The prelude to the catastrophe of 1922 was the Greek King’s greed and misplaced ambitious vision. The end of the First World War brought territorial gains for Greece, which was on the side of the Allies, against the Ottoman Empire, which was on the side of Germany.
During the war the Greek King was at loggerheads with the Prime Minister over which of the sides to ally Greece to. The King was a Germanophile and, naturally, wished Greece to ally herself with Germany. But the Prime Minister was an anglophile and could not let that happen.
The two most powerful political leaders of Greece agreed to disagree and compromised by keeping Greece neutral and out of the war altogether. But the Allies needed Greece on their side for its strategic position.
They decided to take the Greeks’ decision for them. They landed troops in Thessaloniki in 1916 and their action forced Greece’s hand and sealed the issue once and for all. Greece exited the safety of neutrality for the hand of the Allies.
But for the Greek King those gains that came after the end of the war were not enough. He carried delusions of Byzantine glory and grandeur. Against the advice of his then Prime Minister Venizelos, the King took steps to make those deluded dreams a reality.
He landed troops in Smyrna to what would later prove a misguided hero’s and liberator’s welcome and started a campaign of further conquest on a march to Ankara and beyond.
The King was, by his own hand alone, fooled into believing that he would have the support of the foreign great powers. How wrong that assumption proved to be. What arrogant wishful thinking.
The result was defeat, the loss of everything that was gained from the First World War and about a million refugees bound for the welcoming embrace of the mother country, Greece. What shattered idea that hoped-for warm welcome proved to be. But that’s another story.
Kemal Ataturk was an inspirational figure and a very capable military mind. He used that anger against the Greeks that had been brewing for generations into firing up a potent force bent on punishment. There would be no prisoners this time.
It was death or nothing. The Greeks knew it; they knew that they had no chance, because the foreign powers would not deign to help them even at this desperate hour and with Smyrna in flames.
The foreign ships in the harbour sat idle, turning a deaf ear to the calls for help. That was the indictment against the greed of the King. But all that was still months away.
Zozo was nineteen years old, a bright, generous and independent girl with big plans for herself, her family and her people. Zozo loved her father. Antonios had been a good father to her and her brothers and sister. He had done a good job out of very difficult circumstances. Their mother had died suddenly soon after the birth of her youngest child.
But Antonios was not alone in this task. He shared the burden of the children’s upbringing with Manto, his housekeeper, who became the mother the children had for only a short time. Manto was about the same age as their mother and she fell into the role naturally.
It was a pleasure to see them grow and to observe with amusement and interest their individual personalities coming out. Antonios had no doubt about their good character. He saw evidence of it every day and that gave him enormous satisfaction. But he had made sure of that good character from the beginning. He was certain in his heart that would not change with time, as they grew up and matured.
But Zozo was his favourite. He saw so much of himself in her. She was becoming very important to him. She certainly was a fast learner. She absorbed like a sponge.
Even as a little girl she would sneak into his office at work or his study at home, sometimes sitting under the desk, other times hiding behind a curtain or under a chair, and listen, hungry to witness everything revolving around her father’s life. She hung onto his and his guests’ every word.
Zozo had already shown her abilities to her father who was constantly testing her and grooming her to succeed him. Even at this early age she was being involved in many of his ventures and charities. She had shown creativity and brilliance and had been turning her hand to new commercial initiatives, be it in business or for charity.
It was for the promise Zozo showed that Antonios was considering whether the time was right for initiating her into the Order of Vlachernae.
Zozo was looking at the ships dotted around the harbour when a blinding light caught her attention.
Standing apart from the other naval vessels in the harbour was an impressive yacht with its purple and gold sails reflecting the sunlight and appearing like a shining beacon or a lighthouse, even in the daylight visible from a great distance. Those were the colours of the House of Vendis, a prominent Greek family from Alexandria.
Zozo saw a launch speeding away from the yacht coming towards the shore. Inside the launch, unable to sit down, Kostas Vendis was standing proud, like the head of an invading force looking at his prize, at the city spreading in front of him, anxious to get to his meeting with Antonios; a crucial meeting for the fate of the Order of Vlachernae and their respective and partly shared business interests.
Kostas Vendis was one of those people who was constantly underestimated, because he was short and stocky and had a gentle, innocent face, but one that belied the steely determination and sharpness of mind that lay underneath that calm veneer. His enormous presence was impossible to ignore. You underestimated him at your peril.
Kostas was a master of understatement. His uncanny ability to second-guess and outwit his rivals was second to none; combined with his ability to move seemingly immovable obstacles and make things happen proved to be an unbeatable combination, an indispensible ally. Kostas was only thirty-two years old, but he had incredible wealth and power, the gilded legacy of generations of brilliant ancestors.
Zozo saw the launch reach the waterfront. Her father expected her to be at the meeting. She had to get back. She got up and started to gather her things. She hated to stop the children from their games. They seemed to be having fun. Their laugh and teasing rang far and loud.
‘Come on, it’s time to go back.’
None of the children made any attempt to gather their things and pleaded with her to let them stay.
‘Please, Zozo. Can’t we stay a bit longer?’
‘We’ll be back tomorrow. I promise.’
The children lowered their eyes, and, reluctantly, began to carelessly throw their things in their bags, disappointment disfiguring their normally carefree faces.
Nikitas knocked on the door of the Symitzis house in the St. George Quarter of the city near the harbour. He was looking forward to the wide smile and hug of Mrs Manto, Antonios’ housekeeper, nanny, cook and a multitude of other things, too numerous to name.
The door opened and Mrs Manto upon seeing Nikitas could not contain her excitement, her clothes evidently straining and ready to burst at the seams. A huge smile broke across her face and she squeezed him in a big hug and held him there for a while.
She had raised him, and his two brothers, Manuel and Stephanos, and they were all three like sons to her. It was tough times then when their mother, Zoe, was striving to survive and establish herself in a maledominated world.
Zoe was the matriarch of the family, another strong woman in a long line of strong women at the helm of the Symitzis clan. Besieged by a weakened but still powerful Sultan sitting in Constantinople and distributing rough and unpredictable justice through his loyal advisors, and carefully sidestepping attempts by other ambitious members of the Pallanians to trip her, spurred as they were by their often ancient traditions and perceptions frozen in stone, her life was full of constant excitement. But she stood strong and coped with it all with remarkable determination and grace.