Bedros Emmi - Part 2: Searching for a Man
As we spoke it occurred to me it had been years since I had spoken to Bedros emmi. The last time I had seen him that I could recall was at my uncle Berj’s funeral, itself an unhappy occasion and a poor environment for catching up.
Calling him was also out of the question. He was hard of hearing and soft spoken, a combination that made speaking with him over a phone nearly impossible. As I was living in Armenia at the time, I could not simply drive to Hollywood to visit.
So my plan was to call my mom, ask how he was and send an affectionate regard to him through her, as I knew she frequently visited him.
Later that day, I phoned my mother, and after quickly catching up, I asked how Bedros emmi was doing. I told her I had been telling stories about him, and it made me miss him and that I would like her to tell him so.
“He died three months ago,” my mom informed me.
I asked her why she failed to tell me.
“I didn’t want to make you sad,” she replied.
And now, so as not to make you sad, I will tell the same story I told Ellen that day.
“Bedros emmi was searching for a man…”
My grandfather Harout and his brother Bedros were sitting one day, when my grandfather noted that a friend of theirs had not been heard from in some time.
“Have you heard from Hitler?” my grandfather asked casually.
“No,” Bedros replied, “I haven’t.”
Hitler was a nickname given to this friend of theirs, mostly due to a similarity in mustaches. They had lived in the same neighborhood for a time, but Hitler had moved, and communications had stopped.
“You should go find him,” my grandfather said.
Bedros was usually disinclined to such tasks, but as he was a guest of his brothers and needed a place to stay, acquiesced; gathering his things as he made his way out the door.
“Where should I look?” Bedros asked?
“Ask his friends in the old neighborhood.”
Bedros departed, soon arriving into the old neighborhood. It would be three days before Bedros would be heard from again.
When Bedros returned to his brother’s apartment three days later, he looked worn and beaten. He immediately went to the kitchen and made some food, ignoring Harout’s questions as to where he had been and what had happened.
Once sated and rested, he answered.
“So I went to the old neighborhood like you said,” he began.
Bedros had gone from store to store, person to person, asking “Do you know where Hitler is?” or “Have you seen Hitler recently?” or “Do you know where Hitler went?”
At this point it is important to note that World War II had just ended and that the fate of Adolf Hitler, the real Hitler, had not been determined, with widespread speculation that he had somehow escaped Germany and evaded capture.
The world was on high alert, which is why over a short period of time Bedros’ questions drew the attention of police, and through them, the military, which promptly found and secured Bedros in a military facility for questioning.
Seated in an interrogation room, unfazed and full of certainty, Bedros sat across from his interrogator with no clue as to why he was being held or questioned.
“You know Hitler?” an officer asked.
“Yes, of course. Everyone knows Hitler,” Bedros responded.
“Describe Hitler to us.”
Bedros described his friend, whose description matched that of the real Hitler.
“Where is Hitler hiding?”
“You tell me,” Bedros responded. “I’m looking for him too.”
“Why are you looking for Hitler?”
“He’s my brother’s friend, my brother told me to find him.”
“How does your brother know Hitler?”
“Everyone knows Hitler.”
And so the interrogation went on, in a circuitous line of questioning where everything was answered truthfully and nothing made sense. Not once did it occur to Bedros that they were not talking about the same person. The interrogators, on the other hand, figured it out, days later, and promptly kicked him out of their facility.
My grandfather sat in brief disbelief, knowing this could only happen to his brother.
“So did you end up finding Hitler?” my grandfather asked
“No, the officer told me they think he’s dead,” Bedros replied.
Calling him was also out of the question. He was hard of hearing and soft spoken, a combination that made speaking with him over a phone nearly impossible. As I was living in Armenia at the time, I could not simply drive to Hollywood to visit.
So my plan was to call my mom, ask how he was and send an affectionate regard to him through her, as I knew she frequently visited him.
Later that day, I phoned my mother, and after quickly catching up, I asked how Bedros emmi was doing. I told her I had been telling stories about him, and it made me miss him and that I would like her to tell him so.
“He died three months ago,” my mom informed me.
I asked her why she failed to tell me.
“I didn’t want to make you sad,” she replied.
And now, so as not to make you sad, I will tell the same story I told Ellen that day.
“Bedros emmi was searching for a man…”
My grandfather Harout and his brother Bedros were sitting one day, when my grandfather noted that a friend of theirs had not been heard from in some time.
“Have you heard from Hitler?” my grandfather asked casually.
“No,” Bedros replied, “I haven’t.”
Hitler was a nickname given to this friend of theirs, mostly due to a similarity in mustaches. They had lived in the same neighborhood for a time, but Hitler had moved, and communications had stopped.
“You should go find him,” my grandfather said.
Bedros was usually disinclined to such tasks, but as he was a guest of his brothers and needed a place to stay, acquiesced; gathering his things as he made his way out the door.
“Where should I look?” Bedros asked?
“Ask his friends in the old neighborhood.”
Bedros departed, soon arriving into the old neighborhood. It would be three days before Bedros would be heard from again.
When Bedros returned to his brother’s apartment three days later, he looked worn and beaten. He immediately went to the kitchen and made some food, ignoring Harout’s questions as to where he had been and what had happened.
Once sated and rested, he answered.
“So I went to the old neighborhood like you said,” he began.
Bedros had gone from store to store, person to person, asking “Do you know where Hitler is?” or “Have you seen Hitler recently?” or “Do you know where Hitler went?”
At this point it is important to note that World War II had just ended and that the fate of Adolf Hitler, the real Hitler, had not been determined, with widespread speculation that he had somehow escaped Germany and evaded capture.
The world was on high alert, which is why over a short period of time Bedros’ questions drew the attention of police, and through them, the military, which promptly found and secured Bedros in a military facility for questioning.
Seated in an interrogation room, unfazed and full of certainty, Bedros sat across from his interrogator with no clue as to why he was being held or questioned.
“You know Hitler?” an officer asked.
“Yes, of course. Everyone knows Hitler,” Bedros responded.
“Describe Hitler to us.”
Bedros described his friend, whose description matched that of the real Hitler.
“Where is Hitler hiding?”
“You tell me,” Bedros responded. “I’m looking for him too.”
“Why are you looking for Hitler?”
“He’s my brother’s friend, my brother told me to find him.”
“How does your brother know Hitler?”
“Everyone knows Hitler.”
And so the interrogation went on, in a circuitous line of questioning where everything was answered truthfully and nothing made sense. Not once did it occur to Bedros that they were not talking about the same person. The interrogators, on the other hand, figured it out, days later, and promptly kicked him out of their facility.
My grandfather sat in brief disbelief, knowing this could only happen to his brother.
“So did you end up finding Hitler?” my grandfather asked
“No, the officer told me they think he’s dead,” Bedros replied.
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