
In those days, you wore skirts and high heels to work no matter what the weather, and exposed legs just added to my already considerable discomfort. My bare neck, too, was chilled because of my Max and Sonny hair salon beehive hairdo.
What possessed me to launch on this mission? Many things. I was a long-time member of the Armenian Youth Federation (AYF) and had an interest in history, especially Armenian history. All my school reports were on topics representing my ethnic heritage. Daily conversations at my house centered around what was going on concerning Armenian politics, and evenings found us hunched around Gabriel Heater’s radio news broadcasts.
I had been an avid newspaper reader since the age of eight and the hype in the Pontiac Daily Press (then owned by the Fitzgerald family) was ablaze with news of the eminent visit of the Soviet trade minister. He arrived in Detroit and would be dining downtown at the Detroit Club, one of the Motor City’s exclusive “male only” bastions.
I was working as secretary in the package engineering parts division of General Motors Corp. My supervisor, Bud Quinn, knew I was of Armenian descent and was in total agreement that I should leave work early to, as they say, get the feel of the land. I fearlessly ventured out to the big city in my snug convertible all alone in search of Mikoyan, referred to as “the Survivor” because of his ability to avoid Soviet purges.
I was never the adventurous type and have no idea where I parked in the bustling city or what gave me the hubris to take on this venture, but I did. I waited patiently, shivering on the sidewalk in biting cold weather, flanked by newspaper reporters and cameramen equipped with floodlights lighting up the club, all anxious to capture the Soviet premier.
There he was! He emerged surrounded by city leaders and auto executives. I focused my gaze on him, studying his impression and trying to read what was behind that facade.
There was no doubt it was my fellow Armenian, Baron Mikoyan. He had that familiar big dark moustache and a broad smile on his face. He wore a long heavy dark overcoat and hat. One would never guess this kindly looking gentleman was complicit in the ruthless putdown of the bloody Hungarian revolution.
One report I read said Mikoyan actually preferred a gentler method to end the revolution started by university students. He believed it could be stopped with just a “show of force,” military intimidation, instead of actually rolling into Budapest with tanks and firing on the freedom-hungry crowd, killing thousands.
I could hear the screams of the citizens of Budapest just as I could imagine what the turmoil, confusion, and screams were in 1915 in the remote villages of historic Armenia when the Turks entered our villages striking down Armenians with their swords. That’s why I was here. That’s why I kept staring at him trying to understand the inhumanity of it all, at 19, still not comprehending the cruelty of my world.
I wanted to see the face of the man who “had gone over to the other side.” Why had this former seminary student switched to atheism? I wish I could have asked him questions, like how do you bear knowing the Turks committed genocide against the Armenians when you yourself were born in Armenia? Why were you fighting the anti-Soviet forces instead of being on our side? Do you long for revenge against them like I do? You were a participant in history at a time when Armenia for a short time had independence; did you utter damnations toward the Turks? Would he have laughed at me?
Somehow they never resorted to killing Mikoyan. The wily communist must have walked on thin ice at times. He endured, even being appointed chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet until his retirement in 1965. He died a natural death at 82. I was glad for that too. Somehow it gave me hope that even Armenia could survive till better days came.
You look at people different, even Armenians when you have been reading of their exploits. But there he was, not at all looking like a menace—a contradiction. He was an Armenian, a true Hye, born in Sanahin, in the Lori District of Armenia, the son of a carpenter and a rug-weaving mother. He was a graduate of the Nersesyan Seminary in Tiflis, Georgia, but said, “The more I study religious subjects, the less I believe in God.” To his credit he married an Armenian, Ashkhen (Tumanyan) Mikoyan, who preceded him in death. She bore him five sons, one of whom was killed in World War II when his plane was shot down by the Germans.
There always was magic in “ian” and “yan” for me. We had so few role models in those days. Names like Arlene Francis, William Saroyan, the car racing Aghajanian Brothers from LA, and the Catholic Cardinal Aghajanian stood out. Mostly they consisted of heroes of the Armenian revolutionary movement whose pictures with unsmiling faces lined the walls of our Tashnag club on 223 Ferry Ave. in Pontiac, Mich.
