*****
*****
The days that
followed the earthquake would be acid-etched into Lucky’s memory. Images that
had once been the stuff of newspapers and newsreels – tragedies played out from
afar – were now literally in his front and backyards.
Villagers dug
frantically through the ruins of what had once been their homes. Mostly they
uncovered corpses, but there were occasional nuggets of miraculous life and
cheers would go up and the church bells would ring as if the Lord himself was rising
on an Easter morn. There was no outside help. The destruction was island-wide –
and far, far beyond.
Although it
became known as the Lefkada Quake, after the island in the Ionian Sea that suffered
the most, large portions of Greece, Turkey and all the Greek islands were
pummeled. Actually, it was later realized that it was a rare double quake – the
kind that had destroyed the ancient civilization of Crete and, in legend, sunk
the mythical island kingdom of Atlantis.
The first quake
had measured 6.4 on the Richter Scale. The second, an incredible 7.2. By way of
comparison, the American news broadcast Lucky monitored on his homemade
shortwave said the great earthquake that had destroyed San Francisco in 1906
measured 5.2 on the scale. The reporter stressed that the scale was geometric,
so that each increase was nearly double in shock value. So, the first quake –
the one that cause the bathroom sink to burst out of the wall, was more than
twice as strong as the San Francisco quake. And the one that had him hanging from
the refrigerator door was nearly twice as powerful as the first. As for the
chandelier plunging from the living room ceiling incident – that had been a
mere aftershock and barely measurable.
Remarkably, the
death toll across the entire region amounted to only a few thousand. The injury
toll, perhaps fifty thousand. But the devastation was awful – whole villages
and towns and public buildings razed in Greece, Turkey, and the islands.
Windows were broken, with some injury incurred, in far off Southern Italy. By
contrast, the BBC reports said, nearly 900,000 had died in the Chinese
earthquake of 1556; 140,000 in Tokyo in 1923, and a hundred thousand in
Messina, Italy, in 1908.
The idea being,
Lucky gathered, that he and the other residents of Pallouriotissa ought to feel
fortunate because they had only 65 dead and several hundred people injured. But
in such a small village with a population of a few hundred people, nearly
everybody had suffered an injury that had to be treated and reported at the police
station emergency clinic and every single soul knew, or were more than likely
related to, one or more people who had died.
Actually, there
was some reason to praise the gods – although why any deity thought a quake,
much less a double quake, was necessary was beyond Lucky. The timing of the
disastrous shakes had been perfect for minimal deaths. At that early morning
hour most people all across the Mediterranean world have been on their way to
work, or other duties. In the villages like Pallouriotissa, the younger women
and men were already toiling in the fields, or wending their way to the city to
their jobs.
And thus it was
that in Pallouriotissa, the only casualties were babies, the grannies caring
for them, old men too feeble to toddle to the taverna, or craftspeople, like
the Widow Anthi, who ran her business from her home. This did not make any of
the deaths and injuries less tragic. It only meant they were minimized in
numbers, but not in soul-wrenching loss.
Cypriots revered
the elderly. As for children, they were more precious than gold, especially
considering that even without an earthquake, few lived to adulthood. Babies
were not just any future, they were a Greek Future full of the promise of
another Aristotle, or Socrates, or Euclid. For to be Greek was to know that a
few men and women cannot only change the world, but make it whole again, so
every child is a potential Messiah. Every old one, the source of infinite
knowledge gained the hard way – by living.
At Lucky’s
house, his father made a quick trip home via a borrowed embassy car, then just
as quickly returned to the CIA base, where everyone was working double and
triple time. Apparently in the aftermath of a disaster of these proportions,
opportunities abounded for intelligence agencies on both sides - so it was spy
versus spy at an accelerated rate. Many years later Lucky learned that the
blood spilled during that period had been hip deep.
The scene
outside the house was desolation under clear summer skies. The village itself
had been reduced to a ruin of exploded adobe. There was nothing to be seen
above waist level. An awful odor from corpses, privies and rotting garbage
fouled the air. Wailing people crept through the destruction, calling
desperately for loved ones who might be buried under the rubble. Boys and young
men swarmed everywhere with shovels and rakes, digging for relatives and
neighbors and the few household valuables that might remain. The Turkish cops
joined in on the hunt – there was no fear of looting in the village. They were
all family – people who had depended on one another for thousands of years.
