by Nadia Marks
‘Ah, Maroula mou! Ah my dear, dear cousin, where have you sprung from?’ she said, pale as a sheet, looking from mother to son. ‘Come, come, both of you, come with me first,’ she said, knowing where they were heading, all unaware of what they were about to learn.
‘What in God’s name is going on, cousin?’ an ashen-faced Maroula asked, gripping Lambros’s arm to steady herself as her knees started to tremble. ‘What has happened? Speak, woman, tell me what in the name of God the matter is! Who has died?’
‘Come with me, cousin, follow me . . .’ the other woman replied mysteriously and hurriedly ushered them towards her house. ‘No one has died, but first we go home then I will explain.’
Maroula sat stiffly on a chair in the iliakos of her own old house, holding Lambros’s hand tightly, her fingernails digging into his palm, every muscle in her body tense, listening in disbelief to the story that was unfolding. Her cousin went on to tell them that once the lovers’ elopement became common knowledge in the village, her one concern was the shame her niece’s action would bring to their whole family, and that she was sick with worry imagining how Maroula and Andreas would take the news. She had been very troubled about this and had been considering taking the bus to Nicosia to speak to the family herself, so she was now greatly relieved that they were both here; it was her duty, she said, to inform them before they heard the tidings from others.
When she eventually stopped talking, Lambros, enraged by what his aunt had told them, leapt to his feet and turned to make for the door, but his mother, still holding on to his hand, pulled him down.
‘Sit!’ she ordered him. ‘Sit down!’ she repeated, her voice stern as a headmistress’s. ‘I need to think,’ she murmured.
‘What is there to think about?’ the young man shouted. ‘Don’t you see, Mother?’
‘I see only one thing,’ she replied, and her tears started to well up. ‘I see that your sister has forsaken her family and has betrayed her own people.’
‘But don’t you see? They should have stopped her! They are all to blame!’ Lambros’s anger was getting the better of him. ‘Hatiche Hanoum should have known better!’
‘Perhaps,’ Maroula said and stood up, ‘but who has ever been able to stop your sister?’
‘And Orhan? What did he do? He just left like a coward, like a thief in the night instead of telling us. What kind of a friend is he?’
His mother suddenly stood up, cutting Lambros short. ‘I have to see her,’ she said and started towards the back door. ‘I have to speak to her . . . alone.’
She looked her son in the eye. ‘You stay here,’ she repeated sternly, then before stepping outside she turned to look at her cousin.
‘You said . . .’ she hesitated a second. ‘You said that no one had died, but . . .’ Maroula took in a deep breath. ‘But you are wrong, dear cousin, you’re wrong. I have lost my one and only precious daughter. So you see? She might as well be dead!’
The kitchen door was wide open to let in the air, but the second door, made of mesh to keep out the flies and insects, was closed. Maroula gave it a push and stepped into the cool of the room. Hatiche was sitting alone at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, leaning on her elbows, a Turkish coffee cup in front of her, overturned and resting in its saucer, waiting for the grounds to dry so she could read them. The creaking door made her start and as she turned towards it, her face appeared pale and drawn. Fighting back her tears, Maroula walked in and pulled up a chair across the table from her.
For the first time in their lives the two women did not kiss or embrace, but rather sat in silence looking at each other, unable to find the words that they both needed. In all their years together, in all their long friendship, they had never been short of words. They always had so much to talk about, they always knew how to soothe, comfort and encourage one another. Now they sat facing each other across the table, each mute and mournful, the unrelenting call of the cicadas in the trees out in the yard the only sound filling the room. How many times had they both sat in that very kitchen drinking coffee, chatting and laughing, with that same deafening summer sound in their ears, or the winter wind rushing through the forest outside and the crackling of the logs from the roaring fire in the stove? How many times had they sat there with the children at their feet, preparing a feast for their families or reading the coffee grounds? There had been countless such times when they had sat united at that very kitchen table, incapable of ever imagining the fury and anguish that they now both felt in their hearts.
