The Ankara heat is oppressive, but the cellar of the palace is bone-chillingly cold. Atatürk is standing over a small wooden crate packed with straw and large, blushing peaches—smuggled across the border from Sofia’s private royal orchard. The scent is overwhelming, filling the damp room with the smell of the 1910 summer. Atatürk: "I found these under the floorboards of your barracks, Elif. They’re still cold from the Bulgarian mountains. Tell me... does the Princess send these so you remember the taste of her, or so you remember that you’re still her pet?" He picks one up, the velvet skin bruising under his thumb. You stand at a rigid attention, your Iron Grip white-knuckled behind your back. Atatürk: "You think a piece of fruit is harmless? Every bite you take is a surrender. You’re eating the nectar of a House that wants our Soil in pieces." He whistles, and the palace guard dogs—brutal, lean Anatolian Shepherds—trot into the cellar. One by one, Atatürk drops the peaches onto the dirt floor. The dogs tear into them, the sweet juice mixing with the cellar dust. Atatürk: "Don't look at the dogs, Elif. Look at me. If I catch you eating the enemy's fruit again, I’ll make you eat the dirt they grew in until you choke on the 'Imperial' sweetness. The Republic eats bread and salt. Get used to the taste."