Turkish troops were on standby across Cyprus and, before dawn on 14 August, they were issued with new orders to advance. Tanks began to move towards Famagusta. They were slow but sinister, and any remaining sense of security vanished. Their progress was relentless.
‘We have the National Guard to protect us, don’t we?’ said Maria, pale and full of fear.
‘I’m not so sure how they’ll hold out against the tanks,’ answered Vasilis.
‘Tanks …?’ said Maria quietly, holding the little one tightly to her side.
Vasilis and Irini had been listening to the latest news bulletin when their daughter came in.
It was as if the sudden burst of artillery in the distance had disturbed her unborn child. She felt the baby stir in her belly. She still had two months to go, but she felt so heavy. It was not like the previous time. This was not a kick, but something stronger.
Irini noticed her react to the pain.
‘Come and sit down,
kori mou
,’ she said.
For a brief period, fear paralysed the people of Famagusta. It was like a drawing-in of breath, a collective gasp of shock and disbelief that this could be happening to them and to their city.
Less than a month before, in this sophisticated and wealthy resort, people had cruised about in their sports cars, flaunted the latest fashions, studied in the best schools on the island, managed lucrative businesses, put on plays, listened to world-class bands, eaten continental cuisine, enjoyed Sunday outings to Salamis, taken part in pageants and parades, baptised their children, attended grand weddings, flirted and made love until the sun rose.
It already seemed a century ago.
For weeks they had lived with the possibility of invasion, but never imagined it would actually happen. Now they faced a new reality. Everything they knew and had taken for granted was threatened.
Amongst a handful who did not want to acknowledge this fact was Savvas Papacosta. He stubbornly refused to concede that they were in danger. The Sunrise still stood, undamaged and gleaming in the sunshine. It had been built to last, with no corners cut and no expense spared. He believed it would be standing for millennia, long after the others fell, watching over the rising sun like a temple to Apollo.
Now that the building site was a wreck, he was back in his office at The Sunrise every day.
‘They’ll start talks again,’ he maintained to Markos that morning. ‘They’re still just trying to get their way about the cantons. It’s brinkmanship, that’s all.’
‘I wish I agreed with you,’ responded Markos. ‘But I’m not sure they’re planning to stop. You know about the line?’
‘What line?’
‘They’re making a line – a division – all the way across Cyprus. Apparently it even has a name. Attila.’
Savvas was adamant in his refusal to believe this.
‘They won’t do it! The Americans and British won’t let them!’
Markos did not want to argue with his boss. There was no purpose. Savvas was not always right, but he allowed him to think he was.
‘Other people can believe whatever they like. I’m going to give it a bit more time.’
As the Turks continued their slow but inexorable approach, their intentions became ever clearer. Markos’ information was correct. They were aiming to close up the line stretching from east to west. In the west, they had their sights set on Morphou. In the east, the seizure of Famagusta was their goal. Orders from the United Nations to stop the advance were ignored. Nicosia was gradually being cut off.
For some, there was an instinct to fight, but it was too late. The suburbs were quickly captured. There was still fighting around the port and bombardment from Turkish warships. Flight was the only option. The people of Famagusta were outmanoeuvred, outnumbered, outgunned. Nobody had come to their rescue. Not even Greece had stepped in to save them.
Once the reality sank in, silence was replaced by terror. And by panic. Where should they go? What should they take?
That night the National Guard realised there was no hope of saving the city, and even nearby United Nations troops seemed impotent. Everywhere, a common cry was heard:
‘The Turks are coming! The Turks are coming!’
With this terrifying truth echoing round the streets, forty thousand people looked around their homes and in a moment knew what mattered most. Some picked up icons, some pots, some blankets, some a precious clock, some nothing at all. Some just picked up the irreplaceable: their children. There was no time for vacillation. If they dithered over trivial decisions, all might be lost.
Plumes of black smoke rose from the seafront and the port area as air attacks continued.
