Page 27 of Villa of Secrets

‘Nobody knows. Yesterday, they kept us in the yard. We were baking, and had nothing to drink. We could hear someone over the wall using a hose, so we shouted for him to give us water.’ He shook his head disbelievingly. ‘He threw the end of the pipe over, but before we could all get a drink, we heard gunfire.’

‘What? You don’t mean they shot him?!’

‘I think so. A woman screamed hysterically, then the hose disappeared back over the other side.’

‘They shot him . . . they really shot him . . . for giving you water?’

Carlo shrugged. ‘We should try to escape. There must be two thousand of us, and about a hundred of them.’

Before I could learn any more, Mama called me over and told me to be quiet and stay still.

The room became morbidly silent, but as evening fell, a ruckus sounded outside. I moved to the window and listened. From his accent, I guessed it to be the Turkish man again.

‘You have no right to hold my people!’ he shouted.

‘They’re not “your people”,’ a German yelled back. ‘They’re Jews! All Jews are Jews, and all Jews go to the camp by order of Mein Führer!’

The Consul-General persisted. ‘Their religion is beside the point. It’s their nationality that is the issue. These are Turkish citizens.’ He waved a sheet of paper. You are in danger of breaking Turkey’s neutrality agreement with Germany! Do you want us to join the Allies?’

After a beat, Ulkumen continued. ‘According to our law, all Turks are equal, regardless of gender or religious beliefs, be they Jewish, Muslim, or Christian – men or women! I have the papers of my people here, and I demand you release them immediately. If you don’t, you’ll instigate an international incident. I’ve warned you where that will lead.’

The door opened and two SS officers came into the room. They stood either side of the Consul-General while he read out a list of names. His eyes flicked up and skimmed our faces after each one. In the following few minutes, a total of forty-three Rhodian Jews, supposedly with Turkish ancestry, were allowed to leave the building.

The tension was palpable. Some were panting, others chewed their lip, or squeezed their children too hard. A woman sobbed loudly. Someone else repeated the word ‘Please’ over and over.

A thin, middle-aged man with big eyes and a hooked nose pushed to the front and fell to his knees before Ulkumen. I recognised our maths teacher from Jewish school. A very strict and proud person. I felt ashamed to see him on the floor, begging.

‘Sir!’ he implored the Turkish consul. ‘I have five children in here! My wife’s pregnant. Please save us. I know where we’re going. I’ve heard about the death camps. Don’t let it happen!’ He reached out and grabbed Ulkumen’s trouser leg and then pressed his forehead against his knee in a gesture of supplication. ‘Send one of the Greek or Italian officials to plead for our release as you so nobly did for your people. I’m begging you!’

The SS officer lifted his boot and, smiling, kicked the teacher in the face with terrific force. The teacher cried out. His head whipped back and blood gushed from his face. The officer checked his trousers for blood spatter, and then gracelessly shoved the Turkish Consul-General out of the room.

Alone again. Abandoned in our misery. Women fussed about the man, mopping his face and crying. His nose was clearly broken, and he had a deep gash across his cheekbone.

I kept hearing the teacher’s words in my head. The death camps? What could they be? I wished people would share what information they had. I found Carlo and asked him, ‘What’s a death camp?’

He swallowed and frowned. ‘Nobody wants to say. Sounds like a nightmare, doesn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid.’

‘Me too,’ he said.

*

It’s dark outside now. We don’t know what time it is because the Germans have taken our watches. Everyone is tired and I fear I will fall asleep soon, so I have written down all that I have seen. I studied the adults’ faces and saw real fear, which I’d mistaken for confusion earlier. Our worlds have been turned upside down, and the prospect of internment in some kind of camp seems to be the fate that awaits us.

Saturday, 22 July 1944

We lay on the floor all Friday night, hardly sleeping. The poor man with the broken nose had two black eyes by this morning. I took charge of the younger children, gathered them together and played quiet games. Cat’s cradle, jackstones, I spy. I tried to catch the words whispered between adults, but whatever they knew was kept from me and the other teenagers.

We remained locked in the building through Saturday; tired, hungry, and anguished.

As I write this, I look around and try to share with my diary all that I see. Parents stare into each other’s eyes, some weep, others clutch their children and pray. Most sit on the floor and gaze into space. An atmosphere of desolation has settled on us, as the inevitable looms. Yet, I still don’t understand. I remember my teacher telling me to record who, what, where and why when I write a story, but in this situation, I only know the who and the where.

Earlier, I found Irini’s mother and father and informed them that Irini remained up Filerimos with Evangelisa. They said, ‘Good.’ However, Irini’s mother, white-faced with worry, cried. Was she sad because Irini wasn’t with them? I asked Mama, but she told me to be quiet and stop asking questions.

How can I be a reporter if I don’t make enquiries? I sense a historical moment that begs to be recorded. The mothers with young children or babies have gathered in one corner to breastfeed, while the men huddle together at the other end of the room and talk quietly. Old couples lay side by side on the floor, holding hands, using their bundles as pillows.

I found my oldest brother and sat cross-legged beside him. ‘What’s going to happen, Danial? Please don’t treat me like a child, I have a right to know.’