CHAPTER ONE THE OLD COUNTRY

A love story in time of War

Both of my parents grew up as Armenians in Turkey in the Ottoman Empire. My father’s family was from Mersin, a seaport on the Mediterranean. My mother’s family was originally from Marash. At the time of the Turkish genocide of the Armenian people, they were both living in Adana in southeastern Turkey. My father, Haroutune Kalpakian was born in 1887. My mother, Haigouhi Kulaksuzian (Koo-

lock-sooz-ian) was born in 1901.

Haigouhi was the third of four children. She was born in 1901 and her little brother Haigaz in 1905; they had an older brother and sister who were born in the 1890s, Asdoor (Arthur) and Dudu. When the genocide began, Art and Dudu had already left Turkey and emigrated to America. Haigouhi and Haigaz lived with their mother, Yasabet, and father, Asdoor, in Adana.

Haigouhi and Haigaz 1906, Adana Turkey

I should briefly pause here to insert Haigouhi’s incredible story of survival during the 1915 Turkish genocide of the Armenian people. At age 14 when the terrors started, she was a day student in an American Congregational Church School for Girls in Adana, Turkey. Her teacher, Miss Grace Towner, asked Haigouhi’s mother if she would permit Haigouhi to move into the school as a live-in student. Haigouhi could work and teach in the school for her room and board. In 1915 the Americans were not yet in World War I. Miss Towner would have known the American school was a safe place for her Armenian student.

Haigouhi’s mother agreed. (Her mother, Yasabeth, had already placed all of their family’s pictures in a box – including those family members in America – and buried it under the house – so the Turks could not recognize them as Armenians.) Haigouhi said goodbye to her mother and father and little brother and returned with Miss Towner to the school. Shortly thereafter, they were rounded up with other Armenians and marched into the desert. Here, her father died of starvation, her mother was killed and her little brother, Haigaz, ran away into the desert.

(More of Haigaz’s story later.)

In fact, being a student in the American school did save Haigouhi’s life. On the roof of the school, Miss Towner had Haigouhi and a few other students spread out a large American flag and fasten it down. Any combatants flying over the city would know this was an American domain. Haigouhi did well in the American Congregational School where she learned English and French languages, American History, English History, World History, math, algebra and Armenian and Turkish languages. (Only Turkish language was allowed to be spoken publicly. There were no public schools in Adana, Turkey.)

To cover her tuition and boarding fees, Haigouhi made her French teacher’s bed every day as well as clean her bedroom weekly. She must surely have admired her teachers there, all brave and educated women. She also waited on tables in the teachers’ dining room and tutored students in English as well as teaching regular classes when she was a Senior.

Haigouhi graduated from the Adana Girls Seminary in April, 1917. In the graduation picture, she is the only one smiling.

1917 Graduating class at the Adana Girls Seminary, Adana, Turkey. Haigouhi seond from right middle row (next to the girl in black).

Miss Towner first on left in the back row.

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Incidentally, my mother, Haigouhi, tells us in her old-age memoir that when she was a student at the American Congregational School, she was given an English class assignment to write an essay about America. She wrote it about Escalators – “Moving Stairs in America.” Of course, she had never seen escalators; she wrote what she thought they were. Almost like magic. Almost unbelievable.

Years later, soon after her arrival in America, she asked her sister to take her to see escalators – They went to the May Company at 8^th and Broadway in downtown Los Angeles. For Haigouhi to see and ride on escalators must surely have been a childhood dream fulfilled!

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While she was a student there, Haigouhi’s aunt, who worked in a factory where they made canvas for the Turkish war effort, approached her. Her aunt wanted Haigouhi to meet the young, single, handsome young Armenian foreman in the factory. She invited Haigouhi, the young man, his mother and sister to her home for an afternoon visit.

Haigouhi’s aunt told her, “After they say hello, you make some Turkish coffee

– and serve it. If his mother says, ‘This is good coffee,’ they like you, and the wedding plans can go forward.” The young man’s mother did compliment Haigouhi’s coffee.

Haigouhi said she liked the prospective husband, but she had one question – “Can he read and write?”

The answer was no – and Haigouhi said, “Forget it! To read and write is very important to me! I can read and write four languages! I want a husband who is literate!”