What few
emergency services existed were overwhelmed. There were no ambulances and even
if there had been, the hospitals were already overwhelmed. The British army was
mainly occupied with preventing looting in the cities, where people were not so
loyal to one another. After a few days, however, they started delivering truck
loads of badly-needed supplies.
Meanwhile,
Lucky’s mother threw open their house and grounds to the villagers. Brosina and
Thea and the gardener portioned off spaces in the basement, the garage and then
finally the garden for people to sleep and wash, cook, or use the sanitary
facilities.
Yorgo showed up,
pale and frantic, fingers tugging at a newly grown beard. But Helen soon got
him under control and coaxed some of his crew into cleaning out the quake
debris. Then she enlisted them into an effort to make the place suitable for
all the homeless people. She even talked Yorgo into opening the house next
door, vacant since the departure of Gundaree and Gundara and their young
kerosene addict.
The wells at
both houses were kept busy day and night by villagers hauling up desperately
needed water. The old Turk who ran the water truck had the nerve to knock on
the back door to complain because he was losing business. A villain of the
worst sort, he’d put his prices up three-fold to take advantage of the
emergency. Helen gave him a few pounds to shut him up and when she’d turned her
back to go inside, Brosina attacked him with her broom and drove him away to
the great amusement of the people camping out in the garden.
When Yorgo made
his appearance, he seemed very strange to Lucky. He hardly recognized the boy,
kept addressing him as Mr. American and the whole time he toured the place,
checking the damage, he muttered darkly in both Greek and English, praising the
“sainted Stalin,” and condemning that “evil queen,” – presumably Elizabeth II –
as if he were blaming the British for somehow being the cause of earthquake. Lucky
was afraid to ask Yorgo directly about Athena – in case he got the wrong idea -
so the boy got Thea to quiz him instead and was gratified to learn that Athena
and the rest of the family were all well. Although Thea told him they were
worried about Yorgo’s mental state.
“Trehlos,” she
said, tapping her head and rolling her eyes. “Trehlos.” He didn’t need a Greek
dictionary to know they feared Yorgo was going mad.
Sandros
appeared, asking for water for his grandmother. They were living in a tent
provided by the British army which had shown up with several lorries full of
supplies.
He sidled over
to Lucky and spat on the ground. He ranted, half in English, half in Greek.
“The God damn British! Only they would think of such a catastrophic thing.”
Lucky was
astounded. “What thing, Sandros? You mean the earthquake? The seesmos?”
“Of course, the
seesmos,” Sandros exclaimed. “It’s known fact all over Cyprus. The seesmos is a
conspiracy to stop Enosis once and for all. But we are strong. We will not be
frightened by that dirty dheeahvolvas.” Meaning the dirty female devil.
Lucky remembered
the fiery portrait of the queen during the coronation’s fireworks display, plus
the old war time speeches that had been broadcast in BBC reminiscences and the
movie-tone news items at the theater of the young, pretty queen with her
children, the prince and princess, and there was no way that he saw a
dheeahvolvas there. Certainly not one so wicked as to cause this misery. But it
was best not to argue with Sandros. His mind was made up.
“Is there
something we can do for your grandmother, besides the water?” he asked.
Sandros had no
family other than an elderly woman who was hard put to keep up with her
grandson’s transgressions. On the other hand, she was an old socialist who was
immensely proud of him and supplied him with all the Communist tracts he
needed. It was said, however, that she was an unreformed believer in Trotsky,
the Communist philosopher ordered assassinated by Stalin, so she was not
popular in local party politics.
The boy
hesitated, then said, “She has only one dress and a sweater,” he said. “She was
working in the garden when the seesmos came, so although she wasn’t hurt, she
lost all her clothing.”
Lucky took the
problem to his mother, who immediately took pity on Sandros’ grandmother and
rummaged through her closet, filling several shopping bags with clothes the old
woman might need. This gave her an idea and she got on the phone and called all
her friends to enlist their help. The next day the cab driver, Nikos, went to
half-a-dozen American homes in and around Nicosia and picked up mounds of
clothing, canned goods, pots, pans, dishes and flatware and delivered it to
Lucky’s house where Helen had Brosina and Thea dole the things out to the
people.
