Eleni Floratou Paidoussi by Author and Poet Eleni Floratou -Paidoussi

“The

Unexamined Life is not Worth Living.”

Eleni Paidoussi

(Plato)

All Yesterdays Gone ELENA

drew the heavy drapes apart and raised the Venetian blinds rattling them

unnecessarily, a morning ritual when one doesn’t expect an extraordinary event to take place, during an ordinary day but watches something that isn’t an everyday occurrence. The disturbing, grinding noise, the clatter, made her jump out of bed; the same bulldozer plus a crane were grinding their way uphill as the heavy bulldozer had done for weeks already. Six flights up and the maddening noise reached her as nerve wracking as if she were on the first floor. They won’t let up to let people sleep even on a Saturday, not that she ever slept late after a lifetime of alarm clocks and hasty six o’clock showers. Looking at the traffic mess the bulldozer was creating with its slow ascend, she remembered that it wasn’t Saturday after all; it was Friday. Lately she was forgetting things, simple, unimportant things and that was scary. What annoyed her more was the thought that she had to reconstruct recent events, names, memories, to back up to yesterday or the day before; to remember what she ate or where or with whom. It’s that silly construction from dawn to dusk her heart insisted, or hoped; trucks full of debris, bulldozers uphill, downhill, blasting... Face it Elena, she reminded herself as she plugged in the coffeepot. It’s not the bulldozers or the

trucks or the worry that another cement monster is being erected so close to house a few hundred more New Yorkers; she was upset that so many trees had to go. Her thoughts began to wander again. What am I thinking about...it’s age, Elena, age! You have lived seven decades, you are now an illegal resident on this planet. She banged the pot on the counter angrily. Let’s see; yesterday I went to the funeral, Thursday, which means that tonight I must go to that boring dinner. The funeral! How old everyone looked. She accidentally caught her reflection in the mirror over the hutch as she put cup and saucer on the mat and shuddered. Who is this woman, she thought, and then, audibly enough, where has she gone, when? And so fat! She smiled ruefully. And I thought that I would carry my slim waistline to the grave! She turned her head away from the image of the elderly lady in the mirror. Lately she avoided the mirror; she also tried not to think that her old crowd, the circle of college pals and other friends was shrinking. A sadness gripped her heart. The old friend whose funeral she attended the day before. He looked very old, different, almost shrunk. Of course, she hadn’t seen him for many years, she could hardly remember his name. She saw his

children

and grandchildren for the first time at the funeral. The young man she remembered was tall, with a broad smile and black bushy hair and eyebrows. He wanted to marry her years ago, but Elena’s mind wasn’t on romance or marriage. She had other things on her agenda then; her priority was to save the world, or at least help correct some of the injustices that had always existed even before she graced that world with her presence; then she would graduate and her mother would stop nagging, because, according to her, Elena had reached the ripe old age of twenty two and soon would be considered an old maid and what will the people say that she was crazy seeking causes to fight for, and all that junk. Eventually, she had quit college and was busily attending demonstrations and marches but even

that didn’t manage to save the world and hadn’t helped her reputation either, according to her mother. The young man, much to her mother’s dismay, tired of waiting for Elena to get serious and settle down, finished his Ph.D., in an upstate University, married an American girl and disappeared from their lives for ever. In the beginning, she envied the girl he had chosen to be his children’s mother, not with a malevolent, corrosive rancor, but because she missed a nice friend. Yet, how do you marry a man, no matter how good he is, if you see him only as a close friend, she reasoned. She had never been in love and didn’t know how one is supposed to feel or act when in love, but she knew that that wasn’t it! The only time she heard of him was from the press since his fame in NASA circles had spread around in the world of science. His wife had died a few years before but his sons brought him back to his Greek community, his Greek church and Greek priest to bury him. She didn’t follow the cortege to the cemetery. All those people who crowded the church were strangers. She had listened to the speeches and farewells of important people of science and the anonymous ones. If she knew anyone there, she couldn’t tell. Before the exodus began, she had slipped out into the parking lot and escaped the long black cars and the dozen other cars

that followed with

their lights on. She couldn’t think of the old friend interred, covered with dirt like a worm. It was one of her great fears; this sad end of human existence and experience. For herself

she had decided not to occupy a plot of soil forever

with a headstone identifying her rotting skeleton. No, my girl, she thought when trying to reconcile herself with death; you came from nothing, you will be nothing. She had advised her children that her ashes should be strewn over the sea surrounding her island on a calm summer day. Hopefully, what the fish will

refuse, the current will take to the Mediterranean Sea and on to sunny Italy, she mused. So much for that; had I married him, I would be a widow today. A small involuntary chuckle escaped from her lips, as if she was watching a funny episode on TV with a predictable outcome. She shrugged. A divorce, she reasoned, is a different sort of loss; there is give and take, anger, a good fight or a nasty one. But death is final and grotesque; you can’t get mad or try to get even with someone who is lying flat, stone cold and helpless or is five feet under. The bulldozer’s ominous grinding was getting close again, this time downhill. She slammed the window shut; another bulldozer was going uphill. It’s going to be one of those days, she thought drawing the drapes against the noise. The room was in semi-darkness. She sat down to her coffee. The telephone rang. “Hi, Happy Birthday!” Good God, my ex! “One week late,” she said, wondering what prompted the call. He never remembered her birthday while they were married. “...but it’s another sort of a birthday,” he said lightly. “It’s been fiftyfour years since you were repatriated and forty-five or something, since I came...” What memory...should I congratulate him or ignore him? He kept on. His memories were rushing like a torrent; she stopped listening. How could he know what the young girl, a World War II refugee thought fifty-four years back as she spent the better part of that March night staring hopefully at the horizon where the dim light of the torch on the great lady’s hand welcomed the ocean currents of human cargoes into the cement metropolis.

FROM SEA TO SEE There were

thousands of stars on the sky above the city brilliant with its

million lights that reflecting countless fractured rippling pictures in the harbor waters. New York! One more day and her life will begin, not again but for the first time. She

shivered in the March crisp air, she wrapped her coat

tighter around her. It was a warm Spring day when they left Greece a mere twenty days before. She leaned against the railings listening to the swishing sounds of the waves lapping at the ship’s sides; all was quiet as if suddenly she was in a ghost ship; passengers and crew

were asleep.

The ocean crept into the sleeping harbor, the tranquility soothed her heart. Peace! She thought and her eyes moistened. No enemy in sight, no torpedo carrying submarine lurking beneath the dark waters, no shelling. She took a deep breath of the salty air as if trying to rinse her lungs of the pain of the past few years. Please God, she prayed, let this be lasting, let there be Peace. Let me live free from the terror; what if I had died in the war? the nightmare, again and again... Why am I alive when so many around me have died...I feel alone, I’m not dead, she said, and again, loudly, I didn’t die! This is my resurrection the beginning, lights, and life. There was gladness in her heart, and a strange feeling of a subtle ache. There can’t be happiness without pain, otherwise happiness loses its meaning, she had read somewhere. At seventeen, Elena had experienced more than her share of controversy, grief and tragedy and very little joy. The voyage from Piraeus to America, the "repatriation" program the American Embassy in Athens had initiated at the end of World War II, was in a way a sign that the world seemed to be getting back to normal, or so they had hoped. Not for

Nicky, bless the little cynic.

"Normal, my foot", her younger brother had said.

"Take a look outside, are they blind?" The streets of Athens were still pockmarked from the lead of ‘peace’. Arrests, court-martials, tortures, exiles, prisons, executions, followed the civil war, the immediate aftermath of WWII. Dozens of small countries around the world were still immersed in the fires of extinction. He didn't have to remind her, she knew, though Nicky thought that his romantic sister walking on clouds, was also blind. She wished! But he knew, they all knew that what had passed would for ever be bag and parcel of their lives. Once you have been in a war, she thought sadly, that war never ends until you die. They dropped anchor in the middle of nowhere in the huge New York harbor in their new country. Small land masses surrounded them dark now but for a few flickering lights. The darkened Statue of Liberty on her left, the little flare of her torch, were a contradiction to her sad thoughts. It was sort of a declaration to the world that life goes on; it lifted her spirits. She wondered, if the torch was lit during the war. She could not remember the statue when they left from that same harbor many years before. She was too little and full of new images, unknown before. She knew it from a postcard a friend had sent her mother before the war. The Statue of Liberty, tall, stark, imposing, hopeful. And on the back of the card, the famous poem of the immigrant poet Emma Lazarus. "Give me your tired, your poor..." it hadn’t made much sense then. She shook the tears away. "Give me your tired..." Well, she thought, I am tired and I am poor! So, here I am. She smiled without meaning to. Can you hear me? her silent plea seemed to be reaching out to that statue, I made it; it’s over! Peace filled her heart. Nicky materialized next to her on the railing. She had enjoyed the peaceful,

cold night up to now, her solitude, the thoughts that he now shattered. "Talking to yourself again?" She thought him asleep hours ago; "there is not a soul about, except for the ship’s lights, and those out there.” He pointed to the city. "Shut up,” she said; he could destroy her most beautiful moments with his insensitivity. "You must come downstairs right away, Mom said; that’s her second and last warning!" She laughed. "Is she coming up to spank me?" she said unkindly, sure that Nicky would report that too, verbatim. Such answers infuriated her mother. Elena knew that as long as the ship was on the water and not tied securely at a pier within touching distance, her mother would not emerge from the cabin. Sea itself, not even travel, affected her that way; she could get seasick looking at a painting of a boat on the water. She had taken to her bed the moment they embarked. Lucky for her a military doctor was at hand; he gave her a shot every other day, at least she kept a little food down brought to her bed on a tray. What a voyage she had! On the other hand, that allowed Elena some freedom of movement. Away from her mother’s constant, tyrannical chaperoning, she felt responsible and grown up. She tried to shrug off the cruelty of her thoughts. Late at night when Elena returned from her lonely walks on the deck, she was spared confrontation with her mother. She knew she couldn’t very well be yelled at with the other occupants within earshot. They shared the cabin with a family from the island of Crete, a mother and two daughters about Elena’s age, who were also being "repatriated". Chrysoula and Georgia had gone to bed earlier like good girls cursing under their breaths.

Funny how we can fool our parents, Elena laughed. When the girls’ mother had come up on deck to take them downstairs, the girls were inhaling the ocean air deeply to cleanse their lungs and breaths from the smell of the last clandestine cigarette; it would be the end of them if their mother suspected that they smoked. Elena nudged Nicky pointing to the shore "Look!" He looked at the lights that illuminated the water in front of the dark buildings spelling: WELCOME HOME, WELL DONE! She translated the sign. "They are welcoming us," she said. Nicky began to laugh. "You’re really something,” he said bitingly. "They are not welcoming your dumb face, they are welcoming the veterans." She felt crestfallen. Well, it was a nice thought while it lasted, she mused. "The American soldiers below?" He continued, "don’t you remember? They aren’t allowed to mix with passengers, that’s all." She remembered the night the Italian American repatriates boarded the ship in Naples. During the night they heard that American troops boarded the ship while all others were kept inside their cabins. Elena had forgotten during the trip that the soldiers who had finished their fighting in Europe were kept somewhere at the bottom of the ship. No one had seen them during the voyage. "You’re

dumb..." Nicky sang out and started down to tell on her. "I knew it

all the time," she shouted after him, "just wanted to see how much you know."

"You’re dumb," he repeated and left. "And you are an idiot". He came back then and gave her a push. "I’ll tell on you," he threatened and disappeared. It was getting late; her

hands were numb with cold as they clasped the railing but the Statue was still there and the torch still spread its magic on the water. She thought of Greece and what she had left behind; Spring, the first Spring of freedom after years of terror the stench of death and despair under the brutal German occupation; she shook her head to rid herself of the sad thoughts, youth was on her side, a sure cure. The past three weeks on the ship, weeks of abandon with no responsibilities, no worry about finding food or a place to hide, were proof that youth would help her forget. There will be no more fear of guns aimed at her, she would sleep without the cursed machine gun music or marching boots under her window, she would have three meals a day. Already she felt the ease of pain that had scarred her young life. During the voyage, the youngsters, Italian and Greek sang and danced; yet, a mere six years before their fathers were fighting and killing one another in vicious battles on the northern Greek boundaries. Aboard an allied military ship and with the war over, they now ate as much as they could push into their stomachs, and insecure as to where their next meal would come from they wrapped leftovers for an afternoon snack on the deck just in case something went wrong and there was no more food on the ship. Elena and her friends sneaked away from the girls’ mother to smoke though her own mother thought that smoking put a woman on equal footage with a man. When Nicky discovered them, he ran to tell his mother: "your daughter smokes!" "So?" she said. "Your sister smokes to be sociable. See that I don’t catch you smoking." He was indignant. "That’s not fair," he protested. Why?” "You’re too young, and, anyway, men smoke too much, as it is!"

A confirmed

but confused early feminist, her mother believed passionately that what a man can do, a woman can do equally well, if not better. Smoking was one of her ways of

getting even and of declaring her emancipation and her personal version of equality of the sexes. Elena didn’t care one way or another. Cigarettes tasted bitter but with a cigarette in her hand her friends’ mother would not suspect her daughters if she smelled a cigarette. Anyway, it made Elena feel sort of like Bette Davis, sophisticated and important. She glanced at the Statue once more, the torch’s flame a profound metaphor stupendously universal; the welcoming flickering electric sign on the shore, the dark, inscrutable waters... She hoped that one day life’s secrets would be explained to her. This is where the answers will be, she knew it. I’ve come home! Braced with her noble thoughts she went downstairs to their cabin to face her mother’s scowling face. I haven’t died in the last war! She climbed to her berth happily and fell asleep instantly.

When she looked out through the porthole of her upper bunk next morning she thought she was looking at a wall; a bleak, gray, wet wall. She got dressed in a hurry and went up on deck. During the night the ship had moved to its pier and docked and now she saw people moving about frantically as if there was an air raid, shouting. That running, the dark, stressful movement, the people, the streets, the threatening buildings, scared and confused her. There was no sun, no sea, no romance. Dreary, gray, wet streets like snakes between piers; where were yesterday’s shores, the airy buildings floating in the night sky, the gentle lights...What a mirage distance creates, she thought. "What a huge, depressing city..." her mother, miraculously revived now they had touched land, was standing next to her holding her coat around her thin body. It was cold. "We must go to the purser’s office," she said. "You have to

interpret for us. "What is it now?" She asked surprised with a little fear. "There is a problem, we can’t go ashore...” Oh, no! not now, she thought. Greeks and Italians filled the hallways, the office. Someone appeared holding a list of those names who would not be going ashore because the parents were not American citizens. With a sickening sinking feeling she heard their name. Oh, fine, she mused, I’ll be stuck here forever with my mother following me, dragging me off to bed at eight! "Congress will convene on Monday to sign the bill so that the parents of underage children can accompany them ashore. She translated that to the Greek and Italian parents involved, with bitterness hoping that they meant Nicky when they said ‘underage’ and not her! She had thought they had gone through the worst. They had been quarantined mid-harbor for 24 hours away from the piers, until all were examined by the Immigration physicians. Soldiers and civilians had come from places where war was raging for years and might be harboring

diseases they were

unaware of. All were found to be healthy and the doctors left late at night in a small barge as they had come; the soldiers disembarked under the cover of darkness. "They treated us as enemies," Nicky had said indignantly. He was proud of his ‘night

people’, as he called the soldiers. He had got to know them nights

when he went to sleep in the nearby quarters where all male passengers slept. The families whose names were not listed made ready for shore and holding their luggage waited for the Immigration to clear them. "What about us?" someone asked. "You must wait, too." Except for two officers who remained aboard to watch the passengers, every member of the crew left after the soldiers disembarked. It

was Friday. By late afternoon everyone who was going ashore had left. The noises, the yelling, the hustle and bustle subsided. Elena walked the deserted corridors, looked into the messy cabins with the unmade beds and debris on the floor, checked the decks and felt as if she had been walking through the eerie silence of a castle after the battle with all armies gone. The ship was docked on Pier 46 on the Hudson River; there were no waiters, cooks or stewards, save a few cleaning persons and some guards who did not board the ship. The passengers were on their own. Anna and other parents took over, went into the kitchens but after a look at the cupboards their enthusiasm evaporated. Suddenly, the aprons were not inviting. "Impossible," they declared. They wouldnâ€™t know where to start, nor did they understand the workings of the strange contraptions. All they needed was to start a fire on someone elseâ€™s ship! They got everyone into the dining room and told them that they would have to make do with whatever staples they had found: bread, butter, cheese, crackers, some old oranges, cereal, ketchup and mustard! By Sunday morning, everything but the pantries, the iceboxes and the ranges had been consumed. But, oh, what bliss! The father of an Italian child who wouldnâ€™t accept defeat, discovered something called a freezer and in there he found a huge quantity of ice cream! Every one had lusted after that luxury for years, the discovery was greeted with more gusto than the Columbus discovery of America. For twenty four hours they ate nothing but ice cream, and no one complained of a bellyache. The Bill passed on Monday and the parents were released in the custody of their children; that was a funny reversal of authority. The immigration officers

returned to finish the paper work, and check passports and people. Italian and Greek relatives rushed up the gangplank shouting names of family members they could no longer recognize. When they found them, it seemed hard to believe that the children with the rosy cheeks were the children who, they had heard suffered starvation for years.

Anna remembered the Statue of Liberty -she had, after all, passed it twice- but not much else. "I forgot so much," she sighed pulling the collar of her coat against the wind. She pointed north with her chin at the George Washington Bridge up the Hudson. "That, for instance," she said, "wasn’t there. I am sure. Thirteen years is a long time, Elena, a lot has happened, a lot of water has gone under that bridge, as they say..." her eyes wandered over the goings-on on shore, the baggage, the noise of the busy port. "Everything looks gray, hopeless," she murmured. Elena felt sorry for her mother. Her fragility frightened her, her age. She is old, fragile, she thought, almost forty. “It’s a gray day, Mama, it will rain. In America it’s colder than Greece, you should remember that.” Anna nodded and wrapped her coat around her. On the wind-lashed upper deck she looked and felt small. Her blond hair neatly tied in a bun at the nape of her neck just minutes before, was tousled now, making her look vulnerable, a lost soul. "It’s going to be very tough without your father," she murmured. Elena detected the sob in her weak voice. "Why Mama?" she asked.

