‘Thee mou!’ was a common cry, uttered with despair. ‘My God!’
Priests moved around among the crowds, comforting, praying, listening.
Men were often silent, despising themselves for not having stayed to fight the invader, but knowing it was too late for regrets.
‘You had to run away!’ insisted their wives. ‘There was no choice! You had no weapons! Nothing to fight with!’
‘And anyway, it’s not for ever,’ others said. ‘We’ll be going back.’
Only a few days before, Savvas and Aphroditi had had chambermaids and waiters to do their bidding. Now they had neither bed nor food. They were obliged to join the queues for bread and to sleep on the bare ground.
With a good percentage of Famagusta’s population now inside the camp, the couple saw familiar faces. Members of their staff, workers from The New Paradise Beach building site, lawyers and accountants were all there. Nobody looked the same, however, reduced to this level of quiet desperation.
They found themselves almost neighbours with Costas Frangos, his wife and their children. For Savvas this meant someone with whom to exchange ideas and talk about the hotel.
‘At least the keys are in safe hands,’ he said to his manager. ‘And I’m sure Markos will meet up with us in Nicosia.’
Savvas refused to give up his hopes for his Famagusta projects, even though his wife did not seem to care.
While Anna Frangos nursed her youngest through an attack of dysentery, an illness that was becoming more common as the days went by, Aphroditi found herself looking after the older children. It was a welcome distraction.
The Özkans spent the first forty-eight hours of their time in the deserted city inside their dark, shuttered home, still hoping that Ali would return to them.
To begin with, they talked. There was little else to do.
‘If they hadn’t tried to make us second-class citizens,’ said Halit, ‘this would never have happened.’
‘But you can’t blame all Greek Cypriots for that!’ said Hüseyin.
‘Aphroditi never made me feel that way,’ said Emine.
‘Well, enough of them did, otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting here.’
‘Only a few people used to persecute us, Halit,’ said his wife. ‘But that’s how it often is.’
‘So everyone is getting punished for the actions of a few?’
‘Yes. Greek and Turkish Cypriots – we’ve all suffered.’
‘Why do you always—’ Halit Özkan’s voice was rising. He found it hard to accept Emine’s balanced views.
‘Father! Shhhh!’ implored Hüseyin.
From time to time they reached the point when they would argue. It was usually over the question of whether they needed to stay. Emine was still absolutely resolute.
‘If you leave, it’s without me,’ she repeated.
A mile or so away, Markos was out in the hauntingly empty city. Alert to the positions of Turkish soldiers, his ears tuned into the slightest sound, he moved stealthily, ducking into doorways if he heard a human voice.
He zigzagged his way across the city, along Euripides Street and down roads named after Sophocles and Aeschylus, all so redolent of the order of the classical past. Everything had been bold and confident in Famagusta, the names of ancient philosophers and poets happily woven into the resolutely modern commercialism of the city. How wrong it was now, he thought, as he turned a corner and found himself looking at the sign for Eleftheria Street. Its name meant ‘freedom’.
The wide, deserted streets full of luxurious department stores and glamorous cafés were already ghostly. Even after this short time, it seemed impossible that they had ever been full of people.
There was evidence of looting. Broken shop windows where jewellery had been ripped from displays and clothes hastily ripped from dummies suggested opportunism rather than anything more organised.
It annoyed Markos that he had to edge along the streets of this place over which he felt such a sense of ownership. It seemed that his city had been given away, handed over almost without resistance.
His mission for that day was to find food. Their own supplies were not exhausted, but he wanted to make sure that they had enough for the next few days. Broken glass crunched underfoot as he climbed into a grocery store. The shelves were still fairly full, but beer and spirits had been mostly removed. Markos was more interested in finding tins of condensed milk.
A cushion on the seat next to the till still wore the dent of the shopkeeper’s ample backside. He thought about the woman who worked there. She had a beautiful face, luxurious glossy hair and a plump body, but she was not really his type. He had always spent a few minutes flirting with her whenever he came in, enjoying her huge smile and the glint of a gold cross that nestled within the crease of her cleavage.
He helped himself to carrier bags still helpfully stacked up next to the till and filled them with several dozen tins. Maria, in particular, needed this sustenance.
Outside the deserted city, the number of refugees on the island’s roads continued to grow. It was being said that more than two hundred thousand Greek Cypriots had fled their homes. Thousands of Turkish Cypriots were leaving theirs too, realising that their lives were in danger as the National Guard acted in retaliation for the Turkish invasion. Many of them were seeking refuge in the British base at Episkopi in the south.
For Savvas and Aphroditi, the base at Dhekelia, in spite of the conditions which grew more uncomfortable and overcrowded by the day, was at least some kind of sanctuary. When news came that intense fighting was continuing in Nicosia, they realised that it might be some time before they could leave the camp to go there.
Thousands more streamed in, bringing with them news of what had taken place in the capital over the past few days. Suspicious that the invasion had been a conspiracy between the United States and Turkey, a huge group of protesters had marched on the American embassy and assassinated the ambassador. Many Cypriots were in despair.
