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| Metaxa Square - Circa 1950s |
It was Saturday – the last day of school before Christmas vacation. The morning consisted of class parties, gift sharing and then an assembly where the students staged a streamlined version of “The Passion Play.”
Lucky served as a Roman solider, then a Senator, and then as the oldest apostle – Thomas – during the last supper. Here he got to speak his only line – “Yes, Lord!” in his best quavering old man’s voice. He was supposed to be eating unleavened bread and his false beard kept getting stuck in his teeth and choking him, so there was much realism brought to the role – although it was religious fervor that the role demanded, not strangulation.
After the play he had a date to meet Donna in Metaxa Square for a stroll through the park and lunch, so he made a hurried change, practically peeling his flesh off when he removed the glue that held the beard on.
It was cold outside, so he pulled on a heavy sweater, then a coat and hurried to their rendezvous. It had snowed the night before and Nicosia’s ancient walls, churches and minarets were dressed in white - sparkling like a medieval wonderland. Terra Santa had no school uniform, so Lucky was warm in his sweater and heavy cords, thick socks and thick-soled walking boots. He wore gloves and as he entered the main square, the wind blowing through the empty area was cold enough to make him bury his gloved hands in his coat pockets.
A horn beeped and he looked up to see Donna exiting the embassy car, looking positively beautiful in a fine winter outfit with a pretty fur hat and long scarf. Her breath streamed in a long silky clouds and she laughed at the cold and gladness at seeing him again after a very long absence. Her family had been traveling through the Middle East for months, and to Lucky she seemed even more mature and beautiful than ever.
She turned to wave at the limousine, which started up and drove away. Immediately, Donna raced to Lucky and buried her face and hands in his coat.
“It’s co-co-coldddd!” she shuddered.
Lucky held her tight, glad to feel her against him again. Then he said, “Come on, I can warm you up.”
Donna laughed, looking around at the frozen trees and bushes. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said. “My knickers – and my long socks - are staying firmly on.”
Lucky blushed. “I didn’t mean that,” he said, although the primitive part of his brain had wondered if something could be done. “Here, let me show you.”
He led her along the path through the white-frozen trees, where the wind was not so strong. Many of the trees were strung with Christmas lights and decorations and as they turned the bend they could hear carolers singing Greek and English Christmas songs. The scent of pine smoke seemed to draw them along the cobble stone path and then the boulevard of carolers came into view.
Donna was thrilled when she saw the dozen or so bright fires lining the pathway, with young carolers and their adult leaders standing in front of them
She hugged Lucky’s arm. “This is wonderful,” she said.
“Wait,” Lucky said. “Warmth approaches.”
Soon they came to an avenue of vendors, all crouched over blazing braziers, cooking ka-bobs and chestnuts and eggs roasted in their shells.
Lucky bought four eggs from one vendor. The shells were protected by baked on clay, which you broke away when you wanted to eat them. Little paper cones of salt came with the eggs, but Lucky waved them away.
“We don’t want to eat these,” he said. “They’re to keep warm.”
He dropped a hot egg in each of Donna’s pockets, then put the remaining two into his. Donna got the idea right away – and buried her mittened hands in her pockets.
“Oh, that feels wonderful,” she sighed.
Lucky laughed and hooked his arm through hers and led her further along the path until they found a chestnut vendor. He bought a fat paper cone for each of them.
Donna laughed. “I don’t know if I should dare the cold to eat the hot chestnuts, or keep my hands warm and let Miss Tummy stay empty and cold.”
“Let me help,” Lucky said, “and you can do both. He shelled a chestnut and popped it into her mouth.
Donna giggled. “Feed the bird,” she said.
Lucky gave her a few more and they continued on.
“I thought we could have lunch at our favorite café,” Lucky said.
Donna looked dubious. “I didn’t know they had inside seating,” she said.
“They don’t,” Lucky replied. “But they have glass partitions they put up in the winter and there’s lots of space heaters. Don’t worry, it’ll be warm enough.”
When they left the shelter of the trees the wind bit into them again, so they hurried toward the steps that led out of the park to the street where the café was located. But as they climbed a familiar-sounding horn beeped and they looked up to see Donna’s driver waiting.
The girl frowned. “I told to him to come back at three,” she said.
Before they reached the limo the driver stepped out. He looked worried. “Your father wants you home immediately, Miss Kelly,” he said.
“But we haven’t even had lunch yet,” Donna protested.
“Please, Miss,” the driver said, “if you don’t come with me now, I could be dismissed.”
