Children of War Page 7

  After Arif’s words, the room seemed to turn as cold as ice; but no one said anything. What can you say in such a hopeless situation? No one mentioned my new job again.

  PART

  TWO

  “I saw my fate, upon the rocks,

  In the darkness of the valley,

  It was dressed in mourning.”

  Cretan Folk Song

  8

  The only interruptions to the otherwise calm life of Chania were the sporadic murders of Turks in the city. News of torchings, desecrations and massacres outside the city travelled to the urban population a couple of days after the event, provoking a wave of panic and fear. One of the reasons given for the low number of incidents inside the city was that the Greeks were wary about news of murders reaching the consulates of the great powers in the Halepa district of Chania. Because of this, they intimidated us in other ways, acting on individual grudges rather than executing planned murders, as if to hiss, “I’ll show you, you Turkish bastards!”

  On days like these, life was drained of any merriment or joy. Some of the savagery was so barbaric that even the Greeks, who had the same blood flowing through their veins, reacted against it. The kidnap of a woman named Havva* caused consternation in some Greek circles. On the way to see her fiancé with her father, she was attacked by Greeks on Tahta Bridge. The kidnappers, Deaf Yorgi and his gang, raped Havva for weeks, before taking her off to a monastery to convert her to Christianity. There was no way Havva could defend herself physically against that number of men, but when she resisted their efforts to make her change her religion, they set her free like a living corpse.

  It was a long time since I had seen Daggerlad, and in the meantime Kiri Vladimiros became my second guardian. Just as Daggerlad had sworn to be there for me in the case of mortal danger, Kiri Vladimiros extended his protective arm by appreciating my diligence and giving me the benefit of regular employment. Even more important than this was his warmth and sincere care for me. For one thing, whenever this kind of terrible news was doing the rounds, he would do whatever he could, directly or indirectly, to comfort me. The knowledge that I was safe under his protective wing made me feel I could speak openly and pour out my heart to him.

  Of the many people working at the printers, there was just one man who was at odds with the brotherly attitude of Kiri Vladimiros: that was the oldest print-setter, Vomvolakis. He was one of those who simply didn’t like us Turks and wanted us gone from Crete. He took great pleasure in rattling my nerves. The boss knew what he was like, so whenever he saw him speaking to me or heading in my direction, he would say, “Get on with your job, Vomvolakis! Cut the prattle.”

  But unable to stop himself sticking the knife in, Vomvolakis would make sure he had his say as he walked away. “There’s one less of your lot now, Hassanaki.”

  When the news about Havva reached Chania, I was in the print house office, preparing the list of bills arising from that day’s work. Towards evening, I would work out the bills for the print house and hand over the money from my daily collections to Kiri Vladimiros. That evening, as Vomvolakis came towards the desk where I was making my calculations, I saw Kiri Vladimiros suddenly appear from behind him.

  “Come on, my fellow Christian,” he began, “leave the man alone.”

  The sullen-faced print-setter went back to his work and the boss pulled up a chair to sit next to me. Knowing what had happened to Havva, he said, “These incidents are terrible, Hassanaki, there’s no doubt about that. They’re a blight on humanity. You can’t stop them and neither can I. It’s really hard to stop the tide of savagery – in fact, it’s impossible! After this, your people are going to respond with a murder somewhere else on the island.”

  “Where will it all end? Are they going to keep on raping and killing like this? Isn’t it a tragedy, Kiri Vladimiros?”

  “Of course it’s a tragedy, my lad. I know it’s going to hurt you when I say this, but the murders will carry on until they’ve succeeded in throwing you all off the island.”

  “But this is where our ancestors are from. I was thinking about it just the other day and if I’m not mistaken, fifteen generations of Turks have grown up here. If we’re honest about it, they – I mean your kinfolk – arrived after us and made it their homeland. All I’m trying to say is that it’s our homeland as much as it’s theirs. So what’s all the fighting about when we were getting along just fine together, like oranges and lemons growing in the same field? After what happened to Havva today, every Turk is miserable! This last incident…”

  “Hassanaki, that’s the way these things go. There have been a lot of rebellions on this island, for as long as Crete has been Crete. Every one of them has been put down. But this time, this rebellion organised by Venizelos will make Crete part of Greece; in fact, it already has!”

