A dark room

A DARK ROOM by Alexis Papachelas A generational thriller In 1974 I was thirteen years old, and feeling, as did all Greeks, I was witnessing events that would leave its mark on our conscience for generations to come. I can still recall the long queue of commandeered tanker trucks in Nea Erythraia or the camping cots set up in the gardens of a hotel in Kifissia to accommodate a potential influx of the wounded. I also recall driving up the motorway with my father when he wondered out loud whether we would get to see those celebrated tanks led by General Ioannis Davos coming to overthrow the Junta, at least according to rumors that had spread like wildfire across Athens. These things, along with scenes from the first night of the Metapolitefsi 1 , with crowds of people filling the streets of Athens in celebration, were etched in my mind—and with them perhaps came the need to find out exactly what had taken place during those momentous hours and days. Through a curious coincidence, I had “met” one of the principal figures of the drama that unfolded that fateful summer. In the flat above the one we were renting in 1974, lived the sister of Dimitris Ioannidis. For the last few years, a gentleman had visited her from time to time—usually in uniform—and while he was there, a station wagon carrying plainclothes policemen, obviously his security detail, would be parked just outside. We had no idea who this unfailingly courteous gentleman was, until the day a relative brought us an issue of Newsweek . There was a photo of him captioned “The invisible dictator.” A chill settled over the table. Many years passed and I found myself working as a journalist. But I never really set aside the idea of an investigation into what had really taken place during the summer of 1974. I went to Cyprus, I visited the beach where the Turkish forces made landing. I must confess it was one of those moments during which my feelings and my work felt hopelessly entangled. As I was filming the epilogue for a documentary I was working on, it was hard to reconcile the view of the fortress in the old port of Kyrenia with the call of the muezzin from a nearby mosque. I pressed on with my investigation. I had the opportunity to meet with many of the leading figures of the affair, both the prominent ones and those working behind the scenes. Bülent Ecevit, the Turkish Prime Minister who ordered the invasion in Cyprus, met with me in his home in Ankara for an in-depth discussion of the events of 1974.Our meal was marked by frequent pauses, as well as the Turkish politician’s insistence on his own version of events. After we ate, he asked me whether I would join him for tea and a cigarette. I don’t smoke, but I accepted, thinking I needed to get something more out of our meeting. I pressed him to acknowledge a certain remorse about the invasion, “In 1974 we solved a problem. End of story,” he responded sharply. I took a drag from the strong, unfiltered cigarette, realizing it was time for me to leave. He had absolutely no doubts. 1 A term which means “change of regime” and in Greece signifies the period between the fall of the military Junta and the 1974 elections. (Translator’s note)