“Is something wrong?” Donna asked, still reluctant to give in.
“Your father said it’s dangerous in Nicosia now,” he said. “He was angry that your mother let you go.”
Donna looked at Lucky. “I don’t understand,” she said. “It’s Christmas. What could happen on Christmas?”
Lucky thought better of joining her protest.. “If we make your father mad,” he said, “we won’t be able to see each other again.”
“I know,” Donna said. She rose on her toes and gave him a quick kiss. “Thanks for understanding.”
She got into the car and the driver shut the door. “Shall I drop you somewhere, Mr. Lucky?” he asked.
Lucky shook his head. “No thanks,” he said.
He’d spotted some friends in the café and thought he might as well eat lunch and salvage a little bit of his day. Lucky watched as the limo drove off, Donna’s lovely face framed in the rear window. She waved. He waved. And that was that. He felt lonely as he climbed the stairs to see his friends.
There were four of them: Keith Digby; the big Armenian boy, Boghos; an upper classman, Ron Cook; and an Italian lad, Stephanos. They were all gathered at their favorite table which overlooked the square. It was quite a view, since the café was about five feet above the street. Large glass windows set into frames on wheels had been placed around the patio to shield the patrons from the wind. Colorful lights and Greek-style Christmas decorations were strung around the café and with the kerosene heaters blazing a cherry red it was quite warm and cheerful and gay.
His friends teased him for being suddenly dateless – they’d spotted the little scene in which Donna had been whisked home. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lucky said, not really hearing their good natured taunts, but grinning ruefully just the same to be a good sport.
Once seated, though, he told them about Mr. Kelly’s fears. “He’s not usually like that,” Lucky said. “Not the kind that jumps at his own shadow.”
Keith said, “My grandmother said prices are up in the market. To her that means there’s going to be trouble because people start hording their food in bad times.”
Boghos frowned, his faces darkening. “It’s the Turks, I’m sure of it,” he said. “They’re planning something.”
Cook laughed. “You see Turks behind everything, Boghos,” he said. “If a flying saucer landed in Metaxa Square right now, you’d say it was a Turkish plot.”
Boghos snorted. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Everyone laughed, except Stephanos. He said, in Italian-accented English, “My poppa thinks the Reds, they are plotting something.”
Lucky and the other boys stopped laughing. Stephanos’ father was a foreign correspondent for a conservative Italian newspaper – and also did some work for a few radio stations. Lucky figured he was probably a spy as well, since most journalists in the Middle East picked up extra money that way.
“They’re always plotting something,” Digby said, a little scornfully. But he looked worried just the same.
“My father said the rebels have a new general,” Stephanos said. “Grivas. General George Grivas. He was a big hero against the Nazis so everybody listens to him.”
Lucky’s eyebrows rose at the name. He’d overheard his father and his chess buddies talking about Grivas a few nights before. Apparently he’d slipped ashore with a cargo of guns and bombs. They said his mission was to train a new, more violent movement to defy the British.
Boghos grunted, “So much talk of fighting makes me hungry,” he said and lifted an imperious hand to call for a waiter.
They had thick barley soup and several rounds of toasted sandwiches, washed down with steaming mugs of hot chocolate. To top the meal off, the waiter brought them a platter of honey cakes and sweet Greek coffee. All the while they gossiped about schoolmates and made critical remarks about their least-favorite teachers who had given them groaning loads of homework to complete during the school holiday.
“I summed it up,” Keith said “and wouldn’t you know they’ve given us more homework than if we’d been at school. It’s not fair. Something ought to be done!”
“I’ll be sure to write to President Eisenhower,” Lucky joked.
Ron Cook laughed and raised a finger. “I’ll call for questions on the floor of Parliament,” he said.
“I’ll get Poppa to write an expose for the newspaper,” Stephanos chimed in.
They all looked at Boghos expectantly. He was frowning, trying to think of something to say. Lucky realized that he was an Armenian with no real country to call his own. He was about to toss in another joking suggestion and get him off the hook when he was startled by the loud blast of a laboring car engine.
They all looked down through the glass partition to see a very old, very large black Plymouth coming up the road. Thick clouds of smoke were spewing from the tailpipe and as they watched, the driver turned the wheel and bumped up on the curb, riding half on and half off the sidewalk.
“What in blazes?” Keith said.
The car pulled up directly in front of them. Lucky and the other boys stared down at it. A sense of foreboding ran icy fingers along Lucky’s spine. Then the windows came down and Lucky saw two men lean out and raise ugly snub-nosed things that he recognized as submachine guns. But he was so numbed by what was happening that his brain failed to truly register the threat.
