He opened the door, expecting to see a fellow villager with a letter or message or parcel for his family.
It was Riza, the Turkish policeman. He warmly bid them good morning, asked politely if they were ready and if he had heard correctly.
“You were playing the lute?”
“Yes, the closing dance…”
“Case ready, too, I see.”
“We’re trying. If you let us have one or two bags as well, it would be easier effendi!”
“Yes, you’re right neighbour. But Pasha’s orders…”
“What to take, what to leave?”
He told them not to worry at all. He would look after whatever they left behind. As if it was his! No one would dare to touch!
It doesn’t depend on you, braggart, thought the man. If only it did! From the very first days of his posting to the village, on 28th August ’74, his attitude towards them had been friendly and sympathetic. Without too many formalities he signed the permits for them to go out to their fields, their orchards, their flocks. He facilitated them every time they received supplies and parcels. He filled in applications in Turkish for them for medical treatment and medicines, secured permission for a service every Sunday and on feast days, to send their children to Nicosia to study. Above all, however, they owed him gratitude because when the Turkish army first entered the village, he assured the Turkish commander that the Christians here would not harm a Turk in any way. They lived as good neighbours, friends, he said, brothers.
And his word held good until the methodical uprooting began. Ten to fifteen villagers had to leave every day. It had been going on for months now. In vain they begged him to intervene, fill in applications for them. He tried; it was useless. It had been decided in Nicosia, he explained. “What can Riza do? Patience! Allah is great!”
He was powerless. And he became even more so when the first commander was replaced and the “Pasha” arrived. With him came the first lorries with Turkish Cypriots from Paphos, who drew lots for the fields, houses and orchards… of those who had left and those who had not left yet.
“Sit down, effendi,” she said and offered him a preserved fruit. He accepted it with pleasure. And when they proposed he should take the whole jar, he again accepted it with a thousand times “thank-you”. Then he told them that it was time to go.
“Now?”
“Yes. Pasha issued new firman last night. Instead of ten, bus leaving today at nine.”
“We still haven’t packed our case,” she protested. “I’ve heated the water for a bath…”
“Unfortunately no time. You know, the Pasha…”
They looked at each other helplessly. Yes, they knew what “Pasha” meant.
“Not even for the incense? I’ve put an olive branch on the coals…”
He signed no. “It’s late. Let’s just look at your case.” He advanced towards the table. “What have you put in, neighbour?”
“What have we put in, my dear fellow? Things of ours… That we want to keep…”
“With your permission, I’ll take a look.” He thrust his sweaty hands into the case. “Crowns, eh? And seed?! Take also title deed? Forbidden take book and deed…”
He took them out and set them aside. At the same time his hand went in deeper.
“Transistor… very well… And photograph? Your daughter? And son? Good health to them! My son in England. Daughter in Istanbul, studying. Close now, we’re going…”
His left hand was ready to close the case when the other, still deep in the pile, pulled out the parcel with the Gospel.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a family heirloom…” he said.
“My grandmother’s,” she added.
The Turk broke the string. The Gospel was revealed: heavy, bound in gold, decorated with stones, paintings, reliefs, with pure silver on the front and back covers and on the spine.
“No, neighbour. The old man hid this. There was information it was at the monastery but priest swore he hadn’t heard, don’t know Gospel… Now I saw him come out of your door. I suspected you… Bad things lies, brother. Why you deceive me? I’m your friend. I take care of your house. Your things. What’s Pasha going to say? Now you not take anything. Everything stay behind for checking…”
He, furious, rushed towards him.
“You’re not serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious… We Turks generous… If you speak nicely, honestly, clearly… Turk is good… If you try to steal, he changes his tune…”
He showed them to the door without looking them in the eyes.
“But not to take even one case? Is that what God wants?”
“God doesn’t want monkey business either…”
“You’re turning us out of our home with only the clothes we’re wearing… We still have a whole hour.”
And he seized Riza by the collar.
