The 19th Son

The side from which we entered the village was quiet. It seemed that the Germans hadn’t become aware of us. The guides showed me, with sign language, how to walk next to my mule using its body for protection. They all did the same. At one point, someone grabbed my shoulder and gestured for me to stop. I stopped directly opposite the front door to a house. One of the Gurkhas shot a burst of machine gunfire at the door, under the belly of my mule. The animal jumped up, frightened, but with some difficulty I managed to control it. At the same time, we heard cries of pain coming from inside the house. He must have hit them I thought and the next moment two more Gurkhas kicked the door in and threw a hand grenade each into the house. After the deafening sounds of the hand grenades, there was silence. By then I was already about twenty steps away, where I and my mules had been pulled by my guide, who couldn’t explain and even if he could, there was no time. We were far enough away to be safe from the fragments of the hand grenades, which came out of the blown door. I figured that they must have worked out in advance that this was a German hiding place and that was the reason for the operation. We moved on, about a hundred metres, but by now the Germans knew we were there and we came under a storm of enemy fire. We were using a wall, about a metre high, for cover. It was the wall of the village park and we ducked down behind it for the entire journey. Bullets were flying above our heads and hitting the walls behind us. We stopped behind a house at the end of the park. Two from our entourage jumped up a few steps and went in the house. We heard nothing. It must have been empty. They came back and with our help, they unloaded the heavy machine gun and its bullets from my mule. They set it up inside the park and it began, “crack, crack, crack,” forcing the enemy to go quiet. We unloaded the hand grenades from my other mule and they gave me the signal to leave. I began the return journey, taking a thousand precautions. Inside and around the village, there was a lot going on. Our troops were carrying out clearing operations but they were encountering stiff resistance from the enemy. I managed to get back safely but when I arrived, I found my sergeant waiting for me. He had been looking for me to give me instructions, because some mules had returned from the front with injuries and they needed medical attention. When he couldn’t find me, he realised that I had gone to the front line. He told me off sternly: “If you do it again, you will be court martialled,” he declared. “We have so many soldiers, but in our trade, we are numbered. You can’t do what you like.” He gave me instructions and I realised he was not going to report me. In the morning, we learned that the village had fallen and was now in our hands. The body of one of our own was brought back and we buried him on a mount with a cross containing all his details. Three more were seriously wounded and were taken away by ambulance. From this position, we continued to supply the front line which was getting further away every day. Page 151 of 371

One morning, we received a message. The Italian partisans were trying to make contact with us. They had found out about our secret organisation and that we were working in an organised manner and they asked for a meeting. They specified one particular house in the village. Our guide was Vasos Kyriakides. We invited Yiorgos Petrou to come along and the three of us went to the meeting. There were five of them and they were waiting for us. We embraced and kissed each other, like long lost friends. One of them, who appeared to be their leader, began telling us about the triumphs of the partisans at such length that we thought he just talked too much. When he finished, I said a few well considered words, on behalf of our delegation and then we sat down for a drink. There was one man among them who’d had part of his face amputated. He was missing one ear and half his nose. I asked him what happened. “I was taken prisoner just outside Stalingrad,” he told me, “and the Germans tortured me to betray the positions of our front lines. Then I was transferred to a concentration camp in Italy, from where I escaped and joined the partisans.” “How did you end up in Stalingrad?” I asked. One of the others, who was following the conversation jumped in: “He is Russian.” “They may have taken my ear and my nose,” he told me soberly, “but they haven’t taken my soul. There is no violence they can use to crush the soul of the Russian people. You can be sure, that in the end, we will win.” He uttered those last words with such certainty, he left no room for doubt. We found out from our new friends that the German army in the village had been decimated. As well as having to fight the allies, they had been attacked from the rear by about three hundred partisans. We offered them whatever we brought with us: Cigarettes, chocolates, soap and biscuits. They thanked us and it was clear that they were short of these things. We talked about the war in general and concluded that the enemy was retreating in all fronts. We tried to predict the end of the war, which was, for all of us, the most important thing. What more than the end of his torture, can a tortured man hope for? It was all conjecture. No one could predict the future. We said our goodbyes and left. On the way back, we talked, with admiration, about the Russian. “I hope nothing like that ever happens to any of us,” Kyriakides said, “because I don’t know how many of us wouldn’t break.” We eventually reached our camp. Page 152 of 371

To the Front Line In a few days we had our new mission. We were given orders to be ready at 6am. Only our company was leaving. At around 11pm the night before, the major called me in. “Listen here,” he said, “don’t defend your fellow Cypriots so strongly, because they are not alright.” “Why,” I asked, with justified puzzlement. “What’s happened?” “They stole my mirror,” he said. I don’t know what came over me, but I burst out laughing. “And this is why you called me?” I asked him, surprised. “You consider it a small thing?” he said, as if it was his wife that had been stolen. “Alright,” I said, more seriously. “I will make sure you get it back.” Sure enough, within minutes we found out who had taken the mirror. I took it back to him. He insisted that I reveal the name of the thief. “Forget it,” I pleaded with him, “there is no need to punish him.” “No,” he was adamant. “Tomorrow you must bring him in front of me.” The next morning, the major was watching us as we loaded our company onto the trucks. Not far from me, between his two mules, stood ‘Betis’, a young Turk, who was the guilty party in the theft of the mirror. Suddenly, we heard a deafening sound and saw two steaming animal skeletons falling to the ground. They were Betis’s mules. Betis himself, had been blown about thirty metres in the air. We realised that we were in a minefield. What was left of him was an unrecognisable mass of bones which had almost melted and a body which had been blackened and resembled jelly. We buried him hastily and noted his details on a cross. I remember thinking that we had changed his religion with our cross, but that was the army regulation. I went to the major and reported: “He was the one who took your mirror, sir, go ahead and punish him.” An English curse left his lips, full of remorse for his spitefulness. Whilst we waited for the mules to be loaded, a thousand thoughts were crossing my mind. First of all, I thought about religion. Betis, I thought, was a Muslim. Page 153 of 371

We put a cross on his grave. Could it be that Muhammad got angry with us for our sacrilege? On the other hand, what could we do, we had to follow regulations. In my mind, I found a solution. Let Muhammad go and find Christ and sort it out among themselves. They should get to work and separate their supporters, if they are not going to protect them from death. And it’s not just those two who should show some interest. Buddha, Jehovah and all the other gods should go to work in this war. I smiled ironically and moved on. For whom did this boy die? Who, among his family, will benefit from his unjust death? Ok, so we will get rid of fascism and people will live free. That’s one thing. But will the bellies of people fill up all in the same way? Or will those who had enough to eat have even more and those who were hungry die from starvation? It’s a serious question which remains unanswered! This war is not taking place so that the riches of the world can be distributed equally among people. This war is taking place to destroy fascism. But what about capitalism? From what I had read, I knew that capitalism relies on the exploitation of man, by his fellow man. Therefore, given that this war is doing nothing about capitalism, the loss of Betis and so many others is unjust, I concluded. My thoughts were interrupted by my sergeant: “Come on Titch, we are leaving.” On the way, we were all quiet. I don’t know what was going on in everyone’s mind. We did know that we were moving forward, and we knew that forward meant the front line. You can’t help but wonder if you will be one of the lucky ones who survives, and your mind is full of thoughts. How to protect yourself, how to react if you are wounded and how to react if your comrades are wounded, or even killed. This is the kind of thing dominating your thoughts. What else could you be thinking at a time like this? Perhaps your parents come into your thoughts, or your brothers and sisters and your eyes well up with an unknown pain, which you keep to yourself and say nothing. These must have been the thoughts of my comrades and the reason why not a word was spoken. We must have been getting close because the ‘instruments’ of war could be heard. The convoy stopped. The order was given to unload. We lined up ready to march. We marched for six hours. Our company alone – we must have drawn the short straw – was in front. Our guides were a sergeant major, a sergeant, two corporals and one lance corporal. They were all Scottish from an infantry battalion which was trying to clear a hill of the enemy. Only one company was required to supply them, so lots were drawn and we lost. It was around midday when we camped temporarily on a hillside which provided zero cover. We took care of the mules and the officers’ horses, set up a kitchen and got on with the cooking. It was a simple process. We lit the burners, filled the cauldrons with water and put them on the fire. We put a load of food cans in the Page 154 of 371

water to heat them up and we distributed them among the troops, together with biscuits. We prepared the tea and just managed to serve it, when we heard a whistling noise, followed immediately by a deafening sound. The shell hit the sergeant major in his belly, whilst he was relaxing in the trench and drinking his tea. It blew him to pieces and killed all the other guides around him. This terrible thing took place right in front of our eyes. We didn’t get a chance to make a move, before the next shell arrived, followed by many more, pinning us to the ground. I noticed a trench, just large enough to take me, nearby, next to the kitchen and I jumped in. Almost immediately, Yiorgos Petrou was on top of me. He was talking to me as if he wasn’t scared, but the beat of his heart told a different story. As he was lying on top of me, I could feel his heart beating fast, like an animal being chased. Every time a shell exploded, the sound of his heart stopped, only to start again, even more intense. The shelling continued. You see, they had found their target and they would have completely destroyed us if something “lucky” hadn’t taken place. We heard a loud ‘hum’ coming from the sky above us. We could see that it came from a squadron of aircraft and from their markings, we could tell that they were ours. We also noted happily that they were heading in the direction of the enemy. I was encouraged. “They will be quiet now,” I said and sure enough they were. I pushed Yiorgos off me and we both stood up. What we faced was nothing short of a horror scene: All three horses were dead, one of which was cut in half. Further on, about ten mules were dead and more were dying. One of the mules had been hit in the belly and its entrails had dropped to the ground, whilst the poor thing was still on its feet and braying loudly, as if it was asking for help. My sergeant was standing above his horse, staring at it, with tears in his eyes. I showed him the disembowelled mule. Instead of carrying out his duty, he took out his pistol and gave it to me. “You do it Titch,” he pleaded. I ran, with the gun, to the mule. I petted its head a little bit and then I put the barrel of the gun on its temple. I pulled the trigger. It went down on its knees and then fell to the ground. I gave the gun back to my sergeant, who was still petting his dead horse’s head. “Boys,” I shouted, “take advantage of the opportunity. Let’s carry whatever we can behind that mount.” At the same time, our bomber squadrons were emptying their deadly loads, one after the other, causing huge destruction and our attack planes were diving low, firing their machineguns at the enemy lines. Our captain was moving around, issuing orders, and when he came near me, I noticed that he was wounded. Blood was streaming down his right hand. “You are wounded,” I pointed out. Page 155 of 371

