His "General's sister" about the massacre and revenge was in our school textbooks. it was a harsh nightmarish reality, but in that village of ours in Lorva, where a special kindness was sprinkled after the war, and all my children were the children of all elders, our pure hearts of children remained skeptical before the cruelty that orphans of slaughtered parents avoided people like wild animals; it happened a long time ago, there, we didn't know where. the teacher's explanation was needed - I don't remember our teacher's intervention now, maybe she really told and filled in who we were, who we disturbed, who we threw out of the way, but our hearts also rejected her coercion, I remember exactly that we were bitter, especially at the end. the general replied that he was not the brother of the comforting and encouraging Diaspora Armenian woman. the case was about hurting someone else with someone else's pain, and so it was a true answer, but another truth was requested for my schoolmates: the general was supposed to be the same orphan who was hiding from people holding his sister's hand. He had also teased that place on another page of the school textbook, Hrachya Kochar whispered about it another time. it was a wonderful story about brotherly love, care, separation and rural work. At night, the family-owning brother puts a stake on his younger brother's stake at night, because he is yet to become a family, and the next night, a younger brother from his stake stakes a stake on his older brother's stake, because he is already a family owner. I was not unfamiliar with the sheaf and the sheaf in the moonlight, nor the secret alliance of brotherly care, nor care, nor what it means "a woman stuck like a sharp wedge between brothers". they existed and were already there, in that village of ours, Ahnidzor, but it seemed that they were anointed with the peaceful moonlight of beauty and goodness simply because they were there, far away at the foot of the Npat mountain.
Kochar himself was always there from the beginning to the end, looking for like-minded people among my school children. It was not an agony for him there, his last "White Book" was not his last confession. He was there when he faced a different enemy in the uniform of a Soviet officer. There was his oath as a soldier and a writer. He was there when he stood in the north, as a red military commander Guy, in front of foreign-language and foreign regiments, muttering in Armenian "brothers, brothers", that is, he hoped and believed that he would bring those regiments to his faith, and he was there when he made the "children of the great house" around the same issue.
He was there when he managed the advance of the Yermolov army in the movie novel "Northern Rainbow", hopeful and under the hard facts of history he had to manage the disappointment brought by that same advance as well. He was there when he was narrating for three hours before my studentship at the Pedagogical Institute. there are a thousand ways to live - it was a smart, discreet and practical plan to own one's victories and defeats, to live with honor.
He returned to the same place of pilgrimage sometimes from the past, sometimes from the future, more often from the present. He changed sides and times. convergence point: never. Many-timed, many-timed and versatile, he was the same Kochar, the Hayduk who was late for the fight, constrained in despair by his very short life. He even broke the shackles once, the excellent "Nostalgia" preacher crossed the border as "a theory of running a river to the mountains and valleys". it was madness, that's how a caged free man goes mad, but madness was also a way out, at least literary. he returned to the people already defeated and gave himself up to flowers and grass - he will tell them his pain or even not tell them, he will be silent and gnaw away from the pain. It is also a reality, but it was no longer Hrachya Kochar.
He was a powerful man, the side he looked at became the side to look at for us, he was able to impose his hopes and sorrow on us.