Did I mention research in the previous blog entry? Although research requires hours of book and document searches, there is a certain euphoria attached to discovering information necessary for a memoir’s accuracy.
This is taken from “Kanon, the Life of Composer Ara Sevanian:”
Research
Time constraints force an early farewell to the post-concert gathering. I need to research names and places dropped in conversation by Ara’s closest friends from Funkerkaserne days. Those from the Wustrau camp talked about a bad camp, one Ara called “the camp before Schultz.” No one remembers its name. I fear that it was a death camp. Ara’s description of it was flat and disembodied. As I turn to leave, Ara hands me an audiotape. “Can you make a copy for me?”
“Sure,” I say, tucking the cassette into my purse. Once home, I slip the tape into the recorder. The music’s refined opening bars penetrate like a blade to the marrow. My hair stands on end. In spite of the recording’s poor quality, nothing prevents a sense of utter agony and despair from infusing itself within each melodic line. Where did that come from? I wonder. I am convinced the music connects to the unnamed camp. Ara’s transcribed interviews don’t answer to suffering this intense, not even the composer’s loss of his father to the Siberian Gulag. I withdraw the tape and glance at its nondescript title, “Adagio Cantabile.”
Within days I’m searching the UCLA University Research Library, now named the Young Library, hunting for “The bad camp.” Shelves display so many books on the subject that I worry if I’ll discover Ara’s camp at all. I recheck interview notes on the camp’s physical aspects. I look for a matching date, “after attack on Stalingrad” and a location, “near Kielce.” Size and diverse population would have to match. Ara mentioned that several camps, “Italian, French, Russian,” were side by side. Mostly, I count on Kommandant Schultz, “. . . who treat us like kindergarten children.” Whenever I encounter books that exhaust my linguistic abilities I depend on photographs, subscripts, and name lists. Fruitless hours leave me exhausted.
On a weary end-of-day try, my computer search yields a book located on a separate shelf. The oversized Het Boek Der Kampen raises hopes. I flip through its pages. A camp named Majdanek (My-da-nek) looks promising. I stumble through words close enough to German for my comprehension, searching for lists of Kommandantura. Otto Schultz appears on a list of “humane” cadre. The camp included a Jewish section. It was a death camp.
When I visit Ara again I bring the book along. “Do you remember Majdanek?” I ask. Ara shakes his head no. I point at pictures, facts, and the Schultz listing. Ara’s repeated firm, “I don’t know Majdanek,” confounds me. I return to the library. Narrowing my search, I discover that prisoners were trucked to the facility from a neighboring city. The rails ended three kilometers shy of a camp second to Auschwitz in atrocities against Jews. The city train station sign, Lublin, would burn itself into the memories of Majdanek’s inmates.
Eager for Ara’s confirmation, I wait for an appropriate moment. At an evening concert, Ara begins to reminisce about the war. Schultz’s name comes up. Jumping at the chance, I say, “I know the name of your camp, Papa.”
Ara’s head comes up, shoulders square, eyes query, “Really? What is it?”
“Lublin.”
“You find my camp! How you find my camp?” he bursts out.
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