Savvas was still at The Sunrise when a powerful bomb landed down the street. The chandelier in the reception area shuddered, the tiny pieces of crystal continuing to jangle for a few minutes afterwards.
‘Kyrie Papacosta,’ said Costas Frangos, his voice trembling, ‘I’m going. Every guest has left now. The staff too.’
He shut the ledger, lifted the flap of the reception desk and came out into the foyer.
‘My family will be waiting for me. I want to get them out of here.’
Normally Frangos was a model of subservience, but now he knew he must stand his ground. All he cared about was finding safety for his wife and children. Rumours of the city being overrun were growing by the moment, and even if his boss was behaving as if there was all the time in the world, Frangos had had enough.
Another plane passed low overhead. It was loud enough for them to hear the sound of its engine in spite of the doors being closed. Whether it was Turkish or, as both of them hoped, Greek, anxiety registered on their faces.
‘I think you should leave too, Kyrie Papacosta. Nobody thinks it’s going to be for long.’
‘Yes, you’re right. Everyone is expecting intervention; in a few days everything will be back to normal. I’m certain of that.’
Frangos turned his back on Savvas and marched out. He didn’t know if he would lose his job, but minute by minute he had begun to realise that his own life and the lives of his wife and children were in danger. His loyalty towards Savvas Papacosta had been pushed too close to the limit.
The glass door shut with a clunk.
Savvas stood there alone. He did not fear for his own life. He merely felt anguish at the emptiness of his hotel. It felt as if there was a void where his heart should be.
Aphroditi was on the balcony when she saw Savvas pull up outside and dash into their apartment building.
In the street below, although it was a quiet residential area and at this time most people would normally have been sleeping, the pavements were full. Looking down to the left, she caught a glimpse of the sea. The sun was dazzling but she could see a continuous stream of traffic on the esplanade. It was all going in one direction: out of the city.
Five floors up, where sometimes there was a slight sea breeze, the air was still. This intensified the fragrance of the jasmine that had been trained along the wall of the terrace, carefully clipped and watered by a gardener who visited three times a week. She buried her face in its froth of white blooms and absent-mindedly picked a sprig.
She had watched people leaving other apartment blocks close by, heard the sound of bombardment and been gripped by fear. Phone lines had ceased to function.
She ran to open the front door for Savvas.
‘We have to get out,’ he said.
Aphroditi’s throat dried.
‘I’ll pack a few things,’ she said quietly, fingering the stone of her pendant.
‘There’s no time. The only thing we need to think about is your jewellery. We can’t leave it here and we shouldn’t take it with us.’
‘So …?’
‘Just get it all and we’ll store it in the vault. Markos is waiting there for us.’
Savvas rummaged in his desk for a few moments, retrieving some papers, then went to the door.
‘I’ll see you downstairs,’ he said.
Aphroditi set to work gathering her jewellery.
Each of the drawers of the dressing table – there were five on each side – had a separate key. It was a piece of furniture that had been specially made and was essentially a giant lockable jewellery box, but not one strong enough to withstand someone with real intent to thieve.
She retrieved the ten keys from inside a book whose pages had been cut out to form a box, and unlocked each side. Most pieces were in soft pouches or in their original packaging. As fast as she could, with shaking hands, she cleared each drawer, starting with the lowest and working up. There were a dozen or so small boxes or pouches in each space, and she used both hands, picking up two items at a time and dropping them into a beach bag. If there had ever been any sentimental value attached to the contents, she had forgotten it now. Within three minutes, the dressing table was empty, except for the top left-hand drawer. There was still something inside.
She reached to the back to find the green velvet pouch inside which was her tiny pearl. For Aphroditi it was more precious than anything that now lay in the bulging canvas bag at her feet. She took an embroidered purse from a handbag on the dressing table, put the pouch inside and snapped it shut.
Below the balcony she heard the frantic sound of a car horn. She knew without looking that it was Savvas.
On her way to the front door, she dashed into the bathroom and grabbed a towel to put on top of the jewellery.