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While she was a student and teacher, Haigouhi and her classmates apparently often visited the dry goods shop where a handsome young clerk, Haroutune Kalpakian, worked. No doubt she and Haroutune carried on a flirtation which led, in time, to his asking Miss Towner for permission to marry Haigouhi. Despite the fact that his religion was Armenian Apostolic, Miss Towner agreed – the times were too uncertain to require a Protestant husband for her young student. In April 1917 America had entered the War. I’m sure Haigouhi’s parting with Miss Towner was very emotional and sad. (Miss Towner did ask Haroutune for the equivalent of $50 to cover Haigouhi’s room and board – which he paid.)

Because of the turbulent times, an Armenian Apostolic Priest came to Haroutune’s family home to perform the marriage on October 18, 1917. It was too risky for an Armenian group to appear in a public place together, like a church, perhaps especially not in a church.

Haigouhi and Haroutune Kalpakian wedding October 1917.

Their first daughter was born in Adana in December, 1918, one month following the Armistice. My father, a scholar of Armenian history and politics named her Angaghouhi (Independence) in hopes that Armenia would gain and keep its independence.

One of Haroutune’s relatives who had a textile importing business in Manchester, England, wanted to open a branch in Russia. He offered Haroutune a contract to accept, which he did. The relative then added that in England, it was also required that his wife sign the contract as well.

Haigouhi refused. She argued that neither of them spoke Russian and that it would be better to go to America, where she had already-established family – and also that she already could speak English.

(Footnote: In my entire adult life whenever I saw babushka-head-covered Russian women, I said a silent THANK-YOU to my mother.)

For the Kalpakian family, emigration was the only viable escape. By 1920 my dad’s own family had broken up and already emigrated all over the world – his younger brother, Nishan, and his parents went to Romania, others to Jerusalem. He never saw any of them again.

By 1921 it was no longer safe for Armenians to stay in Adana. They went first to Alexandrette, Syria and stayed for 4 months. From there they took the ship, the Bukovina, across the Mediterranean to Constantinople where I was born March 26, 1922. My father named me, his second daughter, Pakradouhi, after an ancient Armenian Crusades-era prince, Pakrad. My father had relatives in Constantinople. He worked in their rug business while my parents made preparations to go to the United States where Haigouhi’s older sister and brother-in-law, Dudu and John Boyd, lived in Los Angeles, California.

They got their passports on March 26^th, 1923, my first birthday. The immigration process was lengthy and tedious, and no doubt expensive, not just fees, but bribes. His brother-in-law, John Boyd signed a paper for the U.S. Government vowing that we would not be a burden to the U.S. He would vouch for us. With these many documents in hand, and our household goods accounted for (I have put a partial list of these goods at the end of this memoir), and accompanied by mom’s younger brother, Haigaz, we boarded the ship Constantinople, and sailed for America.

Passport photo of the Kalpakian family, Pakradouhi (babe in arms) Haigouhi, Angah, Haroutune – Constantinople, Turkey, March 1923.

CHAPTER TWO THE JOURNEY

No going back: on crossing the Atlantic twice in search of a new life.

e traveled 3rd Class, and our ship had mechanical problems in mid-Atlantic, and we were forced to stop for one full day till the repairs were complete. Because of this we arrived a little late at Ellis Island. The passengers disembarked 1^st Class first, then 2^nd Class, and by the time they got to 3^rd class, the quota had been filled. So there we were on Ellis Island – in sight of New York City and the Statue of Liberty. We had arrived in America on August 2, 1923, which was the date of the funeral of President Warren G. Harding, who had died after a short illness. All of the federal offices were closed – including those on Ellis Island. All flags were at half mast. But our little family and Mom’s younger brother, Haigaz, could not be processed in any event. The quota was filled and we had to get back on the ship (a

Greek vessel) and go to Piraeus, Greece.

Imagine the disappointment! Disappointment! Disappointment!

Years later, when Mama told us about this Ellis Island experience, she mentioned only her great delight, surprise and astonishment at hot water coming out of the faucets!!! She never mentioned the terrible disappointment.

Ellis Island, early 20^th Century.

