Between the Orange Groves Read online




  Nadia Marks

  Between the Orange Groves

  Contents

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  A Brief Chronology of Cypriot Political Events

  Acknowledgements

  To my father,

  Harilaos Kitromilides

  (1916–2018)

  Were there never rain

  Could the springs so joyful be?

  Were the sun not to shine again

  Would God’s nights ever an end see?

  If love did not reign supreme

  Would the world be enough for me?

  —Orhan Seyfi Ari (1918–92)

  Prologue

  London, 2008

  ‘There never was a more loving friendship than ours . . .’ Lambros said, his eyes filling with the memory. ‘Nowhere on the island could you find such good friends as the two of us, despite our differences. Orhan and I would do anything for each other, we were family . . . we were like brothers. How could we let our friendship perish like that? It’s unforgivable!’

  Stella sat silently, listening to her father talk. She had heard these stories of love and friendship repeated many times over the years but she never tired of hearing them. She took pleasure in his tales from a far-off country, marvelling at the bond that had so closely tied those two boys and their families together. From a place and a past that was opening up to her through his words. Yet in contrast to the pleasure she received from her father’s stories, the melancholy of recounting them invariably ended with the old man shedding tears of sadness.

  Father and daughter were sitting in the garden among the roses, basking in the sun on an unusually hot day in early June. Stella had come to visit him. This was her favourite month and even on days when the sun didn’t grace them with an appearance, nature always did her best. This peaceful garden in north London was bright with flowers and sweet-smelling herbs, thanks to the hours Lambros spent tending them.

  She came to visit her father often now that Athina, her mother, was gone, even though she knew he could cope perfectly well on his own. While her mother was alive her parents had always been busy, forever dashing off to something or other. It had been a constant source of frustration that they were less available for her than she would have liked them to be. She missed the old family house in the leafy London suburb favoured by many Cypriots and where her parents made their home when they first got married. She and her brother had been born there, her own children spent most of their pre-school days there with their yiayia when Stella was working. She missed her mother, she missed having little children, she missed the old days. Now that her father was alone she enjoyed recalling some of those times with him. Her visits gave them the chance to talk of the past, to remember. Lambros especially needed more than ever to recapture his youth, his friendships, a time of innocence and love, before he came to England, before he married and had a family . . . before he became someone else.

  Stella had grown up with her father’s stories from his youth but these days she was hearing them more often.

  ‘We have to do something about it,’ she told her brother one day while the two of them had lunch together. ‘Honestly, Spiros, all he talks about when I see him now is Orhan. He remembers the old times, their youth, and what happened – and then he cries. What could have happened that was so bad to make an old man cry like that?’ Stella looked at her brother.

  ‘I know . . .’ Spiros replied, ‘I noticed it too and can’t imagine. You’ve got to get him to talk about it; he’d tell you.’ He gave Stella a little smile. ‘You’re good at that.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking we should try and find him, bring the old men together.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Spiros mused. ‘Since Mum died he talks about Orhan and the past a lot. Do you think he’s a bit depressed?’

  ‘No, I don’t think he’s depressed, I just think he is very sad, and that’s why I think we could try and find Orhan. You never know, he might still be alive.’

  ‘He’s the same age as Dad, isn’t he?’ said Spiros, reaching for his glass of wine. ‘Eighty-something isn’t so old, especially for these old Cypriot boys.’

  The next time Stella went to visit her father he had just made himself a Turkish coffee and was about to carry it out to the garden. She let herself in and announced her arrival from the hall, hoping he could hear her – he was getting quite deaf these days, but since his hearing was apparently the only faculty that was failing him so far, no one was too worried. ‘I hear what I need to hear,’ he would tell them.

  ‘Yiasou, Papa!’ she called out cheerfully. ‘Where are you?’ she asked, much louder than usual.

  ‘In here . . . in the kitchen,’ his reply came immediately. ‘And no need to shout, the whole street knows you’re here now,’ he added with a chuckle.