In the lift, she caught sight of herself in the smoky mirror, in high-heeled sandals and a new dress. The sense of imminent danger was strong, but nevertheless she used the time it took to descend to the hallway to reapply her lipstick.
As she pushed open the door, once again in the full blast of the day’s infernal heat, she could see Savvas, his hand pumping on the steering wheel. He was shouting out of the driver’s window.
‘Aphroditi! Come on! Come
on
! Come ON!’
Without speaking, she got in, struggling with the heavy bag. She hoisted it on to her lap and put her arms around it to keep it stable. It was too bulky to go on the floor in front of her.
Savvas had left the engine running, and the moment her door closed, he took off at speed.
‘What the hell were you doing?’
Aphroditi stubbornly ignored her husband’s question.
‘I’ve been sitting here for
five
minutes, for God’s sake!’
He continued muttering and complaining as they took the road that led down to the sea.
‘Christ! The traffic looks bad already. If you’d been ready a bit faster … Markos is expecting us at least.’
As they got closer to the hotel, their exit on to the main road was blocked with traffic. He had seen this from the moment he set off, but nevertheless he slammed on the brakes as if it was a surprise.
‘You couldn’t sort yourself out any faster?’ he said, with ill-disguised sarcasm. ‘Not even today?’
Aphroditi had learned to receive blame and equally had learned not to respond. It only provoked argument.
They waited a few moments to turn left out of their street. Nobody was prepared to give way, but within a few minutes, Savvas had forced his car into the flow of traffic.
They crawled along, Savvas thumping the wheel each time he had to brake and cursing continuously under his breath. Aphroditi could feel the sweat breaking out underneath her clothes, trickles running down her arms and legs. Anxiety, stress, the heat of the day, any one of these was enough of a cause, but the real reason was her excitement. Very soon she would be seeing Markos. It seemed as if so much time had passed and she had thought of him a thousand times a day.
Ten minutes later (it would have taken less time to walk), they reached The Sunrise.
Usually there would be two uniformed doormen to greet them. This time, only one man stood waiting. He was not in uniform, but in slacks and a white shirt. He leaned down to speak to Savvas.
‘Kyrie Papacosta, I have made some space for you.’
‘Thanks, Markos. Be as quick as you can, Aphroditi. I’m just going to do a final check of the hotel.’
As if he imagined that she might miss the sound of his voice for a moment, he felt the need to add another comment.
‘Honestly, you could have changed out of those shoes.’ He gestured down towards her feet.
Markos had moved round to open the passenger door.
‘
Kalispera
, Kyria Papacosta. Let me help you.’
Aphroditi did not look at him, but handed him the bag before getting out of the car and following him sedately through the door of the nightclub. It was true that the height of her heels did not allow her to hurry.
The door shut behind them.
Once in the cool and the half-light of the nightclub foyer, the formality between them disappeared.
‘Markos …!’
She followed him down the stairs and along the corridor to the metal door of the vault. Markos drew a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock.
Aphroditi shivered. Inside, it was cooler than a refrigerator and the lighting was dim.
He turned, locked the door behind them and touched her lightly under the chin.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said.
She automatically lifted her head and looked at him; she expected him to kiss her but saw immediately that this was not his wish.
He took her hand and held it loosely. With the other he twisted the dials on one of the safes. The combination was complex but eventually the door swung open. The space inside was empty, and Aphroditi stepped forward and began to unpack the bag that was now sitting on the floor. She tossed in the items, haphazardly jumbling the pouches and boxes in no particular order just to get the job finished.
‘Not like that,
agapi
mou
,’ advised Markos. ‘It won’t all fit in that way.’
Aphroditi stepped aside as Markos rearranged everything, picking up four or five items at a time and lining them up in neat rows. He was practised at this task.
‘We have so little time …’ she said.
‘Pass things to me two at a time, then.’
Aphroditi dutifully acted as Markos’ handmaid. In a few minutes the job was done and he stood back to admire it.