The 19th Son

At one point, the lawyer approached us. Perhaps in his own defence, he told us: “We didn’t manage to remove the premeditation from the case. The witnesses’ testimonies convinced the court that he went to Filani to commit a crime. That his intention was to kill the daughter of Therapis, one of his lenders, in retaliation for the injustice done to him, by auctioning off his properties. He didn’t succeed, only because ‘Chelepina’ tried to stop him and he killed her by mistake. Of course, all these things don’t matter anymore, the decision has been made.” He then suggested that we go by his office to prepare the appeal. We finally went our separate ways. We had to hurry. The work had stopped and pappou would be getting anxious. As soon as we entered the shop, he asked us: “What happened?” “To death,” replied Theodoros. “How is that possible?” he wondered. “What now?” “Appeal,” answered Theodoros, “They will appeal.” “I doubt anything can be done,” mumbled the old man as he went next door to the coffee shop, returning with two soft drinks for us. “Drink,” he said, trying to show compassion. He had noticed our red eyes and obvious exhaustion from crying. After a bit, he threw some more charcoal in the fire and said: “Come on boys, we have a lot of work to do.” I grabbed the handle of the bellows and got on with my work. Page 51 of 371

Ending Up in Bed with Worry That evening, I didn’t eat. I had no appetite even though I hadn’t eaten all day. I went straight to my bed and hid under the blanket with a heavy heart. The pain had shredded my insides. My little soul was devastated. I felt a great hate. Could it really be that those people in the black capes had the right to take my father’s life? Only God had the right to judge. And amongst the hate and the injustice I felt I asked myself. Is there a God? And if He exists, what kind of almighty is He, if he doesn’t lend a hand, to save us from this torture? He knows we are all faithful. I soon regretted my sin of doubting the existence of God and asked for forgiveness. I couldn’t sleep all night. When I tried to get up in the morning, my head was hurting, my stomach was burning and my legs couldn’t carry me. I was hit hard. I felt sick and dropped back into bed. “I won’t be able to go to work today, I am sick,” I stammered to pappou, when he came to get me up. He mumbled something that I couldn’t hear and went off. When the sun was up, I heard my nounna call out: “Andriko, are you asleep?” “No,” I replied. She opened the door and came in, together with her mother. They laid a kitchen towel on a chair next to my bed and placed a bowl of soup and some bread on it. “Get up and eat something,” my nounna said affectionately, whilst her mother placed her thick palm on my forehead. She turned to my nounna and said: “The poor little thing is burning up.” “Alright,” my nounna said, “I am off to fetch the doctor, but in the meantime, I want you to eat something.” They walked out and left me alone to eat without embarrassment. I forced myself to eat a couple of spoonfuls of soup and went back to bed. Before long, my nounna’s brother was standing over me. He was a slim, handsome man of about thirty, who was single, the same as my nounna. I didn’t see him often, because I left the house early in the morning whilst he was asleep. In the evenings, he came in late because he chanted at the church, for evening prayers. That was his job, he was a chanter. “What’s happening Andriko?” he asked me casually. “I am sick uncle,” I replied. Page 52 of 371

“Don’t take it to heart,” he said, “you will be fine soon. The doctor knows his job. I am off.” And he left. The doctor arrived with my nounna. He put one of his hands on my forehead and with the other he checked my pulse. He was quiet for a bit and then he said: “He has a fever.” He unbuttoned my shirt and touched my chest with a metal object which was attached to rubber tubes that went up to his ears. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, “it’s nothing serious, but he has to stay in bed until he gets better.” He wrote the medicine on a piece of paper, together with ‘three times a day after food’, gave it to my nounna and they left. Shortly after that, I was given my first teaspoon of a bitter liquid called quinine, together with two pills, having eaten some more soup first. They then left me alone. I fell asleep. I have no idea for how long. A strange dream kept me company. I saw my father, as he stood there in iron handcuffs, surrounded by about twenty poisonous snakes that were biting him and filling his body with their poison. Defenceless, he was trying to avoid their bites flailing about with his arms and legs. I saw my mother rushing to him, picking up a snake by its tail and beating it on the ground until it was dead. She then picked up another and another, but she couldn’t keep up. Sotiris and Kyriakos appeared and began to fervently kill snakes. They pushed mother out of the way, to protect her, and carried on, until all the snakes were killed. However, by then, my father was swollen up everywhere from the poison, and couldn’t move. At that moment, I saw my doctor take out a long pin and prick the various parts of my father’s body, until the swelling went down. He then put a piece of cotton wool on the end of the pin and after dipping it in a liquid, he started rubbing the holes he had made with the pin. Unfortunately, the snakes came alive again and began slithering towards my father. Luckily, I was woken up by the squeak of the door. “I brought you some lunch,” I heard my nounna say. “Ah, you have been sweating,” she noted, “that means you will be fine now.” How would she know, I thought to myself, what was bothering me all this time? Naturally, I didn’t have the courage to tell her about my dream. This condition kept me in bed for three days. On the fourth day, I was able to stand and go back to work. The routine returned: Work – home – work – home. Page 53 of 371

The Rejection of The Appeal It wasn’t long before the Court of Appeal made a decision: “The defendant’s appeal is rejected.” From then on, there was very little hope. A large number of the inhabitants of the surrounding villages signed a petition calling for clemency for this good man, but this too was rejected. His life was now entirely in the hands of the King of England. The application began as follows: Your Majesty, we, the wife and children of Kleanthis Hajikyriacou, address your majesty and beg you, to use your magnanimity to grant a pardon to the husband and father of so many children etc. The application was sent off and we all waited with a secret hope that this man – king, who ruled so many people, would grant a pardon. About ten days later, our lawyer received the reply. It simply read: I wash my hands of it. This is a matter for the Judiciary. And underneath, the majestic signature. We were left, powerless and vulnerable, without a hope. The date of the execution was set for 31 December 1935. We had fifteen days left. My mother and older siblings visited him every day. They didn’t need to bring him anything. The prison provided anything he wanted. On the last day, they collected all of us and took us to the central prison to see him for the last time. Even now, I am finding it very difficult to describe the details of that visit, on the final day of his life. As we approached the area of the central prison, we were confronted by a large, high wall. At its top, there were pieces of glass from broken bottles, fixed in cement. This wall circled the entire facility. In front of us was an unwelcoming, large, black door. We approached. One of us pulled a metal handle and we heard a bell ring inside. A small window opened up in the door, a face appeared and asked sternly: “What do you want?” “Visit,” replied Kyriakos, who by now knew the drill. “Just a minute,” said the face and closed the window. In a little while, one of the door leaves opened partly with a spine-chilling squeak, and we were let in. The prison guards, two men and one woman, searched us extensively, there in the open and I noticed several heads looking at us through small windows in the building, which looked like an iron tower. Page 54 of 371

They led us to this iron tower. Another guard opened a door with thick iron bars from the inside and locked it up behind us with a key from a large bunch of keys. “This way,” said one of the prison guards and gestured for us to follow him. He led us through a narrow corridor, to a more spacious room. In the middle of this room, there was a wall, made up of floor to ceiling thick, iron bars, held together by three horizontal iron beams. At the end of the room, there was a small iron door. Shortly, the small door opened and the sweet shape of my father appeared. “Hello, my children,” he said calmly. He was expecting us. We kissed his hand through the iron bars, one after the other. I recall that when I kissed his hand, I got it wet from the tears streaming down my face. “Don’t cry children,” he stressed. “I want you to listen carefully to my last advice.” That got our attention. “First of all, I want to tell you that you should not be ashamed of your father. What I did, I did out of despair. They took away my dignity with what they plotted against me in Pera. You see, I had used part of the taxes I collected, and Therapis agreed to stand guarantor so that I would be allowed an extension to replace the money. We travelled to Pera together and he didn’t mention anything to me on the way. When we got there, in front of the officials, he denied that we had an arrangement and pretended that he knew nothing about it.” (We later found out that this was a plot against my father by a group of horianous, who wanted him to lose his position of mayor so that they could elect one of their own). “I ask you to forgive me for the terrible thing I did to you.” No crying could be heard, but the tears were pouring out of all our eyes. “To you Kyriako, I leave the responsibility for the family. When you get married, God willing, the next one will take over. You must love and get on with each other, because that’s the only way you will be able to look after the younger children. Be careful. When you collect my remains tomorrow, to take me to the village for burial, don’t do anything stupid. Don’t allow your hate to control you. Forgive them and me. Be magnanimous. Here, Kyriako, take this (and he gave him a piece of paper). On this, I’ve written the words I want to appear on my grave cross. My last advice to you all is to love your mother.” My mother couldn’t hold it any longer. She burst out crying and the rest of us followed. A mournful lament filled the room, accompanied by a dirge that came out of our hearts. My sisters followed my mother’s painful cry, whilst at the same time trying to console her, and the rest of us tried to console each other. By this stage, even my father could be heard crying. “Children,” he said at some point, “let me kiss you, because I have to go.” He couldn’t bear this emotional Page 55 of 371

torment. He kissed all of us, from the youngest to the eldest, between the iron bars separating us. When the time came to kiss my mother, he looked into her eyes and with a pleading expression in his face, he managed to say: “Forgive me.” “Goodbye my children,” were his final words, as he left quickly, almost at a run, with his arms raised and never looked back. We stood there, holding the bars and mourning the loss of our father. We didn’t want to let go, as if the bars represented our father and by holding on to them, we could stop them from taking him away from us to his death. How could we comprehend that this man who stood in front of us dispensing advice, would be dead tomorrow? On top of that, we were worried about the method of his execution and how much he would suffer. They told us that they would hang him by his neck, alive as he was, his tongue would stick out and he would turn black all over, as he struggled with the rope until his soul left his body. With these thoughts and a heavy heart, we said goodbye to our guardian. Finally, we left for the village. The grown-ups busied themselves with the details of his funeral. They had ordered the casket and the cross. However, the words he specified had to be engraved on the cross and as it couldn’t be ready on time, they used a temporary cross. They found people to dig the grave and the priest finally agreed to conduct the funeral service. He had to be persuaded, due to the fact that the death was not a natural death. Page 56 of 371

