The 19th Son

Andreas Kleanthous The 19th Son (autobiography) Nicosia, Cyprus 1998 Cyprus 1935 Page 1 of 371

To Robin, who still lives in my mind Andreas Kleanthous – Nicosia 1998 Robin Kleanthous: 18 February 1951 – 27 September 1992 Page 2 of 371

Contents Page Number Introduction...…………………………………………………………………… ………………….7 The Family of Kleanthis Hajikyriacou……………………………………………...……………10 The Family Tree…………………………………………………………….……………………...11 Introductory Note by The Author……………………………………………….………………...12 The House I was Born In…………………………………………………………......…….……...13 The Harvest Failure of 1931………………………………………………….…….….…………18 Doctor Aishe………………………………...………...…………………............….…………….19 The Exorcism of My Fear………….………………………………….……….... .….…………...23 The Move to The Upper Village…………………………………………….….…….…………...27 The Uprising of 1931………………………………….……………......……....……………… ...28 The Misfortunes of Our Family…………………………………………….…… ……………….30 The Return of Joy to Our Family………………………………...….………....….……………...34 The Festival of St Heraklidios………………………………….……….…………...……………36 The Killing………………………………………….………………...……...….………………….40 Father’s Trial…………………………………………………………………….…………………44 At the Employ of My Godmother……………………………….……………….…….………….46 Death Sentence……………………………………………………………. ….……….…..………50 Ending Up in Bed with Worry………………………….…………………...........………………52 The Rejection of The Appeal………………………………….………….…….…………………54 The Burial………………………………...……………………. ….………….….……………….57 Page 3 of 371

Page Number Back to Work on My Own………………………………………………...………….…….……...61 Looking for A New Job in Nicosia……………………………………….……….………………64 At the Mine of Kambia…………………………………………………...….…..…………………68 At the Goldmine of Agrokipia…………………………………………………….…….…………70 The Pre-Engagement of Kyriakos to Xenou……………………………….…..….……….…….74 At Mavrovouni – Theodoros’s Injury…………………………………….………………………79 At the Mine of Kalavasos…………………………………………….……. …..……….…………83 The Second World War and Unemployment…………………………. ….….…….……………86 Joining the Union…………………………………………………………….…………….………88 My Attempt to Enlist in The British Army………………………………….…......…….………93 Volunteer in The British Army……………………………………………….….….……………101 Volunteer in Egypt…………………………………………………...…………………………...104 The First Rebellion in The British Army…………………………….….….…….…………….106 A Mule is Worth a Thousand Soldiers……………………………………...………..…………108 Blacksmith…………………………………...………………………. ….…….……….…………110 At Lebanon’s Front……………….…………………………………....………. …..…...………111 In Beirut – Fundraising for the Imprisoned Leadership of the Π.Σ.Ο.…………...…………114 Secret Organisation Α.Ο.Κ.Σ…………………………………………………...……….………117 Clash with The Military Police………………………………………………....….……………120 Scuffles with British Soldiers………….………………………………….…..…………………123 Army Exercise and Hunger Strike………….……………………………. …..…….….……….125 Page 4 of 371

Page Number My First Sexual Encounter………………………………………….……….….….……………127 The Operation………………………………………………….……….....…….….…………….130 Visit to Jerusalem……………………………………….……………...…….….….……………131 In Bagdad……………………………………………………....………………....……………… 135 In Italy – The Eighth Army………………………………………….………....….…..…………137 Visit to Rome………………………………………………………………………..….….………139 At Cassino……………………………………………………………………... …. ….………….141 The Attack and Capture of Cassino…………………….……………………...….……………147 At Rimini……………………………………………………………….…………….….…………150 To the Front Line…………………………….…………………………………. ….….…………153 Contact with Italian Communists…………………….………………….…..…….……………160 Back to Rimini – Mussolini is Executed – Celebrations………………….…….……………166 Waiting to be Sent Home……………………………………………….……......………………170 Back to Our Homeland...………………………………………….…………….….……………173 Slogan for Demobilisation…………………………………………………....…………………174 My Engagement……………………………………………………….……...….….……………175 Demobilised and at the Troodos Mine……………………………………….…………...……176 The Move to Nicosia……………………………………………………...…..…….……………179 To Paphos…………………………………………………………….……………………………182 The Earthquake of 1953…………………………………………………....…….………………183 The Start of My Own Business……………………………………………..……………………186 Page 5 of 371

Page Number The Colonialists declare the Party Illegal and Arrest the Leading Members…….………189 Following My Release………………………………………………….……..….………………196 The Family and the Responsibilities Increase……………………………….…..……...….…201 Emigrating to London and Reconnecting with The Party…………….……......……………203 Back to Cyprus – Coup……………………………………………………. ….…..….…………206 Turkish Invasion…………………………………………………….……. ….…..………………212 . We Leave for London……………………………………………………....…….………………226 The Experience of My Visit to Athens in 1963………………………….…………...…………228 At Last, in London…………………………………………………….………….….……………231 My Daughter’s Wedding……………………………………………….…………..….…………233 Return to The Homeland…………………………………………….….…….….………………234 My Involvement in Public Affairs……………………………….……….………...……………237 Our Stay in Rhodes…………………………………………………. ….………..………………240 On the Way to London……………………………………………….…...………………………241 Once Again in London………………………………………………….. ….……………………244 Walking Around, in the Area of the Factory……………………….….………………………246 Waiting for my Pension………………………………………….………....……….……………252 Final Move to The Homeland………………………………….………......……………...……253 Robin’s Illness………………………………………………………...…….……….……………255 Returning Home with a Great Pain………………………………….……....…………………258 Epilogue…………………………………………………………….………….…..………………266 Page 6 of 371

Introduction My name is Nikiforos Kleanthous, Nick for short and sometimes Nikos in case you wonder when you begin reading the book. I am the eldest son of the author. I am not an author myself, or a professional translator. I have been asked over the years, by my daughters and other members of my extended family, who cannot read Greek, to translate my father’s autobiography. I steadfastly refused, because I did not consider myself qualified for such an undertaking. COVID-19 was the catalyst for my change of mind. The pandemic which put millions of people, including myself, into lockdown, provided me with so much spare time, that I thought I would have a go. My daughters encouraged me and also provided me with practical help. Natasha, who is a journalist, edited it for me and Zoe designed the book cover and organised its ‘publication’. I am very grateful to both. A couple of things became apparent very quickly: Firstly, in retrospect, I should have done it years earlier, because having left it until I reached the age of 69, I struggled to remember some of the words in English and at times I became very frustrated. Secondly, my father wrote in a mixture of Modern Greek and Cypriot dialect, even using Turkish words sometimes, which meant that some of those words, did not even exist in dictionaries. I really wanted to remain faithful to his story and his distinctive style of writing and therefore, I spent many hours tracking down meanings of words and expressions. A good example of this, is the Cypriot name for mining tools and general mining terminology. I acknowledge, with thanks, my uncle Telemahos’s help with some of these words. The book was ‘published’ in 1998, when my father was 74, but in his epilogue, he says that he was coming up to 70 years old, so he must have been 69 when he finished it and there was a gap of five years before it was ‘published’. Strangely, he was the exact same age, as I am now! I assure you that this was not deliberate, and it came as a surprise to me, when I realised it. Undoubtedly, he has, at times, taken some artistic licence, but on the whole, I believe his story is factual. There were times when I felt that he wrote at length about seemingly unimportant matters and hardly mentioned or completely omitted, other things which I considered important. It became clear that my priorities and his were, at times, different. There are chapters which involve me personally, particularly towards the end of the book and the urge to correct, change or add, became very strong. However, I resisted on the basis that this was my father’s story, not mine and in the end, I simply translated my father’s writing. Page 7 of 371

I was aware that many of the readers would not be familiar with some of the Greek words and expressions, especially those words which are so descriptive in Greek, but which are simply not translatable into English. I also thought that some readers, would benefit from some geographical and particularly historical information. So, I began using footnotes. I soon got carried away and in order to solve the problem of my own making, I shortened the footnotes and made additional notes at the end of the book. These additional notes took on a life of their own and eventually became almost another book in themselves! Those of you who are interested in history, particularly the history of Cyprus and Greece, will enjoy my additional notes. I included a separate table of contents, so that you can select the chapters which interest you. Some of the information is repeated, but it allows the narrative to flow, without you having to refer to other chapters constantly. Read as few or as many of them as you like, but I hope that you find them useful. Perhaps you will notice that almost every chapter of my father’s book contains a reference to food and eating. Generally, among Greeks everywhere, eating and drinking alcohol, is a social event and very important even today. In my father’s case, it was more than that and his excessive mention of it, is indicative of his state of mind. Throughout his life, the fear of starvation he experienced as a young boy, never left him and even when it was no longer an issue, it remained deeply rooted in his subconscious. In the latter years of his life, he was very overweight but, whenever dieting came up, he would say: “I refuse to go to bed hungry!” My father wrote the entire manuscript in long hand! He didn’t know how to use a typewriter, or a word processor and therefore there was no point in buying one. I don’t know exactly when he began writing, but I believe it took him more than five years to write his book. It was professionally edited before ‘publication’, but I am pleased to say that the editor simply corrected his spelling and grammar, ensuring that the book did not lose its authenticity. My father was an idealist and at times he was bitterly disappointed. A glaring example of this, is his experience with the political party to which he dedicated so much of himself. No doubt you will notice, that once he becomes a member of the party, he tells his story as a series of events relating to the party. This is indicative of his thought process and the prominence of the party in his life. I confess, that my personal knowledge of the village of Kambia, my father’s birthplace, is very limited. I had never been there before emigrating to the UK in 1965. I visited it for the first time in the late 1970s when I began my regular visits to Cyprus with my late wife and later with all my family. For those of you who would like to know more about Kambia, I recommend that you read Telemahos’s memoir, in which he describes life in a typical Cypriot village, particularly Kambia, in the 1920s and 1930s. Page 8 of 371

I know that some of you, are only really interested in the ‘Killing’ and are looking for information on an event from your own past. In addition to my father’s description of it, you will find my own, more comprehensive version in the ‘Additional Notes’ which follow the book. You will also find an article by my father’s sister Irene and an excerpt from the memoir of my father’s brother Telemahos. However, I urge you to read all of my father’s book, because I am convinced that if you do, you will enjoy it. Nick Kleanthous London 2020 Email: [email protected] Page 9 of 371

