[RNajarian]

Part 4

8 October 1991 Tuesday
Meeting day. Zori had arranged lunch for the Colonel, his senior officers, and members of our group alongside a stream near the Gandzasar monastery. Professor Melikian, who was very familiar with the area asked Zori how we were going to get to the stream. The roads were in terrible condition.

Zori replied, “The Russians are going to take us.”
For the first time I saw a worried look on Professor Melikian’s face.

Prior to leaving for the meeting Dad took an empty box and began filling it with items from the remaining boxes. He updated his legal pad to reflect the items placed in this ½ full box then informed Zori he wanted to take the new box with us to the meeting. A group of ten people and my Dad’s newly created box went to meet the Russians.

We arrived at a predesignated location on the side of a road twenty minutes later. There waiting for us were three Soviet era MT-LB armored personnel vehicles. As we exited our cars a very large and imposing Russian, who ended up being “the Colonel,” walked directly to me and said, “NO PHOTO,” pointing to the camera around my neck. I was perfectly happy to oblige.

The Russian Colonel began to separate our group into the three armored personnel carriers. Dad went into the first one with the Colonel, I went into the second one and mom the third. The remaining members of our party were divided into vehicles number 1 and 3.

The inside of the carrier was dark and musky. I scrambled inside the vehicle and grabbed the first seat I could find as the top hatch slammed shut above me. The vehicle roared to life, and we were on our way. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the armored personnel vehicle I noticed eight soldiers, each with an AK-47, staring at me. I smiled nervously. It was going to be a very long, or short ride. Fortunately, Professor Melikian was assigned to vehicle #3 with my mom.

Our convoy rumbled on for about 30 minutes. Inside the armored personnel vehicle there were no windows and very bad ventilation. I kept hoping I wouldn’t get sick inside the vehicle. I couldn’t imagine trying to explain THAT one to the Colonel.

When we arrived at our final destination the MT-LB jerked to a halt. The top hatch opened, and the driver gestured for me to exit. The sunlight was initially blinding but the fresh air helped ease my queasy stomach.

We had arrived at an incredibly green meadow. A stream ran east to west with a cluster of trees on the other side of the stream. It was difficult to believe we were in the middle of a war zone.

As people began to exit the vehicles, I noticed that the soldiers from the three MT-LBs began to spread out as if they were securing a perimeter. Zori gestured for everyone to go to a long table set up along the stream. The table was set for 20 people and had dozens of plates full of various appetizers on it, very reminiscent of an Armenian wedding. Off in the distance I could see a fire where several men appeared to be cooking food.

The Colonel went to the head of the table and sat down. Zori, who would act as the translator sat to the Colonel’s right and my dad was instructed to sit to the Colonel’s left. The remaining seats closest to the Colonel were taken by his officers, leaving the rest of our group to sit at the end of the table.

As people began to settle into their seats, we heard a commotion from the head of the table. Dad, who doesn’t drink, instructed the vodka glasses all be filled. The table quieted down when my dad pointed his finger at the Colonel and asked, “How many Marshals were in the Soviet Army during World War 2?”

Zori translated to the Colonel, and he replied “Twelve.”

My dad slapped the table and said “CORRECT! But can you tell me how many of them were Armenian?”

The Colonel sat back and in a normal tone said, “None of them, all were Russian.”

My dad replied, “NO. only 8 were Russian, the remaining 4 were Armenian.” He stood up from his chair raised his vodka glass and said, “We will drink to the Armenian heroes of the Soviet Army.”

Standing erect with his glass raised to the sky my dad said, “To Marshal Hovhannes Bagramyan!” He then put the glass to his lips then sat down and waited for the Colonel to reciprocate.

The Colonel slowly got up and in a subdued voice said “Bagramyan” and drank his vodka. The rest of the table reluctantly followed suit.

Dad gestured for the vodka glasses to be filled again, rose from his chair raised his glass and said, “To Sergei Khudyakov, Marshal of Aviation!” put the glass to his lips but this time slammed the glass on the table as he sat down.

The Colonel, realizing my dad was a student of history, stood up with a little more vigor this time, raised his glass and said, “To Hero Marshal Khudyakov!” drinking the contents and slamming his glass on the table just like dad.