The Burial Everything was ready. The next day, we rented a minibus large enough to take the whole family and left early in the morning to collect him. There was an unusual amount of traffic. About half a mile from the central prison, the road was blocked off with barbed wire, and behind it stood several men with guns. “You can’t go any further,” pointed out one of them and he ordered the driver to drive into a nearby field. He sent two gunmen to guard us. They kept us about a hundred steps away from the main road and ordered us to stay in the vehicle. “The Governor will pass by soon and when he is gone, we’ll see. They are just security measures,” they told us, as if they were trying to justify their rudeness. We sat there quietly and waited. Finally, some motorcyclists appeared, who were obviously clearing the road. A black limousine came next, with more motorcyclists following it. This must be the Governor, we thought. From wherever he passed, all the gunmen stood to attention and saluted him. When the limousine got close to us, I noticed a man sitting in the back seat wearing a red cap. That must be him, I thought, and with a hate rising from deep inside me, I said to myself angrily: “Why don’t you go to the devil, where you came from? You killed my father,” and I bit my tongue, to stop myself from screaming. The leader signalled our guards and they instructed our driver to follow them. We reached the barbed wire and the leader ordered: “Get out of the vehicle. Two of you, together with the driver, will go on to collect him, the others will stay here.” Kyriakos and Sotiris remained in the vehicle and the rest of us got out. They opened the road and the minibus, with the coffin at the back, headed off to the prison. The dreadful wait that took place was the worst wait of my life. I expected to see my father dead and deformed by the torture he endured during the hanging. Finally, we saw the minibus arriving and everyone went quiet. As soon as it reached us, Kyriakos jumped out, pained and tearful, and told us: “Don’t worry, our father passed away before they hung him.” This was indeed a relief. At least we would not be afraid to look at him. Sotiris turned to our mother, who was wailing and pulling her hair out, and between sobs, he added: “His elderly heart could not cope. We found out from a kind-hearted prison guard that, when our father left us yesterday, he fainted twice and had a heart attack. They had to call a doctor.” We got in the minibus and took our places around the coffin containing our father. There he was, I can still see him now, with a pale expression and eyes closed, as if Page 57 of 371

he was sleeping. We bowed our heads and looked at him with some contentment. At least they did not get the chance to torture him. On the way, we learned the details. Apparently, ten minutes before the hanging, the executioner and prison guards went to collect him, to take him to the scaffold. When they got there, they found him on the floor already dead. They picked him up and just as he was, with his hands still in cuffs, they hung him anyway. That’s why he had a slight mark on his neck. The minibus went straight to the village, where a big surprise was waiting. The main road of the village was lined with people, with glum and sad faces. We were not expecting such support and compassion. When we placed the coffin in the front yard, all the people came one by one to kiss him and several were heard murmuring, “may God forgive those who caused this.” It was late afternoon by the time we began the funeral procession towards the lower village. Four lads carried the coffin on their shoulders. Right behind them was the priest, with the cherubim, followed by the family led by our mother, who was being supported by my sisters and finally the rest of the people. A constant wail could be heard accompanying the procession. When we reached the church, the coffin was placed on a table in the centre and the priest, assisted by the chanters, carried out the funeral service. When they finished, we were called forward to give him our ‘last kiss goodbye’. At this point, the sound of a great wail burst out. It came from my mother and a group of women, of similar age to her, who joined in. My heart was torn to pieces at the sound of this. The church was uncomfortably full, with many people standing outside. They uncovered him and the process of ‘the last kiss goodbye’ begun. Mother went first. She kissed him again and again and then, in a booming voice, as a kind of dirge, she skilfully delivered some verses, which may have been inspired by the moment: “My Kleanthi, even though I am losing you, I will never forget, that they killed you unjustly and I lost you too soon. Ah, how can I find peace?” Another melodic woman’s voice came out of the crowd, in the same style: “Kleanthi, even though we lost you and your soul is gone, we will always think of you, together with your family.” [26] They pulled mother away from the coffin and when my turn came, I kissed my father for the last time. ‘Sto kalo’ [27] I thought to myself, ‘rest in peace’ and I slipped out of the church, through the crowd, for some fresh air. The smell of the incense was causing me nausea and I thought I would be sick. Page 58 of 371

One of my childhood friends saw me and he pulled me over to the side, where we sat on some rocks. “I am also an orphan,” he said, trying to console me, “and I haven’t died.” The sorrowful sounds continued to emanate from the church and with them my pain. At some point, I felt a strange sensation and I found my face was wet. I realised that I had fainted, because I was surrounded by a lot of people, staring at me with compassion. From where I was sitting, I saw the coffin being taken out of the church, carried through the crowd and placed next to the grave. I approached, together with my friend, who was holding me up in case I collapsed. They lowered him into the grave. That’s it, I thought, I will never see him again. “Sto kalo father,” I shouted. Naturally, I don’t think I was heard above all the noise. Loud cries, voices of despair and running to fetch water for those who fainted, created a cacophony that made it difficult to know what was going on. The priest was standing apart from everyone else, swinging his censer towards the grave, back and forth, chanting funeral psalms. I thought of God again. Perhaps he is busy with more important matters, I thought to myself and quickly tried to banish these thoughts, just in case I was committing a sin. 26. The style used is known in Cyprus as: ‘Tsiatista’ (singular ‘tsiatisto’). It is a Greek Cypriot word which does not exist in Modern Greek and is unique to Cyprus. It means ‘rhyming’ and takes its name from the fact that each line rhymes with the previous one. They sound like a combination of poem and song, and the style is similar, irrespective of the subject. They are used to express emotion and can therefore be used on sad as well as happy occasions. Sometimes, for example at weddings, the performers would compete with each other, on the quantity of ‘tsiatista’ they knew, as well as the quality of their performance. The best performers would even improvise. 27. ‘Sto kalo’ is a Greek expression, which is often used when someone is leaving, but which does not have an equivalent expression in English. Directly translated, it is ‘Go to the good’ and therefore ‘farewell’ is probably the nearest equivalent. Page 59 of 371

By now, the grave was half filled with the dirt thrown by the individuals who threw a handful each, as a gesture of respect. The priest poured water from a clay jug into the grave and when it was empty, he broke it and threw the pieces into the grave too. The coffin could no longer be seen. The lads who carried him picked up shovels and put back all the dirt that was dug up. This is it, I thought. Gradually, the crying stopped. The candle-lighter went around the crowd, holding a tray containing the ‘comfort’. This was bread, cut into small pieces. He also had a glass, which he filled with wine from a jug he was holding in his other hand. The men would take a sip of wine from the same glass, together with a piece of bread and invariably say: “May God forgive him.” The women and children would just take the bread without the wine and say the same thing. At long last, this emotional suffering came to an end and we headed for our house, leaving our father behind. At home, a small, but significant surprise, was waiting for us. The table had been laid and a large pot of lentils was cooking on the stove. Two young women neighbours welcomed us and one of them said: “We couldn’t come to the church, because we are not ‘clean’, so we thought we would prepare something for you to eat.” “You must be hungry,” added the other one. Indeed, we were. We hadn’t eaten anything since the previous day and perhaps this was another reason why we were fainting at the funeral. We sat down. I recall that I had difficulty swallowing because my throat was dry and every now and then, I would take a sip of water to help the food go down. Later, the house filled with neighbours, who kept us company, until it was time to go to bed. The next day, with a heavy heart, I left the village and my family and went back to work. Page 60 of 371

Back to Work on My Own Theodoros did not come with me. It was decided by the family that he would get a paying job, in order to contribute. He was sent off to ‘Mavrovouni’ to become a miner. In pappou’s family, this was not taken well. “He just walked out on us without a care,” I heard them say. It gave them a reason to change their behaviour towards me. I worked hard all day and in the evenings I did almost all the housework. I even had to empty the chamber pots every morning, before going to work. My wages were one ‘grosi’ every Sunday, so that I could go out to buy some monkey nuts. I didn’t spend my grosi. I saved it, because I began to realise that I wouldn’t be able to tolerate the situation for much longer. Of course, they fed me and provided clothes for me. I managed to put up with it for almost a year, in the hope that I would learn a trade under these miserable conditions. One day, as I was blowing away at the bellows, the old man overloaded the fire. I tried hard, but I failed to keep up. Pappou became furious and slapped me so hard in the face, it made me dizzy. I cursed him and walked out, with a bruise on my face. I had nowhere to go and yet I felt an imperceptible joy. I was free! Finally, I decided to go back to my village. I had to travel fifteen whole kilometres, but I was determined to do it. I would go back to my mother and my siblings whom I missed so much. And so, I started walking. I didn’t want to spend the nine grosia I had saved on a fare. I had to give the money to my mother who, I was certain, was in much need of it. The sun had almost set by the time I reached home. They all looked at me inquisitively when I walked in. “Son,” mother asked, “what is this sudden thing? How did you get here? What happened?” “I left,” I replied, “I couldn’t stand it anymore.” And I told them the whole story, just as it happened. “They treated me like a slave. For almost a year, I learned nothing but to blow the bellows. I thought that I was wasting my time and that’s why I left.” “Well,” Kyriakos – who was now in charge of the family – said, “why didn’t you come by car, we could have paid for it.” “I could have,” I said, “but I didn’t want to,” and I took the nine grosia out of my pocket and handed them to my mother. Page 61 of 371