As for the
village, it began rather quickly to rebuild – although with virtually no
outside help. Other than the tents and some cots and blankets and a modicum of
food, Cyprus’ British masters refused any loans for farmers, small businesses
or homeowners. This was resented greatly – especially because other colonies
had received such assistance in past disasters.
There was a lot
of talk of Enosis, but who knew how serious it was. At a CIA chess party, Joe
Davis and the others ruminated over the recent entry of Greece and Turkey into
NATO. Nobody seemed to think that the Greeks would push Britain to grant
independence for Cyprus that hard, since – like the Turks – they were on
probation. And now that the Turks were Britain’s NATO mates, they weren’t
likely to push Turkey to back off from its claims on the island. At least not
immediately.
When things
calmed down a bit, Lucky looked up Andreas, whose home was one of the few adobe
structures still standing. That Andreas himself had survived was nothing short
of a miracle. Laughing, he showed Lucky the collapsed outhouse in the back.
“I was going to
make the morning skada,” he said. “You know, to shit. But as I opened the door
to enter the seesmos came and knocked me to the ground. I stayed like this the
whole time,” he continued, shielding his head with an arm to demonstrate, “and
the bricks were falling all around me, but not a single one struck me.” He
grimaced, “If one had, well, that might have been the end of Andreas, because
once I start to bleed, it doesn’t stop. And this time there was no one who
could have helped me.”
Andreas laughed
again and playfully punched Lucky’s shoulder. “The only thing - it was another
full day before I was able to skada. I was too frightened to try.”
“I’ve heard of
people being scared shitless,” Lucky joked, “but you’re the first one I’ve ever
met.”
Andreas liked
that. “Scared shitless,” he repeated. “Excellent. I must remember that.”
Lucky told
Andreas about Yorgo’s strange behavior, plus his crazy statements blaming the
English for the quake. “Sandros said the same thing,” Lucky said. “You don’t
think that, do you?”
Andreas sighed.
“Oh, surely not, Lucky,” he said. “How could a small woman – even if she is the
queen of England, make the earth shake not once, but twice? It’s not
scientific. But, you know, some people are very superstitious and will believe
anything.”
“How many
people?” Lucky asked. “A lot?”
“I fear so,”
Andreas said. “The prohvleema – the problem – we have is that the earthquake came
at the very worst time. Now there will be bad trouble. But the reason isn’t
because of superstition, Lucky. It’s because people think the English have been
getting worse. And whenever our leaders ask to talk about independence – Enosis
– the English refuse to consider it.
“I think most
Cypriots would be happy if the English just promised to talk about it someday
and then we would patiently wait for that day to come. You know, we want to
like the English. After all, they got rid of the Turks. And if we are honest
with ourselves we must admit that life is better now than in the past. ”
“What kind of
trouble do you think there will be?” Lucky asked.”
Andreas sighed.
“I think we will have a revolution,” he said.
*****
Things would
never be the same after the double earthquake of the summer of 1953.
Yes, it’s true
that the whole Mediterranean region had been plagued by quakes and volcanoes
for thousands of years. Theoretically, the people had long experience in
mournful aftermaths - from Noah’s ark and the doomed Atlantis, to the destroyed
civilizations of Crete and Pompey. Surely the prayers for the dead over time
had by now worn smooth paths to heaven, Allah’s paradise or the Elysian Fields.
And surely the suffering of the injured and the families and friends of the
dead and injured fell upon shoulders made strong and able to bear such
suffering.
The destroyed
village of Pallouriotissa was quickly rebuilt with practiced ease, as were
countless other villages across the little island. The very vulnerability of
the adobe homes had a positive flip side of Caesar’s proverbial coin. Thousands
of bricks were quickly and simply cast in the field outside of the village that
Lucky had seen when he’d first arrived. The wooden forms were swiftly set up,
the clay mixture prepared and the hot summer sun did its job in record time.
People pitched in to help each other reconstruct homes, the big bee hive ovens
and outdoor latrines and showers. The raw earthen bricks were soon turned a
dazzling white, thanks to the ancient limepits on the other side of the
village, where the children labored under the supervision of the old people who
had survived the seesmos.
