The White Lamb

The White Lamb

A Story of Sacrifice and Broken Promises

Chapter 1: The Orphan (1946)

The winter of 1946 was the coldest Armenia had seen in decades. Navasard found his nephew curled between the frozen bodies of his parents, their skeletal fingers still intertwined in death. Six-year-old Arshak's lips were blue, but his eyes burned with a question Navasard couldn't answer.

"When will Mama wake up?"

Navasard swallowed the lump in his throat as he pried the boy away. The family barn stood half-destroyed by artillery shells, its remaining walls whistling with every gust of wind. He wrapped Arshak in his own coat - the one that still smelled of his dead brother - and carried him through the snow to what remained of their home.

That evening, Navasard knelt before the soot-stained icon of St. George and made his vow. "I will give this boy everything," he whispered, pressing his forehead against the cold wood. Outside, the wind howled through the empty pastures where fifty sheep had once grazed. Now only twelve remained.

When Arshak whimpered in his sleep, Navasard did the unthinkable. He took his father's gold pocket watch - the only thing of value the war hadn't stolen - and trudged through the snow to the black market in nearby Vardenis. At dawn, he returned with three shriveled potatoes and a lump of rancid butter.

"Eat slowly," he instructed as Arshak devoured the meager meal. The boy's eyes never left his uncle's face, as if memorizing the lines of hardship etched there.

Chapter 2: The First Sacrifice (1951)

The schoolmaster's knock came at harvest time. Navasard wiped his hands on his trousers, leaving streaks of grape juice across the faded fabric.

"Your nephew," the old teacher began, his voice trembling with excitement, "has solved problems meant for university students. The boy is a genius, Navasard."

That night, Navasard walked through his dwindling flock, counting each animal twice. At dawn, he led his four best ewes to the butcher without letting Arshak see his tears. The coins they brought bought a leather satchel, a geometry set, and a one-way ticket to Yerevan.

"Why are your hands shaking, Uncle?" Arshak asked at the train station, his new shoes polished to a shine.

Navasard forced a smile. "The wind," he lied, pressing their last walnut into the boy's palm. "When you crack this open, think of home."

As the train disappeared into the mountains, Navasard whispered the truth to the empty tracks: "I'm afraid you'll never come back."

Chapter 3: The Miracle Lamb (1955)

The letter arrived on thin Moscow paper, its crisp folds a stark contrast to Navasard's calloused hands.

"Admitted to Moscow State University. Need 500 rubles by September."

Navasard didn't hesitate. He sold the south pasture - land his grandfather had plowed with oxen - to a collective farm. As the notary counted out bills, a cry came from the barn. His oldest ewe had birthed a single lamb, its fleece whiter than winter's first snow.

"We'll keep this one," Navasard told the butcher, hiding it in the root cellar. Every morning, he brought the lamb fresh milk and whispered, "You'll greet him when he comes home."

Chapter 4: The Empty Chair (1960-1965)

Five Christmases passed. Five empty chairs at the table.

Navasard saved every letter, though they grew shorter each year:

1961: "Studying agricultural economics under Professor Petrov."

1963: "Appointed junior analyst at the Ministry."

1965: "Send more wool to sell. Prices better in Moscow."

Each spring, Navasard sheared the white lamb with ceremonial care, spinning its fleece into yarn he stored in an oak chest. The villagers whispered about the crazy old man who refused to sell his finest wool.

"It's for my nephew's homecoming," he'd tell them, running the soft strands through his fingers. "The finest blanket for Armenia's brightest mind."

Chapter 5: The Return (1970)

The village chairman's black Chaika limousine kicked up dust on the road. Navasard stood waiting with the lamb, now full-grown, its fleece brushed to perfection. He'd spent the morning pressing his only suit and polishing his dead brother's pocket watch - the one he'd bought back from the pawnshop last year.

The car slowed.

Navasard's heart pounded - then sank as it continued to the collective farm office. Through the window, he saw a glimpse of his nephew's profile: the sharp Moscow haircut, the gold-rimmed glasses that caught the afternoon sun.

"Arshak!" His call was swallowed by the engine's roar.

Chapter 6: The Betrayal (1970)

Navasard pressed his ear to the office door.

"...modernize your wool production," Arshak's voice rang with unfamiliar authority. "My models show 40% efficiency gains if you eliminate smallholder flocks."

The chairman chuckled. "Even your uncle's?"

A pause. Then: "Especially his. Antiquated methods. Emotional attachments to livestock hinder progress."

Outside, the white lamb bleated. Arshak didn't turn his head.

Chapter 7: The Last Supper (1970)

Navasard's table groaned with food: roasted lamb, pickled vegetables, the sweet gata bread Arshak had loved as a child. He'd set two places - one with the family's best silver, one with the wooden spoon Arshak had used as a boy.

At sunset, headlights flashed through the window. The Chaika sped toward Yerevan without stopping.

Navasard untied the living white lamb. "Go," he whispered, cutting the rope with his father's knife. As it vanished into the hills, he placed one final setting at the table - a child's portion on a tin plate.

Chapter 8: The Legacy (1980)

When neighbors broke down the door, they found:

A quilt stuffed with ten years of unsold white wool

A stack of unopened money orders from Moscow

One final note in the account book: "1946: 1 gold watch → 1 boy's life. Fair trade."

Outside, the white lamb - now old and grey - stood vigil by the empty sheepfold. As the villagers debated what to do with Navasard's meager possessions, the lamb turned and walked into the mountains, never to be seen again.