Orphan Island

By M. G. Mastroyannis

Orphan Island is a historical novel about the island of Cyprus. Revolution, foreign intrigue, intervention, and intercommunal strife are the elements that make up the islands tragedy. Squeezed in the vise of East-West power politics during the cold war, Cyprus becomes the apple of discord as against the will of its people NATO tries to pull the non-aligned island into its camp and make it an unsinkable nuclear base. Through diabolical schemes and stratagems from governments of powerful nations, the island suffers a brutal invasion by the Turks, complete with ferocious atrocities, all in full view of a freedom-loving NATO.
Amid deep hostility, turmoil, espionage, treachery, and war, the love of Achilles and Daphne is rekindled and flourished. Achilles, an idealist intellectual and zealous fighter for freedom, is one of the leaders in the revolution to kick the British out of Cyprus. Artistic Daphne is sensitive and emotional, and she lives to love Achilles and to dream an eternal life with him. But their love follows the intricate weave of their destiny, which is interlaced with the destiny of Cyprus as it is ordained by foreign governments and men with depraved causes.
Orphan Island is based on the true story of Cyprus and its courageous people, who ask to be free and because of that their lives change forever, the result of outworn British colonial mentality, and corrupt American foreign policy and failure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 27, 2003
• ISBN: 9781465333209

M. G. Mastroyannis

M. G. Mastroyannis was born in Nisyros, one of the Greek islands, and came to the United States at a young age. He studied at the University of Southern California School of Engineering, but his desire to write pushed him into engineering writing. Realizing that technical writing would never satisfy him, he began writing literary fiction. He is the author of In the Breath of Night, Rachel’s Promise, Orphan Island. He lives and writes in California.

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Copyright © 2003 by M. G. Mastroyannis.

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owner.

This is a work of historical fiction. Except for the names of political, royal, and military

personalities, all the other names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of

the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons,

living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

AUTHOR’S NOTE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

EPILOGUE

For the people of Cyprus

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THERE ARE PARTS in the book that contain more history than is usually desirable in a historical novel. In my ambivalence between placing actual historical material in a dim background and giving it a more prominent position in the book, I leaned toward the latter. This piece of history was not coincidental to a period, a mere witness to time and the lives of the people in the book. No, it was a record of motives and sinister activities of leaders using jungle rule and morality. I feel compelled, therefore, to write to the same extent about history’s real characters and their doings, as I will write about the fictional characters and the suffering of the real people they represent. Only then will I have embodied the hubris and the ati, the efficient cause and effect, the arrogance followed by confusion and loss of reason; basic elements of the Greek Tragedy that are also the elements of the tragedy of the people in Orphan Island.

CHAPTER 1

AFTER TWELVE YEARS away from Cyprus everything looked different. The streets of Nicosia seemed a little narrower, the buildings not as tall, and even the neighborhood square where he had played as a boy seemed smaller than he remembered it. And the people appeared different; the once cheerful and congenial Cypriots seemed dismal and dispirited. After one year of revolution the island had lost many of its children, young men, and women, who died in the hills or in the towns or on the gallows. And the end was not near; Her Majesty’s government was determined to crush the revolt and silence the Greek-Cypriot cry for enosis, union with Greece.

He crossed Pericles Street, passed the Cathedral, and turned into a side street, looking for the coffeehouse with the Corinthian columns in front. He saw it and walked over to occupy one of its outdoor tables. His name was Achilles Zakos.

Twelve years away and I feel like a stranger in the town where I was born and raised, he told the café attendant who came to take his order.

Where have you been? the man asked.

In Athens. The great city of Timon.

What will you take? the attendant asked.

A coffee, medium. Say, are you the only attendant here?

No. It’s my brother and I.

Where’s your brother?

I expect him any minute. He walked off and returned with a demitasse.

Achilles slurped the hot coffee and watched the islanders go by. Someone came and stood next to him.

My brother told me you were asking for me, the man said.

We were just talking. You see, I arrived this morning from Athens, the great city of Timon.

The man’s dull expression came alive. Are you Achilles Zakos?

Yes.

The man walked away and returned with a glass of coke.

Achilles picked up the glass and removed the note from the saucer, then took a couple of swallows of the coke before standing up. He walked down the street, unfolded the note, and read: Tomorrow at 9 a.m. take Famagusta gate and turn right on the second street and come to the first windmill and wait. He tore the small piece of paper and threw it into a trashcan by the wayside.