“It’s nothing,” he responded. I took the bandage out of my helmet and bandaged his arm. In the meantime, I overheard a conversation that Marrouhos, a young man I knew from Nicosia, was badly wounded. I ran to him. He was in a bad state. I tried to reassure him. The wounded had to be taken behind our lines. Two troopers from First Aid put him on a stretcher and took him away together with our captain. I never saw Marrouhos again. We were behind the mount when they started shelling us again. We were safer here. The next problem was how to feed the company, as our kitchen had been destroyed. The cooks couldn’t find a solution. “What can we do?” they were saying, “there is nothing left.” I had an idea. “Sotiri,” I said to one of the cooks, “try to find an undamaged cauldron.” I knew that we had butter and egg powder. I waited. I saw Sotiris returning with a large cauldron in his arms. “Is it intact?” I shouted “Yes, only bunged up,” he said. I was pleased. Now, I could carry out my idea. “Leandre,” I called out to a friend, “take Zaka and some others and grab a blanket. If you noticed on our way here, we passed a field of tomato plants. Bring me all the ripe tomatoes you can carry.” The boys left. I used a pickaxe to dig a shallow channel and I placed the cauldron on top. “Go fetch some wood,” I told some of the other boys, who were studying me with curiosity. I opened five or six boxes of butter and poured them into the cauldron. The wood was ready. “What are you trying to do?” The lieutenant asked me. “We are going to have ‘egg-tomato-omelette’,” I answered, laughing. The boys came back with about thirty kilos of tomatoes. I placed the burning wood under the cauldron. Page 156 of 371

“Clean the tomatoes, use your knives to cut them up and put them in the cauldron,” I instructed with authority, as if I was the head chef! Before long, the cauldron was full of tomatoes and butter. I let it boil until it became like a puree. “Salt, what about salt?” someone said. “I will bring you some salt,” said Joseph, a Maronite [66] who treated everything as a joke. This time though, he was right. We used salt to mix in with the mule feed. It was a dirty black salt, in big lumps and Joseph was coming back holding one of these lumps. “Bravo,” shouted some, “your thick head has come up with something useful.” I broke up the lump and put the salt in the cauldron. Then I opened a large tin of egg powder and emptied it into the cauldron. Sotiris grabbed a large wooden spoon and stirred the mixture until it almost solidified. “Ready, boys,” I shouted. The British soldiers among us were the most impressed by my concoction. They were not expecting anything so delicious. About a month later, I received a letter: To 16572. Congratulations. What you did is an achievement. Such soldiers deserve congratulations. Signed, General Parrington. I understood that it was about the ‘egg-tomato-omelette’. We were left without guides. The dead men and animals were left where they lay. Now and then another shell would drop on the same area. At around 5pm three men, who looked like privates, came down from the mountains. They said something to our lieutenant and we receive the order to march. Instead of forward though, we were headed back. After about three hundred metres, we turned left, always using a mount for cover. Our morning guides must have made a mistake, I thought and they put us in front of the enemy. In front of us, there was a river with not much water in it. We camped next to the river, without crossing it. By the time we sorted ourselves out, it was dark. They called out about twenty numbers who left with the guides. 66. ‘Maronites’ are a Christian group, concentrated mainly in Lebanon, but also elsewhere, including Cyprus. Their beliefs are quite similar to those of the Catholics. Page 157 of 371

As usual, we dug our trenches, placed our tents on top and went to sleep, naturally after arranging the night guards. We woke up at around 4am. We were woken by those who had gone off with the mules for the mountains. I asked Vasos, one of them, what happened: “The damn Germans ran away,” he said “and instead of going up the mountain, where they were shelling us from, we went twice as far and we still couldn’t find Germans. Who wants to go running after them?” We laughed, the news was good, but we had paid for it for nothing. We left there two days later. We walked for several days, until we reached the outskirts of Monte Mauro [67]. Here, the German resistance lasted for some time. By now, winter was upon us and all around us was white with snow. Our greatest enemy was the mud! As we pulled the mules, the snow and mud thrown up by their stepping would pile up on our backs and sometimes it got so heavy that we couldn’t carry it anymore and had to ask our comrades to clean it off us. We also encountered, for the first time, a new and insidious enemy, which made us tremble with fear. The enemy, in its effort to stop the advance of the allies, began using a hitherto unknown weapon. Perhaps they had only just finished developing it. It was a type of cannon which, instead of shooting single shells, shot bundles of six. The whistling noise they made together in the air meant that we could no longer tell where the shells were going to drop. That’s how we were caught unaware, one night, as we returned from the front line and heard this mixed whistling. Luckily, we were on a cart road which had an earth wall on one side, otherwise our mothers would be mourning us. This wall proved to be our saviour. They had sent about sixty shells in our direction, which exploded about two metres away, on the other side of the wall. If any of the shells had dropped on the cart road, none of us would have survived. We got away with it, with just being covered in snow and mud, thrown up by the explosions. Our only casualties were three mules, which got away from us and were hit by the shelling. When, by dawn, we reached our camp, we were unrecognisable. Usually, during the day, our air force would hit them continuously. One day, after several squadrons of bombers emptied their cargo over enemy lines, it was the turn of the ground attack aircraft. They started to dive, one behind the other. We saw them drop their only bomb whilst at the same time, they shot long bursts of machine gun fire at the enemy. We were enjoying it. Unfortunately, one of them, after beginning its dive, was hit by enemy fire and exploded in the air. It was a sight I have never forgotten. 67. The village of ‘Monte Mauro’ is about 90 kilometres North/West of Rimini Page 158 of 371

In the meantime, we learned that the partisans were attacking the Germans from behind, effectively creating a second front and trapping them in the middle. They had no choice, but to surrender or die to the last man. That was the reason for the fierce defence of their positions. Early one morning, a German prisoner was handed over to us. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen years of age and I was given the task of guarding him. I had him walking in front of me with his hands behind his head. One of our own, Joseph the Maronite, came up to us quietly and before I could react, he slapped the German boy in the face, swearing at him heavily at the same time. Without hesitation, I hit Joseph hard in his stomach with the butt of my gun and folded him in half. “Don’t do it again,” I told him firmly. The poor German was in tears. I gave him a bar of chocolate and gestured for him to lower his hands. I felt sorry for him. When I delivered him, he looked at me with a pained expression, as if he was telling me not to let him go from my protection. All our colleagues sided with me, against Joseph. “Good for him, you deserved it,” they told him, when they found out about the butt strike to his stomach, “we must respect our prisoners.” The front held. My younger brother Aristotelis, who had recently enlisted, was in another battalion, which was a few kilometres behind the front line and he requested a transfer to my battalion. He had the right to do so. So, the major called me in and notified me of my brother’s request. However, instead of transferring my brother to our battalion, he asked me if I was willing to be transferred to his battalion. He said that my brother’s battalion was inexperienced and badly in need of experienced soldiers. I told him that I would think about it and left. That evening, I met the secretary of the sectoral committee and we discussed it. He called a meeting of his committee, who decided that it would be best for us if I was transferred, because our friends in my brother’s battalion had split up and the organisation was in danger of disintegrating. I called a meeting of our steering committee and explained the situation to them. They reluctantly accepted the decision. Two days later, I was being transferred to the 86th battalion. There, I met my brother for the first time after four whole years. We talked for hours. Among other things, he told me that he, too, belonged to our organisation and informed me of certain situations which needed to be dealt with. Page 159 of 371

Contact with Italian Communists Now I had to make contact with the local Italian communists. They helped us by providing spaces for our meetings and even guarded us sometimes. From a note I had in my pocket, I had to locate Ketti Luigi. He would accompany us. The company to which I was transferred had moved into a large house which had been abandoned by a ‘Patronos’ (landowner). I noticed that, in one of the apartments, lived an Italian with his wife and young daughter. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and I was examining the portraits on the walls of the corridor. The portrait of Garibaldi caught my attention. I had read about him and had even visited his ossuary. A middle-aged man looked out from one of the rooms and in order to encourage him, I waved hello to him. He waved back kindly and asked me if I spoke Italian. From the way I replied, he understood that I spoke his language. He was encouraged and after closing the door behind him he came near me. “Do you know who that is?” he asked me, in the same kindly manner. “Yes, it’s the Great Garibaldi, one of the heroes of the Italian people,” I replied and added, “I visited his ossuary, in his birthplace.” “And you? What are you?” he asked me in a flattering way, not wanting to be misunderstood for his rudeness and ignorance. “Cypriots,” I told him, “Greek Cypriots.” He was confused. “How is it that you are in the British army?” I explained that Cyprus was a British colony and that we enlisted voluntarily to fight for the destruction of fascism. He was surprised. He gave me his hand. “We are brothers,” he declared, “I too, am anti-fascist.” We were interrupted by his missus, who was calling him back for reasons I found out later. I went back down the stairs, left the house and started walking towards the centre of the village. It was a small village but it had a town council. I asked the first person I came across where to find Ketti Luigi. “That’s the mayor,” he replied and willingly pointed out his house. Page 160 of 371

I walked over to it and knocked on the door. The door was opened by a girl of about eighteen to twenty years of age. “What are you looking for?” she asked me, a little frightened. “Ketti Luigi, please,” I told her. “But this is the house of Peneriketti Luigi,” she said, but before she could continue the voice of her father was heard from inside the house. “Who is it Elite?” he asked. “It’s a soldier looking for Ketti Luigi,” his daughter said, as he appeared at the door. “What do you want with him?” he asked me, “he is my cousin.” “I have a note for him, from some friends of his,” I explained. “Fine,” he said. “Do you see that hill? There is a large house near a church. That’s where he lives, you will find him on the second floor.” “But that’s where I am staying,” I said. “Is he a middle-aged man?” I went on to describe him. “That’s him,” he said. I thanked him and left. On the way, I was cursing myself for not even asking the man I met in the corridor to tell me his name. I went straight upstairs, knocked on his door and when he opened it, I asked him: “Are you Ketti Luigi?” He looked at me in amazement. “But you….aren’t you.” I interrupted him by handing over the note. As soon as he read it, he put his arms around me and kissed me. “I suspected it from the way you spoke to me earlier,” he said, “but you never know who you are dealing with. After all, how could I imagine that there are such men in the army? Tonight, you must join us for dinner.” I accepted his invitation. “With your permission, I would like to bring my brother,” I told him. “Certainly,” he said, “but we don’t have much to offer.” “Whatever is available,” I told him and left. Page 161 of 371

I told my brother all about the invitation and he was happy to come along. In the evening, we arrived there together. We brought with us a bag full of tinned meat, soap, chocolates and salt. They had prepared spaghetti and smoked ham. We ate and drank quite a lot of wine. I explained what we needed and he told me to leave it to him. We became friends. Elite, the mayor’s daughter, joined our circle. She found reasons to visit her aunt. Many evenings I walked her home. I think she fancied me, but I had no time for such things. In the meantime, I had a meeting with the secretary of our organisation in my new battalion. We agreed to have a large meeting, as large as we could without being found out, in the hope that we could put things into some kind of order. I told him that I had already made a connection and that the space was available. He breathed a sigh of relief. Mauridis was a good comrade but he was downhearted by the situation. That evening, we had our meeting in an isolated house belonging to a “Kontantinos”. (Kontantinos is the tenant and Patronos is the feudalist) [68]. There were about fifteen of us representing our company and according to Maurides, we were the key members. Maurides, in his capacity of secretary, said a few words as an introduction and we began the discussion. Almost everyone took part and they all came to the same conclusion. Our battalion needed reorganisation. “Friends,” Maurides began, in a tone of self-criticism and belief in what he was about to do, “it is clear that I have not been able to guide the battalion. We have among us our friend A. Kleanthous, whose name is known to all of us. I propose this friend to take over the position of General Secretary, in the certainty that he is the most suitable among us.” Everyone agreed. It was my turn to speak. “Friends,” I began, “our battalion needs a lot of work. With your help and in the spirit of collective guidance, we can make our battalion the envy of other battalions.” I spoke for a few more minutes and after the applause and the vote, I was unanimously declared the General Secretary. It was hard work. Relationships between key people had soured over time and they hated each other. It took many meetings and extensive discussions to repair them. The organisation had to be reconstructed. In the end, the members were happy and willing to throw themselves at the work again. 68. In his brief bracketed comment, the author is making an attempt to explain the feudal system (see additional notes at the end of the book for a full explanation) Page 162 of 371