This was how you
dealt with earthquakes in Cyprus. You built flimsy homes, to be sure, but they
were also swiftly and cheaply reconstructed. In later years, Lucky would live
on another island – Okinawa – where the traditional Oriental homes were built
of sticks and paper and were regularly destroyed by typhoons – destructive
winds - instead of the grindings of the Earth. These were also quickly rebuilt
and life returned to normal rhythms.
In
Pallouriotissa, meanwhile, commerce was barely interrupted - the fields and their crops had not been
harmed, nor had very many of the animals. Market days soon recommenced and in
not many days the highway was packed with the morning and evening caravans of
goods and livestock on their way to Nicosia.
Lucky tried to
cozen his friend, the Turkish camel driver, into giving him a ride, but the
hunger for goods in the city was so pent up that he couldn’t compete with the
now-inflated price for hire. Not only that, the Turk had branched out, bringing
along his ten-year-old son to watch over a flock of geese he’d bought from a
woman widowed by the quake.
“I didn’t take
advantage of the poor woman,” the Turk swore, touching his head, lips and
heart. “It’s true, she is Greek, and no one in my family would blame me if I
did, but it is not my way to be cruel. She has been hurt – her leg was bruised…
maybe even broken. Also, she lost her husband, an old man who was too drunk for
work that day, so he stayed in his bed and was killed while she was outside
tending her geese.”
He indicated the
unruly flock the little boy was driving down the highway with much difficulty.
The Turk gave a weary shake of his head and said, “My only fear is my son will
lose too many birds before we reach the market and then I will have less money
to share with the widow.”
Lucky took his
point. He was being conned, of course, but as Turks went, the camel driver was
an honest man, so Lucky stepped off the road, cut a switch from the reeds growing
in the ditch, and joined the boy in driving the geese to market.
As they
approached the Famagusta gate, Lucky saw a few fallen stones on the ground, but
other than that the city walls had ridden through the most recent quake as
easily as they had nature’s pummeling over the many centuries. A band of hungry
gypsies, however, was waiting outside the gates, harassing the market crowd –
drawing their attention while gypsy kids swooped in to pick off sacks of grain,
or even chickens pulled from their cages.
They went after
the geese and Lucky and the Turk’s son jumped forward, trying to ward of the
gypsies with their switches. But there were too many of them, dodging this way
and that, shouting obscenities at Lucky, trying to make him strike out at them
so their little brothers and sisters could have a chance at the fat geese.
Suddenly there
was an explosion – like a gunshot, but louder. Half dazed and ears ringing
Lucky turned to see the Turk lowering an antique black powder pistol. The gypsy
kids were as stunned as Lucky. Then they shouted in alarm as the Turk lifted an
identical weapon in his other hand. He waved it at the gypsies, who scattered,
as he once again fired into the air. As before, there was the deafening blast
that hit Lucky’s ears like knife points. Smoke so thick and black and acrid
filled the air that Lucky could barely see. Then a summer breeze swept in,
carrying the smoke away and Lucky stood there gaping at the Turk’s face, which
was now as black as a coal miner’s.
The Turk grinned
at Lucky, teeth startling white in his gunsmoke mask. “My grandfather gave me
these,” he said, displaying the ancient pistols “I only fill them with a
handful of small stones. But my grandfather, of course, used real bullets. He
was a pirate, after all, and a pirate ship is not a child’s paydhikee hara.”
Lucky frowned a
moment, then realized he meant playground – a pirate’s ship was not a child’s
playground. Then his eyes widened as understood what the Turk was really
saying, which that his grandfather was a pirate, by God! While the small
caravan trooped through the gates Lucky quizzed his friend unrelentingly. As it
turned out, not only was the man’s grandfather a pirate, but piracy went well
back into his family.
“Your president,
Mr. Thomas Jefferson, killed my most distant grandfather,” he said. Lucky’s
look of confused alarm caused him to chuckle. “Don’t concern yourself, Mr.
Lucky,” he said. “No one could blame you, because it was so long ago. Also, it
was just. We killed some Americans and captured some others and Mr. Jefferson
sent some big ships with cannons and also a lot of gold, so my distant
grandfather’s admiral swore never to take up arms against America. And that is
why to this very day that I am a camel man, instead of a pirate like my
grandfather.”
Lucky wanted to
ask him why the family business of piracy had continued for another two hundred
years before one of them took up a semi-honest trade, but thought it was a
subject best left for a later time. The camel was becoming unruly under its
huge load and the geese were getting harder to handle in city traffic, so he
made his excuses and broke away.