“My unlucky children,” murmured my mother with tears in her eyes, as she took me in her arms, “the things you will have to endure!” And then everyone else started bombarding me with questions. I answered one after the other for a long time. Eventually, Kyriakos asked me with a serious expression: “And now, what are you planning to do?” “I want to stay with all of you,” I said. “I want to work alongside you.” “That would be good,” he pointed out, “but you will be left without a trade, just like the rest of us.” I understood that our guardian’s concern was for us to at least learn a trade. “Yes, it would be good,” I replied absentmindedly, “but with such conditions?” We ate and went to bed. The next morning, my mother woke me up early: “Get up son,” she told me, “go with Kyriakos to fetch wood.” I got up, washed and climbed up on the donkey, behind Kyriakos and off we went, to the mountain. On the way, which took about two hours, he tried to convince me – and I think he did – to go back to the city and learn a trade. At last we arrived. We had climbed high up the mountain. My legs and my bottom were stiff from the ride. We tied the donkey on some branches and began walking down a steep slope leading to a ravine. “We are not allowed to cut the green branches, only the dried ones,” Kyriakos explained. We got to about two hundred meters from the donkey. He knew his way around. We found ourselves in front of an old and dry wild olive tree which had fallen to the ground. “This is the one we’ll take,” he said. He picked up the axe and began chopping it to pieces, just like a butcher with meat. After he cut two to three logs, he suggested: “Start carrying them up, the donkey cannot come down here.” I willingly picked up a log, which I could just about carry, I lifted it to my shoulder and began the uphill journey. I had to rest two or three times before reaching the donkey. I repeated it again and again. I had carried six logs. I was breathing heavily and I was covered in sweat. The last time I went down the hill, the whole tree was stacked up with logs of various sizes. “Here, you take the axe and I will carry the rest,” he said, realising that I had no more strength. Page 62 of 371

He looked at the stack, estimated how much more the donkey could carry, other than what I had already taken up, picked up two heavy logs on his shoulder and we went up. When we got there, he threw them on the ground and lay down to rest. “We’ll come and get the rest tomorrow,” he said, “if no one else realises that they are there and takes them.” I lay down too. “This is what we do,” he said. “It’s hard work, without pay. And you want to stay with us? No Andrea, you must go back to the city, learn a trade and live with dignity. I wish I could do that.” We ate salted herring with bread and onion and we drank a lot of water from the ‘nerokolokithi’ [28]. He expertly loaded and tied the logs on the saddle and we began the return journey, the donkey in front with us following. The animal knew the way. We descended the path and just where the path joined the road, we were stopped by the forest warden. “Welcome boys, Let’s see what you are transporting,” he said and began examining our cargo. “Well done Kyriako,” I heard him tell my brother, “always the dry ones, God help you if I ever catch you carrying green ones.” “I only take the dry ones,” replied Kyriakos. He let us go on our way and I thought to myself, that’s why we had to go so far, we had to find dry wood. That evening, after dinner, Kyriakos asked me in a tone of voice which left me in no doubt that he required a response: “So, Andrea, do you want to stay with us, or go to the city to learn a trade?” I could no longer postpone my decision. “I will go back for a trade,” I replied. I bowed my head and added: “But not to be a blacksmith.” “Alright,” he said, “I can understand that.” That night I slept with a broken heart at the thought of emigrating again, away from my family. 28. ‘Nerokolokithi’ is a large marrow, with a round bottom and long neck, emptied of its content, dried out and converted into a vessel, for carrying drinking water. Page 63 of 371

Looking for a New Job in Nicosia The next day, we returned to the city and Kyriakos – holding my hand – was asking the various ‘mastores’ [29] if they had a job for me, without discriminating between trades, other than that of a blacksmith of course. Finally, we succeeded. A barber, a few metres further down from pappou’s blacksmith’s shop, who knew us, seemed interested. “Come in,” he said and to show off his knowledge and experience, he explained that as I was so small, I could really only become a barber and that he had a way of teaching me the job quickly, so that in no time I would become a ‘kalfas’ [30]. According to him, I would earn my daily wage from day one, from the tips left to me by the customers. “What do you say?” he asked, clearly hoping that our answer would be positive. “What do you say?” Kyriakos asked me. “Alright,” I said. I didn’t think I had any other choice. The ‘mastoras’ added: “I will get him a nice suit to wear, he can’t come to work in the rags he is wearing, as long as he promises that he will stay on in my employ.” “Don’t worry,” my brother assured him, “he is a ‘filotimo’ [31] boy.” He wished me success and left. 29. The Greek word ‘Mastoras’ (plural Mastores) in the Cypriot dialect, is ‘Mastros’ and when addressing the person, it is ‘Mastre’. The main meaning is a master craftsman and therefore, it is intended to show respect for someone’s skills with his hands. However, it has other uses, such as the boss, or even an immediate superior, a skilled technician, metal worker or blacksmith and sometimes in place of sir. 30. ‘Kalfas’ is the Turkish word for assistant master. In this context, the barber was saying that the author would start as an apprentice but would quickly be promoted to assistant master craftsman. 31. ‘Filotimo’ is another Greek word which is simply not translatable. It means a heightened feeling of dignity, honour and responsibility and as such, it is a great compliment. However, it wasn’t always so. In ancient Greece, the word meant ambition. Someone who possessed ‘filotimo’, was bent on achieving honour and glory, something which was not viewed positively. Page 64 of 371

“Look after the shop,” the barber told the ‘kalfas’ who, throughout the exchanges, was leaning against the barber’s chair and hadn’t said a word. “Rest assured,” he replied. The barber got on his bike and gestured for me to follow him. There was quite a distance from his house. On the way, I noticed that my new boss was very short and could only just reach the pedals. And as he was quite plump, he looked round, like a ball. He used a key to open the front door and as he entered, he shouted: “Maria, come and meet our new apprentice.” A good looking, tall, middle aged woman came out, whose stature was disproportionate to that of my new boss. “This is the mistress of the house,” he told me, whilst she studied me. “Where did you find this tattered boy and brought him into my house?” she shouted, somewhat angry. “Don’t I have enough of my own to clean after, without having to clean after someone else’s?” How she embarrassed me! This was a tough mistress. “Come on,” he said, “don’t be like that, he is a good boy. Keep him at home. I will bring some new clothes for him and tomorrow he will go to the shop.” I wonder how these two got together, I thought to myself. A girl of around four and a boy of just one year old were their children. My boss left me there and went off. “What’s your name?” asked the little girl, as she came closer. “Andreas,” I replied. “Yours?” “Rinoulla. Where are you from?” she asked. I told her and we carried on chatting, until we heard the baby crying from another room. “Go look after the baby,” the mistress instructed both of us. “Come,” Rinoulla said, pulling my hand. A naked baby was sitting on a potty. Page 65 of 371

“He is called Nikos,” Rinoulla told me. He gave me a questioning look as I picked him up, wiped his bottom and put him on a baby chair pointed out by Rinoulla. When the mistress saw me, willing and able, she calmed down a bit. “You will be fine, if you are a good boy,” she told me, a little more sweetly. I spent the day looking after the children. The next day, I was at the barber shop, wearing my little suit supplied by my boss. They showed me how to tidy up the shop and they even taught me how to look after the customers. This is it, I thought, this job suits me. I was there about six months and from the tips I received, I paid off my boss for the suit and I even managed to save a few grosia. One day the mistress kept me at home to look after the children, so that she could go shopping – she told her husband – and she would send me to the shop later. She put us in the children’s bedroom and instructed us not to come out until she returned. After quite some time, as the children were playing and didn’t need me, I thought it would be nice if I tidied up the house, so that the mistress would find it nice and tidy when she got back. I picked up the broom and I opened the master bedroom. I closed it again quickly. What I saw was terrible. A naked man was lying on top of my naked mistress. Her legs were wrapped around the man’s bottom. Naturally, I had never seen such a scene, but I more or less understood what was happening. Frightened, I ran off to the children’s room. Before long, the mistress came in. Her expression was so furious that when I saw it, I froze with fear. She charged towards me and without a word, she grabbed both my ears and picked me up off the ground. I hung by her arms to stop my ears from coming off. “Didn’t I tell you to stay here?” she told me, furiously grinding her teeth. “But..” I tried to defend myself. “No ifs and buts you little bastard,” she shouted and threw me to the ground. I rolled all the way to the door. As soon as I found my balance, I opened the door and ran off, before she could catch me again. I was afraid she would kill me. I reached the street running. She chased me to the front door, gave me a dirty look and shut me out. So, here I was again, alone and exposed. I walked around the neighbourhood, racking my brain to find a way out. The stinking woman, I thought to myself. She is cheating Page 66 of 371

on her husband and he is such a good man! I should go and tell him everything. And then what? Would he believe me? And if she denies it, how would I prove it? On the other hand, if I don’t say anything, how would I get on with her? I was at a loss. I didn’t know what to do. Finally, I decided that there was no other solution, I had to leave. I left with a heavy heart because I couldn’t do anything to this wicked woman who blocked my future, just so that she could indulge herself. I booked a seat on the coach line to the village and, uninvited, I went back to my house. As I entered, my eyes welled up with tears. Perhaps it was out of shame for leaving my job, perhaps it was the thrill of seeing my loved ones again, or perhaps it was for my mother’s affection that I still craved so much. “You left again son?” mother was the first to ask. “Unfortunately,” I said, with an expression of justification. I knew that this time she would understand. I pulled my mother and older brothers to the side, so that my sisters wouldn’t be able to hear such shameful stories and told them everything. “What a slut,” growled Kyriakos, “through her dishonesty, the lad lost his future.” He added, “you will stay with us now, you’ve been through enough.” I felt satisfied. My actions were found to be justified and above all I would get to live with my family. The problem now was, how would I earn my daily bread? My brothers worked in the mine which had opened recently. The distance from the village to the mine was about two kilometres. “Kyriako,” said Yiorgos, “let’s suggest to Mr Zervas to give him a job that’s not too hard. You never know, he may employ him.” “Good idea,” agreed Kyriakos. Page 67 of 371

