Paradise Lost: Smyrna 1922 - The Destruction of Islam's City of Tolerance (33 page)

Horton was in regular contact with the French and Italian consuls who repeatedly assured him that Kemal’s troops would behave in exemplary fashion if they decided to enter the city. However, Horton remained ‘very uneasy’ and decided to arrange a central meeting point for American nationals if there happened to be any disturbances. ‘I picked out the American Theater, a large and suitable building on the quay, for the purpose – and called the leading members of the American colony, native and naturalised, to a meeting in my office and advised them of the measures taken.’

All agreed that this was a sensible course of action, but many also felt that they should be doing more to help the refugees in need. One American businessman, Rufus Lane, gave a passionate address to those who had assembled in the consulate. ‘We did not come here solely to save our own skins,’ he told them. ‘The refugees . . . are pouring by thousands and thousands into the city and dying of starvation and [have] nobody to help them.’

His words had an electrifying effect. A Provisional Relief Committee was immediately established and people donated money and equipment. ‘All the leading American firms offered their lorries and automobiles and their personal services. Bakers were hired and set to work, stacks of flour found and purchased and in a few hours this organisation was feeding the helpless and bewildered refugees who were crowding into the city.’

Horton contacted the American authorities in Constantinople and Washington, requesting more warships to be sent with immediate effect. Although there were already two US destroyers in the bay – and the USS
Lawrence
was on its way – he felt that this was nowhere near enough. ‘Our business interests and property holdings were very considerable indeed,’ he later wrote, ‘to say nothing of our large schools with the staffs of teachers and professors.’

His request, sent directly to Admiral Bristol, fell on deaf ears. ‘[He] had perfect confidence in the good intentions and administrative abilities of the Turks,’ wrote Horton, ‘and believed that the latter would bring a kind and benevolent administration to Smyrna.’

Bristol’s convictions were not shared by Metropolitan Chrysostom, who paid a visit on Horton that Friday to ask what could be done to protect the city’s Greek community. Horton could give no answer. Instead, he urged Chrysostom to escape while he had the chance. The archbishop – wan and ill – refused to countenance such an idea. ‘As he sat there in the consular office, the shadow of approaching death lay upon his features,’ wrote Horton. ‘At least twice in my life I have seen that shadow upon a human visage and known that the person was soon to die.’

The archbishop’s anxieties about the arrival of the Turks was shared by many of the city’s Armenians. A little after midday, a young Armenian student, Hovakim Uregian, was witness to a surprising sight. Hundreds of his fellow nationals were locking up their homes and congregating at the Armenian church of St Stephen, reasoning that it was safer to be part of a crowd. By the time Uregian reached the building, ‘the courtyard, the church, the adjoining rooms, the entire Prelacy was filled with people.’

In eavesdropping on their conversations, he learned that everyone was trying to convince themselves that the crisis would soon blow over. ‘Everything was superficially the same,’ wrote Uregian, ‘the people, the buildings, the city, everything as it had been perhaps for the last 100 years. Where was the danger?’

The feeling that life would soon return to normal was echoed by Garabed Hatcherian, who had spent the day seeking out senior officials who might have access to more detailed information. In the middle of the afternoon, he chanced upon a senior attorney who worked for the French consulate. The attorney assured Hatcherian that there was nothing to fear. ‘The Turkish army will enter the city in a most orderly way,’ he said, ‘to demonstrate to the whole world that the Turks are a civilised nation.’

He strongly advised Garabed not to leave Smyrna. ‘In his opinion, it would be very unwise to leave behind one’s house, occupation and position and head for unknown horizons.’ Hatcherian was inclined to agree, especially when he noticed that yet more warships had entered the bay over the previous few hours. ‘The proud presence of fleets from all nations continues to inspire confidence.’

As the afternoon wore on, Hortense Wood’s extended family made their way to Bournabat station in order to catch the evening train into the city. ‘Each of us with a bag in hand took the train at 7.30 p.m.,’ wrote Lucy de Cramer, Hortense’s older sister. Not everyone was convinced that they were making the right decision. ‘Mrs Candall arrived saying what a shame that the English should get so frightened when all the other people kept so quiet in their homes.’

But as the train pulled into Smyrna, Mrs Candall was forced to eat her words. ‘[The station] was filled with soldiers and suddenly a sound of firing was heard. They barricaded the doors and the frightened crowd did not know where to take refuge!’

It was unclear who was shooting at whom, for the gunfire was coming from outside in the street. ‘I sank into a chair exhausted,’ wrote Lucy de Cramer, ‘with a strong pain in my heart. Louise and the cook remained with me and the rest of our party, taking advantage of a moment of calm, went to search for a carriage.’

This search was interrupted by yet more gunfire and it was several hours before the family managed to hire a horse and cart that would take them to their town house. ‘All the drivers refused to go into the firing and to arrive it was necessary to go through a street full of soldiers with menacing faces. At each moment, we thought they would strike us [but] finally we found ourselves safe and sound at our house.’

The gunfire, it transpired, had come from Greek royalists shooting at troops still loyal to Venizelos. As the last remnants of the Greek army stumbled into the city, some men saw it as the perfect opportunity to settle old scores.

Alexander MacLachlan was sufficiently alarmed by the deteriorating security situation to call for American troops to be landed. ‘I sent to Captain Piper, who was in command of an American destroyer in Smyrna, requesting a number of guards to protect the college property.’ Piper acceded to this request and landed twenty soldiers with himself at their head.

These were not the only troops to be sent ashore. As dusk fell, the captain of the newly arrived USS
Lawrence
, Lieutenant Commander Rhodes, ordered a second contingent to land. He warned these men to tread with care: Admiral Bristol had issued orders that American troops must ‘not be in the position in any way to be operating with the Allies, the enemies of the Turks’.