The city didn’t
seem to have suffered a great deal from the earthquake. Lucky saw a few broken
shop windows and cracks in stone facades on the main thoroughfare, but that’s
about all. Nicosia had weathered countless earthquakes over the centuries and
this one had been apparently no different.
Jim’s street
also seemed to have come through unscathed – shopkeepers shouted cheery
“Yasou’s” as Lucky went by and the donkey who belonged to the greengrocer
flicked its ears and nodded its head in greeting. But as Lucky turned the
corner to go up the hill he saw Jim standing outside his shop with Mr. Thantos,
the blacksmith and Mr. Zeno, the carpenter. The metal shutter was pulled
partway down and Lucky saw signs of fire damage. Also the shop sign was
dangling from one hook.
The boy was
alarmed. Yesterday, when he’d spoken to Jim on the phone, he’d said everything
was fine at the store. He said he was eager to resume their studies. Lucky
hurried to investigate. When he came up on them the men turned – and all of
them had mournful looks. Even Jim, who offered Lucky his usual warm welcome,
seemed despondent.
“Good to see
you, Lucky,” he said. He waved a hand at the damage. “Unfortunately, I can’t
offer you a glad return to your studies.”
Lucky took a
good look at what had happened. The metal shutter was not only blackened from
smoke, but it had been buckled from intense heat. The searing marks fanned out
from a marred splotch on the pavement, where presumably kerosene or gasoline
had been poured. And it rose in a reverse triangle, taking in the lower half of
the door.
Above that was
were four Greek letters, spelling out – in English – EOKA. The letters were
splashed in thick dull red paint – the kind Lucky had seen used in damaged cars
undergoing repair.
“What does that
mean?” Lucky asked.
Jim said, “In
Greek EOKA stands for Ethniki Organosis Kypriou Agoniston. In English - the
National Organization of Cypriot Fighters.”
“Communists,”
Lucky said. A statement not a question. Jim had long been the target of
Communist gangs, now, apparently, it was literally heating up.
“I fear so,” Jim
replied. “I was a nobody before, but now that I’m with the mayor’s business
group, I suppose they see me as more of a threat.”
“But you agree
with Enosis,” Lucky said, frustrated at the brutal ignorance scrawled on the
metal door. “You are working as hard as you can for independence from Britain.
Doesn’t that count for anything? Why do you have to agree with Communism too? I
mean, the whole thing is stupid, anyway. They tried it in America when the
first settlers came. Everybody could work as hard or as little as they wanted
and they still got a share of the food. Naturally, there were more lazy people
than hard-working people so they starved to death. Maybe ten or eleven people
were left when the ships returned from England.” Lucky shook his head,
disgusted. “It was really, really dumb.”
Jim laughed,
then turned to Mr. Thantos and Mr. Zenos and gave a swift translation of
Lucky’s remarks. The two men chuckled appreciatively and nodded in agreement.
“Okay, as the
Americans say,” Jim replied. “Okay you are right, Lucky. Mr. Zenos says so and
Mr. Thantos says so. But unfortunately the Communists gangs – especially this
new EOKA group – won’t agree no matter how logical you are.”
“You should quit
the mayor’s council,” Lucky said. “Then they wouldn’t come after you.”
Looking at the
damage and the rudely painted EOKA, he was scared something was going to happen
to Jim. This man had become father, brother and teacher to him in a few short
months. Over the years, people had swept in an out of his life like sparrows
chasing the scattered seed. Most of them he didn’t miss. A few – a very few -
he kept close to his heart, warm in the knowledge that unlike the others, he’d
see them again. His aunts, for example – Aunt Cassie and Rita and Sissy. His
uncles, - Uncle Tommy, Charlie and Andy. Grandmom and Grandpop Guinan. Still
alive and well in Philadelphia. But, that was it – the people who cared for him
and would care for him forever.
There were his
girlfriends, of course – Donna and Athena. But deep inside he knew at this
stage of his life girls would be as ephemeral, as ghost-like, as all the
friends he’d made before during his travels.
Maybe Jim was
ephemeral as well. Someone who would streak through his life like the others.
Lucky revolted against this idea. Jim was important, damn it! Important!