‘I tried to reason with her.’ Hatiche, suppressing a sob that rose to her throat, was the first to break the silence.
‘You obviously didn’t try hard enough,’ Maroula replied, her voice wavering.
‘You don’t know that.’
‘If you had, she wouldn’t have gone. She always listened to you.’
‘I begged her to come and speak to you . . .’
‘But did you beg her not to change her religion?’ Maroula looked at her with steely eyes. ‘Did you tell her she was committing a sin? Did you stop her? Did you beg her not to leave? You knew how I’d feel.’
‘What would you have done if it was the other way round?’ Hatiche looked into her friend’s eyes. ‘What if Leila came to you and said she wanted to become a Christian? Would you have stopped her?’ Maroula didn’t know how to reply to that. She reflected for a minute, but confusion clouded her mind. She had never entertained such a thought about any of them. The concept was unthinkable. Maroula was a deeply religious woman and although she never discussed her beliefs with Hatiche, out of respect, she considered that Christianity was where true faith lay, so perhaps if she was faced with such a dilemma she would probably have encouraged Leila to embrace it. But then again, she thought, she didn’t have the same kind of influence on Leila as Hatiche had over Anastasia. Hatiche had the power to prevent this calamity and in Maroula’s mind, her friend was guilty because she knew what Anastasia’s actions would mean to the family, yet she hadn’t stopped her. Her daughter had committed a mortal sin. Now they all had to live with the consequences. As far as Maroula was concerned, Hatiche was to blame for this.
The two women had spent their lives ensuring that their faiths did not interfere with their attachment to one another but now they were both faced with the greatest challenge to their friendship. For the first time they were confronting the inescapable difference in their religious beliefs and the equally unavoidable fact that, for both of them, faith went deeper than either had ever expressed, and apparently even deeper than their long friendship, precious as it was.
They parted that day not as enemies but also not as the ever-faithful friends that they had been since they could both remember. Maroula put the blame on Hatiche for what happened, and Hatiche blamed Maroula for being so unyielding and obdurate in her judgement.
‘The girl didn’t commit a crime,’ she told Ahmet after Maroula and Lambros left the village. ‘Why is a Christian more blessed than a Muslim?’ she asked, her voice rising defensively. ‘Why is their religion more sanctified than ours?’
‘Be truthful, sister-in-law,’ Ahmet replied. ‘Look into your soul and ask yourself how you would feel if one of your children had forsaken their faith? What if your Orhan had converted to Christianity, or your Leila wanted to marry a Greek? Eh? What would you be saying then?’
Hatiche, like Maroula earlier, had no answer for him. She had to accept that the division between them, which the two families and many others had tried so hard to ignore, was greater than the personal ties they shared. Ahmet was right, it was indeed more important than any friendship. Their religion was sacrosanct, and it set them apart no matter how much they professed it did not.
If Anastasia had fallen pregnant before marriage to Panos, or to any other boy from the Greek community, the clandestine pregnancy would have been covered up, as they very often were, by swiftly arranging the marriage for the sinful couple and putting a stop to gossip. Many a baby was born a couple of mon
ths earlier than the usual nine and no one took much notice. But Anastasia’s actions were unforgivable and had brought shame and sorrow to all her family. No one could hide or ignore what she had done. Now they all had to live with the judgement of their people and the shame she had brought upon them. From that time onwards the family would be stigmatized and disgraced. Anastasia’s actions would bring sorrow into her mother’s heart and cause her family to stay away from their beloved village.
20
Istanbul, 1950
Anastasia found Istanbul as exotic and exciting as Enver had promised her it would be. His two-room student’s apartment was on the top floor of a well-maintained ancient building on a cobbled side street in the district of Sultanahmet, in the heart of the old city. Anastasia fell instantly in love with it, especially the bedroom: a perfect love nest tucked away high up in the attic, its low sloping ceiling a hazard for Enver, who was forever banging his head on the beams, much to her amusement.
‘I’ll have no brains left if I go on like this,’ he would joke.