The men opened fire. Glass erupted in Lucky’s face, shards of it flying past him, gleaming like comets in the winter light. He sat there, frozen in shock, his ears ringing with the sound of the exploding bullets.
All around him, people were screaming and falling, tables and chairs going over, and splinters of wood, bits of metal and glass were flying everywhere as the men kept on firing.
Lucky and his friends sat at their table unable to move while bloody chaos reigned. To Lucky it seemed as if time had come to a near stop and everything was in slow motion.
He could see the two men in the car slowly moving their weapons from side-to-side as if they were hosing down the café. Then the man in the back seat looked directly at Lucky and his mates. His teeth were bared like a dog’s and his face was gunsmoke black.
The man lifted his weapon so that it was coming to bear directly on them. There was a frozen moment – and Lucky thought the man was about to fire - then the car gave a lurch and it sputtered forward.
Someone in the car shouted and the gunfire stopped. There was another loud report as the car backfired, then lumbered away, dropping heavily back on the street, its undercarriage scraping against the pavement and sending out a shower of sparks.
And only then did one of them shout, “Down!”
Lucky and his friends fell to the floor, putting their hands over their heads, protecting themselves from a threat that no longer existed.
After what seemed like an eternity, Lucky heard the wail of sirens and he slowly got up. His ears were becoming unblocked, although there was still a persistent ringing in them and all sound seemed far away.
He looked at his friends. Everyone was pale and wide-eyed with fright, but no one seemed to be hurt.
Lucky heard people wailing and he turned to see that the café was a welter of blood and destruction. Some people were sprawled on the ground, arms and legs splayed, fingers digging into concrete as if they were trying to defy gravity gone mad. Others crouched behind shot up tables and chairs. Some were weeping. Some were groaning. Besides the blood, Lucky could smell urine and feces – it was like the earthquake all over again, with the dead and the dying.
But the most powerful smell was that of kerosene from knocked over heaters and Lucky saw first one, then another catch fire. Men and women started getting to their knees and crawling over to tend to their loved ones – keeping their heads down in case the shooting started again.
Lucky saw one of the managers slip out from behind the outside bar, which was filled with gaping holes. He organized a few waiters to help him put out the fires and see what they could do about the injured customers.
Then the sirens were shrilling just outside the café and booted feet came bounding up the stairs and Lucky turned to see British soldiers – looking like gods of mercy - and several local policemen enter. They were followed by uniformed rescue people carrying stretchers and satchels full of medical gear.
Still dazed, the boys righted their chairs and sank into them. Miraculously, there was one full bottle of cola on the table. Lucky took a drink. His mouth was paper dry. He passed the bottle to Keith, who drank and gave some to Stephanos, who passed it on to Boghos. The normally greedy boy took only a small sip and gave it to Cook.
“Finish,” he said.
Cook nodded and gratefully swallowed the rest.
Keith was the first to speak. “My father’s going to kill me,” he said.
“What?” Stephanos asked, sounding dazed.
“I’m not supposed to leave the school for lunch,” Keith said.
“You are crazy man, Digs,” Boghos said. “Why he kill you for not being killed?”
“Technically, it’s not a violation,” Cook said. They looked at him, wondering what the hell he was talking about. “It’s the first day of the school holiday, remember?”
A long silence, then Keith said, “Right!” He sounded enormously relieved.
It was all a very bizarre conversation in the middle of all that chaos. Then all started to tremble as as the shock of what had happened sank in. Also, with the glass partitions blown to bits it was cold as the devil.
“Are you boys okay?” came a voice with a clipped British accent.
Lucky looked up and saw a tall, sandy-haired officer standing over them. He looked worried as hell.
“Ye-ye-yes, sir,” Lucky said, teeth chattering as shock started setting in on him as well. “None of us are hurt.”
The officer nodded. “You lads are from Terra Santa, right?” They said they were. “I’ll get a driver to take you back to the school and let the fathers look after you.” He lifted a walkie-talkie and issued orders. Lowered it. “Give the driver your names, addresses and telephone numbers and we’ll get a statement from you later, okay, mates?” The boys nodded agreement. “That’s the spirit,” he said with forced joviality. And he clapped Lucky on the back as a soldier came to take them away.
