The Darkness at the Top of the Stairs

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By Lorne Shirinian, Toronto, 11 March 2025

When I was a young boy, my parents used to take me to Aunt Takouhi and Uncle Krikor’s home on Hurndale Avenue near Broadview and Danforth to spend New Year’s Eve along with Armenian friends who had survived the Genocide and had been brought to Canada as orphans in the 1920’s. Usually, at these events, I was the only child which allowed me the chance to wander through the rooms where I would be hugged and kissed and have my cheeks pinched. Each child born to a family of survivors was an affirmation that the perpetrators did not succeed in their plan to eliminate us. I was mostly on my own during the festivities, dancing, singing, storytelling, card games, and tavlu matches under ribbons of blue and pink streamers and coloured light as shot glasses were tilted back, emptied and refilled. There were plates piled with Armenian snacks on side tables which I visited and revisited.

Late in the evening, Aunt Takouhi would emerge from the kitchen carrying a large tray with a huge turkey on it followed by my mother and the other ladies bearing Armenian rice pilaf, cooked vegetables, stuffed vine leaves, salads and freshly baked bread. Wine was opened and one of the men spoke in Armenian as everyone bowed their heads, except me. The spectacle was what captured my attention. And we ate and drank. And ate and drank until only the carcass remained on the tray, the serving plates and the bottles were empty. It was at this point that Aunt Takouhi began singing in Armenian. I couldn’t understand the words, but like most Armenian songs I had heard, it was sad, sorrowful and beautiful. Agonizingly so. After the songs, memories of lost family were related as well as stories of the time each had spent in various orphanages in the Middle East after the Genocide as well as at the Georgetown Farm Home orphanage near Toronto where many had spent part of their teen years after being brought to Canada in 1923 and 1924. I didn’t understand much of this and wondered why my mother and her friends always cried at New Year’s Eve and often whenever they gathered.

One year, when I was six or seven, in order to change the somber mood, my father and his friend Paul began telling jokes in Armenian that soon had everyone around the table laughing to tears. As I didn’t quite understand, I excused myself and got up from the table and began exploring the house. There was a long staircase that led to the second floor. While the party continued, kef, as it was called, I climbed up. With each step it became darker until I reached the landing where all was black. I couldn’t find the light switch but could make out three doors before me. The first was Aunt Takouhi’s bedroom. The second was a washroom. I pulled the door shut and turned to the third door. I turned the handle slowly releasing the door and entered. There was a strange odour and in the little light that seeped in under the blind, I could see that there was someone sleeping on the bed under the blanket. As I approached, I could see that it was an old woman who turned toward me and made a gurgling sound and spoke in Armenian. “Ara, is that you? Come here, my boy. I’ve missed you so. Come here and let your mother hold you. I couldn’t save you from the soldiers. I tried, my boy. Come closer so I can hold you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, my son, I couldn’t save you. They beat me so. When I awoke, you were gone. No one could tell me where you were. Now I’ve found you. Come close to your mother.” She held her hand out to me. I didn’t know what to do and slowly backed out of the room and pulled the door closed. I could hear her crying.*

I didn’t understand what had happened. As I descended the stairs into the light, the sounds of laughter filled the hall. “Come sit beside me,” my father said. It’s almost New Year’s. Then people began counting down from ten and yelled HAPPY NEW YEAR! My parents hugged and kissed me. “It’s a new year, my boy,” he said. “Let’s give thanks that we’re here.”

All I could think about was the old woman lying in the dark, holding her hand out to me, wanting me to be her son and to forgive her. I was afraid and embarrassed to offer her comfort.

As I look back on that evening seventy-two years ago, I realize that it was a significant moment that induced me to write about the continuing trauma of the Armenian Genocide. Nothing since has given me peace.

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*Author’s note: Although the young boy has lost some of his ability to function in Armenian, he still has a latent knowledge of conversational Armenian which allows him to understand the old lady.

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Lorne Shirinian is Professor Emeritus of English and Comparative Literature. He is a poet, novelist, playwright, and memoirist. His most recent collection of poetry is Rendering the Timeline, and most recent works of fiction are Arising and Troubled both available from Blue Heron Press. Remembering, Keeping a Record, was released in September 2024. The Darkness at the Top of the Stairs, Stories of the Armenian Diaspora was recently released by Blue Heron Press, 2025,  ISBN 978-0-920266–68-7. The book is available at the Haroutiun Manougian Library & Bookstore and can be obtained through the author [email protected]