"It’s a rough country, that’s all...one can easily be destroyed or get lost." Elena hugged her mother to give her some of her own courage and strength, the hope and optimism she was building up. "Mama," she said, "the worst is over. We survived a whole war..." "My third..." her mother whispered. "This is freedom. Don’t you see? People get lost only if they want to lose themselves. But we are a family, we have some roots here, we won’t get lost or separated. We are in our country, a country of hope. We will work." Her mother looked up at her. Her green eyes reflected Elena’s courage. She squeezed her daughter’s hand, and without another word left to see to their luggage. If only the boat would turn around and go back, she thought as she made her way below. She was scared. I wish they hadn’t passed that Bill and we were turned back. Elena listened to the port’s noises, watched the faceless crowds and felt her father’s shadow, a ghostly presence, a benign thought enveloping her; her heart softened in happiness. It seems as if he is here, she thought looking at the clouds. I can hear his song, the war song he was teaching me during the voyage to Greece, his war. He was whistling and I tried to whistle but my lips just wouldn’t purse enough, but some words never left me, I guess, though they never came to mind except now that I can see the picture as an adult, I can smell. At the time it was a childish ditty, later I had seen

movie pictures and

recognized it but it didn’t hit me like now. ‘Over there, over there,’ he kept repeating and I did, too. And in my mind the ‘there’ was the city of Patra where we were heading like he told me. But I wanted to sing it ‘over here’ because I already knew the difference between the here and the there and I couldn’t make dad understand that I wanted to make the song ours and ‘ours’ meant us two who

spent so much time together, the two of us in that building that moved on the water. He told me of his mother and his brother we were going to see, and cousins and I sort of forgave him for singing ‘over there’ because they were over there and that made him happy. So he would sing over there and I would sing over here and he would squeeze my hand to correct me and I would look up at him laughing. “I can see one thing,” he said one day, “not only you look like me, you are like me” and I was glad to hear that, whatever that meant!

The dock was a true Babel; languages, tears, greetings. From the deck Elena searched the eyes peering up at her. She wondered if an uncle or a relative or anyone would claim them. All she saw was a moving cloud of unknown faces, and the statue, the river, shimmering now in the drizzle and the fog coming in from the ocean. That brought vague memories, the very first glimpses of life she remembered, fragmented, sharp like the sweet ache an old wound keeps. Water!

THE FIRST FIVE YEARS ...Loving,

fleeting memories, precious

moments

that transcended time; patches

of the colorful, eventful quilt of life. The five-year old eyes could see only water, a lot of gray water all around them. They were going, traveling in a huge building with many other people who were also traveling. The ’building‘ was sliding on the water making loud noises, heaving up and down or sideways and then her father made her sit on the deck chair or inside the salon, or tucked her in her bed downstairs where her seasick mother looking after her little brother was always either throwing up or moaning. But in good weather they walked the decks holding hands and he told her stories about ships and where they were going,

about the dolphins that followed them and the sea. Her father was born in an island; he loved the sea and had many stories to

tell; Elena was a good

listener. At times, when she tired of walking, he would lift her and from his great height she would look far into the endless horizon.

The shipâ€™s docks and

stairs looked better then. Or, when it was just windy, they sat on the deck chairs covered with plaid blankets. The world is made up of water, she told her father, but he told her that only part of it was water. The question in her mind was where is the rest of the world, then; the parks, the cities?

Weâ€™ll get

there, he had said, meanwhile, for days and weeks "Saturnia" pushed on ahead growling, spitting black smoke and blowing its foghorns. Its cabins were full of returning immigrants, the salons smoke-filled and the tables in the dining room taken by families. Elena liked the dining room. It was more like her house when they had company; it was fun to eat with so many people and listen to music at the same time. They ate, slept, walked, and that gray monster of a floating building moved along leaving a trail of churning, foamy waves behind it. She could not remember stopping in Portugal as they told her later, but apparently they had stopped long enough for her mother to even temporarily, find her land legs to go ashore shopping. They were to live with the pretty Portuguese tablecloth all the later years. Some days, very few, stood out in her memories, very vivid. One of them, a cold and a particularly drab day, they were sitting on deck chairs covered against the wind. The sea was angry. It wailed and heaved, the wind blew menacingly. "Are we ever getting there?" she had asked her father. "You are tired baby". He took her hand into his to warm it.

"Where are we going?" "To our country, ‘patrida’," he stressed. "Ah." She had no idea what house or park or city that was that had called ‘patrida’, but it sounded nice. At least she get somewhere eventually for sure and were aimlessly, for ever.

her father

knew they were going to

not wandering around the sea

She was getting used to the floating building with the

many small rooms and little

round windows; she missed the trees and the cars,

buses, streetcars. "Will I ride my bike?" she asked. Her father thought a little before answering. "I’ll buy you another one." Elena wanted to cry, she was sure they

had

forgotten it. The house was a mess before they left. Relatives and other people walked in and out of rooms amid trunks and valises; no wonder they had forgotten her bike. It appeared to be the middle of the night, when only darkness could be seen outside the porthole when she was roused from sleep and was hurriedly dressed. Her father took her up on deck where many people had gathered. Her mother was delayed in the cabin dressing and preparing Nicky. The people all on the same side of the ship wrapped

were pushing, shouting, gesturing. Elena

her arms around her fathers neck. No noise or movement could dislodge

her. It wasn’t cold and the sky was full of stars, but the water was dark like the night. Elena saw the flickering lights in the

distance.

"What are those lights?" she asked. "The city of Patra," her father answered. The harbor wasn’t equipped to offer docking to large boats and had dropped anchor out in the open sea. “See the

little boats?” Her father asked. They’ll take us ashore." ‘Patra,’ Elena kept thinking. That must be the ‘patrida’ he was

talking about; Patra-Patrida, we

are really here! The row boats bobbing like pieces of paper on the water came closer. For the first time in her very short life Elena was seeing so many boats on the same spot at the same time. Wild looking men with black moustaches and scowling faces trying to steady the fragile-looking craft with the oars and at the same time maneuver the loading. She didn’t understand if they were fighting,

talking or

noises, louder

ordering each other about. The crane made loud creaking

than the shouts as it came down loaded with crates and baggage

and deposited them on the waiting rafts. They were towed to town and others replaced them. People climbed down precariously but Elena held on

to her father

whose other hand carried his heavy grip. One of those wild looking men clambered up the rope ladder and tried to wrench Elena from her father’s arms. She held on with both arms screaming and kicking the man. Something was wrong with her father...giving her to that fearful stranger! Her father finally came to his senses. "Here," he told the man and gave him the grip, "I’ll carry the child." The man took the valise apparently all too roughly because it opened suddenly like the flaps of an envelope not properly sealed, and the contents, her father’s things were flying about, going with the wind, down, down, little feathers that disappeared into the black waters. She hid her face into his collar and laughed. But he wasn’t laughing. He was angry and yelled at the clumsy man, something Elena had not heard him do before. After that there were no boats, night or port.

She awoke in someone’s house and her father was trying to get her dressed for

lunch. She thought they just had finished dinner. In the dining room she faced the family they were visiting, a man, his wife and their son, older than her. They knew each other well but Elena couldn’t remember any of them; they spoke English, and she felt more at home. Like her parents, their friends had also returned to their country rather than face the prolonged depression the end of which no one could foresee. They ate and spoke peacefully

and looked happy.

Nicky slept in his carriage next to his mother; Elena glared at her plate of rice and yogurt not touching it. “Why aren’t you eating?" the hostess asked. Elena lowered her head. "You like yogurt with your rice," her mother said, "you are not hungry?" "It’s not that," Elena said, "the fork is dirty." They all looked at her and her mother’s face turned purple in embarrassment. She saw that the fork was clean, but Elena, following her look, showed her the handle

which was made of

black wood! Anna took Elena out to the back yard and scolded her. She was disappointed at her manners, she said, now she was a big girl... Elena believed she was a big girl because everyone kept telling her. "Now," her mother finished, "go inside and apologize." "No" Elena said. Her voice was not spiteful or nasty. She was ego was bruised and she wasn’t at all hungry. Anyway, why

tired, her

couldn’t someone have

warned her that forks come with black handles? Her mother left her and Elena stayed in the garden looking at the dry soil and the rows

of vegetables and scrawny flowers; There was a big

walnut tree

with strong limbs and a rope swaying from a low branch. She climbed on it and began swinging though it cut

into her flesh and soon it began to hurt. When the

pain on her buttocks became unbearable she decided to get off the swing, but the swing wasn’t cooperating and wouldn’t stop. It was as if the wind had taken over

and was defying the law of gravity. Elena flew off the swing, and was thrown into a briar patch. There was a rush out of the dining room cries; she was forgiven, kissed; she fell asleep in her

when they heard her

father’s arms chewing

on a piece of candy.

C H A P T E R

IMMIGRANTS Precious

memories those split seconds, one’s very first thoughts, not to lose

them as they slip in the dark crevices of one’s mind. They must be collected, put together and held reverently like faded sepia photographs resurrected from aged family albums. At times they hurt. Where does one begin to put things together, to understand, to tie the loose ends and secure those precious fleeting memories. A few more, a few less...Are they real? Did it all happen in the sequence one places them in this vast chaotic world of psyche, or is it all made up, wishful thinking? Disillusioned by the raging depression and unemployment of the Nineteen Thirties, 16O thousand Greek Americans returned to Greece. They had found work in America and the freedom they seeked but hopes and dreams, the driving ideals, were being sapped by dangerous and threatening forces: hunger, strikes, killings, a Mafia unknown to them, not understood. Bruised dreams were packed, and shipped back to the country of their origin; humble dreams: to work with dignity, to have a decent shelter, save some money for the hungry families back home, send money for the dowry to marry off sisters; help the village and build a school, repair the church; until one blessed day, they prayed, they could embark for the return voyage, with enough money to begin

another life in a village, a better one. The days of poverty, of cultivating unyielding, hopelessly arid fields, the days of the policeman’s whip swishing over their heads, villages without schools, would be over. They returned, those immigrants not rich in material goods and the ‘gold-inthe-streets’ dream in their pockets, but infinitely wiser, worldlier. Better to suffer in one’s land than in a strange country where lawlessness had taken over hope and pushed noble promises and dreams aside. With that thought they left, our family among them. A battalion of crumbled hopes; immigration reversed. And here I am, she thought with a catch in her throat, thirteen years later, the daughter of one of those immigrants, returning; another kind of immigrant, a half Hellenized refugee, a forgotten American. Will I ever be able to pick up where we left off? Will I ever belong? My mother is terrified at the thought of living among strangers without him. I offer brave speeches; does she understand that I, too, am scared? Where am I going? What is awaiting me out there in this gray sea of asphalt and crowds, without my father to guide me? What do I know about this land, my birthplace except what I have read in books or what Mom told me, mostly negative, to say the least. Will I ever let go of the fear that consumes me and clutches at my insides churning them? How does one begin a new life in a new land? Will I find the courage I pretend to

possess? But on the other hand I must be positive. I will not have to run for shelter any time day or night, or keep my clothes under the bedcovers ready for the night’s air raid; I will not have to seal my ears against bombs falling or anti-aircraft, wondering if that was my last night on earth. I will have lights, plenty of lights everywhere, day and night. I will eat anytime I want, anything I want. No friend of mine will die of hunger, if I ever make any friends. Wherever

you are, Ourania, I will eat for you, too, and I’ll try to forget your swollen belly the moment of your death. You didn’t manage to get your High School diploma Ourania, if you had only waited three more months...

C H A P T E R

HERO NO LESS My father

found himself in the New World a ten-year-old immigrant sponsored by

his two older brothers whom he hardly remembered. They got him a job laying railroad tracks that linked the states of Delaware and Maryland with Washington D. C. The only work he had done up to then in his village that was perched high on mountain, was to herd the few sheep and goats they had bought

with

money sent by

his brothers. Few schools existed in his Ionian island in 191O. Children began working alongside their fathers in the fields or took care of the animals as soon as they could walk. No school and play for them. Even to the most aspiring teachers the primitive, remote villages far apart from the rest of the world, were not a challenge but a dreaded adventure. My father’s brothers met the unschooled, illiterate child at Castle Garden in the harbor of New York City one day; he was wearing homespun cotton pants that only covered half his legs because he suddenly grew tall, and a jacket that had seen better years. His rough pigskin shoes were made for the occasion by the village butcher who also moonlighted as a shoemaker. What I know of my father is whatever my mother’s memories retained and stories from his friends and relatives.

I, the closest being in his life, his biggest love after my retained much except the warmth of his

mother, have not

presence while he was alive and the few

words that I learned from him in the beginning of

my new life in the country of

his birth.

In the cabin he shared with other immigrants from Poland, China, Italy, Russia, Ireland, the young boy listened in amazement to the tongues, a patchwork of languages, and marveled at the way they understood one another and how they managed to survive and work side by side without killing one another. Such hardships and adversities. The railroad tracks were done; the company moved its workers to

a steel mill

in Pennsylvania. After that, to the coal mines in Kentucky. Some left the mines and returned to Washington, D. C. New roads in Virginia. His brothers decided to try their luck there. Young John listened to the adults talking; he wanted to learn. He secretly bought books ‘wasting good money’, and learned to read and write English by himself. When he heard of a night school for the immigrants he begged his brothers to allow him to register and attend classes after work.

His brothers had never

gone to school either; his tenacity for learning impressed them, their family’s name would be greatly honored if one of them knew how to read and write. When he told them of the impossible dream, night High School, they expressed their fear: he would be too exhausted to work the next day. "Learning," they reasoned, "is one honorable thing; too much learning gives you airs and ideas that won’t fit in your head." By then he had grown to 6 feet tall and was still growing, they had to look up when they spoke to him. But he won and after an exhausting backbreaking day with a pickax at work, my father would attend another exhausting evening session

at school until he graduated High School at 18. He was twenty when he joined the Army, World War I was raging. He told his brothers then and they were furious because he was being shipped to France right away. Too much learning did that, they knew it. "Can’t you wait for the next war?" they asked. "There is always one going on..." and other such things, like: that’s a fine thank-you-sir for sending you to school, with one sister still unmarried and not enough goats bought for her dowry. It wasn’t very long before the war ended and my father was back in America with half his lungs gone because of the mustard gas he had inhaled, a hero no less with his medals, distinguished, though maimed; he was in the Veterans’ Hospital for about ten years without fully recovering. At times, when it was raining, and in the island it

rained for months

in the Fall until fields and sea joined and the village looked like the ‘floating building’ that had brought us to Greece from America, my father fought for breath; he had difficulty fitting his swollen feet into his shoes. Young as I was it hurt me to see his stocking feet tied to the shoes with strings. Mama used to scold him for his foolish decision to return to the damp island of all the places we could have gone; but he loved his island.

When the weather was dry and he felt better,

he would take me out walking. Using his cane, he would try Charlie Chaplin’s mincing steps to make

me laugh, but I saw through it; he really depended on that

cane; sadly, he leaned on it more and more as time wore on. My father was very ill. Like Charlie Chaplin, Papa sported a short moustache, contrary to every other Greek’s handlebar moustache. When we arrived at the island, a few hours by boat from Patra, the male relatives who came aboard in little rowboats scrambled up the rope ladder to the deck grinning under those huge moustaches. I hid behind my father. When they saw my face ready to burst into tears they ignored me. The next

day, Uncle Philip’s moustache was like my father’s. But

nothing would induce my

grandfather to cut, shave or shorten his; he kept it to his dying day. He was a strange man, my grandfather. It never bothered him that I would not go near him, my mother’s father. By the time I was old enough to understand and not to fear men’s facial hair, we left for Athens. I saw him again years later when I was almost a teenager; he was bent with age, he didn’t recognize me or seemed to care much. He asked me if I were Anna’s daughter and I nodded. Holding his cane he walked slowly to the cafe at the harbor to join his contemporaries for his afternoon coffee. It was the same cafe where Papa and Uncle Philip went with their own friends for their afternoon ouzo in days past, and where I first performed to my father’s delight, just months before he died. He taught me a little Greek poem and one day he took me to the cafe and helped me up one of the round metal tables. He called everyone to come and listen and I didn't flinch, not even when I saw those eyes over the moustaches, by then I had learned they were kind

and didn’t fear them, in fact, I was ready to meet the audience. I still

remember the thrill of acting out the poem. I put everything I had in that recitation until some had tears in their eyes. Even I, understanding what I was saying, was moved. It was my first acquaintance with the stage! In early Spring my father and I, (I, leaning on his hand, he, on his cane), walked up the dirt road out of the village into farm country where fruit tree orchards took up the surrounding hills. It was a good hour’s walk uphill and we were tired. The cherry grove we visited belonged to one of my father’s friends. The first cherries were ready to be picked. They shone red and fat in the sun and I was drooling. Perched on his shoulders I picked and ate the cherries dripping sugary juice on his shirt. The farmer left us and went across the road to prune his grapevines.

"Say something in English" he shouted at me from the road, "and I will give you a whole basket of cherries to take home." It took me all of three seconds to decide to use a word I wasn’t allowed to use at home.

He wouldn't know the

difference, I thought. Smiling from my heights, I shouted back: "shut up!" And suddenly I was on the ground with a thud and Papa was dragging me angrily down the dirt road on the way to the village. I wondered what went wrong; I had an idea what I said wasn’t so nice but I had forgotten how to converse in English and that was the first thing that came to my mind because I used it more often on my brother and cousins who didn’t know what I was talking about; I could have said ‘thank-you’ only I didn’t think of it. I still remembered milk, sleep, horse, bathroom, but they didn’t seem appropriate. The farmer was scrambling out of his field, running to catch up with us pleading with my father not to scold me, that it didn't matter; not to be silly and to wait for the cherries, at least, but my father seemed to be totally deaf. How was I to know that he was another ‘repatriate’?