  The French windows leading into the garden were wide open, flooding the room with light, and Stella could see the newspaper spread out on the garden table outside where Lambros had been sitting.

  ‘Come, I’ll make you some coffee too,’ he said, putting down his cup and picking up the bricky to make another. ‘You like it sketo don’t you?’ he asked and pulled a face. ‘How can you drink it without any sugar at all? Far too bitter for me . . . but then you ladies are always watching your figures . . .’ he chatted on, glad to see her.

  Once again Stella joined her dad in his fragrant summer garden with a plate of sesame biscuits she had bought from the Cypriot patisserie. Sitting down, she allowed him to transport her back in time to a world of people she could only imagine, yet which over the years had become as real as the world she lived in now.

  Cyprus, 1946

  The light summer breeze carried the call for evening prayer over the rooftops along the narrow streets of Nicosia to the two young men’s ears. Lambros and Orhan had been taking a stroll inside the walled city after studying all day when the muezzin’s voice announced that the sun had started to set, so it was time for the faithful to remember Allah once more and make their way to the mosque for prayer.

  ‘Is that the time already?’ Orhan turned to his friend, incredulous at how late it was. ‘I thought it was much earlier,’ he added, as they turned left into a side street towards the mosque.

  ‘It must be something to do with my stimulating conversation,’ Lambros said jokingly, ‘or maybe because it’s high summer.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘I thought it was much earlier too.’

  No matter where he was, or with whom, the Turkish boy, Orhan, always observed the prayer five times a day. More often than not, the two friends were taking their customary stroll together when evening prayer was called. The Greek boy, Lambros, was always glad to accompany his friend to the mosque and wait outside, guarding his shoes while the other prayed. Although one was Christian and the other Muslim, the two young men shared a deep friendship based on mutual respect and love for one another despite their different faiths.

  ‘Don’t you ever get mixed up with all of these shoes here?’ Lambros pointed at the sea of footwear outside the mosque when Orhan re-emerged. ‘I often wonder if anyone ever makes a mistake and walks off with someone else’s . . .’ He added, ‘There are so many of them and they’re all so alike.’

  ‘You, my frie
nd, might get mixed up but I do not,’ Orhan retorted while doing up his laces. ‘I’m well acquainted with my shoes – maybe you have too many to remember them all?’

  ‘I think you know well enough that’s not true . . .’ Lambros replied, pretending to be offended, but aware that his friend’s remark bore an element of truth. His family’s apparent wealth bothered him only if it meant that it might set the two of them apart. Lambros’s family was indeed quite well off; his father and uncle were the owners of the local bakery and general store which supplied the neighbourhood and beyond with bread and groceries, while Orhan’s family lived less comfortably. But the disparity between the households hadn’t always been there.

  The two boys, born in the spring of 1928 in a remote village in the Troodos Mountains to the west of the island, had begun life quite differently. Orhan’s father, Hassan Terzi, was a master tailor with a thriving business while Lambros’s father, Andreas Constandinou, owned a small and meagre general store in the village.

  Hassan was the only decent tailor for miles, continuing in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. His reputation had travelled as far as Paphos, the third largest town on the island, supplying the entire male population of his own and most of the surrounding villages with his handmade suits, shirts and overcoats. Andreas Constandinou, on the other hand, had to compete for his living with the municipal market and local farmers.

  ‘The only way to make a proper living is to leave this village,’ Andreas would often complain to his wife Maroula. ‘If we want to prosper and provide for our children we need to go to Nicosia.’ His grandfather owned a plot of land outside the city walls of the capital and Savvas, Andreas’s older brother, who had been living and working away from the village for years and was now running a successful business in Nicosia, was always asking them to join him there.

