BirKibrisli wrote:Downstairs at street level we had the kitchen,the dinning room,the bathroom and the various store rooms where Grandma reigned supreme.
These store rooms were out of bounds for us.Hence they were magical,mysterious places. Like the caves in Ali Baba and 40 Thieves,they were irresistable ,and we'd sneak in at every opportunity to look for treasures and delights hidden in the various earthenware jars of all sizes. Jars full of wallnuts,almonds,dried figs and prunes,olives,carob syrub (pekmez),hellim(halloumi),and our favourite snacks,sucuk made of grape juice and wallnuts, and Paluze...These were all our own produce,harvested and prepared by Grandpa's "share farmers"...
In the open courtyard, infront of the woodfire bread oven, there was a large concrete pool for pressing grapes.Tons of grapes,both black and white, were brought in from our vineyards and pressed by workers in the old fashioned way: by their bare feet. Sometimes,if we were good,we were allowed to get in on the action.It was lots of fun stomping on squashy grapes which sometimes came upto our knees. There was one occupational hazard however. Bees...They'd decend upon the grape pool in their tens and twenties,and it was impossible to avoid getting stung at least once during a session. But it was all worth it. I remember many nights getting into Grandpa's bed with an eye or an ear or a finger swollen
to gigantic proportions,and having difficulty sleeping due to the terrible itching. The smell of the homemade grape vinegar used to treat our wounds is still very much in my sense-memory...
My older sister B. has a special place in my life. She was only 18 months when I was born. Mother swears that B. spoke her first full sentence when she was 3-months old. Every day at the same time Mother used to pick up B. and go and check if the chooks had laid their eggs. They would pick up any they found and brought them inside.This went on for weeks and weeks till one day,being a particularly busy day,Mother forgot about the eggs. Rushing about getting her chores done she was distracted by sounds coming form B's cot. She could not believe what she was hearing.
B.,at 3-months old,kept repeating this like a broken record : "Anne...acaba tavuklar dogurdu mu?" ("Mum...have the cooks laid their eggs")...
By the time I was born B.was walking and talking like a 3-year old. She was apparently extremely jealous of me. After her various atempts to murder me failed (setting me on fire,sitting on my face etc) she ran away from home at age 2 and-a-half and refused to come back till I was sent away to where I had come from. This went on for a few days and Grandma (whose house across the road she had sought shelter in) had to tell a lie to make B. come home. She told her I was found at the local rubbish tip,and it was Allah's wish that I be looked after. Not only did she come home,but she proceeded to become a second mother to me,making sure that I was safe and sound when Mother was busy elsewhere...
According to Mother B. almost failed to make it into this world alive...
In our part of Cyprus,in those days,most births took place at home in the village. Midwives,mostly of GC background,delivered the babies without much fuss. Only when the birth was complicated would the mother-to-be be taken to hospital in Polis. B. was mother's first delivery hence she was very nervous. In fact everybody was very nervous,including Father who couldnt face it when the time came. In came the Midwife,and out went Father on his motorbike,riding around aimlessly to calm his nerves...
It was a difficult birth and the labour took an awful lot out of Mother.
Andromahi,the GC widwife from the neighbouring Lysos (Liso) did her best,but her best was not good enough. When on the second day of labour the baby failed to materialise Grandpa went in to investigate.
He was particularly nervous because there were rumours that GC midwives were under instruction from the GC doctors not to deliver the Turkish Cypriot babies,but to transport the mothers-to-be to the hospital in Polis where the doctors would make sure the TC babies would not be born alive. There was no substance to this story of course,but a few births from the neighbouring villages had gone wrong at the hospital in Polis recently,so Grandpa was in a state of panic. Seeing her daughter had started to go green in the face,he grabbed one of the shotguns off the wall and put it to the hapless midwife's head. "Make that baby come out," he bellowed, " or your brain will come out instead". Andromahi who had been trying to tell people for some time that the baby was in a breech position and she could not turn it around,broke down in tears. "You can shoot me if you like, but that will not deliver the baby. We need to take them to the hospital"...
So Father got onto his motorbike and went to the nearby Lysos to fetch one of the few cars available in the region. When the car arrived Mother and the Midwife were bundled into the back seat,and carrying his shotgun,Grandpa took his place in the front passenger seat. "We are not going to the hospital in Polis," he decreed. "They kill babies there. Drive us to the hospital in Paphos town. And make it fast. If anything happens to my daughter,I will kill you both on the spot..."
So,after what must've been one of the most surreal car rides in Cyprus history,Mother made it to the hospital in Paphos where Dr Dalaridis worked his magic and delivered B. in nick of time apparently for both mother and daugther. "Surely he was bluffing," I asked Mother when she told me this story, " He wasn't going to kill them, was he?"
"I am afraid he was," Mother replied. "He was convinced the rumours were true. He really thought GC doctors and midwives were killing TC babies..." "And what did you believe?" I asked her. "If I believed that I wouldn't bring Andromahi to deliver you,would I?" was her reply...
(to be continued...)
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