In 1996 my daughter Laura and I went to Ellis Island and found my name and my family’s names on the Ellis Island Computer. We also found our names on the Memorial Wall and were able to pencil-draw over our names for mementos.

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Leaving New York we re-crossed the Atlantic and the Mediterranean and came to Piraeus, Greece. Because we had one-way passports to America, the Greek Government said we must take the next ship to America –which was not leaving for two weeks. For those two weeks, we ate bread and tomato-and-onion salads. (Eating anything was hard for my mom because she was three months pregnant when they started.)

On September 14, 1923, we traveled to America again – on the Steamship Canada – this time Second Class! We disembarked at Providence, Rhode Island in the fall of 1923.

The Canada, The ship that brought the Kalpakians from Piraeus, Greece to the US.

My mother was the only one of us who could speak English. She was told that the next train to New York was at 8 am the following morning. So there we were,

my parents, 4-year-old Angagh and one-and-a-half-year-old me; we spent the whole night on a bench in the train station. The following morning, the train took us to New York where my father had a distant relative, a Mr. Isakoolian. He was my  dad’s cousin’s brother-in-law, a man my dad had never met, who was extremely nice to us. Mr. Isakoolian took us to a hotel, arranged for our stay one night and two days. This is where my parents saw – for the first time – an indoor bathtub and flushing indoor toilet. He also took us to a restaurant for dinner that first night.

For our train trip to Los Angeles, Mr. Isakoolian brought us ham sandwiches for the journey. And he hired a taxi to take us to the train station. My parents were puzzled why the taxi stopped so frequently. He explained traffic signals to my parents – who had never seen traffic signals in Turkey.

From New York, we took the train – changed trains in Chicago – to Los Angeles, California – a 6-day trip – to where Mom’s sister and family lived. Dudu’s husband, John Boyd, had signed a paper for the U.S. Government vowing that we would not be a burden to the U.S. He would vouch for us.

I have often wondered how we looked to the Boyds and to Uncle Art on our arrival in 1923. The Boyds had been successful Americans for several years. I wondered about that reunion of the sisters. Dudu and Haigouhi had not seen each other since 1907. Dudu had not seen her little brother Haigaz since he was 2 years old – now he was 17. Auntie Dudu had teenage American children by now, Gladys and Haig Boyd. The teenagers may have thought we looked “right off the boat.” Mama, age 22, was 6 months pregnant, her long, heavy skirt hung lopsided due to the pregnancy. Her two small daughters clung to her skirt. Did we smell of moth balls? Maybe. I don’t know. Mama could speak some English, the rest of us could not. In my mother’s old-age memoir, she says that the Boyds gave a party for us when we arrived. I, as a toddler, of course have no memory of this party, but I sincerely hope they gave us a little time to recover from that grueling trip before we were trotted out to meet total strangers.

Page from the Kalpakians’ Turkish passport

Chapter Three The New Country

In my very old age (97), when I see an American flag flying in the breeze, my heart skips a beat – a special silent thank-you to my old-country parents who were truly young in heart.

—pkj

aigouhi (my mom) was born in 1901 in Adana, Turkey, and her brother Haigaz in 1905; they also had an older brother and sister who were born in the 1890’s, Asdoor (Arthur) and Dudu. Arthur had been a student in a Boys’ School in Tarsus, where his English teacher was John Boyajian (Boyd). When John was visiting his student, Arthur, in Adana, he met and fell in love with Arthur’s sister, Dudu. John decided to emigrate to the Seattle area of the U.S. where he had already-established

relatives; he asked Dudu to come to Seattle – and marry him.

Arthur accompanied his sister on the trip–narrowly escaping conscription into the Turkish Army – which had been looking for 23-year-old Arthur for some time. So Dudu boarded the ship alone and Arthur swam out to the ship at another close port. Later, the Turks searched Arthur’s mother’s home many times, looking for him

– they gave her a hard time.

Uncle Art Clark (Asdoor Kulaksuzian) 1920s Los Angleles.