  ‘Savvas’s business is thriving and I could be part of it,’ Andreas would try to convince his wife. ‘He has already started to build a house and we can all live together, we can give our children a better future there.’ But Maroula was reluctant. She was happy in the village. She had no complaints or ambition for wealth. Her boy Lambros and her daughter Anastasia were growing up nicely out here in the country. The big city alarmed her. The children were still young, though it didn’t stop her worrying about their future, especially the girl’s. A daughter had to be provided with a dowry if they were to find her a good husband and Maroula was more than happy to help to supplement the family’s income.

  ‘God will provide, Andreas, there’s no rush. We’re managing, aren’t we?’ she would argue. ‘We have enough to eat and I’m not frightened of work.’ Maroula was a good seamstress and was able to take in sewing work which Hassan made sure came her way regularly.

  ‘God bless him and all his family,’ she would tell her husband when another garment came into the house for alterations. ‘We couldn’t wish for better friends, Andreas. If we lived in the city would we have such good neighbours?’

  ‘There are good and bad people everywhere, Maroula,’ was his reply.

  ‘There is much danger in the city, Andreas. How could we marry our girl off to a good man when we don’t know anyone there? A patched-up shoe from your own village is better than a brand-new one from another.’ She would quote the old and much-used adage alluding to finding a good match from your familiars, close to home. ‘I’m happy here with the people I know,’ Maroula continued. ‘Where would I find a friend as good as Hatiche in the city?’

  The two families lived side by side. Lambros and Orhan were the oldest siblings in their families and they were inseparable, like their mothers.

  1

  Cyprus, 1920s

  Kyria Maroula and Hatiche Hanoum, as the children politely addressed each other’s mothers, were as generous in spirit as they were in spreading their love and laughter to their children and their families.

  The Constandinou and Terzi houses were separated only by a row of orange, lemon and mandarin trees so close that often when Maroula threw open her kitchen window looking out on to the trees she had to battle with their foliage. When the blossom was in full bloom the heady aroma that flooded the room was almost overwhelming. Most mornings, after the two women finished their household chores, they would pause and take it in turns to make coffee for each other.

  Whenever the weather was fine in spring and autumn, they would sit in each other’s backyard enjoying the warm sunshine, while in winter they would sit beside a log fire as the rain, or sometimes snow, fell outside. Winters in the mountains were cold, often bitterly so, but they didn’t last long, and when summer arrived, it was welcomed with jubilation. A mountain breeze kept the climate temperate and there was no shortage of trees in Maroula’s and Hatiche’s backyard to take refuge under if the temperature rose too high.

  No fences or borders separated the two houses, and the hens roaming the yard as the two women sat drinking their coffee belonged to both households. When the children were small they would sit on a rug by their mothers’ feet, and then toddle about chasing the chickens when they were a little older. First came the boys, Orhan and Lambros, then barely a year later came Leila.

  ‘Oh, how I long for a daughter,’ Maroula said with yearning as she cradled her friend’s newborn baby girl.

  ‘You’ll have one soon, I know,’ Hatiche replied. ‘I saw it in the cup! The coffee grounds never lie. Believe me, it’s your turn next.’

  ‘Inşallah,’ God willing, Maroula answered, using the customary Turkish expression which Greeks often used as well.

  ‘Glad to hear you speak some Turkish, my friend,’ Hatiche exclaimed in Greek. ‘I’ve been thinking that it’s about time to teach you some more. How many years now have I been speaking to you in Greek and all you say to me is Inşallah or Maşallah?’

  As the majority of the Cypriot population was made up of Greeks, most Turks were obliged to have some knowledge of Greek and more often than not they were fluent. Hatiche was one of them, as were her parents and grandparents before her. Apart from the unavoidable mistakes many Turks made in not being able to distinguish gender, her vocabulary and pronunciation were excellent.