‘It would be much safer if you lay down here in bed with me!’ She beckoned to him, falling back on the cool cotton sheets as he dressed for the day. The autumn term had now begun, and he often spent most of his day at the university.
She would lie in bed and gaze over the rooftops of Istanbul through French windows which opened onto a little balcony. A spiral staircase from the corridor just outside their front door led to a little roof terrace where she would go every morning to water her pots of basil and geraniums and watch the seagulls circle the sky. She would sit on the terrace and let her eyes wander from the domed roofs that stretched across the city to the Blue Mosque with its soaring minarets and further on to Agia Sophia, the Sea of Marmara and as far as the Bosphorus. Some days she would take the Holy Quran with her in order to learn more about her new religion, sitting in the breeze that blew from the sea. As soon as they arrived, Enver arranged for them to be married, though not before Anastasia had converted to Islam in a short, simple ceremony. The only condition that was required of her was to pronounce with conviction and understanding the meaning of the Shahada, the testimony of faith, which declares that ‘There is no true deity but Allah, and Muhammad is the Prophet of God.’ After that, the imam was able to declare them husband and wife, and as Enver had no family in Istanbul, he invited a handful of his fellow medical students to mark the day and celebrate with them in a nearby restaurant. Two of the young men who were married brought along their wives, who were almost the same age as Anastasia. The camaraderie between them, Anastasia observed, was hardly different from the friendships she had enjoyed in Cyprus and she wondered if she would perhaps find a new friend in one or both of the wives. Would they accept her, she wondered, for she was not Turkish and in addition didn’t share their affluent middle-class background. Both these young women were married to future doctors and although she was too, their obvious air of education and prosperity intimidated Anastasia.
During their voyage from Cyprus, before they arrived in Istanbul, Anastasia had asked Enver to think of a suitable Turkish name for her, knowing that her own would instantly give her away as a Christian. They were taking a stroll up on deck, watching the dolphins leaping as they raced the waves at the bows of the boat when she asked.
‘Alev!’ he had told her instantly with no hesitation. ‘It’s the perfect name for you, I’ve been thinking about it too. It means brightness and light and that is what you are, my love,’ he said and kissed her full on the lips.
During their first couple of weeks as a married couple and before returning to the university, Enver took it upon himself to show his new bride around the city and help her to find her way around the neighbourhood.
‘You’ll have many hours on your own when I’m not here, so you must learn to be independent,’ he had said, taking her by the hand as they entered the numerous bazaars around the city. ‘Here, my love, you will find anything your heart desires, and you can reach any of them easily from our apartment.’ In fact, Anastasia discovered, there were plenty of interesting places near their apartment; as soon as she became confident enough to go out alone on foot or by the tram which Enver had showed her how to use, and before her belly grew too big, she started to explore and venture further than the nearby streets. The ancient city excited her curiosity and now, aside from the Quran, she wanted to read and learn about the history of the place which was to be her new home. As she explored further afield, she discovered that there were many Greeks living in Istanbul who had been there for generations, who owned grocery shops and bakeries as her own father and uncle did in Nicosia, or patisseries and general stores selling all manner of things. It was in one of these stores, which doubled as a bookshop in the European district of Beyoğlu, that she came upon a history book simply entitled Byzantium; this was to become her constant companion now that, as Enver had warned her, she was finding herself often alone. She had expected that she might have many hours of solitude, but her sudden change of circumstances when Enver returned to his studies made her feel quite melancholic. To fend off any sadness she often found herself wistfully reminiscing about their heady days of passion in the village, but then she would look down at her belly and her heart would fill with joy; she would soon have her baby to keep her company.
‘I have learned in my book,’ she told Enver once she started to absorb the city’s history, ‘that Istanbul used to be Greek.’
‘Well, strictly speaking,’ he replied, ‘it belonged to the Eastern Roman Empire.’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t always so,’ she challenged him, emboldened by her new-found knowledge. ‘In ancient times it was Greek; apparently a king called Byzas was the founder and that’s why it was called Byzantium.’