When the British Governor of Cyprus came to visit us and after a decision by the sectoral committee, we demanded that he received our delegation. Specifically, we had lined up in a square, which was covered with snow, to salute the Governor. When he passed on greetings from home and praised us for our role, we were ordered to disperse. Nobody moved. We all remained standing to attention. The major was puzzled. “What’s going on?” he asked Maurides, who was the interpreter. He pretended that he knew nothing and asked: “What’s going on boys?” I took a step forward, snapped to attention, saluted in the direction of the major and the Governor and said: “Our delegation requests an audience with the Governor.” Maurides translated it. The major turned to the Governor and, after saluting him, they discussed our demand. They called Maurides to translate. Maurides, who was just translating what he was told, said: “His excellency says that it is not part of his schedule to accept delegations.” Many voices were heard in unison: “We will not disperse unless he agrees to receive our delegation.” In the meantime, I had returned to my place in the line. Maurides, who was translating but also adding comments of his own, managed to persuade the Governor to receive our delegation. He turned to us and shouted with a satisfied smile: “Alright boys, now you can disperse.” The five members of the delegation had already been selected the night before. It was also decided that I would do all the talking. Therefore, it was important that I chose my words carefully and to emphasize the things we were going there to demand. “Your excellency,” I began when we were in front of the Governor, who seemed bemused by what was happening, “we believe that, as volunteers, we are and will continue to do our duty, worthily, until the end of the war. However, we want to be certain that after the end of the war, the government of Great Britain will keep its promise to give our people the right to self-governance. After all, this is our reason for fighting and for our sacrifices.” “This is not my decision,” he said, “I will convey it to the government.” We left there, knowing full well that the British government may never hear our demands. What we knew for certain was that we won a battle. We would send a copy of our petition to our homeland; it would be published in newspapers and we would secure the respect of our people. Page 163 of 371

We remained at this place for about a month. ‘Terra-Del-Sole’, [69] that was the name of the village, was built on a small plain, surrounded by low and cultivated hills. It was a green and beautiful landscape. Laid to ruin, by the ravages of war, it resembled a dejected child, abandoned by its mother. One day I said to Luigi: “If I am able to and if the end of the war finds me alive, I will return to this place.” “I would very much like to see you again,” he said, with a deep sigh. The day we left the separation was painful for both of us. “We will meet again,” I told him, in hope. During our time here, we lived through some shocking events. We secured the affection and hospitality of the Italians. By contrast, the Italians closed their doors to the Poles. A Polish artillery battalion had camped in the same area, to have a rest. They got it into their heads that we spread rumours about them and they were very angry with us. One day, they killed a comrade called Panayiotis Violaris in cold blood. They found him having a drink at the house of an Italian friend. When the Italian refused to let them in, they drew their pistols and planted seven bullets in the belly of the unsuspecting Panayiotis. By the time the ambulance made it to the hospital in Forli, he was dead. We were all dismayed. Not only that, but a few days later, another friend called Mihalis came running to our company to inform us that the Poles had struck and then shot another comrade called Makris, who was at a house with two friends having a good time. Makris was a big, good- looking boy, with a heart of gold, who never harmed anyone. A group of about five or six lads picked up their arms spontaneously and went looking for Makris. A comrade called Kambanellaris, who respected me and often asked for my advice, approached me, showed me his automatic weapon and before I could prevent him, he said: “I will get my revenge with this. No one can stop me,” and he was gone before I could do anything. It was dusk. We heard a shot, followed by a burst of automatic fire. We didn’t know what to expect. Did they get Kambanellaris too, we wondered? Before long, we saw him coming back, saying: “The bastards, I’ll show them.” Before midnight, we found out from the team which went looking for Makris, that they had found him and had taken him to the hospital. He was hit by two bullets in the leg. He was like a brother to Kambanellaris. 69. ‘Tera-Del-Sole’ is about 25 kilometres South/East of Monte Mauro, near the town of Forli, in the direction of Rimini. It is approximately 65 kilometres North/West of Rimini. Page 164 of 371

I wasn’t far from Kambanellaris, who was lying on his bed, and I heard him murmur: “I showed them.” I went up to him and asked him what happened. In a tone of triumph and satisfaction, he narrated: “The first man I came across was a Pole. I dropped him with my first bullet. Then, I went up to him and blew his brains out with a burst of automatic fire. Let them do it again,” he concluded uneasily. The next day we were taken to see our victim. The interrogations that followed naturally failed to find the guilty party. That was it. Headquarters ordered that the Poles be moved away from the area to avoid further incidents. Page 165 of 371

Back to Rimini – Mussolini is Executed – Celebrations So, we were moving out of Terra-Del-Sole, leaving behind two good comrades. Our destination was Rimini. We wondered why we were moving backwards instead of forwards. On the way – on foot, as usual – we were told that the front had fallen, that the Germans had been decimated and that the partisans prevailed in Northern Italy. The remaining Germans had been taken prisoner. We celebrated with exuberance. Shots in the air, cries of joy, mutual kissing, shouts of hurrah and celebratory drinks. We got carried away and before long we were all under the influence! How could we not celebrate such news? The war may not be over, but at least the enemy had been driven out of this country. From this moment on, our marching changed. Whereas before and for a long time, we would march in low spirits and without saying a word, now we walked singing songs of triumph, scattering joy everywhere we passed and changing the heavy mournful atmosphere to a joyous one. The girls would rush up to us excitedly, kiss us and give us flowers. It was a pleasant march, a good march, a march full of belief in life. We reached Rimini and camped just outside. The very next day, the steering committee was having a meeting in an isolated area, under some trees, as we hadn’t yet made contact with anyone. We were nearly finished when we heard the church bells of the city ringing. I interrupted the meeting. “Something serious must have happened,” I said, “this is the first time I’ve heard bell ringing since we arrived in this country.” Everyone agreed that we had to go to the city to find out what happened. We found out that Mussolini had disguised himself and tried to cross the border into Switzerland. He was caught by the partisans and executed after a decision by a Peoples’ Court. We also found out that the progressive parties had organised a festive gathering in the city square, where their leaders would make speeches. We decided to take part as a group. We went back to the camp and gave the signal. From my sack, I unfolded a white flag, on which Elite had embroidered a red hammer and sickle. I grabbed one of the posts holding up the tent, tied the flag to it, hoisted it up high and went to the front of the procession. It was spontaneous and reckless. We were giving ourselves away. Naturally, the military authorities had an idea about our actions, but they couldn’t work out exactly what we were trying to achieve. Now they would know. They were puzzled, but before they could stop us, we left for the square. When we reached the crowd, they opened up a path for us to get to the front, applauding us enthusiastically. We were soon standing in front of the podium. Behind us, the corridor closed up. Page 166 of 371

The leader of the partisans was the first to climb up to the podium and he began with: “Long live our comrade freedom fighters, our Cypriot comrades.” It’s impossible to describe what happened next. The crowd burst into a never-ending pandemonium of cheering. In the middle of all this noise, an armed partisan approached me and said: “The military police are looking for you, what shall we do?” I replied immediately, “get rid of them, otherwise they will arrest all of us and….” He was gone before I finished. A little later, we were informed that the partisans pointed their guns at the military police and forced them to leave the square. They advised us to leave quietly, one by one and that’s just what we did. We got back to the camp as if nothing had happened. Our major, gave instructions for our actions to be covered, perhaps in fear that he may have been seriously embarrassed. And that’s how we got away with it. The charge would have been that we took part in a political gathering, something which was forbidden by military regulations. We didn’t get away scot-free though. For some time, we had to discontinue our activities because we were under close scrutiny. One day, I received a note from an ice-cream seller, who moved freely in and out of the camp. He discreetly asked where to find the man who carried the banner at the gathering, to offer him an ice-cream and they brought him to me. Together with the ice-cream, he handed me a note. It said: “Comrade A, I will be waiting for you, at 6pm, under the statue of Hercules. In friendship, Ε.Γ. ΚΚΙ.” [70] They had found out about me from the associations. When I got close to the statue, a middle-aged man came up to me, whispered “follow me” and walked on as if nothing happened. Not far from us, there was a military police patrol. I followed him. We walked around for a while and found the offices of the party. He went in and after I made sure no one followed us, I followed him in. The middle-aged man was waiting for me. “Come with me comrade,” he said, “they are waiting for you upstairs.” We climbed up to the third floor and went in. “Are they in?” he asked a girl who was sitting behind a desk, looking at us curiously. “Yes,” I heard her say, “they are waiting for you.” We went past her, to where several people stopped writing and stared at us. Finally, my escort knocked on a door, opened it after a response and we entered a large room, which was obviously the conference room. About twenty friends who were sitting around the table stood up to greet us with sweet smiles. 70. Ε.Γ. ΚΚΙ – The author does not explain the meaning of these letters. However, it is reasonable to assume that the first two letters are the sender’s initials and the second three stand for the ‘Κομμουνιστικο Κομμα Ιταλιας’ which means Communist Party of Italy. Page 167 of 371

“Good evening,” I greeted them. “Good evening,” came the reply from many lips. I recognised one of them. He was the one who came to warn me in the square. He approached me and offered me his hand in a very friendly manner. We shook hands warmly. “Comrades,” I heard him say, “this is comrade A. who is the one recommended by G.R. from Forli, in his letter, having obtained information from our people in Terra- Del-Sole.” I went around the table and shook hands with everyone present. The general secretary gestured for me to sit next to him. “So, tell us comrade, what happened to you? We expected you, after we received the letter.” “Following our participation in the gathering, we had to be careful. They are watching us. Unfortunately, we paid a price for our mistake.” “Whatever price you had to pay cannot be compared with what you offered us. The morale of the party members, particularly the ones who took part in the gathering and saw you in the crowd, has risen sky high. You cannot perceive with what enthusiasm they are talking about you and the party.” I smiled with satisfaction. “I am glad to hear it comrades,” I said. “Tell us about you, comrade,” said the man on the other side of me who, I found out later, was the organisational secretary. “I expect you know all about us from the press, but we want to know about you. We are all full of curiosity.” They all looked at me expectantly and impatiently, as if their future depended on what I was about to say. I realised that I had an obligation to explain who we were, how we came to be here, our purpose and our goals and finally, what we represented. I went through everything and finished with a confirmation that we would continue our fight, even after the war, for the self-determination of our people. Warm applause followed. “Comrade,” the general secretary announced, “in your honour, the party is organising a dance this coming Saturday. What do you think of the idea? We think it will be a good way for our members to meet all of you and vice versa. What do you say?” “It’s a good idea,” I replied nodding, “as long as we can find a way to keep from being found out.” Page 168 of 371