The Family of Kleanthis Hajikyriacou I have included this note and the following family tree, to help you identify some of the people you come across as you read on. It is obviously not a complete tree of the family, which is now much larger. It only includes the children and grandchildren of Kleanthis. Kleanthis Hajikyriacou, my paternal grandfather, was married twice. He had six children with his first wife, but unfortunately his wife and five of his children died, with only Christos surviving to reach adulthood. I have not been able to find out any details regarding this side of the family, including the name of his first wife. If anyone has any information, please let me know. He then married Hariklia Kosti (known as Hariklou) with whom he had sixteen children. Only ten of those, reached adulthood, in the following order: Sotiris, Eleni, Kyriakos, Yiorgos, Theodoros, Irene, Andreas (the author), Aristotelis, Telemahos and Ermione. With a total of eleven surviving children, out of twenty-two, the mortality rate is an astonishing 50%. Children either died at birth, or as infants, probably below the age of five. Although the author is eighth in line, when taking into consideration all the children, including the ones who died, he was the 19th to be born, hence the title of his autobiography. It was normal practice that when the father could no longer take care of his family, for whatever reason, the eldest son took over as the head of the family. When that son moved out of the family home, the next son took over and so on. There were different reasons why sons left the family, such as to get married and move to another village, as in the case of Sotiris and Kyriakos, or to work elsewhere, as in the case of Theodoros. Page 10 of 371

Apostolou Paraskevi Sotiris Maritsa Apostolos Eleni Andriana Irene Agisilaos Zinonas Maria Eleni Kyriakos Polyxeni Maria (Xenou) Kleanthis Irene Allan Aimilios Christakis Olga Yiorgos Klitos Soulla Charoulla Lella Hariclia Maritsa Kleanthis Kosti Theodoros Lambros Kleanthis First Wife Christakis Hajikyriacou Charoulla Christos Panagis Androulla Evripidis Stavros Irene Anthi Kalliope Maroulla Nikiforos Kleanthis Andreas (Anthoullis) Antonia Sophia (Noulla) Aristotelis (Sophoula) Androulla Charoulla Marios Haido Christine Anna Sotiris Telemahos Neofyta Alexander Julia George Marcus Angela Andros Ermione Page 11 of 371

Introductory Note by The Author My decision to write the events of my life stems from my wish that future generations learn how people lived in the beginning of the twentieth century and where they find themselves today, at the end of that century. I thought that it would help the young in particular, to gain experience from one man’s eventful life. A life that only a few have the good fortune to live. I have been struggling with this decision for eight whole years since my son Nikos got married. I decided to try, without any ambition, but simply to offer my fellow man a series of experiences and a historical perspective, of the enormous change that has taken place in this century. I am not an author and I don’t know how well I will manage to describe the events, but I will try to be brief and succinct. When you judge me, please take into consideration that my schooling only extends to the fifth year of junior school. I do not seek awards or glory. I wish to leave a legacy to the subsequent generations, of the complicated experience of my life, so that if they study it, they can gain experience themselves to help them plan their future well. I leave it to the reader to judge to what extent this text serves its purpose. Andreas Kleanthous Nicosia 1998 Page 12 of 371

The House I was Born In My eldest son Nikos had come to Cyprus to marry his fiancé Robin, who was English. For the sake of my son and the children they were hoping to have, she had undergone the Greek Orthodox initiation and had been baptised. She was named Chloe. We had the wedding, which was rich and left good impressions. One morning, my son said to me: “Will you take us to the village to see the house you were born in? I am very curious and I would really like to see it.” “Why not,” I answered with some trepidation, as if I was afraid of that house, of those ruins. When he explained our intentions to Robin, she was very keen to accompany us. We set off in the car, a brand new ‘Ford’ and on route I was thinking that my son must want to introduce his wife to his roots. We went past Lakatamia, Deftera, Psimolofou, we went through Pera and headed up towards Kambia. [1] When we reached the plateau and the village stretched in front of us, I heard Robin say to Nikos in English: “Nick, it’s a beautiful village.” “Yes,” I intervened, before Nikos could reply, “but this is not exactly the village where I was born. I will take you there shortly.” We went through about half the village and at the recently built church, we turned right onto a steep hill and began our descent towards the ‘Lower’ village, as it was known. It was the same village, with the same name, but since the new village was built, there were now two villages, the newer one known as ‘Upper Kambia’. It was a dirt road and the car started to slip, with the brakes only just managing to control it. All of a sudden, we arrived at a strange and unsettling site. A pile of ruins, consisting of stones and gravel, strewn here and there, resembling a cemetery of houses. We went through a narrow, paved road, only just wide enough for the car to pass and I gestured that we should stop. 1. The village of Kambia, the author’s birthplace, is approximately 25 kilometres South/West of Nicosia. Lakatamia, Deftera, Psimolofou and Pera are all neighbouring villages. There are many examples in Cyprus of villages being abandoned for a variety of reasons, such as landslides, and rebuilt, typically at a higher location. As is the case with Kambia, they were known as the ‘Upper’ and ‘Lower’ village. Page 13 of 371

“We are here,” I said and got out of the car. Nikos and Robin got out too. I pointed to a particular part of the cluster of ruins and said: “This is it Niko, this is the house I was born in.” For a moment, we all just stood there staring, as if expecting someone to come out and welcome us. I walked towards the small broken steps which led to the main entrance with Nikos and Robin following. A little further on, we reached a small, paved square. Wildflowers and ruins prevented us from going any further. I pressed myself to remember what we were looking at and I began to describe: “Yes, this is the house I was born in and this is where I experienced the first flutters of life. We are standing in what, back then, was a courtyard. That log was part of a tree trunk which was chopped and used as a pillar to support a larger timber girder, which extended from here to there and which, in turn, supported a series of smaller tree trunks that reached the opposite walls. On top of these, a bed of thick dense branches had been laid and above them enough earth to serve as a roof and protect the interior from the rain and the sun.” I explained that the roof of all the rooms was made in the same way. “There,” I said – pointing to the right – “that large area was the largest room in the house and we called it ‘Dihoro’ which means ‘double space’. That is where all of us children slept and it is where we kept the ‘pitharia’ [2] in which we stored wine, olive oil and vinegar. In the corners of the house, we stored the wheat, barley, broad beans, lentils and whatever else we produced. In addition, this area had a large table in the centre and was used as a dining room.” I pointed to a shelf. “On this stone shelf, we stored our kitchen utensils and at its end, the cooking was carried out. Here, a stone sink was used for washing up and on the other side there was an oven which was lit every other day, to bake bread for the family. “At the end of the room” – and I pointed to the left – “there was a ‘makrinari’ as we called it. It was a long and narrow area, half of which was used as a barn and the other half as a stable which housed a cow and a donkey. This area also served as our family toilet. That half broken stone staircase that you see there led up to a higher floor and a small room we called ‘anogi’ [3]. This was our parents’ bedroom and we were very rarely allowed to enter it. It had a balcony and underneath it, next to the stone staircase, we had a chicken coop with about twenty hens and a cockerel.” 2. ‘Pitharia’ (singular: ‘pithari’) were large clay pots which were used for storage of produce. The thickness of their walls meant that the temperature inside the ‘pitharia’ was lower and more constant. They served as the refrigerators of the time. Nowadays, they are used for decorative purposes and as containers for planting flowers and small trees. 3. ‘Anogi’ means upper level or first floor. Page 14 of 371

I continued: “I remember one day I came out of the stable naked and with bare feet and tried to catch one of the chicks that were following their mother around. The mother hen came after me and managed to bite my bottom. It was painful and I cried for almost half a day.” Nikos said: “It’s just as well it was your bottom and not something else,” and we burst out laughing. Robin wanted to know what was so funny and when Nikos explained, she had a good laugh too. “How old were you?” she asked. I replied: “I was about three or four, but I remember it well, it is my first memory.” “Robin, do you believe that in this small space, lived eleven children, two parents, a cow, a donkey and twenty chickens?” Nikos asked. “Impossible, unbelievable,” she replied. “In fact, there was also a dog and a cat,” I added, to everyone’s amusement. “What about water?” Robin asked. “Where did you get it from?” “Yes” I replied. “Do you see that half broken jug over there? My mother and older sisters would carry the water, on their shoulders, in jugs like that one, from the fountain down at the river, about five hundred metres away.” “Nick,” said Robin light-heartedly, “if we lived at that time, I wouldn’t carry water on my shoulder for you,” and once again we had a good laugh. “Niko,” I said, “do you see how my hand is a bit crooked? This is where it happened.” I began to recount: “There was this log that was used for chopping wood, for the fireplace. Naughty as I was, I would put another log on top of it. I would climb up and jump down onto the paving. One day, I don’t know how I managed it, I fell with my headfirst and as well as a bloody head, I managed to break my arm just above the elbow.” I pointed just where the break was. “How I got better is a long story; I will tell it to you on the way back.” We all got in the car and before he reversed, I suggested to Nikos to remind me to tell him about this small square, which was hardly large enough for the car to turn around. We found a narrow side road; we turned and began the uphill return journey. After a few metres, we arrived at a fork in the road offering a different route. Nikos stopped and asked me if that road also led to the ‘Upper’ village. “Yes,” I said, “it does. It runs very close to the old church and climbs up to the main road where we came from.” Page 15 of 371

Without hesitation, he started the engine up again and headed in that direction. When we reached the church, he stopped and looked around. “This is also a cemetery,” he said. “Yes,” I said, “this is where your grandfather is buried. Do you want to see his grave?” Without replying, he turned off the engine, got out of the car and asked Robin to come along. We were soon standing in front of my father’s grave. The only sign that he was buried there was a black iron cross, with the following words cut out in the metal: “Firstly, I fear god and secondly false witnesses” with the date underneath: 1/1/1936 We read the words and an involuntary sigh escaped my lips. Nikos realised that his curiosity had reminded me of the long story of my father and he realised that the memories brought back a familiar deep pain, which was clearly affecting me. He led me back to the car. Before starting up the engine and trying to lighten the mood, he asked: “Is this the church they locked you in and left you alone that Easter Thursday night you were telling me about?” I nodded my head plaintively. Without further delay, he started up the engine and quickly headed up towards ‘Kokkini’ which means red and is another name the upper village is known by. It was as though he was hurrying to take me away from the unpleasant memories. We stopped at the ‘kafenio’ [4] which was opposite the new church. As soon as we sat down, several of the men of my age group offered us drinks. We ordered two coffees and a lemonade for Robin. “Is this your son, relative?” someone asked. It was not uncommon for relatives to address each other in this way and this man was a distant cousin. “Yes,” I replied, “and this is his wife.” “Na sou zisoun,” [5] was the unanimous greeting. We all thanked them for their good wishes. “Is he a relative, dad?” Nikos whispered. “Yes,” cut in Apostolos, that was the man’s name whose ear caught the question. “We are second cousins.” “Almost all of us are relatives,” chimed in someone else. And a third added: “The village is small and most of us are relatives.” Page 16 of 371

