The headquarters was a requisitioned manor with silk curtains and soft, feathered mattresses. The officers were sleeping in luxury for the first time in months. But when you went to lie down on one of the beds, Atatürk stopped you. He pointed to the floor—the hard, polished wood next to the window. "The men are sleeping on the Anatolian rock tonight, Elif," he said, his voice cold as the draft under the door. "If you sleep in a feather bed, you will forget the feeling of the earth. And if you forget the earth, you will lose the right to lead it." You spent the night wrapped in a single wool blanket on the floor. Your hips ached against the wood, and the cold seeped into your joints. You watched the moon through the window and realized that "Freedom" meant you were the only girl in the world who wasn't allowed to be comfortable. By 3 AM, you saw a shadow move; Atatürk had laid his own greatcoat over your legs, but he didn't move you to the bed. He sat in a chair nearby, sleeping upright, his hand on his sword.