John and Dudu married in Seattle. John Boyajian changed his name to John Boyd. Asdoor Kulaksuzian changed his name to Arthur Clark. These names were rather like the originals, but allowed these immigrants to assimilate more easily. The Boyd’s daughter, Gladys, was born about 1909. As a baby she suffered in the damp Seattle climate. The Boyds and Art moved to Venice, California, for their baby daughter’s health.

Haig Boyd 905 Harding Ave. circa 1922.

By 1923 John Boyd, now a pharmacist, owned a couple of drug stores in the Venice / Santa Monica area. John and Dudu and their two children and Art as well, all lived in a lovely 10-room two-story home, 905 Harding Avenue in Venice. At the back of their large lot was a two-room gardener’s cottage – which is where we lived when we arrived.

905 Harding Ave, as it appeared in 2019

In her old age memoir, Mama especially notes how awed we were by their home and their lifestyle, right down to the big copper washing machine in the basement. We were also awed by their Lincoln sedan. That first Christmas someone took a photograph of my sister and me and all our toys, a photograph that would have been unthinkable in the old country.

Three months after our arrival, on January 18, 1924, Mama gave birth to my sister, Elizabeth Armenouhi Kalpakian, our first born American Citizen sister. She was allergic to cow’s milk – and they found she needed goat’s milk, which was very hard to find in 1924. They solved it by bringing a goat to the spacious back yard of Auntie Dudu’s home.

The little, two-room former gardener’s cottage was surely crowded now, but our family was happy to be together in America, safe from the terrors of genocide – and ready to start our new life as Americans.

Haigouhi Kalpakian & Dudu Boyd, her sister – Venice CA, c. 1924

Teenagers Gladys and Haig Boyd doted on us kids. They called me Peach Face

• fat cheeks. They said no one could pronounce Pakradouhi, and so, our American cousins named me Peggy – a popular name for girls in the Twenties. Angie and I called Gladys Gassie. While I was still a tot, I somehow climbed up a ladder to the garage roof, and I was afraid to come down. Haig, then a young teen, climbed to rescue me. While living in the gardener’s cottage, I also remember Uncle Art’s wedding in about 1926. As a 4-year-old, I sat on the stairway of the great front hall and watched the dancing and wedding

Harotoune Kalpakian & his daughters, Peggy & Angah, 1924 lawn of 905 Harding.

Haigoui & Harotoune Kalpakian,

1. 1924, Los Angeles, CA.

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Like her father, Gladys became a pharmacist (USC School of Pharmacy) and became a staff pharmacist at St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica for many years. She married Clyde Brown, a beloved Santa Monica Chief of Detectives; they had no children. Haig became a business man, married and had two sons. Following his divorce, his sister Gladys and her husband helped to raise, adore, and support those boys. Clyde and Kenneth Boyd later became an attorney and a physician. I almost forgot to mention that Gladys, as a teenager and young woman, was a talented, accomplished saxophonist. Her photograph, with saxophone, is presently at Laura’s house. Music was always a part of our extended family as well as our immediate family.

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Mama could speak English, having been educated in an American Missionary Congregational School in Adana, Turkey, but Daddy could not. At age 35, he had to learn a new language. Daunting? Yes. And time was of the essence. He had the responsibility of providing for his growing family, two little daughters and the new baby, Elizabeth. After taking English language classes at Manual Arts High School

Night School (with Haigaz), he worked in a family friend’s kewpie doll factory. After a while he clerked in a relative’s cigar store at Venice Beach where basically, all he had to say was, “Cigar? Cigarette? Thank you.”

I have often thought of my father’s experience with lack-of-language and how daunted he must have felt. For a few months in 1988, my daughter Laura, her two sons and my husband, Bill and I all moved to Italy where Laura had a teaching job. I had no Italian at all. When I met our next door neighbor at the Campo, I wanted to have a conversation with him, but all I could say was “What a lovely day it is.” Other than that, I was speechless. Imagine Daddy in that situation, knowing he had to speak the English language in order to work.

However, when it became necessary for my dad to converse in English, his charming personality overshadowed his lack of vocabulary. Whenever he was asked his nationality, he always replied [first] that he was an American Citizen, and [second] that he was Armenian. His customers loved him. They called him by his first name – Harry.