At the Mine of Kambia Two days later, I was a miner. You could say it was a baptism of fire. They got me to serve everyone with everything. I would carry water to the men, I would deliver tools they needed, I would collect the old tools and, when I collected enough, I would help the master craftsman repair them. In other words, my job was in maintenance rather than production. The only thing left was to see what wages I would get. On Saturday, when I opened the envelope and counted two shillings and six grosia for three days’ work, I felt like a real man. The adults earned double. But it didn’t matter. The important thing for me was that I was now earning my daily bread and then some. And above all, I was no longer a burden on my family, I was contributing. Therefore, there was no reason for me to separate from my own people. I was putting down roots. I was just coming up to thirteen years of age. The works at the mine went on for about a year. I didn’t miss a day’s work. And the distance? No matter! With the two and a half wages coming into the house, the situation improved considerably. We were able to buy nicer clothes for the youngsters and to improve our diet. At least twice a month, we were able to have meat. During this time, as I wasn’t interested in joining the men at the ‘kafene’, I would read. I read whatever I could find. I was particularly impressed by the Odyssey. I admired this man Odysseus, who fought wild animals as well as the sea for twenty years. Such courage! And when I read Le Miserables by Victor Hugo, I was amazed. Amazed by the contents and also by the skill of the writer. However, I was overwhelmed by a sadness. Why couldn’t I study and be educated? Who knows, I might have become an author myself, or a lawyer to fight for justice, or even a doctor to cure sick people. A miner, I thought to myself with bitterness, that’s what I am going to be for the rest of my life. Never mind, I consoled myself, I won’t be alone, thousands of people will live alongside me as miners. A rumour started circulating between the workmen that the company was about to close the mine. The gold vein had been dug out and there was no reason for the work to continue. One day Zervas, the head foreman, announced: “Lads, in one week at most, we are closing. Those of you who want to follow me to ‘Mitsero’ [32] to work with me at the goldmine of ‘Agrokipia’ [32] will be given priority by the company as a result of your experience. All those who need a job, please let me know in the next few days.” That evening, after dinner, Kyriakos called us over and bluntly asked the question: Page 68 of 371

“What shall we do? Shall we go to Mitsero? I don’t want to decide on my own.” We discussed it. We concluded that if we stayed in the village, we wouldn’t be able to manage without the regular wages we were bringing in. We had no choice really. We had to leave the family home. I was used to it, but everyone else was very upset. 32. ‘Mitsero’ and ‘Agrokipia’ are both neighbouring villages, very close to each other and approximately twenty kilometres from Kambia. The mine referred to here is the mine at Agrokipia, which is where the foreman was inviting them to follow him to. It produced copper, pyrite and gold. However, there were two further mines in Mitsero itself, producing copper and sulphur. Page 69 of 371

At the Goldmine of Agrokipia Kyriakos went to Mitsero earlier and rented a house with two rooms. He couldn’t find anything in Agrokipia, because all available accommodation was snapped up by the influx of miners. And so, one sunny Sunday morning, we loaded our clothes and our bedding onto the donkey and began the journey to Mitsero. The only person who didn’t come with us was my sister Eleni. She was settled in the city, near her work. She was on her own now, her child had passed away whilst I was working for the barber in the city. I recall with what pain and sorrow mother closed the door to our empty house. “God has abandoned us,” she said tearfully. “We’ve ended up like gypsies.” After walking for about four hours, we arrived. Two empty rooms. “Here,” Kyriakos told my mother, “you and the children will sleep in one room and we three – he meant Yiorgos and me, as well as himself – will sleep in the other, so that we don’t disturb you in the morning when we are leaving for work.” We found a table and some chairs, but there was no room for them inside, so we put them out in the yard. The next day, early in the morning, we left for work. To start with, they sorted out all the adults and when they were finished, the head foreman called me over and took me to a tin hut which served as his office. “Andriko,” he told me in a fatherly tone, “I will give you an easy, but important job.” He showed me how to record the carts coming out of the ‘Minies’ [33] by their numbers. “You will even have the right to approve them, or not, depending on how full they are. You will work impartially. Your wages will be thirteen, instead of the eight grosia you earned at Kambia.” I was surprised. I would earn so much more and in addition, I would be in charge. “Don’t worry Mr Zervas,” I assured him, “you will be happy with me.” 33. ‘Minies’ singular Minia (Greek: Μινιες, singular: Μινια) are sections of the rockface, allocated to an individual miner or partnership, to dig. Page 70 of 371

I took my responsibility very seriously, as if I had sworn an oath, or had given my word of honour. I took the notebook and followed him to the highest point, from where I could see all the shafts. “Lads,” he started telling the workers, who were still arranging their tools and the carts. “For every cart that comes out, you will call Andrikos to record it. Whoever produces more carts at the end of the week will get a bonus. But let me be clear, I want the carts to be full. No cheating. Andrikos has the right to inspect them.” “Alright,” they said and began to dig fervently with pickaxes. When they loosened enough soil, they would fill ‘gournia’ [34] and throw the contents into the cart that was placed in each shaft. “Write it down Andriko,” I heard my brother Kyriakos say, before anyone else. A feeling of pride washed over me. I marked the first line, under my brothers’ number, supervised by Mr Zervas, who wanted to make sure that I could do the job properly. Kyriakos let the cart slide along the rails, climbed on it and guided it away. Yiorgos was still digging. Almost straight after that, a woman’s voice called out to me: “Write it Andriko.” It was a young woman who worked the rockface with her father. I marked the second line under her number, which was next to that of my brothers, whilst she was going off, on top of the cart, guiding it skilfully. Soon, the calls were coming thick and fast. “Write it Andriko.” I almost couldn’t keep up. Mr Zervas watched me for a while longer and left me on my own, saying “Be careful Andriko, ok?” The rockface sections were mixed, both men and women. The men took off their shirts and worked half naked. The dresses of the girls, who obviously couldn’t take them off, were wet with perspiration. All day long, the calling out continued: “Write it Andriko,” “write this one too, Andriko,” and I carried on marking lines. When we stopped for lunch, Kyriakos asked me quietly who was leading. “You two are,” I replied, also in a low voice, not wanting to give away the secret, “followed by Xenou, who is only one cart behind you. Koutoumatsis is next, followed by all the others.” 34. ‘Gournia’ singular ‘gourni’ (Greek: Γουρνια, singular γουρνι) are large rectangular bowls used by hard rock miners to carry the debris produced by their digging of the rockface. Page 71 of 371

Xenou, was from ‘Malounta’ [35] and Koutoumatsis was from ‘Klirou’ [35]. Koutoumatsis, apart from himself, had nine sisters working with him and between them they managed five rockface sections. At the end of the day, I went to the office and handed in the notebook, but I memorised the first three because I knew Kyriakos would ask me. Before leaving, everyone asked me separately and secretly, their number of carts and they all agreed that my records were correct. In the evening, I had my reply ready: “You and Xenou are joint first, Koutoumatsis is second and his sister Irene is third.” “She won’t get away from me, I will get ahead of her tomorrow,” was Kyriakos’s stubborn response. Xenou was a beautiful brunette with full breasts. Her black hair was separated into two long braids which made her look very graceful. As she was working next to my brothers, I could see her glancing over at them with jealousy. She was always first and now she had competition. The first week’s results were posted on the board. First were my brothers with 112 carts, followed by Xenou with 109 and Koutoumatsis with 108. I was relieved to see that the results were not disputed and I was not accused by anyone. They all kept their own record of course. The head foreman wrote on the board: Ten shillings for the winner, eight for the runner up and five for the third. These were over and above their wages of nineteen shillings per day. “Congratulations,” Xenou said to Kyriakos with a flattering smile, “no one has ever beaten me before.” “To you too,” beamed Kyriakos with pride. From that day on, a connection was established. “Good morning,” from Kyriakos, “good morning,” from Xenou. “I will beat you today,” they would tease each other. One day, something happened, which brought them much closer. Xenou was on her cart and as she had done many times before, she started moving down the hill. It seems that she didn’t apply the brakes properly, because the cart got away from her and began speeding downhill. When the speed increased, the cart was derailed and threw her clear, a few metres away. 35. Malounta’ and ‘Klirou’ are also neighbouring villages, very close to each other and about 15 kilometres from Kambia, on the way to Agrokipia and Mitsero. Page 72 of 371

“Xenou, lads,” I called out. Kyriakos dropped the ‘pikouni’ [36] and looked over at the derailed cart. He jumped off the rockface and with a few long strides he was next to her. I saw him put his arms under her armpits and lift her up. By then her father had joined them. Luckily, she was not seriously hurt. She was in pain from the fall but she wouldn’t show it. “Bring the ‘pelia’ [37] and the gournia” [34], Kyriakos called out to Yiorgos. They managed to put the cart back on the rails and together, they put the debris back in the cart. Kyriakos took the cart off to empty it and the others returned to the rockface. That evening, when we were having dinner, Yiorgos tried to tease Kyriakos. “Brother, I think you have fallen for Xenou, don’t deny it.” “So what?” admitted Kyriakos. He was twenty-two years old; it was time! “Don’t I have the right to take a wife? As long as her parents approve. Is she not good? What do you think?” “She is an exceptional girl,” replied Yiorgos, “I wish I could have her.” “Your turn will come,” Kyriakos told him “We all have to wait our turn.” 36. ‘Pikouni’ plural ‘pikounia’ (Greek: Πικουνι, plural: πικουνια) is a miner’s pick. It looks like a pickaxe but the metal part, has only one point instead of two. It is version of the pickaxe, developed for use in small spaces. 37. ‘Pelia’ singular ‘peli’ (Greek: Πελια, singular: πελι) are also tools used by hard rock miners. They are similar to a garden hoe. Page 73 of 371

The Pre-Engagement of Kyriakos to Xenou After a few days, Kyriakos was ready to send ‘proxenia’ [38] to Xenou. “I know the ‘palikari’,” [39] said her father. “Is it true that he is a good man and a hard worker, just as our daughter told me?” his wife asked in the presence of the ‘proxenitis’. He was a young, married man, whom my brother befriended in order to secretly find out about Xenou’s conduct and morals. “So, she recommended him to you,” said Xenou’s father to her mother. “The trickster! Call her in.” “Xenou,” called out the mother. Xenou came in straight away, with a smile on her face, because she knew in advance what was going on. They had whispered in each other’s ear, they were agreed. “Xenou,” asked her father, “koumbaros Zoumos – that was the name of the proxenitis – has brought us ‘proxenia’ from Kyriakos. What do you say, do you want him?” “There is none better,” replied Xenou, blushing. “Alright daughter.” He turned to Zoumos and said: “Tell them to come for lunch on Sunday, to complete the arrangements.” 38. ‘Proxenia’ is a marriage proposal. ‘Proxenitis’ is the matchmaker who delivers it. Often, the initiative would come from the matchmaker. In Cyprus, back then, marriages were arranged. A young man could not ask a girl to marry him. He had to send his proposal by matchmaker and if the girl’s parents agreed, they would invite the potential groom and his family to their house, to make further arrangements. The girls were not always asked to agree. Their father’s decision was final, irrespective of their wishes. Furthermore, it sometimes applied to the men, whose father would send the marriage proposal without consulting his son. 39. ‘Palikari’ is a young, brave and proud man. During the Greek War of Independence, (1821-29), a palikari was a member of a fighting group. Page 74 of 371

