Paradise Lost: Smyrna 1922 - The Destruction of Islam's City of Tolerance (34 page)

Fernand felt guilty about abandoning his aunt, but Hortense herself seemed to be relishing the events taking place below her bedroom window. ‘The shots all round now fell thick and fast,’ she wrote. ‘Many people killed, they say. I don’t quite believe it.’

Charlton Whittall – Herbert Octavius’s brother – had hitherto displayed just as much sang-froid as Hortense, but the rattle of machine-guns caused him a sudden loss of nerve. He called to his wife and young son, Willem, and led them out through the back doors of the house. They pushed their way through shrubs and bushes before hiding themselves in a large underground flood drain that passed underneath the centre of Bournabat.

‘It emerged into the garden of the old Whittall family house,’ wrote Willem many years later, ‘just near our own, and into its black cavity we crawled on hands and knees. There we lay for several hours until the sound of firing died down.’

While the Whittalls were in hiding, Hortense ventured back outside and walked down to the little kiosk at the edge of the village square. As she approached the decorated iron railings that surrounded the kiosk, the gunfire came to an abrupt halt and the air fell completely silent. It was as if someone had turned off a switch. Everyone found themselves looking eastwards, at the road that led from the interior of the country. Something dramatic was happening in the far distance. The first battalion of Mustafa Kemal’s army was approaching Bournabat.

‘I was glad to witness the entry of the Kemalist cavalry from the
kanghelakias
[railings] of the kiosk,’ wrote Hortense. ‘Splendid men wearing new, spotless uniforms and Circassian caps. Perfect discipline and perfect quiet. Their horses were in a very good condition.’

Three days earlier than anticipated – and in a manner that no one had expected – the advance columns of Kemal’s army had reached the suburbs of Smyrna.

‘I wonder what impression they made as they entered Smyrna . . .’ wrote Hortense a few hours later. ‘They must have enlisted everybody’s admiration and surprise.’

This, it turned out, was the understatement of the day. George Horton was comfortably seated in his office at the American consulate when the air was pierced by the sound of screaming coming from the street below.

‘Stepping to the door of my office, I found that a crowd of refugees, mostly women, were rushing in terror upon the consulate and trying to seek refuge within.’ They would have succeeded in forcing the doors had it not been for the American marines standing guard at the entrance. Horton did not have to wait long to discover why they wanted sanctuary. ‘One glance from the terrace which overlooked the quay made evident the cause of their terror. The Turkish cavalry were filing along the quay.’

Horton had been in the middle of a meeting with MacLachlan when the turmoil began. Both men were aware that they were witnessing a scene of historic importance and pushed their way out into the street.

The sight of the mounted cavalry riding into the city made an indelible impression on all who witnessed it. One of those standing on the quay that Saturday morning was Anna Birge, the wife of an American missionary stationed in Smyrna. ‘The first that entered were dressed in black, with black fezzes with their red crescents and red star, riding magnificent horses [and] carrying long curved swords,’ she wrote. ‘With one hand raised they called out to the terrified inhabitants, “Fear not! Fear not!” but the inhabitants of Smyrna, knowing the reputation of the Turk, were filled with terror.’

Among the terrified was the Armenian student, Hovakim Uregian, who had taken refuge in a quayside store as soon as he heard rumours that the Turkish army was about to enter the city. He was joined by many other Greeks and Armenians who had no desire to be out on the streets when the Turkish troops arrived. ‘After a while, holding our breath and listening in terror, we heard the sounds of approaching cavalry. The trotting of horses continued. They passed by the shop in which we were hiding and we drew a breath of relief . . . as we opened the shutters, we saw them advancing in the direction of the Konak [the governor’s palace] in the Turkish quarter of Smyrna.’

Uregian was reassured by the high level of discipline among the cavalry. So, too, was George Horton. ‘Anyone who saw those mounted troops passing along the quay of Smyrna would testify, if he knew anything at all of military matters, that they were not only soldiers, but very good soldiers indeed, thoroughly trained and under perfect control of admirable officers.’