MAMA Mama brought

me Greek books which she thought that somehow, through some

miracle, I should be able to read before Fall when schools opened. My father on the other hand, had brought enough English books from America and read them to me every afternoon. He taught me how to read a little but I began to feel squeezed between the two languages. The one spoken around me seemed to be the most

difficult; the comparison confused me and school time was getting close. I heard Papa and Mama talking about difficulties in registering me because children started school at seven years of age and I was only five. "We’ll fake it," said my mother. Mama always had the last word and Papa always smiled. "Mama said..." he would tell me and that would be the end of whatever bothered me. There was great love between the two of them, and it was Mama we all listened to Mama, four ft.8", a green-eyed blond with a dimpled smile and a kind word for and about everyone. My parents met the first day he set foot on the island many years after he left it as a boy. At six ft. 4", he was a giant of a man-at least I thought so. The veteran, slim and handsome, dressed like an actor from that far away land of Hollywood, was the first person my mother saw coming out of the row boat with his suitcase. She was on the balcony beating a mattress to death and as he crossed the road below suitcase in hand,; he looked up to see

where the rain of lint felling

on him came from; between the beaten mattress and the pergola rich with hanging grapes, he lost his heart to the young blond, green-eyed girl spying on him hidden behind the vine leaves. It wasn’t proper for young ladies to show the slightest interest to tall young men. But the tall young man passed and went up the road. Instead of getting a horse to go to his family in the village up in the mountain to see his mother that he hadn’t seen for over twenty years, he went to his old aunt’s house close by and after the first greetings he asked her to go to her neighbor’s house, my mother’s, and ask for the blond girl in marriage. He didn’t think to ask if the girl was already married or promised. His aunt told him that she wasn’t a matchmaker; that there was an older girl in the family who by rights had to be married first, and that her father would never let the younger one go. My father then told her that he wouldn’t move from that chair, and he wouldn’t accept even a glass of water unless she went. Dutifully she did, and soon

returned with the expected answer, but her nephew would hear nothing of it. He did the unorthodox thing and went to face my grandfather, who received him politely enough, but declined the proposal explaining that in the village the marriage of a younger daughter would be interpreted as an indication that there was something wrong with the older one. He suggested that he marries his older daughter instead; she

was as pretty and a good homemaker, too. My father just stared at him. Then

he quietly told the older man that he would marry his younger daughter, that he would forego the dowry so the father could use it to marry off the older girl since at the ripe age of 22 he would face difficulties marrying her off. My father promised to bring his bride back for a visit after five years. The older man was thoughtful for a few minutes. A few fields, some olive trees and a vineyard more, would bring a better match for his older daughter;

he accepted the offer. My

mother told me once that her knees were sore from kneeling in prayer all that day until she heard her father consent to their marriage. She also told me that she knew the ‘tall man’ was coming for her; she had had the "vision"! During the last carnival she had dreamt of him exactly as she had seen him that day when he stepped off the boat and began walking up the road. She had drank of the ‘silent water’. Unmarried girls brought jugs to be filled at the village fountain. That water had to get home perched on their heads, in total silence. All the way home the village children as well as adults followed them, provoked and teased them. If the girls managed to keep their cool and get the water home without answering and go straight to bed after drinking some, they would dream of the man they were to marry. Mama had managed to do all these the year before; she waited for him, she knew he would come, she prayed for him to come because the spirits showed her that night in her dream in detailed precision the man she was to marry.

Once the wedding was decided, preparations began at once. My father, afraid that his father-in-law may change his mind, rushed to his village to bring his family down for the wedding. The celebration lasted three days and nights. Many goats were sacrificed on the spit, many barrels of wine brought joy. My mother’s girlfriends were cooking rice for days, flute and violin players were brought from the width and breadth of the island. It seemed that every one from that island passed though their gate those three days. No invitations were issued. A wedding was a public affair. Mama would always remember those days of food, wine and song. The wedding party, just the family, took the taxi to the City to be photographed and when they returned, that same afternoon, the bride and groom took the boat to Patra from where the great ship ’Vulcania’ would take them

America to begin their married life as the depression began to show its claws. Mama was ecstatically happy; she knew nothing about the economy, and the words inflation or depression were just words; she had never heard them before. A few years later when we had returned to the island, it was to her father’s house that Mama sent me late one night to fetch my uncle. I knew enough about my father’s health to understand that it was an emergency. She got me out of bed, dressed me hurriedly and tried to shake me awake sufficiently until at least I reached Uncle Philip's house. Outside, for the first time alone in the silence of night with no light or human being about, I felt more awe than fear. The dark sky was huge, and there were millions of stars over the threatening, endless, dark sea. The night fishing boats would be behind the promontory, I couldn’t see their lanterns. I felt my skin crawl not because of fear or cold, but from something deep inside that made me at once free and sad. I walked through the empty village past homes with closed shutters, silent as the cemetery. The only noise came from the few fishing boats bumping against each other and the quay with a sigh and a

thud where they were fastened at the dock, bobbing with the slight swell. The moorings creaked like a child crying. The road was short but steep; sleep was creeping up in my bones; I wanted to stop for a few minutes and crawl to the stoop of a house to sleep. But as I reached a door, a loud bark brought me back to my senses. It was the monster of the farmer, a dangerous beast he kept locked away from people during the day; he let it loose at night as a protection against thieves. No one in his right mind would even think of stealing one of his cows or sheep with that dog guarding them. No one had seen the monster in the village in daylight. The dog came straight at me with murderous intentions. I had never met a dog face to face I did not know that a dangerous dog existed in the village, so I had no sense of fear or danger when I stroked his thick fur; he muzzled my face. I leaned on him with fatigue and the dog did something that dogs don’t normally do. He lowered his body and I climbed on his back as I had seen people

do with horses

and donkeys. Together we rode to my uncle’s house. I shouted from the street until he was awake and when I saw the lamp lit I turned to go. Mama was on the balcony waiting. Her screams when she saw us, brought the neighbors out in their night clothes. I gave the dog a hug and a kiss and while the people were fanning my mother to bring her to, I went to bed. For days afterwards the village was speaking of nothing else; the news, which got the farmer upset, traveled to the surrounding villages until the death of my father four days later significantly reduced its importance.

PAPA IS GONE It was

a beautiful Fall day when Papa died on St. Andrew’s feast day. A close

friend and neighbor

whose name was Andrew, would be celebrating his name day and

all anticipated the dance and music of violins and flutes that Sunday. I was excited, but felt a little strange being all dressed up in my party clothes so early in the morning. Aunt Popi had washed and dressed me and Nicky and took us to our house. After Uncle Philip had disappeared when I was sent to fetch him a few nights before; Nicky and I were sent to his house to stay. Both of us skipped and danced that morning on the way to our house thinking of the party and the sweets. Aunt Popi scowling, walked alongside; she pulled

me roughly and said: "shame!" I

looked up in surprise. She was silent. Uncle Philip had been summoned by Papa in the middle of the night to take his corrected Last Will to the American Consulate in Patra; Nicky and I had been taken to Uncle Philip’s house so that we do not see our father dying. We did not know that, nor that Uncle Philip hadn’t just disappeared, he had left with the early boat the morning before. No one had warned us, and Aunt Popi was mad at me for skipping and dancing. Our house was full of people, though the party would be next door. I ran ahead up the stairs and into the house. My mother was being carried into my room; I ran after them. They placed her on my bed; she was white-faced, eyes closed and they were rubbing her temples and wrists with vinegar as if she were a salad. "Go away," a woman ordered and pushed me out but then she had a change of heart and came after me. "Mama is ill”, she said and I nodded. I didn’t know the woman but she seemed to know me. There were more people in the hallway and they were all crying, whispering behind drenched handkerchiefs; they looked strange in their somber clothing; not at all like a party. I went straight to Andrew’s wife. "When is the party?" I asked and she began to wail loudly; I thought I said something wrong by accident of tongue, but then Aunt Popi came by and took my

hand. She took me into my parents’ bedroom and there I saw nonna, my father’s mother who never came down to our village from her mountain. She was covered from head to toe with sheets of black: wraps, skirts, kerchief, and sat on a low chair moving her head mournfully from left to right nodding and rocking her body front to back as she sang softly in a thin, delicate voice; her eyes seemed

glued to

her apron. I tried to kiss her hand but it was tucked somewhere and I couldn’t find it. I don’t think she saw me at all. Nearby, my father’s beautiful head lay on a pillow, my pillow! It had taken three women and one year to teach me how to embroider and now the unfinished product –no one could make out flowers or sailboats- held my father’s white face. He had loved my work. I didn’t like what I saw: his eyes and lips were tightly shut and he was dressed in his good suit

if going someplace but he wasn’t moving; why is he wearing his striped suit, red tie and his good black shoes, I wondered. Shoes on Mom’s white knit spread? She was going to have a fit. I tried to wake him to warn him to take his shoes off before Mama saw him, but he wouldn’t budge, he didn’t hear me. I reached for his hands crossed on his chest and I withdrew in horror. That wasn’t Papa; it was a make believe Papa; his hands were made of stone, like marble. I was struck numb, What had they had done to my father?

My grandmother began to sing louder, like an

injured bird, a sweet sad song! Every one began to sigh and cry and soon sobs filled the room but I couldn't cry at all so I ran out. Andrew’s wife followed me in quick little steps. ”Why is Nonna singing, is it because the others are crying so loud?” "Don’t be afraid," she sobbed, "your father is sick, he has to go to the hospital in the city." "Is Mama sick like that, too?" I asked. "She has a toothache, she will go, too," she said. All of a sudden everyone is

sick, I thought as

I made my way down the stairs. And if they are sick, why is my

grandmother singing, is it good to be sick? And why are the guests crying? The singing unnerved me. Years later I heard professional dirgers, engaged to praise the dead person. The richer the departed, the more his graces and good deeds in life even if he were a crook. My grandmother, was such a singer of dirges. That day she was singing the praises of her own son in dirges. Nicky was nowhere, nor did I see another child around. It was a sunny day; a light wind ruffled the harbor waters making them greenish, and foamy. Far beyond the promontory where I couldn’t see it, I heard the boat’s foghorn. I walked on the paved quay looking at the choppy water when something familiar caught my eye: my father’s cane floating jauntily like a drunk snake, Mom’s hat, Nicky’s snow pants and my little pocketbook. How did they get in the water? They hadn’t flown out of the house by themselves...I have to get them, I thought, rescue them before they float away to the open sea. Lying on my stomach I stretched to reach them, but each time they came close, a wave took them back. I was losing them, but I strained and the water seemed to be pulling me like a magnet, I didn’t care, I had to get them; then a hand lifted me and I was looking into Uncle Philip’s tear stained face. He hugged me tightly crying "My baby, my baby... you are an orphan now." I couldn’t understand what I was supposed to be. I tried to tell him that our things were in the water and we had to fish them out right away but I saw Aunt Popi coming and said nothing. She was looking for me. Uncle Philip put me down and they embraced and cried some more. It was embarrassing. I would never hug my brother. I had not seen those two embrace before. Aunt Popi wiped her eyes, took my hand and said: "Come, we’ll find Nicky and go to the old aunt’s farm on the hill." I forgot the treasures floating in the harbor right away. The cottage on the hillside was almost like a small fairy tale castle. There was a shady mulberry tree in the middle of the courtyard, a wide stone fence behind

blackberry

bushes

and a vineyard around it. In the summer we were allowed to pick the leftover grapes

ducking to avoid

both bees and hungry diving birds.

More than anyone, I liked Athena, her granddaughter, who was two years my senior; she was kind and wise and she did not laugh or tease me when I said something silly or wrong, she just corrected me. People around me had no patience; they hardly bothered to find out what I was talking about; they were too busy to listen. Light in heart and foot, I clambered up the path leaving Aunt Popi to deal with my brother. The thorns caught on my dress and legs. Mama was too sick to notice my scratched shoes, I reasoned. Aunt Popi left us and went back down to the village in a hurry. Athenaâ€™s grandmother brought out yogurt, honey and walnuts. Soon Nicky fell asleep and Athena and I played all afternoon, then climbed on the fence to walk on it like acrobats. Suddenly Athena stopped. She shaded her eyes against the setting sun and pointed down the valley where the main road forked at the edge of the village. I saw what looked like shadows, cars like big ants, inching their way up the road that led to the big mountain. Behind them knolls, fields and the bay were already winter-like. In the village there was only one car, a taxi. Where had the four cars crawling upwards come from? "Must be your father," she said. I nodded. "They are taking him to the hospital, he is sick and Mama is sick, too, so she has to go to the hospital with him." "No," Athena corrected me, "they are taking your father to his village on the mountain to bury him." I looked at her mystified. "To do what?" "When somebody dies, they bury him." "What does that mean?"

"You don’t understand anything," she snapped losing her patience. She went on to explain the burial rites procedure but I stopped her: “Papa is not dead, he is sick."

Athena shook her head. In the small community everyone participated in

life’s happenings: births, weddings, christenings, name days, funerals. For Athena, burial was a natural process. It sounded terrible to me because it was Papa she was taking about though I didn't believe her because I knew Papa was just sick and not dead. But I still wanted to find out what happened after they put the people in a hole in the ground as if planting a tree. Her answer stunned me. "Nothing happens, the worms will eat him." "The worms, eat my father? They can’t do that; he won’t be able to come back." "Dead people don’t come back she said thoughtfully, "and dead sheep and donkeys don’t come back either." Terror filled me. I didn’t want to believe her, but what if she is right, I thought. "Not my father," I said and again, "not my father." I didn’t want to hear or to know anything I only wanted to cry. I didn’t even tell her about our things floating in the harbor. It was much later that I learned of the ritual. Our neighbors had sent Papa off with a few familiar things to accompany him on his voyage

to the next world. Of course, my father wasn’t going

anywhere, he had told me many times that he would never go anyplace without me. Of course there was the question how he would escape with all that dirt on him; I didn’t ask because she had said that when one dies he never comes back. I remember that I did ask a few questions and this dialogue comes back to me in bits and painful pieces here and there. The sun was getting deeper into its red western veils and the cortege disappeared at the bend of the road behind the tall oak trees. Short of breath, the idea that Papa was gone for good slowly became a terrifying fact, the truth that "death" was final; Somehow, I hoped that Papa

could always escape, but the finality of the worms loomed in front of me killing my hopes. If those horrible worms ate him, nothing would be left of him

to come

back with. I began to cry louder in actual pain; Athena moved closer to hug me but

pushed her and moved away from her, and I fell off the fence into the blackberry bushes. My hands and legs were scratched badly, my dress destroyed and the silent tears of grief became loud howls of pain. Athena climbed down to get her grandmother but the old lady was

already coming

to get me out of the bushes. Inside the cottage she washed my scratches and put iodine which stung. She gave me candy but nothing would make me stop crying. An accumulation of grief was being released. With a profound sense of loss I fell asleep on the loom woven blanket on the floor in front of a fire, and that is where memories stop.

CONFUSION Except

for my friend Athena I had no friends up to the time we left for Athens.

Athena lived way uphill and I didn’t see her very often; I missed having friends to play with like other children, like my brother. In the beginning I was the ‘foreigner’ the kids thought me strange because I was shy but that didn’t last long, I was learning Greek and soon found that children forget and forgive easily still, I was by myself most of the time. My toys either didn’t make it to Greece, or were being used by my cousins, I didn’t care anymore. It was the adults who were embarrassed when I spoke to them because they didn’t understand me. Once when it was cold, I asked for a blanket. I got a potato and a frown. Now, what would I want a raw potato in my bed for? Hence the

‘strangeness’! I did not take adults seriously, they didn’t listen and lied to children. One windy evening with a storm approaching, I crouched in my favorite hiding place, a corner in the balcony. I was hidden by an almond tree which grew in front of the house, and the vine

pergola underneath, away from the adult world and

children’s games. I thought my own secret thoughts looking at the sea changing colors from dark wine to almost threatening pitch black. The night fishing boats never left the harbor. An owl cried on the tree branch a familiar cry in the night. I had heard the bird hooting her sad, monotonous song many times and I wished I could make her happy. My sad thoughts evaporated, I began to imitate the bird trying to communicate with it. Each time I howled, she howled back; I knew it was me the owl was talking to. Just then, the balcony doors were flung open violently, my aunts rushed out where I sat and pulled me inside screaming. I couldn’t understand why they were so upset, in the past they had treated me in a polite, if detached, manner and though they shouted at the other children they were nicer to me. Listening to them saying things I couldn’t understand scared me. What had I done that was so terrible? Why did they handle me so roughly? "You are a cursed child," Aunt Melania, Uncle Philip’s wife, shouted, "it’s you that killed him." I wanted to answer back that I never killed anyone but bit my tongue. What if the boys had killed a bird, or a neighborhood cat...they did those cruel things at times. "You and that cursed bird”, Aunt Popi yelled, “you killed your father just as the omen predicted." I had no idea what she was talking about. More shocking revelations. Athena had told me many things about animals but not that owls predict death. Such a small bird! I had imitated the bird, I didn’t ask it to make my father die! What nonsense was that! but Papa’s death was still

an open wound, bleeding, making me so lonely I didn’t know what to do with myself. I took it to heart and was miserable. I crawled under the bed and fell asleep. Once again I had lost my father and this time it was my fault; I was the one who had done that.

One morning I awoke with a strange feeling that I was surrounded by many people, like a dream in slow

motion; I knew some of the men and there were others I

hadn’t seen before and they all moved on tiptoe as if stepping on cotton. A dragon had crept into Mama’s room and thrust a knife onto her pillow. That was the dream, and the red stuffing that poured from the pillow was a dream. I awoke with a start and ran into her room crying pushing strange men out of my way. My uncle was carrying my screaming brother out and I knew that the dragon had killed Mama; it was in my dream. People took me to the dining room and I kicked them.

Fully

awake, I was crying and I tried to tell them that the dragon had killed my mother, but they told me that there was no such thing. Uncle Philip said that Mama had suffered a nose hemorrhage and would be taken to the hospital in the city. I said nothing, I knew that Mama was dead; they had lied before about Papa and the hospital. I sat on the floor staring at my toes. Silence! Someone put a boiled egg and a piece of bread next to me. As soon as I was alone I threw it in the garbage. Liars, I kept thinking...liars...

TO FALL OR NOT TO FEEL AT FIVE Our house

at the harbor was closed and Nicky and I stayed with Uncle Philip’s

family in the large house further up the road. Nicky cried but I couldn’t help him because I hardly understood things myself. Some days he would take my hand and we

would walk the stubby wheat fields to the harbor where our sealed house was with all doors and windows boarded. Nicky would fall on his knees crying and calling Papa and the neighbors came out feeling sorry, some took him to their homes to feed him (and he was a fussy eater), give him sweets or ask him to play with their children. He did that a few times, then I caught on to him, he was using those tears and his big beautiful eyes and they believe him. As far as the neighbors were concerned, I wasn’t even there. I stood on the stoop a miserable looking black clad little girl, a motionless statue, seething in resentment. I resented those people who embarrassed me like my brother embarrassed me, little as he was. It was hard for me to cry in front of other people, much less lament as pitifully as Nicky; a profound sadness was consuming me. I felt silly and ashamed but I took him there whenever he grasped my hand without a word. I was only hoping that the neighbors would be out tending their fields and animals or mending their fishing nets, spreading them to dry on the rocks.