Jim thought a
minute, then said, “I can’t quit the council, of course. But I see you require
an explanation and I don’t mind giving you one, although it is more complicated
than you might realize. So let us adjourn to the classroom, while Mr. Zenos and
Mr. Thantos take care of my little problem.”
He made some
polite requests in Greek to the men, both who were more than happy to
accommodate him. They hurried off to their respective shops to fetch materials
and apprentices. Jim pushed the metal shutters up and they screeched in protest
from being warped by the fire. He flicked the light switch and smiled in
surprise when the lights went on and the overhead fly fan began to turn.
“I haven’t had
breakfast,” he said. “Although my apartment was untouched, all the fruit fell
out of the trees and my landladies are busy gathering and pickling everything
they can find.”
He picked up the
phone, dialed, and made polite talk in Greek to the person on the other side.
Then he said, “Omelata, parakalo.”
Jim looked up at
Lucky questioningly, raising two fingers – did the boy want an omelet as well?
Lucky had already eaten breakfast, but after driving a flock of geese four
miles, putting up with a cranky camel and eluding a band of gypsy kids, he was
ravenous. He nodded vigorously.
Jim grinned.
“Theo Omelata, parakalo,” he said, then he made more polite remarks and hung up
the phone.
He sat there,
head bowed over the cradled phone for a few minutes, then he looked at Lucky,
his eyes sad, his grin crooked. “Our island has been under the fists of other
countries for so many years, that surely God has forgotten who he put here and
for what reason,” he said, his voice so soft that Lucky had to sit very still
to catch what he was saying.
“It’s greed that
brought them here,” he went on. “They want our mines, they want our grapes and
our olives. They want our cheap labor, they want, they want, they want. Now, I
believe it is our time for wanting and to fulfill those wants. It is only fair.
Only just.”
He tapped his
chest, his voice rising. “In short, I want Cyprus for the Cypriots. My EOKA
cousins want to achieve that goal at any cost. They want the British to be gone
overnight and the Turks who live among us thrown out, or put into labor camps.”
Lucky nodded in
understanding, thinking about the treatment of Japanese Americans during the
War. His father and mother were both ashamed of it and had made a point of
telling Lucky what an injustice had been done.
Jim said, “It
long past time for Cypriots to reclaim their heritage. And, yes, I mean that
for the Turks among us as well. Most of them, after all, have lived here for
three hundred years or more, so it is their land too.”
The waiter from
the restaurant came in carrying the familiar three-tiered tray. He served them
breakfast, then left. They were quiet for a time while they ate.
Finally, Jim
said, “Since you became my student, Lucky, I have thought long and hard about
the United States of America. It is a fabled land the world over. In my own
village, many a young chap has set his sights on the Statue Of Liberty, and in
time wrote home about that glorious vision when they arrived in New York
harbor.”
Jim sipped
thick, Greek coffee as he considered. Then he said, “You cannot know how
fortunate you are to be a citizen of such a great country. America could be
Greece in its golden age. To be sure, America is shamed by its treatment of the
Africans who were forced to its shores. But Athens and Sparta were shamed as
well for similar reasons. In my view, their beliefs about slavery and the
inequality of their fellow men was their ultimate undoing. And, I suppose, if
your country doesn’t come to terms with the sins of its past, it will be its
undoing as well.”
Lucky nodded. He
couldn’t agree more. “That’s what I want to do with my writing,” he said. “I
want to help people see.”
“Why do you feel
responsible?” Jim asked.
Lucky shrugged.
“I saw what they did,” he said. He didn’t bother saying who “they” were. Jim
knew.
Jim pressed him
for details. Lucky took a deep breath, then the story came tumbling out. The
first incident was in Florida, on the Tampa bus. A black man had climbed aboard
at one stop and immediately sat down on the first seat he could find – two
seats behind the driver and across from Lucky and his mother. Lucky was five at
the time and took special notice of the “colored” man because he’d seen so few
people of that pigment.
Colored was the word Lucky had been taught was the polite
way to refer to people with dark skin. He imagined it as God covering someone’s
skin with black grease paint, like Mr. Al Jolson did making up for the minstrel
show in “The Jazz Singer,” one of Lucky’s favorite movies. Probably because
Lucky’s real name was Allan, he particularly related to the movie and its star.
