Paradise Lost: Smyrna 1922 - The Destruction of Islam's City of Tolerance (7 page)

It was the moment for which he had waited his entire life.

There was one central person missing from the Whittalls’ Christmas feast of 1912. Magdalen Whittall had breathed her last earlier in the year and been buried in the little graveyard of Bournabat parish church. She had given her name to the church; now, her very flesh and bones were laid to rest in the shade of the tall plane trees.

For such a formidable woman, it is curious that no account of her passing has survived. Perhaps there was a feeling among family members that she had not really gone. After all, one of her great-grandchildren recalled that she continued to inspire fear for years after her death. Her flower-collecting son, Edward, felt her ghostly presence for the rest of his life, as did his wife, Mary. As Mary drifted in and out of senility in her final years, the terrifying spectre of Magdalen returned to haunt her. ‘Daily life became shadowy and unreal,’ recalled her granddaughter, ‘but her early tussles with her mother-in-law remained clear in her mind.’ She never forgave Magdalen for the public dressing down that she received in front of the entire congregation of Bournabat church. Her offence was to have worn a lilac bonnet that her mother-in-law considered ‘too gay’ for a married woman.

Magdalen’s final injunctions to the family were revealed in her last will and testament. ‘They are based on a long life’s experience,’ she wrote, ‘and dictated by an earnest desire for your happiness.’ Although she was no longer alive, she still demanded the deference of her sons and daughters.

Her commands read like the dictates of a Victorian ecclesiast: ‘Never swerve from the truth, be honest and straightforward, fully exercise the gift of charity and try to live at peace with all men.’ Most important of all was the survival of a dynasty that had, under her stentorian tutelage, risen to become the first family of Smyrna. ‘I recommend to you union among all the members of our large family,’ she wrote, ‘forbearance towards each other, overlooking one another’s failings [and] striving to further each other’s welfare.’

The loss of Magdalen Whittall marked the end of an era. Her father-in-law, old Charlton Whittall, had founded the dynasty back in 1809 and Magdalen was the only surviving member of the family who could remember him as a young man. As a little girl, she had played in the grounds of the Big House, unaware that her marriage to Charlton’s son was already being plotted by matchmaking aunts and uncles.

Although the family must have grieved for its loss, there was much that remained unchanged. Herbert Octavius remained the driving force in the family business, striking advantageous deals and enjoying the reward of even greater profits. Just a year earlier, the family had celebrated the centenary of the founding of C. Whittall and Co. It was an occasion for mutual congratulation: by 1911, the company had expanded to such an extent that it was the largest and most profitable of all Smyrna’s foreign-run enterprises.

Increased profits from the company had enabled everyone to spend more time pursuing their hobbies. Herbert Octavius spent his weekends hunting big game on the Nymph Dagh mountains while his brother, Richard, found exciting new playthings to occupy his leisure hours. He particularly enjoyed tinkering with his motor car, one of the sights of Bournabat, although viewed with wonder and suspicion by the Whittalls’ servants. ‘The first time that our
kavass
, Iskender, saw Uncle Richard’s Napier coming up from the station,’ recalled Eldon Giraud, ‘he rushed into the house yelling that the engine of the Bournabat train had come off the line and was heading for the square. He then dived under the kitchen table.’

Mary Whittall spent her fortune on keeping her children in check. ‘With all the sea coast at her disposal she chose to build seven adjoining houses with a communal terrace in which her children and grandchildren lived during the summer months and were ruled with a rod of iron.’

The journey to these summer houses, which were situated on the coast to the north and south of Smyrna, was an exhilarating one for a young child. It took twelve hours in a horse-drawn carriage, ‘with the risk of being set upon by brigands’. The Whittalls and Girauds were particularly enticing targets for the bandits, who had their hideouts in the lawless mountains behind Smyrna. Several members of the family were captured in this period, including James Whittall, a nephew of Herbert Octavius. He was eventually released, but only after the payment of a significant ransom.