The policeman pushed him back hard. And still holding his precious find in his one hand, he pulled his pistol out of its holster with the other.
“How you turn Turks from Paphos and Larnaca out of their homes? Turks from Aloa and Maratha? You not get them out, I tell lie. You hid them in grave with bulldozer… Go, go!”
She went up to her husband and stood next to him by the door.
“Not even our wedding crowns?”
The Turk didn’t reply. He only said “Give me key. As soon as you gone, I come by and lock.”
They gave him the key which they had in the drawer. A small, slightly rusty “old key” he’d always thought of changing or of plating with nickel. It had always caused him difficulty when opening and he used to curse it but now, as he handed it over, he knew it was precious, the most precious thing of all the things they were leaving behind, of all the things they were robbing them of; it was the magic key to a whole life which they were taking away from them.
And they stepped out.
The lute on the shelf, the jar of quince paste which Mr Riza preferred to leave in order to have his hands free for the Gospel and the pistol, their kilim, still warm under the table, their suitcase wide open, its contents scattered, heard first the key grate, screech, a cry of anguish, shouts, then the penetrating sharp sound. Was it the pistol or the hunting gun?
From the collection:
Te Unseen Aspect, Kinyras Publications, Nicosia 1979
Translated by Christine Georghiades
The Escape
He greeted her coldly and pushed into the hall. As on the telephone previously he clearly showed his irritation at her early morning summons. With a sidelong glance at her, he removed his gloves and warmed his fingers with his breath. They were stumpy and hairy, miniatures of himself. ‘Those fingers could not talk…’ the woman thought.
“No developments?” he asked her.
“None… Please, on the first floor.”
The lift did not work. They went up the stairs. The corridor to the left, according to the sign, led to the Library and Handicraft Rooms and to the Offices. It was dark. They followed the corridor to the right, towards the dormitories; six, in a row, closed; from the cracks around the doors came stray light and sounds; clearly they were awake inside. “They are upset, I woke them up to ask them what they know and I frightened them… Please, come quickly”, she had told him on the telephone. As they proceeded the practised ear of the policeman distinguished the noises as footsteps, creaking beds, a window swinging to and fro in the breeze, but no one’s voice. He was surprised. Then he remembered where he was and smiled at his absent-mindedness and his edginess. He shouldn’t be so irritable! More importantly, he should certainly not show it! It might be freezing cold, four o’ clock in the morning, after a most exhausting, sleepless night, but the case appeared to be serious. Certainly it would be in all the newspapers under banner headlines! On the radio and television! It would be the subject of the day! And perhaps… Why not? Perhaps it would eventually prove to be his sole opportunity for recognition, for promotion…
“Here,” the teacher sai
d and stopped in front of the last door, the sixth in the row.
She opened it.
A small lamp at the side dimly lit a dormitory in complete disorder. Wardrobes wide open, six unmade beds and the four-leafed window fully open in such cold! The two children, their backs to the door, sat on the bed next to the window, looking out.
“The two who remained?”
His voice did not cause the two heads to turn, but that did not surprise the policeman. He approached them, again without their noticing him, and placed his hand on the shoulder of the older boy.
He, turning, found himself facing the uniform. He freed his shoulder with a jerk and shrank back. The second child, a boy of about eight years old, huddled against his companion in terror.
The young teacher, with reproach in her eyes at the clumsiness of the policeman, approached the boys protectively, but they again showed intense suspicion. They withdrew even further. Her long, slim hands remained stretched out in the empty air. The sergeant’s eyes fixed on her, searchingly. She was tall, much taller than him, blond, with dark blue eyes; with a lithe, well-formed body whose femininity and attractiveness her unkempt appearance and bulky dressing-gown did not manage to hide. But what stood out on her immediately was her hands, so mobile and expressive and smooth, like… Like… He couldn’t find a simile. He rarely could. ‘She must be sensitive and educated…’ he thought. ‘At least…’
“They are upset, I told you,” the teacher said apologetically, interrupting his thoughts, and she hid her hands in her pockets. “Especially the older one.”