“Dad, I see that your ‘horianoi’ [6] remember you well.” It was the turn of the priest to speak up and he declared solemnly: “Mr Nikos, your father will never be forgotten in this village. You see the doors and windows of our church? They were made by your father’s own hands and each one of them bears his initials, AK.” We stayed for a while, exchanging pleasantries with the ‘horianous’; we thanked them again for the drinks and headed for Nicosia. 4. ‘Kafenio’ or ‘Kafenes’ simply means coffee shop. However, in practice, it was much more than that. It was a meeting place for the men. A variety of drinks was available, but mostly they would drink Turkish coffee. They would debate political matters, issues relating to the village, play backgammon or cards, or just talk and catch up with family news. 5. ‘Na sou zisoun’ (‘na zisete’ when addressing the couple themselves) is the traditional greeting in Cyprus for newlyweds, but also for many other occasions. It means something along the lines of ‘Long may they live for you’, or ‘long may you live’ when addressing the couple. In short it means ‘long life’. 6. ‘Horianoi’ (singular horianos), is derived from the Greek word ‘horio’ which means village. ‘Horianos’ is someone who comes from the same village. Its value has been eroded over the years, but in earlier times, the relationship between ‘horianous’ was much more significant. People from the same village felt an affinity as well as a responsibility for each other, as though they were relatives. In fact, particularly in small villages, most of them were indeed related. Page 17 of 371

The Harvest Failure of 1931 On the way, I remembered a comic/tragic story and I began to recount it in English, for Robin’s benefit. “Once, I must have been seven years old, in 1931, there was a harvest failure and there was a famine in the whole of Cyprus. We were so malnourished that some people were dying from hunger. My father sent me to the village we are about to enter, called Bera, to buy two loaves of bread and a packet of cigarettes for ‘two and rupy’ – I still remember it. That’s what the villagers called it. Two and rupy meant two grosia and a quarter. He gave me four grosia [7]. I paid two grosia and a quarter for the cigarettes and one and a half grosia for the two loaves of bread. I had a quarter grosi change left over. “The distance was about two kilometres, with most of it paved and the remainder dirt track. I know because I walked it in bare feet; shoes were a luxury in those days! I set off with the bread and the cigarettes on my way home. I remember that it was dusk and I was afraid of the dark. I was hungry and the bread was fresh and almost warm and I was tempted. Putting aside my fear of the beating I was bound to get, I cut off a corner and begun eating. My hunger would not subside and I took another piece and another. You see, there was a battle going on within me, between fear and hunger. Hunger won! By the time I got home I had finished one of the loaves. “When I arrived, I told the truth, with my eyes lowered in shame, ready for the slaps I was fully expecting to receive. Instead of that, I heard my father’s trembling voice, may he rest in peace: ‘Alright son, go to bed.’ “From my bed, I could see my father who, with weepy eyes, was cutting the bread into eleven pieces, with such skill that the size of each piece was appropriate to the age of my siblings, who were all staring at him. Sad and ashamed, I hid under the covers and cried guiltily for my injustice towards my family. “I will never forget this incident,” I said, as I got out of the car back home. 7. The British introduced the Cypriot pound in 1879. It had the same value as the British pound sterling, until 1972, well after Cyprus’s independence in 1960. It was also valued at a rate of one pound to 180 Ottoman piastres, a remnant of the occupation of Cyprus by the Turks. The Cyprus pound was divided into 20 shillings (selinia, singular selini) in common with its United Kingdom counterpart. However, unlike the United Kingdom shilling, the Cyprus shilling was divided into 9 piastres which the Greek Cypriots called ‘grosia’ (singular grosi). The piastre or grosi was divided into a half which was called ‘ikosara’ and into a quarter which was called ‘dekara’. Page 18 of 371

Doctor Aishe My wife, Maroulla, had set the table for lunch. We washed up and took our seats together with the rest of the family, my second son Anthoullis, and my young daughter Noulla with her husband Lefteris, a Greek lad from Rhodes. They fell in love when he worked in our factory in London. They had got married before we were repatriated. We ate the delicacies my missus had prepared – she was an excellent cook – and withdrew to the lounge for coffee. “Dad, you wanted me to remind you about the small square,” Nikos said, “but first, I would like to hear how your arm was taken care of.” “Yes, certainly,” I said and begun to recount. “When I fell off the log and started to cry, at first no one paid any attention to me. My persistence eventually made my mother furious because I was preventing her from doing her housework and she had a point. She picked me up by the armpits, lifted me to her bosom and slapped me a few times to keep me quiet. She noticed the abrasion on my forehead with a bit of blood but didn’t pay much attention to it. When she put me in the highchair and was about to strap me in, she noticed that my right arm was hanging down strangely, instead of being secure in its place. ‘Children run,’ she shouted, and she picked me back up, full of affection mixed with remorse for her actions. My younger siblings could only stare with eyes wide open, not knowing what happened and seeing their mother run up and down at a loss as to what to do. She started crying softly at her inability to cope and my siblings joined in, crying loudly. I stopped crying and I wondered why everyone else was crying, given that I was the one with a broken arm and in pain. The women neighbours heard the crying and came running over, some on their own and some holding young babies. ‘My baby, oh my baby, has broken his arm,’ my mother kept saying, again and again, without any response from the visitors, who just stood there frozen and staring. ‘To Aishe,’ someone shouted finally, ‘take him to Aishe.’ Aishe was on old Turkish lady who lived in Analiontas, a small village east of ours, about two kilometres away. But how was I to be transported to Analiontas? It was a silent question which hung in the air for a few minutes. ‘O Cholos,’ said another neighbour, ‘O Cholos, I am going to fetch him.’ You see, all the men of working age had gone to work in the fields on their donkeys, which is what always happened, apart from Sunday when it was considered a sin to work. The village emptied from dawn till dusk with only women and children left. Cholos was a big man, with dark skin, who was disabled by a childhood stroke. They called him that, perhaps by shortening his name which was Nicholaos to Nicholos and eventually Page 19 of 371

Cholos, or perhaps from Holos (which means lame) because he limped heavily. His face was crooked, his left arm was smaller than the right and completely paralysed and his left leg was shorter than his right and partly paralysed. He never wore shoes and the bottom of his feet was thick like impenetrable leather. He appeared at the entrance and, ignoring everyone, he came directly to us. ‘Give him to me,’ he said with a thunderous but strange voice, which appeared to be coming out of his nose instead of his mouth. He grabbed me with his huge right arm and lifted me to his chest, which was only partially covered by the rags he was wearing. He turned around and left the house almost running. He limped along, bouncing me up and down, and as he headed uphill his breathing became heavy, which made him sound like a galloping horse. We reached the plateau and headed downhill towards Analiontas. He crossed the village like a tireless horse and headed for the open entrance to a house shouting: ‘Aishe hanim.’ [8] An old lady came out of the one and only small room with a hijab covering her face. ‘Come in,’ she said, immediately becoming aware of the situation. After all, she only received visitors when she was needed. We went into the room and Cholos sat me on the old lady’s bed. ‘Let’s see what happened to the baby,’ she said, coming nearer. ‘His arm,’ I heard Cholos tell the old lady. When I grew up, I found out that this old lady was the doctor of the area, who lived on the gratuities people gave her whenever she healed someone. She was the Obstetrician, Orthopaedic, Pathologist, Ophthalmologist and everything else you can imagine! She sat down on a chair, took me on her knees and started to feel my arm. I started to cry again, probably out of fear rather than pain. ‘Big lads don’t cry,’ she admonished me sternly and I felt ashamed for crying. She put me back on the bed and began preparing my treatment. She took a clay pot, put two eggs in it, filled it up with water and put it on a paraffin stove. She pumped the stove, until the paraffin reached the top and began to come out of the holes in the head and she lit it. In a short time, when she estimated that the eggs became hard, she took them out of the hot water and set them aside to cool down. Next, she rubbed oil on her fingers, she sat next to me and began to apply it on my broken arm. She then removed the eggs from their shells and instructed Cholos to cut them in half. Whilst she was manipulating my arm, I heard a crack and it seems that the bone had been put back in its rightful place. She took the yoke out of the eggs and applied the egg whites around the area of the break in my arm. She secured the egg whites in place with a white strap. 8. ‘Hanim’ is a Turkish word which is used on a number of instances to show respect, for example, a wife, a woman of high ranking, or as in this case, simply a lady. Page 20 of 371

She then put some small cane sticks on top of the white strap all around the break and tied them in place, carefully but firmly, with a dark strap. ‘Whose child is he?’ she asked Cholos, leaning back in her chair. ‘He is the son of the Muhtaris,’ [9] said Cholos with a respectful expression. ‘Ah!’ said Aishe with admiration. ‘Kleanthis is a good man.’ And turning towards me she consoled me: ‘Don’t worry, my baby, in a few days you will be well again.’ ‘Take him now,’ she instructed Cholos ‘and bring him back to me in two weeks.’ Cholos picked me up, said a perfunctory ‘bye’ to the old lady and began the return journey. Hopping along, we got back just as my mother was taking the bread out of the oven. She took me from Cholos, carefully put me in the highchair and strapped me in. ‘Be good,’ she said to me and, turning to Cholos, she asked him to take a seat. He sat on the same log I had fallen off and my mother offered him some olive bread that she had just taken out of the oven. ‘Eat,’ she instructed, ‘and rest.’ ‘Thank you auntie Hariklou, I will take it with me,’ he said, rising to leave. ‘Wait,’ she said, adding ‘take this for tonight’ and she handed him a whole loaf of bread. He thanked her again and left. When I grew up, I found out that this hero was a beggar who lived on the charity of the inhabitants of Kambia and the surrounding villages because, as a result of his disabilities, he was unable to work. On his way out, he turned to my mother: ‘You must take him back in two weeks,’ he said, ‘that’s what Aishe asked.’ And with that, he disappeared.” 9. ‘Muhtaris’ comes from the Turkish word ‘Muhtar’ meaning the elected head of the village. Most villages in Cyprus, even today, don’t have a mayor. They have a ‘Kinotita’, which means community and a community leader called ‘Kinotarhis’, also known as the ‘Community President’. Most people refer to him as the ‘Mouhtaris’. They were always men. Page 21 of 371