The brigands’ success encouraged them to snatch another member of the extended family, Alfred von Lennap, who was seized while inspecting a newly imported tractor. They carried him to a secret hiding place and then sent an unambiguous message to the family. ‘If we don’t receive the ransom before the agreed day, we’ll send you your son’s ears, and then his nose . . .’ Young Alfred was given right royal treatment while being held captive, for he was worth far more to the bandits alive than dead. ‘He was always given the choicest pieces of chicken, lamb and other foods,’ according to one of his relatives. The family eventually paid the ransom and Alfred was released with ears and nose intact. The brigands were not so fortunate. Tracked down by soldiers loyal to Smyrna’s governor – and captured while arguing over the spoils – they were beheaded in the city centre and their heads stuck onto the spiked railings of the governor’s palace.

Surviving childhood memoirs of Smyrna in the years prior to the Great War present a world that seemed timeless, secure (with the notable exception of the brigands) and filled with happy memories. There was Miss Florence’s nursery school in Bournabat; the great Easter Monday family picnic; kite flying on the garden terraces. One girl recalled reading stories from dusty piles of
Strand Magazine
and
Household Words
that were stored in the Turkish bathhouse. Another had memories of dancing bears being brought down from the mountains by gypsy boys. And all remembered the great camel trains crossing Caravan Bridge before heading into the centre of Smyrna.

Although Bournabat seemed untouched by the cares of the world, there were underlying tensions in the great houses. Young Mary recalled the arrival of a new nurse – an eventful day for both her mother and her father. ‘She arrived in Turkey, a beautiful young English girl . . . pretty, fair-haired [and] pink and white.’

Her roses-and-cream complexion proved an instant attraction, not only among the young men of Bournabat; Mary’s father quickly made it his goal to have her as his mistress. ‘[He] was the sort of person who made a play for every servant girl around,’ wrote Mary. In this case, he won the prize. The young girl became his long-term mistress, satisfying his physical needs while at the same time attending to the numerous children of the family. Edmund’s wife knew of the affair and was most unhappy about it, but this did not seem to trouble him. Like so many of the wealthy Levantines, he had learned that he could behave exactly as he chose. ‘He was an introverted autocrat,’ wrote his daughter, ‘flush with his own power . . . [and] very difficult to approach.’

It was a harsh judgement but an accurate one. Men like Edmund Giraud found it hard to believe otherwise. After all, they employed thousands of people whose lives were totally dependent on the success of the businesses that they owned. It was little wonder that they were objects of reverence, especially on Long Island where Edmund had his summer house. ‘We were important people to those villagers in the same way that royalty is to the man in the street,’ wrote Mary. ‘If we ever went down to the village, people would run out of their houses to watch us go by.’

The Levantine families were extremely sociable and their coffee mornings and tea parties were the envy of the city. All the greatest dynasties also held an annual ball, usually in springtime when the evenings were warm but not sultry. The local press was invited and would publish articles describing the ball gowns of the grandest ladies.

The most spectacular ball was hosted by the Paterson family; it was the social event of the year and all the city dignitaries were invited, including Smyrna’s Ottoman governor, Rahmi Bey. He was always concerned that a gathering of all the richest notables would make the house an irresistible target for brigands. ‘He placed troops on all the routes leading to the ball,’ recalled Helena van der Zee, ‘in order to protect the guests from any possible attack.’

The Paterson family lived in the largest mansion in Bournabat. It had thirty-eight rooms – more than the Big House – and was famous throughout Smyrna for its opulent interior. Two spectacular crystal chandeliers hung in the great atrium and the imported iron stair balustrade was one of the marvels of the colony. There were four grand pianos in the ballroom and each bedroom had a marble washbasin with running water. The mansion stood in grounds of more than 130 acres, half of which was given over to the family stud farm.

The Patersons had made their fortune in mining. Old John Paterson, founder of the clan, had been the first to discover chrome in Turkey. As the family coffers swelled, John’s offspring found themselves eagerly pursued by the marriage-hungry aunts of the other Levantine clans. Old Magdalen Whittall ensured that at least one of her sons married a Paterson. The neighbouring Wood family also managed to strike a marriage alliance with the Patersons.