Neighbors would never suspect what political fervor beat in the hearts of those ordinary-looking men and women accompanied by their children, attending fiery lectures by Kopernik Tandourjian, Hagop Mouradian, or some field worker from Central in Boston at that quiet club. They were people with a cause, the Armenian Cause, survivors of the genocide of 1915.
I would have loved to convince Mikoyan to come with me for the short drive back to Pontiac where he and I together would walk into our club and I would introduce him to all those survivor-generation Armenian men, my father’s Ungers. He would have seen the tricolor in its stand, proudly waiting for Armenian independence. It thrills me to wonder what his reaction would have been. We would have sat in one of those antique Bentwood chairs at a square marble top table where the men played the card game scambil, and Baron Hagop would serve him a thick cup of traditional Hyegagan sourj.
So I saw the Bolshevik and had a complete sense of satisfaction as I watched him waving to us from atop the Detroit Club’s steps. Flash bulbs popped, reporters and cameramen jostled for advantageous position, and soon it was over. Today’s Betty would have made a mad dash across the barriers and yelled in Armenian, “Parev Baron Mikoyan, yes al Hye em!”
The memory of that night will always remain with me. When I look back and think that I took such drastic measures to see my fellow Armenian whose politics were so contrary to our love of freedom here in the United States and the freedom we so desperately wanted for little Armenia, well… It was something I just had to do. It was what makes me tick to this day. I didn’t hate Mikoyan. I actually admired him for his ability to charm the Soviet leaders who one by one fell to the wayside—and there he was, still standing, unscathed. He was a survivor just like my parents’ generation. Perhaps that was what made me have a secret admiration for the old “rug merchant.”
Would I do it again? In a heart beat. I am after all Mamigon’s daughter.
As for the Hungarians? True they had no love for Mikoyan. They blamed him for their revolt being crushed. I understood what it meant to be under the Soviet yoke. My father was dead set against the Russian control of Armenia. There was no debate about that.
Betty Apigian-Kessel
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Dear Betty,
Anastas Mikoian was one of the four who signed the death order(sentence if you wish) of the Polish officers at Katyn.
The other three:Stalin,Beria and Molotov.
Is there anything of significance that he did for Armenia?
He just managed to save his skin.
Waiting foir a mass murderer in freezing cold doesn’t make you a patriot although I admire your courage and dedication to the armenian cause. An old “unguer”
I can’t change my views,just because someone’s name finishes in IAN doesn’t make him a good human being.Forget the whole yging.Thank you.
Dear Betty, Your story was fascinating. Your mention of Anastas reminds me of a story my uncle, Edward N. Sookikian of Watertown, Mass., told me of his visit to Armenian back in the 1955 time frame.
On his return home flight from Erevan to Moscow (and later Bulgaria to visit cousins), he tells me his seat mate was Anastas himself. (I believe at this time he was The Health Commissar.) They strike up a conversation and feeling comfortable with him he procedes to complain about the negative aspects of his trip viz., “The public toilets are filthy smelly he says and the screens are full of holes. You have to do something about this.”
Anastas replies, “I know, I know but we have much more important work to do than to fix up smelly toilets”.
“Uncle, How did you dare talk to him this way, he could have you shot!” I said. “I never thought about it, I just had to say my mind”.
Well, in Moscow, like a good visitor he gets on the long line in Red Square to see Lenin’s tomb. It is cold and windy and he swears to himself why he has to suffer to see Lenin lying there. But evidently it was the proper respect a visitor to Moscow showed in those days.
His next stop was Bulgaria and he comes down with a terrible respitory ailment while visiting relatives. Here too the sanitary conditions are deplorable he told me. And I’m thinking Anastas has put the word out to kill him but make his death seem natural. But the elderly grandmother of the household nurses him back to health. On returning home he promptly sends money for the family to install a modern toilet. Happy travels, V.S.