After seeing the film, whenever he had the chance he’d announce to a captive
audience of relatives - “Okay, folks, this is Allan Jolson speaking. You ain’t
seen nothin’ yet!” And he’d drop to his knees and do a dramatic rendition of
“Mammy,” or another of Jolson’s minstrel show hits. He wanted to make up in
black face, like Jolson, but his mother said it was too messy. The thing is,
having never met a real black person, he thought the pigment was just a dark
cream. However, one day he discovered – to his mother’s total mortification –
that the color didn’t come off if you wiped your finger across a black person’s
skin. A train porter had been his experiment when he was about four. His mother
had been humiliated, but the porter had only chuckled and told his mother not
to mind, the boy meant no harm. Later, the man brought Lucky an ice cream, and
so he thought – well, these colored people were just as nice as Mr. Allan
Jolson.
But no one thought the colored fellow sitting behind the bus
driver was nice and Lucky heard people muttering things about the man. Then the
driver yelled at the guy – ordering him into the back of the bus. The colored
man shook his head – he wasn’t going to go.
Lucky’s mother whispered, “He must be drunk, the poor man.”
While Lucky was trying to figure out what she meant, the
driver suddenly pulled the bus over to the curb. He got out his seat – and
Lucky was startled to see him jerk the change machine off his belt and clutch
it in his fist – and stalk down the aisle toward the colored man. At the same
time, several other passengers – all big, strong, white men – got up to help.
The colored man started to rise, but the bus driver hit him
full force in the face. Quarters and nickels and dimes went flying down the
aisle. The colored man fell back in his seat and Lucky’s stomach did flip flops
when he saw that his face was a ruin of blood. Using curse words Lucky had
never heard before, the passengers lifted the stunned man from his seat,
dragging him to the front. The driver pulled the lever, opening the door and
the men threw the man into the street.
Lucky heard his mother sob, but he didn’t turn to her,
instead he pressed his face against the window to see what was happening. He
saw the colored man struggle, but heavy blows from his captors soon stopped
that. The white men dragged him to the bus stop sign post. One of the men
pulled off the victim’s belt. They made a noose out of it and looped it over
the man’s head. Just then Lucky heard the driver grind the gears and the bus
gave a lurch. And as the bus pulled away, Lucky saw the white men hoist their
victim up on the sign, where he kicked and jerked… and then he was out of
sight.
It was an image that would remain with Lucky the rest of his
life. The man hanging by the neck from his own belt, kicking and fighting and
trying to clutch the belt to relieve the pressure. And his assassins – two men
grabbing each hand and pulling them behind his back, another hitting him in the
stomach, to stop his struggling. Meanwhile a crowd of curious white people
gathered, watching with great interest. And not one person trying to intervene.
He’d witnessed
other atrocities – so common in America’s south in those days. He’d seen a
black man dangled by his heels over an open elevator shaft, because he’d said
something that the assistant manager of Penney’s Department Store believed
offensive. He’d seen a black man knocked down and run over, while he was
shoveling trash from a curb. The offending car had come to a rest on the man’s
thigh and Lucky stood there horrified as he screamed and screamed and screamed
and the white men cursed him for being a “stupid nigger” getting in the way of
their car. When they finally drove the car off his leg, the driver made certain
to back over the man again before he drove off. The man remained in the gutter,
moaning, blood streaming out and when Lucky asked him what he could do, the man
said, “Get away, white boy. I got enough trouble.” Lucky ignored this and
fetched the man’s family, but nobody looked at him or spoke to him, so he
finally got the idea and drifted away, feeling not just useless, but guilty, as
if he had run over the man himself.
Jim listened
intently, then sat in silence for a long time as he thought the whole thing
over. Finally, he said, “Those were terrible things to witness, Lucky,
especially for one so young. And I understand entirely the responsibility you
feel. After all, for better or worse, it is your country. So you believe very
deeply that you must use whatever talents you have to help end this evil, is
this not so?”
Lucky nodded. It
was so.
“Well, Lucky,”
Jim continued, “perhaps you can see why I feel responsible for what is
happening in my own country. Much wrong is being done – and not just by the
British. There are extremists on each side willing to cause harm to get their
way. It is my most cherished dream that I might use my talents as a negotiator
to help bring an end to this blight upon my country. So I suppose we are
brothers in purpose, you and I.”