“Is it the boy who came from the Karpass? The one the newspapers wrote about?”
“It’s the boy the Turks brought… No one knows from where. Neither where he’s from nor his name. They handed him over at a checkpoint in a Red Crescent jeep. Neither the Red Cross, which took delivery of him, nor the peacekeeping forces managed to learn anything at all from the Turks.”
She was certainly attractive and her concern and her unkempt appearance made her more charming. She would make a wonderful mother, the sergeant thought.
“Not even you?” he asked her and smiled, for the first time. “Haven’t you learned anything from the boy?”
The young teacher shook her head.
“Didn’t you ask him? You understand their language, you taught it to them yourself.”
“Unfortunately, he’s just learning it now. When they first brought him it was only through signs or a few of his expressions that we could guess what he wanted. Even now that he has begun to communicate, his feelings and his thoughts are so confused that we never know exactly what he wants, or what we should do for him. Not even basic information; either he hasn’t been able or he hasn’t wanted to tell us yet. He hasn’t wanted to, rather…”
The policeman concentrated his attention on the children again. Particularly the elder one. He was about sixteen, although he looked much older, lean, with a bony face and eyes of an indeterminate colour, sometimes greenish, sometimes grey or honey coloured. The boy had taken courage and was returning his gaze. The policeman, although he tried, could not divine the thoughts of the boy, nor did he manage to bend that steely stare. It was he who was obliged to lower his eyes first, with a defeated obstinacy and a feeling of humiliation. He looked at the small boy, still huddled against the bigger one. He was dark, with an unnaturally large head, which was made to look even more disproportionate compared to the meager body by his long, untamable hair and tight, short pyjamas.
He turned back to the teacher.
“I think we are getting off the subject,” he said a little numbly. He pulled himself together and again became “official”: “So they claim that, they know nothing?”
“They say they woke up and found the beds empty, as you see them.”
“Personally, I find it unlikely. Six children in the room and they did not notice anything at all? Do you believe it?”
“You’re forgetting their condition… These children awake only with the light or with caresses.”
“With your permission, I’ll try myself. It’s possible that my uniform will make them more willing to tell what they know. If they know anything, of course…”
“But of course,” she replied. “That’s why I called you. To help us find them. They are so unprotected, so…”
And she turned aside discreetly, to hide her concern from the children.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find them. Didn’t I tell you so?” he reassured her, really moved now, his feelings growing more spontaneous and protective. And he added: “Do you want to act as interpreter?”
She nodded, wiped her eyes which had become moist, then, regaining her composure, turned to the children and, with an effort, smiled at them. Her eyes and her face shone with love. The two children, cold, unmoved, returned neither the feeling nor the smile. But the young teacher was undeterred. She raised her hands and her disciplined fingers explained what the sergeant wanted from them.
“Good morning children,” the policeman began cordially.
The teacher repeated the “good morning” with her fingers. The hands of the children did not reply.
“Don’t misunderstand them,” she apologized after a fruitless wait. “As I explained, they are upset.”
“I understand… Tell them, though, that I would ask them to consider me a friend. I want to help…”
Then he turned to the children:
“We want to find them, to bring them back. But you must help us, children…”
Her fingers translated.
“Well?” asked the sergeant. “Will you tell us what you know? Didn’t they say if they intended to go anywhere?”
The fingers of the elder boy answered the signs.
“No, they didn’t say,” she translated into words his stiff and uncertain gestures.
“Well didn’t they ask you whether you wanted to go with them?” the sergeant insisted.
“If they had asked us, we would have gone,” said the teacher, translating what the fingers told her.
“Ask him how he can be so sure. They may not have agreed.”
She translated. And immediately received the response, which she again rendered into words:
“We would have agreed and gone with them.”