  “You’re certainly right there, boss,” I muttered.

  “I learned to see things for what they really are when I was in Tahtakale in Istanbul. We all got on well together there, the Turks and the Greeks. All in all, we were honest with each other and lived with mutual respect.”

  “So why is it different here, then?”

  “Look, Hassanaki, I’m Greek too. I’m a part of the Cretan Greeks, the same race and religion. But unfortunately, we don’t all think the same way. I’m all for compassion and enjoying life, without making divisions between people; but others are all for gaining land and expanding their territory in the name of ‘homeland’.”

  “And they’re killing people for that? Why are there so many Greeks who are ready to kill people?”

  “It’s the result of living under the rule of your Turks for hundreds of years. They’re sick of it and this is their reaction: violence and killing. Those at the top are trying to make a name for themselves by setting us innocent people against each other. It’s always the ordinary people who suffer. If they knew the good things about the Turks like I do, if they read as much as me and saw the reality, they wouldn’t behave like such barbarians.”

  “Absolutely right, boss,” I responded, “I haven’t wanted to talk about what happened in Baduryana village last week… maybe you heard about it as well but didn’t let on; that was another inhuman crime. After the murders by the Captain Bunato gang, Cemal and Mustafa Baduraki panicked and fled the village with their families. They managed to get to the sea and on to a boat but after that no one knows what happened to them. I don’t know if they managed to get to Anatolia, or if the sea carried them to the shores of North Africa or if they ended up as fish bait.”

  “Let’s hope they were saved…” sighed Kiri Vladimiros, “You know, I haven’t told you about the gangs of the past. The leaders of the previous rebellions – they call them captains – were even more ruthless, more fearless. Furogatos, Skoulakis, Michalis, Orphanoudakis – they were all human butchers! Some of them used to hold the decapitated heads of Turks up by the hair to brag to their friends, letting the blood drip out drop by drop!”

  I felt sick to the stomach, “Don’t tell me any more, boss. Please…”

  “OK, Hassanaki. But in return for me changing the subject, I want to ask you a favour. You know the kipohorta your mamma makes? I want a huge tray when she makes the first batch. I don’t mean just a tiny taster like last time, I want a huge plate of it – a pot full!”

  Vladimiros’s wife, Kiriya Evthimiya, was an Istanbulite like him. She knew how to make the special herb and vegetable dishes of our island, but they weren’t as delicious as my mother’s cooking. On the other hand, when it was the right season, Kiriya Evthimiya’s stuffed mackerel was the perfect accompaniment for an evening spent drinking white wine. Not to mention the huge turkey eggs she cooked every spring, breaking a couple of them into a pan of olive oil – our magnificent Cretan olive oil – and sprinkling the yolks with a pinch of dried mint powder. Concerned for her husband’s health, she only allowed him one mouthful; the rest was left for me – the young stripling!

  Kiri Vladimiros took the list of income and e
xpenses from me, carefully folded it in half and placed it in his pocket with the drachma I had given him. “As always, I’ll look at these in the peace of home, and prepare the next day’s work schedule. It’s Saturday today. Your mamma knows you’re coming to eat with us this evening and you’ll be late home. So come on, let’s go and see what wonderful meze Evthimiya has for us.”

  Five or six years younger than her husband, Kiriya Evthimiya was an adorable woman. She was constantly smiling, and her short, plump figure darted around the house excitedly when we were all together. As they had no children of their own, they lavished all their love on me. They appreciated my honesty with money, my hard-working nature and good manners, treating me just like a son. Before I came along, they had always employed their own kinsfolk to do the errands and accounts, but everyone had ended up cheating and stealing from them. Within a year of taking me on, I became a regular Saturday night visitor to their home, frequently invited to join them for dinner and wine after work.