I stretched out my arm towards my children and declared: “My arm has been a bit crooked ever since.” “Yes, we can see,” they said, in unison. Going back to my story, I said: “A few days later, we heard that Aishe had passed away and we never did go back to her.” “What about the small square?” Nikos asked, “tell us about the small square.” And, once again, I began to narrate: “Yes, in that small square you saw, one time the whole family lived for a whole year in a tent, which was erected by the government to protect us from the elements. It had been a heavy winter and the whole area on which our village was built was cut off from its surroundings. It slid two to three inches every day. The landslide was dangerous and as a means of protection, the government gave a tent to every family to sleep in. Ours was exactly in that little square you saw. In fact, the landslide was the reason the old village was abandoned and we all moved to the new one.” I was ready to begin the story of another incident, when Nikos interrupted me: “Enough for today Dad.” We all headed to our rooms. I lay down, but I couldn’t get to sleep. So many things were going around and around in my mind, that I felt a kind of hypertension. That’s when I first got the idea to write. My son’s interest to learn about events from my childhood made me feel the need to leave a legacy of my experiences. Page 22 of 371

The Exorcism of My Fear It was Spring 1929. I was six years old. It was Easter Thursday and we had to go to evening prayers. The grown-ups got all dressed up, they dressed us children up too and we headed off. We entered the church which, before long, was oppressively full of the faithful. We kissed the icons of Christ and the Saints and we took our seats, determined to withstand the great church service, which was expected to last for several hours. At my age, I didn’t understand much of what was going on, but I stood still with obvious reverence, ready to fulfil my religious duties. This went on for quite some time and I felt my eyelids becoming heavy with sleep. It started gently, but before long I was struggling to keep my eyes open. I resisted as much as I could, but when I realised that I was about to embarrass myself, I slipped under my father’s seat, curled up on the marble floor and went to sleep. I woke up, perhaps because of a change in the environment inside the church and as I opened my eyes, I could only see the large and piercing eyes of St George, on his horse, with his spear thrusted into the belly of the dragon. I thought that he was about to pull it out and thrust it into me, for the sin of falling asleep and for my disrespect. The service had finished, everyone had left without missing me and they locked me in the church. I was so frightened that I wet my shorts. I started to run up and down inside the church, in a panic, sobbing uncontrollably, convinced that the Saint was after me. I could actually hear the wild footsteps of his horse. I ran to the north door, pushed it back and forth, but it wouldn’t open. It was locked. I ran to the west door and there in front of me was the bolt that kept the door secure from the inside. I pulled it and when it moved, I knew that I was saved! I pushed and as the double leaf door burst wide open, I ran off and left it open wide. When I got home, I realised that they hadn’t missed me! As I entered, pale with fear and with red eyes from crying, my father took my hand and asked: “Where were you?” I described my experience between sobs, but by now my crying had changed from one of fear to one of hurt and grievance. “Calm down baby,” my mother said, as she took me in her arms. “We didn’t notice you were missing. Come, sleep and you will be fine.” She put me to bed and covered me with a blanket. I heard whispers and realised that that they were talking about me. Page 23 of 371

“Andriko, did you close the church?” asked my older sister Eleni, sweetly and lovingly. She had uncovered my head from the blanket a little bit. “How would I think of such a thing?” I said and hid my head under the blanket again. I heard my father say to one of my older brothers: “Kyriako, go find the caretaker and get him to lock the church before it is burgled.” Before long, two of my siblings squeezed into my bed; one next to me and the other on the opposite side of the bed. I remember that it took me a long time to fall asleep. The saint would not leave me alone. I closed my eyes and tried to get rid of him but I couldn’t. A cold sweat covered my little body. He wouldn’t hear my pleas to leave me alone and he ignored my promises that I would never do it again. There he was, on top of his horse, with his spear naked now, ready to thrust it into my belly and punish me. I was so frightened that my whole body was trembling. Finally, when it was nearly dawn and I had spent many hours pleading with the saint to leave me alone, I crossed myself and once again promised that I would never do it again. A grave expression came over his face, as if to say, “we’ll see” and he left. At last, I fell asleep. When I woke up in the morning, I was in a terrible state. I had a splitting headache and I was burning with a fever. After about ten days, with the fever stubbornly persisting, a gypsy beggar woman came to our house. My mother, as if she had been waiting for the opportunity, called her over to me and asked: “My child has a fear, can you do anything?” The gypsy woman put her hand out towards my mother, with a smile of satisfaction, seeing an opportunity to make some money. “Cross my palm with silver,” she said, “and I will make the child well again.” My mother dropped two or three grosia in her palm and the gypsy woman hid it in her bosom. “I need a ‘satzin’” she said, “and a bottle of oil.” They took me out into the yard and they sat me on a small chair in front of the fire. She put the ‘satzin’ (a round, deep, metal tray) on the fire and she began walking up and down, murmuring incomprehensively, until the tray became almost red hot. Suddenly, as she passed by the fire, she poured a large amount of oil into the tray. The result was so sudden and intense that I peed my pants. When the gypsy woman turned to me and saw the urine dripping below my chair, she shouted triumphantly: “Do you see my lady?” as she pointed to my pee, “now he will be fine.” Page 24 of 371

She left, taking the remaining oil with her. She put it in a sack she was carrying on her back, next to a baby that was curled up in there. Indeed, it was a miracle! In a few days I was able to stand on my own two feet, and after so many days of stubbornly refusing food, my appetite had returned. Quite a long time went by without further incident. The only thing I remember is one night in that cold winter of 1931, when all twelve of us slept in the tent. It rained so much that the water entered the tent and we had to spend the night on our feet, because we all got wet when we were lying down. I had gone to school, which was in the upper village and my way of life changed completely. My new experiences of making friends, the breaks and the games we played, the jumping in the sand, the group singing with the other children, even the teacher’s stick or praise, all these things made me very happy. Nor did I mind the coming and going to school, from the lower to the upper village and back. It was a kilometre of a steep hill and not only did I not mind it, but I enjoyed it. Sometimes, I would run down the hill as fast as I could, to see if my legs could carry me and I was pleased that I managed it well. One time, I reached the village running and jumping. I had got a ten out of ten from my teacher and I was in a hurry to show it to my parents. At the fork in the road, I came across a villager with his donkey laden with wheat sheaves, who was waiting for the first child returning from school, so that he could give him a chore. He said: “Will you take my animal to your auntie Xenou, who is waiting for it in the upper village?” Xenou was not even a relative, but out of respect we would refer to our elders as uncle and auntie. “I am staying behind, so that I can go and see your father to pay him some back taxes I owe. What do you say?” “Of course,” I said, and to show him my willingness, I took the rope and began pulling the donkey towards the road I had just come down. “No,” he said, “not that way. Go this way,” and he pointed at the road which went by the church. “It’s nearer and the animal is tired.” “I won’t go that way,” I said stubbornly. “I understand,” he said. “You are scared of the church and the crosses in the cemetery. You should be ashamed, such a big lad.” Page 25 of 371

I was embarrassed. I tied the rope to the saddle and grabbed the stick with the pointed end. I poked the donkey with the stick and the animal headed off along the church road, which was the one it was used to. From the fork to the church there was a distance of about two hundred steps. I felt a tingling in my spine with the thought of passing that wretched place. Since I was locked in there, I avoided going anywhere near it. It seemed to me that the exorcism by the gypsy woman had no effect on me after all. As I got nearer the church, my anguish and fear grew. My heart was pounding quickly and loudly. I poked the donkey hard in his rump so that he would move quicker and get me out of this hell. By now I was next to the church and I could hear a deafening roar which kept getting louder. I could hear people’s voices chanting, but I couldn’t make out how many. The noise was getting so loud, I thought it would damage my eardrums. When I had gone a few steps past the church, I clearly heard a loud voice order: “Silence!” And everyone was quiet. I began crossing myself again and again. That must be St George, I thought to myself, he is in control and he doesn’t want me to hear them. What right did I, a sinner, have to hear the saints chanting? I poked the donkey again and again to get away from this place as I shivered with a cold sweat. I delivered the animal and naturally I came back the other way. From that day on I acted strangely. I wouldn’t speak, I wouldn’t laugh and I didn’t feel like playing with the other children. I became introverted and I hid my secret well. I didn’t tell anyone because I knew that, not only would no one believe me, but they would mock me instead. Page 26 of 371

The Move to The Upper Village A few months later we moved to our new house, in the upper village, and my environment changed completely. Only then did I revert to my old self. We now lived in a modern house, built with ‘plitharia’(squares made of mud and straw). It had a rectangular bedroom, rectangular hall, and opposite the bedroom three small rooms, one for a kitchen, one for storage and one for the animals. At the back of the house, about ten steps away, we had the toilet. It was a small square area with a hole in the middle of the floor and covered by pieces of tin. The roof of this house was also covered with earth, same as the old house, but instead of branches, this time they had used canes. The interior of the bedroom was covered with lime and was brilliant white. The floor remained nothing but earth and when we swept it, we had to sprinkle water on it to stop the dust from rising. In one of the corners stood the loom and next to it my parents’ bed. Then, there was a large table and after that all of our beds. Ten souls in one bedroom. In the evenings, when the older ones who went to work took off their boots, which were made of goat skins and a series of iron pins in the sole, the smell was unbearable. And here, in this house, I spent the next four years of my life. Page 27 of 371

