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September is the Cruelest Month of All: The Destruction of Smyrna, 1922.
[Excerpted from the book Realms of Gold: An Iliad of Our Time by Arthur N. Frangos]
Hecuba had just checked the baby and was about to go back to bed when she heard the knock. Perhaps she had been mistaken, she thought; who could possibly be knocking at the door at this hour of the night? Then she heard it again, a little louder and a bit more insistent this time. She woke Priam, who hurriedly threw on a robe and went to see who it was. Hecuba followed him into the parlor, standing back a little so as to be near him and the baby at the same time, and watched apprehensively as he opened the door.
Hrant apologized for the lateness of the hour by explaining that he had something to tell them -- something that he could no longer keep bottled up inside. Priam assured him that the hour didn't matter, and welcomed him into their home as did Hecuba, who then hurried into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.
Hrant stared fixedly at the cup of coffee Hecuba had placed before him while holding onto the saucer with his long, tapering fingers in order to steady his hands. She and Priam were seated at the table in the kitchen waiting for him to speak. Priam watched his troubled employee in silence, as he thought about how much his hands looked like those of a saint in a Byzantine icon. Slowly Hrant began to make words out of the inexplicable series of traumas that had been graven into his young mind, and had tormented him unmercifully for so many years.
It was in late August that the Greek front in the Turkish interior collapsed. The Greeks, who had occupied Smyrna at the behest of the Allies, had been at war for over twenty-five years. The Greek Army was totally demoralized and war-weary after fighting first the Turks in the Macedonian and Balkan wars, then the Central Powers on the side of the Allies during the First World War, and now, again, the Turks, who were well-rested and receiving massive clandestine aid from Greece's very own "allies" behind her back.
Many of Smyrna's more affluent Greek and Armenian merchants had already left the city. But most of the population remained, as they had faith that the Greeks, who had miraculously routed the Turks in the Smyrna area, beaten them out of Eastern Thrace, and had pushed them far into the interior to a stalemate, would be able to hold. Even if they did not hold, and even if the Turks were to take Smyrna, most people still had faith in the Allies. Smyrna harbor was jammed with British, French, Italian, and American warships. The Turks would never dare to massacre innocent unarmed civilians with so many witnesses standing by.
Soon the city began to be filled with thousands of Christian refugees from the interior. These desperate souls came staggering into Smyrna carrying their pitiful possessions on their backs. Most were small farmers whose ancestors had lived and worked on the land long before there was a Turkish nation. The sight of these refugees threw the city into a state of anxiety that bordered on panic. Somehow people managed to hold on to their faith in the Allies, and Smyrna remained quietly apprehensive.
Then the ragged, hollow-eyed, ghost-like Greek soldiers started to pour into the city. They marched slowly, in endless columns of dusty, wretched troops, straight through the city toward an evacuation point on the coast. Most were too tired to even lift their weapons, and dragged them along in the dirt or simply threw them down in despair. They stared straight ahead, like men in a trance, as they passed through Smyrna. Some collapsed to die on the street -- too exhausted to take another agonizing step.
On Friday, the 8th of September, the Greek administration ceased to exist as the last of the Greek officials left the city. All through the night of the 8th and into Saturday morning on the 9th Smyrna held its breath and waited.
Just before noon on Saturday, the first Turkish soldiers entered the city in the form of mounted cavalry riding in perfect order along the quay. This was the start of the panic that would later grip the entire city, as hordes of refugees started to besiege the various consulates for safety. They had just come from the interior and had witnessed the Turks in action against their unarmed compatriots. They feared for their lives, now that Kemal's troops had entered Smyrna. In this they were wiser than most Smyrneans, who still believed the Turks could be constrained out of fear of the Allies and concern for worldwide public opinion.