  For Kiriya Evthimiya, every Saturday was a celebration. Along with Kiri Vladimiros, I would go into the dining room they called trapezariya and make myself at home. Everything gleamed, including the face of Evthimiya, who greeted us with a huge smile. The weekend wine sessions were naturally accompanied by fish and meat meze. One fine example was Kiriya Evthimiya’s fried calf’s liver. She could rustle up a sauce for it in just a few minutes, mixing together vinegar and the herb we called bibiriye and the Greeks called rozmari. We couldn’t help but lick our fingers afterwards. However, there were never any vinegary foods or salads when wine was on the table and, as the sauce contained vinegar, on the Saturdays when liver was served we drank raki, some called it ouzo, instead of wine. Kiriya Evthimiya made the same sauce to liven up common, cheap fish that wasn’t considered a luxury, turning it into a flavoursome treat.

  My mother was an exceptional cook of a different sort. Our rich tradition of vegetable and herb dishes stemmed from a life of living from the land. According to my mother, the secret of these dishes lay in knowing how best to use onions. Onions added when raw never gave any taste. She used copious amounts of onions, swirling them in a pan of olive oil until they turned pink. For other types of dishes, she cooked the onions in water, adding oil afterwards. She also used a lot of olive oil. Black pepper, cumin, bay, thyme, garlic, dill, parsley and rosemary were the gems of her kitchen. As alcohol wasn’t part of our tradition, she didn’t know about making meze, but she was a maestro with hot meals. My taste buds and stomach were always brimming with contentment thanks to the delicious cooking of my mother and Kiriya Evthimiya.

  __________

  * Havva is the Turkish name for Eve.

  9

  It was only during Ramadan that I skipped the Saturday night gatherings at Kiri Vladimiros’s house, prohibiting myself from my once-weekly indulgence in alcoholic drink. I might not have prayed regularly, but I always fasted. I always made sure I was home sitting with my mother at the table when it was time to break the fast. Naturally, I was tired when I came home from work during Ramadan. That was why at the beginning, whenever I was able to, I would go to the nearer Sultan’s mosque or the Algerian mosque for the evening Tarawih prayers. The latter had been named in memory of the Algerian soldiers brought to the island for the conquest of Crete. Later, towards the end of Ramadan, I usually found time to visit the other mosques of Chania. In 1913, after Crete was ceded to Greece, our biggest mosque, the Sultan’s mosque, was converted into the Church of Agios Nikolaos and the Waterside and Yusuf Pasha Mosques started to become almost as crowded as the Algerian Mosque.

  Just as I said at the start, our Turkish identity and Islam were our greatest pride: everything else was insignificant. The prevalence of mosques in Chania was symbolic for us. There were plenty that I never had time to go to: Kastel, Ağa Mevlevihane, Kalekapısı and Kumkapı Mosques to mention just a few.

  On Fridays during Ramadan, as I didn’t want to go too far from work, I used to pray at the Kastel Mosque, which was just up from the fountain. Unlike his wife, Kiri Vladimiros didn’t believe in God. Whenever I went to ask leave to go to the mosque, I could see him smiling, not just under his moustache, but with his eyes as well.

  “That’s fine, Hassanaki,” he used to say. He never interfered in anyone’s personal business.

  I was the only one in the printing house who knew he was an atheist. He used to talk about it at the table on Saturday evenings – things like that were never discussed at work. It would have been over-familiar with the employees, and not only that, but in all likelihood the rumour would have spread like wildfire until it reached the ears of the church, leading to condemnation and social and economic boycott. That would be enough to cause a successful businessman like him, with a family and reputation to uphold, to die of grief.