As the cavalry approached the central section of the quayside, it found a most unexpected obstacle blocking its way. Captain Thesiger of HMS
King George V
stepped into their path and held up his hand. ‘He looked for all the world,’ wrote one, ‘like a London policeman.’

There was a tense moment of silence. Thesiger’s crew watched nervously from the deck of their warship, fearing that their impulsive captain would be trampled underfoot. Suddenly, and with military precision, the cavalry column came to an abrupt halt. ‘The leader gave a blast on his whistle commanding silence,’ wrote Charles Howes, one of the sailors on the
King George V
, ‘and, dismounting, held out his hand.’

The Turkish officer addressed Thesiger in French, asking him why he was preventing the cavalry from riding along the quay. ‘I am a captain in His Majesty’s navy,’ replied Thesiger with all the pomp and bravado he could muster, ‘and have been commissioned to assist in the surrender of this town to you.’ He added that the city was calm and that no one had the slightest intention of resisting the victorious Turks. ‘But if you enter yelling and brandishing your scimitars, you will undoubtedly be asking for trouble.’

It was as the two men were talking that Horton and MacLachlan suddenly became aware of an even more extraordinary scene. ‘Between the long line of cavalry that was close to the curb and the edge of the water, there straggled along the last remnant of the Greek army moving along in the same direction as the victorious Turks, but with a very different objective, namely, Chesme . . . their port of embarkation for Greece and home.’ Victor and vanquished were within spitting distance of each other.

MacLachlan had little sympathy for the Greeks, yet he could not help but feel sorry for these footsore soldiers, many of whom had been fighting continuously since the Balkan War of 1912.

It was while he was watching this ragged procession that someone hurled a grenade at the officer leading the Turkish cavalry. It failed to explode but struck the soldier on his cheek, inflicting a nasty gash. Seconds later, a shot was fired by a man hiding behind a pile of sacks. This, too, missed its target.

One British mariner, observing the unfolding events from his warship in the bay, recalled what happened next. The Turkish officer, with admirable calmness, ‘got off his horse, walked over to the Greek, took his rifle, broke it across his knee, and sent him on his way without even touching him’. The Turks were later to claim that both the grenade and shot were fired by Armenians, thereby justifying many of the terrible events that were to follow. But that same British witness, Lieutenant Charles Howes, was adamant that the men responsible were Greeks.

It quickly became apparent that these were isolated incidents. The procession was soon able to continue along the length of the quayside and, for the next hour or more, Turkish troops poured into the city.

To Grace Williamson, busily doing her round at the English Nursing Home, the morning’s events came as something of an anticlimax. She, like most people, had been expecting trouble, but the arrival of the Turks had passed off with scarcely an incident.

‘What a week we have spent!!’ she wrote. ‘I believe there was hardly a bit of trouble, only one silly fellow fired at the officers . . . No shooting in the streets! Thank God. Such a relief; everyone is inwardly delighted to have the Turks back again.’

Alexander MacLachlan remained on the waterfront until 12.30 p.m., when he started back for Paradise in the college car. On the way, he paid a visit on his optician who lived in the Armenian quarter of the city. ‘As we passed along,’ he wrote, ‘the streets were completely deserted, apart from groups of mounted Turkish patriots who were moving about here and there calling out as they rode through the streets, “
Korkma! Korkma! Bir shay olmayajack!
” [Don’t be afraid! Nothing will happen!]’

By the time MacLachlan reached the southern edge of the city, he had passed some sixty mounted patrols. ‘As we approached with the car bearing an American flag,’ he wrote, ‘a way was opened for us to pass through their ranks.’

The crowds were out in force in the city’s Turkish quarter, which ‘presented one solid mass of fezzes, as far as the eye could reach’. There was a rather different scene in the outer suburbs, which were predominantly Greek. ‘The shops were all closed, as were also the houses, with their shutters fastened and with no sign of life anywhere. We passed one dead body some distance along this road, but whether it was Greek or Turk I am unable to say.’

As MacLachlan approached Paradise, the roads were littered with the detritus of war – guns, carts and armoured vehicles. There was no one walking the streets and it was not until he reached Paradise that he saw the first sign of life – ‘a mother and her little girl, who were apparently quite ignorant of the cause of all these strange conditions’.