By now the attendants knew to fill the glasses around the table. Dad rose again, raised his glass, and said, “To the Hero of the Sea, Marshal Hovhannes Ter-Isahakyan!” put the glass to his lips then slammed the glass down as he sat.

By now the rest of the Colonel’s staff began to get into the spirit of things. As the Colonel rose, his eight senior officers seated at the table rose with him and they toasted Marshal Ter-Isahakyan.

Dad, with his vodka glass, rose once again with his arm outstretched to the sky and said, “To the tank Marshal who looked Hitler’s troops in the eyes and drove them out of the Motherland, Marshall Hamazasp Babadzhanian!” again putting the glass to his lips and slamming his glass on the table louder than ever.

By now the distrust that permeated the assembled people seemed to dissipate. The Russians stood and respectfully all shouted “Babadzhanian!” all downing their beverages and slamming their glasses on the table like dad.

The ice was broken, people began to partake in the appetizers, but dad wasn’t finished. He looked at the Colonel and asked if he knew who the chief designer of the MiG 15, 17, and 19 jet fighter was.

The Colonel a little more at ease after 4 shots of vodka said “Yes, Mikoyan, an Armenian.”

Dad bellowed “Correct! Artem Mikoyan.” He stood, raised his glass, and said “Artem Mikoyan.”
The Colonel and his staff all rose and repeated “Artem Mikoyan” drank their vodka and slammed their glasses on the table.

Up to this point the only time I had seen my dad put anything with alcohol in his mouth was mouthwash, and even then, he spit it out. This was a side of my dad I had never seen.

By now the main course was being served, plates of ghorovadz, fish and pork arrived at the table. The air of suspicion that hung in the air as the afternoon began had disappeared.

Dad began to engage the Colonel in conversation. He asked the Colonel where home was and about his family. From my vantage I couldn’t hear the conversation very well, but I could tell the Colonel was at ease and enjoying his time with my dad. Midway through the meal I noticed the soldiers who had set up the security perimeter were now all congregated together by the stream eating prepackaged food, seemingly unconcerned about the activities at the table.

The afternoon progressed amicably. To an outsider you would think the people at the table had been friends for a while. Dad recited several Armenian poems and encouraged Zori to recite some of his original work. The Colonel in turn told stories of his military career and personal stories.

By the end of the afternoon the Colonel took off his jacket and my dad began an elbow flexion test on him. Dad asked for his ½ box of supplies to be retrieved from the armored personnel carrier. Referring to his legal pad, he gathered some medications and orthopedic splints for the Colonel. He placed a splint to support a sprain on his elbow and showed the Colonel how to apply it.

As sunset began to fall, we slowly began to make our way back to MT-LB armored personnel vehicles ready for our trip back to civilization. The Colonel, in a much better mood than when we arrived, changed the seating arrangements for the ride home.

“Doctor, Mary and Boy here,” the Colonel said as he pointed to the lead MT-LB. We got into his vehicle, but the Colonel insisted dad take the driver’s seat. The Colonel sat to his right and the rest of the people assigned to vehicle 1 assembled in the back.
Dad raised his hands in the air and shook his head indicating he didn’t know how to drive an armored personnel vehicle. The Colonel, smiling and laughing slapped my dad on the back and began to show him the controls of the 12 ton beast.

Despite the language barrier, dad and the Colonel talked and laughed all the way back to the roadside where we left our cars. Dad seemed to do pretty well driving the MT-LB despite the 5 shots of vodka I saw him drink.

We arrived at our vehicles at sunset. Zori, Professor Melikian, the Colonel, and my dad all stood together in a circle as they said their goodbyes. Dad told the Colonel to contact Zori if he needed any more medications or splints. The Colonel then turned to my dad gave him a big bear hug and said “брат” (brother), my dad in return said “եղբայր” (brother.)

We got into our cars and went back to the small house where we had been staying for the past 4 days. When we arrived, our group seemed to grow again. By now the number was up to 40 people. More armed men guarding the two “gun runners” from America.

Dad was more at ease. I remember mom and dad taking a walk when we returned. Hand in hand they were reviewing the events of the day, with six men in tow, each with an AK-47, guarding their every step.

We slept well that night, unaware our adventure with the Colonel was not over.

End of Part 4