They looked at each other. “It looks like we are the ones who have made a mistake this time, because we already sent out invitations, before we asked you,” confessed the organisational secretary. After some discussion, we concluded that only fifteen of us would take part and there would be no public announcement that we would be attending. We said our goodbyes and I left. At the dance, a surprise was waiting for us. There was plenty of food and fifteen girls to give us a good time. A few days later, when I met the general secretary again, he asked me: “What happened comrade, didn’t you like the girls? They all complained that you didn’t complete your contact.” I must have changed colour with embarrassment. I explained: “It was my idea to recommend to the boys that we should be careful. They cooperated under protest. ‘Are you trying to make saints out of us?’ complained a ‘palikari’ (see page 72 for palikari) who looked like he could have made love twenty times a night. It was my mistake. You see, back home we are very conservative about these things. How can I explain? We respect hospitality!” And to atone, I added: “Another time.” Naturally, there was no other time because a few days later, we were moved somewhere else. We crossed Italy, down to Taranta [71]. Everywhere we passed, they treated us like old friends. They knew us. They met us through their party. They were much bolder after the fall of Mussolini and they expressed themselves without fear. The partisans kept their arms and were making claims to power in Italy. We had been cut off from the other battalions and we lost contact with the sectoral committee. However, we were informed, confidentially, that the partisans were getting ready to take control by force. We had to make a decision. For all intents and purposes, we were British soldiers and in the event of an armed reckoning, we would be given the order to fire on the partisans. What would we do? There was no hesitation. “We must pick up our guns and join the partisans,” was the decision. A brave but dangerous decision, but there it was. Luckily, it did not have to be carried out because, for reasons I never understood, things didn’t get to that point. In any case, as we moved further south, we realised that the Anglo/Americans were protecting the power and control of the country, for the benefit of the class they firmly supported. 71. Taranta is about 320 kilometres South/East of Rimini and 220 kilometres east of Rome. Page 169 of 371

Waiting to be Sent Home We reached Taranta, where we had to hand over our mules. They left for an unknown destination, most likely the far east. In Europe, the fronts were falling one after the other, but in the far east, the war was raging. We were expecting to be moved again and there were rumours that we would be sent home. One afternoon, news of an unpleasant event blew up like a bomb. The first battalion was arrested by the British and was in a camp behind barbed wire. The excuse was that they refused to eat lunch, in protest for the behaviour of a sergeant who struck a trooper violently for dereliction of duty. The real reason was that the military hierarchy had decided to break us and had given instructions that all battalions should be treated harshly. You see, they had done their job and now the old, tough, animal discipline had to be re-imposed. It became clear that they intended to form a permanent force, from the ranks of the enlisted men, contrary to our efforts to be demobilised. I tried to contact Yiannis Sofocli, who was held prisoner with his battalion, but I did not succeed. We had to do something. The next day three battalions, including ours, began a hunger strike as a protest against the arrest of the first battalion. We were surrounded by armoured vehicles. We expected arrests. It was a significant day because we heard the news on the radio that in Britain, the Labour Party under the leadership of Atlee, had come to power. We celebrated the fact, as a victory for progressive forces. Perhaps this was one of the reasons, but in any case, the armoured vehicles withdrew. The second day, the general invited us to see him and explain what we were after. After outlining a whole load of threats, he advised us to break the hunger strike. A Cypriot, whose name was Palmas and who held the rank of captain, was acting as an interpreter. “Please tell the general that we did not expect such treatment. We are the same people that, until recently, the BBC from London in its eulogy described as war heroes.” He translated. “Tell him also, that we are determined to continue our hunger strike, to the death if necessary, unless the first battalion is released.” The interpreter was seething. He wasn’t expecting me – this little man – to stand up to the great general. “Your duty,” I recommended, “do your duty.” Page 170 of 371

When the general heard what the interpreter said, he threw his pen across his desk angrily and growled: “We’ll see!” and he gestured for us to be taken away. The armed guards took us back to our battalion. The second day passed without a bite to eat. The strike was a hundred percent successful. Our stomachs were definitely complaining, but no one fainted. Around noon on the third day, the major called us to his office. This was a new major, a very nice man, who had replaced our old major a few days earlier. “Sit down boys,” he offered with a strange smile. We were somewhat confused, but we sat down. He offered us good quality biscuits. “Oh, no,” I said and looked around at the remaining delegation, as if to say, take care it’s a trick. He understood. “Boys,” he said convincingly, “you won. I have instructions to convey to you that at this moment, your comrades are being released and taken back to their camp. Confidentially, I want to tell you that I admire your efforts.” As a matter of fact, there were no repercussions on our battalion, in contrast with the others where they imposed tough exercise regimes on the hungry soldiers. “Boys, I give you my word,” the major said seriously, “that I am telling you the truth and you must not doubt it.” I stood up, put on my cap and saluted him. “Thank you for the news, sir,” I told him, “you can confirm that our hunger strike is over. We believe you.” And I signalled to the rest that it was time to leave. “If you don’t mind,” he suggested, “sit down, let’s have a cup of tea together and get to know each other better.” We sat back down. He ordered tea for us, accompanied by a load of biscuits and chocolates. We were so hungry I have no idea how many we scoffed down during the conversation. In the meantime, I had sent back a member of our delegation to inform the others of the end of the strike, which was received with victory chants. We discussed the political developments and in particular the success of the Labour Party in Britain. Page 171 of 371

“Boys,” he said, and I remember his statement well. “The Labour Party may have won the election, but the policies of a country don’t change easily. So, you need to be careful.” It was a good lesson for us who, after all, didn’t really know what the Labour Party stood for. When we left the major’s office, the troopers welcomed us with cries of victory. Later, when we eventually met the others in the sectoral committee and assessed the situation, we confirmed that we were being watched and that we had to be careful. However, we also confirmed something else. The military authorities intended to reorganise the troops and convert us from volunteers to a permanent force, to serve their purposes. We had to react. Our slogan now was demobilisation. Page 172 of 371

Back to Our Homeland The allies had landed in Europe and the army of the Soviet Union literally swept the invading forces from the opposite side. The destruction and final defeat of Nazism was now a matter of days away. Most battalions were repatriated, including our own. When I was given leave to go home, I felt like a stranger among my family. The people I left were not the same people I found. For example, my younger sister, whom I left as a little girl, was now a woman and my mother had aged, as if she carried the weight of time on her shoulders and it left its mark. It had been five whole years since I left them to join the army. Back then, I thought and spoke differently. Now, I was a different man. It was hard for us to find a common line of communication. My poor mother had made a vow to Apostle Andreas, that she would light a candle to him for my safe return, the same size as me and this had to be carried out. For me, these things were childish beliefs and we clashed. The saint, I told her, has no need for candles. It’s better that we save our money and put it towards a dowry for my younger sister. She wouldn’t have it. When I was on my own, I tried to convince myself to pretend, for the sake of my family, but sometimes honesty prevailed and I gave myself away. My mother took it upon herself to marry me off with promises of girls with dowries and property. Here we clashed seriously. My principles were different. The woman I married would be my soulmate, not my buyer. In this I was unyielding. Page 173 of 371

Slogan for Demobilisation When we returned from leave, we found ourselves in the middle of a reorganisation. The battalions were being transformed from transport to infantry and given new names and numbers. Before we could react, they rounded up about forty key members they had obviously been watching and they exiled us to the camps at Polemidia. When we arrived, they locked us up in a tin hut and forbade us from coming into contact with the new recruits, in an effort to isolate us. In the end they achieved nothing, because by then the slogan for demobilisation had dominated. The first battalion to be reformed was ordered to get on trucks to be transported to Famagusta, from where they would leave for an unknown destination. The troopers refused to get in the trucks and they were made to walk. It was around sixty kilometres. When they reached the port and were ordered to embark on the ship, once again they refused. The result was that a brave lad who was the first to stand up to the intimidation squad, was shot and killed. His sacrifice did not go to waste. They put them all in camps surrounded by barbed wire, but this incident became the reason for the mothers to rise up, demanding the release of their sons and that’s how the plans of the authorities were thwarted. They changed tack, using different methods. They called each soldier in on their own and offered them all sorts of inducements, including rank, to join the permanent army. Nobody fell for it and they had to abandon these methods too. One particular battalion, which was still in Egypt, was behind barbed wire because they asked to be demobilised. This was our payment for the sacrifices we made in the war, in the fight for the destruction of fascism! Six more months would go by before it was my turn to be discharged. They kept pressing us to remain permanent. They turned us into plain workers, unpaid naturally. We cut rocks in Athalassa [72] and transported them to Gerolakkos [72] for the construction of the airport. I was put in charge of lighting the fuses for the explosive charges. It was dangerous work and I had many sleepless nights with worry. 72. Athalassa and Gerolakkos are near Nicosia (see additional notes at the end of the book for more information) Page 174 of 371

My Engagement It was exactly at this time that I decided to get married. An old family friend from our time at Mavrovouni, suggested his sister-in-law. We made a date to meet at ‘Hajisavva’ a restaurant/club in Nicosia, considered to be the most luxurious. We exchanged a few words and went our separate ways. Her name was ‘Maroulla’. She was a gentle, kind and unpretentious girl. I wondered if this was the right person for me. I considered it from all sides. What was I looking for? A woman who would understand me and help me, who wouldn’t make too many demands and above all would be faithful to me. I detected that this woman possessed these qualities. And without asking anyone from my family, I gave my word. When I informed my family of my decision, they all expressed reservations. They loved me and didn’t know what kind of person I was getting involved with. They didn’t want me to be wasted. Naturally, nothing could change my mind. I had made a decision and, in any case, it was too late because I had given my word. A few days later, I went to her village and made a formal commitment. I prepared the dowry contract with my own hand and we exchanged rings in the presence of God and men. I met the family I was joining. Parents, with an alcoholic father, four sons and three daughters. The first daughter was married to my matchmaker who was now my brother-in-law and all the others were single, with three of them still very young. The eldest brother, Kostas, was in the army and behind barbed wire in Egypt, with the battalion which had been imprisoned for wanting to demobilise. Her village, a tiny, remote village called ‘Paliomilos’, [73] was hidden in lush green, on the western side of Troodos mountain. It was spring and I remember, when I woke up in the morning, I found myself among the scent of cherry trees, the song of nightingales and the magical sound of streams as they burbled over the rocks. It created the impression that you lived in a heavenly world. I was content. I had chosen well. When I returned to the camp and visited my family, I announced my engagement. My eldest sister Eleni observed: “You did everything on your own, don’t ever try to complain.” They all agreed, as if they were washing their hands of the matter. 73. ‘Paliomilos’ or ‘Paleomylos’ to give it its official name, means ‘Old Mill’. Indeed, there were watermills in the village for many years until the big streams dried up (see additional notes at the end of the book for more information). Page 175 of 371