We learned the details from Zoumos, who came running, to notify us of the “Yes”. We were all happy. Only mother was quiet and lost in thought. Kyriakos realised what was bothering her and reassured her: “Don’t worry mother,” he told her, “I won’t abandon you, at least not until I get married.” “I will go to work,” volunteered our sister Irene, who was eighteen months older than me. “I am all grown up now, it’s time I went to work.” During the whole of the following week, we didn’t see Xenou. Her father brought her younger sister Eleni to the mine instead. On Sunday, we left Irene at home to look after the children and went to Malounta. They welcomed us. Xenou was trying her best to look after us. Zoumos broached the subject. “I think it would be best, before sitting down to lunch, to discuss the dowry, so that we are ready for the dowry agreement when we call the priest.” “That’s right,” agreed Xenou’s father and announced: “I have two daughters. Whatever my wife and I own will be split equally between them. The only difference is that Xenou, being the eldest, will get the house and I will build another for my other daughter.” There was no need for negotiation. The proposal was fair. “Whatever you think best symbethere,” [40] my mother said. As soon as mother uttered the word ‘symbethere’, the arrangements were concluded. The match had been made. They shook hands and wished each other “I ora I kali” [41]. 40. ‘Symbetheros’ for the male (symbethere when addressing someone), symbetheroi in plural and ‘symbethera’ for the female, are words for which there is no equivalent in English. It means ‘joint parent-in-law’ and it is the way the parents of the couple are addressed. 41. ‘I ora I kali’ means ‘the happy time’ and it is most commonly used in relation to a forthcoming wedding day. It is, more or less, a wish that the special day and time will arrive without any hurdles and can be enjoyed by all. Page 75 of 371

The rest of us also shook hands, we wished the couple good luck and Zoumos went off to fetch the priest. The priest had been prewarned and was waiting nearby. When he came in, we all stood up and greeted him with reverence. “My blessing,” he said and made the sign of the cross in the air. “So, we will be joined by a new horianos,” the priest said, studying Kyriakos closely and was ready to take a seat, when Zoumos suggested: “To the table, father. Let’s finish the dowry contract because we are hungry. It’s nearly lunch time and our guests must be hungry too.” “As you like,” the priest said and sat at the table. Our ‘symbetheroi’ joined the priest at the table, as did our mother, as well as Xenou and Kyriakos. Usually, at this point, a great deal of negotiation would take place. However, this case was different. Xenou’s parents simply listed what they would give her and the priest wrote it down. He asked them to sign and wished the couple: “Na zisete.” “Na mas zisoun,” everyone else joined in. “So, have you set a date for the engagement?” asked the priest. “We will let you know,” answered our symbethera, as she set the table, assisted by her daughters. “Don’t be in a hurry, we have time.” “Alright,” said the priest, “I will wait to hear from you.” The table had been set. We were indeed hungry. Glasses were being clinked and the sweet alcohol was going down well. Before long, the crowd got bigger. ‘Horianoi’ and ‘horianes’, relatives and friends of Xenou, became aware that something was going on and came to find out what. They didn’t need to be asked twice to take a seat at the table. People were curious to meet the groom, the man that our ‘symbetheroi’ were allowing to join their household and also to meet us, his family. The revelry took off. The priest chanted first, accompanied by the crowd and then Zoumos took over, singing skilfully and in a beautiful voice: Welcome to all of us, to this large house, May milk and honey pour from it. After the applause, our ‘symbetheros’ took over: Page 76 of 371

Welcome to all my guests, thousands of welcomes. They didn’t make it difficult for me, they were easy to receive. Applause! Now it was our turn. Someone had to thank them and we all turned to Yiorgos. He was the singer among us. He understood: In the house we are sitting in, may no stone ever crack And may the householder live for a thousand years. Cries of ‘bravo’ were heard all around, accompanied by a long applause. During all this excitement, I saw my mother quietly withdraw to another room. Perhaps I was the only one to notice her. I followed her and found her leaning against a wall, crying quietly. “Mother,” I pointed out, “you will spoil the celebrations. What is this?” “I remembered your father son,” she told me, her voice quivering. “How nice it would be, if he was here, to share in his son’s happiness.” Our symbethera, who noticed our absence, came in. She took my mother in her arms and tried to console her. “Don’t cry symbethera,” she told her. “I longed to have a son, but God didn’t bless me, I will treat yours like my own from now on.” My mother, a little embarrassed, wiped her tears, put on a happy face and we returned to the party, which by now was in full swing. Everyone was trying to show their singing prowess. When my turn came, I sang too. I didn’t shy away. The wine had worked its miracle. “Bravo Andriko,” shouted Zoumos when I finished. “When you grow up, you will beat all of us.” Everyone was looking at me with admiration. I was delighted. I was hoping that they would ask me to sing again, but from then on, I can’t remember anything! I had obviously had one too many and my young body wasn’t used to it. The only thing I remember is that when we got home and I went to bed, the room kept turning around and around and I ran outside to empty my stomach of everything I had eaten and drank. The next day, at work, everyone found out that the two best workers had joined forces. A change had to take place. Kyriakos was now with Xenou and our sister Irene was brought in to join Yiorgos. As she was a learner, she found it very hard and that evening, I recall, she was too tired to even eat, the poor thing. After a few days, Kyriakos left the house and moved in with his fiancé and her family. However, every Saturday, he gave Yiorgos half his wages for the family, until one Page 77 of 371

day we decided that the time had come for us to stop bothering him. After all, he had to have a suit made, he had to buy the rings and of course he had to take care of his future and the family he was going to have. He was moved when Yiorgos told him of our decision. He was pleased of course, but he was also worried. Finally, he thanked us and wished us good luck. Two months went by before the official engagement took place. What went on was something else! Huge celebrations at the tables with all the ‘horianous’ and ‘horianes’ with all of us serving them. That was it. Kyriakos was gone for good. What we would miss most was his leadership of the family. Page 78 of 371

At Mavrovouni – Theodoros’s Injury Now and then we would receive a letter and money from our brother Theodoros. He kept asking us to leave Mitsero and join him at Mavrovouni [42]. He had become a contractor and was making up to six shillings a day. He and Yiorgos more or less made the arrangements for our move and one Saturday evening he came to see us. Out of respect, as he was the eldest, they even ran the idea past Kyriakos. He raised no objection. “It’s your business,” he said, “I won’t stand in the way.” So, on Monday morning we left, with our belongings, for Mavrovouni. Here, conditions were better. The company provided homes for the families of miners, with two rooms, a small kitchen and a toilet. We settled in and the next day we went to work. Yiorgos worked underground and I worked outdoors. I joined others of similar age to me and my job was to load the railway carts with timber and deliver it to the men underground. The work here was hard. My wages went up to two shillings a day, but my brothers really earned a lot of money for that time. For the first time, we had pounds sterling in our hands. Time passed slowly by. Our younger siblings went to school and mother, together with our sister Irene, looked after the house. But bad luck was lurking nearby. Yiorgos worked the 4pm to 12am shift and Thedoros and I worked the 8am to 4pm shift. We were all asleep, when suddenly we were woken up by the deafening bang of a gunshot. The three of us slept in the same room. I jumped up with fear and I saw something terrible. Yiorgos stood there, frozen and still holding a shotgun in his hands and Theodoros was groaning loudly, covered in blood. “What have you done, Yiorgo?” I asked, scared and wondering what happened. He recovered, dropped the gun, threw himself at Theodoros and bellowed, in tears: “What have I done? What a fool, I killed my brother!” 42. ‘Mavrovouni’ means ‘black mountain’. The mine is about sixty kilometres from Kambia, near the village of Lefka, which overlooks Morphou bay, on the North coast. It was the largest mine in Cyprus and between 1929 and 1974, when it was abandoned, it produced large quantities of pyrite, copper, gold, silver and zinc. Page 79 of 371

My mother and sister came in. As soon as they took in the scene, they screamed and fainted one after the other. I was dumbfounded, I didn’t know what to do. Fortunately, the neighbours, who heard the shot and the screams, came running over. The first to come in was the foreman of Yiorgos’s shift, who had just come home from work. He went up to them, pushed away the crying Yiorgos and asked Theodoros how he felt. “I am going to die,” I heard him say. He is alive, I thought to myself. The foreman wrapped him up in a blanket, picked him up, carried him to his car and took off at great speed. Some neighbours were trying to revive my mother and sister and others were trying to console Yiorgos. I went into the other room to stop the younger children from coming in. “It’s nothing, everything will be fine,” I lied. “And the shot?” asked Aristotelis. “Yiorgos shot the gun by mistake,” I told him. In a short while, the police arrived. I left the children and after instructing Aristotelis to look after the others, I went over. Mother, who had been revived, was crying and shouting: “What has befallen us again?” And Irene was pulling her hair, shrieking and crying. One of the two policemen asked who shot the gun, whilst the other picked it up, broke it open and took out two cartridges, one of which had been used and the other which hadn’t. He put them in his pocket and closed the gun. “It was me,” said Yiorgos between sobs, “I killed him.” “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked, as he began writing. “I came home when my shift ended and I went to get my pyjamas from the suitcase under the bed. I found the gun on top of the suitcase and when I picked it up, it went off in my hands.” The policeman would interrupt him now and then, so that he could catch up with the writing. “The deed has been done; I killed my brother.” “I am sorry,” the policeman said firmly, “but we have to take you to the station for a full statement.” Yiorgos stood up, the three of them walked to the police car and left. Page 80 of 371