His assurance discouraged the policeman. It would be difficult to extract any useful information, or even an indication, if there was no change in the attitude of the two children. But he refused to admit defeat so readily. He would make one more attempt, plucking a more sensitive chord. He addressed himself to the younger child, looking searchingly into the grey eyes in the centre of the giant head.
“I heard that you were all close friends, inseparable. Why do you think they didn’t invite you?”
“I don’t know,” replied the hands of the elder one.
“I asked the little one… Let him tell us himself what he knows…”
The teacher translated the question and the boy’s answer:
“He doesn’t know, either.” And she added immediately: “I think it’s futile to insist. Perhaps they really didn’t tell them.”
“Impossible… In my case, for the moment let’s turn to the other matter, what I asked you on the phone… Whether they have any reason to be dissatisfied with anything.”
“I understand…”
She hesitated a little, knowing that the paths to which her reply would lead were dark, but she had no right to hide the truth.
She said:
“They were not happy at all when we were installed here… I think they preferred the refugee camp at Derynia…”
“To this? To the facilities, the heating and the spaciousness? Did the children themselves tell you this or did you suppose it?”
Did they tell her… The teacher smiled bitterly at the two children, who regarded her, unable to comprehend what she was saying, and at the other four who had disappeared into the night… The day they had moved God alone knew what had happened… As soon as they had realized that this
two-storey building was their final destination, they had refused to get off the buses. First they had pleaded, then they had demanded to be taken back, to the tents… And when she and the other two teachers who were accompanying them, amazed at the unexpected reaction, had replied that going back was impossible, all the children, simultaneously, on both buses, had refused to leave their seats. The three teachers had armed themselves with all their patience, love and persuasion and explained why they ought to follow them, that it would certainly be better here, that it was impossible to go back to their school… But the children were unyielding. The teachers had tried promises and caresses. But when neither these nor threats with enraged fingers and eyes had had any effect, whether they liked it or not, they had been obliged to use force. One by one they had clasped the children, who had wept and grunted and clung to the seats, pulled them away and handed them to the drivers, who had carried them, struggling and imploring, and locked them in the classrooms on the ground floor…
“…Of course in time they settled down somewhat, but they never forgave us…” She faltered a little, then continued: “That’s why I believe they were happier at the refugee camp, or at least calmer. I suppose they lived with the dream of returning. When we brought them here we deprived them of that expectation and they hated us for it.”
“I understand the problem, of course, but I don’t believe that they hated you… You!…”
“Us! Me! And themselves! And their inability to understand what was happening, what evil had befallen the country…”
“But didn’t you explain all that to them from the beginning?”
“Do you think we didn’t try?…”
…but it proved impossible… From signs alone how could they realize, how could they understand the tragedy which had suddenly occurred, what had caused it? How much and in what way our own people were responsible. Which of our own people? How much the foreigners? How much the enemies? What are the enemies?… They were not in a position to follow the twists and turns in her analyses… It was difficult even for normal children, how much more so then for these! Who live in isolation in a world so different, so… Whatever they cannot touch directly does not exist … Without this being a blessing, regardless of what the world believes … That ignorance is bliss… Tings would be simpler if they were in a position to understand. They would perhaps be prepared to bear the common fate, along with all the others, or to react in some way, positively or negatively… Whereas now? They live in silence and darkness and confusion, besieged by disconnected information, by feelings and facts that are incomplete, unexplained, deficient… Among riddles… They evacuated them from their school during the night. They heard neither the airplanes nor the shots and explosions… By means of signs they told them that they were leaving… “At once!” They would explain why they were leaving later… Later, of course, they tried… But it proved impossible for them to comprehend what had made all the grown-ups, the teachers, the staff, their supervisor, so timid, so unreasonable… Without the concepts and without experiences, sheltered within their fragile world from the cradle, how could they understand from signs and gestures alone the mewing of “age-old enemy” and “coup d’ etat” and “refugees” and “uprooting” and “partition”?
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