  Ramadan brought an even livelier bustle to the streets of Chania. After evening prayers, Splantzia Square filled with people; it was a place of games that went on until the middle of the night, where people smiled and had fun, hoping to win one of the trays of baklava or lamb that were given as prizes. The square, frequented by Turks from all walks of life, was turned into a street festival full of tombolas, Ramadan conjurors, luxury treats and gas lamps that multiplied in honour of the month.

  There was a particular atmosphere on each one of our public holidays. The Ramadan holiday was one thing and Eid-al-adha was something else. Visitors coming to the house during Ramadan were offered home-made baklava and citrus jams. My mother also made jam from the local fruit, kitro, which was sold to Europe even back in those days.

  After all the tragedy we had been through, the customs and traditions taught to us by my father held strong, and we tried to get on well with our new neighbours. We were always respectful and friendly. Our relations with the Greeks on our street, apart from the odd few sullen characters, were not bad at all, although we didn’t have much to do with each other. At the appropriate time of year, they would wish us well using the Turkish expression, “iyi bayramlar” and we would be sure to wish them “iyi yortular” in Greek when it was their feast time.

  They would give us gifts of eggs, pastries and koliva, while we offered baklava, pies and sacrificial meat from our slaughtered animals. Our relationships were based on the rules of reciprocation, but the values my father had drummed into us meant that we were always the most selfless. We just wanted to live in peace and contentment in our new home. After being chased from our home, and losing my father and brother, we had no desire to add any more woes.

  The day we heard the Greeks were on their way to Anatolia,* we wept in our homes. The Greeks in Chania were celebrating as if it were a wedding carnival. For us, it crushed our spirit. Yet what could we do but try to get on with them? We were mortally wounded by the sight of captured Turkish soldiers and officers being brought over as prisoners of war from Anatolia and incarcerated in a camp in Chania. I began to visit to offer consolation, although trying not to make it too public, and whenever our means allowed it, I would take something along for them.

  As time passed, the Greek guards on the gate got used to me and didn’t mind my visits. I became good friends with an imprisoned lieutenant from Bursa. When he found out he was a few years older than me, he began to see himself as my big brother, taking it as his duty to develop my Turkish. “Hassan, you hardly know any Turkish. It’s unbelievable. It’s a disgrace!”

  “It’s not my fault, Kemalettin Bey,” I replied. “That’s all I could pick up in the village and in Chania.”

  “Knowing thirty or forty words doesn’t count as knowing Turkish. We need to work on it.”

  “How can we do that?” I asked.

  “What about coming over here for an hour on Saturdays before you go to eat at your boss’s place? If you can get an hour’s leave each week, we’ll eventually sort you out.”

  “All right, but I can’t read those Arabic letters. I know how to read the Qur’an, but I really can’t write anything.”

  “If you’re patien
t, you’ll learn that too. Let’s just make a start and we’ll see how it goes.”

  Kiri Vladimiros was pleased when I told him the news. He said it was essential for me to learn the culture of my ancestors. From now on, every Saturday afternoon, I had leave to learn Turkish. One notebook and one pen were more than enough for us to start our studies. Every lesson, Kemalettin Bey would write ten words in my notebook, then ask me to write them over and over again. It was exasperating for me that he wrote in Arabic letters, but the rules of the lesson were that I had to copy them out. As he was writing, Kemalettin Bey said the words out loud, explained the meanings and made me repeat each one. He also pronounced each letter of the word individually as he was writing it.

  I struggled writing the words out in huge Arabic letters and trying to memorise them. To be more precise, I was totally disheartened and eventually made a suggestion to Kemalettin Bey: “Every day, I write Greek. That’s how I do the company accounts. Don’t you think I’d learn better and more quickly if I wrote down what you teach me in the letters I’m used to – in Greek letters?”

  He paused, not quite comprehending my words.

  “It’s just that I was telling Kiri Vladimiros how difficult it was for me with the Arabic letters and he said there are Greeks living in the middle of Anatolia, the Karamanlides, who speak Turkish but write in Greek letters – completely opposite to the Cretan Turks. I mean, they write and speak Turkish using the Greek alphabet.”