Each day at noon, Uncle Philip, dressed in his good business suit, took the taxi for the city. At dusk he returned and my two aunts, my cousins, Nicky, the neighbors, crowded around him asking about Mama. I

began to have doubts. Was she

really alive? No one had even tried to explain my father’s absence or Mom’s illness. They believed it would be too much for me to understand but I did understand when the news came that Mama’s older sister who had married in another island sometime after Mama’s marriage had died in childbirth. At least I got most of it. When the taxi brought my uncle in front of the door and everyone rushed to hear the news, he always had the same answer. She is doing much better, thank you.

Maybe, I thought, it’s all a play and he is fooling them, too. After everyone went home one evening, I left my hiding place and went down the stairs like a royal waif, disliked, misunderstood. That evening, I overheard Aunt Popi and Aunt Melania talk about me. "That child," one said, "will grow into an insensitive woman." "I can see the unfeeling adult in her." Aunt Popi agreed. Those were words I didn’t know but they gave me an uneasy feeling, they sounded bad, mean, dangerous. I felt so alone without Mama, with Papa gone and my brother so little. Maybe I would grow into something terrible; their faces said more than their words, but what? I walked past them and onto the street. It was dark already. "We’ll be having supper as soon as your uncle washes up," Aunt Popi called as I was leaving. I walked next door to the teacher’s house. His wife was my mother’s friend. I needed to ask what I was supposed to be before I forgot the word. She was kneading bread and was up to her elbows in dough. She heard the words out of context and shook her head. "My child," she said, "it’s better to be dead than an unfeeling or an insensitive person." I thanked her and walked out more confused. ”Come back tomorrow," she called after me. "I’ll be making sugar rolls." I walked home confused; they were at the table. I was not hungry. Aunt Popi touched my brow. "You are not sick," she said, "what’s wrong?" How could I tell her that I got her message, that I had to die. What did that mean? How does one die? I had to think. Maybe I would see Papa, I thought, if they put me under the ground. Maybe the worms had not finished him yet. I marvel at the wonderful ways children have to separate, sort and

connect

fantasy and reality at will. This dying business kept me awake many nights; it

became an obsession. I couldn’t imagine how one manages to die without an owl nearby. I remembered my father’s lying fully dressed on the neatly made bed and tried it, but in the morning Aunt Melania scolded me. People don’t go to sleep fully clothed and with shoes on, she said but I knew better, my father had; I said nothing. Apparently, what worked for my father wasn’t working for me, I had to find another way. Then something happened around that time that shook our village: the death of an 18 year old woman whose fiancée had been drowned in a sudden squall while fishing, weeks before they were to get married. Her mother was the only person who knew of the girl’s pregnancy. They waited but no news of the man came, the boat was found, the body never surfaced. Her father and brothers had to be told. The young woman was taken to the ruins of the ancient castle on the mountain over the ravine of snakes, jackals and demons, where, according to legend Odysseus held court. She was told to jump! She did! The girl knew that without a husband she would be the laughing stock of the village, that no one would marry her; that her family’s precious honor and her own could only be saved by her demise. The next day, she was paraded through the village streets in the church’s coffin on a horse-drawn cart. She was in her bridal gown her white face smooth and pretty; her black curls shone, there was such peace on her face. A bouquet of gardenias lay on her chest, she looked asleep, like Papa had. Immersed in their sorrow, her family followed on foot. They passed under the balcony where I was hiding. For days afterwards a frightening silence hovered over the village, even the animals kept out of sight and cowered someplace; all was still. Rumors and whispers buzzed in courtyards, in the cafes and the fields. The whispering was around me like the breeze coming from the sea invading every house, field, crack or stone. The girl had died for "honor" but no one bothered to explain so that I

can understand what disease that was, and how she got it. Falling in the ravine had something to do with the disease, I was sure of that, all one had to do to get it, was probably fall in the ravine, or from some such a height. Disjointed and confused, my thoughts were nevertheless always on that subject.

Twice a week, the boat from Patra crossed the Ionian Sea to our harbor. The two visitors who came to my uncle’s house were on their way further in land to the monastery of the island’s patron Saint whose specialty in miracles was ‘nervous and mental disorders’ all the way to total insanity. They stopped in our house overnight and slept in the second bedroom where my brother and I slept. Uncle Philip and his wife slept al fresco on the balcony and Aunt Popi in the living room. The children were put up in the master bedroom, all of us on the large bed. We had a ball! We joked and poked one another and danced on the mattress; we had a pillow fight until the younger children exhausted and bleary eyed fell on the sheets. I was alone, awake, making funny finger shadow shapes on the wall hands in the moonlight. I climbed onto the window sill and looked down. The walls of the built in Venetian times, were high and scary. Underneath the

house,

window ran the path

the young woman had taken to reach the ravine of her death. She had fallen to her death. I could do it, too; The path looked ominous in the moonlight, the walnut tree across sketched frightening shadows on the rough path but the rocks seemed sharp from where I sat, not at all as they looked during the day when I stepped on them and skipped over them without tripping. Nausea filled me and dread! If I fall, I’ll get hurt, I thought. I’ll break my head or cut myself on the rocks, and be all bloody and they’ll put that dreadful medicine that hurts. Papa was not

bloody, nor was the bride, she looked very pretty, not torn to pieces. I wanted to die, not to get hurt. There must be another way, I promised my bruised ego, a painless one. Maybe that ‘honor’ disease was not good enough, or it was not for everyone. With the ‘death thought’ strong and constant in my head, I withdrew even further into myself, spent hours looking at the sea or the sky and avoided contact with adults and children alike more than at any other time. The color of the sea changed dozens of times each day, the flocks were taken out to the fields to graze, boats came and went. The idea that I couldn’t find some way to die bothered me, my uncle bothered me, too, and my aunts; they were pests. They couldn’t understand that food made me sick and were forcing me to eat. I wasn’t hungry. ‘Eat!’ they commanded angrily at times. "You have to grow!" The idea and the smell of food made me puke. I had to grow? why? if I had to grow into that insensitive, unfeeling person, why grow at all? I kept my thoughts to myself and my lips sealed.

MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB The island’s

capital had a name but it was known as the “City”. It was a very

old city dark walled, sort of crowded, scary. There were no open spaces. Even with the sun shining it made me sad. Early that Sunday morning the taxi had stopped in front of the house. We were going to the city with Uncle Philip. As usual, there were no explanations. Nicky was excited; he sat in the back seat neatly combed, dressed in his sailor suit and waved to his friends happily as if leaving for a party. Blond and chubby, he looked like any other kid having fun. While dressing me, Aunt Melania told me that

we were visiting Mama. It rang a sorrowful memory. Nicky must have heard that’s why he was bubbling with joy. He was singing "we’re going to see Mommy...we’re going to see Mommy..." the fool! He didn’t remember that they had fooled us with the same trick when Papa died; it was only a short time ago. I sat next to him with a sinking heart. I felt that if my mother had been alive all this time, she surely was dead now. The taxi scaled the rough mountain road slowly, panting, and soon, the crystal blue of the Ionian Sea seemed to recede to the end of the horizon cutting it with a sharp blue line. We passed villages and fields. The trees in gardens and orchards were heavy with fruit. When we reached the highest point of the mountain, ready to begin

the

descent, I felt very close to God. I didn’t know how high or how close His palace was but I knew I was flying because the whole world under us had become like a toy store window. Villages tucked into the rich green like so many flocks of white, fluffy sheep. The fields were like sliced loafs of bread and at the very bottom the city lay still, mysterious under the sun alongside what seemed to be an endless blue mirror. The taxi rolled down the mountainside that morning taking the harrowing curves at a carefully controlled, yet dangerous speed. We crossed the

bridge over the Bay, then went through long, narrow

cobblestone streets with buildings so tall they hid the sky and threw long shadows, creating a sense of dusk at noon. It certainly wasn’t anything like our village. The hospital was at the end of the wide, palm tree lined Avenue that ended at the very edge of the promontory and the city itself. It was a large building with tall white walls and red roof tiles, surrounded

by flower gardens, palm and pine

trees rhododendrons, bushes. Flowering jasmine and gardenia plants perfumed the

air, we felt it as we emerged from the taxi. Nicky was asleep and Uncle Philip carried him upstairs. Up the marble stairs and on to the second floor’s long corridor where we and came face to face with Aunt Popi who had preceded us by two days, I hadn’t even remembered to miss her. She was pale and puffy eyed and didn’t smile as she usually did when she saw us, especially Nicky. She opened the door to Mama’s room. Mama tried to smile. There was a pitiful longing in her sunken eyes and cheeks. Bones protruded under the transparent skin, her face was the same color as my father’s face when I last saw him. For a second I believed that she had been dead but had managed to escape before the worms got to her. Whatever had happened, those terrible worms had been at her beautiful hair. A few scraggly strands like driftwood on the pillow made her look like a witch. That can’t be my mother, I kept thinking, then she smiled and her face broke into a shattered grotesque mask; her stare, so intent, unnerved me. When Nicky saw her, he did what I longed to do, he began to bawl and they took him outside. Fascinated by the

change, I stood my

ground while Mama continued to observe me, and then called my uncle. "Why the violet circles under her eyes?" she asked him in a weak voice. She was talking about my eyes, but what were the flowers doing in my eyes? Violets grow in the soil, everybody knew that and they water them. Was she joking, with that raspy voice of hers? My uncle shrugged. "She may have a low grade fever," a nurse volunteered. They were still speaking about me. I didn’t like it. "What is that?” Mama asked, and then, “fetch the thermometer!" The nurse turned to get the thermometer and I cringed. Tears came to my eyes; it wasn’t the thermometer I was afraid of but all that would follow, medicines, shots. "It registers a low grade fever," the nurse said shaking the thermometer

again. The instrument shaken with such violence as if it were a gun rather than an innocent hygienic implement, made short semi-circular motions in the nurse’s powerful arms. "What does that mean?" My mother’s voice was hoarse but suddenly

animated.

"Glandular fever!" I turned around to see the man who had spoken. The voice of doom, I hadn’t heard the doctor come in. He removed the mask that hid half his face, and sat on the edge of Mama’s bed, took her limp hand in his young one and said seriously: "Low grade fever..." He paused. "For your child it means that she is alone. That she will have no father and no mother, because her mother will soon follow her father..." I began to tremble. What was he saying? "Your decision!” He turned to my uncle. "Did you know that she contracted typhoid fever on her own will?" Uncle Philip’s jaw fell. "She went into the isolation ward without my permission,” the doctor continued, “to use the patient’s towel knowing that the disease was contagious; that was what she wanted; she succeeded!" He turned to my mother; I couldn’t understand why Mama wanted to do what she did. The doctor’s soft voice had become harsh. "What you see now Madam, is a future case of tuberculosis. But you won’t be here to see it..." He got up and left as suddenly as he had come in. At the door he stopped and threw back at her: "She’s no concern of yours now!" Mama looked at her brother. If looks could kill he would be dead, even I interpreted that stare correctly. "What have you done?" she asked. "I left my children in your care and..." She was crying. Uncle Philip, pale and close to tears himself, fidgeted with his hat. "What can I tell you," he said. “She won’t eat I can’t force feed her...I tried, we all tried." His halting voice was hardly audible. I wanted to tell Mama

that he was right;

it was my fault; that I couldn’t eat and I wanted to die. I

didn’t understand what the fuss was about, anyway. "She doesn’t talk much," my uncle continued, "you know that... she won’t play like other children...we don’t know what to do..." "I left you a healthy child and this is what you bring me," she accused him. There was anger in her voice, but that voice was strong. "You heard what the doctor said," Aunt Popi inched her way to the pillow and spoke into Mother’s ear in a whisper. She, too, was angry and sounded like a hissing snake. "Don’t bother with Elena now, you can’t cope with your grief, you have decided to die. You don’t really care what happens to your children after you’re gone. Well, I’ll tell you. Their father’s family will claim them; no one can stop them and God knows they need hands with their goats and sheep... Go ahead then, die!" She was panting, Mama was crying silently her face old and wrinkled. I hated Aunt Popi for making Mama cry like that. Most of what was going on escaped me, except that they were fighting over me. I held my breath so I could hear. The word ‘sheep’ had stopped my thoughts. What a wonderful idea! I could have my own pet, a little white, fluffy lamb that

would

follow me to school, like the story my father used to tell me; I would feed it and take it out for walks. I would wear a blue dress with lace and hold my staff and leap over brooks and walk in poppy fields following my little lamb. I would put flowers in my straw hat... I almost began to sing Mary had a Little Lamb... Nicky fell asleep on the empty bed across the room drooling, with a piece of candy stuck in his mouth. "You are only twenty-six," Philip said seriously, "too young to give in to your grief. Your children need you, don’t make them orphans once again.”

I felt sorry for my uncle because Mama scolded him. I felt sorry for her, too, because she looked so terrible. Mostly I felt sorry for Nicky and myself, but then, there would be the fluffy lamb, and maybe I could get one for Nicky. A loud shriek brought me to my senses. It was my mother. She was yelling for the doctor, for the nurse, for food, for medicine, injections...I made myself small under the window. Where the injections for me, for the violet circles? "Food...soup...bread...my slippers...my robe..." everyone went rushing at once here and there. Was she really dying then, is that what dying is? Would I go to the mountain to be with the little lamb after all? I stood up slowly, keeping a low profile in case the commotion was for me, wishing I could disappear. Outside it was getting dark, I couldn’t see the harbor or the boats any more; the glass in the window reflected the happenings in the room...I can’t remember getting into the taxi, or saying goodbye to Mama. I slept all the way home and missed the snaky curving road up, the breathtaking height but soon after that, again on a Sunday, again wearing our best, Nicky and I were carted into the taxi for the city. This time, I decided, I am sure that they will ask me to kiss her hand and it will be of marble, just like Papa’s. As the city came into view below us, yellow ochre against the endless blue of sea and sky, Uncle Philip turned to the back and said smiling: "We are taking Mama home today!" Even his moustache was smiling but my little cynical brain would not give in. We’ll see, I thought to myself while Nicky was clapping his hands happily, as normal children would under the circumstances. Suddenly, even before we stepped out of the taxi, we saw her; Mama! standing on the top of the stairs in her black dress, weak but recognizable, a little fragile doll. She was holding on to the young doctor; The hospital was in a celebrating mood. Someone didn’t die! White uniforms and flowers were fleeting

past bright colors. Mama looked very weak, but she was alive and that was what mattered. Patients and nurses were hanging from windows; they threw flowers and yelled: ‘miracle’! I climbed the stairs two at a time and felt like kissing her shoes when they came at eye level. She was in tears. My uncle, tears running down his face, was generously handing

1OO drachma notes to the nurses. Then he took

Mama’s arm and walked her gently

down the stairs to the waiting taxi. The nurse

leaned down to my aunt and whispered: "The miracle of motherhood!" and cried. It took me a long time to interpret that one because by the time we got home I had forgotten it.

FEVER AND SCHOOL BLUES We moved back

to the house by the harbor when Mama came home and unbarred and

opened doors and windows to let the fresh sea air in. The house seemed empty without Papa; I could almost feel his presence, smell his shaving soap, his pipe. I expected to see him coming up the stairs limping as darkness fell, but Mama’s constant weeping kept reminding me that he had left us for good and our home was just rooms void of laughter. We settled down to a dull life immersed in sorrow and mourning in a bleak island winter. My family’s attention was suddenly turned on me as if now that Mama was resurrected, mostly I assumed because of her worry about me, I had to pay the price. The ‘low grade’ fever had to be looked into and off to Patra we traveled to Patra to visit the various clinics where I was x-rayed and suffered men in white coats and glasses, their poking and medications. I began to get hysterical at the sight of a doctor’s uniform even if he wasn’t holding a syringe. To this day I

carry the scars from their intravenous efforts. We returned to the island with a long list of do’s and don’ts. It was the peak of the rain season. The house was cold, dank; the kerosene lamps burned day and night and so did the coal brassier which could only heat one room at a time, and that barely, especially when the wind blew in full force from the sea. The house faced the open sea and we were the recipients of its gales and thunderous storms. Up to that time I wasn’t aware of cold, discomfort or anything much happening around me; I was younger, or maybe it was because Papa was alive. The elders said, that it was the worst winter in a decade, it brought grief. Fishermen lost their lives and all too often the church bells tolled mournfully in the middle of the night if a body was washed ashore. The weather was as sad as we were. Because of my ‘condition’ any exertion -which meant play- was curtailed. It was rest and again rest, so it didn’t make much difference to me if it was cold or raining outside. When the weather was good, I could hear the children play. Summer in the island lasts long, a good thing, too, because young and old get busy in fields and sea; the youngsters, those who weren’t involved with the serious chores splashed away and were diving and most of the dive brought up their dinner! From a shaded, secluded corner on the balcony I watched with envy. Swimming was one of the ‘don’ts because of the mysterious ‘low grade’ fever! Late in the afternoon Aunt Popi would take me for short walks, one block or so, then back to the landing which was below our balcony to sit on the steps of the landing on the quay where night fishing boats unloaded their catch at dawn. We watched the sun go down behind the mountain and the sea change colors. "Breathe deeply," she would nudge me. I breathed just to make her feel good, but as far as I could judge I had caught myself breathing all the time, as a matter of habit. "Again, a deeper breath"! I did.