Hrant's uncle, Sarkis, was one of those who had faith. He had closed down his factory temporarily and, at the pleading of his less trusting friends and business associates had, like a biblical patriarch, gathered his family in their spacious home to await events. Sarkis knew the Turks -- knew what they were capable of doing -- knew what they had done to his people in the past. He himself had survived three massacres, so his faith was not based on the foolish hope that the Turk had changed. No, his faith was grounded in the fact that the Allies would never allow a renegade outlaw like Kemal to upset their plans of carving Turkey up among them. Kemal would have to behave and control his bloodthirsty troops in cosmopolitan Smyrna. Should he fail to do so, and show himself to be the monster he really was, Sarkis reasoned, the Allies would have no choice but to land troops and demolish the self-made strong man -- not out of any sense of pity for the unarmed civilian population, but strictly to protect their own interests. Not to do so would show the world that the Allies were willing to deal with a bloodthirsty murderer of innocent women and children. The Allies would never allow that, and Kemal knew it.
Sarkis had another reason for being optimistic. Not very long ago he had supplied some of Kemal's army with boots free of charge. He'd done so (or so he'd told the Turks) to disprove the notion that all Armenians were traitors. Actually, he was hedging against just such events as were now beginning to unfold. His reward had been a personal letter of thanks from a high-ranking official, who ordered that he and his family were to be shown every courtesy and were not to be harmed in any way. This was in appreciation of Sarkis' "generous contribution" to Kemal's nationalist forces.
All through Saturday, Kemal's troops poured into the city. They were a savage looking mix of Turks, Kurds, and Circassians. Many of these "hounds of the Prophet" had the Mongolian features of the Turks of Eastern Anatolia. They were dressed in an odd assortment of uniforms ranging from modern khaki to the traditional "shalwar," or baggy Turkish trousers, and oriental headgear. They were well armed with rifles, pistols, and swords; many were bandoliered across the chest and sported a frightening display of curved daggers around the waist.
By early evening on Saturday, the killing and looting began and continued all through the night. The Greek and Armenian shops were the first to be broken into, but soon the looting -- concentrated first in the Armenian quarter -- extended into the private homes. The native Turks joined the roaming patrols, pointing out their Armenian neighbors for slaughter while greedily taking part in the looting and mayhem.
Following an ancient tradition that extended back in time to his ancestor, Tamerlane, Kemal allowed his troops to sack the city and annihilate its Christian inhabitants at will. This time, however, tradition conveniently facilitated policy, for Kemal was determined to solve the "minorities question" once and for all. He intended on nothing less than the complete elimination of all non-assimilable minorities from the soil of Turkey by any means necessary. If the Allies chose to evacuate their Christian brethren in time, fine -- if not, other "more traditional" means would be employed. Meanwhile, custom would be observed and Kemal's victorious troops would be allowed to rape, loot, and pillage in the ancient and time-honored way of the Turk.
By Saturday night the panic began to grow ominously, as thousands of native Christians joined the refugees in a desperate search for safety or evacuation from the city.
On Sunday morning the sky was blue and clear, and the sun shone with a dazzling Aegean brilliance as Kemal entered the fallen city in triumph. Soon, an order was issued from the "Konak" that all bakeries were to be closed and no bread was to be sold. By Sunday night, the shooting and screaming could be heard from practically all quarters of the city, and Smyrna gave itself up to unrestrained panic as people stormed the doors of foreign institutions such as schools, consulates, and missionary properties scattered throughout the city and its environs. It was virtually useless, however, as Turkish patrols were everywhere by now and these Christian organizations had, for the most part, been put under strict orders to admit only their own nationals. In this way, many people were ravaged and butchered in the streets as they ran for help from their fellow Christians. The young women and girls were gathered up and taken away. Wailing and screaming continued all through the night and could be heard for quite a distance from the city.
On Monday morning, the Armenian quarter was surrounded and isolated from the rest of Smyrna. Some Italians who, together with the French, had deserted their Greek "allies" as soon as it began to look as if Kemal was going to win, accompanied the Turks as "observers." Soon a proclamation was circulated throughout the quarter that warned against hiding an Armenian in one's home. Anyone caught doing so would be harshly dealt with. Now the well planned and systematic job of killing off the Armenians began with a vengeance. Not one house in the quarter would escape. All would be broken into and looted. All Armenians who were found, with the exception of some of the younger females, would be slaughtered -- usually by being hacked to pieces first and then riddled with bullets, fired into those still suspected of breathing. (An order would soon come down from the "Konak" urging the conquering heroes to use the blade as much as possible as bullets were "too noisy.")