Demobilised and at the Troodos Mine Soon afterwards, I was discharged from the army. My entire wardrobe consisted of: A badly made suit, underwear, a shirt and a tie, together with a trilby which was only suitable for a masquerade. I got dressed – how strange I looked to myself – and left the camp behind me, after five and a half years of my life. As a civilian, I joined a group of other citizens, firstly in the direction of the city and from there to my birthplace. I had to take care of myself before going to my fiancée. I had to dress properly, buy a mattress and generally settle down. I waited about a month for what the army owed me. I received £112 pounds sterling. This was a one-off payment and my entire pension, after five and a half years of service, together with four medals, each representing victory in the four fronts where I participated. I prepared myself as much as the money allowed and went to join my new family. I realised straight away that I was joining a poor family and that I had to find a job as soon as possible. Many of the workers in the area worked in the chromium mine, which they called “the wet grave” and which was near the top of Mount Troodos. From Paliomilos to the work area, it was about five kilometres. I joined the workers from the village and we followed the route which took us up through Prodromos, a village which was thriving with tourism and from there almost vertically to the work area. In total, a two-hour journey, all uphill! When we reached the highest point, my brother-in-law consoled me: “Golgotha (Calvary) ends here! We call this point, Amen.” I said that I was a metalworker and the company took me on straight away because they needed someone to complete the shifts. The next day I went to work on the midnight to 8am shift. The wages were three shillings a day. I gave two shillings for my maintenance and kept one for my personal needs. I realised that I would pay a stiff price for my engagement. The miners were not well organised and their power was limited. Most of them found excuses not to join Π.Ε.Ο. [74] even though they had so much to fight for! The duties of secretary were carried out by a character who was drunk most of the time. A great deal of work was required. At the annual general meeting of the federation, I was appointed area secretary (I was already area secretary of Α.Κ.Ε.Λ.). Clearly there could be no progress under the existing secretary. 74. Π.Ε.Ο. (Παγκυπρια Εργατικη Ομοσπονδια) stands for: Pancyprian Workers' Federation. It is an umbrella organisation of the left-wing trade unions of Cyprus. Page 176 of 371

Within a short time, we organised almost all the workers from about ten villages in the area. We transferred the offices of Π.Ε.Ο. from Prodromos to Paliomilos in spite of the objections of the workers of Prodromos. Paliomilos became a workers’ centre. Party guidance was also provided from here to four villages on the west side of Troodos, even though administratively they belonged to the District of Limassol. At the same time, we formed an educational society, which was joined by the village farmers. I was the secretary of all three of these organisations. My colleagues admired me for managing it. On the other hand, my fiancée was complaining that I neglected her. She was not wrong. After all, we had so much to do. We had to build a house, furnish it and save up for the wedding. These things were in fact promised to me and were recorded in the dowry contract, but how could this family respond when they only just managed to feed so many mouths. And it wasn’t in my character to demand it. I had to take the initiative. We dug the side of the mountain with friends who volunteered to help us. On Sundays, we carried stones, sand and gravel and we helped my brother-in-law, Kostas, who was a builder. He had finally been discharged from the army. He managed to build the walls, ready for the roof. Here, now, was the big problem. The roof required money. Whether we used roof tiles or corrugated zinc we had to have money. During the previous two years of work, I had managed to save twenty pounds. So, one day I went to Nicosia, bought sixty empty barrels of tarmac and transported them to the site. The villagers were wondering what I was planning to do. I opened them up, flattened them, burned off the tar and used them to make the roof of my new home. Everyone admired my flexibility. Now, for the furniture. In the meantime, we had presented, for the second time, our list of requests to the company. The company remained uncompromising. It had its reasons. Around this time, new unions were appearing. The management of the company took the initiative to organise the workers in these new unions. They knew that by breaking up the workers, they would achieve their purpose. The company stumbled on our militant refusal, so it had to hit us hard. Where we were expecting the company to give way, it announced in letters sent to the key members individually that our services were no longer required. Π.Ε.Ο. was unable to help us. It was already having to deal with a major strike at Mavrovouni and we became the victims. We were left without work or protection. I put in a request to the party to allow me to move somewhere else to find work. The reply was plain and clear: I had to remain in the area, at any sacrifice. I looked for work. A relative was working as a quarrier and he let me join him. We used heavy hammers to break up granite rocks, split them up into smaller pieces and sold them to the building trade. My earnings were lower now. Page 177 of 371

I finally managed to buy some cheap furniture, furnished my house and we had the wedding. It was a big festival which lasted four days. Only my family frowned when they saw how I lived. I saved some grosia from the wedding. I bought the necessary tools, a bellows, anvil, heavy hammer and hammers. I put up a bench and a vice in an old house that I rented and began making farmers’ tools. The villagers supported me, but there were so few of them that within a few days I satisfied all their needs. With disappointment I realised that my effort had failed. I managed to keep going for ten to twelve months. Page 178 of 371

The Move to Nicosia In the meantime, we had a visit from the District Secretary of the party who came to promote a plan of action. After the meeting, I took him aside and we discussed my problem in great detail. He promised me that he would raise it with the Central Committee and let me know. He appeared to understand. Indeed, a few days later, I received a letter which gave me the freedom to move. I explained to my wife my proposal to move to Nicosia and she raised no objection. I informed the family of my decision and they accepted it with obvious pain for the separation. In the meantime, I had my first child, Nikiforos. I felt like a different man when I became a father. My joy was indescribable, but at the same time my responsibilities were growing. I had one more mouth to feed and not only that, I had the child’s future to consider. I went to Nicosia and with the help of the committee of the Mechanical Engineers’ Union, I found work the same day. I rented a room and the next day I brought my family. My boss was a progressive man who helped me understand the work quickly. The treasurer of the union worked for the same man. After about a month, I acquired a bicycle, which helped me get around. I took part in the meetings of the committee of the union as an observer. In one of the meetings, the question of the members’ subscriptions was raised. The names of the members with overdue subscriptions were divided between those present, so that they would collect the subscriptions. One of the committee members, a lathe turner, expressed misgivings. When his turn came to accept the list of names he asked: “Do I have to chase these people to their own homes?” I became indignant at this butter boy’s resentment. “Colleague,” I said to him, “this is just a game, up on the mountain, we had to work hard.” And to illustrate what I meant, I mentioned the following incident: “We had declared a strike. It was a Saturday and the workers had to be notified. I got up at 6am on Sunday morning and headed to ‘Gerakies’ which is about five to six kilometres away. There was at least a foot and half of snow on the ground and further up it was still snowing. I had meetings in Gerakies, Kalopanayiotis, Moutoullas, Pedoulas, from there on to the top, where the mine was, where I informed the workers who lived in company accommodation. Page 179 of 371

Then on to Prodromos, down to Lemythou and back at Paliomilos by 9.00 pm that evening.” [75] And to make the story more pleasant, I added “It was during ‘Tirofagou [76] and I found them all celebrating. I was gone after the first glass!” I laughed. They were looking at each other, wondering if it was possible. “There was no other way,” I added, noticing their hesitation to believe it. A friend called Christodoulos, who worked with me and knew what we went through, added: “And all these efforts were ruined by the new unions, imagine what they could do to us, when we are worried about just visiting five colleagues.” The lathe turner, whose name was Kokos, was embarrassed. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll do what I can.” In Nicosia, we settled down and were fairly comfortable. We had a good income for that time and we managed. I even managed to save £100 and I put it down as a deposit for half a plot of land valued at £250. We had the mayoral elections with Ioannis Klerides as our party’s candidate and Themistoklis Dervis his opponent, and we won. How disappointed we were, when the very next day he rejected the requests made by the street cleaners. It was the time when the party was fighting for self-determination. A decision was made to have an unusual demonstration. We had to run across all the city’s major roads, so that the bloodhounds did not have time to take our details. 75. These are all villages around the top of the Troodos mountains and near Paliomilos. In total it was a round trip of around 65 kilometres. To put it into perspective, a marathon is 42 kilometres. 76. Tirofagou is part of the traditional celebrations for the three-week Carnival in Greece and Cyprus. The first week is Profoni (prelude), the second week is Kreatini (meat week), the third week is Tirofagou (cheese week). Fasting begins on Kathara Deftera, (Clean Monday), which marks the start of Τεσσαρακοστή (Tessarakosti) in Cypriot ‘Sarakosti’ (Great Lent) which lasts for 40 days and ends on Easter Sunday. Page 180 of 371

So, with the union’s offices our starting point, we spilled out like a torrent and we shook the city with our loud slogans for self-determination. Unfortunately, the paid servants of British colonialism were waiting for us around a corner and before we knew it, we had been photographed. One day, one of these bloodhounds provocatively showed me a photograph, in which I could be seen running with my mouth open, shouting slogans. “I have you in my hand,” he told me triumphantly, “you will not get away from me.” I took it as nothing more than an attempt to scare me and I didn’t pay much attention to it. However, this and other things, were used as evidence for my subsequent arrest. Page 181 of 371

To Paphos It must have been fifteen months since I came to the city, when one day I found a shopkeeper from Paphos waiting for me in the union’s offices. He was a friend called Yiasonis, who was not only a member of the party, but also a member of the Paphos District Committee of the party. He was looking for two craftsmen to take with him to Paphos, with increased wages, to help him with some orders he had taken. He couldn’t find good craftsmen in Paphos and he declared that he did not have the ability himself. The order was for a line of shops and included roller shutters and folding doors, made of steel metal. A big job at that time. The only member of the union’s committee who specialised in this kind of work was me. Yiasonis, had brought with him a letter from Yiannis Sofocli, who was now the party’s District Secretary in Paphos. The letter was requesting that the craftsman be well versed in the workings of the party and have the ability to help the movement in Paphos. They all looked at me questioningly. “Colleagues,” said Zaharias Philippides, the secretary of the union, “the only one with the necessary qualifications, is our colleague Andreas. But it’s not so simple. If we all agree, we have to put it to the committee of the party here in Nicosia. And first of all, we have to ask Andreas himself.” From the first moment I appreciated this friend, who travelled so many miles to hire craftsmen through the party. In addition, I knew that I would be meeting an old comrade again in Yiannis Sofocli, with whom I had formed a brotherly bond, following the long-term cooperation we shared in the army. However, there were some financial issues. Yiasonis must have realised what was on my mind because he said: “If, in the end, comrade Andreas agrees to transfer, he should know that I will be responsible for all expenses associated with his move and also for his wages until he settles and can begin work.” “Colleagues,” I declared, “I am willing to transfer, naturally if the party agrees.” In a few days, I was on my way to Paphos, leaving behind a wife and child. I had to ensure that I could fit in with the new conditions before I left my home. Indeed, our skills were valuable in the province. The second craftsman hired by Yiasonis was a colleague from Famagusta. He was a good craftsman but a difficult man. We clashed quite often. My friend, Yiannis Sofocli, was relieved to hear that I was staying in Paphos. He was burdened with so many duties, that at times they brought him to his knees. I always took part in the meetings of the District Committee. Someone suggested that I take charge of the trade union movement and everyone agreed. Page 182 of 371

