Rina Katselli - Kyrenias Legend: The Life and Times of Costas Catsellis

Copyright 2018 by Rina Katselli

All rights reserved. Published by Armida Publications Ltd.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission of the publisher.

For information regarding permission, write to Armida Publications Ltd, P.O.Box 27717, 2432 Engomi, Nicosia, Cyprus or email:

Armida Publications is a member of the Independent Publishers Guild (UK), and a member of the Independent Book Publishers Association (USA) | www.armidabooks.com | Great Literature. One Book At A Time.

Summary:

This deeply engaging biography recounts the story of Costas Catsellis, a man whose achievements will forever be ingrained within the history of Kyrenia, Cyprus. From his humble upbringing in this forgotten corner of the vast British Empire during the height of the colonial era, to his ambitious journeys across the Atlantic Ocean to the land that promises everything; America. There he learns the subtle art of cooking, and gambles away a fortune in the stock market before volunteering with the US Army during WWI. His journey continues until his final return to Cyprus with dreams of having a family and leaving his mark on his beloved Mediterranean coastal town of Kyrenia.

[ 1. Biography - Business. 2. Biography - Personal Memoirs. 3. Biography - Cultural, Ethnic & Regional / General. 4. Biography Historical 5. History - United States / 20th Century. 6. History - Middle East / General. 7. Travel - Europe / Cyprus. ]

English translation by: Irena Joannides

Cover design by: Armida

Front cover image: On the left, the first and second Sea View hotels just behind the Kyrenia Municipal Seawater Baths. On the right, the Dome Hotel with its first two Byzantine domes. Back cover image: Postcard of the port of Kyrenia during the 1920s. (Additional information on pg 319)

Many thanks to the Ministry of Education and Culture of the Republic of Cyprus for financially supporting the translation of this work.

First published in Greek by Chrysopolitissa Publications in 1994 as: . /.

First edition: December 2017

ISBN-13 (paperback): 978-9963-255-56-6

ISBN-13 (epub): 978-9963-255-65-8

This book is dedicated to

Costas Zambarloukos

Despina-Maria

and Stavrini-Christina

I have left the names of the various locations where C. Catsellis had worked in America as he had told them to me. It should be noted that as these events took place a long time ago, some of the locations could not be verified.

The original Greek text was recorded as it was narrated by Costas Catsellis in the local dialect of Kyrenia. Vocabulary, syntax and pace were highly idiosyncratic. The challenge in the translation was to render his narrations into easy to read English, while maintaining something of the original delivery.

Early afternoon, north veranda; the sea across, I am watching the waves. They are born, they flow, they grow, they rise, they fall, they vanish each in its own way, never two alike. Millions, billions of waves, century after century, each with its own shape; the sea never repeats herself.

But I... every day at this time, with a strong tea served on the table next to me, one of a kind in Cyprus, a special order for my hotel from Ceylon via England, delivered in large tin boxes. The metallic teapot is not like the old ones yet, heavy and silver-plated, it still bears the emblem of a lion holding the flag with a large calligraphic C. I am C: seventy-six years old, over the hill, nearly out to pasture...

What hill? What pasture? Everythings upside down: the hill, the pasture, the country, my children, my grandchildren, my employees... I have given most of my employees a leave of absence; the few that are still here, at the hotel, have nothing to do. They talk amongst themselves in low voices, with their arms folded and with fear coiled inside their eyes. Many Kerynians pass by the hotel to hear and discuss the latest news; all with the same gaze, all of Kyrenia is afraid. I am afraid! Who am I to say that I have lived?

What youre asking for is so boastful. And its not like I have lived such a grand life! I tell her.

Youre not the one to judge that! she says sharply and sits down across from me.

The waiter arrives with a large teapot for four people, milk, a clean cup, cake everything ordered by her before she came to sit here with me. And she is determined! Milk pitcher in hand, she begins preparing her first cup; she can drink tea, one cup after the other, until dawn. She is in mourning and the black clothing only emphasizes the intense rosiness of her cheeks. I am looking for a way out, but how do I evade her?

I avoid looking at her; I worry. Worry has always been my bread and butter. But to worry about a thing like this...? World War II: Anxiety, insecurity, fear, but the whole world was in the same boat then. Countries destroyed, cities turned to ashes. Our small corner of the world saw the least destruction. What destruction? Nothing happened here! Only the volunteers saw action, some 37,000, and not all of them on the front lines. During the last world war, even if the volunteers represented one tenth of the population of Cyprus, we did not feel like this; there was a tenacious collective resistance in the air from so many nations, which believed that their citizens were sacrificing themselves for freedom and high ideals. Now everything is upside down and those same countries are not supporting us; they will not even speak up for our independence to help restrain Turkey that is hell-bent on grabbing our land. What is their position? Do they support us? No one knows whats going to happen, no one speaks openly. Suspicious things! I tell her that the Americans surely want Turkey to invade our country because they expect to get a foothold here as well, because of NATO. The British, on the other hand, also support the Turks because they resent us for ousting them, even though they maintain two army bases on the island and hold Troodos for themselves, having set up their enormous spy radars there. I ask for her opinion but she keeps at it, notebook and pencil in hand.

So are you going to start at the beginning? she asks.

Something firms up inside me but then retracts again.

What on earth do you want me to tell you?

Your life story from the beginning! she says sharply.

I sigh! Before all this trouble began, I was sure of everything. I liked the idea but now with everything upside down and with her sitting there insisting teacup in hand... Her determination raises some certainty inside me that melds with fear, confusing me, making me flush, leaving me tongue-tied.

Can we start, Father? she asks and sets down her teacup.

She calls me Father! Her father Stavris, the son of Kyriakos Lordos, a big tall man, has been dead for over a year assimilated at the cemeterys entrance (first grave to the left) in the company of his father. His shouting is no longer heard all the way to the port. His bicycle, which tilled the roads and outskirts of Kyrenia for years, lies rusting and abandoned God knows where, and the white dog, which always chased after him, dead on his grave from sorrow.