‘Infighting!’ said Savvas. ‘You’d think that EOKA B and the Makarios faction would realise there’s a common enemy now.’
‘With the island cut into two, we don’t need any more problems,’ agreed Frangos.
‘And if they can’t agree a strategy amongst themselves,’ Savvas said, ‘how are they ever going to get rid of an organised army?’
‘God knows …’ said Frangos. ‘I am sure the British will send some help eventually. They’ve made some big investments here so it doesn’t make sense for them to ignore what’s happened. Apart from anything, they’re supposed to help protect our constitution!’
There were rumours that a new guerrilla army was being formed to fight back against the Turkish soldiers. Groups of men in the camp were fired up by the prospect of going to war, and those from Famagusta imagined themselves marching to free their city. EOKA B, communists and supporters of Makarios were all active among the vast refugee population.
‘They all have a plan of action,’ said Savvas, ‘but it adds up to nothing! Tipota! All we do is sit here waiting for … what?’
The lack of real activity in the camp was a terrible thing for a man like Savvas. He helped to erect tents and construct latrines, but when those tasks were finished he found himself unoccupied and frustrated.
Aphroditi found it easy to keep silent when Savvas was voicing his point of view. Everyone in the camp was in the habit of giving out opinions. What should happen? What should have happened? What needed to happen? No one knew the answers to any of these questions but they debated them endlessly. The refugees had control over neither their own lives nor anything happening outside the camp. For now their lives were ruled by periods either queuing for handouts or crowded around a radio hoping to hear news of relatives from whom they were separated.
For Aphroditi, even now, there was only one thing that preoccupied her. Not if or when they would see the arrival of Greeks, Americans or British soldiers, but if or when she would see the man she loved. The rest had no me
aning.
While rumours proliferated in the camp, in the silent streets of Famagusta there was nothing to inform the Georgious or the Özkans of what was taking place.
After a few days they had lost their electricity, so there was no possibility of listening to the radio. Their city was the focus of the world’s attention, but they were unaware of it.
In homes little more than fifty yards apart, the two families were even unaware that the other was there.
The Özkans had not ventured outside even once since the day their city was occupied. Living under siege conditions in the enclaved village a decade before had taught Emine one thing: that her store cupboards should always be full. Lentils, beans, rice and specially dried bread were always neatly stacked there.
‘We always need to have them, just in case,’ she said.
‘Just in case of what?’ Halit had always enquired teasingly.
Now there was no humour. He was merely grateful that his wife still had a siege mentality.
When they had heard the heavy sound of footsteps several days before, Hüseyin had been sent up to the roof of their two-storey house to ascertain where the soldiers were.
He had raced down again, always swift and impatient in his movements.
‘They’re at the end of the street,’ he panted. ‘Half a dozen of them. And it looks as if the city is still full of smoke.’
Since then, there had been nothing but silence and cicadas.
Hüseyin crept back up to the roof.
‘Is there still smoke?’ his father asked when he returned.
‘Not that I could see …’
‘And sounds?’
‘Nothing at all.’
The sound of artillery had ceased; guns were no longer being fired.
In the Georgiou apartments, Maria, Panikos and their two little ones were now staying downstairs with Irini and Vasilis. They felt safer together. Markos continued to sleep upstairs. He came and went, usually after dusk, often not returning until it was daylight.
‘Why does he go for so long?’ Irini asked Vasilis anxiously.
‘He’s finding food for us!’
This was true. Markos always returned with plenty for them to eat. He knew now which stores were still full and that Turkish soldiers mostly used the main streets.
Maria was content to stay inside with the baby, who was named after her grandmother. She would not have gone outside for forty days even under normal circumstances, as was tradition with a newborn.
Irini had brought her canary inside and liked to let it fly around in the darkened room.
‘Look how happy it makes him,’ she said.
But the bird kept fluttering towards a chink of light between the shutters and she had to put him back in his cage.
‘I’d love to let him see the sunshine again,’ she said. ‘Tse! Tse! Mimikos! Tse! Tse! Please take the table out of the way.’
‘But …’ protested Vasilis.
‘I just want to hang his cage outside for a while,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m not going anywhere else.’
‘It’s not safe!’
‘There is no one out there, Vasilis,’ she said. ‘And if I hear anything at all, I’ll come straight back indoors.’
As Vasilis moved the furniture and opened the door just enough to let his wife through with the cage in her arms, the apartment was filled with light. Dazzled by the unfamiliar brightness, Irini went outside and stretched up to replace her bird on his hook. It was seven days since she had been into her kipos. Many of her gerania had withered, but there was a huge crop of ripened tomatoes waiting.
‘Oh, Vasilis,’ she cried. ‘Come and see!’
They picked the fruit together, carefully placing them in a bowl. Irini then plucked a handful of basil. She smiled. Her mind had travelled a long distance.
‘I wonder how the oranges are …’ she mused.
Vasilis did not answer. Every day he thought of his precious trees and knew they would be suffering without him. Irini had dreamed that the entire crop had been stripped from the trees and lay trampled on the ground.