When he reached home he found his mother and two brothers waiting. I’m sorry to be late, he apologized.

It was a special day for the family to be together after so many years, especially for their mother, whose happiness had manifested itself in the variety of delicious dishes she had prepared for her sons. Hippocrates Zakos, their father, had been the mayor of Nicosia for many years, but had died when the family was still young. Chrysanthe, their devoted mother, had never remarried and had done well in rearing the boys, seeing that all three received a good education. The strong family bond had always brought them warm feelings and made them calm and obliging. There was love and compassion in the family. At times bold Alexis, the middle son, appeared insensitive to the family’s trials and tribulations, but if something serious afflicted the family, he too pulled together and colonial rulers. The boys’ grandfather had been hanged by the Ottoman Turks for having spoken against the repression of the Greek-Cypriot people, and their father had made history by standing his ground during a showdown with the British in his capacity as the mayor of Nicosia.

I know it’s old news, Alexis said, but I want to tell you how happy we all were to read about your activities in Athens for the cause of Cyprus. I still have the Athens newspaper clippings.

I don’t know what good all that did, Mrs. Zakos said and looked at Achilles. You had me worried. I was afraid that something might happen to you.

We’ve got to put an end to this abomination, Mother, Zeno said. Colonialism in this twentieth century is an anachronism of the worst kind and we must end it in Cyprus. Through the years one conqueror gave our island to the next and we have had enough. We’re not a chattel to be given away just like that. Each time this happens we, the people of Cyprus, suffer. We’ve been owned by foreigners in our own country. We’re the orphans of the world, the easy prey of the jungle. He paused. We need national identity very badly, he added as an afterthought.

This interjection from Zeno caught everybody’s attention. He was the youngest one and the most read of the three. In the past his views on life were more bookish than practical, but now what he said was true and sensible, and the family let his words hang in the room for a while. A bespectacled young man of small frame, his face was thin and always pale, an appearance that matched his slender physique and weak constitution.

You’re right, Zeno, Achilles said. "Only enosis, union with Greece, can put an end to our being given like a chattel."

Achilles did all right, Mother, Alexis said. He turned to Achilles. You really gave the British Prime Minister, that jolly old sinner, something to think about.

It frightens me to think that you boys may be dragged into the turmoil that afflicts our island, their mother said.

mine should worry herself like this. The courage runs in the blood of the Zakos family, do you forget?"

Mrs. Zakos mellowed now. I don’t want anything to happen to you. The thought of the revolution with my boys in harm’s way gives pain to my heart.

The revolution is up to speed and the English have begun to feel it, Alexis said, beaming. He sauntered around the spacious dining room looking as beautiful as one of his ancestors’ gods with an excellent build; bravery seemed in total harmony with his strong, daring nature.

Don’t let a few isolated victories by the EOKA Resistance fool you, Zeno said again. The Tory government will not allow a handful of Greek Cypriots standing in the way of its long colonial practice and policy. The British have been trying very hard since the turn of the century to hold on to what’s left of their old claims on the world and they won’t stop now.

What does EOKA stand for? their mother asked.

It stands for National Organization of Cypriot Fighters, Alexis said. It’s the Resistance that will kick the English colonialists out of Cyprus.

After the dinner was over Achilles excused himself and went out into the orchard where the fresh smell of turned soil was everywhere. He stood looking at the dormant trees and remembered his childhood, when caring for them was a chore he had never shunned. He observed one’s trunk for loose bark, a sign of sickness, looked to see if asbestos was applied, and then walked slowly through the path, happy to be in the midst of familiar surroundings. In the far corner there was a large meadow where a big oak tree stood, the family tree as he had dubbed it when he was a boy. For a while he stood looking at it, at the aged trunk and tired limbs from which still hung the swing, and his heart filled with affection. Going over to it he lovingly touched the swing, on which he had ridden so many times. Then he walked over to the corner where he had built his ancient Hellenic city complete in those ecstatic years that had imbued his life with so much fascination. From his late uncle Jason, the professor of Greek history and antiquities, he had formed strong and clear impressions about how Acropolis and Delphi once looked, how the Trojan War had been fought and won through the perfidious strategy of the Trojan Horse and the famous warrior Achilles. About the legendary figure of Achilles, he remembered boasting to his friends that he was the hero’s namesake. In the night he would dream of riding the hero’s horse, and in the morning complain that he felt a pain on the heel of his right foot, that being the climax of his attempt to emulate the hero’s legend. Overwhelmed by these shrines of old memories, he squatted by his ancient city, now only ruined miniature buildings with roads eroded and gullied by winter rains and floods.