"Why?" I asked. She tried to explain that the sea had iodine which was good for my health. I looked at the sea carefully but I could in no way see the relation. Even the color did not resembled that of the stinking, stinging medicine they used on my knees when I fell, but who was I to question adult logic?

breathed deeply and couldn’t smell the iodine. As long as it didn’t hurt, I didn’t mind. Each time she poked, I breathed extending my lungs and coughing it out. It was a ‘cure’! Still, I

enjoyed watching the large fishing boats putt-putting

their way into the harbor and at the nearby wharf to unload the day’s catch. I knew that soon the night fishermen would leave, acetylene lamps dancing on the surf. Aunt Popi didn’t care to see the fish being unloaded because they jumped off the nets like silver coins. She wouldn’t even accept any that the fishermen gave us, it would require cleaning and she was very finicky about it. And she will be a doctor one day, Mama teased her. Aunt Popi was a know-it-all with a definite opinion on everything politics to social upheavals (not according to my mother) and

from

cooking, of which

she knew very little. Those walks to the sea and the breathing cure were one of her silly ideas. I went because I was told. It was also

a chance for me to get

out of the house. I had given up questioning their logic. I found obedience safer than arguing. I was too small to argue, so I was told. That October I went to school against my will, in spite of the nice blue uniform with the white collar they made for me. The two-room village school scared me because of the high walls and the teacher’s stern face. The loneliness and the terror of that classroom

were intense especially after the classroom door closed

with my mother outside and I was left

with the strange frowning

teacher and

teasing children of various ages. I panicked and ran to the door but Mama was gone! I scratched and kicked the door; the teacher made me sit next to a girl I

had not seen before. She smiled and was nice to me and defeated and alone I gave up and I cried a little. The teacher thought I was crying because I didn’t like school, but I was crying because I missed my father. I accepted my fate and, unhappy and sullen, I went to school every morning. It was hard; I could not understand everything that was said; the boys and girls in my class were seven year olds, I was only five and the

hours seemed

endless, I was frustrated. Once, feeling sleepy, I decided to go home but was caught and punished in a unique way. The teacher gave me a basket and asked me to go to the

yard to collect pebbles; another girl came to help. The school was

close to the harbor and shells were mixed with needed the pebbles

sand and pebbles. I thought we

for a game, but when I carried the lot inside, the teacher

spread the pebbles and shells on the floor in front of the platform where her desk was and made me kneel on them; then she placed her pointer in my hands and told me to hold it above my head! She used that pointer to hit the palms of the children who misbehaved. But the ‘game’ was painful and lasted too long; the teacher was glaring and the children were making faces and laughed. By then I had realized that it was no game. The pain on my bruised knees made me bite my lips so I wouldn’t cry. "Say you are sorry," the teacher but I felt I had done nothing wrong and also if Papa was around she wouldn’t do that to me. I stayed in that position until the bell rang. I was supposed to have learned a lesson. I didn’t! Going to the recess

early one afternoon, I realized that the smelly

outhouse was so full of excrement

bathroom at

contraption of an

that I was in danger of slipping and falling

into that black, stinking abyss. I took to the fields running to get to our bathroom at home and quickly return before I was missed. I had every intention of returning before they missed

me, but to my horror, I found our house locked and Mama gone. I stood in front of the door not knowing what to do, warm urine running down my legs. I couldn’t go to school like that. There was not a soul around. The little fishing boats moored for the winter bobbed up and down looking deserted. The café’s doors were closed, Mama was nowhere, a lone chestnut horse was drinking at the fountain; his master was not there, either. The horse drinking and the fountain gave me an idea. In a flash, I took off the wet pants and rinsed them in the fountain. The horse had finished and the drinking water was running fresh and free for the people to fill their jugs. I remember Mama’s shriek as she turned the corner with my aunt and was greeted by the small buttocks of her daughter rinsing out her

underwear.

CASTOR OIL AND BEER FOR BREAKFAST? Some people

may not remember how humanity took care of its ills before Science

came up with Penicillin, Streptomycin, the Sulfas and the myriad and one chemicals they pump into our sick bodies till we either get well or perish. In those days of my childhood we relied on forces and products that nature and the local midwife or the priest provided. The midwife’s cumulative expertise was the product of generations of practice, as was the barber’s whose leeches on one’s temples relieved symptoms of high blood pressure; not to mention the saints with their various specialties, or the lay exorcists for many diseases for which a doctor had no answer; that is if a doctor was available. Medicines were whatever grew in fields and mountains; then there were in the magical powers of roots and the tree bark or creatures of the sea, rivers and lakes. If nature didn’t produce the

expected miracle, there was always the highest medical technology: aspirin for fever, tobacco for bites and cuts, and quinine for malaria. Reigning above all, the miracle cure for any ailment, be that a mosquito or a snake bite, stomach cramps, pneumonia or ingrown nail; the super medicine: castor oil! The wisdom has come a long way since the ancient physicians. If a person is well, his

intestines

are clear, what better way to keep them clean than castor oil? (At this

writing, we do not laugh anymore.) One morning I awoke to the scratch of

the straw broom on the floor. Aunt Popi was sweeping and that was strange; floors were not swept while we were in the room, or so early in the morning. I asked her for my clothes to get dressed for school, hoping that the rain had stopped; I could go out and play later

on. Aunt Popi straightened her back and asked me a

crazy question. "Do you like beer?" Taken by surprise I said yes. "Yes, Mama let us have a sip at dinner when we stayed at that hotel in Patra." It was the time we were making the rounds of doctors and clinics for my ‘condition’, the low grade fever. "Can I have my clothes so I can go to school?" I asked again. "No school today," she said and handed me my clothes. "Get dressed and go to the dining room; we have a treat for you." No school, and a treat, what kind of a holiday is this, I thought and rushed to see the surprise. The ‘treat’ was a glass of beer. No food, nothing else, just a glass of beer with no foam. But what Nicky and I specifically liked was to get our faces

into the foam and get a

white

moustache. Since this is not a hotel and it is not a holiday, why have beer breakfast? Nicky was already sitting at the table examining the dark contents of his glass. From what I remembered beer was sort of blond. Nicky looked at me for encouragement, then bravely, took one little sip. He ran straight for the bathroom

crying: "What kind of beer is this?" I knew then what Nicky couldn't have known: they had done something

weird with the beer; the stuff that was in my glass and

looked too disgusting even to sniff, wasn’t just beer. Nicky was making a lot of noise throwing up in the bathroom in the veranda where the thin walled contraption of an outhouse was. Beer, I reasoned, was served for lunch and dinner or in the afternoon with cheese and bread, squids and sardines, or olives. Beer for breakfast? Normal children like us drank milk or ate boiled rice or eggs and adults had coffee or tea with buttered bread or polenta or eggs. With that wisdom I argued my case. Mama wouldn’t listen. "But this is castor oil," I shouted, "and I’m not sick." They didn’t listen to my arguments. I heard of the castor oil treatment at school but Nicky wasn’t in school yet so he had

no idea what he was in for.

"Nonsense," Mama answered trying to force the glass past my pressed lips. She was still promising chocolates and a new doll and oranges when I wiggled out of her hold and into my Aunt Melania’s arms who stopped me at the door. I was trapped! They had called in reinforcements, Aunt Melania, the heavy artillery! I loved my sweet aunt but at that moment when I knew the purpose of her early morning visit, she was the last person I wanted to see. I wanted out! I was a small sized girl and she was a large woman in contrast to my smallish, quiet, gentle Uncle Philip. My aunt Melania was a commanding figure, dark skinned and impressive like an Egyptian priestess. She had large gray eyes full of love and care. Her hair was as coarse as a horse’s tail. A humongous knot kept it all, or tried to, in place, in the back of her head with oversize, scary looking combs and pins. She swept me like a rag doll with ease into her huge embrace, walked into the kitchen and sat on a chair in the middle of the red and white tiled floor with me

on her lap. She tried to make me drink the vile stuff but nothing would open my lips or teeth. She asked for a funnel...I was still looking around the kitchen when that terrible tool of torture got into my mouth taking me by surprise. I decided

at that moment never to let my curiosity get the best of me. She poured

the horrible liquid into the

funnel. Desperate, I sealed the hole with my tongue

while Aunt Melania’s face had the ecstatic look of a torturer. When the glass was empty, I blew the contents out of the funnel and foaming alcohol and oil on the floor; all three their faces and

found myself

in a puddle of

women got hold of rags and mops;

hair spattered. Squatting in my own mess I watched them with

glee. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself but soon the three women turned to me hissing

like angry cats, and soiled as I was they picked me up like another

rag, threw me into my bed and pulled up the side rails. The click of the rails was as final as an angry exclamation point to a judge’s decision on my penalty. I knew the punishment was bed! This was a real jail! And I wasn’t even sick. Nicky’s face looked at me

between the rails of his bed, his eyes sad, questioning: "what have

we done now?" He looked like a prisoner. He had thrown up needlessly after swallowing some of that vile stuff and

now he was really ill.

I didn’t mind the punishment, really. I was spared the ordeal of the cure for I don’t know what sickness, and that was enough. Anyway, it was raining again and we wouldn’t be able to go out. (Nicky and I never touched beer after that day.)

OUR FATHER...’ Each night

before bed time Mama taught us how to pray slowly, patiently. The

church language wasn’t the everyday language people spoke in the street or school, Modern Greek. When we prayed the usual church prayers, we weren’t sure what we were saying; we obliged by mouthing words to Mama’s satisfaction. That was the way I had learned the National anthem, at least I thought so. The poet had something entirely different in mind when he wrote his hymn to liberty; I was ten before I had it right. The anthem was in modern Greek, but no one had taught the words to me, and I used my discretion and imagination singing words that made no sense but I thought that was the way I heard them. At school we began the day with the prayer "Our Father...“ and then sang the National Anthem. I mouthed them both, and I was sure that the father we were talking to up in haven was my father because my mother said that was where my father had gone. Each night after prayer with my head under the pillow I told my father everything that happened to me or around me during the day. I had started that since my attempts to go meet him were foiled by my fear of heights. Also, whenever we did something ‘not nice’ or wrong in my mother’s opinion, she would turn her eyes towards haven and with martyrdom such as the one portrayed on the faces of saints in the icons, would point up saying in a husky, pained voice: "Your father up there is listening; you don’t want to upset him, do you?" We certainly did not! Soon we moved to another house one block further because Nicky played too close to the water and needed constant supervision; the house had too many sad memories for all of us, anyway; each time the door opened we almost ran to meet Papa. Mama was always sad. I remember a very painful evening before he died when even though I almost lost a finger, I didn’t care because he was there. He often took off after supper to join my uncle and their friends at the coffee house for a cup of wine or coffee or just to chat. Every adult male was there evenings, summer or

winter, the cafe was the only form of entertainment after a dull, monotonous day of hard work. There, they discussed and solved the world’s problems from farming and fishing to national and World affairs. Women had no place there; theirs was the ‘kingdom’ of the home! Children, nurturing, house management, nutrition. One couldn’t trust a woman’s judgement on serious business, anymore than play cards with his own wife. Even my dedicated ’woman emancipator‘ father had to succumb to the centuries old cultural habit. Nicky was already asleep and I was in my pajamas, bathed, ready for bed. I was allowed to stay a while to watch Mama chop the meat for next day’s meal. The pieces of meat she put in the grinder that was fastened to the edge of the table, emerged from the little holes at the other end slender ribbons like red rain. Fascinated, I asked Mama if I could help and she gave me a few cloves of garlic to prepare hoping that I would soon be bored. She underestimated me. The garlic was soon a neat little white mount; then I asked if I can put it in the grinder and she nodded. I did! The scream that came out of my mouth awoke the village. Mama was in shock, frozen still, staring at my hand minus the tip of my left ring finger gushing blood into the meat grinder. The idea crossed my mind that my my finger was already ground with the chopped meat and the

garlic. Neighbors

rushed upstairs, my father came and so did my uncle. The coffee house was emptied, everyone from the neighborhood were crowding into our dining room. My mother sat on a chair holding me tight, suffocating me. Papa pushed everyone aside and had to fight Mama’s hold to wrench me free. He ran out into the cold night with me in his arms shouting at my uncle to retrieve the rest of the finger. It seemed that half the village followed us in their nightclothes. I shivered in my father’s arms but from up there I could see the sea dark in the distance, and little waves licking the flagstones nearby. My father was crying, I wondered why he cried; I had

stopped crying because I was in no pain. "My God," he said, "not a doctor in this place!" He knocked at the door of the pharmacist, and others joined him, until the funny little short man in a long nightgown and white cap rushed downstairs wiping his eyeglasses. I didn’t think he was very funny when he tried to saw my finger to the tip my uncle had salvaged unhurt from the mass of ground meat. He washed it carefully, boiled thread and needle and sewed it onto place not bothered by my anguished hoarse screams. When he finished he put medication on it and taped some sort of crude splinter to keep it straight. Dozens of people outside suffered with me. The pharmacists gave me a piece of hard candy but I was too exhausted to enjoy it; after a lick or two I fell asleep. That I have a whole finger, even crooked, I owe to our funny little pharmacist; he and the midwife were the health officials in our village. I outgrew the fright and the pain, but it took the psychiatric powers of every fortune teller on the island to get Mama’s sanity back. There were no windows or a balcony facing the water in the new house and I missed the fishing boats leaving at dusk, returning at sunup, the octopus flung and beaten on the flagstones, for quite a while until the froth of its anger was gone and the flesh became tender; the silver scales clinging on the nets drying or being mended on sunny days. The new house was more rural than ‘nautical’, as my mother put it. The large garden was surrounded by a high fence and birds were nesting on the quince, the cherry and the almond trees. There was a young lemon tree and a very tall mulberry tree in the middle of the garden with juicy, black fruit. Our neighbor was raising silk worms on its broad leaves Mama said, and warned us to stay away from that tree. That way we avoided carrying the messy fruit droppings into the house that

stained mats and tiles. We left the ‘silk’ tree alone and climbed on the other trees, we swung from their branches, shook them for fruit; we caught cicadas on the

tree trunks and tortured them and on

hot summer afternoons

sleep overtook

us by mistake in their shade. The trees needed no attention which was just as well; Mom treated them with the same indifference she treated the flowers in the garden and everything else on the planet Earth except her children. She came out to the garden only to draw water from the well, or to call us in, or sometimes when the evening was hot she sat outside for a breath of fresh air for a little while. Her husband was dead! Nature had no right to be extravagant, flaunting colors and smells and beauty when her heart and soul were in deep mourning and grief. Yet, the trees and the flowers continued to flourish, without her assistance in spite of her indifference. When some years later I learned about the Garden of Eden –before the sin- in my catechism, it was that garden which came to mind. Mama said that our father was in Haven; we knew that from the prayer, but I was curious to know

what he was doing

there. She told us that he was with the angels. "Sitting on clouds and stars..." Nicky concluded seriously. "The stars", Mama informed us, "are candles. Angels are holding them so that your father can look down and see what you are doing.“

Up to that point the story

was fine, but it began to get scary. Nicky refused to sleep in our room and I was hallucinating. The moment I closed my eyes I would see an angel leaning on my bed rails sometimes shaking an accusing finger; I would wake up screaming in fear. It was one thing to remember Papa with love, to miss him and cry for him, and another to learn that he was spying on us from up there, employing the holy personnel of paradise. Mama tyrannized us according to our crime. With all the passion she had for

her children and the nurturing she gave us, she would at the bat of an eyelash scare the hell out of us; she would place a holy icon on the pillow, then tell Nicky that the icon had come down from the altar all by itself to tell him that Father was displeased with his son. As a teenager, Nicky was still afraid to enter a dark room alone. My mother had asked her widow friend next door to throw a few pebbles on our roof on rainy nights if when we misbehaved and the thought that Papa was sending us angry messages terrified us. Once we must have done something really terrible because as darkness fell she announced that she was leaving us; we were very bad, she said. She put on her good black dress and silk stockings and the black suede hat that had a feather on its side covering her blond hair. "Where are you going, Mama?" Nicky asked. He hadn’t understood what she meant. "Up the mountain," she said vaguely. I was struck dumb. Up the mountain meant where Papa was. We were on our knees at once not knowing what it was we had done. She buttoned her black shoes and it did not occur to either of us to tell her that she wouldn’t make it to the next block with those high heels; and at night, no less. We cried, we promised. I don’t remember if we kept the promise because I can’t remember the crime. All I remember is that for years we suffered the terror of that night and the insecurity, the fear of abandonment and of being totally alone. (Those days, the parents used the power of the choking, possessive love in order to ‘protect’ their children. That must have carried some sort of magic, else, this world of ours would be a moving mental institution.)

LIGHTS Uncle Philip

was re-elected President of the Village Council. Because of the

commotion and the electioneering I learned about people who were responsible enough to take care of the business of the village collectively. The one Sunday I remember, the men of the village climbed up to the Courthouse, open for the elections, held that day after church, to vote for the Council President, then went to my uncle’s house to congratulate him and wish him well. He treated everyone with desserts, coffee, ouzo or wine as they filed in and out of the house all day. He won again and again; he was running unopposed! The most ambitious of my uncle’s endeavors in order to improve the quality of life, were two: to modernize the village by bringing in electricity, and to make our harbor navigable which would be an undertaking even more gigantic than electricity. Everyone agreed that ships should drop anchor within the harbor where passengers would board or disembark without running the risk of being tossed overboard from rowboats and swinging rope ladders. After many trips to Patra, Athens and Piraeus, the Electric Power Building was finished and at work. It was a big, white structure with barred windows, hundreds of wires and strange looking engines housed in metal boxes in the yard at the far side of the harbor. It was just as well because engines and motors made enough noise to wake up the dead; electricity was shut off at night for economy’s sake. The coffee house which stayed open late used the acetylene lamps. At times, especially at noon when all was quiet the village resounded with the noise of the ticking off a gigantic clock; or the magnified staccato of the engines of a large fishing fleet. Small price to pay for such ‘first-time’ luxury! The ‘Company’ brought a new kind of life into the village; it activated

business and enterprising souls. A Greek

American whose dream of gold in the streets

hadn’t materialized during his years

in Detroit, built an oil press mill. Its presses ran with electricity instead of the blindfolded team of mules that

turned

the wheel crushing the olives between

the two gigantic round stones. "This is the gold", he said proudly at the opening. “Heavenly, blessed gold called oil, one doesn’t see in the streets of Detroit.“ There was a general agreement and all applauded. The wheat mill at the outskirts of the village was rebuilt, all electric! The sails, spinning with the wind’s power, were now a memory; electricity became the energy that turned wheat or corn into flour to feed the people and the animals. Gales had shredded the sails in the past, or smashed the axles, but ‘man’ was now master of his fate. The miller was at his busiest in the summer after the harvest, but he worked all year. More people began bringing their wheat, corn and millet as the need arose and paid the miller in kind. He then sold his surplus from my uncle’s store; salaried people, mostly government employees and strangers or vacationers, bought their staples from the store. For those who did not bake at home, which was rather unusual, the bakery had fresh bread daily. After olive picking in October the oil presses worked full speed almost day and night. Alex was a friend of our family. He was almost my uncle’s age with a ready smile and a kind heart. He had gone to the Teachers’ Academy in Athens but changed his mind and returned to the island an electrician at which point the matchmakers worked overtime and the girls watched him from behind drawn curtains. He was loved by everyone in the village because of his kindness but I knew, he only loved me. He had taught me most of the Greek I knew. He would take me and Nicky for walks, buy us candy and ice cream and tell us stories. He was the only one after my father died, who could carry me on his shoulders, like Papa did, without

difficulty. I didn’t seem to be heavy for him and he never said: ‘you are a big girl now,’ or, better yet, that being carried on someone’s shoulders was one of those things girls ‘don’t do.’ No one likes me any more, I thought. The more I thought of it the more it hurt; I sulked and frowned on a permanent basis, a face critical of everything and everyone. Who can love a scowling girl, pick her up, kiss and carry her? Eventually, Alex became the main force behind the Electric Company, he ran it

and dedicated his life to it; he brought in electricians from the city to

have the village wired bringing lights into homes and the streets. When that was finished there was a huge celebration. The village looked different in lights, beautiful!