Back inside, she carefully sliced some of the tomatoes and covered them generously with olive oil. For the first time, Vasilis opened one of the shutters by an inch to release them from the oppressive darkness.
The five of them sat round the table to eat. It was the first fresh produce they had had for days and the sweetest salad they had ever eaten. Irini had also made a stew with the last of her chickens. In the corner, the baby slept.
They ate in silence. It had become a habit.
At the Özkan home, Emine, Halit, Hüseyin and Mehmet were also sharing a meal. They were eating dried bean stew. Their vegetables had run out.
‘How much longer do we have to stay inside?’ asked Mehmet.
Emine and Halit exchanged glances. Emine’s eyes were swollen from crying. She put down the picture of Ali she had been holding all day and pulled Mehmet on to her lap.
Hüseyin had spent several hours each day on the roof. He reported that soldiers sometimes went on patrol, which told them that the military presence was still there.
‘We don’t know,’ answered Halit. ‘We’ll only go out again when it’s safe.’
At that moment, they heard a sound in the street.
It was a jeep. Then voices: Turkish, but with an accent a little different from their own. They were shouting.
The crunch of heavy boots came closer and then stopped.
Everyone in the room froze.
They saw the door handle being moved from the outside. Many people had fled the city without pausing to lock their doors, so the soldiers were used to breaking in without effort. A moment later they heard a boot kick against the wood – once, then again, harder the second time.
Emine put her head in her hands and rocked.
‘Bismillah irrah manirrahim,’ she mouthed over and over again, noiselessly. ‘May Allah help us.’
The door handle rattled again. Then there was some inaudible muttering and after that something that sounded like scratching.
For some time the Özkans could hear soldiers in the street. It took a while for them to repeat the process with a dozen other doors. When they succeeded, the sounds changed. Soldiers went in and out ferrying anything they could carry, and the noise the Özkans heard was the sound of stolen goods being carelessly thrown into the back of the jeep. Laughter and joking accompanied their task.
Markos was on his way home from finding food when he turned the corner into their street and saw the jeep right next to the Georgiou apartments. The back of it was loaded up, and soldiers were staggering out of the neighbouring block, one with a small fridge, another with a television. A couple of other doors had a mark chalked on them. From watching their movements, Markos knew that if a door did not open easily, the soldiers left the property alone. There were too many places that could be easily ransacked to bother with those that had been made secure. Any locked door was marked with chalk to indicate that the home was untouched. They would come back another time.
He could see that his parents’ door was still shut. Perhaps they were the next target. There was nothing he could do but wait and make sure he was not seen. He felt for the gun in his pocket. He would prefer not to use it unless he had to.
Inside, the Georgious waited in silence and terror. Vasilis had moved the women and children into the back bedroom. If baby Irini made a sound, then they would be in trouble.
He took two sizeable knives from the kitchen drawer, handed one to Panikos and gestured that he should stand close to the front door. His son-in-law obeyed the instruction and the pair of them stood trembling as they listened to the sounds only a few inches away.
Vasilis understood enough Turkish to know that the car the soldiers were driving was virtually full.
‘Let’s go now,’ said one of them, to the accompaniment of a scratching sound on the door. ‘It’s enough for the day.’
They still seemed to be in the kipos.
/> Vasilis could hear a slight creaking, more laughter and then the high-pitched sound of a bird. They had unhooked the canary’s cage.
As the sound of the vehicle receded into the distance, Vasilis and Panikos put down their weapons. Vasilis went to open the bedroom door and found his wife, Maria, the baby and Vasilakis sitting huddled on the floor behind the bed.
‘They’ve gone,’ he said, his voice trembling. He did not tell Irini about her precious bird.
At that moment, they heard knocking on the door.
‘Panagia mou!’ whispered Irini, clapping her hand over her mouth. ‘Panagia mou!’
‘Mamma!’ It was Markos’ voice.
Vasilis and Panikos slid the furniture out of the way to open the door.
‘They were here!’ said his mother, weeping. ‘We thought they were going to break in.’
She was visibly shaking with fear. Everyone else remained calm, but Irini was overwhelmed with thoughts of what might have been.
Markos tried to reassure her.
‘But they didn’t get in. You’re safe, Mamma. We’re all safe. They’ve gone. Come outside and you’ll see.’
Irini went out into the kipos. Immediately, she noticed the absence of the cage.
‘Mimikos! Mimikos!’ she cried out. ‘Markos! They’ve taken my bird!’
She began to weep. The canary, her constant companion in the day, had been her pride and joy, his music immeasurably precious.
‘If only I had kept him inside,’ she sobbed.
The absence of the bird reminded her of an even greater absence. Christos was still out there somewhere. For several hours, she was beyond consolation.
Although they had no radio, the occasional sound of far-off artillery told them that Cyprus was still at war. In the last hour, that reality had come closer than before.
In Irini’s dreams that night, Turkish soldiers overran the whole of the island from Kyrenia in the north to Limassol in the south. She dreamed that every Cypriot had been slain, except for the inhabitants of her own home.
As the days went by, the Özkans began to run out of supplies. All of them were constantly hungry, especially Hüseyin, but Emine was still determined to stay.