He went to the headquarters of the hastily set-up Red Cross Relief Center in the unoccupied zone of Nicosia, where he learned that his family were safe and had inquired after him several times already.
“They are fine, don’t worry,” the girl with the kind brown eyes at the counter assured him. Seized with anxiety as he had been, a relieved smile broke through his worried features. “Thank God,” he murmured and thanked the girl effusively.
“Where can I find them?” he asked quickly, half turning to take off at a trot as soon as she gave him their whereabouts. She took a map of the city from the stack on her desk and proceeded to show him how to get to the building where people—dispossessed, confused, often hysterical—were being temporarily accommodated. He thanked her again and ran to the door.
The girl jumped to her feet. “Wait, wait!” she shouted, running after him. “You need to be taken care of. Come with me.”
He hesitated, but realizing he had been on the road for hours on end, on foot, to reach the capital, he knew exhaustion wasn’t far off. Besides, though Euclea had done her best, she wasn’t a qualified nurse, and most of his wounds were still infected, some bleeding again. He smiled weakly and followed the kind young woman, who brought him to a nurse who re-bandaged him and gave him medicine to combat infection.
The reunion of the Angelidis family was deeply emotional. Michaelis’s mother came running toward him with outstretched arms, wailing, “Son, my boy… oh, Michaelis, darling! I am so happy to see you! We were so worried! Are you all right?”
He hugged her and his sister Electra tightly as tears streamed down their faces. He was so relieved that they were safe and sound that he felt he never wanted to let go of them again.
“Did anybody harm you?” he asked apprehensively.
“No!” mother and daughter immediately reassured him. In fits and starts, interrupting each other and talking simultaneously, they began to recount what had happened to them.
As soon as the Turkish soldiers overran the plantations, taking command of them, they rounded up the men to march them off to the fortress. The women and children were simply chased into the woods and left to fend for themselves. Most of them made their way to Nicosia on foot, as soon after the attack all normal transportation and communication systems had come to a halt, taken over and shut down. The invasion was quick and effective—a complete surprise to authorities and public alike—gaining momentum as it took its course.
“It all went so fast,” Mother Elena cried. “They just came bursting in and told us to get out! I still cannot believe what happened to us!” Though under tranquilizing medication, the desperation on her face showed raw pain and utter incomprehension at the sudden, disruptive events in their lives.
Electra told him how they had managed to escape in the jeep with Persephone, the cook, when they realized that all was lost and they had best get away as quickly as possible.
Father and son embraced, both crying openly. Mr. Angelidis had been in Limassol at the time of the invasion of the northern part of the island and had gone back to Nicosia immediately, hoping that his family was all right and that perhaps he could save something—anything. But alas, the city was in uproar; Turkish soldiers had sealed off all access to the north while dispossessed, stunned people carrying a few belongings were allowed to cross the demarcation line, where Red Cross personnel stood by to receive them.
Elena kept hugging and clutching her son, sobbing, “I thought they had killed you! My child, my darling, my son! I am so glad… Thank you, merciful Lord, thank you for saving my child.”
Michaelis stayed with them in the room assigned to their group and others who, from one day to the next, had become homeless. Luckily, the Angelidis family were bussed to Limassol a couple of days later, where they had relatives who offered to take them in.
At first, they had hoped things would be resolved through intervention from Greece or the superpowers. However, it soon became evident that this would not be the case, and their hopes were crushed.
Eventually, Angelidis managed to find a small house for his family through the mediation of Michaelis’s uncle, who owned a discotheque in Limassol. Later, Angelidis found employment with a small shipping company as a loading manager’s assistant. Michaelis worked as a waiter in his uncle’s discotheque for some time before securing a job in a five-star hotel along the coast.
As time passed, the Angelidis family, along with other Greek Cypriot refugees who found themselves in similar circumstances, slipped back into some semblance of normality. Their lives had changed drastically and would never be the same again.
Michaelis lost touch with Christo’s group after reuniting with his family. He was so disgusted by all that had happened—to him, to his family, to his friends, and to his countrymen—that he couldn’t bring himself to take up arms again. Though he wanted to reclaim what had been taken from them, by the end of the first week after the Turkish invasion, the matter was a fait accompli. It would have taken an army to drive out the Turkish forces from his homeland.
The Turkish army had occupied a large area of the northern part of Cyprus, fortifying their positions and strongholds daily. Through the grapevine, Michaelis heard that his friend Plato had managed to escape; however, nobody ever heard another word about Nikos. Later, he was reported dead, though his family never saw his body.
On July 6, 1974, President Makarios accused the Greek government of turning the Cypriot National Guard into an army of occupation. On July 15, 1974, the Greek military junta and the Cypriot National Guard backed a Greek Cypriot coup d’état in Cyprus. President Makarios was replaced, and the coupists proclaimed the establishment of the Hellenic Republic of Cyprus. Subsequently, Turkey claimed to have every right and sufficient reason to protect the Turkish Cypriot population, and thus invaded Cyprus on July 20, 1974. The coup caused a civil war filled with ethnic violence, after which it collapsed and Makarios returned to power.
Christo, Plato and a few others came back into Michaelis’ life around May 1976 when one night he ran into Christo on the old market-place in Limassol where Michaelis was picking up a couple of things his mother needed. Christo was dressed up, hair slicked back and sporting a fine suit that looked Italian-made. The men embraced and went for a coffee.
Michaelis learned that even though the nucleus of the resistance group still existed, now the action took place in and around Nicosia and other checkpoints along the demarcation line; acts of sabotage. An attempt to overthrow the Turkish occupation was by now quite impossible and out of the question. In February 1975 Rauf Denktasj became head of state of a Turkish Nation on Cyprus.
Christo and his friends were still involved though for quite different reasons than their early-days patriotic cry to chase off the oppressor suggested.