CURIOSITY AND FAST LEGS Many wonderful

things can happen with electricity, Alex had told the people

and one afternoon in our house between munching and sipping ouzo, he told us the great news. A Charlie Chaplin movie would be shown in the school yard. For days the village buzzed with excitement. Most had only heard of cinema from newspapers. Now they were to really enjoy one which would be shown by a professional, contracted for that purpose with all his equipment. The audience would provide their own seats. Excited like the rest, I walked to school early in the morning and hung around with the children crowding the locked gate, holding on to the rails as they peered into the empty sun scorched yard. Nothing could be seen nor heard from the closed building but no one was leaving. I was the only one who had an idea that a cinema

is shapes moving on a sheet like the shadow theater, only better; there were live people, not wooden figures like the puppet theater. The memory was fading and America was far, in thought and distance. Athena sneaked into the street from the rear yard of the school; no one walked through those muddy fields, and when she came close she raised a black strip against the sun. What marvel! Tiny figures were crowded in small squares, like a see through photograph. "It’s part of the film they’ll show tonight," she said. "Then why do you have it?" I was dying with envy. I wanted a film like that. "The man with the cameras was cutting small pieces from a big roll." "How did you get it?" "The man gave it to me. I went through the back just to look, but

he saw me

and he called me in, he is nice." "There is no door there," I said. Athena took me to the back where the smelly outhouse was and showed me the tree stump she had used to climb the wall to the roof of the outhouse and then jump into the yard. "Easy!" I couldn’t believe it. It was easy for her; she could climb like a cat, I didn’t trust heights. "He won’t give me one, anyway," I shrugged. “Yes, he will, he will. He is throwing them out." Minutes later I was watching the man cut films and wind reels. He smiled when he saw me. Bent under a floodlight, he looked busy. He straightened up and came to me. "Are you looking for something?” He asked smiling. "Can I have a piece of film please?" I asked. "Sure, come on in." He put his cigarette in the ashtray, took a handful of

strips in his hand and sat on a chair with me on his lap. "What’s your name?” He asked and then, “do you like films?" I was in a hurry to get the films that I forgot the first part of the question and only said out of breath: “Yes!” I lied, but I forgot to tell him my name. I had never seen

film

before. Suddenly, I felt uneasy, a little nervous, the man was holding me too close his cigarette breath stank, and he was panting. My heart began to pound, the more I wiggled trying to get breathing space, the tighter he held on to me. That, and his sudden silence frightened me. Everything was silence! All doors and windows were closed. If I yell, I thought, no one will hear me, I was small, on my own, just past my seventh birthday and trapped. "I watched him curiously as he unbuttoned his pants and something popped out, like a Jack-in-the-box. That didn’t look at all like my brother’s ‘cookie’; things so large and ugly were seen hanging from between the hind legs of mules and donkeys. "Touch it!" his voice was low, raspy, almost pleading. Yach, how revolting! His panting didn’t look normal to me; a person pants when

running fast upstairs

or coughs. I pulled back. I wasn’t going to touch that ugly dangerous looking thing. What if it was a snake? "No"! I cried in a loud voice. "It’s dirty and stupid." He laughed. Suddenly, I realized that he wasn’t kind; he was the wolf speaking politely to Little Red Riding Hood. Athena had said that he was a kind man. "Touch it!" There was no kindness in that command. And that ‘thing’ moved like the bamboo reeds near the river. The sound of his voice rang a bell of danger. I didn’t know what kind of a danger.. "Did Athena touch it?" I asked trembling. Actually, I didn’t care at that moment if Athena had touched ‘it’. I needed to gain time until someone came to

rescue me, I hoped. Where is Alex? I wondered. "Sure she did," he said. "Why do you think I gave her the film?" Liar, I thought, Athena would have told me. "I don’t want any," I cried, "let me go." "No," he shouted and tightened his hold; he was hurting me and I wanted to yell, to cry, I was terrified. He yanked the strips away and tried to press my hand against that ‘thing’; I fought him with all my strength. A few seconds, that was all it took; he leaned over to push the ashtray with his cigarette out of his way and I felt the slack in his hold. Like lightning I flew out of his arms. A ‘rabbit’ Aunt Melania had called me because I outran everyone. The man made an effort to follow me into the yard but when he saw the children at the gate and people in the street he turned and went inside. I was scared beyond words, but I had used my brain when I made an exit. Had I exited

the way I had come in,

climbing and leaping over the wall, I would be trapped in the back yard at his mercy. Now, he didn’t dare follow me out in the open in full view of the village with that ‘thing’ dangling between his legs like a donkey. I couldn’t go out through the locked gate so I climbed the stone fence and didn’t even feel the shards of broken glass imbedded in the cement to keep people out at night that shredded my dress and left my legs bloody. The children waited for me to tell them what I saw but I ran; they followed me for a while, wondering apparently how I got into that mess, but soon gave up, as my legs did and I had to stop. I could see no one around and I was away from the village, on the opposite direction from home

near the fields and the groves, too tired to move any

further. Still trembling, I leaned against the trunk of because I had escaped from death; whatever that

an old tree alarmed

danger was I was running from,

wouldn’t have happened if Papa was there, I thought. I threw up. My legs were weak

and bloody; the scratches were hurting, I began to sob, I was still afraid. I raised my head in fear when a shadow darkened the sunlight. There was Alex with

his bike. I breathed a sigh of relief then I laughed because people don’t

ride their bikes on hillsides where there are not paths. He looked bad as he stammered: “Wha...what happened? W..ho did this?” And then:

"The boys told me,

I’ve been running after you. How come you are hurt?" I began to cry I couldn’t talk, not to him, to anyone. He wiped the blood off my legs with his handkerchief. "Is that it?" he asked; he seemed relieved and he smiled. "Are you crying because of this? Don’t worry,

we’ll fix it". He picked me up. I hugged him and

cried louder. I hid my face in his collar as I did to Papa’s when he was still here, but with all the comfort I felt, I couldn’t stop crying. He secured the bike against the tree and left it there then carried me downhill into the village. The chocolate he bought at the store didn’t help. I ate it, I hiccuped, sniffed and continued to cry my silent tears as if someone had opened a faucet. Nothing hurt, and Alex kept talking to me softly reassuring me. He bought me colored pencils he knew I liked, a toy bell, even a ball and a small kite. Then he put a shiny object in front of me and that did the trick. It was a round chrome, beautiful inkwell. I didn’t own a pen and didn’t know how to use it, but the inkwell was an impressive toy to own. Alex saw the change;

he put me down and went to pay, then sat on the

floor with me and we played turning and spinning the inkwell and watching it land straight side up without spilling a drop of ink whichever way we flung it. I was ecstatic. "Now, we go home," he said getting up off the floor, "your mother will worry." We walked the long way through fields and threshing floors and I held on to my small treasure leaping happily as if nothing had happened. At the beach we waded in the shallow water, caught a porcupine and raced it, then went deeper and

got all wet. My cuts were stinging. "Now," he said, "we really must go, Mama will be looking for you.” We began to run. Just before we reached the archway to our house he stopped, his face grim. "Look baby," he said, "you must talk to me, tell me what happened today." I shook my head; he was spoiling all the fun. I didn’t want to tell or to talk, to remember that horrible man. "Are you in pain?" I shook my head. We walked to the fishermen’s landing where my aunt and I usually sat breathing in the ‘iodine’. He gave me a handful of pebbles and showed me how to throw them and skim the top of the waves. That game of ‘fishies’ was fun. How can anyone hit the waves, I thought, when they melt before they reach us. We tossed pebbles and he laughed and joked. Meanwhile, gently, he was asking me about my morning. I told him everything that had happened, without the drama, casually, without feeling, or pain; the sordid details came out, as if that had happened to someone else, or as if I was explaining a game. It was over and I was having fun, too absorbed trying to catch a wave to hit. I almost hit one and I turned to tell him, down his cheeks. He was hurting someplace and

but saw tears running

wasn’t telling.

"Are you hurt?" I asked embarrassed to ask an adult if he hurt. "No," he said, "are you?" I said no. "I ran fast," I added, "the man couldn’t catch me." "I want to ask you a very special favor," he said seriously. "You must promise." I nodded. "Never tell this story to anyone." I nodded again, but then I said: "I didn’t make it up, you know, that’s what the man did." He believed me. "Listen," he said as we got up to go. "Did you ever hear the word ‘kill’?" Yes, I had seen the butcher, Mr. Rassias, take a steer in the back yard and I followed him. He raised an ax and with a deadly blow he decapitated the cow. The

poor animal fell with a heavy thud with a heart rendering groan. Alex understood. "That’s not killing. It’s slaughtering an animal for food, like your father did, hunting. Do you understand?" I did. "But," he continued, "if your uncle hears of this, he will kill the man". I jumped. People don’t kill people, I murmured and he shook his head sadly. I could see the technician’s head on the ground, blood oozing and his body falling heavy like the steer. "Your uncle might be taken to jail for life." That was horrible. Jails were for thieves. I had seen the Court on Mondays where people were tried for stealing animals.

Those things were beyond

me; they belonged to another world. My uncle was not like those people. He was the President! If he went to jail I would lose another man of my family. No, one was enough. I promised Alex not to tell anyone, not even Mom, he could rely on me. I knew then that we would have to lie to

my mother about my cuts and the dress.

“We’ll tell Mama a little lie”, he said. “We will say that you fell off my bike.” I nodded, it didn’t matter. There was surprise and disappointment that day when, without an explanation the man was seen loading his cameras and lights in two little boats and making for the afternoon boat. Stunned, everyone stared in disbelief.

It would have been

their first Charlie Chaplin movie, mine as well! “This child’s curiosity will be her doom." I heard it often enough on many occasions. Then the usual phrase followed..."not good for a girl". A girl listened, learned and kept her mouth shut. Since I didn’t believe that people were born with the answers already stamped in their brains, I assumed that somebody had to tell me things; if they didn’t volunteer I had to ask. "Your curiosity will get you in trouble someday," Aunt Popi prophesied; it almost did, but, dull child that I was, and with undying curiosity, I was also endowed with the divine gift of quick wits and a pair of fast legs. The day came

that those two gifts saved me from the disaster my curiosity almost caused me, and of which no one but Alex knew.

MILITSA Militsa

and her family lived almost next door to us. ’Almost‘ because a yard

of weeds with a discarded rotting fishing boat and a thorny bush separated us. We couldn’t see her house. She was about 18, a tall girl with long unruly blond wind-blown hair; people said she would never marry because she was clumsy like a bull in a china shop with large feet, were always bare and callused from trekking uphill with the goats or working in the fields. That family hardly rested, they were always working. Her fishermen father and brother earned enough to keep them alive in that small but clean, whitewashed hut. Militsa and her mother took care of the house, kept the goats for milk and the chickens for eggs. Some of their products were sold to neighbors on special holidays; they relied mostly on fish for survival. Without a dowry, everyone thought, Militsa was doomed to a lonely life. Then something happened that changed all that: Aunt Popi said it was true what they said that ‘God is always looking after birds and poor idiots.’ But Aunt Popi envied anyone whose luck changed for the better, like Militsa’s did. The girl went up the hill

one morning to cut fresh shoots from the berry

bushes to feed her goats. It had rained the night before, the earth was soft and she slipped and tumbled down the hillside, trying to break her fall by holding on to bushes. The last bush further down that stopped her fall gave out and she landed on a rock.

Getting up, all scratched and sore, she noticed the

strange clay pot old, dirty and cracked, embedded in the roots of the bush. She sat on the muddy ground examining her find. Such a thing she had never seen before, and she knew clay. She couldn’t understand why it was buried where there was no cemetery nearby. Bruised and bewildered she went home with the pot secured on the round mat on the top of her head, well covered by the bush. Her hair was matted with mud and thorns, her feet were bleeding and her dress torn. When her mother recovered from the shock, she closed the door and carefully broke the neck of the pot. Gold coins gushed out, golden rain, rolling on the table, under the table and under the bed and all over the floor while the two stunned women followed them with their eyes. Silently, tears running down their faces, they hugged and kissed. They would not be poor anymore. Carefully, they examined the coins; they were odd pieces, never seen before. Strange bearded faces, strange letters. The neighbors came. No use trying to keep such secrets from neighbors; they, too, rejoiced, offered advice; soon the village was buzzing, getting ready for celebrations; slaughter the goats, drink barrels of wine, get a new boat, send for the matchmaker. The joy was short-lived, it died abruptly when the gendarme arrived to ‘investigate’. They confiscated the treasure. They were hissed at, glared at, but authority was authority even though they were never around when needed and always underfoot when no one wanted the dreaded police. The pot, they explained roughly, was considered a national

treasure and would

be sent to the Archaeological Society in Athens. No one believed them; when they left, they were followed by sullen faces and vile cursing, women shook their heads sadly; dreams began to evaporate, the suitors’ line seemed to

shrink and finally disappeared. That was that, the girl had no luck! One by one they left quietly. Soon after, Militsa’s father bought a brand new blue and white fishing boat and Militsa’s name was painted on the prow in red alongside two gorgons. His son inherited the old boat. Militsa wore

her new shoes in church, they

pinched, she was in agony as she walked with a pained look on her face and a slight limp. She even had her hair trimmed to a decent length, enough not to have the village tongues wagging. She really began to look good. The ‘mindless’, clumsy girl had proven shrewd enough to hide a few coins. Who would know the difference? Everyone looked the other way; perhaps the police did, too. The matchmaker was happily making the rounds.

I don’t remember the outcome!

‘THE KING AND I’ It was

a beautiful Sunday morning in the summer. The white yacht with the

foreign flag was anchored far out in the bay. It was a visit one doesn’t see even once in a lifetime; people crammed the flagstones stretching their necks to see the royal yacht, no rowboat was to leave its mooring. The two large foreign ships anchored at the entrance to the bay, their colorful little flags swaying in the light breeze gray and threatening, guarded both

the British

royal yacht and us. A mysterious hush-hush was about and my uncle was called to the telegraph office. As the news spread, the humble fishing port became a hub of activity. As if a giant had stepped on an anthill and the dazed ants ran from one side to the other not really knowing which way to go. Is he coming

ashore? What does a British King look like? How do we converse with him, how do we treat him? The port buzzed. My uncle was to go to the yacht I don’t know for what reason, and he hurried to our house holding his sore stomach. Another attack, Mama said. "Get Elena dressed," he panted, and then, "her best dress. The royal yacht, the

royal yacht..." "What?" Mom asked surprised. The word ‘royal’ always churned my mother’s

anti-royal stomach. "What does Elena have to do with royalty?" "She is coming with me, to be my interpreter." There was a loud roar from my

mother and my brother, but I think I laughed the loudest. Me? Translate?

With the ‘how do you do,’ ‘laundry,’ ‘shut up,’ "I am hungry," ‘nice horsy’...what do I tell a king? The only knowledge of kings I had was the mythical realm of fairytale kingdoms somewhere in dreamland where everything was always perfect and despite an occasional witch or monster, or stepmother, it always ended

happily. Birds and other animals talked, even the frogs; there

were dwarfs and ogres and no one needed an interpreter. Magic made everything work out; on the other hand, I thought, what if this is magic! a real flesh and bone king in our port looking at us and I’ll get to meet him! I got more nervous than my uncle. "Is the princess with him?" No one answered. Would I see the princes? What do I do if I see her? Mom made me wear my white organza

dress and combed

my black curls. I made my way through the crowds to the rowboat holding on to my uncle’s hand. The men rowed to the yacht, the only noise was the oars hitting the water, then I saw the king on the deck of his yacht leaning against the rails.

The men threw the rope onto the yacht and then I saw him, tall and slim in his blue

bathing suit. He smiled; the afternoon sun made his blond hair look

golden. He was a young man, almost as young as my uncle. He was waving to the crowds ashore smiling all the time. "Why isn’t he going ashore?" I asked. "He is a king," my uncle said, and I assumed that he needed a horse. How else do kings ride? We did not have a royal coach the village, like Cinderella’s. "He is wearing his bathing suit," the oarsman added. Of course, that, too. No king would walk into a crowd in a bathing suit. We climbed up the ladder. My uncle looked stricken by awe, I was not fully aware of the importance of a royal visit, the politics of his presence escaped me, but a fairytale had come true and that was exciting. Of course, there was no velvet cape with fur trimmings, and no crown on his head or staff in his hand. Worse yet, there was no princess around. The king gave me his hand. I spoke to him and he spoke to me,

that much I remember but I have no idea what we said; probably meaningless

words, sounds from my part, but Uncle Philip was impressed, ecstatic; he conducted his official business with someone aboard the craft, and a few minutes below with the photographers turned around

later, we left with a final handshake. I

for a last look as we sailed past his boat and he waved.

"What does ‘King of England’ mean, Uncle Philip?" I asked. "It’s like this. When you grow old you will tell your grandchildren that you shook hands with the king of England." "Yes, but what fairytale is he from?" I still couldn’t make the connection. My uncle tried to explain in his own way the various political systems of the

then

world; I thought I understood a little when he said that Greece had its

own king and I knew about it because I heard people either curse him or sing his praises in patriotic songs. My mother called him a ‘foreigner’ and that I didn’t understand either. "What is a Greece, Uncle Philip?" "Another fairytale, an old, old fairytale," he said pensively as he helped me out of the rowboat. "Someday you will find out," he continued, "when you’ve been to school long enough." Something didn’t look right that day. I saw no princess and

as far as I knew, a king could not be a king without a crown and

a princess to marry. “What was that all about?” Mama asked Uncle Philip. “Why did they call for you?” “I think it was just to take photographs to show his country that his Highness spoke with the natives of this country in their poor island.” He coughed. “And you had to use my daughter for that?” she furiously took my dress off pulling my curls until they hurt, then she told me she was sorry. Soon after, King Edward abdicated before his coronation and married the American

widow not of royal blood. It didn’t make any difference to me one way

or another, but it was a riot watching my aunt as she leaned dreamily on the window sill, chin

resting on cupped hand, singing the craze of the year: "for

the woman he loves one forsakes palaces and crowns." And I grew up an anti-royalist like my mother forsaking thus the dubious honor of boasting that once I shook hands with the king of England!