  ‘I have tried,’ Maroula protested, ‘it’s just that I’m no good at memorizing the words . . . Don’t you remember when you were married, I tried to learn some phrases so that I could impress your grandmother at the ceremony? I was hopeless . . .’ A sense of guilt and embarrassment made her stop; she knew her friend was probably right to be disappointed in her – most Greeks never made the effort to speak Turkish or indeed had a need to. ‘Why don’t you teach me how to say Come for coffee, then?’ Maroula added to please her friend as she reached for a plate of sesame goulourakia she had baked the day before. These delicious biscuits, rich in butter flavoured with vanilla and covered in sesame seeds, were everyone’s favourite and no one baked them better than Maroula.

  ‘If you teach me the words, then when it’s my turn to call you I’ll say it in Turkish!’

  ‘Well, let’s start with afiyet olsun,’ Hatiche replied with a smile, taking a biscuit from the dish Maroula held out to her.

  ‘Afiyet olsun to you too,’ Maroula repeated, recognizing the words for ‘good appetite’.

  Maroula set her mind to learn the simple phrase Hatiche taught her. She practised at home, repeating the words over and over, until one morning, throwing open the green shutters of her kitchen window, she proudly called out to her neighbour. The suppressed giggles and raucous laughter that came from across the garden were not at all the response Maroula had expected. She had hoped for praise not ridicule, but in her haste and excitement she had muddled her words and instead of asking if Hatiche had finished her chores and would like some coffee, she had said something along the lines of ‘Have you finished your toilet ablutions?’ At which point Hatiche made her way round to Maroula’s house to explain her mistake, amidst much laughter from both of them. Laughing was what the two of them did best; ever since they were little girls, their friendship
had been based on good humour and fun. After that incident Hatiche gave up trying to teach her friend any more Turkish.

  ‘Just stick to the few words you know,’ she said and patted Maroula’s hand. ‘Since my Greek is so good we have no problem.’

  ‘I told you,’ Maroula said apologetically, ‘I’m useless at this,’ and their giggles were carried across the yard to the neighbouring houses.

  Ever since childhood the two friends, both born in the spring of 1909, had always been inseparable, forever laughing and looking for fun together. When they were not at school they spent most of their time playing and inventing games. Their family homes were in the same street separated by three houses. Although they went to different schools, Maroula to the Greek elementary and Hatiche to the Turkish one, they had singled each other out to be best friends early on. The two schools were side by side so they walked there together each morning and after their homework they would meet in the street to play. On school days, their play was restricted to a few hours and they were not allowed to wander far. Some other kids on their street often joined in but when the time came to go inside to study neither of them minded; both girls were good pupils and took their homework seriously.

  ‘I never had the opportunity to go to school,’ Maroula’s mother would say, unable to read or write herself but proud to see her daughter was keen on learning. ‘But you have, and what’s more you have brains. So, learn all you can while you can.’

  School was free only until the age of twelve so most children, especially girls, would leave at that age, unless their parents could afford to send them to one of the towns or larger villages to learn a skill. For girls, it was usually sewing; for boys, a trade like carpentry or silversmithing, otherwise they would start to work in the fields with their fathers.

  So during term time the girls were good, but come the summer they would run wild. For three whole months, they were free to roam the hills and valleys with nobody asking questions. There were many children in the neighbourhood: boys and girls, Christian and Muslim, or Mohammedans as the Greeks referred to them, and they would all gather under the big cedar tree at the end of Hatiche’s and Maroula’s road to plan their day. The hillsides with their lush vegetation were perfect for hide-and-seek and climbing trees. Away from the grownups’ prying eyes, the boys’ games would often turn mischievous; budding sexual curiosity would compel them to chase after the girls with one aim: to lift their skirts and look at their panties. The girls would protest amidst much yelling and screeching, but were also secretly thrilled with this wicked pursuit. At six and seven, they took each other at face value; they were all friends and they accepted their differences – Greeks or Turks, nothing mattered but fun. At around the age of nine, Maroula fell madly in love with Ali, a Turkish boy with huge brown eyes and golden skin who lived three streets away from her. He was a year older than her and if he chased her she willingly let herself be caught.