Demetra Kenneth Brown. A Child of the Orient

CHAPTER I

THE TOKEN

ON the morning of my fifth birthday, just as I awoke from sleep, my grand-uncle came into my room, and, standing over my bed, said with a seriousness little befitting my age:

“To-day, despoinis, you are five years old. I wish you many happy returns of the day.”

He drew up a chair, and sat down by my bed. Carefully unfolding a piece of paper, he brought forth a small Greek flag.

“Do you know what this is?”

I nodded.

“Do you know what it stands for?”

Before I could think of an adequate reply, he leaned toward me and said earnestly, his fiery black eyes holding mine:

“It stands for the highest civilization the world has ever known. It stands for Greece, who has taught the world. Take it and make your prayers by it.”

I accepted it, and caressed it. Its silky texture

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 pleased my touch. Its heavenly blue colour fascinated my eyes, while the white cross, emblem of my religion as well as of my country, filled my childish heart with a noble thrill.

My grand-uncle bent over nearer to me.

“In your veins flows the blood of a wonderful race; yet you live, as I have lived, under an alien yoke—a yoke Asiatic and uncivilized. The people who rule here to-day in the place of your people are barbarous and cruel, and worship a false god. Remember all this—and hate them! You cannot carry this flag, because you are a girl; but you can bring up your sons to do the work that remains for the Greeks to do.”

He left his chair, and paced up and down the room; then came again and stood beside my bed.

“Sixty-one years ago we rose. For nine consecutive years we fought, and to-day two million Greeks are free—and Athens, with its Acropolis, is protected by this flag. But the greater part of the Greek land is still under the Mussulman yoke, and St Sophia is profaned by the Mohammedan creed. Grow up remembering that all that once was Greece must again belong to Greece; for the Greek civilization cannot and must not die.”

He went away, leaving me with thoughts too vast for a child of five years, too big for a child who was not even strong. Yet even at that age

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 I knew a great deal about the past of Greece, and better yet did I know of the fight of those nine years, which had made the little flag I was caressing again a flag among free nations. I folded and unfolded the miniature flag, which my sons must some day carry forward.

It was the last day of February. Outside a storm was raging. I could hear the angry Sea of Marmora beating violently against the coast, as if it would fain annihilate with its liquid force the solidness of the earth. And the rain, imitating the sea, was beating mightily against the window-panes, while the wind was forcing the tall, stalwart pines, to bend humbly to the earth. Half of the elements were doing violence to the other half—as if they were Greeks destroying the Turks, or Turks oppressing the Greeks.

It was a gloomy birthday, yet an exaltation possessed me. I kept on stroking the little flag. I loved it, and with all the fervour of my five years I vowed to do my duty by it.

The door opened softly, and Kiamelé, my little Turkish attendant, came in. Quickly I tucked away the tiny flag.

“Good morning, Rose Petal.” She kneeled by my bed, and, putting her arms around me, smothered me with kisses. “So we are five years old to-day—pretty old, I declare! We shall be looking for a husband very soon. And now show me what the grand-uncle gave you.”

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Her face was droll and piquant. Her eyes possessed infinite capacity for expression. That I loved her better than anyone else at the time was undeniable. And only a few minutes ago I had been told to hate her race.

I entwined my fingers with hers. “Do you love me, Kiamelé?” I asked.

“After Allah, I love none better.”

“I wish you did love me better than Allah,” I said, “for then I could make you a Christian.”

She shook her head drolly; “No, no, I like Allah.”

“But then,” I protested, “if you like Allah, you must hate me.”

“Hate you! You, whom I love better than my heart!”

“You’ve got to; for I am a Greek, and you are a Turk.”

She folded me in her arms. “What a funny baby—and this on your birthday! Now don’t talk foolishness. Show me your presents.”

From under my pillow, where I had tucked it, I produced the little flag.

She gazed at it, her head cocked on one side.

“What’s this?”

“This,” I said with emphasis, “is the flag of my country—and my birthday present.”

“What a funny present,” she murmured. “And is this all the grand old gentleman gave you?”

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I was disappointed at her reception of it, and to save my little flag from feeling the mortification I hugged it and kissed it. I wanted very much to explain to Kiamelé all that it stood for, and how my sons some day must carry it forward; but how could I, since to show my allegiance to that flag I must hate her, my bestest of friends? So I said nothing, and on that, my fifth birthday, I began to see that battles did not only exist between people, storms did not only rage among the elements of nature, but that heart and mind could be at such variance as to cause conflicts similar to those taking place outside my window.