Among the regular visitors to the houses of the Levantine elite was Governor Rahmi Bey. In a land of powerful people, Rahmi was the most influential of them all – ruler of a city that generated a large slice of the wealth of the Ottoman empire. He cut a most imposing figure whenever he was seen in public. ‘He was tall and very straight,’ wrote George Horton, ‘with piercing eyes and a high, thin-nostriled Turanian nose.’ Fastidious in his dress, Rahmi liked to promenade through the streets of Smyrna dressed in his frock coat and clutching a silver-topped cane. He had spent his formative years in Salonica, a city that boasted almost as many nationalities as Smyrna, and was intelligent, cultivated and enlightened in his political views. When the Young Turk movement came to power in 1908, he was among the leading figures. He was soon given the governorship of Smyrna, a city that would become dear to his heart.

Rahmi managed the day-to-day affairs of his fiefdom with considerable aplomb, ruling with an iron fist, yet using his authoritarian streak for beneficent ends. ‘[He] was a shrewd despotic person,’ wrote Horton, ‘whose intellect was an equal blend of Oriental and European, the latter doubtless inherited from his Jewish ancestry.’

The governor felt a particular affinity for Smyrna’s European and Levantine communities. ‘He was especially friendly with the leading British citizens of Smyrna,’ wrote Horton, ‘who entertained him lavishly at their palatial homes.’ They enjoyed his company, for he was a most diverting guest. ‘He was a hearty eater and could carry any amount of European and Oriental liquor without losing his wits or power of locomotion.’ Horton’s admiration for Rahmi was shared by almost all who met him. Only the French consul, Jean-Marie Colomies, was critical of the manner in which he managed the affairs of the city, claiming that he seemed to view Smyrna as his personal satrapy.

If Rahmi Bey had a tendency to autocratic rule, it was because he had a well-nigh impossible job to perform. He was governor of a city whose population was majority Christian and not always in agreement with the decrees of the central government in Constantinople. Rahmi foresaw the potential problems that this might cause and wisely chose as his director of political affairs a wealthy Greek named Carabiber Bey. ‘[He] spoke perfect French without an accent,’ wrote the Frenchman, Paul Jeancard, ‘and used expressions which manifested his culture.’ Carabiber was an important go-between – someone who could represent the Greek community within the framework of Ottoman rule.

In a metropolis of so many nationalities, the foreign consuls also had an important role to play. They were the figureheads of their communities, but also their representatives, and they provided another channel of communication with Rahmi Bey. There were scores of foreign consulates in Smyrna, each equipped with a large staff and a hospitality budget to match.

One of the most outgoing consuls was George Horton, custodian of the powerful American interests in the city. Cultivated, worldly and highly professional, he was a cut above the average American consul serving in the Levant. Horton’s first posting had been to Greece, a country whose rich past had cast a spell over his undergraduate years. He taught himself ancient and modern Greek while studying at the University of Michigan, and he had translated Sappho’s poems into English. He also wrote his own poetry, both in Greek and English. It was good enough to impress Walt Whitman; he preferred Horton’s poetry to that of any other living American.

Horton married his Greek fiancée, Catherine Sacopoulo, in 1909. Then, after a brief stint as consul in Salonica, he was appointed to Smyrna in 1911. He was not the first to recognise that the city’s prosperity and spirit had been created in large part by the great Levantine dynasties. The tensions that William Childs had found in the countryside of Anatolia were wholly absent from Smyrna. The Levantine factories employed all, regardless of race, and, in the dried-fruit warehouses and flour mills, Turks, Greeks, Jews and Armenians found themselves working alongside each other.

‘We got on well with the Turks,’ recalled a Greek lad named Ilias Kourkoulis, one of many refugees interviewed in the aftermath of 1922 about Smyrna’s happier times. ‘We visited them frequently and our homes neighboured theirs. We spent our leisure time together and all played in the same football team.’

By the early twentieth century, the lives of these groups were becomingly increasingly intertwined. Communities freely borrowed each other’s customs, even helping themselves to bons mots and expressions as well. Two of Smyrna’s champion wrestlers were thoroughbred Greeks who elsewhere in Turkey would have certainly vaunted their race and religion, yet to do so in Smyrna would have been frowned upon as unseemly. They chose the Turkish word
dana
, meaning ‘bull’, as their
nom de guerre
.