THE NEW FORD The first

private car that arrived in our parts of the woods was the FORD, a

Model T Uncle Philip had ordered because it was fashionable and which had arrived in the big city and then traveled through mountains to get to our village. The only other vehicle was the taxi. Uncle Philip believed that if he cranked the car and got behind the wheel he could drive anywhere but found to his disappointment that he also had to know how to drive it; he decided to wait because the roads were narrow and the car wouldn’t turn on its own accord and, anyway, since there were no sidewalks people walked on the road, and so did flocks and herds that crossed any time, so he postponed the ‘learning’ and suffered his wife’s teasing and the neighbors poking fun at him. "When will we see some dust from the wheels?" They kept their windows closed. "In time, in time, when the herds move to the summer paddocks in the mountain." Uncle Philip would answer. The car was securely parked under the almond tree in the field adjacent to his store, surrounded by sprouting shoots of squash, eggplants and roses, as summers came and went. "When?" asked his wife anxious for a ride. She never rode it. "Melania, don’t bother me, do you want to have an accident? There are children around, what if I kill or injure one, or hit an animal God forbid." My aunt crossed herself and spit on the ground to dispel the evil thought. Inch by inch the tires sank into the ground; the workers dug and planted around it in the summer, the car was not disturbed. Bugs, insects, worms, snakes and

larger animals as well as the elements had worked through the leather and tufts of

stuffing burst through the seams. For us, it was a favorite hideout. We played hide and seek one afternoon and I went in the car to hide. I

knew nothing about insects, bugs or the wasps whose nest I disturbed when I decided to investigate the buzzing on the back seat. I was attacked with such sudden fierceness, I didn’t know what hit me. Within minutes my face was swollen, my eyes shut and I was in excruciating pain; It was hard to breathe, and my cousins and our friends scared by the sight, ran away. Olga, the old widow whose house, surrounded by fig trees, stood between the two fields, heard my cries and stepped out of her cottage. She found me in shock, with a face so frozen I couldn’t afford the grimace of pain or tears. She murmured a prayer, crossed herself and swiftly, took my pants off. I wasn’t able to resist though I knew she was looking at the wrong place; it was my face, not my butt that was badly stung! Olga held me by the haunches, and made me squat close to

ground but not

touching. "Piss!" she said urgently. She is crazy, I thought. "No, no," I fought. "Go on, I tell you, make pipi!" "I don’t have to," I cried, but she kept shaking me and I knew I wouldn’t get

away. Out of fear I did. With her bare hands, Olga worked urine and soil

into a paste and despite my kicks she slathered it over my bruised face unmindful of my agonizing groans.

Miraculously, the pain subsided and within

minutes I was able to open my eyes. Slowly, the edema calmed and the pain passed; by the time I went home I was half way recognizable, even if I stank.

ANOTHER UNCLE Strapped

to the saddle of a mule, Nicky and I, with Mom following sidesaddle

on another mule with our valise secured on the other side, took off for Papa’s village early one morning. Papa’s village was on the top of the mountain, that I knew, but I didn’t know how far that was. Mama had awakened us that morning before dawn and while she was dressing us told us that we were going on a trip. We were too sleepy to ask anything and she continued to tell us that we were visiting grandma and our uncles and cousins in Papa’s village. I liked going on trips and had never been to that village; the thought that Papa was buried there brought a secret flutter in my heart. What if Papa had escaped after all and we were to see him? Mama was in no mood to talk and there was no question and answer time while riding. We reached the crossroads before sunup. The mules turned left and began their slow ascend uphill sure of their destination. They went through hillsides and valleys and dangerously narrow turns. We were going to my father’s summer home because, as I found out soon after, he and his brothers were sending money from America to marry off one sister, to buy property and goats and to build a summer house for whoever of the brothers returned. Only my father returned but died soon. Meanwhile, Uncle Nicolas, the younger brother, had used the money to buy more animals, goats and sheep; he built a house for himself and a barn. The property was legally his and Papa knowing his brother, had sent Uncle Philip to the American Embassy with a corrected Will a little before dying to make sure that we had a summer house in his mountain village.

That was the night I was sent to fetch him. The

effort proved fruitless because the will was not witnessed or finalized, but Uncle Nicolas in the village had no way of knowing that. He never paid attention to law, he had his own code of justice, that of his knife and force. I donâ€™t think Mama understood that. According to Uncle Nicolas, whatever was his brotherâ€™s was his by rights after his brotherâ€™s death. All these little intricate details came to me by bits and pieces as I was growing up. At that time I understood and cared for very little and it is little that I retained in my memory of the painful subject. After my father died the whole family concentrated on keeping my mother alive. Uncle Nicolas brought his mule and cart down to our village, broke into the house and began to empty it of our belongings except for the heavy furniture. Our neighbors were in church that Sunday morning, or in bed, but as the heavily loaded cart began moving sluggishly up the road, those who first came out of the church, recognized him and alerted the men who got hold of the mule, unloaded the cart and took everything upstairs boarding doors and windows while Uncle Nicolas watched them with a sinister smile, brandishing his famous knife. Ignoring his cursing, they approached him and told him to get his horse and cart out of the village. After two hours of scaling the mountain we reached the village, a gray rocks, unyielding, wild looking, forbidding. The few

mount of

houses nested at the

slope of the great mountain, green with the special, rare cedar trees. Little hills with wild

bushes surrounded the village with a mantle of wilderness. Not

a garden or a tree, just rocks; even the road was carved out of stones. The air had a special perfumed quality, I felt I was floating as I rocked on the saddle with sleeping Nicky leaning on me. It was my first ride on a mule and my back

had begun to hurt with the constant rocking movement. The thought that we were on top of the world though, was fascinating. I was sure I could see the whole world if the big mountain wasn’t on the way, if only the world would shrink a little...I looked down where I expected to see the whole island, our valley and our village and hills but

all I could see were fluffy white clouds scudding

across beneath our feet. If those clouds picked up their shreds to go dance somewhere else, move out of my way I would see everything. "Mom," I called turning my head to see her following close by, she was turning on the last bend. “Did we just go through those clouds?" She turned to look down. "Sure did," she said. What a revelation! I thought anyone who himself in the clouds would never come back, or would sprout angel. But I was still on the mule holding on to my was shining, above the clouds, so I

got

wings like an

little brother and the sun

must be in haven.

"Mom!" "Yes," she looked absentminded as she squinted against the sun. "Are we in heaven?" She didn’t answer. "Why do we see the sun and the sky and we couldn’t see them a little while ago?" She never answered me. She forced the animal to hurry. The priest, alerted by a shepherd, met us as we entered the village. He begged my mother to turn back. "Please leave," he pleaded with her, "the man is wild, he’s a brute." "Father, you are a holy man..." "Forget that; listen", he held the reigns to stop her. The horse began to move and he held it back, his black robe trailing on the path’s dusty rocks. “I ex-communicated him twice..." Mom stopped the horse.

"Why?" "He stole other people’s goats, and change property borders during the night." "But he has money and property, he isn’t poor." "He is greedy; he’s in court often but never in jail. Even the judge is afraid of him; the man is crazy when he is angry. Do you know how many times we had to get his mother out of his hands before he killed her?" Mom looked back to see if we heard. We did, but our brains were foggy from fatigue. "I must go," she said, her voice almost a whisper; "there is

something I

must take care of." "Good luck to you then," he resigned, "but please, be careful, think of them.”

His long beard pointed at us. He left and the mules moved on. We passed

the first houses of the village, and stopped in front of a large iron door that was barred. The yard was enclosed with

high walls instead of a fence like

everyone else’s. I saw him then, unshaven wild-eyed, unsmiling, a knife tucked into his red sash. That must be

the ‘famous knife’, I thought. I waited for

him to help us down, but he didn’t move; he waited, arms crossed on chest, as if looking for a fight, staring menacingly with screwed eyes. His stance forbade anyone from coming over to help us down, Mama did it herself, a difficult feat, then stood in front of my uncle and asked him to let her pass. Her fearlessness surprised him so he made way. She turned round. "Come children," she said. "Come to say good morning to your grandmother." She led the way. Grandmother, black skirted, covered by a black shawl, sat in a corner of the yard half blind, murmuring to herself nodding

rhythmically, immersed in her own world, while Mama was talked to my uncle. She was talking and he was yelling. "I’ve brought the children for the summer," she told him. "This is my house," he answered roughly, "you can’t stay here." "The house belongs to my husband and the children are staying

here," she

answered sternly and followed him inside. I went after them, Uncle Nicolas’ loud cursing scared me, I was afraid to leave my mother alone with him, he sounded like thunder, I couldn’t make out what he was saying in such a tone. "What was my brother’s is now mine and not a strange woman’s property." "I am not a strange woman, I am his widow, I have his children to raise." “I don’t give a shit about you or your children, and you better if you

get out

don’t want me to throw you out." I crouched under a round table where I

could hear without being seen because the tablecloth covered me all the way to the floor. I was afraid. "...and if your fucking brother shows up here, I will cut him up with this." I did not see, but I heard the swishing of the knife in the air. What if he kills my mother, or us? I shivered. A stack of dishes was sharing my secret place, they looked familiar we had brought them from America, and Uncle Nicolas had taken them! Mom was now whimpering, pleading with Uncle Nicolas to let her have Papa’s hunting rifle. "You took all his personal things,” she begged, “let me keep something for his children to remember him." "The only thing I will give you is the blade of my knife if you don’t take your children away from here. Go back to your village now before I get mad..." Good, we were not going to stay, I would be hiding all the time if we stayed here, I thought. "Get the hell out of here for good if you know what’s good for you."

Mama’s shoes moved, the chair scraped the floor. Carefully I crawled out from my hiding place, took her hand and together we walked to the exit passing my grandma who was still in her own world, head bent, murmuring. We crossed the courtyard to the heavy door with my uncle on our heels still holding his knife. Outside, the loaded mules scraped the flagstones impatiently munching hay that some thoughtful

had thoughtful person had brought. Unaware of the developments

inside, Nicky was playing with our cousins he had just met. Mama turned around and faced her brother-in-law. "May God repay you with a gun and may you all perish by a gun," she cursed with a pained but venomous voice. I couldn’t recognize my mother, she was frightening. An elderly woman neighbor, peered from behind her curtains; she crossed herself with one hand and signaled to my mother with the other trying to convey the message that we should leave as soon as possible. Then she let the curtain drop and loud thud and

disappeared. My uncle slammed the heavy door with a

barred it. We were alone on the

stone path with all doors and

windows barred. We walked behind the animals. Further

up the road a woman

walked out of her house carefully, looking left and right. She

shook Mama’s

hand and said quietly: "May God give you strength," and disappeared. Mom went straight to the gendarme’s office. She showed the police papers, then came out with the chief. He told her kindly to return to her brother and get an attorney. He and his gendarmes helped me and Nicky mount the mules, fastened the straps around our waists and then helped Mom to mount hers. Two of his gendarmes escorted us to the end of the village and saw us off. I felt sleepy. Mama turned to look at the village and turned pale. Standing on a ledge, hands tucked proudly into his waistband, Uncle Nicolas’ gargantuan

figure outlined by the sun on his back, looked the

fearsome shadow of doom.

His huge handlebar moustache stood out, a last memory. Mama pulled at the reigns roughly sitting erect on the saddle. Nicky’s head was heavy on my shoulder. We had not rested or eaten anything

all day.

"And to think that the village is known for their hospitality,”

Mama

told Aunt Popi when we arrived home. "Not one person dared open a door to invite us to rest, or offer a glass of water." "He terrorizes them," Aunt Popi said. "Don’t tell Philip, it’s no use, he may go after him." "It amazes me that they offered food to the animals and not the children," Mama said and after that I fell asleep sitting on the chair and didn’t follow the conversation. I don’t know if Uncle Philip ever found out. Years later I remembered the stack of plates under the table and told Mom. She frowned, then remembering, she smiled. "I wondered what had happened to that set," she said, "I thought our neighbors had thrown it into the harbor, as well."

C H A P T E R

THE CAPITAL Mama

was too homesick to stay long in America. Even in that short time, my

father,

her liberated and sophisticated husband, educated and spoiled her, he

created an emancipated woman, at least he tried. Understandably, when she returned to the village after having tasted freedom, she found life intolerable. After Papa’s death

the harshness, prejudices, the backwardness

and gossip, depressed her more. It seemed that she had stepped into another country, a different world, one that suffocated her soul within its invisible ramparts of mediocrity, and

the stubborn resistance to change. Escape became

an obsession; she felt she had to leave for the sake of her children before they were old enough to become slaves of the environment that bred her. But there was a serious obstacle: money! It was the fault of that American in Washington, she said, whose name was Hoover (with a grimace, no “Mr.”! Just Hoover). That bad man had slashed Papa’s military pension to a mere pittance. In the village where the rent was cheap and Uncle Philip provided food and everything else, we were living comfortably. "We must leave;” Aunt Popi said. “A chain is a chain. I looked at her feet and hands but saw no chain. Alex sipped his coffee silently and nodded. And I thought he loved us and he didn’t want us to leave. I didn’t want to leave the island because I would lose him. He disappointed me. "Philip means well," he said after a while. "He is a dictator," Mama answered. "Popi has to go on with her studies at the University and heard

and you know how he feels about it."

I eavesdropped sometimes

some of their heated discussions with Uncle Philip.

“How will I know that you have everything you need? Athens is

not a few

hours away." When the two sisters were alone sewing by the lamp thinking that we were asleep, I heard the angry words.

"How will he know! Indeed! What is he, God? He just means ‘how will I be able to check that you don’t misbehave’." "Two women alone, a 29 year-old widow, and a 23 year old student, too many men in Athens, he’ll die thinking about it." They cracked up, that was not funny, I thought, Uncle Philip cared. For Aunt Popi to go to the University was now or never,

and both sisters had decided it was now, so come hell or high

water they would make sure we made it to Athens; the ‘know-it-all’ would get her degree so she could use her big mouth with authority. The accessibility of funds was a serious problem. As far

as the situation remained like that, I was

safe; we were not going anywhere! But as it usually happened, everything did not go my way. Mama chose to call what happened a miracle. In America another man was elected president, someone with a Mr. in front of his name, a Mr. Roosevelt. Veterans’ pensions were reinstated and Mama began packing, nothing could hold her back. I was a little numb, but it was good to see her smile again. She hadn’t

smiled since Papa died. Neighbors kept dropping in with

gifts that week, mostly food as if we were getting ready to leave on a safari or an expedition. While Aunt Melania watched the store, my uncle paced the floor trying to win an argument with his rebellious sisters, to convince them even at the last minute, to stay. He chain-smoked, clutched his stomach with a deep frown trying to extract pity but all they offered him was a cup of chamomile tea and though anxious about his ‘delicate condition’, they mostly ignored him and continued packing, knowing that worrying always brought on his ulcer’s attacks. Their decision was made, there was no going back. "Insubordination," Uncle Philip said; they paid no attention. They were going. "Emancipation!" Mama corrected him Aunt Popi, an unmarried woman, had no say.

She couldn’t argue with, or openly contradict her older brother. Uncle Philip did not like lip coming from my mother either. He was so mad, he didn’t think of asking her where and how she had managed to find an apartment in Athens. "May God rest his soul, he was the most wonderful man on earth that husband of yours, but he destroyed you with his revolutionary notions."

The day of our departure, Uncle Philip came early to help the mule driver bring the load the cart with our belongings and bring it to the waiting rowboat at the harbor. He sipped his chamomile tea and spoke to his sisters for the last time. There was nothing more he could do to convince them not to go. They had their tickets. "It’s not very safe in Athens right now," he said pensively. "I mean politically; I know you are not going to get involved with

politics, but there

is violence, instability, and frankly, I’m worried. Try to keep out of trouble spots and keep your mouth shut." The latter was directed to his younger sister. "Watch the children!" He admonished as a last warning. The sisters exchanged glances and nodded seriously. "We will!" they said in unison. to get him soda and water, he

Aunt Popi went

was holding his stomach again. With bags and

baggage on the cart loaded, Uncle Philip left for the dock to oversee the loading onto the rowboats that would leave for the

boat. I sat on the doorstep

holding on to my doll, my hat and the small bundle I was to carry. I was leaving the island as if I had never been there, a stranger. No one had told me to say goodbye to friends, cousins and neighbors, it was almost noon and people were taking their after lunch siesta. Our rooms were bare, beds loaded, but Mama took Nicky to my uncle’s house to rest so that he would be quiet

during

the trip. A short

lumpy fellow, a stranger wearing a round gray hat, walked

down the road with mincing steps, limping a little, and raising dust that settled on his dark suit. His round wire glasses reflected the midday sun. Everything about him looked round; he stopped in front of me and I couldn’t very well begin to laugh as I felt like doing, especially when he tipped his hat and opened his mouth to talk to me! The front window opened and aunt Popi’s head popped out; she seemed to know him but I didn’t remember having seen the man before. I returned to my reveries

while she started a conversation with

the stranger and then she said she was going to make him coffee. There is nothing left in the house to make the coffee with, I thought, not even a water glass. Mama returned, walked to the window and with a look of shock on her face she pulled her sister away and slammed the shutters at the man’s face. Almost immediately, she came outside where I was sitting and pulling me too, inside, she told the man to go to hell. There was a furor inside, Mama and Aunt Popi yelled and fought, I never saw them so angry, just when they had agreed that leaving

the village, the island, would make them both

happy. When Aunt Popi

walked out into the hot sun crying I followed her, I felt sorry for her, my mother’s behavior was unusual, she was not a violent person. "What’s wrong?" I asked. Aunt Popi stood in the shade under the

lemon

tree squeezing a leaf nervously. She cracked it and rubbed her fingers; the sharp aroma pierced the midday heat. "Your mother," she said bitterly, "doesn’t recognize a good thing if it hits her in the face." "Was that man a good thing?" I asked innocently enough, but she

thought

I was being sarcastic. "You are your mother’s child, after all," she mocked and

left me. Of course! Whose child should I be, if not my mothers? They fought all the way to the

boat, into the cabin and while sailing. My brother cried, Mama

threw up between fits to get myself screams

of anger and I escaped to the bathroom where I managed

locked in; it took sometime before they realized that the

were mine. The ship’s steward unlocked the bathroom and got me out!

How was I to know what they knew? They must have known that the little man who had caused that turmoil in our house would be the next dictator a year later!

