He was shouting at the air. Nobody in the room disagreed with him, but the situation was out of their hands and even Markos felt it futile to respond. In the brief silence that followed, a voice on the radio was suddenly audible. All able-bodied men were being called up to defend Cyprus.
Markos exchanged a look with Panikos.
‘We’ll have to go,’ he said. ‘I’ll drive.’
‘Panagia mou!’ Irini said, crossing herself. ‘Not you as well. Please not you as well …’
The instruction on the radio was repeated. It was a matter of urgency.
Panikos hugged Maria, who was fighting back the tears. He briefly touched her swelling stomach.
‘Don’t worry, Mamma,’ said Markos. ‘They’ll see that we’re not fighters.’
He knew that Savvas Papacosta would find a way to exempt himself and his right-hand man. As for Panikos, he was in no shape to defend the country.
As they left, Vasilis, knowing he did not qualify, took himself to the kafenion, where he continued to argue with his friends for an hour or so. By the time he returned, he would be ready to sleep off an excess of zivania and fury.
There was less anger but almost equal fear in the Özkan household. Turkish Cypriots knew that this new development would make each one of them vulnerable. They feared retaliation and knew they could be its victims.
Lots of young men were joining the TMT, preparing to defend their communities, and Emine Özkan begged her son to stay at home.
‘What good will it do?’ she insisted. ‘You don’t know one end of a gun from another!’
Ali did not reply. His mother’s words were far from the truth. He could take a semi-automatic pistol apart and put it back together in three minutes. There were so many villages that needed armed protection. He could not sit listening to reports on the radio without wanting to feel his finger on the trigger of a gun.
When night fell and everyone was trying to sleep, he whispered to Hüseyin, with whom he shared a room, that he was going.
‘Don’t try to stop me,’ he said, and the elder brother knew there was nothing he could do. Mehmet continued to sleep soundly in a small bed next to them as Ali crept from the room and left the house.
The National Guard were already known to be attacking Turkish Cypriot villages and quarters throughout the island. Turkish troops were heavily outnumbered, so young men like Ali knew they had a role to play.
That day, the streets of Famagusta were almost empty as people stayed in their homes, glued to their radios. There were developments hour by hour.
Irini and Maria listened nervously to reports of military clashes, praying that Markos and Panikos were safe. Cypriot navy boats, sent out from Kyrenia to engage the approaching Turkish naval flotilla, were sunk by combined Turkish air and naval attack. Greek Cypriot forces failed to dislodge the Turkish landing force, and their tanks and armoured vehicles were destroyed. Fighting then broke out in the mountains behind the town.
Around midday, they heard the slam of a car door. Markos sauntered in, with Panikos behind. The women leapt up and embraced them.
‘It was chaos,’ said Panikos. ‘No weapons, no plan. It was a shambles. They told us we could go.’
‘So who’s defending us?’ asked Vasilis gloomily. ‘If the Turkish troops link up between the coast and Nicosia, then it’s all over.’
‘I’m sure the United Nations will have some influence,’ Markos assured him. ‘And the best thing is that they are not taking sides …’
‘It sounds as if they’re blaming both sides, though,’ said Panikos, holding Maria as if he would never let her go.
Maria did not hide her relief that her husband and brother were back.
The United Nations Security Council was demanding immediate withdrawal of all foreign military personnel unless they were there under the authority of international agreements, and made it clear that they disapproved of the Greek coup that had precipitated the crisis as well as the Turks for taking military action.
‘At least if everyone keeps talking, things won’t get any worse,’ said Panikos optimistically.
There was every possibility that the situation would escalate into an all-out war that would not be confined to Cyprus. Greece had announced mobilisation, and troops were moving towards the border with Turkey.
Meanwhile, the Turks continued to claim that they had invaded purely to protect Turkish citizens, and that they hoped for the recommencement of talks between the communities.
Just down the road, the Özkan family was also anxiously considering events.
‘Perhaps it’s true,’ said Hüseyin. ‘They could just be here to protect us.’
Thousands of Turkish Cypriots had been driven from their homes, and many others were now effectively hostages in villages surrounded by the National Guard. Hundreds of others were being held in football stadia.
‘If the Turks hadn’t invaded, none of this would have happened!’ cried Emine in vexation.
‘You don’t know that,’ remonstrated Halit. ‘We could have found ourselves living like we did in the sixties. Those Greeks from Athens – they don’t want us here! Nothing’s changed.’
‘So perhaps they did come to protect us …’ repeated Hüseyin.
‘But all they’ve managed to do is put us in danger,’ responded his mother.
There was silence for a few moments before she exploded again, this time revealing the true cause of her anxiety.
‘And your brother …’ she cried, now in tears. ‘Ali! Where is he? Where has he gone?’
She knew her questions were futile. She left the room, and father and sons listened to the sound of sobbing that penetrated the walls.
The following day, Panikos went out to the electrical shop as usual, but business was dead. No one even came in for a light bulb.
Irini tirelessly tidied and dusted and cooked and then tidied once again. Everyone was on edge.
Vasilis came back home from the kafenion bringing plenty of rumour but also plenty of truth. Where one ended and the other began it was impossible to tell.
