THE MIRACLE A True Story though, had to be employed with the Greeks in Constantinople.    The General Police Headquarters was in Sirkeci. On the ground floor was a vast area with two flights of stairs on either side, one on the right and one on the left of the building, which did not communicate. To reach the fourth floor, where the Birinci Sübe or political section was located, you had to go up the left-hand staircase.    Over the door at the entrance to the fourth floor was a coat of arms with the two crescents of the Turkish flag facing each other. At the front of the building was a large empty space and at the back, a row of cells and some offices.    My father shivered. He had heard so much about the "activities" of the people on the fourth floor that just being there brought him out in a cold sweat.    The plump fellow in thick glasses who sat behind the desk which my father had approached did not look like a Turk - until he raised his eyes and looked at my father. Then two fiery shafts of hatred pierced the myopic lenses and my father was left in no doubt that he was a Turk, and one who was quite prepared to treat his victim to an overdose of Turkish zeal. Over his head hung a portrait of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk looking down on him with a stern expression.    "My name is Gerasimos Koumakis and I was sent to you by the Duty Officer," said my father.    The fat man bent over some papers and shuffled them about a bit. After a while he muttered:    "Koumakis Gerasimos. Father's name Le-on-i-das?" he asked.    "Yes, sir, Leonidas. Gerasimos Koumakis, son of Leonidas and Zoe."    At that moment the door opened. A tall, skinny man with a sallow complexion and a thin moustache slipped into the room and sat down on a chair opposite my father without saying a word. My father suddenly thought of the opinion of the Turks expressed by the great Islamic prophet Mohammed, which he had read somewhere: "The Day of Judgement will not come unless battles are won against the Turks, whose features are small eyes stretching back towards their ears, a flat nose and a brutal facial expression."    The fat man gave a little cough to clear his throat and began:    "You know, Koumakis, that our brothers in Cyprus are suffering. That devil in a priest's cassock who goes under the name of Makarios is giving them a really hard time. They are subjected to daily oppression in a place which naturally belongs to Turkey. And as if that wasn't enough, the Greeks have the cheek to call for "union" with Greece. Is that fair? I'm asking you, is that right?"    The fat man's gaze fell on my father like a bird of prey landing. My father, too, cleared his throat and said:    "Beyefendi, I am a simple law-abiding man and work hard for my living. I don't concern myself with politics."    "Do you mean to say that you don't know about the ordeal suffered by our brothers in Cyprus at the hands of Kizil Papaz [meaning red, therefore left-wing, priest]? Haven't you heard about their struggles and their dreams to see Cyprus become Turkish? Either you are very insensitive, Koumakis, or else you are pretending. Of course, I know it's the second of these."    "No, no, Beyefendi," stammered my father.    "What do you mean, no?" the fat man bellowed. "Our brothers in Cyprus are suffering. Our brothers in Cyprus are being oppressed by the filthy Greeks. I ask you straight out: do you approve of all this? Do you approve of the 27 and 28 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 (29th of 204) © For Internet 2001 HEC and Leonidas Koumakis. Updated on 19 June 2001.