The Letter

BY MARY NAJARIAN

Sixty years ago on a cold, windy evening in September, I arrived at the Nurse’s Dormitory on 222 East Delaware St. in Chicago. I was 22 years old, a newly graduated nurse from American University of Beirut. I had secured a job to work as a cardiac surgical nurse at Wesley Memorial Hospital in Chicago. My housing accommodations were made by the hospital at the dormitory that was only a few blocks away from the hospital. I walked to the desk and introduced myself to the clerk. They were expecting me, and the hospital had reserved a room for me on the second floor. However, the clerk could not give me the key to the room unless I paid the first month’s rent of $30.00, which I did not have.

Three days prior, on September 11, 1957, I had landed in New York from Beirut, with $100.00 in my purse. I stayed with Sonia Bogosian, a classmate of mine from nursing school. The second day I was in New York, Sonia took me to Macy’s to purchase a white nurse’s uniform, and a pair of white shoes in preparation for my first day of orientation at Wesley Memorial Hospital. With the rest of the money, I purchased an airline ticket from New York to Chicago. All that was left from my $100.00 was a few dollars and some change.

I tried to explain to the clerk that I did not have $30.00, and I would pay her once I started work. She was firm, “I can’t give you the key unless you pay first month’s rent in advance. It is the rule.” Nonetheless, she was kind enough to let me stay in the lobby for the night. So the first night I curled up on the sofa in the lobby and slept. The next morning, the clerk called the hospital administrator, who guaranteed my rent payment, and only then was I given the key to my room.

I did not know anyone in Chicago. There were a few familiar faces from American University of Beirut; interns and residents who were training at Wesley Memorial Hospital, but they hardly acknowledged my presence. Other than those few doctors, I was a total stranger in the big city.

But I was hopeful that eventually things would get better. I was counting on this very special letter given to me by Hovsep Amoo (Uncle Hovsep) from Aleppo, a distant relative of my maternal grandmother. Hovsep Amoo gave me the letter and requested that I deliver it to his cousin, Mr. Artur Hagopian, who was living in Chicago for the last thirty years. Hovsep Amoo assured me, “When my cousin Artur reads the letter and finds out who you are, he will take care of you. You will have a second family in Chicago.” I was hopeful that once I delivered the letter to Mr. Hagopian my problems would be solved.

I was carrying the sealed letter in my purse with Mr. Hagopian’s telephone number written on the envelope. I knew this precious letter would open doors for me in this strange big city, and make me feel at home. I was anxiously looking forward to meeting my distant Armenian relatives and becoming part of their family.

A few days after I arrived to Chicago, I called Mr. Hagopian to let him know I had a letter for him from his cousin Hovsep Amoo. He seemed polite, and asked me, “How is my cousin Hovsep? And where are you staying?” He took my telephone number, and said he would be in touch with me and pick up his letter.

Weeks went by and I did not hear from Mr. Hagopian. One Saturday morning on my weekend off, I called again to remind him about the letter from his cousin. I hoped he would come and perhaps take me to his house to meet his family. I thought they might even invite me to stay the weekend with them. My conversation with Mr. Hagopian was short. “I have been very busy. When I get a chance, I will come and pick up the letter,”