Apigian-Kessel: Baron Kaloust’s Red Suitcase

I may have been a pre-junior high school age kid at the time, but I was blessed with a keen eye for detail and was a sharp observer of human behavior (which still serves me well today).

I was thinking about Detroit author Tom Mooradian, who in 2008 wrote the highly successful book The Expatriate: Love, Basketball and The KGB (available on Amazon.com). It explores Tom’s misadventure and his admittedly terrible decision to give into the lure of being educated in Soviet Armenia in 1947, instead of pursuing college basketball here as a star high-school athlete who could have had his choice of colleges. To this day, Tom’s name is prominent in Michigan high school athletics, being named to the Michigan high school Hall of Fame.

Instead of Armenia being the land of milk and honey, it proved to lack sufficient food and goods, and the housing was crowded. Starring on Armenia’s champion basketball team gave Tom a way to survive mentally and finally afforded him a decent lifestyle—though with no chance of escape since his passport was confiscated by Soviet officials. Hope for returning home to America was dim. The handsome high school graduate’s noble thoughts to repopulate Armenia led him to 13 years of misery and constant surveillance by the KGB. He believes a chance encounter with Eleanor Roosevelt led to his release in 1950 and his return to freedom in America.

Tom and wife Jan are still in demand crisscrossing the states for appearances in conjunction with The Expatriate, a must-read book. We are cheering for Tom to write a follow-up book on his adventures.

Enter Baron Kaloust. In the late 1940’s, my father bought my brother Abe a grocery business on Ferry Avenue in Pontiac, then a stronghold of Armenian families. The area was dotted with names like Kevorkian, Oskanian, Haroutunian, Keshigian, Dakesian, and Margosian. Our Tashnag agoump was several doors down the street from our store. I clerked there during summer vacation and watched the activity on the lively streets.

Above our store with a separate entrance was a property loosely called a “hotel” for bachelors. All were older and no one had a job except for “Mike Thompson.” We treated them respectfully but unless they came to our club, there was no socializing.

One of the most gregarious and memorable residents was Kholkhotsi Pilos Arakelian (given the name Mike Thompson by I don’t know who or how), a tall, strong man with a hooked nose who was always in a jovial mood. He was a construction worker who, upon his return from work, would always come down clean as a whistle and neatly dressed in a white dress shirt and suit. He always wore a hat, too. He frequented our agoump as a member and always won the cake auctioned to raise money; his generous bidding and dancing around guaranteed spirited competition and laughter from the crowd, but he deservedly always got the prize. We addressed him respectfully as Baron Pilos, described by my dad as an “ungeragan dgha.” The agoump was his home away from his dreary rooming house.

Some of the others were the short Albanian Mike Boicum; Ahmee, the tall, thin, old Armenian; Hamid the Kurd, who walked the street in the same brown trousers and navy suit coat slung over his shoulder and bore a strong resemblance to Sultan Hamid; a nameless bull of a Yugoslavian; and another tall Armenian called “Captain.” I have no idea how they dined since no restaurants were nearby. I do remember cans of potted meat, sausage, and corned beef with bread being in demand.

Baron Kaloust wanted to return to Armenia and was awaiting official word for repatriation. He was a sartorial sight. He was barely over five feet tall and almost that much around his girth. In the summer he paraded down Ferry Ave. in cream pants, a white shirt, white shoes, and red tie. A cream-colored Panama hat and a cigarette holder painted red was to demonstrate his approval of the Sovietization of Hayastan. The stylish Bolshevik completed his summertime ensemble by even painting his walking stick red!

Eventually the Baron was seen walking while carrying his red suitcase. Soviet Armenia had rejected him but even so he wanted the world to see that his political convictions had not faltered. As a 12-year-old, I thought it was curious to observe this old Armenian man. I had no idea what repatriation was at the time. All I knew was that we were a Tashnag family, spent a lot of time at the Raffi Agoump down the street, and believed in an “azad, angakh Hayastan” and the tricolor flag. Here was this parody of a man walking the street with his red suitcase crudely painted with uneven strokes as his blatant visual declaration of his politics while collecting American social security. His belief was he would have a better life in Armenia—news presumably gotten from the Armenian paper he subscribed to. I do know this: It would have been a perfect opportunity for the curious me to have asked a lot of questions of these old gentlemen as to how they came to live upstairs. Why were they alone? Did they have family in some far-off country? How did they end up here? Was it because of the crumbling of the Ottoman Empire? They were human beings with stories of hardship to tell and I would have been the willing listener.

Hima Khelks guh bargi (Now it resonates in my brain), whereas in 1950 it did not. Human beings torn from some homeland living a taparagan gyank. When I first married, I sent a Thanksgiving dinner over to Baron Pilos and “Captain,” with my husband to deliver. He sent word upstairs to their living quarters to come down, and they were so pleased at our thoughtfulness. It was the least I could do. Ahmee and Kaloust had since passed away. Mr. Arakelian and “Captain” were now aged. They were always so nice and respectful to my family. I wish I had done more. Now I can only guess at their unhappy circumstances.

So there is no comparison to Tom Mooradian’s decision to go to Soviet Armenia in 1947, as an idealistic young and vibrant student, to the situation of Baron Kaloust, an aged Hye with no education and no ability to perform heavy labor. He was useless to Armenia. They did not want him and he was heartbroken. His dream of returning to Armenia was dashed.

He spent his remaining years walking Ferry Ave. carrying his crudely painted red suitcase with his red cigarette holder in his mouth, with the same cream-colored outfit, I guess longing for Armenia.

“Uncle Joe” Stalin had no use for old people. There was an over-50 year span between knowing Baron Kaloust and meeting Tom Mooradian, who came home and had a successful journalism career, but my education and observation of the human condition remains just as acute, rewarding, and caring. That you can take to the bank.

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Betty Apigian-Kessel

Betty (Serpouhie) Apigian Kessel was born in Pontiac, Mich. Together with her husband, Robert Kessel, she was the proprietor of Woodward Market in Pontiac and has two sons, Bradley and Brant Kessel. She belonged to the St. Sarkis Ladies Guild for 12 years, serving as secretary for many of those years. During the aftermath of the earthquake in Armenia in 1988, the Detroit community selected her to be the English-language secretary and she happily dedicated her efforts to help the earthquake victims. She has a column in the Armenian Weekly entitled “Michigan High Beat.”