He heard his mother calling and, as he walked toward the house, he saw her with another woman.

Achilles, look who came to see you, his mother said.

He stood looking at the young woman in silence.

Looks like you don’t recognize me. I’m Daphne Petropoulos.

Yes, of course. I can’t believe the change. When I left for Athens you were a teenager. I’m glad to see you again.

Daphne said nothing. What did he mean by glad to see you again? He had never seen me. In retrospect she wasn’t even sure if he knew she existed, or cared to know. She used to come to this house just to see him whenever her father, who was overseer of the Zakos estate, would travel there to talk business with the Honorable Mayor of Nicosia. She had had a terrible crush on Achilles, recalling how she had melted at his words to her, however few they had always been.

I’m happy to see you too. Do you plan to stay in Cyprus or go back to Athens?

No, I’m here to stay.

She was very happy to hear that. I heard you’re a good lawyer.

Don’t believe what you hear. I just work hard, that’s all.

I know what you mean. I work hard too.

That’s interesting.

And in my spare time I’m putting together a book.

Are you writing a book?

Not in the true sense. The book is a pictorial compilation of historical events in Cyprus. Like an album except that there will be blurbs explaining the photos and the events behind them.

Well, if you keep yourself so busy with what you like to do you must be fulfilled, he said.

Oh, how wrong you are, she thought. I have other needs to fulfill. I have the need to love and be loved, and you’ve always been in the center of my heart, the eye of my hurricane. She wondered if his trip to Cyprus had interrupted a relationship with some girl in Athens. You must have enjoyed Athens with its good-looking women and so much to see and do.

I didn’t enjoy any of that. Watching Cyprus from a distance cringing under the English boot was absolute purgatory.

She liked this answer. He didn’t know how she felt about him and he might have said something of dubious nature alluding to some fling with a woman and thereby plant more doubt in her already fearful heart. And what he had said about Cyprus struck a chord, and for the next several seconds she watched him in sad silence. Yes, yes, I can understand very well what you mean, she said and felt the urge to take him in her arms.

* * *

The route he had been instructed to take led him to the outskirts of Nicosia, where he took another road and came to the windmill. After he waited in his car for about ten minutes, a jeep pulled up.

Drive my jeep and follow your instructions, the driver said as he got out of his jeep. He opened the door of Achilles’ car and pulled Achilles out, then hopped in, started the motor, and drove off in high speed.

jeep and drove on to the next checkpoint. At the chapel he waited longer. At last he saw his car as it came up around the curvy road.

I’m sorry I put you through all this inconvenience, the driver said as he stepped out of the car. He seemed more relaxed now.

Then why did you?

Because you were followed.

I was followed?

Yes, sir. By two men, but you can be sure they’ve lost you.

What do we do now?

Take your car and follow me, please.

Achilles got behind the wheel of his own car and followed the man for a short drive across fields to a farmhouse on the foothills.

Suddenly the EOKA leader emerged. Retired Colonel Digenes of the Hellenic Armed Forces.

It’s my honor and pleasure to meet you, sir, Achilles said.

They shook hands and then turned toward the house. Achilles followed him into a room in the middle of which a narrow, rectangular table stood with papers strewn all over its top. Some of them were scribbled over with reminders and quick thoughts while others, in a more organized writing, seemed like pages for the diary that Achilles had heard Digenes faithfully maintained. The room was as shabby and cheerless as the rest of the house, the fifth the EOKA leader had been in since the dawn of the revolution; moving from house to house confused the agents of the British Secret Service, who had been trying to track the leader down.

I was born in this island many years ago, the colonel said. Now I have returned to help it gain its freedom and dignity.

As he watched him, Achilles realized that there was something about that short and fiery man that inspired confidence. It might be his roughly hewn face with its robust look, or his fierce mustache that added severity to his expression. Whatever it was that this vibrant and revolutionary man had, Achilles admired.

I’ve been told good things about your abilities, the leader went on. You’re thought of highly in the Cypriot community of Athens.

If every Cypriot applied himself as well as you have, Cyprus shall be free soon.

I have a question to ask of you, sir. I’ve never been able to figure out why the revolution started when it did. I was under the impression that it was to start later. What brought the change?

He smiled ruefully. Politics, he said. There’ll be another try to plead our cause in the United Nations, so we have to attract the attention of the big and mighty ones.