The Turks used long iron crowbars to pry the doors off the houses. Then they would storm in shouting "gold, gold, bring gold." They were accompanied by the glassy-eyed local Turks who, intent on settling old scores, would point out certain Armenians for "special treatment." Those houses in the Armenian quarter belonging to nationals friendly to Kemal prominently displayed their countries' flags for protection. This, together with verification by the local Turks that no Armenian lived there, was enough to temporarily spare these homes from looting and destruction.
While the Armenian quarter was being methodically ravaged, the rest of Smyrna was in chaos and up for grabs. Thousands of helpless Christians were being butchered in their homes and on the streets after first being robbed, raped, and mutilated by marauding bands of Turkish soldiers and officers. One of these was the saintly Greek Metropolitan Chrysostomos. He'd been forcibly removed from the Cathedral of Saint Photini by Turkish soldiers and ordered to appear before General Noureddin Pasha, who'd been put in control of Smyrna by Kemal.
Archbishop Chrysostomos had been offered asylum and safety on three separate occasions but had refused, stating that he was the shepherd of his people and must remain with his flock to the end. He was a venerable spiritual leader who was loved and respected by all who knew him. A tireless champion of Christian unity, he was forever engaged in charitable works, and had been an outspoken critic of the persecution of minorities in Turkey. This had made him anathema to the Turks and now the time had come for them to get their revenge.
It was just after noon on Monday when the gaunt prelate, escorted by a squad of French marines ostensibly detailed for his safety, arrived at the "Konak" for his interview with Noureddin Pasha. This worthy general spit contemptuously on the hand that Chrysostomos extended by way of greeting. There was a dossier of accusations lying open on Neureddin's desk, and he proceeded to read some of these to the Archbishop whom he kept standing ignominiously before him. After a few seconds, the general impatiently tossed the dossier aside and stared with open hatred at this bearded infidel so beloved by the giaour unbelievers and important foreign dignitaries alike. So much was Chrysostomos admired that Ankara had to go through the ridiculous bother of compiling this unnecessary dossier of charges in order to justify a sentence of death. Well, he, Noureddin Pasha, needed no paperwork to do his duty as a true believer. He ordered Chrysostomos to get out of his sight and, as the Archbishop walked slowly down the stairs of the government house, proceeded to the balcony from which he shouted down to the wild-eyed mob gathered below, "Give him all that he deserves!" Then, like an Anatolian Pontius Pilate, he left Chrysostomos to his fate, as he turned and closed the balcony doors behind him.
The sight of the infidel priest, surrounded closely by his French guards, so incited the lusting mob that they began to growl like beasts ready to spring on their prey. Some, as happens in Turkey when blood is about to be spilled, fell writhing to the ground and chewed at the sparse grass growing around the "Konak" steps with rapidly snapping teeth, while salivating from their maws.
The mob pulled the Archbishop away from his squad of "protectors" (who'd been ordered to avoid antagonizing the Turks at all costs) and dragged him by his beard down the stairs and through the streets to the shop of the Jewish barber, Ishmael. There, in the street in front of the trembling barber's shop, they sat Chrysostomos on a stool after wrapping a barber's sheet around his neck. A huge Turk with a straight razor grabbed the Archbishop by the beard and jerked his head back violently. "Let's shave the giaour priest, " he shouted. The wild mob soon tired of this diversion and fought to tear out the rest of his beard, while ripping the sacred vestments from his body as they kicked and stomped him mercilessly and smeared his face with dog excrement picked up from the street.