“What a calamity,” some of the neighbours mumbled. “Mehmet Effendi is here,” said one of the neighbours. Mehmet was a foreman at the mine and the owner of the shotgun. Apparently, he had left it with us because he lived on his own and was afraid that it may be stolen when he went to work. He tried to console us. “He won’t die, I tell you, at this moment, Rose himself is operating on him.” Rose was a famous English surgeon. That reassured us a little; at least he was alive. We put our faith in the doctor. None of us slept that night. Some women neighbours stayed back to keep us company. Mehmet stayed too. At dawn, he took my mother and me to the hospital. All we could see of him was his head, which was wrapped in bandages, with just his mouth and chin visible. We did notice that he was breathing. The nurse recommended that we didn’t talk to him, but just let him sleep. On the return journey, we learned from Mehmet, who spoke to the doctor, that he lost two fingers and one of his eyes, because it seems he was sleeping with his palm over his eye. “It was people’s evil eye,” cried out my mother. “They were jealous of his ‘leventia’ and his good looks. How will he face life now?” It was too late for me to go to work, so I stayed home that day. What troubled me though, was how I would manage on my own. The fate of my three younger siblings and mother was now in my hands. For now, we still had some savings, but they wouldn’t last for long. Luckily, Theodoros recovered and gave a statement to the police. He said that it wasn’t his brother’s fault, that it was an accident and even if he had died, he would have no grievance. So, Yiorgos was released and at least we had one of the two with us that evening. “I went to see him,” Yiorgos told us, “I talked to him. He told me not to worry. He didn’t blame me. Of course, he doesn’t know what they have done to him. He hasn’t been told yet.” And he added, with a lump in his throat, “they removed his right eye and cut off two of the fingers in his right hand. How can I ever forgive myself?” And he cried, he cried unconsolably. “Don’t cry my child,” mother said trying to calm him down, “if something happened to you, what would become of us?” Page 81 of 371

It was a miracle that Theodoros survived. When he found out that he lost one of his eyes, he asked the doctor, as a favour, to let him die. “What kind of life will I have with one eye?” he cried from inside the bandages. What was for certain now was that, according to the company’s rules, when Theodoros left the hospital, he would not be allowed to work in the company. A crucial wage would no longer be coming in. As though that wasn’t enough, a few days later they dismissed me as well, with the excuse that I was underage. It seems that the foreman favoured one of his own and found an excuse to replace me. The problem now was, what would I do? I couldn’t – a grown man – be supported by others. I was fourteen years old. I made a decision and announced it to my family. “I am leaving for ‘Kalavasos’. I will find Mr Zervas there and I am sure he will give me a job.” Page 82 of 371

At the Mine of Kalavasos Kalavasos [43] was situated on the other side of the island, about sixty kilometres away. I got on the bus early in the morning, changed at Nicosia and around lunchtime I was in Kalavasos. I asked around for lodgings and eventually found a room to rent. In the evening, I found Mr Zervas at his house. “Get a card,” he told me “and come and find me tomorrow at work.” He gave me a note and said: “With this, they will give you a card.” The next day I was at the workplace. Mr Zervas arranged the first shift and the miners went through the mouth of the tunnel, which led to the depths of the earth and disappeared. He then called me over. There, next to the entrance there was a shack which was used as a blacksmith’s shop. “This is where you will work,” he told me. “You will assist in the production of tools.” He knew that I had a little experience in this type of work. Shortly, the 12am to 8am shift was coming out of the mouth of the mine. About a hundred human silhouettes had come out of the tunnel and headed towards the showers, which were opposite the blacksmith’s shop. Their skin was blackened by mine dust from top to bottom. Only their eyes shone through and their teeth, when they opened their mouths for whatever reason. Only when they washed could you make out their features. 43. The mine takes its name from the village of Kalavasos, which is situated between the cities of Limassol and Larnaca, at the southern coast of Cyprus. It belongs to the district of Larnaca and it is approximately sixty kilometres south of Kambia. There were in fact five mines outside Kalavasos, covering an area of about 18 square kilometres and on and off, they operated from antiquity until 1978 when they were abandoned. They produced mainly copper, the metal for which Cyprus is famous and provided employment for thousands of miners over the years. Large quantities of the metal were exported from the port of Vasiliko, which lies about 10 kilometres south of Kalavasos, providing the island with much needed foreign currency. Page 83 of 371

In the blacksmith shop, I was welcomed by a bored craftsman: “I will give you an opportunity to learn the trade,” he told me “and the sooner you learn, the better for me, I’ve had enough, I want to stop.” In one week, I was a ‘xefteri’ [44]. Liveria, [45] pikounia, [36] kalemia, [46] would come and go from my hands, ready to go back underground. As expected, after a short time, the craftsman walked out and I was left on my own. I was now earning a craftsman’s wage. I did my work with such zeal that even Mr Zervas was proud of me. I lived frugally and whatever money I had left over, I sent it to the family. About six months had passed, until one evening, when I got home from work, I found my brother Theodoros waiting for me in my room. “Brother,” I said surprised, “welcome, I wasn’t expecting you.” “Thank you,” he replied, “I’ve come for work, I can’t work there anymore.” He went on to explain that everyone had left to go back to Kambia, because the company had reduced the number of people it employed and even Yiorgos was laid off. Fortunately, he got a job easily. There was a shortage of experienced miners like him, and the rules of this company did not prohibit his recruitment. 44. ‘Xefteri’ is another of those words, which are very descriptive, but are not translatable. It literally means, to become like a sparrow hawk and given that the hawk has great expertise, the meaning becomes self-explanatory. 45. ‘Liveria’ singular ‘liveri’ (Greek: Λιβερια singular: λιβερι) is a digging bar. It is a long metal bar sharpened at one end. It looks like a thick spear made of metal. It was used for digging. 46. ‘Kalemia’, singular ‘kalemi’ (Greek: Καλεμια singular: καλεμι) is a large pin used in mining. It looks like a large nail. Page 84 of 371

Sadly though, Theodoros was consumed by a feeling of despair. He couldn’t get used to the loss of his eye and his fingers. He began gambling at the card tables. Sometimes, he even used some of my income, which I handed over generously and without protest. I felt that it was justified by his circumstances. One day we received a message that Yiorgos had got married and moved out. That meant that the family had no one to protect it and therefore, they had to move to Kalavasos, to be near us. I found a house with two rooms and in a few days the rest of the family had joined us. Aristotelis had just finished junior school, Telemahos was in the final year and Ermione, the youngest, was in the first year. Irene had been engaged to a young miner at Mavrovouni, we had the wedding before we left and she was still there. In a short while though, they joined us too and her husband also went to work in the mine. On a positive note, Theodoros stopped gambling, having realised that we needed all our money to feed the family. Time passed by without too much difficulty. Page 85 of 371

The Second World War and Unemployment When the second world war broke out in 1939, it found us there, in Kalavasos. All work stopped. By order of the Governor, all mining companies had to discontinue their activities and the young men were called to arms, to defend the motherland. Once again, we found ourselves on the streets. We had nowhere else to go, so we went back to our village. We left Irene and her husband in Kalavasos, where he had managed to get a job as a builder. Later, we found out that they separated, even though they had two children together. The situation now, back in the village, was difficult. We had to generate an income. With our few savings we bought a donkey – the other one went with Kyriakos when he got married – and began work as lumberjacks. In addition, at that time, our village produced a colourful soil, which was used in the production of oil paint. We just called it ‘paint’. It was being sold to the middleman for ¾ of a grosi per ‘oka’ [47]. Unfortunately for us, the vein was deep down in the ground and you had to dig for it. Once you found it though, you could make a good living from it. Apart from the timber, the whole family – the children were not allowed back in school – was occupied in the search for and the production of ‘paint’. The ‘paint’ kept us going for quite some time, until the market was saturated – the rest of the village were doing the same thing – and we had to stop. Things got worse. The work with the donkey was not enough to feed all of us. In the meantime, the war was raging and the news spoke of Hitler’s unstoppable advances. I had no knowledge of wars and I was not troubled by the issues raised by the war. If the question came up, my reaction was: “If they have differences, let them sort them out.” What did concern me was our constant struggle to avoid hunger. I heard that the government had instigated the so called ‘Relief Works’ for those in absolute need with a daily rate of sixteen grosia. In order to be taken on though, you had to have a ‘certificate of necessity’. I secured the certificate from the President of the village and first thing on a Monday morning, I presented myself to the foreman. I got there using my sister’s bicycle, which she had discarded in the village. It had been neglected and I had to repair it before I could use it. 47. ‘Oka’ is the Greek version of the Ottoman ‘Okka’ still used in Turkey. It is a measure of weight and the Greek oka remained in use in Cyprus until the late 1980s. It was equal to 1.282 kgs. Page 86 of 371

The site was a few kilometres before Nicosia, in Lakatamia. They were clearing the road. I handed the certificate to the foreman, a very tall and imposing man, with a big moustache. He looked me up and down angrily. “You too for pilaf?” he said, with malice in his face, as though the grosia came out of his own pocket. I said nothing. I needed the work. “Take a wheelbarrow,” he told me and left. I took a wheelbarrow, but I didn’t know what to do with it. A young man came over to me and introduced himself. He asked where I was from and I told him that I was from Kambia, my name was Andreas and that I desperately needed this job. “Call me Tsingis,” he told me. “I am a shoemaker. All these people you see, are here because they need a job. None of us want to do this work, it’s not our trade.” We were interrupted by the booming voice of Eftamantilos, [48] the foreman. “What are you doing there little one? Pick up a shovel and work, if you want to earn any money. Don’t pay any attention to these layabouts.” I realised that he was shouting at me and I was confused. I picked up a shovel, which had been dropped by a worker who had gone to the toilet and I began filling the wheelbarrow with dirt. When it was full, I walked quickly and emptied it where Eftamantilos had pointed out. They all stood there, staring at me. “Bravo!” said Eftamantilos triumphantly, “show these layabouts how it’s done.” I was at a loss. What the devil was going on? Why was I the only one he was pushing to work hard? He shouted at me again and again, as if he was using me as an example for the others. 48. ‘Eftamantilos’ is a combination of the words for seven and handkerchief. Therefore, the name means ‘a man of seven handkerchiefs’. It was probably a nickname, or possibly it was the nickname of his father or grandfather which, over time, became their family name. Page 87 of 371

