All the Light There Was

by Kricorian, Nancy

  “It just started snowing. And guess what?” Jacqueline said as she tossed off her shoes and slid her feet into leather slippers.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’m pregnant!”

  “Meghah!” my mother said. “You too? We’re going to have a houseful of babies.”

  “How far along are you?” I asked.

  “A little more than two months. The doctor says the baby will come at the end of August.”

  “Does Missak know?”

  “I called him from the doctor’s office. Oh, Maral, won’t it be so much fun? The cousins will be only four months apart.”

  That evening as I walked home along the icy sidewalks, snowflakes shimmered under the streetlights. It was only a few steps from my old home to the new, but I was anxious that I might slip, tumble forward onto my belly, and crush the baby. I imagined that after the baby was born, there would be many more dangers to guard against, everything from rusty nails to kidnappers. I sighed with relief as I turned into the building.

  That night after Barkev and I went to bed, I told him about Claire and her aunt’s visit. It was cold in the room, so we had the blankets up to our chins, and the words made little clouds in the air.

  “Do you think they’ll find out what happened to the parents?” I asked.

  “The Germans kept good records of everything, including when people died.”

  “Sometimes I wonder about Denise Rozenbaum and her parents. And Henri.”

  “Henri came to the camp about a month after we arrived,” Barkev said.

  “You never told me that.”

  “You never asked me.”

  “And Denise?”

  He shrugged. “From Drancy, they went to Auschwitz, and that’s all Henri knew.”

  Lying on my side with my face inches from his, the soft light from the lamp on the nightstand coming from behind him, I stared at my husband. I wanted to ask what had happened to Henri, but I knew from Barkev’s expression that Henri had died. Did it really matter how? That’s why I hadn’t asked Myriam what camp the Lipskis had been sent to. What good would it do Myriam or Claire to learn on what day and by which method the child’s parents had been killed?

  The baby turned inside me. Then there was a little jump and then another one. Pause, jump, pause, jump, pause, and jump again.

  “Feel this.” I took Barkev’s hand and placed it on my belly.

  “What is it?”

  “The doctor told me that happens when the baby has hiccups.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “If it goes on too long. Most of the time when I sit still, the baby gets restless and starts moving around, but when I go for a walk, the baby sleeps. We’re together all the time, and yet I don’t know what the baby looks like, or even if it’s a boy or a girl. Sometimes I worry that I won’t love the baby. It seems that I will, because mothers are supposed to, but what if it doesn’t happen? Wouldn’t that be awful? I would have to pretend to love it, because otherwise I would be a monster. Can you imagine what your mother would think?”

  Barkev raised his eyebrows. “You will be a good mother, and you will love your baby. Don’t worry about my mother.”

  Of course he wouldn’t understand. And Jacqueline wouldn’t either. I didn’t know why my mind was always going down such back alleys, or why my dreams were so vivid and disturbing. Barkev claimed that he didn’t remember his—even when he woke up shouting, he didn’t know what he had been dreaming about.

  “Sometimes when I’m tired, I worry too much and talk too much. Good night, Barkev.”

  I rolled over onto my other side, slid my hand under the pillow, and closed my eyes, waiting for the baby’s hiccupping to abate. I didn’t want the dream about Claire’s parents, Henri, Zaven, and the camp where starving men in tattered clothes held out empty tin cups, into each of which I dropped a shirt button. I wanted a dream about going to the park with Claire and the baby on a summer afternoon. Claire would sit on a brightly painted horse waving to the baby and me as we watched the carousel spin.

  28

  MY FATHER ASKED, “Don’t you want an Armenian name?”

  “I like Pierre,” I said. I was the one who had carried the baby for nine months. I was the one who had been in the grip of rolling pain as the baby shouldered his way into the world. Why shouldn’t I choose his name? And why shouldn’t the name be French? Barkev hadn’t objected.

  My mother suggested, “We thought maybe you would want to name him Zaven.”