While this was happening, some French soldiers were moved to pity, and made as if they were going to try to help the suffering prelate who was being beaten to death. They were harshly commanded to stand back by their officer, who forbade them to do anything at all to aid the helpless Archbishop. This officer would, like his spiritual brothers in Nuremberg a generation later, no doubt live out the rest of his life consoled by the fact that he had followed his orders to the letter. By now the mob was panting with blood-lust. The Archbishop's body jerked spasmodically with each blow. His eyes opened painfully to look towards heaven as his lips formed a final prayer. The man with the straight razor cut off an ear and, at the sight of blood, the mob went mad trying to get close to Chrysostomos who was barely able to murmur, "Receive my soul into Thy Kingdom, O Lord," before he died.
The mob felt cheated by his dying so soon. There was so much more to do to his body that was better done while the infidel still lived. They would have to satisfy their lust on the giaour's corpse, which they proceeded to do by gouging out his eyes, cutting off his nose, and stabbing his naked body repeatedly with the knives that all Turks carried about with them. Then, of course, they did the final signature deed without which no mutilation of an infidel would be complete: They cut off his genitals and stuffed them into his mouth. The mob then kicked the hideous corpse into the gutter for the neighborhood dogs to feed on. After this, they dispersed wildly through the deserted streets looking for more giaour unbelievers to butcher and rob; their blood-lust had not yet been satisfied.
By Monday night the slaughter was in full swing, as the Turks continued to hunt down their helpless civilian victims in full view of the indifferent Allied fleet at anchor in the harbor. Some of the ships' stern decks were loaded with samples of manufactured goods brought by sales representatives of Allied industries who, together with the executives of several of these nation' petroleum companies, were anxiously waiting for the ongoing unpleasantry to end so they could go ashore to speak to Kemal about doing business.
Not all of Kemal's troops were engaged in sacking the city. All through Monday night and early Tuesday morning, details of Turkish soldiers hauled wagon-loads of gasoline drums, bombs, gunpowder, and kerosene into the Armenian quarter. These incendiary items, together with large sacks containing dynamite, were placed into deserted buildings in every part of the sector. By sunrise on Tuesday, everything was in place and the troops could be released to do more enjoyable things.
It was late Tuesday morning and the looting in the Armenian quarter was almost completed. There were many dead bodies strewn all over the street in front of Sarkis' house. He had peeked through the closed shutters of a street-side window, and had watched in horror as his neighbors were being run down like animals and butchered in cold blood. He and his family had been frightened by the horrible screaming that came from their neighbors' homes. Sarkis knew that it would soon be his door that would be ripped off its hinges, and he was starting to have his doubts. It had been four days since the killing began and so far no Allied troops had landed. Now, up in his third floor attic, he and Hrant had just finished chopping a hole in the roof through which he planned to send his family into the attached house of his Italian neighbor. They would enter the empty home, whose owner had left Smyrna a few days before the Turks came, through a roof skylight. There was an Italian flag hanging in front and in back of the house, and Sarkis believed that they would be safe there; it seemed that the Turks were leaving the houses of certain nationals alone.
He still believed his letter would ensure their safety, but as a prudent man, he'd decided to hedge by confronting the Turks with it alone; his family would be safe next door all the while. The hole in the attic would be hidden by a huge steamer trunk. This way, if the worst were to happen, Sarkis would be the only victim. If the letter worked, he would simply summon his family back and all would be well. Suddenly they heard the sickening sound of wood being splintered as the door to Sarkis' house was ripped open. Downstairs his wife screamed, and he could hear his children crying and sobbing loudly. He ran quickly down the stairs, followed by Hrant, and paused for a second at the head of the curved stairway to view the scene taking place in his parlor below.
Before Sarkis ran down the stairs to join his family he turned to Hrant and said, "For God's sake don't come down. Go back and hide next door. I'll call you when it's safe to come out. Now go." His uncle's face hardened when Hrant didn't move. "Hrant! Do as I tell You! Go!" With that he turned and ran down the stairs. Hrant hesitated for an instant and then, remembering his uncle's unyielding command, ran back up to the attic.
