On a Saturday morning, April 13, 1974 to be exact, a thought came to me to visit my maternal grandparents, Simon and Rebecca Tekirian. I had nothing planned that day, and sometimes an unplanned Saturday meant a trip into Manhattan from my apartment in North Bergen, New Jersey. But if things worked out, I would spend the day in Washington Heights. So I called:
“Hello Papa, this is Johnny, Raffi (my Armenian middle name), your grandson.”
“Yes, yes, how are you, my boy?
“I’m fine Papa. I was wondering if I could visit you and grandma today. I haven’t seen you in a while and…”
“Raffi, are you sure you want to come?” he interrupted. “You know I’ll be working in the store all day and busy with customers.”
“Yes, I know. I won’t stay too long, and I can sit with grandma while you’re working.”
“All right, then come. Your Aunt Mary and Cousin Angel will be over with dinner at five when I close. If I’m not there, let them in.”
It was early afternoon when I arrived, surprised to find a parking spot close to my grandfather’s tailor store on Fort Washington Ave. As I got out of the car, a strange feeling came over me as if I was there for the first time, even though I was no stranger to the neighborhood.
A customer was just leaving as I walked into the store, which gave my grandfather and me some time to talk, but not too long, as another customer soon entered. Papa quickly opened the drawer under the countertop and handed me the key to his apartment.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to walk far, as the apartment building was just across the street. Little did I know that my visit with my grandmother would be quite different than with my grandfather.
I quietly walked in and stopped where the hallway meets the living room. She was sitting in front of the far-right corner window facing Fort Washington. Not wanting to startle her, I said, “Hi grandma, it’s me, Raffi. I’ve come to see you.”
She turned her head and smiled. I walked over, pulled up a chair next to her and saw an open book on her lap. Upon closer look, it was a Bible, and I noticed that she was having difficulty turning one of the pages.
“Here grandma, I’ll do it for you.”
She pointed to the top of the page.
“Shall I read it to you?”
Her eyes twinkled as I held it and read: “All night long on my bed I looked for the one my heart loves. I looked for him but did not find him. I will get up now and go about the city, through its streets and squares. I will search for the one my heart…”
I stopped reading as she started pointing to the window, almost touching it.
“What is it Grandma? What are you trying to say?” But why did I ask that, as if…
With a calm voice, she said, “Raffi, I see a young girl dressed in white, dancing in her room just like a ballerina. Sunlight streams through the tall window. A soft breeze rustles the white curtains. Do you see it?”
I bent over, expecting to see the apartment buildings across the street and the cars passing by. But as I did, I realized that I could understand her! My immediate thought was to rush over to tell my grandfather, but she pointed to the window again, as if there was some danger, like smoke billowing out of a building.
Through a cloudy mist that was not there before, I could actually see what she was seeing! No, it can’t be, I thought. It must be a reflection from another window. But why now? I’ve visited my grandmother before, and nothing like this has ever happened. She saw my worried, frantic look.
She turned to me and said, “Raffi, you were meant to see this. Don’t be afraid. You will understand, but not now. Only be still, watch and listen.”
I wanted to get up, but I couldn’t, for the room seemed to swirl around me as if I was caught in a whirlwind, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, then dropped into another dimension. Seconds later, a peace came over me as if this was nothing unusual, just another visit, an adventure that we had gone on many times before.
There before me was a young girl in a white dress dancing like a ballerina. “Who is she, grandma? And where are we?”
“That’s me as a teenager in my bedroom in Paris, and I’m dancing with the one I would marry,” she said gleefully. “Oh, but not really. He’s just the one I used to dream about and imagine dancing in his arms.” I remembered that she lived in Paris with her brother…
“Garo,” she said, as if she could now read my mind as well! I was so mystified with all that was happening. “I lived with him after leaving Istanbul. He was such a good brother to me.”
She was quiet for a moment. Slowly she raised her arms, following the same movements that she was seeing. “Raffi, don’t worry. Paris will do that to a young girl, and even to your grandma,” she said with a slight laugh as she lowered her arms.
