Paradise Lost: Smyrna 1922 - The Destruction of Islam's City of Tolerance Read Online Free PDF

its bare teeth exposed in a snarl.
    They were equally scared of their great-aunts. Three of them – Jane, Blanche and Mary – always used to take their afternoon promenade together. ‘They were all three widowed at that time,’ wrote one of the grandchildren, ‘and were dressed in black from head to foot. It was a strange procession. They walked in single file, hardly speaking to each other, having perhaps little in common except a united desire for exercise.’ No less frightening was Aunt Coralie. ‘Who she was I never knew, but once a year we had to parade in front of her. She had a famous talking parrot and she was reputed not to have washed her hair for years, but always to clean it with eau-de-cologne.’
    Not every member of the family chilled the blood quite as much as Herbert Octavius and his widowed sisters. His brother Richard, a partner in the business, was ‘open handed [and] of a genial gay disposition’. He was rarely parted from his beloved hookah pipe, which he smoked with as much enthusiasm as the native Turks.
    Another of the brothers was Edward, a firm favourite with the Whittall youngsters. His branch of the family lived in their own vast mansion, which stood just a few minutes’ walk from the Big House. Yet there was a world of difference in the feel of the two places. ‘It was a most lovable house,’ recalled Edward’s niece. ‘It had the unstudied charm and graciousness which comes from the daily use of beautiful things, and it was alive and without pomp. It rambled all over the place and was madly inconvenient, needing a regiment of servants to keep it going.’
    The drawing room and dining room opened onto the winter garden, making them rather dark, and the deep-red velvet curtains added to the impression of twilight, but there were ample treasures to brighten the gloom. ‘The dining room shone with silver, and the old-fashioned épargne in the centre was filled with flowers which cascaded down on all sides.’ For the children, the only person to be avoided was Marco the head chef, who presided over the kitchen like an autocrat. ‘The only time I can remember him being really pleasant was one April Fool’s Day,’ wrote one of those children many years later, ‘when he condescended to fry some cotton-wool in batter and serve it instead of brains to one of our uncles at breakfast.’
    Edward Whittall’s passion was gardening and he devoted long hours to his spectacular botanical garden that climbed up the hillsides in sweeping terraces. There were Judas trees and ginkgo trees, giant cypresses and cream-flowered magnolias. Giant chestnuts kept the great lawns in shadow during the hottest hours of the day, while turpentine trees added a spicy scent to the air. Swings were attached to the rose arbour. It was a paradise for the numerous young cousins who played here together, refreshing themselves on the juicy oranges and limes that fell from the trees.
    Edward Whittall had many glasshouses in which he propagated rare and exotic specimens. He also had a large mountain garden on the slopes of Nymph Dagh, where he grew bulbs, as well as an orchard in the village. He sent tens of thousands of specimens to the director of Kew Gardens and had a tulip and fritillary named after him. ‘Whittall is smiling all over the place,’ reads one letter written by Kew’s head gardener.
    Such frivolous pursuits never took place in the neighbouring Big House, whose garden was formal and filled with ‘rather dull shrubs’. Its most distinguishing feature was a long avenue of cypress trees that led to the wrought-iron entrance gates. These gates opened out onto the principal square in Bournabat – the meeting point of five roads, including the main thoroughfare into Smyrna.
    Each of the Levantine houses had a Florentine-style loggia situated just outside the gates. This was where the elderly members of the family would gather in late afternoon in order to share gossip and pass on news. All would defer