The Uprising of 1931 The main feature of those years was hunger. We had the harvest failure of 1931-32, when for two years it didn’t rain at all, with the result that it ruined rural households. Imagine the state our household was in, with ten mouths to feed. Christos, my father’s eldest son, had emigrated to America to make his fortune and Sotiris got married and moved to ‘Tseri’. [10] My older siblings went to work for others, to earn enough money to bring home some dry bread. Sometimes we would take what little bread we were given, go to the olive groves and look under the olive trees for olives. We would find dry, charred and unprocessed olives and eat them just as we found them, together with some wild greens. We would take part in group prayers to God for rain, but He wouldn’t listen. It was as if He was punishing us. “He has forgotten us,” murmured the old men and women. Even the straw for the animals had ran out and we had to feed them with weeds that we picked from the banks of the river, which had dried up from the lack of rain. The communal water taps also ran dry and we had to carry water from far away. For meat we hunted everything, including hedgehogs. The chickens had long gone. Our father had sold our cow and had mortgaged his best fields for some money to feed us. It was during this time that the incident with the bread, which I described earlier, took place. Our father, as the village president, also had to feed a series of civil servants, who would visit our village and stay in our house. For our school lunch we were given a few nuts and raisins. One evening, father didn’t come home and we were all worried. “Where can he be?” my mother kept repeating impatiently. All we knew was that he had gone to the village of ‘Deftera’ on our donkey – that’s what he told us – to have some barley milled, so that we could make bread the next day. We had an uneasy feeling as we went to bed that night. The next day, we learned that he had been arrested and put in jail. Apparently, he and some others set fire to Government House in an effort to kick out the English conquerors and to unite us with Greece (Enosis). Our information was that the streets were full of dead bodies and that the English soldiers killed indiscriminately anyone they came across. In addition, they rounded up the ringleaders and shipped them out of the country. With all this news my worry for my father kept growing. “What would we do without him?” I kept telling myself again and again. Our anguish lasted five whole days. 10. The village of Tseri is about 10 km from Kambia and about 15 km from Nicosia. Page 28 of 371

“Your dad is back,” said my teacher. I immediately left school and ran home to make sure. I found him sitting in the middle of the room, surrounded by a group of villagers, recounting the facts. I ran to him and he picked me up and put me on his knee. “Fortunately,” I heard him say, “I was recognised by Salih Efendi [11] and they let me go.” Salih was a Turk, and a well-known senior police officer. It was the first time that I became obsessed with finding out something. I thought to myself: When I grow up, I will find out all about this. [12] 11. ‘Efendi’ is a Turkish word, used as a title of nobility, meaning a Lord or Master, and it is derived from the Greek ‘afentis’ which is itself derived from Ancient Greek, meaning master. It is used to show respect or courtesy, equivalent to the use of the English word ‘Sir’. 12. For more details on the uprising of 1931 and particularly ‘Enosis’, see additional notes at the end of the book. Page 29 of 371

The Misfortunes of Our Family Two years went by before the weather changed and it began raining again. Our hearts started to breathe again and life in the village found its natural rhythm. Our household, however, was completely devastated. The working members of our family could not feed so many mouths with the miserly wages they earned and on top of that to pay the mortgages and save our fields. The lenders, who relished the opportunity, auctioned off almost all of our fields. Naturally, the buyers were the lenders themselves. After that, father nearly went mad. He kept coming in and out of the house, mumbling: “How am I going to feed my family?” My brother Kyriakos, who was now the eldest brother in the house, would say to him: “Don’t worry father, we will all work,” as he pointed to a couple of other brothers who had reached working age. “We will manage, don’t worry.” But nothing would diminish my father’s anger. “They shouldn’t have done this to me,” he would say, again and again. “At least one of them had promised me that he had no designs on my fields and that he would give me time to pay. I will never forgive that one. One day he will pay for what he did.” One day, he received a letter from America. His son Christos, who had emigrated with his wife to make his fortune, was returning. Father was very happy. “At last,” he said, “he will save us.” But there was something strange about the letter. Christos didn’t mention his wife and it was clear that he was coming back on his own. What had happened? Were they divorced? And why was it that he remembered us after six whole years of silence? Father left, clutching the letter. He went looking for the brother of Christos’s wife, to show him the letter. When he got back, he looked haggard and close to tears. “That’s all we need,” he said, and he went on to explain what he had learned. When Christos and his wife first arrived in America and for about two to three years, they both worked hard and they did well. And then Christos fell ill from exhaustion. His wife looked after him for two long years, until he became mentally ill and she left him. Left on his own, he began to behave irrationally and eventually he was declared an undesirable by the government. They paid for his ticket and sent him back. His wife’s brother said: “I kept it a secret, so as not to upset you.” So, this was our saviour! We thought that he would help us out of our misery and instead we had one more mouth to feed. And it wasn’t just that. As we had already learned, he was mentally ill. My father was going out of his mind. As for my mother, she kept crossing herself in tears and saying: “God, what have I done to you?” After a few days Christos arrived. Thankfully, his condition wasn’t too bad. We were able to communicate with him, but we also had to look after him because occasionally he would have an episode and turn violent. Page 30 of 371

He stayed with us for a couple of months and then left to get a job in Nicosia. He was a baker by trade and was able to get a job in a bakery. Our thoughts turned to our father, as we wondered how he could possibly manage to overcome this wound. Christos was my father’s first born. He had another five children with his first wife, but he lost all five of them at a young age, as well as his wife. My father found himself a widower with a child and needed a wife. He married my mother, with whom he had a further sixteen children. Six of those were either stillborn or died at a very young age and in the end eleven of us in total survived [13]. You see, there was no birth control and it was thought that every child born, brought with it its own luck. My eldest sister Eleni had got a job with a sewing machine company. She had been trained as an embroiderer and she taught embroidery to those who bought the machines. Her salary would go into the common purse and help support the family. She was twenty years old; she had cut her hair short, wore stockings and high heeled shoes and looked fashionable. With her upright posture, round and even face, erect and ample bosom, she resembled the mythical Aphrodite. We were all proud of her. “Mother, I am pregnant,” she confessed shyly one day before leaving for work. I happened to be close and I heard her. “What?” screamed our mother, as though she was struck by lightning. And she added with anger: “Woe betide you, you poor thing, if what you say is true. Your father will kill you.” “Yes, mother,” admitted my sister, “I shamed you, I know, and I cannot face any of you, that’s why I will not come back home. I rented a room and I will live there on my own. I will keep only what I need from my earnings and send you the remainder.” “And with which cuckold did you make this bastard?” mother shouted angrily. “That doesn’t matter mother,” she said and left in tears, carrying a bundle of clothes she had prepared the night before without anyone noticing. 13. The Children of Kleanthis Hajikyriakou: a. The author’s father had six children with his first wife, but his wife and five of the children died, with Christos the only one surviving to reach adulthood. b. He had sixteen children with his second wife Hariklia (known as Hariklou). Only ten of those, reached adulthood: Sotiris, Eleni, Kyriakos, Yiorgos, Theodoros, Irene, Andreas (the author), Aristotelis, Telemahos and Ermione. Page 31 of 371

By the time we reached the front door, she was already on her bicycle and was leaving. Mother’s heart was broken. Not only was she losing her child unexpectedly, but she was also left in shame by the pride and joy of our house. She burst into tears and so did I. “How am I going to tell my husband?” she asked herself, “how will he react when I tell him?” She turned to me and said, “not a word to anyone.” I nodded in understanding of the calamity that had befallen us. When I got back from school that afternoon, and even before it got dark, I hid under my blanket and pretended to be asleep. I didn’t want to see my father’s rage, which was bound to come when my mother told him the news. I was certain. I sensed it. I must have fallen asleep because I was woken up by my father’s thunderous voice: “I will kill the bitch; she can’t hide from me.” I looked towards them. They were still sitting at the table finishing their dinner. I saw him pick up the knife he always carried and which he had been using to cut the bread. He folded it, put it inside the clothes around his torso and headed off. Mother tried to stop him, but he gave her a powerful shove and she fell to the ground. “Kyriako run,” she shouted, as she hurriedly got up, “something terrible is about to happen.” As Kyriakos came in, he found her crossing herself and saying mournfully: “Mother of God, please do something to save my child and my husband.” Once again, she burst into tears and those of us who understood joined in. I burrowed under the blanket again and sobbed uncontrollably. I needed to cry to calm down. In a little while, I heard steps and when I turned towards the entrance, I saw Kyriakos holding my father in his arms. They were both crying like small children. They sat at the table again and in hushed voices, tried to make sense of this unexpected event. “Poverty is the cause,” concluded my father. “That’s what poverty does. If we didn’t have the need to send our girl out to work, this would never have happened.” They continued their discussion well into the night and eventually, tired, went to their beds. The next day at school, I was very quiet. I wouldn’t speak to anyone because I didn’t want to give anyone the opportunity to insult me over my sister’s dishonour. Everyone knew that she had left home and obviously, it had to be over something serious. After a while, the whole story came out. Some villagers said: “How can the girl be blamed, if some cuckold led her astray with a thousand promises and got her pregnant?” And they advised my mother: “It could happen to any of our daughters. Bring the girl back near you, before you lose her completely.” One day my mother plucked up the courage to say: “What do you say, Kleanthi, wouldn’t it be better if we brought our child back near us, before she is led astray and we lose her completely?” Page 32 of 371

“That’s right,” observed my older siblings, as they tried to persuade our father. Clearly, he was also hurting with the loss of his daughter, because it didn’t take much to persuade him. So, the very next day, my father came into the house holding his grandson in his arms, followed by my sister, who was excited but exhausted from the ordeal she suffered on her own, away from her family for so long. From that day on, as his mother had to go to work, we looked after him better than we did our own siblings. Page 33 of 371