She paused to catch her breath, but then her countenance changed. “You know, the Genocide, the war, the suffering of our people, all took me away from Istanbul where we were staying with my grandparents after we left Kayseri just before it all started. Garo was already in France when he came to see us. He wanted to take me to Paris to live with him. I knew I would go.”
Then she pointed to the Bible. “You see the Bible you have in your hands? Not only did I dream in Paris, but also at the local Armenian church where I heard the hymns and prayers. It seemed like the very first time, even after all the services I had gone to as a child. Sometimes I wonder, was it fear of the unknown or the known after leaving my family that brought me to that Paris church?”
She touched the silver cross that hung from her neck. “But in my heart, I knew that it was His cross that helped me to not be bitter at God for all that we went through.”
I looked out the window again, but this time she was not there.
“Grandma, where are you now?” I asked anxiously as if I would never see her again.
She took my hand and said with a stern grin, “I am not there, because he’s wonderful but not so easy to live with. Papa and I, with some assurance from my brother, got married at that very church in Paris. I said yes to your grandfather after he came all the way from America to see me. He had a charm about him, plus he and my brother were close friends. I knew, as I did when I left Istanbul, that this was my time to start a new life, like your grandfather did, in America.”
Yes, I thought to myself, a new life.
She continued to relate more of her life story. Each remembrance of Kayseri and New York City was visually projected through the mist in the window. It seemed like we were together for hours, but it was only minutes.
Suddenly, I heard a knock at the door. With that knock, just in time I found myself disengaged from her dimension, landing safely back home among the sights and sounds of Washington Heights.
“That must be your Aunt Mary and Cousin Angel. They have been such a blessing to us, especially Angel. How she does my nails and even some lipstick. How it reminds me of Paris,” she said with a forlorn look.
I gently placed the Bible on her lap, one page turned over, and to my surprise I saw a lipstick mark on the top left corner. I wanted to ask her more, but as I got up to open the door, she took my hand. “Thank you Raffi for seeing me today and for sharing my dream. You made me very happy, but now it’s time.” She pointed to the window. “You see, the mist is almost gone.”
I looked at her and nodded as if I instinctively knew what she meant, for what she had become was for this moment in time, between us only.
“I love you,” she said with a smile. “I love you too grandma,” I responded and kissed her forehead. I could see tears welling in her eyes.
“I often think of your beautiful mother Anahid and your Uncle John. They were so young, and I know how hard it was for them, but your Papa did all that he could to care for them while he worked at the store, and for that I will always be grateful.”
She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “Now, after you let them in, do not be surprised when you turn to see me, for the mist will be gone and will not return.”
As I went to open the door, I knew that I could not stay and gave my aunt and cousin a reason not to be with them for dinner.
It was much later that I started reading the Bible for myself. God sometimes allows miracles and revelations of His goodness to come to each of us in unexpected ways that chance or coincidence cannot define.
Perhaps that’s why I wrote this story about my grandmother and what might have been. You see, she was diagnosed with ALS and passed into the arms of Jesus before I was born. As the years pass by, it is no wonder then why I sometimes find myself looking out my living room window expecting that cloudy mist to return…just one more time.
John Bashian
Latest posts by John Bashian (see all)
- Rebecca’s Window - September 11, 2024
Abrees! Beautiful work John! , having grown up in North Bergen and having grandparents both from Geasaria and Washington Heights I applaud your writing . Thank you for taking the time to write some such a heartwarming story that captures the the magic the grace and the wonder of my own family while looking out from my family’s apt on the corner of 161st and Riverside Drive over the Hudson River on to the New Jersey Palisades, where I roamed as a child. . Being from an Armenian family has been absolutely the most amazing experience that has opened me to the infinite possibilities that are available to us as human beings awakening from the collective dream we call life. In recent years I have walked to St Vartanantz Church from 76th street and Boulevard East through Hudson /James Braddock Park around the lake and marveled at the magnificence and wonder of having had such a rich upbringing. To be from an Armenian heritage, alive, well and flourishing and from Hudson County and overlooking the vast metropolis of our playground NYC has been beyond astounding! Much Love keep writing from the wellsprings of our collective ancestral Grace!