The Earthquake of 1953 It was at this time that we experienced the great calamity of 1953 [77]. It was at exactly 6.10 one morning and I had just started work (we worked overtime), when the earth started shaking from its very foundations, under our feet. “Out,” I shouted, as soon as I realised that it was an earthquake and I found myself in a small square, from where I watched the horror caused by man’s most insidious enemy. I saw the minarets of the mosques moving like conifers in a strong wind, houses being destroyed in front of my very eyes, as if they were made of straw. I could hear screams of fear and horror all around me, mixed with a strange hum, caused by the vibration and the destruction. The human imagination cannot describe what took place during the sixteen seconds that the disaster lasted. Finally, the vibration stopped, but the houses which had already been damaged continued to fall down. I heard a voice in broken Greek, calling me. “Mastro (a distorted version of mastre) Andrea, my old lady – he meant his mother – is under the rubble, help me.” I ran to him. I knew him. He was a middle-aged Turk, who still lived with his mother, an old lady of seventy. I would see her sometimes, wearing her niqab, going to the fountain for water. I looked at where he was pointing. “This is where she sleeps,” he told me. She is no longer sleeping, I thought to myself, or rather she will never wake up. The whole of the two-storey building had fallen on top of where she slept. “Neighbour forget her,” I said to him. “Nothing can be done. ‘Zoe se logou sou’. [78] He burst into sobs and without realising what he was doing, he picked up a shovel and began trying to uncover her. She was finally uncovered by a bulldozer three days later. 77. The earthquake took place on 10 September 1953 and it registered 6.1 on the Richter scale (see additional notes at the end of the book for more details). 78. ‘Zoe se logou sou’ (Greek: Ζωη σε λογου σου) means ‘life to yourself’ or ‘I wish you long life’. It is used when addressing someone whose relative or friend has passed away. It implies that nothing can be done for the one who passed away, but may you have a good and long life yourself. Page 183 of 371

I left him and ran towards the sound of children crying. A young woman covered in blood, wearing a night gown also covered in blood, was holding a young girl in her arms and was shouting: “My husband, my children.” I was trying to understand what was happening, when I saw a man coming out of the rubble, holding a bloodied child in his arms. “Our baby,” screamed the woman. I understood that there was another child in the rubble. I rushed, without considering the danger, into the opening the man came out of and I heard the sound of a baby crying coming from the other end of the room. The roof was almost touching the floor. I crawled in the direction of the crying. I found a baby, in a wooden cot, crying its eyes out. Part of the cot was holding up the roof and I couldn’t get to the baby. I managed to break one of the vertical planks of the cot, and I pulled the baby out through the hole I made. I held it in my arms and crawled out on my knees. “The baby is fine,” I said handing it over to its mother, who held me tightly in her arms and thanked me with eyes full of appreciation. I left them and ran further on. I found some men from the fire brigade, trying to save a family that was trapped in the rubble of their three-storey house. An aftershock scared us so much that we temporarily abandoned all our efforts. After the collapse of one of the building’s walls, we could hear a man and a woman calling for help. It was their bedroom. The firemen used a ladder to get them down, whilst they shouted, “our children, our parents, are under there.” I stood there shocked and frozen, staring at the rescue effort. A fireman made a hole on a wall using a digging bar and crawled in through the hole. Soon afterwards, five human souls came out of the hole, three children and two elderly people. I felt a sense of relief when I saw the family was saved. I don’t know how but I managed to recover from my confused state. I ran to the party’s offices. Just as I suspected, I found Yiannis Sofocli issuing instructions. The offices had been damaged but were still standing. No one dared to go inside. “Help me organise rescue teams,” Yiannis told me. Indeed, we managed to organise three such teams, which made a substantial contribution to the rescue effort. Almost all the town’s inhabitants had gathered in the central park, looking for their relatives. Fortunately, the casualties were low. Eleven dead and about a hundred wounded. All telecommunications were severed and we had no contact with other villages and towns. We gave instructions for three motorcyclists to head off in different directions to gather information. In the meantime, the aftershocks were coming one after the other and kept us pinned down in the park, where we had temporarily installed the Guiding Committee. We organised feeding teams and before long the park was full of food, but people had no appetite to eat. Page 184 of 371

Unclear and unconfirmed information started reaching us, which described the total destruction of villages with multiple casualties. Around lunchtime our messengers returned. We summarised the information. There were over a hundred victims and we were able to provide this information responsibly. At around 1pm, when some of the telephone lines were repaired, I stood in a queue to use the phone and managed to get through to my wife to tell her that I was alright. She told me that she was very worried and had been trying all morning to find me. The aftershocks continued, preventing anyone from going home. Yiannis called a meeting of the District Committee. The party had to play its part in this crisis. That night we remained awake and in the park. We needed an office. The next day, about thirty craftsmen got together and a couple of hours later, they had built us a tin hut. We installed a telephone and it became the information centre for quite some time. The solidarity of the people was very moving. The area surrounding our tin hut filled with food, donated by the public, and anyone who needed it could simply help themselves. The very next day, we were provided with tents to accommodate everyone. However, it was summer and most people preferred to sleep under trees. The town looked like it was haunted and the houses which were partly still standing looked like beasts with their mouths open, waiting for their prey. Only after four or five days, when the aftershocks stopped, did the people cautiously begin to return to their homes and their shops, looking for their possessions. The final report was published. One hundred and fourteen adults and children lost their lives and over six hundred were wounded, some seriously. The village of Stroumbi was almost totally demolished and had the most casualties. On the second day, we were visited by the leadership of the party who left Stelios with us. Stelios was a member of the Culture Committee of the party and also worked for ‘Democratis’, the party’s newspaper. We went back to work after an interruption of five to six days. The workshop survived the earthquake and the orders had to be fulfilled. Following all the destruction, extensive rebuilding had to take place, something which increased demand for the labour force. The house I lived in also survived. We settled down to work and life began to return to normality. I was placed within the trade union movement by Lambros Gonata, who was put in charge of the district of Paphos by Π.Ε.Ο. I was in charge of the youth movement. We developed a rich and varied programme of activities, particularly in the culture sector, including theatre, dance and various cultural events, with peace always our aim. Page 185 of 371

The Start of My Own Business In the meantime, having settled in, I brought my family to Paphos. It must have been about fifteen months since I arrived in Paphos myself. I can’t remember the reasons, but I had a big argument with my colleague from Famagusta and I walked out. Yiasonis pleaded with me to go back but I was resolute, because this character had made my life a misery. There were no other workshops in Paphos where I could work. There was only one solution. I had to start my own business. I discussed it with a colleague, a lathe turner who had his own workshop, and he willingly became my partner. We started with a capital of £60. We contributed £30 each. A few months later, I looked for a larger space. I moved to a new space in a newly built shop. The rent was ten times higher, but there was plenty of work. You see the earthquake had created these conditions. The work was going so well, I took on three workers. Among my regular customers was Rodosthenous, the president of the village of Arminou. He belonged to the extreme right and he knew that I was a key member of the left. Nevertheless, we had a very friendly relationship. He was a big farmer, who owned tractors and he was my customer for his tools and machines. Another customer was Nearhos Eliades, a hard-working man whose main business was transport and who had begun working with aggregate. I had made a breaking machine for him with large sieves for the processing of ‘koni’, a type of stone used for marble flooring. He was very excited with it. He had hired an old tar vat which he used for laying tar on roads, but it was an archaic system. So, he called me in and suggested that I make him a new one. I knew that this would be a big job and I had reservations. “You are the only one who can do it,” he declared. “Let me think about it,” I replied and left. My brain worked hard for twenty-four hours, until I concluded that not only could I make it, but also that I could make it automatic. I called Eliades and announced to him that I was starting work on the construction of the vat. He became very excited. He would visit us two to three times a day to witness the execution. “You are the devil,” he would say, “you can make anything you want!” About ten days later a modern machine, with all the mod cons, was ready for trials. The system for heating the tar used paraffin instead of wood; there was a pump for spraying the tar, instead of having to do it by hand; the wheels were made of rubber instead of iron, for easy transportation and many other facilities. Page 186 of 371

We transported it out of the town, filled it with tar and I signalled to the specialist holding the spout to start. The boiling tar came out with such force that the operator almost dropped it. Unfortunately, instead of coming out pulverised, it came out in big lumps. The operator shut it off and, trying to show off, shouted, “what nonsense, is this how we are expected to lay tar now?” I didn’t take it well. The cuckold, I thought to myself stubbornly. I put so much effort into this and he is dismissing it so easily. I considered what might have gone wrong. Everything had gone well, except for the way the tar came out of the spout. I realised the mistake. “Shortly,” I told the operator, with absolute certainty, “you will regret what you said.” The old vat was nearby. I took off its spout and used it in place of mine. “Come on, try again,” I told the operator. He turned it on. The tar came out with such pressure, you could hardly see it as it came out of the spout and blackened an area of about fifty centimetres. “There is too much pressure,” he shouted, “I can’t control it.” I ran to the regulator. “Tell me when it’s ok,” I shouted, and I began turning the regulator. At some point he signalled to me and I stopped. Nearhos, who was watching in suspense, took the spout from the operator and began spraying tar on the ground, to confirm that what he was seeing was real and not a figment of his imagination. He wasted a load of tar until he was satisfied. He turned it off, handed it back to the operator and came towards me with his arm outstretched. “Bravo mastre,” he told me with indescribable excitement, “I knew you would create something better than what I had, but in my wildest dreams I couldn’t imagine such success. You saved me.” He carried on shaking my hand for some time. “I am sorry mastre,” the operator told me “I didn’t expect such success either.” Man cannot feel greater satisfaction than to see his imagination become reality. That was it! My reputation reached beyond the borders of the district. Nearhos paid for his machine by cheque and he ordered a second one. One hundred pounds in those days was a lot of money. Later on, I supplied two more to the government. It was exactly during this period that Rodosthenous came up with a daring suggestion. We were having a conversation and the next day, he brought in for repair a single blade plough. He complained that everything he earned from using the plough was spent on repairing it. “Repair it once and for all,” he told me and at the same time he took a pack of notes from his pocket and put them down in front of me. “Take this as a deposit,” he told me. “I want you to make me a single blade plough of your own design.” “But…” I tried to object. “You will find a way,” he told me and left. Page 187 of 371

I counted it. It was one hundred and fifty pounds, a fortune for that time. And he didn’t even ask for a receipt, I thought. I had to rack my brain, to help out this man who was showing me such trust. I studied some ordinary ploughs which were used with tractors. They were small and the tractors, with their power, were able to lift them up and put them back down easily. In my case, I estimated that I had to deal with a weight of about two tonnes! A design came to me in my head and I made a tiny version of it. It worked. The enlargement required very careful calculations. I called him one day and conveyed my thoughts. “Look,” he told me, “I trust you implicitly. If you don’t succeed, I lose one hundred and fifty pounds. But if you do succeed, you save me from a dead end. People want to plant their vines and I can’t serve them. Do what you think.” I bought the raw materials and began. It was hard work. My tools were from the middle ages. Everything had to be made by hand. The axles were made of two-inch round cast steel and I had to cut it in four places. The wheels holding this weight had to be 80 centimetres diameter and absolutely round. It took me a long time to make the four pieces, but I finally succeeded. The hardest part was over. Page 188 of 371

