http://www.cleveland.com/entertainment/index.ssf/2015/10/cleveland_author_honors_armeni.html
In addition, let me place here the also fine review of the novel which appeared on October 10 in the Armenian Mirror-Spectator (the text is reproduced below):
Commemorations are a fixture in our
public lives. We mark dates to call to mind a particular event or to
teach a new generation the importance of a momentous occurrence. Much was made
in the general media in late April of the Armenian Genocide of 1915; however,
the public remembrances were fleeting – a quick story in the nightly television
or radio broadcast or a newspaper story. Adding to the fragility of the stories
is that this is a centenary remembrance; most, if not all, of the eyewitnesses
are gone. Who will re-tell the facts and explore the ramifications of
early twentieth century tragedies? Both historians and fiction writers offer
different approaches and perspectives.
One such narrative is Daniel
Melnick's THE ASH TREE which strikes a delicate balance
between history and fiction. Permeating the book are references to actual
events and places. And to sensory memories of “plump oil-cured olives in Constantinople…anchovies,
the brine washed off [having] the savor of a kiss…and oranges [tasting] of
sunlight and the tree.” The sense of place is strong, whether Turkey, Armenia,
or California and Fresno.
A basic timeline of the book takes one
family from 1915 to 1972. The prologue, however, opens in 1972 California with
a death in the family of Armen and Artemis Ararat. This violent death ruptures
their world. It will take the rest of the story to explore why this death
occurred and to understand the characters who inhabit this world.
Although both from Armenian families, Armen Ararat and Artemis Haroutian are of
different temperaments and outlooks. When we first meet Armen, he witnesses
neighbors and teachers being killed in Turkey. Some 10 years later as a student
at Berkeley, he remembers his European past and honors his relationship to it.
He feels that all the immigrants had been permanently scarred by what they
carried with them from Turkey. In contrast, Connecticut-born Artemis Haroutian
did not want to marry a man born in the old country and “had always wanted a
suitor who was free of the agony of 1915...not weighted down by foreignness and
history.” These two positions haunt the characters and the novel. Melnick gives
voice to the ambivalence of any group in a diaspora – to hold sacred the memory
of the past and to forge a new, more hopeful life.
The strength of the novel is its careful
summoning of a particular world that is the Armenian community centered in
Fresno and the universality of the human inter-actions that makes this
applicable to all. Early on in the novel, Armen's landlady says that what is
important is that the family survives. Armen and Artemis build a life together
for their children, Tigran, Garo and Juliet. They give up their early dreams of
lives centered on poetry and art and focus on the difficult reality of raising
a family. Although he is a recognized poet, Armen is known more for his
business dealings. He struggles with the thought that his mastery of Armenian
has no place in American life. Language eludes them both. We see this through
Melnick's lens which does use language with sensitivity and clarity.
As the Ararat children grow, they become
part of the wider world, forging relationships outside the Armenian community.
Marriage and business dealings extend their boundaries. The novel takes on a
more intimate and emotional layer as Juliet marries Sammy Weisberg, a young
Jewish man.
It is here that history and narrative fiction most strongly
overlap. Juliet and Sammy mirror the author and his wife, Jeanette Arax Melnick
whose painting is the cover art of THE ASH TREE. The Ararat
family is based on the Arax family; yet, there is so much more of the interior
lives of these characters inhabiting these pages.
As the novel comes full circle from 1972
back to 1972, we can see that one death can stand for all losses and
bereavements. Geography cannot change the fragility of life, but memory helps
to offer solace. Daniel Melnick honors both those who know Armenian loss and
those who wish to understand such losses in our lives generally.
