THE MIRACLE A True Story the Franks were driven out and the church reverted to Orthodoxy; I imagined I could hear the wailing and lamenting mingled with the hymns and prayers on the eve of the Fall of Constantinople in May 1453; and then came the long period of darkness when Mehmet the Conqueror and most of the Ottoman Sultans who followed him all had a hand in changing the status of the church, which from the moment the city fell was converted into a mosque. Minarets, rostrums, pulpits, mausoleums, quotations from the Koran written on the domes and walls of the church, daubing with whitewash - all these changes were carried out in a vain bid to alter the church's appearance.    What myths, what legends, what traditions of Hellenism and the Orthodox Church are associated with this sacred spot, this mystic place! Tears came into my eyes as I observed the hundreds of foreign visitors who queued up at the entrance to the church, which had been turned into the Museum of Byzantine Art in 1926.    I walked home in silence and found my mother packing the last possessions we were to take with us. The house was full of friends and acquaintances calling to say goodbye.    And, needless to say, the caretaker of the next-door apartment block was also much in evidence: "So you're finally leaving tomorrow?" he asked. "I want you to give me all your keys; I shall be the new householder when you've gone."    The next morning, 14th September, 1964, we rose early, collected up our belongings, closed the door and handed over the keys to the new "owner". As we left, I looked round for the last time. Mr Kleopas, sitting in his usual place at the window, waved his hand in farewell; I thought I saw him crying, and I felt my chest tighten.    We arrived at Tepebasi, where the coach in which we would be travelling was already filling up. With the persecutions and deportations, the number of coaches leaving for Athens had increased but was still not enough. Three times the number of people actually travelling were milling around the coach, saying goodbye to their loved ones. Lots of people had come to bid us a last farewell - so many that we hadn't time to say goodbye to them all.    When the bus pulled away, a forest of raised hands and handkerchiefs was waving behind us. We were all very moved. We watched as the city slipped away around us, like water sliding though one's fingers. The houses and familiar streets were rapidly disappearing from view. Into my mind came scenes of all the happy times we had spent there. I pictured the huge house in Yedikule which belonged to my Aunt Olga. I recalled the faces of all my childhood friends - Makis, Rena, Soukaki, Vangelis, Eftalia and Pitsou. Happy scenes of us playing in the school playground; fishing on the shores of the Bosphorus with Eftalia's parents, Anna and Kyriakos, and the teasing we always got when we returned empty-handed. I remembered the enchanting vista presented by the flowers in the enormous garden of the Theological School on the island of Halki, where my Uncle Costas was head cook; the beautiful beach at Floria where I used to go sometimes with Marika and Sotiris, neighbours of ours who loved me as if I were their own child and who had not been fortunate enough to experience the joys of parenthood themselves; the huge apartment where Makis' parents lived in Cihangir, where we used to set up a large, meandering track and play with his electric train. We would spend hours on end absorbed in this, our favourite game.    The trips we used to make with the families of lots of 103 and 104 Leonidas Koumakis THE MIRACLE A True Story If you prefer a hard copy of the book, please send an email to HEC-Books@hec.greece.org Previous Page | Initial Page | Site Map | Next Page (105th of 204) © For Internet 2001 HEC and Leonidas Koumakis. Updated on 19 June 2001.