The Return of Joy to Our Family To a large extent, we were happy again and life returned to normal. Some of us went to school, the older ones went to work and the very young stayed at home with our mother. The pieces of bread became somewhat larger, some olives materialised and there were plenty of onions. Dinner was enriched with beans, chickpeas and lentils and stomachs were full. Our parents even bought us sandals, which we wore on Sundays to go to church. When we got back, we put them away until the following Sunday. Sometimes, for lunch or dinner, we had meat with potatoes or ‘kolokasi’ (taro root). I remember one day I had an argument with my sister Irene, who was older than me by about eighteen months, over the largest piece of meat. I bit one of her fingers so hard that I almost bit it off. My father beat me with his belt until I learned my lesson and apologised to my sister. He hit me so hard that my back and my bottom turned black and blue. My mother had to apply fresh onions on my skin to make it better. Mostly, time passed by happily. In the evenings, after dinner and especially on Sundays, we would dance and sometimes even our father took part, if only to point out our mistakes. According to the villagers, he was the best dancer in the village. We would ask our eldest sister, who had a very nice voice, to sing for us and it was almost always the same lyrics: “In the depths of my heart, I have a secret ache. Open up and have a look, to see how much I love you.” At weddings violins and lutes, which were the musical instruments of the day, were played and of course there was dancing. We were considered by the villagers to be the family of the best dancers and we were always given priority to the dance floor. I was already in the fifth year of junior school. Apart from the lessons I learned from tradition and from schoolbooks, I also read poetry, literature and whatever else I could lay my hands on. I read avidly the popular poetry of ‘Libertis’ and I even memorised some of his poems which I particularly liked. I also read the works of our national poet, Vasilis Michaelides, and in particular his poem ‘Ei Hiotissa’, which is very long, but I read it so many times that I almost memorised it. In addition, I read Greek novels such as ‘O Kapetan Apethantos’ ‘Armatoloi Kai Kleftes’, ‘O Katsantonis’ and I also read about The Greek Revolution of 1821, which made me proud to be Greek. I studied, with reverence, The Old Testament and I always received high marks for Religious Studies. I took part in the church chanting by helping the head chanter but I stood on the right, with the icon of St George behind me, so that he wouldn’t be able to look me in the eye. I was Page 34 of 371

god fearing and I believed in Him and his omnipotence. I would often invoke his help in my day-to-day life. “You have a good voice,” the head chanter would say to me, “you should learn to chant.” You never know, I thought to myself, I may even manage to become a priest one day. I was initiated into religion so much, that I believed that everything was dependent on the omnipotent. “Ela Christe,” (Come Christ) I would call to him before every meal or journey. And at the end of every meal, I would cross myself and say a prayer. Page 35 of 371

The Festival of St Heraklidios “Tomorrow, we are going to the festival,” our father announced one evening. We prepared to leave early in the morning. I was so excited and anxious for new places to see and new things to do, that I didn’t sleep a wink that night. At dawn, dressed in our Sunday best, we headed off to the monastery of St Heraklidios. Our mother was on the horse, together with our younger sister and the rest of us walked. Some of us were in front of the horse and others behind and as we moved along, we looked like a proper platoon. The monastery was about two to three kilometres northwest of our village and very close to the village of ‘Politiko’, which was built on the side of a mountain, opposite the village of ‘Bera’. We followed the path carved out over time by fruit merchants and pedlars and arrived outside the main gate to the monastery, where we stopped, under an olive tree. “This is where we will eat,” announced our father, as he tied the donkey to the tree. “Before you know it, everyone will gather here,” he added. We hurried through the gate, reached the church and took our places inside. When the holy ceremony finished, we went down into a basement, near the church, where the remains of the saint were preserved. We bowed our heads with reverence and kissed the remains. We then went back to the main entrance of the monastery and, as we came out, we found ourselves among a packed crowd which had gathered outside. “Stay near me,” our mother said, “don’t get lost.” We held hands and one by one we crossed the path which was teeming with people. All around me, I could hear the loud voices of the pedlars, promoting their merchandise: “Soutzoukkos” [14] cried one, “peaches” shouted another, “walnuts” added one more, followed by many others. We reached a clearing which formed a square, with a large tent on one side, providing shade from the sun. Under the tent, tables and chairs were laid out. Father selected a long, narrow table, with loads of chairs around it and, after a quick assessment, he concluded that there were enough chairs for all of us. He instructed us to sit down and he ordered a “mixed” plate for each of us. “Coming up,” replied a middle-aged woman, who was so large she could hardly move. From where she stood, she began counting heads on the fingers of her hands. 14. ‘Soutzoukkos’ is a well-known traditional sweet that is still produced extensively on the island, particularly in the wine villages (Krasochoria). It is made of fresh grape must (in Greek ‘moustos’) and is a by-product of the wine making process. After it is dried and cut into pieces, it looks like candles. Cypriots like to drink the local spirit Zivania with ‘soutzoukkos’. Page 36 of 371

Before long, she came back, carrying a large tray full of plates and began distributing them. In front of each of us, she placed a plate containing a mixture of ‘Lokmades’[15] and ‘Shiamishi’[16] and next to each plate, she placed a small fork and a glass of water. “Come Christ,” father said as he began to eat and we followed. From the first forkful I put in my mouth, I was left with my mouth open. Firstly, because the ‘loukoumas’ burnt my tongue and palate and secondly, because I had never tasted anything so sweet before. When it cooled down a bit, I chewed and swallowed. I then turned to the ‘Shiamishi’. I cut a small piece and blew on it to cool it down. I chewed and swallowed again. “Aman!” I exclaimed in wonder, “they are so good.” I had never tasted anything so delicious and sweet before. I could easily eat ten more platefuls, I thought to myself, but I soon realised that there was no chance of that. My father had already taken his money pouch out of his waistband and was counting out ‘grosia’. We drank the water thirstily and stood up. “The elders,” said father, “can go for a wander around. The youngsters must go with their mother to the olive tree where our donkey is, to hold the space for our lunch. And if you need me, I will be in the coffee shop.” He pointed to it on the opposite side of the square. Unfortunately for me, I was included in the youngsters, which made me sad because I really wanted to mingle with the crowd. Half of us, four children and our mother, went to the olive tree, where mother laid out a blanket for us to sit on. The younger ones started rolling around happily on the blanket. I was the only sad one. “Come on,” my mother said, “don’t worry, when you grow up, God will provide.” She understood my pain. I could hear the sounds of the sellers, mixed with the sound of a violin accompanied by a lute, playing traditional dance music very skilfully. The smell in the air was a mixture of the sweet smell of fried ‘lokmades’ and the enticing smell of the roast lamb, as it was taken out of the outdoor ovens, mixed with the foul smell of the horses. Before long it was lunchtime. Father arrived with my elder siblings and instructed us to set the table. He then picked up a basket and set off. Mother began setting the table. She laid a bunch of onions on the blanket and two loaves of bread that we had brought with us. My elder brothers began cutting and sharing it all out. 15. ‘Lokmades’ or ‘Loukoumades’ are little bite-sized fluffy sweet honey balls, which are deep fried until they are crisp and golden. They are traditionally served soaked in hot honey syrup. 16. ‘Shiamishi’ is a variety of fried pastry, filled with halva and semolina. It is a traditional hot dessert, served on special occasions, such as weddings or local religious festivals, usually along with ‘lokmades’ and water. Page 37 of 371

We sat and waited. Soon, father arrived with the basket full of ‘ofton kleftikon’ [17]. Mother laid a tea towel in the centre of the blanket and he emptied the basket on the towel. Father sat on a stone near the trunk of the olive tree, picked up a piece of meat with his hands, together with bread and onion and started to eat. The rest of us followed. It was so delicious I remember licking my fingers. I had never eaten ‘kleftiko’ before. “Is everyone full?” asked father. In fact, we were, we could not deny it. “Thanks be to God,” mother was the first to say and we all followed, with the same expression. “Now we go to the violin,” father said and stood up. We made our way over and stood around the area with the musicians, watching a couple dancing ‘syrtous’. When they finished, they put some coins in a plate which had been placed on a chair in front of the musicians and withdrew. Father approached the violinist and whispered something in his ear. The violinist must have sensed something special was about to happen, because he started to play ‘karsilama’ with renewed fervour, followed enthusiastically by the lute player. With a signal from father, my brothers, Kyriakos and Yiorgos, took their stance opposite each other on the dance floor and began dancing. They danced with such grace and skill that everyone watched in admiration. “Bravo,” said an elderly man wearing a ‘vraka’ (traditional Cypriot black breeches). “These are proper dancers.” I could hardly contain my feeling of pride. The crowd around the dancers was getting larger. Some people started clapping their hands with the rhythm of the violin, to accompany the dancing. Some even crossed the dance floor and ostentatiously put some coins in the musicians’ plate, as if to say: “Look, we are paying so that you can continue dancing and we can admire you. Well done lads.” They finished the ‘karsilamades’ [18] and went on to ‘syrtous’, ‘zeimbekkikous’, and they finally closed the dancing with the dance ‘mandra’ to rapturous applause. 17. “Ofton kleftikon” is lamb or goat which is slow cooked in small clay ovens (see additional notes at the end of the book for more details) 18. Karsilamades, syrtos, zeimbekikos and mandra are traditional Cypriot dances. Page 38 of 371

Next, our father took to the floor with a ‘koskino’ [19] in his hand. On the collar of the sieve, he had placed three glasses, next to each other, filled with water. The violin was playing the dance of ‘tatsia’ [19]. He began to dance, skilfully turning the sieve around his head, under his arms and at times he would switch hands, passing the sieve under his legs. The crowd watching him became exuberant, clapping to the rhythm shouting: “Bravo barba” [20] “Live long levendogere.” [21] Some of the spectators were gathered in front of the musicians, waiting for their turn to throw some coins in the plate. And of course, as the musicians saw their plate filling up, they played harder and harder. The bow and the eagle’s feather moved furiously on the instruments, in an effort to show the payers that they worked hard for their reward. They stopped when my father signalled them. He was exhausted and covered in sweat. A deafening chorus of approval, loud applause and shouts of admiration accompanied him as he left the dance floor. We went back to the olive tree and the dancers lay down for a well-earned rest. The heat had dissipated by the time we headed back. As well as everything else our father bought, he also bought a rattle for his grandchild who was waiting at home with its mother. After that day, I spent a lot of time trying to learn the dance of ‘tatsia’ and of course I broke a lot of glasses in the process. For quite some time I was proud of my family and hoped for a similarly pleasant day. However, it was the last joy this family would have. Before long, a great evil had burst into our lives and its consequences were long lasting and irrevocable. 19. Koskino and ‘tatsia’ are both types of sieves and the dance of ‘tatsia’ is a dance of skill (see additional notes at the end of the book for more details). 20. ‘Barba’ is a term of address indicating respect for an older man or friendly familiarity. It can also mean uncle (originating from Italian) as in Barbagiannis or Uncle John. 21. ‘Levendogeros’ (‘Levendogere’ when addressing him) is a combination of the Greek words ‘Leventis’ and ‘Geros’. ‘Leventia’ is a word which is not translatable. It means the attributes of a ‘Leventis’, a masculine, tall, and upright man with a proud stature. One who is brave, direct, honest, and generous. Geros simply means old (see additional notes at the end of the book regarding mortality rates and life expectancy). Page 39 of 371