[Excerpted from the book Realms of Gold: An Iliad of Our Time by Arthur N. Frangos]
Hecuba had just checked the baby and was about to go back to bed when she heard the knock. Perhaps she had been mistaken, she thought; who could possibly be knocking at the door at this hour of the night? Then she heard it again, a little louder and a bit more insistent this time. She woke Priam, who hurriedly threw on a robe and went to see who it was. Hecuba followed him into the parlor, standing back a little so as to be near him and the baby at the same time, and watched apprehensively as he opened the door.
Hrant apologized for the lateness of the hour by explaining that he had something to tell them -- something that he could no longer keep bottled up inside. Priam assured him that the hour didn't matter, and welcomed him into their home as did Hecuba, who then hurried into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.
Hrant stared fixedly at the cup of coffee Hecuba had placed before him while holding onto the saucer with his long, tapering fingers in order to steady his hands. She and Priam were seated at the table in the kitchen waiting for him to speak. Priam watched his troubled employee in silence, as he thought about how much his hands looked like those of a saint in a Byzantine icon. Slowly Hrant began to make words out of the inexplicable series of traumas that had been graven into his young mind, and had tormented him unmercifully for so many years.
It was in late August that the Greek front in the Turkish interior collapsed. The Greeks, who had occupied Smyrna at the behest of the Allies, had been at war for over twenty-five years. The Greek Army was totally demoralized and war-weary after fighting first the Turks in the Macedonian and Balkan wars, then the Central Powers on the side of the Allies during the First World War, and now, again, the Turks, who were well-rested and receiving massive clandestine aid from Greece's very own "allies" behind her back.
Many of Smyrna's more affluent Greek and Armenian merchants had already left the city. But most of the population remained, as they had faith that the Greeks, who had miraculously routed the Turks in the Smyrna area, beaten them out of Eastern Thrace, and had pushed them far into the interior to a stalemate, would be able to hold. Even if they did not hold, and even if the Turks were to take Smyrna, most people still had faith in the Allies. Smyrna harbor was jammed with British, French, Italian, and American warships. The Turks would never dare to massacre innocent unarmed civilians with so many witnesses standing by.
Soon the city began to be filled with thousands of Christian refugees from the interior. These desperate souls came staggering into Smyrna carrying their pitiful possessions on their backs. Most were small farmers whose ancestors had lived and worked on the land long before there was a Turkish nation. The sight of these refugees threw the city into a state of anxiety that bordered on panic. Somehow people managed to hold on to their faith in the Allies, and Smyrna remained quietly apprehensive.
Then the ragged, hollow-eyed, ghost-like Greek soldiers started to pour into the city. They marched slowly, in endless columns of dusty, wretched troops, straight through the city toward an evacuation point on the coast. Most were too tired to even lift their weapons, and dragged them along in the dirt or simply threw them down in despair. They stared straight ahead, like men in a trance, as they passed through Smyrna. Some collapsed to die on the street -- too exhausted to take another agonizing step.
On Friday, the 8th of September, the Greek administration ceased to exist as the last of the Greek officials left the city. All through the night of the 8th and into Saturday morning on the 9th Smyrna held its breath and waited.
Just before noon on Saturday, the first Turkish soldiers entered the city in the form of mounted cavalry riding in perfect order along the quay. This was the start of the panic that would later grip the entire city, as hordes of refugees started to besiege the various consulates for safety. They had just come from the interior and had witnessed the Turks in action against their unarmed compatriots. They feared for their lives, now that Kemal's troops had entered Smyrna. In this they were wiser than most Smyrneans, who still believed the Turks could be constrained out of fear of the Allies and concern for worldwide public opinion.