The Colonialists declare the Party Illegal and Arrest the Leading Members Then, something completely unexpected happened. I left a meeting of the District Committee of the youth movement and headed home to sleep. Before going to bed, I reviewed and considered the plough I was making. I decided that all was going well. I went to bed. As soon as I fell asleep, I was woken up by thunderous knocking on the front door. We all jumped up. “Who is it?” I asked. “Police,” came the reply from outside, “open up.” The armed struggle of Ε.Ο.Κ.Α. [79] had begun about a year and a half earlier. For a moment, I thought it must be some mistake because neither I, nor my party, had participated in these activities. They must be looking for someone else. I opened the door. Four British soldiers, armed to the teeth, rushed in, together with a Turkish policeman who was acting as an interpreter. The soldiers looked like they had bad intentions. The policeman was known to me. “What’s going on?” I asked. “You will find out shortly,” he replied, with the insidious expression of a bought collaborator. In the meantime, the soldiers were carrying out a thorough search, whilst one of them was guarding me with his gun pointed at me, ready to shoot. A thousand thoughts went through my mind. Is it possible that the party took a decision to participate in the armed struggle and was betrayed? Could it be that someone accused me of being a member of Ε.Ο.Κ.Α. and I was being arrested? Everything is possible I thought. My wife, pregnant and close to giving birth, was standing there confused, not knowing what to do. They took all our books, hand-written notes and even the designs my wife used for her embroideries. “Get dressed,” ordered the interpreter. 79. Ε.Ο.Κ.Α. is the acronym of: Εθνικη Οργανωση Κυπριων Αγωνιστων, which means ‘National Organisation of Cypriot Fighters’. It was a Greek Cypriot nationalist guerrilla organisation that fought a campaign for the end of British rule in Cyprus, for the island’s self-determination and eventual union with Greece (see additional notes at the end of the book for more details) Page 189 of 371

I put on something casual. They told me to bring my shaving kit and we left the house. When we got outside, I saw that the house was surrounded by armed soldiers. An army truck was waiting for us. “Get in,” said one of the soldiers in English and at the same time he hit me with the butt of his gun around my waist. I was taken by surprise. It was so hard and unexpected that it took my breath away. I used all my strength and climbed onto the truck. When I sat down, another soldier was getting ready to strike me, swearing at me vulgarly. I remember the phrase he used: “Fucking bastard, you want EOKA do you? I’ll show you.” He would have smashed me in the face with the butt of his gun, if the team leader hadn’t prevented him. “Oi,” he told him angrily, “what are you trying to do?” and luckily, he took his gun away. I had to respond in some way. He was swearing at me as if I was a member of EOKA and I wasn’t. The truck, in the meantime, started moving. I decided to try my luck and I said, in their language: “When I was a soldier, I respected civilians. I am not a member of EOKA and I don’t know why you arrested me.” They were stunned. Their leader revealed to them that I wasn’t a member of EOKA but a political leader. “Why didn’t anybody tell us?” the soldier who tried to hit me responded angrily. “Those were my orders,” replied their leader. “Fuck your orders,” said the soldier, even angrier. From wanting to hack me, he now offered me a cigarette. I refused with a dry “thank you.” “Where did you learn English?” the leader asked me. “In the army,” I replied. “I served for five and a half years, during World War II.” The truck kept going. We were now engaged in conversation and I must have impressed them because the bad treatment stopped. “In which fronts did you take part?” asked someone else. “In Lebanon and in Italy at Cassino,” I declared proudly. I thought about mentioning the other medals, but I held back because I remembered that we had sent them back to the queen all together, as a protest for her refusal to Page 190 of 371

grant us the self-determination we had been promised during the war. I rolled up my sleeve and in the light of their torches, I showed them a clear wound in my arm. “I got this at Monte Mauro,” I said. “I am sorry,” said the repentant soldier who struck me. “It’s alright,” I told him “you didn’t know what you were doing.” The truck stopped. Until now, I didn’t know where they were taking me and I didn’t ask. When I got out of the truck, I realised in the moonlight that I was in the village of ‘Kouklia’. They led me to the cells of the police station. After a short interrogation – name, age, address and family members – they locked me in. I was the first. Soon afterwards, I saw them bring in Nikos Mavronicholas in his pyjamas and robe, which made me laugh. “Didn’t you have time to get dressed Niko?” I asked him. “They wouldn’t let me, damn them,” he answered. “What the devil is going on, I can’t understand it.” “They are gathering up the leadership Niko,” I told him. “I heard the leader of the team that arrested me say it.” More and more were arriving. Among them was Yiannis Sofocli. They were bringing people in until 6am. Overall, they had gathered about twenty leading members of the district. At 7am, they put us all in a truck and took us to Dhekelia under heavy guard. There, we found ourselves among about a hundred senior members from all the districts, including the members of the Central Committee and Papis, [80] the General Secretary. We found out some details. The colonialists had declared the party illegal and they seized its offices and its newspaper. Our first assessment was that the blow was complete. Only a small number of senior members, who were on missions abroad, remained free. Some members had to escape. It happened by the second day, when two members managed to escape! Workers of our movement, who were working on the construction of the camp, helped them by disguising them as workers and took them out. 80. ‘Papis’ as he was affectionally known, was Ezekias Papaioannou. From 1946, he was the Editor-in-Chief of ‘Democratis’, the party’s newspaper and from 1949, he was the General Secretary of the party (Α.Κ.Ε.Λ.), a position he held for 40 years, until his death in 1988. Page 191 of 371

The count would take place in the dining room. They counted us on the way out, after a meal. For three days, two of us would carefully turn to the side of the building, climb in through the window and join the queue to be counted again. By the fourth day, the trick was no longer necessary. They had discovered that two were missing. They counted us again and again. The alarm was sounded. We stood in line and after carefully checking each one, they ascertained who was missing. Our families were allowed to visit us from the first day. My wife, together with five or six others, arrived at around 3pm. She brought my son with her, who was now four years old. I found it very difficult to stop myself from bursting into tears at the sight of my wife crying and my little boy looking at me curiously, unable to understand what was happening. I recommended to my wife not to bring him again and assured her that there was nothing to worry about and that they would release us soon. I further recommended to her that she shouldn’t suffer, pregnant as she was, nor spend any money on me, because I had everything I needed. When she was leaving, I gave her some instructions in relation to the workshop and when the guard brought my son over to me so that I could kiss him, I hid a party note in his pocket and I nodded what I had done to my wife. After the fourth day, when they discovered the escape, they moved us to Nicosia and locked us up in the Central Prison. Opposite my cell, I recognised my father’s old cell. A heavy sadness came over me. The scenes from my childhood persistently entered my mind and I couldn’t get rid of them, no matter how hard I tried. I could see him standing there, speaking and giving us instructions. Yiannis realised that something was troubling me and he persisted in his efforts to find out what it was. I explained and he was very surprised to hear, for the first time, my story. He managed to get me moved to a cell as far as possible, in a swap with another comrade. And that’s how I got rid of the nightmare and found my old self again. I had to, because I was the ‘orchestra’ of the detainees and I had to remain in good spirits. Our morale had to remain high and so we organised celebrations. We didn’t have musical instruments, so I sang the music of our folkloric dances and the others danced. The football, choirs, poem recitals and humour were our cultural section. At night we read books. The prison library had never been used so much. After about a month, I was told I had visitors. When I entered the visitors area, I was completely surprised. My wife was sitting on the other side of a table which separated us and she was holding an infant. “Maroulla,” I exclaimed and kissed her, “you gave birth!” “Yes Andrea, here is your son.” And she put the infant on the table. I picked him up, held him tightly in my arms and kissed him. For a long time, I just stared at him. Finally, I kissed him again and handed him back to his mother because Page 192 of 371

he had started crying. He was only seven days old and his little eyes hadn’t yet fully opened. I heard how they were getting on, she told me about the efforts being made to secure our release and that the workshop was still working seamlessly. I was worried about the plough for Rodosthenous and I sent him a message with my wife, to make representations on my behalf, in the hope that I may be released. Naturally, he made no effort at all and when I was eventually released, he explained that it was to avoid “damaging my dignity”. I gave back to my wife everything she brought me and recommended that it should be used to feed the children. That was the party’s decision anyway. Almost all my comrades wished me long life for the newborn, but I have to admit that the visit upset me. During the visit, I was suffering with my tonsils and my wife gave me the idea to use the opportunity to have them taken out. The next day I presented myself to the prison doctor. He confirmed that my tonsils were in a bad condition. The doctor mentioned an operation and I asked him to expedite it. About three days later, I was in an ambulance with Kostas Partasides, the mayor of Limassol, who had a heart condition and Isidoros Markoullis who was scheduled for an operation to remove nasal polyps. Partasides and Markoullis were both put in an emergency ward, so that they could be monitored. I was put in a large ward, with many other patients, after everyone’s clothes were taken away to prevent us from escaping. My guard was a kind policeman called Sozos, from Paphos. We reached an agreement that I would not attempt to escape and in return he would grant me my wishes. So, poor Sozos, in all the time I was in hospital made sure I had everything I needed. The next day, Markoullis and I had our operations. He could talk but I couldn’t. He used the opportunity to make fun of me. “Sozos is looking after you better than your wife,” he would say. “You’ve landed on your feet in here.” I just looked at him and smiled. His nose, bandaged up as it was, looked like an elephant trunk and he was still in good enough spirits to make fun. When I started to feel better, I investigated the possibility of an escape. Up to the toilet, Sozos was behind me. He would stand outside and wait for me. The small toilet window opened from the inside and just outside, there was a staircase which was part of the vast hospital complex. From here, I thought, it’s easy for someone to escape. I said nothing to the others. I wasn’t doing this for me, because I was not one of the members that the party considered a priority for escape. Personally, I would be making my position worse, because I would have to remain in hiding until the British revoked the regulation they used to lock me up. I didn’t want to go into hiding, I was anxious to get back to my workshop and my work. After about ten days, Markoullis and I were taken back to the prison, but Kostas had to remain under observation. Papis was in bed and the authorities refused to transfer Page 193 of 371

him to the hospital. The doctor couldn’t find anything seriously wrong with him. Zaharias took me aside. “How did you get on?” he asked me. “Fine,” I told him, but I realised that this wasn’t the reason he wanted to talk to me. “Is there a way for someone to escape?” he asked. I understood that someone was planning to escape. I explained my plan to him. “Thank you, my friend,” he told me, “this is of great help to us.” Shortly, there was a slogan: Everyone to refuse to go into their cells, unless Papis was taken to the hospital. So, the prison authorities retreated and Papis was taken to hospital in an ambulance. Papis followed my plan. Before they took his clothes away, he asked to use the toilet. He opened the window, climbed through and in the dark, nobody saw him. It was a planned escape and a car was waiting for him. By the time his guard realised that he was taking too long, it was too late, Papis was a long way away. The next day, we learned that the escape was successful. The General Secretary of the party was now a free man. We had brought in a famous lawyer from London to defend us. At the trial, it was shown that our arrest was illegal because it took place before the bill was voted into law. However, by the time the trial was finished, the process was completed and they arrested us again officially. It was obviously just a formality, because we were already in prison. The newspapers called the whole process a “mockery”. Time was marching on and the situation remained the same. The only people they released were a young man from Paphos and one from Nicosia who had nothing whatsoever to do with the party and who had been arrested by mistake. It took two months for them to realise their mistake. One day they brought in someone from Paphos and locked him up with us as a senior member of EOKA. We recognised the scheme. He would try to find out if the party had any weapons. He was a traitor. We took precautions. The Guiding Committee decided to put him in the same cell as me. Yiannis asked me and I agreed, but he made my life a misery. He wouldn’t let me sleep. He insisted that I tell him where the party kept its weapons, if it intended to use them and he tried to convince me that he was prepared to pick up the honoured gun of the party and take to the mountains as a guerrilla. He explained that he had lost faith in EOKA, because it didn’t look after his family whilst he was in prison. I would reply dryly: “I am not a member of the party how would I know such things? I’ve been arrested by mistake.” He was getting very frustrated with his inability to penetrate. From the contempt and isolation we organised against him, he understood that he wasn’t going to achieve anything and he was moved. Soon after that, we heard that EOKA shot him in cold blood, as a common traitor. Page 194 of 371