MacLachlan parked his car outside the American International College and was pleased to note that US marines had placed a row of machine-guns outside the porter’s lodge. Once he was safely inside the campus, he ordered the American flag to be raised over the building. Almost immediately, large numbers of Greeks and Armenians who lived in the neighbourhood began to converge on the college. All were given sanctuary on the condition that they turned in any weapons before entering the premises. Many were laden with their most precious belongings. ‘Some of them brought their bedding and a sewing machine on their shoulders; others, a loaded cart piled high with their household equipment.’

A few families arrived with all their livestock. The animals were denied entrance, for the college was rapidly filling up with people. By 3 p.m., some 1,500 local inhabitants had taken refuge in the building.

At this same hour, Sir Harry Lamb took the decision to enforce the departure of all British citizens remaining in the city. Although the Turkish troops had so far behaved impeccably, Lamb was fearful of what might happen after dark. Hortense Wood’s sister, Louise, left the city that afternoon, along with her husband and other members of the family, but many refused to follow Sir Harry’s instructions. Hortense’s other sister, Lucy, held dual nationality and used this as an excuse to stay in the city. ‘I promised to remain and guard the house as an Austrian subject and friend of the Turks!’

Hortense herself was still in Bournabat and had no intention of leaving. Indeed, she was delighted to discover that the Turks had reopened the local gendarmerie and assigned guards to each of the Levantine mansions. ‘All is quiet,’ she noted in her diary.

Hortense’s conviction that all would be well was not shared by the Armenian community. Garabed Hatcherian had watched the arrival of the Turkish army with alarm and instinctively mistrusted their declaration that no one in the city had anything to fear. Concerned that the Armenian quarter would be the first target if trouble arose, he resolved to move his family into the house of his friends, the Atamians. Mrs Atamian was more than happy to provide them with beds: she was due to give birth in a few days and Garabed was her family doctor.

The Hatcherians made their way on foot to the Atamians’ quayside house. Garabed, worried about being stopped by Turkish troops, disguised himself as a Turk. ‘I have left my hat at home,’ he wrote, ‘and I am wearing a fez. I have also pinned the Ottoman military medal of honour and the gold-coloured crescent on my waistcoat.’

The Hatcherians were not the only Armenians to have taken refuge from potential trouble. Krikor Baghdjian, a twenty-one-year-old teacher, had headed to the Armenian Club on Rechidie Street, where he found fifty of his compatriots already gathered. That afternoon, they took the decision to bolt the door against any possible incursion. ‘Our suspicions proved to be correct,’ wrote Baghdjian, ‘because a short while later, while looking through the window and iron shutters onto the street, I saw groups of Turkish soldiers stopping civilians and taking money and valuables from them.’ It was not just the troops who were beginning to cause mischief. Edwyn Hole, the British vice-consul, witnessed armed civilians harassing the few Greeks and Armenians who were still out and about.

By the time dusk fell, the Turkish army was approaching the city from all sides. In the prosperous suburb of Cordelio – home to many wealthy Armenians, Greeks and Levantines – their arrival caused panic. Petros Brussalis, who was then nine years old, still has vivid memories of his first glimpse of the Turkish mounted infantry. ‘At their head rode a Turkish officer and he was dragging a Greek flag along the ground behind him. I remember looking at my parents and seeing the terror on their faces. The Turkish forces were not a normal army . . . there were many chettes, irregulars, and my parents feared there would be atrocities.’

The Greek servants working for the neighbouring van der Zee family were also frightened. One of their gardeners was carrying a large trunk to the waterside jetty when he caught sight of the Turkish cavalry. The shock was such that he suffered a heart attack and died on the spot. ‘He was buried secretly in our garden,’ recalled Helena van der Zee. ‘A priest among the refugees performed the last rites.’

The arrival of many more irregular forces later that day further unsettled the homeless Greeks sheltering in the outhouses of the van der Zee family. ‘Each time there was a noise, an explosion, a strange noise, they panicked,’ wrote Helena.