Hrant's uncle, Sarkis, was one of those who had faith. He had closed down his factory temporarily and, at the pleading of his less trusting friends and business associates had, like a biblical patriarch, gathered his family in their spacious home to await events. Sarkis knew the Turks -- knew what they were capable of doing -- knew what they had done to his people in the past. He himself had survived three massacres, so his faith was not based on the foolish hope that the Turk had changed. No, his faith was grounded in the fact that the Allies would never allow a renegade outlaw like Kemal to upset their plans of carving Turkey up among them. Kemal would have to behave and control his bloodthirsty troops in cosmopolitan Smyrna. Should he fail to do so, and show himself to be the monster he really was, Sarkis reasoned, the Allies would have no choice but to land troops and demolish the self-made strong man -- not out of any sense of pity for the unarmed civilian population, but strictly to protect their own interests. Not to do so would show the world that the Allies were willing to deal with a bloodthirsty murderer of innocent women and children. The Allies would never allow that, and Kemal knew it.
Sarkis had another reason for being optimistic. Not very long ago he had supplied some of Kemal's army with boots free of charge. He'd done so (or so he'd told the Turks) to disprove the notion that all Armenians were traitors. Actually, he was hedging against just such events as were now beginning to unfold. His reward had been a personal letter of thanks from a high-ranking official, who ordered that he and his family were to be shown every courtesy and were not to be harmed in any way. This was in appreciation of Sarkis' "generous contribution" to Kemal's nationalist forces.
All through Saturday, Kemal's troops poured into the city. They were a savage looking mix of Turks, Kurds, and Circassians. Many of these "hounds of the Prophet" had the Mongolian features of the Turks of Eastern Anatolia. They were dressed in an odd assortment of uniforms ranging from modern khaki to the traditional "shalwar," or baggy Turkish trousers, and oriental headgear. They were well armed with rifles, pistols, and swords; many were bandoliered across the chest and sported a frightening display of curved daggers around the waist.
By early evening on Saturday, the killing and looting began and continued all through the night. The Greek and Armenian shops were the first to be broken into, but soon the looting -- concentrated first in the Armenian quarter -- extended into the private homes. The native Turks joined the roaming patrols, pointing out their Armenian neighbors for slaughter while greedily taking part in the looting and mayhem.
Following an ancient tradition that extended back in time to his ancestor, Tamerlane, Kemal allowed his troops to sack the city and annihilate its Christian inhabitants at will. This time, however, tradition conveniently facilitated policy, for Kemal was determined to solve the "minorities question" once and for all. He intended on nothing less than the complete elimination of all non-assimilable minorities from the soil of Turkey by any means necessary. If the Allies chose to evacuate their Christian brethren in time, fine -- if not, other "more traditional" means would be employed. Meanwhile, custom would be observed and Kemal's victorious troops would be allowed to rape, loot, and pillage in the ancient and time-honored way of the Turk.
By Saturday night the panic began to grow ominously, as thousands of native Christians joined the refugees in a desperate search for safety or evacuation from the city.
On Sunday morning the sky was blue and clear, and the sun shone with a dazzling Aegean brilliance as Kemal entered the fallen city in triumph. Soon, an order was issued from the "Konak" that all bakeries were to be closed and no bread was to be sold. By Sunday night, the shooting and screaming could be heard from practically all quarters of the city, and Smyrna gave itself up to unrestrained panic as people stormed the doors of foreign institutions such as schools, consulates, and missionary properties scattered throughout the city and its environs. It was virtually useless, however, as Turkish patrols were everywhere by now and these Christian organizations had, for the most part, been put under strict orders to admit only their own nationals. In this way, many people were ravaged and butchered in the streets as they ran for help from their fellow Christians. The young women and girls were gathered up and taken away. Wailing and screaming continued all through the night and could be heard for quite a distance from the city.
On Monday morning, the Armenian quarter was surrounded and isolated from the rest of Smyrna. Some Italians who, together with the French, had deserted their Greek "allies" as soon as it began to look as if Kemal was going to win, accompanied the Turks as "observers." Soon a proclamation was circulated throughout the quarter that warned against hiding an Armenian in one's home. Anyone caught doing so would be harshly dealt with. Now the well planned and systematic job of killing off the Armenians began with a vengeance. Not one house in the quarter would escape. All would be broken into and looted. All Armenians who were found, with the exception of some of the younger females, would be slaughtered -- usually by being hacked to pieces first and then riddled with bullets, fired into those still suspected of breathing. (An order would soon come down from the "Konak" urging the conquering heroes to use the blade as much as possible as bullets were "too noisy.")