The Killing We woke up, carefree, one morning in August of 1935 and each of us got on with his or her chores. My eldest sister, as always, left for work on her bicycle and all those older than me left with mother to work in the harvest. Our father had left early in the morning, walking to the village of ‘Bera’ where, he told us, he had to attend to some matters relating to his position of Kinotarhis of Kambia. I was instructed to stay at home, to take care of my sister’s baby and look after my younger siblings. I had reached the age of eleven and I was able to make a contribution. I remember how proud I was that I was given such authority and I assumed the role of leader to my younger brothers and sister. At around 9-10am, my father appeared. He took the donkey out of the stable, saddled it, hung the axe – a large axe – on the side, climbed on and as he left, he murmured: “I am going to fetch wood.” I could tell, from his facial expression and his demeanour, that whatever the matters he tried to resolve were, his trip to Bera had not gone well. It was clear to me that he was angry and dejected. It was just past midday. I had given the baby its milk bottle and I called my siblings to the table for lunch. I put some bulgur pilaf, left over from the day before, on everyone’s plate and we began eating, drinking some water now and then, to soften the dry and almost hard bulgur. As we ate, I heard some clatter outside and I hurried out. What I was faced with was horrible. I saw my father – I remember it as if it was yesterday – covered in blood and with the hair on his head sticking out, looking frightened as though he was facing a wild animal. At first, I thought that the donkey must have thrown and bloodied him and that he was angry with the animal. I soon realised that it was something else, when I heard him say in a trembling voice: “Come, Andrea, take the donkey, unsaddle it and put it in the stable. I am going to change.” When I completed my chores, I walked into the long and narrow room where my siblings were and I found him dressed in his Sunday best and standing over the baby’s cot, wild eyed and lost in thought. Who knows what was going on in his mind? He stood there for a while, undecided. Finally, he calmed down a little, turned around suddenly, picked up the bundle of bloody clothes and his walking stick, had a look around him and went out of the door almost in a run. Before I could get over what had just happened, he came back. “Where is the axe?” he asked me. “There,” I pointed. He picked it up and in a softer voice he said to me: “Pray to God to save your father.” And with that, he left. Page 40 of 371

I lost my appetite. I didn’t want to eat anymore. I sat, almost collapsed, on a seat and even though I didn’t know what had happened, I began imploring God, Virgin Mary and all the Saints, to save my father. “Water.” My younger sister’s little voice interrupted my thoughts. And with love and affection, I continued looking after my younger siblings as if, now that the one looking after us was lost, I had become their guardian. I was in a slump but carried on mechanically, not fully aware of what I was doing. I was torn between running out to find my mother and the others in the fields and to give them the news or stay and look after all the souls that were entrusted to me. I tortured myself with that thought, until my mother and older siblings came home. “Have you heard mother?” I asked, as I ran towards her. “Yes, my son,” she replied in a soft voice, before bursting into tears. “What happened?” I asked my sister Irene. “Father committed murder,” she told me in confidence, “don’t say anything.” I let out a deep groan, as I felt a pain tear at my heart. I am losing my father, I thought, as great sobs racked my body. “Be quiet,” my brother Kyriakos admonished sharply, “our father hasn’t died.” It was as though he was trying to console me, but he couldn’t stop his own tears from running down his face. We sat around the table, with tears in our eyes, as if we were trying to find an explanation for the great misfortune that had befallen us. “Ah, what have you done to me Kleanthi?” mother said, with a sigh. “What will become of me, with these brats that you left me with? Who will bring them up?” “Don’t worry mother,” Yiorgos cut in, “we are here.” “Do you think they’ve put him in prison?” asked Theodoros. “Who knows,” observed Kyriakos. “And how will he be able to cope with it, at 58 years of age?” lamented mother, before adding: “Lord, lend a helping hand, don’t let my children be lost.” Our pain was increasing and our tears continued. That evening, when Eleni got back from work, she joined the wailing. “It’s my fault,” she repeated, “I embarrassed him.” And later, as she was breastfeeding her baby, I heard her mumble: “It’s just as well he didn’t kill my baby too.” Page 41 of 371

Later on, Sotiris arrived. “I’ve seen him,” he told us “they are keeping him in Deftera and tomorrow they will transfer him to Nicosia. He turned himself in. When he left you in the fields, he went directly to the authorities and turned himself in.” “How did he look?” Kyriakos asked. “Somewhat repentant,” answered Sotiris, “but he was holding up well. Now, stop your wailing.” Turning to mother, he added: “Gather round, so that we can discuss what to do. We need to engage a lawyer.” “Yes, we must,” came the unanimous reply. “Money, where will we find the money?” interrupted mother. “Lawyers are expensive.” Indeed, she had identified a serious issue. “We’ll find a way,” Kyriakos said. “We have to engage a lawyer. If we have to, we will sell whatever we have left.” Sotiris turned to Kyriakos and said: “Tomorrow, come to Nicosia, I will meet you at the Inn of St Antony and we can go find a lawyer. I have to go home now; my wife doesn’t know where I am.” “Have something to eat first,” mother pleaded with him. “I don’t have time,” he said and he left, trying hard not to show his emotions. The discussion provided us with some courage and patience. A lawyer would be instructed, there would be a trial and God is not blind, He would perform his miracle. We had a bite to eat and went to bed. It was a night filled with nightmares. In my sleep, I remember seeing my father half naked, with his elbows pulled back behind him and tied onto a high, thick post, with hawks all around him biting off his flesh. I kept throwing stones at them, in my struggle to get rid of them. I woke up covered in sweat, when a large hawk, larger than all the others, suddenly came at me, trying to tear me up. It was almost dawn and I couldn’t go back to sleep. At first light, all the older members of the family got up and headed out in different directions. As they were leaving, mother said to me: “Andrea, take care of the children.” “Don’t worry, I will,” I replied. Page 42 of 371

And there, at that moment, I realised that my school days were over. Whatever I learned, I learned. From now on, I was on my own. Resentment flooded my mind. I was a good student, my ambition was to be educated, to make something of myself. Now, all was lost. The road ended. All my dreams were in a heap in front of me. I threw myself at my duty to look after the children. I washed their faces, wiped their bottoms, swept the floor, plus loads more chores. All day, I prayed for my father’s salvation. That evening, we learned that he had been moved from Deftera to the Central Prison in Nicosia. He was allowed visitors and so Sotiris and Kyriakos went to see him and to bring him food and cigarettes. “He is calm,” explained Kyriakos. He was the one who pointed out which lawyer we should approach and when we did, the lawyer willingly agreed to represent him. He told us: “I will undertake your father’s defence and I will do everything I can to save him. He is a good man, your father, I’ve known him for a long time.” He promised us that he would visit him straight away, on the same day. The next day, mother and Yiorgos went to see him in the central prison. He wouldn’t accept any of the food they brought to him. “Take it back to the little ones,” he told her and he just kept the cigarettes. “In fact, don’t bring me cigarettes either, I have enough, brought to me by friends and I know the state of the household.” About ten days went by, full of anguish and pain. Every night, as we went to bed, mother would place the icon of the Virgin Mary against her headboard and on her knees, with tears in her eyes, she would pray to her to save us. “Holy Mother take pity on my children. Don’t let them kill him as they killed your son. Almighty God, for you, everything is possible.” And she crossed herself, pleading and begging. [22] 22. The killing: For a comprehensive version of the events surrounding ‘The Killing’, including the trial and the aftermath, see additional notes, at the end of the book. Page 43 of 371

Father’s Trial Finally, one day, we learned that the trial would take place. They took us all, big and small, and put us in the Court Room. When we sat down, we filled two long, narrow benches. In a short while, they brought our father in between two policemen and they sat him separately from the crowd opposite a large podium, like the teacher’s at school, only much larger. As he came in, he glanced over at us and for the first time I saw his eyes filled with tears and his chin quiver. He was very emotional. Apart from the youngsters, who were not aware of what was happening, the rest of us lowered our eyes in shame and cried. “All stand,” we heard, in a loud and imposing voice. We all stood, and without delay three strange men entered from a door behind the podium. All three wore black capes and their heads were covered by white, curly hair. They took their seats next to each other, behind the bench and they looked in our direction with a fixed stare. Everyone sat back down, apart from my father. A silence followed. Then, another man entered the Court Room, whose disguise was similar to that of the judges. He was my father’s lawyer and he walked over and sat in front of him. From the three judges, the one in the middle, who was the president of the Court, picked up a hammer that was in front of him, lifted it and brought it down hard onto the bench. He knocked three times. Following his thunderous knocks, a policeman who was sitting in front of the podium and who had shiny pieces of metal on his shoulders, stood up and said: “Present, Mr President.” He was followed immediately by the lawyer who stood up and said: “Present,” and they both sat down, almost at the same time. “Accused,” said the President, “place your hand on the bible.” My father placed his palm on the bible and waited. The president instructed my father to repeat after him: “I swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth,” and my father repeated everything he had been told. After that, the policeman/prosecutor stood up and begun. “You are accused that…and this was followed by a series of dates, times and places, that my little brain could not comprehend, and he finished with the phrase: “You committed premeditated murder.” At the sound of these words, I saw my father’s hairs stand on end. Page 44 of 371