So the big and mighty ones have to see bloodshed before turning their attention to human rights?

Yes. It’s shameful, but true.

I don’t believe the United Nations Security Council will ever vote Britain out of Cyprus, Achilles said. The big ones don’t want the United Nations to be so effective. They want to have a free hand on the small and weak nations. In our case the British colonialism enjoys America’s blessing.

That’s what I’ve been saying all along, the EOKA leader said. Archbishop Makarios believes that the United Nations is the only way for us. I don’t share that view. The English will leave Cyprus only if the island is turned into a digging hell for them. And it will become one soon.

Achilles felt the palpitations of excitement. Yes, he thought, yes, yes!

Don’t misunderstand me. We have an enormous task ahead of us. But God willing, we shall prevail.

Do you anticipate big problems by an enemy strong in every way?

Their superiority in manpower is not of particular concern to me. For the kind of warfare we’re slowly dragging them into, they already found out that they need one hundred men to every one of ours. Our difficulty right now is obtaining arms. The other day the English Intelligence intercepted one of our boats loaded with guns and ammunition and that hurt. But another boat is due to arrive in a few days. I want you to take over the project.

Digenes read Achilles’ mind. You can do it, he said. Working with danger is the price we must pay for being patriots and lovers of freedom. You will make contact with the boat and see that its cargo is unloaded and hauled away to a warehouse. You’ll need trucks and a few men. The district leader will discuss the details with you. In the meantime think about it so you will be more prepared.

Yes, I will do that.

And now I want to tell you how you fit in our organization. EOKA is comprised of district leaders, group leaders, and the Intelligence Service. The group leaders lead the fighters in their group and they report to their district leader. The district leaders report to me. You will be a combination of group and district leader reporting directly to me. You’ll be assigned to special projects.

Thank you for the confidence and privilege, sir, Achilles said.

The two men talked more about the struggle ahead, what the British should expect if they chose to escalate the conflict. They felt comfortable in the company of each other, and Achilles took the liberty to ask if Digenes was the leader’s real name. It was not, but because he didn’t volunteer to reveal his true identity, Achilles dropped the subject.

The parting was cordial and the driver of the jeep was called to escort Achilles out of the farms to the main road.

On his way home he was thinking about the smuggling operation and was afraid that if the British suspected gunrunning, security would be extremely tight. There was enough danger in this operation to test the mettle of brave men, but Achilles did not flinch; the job had to be done and he had been selected to do it.

* * *

Richard Woodhouse, the chief of British Intelligence Operations in Cyprus, lit his pipe for the third time. I must have bad marriage: they’re both nuisances. He pulled hard on the pipe, exhaled the small amount of smoke, and then looked across his desk at his two agents. So you lost him and you still don’t know how this could have happened. Is that what you’re telling me?

Yes, sir, one of the agents said. We were pursuing him for quite a while before we realized we had lost him.

It happened so fast. He had to have help, the other agent said.

That’s a fair assumption, Woodhouse said. He was helped by EOKA guerillas, men of the leader he was en route to meet.

Taking his private address booklet from his desk drawer, Woodhouse looked up a telephone number and then dialed. His pipe went out again and he pulled it from his mouth and threw it into the ashtray. Nuisance! he growled. Into the phone he said, I like to speak to Nadin . . . Oh, it’s you. How are you, old chap . . . Good, good. I’m calling to ask if you could come by my office . . . At your convenience . . . Right now is fine. Thanks, old friend. He hung up and looked at his agents. Nadin heads up the Turkish Intelligence here in Cyprus. He’s a man who gets results because he’s all spine and no soul. In due time you’ll see why I’m soliciting his help. All right, gentlemen, thank you. Stay on the trail of our man. Sooner or later he’ll lead us to his leader.

The men got up and walked out as Woodhouse attempted once again to light his pipe, but gave up and started cleaning it instead. Seeing Nadin at the threshold of his office door, Woodhouse got up and put out his hand. It’s been a long time. How are you, my friend?

I am good. And you?

When I think how much worse things could be, I feel better. He opened the folder in front of him and leafed through it. How’s Mr. Baktir? He’s the man you report to, isn’t he?

Yes. He’s now the head of the whole Intelligence in Turkey, Nadin said in heavy Turkish accent.

He’s climbing the ladder I see. I worked with him on a case of it to him. His name is Achilles Zakos. He just arrived from Athens