  I turned away from her and stared down at the small infant who was sleeping in my arms. “That name is too big for this small baby.”

  My father-in-law looked at Barkev. “What do you think, son?”

  Barkev answered, “Pierre is okay with me. But an Armenian name would be okay too.”

  My mother-in-law said, “There are so many nice Armenian names to choose from. What do you think of Nazar? Isn’t that nice? Or maybe Dikran?” She opened her purse, pulled out a piece of paper, and waved it like a flag. “Virginie and I made a little list.”

  Virginie laughed nervously. “It’s your list, not mine.”

  The baby’s face suddenly scrunched up, his small red mouth opening in an angry wail.

  “Can we talk about this later? He’s hungry,” I said.

  In the end, we took the baby home from the hospital with no name at all. We all called him Bzdigeh, or Little One. After a few tense days, I agreed to the name Bedros Pierre Kacherian. I thought, Let them call him Bedros; to me he will be Pierre.

  Both our families gathered in the Kacherians’ living room on Sunday afternoon when the baby was not quite a week old. Little Pierre was dressed from head to toe in hand-knit whites: a fine white gown that was knotted at the bottom, a white cap, and a white sweater, and he was swaddled in a white blanket.

  I watched as Pierre, with a rosy face, a full head of black hair, and shining blue-black eyes, was passed from hand to hand. Even Barkev’s face broke into a smile when the baby curled tiny pink fingers around his thumb.

  “He’s strong,” Barkev said.

  Jacqueline, her belly bulging under her dress, sighed. “I can’t wait until our baby is born. When are you having him christened?”

  Missak said, turning to Barkev, “Christened? You’re not doing that, are you?”

  Barkev said, “I don’t care one way or the other.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t care?” I asked. “Of course he’s going to be baptized and christened at the cathedral.”

  “What a waste of time and money,” Missak said.

  My mother objected. “Both of my children were baptized in the Armenian Church, and both of my grandchildren will be as well.”

  Barkev’s mother asked, “Have you decided on godparents?”

  “We assumed they would be Missak and Jacqueline,” I answered, “but if my brother doesn’t want to go to the cathedral . . .”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t go. I just said it would be a waste, but if that’s what you want, who am I to object? I’ll be happy to be the godfather.”

  Jacqueline said, “I hope you know that I’m planning to baptize our baby when the time comes.”

  “Do you all hear the way my wife is talking to me?” Missak asked.

  My father shook his head. “What can we do? It’s too hard to fight, boys. Just give in now.”

  The night was a long, bumpy road as I was knocked in and out of sleep by the sharp cries of the baby, who slept in a basket on a chair next to my side of the bed. When he started to cry, I groggily pulled him from the basket and into the bed to nurse. I didn’t know how he did it, but Barkev managed to sleep through the cries, the feeding, and the change of diapers. I finally settled the baby into the basket and was about to drowse when Barkev started grinding his teeth and muttering in his sleep. I put the pillow over my head and squeezed my eyes shut, but the moaning grew louder until Barkev started out of his nightmare, jumping up in bed. I sat up, and with a handkerchief that I kept on the
nightstand, I wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Go back to sleep,” I murmured.

  Not fully awake, Barkev stared at me with wild eyes before flopping down on the bed, gone back to whatever monsters awaited him. I dropped to sleep like a stone falling to the bottom of a pond. But my time there was all too brief. Soon the baby’s cries pulled me to the surface again.

  In the morning, I was jittery with exhaustion. We all had breakfast together before my father-in-law and husband headed off to their atelier. When Virginie left carrying her satchel of books and notebooks, I watched her with envy. I felt as though my brain had shriveled to the size of a walnut. Or, worse, I felt like a cow, wrapped in a hazy, wordless existence of milk and interrupted sleep that bound me to the tiny, helpless animal I now held in my arms.