“Do you admit?” the President asked. I expected my father, the man I admired for his knowledge and intelligence, to rigorously protest against this serious accusation. Instead, I saw his lawyer stand up and curtly reply: “No Mr President, we do not admit.” The judges, who looked to me like the hawks I saw in my sleep, whispered to each other and stood up. The audience stood up too. “Court is adjourned,” said the president. “The date will be determined later so that witnesses can be called.” The judges left through the same door they came in. The prosecutor stood up, closed his books and left, together with the lawyer who, as he went past us, tried to reassure us by saying: “Be patient.” Behind them came my father with the two prison guards who, in the meantime, had handcuffed him. “Patience,” was the only thing he managed to mumble as he went by. “Ah, Kleanthi, I’ve lost you,” mother cried out between loud sobs, before she fainted. We all ran to her as efforts to revive her began. “Water,” shouted my sister, “bring water.” A middle-aged woman, who looked from her clothes like she lived in the city, came running from the other end of the court with a small bottle in her hand. She pushed us aside and took our mother in her arms. She poured some of the contents of the bottle in her hand and wetted mother’s face. She then put the open bottle under her nose. There was a strong smell and we realised that it was cologne. From that day on, whenever we went to court or to prison to see our father, we carried a bottle of cologne. I looked at my mother, pale and not breathing, and I thought she might be dead. Pain and sadness tore my insides, before she began breathing and recovering and I was relieved. As she opened her eyes, I heard the well-dressed woman say: “Compose yourself koumera [23] there is no point in all of us dying from this misfortune.” Shortly afterwards, I learned that this lady was my ‘nounna’ (godmother). She christened me and gave me my name. I was so happy that I had such a nice and well- dressed nounna. I hadn’t met her before. 23. ‘Koumera’ is the Greek equivalent of a bridesmaid (see additional notes at the end of the book for more information). Page 45 of 371

At the Employ of My Godmother “Who is my godson?” she asked. They pointed at me. She pulled me near her and kissed my forehead. She pulled a silver ‘trigrosso’ [24] from her purse and gave it to me. “Take this,” she told me, “your mother can buy you something from me.” She added: “Oh my, how you have grown, you are a proper little man now.” She gestured to us to follow her and she led us out of the Court Room and on to a small coffee shop, where she bought us all a soft drink. She started a conversation with Sotiris, Kyriakos and our mother. They spoke about our father and then she suggested: “Why don’t you bring one or two children here, to learn a trade? Why do you keep them in the village?” “That’s a good idea,” replied Sotiris, but we don’t know anyone in the city. “Who would take my wretched children?” wondered our mother softly. “My father will,” replied my nounna, wanting to help us. “He would happily take at least two children in his employ. There,” she said and pointed, “Theodoros and my godson can be accommodated with us straightaway. We will treat them like our own.” No one objected. We all thanked my godmother for her generosity to, so magnanimously, take two of the ten souls in our family. After a few further exchanges, she took us with her. We passed by her father’s metalwork shop and met the master craftsman, who would be our boss. “Father,” she told him, “this is my godson and this is his brother Theodoros.” He was a wrinkled old man, with white hair and a moustache. He stood behind an anvil and next to a fireplace, wearing a leather apron which covered the whole of his front. He looked at us searchingly. “Do you like this work?” he asked. “Yes,” we answered together, as we had no choice. “It’s hard work,” he added, “we’ll see if you can manage.” 24. ‘Trigrosso’ is a combination of the Greek words for three and grosi. Therefore, it is a coin with a value of three grosia. Page 46 of 371

Theodoros stayed at the shop and I went to the house with my nounna to bring back lunch. As we entered, I stood there in amazement. The floor was laid with colourful tiles, there were dawn sofas in the hall and a bright chandelier was hanging from the ceiling. We moved on to the kitchen, where we found Mrs Theodora cooking. “This is your yiayia,” [25] pointed out my nounna. “Mum, this is my godson,” she said and busied herself preparing the lunch basket. “How is your mum, my child?” the old lady asked me. “Fine,” I replied not wanting to continue. I knew that what I had just said was not true. “We heard, my child,” she told me knowingly. “Courage, God will provide. How is your pappou, [25] Karagannas? Is he okay?” Before I could reply, my nounna added: “He is her brother.” “He is well,” I replied, “just fine.” Now, I understood why I had to call this lady yiayia and my boss pappou. They were part of our clan. How would I know? I picked up the basket and headed back to the shop, following the signs I had noted on the way. We set the table and ate the beans in tomato sauce that I had just brought. Pappou encouraged us to eat. He realised that we were holding back, giving him priority. “Eat,” he would say now and then. “There is hard work ahead.” “Eat now, I’ve had enough, eat everything,” he repeated as he stood up and went next door for coffee. When he left, and we were on our own, we ate with great appetite. When he came back, he asked Theodoros: “Do you know how to sharpen axes?” “I will manage,” he replied. 25. ‘Yiayia’ means grandmother and ‘Pappou’ means grandfather. Page 47 of 371

And thus, began the first lesson. Pappou picked up an axe, placed it in a vice and tightened it. He then picked up a file and said: “This is how you do it,” as he began filing, before handing it over to my brother. “As for you,” he said to me, “your job will be the bellows, it’s easier. This is what you have to do.” He pulled a metal handle down and released it to go back up. “You see,” he said, “we are providing air to light the charcoal,” and he gave me the handle. That was it. I was now a metalworker and in my determination to earn the food I had been given, I pulled tirelessly at the handle of the bellows. In the evening, when it got dark and we couldn’t see anymore, pappou said: “Enough for today.” He gave a few ‘grosia’ to Theodoros, I can’t remember how many, and he proposed to him: “There is a small guesthouse around the corner. That’s where you will stay, until you find a room. Tell them I sent you.” We closed the shop and he and I headed home. “Wash up,” my nounna told me when she saw me covered in black coal dust, and she took me to the storeroom. “This is where you will sleep. Sort yourself out and come for dinner.” I washed up and went back to the kitchen where my dinner was left for me. I understood. I would not be allowed in the luxurious rooms. After all, I was a tattered, peasant boy. When they finished eating, they carried their plates to the kitchen for me to wash up. I cleaned and swept the kitchen and after asking permission from my nounna, I withdrew to my bedroom where I lay down on the bed. It felt strange. Totally on my own, in this storeroom, with a small bed in the corner and surrounded by a load of useless objects, I felt discarded. I was tired and my head hurt. I felt dejected and tears burned my eyes. I thought about my siblings, my family, our household. I have to get used to it, I told myself. It’s just as well that these people stepped in to provide me with protection and a roof over my head. I turned out the light and burrowed under the blanket. I slept deeply. The emotional upheaval of the day combined with fatigue, had exhausted me. At dawn, I was startled by the sound of knocking on my door and pappou calling out “Wake up Andrea, let’s go.” I got up, threw some water on my face to wake me up and we left. On the way I was thinking, so that’s how it’s going to be. Pappou will be my boss during the day and my nounna in the evening, for housework. On Sundays I had to clean the whole house and it was my only opportunity to enter the reception rooms and luxury bedrooms. At first, I found it very difficult, but I grit my teeth with determination. I decided: I will manage, I have to. Page 48 of 371

One day, after a while, my brothers Sotiris and Kyriakos came to the shop. “Pappou,” they told him, “the boys have to come with us today. The trial is starting and we all have to be there, to be seen by the judges. Who knows, they may feel sorry for us.” “And what will happen here?” was his first reaction. But after thinking about it, he added “Alright, it can’t be helped.” So, they let us both go off just as we were, blackened with coal and metal dust from work. The sight of us caused sadness for our mother, but it was a source of amusement for our younger siblings. We all entered the Court Room. The same procedure, only this time the prosecutor listed a whole load of detail which I listened to, absentmindedly. After all, my role was just to be seen by the judges. They called some witnesses who were interrupted now and then by the prosecutor, the lawyer and on the odd occasion by the judge. My father was just sitting there, silent, between the prison guards. Now and again, he would turn to us with a fixed stare, or direct his attention to the judge and at times he would whisper something in his lawyer’s ear. This procedure, which to me seemed like a ritual, went on for a considerable time and my bottom started hurting from the hard, wooden seat. Finally, when everyone was tired, the judges stood up and with them the whole of the audience. “Court is adjourned,” said the president. I understood. I would have to come back to this cursed place. I was trying to guess the future and I kept looking at my father who was leaving, downcast, with his hands in irons. Throughout the procedure, my mother cried quietly and my sister Irene held the bottle of cologne under her nose. We left the Court Room and I heard various comments by my older brothers. “What lies were spouted off by Pias!” said Sotiris firmly, “someone must have put him up to it.” “Don’t worry,” came the reply from Kyriakos, “the lawyer will catch him out.” We exchanged some pleasantries, how are you etc and we left for the shop. I was happy that I had seen the people I loved and who were taken, so unexpectedly, away from me. That night, when I was alone in my room, I felt something gnawing at my insides. Perhaps it was the foreboding I felt for the potential loss of my father, or the distancing from my family, or even my inability to help with the problem. I couldn’t sleep. I could not remove the thought of losing my father from my mind. The next day, as my mind wandered, thinking about my father, I didn’t fill the bag with air and was rewarded with my first slap in the face. Page 49 of 371

Death Sentence Father’s trial was adjourned many times, over a long period of time. It got to the point where we just wanted an end to this story. Until one day, the lawyer stood up and walked around talking and gesticulating for a couple of hours. He was doing his best to justify my father’s actions and I was gratified to hear him say, on several occasions, as he addressed the judges: “He is innocent.” At one point, he pointed to us and with a pleading voice he again addressed the judges: “Look at this large family. Don’t deprive them of their guardian.” And with that, he finished and sat back down. We cried softly, moved by the lawyer’s comments and in the hope that we could touch the judges’ hearts, so that they would show clemency. This was the most critical moment. From their mouths hang my father’s life, our life. There was a short silence. The president ordered: “Accused, stand up.” My father stood up and there he was, standing erect – I remember it so well – to hear the court’s decision. The president, with a spine-chilling expression, announced: “Accused, the court, taking into consideration the facts and witnesses’ testimonies in this case, finds you guilty, with premeditation and sentences you to death.” He stood up, broke his quill in two, as if to say his decision was irreversible, and left quickly, accompanied by the other two judges. Perhaps they didn’t want to face us. What followed is indescribable. I saw my father collapse in his chair, sobbing. We all followed and our plaintive cries got louder and louder, as there was nothing holding us back now. As the prison guards brought father past us, I heard him say: “Courage, my children, God be with you.” I heard Sotiris call out to him “We will appeal father, we will not let you be lost.” This was followed by a lament, which was growing louder and louder as the friends who came to stand by us, joined in. The court clerk ushered us out and even he had some kind words for us: “Courage, God will provide.” We continued crying loudly out in the street, as though this was our way of paying our last respects to our father, whom we may never see alive again. We had been crying for some time and we were drained. Kyriakos, in an effort to put an end to this tragic sight, said: “Come on, let’s go, he is not dead yet. After all, we are going to appeal the decision. We will even appeal to the King of England. Who knows, something may happen.” Page 50 of 371