Except for the priests and a few boarding school boys who hadn’t gone home for the holidays, the school was nearly empty. But the café was close enough so that everyone had heard the shooting and when Lucky and his friends were led into the administration building, priests and students alike crowded in with them, firing excited questions. But the headmaster broke it up and got them into the infirmary where the school nurse checked them over, wrapped them in blankets and got them hot broth to drink. Meanwhile, their families were called and cars were dispatched to carry them home.
The maid answered the phone at Lucky’s house to report that both his parents were absent. Then he remembered that it was his mother’s turn to help at the base cafeteria, where his father was on 24-hour duty until after Christmas. Lucky told the headmaster not to worry and they called a taxi for him.
The cabbie evidently wanted to rubber neck the scene at the café, because he tried to take the street that led past the chaos, but was suddenly blocked by stalled traffic. Lucky saw the British army trucks and ambulances still outside. Several big Turkish cops were trying to re-direct the traffic, arguing with a particularly stubborn ox-cart driver whose wagon was sitting askew on the roadway.
The cabbie started to get out to see what was happening, but Lucky spoke sharply to him. He felt so weary he could hardly hold his head up and wanted to go home.
They took an around-about-way, circling Metaxa Square and Lucky looked down at the snow-draped park and guttering fires where the carolers and vendors had been only hours before.
Lucky settled back in the seat. His body felt bruised and aching. He caught the driver looking at him through the rear view mirror. The man had figured out that Lucky knew about the café.
“Were you there when it happened?” the man asked in Greek. Lucky said he was. “Was it bad?” Lucky said, yes, it had been terrible. “Was anyone killed?” Lucky said he didn’t know.
Suddenly the whole terrible scene came back to him. First the chatter of the machineguns, the shattered glass and ripped up wood. The screams of frightened and injured people. The grimacing gunman raising his weapon to fire at Lucky and his friends. Then the awful aftermath – weeping bloody people crawling across the floor. The smell of spilled kerosene, the sharp odor of gunsmoke. Lucky’s hands shook. Tears welled up, which was stupid, because nothing had happened to him. He took deep breaths, getting himself under control.
The cabbie asked another question that Lucky didn’t quite hear. Before he could repeat it, Lucky handed him a fistful of Camel cigarettes.
“I’d like to rest,” he said. “Could you play some music? An English station, please?”
The driver nodded thanks, lit up his Camel with the extreme pleasure of a man who enjoys life and switched on the radio. He found the BBC station. Christmas music was playing. A song ended, and “The Little Drummer Boy” was announced. Lucky leaned back and tried hard to listen. To concentrate. To wipe out the memory of the café.
There was a musical introduction and then the song began, the voices swelling and filling the taxi.
“…Come, they told me, parum pum pum pum,
A new born King to see, parum pum pum pum,
Our finest gifts we bring, parum pum pum pum,
To lay before the King, parum pum pum pum,
Rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum...”
So to honor Him, parum pum pum pum,
When we come…”
He tried to hum along but it was difficult to focus on the voices, the lovely voices. He kept thinking of the big black car and the gunfire and the screams. Stop it, he ordered himself. Just stop! Listen to the song…
“…Baby Jesus, parum pum pum pum,
I am a poor boy too, parum pum pum pum,
I have no gift to bring, parum pum pum pum,
That's fit to give our King, parum pum pum pum,
Rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.
Shall I play for you, parum pum pum pum
On my drum?…
Mary nodded parum pum pum pum…
Slowly, so slowly, the incident faded away to be replaced in his mind’s eye by the winter wonderland of Metaxa Square, where he and Donna strolled past the carolers, arm in arm, with hot roasted eggs in their pockets to keep their hands warm. He smiled at the memory, and finally he fell asleep as the choir voices on the radio softly sang:
“…I played my drum for Him, parum pum pum pum,
I played my best for Him, parum pum pum pum,
Rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.
Then He smiled at me, parum pum pum pum,
Me and my drum…
Me and my drum…”
NEXT: The Aftermath Of Terror
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!
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- "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
- "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus.
- "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
NEW: THE AUDIOBOOK VERSION OF
THE HATE PARALLAX
THE HATE PARALLAX: What if the Cold War never ended -- but continued for a thousand years? Best-selling authors Allan Cole (an American) and Nick Perumov (a Russian) spin a mesmerizing "what if?" tale set a thousand years in the future, as an American and a Russian super-soldier -- together with a beautiful American detective working for the United Worlds Police -- must combine forces to defeat a secret cabal ... and prevent a galactic disaster! This is the first - and only - collaboration between American and Russian novelists.
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THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan
After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.
BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization.
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Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
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In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself.