  My mother-in-law said, “After you feed Bedros, give him to me. You need to lie down. Don’t worry about washing the diapers. I’ll do that. And in the afternoon, when he sleeps, you should sleep as well. This won’t last, you know. In a few weeks or maybe a month, he’ll settle at night. Then it will be okay until the teeth start coming.”

  I stumbled back to the bedroom and paused to look at the pale face in the mirror over the chest of drawers. “You are the mother now,” I told myself sternly. “You are the mother.”

  The next Sunday we all went to the cathedral, where naked Bedros Pierre was laid on a white christening blanket. Father Avedis lifted the baby by his back and feet and dipped him into the baptismal font. The baby squalled loudly and flailed his limbs, but when the holy father anointed his small nose and lips with the muron, invoking the blessings of God on his five senses, the baby stopped yelling and stared up soberly at the faces of the priest and the rest of us gathered around him. Father Avedis touched the oil to the baby’s forehead, hands, and feet.

  As we were on the way home by Métro, I said to my brother, “I hope you were listening to Father Avedis’s instructions as to your responsibilities as the godfather.”

  Missak snorted. “You mean the part about making sure that he goes to church?”

  “No. The part about your having to give him a bath three days from now and then take the water and pour it under a tree.”

  “Are you serious?” he asked.

  My mother, who was holding the baby, said, “Of course she’s serious. You can’t let the holy muron go down the drain. You take the basin down to the courtyard. There’s a small bush there that will be good enough. No one’s asking you to go all the way to the park.”

  Virginie said, “You can make it a birdbath with a cup of water.”

  Jacqueline added, “Or a sponge bath, and then you can bury the holy sponge under the bush.”

  My mother-in-law admonished, “Don’t joke, girls. Show some respect.”

  I glanced at Barkev, who seemed not to have heard a word. He was staring out the window at the passing walls of the dark tunnel.

  Within a few weeks, Pierre did begin sleeping better, as my mother-in-law had predicted. Daily life began to seem more manageable. Barkev was still having bad dreams at night and was distant and distracted during the day, but the baby was starting to be entertaining. His skin was soft as an apricot’s and he stared soulfully up at my face.

  I smiled down at him. “That’s right, Pierre, I’m your mother.”

  Then one day—as I was holding him in my lap, speaking nonsense in a high-pitched voice that would have seemed ridiculous to me only a few months before—Pierre smiled. It was a funny, pink-gummed smile, but it was thrilling nonetheless and made up for sleepless nights and chapped hands.

  Later that afternoon Jacqueline stopped by the apartment and said, “I have a surprise for you downstairs.”

  “Why did you leave it down there?” I asked.

  “It was too big for me to carry up.”

  “What is it? A washing machine? How did you know?”

  Jacqueline said, “Come with me. And bring the baby.”

  “The baby?”

  “You heard me. It’s a beautiful day and the two of you need some fresh air. You’ve been spending too much time cooped up in this apartment.”

  We reached the ground floor, and there was a tall black-and-chrome perambulator sitting next to the mailboxes.

  “Oh!” I gasped. “It’s beautiful. Where did you get the money for something like that?”

  Jacqueline took the baby from me and placed him in the carriage. “I found this at the flea market. Your mother reupholstered the inside and sewed some new sheets. Look at this sweet quilt she made. Missak painted the outside and polished the chrome. Your father put on new springs and wheels. And here it is. Ready for the prince pasha.”

  I pushed the pram out to the sidewalk. “Buttes Chaumont?”

  Jacqueline said, “Let’s go.”

  As we strolled toward the park, I noted the approving faces that peered into the carriage to admire my baby. Pierre, who was staring up at the tree branches under which we passed, cooed and gurgled and mewed and bleated.

  Jacqueline said, “Listen to him!”

  “Sometimes he sounds like a whole barnyard.”

  We reached the park, and we sat on a sunny bench near the lake. I turned the stroller so the sleeping baby was in the shade.