‘The Emperor Constantine was a Roman emperor, not a Greek,’ he argued. ‘In any case this was all a very long time ago. The Ottomans ruled here for centuries, and this is now modern Turkey, my love.’
‘Yes, but the language used to be Greek. Everyone spoke it then,’ Anastasia insisted, glad to be able to discuss these matters with him.
‘It was a common language in all the empire, not just here,’ Enver replied, putting an end to her history lesson while Anastasia made a mental note to check her facts again. She was well aware how much more educated and knowledgeable than herself he was – after all, he was going to graduate as a doctor before long, and she was a mere seamstress with little education apart from what she had learned in her old village primary school, even if she had always been the best pupil in her class. But the more she learned, the more confident she felt in discussing the ancient city’s history with him.
During those talks she was surprised to discover that although she had rejected her homeland, she could feel a sense of pride here in the city’s historic past. These Greeks, she realized, these inhabitants of Istanbul now, were the descendants of those Byzantines of long ago; in fact, she concluded, so was she, since Cyprus too had been part of the same empire. Book in hand, she enjoyed learning about her new country.
As time went on and her belly grew bigger and the warm autumn gave way to early winter, she began to spend less time exploring and more time reading, although if she felt robust enough her feet would often lead her to Beyoğlu. This district, which was also known by its ancient Greek name of Pera, meaning ‘across’ because it was divided from the old city by the Golden Horn and connected by the Galata Bridge, was an area that Anastasia found herself returning to time and time again. She would cross the bridge past all the fishermen casting their lines in the early morning after Enver left for university and she would make her way up the hill to Pera. Galata Bridge was one of the first places Enver had taken Anastasia to visit after they arrived, to show her the Bosphorus and to take the ferry ride that he had promised her.
She was now quite familiar with Pera, and with time she had also come to know some of the proprietors of the Greek shops, especially one particular fabric shop that sold textiles and tapestries, where she was
befriended by the shopkeeper’s daughter, a girl named Myrto, around the same age as Anastasia. Surrounded by all the familiar rolls of fabrics, textiles and colourful yarns, her dressmaker’s passion began to occupy her thoughts again. As her belly grew steadily bigger her old clothes became increasingly tighter, so she set about making herself a new wardrobe with an old Singer sewing machine Enver bought for her. One day, while chatting with Myrto and browsing through the stock on display in the store, she was delighted to discover among the tablecloths several fine examples from her native Cyprus, the famed Lefkara lacework. These exquisite geometric needlepoint designs that were stitched with satin thread on linen were something Anastasia often tried to imitate but without too much success. The craft was particular to the village of Lefkara and was passed down over the generations from mother to daughter. Everyone in Cyprus knew about it, and every girl hoped she would possess at least one item – a tablecloth or a bedspread – as part of her dowry trousseau.
‘We have a few merchants who travel from Cyprus to sell their handiwork,’ Myrto explained after Anastasia asked how they had come to stock this precious traditional lace. ‘There’s one salesman called Mr Costas,’ she continued, ‘who comes with a suitcase full of Lefkara linen and embroideries to sell. He’s a good friend of the family now and he even stays with us sometimes when he is here. He is like you,’ the girl went on, ‘he’s a Cypriot.’
From that day on, Anastasia began to visit the shop more regularly. The two young women would chat and sometimes drink coffee made by Myrto’s mother, who often worked in the shop and who was as skilled at reading the coffee grounds as Hatiche Hanoum used to be. It was a pleasant yet bittersweet time for Anastasia, reminding her of the old life that she had left behind. Both Myrto and her mother liked the Cypriot girl, who aroused their curiosity but who would give nothing away about herself and her circumstances. ‘If she won’t tell us anything, I’m sure to see something in her coffee grounds,’ Myrto’s mother would tell her daughter after Anastasia left the shop. But try as she would, she saw nothing that led her to the truth. The truth of course was unthinkable and, if they knew it, would have shocked, dismayed and disgusted them. Anastasia would no longer have been welcomed there. For a Greek Orthodox, conversion to Islam would be to commit the unforgivable sin.