The Turks used long iron crowbars to pry the doors off the houses. Then they would storm in shouting "gold, gold, bring gold." They were accompanied by the glassy-eyed local Turks who, intent on settling old scores, would point out certain Armenians for "special treatment." Those houses in the Armenian quarter belonging to nationals friendly to Kemal prominently displayed their countries' flags for protection. This, together with verification by the local Turks that no Armenian lived there, was enough to temporarily spare these homes from looting and destruction.
While the Armenian quarter was being methodically ravaged, the rest of Smyrna was in chaos and up for grabs. Thousands of helpless Christians were being butchered in their homes and on the streets after first being robbed, raped, and mutilated by marauding bands of Turkish soldiers and officers. One of these was the saintly Greek Metropolitan Chrysostomos. He'd been forcibly removed from the Cathedral of Saint Photini by Turkish soldiers and ordered to appear before General Noureddin Pasha, who'd been put in control of Smyrna by Kemal.
Archbishop Chrysostomos had been offered asylum and safety on three separate occasions but had refused, stating that he was the shepherd of his people and must remain with his flock to the end. He was a venerable spiritual leader who was loved and respected by all who knew him. A tireless champion of Christian unity, he was forever engaged in charitable works, and had been an outspoken critic of the persecution of minorities in Turkey. This had made him anathema to the Turks and now the time had come for them to get their revenge.
It was just after noon on Monday when the gaunt prelate, escorted by a squad of French marines ostensibly detailed for his safety, arrived at the "Konak" for his interview with Noureddin Pasha. This worthy general spit contemptuously on the hand that Chrysostomos extended by way of greeting. There was a dossier of accusations lying open on Neureddin's desk, and he proceeded to read some of these to the Archbishop whom he kept standing ignominiously before him. After a few seconds, the general impatiently tossed the dossier aside and stared with open hatred at this bearded infidel so beloved by the giaour unbelievers and important foreign dignitaries alike. So much was Chrysostomos admired that Ankara had to go through the ridiculous bother of compiling this unnecessary dossier of charges in order to justify a sentence of death. Well, he, Noureddin Pasha, needed no paperwork to do his duty as a true believer. He ordered Chrysostomos to get out of his sight and, as the Archbishop walked slowly down the stairs of the government house, proceeded to the balcony from which he shouted down to the wild-eyed mob gathered below, "Give him all that he deserves!" Then, like an Anatolian Pontius Pilate, he left Chrysostomos to his fate, as he turned and closed the balcony doors behind him.
The sight of the infidel priest, surrounded closely by his French guards, so incited the lusting mob that they began to growl like beasts ready to spring on their prey. Some, as happens in Turkey when blood is about to be spilled, fell writhing to the ground and chewed at the sparse grass growing around the "Konak" steps with rapidly snapping teeth, while salivating from their maws.
The mob pulled the Archbishop away from his squad of "protectors" (who'd been ordered to avoid antagonizing the Turks at all costs) and dragged him by his beard down the stairs and through the streets to the shop of the Jewish barber, Ishmael. There, in the street in front of the trembling barber's shop, they sat Chrysostomos on a stool after wrapping a barber's sheet around his neck. A huge Turk with a straight razor grabbed the Archbishop by the beard and jerked his head back violently. "Let's shave the giaour priest, " he shouted. The wild mob soon tired of this diversion and fought to tear out the rest of his beard, while ripping the sacred vestments from his body as they kicked and stomped him mercilessly and smeared his face with dog excrement picked up from the street.