‘They’re using napalm!’ he exclaimed. ‘They could burn the entire island down that way!’
Irini urged him to be calm. ‘It might not be true. Sometimes it doesn’t help to talk that way,’ she said.
Christos’ absence cast a huge shadow over their lives, bringing the dread that hung over the fate of Cyprus into their home, into their own souls.
Meanwhile Turkish soldiers were making relentless progress; Cypriots from both communities looked on with fear as they saw well-drilled soldiers marching southwards.
In the chaos and terror following the invasion, waves of people, both Greek and Turkish, began to flee from their homes, taking with them only basic necessities. Many buried money and valuables in their gardens before they left. Thousands sought refuge in the military bases retained by Britain after independence.
Tourists had much more to worry about now. The island’s main airport had been bombed, and those still in Famagusta began to hear about the hundreds of people trapped in the Ledra Palace Hotel in Nicosia. Thousands of holidaymakers had already left after the coup against Makarios, but the invasion sent the rest of them into a blind panic.
Chapter Sixteen
WHEN HÜSEYIN WANDERED down to the beach very early the following morning, he knew there was no point in unstacking the sunbeds. In spite of the news that the Turks had agreed on a ceasefire, the area in front of The Sunrise was deserted. Or almost.
There was one person in the otherwise empty landscape. It was Frau Bruchmeyer taking her usual early-morning swim. The water was particularly still and flat that day, and he could see her effortlessly lapping her way across its glassy surface.
Eventually she stood and waded the last few yards on to the beach, where she picked up her towel. It was like any other morning.
‘Günaydın,’ said Frau Bruchmeyer. ‘Good morning.’
Every time she greeted him, Hüseyin was touched by the
fact that she had learned a little of his language.
‘Günaydın,’ he replied.
He sat on the sand and gazed out at the view. Close by, he knew that thousands of Turkish Cypriots were effectively trapped within the walled city. He wondered whether Ali was somewhere in that vicinity or if he had gone further afield. Everything seemed so calm, perhaps more peaceful than ever with the lack of traffic and absence of people. He lay on his back to gaze up at the sky and closed his eyes. The gentle lapping of water on the sand lulled him and he began to doze.
His slumber was short-lived. A low roaring sound stirred him, and as he opened his eyes, a huge shadow passed right overhead. The plane was low enough for him almost to see the pilot. Its markings told him that it was a Turkish fighter. Hüseyin stood up. A moment later there was a loud crack. With complete disbelief, he saw the side of a nearby hotel collapse. A sandcastle would not have crumbled so swiftly.
The ceasefire agreement had been violated after only a few hours. The Turks were still carrying out air attacks. Famagusta itself had become their target.
Savvas was in his office at the building site, calculating how much the disruption to the construction work had already cost him, when the bomb tore apart the ten-storey tower close by. It was much nearer to The New Paradise Beach than to The Sunrise, and the mighty boom was a thousand times louder than the most powerful lightning strike he had ever heard. When he ran outside and on to the beach, he could see the flames glowing inside the building from the ground floor to the roof. Most of the windows had been blown out in the explosion.
People had emerged from their homes and a few from cafés and shops. Like Savvas, they could not believe their eyes. This simply could not be happening.
The Turkish aircraft had passed over, but nevertheless the danger was still present, and after a few minutes everyone came to their senses. It was quite possible that the planes would return. Having scored a direct hit, they might be encouraged.
Savvas needed to get to The Sunrise. He returned to lock up his office and hastened on foot along the beach. It seemed unlikely that the Turks would drop bombs into the sea, so it felt the safest route.
Usually at this time the foyer was busy. A row of four men would be standing behind the reception desk, uniformed porters would be waiting to ferry luggage and a doorman would be alert to arrivals. Several maids would be dusting the leaves of the enormous pot plants. There would be a steady flow of people coming and going, and outside, to the right of the main entrance, the terrace bar would be full, its elegant striped awning protecting clients from the sun.
Today, there was only one person in the entire space. Costas Frangos was behind the desk, scanning the huge ledger that recorded the names of guests. He looked up to acknowledge Savvas.
‘I think we’re empty,’ he said. ‘As far as I can be sure, all the guests are gone.’
‘Were all the payments settled?’
‘Not all of them.’
‘You mean …?’
‘The only thing people were interested in was getting out of here.’
‘Didn’t you give them their bills?’
‘Kyrie Papacosta, it was chaos here. I had them all prepared, but everyone just wanted to leave.’
‘They were checking out, though, weren’t they?’
Savvas folded his arms while he waited for an answer. It was enough to express his dissatisfaction.
‘Some of them just threw their keys on to the desk and left. One of the chambermaids told me there are things left in almost every room. I am sure people will be back to collect them and pay what they owe.’
Frangos shut the ledger, hung two room keys on the hooks behind him, lifted the flap of the reception desk and came out into the foyer.
Markos appeared. He looked calm enough. For a few hours he had helped organise the departure of the guests.
‘Everyone has gone,’ stated Savvas, with utter dismay.
‘Not quite,’ said Markos. ‘Frau Bruchmeyer is still here. I’ve put her down in the nightclub. It’s below ground, so she is safe enough there.’
