Tony emsen Divided We live
We live in a world of division, where lines are drawn and walls are built.
We live in a world of suspicion, where trust is rare and fear is felt.
Dedicated to all my loving family
Stavros
Stavros sat with his back to the rock and shivered. He watched through weary eyes as the sun disappeared under the horizon and saw the mountains turn a dark shade of purple, but he neither registered the fact nor did he appreciate the beauty of the crags and clefts, the pine trees clinging to the hard earth with all their strength and the dark red berries of scrub covering the dusty path he had climbed earlier. Darkness fell without a warning. With it came the inescapable cold that cut through the thin rags on his back – tattered olive-green trousers, held up at the waist with a piece of string, the grimy vest under the brown jacket torn at the sleeve and patched elsewhere. He pulled the thin blanket which had lost its colour from constant use and abuse tightly around him. He did not dare light a fire to keep warm. Even lighting a cigarette, which he desperately craved, would have been dangerous. He shuddered. Was it the cold or was it the close brush with death?
He searched for his comrades, who he hoped would be somewhere on the same mountain. They had earlier lain in wait to ambush the German detachment. Then things had gone awry. Another smaller German unit, but with the inevitable superior fire-power, had appeared out of nowhere and had fallen upon them. He had seen how Sotiris and Vassilis had died without even having the time to raise their rifles. He slid behind a nearby outcrop, then climbed it like the area’s native mountain goats. Few remained; villagers fleeing took most, Germans seized the rest.
He had seen a couple more of his comrades disappear as he looked back, but feared the majority would have met their fate at that narrow mountain pass. He hoped none were captured, as torture would be much worse than immediate death.
“Will I be next?” The unwelcome thought coursed through his mind. He trembled again.
Suddenly, over to his left, he heard a low whistle; even though unsure whether it was a just nocturnal bird, he replied with the same whistle. He was relieved to see Manolis emerge from the darkness. A fleeting embrace, a hushed, urgent message—then they departed, following his friend’s directions to their comrades’ location. Leaving their small hideout, they descended toward the village, which the Germans had levelled and deserted. Upon arrival, they discovered a damaged house: the walls remained, but half the roof was gone, and no glass in the windows. As they entered, a bird flew away in anger at having been disturbed from its slumber. They saw the sideboard, its doors hanging from the hinges and its drawers scattered around. A table with a couple of unbroken chairs stood around, unsure of what was expected of them. Further on, Stavros found the small bedroom - fire had consumed the bed and dresser, once the family’s cherished possessions. In what used to be the kitchen, broken plates littered the floor and some cooking utensils still hung on their pegs on the wall, patiently, but hopelessly, waiting for their owners’ return. Smoke, char, and ash filled the air; a stark reminder of the terrible events.
“Let’s hope the poor souls escaped the onslaught,” said Manolis.as he spotted the icon of the Virgin Mary, looking
tenderly at Jesus, lying on the floor among the dirt. Even the Holy One could not stop the carnage. He picked up the icon, kissed it reverently, and placed it on the remains of the dresser. They kindled a small fire, boiling wild dandelions pulled from the path’s edge. It was at least warm, if not filling. The shadow and light of the fire rose and fell on the damaged walls and glowed red on the faces of the two men. Just as they had finished eating, Manolis noticed two small, round eyes staring at them from behind a pile of rubble in one corner.
“What the heck is that?” he cried, getting up to see. He chuckled as he pulled out a little rag doll, which had escaped the ravages of fire and vandalism by miracle.
“Poor little kid! Her doll’s here, but she’s not!” They sat the doll next to the icon and busied themselves with covering the fire and obliterating any traces they may have left.
A pale moon peeked through clouds as they made their way to their hidden cave. Andonis “the Bull” Androklis, who inspired confidence and trust in friends and sowed fear in the heart of his adversaries, was the leader of this group. He was not big, but barrel chested, with prodigious strength (it was rumoured he had wrestled with, and won, against a full-grown bull — hence his nickname), dark brown curly hair, a dark beard and one good eye. He lost the other one when shrapnel from a skirmish damaged it beyond repair. Though small, their group played a crucial role within the resistance. Unfortunately, they had been too far to intervene and help their comrades.