Angie started Kindergarten when we lived behind the Boyd’s big house. She could not speak English. Her Kindergarten teacher came to our house and told Mama that she should teach her daughter to speak English. She also told Mama that we should speak English in the home so that Angie could learn English faster. Mama also realized that Daddy could learn English faster – so that’s what we did. And that is how we kids grew up without speaking Armenian or even Turkish. When the parents didn’t want us to know what they were talking about, they spoke in old country languages. Later, when I heard them say ICK-IN-GEE (Turkish, I think, for the number TWO), I knew they were talking about me (second child), and I paid special attention. I tried to pick up a word here and there, but I never really did. Angie could pretty well understand the parents when they spoke in other languages, but the rest of us could not. Years later, at our parents’ graves, none of us could understand the Armenian priests or pastors’ eulogies or blessings.

Some time after Betty was born, Mama, now in her mid-twenties, gradually became an American young woman of the Twenties. She bobbed her hair, used cosmetics, wore high heels and trendy short skirts. She used Coty Face powder and her favorite cologne was Rosewater and Glycerin. In a word, she had Style. She was beautiful. She worked in her brother-in-law’s drug store and in a relative’s cigar store.

Haigouhi Kalpakian, 1924                          Helen Kalpakian,1926

Both photos 905 Harding.

In 1927 we moved to 2012 Alberta Street, a furnished, one-bedroom white stucco bungalow near the Venice Canal. My mother’s memoir says, “It seemed like a palace to us (!)” It was there that a door-to-door photo salesman offered to take a picture of Mom’s two younger kids – Betty and me – ages 3 and 5. (Angie must have been at school.) Mama dressed us in our hand-sewn gold-colored pongee dresses for the picture. This photo has since been enlarged and copied many times and is one of our family’s best-loved pictures.

Betty and Peggy Kalpakian c. 1927

We didn’t stay there very long. In January, 1928 we moved to the corner of San Pedro and 21^st Street where my father bought a small grocery store. In the old country, my father had been a rug merchant, but in America he decided to sell a product that is necessary to everyone – food. And also he knew his family would never go hungry.

This store had unfurnished living quarters attached. Mama could work in the store part-time and also keep house and children. In this home, my sisters and I slept on inverted orange crates. Mama worked side-by-side with Dad in his grocery stores for his entire working life – Their marriage was one of love and partnership.

For my 6^th birthday March 26, 1928, Mama gave me a birthday party. I have always wondered, how did she know how to give a child’s American birthday party? Certainly they would not have done that in Turkey. Perhaps Angie went to one for one of her friends. At my party a Mexican neighbor boy came and brought me a gift of an 8-inch tall pink pitcher, wrapped in green tissue paper. (Please don’t ask me how I remember this, I just do!) I treasured that little pink pitcher. To me, that party was the most wonderful, elegant birthday party ever hosted. To this day, it brings  tears to my eyes remembering it.

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In about 1929 my father bought a larger grocery store at 109^th and Figueroa Streets in L.A, which had a separate butcher area – plus an Italian butcher who played his accordion when he was not busy in his shop. We kids loved to hear Mr. Martillero play and sing Italian songs.

Harry Kalpakian & his daughters, Peggy, Betty and Angah in front of their 533 West 109^th Place home, 1930

From that store we could make the short walk down the alley to our rented house on West 109^th Place. It was a yellow-and-white frame house, two-bedroom, one-bath, an ice box in the kitchen, with a nice front and back yard, and also a one- car frame garage. We kids played a game we called Annie Annie Over. We sing- song-sang “ANNIE ANNIE OVER!” and threw a volley-ball-sized rubber ball over the garage and someone caught it on the other side. Then they would do the same. That’s all I remember about the game. There was also a long driveway – the kind that had two narrow strips of concrete – with dirt and grass between them. There were geraniums that grew around the house without any care, plus I remember a tall hollyhock plant.

Once we girls entertained our parents with a “radio” in the living room. We didn’t have a real radio, but we had a wooden box. One of us turned “the dial” while

the other two hid in the box and talked and sang like radio announcers. Our parents clapped and enjoyed the show.