‘She didn’t want to leave?’
‘No. She has no intention of doing so.’
‘Well, this place was built to last,’ said Savvas proudly. ‘It’ll take more than a Turkish bomb to bring it down.’
‘I hope you’re right …’
‘My wife,’ said Savvas, as an afterthought. ‘Have you seen her?’
‘No, not today,’ Markos replied honestly.
Before leaving, Savvas had another word with Costas Frangos.
‘Can you make sure we keep a skeleton staff? I think we should assume that it will only be a matter of time before this is over – and I don’t want to find we haven’t got the manpower to reopen.’
‘But so many have gone to fight …’
Before Frangos had finished his sentence, Savvas had turned away and marched out of the hotel.
He retraced his steps along the beach to his office. The phones were not working again, so he quickly drove home so that he could tell his wife what was happening.
Inside the apartment, Aphroditi had listened to the radio and heard news of the ceasefire. The roar of the air-conditioning meant she had been oblivious to the latest developments.
In her hand was the pearl. She played with it in her fingertips and rolled it in her palm, admiring its small beauty. From time to time she glanced out of the window and observed how the buildings down the street seemed to shimmer. The afternoon heat was searing, melting the tarmac, almost bending street signs, and most people would be indoors now trying to escape it.
She looked up into the mirror and gazed at her own reflection. She had idled away almost an entire morning, and though her hair was a little ill-kempt, her eyes had been accentuated with liner.
Inside her apartment and completely buried in her own thoughts, she heard neither the rumble of low-flying aircraft passing over the building nor the sound of the front door opening and shutting. Even a man’s voice shouting out her name failed to rouse her.
It was only when she caught sight of a movement in the dressing table mirror that she turned around. Her hand closed around the pearl.
‘Aphroditi!’
‘What’s happened, Savvas?’
‘Didn’t you hear? Are you deaf?’ There was unmistakable annoyance in her husband’s voice. ‘You mean you weren’t aware of the explosion?’
‘No! Where? What’s happened?’
‘Turkish planes. They’re bombing Famagusta!’
Aphroditi stood up to face her husband.
‘We need to go to The Sunrise. Even if it gets hit, we’ll be safe in the basement.’
Aphroditi furtively opened a drawer to replace the pearl, then grabbed her bag and followed Savvas out.
The streets were empty of traffic, so within a few minutes they were at the hotel. Just before they went inside, they heard a series of deafening bangs. This time the target was a hotel that was being used by the National Guard to attack the old walled city, an area of Famagusta that continued to be held by the Turkish Cypriots.
‘Go downstairs,’ ordered Savvas.
The last time she had been in the Clair de Lune already seemed an age ago. There was only one thing that mattered. Would Markos be there? She went down the semi-lit staircase and opened the door. The place looked tawdry with all the lighting turned up and the purple velvet seemed sleazy rather than glamorous.
Sitting alone on a banquette by the stage was Frau Bruchmeyer. The elderly woman looked up and smiled.
‘Frau Bruchmeyer! What a lovely surprise!’ said Aphroditi.
At the same moment Markos appeared through the other door.
‘Ladies!’ he said. ‘My two favourite ladies! All to myself!’
Aphroditi sat down. Her heart was pounding. What she felt lay between pleasure and pain.
‘Markos.’ Even to say his name made her spine tingle.
‘So, what can I get you to drink? They’re on the hou
se.’
His light-heartedness was inappropriate given the events happening beyond the walls of this room, and yet both women were delighted by it. What could any of them do? Everything going on outside was entirely out of their control.
The three of them drank whisky, clinking glasses before they took the first sip.
‘Stin yeia sou!’ said Markos, holding Aphroditi’s eyes with his own, before turning to Frau Bruchmeyer to do the same.
‘Stin yeia sou!’ he repeated.
‘I have something in my handbag,’ said Frau Bruchmeyer. ‘They might come in handy if we’re here for long.’
She produced a pack of cards, and when Markos left, the two women began to play. Time had no meaning in a room without windows. Perhaps the sun had set and risen again.
Every so often Markos returned, bringing dishes of food from the kitchen. One chef remained there on duty, obliged by the terms of his contract, which did not allow provision for an airstrike, and the fridges were still well stocked with enough fresh ingredients to feed a thousand people.
There was a sound system in the nightclub, and Markos put some records on for them. Over the next few days they worked their way through hours of jazz and blues, plenty of Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday and Ray Charles, all Clair de Lune favourites. For Frau Bruchmeyer, Markos played the complete works of Frank Sinatra.
‘If there was ever a man I would marry …’ she said, her eyes sparkling, ‘it would be old blau ice.’
Aphroditi giggled at the pronunciation.
‘Blue eyes,’ she repeated, in her perfect English. The whisky helped their good humour, and as the hours, and then days, went by, they felt less and less connected with the world. They were free to leave their purple prison, but there was nowhere safer to go, and nowhere else they wished to be.
Markos continually came and went from the Clair de Lune, usually taking a package from the safe. Between times, he would go home and spend time with his parents. The outskirts of town were safe enough.