Andonis gave Stavros one of his hallmark bear hugs, crushing the air out of his lungs.
“Are you still alive, you son of a gun?” was the welcome shout.
“Of course I am, you idiot. Would I leave you to have all the pretty girls to yourself?”
More men joined in the banter while the women looked on from a safe distance. The girls took part, supplying food, ammunition, and crucial enemy intelligence. The fighters found solace with some girls, and romances blossomed and withered as the bullets and grenades tore the couples apart.
Having eaten their meagre rations, the men huddled.
“What happened Stavros? Your convoy ambush failed; why? I thought we had it all worked out.”
“Having positioned and prepared ourselves, the Germans then materialised, guns blazing. They killed Sotiris and Vassilis almost immediately. Manolis and I returned fire, but dropped out of their sight. This outcrop, atop the hill, holds a cave where I hid; I’m sure you know it. They did not see me and I escaped.”
“What about you, Manolis?”
“Well, I just slid down the embankment. They probably thought they had got me, so they didn’t follow up. When they had gone, I whistled and got Stavros’ response. Thank God we’re here to die another day!”
Grimacing, Andonis swept a hand through the air, declaring,
“Somebody betrayed us, my friends. It is not one of us, and the girls were, without a doubt, unaware of our plans. Could someone in the village have known? Anyone either of you talked to? Somebody that could have eavesdropped on our conversations?”
“Some have grown close to the Germans. They may have heard rumours. You know how it is; they hear something and put two and two together. This time, unfortunately, they came up trumps. I really cannot point the finger at anyone.” Andonis shrugged.
“We’ll just have to be extra careful in the future. Now let’s go and bury Sotiris and Vassilis and then inform their parents. God, I hate that part!”
Later, shrouded in darkness, Stavros surveyed his environment, pondering his current state. He was still cold, yet felt secure amongst his comrades; at least for now.
He was born the second son of Yannis and Katerina. His father, a shoemaker by trade who had learnt the art from his father, was also the village cobbler. The demand for handmade shoe had plummeted; only repairs provided some meagre income. Stavros remembered going to see his father at work and playing among the bits of leather. Even now, the powerful smell of leather, varnishes, dyes, and glues remained in his memory. The knives, needles, hammers, and awls were a tremendous temptation and a real danger for a mischievous little boy to hurt himself, or indeed some other child of the neighbourhood. As he grew up and with his father’s tutoring, he picked up a lot of the techniques and tricks of the trade, both for making shoes and, of course, for repairing them. In his late teens, he would often fill in for his father. Customers considered him competent enough, though his brusque manner was so unlike his father. He did not “do” small talk…
The shop was attached to the modest little house in
The divisions in Greek society stretch all the way back to ancient times and continue unabated to the present day. Politics, religion, sport… no aspect of life is free from these splits.
World War II saw the occupation of the country and its heroic resistance and liberation by the politically divergent factions. These divisions led to the bitter Civil War, pitting brother against brother. The repercussions, though less obvious, can still be felt to this day. The undercurrent of mistrust and political motivation brought about the coup by the military in 1967, introducing a further period of repression and uncertainty. Greece returned to democracy and a semblance of normality, but the deep-rooted division in society remained, appearing in all walks of life and at the most unexpected moments.
DIVIDED WE LIVE focuses on these differences through the stormy lives of two families; they live in the turbulent times and dramatic events of 20th century Greek history, revealing events that are not widely known.
The book follows the main characters, giving them their own voice and views, their prejudices and humour. They have opinions on events around them and on the historical facts, but also on the mundane challenges and dilemmas of everyday life.
DIVIDED WE LIVE proves there are no winners, no losers, just ordinary people doing their best to survive and live with their hopes and fears. Society continues to thrive despite the divisions.
This contrast of opposing beliefs, and their effect on the families, is highlighted in the book. It shows how history and dogmas can harden to make life difficult for ordinary people.
DIVIDED WE LIVE is an uplifting novel affirming that despite all obstacles and hardships, love and basic good human nature triumphs.