Joining the Union When we sat down to lunch, Tsingis engaged me in conversation. “Andrea,” he asked me with a smile, “do you want to shut Eftamantilos up?” “Do I want to? The cuckold is driving me crazy; can’t you hear him?” “It’s up to you,” he said. “It’s up to me?” I wondered out loud. “You should join the Union.” “What is this Union?” I asked. “If you want to know more, come with me tonight,” he managed to say, before the foreman blew his whistle and we had to go back to work. All afternoon, whilst working, I kept thinking about this thing they called a Union and how it empowered man. An unfamiliar fear took over me. I remembered some rumours about some atheists called communists, who were trying to organise the workers and to turn them against their employers. It was rumoured that they did not support our motherland, that they made love to their mothers and sisters, that they were known as ‘reds’ and much more. I wonder if he is one of them, I kept wondering to myself. At 3pm I heard the whistle. Most of the men dropped their tools and walked off. There were about fifteen of us left. I didn’t know what to do. “Why are you standing there with your mouth open? You little bastard,” I heard the piercing voice of Eftamantilos, swearing at me. “Do your job, if you want to come back tomorrow.” I threw myself into the work. I needed to be allowed back tomorrow and the days after that. I had to work. Tsingis passed by very close to me and whispered: “I will wait for you nearby.” I carried on working persistently, to show Eftamantilos that I was capable of earning my daily bread. He had brought all those left nearer, so that he could more easily oversee the group. In the next two hours he drove us hard. At 5pm he looked at his watch and ordered: “Pick up all the tools and bring them to the storeroom.” I delivered the wheelbarrow, Page 88 of 371

full of tools, to an old man who was in charge of the storeroom and began walking towards where I left my bike. I was wondering whether I should take the road to the village, or the road to the city, to find Tsingis. I made a decision! I would go find him. If the worst came to the worst and they asked me to denounce God, I would refuse to do it. I would just walk out. I climbed on my bike and headed to the city. Could he still be waiting for me after two hours, I wondered? But there he was, leaning against his bike waiting for me. When he saw me, he smiled, happy to see me. “Bravo Andrea,” he told me, “come with me.” We reached the city, went through several backstreets and found ourselves in front of the door of a single storey building. Tsingis knocked three times with a doorknocker and they opened up for us. We went in with our bikes, leaned them against the wall and carried on further into the building. There were three to four rooms inside. One of the rooms had a sign with the words ‘General Workers Union’. Tsingis read it and said: “This is where we have to go.” He pushed the door and we went in. In the room, there were four men who looked like workers, sitting around a temporary desk. You could easily tell they were workers by the clothes they wore. Tsingis greeted them: “Hello colleagues.” “Welcome colleagues,” they replied almost in unison. “Sit down,” one of them suggested. Tsingis passed me a chair. “The colleague?” he was asked by the one sitting in the middle and who looked to be the eldest. I was very confused. This man, who was old enough to be my father, was calling me “colleague”. “New,” answered Tsingis, “I am recommending him for membership.” “Our pleasure,” said the elderly man in a brotherly manner. “As long as he wants it.” He turned to Tsingis and questioned him: “Have you explained the purpose and the objectives of our Union?” Page 89 of 371

“No, I didn’t get a chance,” and turning to me, he said: “This is our General Secretary.” “Colleague,” began the secretary, “Until now, we have been at the mercy of the employers. The bosses, who fill their wallets at the expense of our sweat. We have not been valued and haven’t been able to raise our head. Since we organised ourselves, they have had to listen to us. Our slogan is ‘power comes from joining together’. You can easily break a matchstick, but if you join many matchsticks together, you cannot break them. If the workers are united, they can defend against the exploitation by the employers. Our union is fighting for better working conditions, less working hours and better earnings. Our organised power is still very limited. There are many who don’t understand the need to join the movement. When our union grows and thrives – for that is our goal – we can achieve a lot together.” “The job we are doing Andrea,” continued Tsingis, “was no accident, it was hard won. We had a demonstration outside the government offices, asking for work and the government was forced to introduce the ‘Relief Works’ for the people who are hungry.” It was the first time I heard people speak with such optimism and belief. And everything I heard had nothing to do with either God or Russia. “The right to join costs three grosia,” the secretary told me “and the subscription is two grosia per month.” As if he was trying to justify the cost he added: “The union uses this money for writing materials, rents and sometimes it helps colleagues who fall ill and are in desperate need.” I was excited! “Make me a member,” I said without hesitation. “I will give you the grosia on Saturday, when I get paid.” “He is alright,” said Tsingis, as if he was standing guarantor for me. The secretary filled an identity card with my details. Name, address, age, occupation. He signed it and said: “Here, take it, from now on, you are a member of our Union.” “Welcome to our family,” said the others as they shook my hand. I thanked them and left. In the corridor outside, I scrutinised my union card. At the very top, in capital letters, was written: GENERAL WORKERS UNION. Underneath was a sketch of two hands in a handshake and below that, also in capital letters: WORKERS UNITE. Page 90 of 371

I hid it in my pocket as if it was a valuable lucky charm. I collected my bike and left for the village. By the time I got home it was dark and they were asking me why I was late. I just told them that my bike broke down. I wasn’t ready to tell them of my decision and my actions. A hidden fear prevented me. I didn’t want the village to find out that I had joined this group of revolutionaries, so I kept it to myself. The next day at work, Eftamantilos came near me. He gave me a sullen, sideways look and said: “So, they made you a red too?” and he shook his head disgustedly. Tsingis and I smiled with satisfaction. He had mentioned to me earlier that he told Eftamantilos I had become a member of the Union and that he could no longer treat me the way he treated me the day before. After that, he never spoke to me again. I enjoyed my conversations with Tsingis. The things he told me were new and unknown to me. “You’ve been wondering,” he told me, “why we don’t work hard. For the simple reason that it is not our profession. Here, you can find shoemakers, tailors, barbers and even clerks. And then there is the fact that the sooner we finish, the sooner they can dismiss us. This way, the Governor’s office will have to approve a new budget to finish the job and it will keep us in employment a little longer.” Damn it, I thought to myself, the work I did yesterday could have lasted me a week. “Well,” I said, “how is it that you finish work two hours before the others?” “From today,” Tsingis replied, “you will finish with us. It is an agreement, between the union and the government. Sixteen grosia for eight hours work.” “In that case, why doesn’t everyone become a member of the union?” I asked. “They are afraid of the stigma,” Tsingis answered firmly. “There is no other reason. The employers’ side, in an effort to knock the organised movement, which is growing, invented a series of false accusations. They call us atheists, stateless, traitors and many other things. That is what people are afraid of.” I understood. I was now one of these stigmatised men. I despised the idea of being stigmatised with all my power. “Let them call me whatever they like,” I told Tsingis resolutely, “one day the truth will come out.” “Yes,” he agreed “one day it absolutely will.” Page 91 of 371

This was one of the most important experiences of my life. I began to recognise the different social classes, the exploitation of the workers and the power of the unions. I was there for about three months. During this time, I had regular contact with Tsingis. When I had a query, he was always willing to help me. Then, they shut down the ‘Relief Works’. The Governor’s office insisted that they ran out of money. Tsingis explained to me that they were doing it deliberately, to encourage us to join the army. Page 92 of 371

My Attempt to Enlist in the British Army I went back to the village and got on with carrying wood and collecting ‘paint’. We heard that some young men from our village, who had enlisted in the British army, were sending as much as three pounds a month to their families. Well, I thought to myself, the only thing left for me is the army. It became an obsession. I talked it over with Theodoros. Instead of trying to stop me, his reaction was: “I wish they would take me.” My mother on the other hand, was hesitant. “You want to go to war, my child? Have you really thought about it? You belong here, I would rather we starved.” She continued objecting, but I persevered and eventually she relented. “If you insist my child, go with my blessing, God be with you.” The next day, with two shillings in my pocket, I left for Limassol. I had to go to Polemidia, [49] where the military camp for recruitment and training was situated. I paid half a shilling to travel from Kambia to Nicosia and twelve grosia, from there to Limassol. With the three and half grosia left over, I bought a koulouri [50] and some cheese, which I ate walking uphill to Polemidia. I was stopped by the guard at the entrance. “Where are you going?” he asked “To enlist in the army,” I replied. “That way,” he said and pointed, “it’s that shack you can see over there.” 49. The village of ‘Polemidia’ was just outside and north/west of Limassol. Over the years, it has joined up with and has become a suburb of Limassol. Today, the distance from Kambia, using the motorway, is about 85 kilometres. In a straight line, the author’s estimate of 65 kilometres was very accurate. 50. ‘Koulouri’ (plural koulouria) is a shaped bread roll, which looks like a bagel or a ring doughnut, covered with sesame seeds. Even today, it is often sold on the streets of Greece and Cyprus. Page 93 of 371

I headed in the direction he pointed and when I arrived at the shack, I noticed a sign in English with Greek characters: ‘Recruiting Office’. I went in. There were three or four people sitting behind desks and the first one looked up and said: “To enlist?” “Certainly,” I replied. Without wasting any time, he picked up a form and started asking me questions: Name, father’s name, mother’s name – I answered and he wrote – place of birth, date of birth: 10/10/1924. He stopped abruptly. He put down his pen and looked at me questioningly. “Don’t you know,” he asked me, “that you have to be eighteen to enlist? Go away and come back next year.” And he tore up the form with resentment for wasting his time. “But…” I started to explain, but he wouldn’t hear me. “Nothing can be done,” he told me very firmly and in a way that left no doubt. It hit me like a thunderbolt. I hadn’t even considered that I may not be allowed to enlist. I knew that other men of my age, from my village, had already enlisted. I concluded that they must have given a false date of birth. Damn, I thought to myself, why didn’t I think of it? I was angry at my own stupidity. What now, though? How would I get back? I had no money left. I walked past the guard and out onto the road. I went downhill for a bit, I turned a corner where I couldn’t be seen from the camp and I sat under a carob tree, to consider what to do. I thought and thought again. I decided that I had no other option but to walk! I considered the distance: From Nicosia to Limassol, 80 kilometres. I deducted 15 kilometres, which was the distance between Kambia and Nicosia. The village was in the same direction, which meant that I would reach the village before Nicosia, thereby saving 15 kilometres. That left 65 kilometres. I figured that, if I travelled over the mountains in a straight line, instead of following the road, I could shave another ten kilometres off the distance, perhaps more. It was nearly 11am. I can make it, I thought, I could be home before dark. Without further ado, I set off. I went around the camp and reached the top of the mountain. I decided to follow the mountain tops, to give me a good view and enable me to work out the direction. In the beginning, it seemed like fun. Now and then I would come across a ploughman, or a shepherd with his goats and they kept me company. When I went further though, I realised that I was going through uninhabited areas. I then entered the forest. I was Page 94 of 371