While this was happening, some French soldiers were moved to pity, and made as if they were going to try to help the suffering prelate who was being beaten to death. They were harshly commanded to stand back by their officer, who forbade them to do anything at all to aid the helpless Archbishop. This officer would, like his spiritual brothers in Nuremberg a generation later, no doubt live out the rest of his life consoled by the fact that he had followed his orders to the letter. By now the mob was panting with blood-lust. The Archbishop's body jerked spasmodically with each blow. His eyes opened painfully to look towards heaven as his lips formed a final prayer. The man with the straight razor cut off an ear and, at the sight of blood, the mob went mad trying to get close to Chrysostomos who was barely able to murmur, "Receive my soul into Thy Kingdom, O Lord," before he died.
The mob felt cheated by his dying so soon. There was so much more to do to his body that was better done while the infidel still lived. They would have to satisfy their lust on the giaour's corpse, which they proceeded to do by gouging out his eyes, cutting off his nose, and stabbing his naked body repeatedly with the knives that all Turks carried about with them. Then, of course, they did the final signature deed without which no mutilation of an infidel would be complete: They cut off his genitals and stuffed them into his mouth. The mob then kicked the hideous corpse into the gutter for the neighborhood dogs to feed on. After this, they dispersed wildly through the deserted streets looking for more giaour unbelievers to butcher and rob; their blood-lust had not yet been satisfied.
By Monday night the slaughter was in full swing, as the Turks continued to hunt down their helpless civilian victims in full view of the indifferent Allied fleet at anchor in the harbor. Some of the ships' stern decks were loaded with samples of manufactured goods brought by sales representatives of Allied industries who, together with the executives of several of these nation' petroleum companies, were anxiously waiting for the ongoing unpleasantry to end so they could go ashore to speak to Kemal about doing business.
Not all of Kemal's troops were engaged in sacking the city. All through Monday night and early Tuesday morning, details of Turkish soldiers hauled wagon-loads of gasoline drums, bombs, gunpowder, and kerosene into the Armenian quarter. These incendiary items, together with large sacks containing dynamite, were placed into deserted buildings in every part of the sector. By sunrise on Tuesday, everything was in place and the troops could be released to do more enjoyable things.
It was late Tuesday morning and the looting in the Armenian quarter was almost completed. There were many dead bodies strewn all over the street in front of Sarkis' house. He had peeked through the closed shutters of a street-side window, and had watched in horror as his neighbors were being run down like animals and butchered in cold blood. He and his family had been frightened by the horrible screaming that came from their neighbors' homes. Sarkis knew that it would soon be his door that would be ripped off its hinges, and he was starting to have his doubts. It had been four days since the killing began and so far no Allied troops had landed. Now, up in his third floor attic, he and Hrant had just finished chopping a hole in the roof through which he planned to send his family into the attached house of his Italian neighbor. They would enter the empty home, whose owner had left Smyrna a few days before the Turks came, through a roof skylight. There was an Italian flag hanging in front and in back of the house, and Sarkis believed that they would be safe there; it seemed that the Turks were leaving the houses of certain nationals alone.
He still believed his letter would ensure their safety, but as a prudent man, he'd decided to hedge by confronting the Turks with it alone; his family would be safe next door all the while. The hole in the attic would be hidden by a huge steamer trunk. This way, if the worst were to happen, Sarkis would be the only victim. If the letter worked, he would simply summon his family back and all would be well. Suddenly they heard the sickening sound of wood being splintered as the door to Sarkis' house was ripped open. Downstairs his wife screamed, and he could hear his children crying and sobbing loudly. He ran quickly down the stairs, followed by Hrant, and paused for a second at the head of the curved stairway to view the scene taking place in his parlor below.
Before Sarkis ran down the stairs to join his family he turned to Hrant and said, "For God's sake don't come down. Go back and hide next door. I'll call you when it's safe to come out. Now go." His uncle's face hardened when Hrant didn't move. "Hrant! Do as I tell You! Go!" With that he turned and ran down the stairs. Hrant hesitated for an instant and then, remembering his uncle's unyielding command, ran back up to the attic.
.I am living in Smyrna(İzmir).It is wonderful.It is still nice despite of the destructions in history and bad-planned buildings.There are still a few old buildings and churches especially in Konak.I know that Smyrna was a better city with old buildings(konaks) then now it is with dirty buildings.
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