Jim reached up
on the shelf of books and drew out a slim volume. “Listen to what Pericles had
to say three thousand years ago about a man’s duties to his fellow man…” He
paged forward, found what he wanted, then read: “…Heroes have the whole earth
for their tomb; and in lands far from their own, where the column with
its epitaph declares it, there is enshrined in every breast a record unwritten
with no tablet to preserve it, except that of the heart. These take as your
model, and judging happiness to be the fruit of freedom and freedom of valor,
never decline the dangers of war. For it is not the miserable that would
most justly be unsparing of their lives; these have nothing to hope for: it is
rather they to whom continued life may bring reverses as yet unknown, and to
whom a fall, if it came, would be most tremendous in its consequences. And
surely, to a man of spirit, the degradation of cowardice must be immeasurably
more grievous than the unfelt death which strikes him in the midst of his
strength and patriotism!”
Jim closed the
book. “So, what do you think, now, Lucky?”
The boy said,
“I’m not sure I completely understand it. I’ll have to study the speech.”
Jim smiled.
“Write an essay for me,” he said, “and I’ll give you double credit, okay?”
“Okay,” Lucky
said.
Outside the shop
a motorbike backfired and they both jumped.
*****
The summer moved
swiftly, the fields turning brown under the hot sun until all one could see was
an endless dry plain that ran all the way to the mountains. The cicadas buzzed
in the thirsty trees, the cactus and citrus orchards made the air heavy with the
sweet scent of their fruit. The grape vines sucked up all the moisture they
could get, the grapes swelling and swelling – the bees and wasps going mad
trying to pierce the flesh. Then, just as quickly they turned into raisins
practically overnight. People and animals disappeared in the afternoons, hiding
in every patch of shade available. They came out in the mornings or when the
day cooled from breezes blowing from the mountains and quickly did their work
before night fell.
Donna’s father
was recalled to Washington for briefings and the whole family went with him,
anxious to visit friends and relatives after all those many months abroad.
Athena remained unapproachable and so Lucky, lonely for female company, flirted
with some of the shop girls in the city and took them to the cinema and to nice
tavernas for refreshments and for romantic walks in Metaxa Square, where they
could slip into the shadowy glens for passionate embraces like young couples
had been doing there for centuries. They were all nice girls, intelligent and
interesting girls – and very accommodating girls. But he missed Donna and
Athena. And if he had to make a choice, it was Athena he missed the most.
He just couldn’t
get her out of his mind. Once he saw her drive by in a taxi – she was in the
back seat with her mother and grandmother, off to some family outing, no doubt
– and she spotted him. She pressed her face against the window and gave him
such a mournful look that he wanted to cry. He thought about approaching Yorgo
to plead his case. But what was his case? That he’d never touched his daughter.
Well, okay, he’d touched her and pretty intimately, and she had him, but they
hadn’t like… well, done anything!
Lucky thought that somehow that wouldn’t go over with Yorgo. Heck, it wouldn’t
go over with any father the world over, much less the proud Greek who was
Yorgo.
The other thing
about Yorgo was that from all reports he’d become increasingly unstable – close
to violence. Yorgo was a big bear of a man, known all his life for his peaceful,
forgiving nature. Now, it was said, he flew off the handle at the slightest
perceived insult. At home, his rages had sent the women of his household
fleeing into the night, while his sons remained behind pleading with their
father to calm himself. No one had been struck. Not yet. But everybody in
Yorgo’s house was fearfully waiting.
Lucky understood
their fears very well, indeed. There would be an awful ritual in their household,
a terrible dread. Yorgo would become increasingly moody, then snarl at slightest
affront. He’d start drinking steadily, sometimes acting the cheery fool,
sometimes the morose villain. You could never tell which would happen, except
if it went on long enough both stages would be reached. The clown – the good
time Charlie - would become as mean a man as Dickens’ Bill Sykes. He would
threaten with fist and club and who could tell what he would resort to next?
Andreas reported
that the village priest was called to Yorgo’s house nearly every night to calm
him down and pray over him. It was not a good situation.
NEXT: A JOURNEY INTO MAGIC AND SORROW
*****
Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide:
Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
- "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. Narrated by John Hough. Click the title links below for the trade paperback and kindle editions. (Also available at iTunes.)
*****
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.
*****
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
 |
Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
|
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.
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