going up and up. My feet started hurting and I was thirsty. There is no water on the mountain tops I thought, I had better forget about it. The sun was getting lower and lower. I picked up the pace. Nightfall should not find me among these untrodden mountains. Every now and then, I would look behind me at the sea to make sure I was going in the right direction. Sometimes the sea would disappear and I reckoned that I was near the start of the downhill. I was wrong. The plateau went on for many more kilometres. At last, I found myself in a clearing. The sun was setting. In front of me, I could see ploughed fields. There must be a village nearby, I reasoned and hurried on as much as I could. It was getting dark. I found a country road and followed it. I turned a corner and a small village appeared in front of me. It was built in a basin, hidden by mountains. I moved on and entered the village. I was thirsty. I saw the village kafenio and I went in. “Some water,” I asked without sitting down, “may I have some water?” “Of course,” replied a man wearing a traditional vraka and an apron. I realised that he was the kafetzis (owner of the kafenio). The only customer at that moment was an old man, who was leaning on his walking stick, so that his beard was touching the top of his stick. He kept looking at me curiously, under his thick eyebrows. “Which village is this?” I asked, after a second glass of water. “This is Kambi of Farmakas” [51] the kafetzis told me with a wondering look in his face. I am much further west than where I expected to be, I thought. “Join me palikari, let me buy you a coffee,” suggested the old man in a thick Cypriot dialect. He had stood up and was coming towards me. “Thank you,” I said, “but I have to go.” 51. The hamlet of ‘Kambi’ and the larger village of ‘Farmakas’ from where it takes its name, are in fact unerringly close to a direct route (as the crow flies) between the author’s starting point and his destination. Therefore, in terms of direction, managing to navigate his way there, with nothing but his wits was quite an achievement. Unfortunately, in terms of distance, he still had a long way to go. Page 95 of 371

“Where are you going?” asked the old man. “To Kambia.” “And where are you coming from?” “Oh, it’s a long story,” I told him in an attempt to avoid his questions. “I will not take no for an answer,” he said. “You will have a coffee before you go.” And he ordered the kafetzis to make me a coffee. I really did want to sit down and rest, but I was also aware that time was marching on. We sat down next to each other. “So, you are from Kambia,” asked the old man, “whose son are you?” “Kleanthis’s,” I replied. “The late Kleanthis?” he asked, to make certain. “Yes,” I told him. “I knew your father,” he told me, “we were friends.” “Your coffee,” interrupted the kafetzis and placed a tray on a chair, in front of me. “Really,” said the old man, “you haven’t told us where you are coming from and how you came to be in our village.” I could no longer avoid an explanation. Whilst I drank my coffee, I recounted the events of the day. The old man was astonished. “You walked all that way in 5 to 6 hours? You must have strong legs.” The kafetzis was listening with eyes wide open. He said nothing. He just shook his head in amazement. “Listen son,” the old man said. “You can’t get to your village tonight and you mustn’t even try. I was the recipient of your father’s ‘filoxenia’ [52] many times in your house. You were too young to remember me.” Page 96 of 371

He continued: “Tonight, you will stay at my house, to rest and early tomorrow morning, some horianoi are leaving for the city on horseback, to carry wine in wineskins. You can go with them up to Klirou and from there, you can leave for your village. Don’t be shy, accept my hospitality.” [52] I was really moved by the old man’s kindness. “Thank you, uncle,” I said, “but…” “No, no, you are staying here tonight.” I didn’t need further encouragement. My feet were hurting badly and my stomach was rumbling. “Alright uncle,” [53] I agreed. He stood up, threw half a grosi in the tray my coffee arrived in and suggested: “Let’s go, you must be hungry.” I followed him without another word. We went to his house, where we were welcomed by an old lady. “He is the son of the late Kleanthis, from Kambia. Do you remember him?” “Of course, I remember him,” the old lady said. “He lost his life unjustly, the poor man. Sit down.” 52. ‘Filoxenia’ is the Greek word for hospitality. It is made up of the words ‘filos’ which means friend and ‘xenos’ which means stranger. However, hospitality does not do it justice. From ancient Greece, through to the time of this story and beyond, the friendship of strangers, or the love of strangers, was a way of life for the Greeks. It was considered an obligation rather than a choice to welcome a stranger into your home, to share food and drink with him and provide him with a place to stay. Given that journeys were sometimes on horseback (or donkey back), but mostly on foot, they tended to be long, necessitating overnight stays. There were no hotels and very few inns. Therefore, spending the night at someone’s house was very common and often it was a reciprocal arrangement. 53. The old man was obviously not the author’s uncle. He was addressing him that way as a sign of respect. Page 97 of 371

We sat down and whilst the old lady was setting the table, the old man asked after my family, starting with my mother and my older siblings, whom he knew. It was clear to me that his interest was genuine and out of friendship. I was more than willing to provide the answers. “Come to the table,” I heard the old lady say. We went. She put a large plate full of broad beans and cabbage in front of me. Only someone who is hungry, as much as I was that day, can possibly understand how delicious I found that plate of food. We also drank a glass each of a very sweet wine. We talked for a while longer and then the old man, who knew how tired I was, showed me the room where I would sleep. “Go ahead, if you like,” he told me, “I know you must be tired.” Actually, that’s really what I wanted. I went in the room and closed the door behind me. I took off my shoes and socks and noticed that there was blood between my toes. That’s why they are hurting me, I thought. I lowered the light of the paraffin lamp and got under the covers of the wooden bed. I fell asleep very quickly. The tiredness and the wine I drank put me in such a deep sleep that the old man had difficulty waking me up early the next morning. He shoved a piece of bread rusk in my pocket and wished me good journey. “Farewell and give my regards to your family.” “Thank you, but whose regards should I deliver?” I didn’t even know the name of this good man whose hospitality I enjoyed. “If you say from Yiannis the Kyratzis, they will know.” “Thank you very much, uncle Yianni,” I thanked him. I will never forget it. “As we discussed, koumbare,” Mr Yiannis said to a middle-aged man who was waiting outside with two donkeys laden with wineskins. And with a slap on my back, he told me: “Sto kalo.” We left. The donkeys in front, with us behind them, we took the road to the city. Every time I put a foot on the ground, it felt as though someone was sticking needles in it. I deliberately walked behind the middle-aged man, so that he wouldn’t notice the way I was walking. I was embarrassed. Luckily for me, it was still dark and he couldn’t see me. “That was quite a feat, you achieved yesterday,” he began the conversation, “Old- Yiannis told us all about it. Do you know how many miles you walked?” Page 98 of 371

“How many?” I asked. “Around thirty,” he told me admiringly. “The trip to Limassol is so long, even we don’t take it on and we are professionals. That’s why we prefer Nicosia, because it’s only twenty miles.” When I heard twenty miles, I was scared that I wouldn’t make it. I asked quickly: “How many miles to Klirou?” “It’s not far,” he said, “no more than five miles.” So, I thought, that’s five miles, plus five miles from Klirou to Kambia, that’s ten whole miles. This was a troubling thought which was interrupted by my companion. “So, the cuckolds wouldn’t accept you in the army?” he said. “It’s your fault. If you had said 1923, you wouldn’t be wandering the streets now. Never mind though, it may turn out to be for the best. One of my sons went off with the army about six months ago. In the beginning, he wrote to us. It’s been three months and we haven’t heard from him. Who knows where he is?” His mood had changed. “Who knows what’s happened to him. This is war, he didn’t go for pleasure. For a miserly few ‘dekares’ our children are getting killed. What a situation this is,” he concluded angrily. I tried to change the subject. “How long before dawn?” I asked him. “A couple of hours,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “We will be in Klirou by dawn.” “What do you do in your village?” he asked and before I could reply, he continued, “we heard that you make a good living from ‘paint’. I wish we had ‘paint’. Our only income comes from the wine and zivania that we make from grapes. And when the weather goes against us, it doesn’t bear thinking about.” “Do you think we find the ‘paint’ in a mount and just scoop it up?” I said. “We have to find it first, then dig it up from the depths of the earth and sweat over it for a piece of bread.” “Even so,” he said, “we are worse off.” I had to agree. These people lived a miserable life in the rocky landscape. You could tell from the rags they wore and their thin silhouettes, which bore witness to their malnutrition. Page 99 of 371

My feet had warmed up now and walking became easier. After quite a bit more conversation, dawn found us in Klirou. “That way,” he pointed to the path, before we split up and I followed it. I was walking with difficulty. I reached the river ‘filaniotis’ which was a tributary of ‘Pidkias’ and I remembered the bread rusk in my pocket. I soaked it in water, ate it and inside I thanked my benefactor. I also drank a lot of water, thinking there won’t be any more until I reach the village. I stood up, but it was horrible. Every part of me hurt. My hips, my ankles, my muscles, the bottom of my feet, my toes. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to continue. I had to. I picked up a dry branch, turned it into a walking stick, leaned on it and began the uphill walk. The path was never ending. It was around 8am when they saw me arriving at the house. My mother, the first to see me, started crossing herself. “Christ and Holy Mother of God,” I heard her say. “How did you end up here, at this time and from that direction? What happened?” I didn’t reply. I was upset and my eyes filled with tears. When she saw that I was dragging my feet, she took me in her arms. I dropped the stick and she got me to lie down. She took off the worn-down shoes and my feet smelled badly. “Oh, my! Look what’s happened here,” she said, faced with my bloody and swollen feet. She fetched a basin with water, soaked a piece of cloth in it and began cleaning the blood. “Tell me my child, what happened?” “They didn’t accept me,” I replied. “And how did you get here?” I explained. My younger siblings stood there, listening, overwhelmed by my story. It took three days before I could stand up again. “Don’t think about it,” my family would tell me, “who knows? Perhaps you were lucky.” Eventually, I was ready and I went back to work. Back to the ‘paint’. And the damn thing was getting harder and harder to find. Page 100 of 371