Three months had passed and time was beginning to bring results. No matter how well we were treated, we were locked up in prison, away from the world and cut off from our families. The uncertainty of how long our incarceration would continue badly affected our morale. If you are a prisoner with a specific sentence, at least you know where you stand, but we didn’t have such a thing. They kept us without a specific accusation or sentence. Our nerves began to fray and misunderstandings occurred. Some senior members, unfortunately, were broken and caused us numerous problems. The British had built an internment camp at ‘Pyla’ [81] a few kilometres outside Dhekelia and they transferred us all there. The camp was surrounded by a high and double row of barbed wire. Inside were about twenty huts made of corrugated metal, which housed about twelve prisoners each. It was an arid place, without a single tree or any other kind of greenery. We decided to turn it green. Nearby, there was another camp where members of EOKA were held. In the beginning, they misunderstood our intentions to improve the desert conditions, but in the end they copied us. After all, it was something to do. Wherever we could, we cultivated flowers and on the rocks we made charming shapes with pleasant compositions, such as the dove of peace, the party’s initials and many more. One of the teams used small stones and marked out on the ground, like a mosaic, the shape of Cyprus. It was divided into districts and even cities and towns were shown. Among us were authors, poets, musicians. I joined the team of vocal music and our teacher was Minos Perdios. The poor man’s efforts to teach me were in vain. I dropped out. I asked my missus to bring me an accordion and I worked on a few tunes. I became a pain for the others. The dissonance created by my clumsy pressing of the keys created uproar. I gave that up too and sent it home. Easter found us still inside. The public, in order to show its love and respect, brought us tonnes of Easter goodies. We kept some for ourselves and arranged for the rest to be distributed among the families that needed it most. During our incarceration, an unpleasant phenomenon reared its ugly head. Some of the most senior members were blaming our arrest on the lack of vigilance by the party. There was friction. I was very upset about this, to the point that I lost confidence in the Guiding Committee of the party. 81. The internment camps in Cyprus were built primarily to hold EOKA freedom fighters but were also used to hold the political prisoners of Α.Κ.Ε.Λ. (see additional notes at the end of the book for more details). Page 195 of 371

Following My Release My imprisonment lasted seven months, seven days and seven hours. When I was released – I was one of the last ones – I decided to stay away from the activities of the party, disaffected and disappointed. The workshop was heavily in debt because my partner was taking money out without putting anything back. I left it with good assets and found it £500 in debit. I had to start from scratch, but at least it had survived. I threw myself into the work. This was another reason I had no time for the movement. I finally finished Rodosthenous’s plough and its success surpassed all expectations. I made two more, one for Filippos from Amargeti and one for the bishop of Kition. Unfortunately, I had competition from Italy which, with its modern design and production facilities, perfected the product and pushed me out of the market. I turned to making threshers [82] and I made quite a few, but the introduction of modern combined harvesters replaced this type of work too. The workshop had overcome its financial difficulties. My partner suggested that we separate. We engaged an accountant and after an audit, he declared my partner an embezzler to the tune of £350. My partner pleaded with me to disregard it and allow him to leave the partnership. I considered this amount to be payment for his shares and I agreed. I could breathe more easily now that I was on my own. I could do whatever I imagined, without having to put up with his objections. I moved on. I invented various types of machinery. Among them was a press, the purpose of which was to press something together and tie it up into a bundle. I made it for Hajimitsis, a merchant. His business was to buy sheep wool and export it. The product was transported by ship and consequently, the cost was calculated by volume and not by weight. 82. Although thresher is an English word, a short description may be useful: A thresher or threshing machine is a piece of farm equipment that threshes grain. In other words, it removes the seeds from the stalks and husks. It does so by beating the plant to make the seeds fall out. Before such machines were developed, threshing was done by hand. It was a laborious and time-consuming process. The first threshing machines were introduced in Britain in the late 18th century and became widespread during the 19th century. The author designed his own version of a thresher, (on the back of a cigarette packet – as they say!) and made it to order. Page 196 of 371

So, this man Hajimitsis approached me one day shyly and proposed that I make him a press. He was a mean character, who told me up front that he was not willing to lose a grosi. If I was successful, I would be paid £350, but if I failed, I would get nothing and all the costs would be down to me. The passion to invent dominated my actions, not the money. I felt a huge satisfaction when I constructed a machine and it was successful. I told him that I would think about it. A few days later, I told him that I would make it. The machine had to press together 100 okades (see footnote 39 on page 83) of wool, in a bundle measuring 50x50x100cm. The price was £350 and the production time was 15 days. It was ready in 10 days. I carried out my own trial in my workshop. Hajimitsis would visit me sometimes and spend the whole day watching what I was doing. He was present at the trial. He almost lost his mind with joy. The bundle was 40x40x80cm and the weight was 140 instead of 100 okades. What’s more, the process could be carried out by one operator instead of six, as previously required, using a handheld device. He asked me to deliver and install it in his factory the same day. He was expecting a ship and he had to prepare the product filling up his warehouse. When he called me in to pay me, he gave me a cheque for £350 and refused to pay a further £50 for my costs, citing the terms of the contract. I was even more upset when he told me that if I had asked for £1,000 he would have paid it and he showed me a quotation from Sweden @ £2,500. A deal is a deal, he told me, and I left with a heavy heart. On the third day, one of his employees came running to my shop and before he could even catch his breath he blurted out, “the machine has broken down. Mr Hajimitsis says you must come to repair it.” I asked him to explain the problem and I realised that it was something minor, even though it appeared to be major. A rubber tube carrying oil had burst and there was oil everywhere. It would take me five minutes to change it and that would be it. This is my chance to punish him for his ingratitude, I thought. “I am busy, I can’t come now,” I said and he left. Before long, Hajimitsis himself arrived, disconcerted. “Mastre,” he told me, “I am ruined. If you don’t fix the press, I will miss the loading and it will cost me thousands of pounds.” “Did our agreement include any kind of supervision or guarantee?” I said, so casually that it made him almost burst. Page 197 of 371

He left enraged. He sent a car mechanic friend to act as an intermediary. Instead of trying to persuade me to help, he encouraged me to punish him! He knew the way I had been treated. He went back and told him that I was adamant and to annoy him even further, he told him: “You should have given him the £50 the man asked for.” My phone rang. “Papaellinas,” came the reply, when I asked who it was. He was the manager of the bank where we were both customers. “Andrea, what’s going on with this cheapskate?” he asked. I understood. “Stay out of it,” I recommended, “I will teach him to respect technicians,” and put down the phone. Not ten minutes later Hajimitsis arrived, together with Hambis, the car mechanic. He was begging me to repair the press for him. Nobody else dared to touch it, they had no idea how it worked. In his desperation and my continued lack of interest, he blurted out: “Come on, repair it and I will pay as much as you want.” “Do you mean it?” I said. “Naturally.” “Alright,” Hambis jumped in, “I am a witness.” “I am coming,” I said. I picked up a piece of pressure tube and some tools and went to the factory. In five minutes, just as I expected, the press was working. “It was such a small problem?” asked Hajimitsis, obviously thinking about the price I would charge. “Come on, let me pay you,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll come back later,” I said, “I am busy now.” “Will you witness our agreement?” Hajimitsis asked Hambis, after I left. “What can I tell you Mr Hajimitsi? Do you want me to act like a scoundrel towards my colleague?” “What will he ask for?” wondered Hajimitsis out loud. “According to the law and the deal you made, he can ask up to £1,000.” Hambis was having fun now. “If it was me, I would charge you at least £200. I hope he doesn’t ask for anymore and you should be happy.” Page 198 of 371

“For five minutes work?” wondered Hajimitsis. Hambis’s gag and Hajimitsis’s suspense went on for three days. Finally, I went to his office, accompanied by Hambis. “Mastre Andrea, welcome, what can I offer you?” and he called one of his workers over. “See what Mastre Andreas and Hambis would like,” he told him. “Nothing, thank you,” I replied soberly. “Please have something,” he pleaded. “Alright, a sweet one.” I meant coffee. “Medium for me,” added Hambis. “When I saw the oil flying everywhere, I thought the fault was beyond repair,” began Hajimitsis, to prepare me. “Luckily, it was nothing. All the same, I will pay to make you happy. Ten, twenty, whatever you say.” I laughed. “So, you think that you can get away with paying ten or twenty pounds,” I told him seriously. “My intervention saved you thousands of pounds, as you said yourself, if I earn £200, I don’t think it’s too much.” He was shocked. He changed colour. I was expecting him to kick both of us out, but he controlled himself. “You are swindling me master,” he told me, controlling his anger. “We are all swindlers,” I replied, “as long as we are protected by the law.” “I will give you £50,” he said. “Not a grosi less,” I said and got up to leave. “Sit,” Hambis held me back, winking at the same time, as if to tell me that I should persist. “Mastre Andrea, be reasonable, so that I can pay you and finish with this.” I laughed triumphantly. I was watching this penny-pinching big businessman collapse at my feet and beg me. I was reaping my revenge. Page 199 of 371

“There is another person here,” I said, “let’s hear Hambis’s judgement.” “If you are both agreeable, I can propose a compromise,” offered Hambis. “Go ahead, you monkey face,” invited Hajimitsis, pretending that he used the description in jest. “£200 is too much, £50 is too little. Let’s split the difference. Give him £150 and let’s call it a day,” he said, and he burst into laughter, no longer able to control himself and showing whose side he was on. “I said it in jest, but you are a monkey face,” bellowed Hajimitsis, “get out, leave us alone.” The coffees arrived. “Can I drink my coffee?” asked Hambis, still laughing. “Drink it and I hope you die,” he cursed him. As we were drinking our coffee, I said: “Take out your cheque book.” He brought it out of the drawer. “I am listening,” he murmured and started filling it. “£100 and you should be very happy,” I declared. He realised that there was no more room for negotiation. “It’s not just the money. It’s the embarrassment. Who can I tell that I paid £100 for five minutes work and not look like a sucker? Here take it,” he said and handed me the cheque. “But you are swindling me.” “I hope you learned a lesson,” I told him and tore up the cheque. “Next time show some respect for craftsmen,” and I threw the pieces on his desk. He sat there dumbfounded with eyes wide open. “Now you made me look like dirt, you have completely humiliated me,” he stuttered. At this point, Hambis burst into uncontrollable laughter. This was, for Hajimitsis, the greatest punishment. And of course, it didn’t take Hambis long to spread the word, so that everyone was talking about Hajimitsis’s mishap and having a good laugh at his expense. Page 200 of 371