  “It’s perfect,” I said, gesturing toward the perambulator. “When your baby comes we can take turns using it.”

  Jacqueline took a deep breath. “Probably not.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re moving to Alfortville next month,” she answered.

  “What? Why?”

  “Missak found a job with a printer out there. He’s an old guy who wants to work only a few more years, and he doesn’t have anyone to leave his business to. Missak hopes to buy him out when he retires.”

  “Where will you live?”

  “The chicken king is going to rent us one of his houses. It’s only a few blocks from the printer. It’s a ten-minute walk to the church. We’ll do the christening there instead of at the cathedral.”

  “Do my parents know?” I asked.

  “We’re going to tell them tonight. They will be upset at first, especially your mother. But Maral, it’s tough living all piled on top of one another the way we are. Your mother has her own way of keeping house and she wants everything done just so. The glasses must be washed before the plates, the laundry must be folded so the shirt fronts have no creases, and there’s even a special method for sweeping. She’s always looking over my shoulder. Can you imagine what that will be like after the baby is born?”

  “What do you think it’s like with my mother-in-law?”

  “But you are used to it. Your mother and your mother-in-law are alike. In our apartment, we had so many kids underfoot, my mother didn’t care if every pin was in its place or not. I love your mother, but she’s driving me crazy.”

  That night while the baby was sleeping and the two of us were lying side by side in the bed with the lights out, I reported the news to Barkev.

  He said, “Your brother told me.”

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s a good plan for them.”

  “What about for us?”

  “Not now,” Barkev answered.

  “But maybe later?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Because of money? Cousin Karnig would give us a deal.”

  “Of course it’s money. But not just that.”

  “What else?”

  “Other things.”

  “Well, talk to me. I’m your wife.”

  He said sharply, “I’m having trouble at work.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “It’s not just my hands now. Sometimes I lay the leather out in front of me and can’t remember how to assemble the parts.”

  “What do you do then?” I asked.

  “I have to leave and walk around for twenty minutes until it stops. When I come back, my hands are steady and I can piece the shoe together with my eyes closed. But I can’t tell when it’s going to ha
ppen.”

  “Does your boss know?”

  “Yes,” he said. “He’s been okay. But it can’t go on like this. On a bad day, I do half the work I should.”

  I didn’t know what to say. It occurred to me that the baby and I were a burden to him. “I wish there were something I could do for you.”

  “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Do you dream about the camp?” I asked.

  “I told you I don’t remember my dreams,” he said.

  “Do you ever see any of the others who came back?”

  “No.”

  He said this one word in such a way that no others were possible.

  In the silence that followed, I heard the baby sigh in his sleep. The clock on the nightstand ticked. The darkness in the room expanded until it stretched as wide as the sky. There were no stars and there was no moon, no point of light anywhere at all.

  29

  THE SUNDAY AFTER MISSAK and Jacqueline’s baby was born, my father borrowed a car so we could drive to Alfortville. My parents sat in the front seat; Barkev and I were in the back, with Pierre sitting on my lap. It was a hot August day and I smoothed back the baby’s damp hair. Once the car passed the city limits and picked up speed, the rush of air coming in the windows brought relief from the stifling heat.

  We pulled into the driveway of the gray stucco house with gold shutters on a tree-lined street, and Jacqueline’s mother waved to us from the front door.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Sophie Sahadian said, gesturing us in. “Missak went to the bakery for bread, but he’ll be back any minute now.”

  Jacqueline, who was dressed in a housecoat and slippers, sat on the couch holding the new baby. “Look at this little monster. He eats all the time, and he’s killing me.” She thrust the baby at her mother. “Burp him, will you? I want to show Maral the house.”

  I handed Pierre, who seemed big and noisy in comparison to the newborn, to my mother.

  Jacqueline led the way up the stairs to the second floor. “Did it hurt when you started nursing? It feels like that baby has teeth. It makes me want to cry.”