Rhodes’ thirty-five men were posted in small groups at the principal American institutions in the city: the consulate, schools, the YMCA and the YWCA, the Standard Oil terminal and the quayside theatre that was to be the refuge for American nationals in the event of trouble.

The British also took the decision to land troops that Friday evening. Some 200 marines were sent ashore with orders to guard the consulate, the fire station and the telegraph company. All requests to protect private property in Bournabat and Smyrna were turned down.

As dusk fell, the situation became increasingly alarming. Hortense, isolated in Bournabat and with only her nephew, Fernand, for company, was brought news of impending trouble. ‘Half an hour ago,’ she wrote, ‘a young Turk, Rushdi, rushed into the hall where we were sitting and told us excitedly that Yemanlav, a village close by, had been destroyed by Circassians and Armenians and that these intended setting fire to Bournabat this evening.’

Rushdi strongly advised Fernand to take steps to protect his aunt’s property, since it was clear that any unguarded house would be at risk. Fernand took heed of this advice. ‘To save Bournabat from the fate of all the other villages of the interior, some gentlemen conceived the idea of organising strong patrols of villagers to prevent the Greeks from annihilating us,’ he wrote. By 10 p.m. that Friday evening, armed civilian patrols were pacing the streets of Bournabat ‘and all the Greek soldiers who passed by the Club were disarmed’.

Similar groups of lightly armed militia were being established in the other bourgeois suburbs. In Cordelio, Carel van der Zee raised a home guard to protect the prestigious villas that lined the coast. And in Boudja, the remaining Levantine families were boarding up their windows and dusting down their shotguns.

Fernand went to bed that night with a heavy heart. Unable to sleep, he decided to get dressed again and offer help to the refugees who continued to pour through Bournabat. ‘The procession of ragged, foot-sore refugees and soldiers, of starved horses, cattle and sheep continues . . . Carts with rusty wheels, loaded with pathetic looking shabby bundles, pass by before our gate continually, silently, wearily!’

As the clock struck midnight, the only noise to be heard was the constant shuffle of refugees making their way towards the quayside of Smyrna. Fernand finally returned to bed and drifted into a fitful sleep, dimly aware of the commotion taking place below his bedroom window. Every other quarter of the city was eerily silent. The whole of Smyrna was waiting in anticipation – waiting to see what the dawn would bring.

It was an unsettling night for the American and British sentries. The moon had been swallowed by the clouds and the city was plunged into darkness. ‘Everything quiet,’ recorded Lieutenant Merrill, one of the American troops who had been landed a few hours earlier. He found the absolute silence of the streets unnerving. ‘I thought the hollow sound of my foot falls on the paved streets could be heard all the way to Constantinople.’

Saturday, 9 September 1922

W
hen Grace Williamson stepped out of the English Nursing Home on Saturday morning, the street was crowded with people laden with crates of food. It did not take her long to realise what was happening. With no one to guard the city’s warehouses, Smyrniots had taken the law into their own hands and started helping themselves to supplies intended for the Greek army.

The looting was carried out not just by petty criminals. Everyone – rich and poor – was helping themselves to the warehouse supplies. They justified their actions by arguing that it was better for them to have the food than for it to fall into the hands of the Turkish army.

Grace found the pillaging most diverting and decided to acquire a few provisions for the nursing home. Yet her strict sense of right and wrong suddenly got the better of her and she insisted on paying for the stolen goods. ‘We bought a case of sugar, a bag of coffee and a sack of soap for next to nothing,’ she wrote.

Grace was not alone in witnessing the first signs of a breakdown in law and order. Early that morning, Alexander MacLachlan had driven into the city in order to meet senior American naval officers at the consulate building. ‘Abandoned horses, oxen and mules wander about the streets . . .’ he wrote. ‘Here and there, street
gamins
[urchins] were unwinding their
koushaks
[girdles] and lassoing these animals and either riding them about the streets or hurrying them away into side streets to their houses.’

MacLachlan was surprised to discover that large numbers of Greek soldiers had not yet managed to embark. ‘The remnant of the retreating army, in every degree of exhaustion and abandon, were also wending their way by different streets to the waterfront.’

He hoped these stragglers would find passage on a Greek vessel, as he had been reliably informed that the Turkish army would make its triumphant entry into the city on Monday, less than forty-eight hours away.

Five miles away in Bournabat, Fernand de Cramer was stirred from his sleep by an altogether more alarming event taking place outside his window. ‘At a quarter to eight, I was awakened by such a fusillade and such a horrible din that I was led to believe in a battle in the square itself.’ He leaped out of bed in order to find out what was happening. ‘I see from my window a crowd pouring out from the street and running with horrible cries toward Smyrna. What a spectacle!’ The gunfire was once again caused by retreating Greek soldiers who were taking advantage of the chaos to settle old scores.

Fernand was even more surprised to see Aunt Hortense in the thick of the crowd, gesticulating wildly but seemingly oblivious to the danger in which she found herself. He threw on some clothes and rushed outside in order to persuade her to take cover. Once both of them were back inside the house, he did his utmost to talk her into leaving Bournabat and joining the rest of the family in Smyrna. But this was easier said than done: ‘Impossible to persuade her to make a decision,’ he wrote.

Fernand found himself in an invidious position. Although he had no wish to abandon Hortense, especially as the gunfire was getting heavier with every hour that passed, he was most anxious about his mother, Lucy, who had a weak heart. In the end, he placed the health of his mother over the safety of his aunt and headed to Bournabat station, where the morning train was about to depart. ‘I had just time to jump on the running board . . .’ he wrote. ‘The train had not made one hundred metres when a terrible fire of machine guns descends on Bournabat!!’