Betty and I played with empty thread spools – into which we inserted used crayon-ends who we pretended were cowboys and horses. Apparently we had seen cowboy movies and enjoyed them. On rainy days we also played Hop Scotch on one of the rugs we had brought from the old country. While Mama and Daddy worked in the store, Angie babysat Betty and me a lot. She also sewed dresses for our dolls. For a playtime snack, we spread butter on a slice of bread – and sprinkled sugar on it.

When Daddy came home from work, he was very tired having been on his feet all day; one of us kids took his shoes off (old country high tops) and brought him slippers.

Mama’s younger brother, Haigaz, helped Daddy select a car for us: a 1925  used Star Touring Sedan – with isinglass window covers which could be snapped in place in case of rain. Haigaz taught Mama how to drive, and Mom taught Dad. Dad delivered groceries in our 1925 Star to his regular customers. We were very proud of that 1925 used Star. We kept it in the garage. We have a snapshot of Dad sitting proudly in the driver’s seat.

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The Figueroa Street Store was Dad’s most successful grocery store. It was the Depression and he extended credit to his regular customers and collected at the end of the month. One customer, the Allbright family (with 2 little girls) couldn’t pay their grocery bill. Mrs. Allbright was an artist; in exchange for groceries for her family, Mrs. Allbright gave art oil painting lessons to Angie and me. Angie may have had the talent, but I did not. I wish Mrs. Allbright would have painted portraits of us kids – instead of giving Angie and me art lessons. However, I still have one of the paintings Mrs. Allbright helped me with.

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About this time Mom and Dad began the process to apply for U.S. Citizenship which took years. I feel certain that Haigaz, Mama’s younger brother, began his citizenship process then too. His old-country name was Haigazoon(High-gaz-oon) Kulaksuzian (Koo-lock-sooz-ian). He decided to follow his brother Art’s lead, and change his last name to Clark. After naturalization his new American name was Harry Clark. Mama too, changed her maiden name from Kulaksuzian to Clark.

They went to night school, took the tests and after a specific period, they appeared in Federal Court and on April 24, 1931 became U.S. citizens – their names changed now to Harry and Helen Kalpakian. Because Angie and I were born in the old country (without birth certificates), both of us became automatic citizens by derivation – which meant that we were minors when we entered the country with our parents and thereby became citizens by derivation. Later, when I was 21 and Angie was 25, our parents took steps for us to have our own citizenship papers.

Citizenship photos of Harry and Helen Kalpakian, 1931

They hired an Armenian woman, Marie Philibossian, to do the legal digging necessary to have our own citizenship papers. Otherwise, we would always have to produce our parents’ citizenship papers in order to prove our own. This was very far- sighted on their part.

Mrs. Philibossian told me that if I wished to change my name, this was the time to do it. I elected to be Peggy Kalpakian, since that was the name I used  to enter Kindergarten. Angie elected to keep her Armenian name.

At age 21, I received a letter asking me to appear in Federal Court in Los Angeles on August 5, 1943 for my final citizenship status. It was such a major milestone for me – My family would have gone with me, but my parents were working at our store, Angie was teaching in Fontana and Betty was still in high school. So…in the courtroom, I stood alone, trembling, face-to-face with the Judge, my right arm raised – and with emotional tears blurring my vision, I repeated, after him, the full, lengthy Oath of Allegiance to the United States of America, so help me God. As a result of this momentous, heartfelt occasion, I now have my own American Citizenship Derivation Paper (with my 21-year-old picture) dated August 5, 1943, hanging on the wall in this room when I am 97 years old.

Peggy Kalpakian’s Certificate of Citizenship August 5th 1943

Fast Forward here – 71 years – to July 4, 2014, when I was a 92-year-old widow, living alone in Bellingham, Washington. As I sat enjoying first-of-the- morning coffee, I turned on the TV and FROZE when I saw President Obama leading the Oath of Allegiance to a roomful of new American Naturalized Citizens in DC. I was riveted. Hearing the Oath of Allegiance administered again brought back a memory-rush of my 21-year-old-self standing alone in Federal Court in Los Angeles, right arm raised, taking the Oath of Allegiance to the United States of America. Suddenly tears gushed to my eyes, tears of appreciation for my gutsy, young-in-heart old country parents. I was limp with emotion. I said to myself, “Happy Fourth of July, Old Girl!”