MEMOS, THE HEALER When we left

America no one told me, I was too young to understand. They

didn’t even bother to warn me; living in a ship in the middle of nowhere for weeks, does get creepy. But at age 8, I had an idea of what it is to move, to change one’s life altogether, to part from friends and relatives. Again no one asked me. What I knew was from eavesdropping and the mess of packing. I knew better than asking, invariably the answer would be ‘you are too curious for a girl’, or something like that. It was always girls don’t do that (whistling, singing out loud, looking at the mirror, looking sideways or back when they walk). Girls don’t sit on doorsteps unless their mothers are

there, they don’t

stand in the right side of the church because that’s reserved for men and boys; Preferably, girls should be go to the mezzanine where women and female children stood. We were moving to Athens. "What’s Athens?" Nicky asked. What could I tell him other than it was a big city with houses and streets and cars. I only knew that it would be our

home from then on and that made me cry because I didn’t know if that Athens city had vineyards where we could eat cool grapes; or very old olive trees with large cavities in their trunks where we crawled to hide. Did it have a shore with secret caves where the water disappeared mysteriously swishing with eerie sounds, then exposed pebbles of many colors and strange looking shells and dragged with it stranded little shrimps and the tiny crabs I ate as they wiggled. Where else, I thought, would I find the clear, sparkling sea to wade in with sandals on. So much water as far as the eye could see. And Memos, old Memos...

It was almost the end of summer when I met Memos. It was a good

summer except

towards the end when I became sick. I felt fine, every one else said I was sick because my color changed to yellow which, in a place of constant sunlight didn’t make sense. The village ‘health’ council’s diagnosis, midwife and pharmacist, was jaundice! They doused me with many kinds of herbs, yellow, green, dark, ominous or flowery looking, from bitter to blah; I drank them under protest, mostly in tears. When the brews failed to cure me, we moved to the next medical authority: old Memos, the healer! Memos was a specialist, an exorcist! He lived alone a short walk up the hill. My first impressions were that he was big, bald and had a round belly, round fingers, and round feet. Everything about him, even

his courtyard, was round. I liked him because when

I looked at his round fingers I saw that he held no injection, enema, thermometer or castor oil, I trusted him. He looked me over carefully, the way I had seen people looking at horses on Market Day, shook his head and smacked his lips, as if to say, it’s a good thing you brought her before it’s too late.

He made the sign of the cross on my stomach, my hands and head, then lifted me onto his lap and pressed my temples with the palms of his hands. Curious, I watched his lips murmuring words that meant nothing to me, a prayer perhaps, his voice deep as the sea, raspy like a storm, hardly audible, the voice of a heavy smoker. His protruding eyes made him look like a frog but not funny; I just thought that since he sounded like a frog, he might as well look like one. When he was finished he dipped his fingers in the oil of the votive light hanging in front of the icons and crossed my brow, cheeks and chin. I was oiled! We began treatments. He was exorcising from my body whatever was causing the disease, he said, and everyone thought that I was making progress. I felt no different. Memos never went to church, to the village or the cafe; when a young neighbor went to the village he bought him cigarettes and food; he was a loner ever since he returned to the island, he was accepted and respected. He tried to heal those who needed him and accepted no payment. Memos had been fishing with his father since he was a boy; but after his hitch in the army he joined the merchant marine to see the world. During his infrequent and irregular visits to his birthplace he got married, had children and buried his old parents. His children grew up and had children of their own and Memos was still roaming around the world until one day the news of his wifeâ€™s death reached him in Madagascar. She had been dead for a month. That night he got drunk, stinking drunk; for many years after, men of the sea talked of the biggest drunk they had seen, and of the sorrowful man. He left the sea forever, it had lost its magic and charm and his life ceased to have

meaning.

He hardly recognized his children or grandchildren. He bought an ancient, airless, deserted stone hut on the hillside above the bay, below the cemetery.

The hut had gone to weeds after the shepherds and their flocks left it years before. He fixed the place and lived there between his two loves, the sea and his dead wife, cultivating his garden and healing whoever needed help. Many thought he had acquired magical powers in those strange, exotic countries in the east that he had visited in his lifetime, and left him alone. Each morning Memos looked up and greeted her resting in the cemetery, and bowed his head at dusk praying to his other roaring love that sent up thunderous foamy messages as it crashed on the steep precipice. They said that he lived on cigarettes and thick, sweet coffee, but I had seen him cut vegetables from his garden and cook them. He fished and he had chickens and eggs, a goat and pigeons. From the cemetery all the way down to the bay, the hillside seemed to be a lush floating garden with bushes, herbs and wild flowers. Mountain laurel and thyme were in bloom mixing their scent

with the

salty air that drifted uphill. I

went to Memos three times a week; after the initial visit I went alone

and didnâ€™t use the

main road; I waded in the shallow water picking up shells

and pebbles; I ate limpets, little crabs and shrimps hunting for them and catching them in sheer delight, before I climbed the path to his house. Not long after that, I was pronounced healed; I did not need more exorcism, and much to my regret, the visits to Memos stopped. I never asked

it was it Memosâ€™ healing powers that gave me my health, or the freedom of walking along, catching and eating

the sea creatures on the way. That shore,

and Memos the healer, stayed in my memory, the frightening rocks that seemed to be standing there ever since some ancient Godâ€™s wrath spewed them from the bottom of the earth in a terrible volcano upheaval, the gaping caves underneath

Memos’ perch hiding thousand-years-old secrets that fascinated and scared me. I had been warned to stay away. Ugly giants lived in their dark depths, they said, sucking in the water and with it, everything that happened to be near, be it a boat or a person. It was that noise, they said, heard day and night all the way across the harbor! Suddenly I was going away, no one knew for how long, or if we would ever come back. I was losing the shore, the caves, the rocks, as I had lost Memos when I got well.

At first sight Athens was disappointing. All I saw was a sprawling white city that had no shore, no blue sea, no red tile roofs. Just streets, many streets, crisscrossing houses, few gardens and fewer trees. It had some nice parks from what I saw riding the taxi to the new apartment. I don’t know how they kept the park alive, they said it hardly rained in Athens. Once settled, we faced an unexpected snag when we went to register for school; in the island no one had asked for a birth

certificate but here in

order to register in school, one had to be a citizen of Athens and we had to be registered at the City Hall first. Mama was told that I would have to be moved back two grades because of my age but with the cooperation of the American Embassy, I was equipped with documents that verified my new age, older by two years, and was able to attend my proper grade much to my mother’s relief. Children of Greek parents born in another country have a ‘dual citizenship.’ Throughout my school years in the Greek school system no one knew how old I was. But I was an ‘Athenian’! Getting used to Athens is getting to like it I thought, and like it I

did. Its endlessness didnâ€™t scare me; instead, it gave me a feeling of belonging everywhere, that I was one with the sky that was always blue. The wide, paved roads, the trolleys and the buses on which I could ride for hours without getting any place, the graceful buildings and parks made me less homesick for the olive trees and the shore with the shrimps. Cold weather would soon set in, I figured,

I would be busy with school

and

would have no time

to think of the village and what was left behind. Of course, the problems that Uncle Philip had warned us of were very real. Strikes, marches of protest and executions of those who, in one way or another had failed the party in power at the time were everyday affairs. Back in the island, not so remote geographically, everything was simple and quiet by comparison. The newspaper didnâ€™t arrive regularly and there was blessed ignorance. To me it seemed that we had moved to another planet. The makeshift tent towns around Athens, smelly and unhealthy, remnants of the Asia Minor disaster refugees living there for over 15 years waiting for the government to house them, were a hopeless problem, sad, inhuman; a living tragic page of history, a disaster of huge proportions no one accepted responsibility for. When not on strike, the train ride to Piraeus was exciting; I really liked

train rides. The first time I entered a train, I thought that we had

entered a small waiting room, but the room began to move; or maybe it was the houses and trees that were moving in the opposite direction while we just sat there. Then one day when we boarded the train for Piraeus and were sitting in the car with other people waiting for it to move, the doors were suddenly kicked open, and wild-eyed bayonet brandishing soldiers rushed in and immobilized us. The women began to scream and cry. In the general panic I

joined the screamers. Those soldiers looked like killers. My aunt covered me with her coat to

muffle my cries and Mom kept Nicky quiet. Then there was

quiet. No one was killed, so we were stunned into silence and waited for the soldiers' next move. They looked us over and left. "Another coup, no doubt!" someone whispered fearfully. The passengers stirred uneasily on their seats wishing they were someplace else. Sometime later, Aunt Popi took me on a visit to Piraeus again.

There

were no buses or trains because of a general strike and we started on foot, a good two hours or more walk using shortcuts to avoid the center of the city. The weather was nice, we didn't mind walking. We crossed one of the large avenues in the very rich section of the city. One moment we were walking and the next it seemed that the world had turned upside down; first shots and angry yelling, then curses, gasps; people scurrying in all directions, and we were shoved like pebbles in an ocean of people. Aunt Popi was holding fast onto my hand until we found ourselves in the lobby of a luxury building. She stood in front of me sheltering me but as other people were pushed in, my view of the street was totally obliterated because I was too short and I wanted to see those brains ‘scattered on the asphalt’ as they were saying. I pushed legs and bodies, unseen because of my small height, I squirmed and managed to get where I could see the street from between someone’s legs. Nothing much! A few feet away a big black car with all its doors flung open was stopped in the middle of the Avenue. From one of the doors hung a man’s body, its head resting on the street in a pool of blood. His tall black hat had rolled down the street; his cane was strangely standing up like a crooked flag post, there were no brains anywhere. The slain man

had been a member of the new government, or whatever

it was they called it for the past few days, I heard. Dangerous to be in the government business, I thought, more dangerous than fishing. The police told us to keep going that everything was fine, under control. I couldn’t understand how anything could be ‘fine’ after all that, but Aunt

Popi pulled me out and

we continued the long walk to Piraeus without another word. Because of an imposed curfew we had to rush and I was more confused than frightened, but I had it figured out. These events, I thought, must be the natural products of a large city; I didn’t think it

particularly alarming, it didn’t affect me and I

didn’t want to know. I believe that my aunt was offended that I was so quiet; especially because when she related the story so vividly like a reporter, I was playing with the cat.

"POLITICS" AND FEAR ‘Politics’,

the everyday word of the time, that needed no explanation. In a

vague way, I understood it and yet, I didn’t, it meant different things to different people. Its presence in our everyday life was unmistakable from the sidewalk cafes and the doorstep gossip, to the drying wash lines or the park. In time I learned to fear the word.

People spoke of nothing but politics, as

if they depended on it, though they knew it was dangerous for more than three people to assemble. That didn’t affect Nicky or me; we were not interested in newspaper titles, we saw the faces of the adults after reading the papers and knew it was dire news. The whisperings were too hazy, it was more fun playing in the street with the other children who also knew or understood little of

what was happening around us. Deposed governments, executions of ‘traitors’, or members of

those

governments. Mama and Aunt Popi spoke of them at the dinner table; one read the paper aloud between soup and fruit. At that time if we were noisy they glared at us or told us to shut up. We couldn’t understand what we were doing wrong other than behaving as we always did, as other kids were doing, not worse, no better either; we were normal. It was ‘they’ who were changing. I asked Mama one day when she was taking us to play in the park. "Why do people talk of jails all the time?" "Jails are for criminals", she answered absentmindedly. "Are there so many? Do we know any"? "No," she said lowering her voice. “Some are considered dangerous. Anyway, you are asking too many questions." "Why"? I insisted. She shrugged. "I don’t know, some don’t agree with the government, or have a different religion, other than ours...Do you understand?" I understood the word ‘religion’ and almost everything my mother said, at least language-wise; it was my aunt that was too complex to understand. The intricate hidden meaning of ‘politics’ eluded me; I wondered why my

family followed it so closely or why

we were told to duck if we heard bullets. I had heard bullets flying but had never seen any; how do you know when to duck if you don’t see them flying? And how do bullets fly, like birds with wings?

No vacation that summer; Athens was unbearably hot and except for occasional outings to the shore and some evening fun at the outdoor cinema, the days were

boring; we got in everybody’s way and made them nervous. It was too hot to play outside, the streets were choking with dust. The city, the whole country slept at siesta time and we had to find things to do like games or invent ways to kill each other out of boredom. Nicky was growing faster than I was and had developed remarkable muscle strength for a boy who had to be coaxed and forced to eat; he was the aggressive one; I protected him because I was trained to care for my ‘little brother’! I was afraid to hurt him, but sometimes I was afraid for my life! We were getting ready to go out to play one August morning sun got too hot. Suddenly cannon blasts shattered the

before the

stillness and Mama ran

into the bedroom and pushed us under our beds. "Keep quiet," she whispered hoarsely until we find out what it is." The cannon blasts were followed by urgent pealing of church bells and when everything was quiet we came out of hiding and joined Mama at the window. She opened the shutters just a crack and peered up and down the street, not a soul. Some of the other windows opened a little, timidly, fluttering hearts behind drapes and curtains. The priest who passed underneath on his way to church brought Mama and the others the bad news. And it was pretty bad news! Even before he had done telling, Mama had almost fainted. She closed the shutters again and led us into the dining room. "Dictatorship!" she whispered hoarsely as if announcing the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. "You must stay indoors until we have more news. If you happen to be outside and a stranger walks by, get inside fast." Boring...boring... She said more things, but we weren’t listening, nothing made sense; we understood and cared only that staying

inside and keeping away from people was bad news

for us. Nicky and I sat at the table watching her bleary-eyed. She went into the big room where we kept our good furniture and china for the visitors and the custom made china closet, the mirror and the sofa; she closed the door behind her. Nicky was at the keyhole instantly. He gave me a signal to get close. “Mama is speaking to the wall," he said. I knew that she was really speaking to Papa’s photograph, he looked so good, our handsome father, dark eyes, dark eyebrows, the little mustache, standing straight. The other photograph was the American President, Mom’s hero: round-faced, smiling, no mustache, Mr. Roosevelt! "Why doesn’t she talk to Papa?" Nicky wondered. I also thought that she should talk to our father, rather than to a stranger, but it seemed that what she had to say in such an agitated manner was for the American's ears only. Through the solid door we couldn’t hear her whispering. Uneasiness gripped my heart. “She is crying," he said. How could a far away president help with what was happening here, would they be stopping Papa’s pension again? is that why she is crying? I kept these thoughts to myself and said nothing when she came out of the room composed as if nothing happened; her eyes were red. For a short person, she seemed a little taller I thought.

She knew we had been listening

but said nothing, she gave us money to buy ice cream, on a day that no vendor would venture outdoors in the entire city. She said that things will come back to normal soon. "This can’t last very long," she whispered to herself. "We are under ‘martial Law’". She could have said that frogs had landed in Piraeus and taken over the land, for all we understood, or cared. "You must

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stay inside after dark; do not speak to strangers." We already knew that; now she emphasized the ‘do not’ with her fist on the table. We kept the money, you never know when an ice cream wagon will appear, we thought, the man yelling ‘vanilla, chocolate, get it before it melts...’ We kept our vigil by the window that fateful August day hoping against hope that another child

would show up.

No one came out. Not even a donkey carrying basketful of fruits and vegetables; no ice-man with dripping sackfuls of ice blocks on his flimsy cart; no newspaper boy blaring dramatic events; no watermelon horse-cart with the man, cap aslant on his head, palm on the side of his mouth shouting: ‘Come and get them, I slaughter them, blood-red watermelons.’ Nothing! It got dark, we ate, we were forced to bed and another day dawned. Again we sat by the window and watched. Suddenly something was happening, we stirred. Fully armed helmeted soldiers, scanning doors peering darkly into windows, pointing bayonets at balconies. They stopped in front of the barber’s house, a few doors down the street within sight from our window. We held our breaths as they kicked and smashed the door sending millions of tiny crystal slivers on the sidewalk. The splintered wood seemed to sigh before giving in. I was choking in my own breath and then I heard my brother ask under his breath: "Why don’t these people ever ring the bell?" What could I tell him? It seemed that almost immediately they were dragging the young man out in his pajamas; the barber’s son! His screaming mother followed pulling her hair with one hand, holding on to her robe with the other. The father had his shop on the Avenue, he gave us haircuts. They took his son, a medical student a serious, polite young man; bad business. Fearful, I drew inside pulling Nicky after me. He resisted but then I told him that if they saw us, they would come after us

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and he was convinced. We were both in shock. "There are different kinds of violence,” Mama offered no other explanation; Aunt Popi shut herself in her room to study and wouldn’t talk to us. Mama’s coffee was growing cold; she was reading the newspaper given her by the woman who lived in the dark two-room apartment at the far inner end of the backyard near the chicken coop. She left the paper she was reading on the dining room table and went into the kitchen to check the dinner, and I glanced at it. Half of the front page was taken by a man’s picture. I could read the titles that made no sense to me, anyway but what attracted me to the first page was that little round head, the round glasses. It was the man! The man Aunt Popi had offered coffee to at the front window the day we were leaving the island and Mom got boiling mad. Who is he? I wondered, why is he front page news? Mom returned and grabbed the paper angrily. "Who is he?" I asked. "I know him." She glared at me, told me to mind my business but then changed her mind and a little calmer told me that he was the new dictator and tried to explain what that meant, a new government, laws etc. Her voice was sad, I did my best to grasp what she said, really understand it. When she had told me about elections in America, I understood most of what she had said about Mr. Roosevelt and the others. Now I knew that the little round man had created his own party and called it ‘fascist’ after the Italian dictator’s and took over just like that. I knew then that the word fascist was a bad word and wondered at the sanity of my aunt. A man like that, her idol? Soon the royal family was reinstated by the dictator. Some people were even more unhappy, including my mother. Terror reigned in the land they said; in our neighborhood arrests were frequent and equally dramatic. Schools opened

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a little late; we had other things to think about. Life became sort of normal for Nicky and me, at least on the surface. I still remember warm evenings, women sitting by their doorsteps or dragging chairs from door to door to listen, to learn more news. The one who had seen a newspaper, would hold court, most of the women couldn’t read. There was sadness and worry as they sipped their sweet coffee or told stories they had heard; mourning sisters under the mantle of anguish and misfortune that had covered the land. Without meaning to, I was witness to stories worse and more terrifying than the ogres of fairytales, things that escaped my knowledge. Human beings, people like us were prosecuted, terrorized, tortured, exiled and those were not words in my vocabulary; they were new and scary words that evicted the ugly witch of Snow White. Secret police and spies following people? I could see young men following girls in amorous quests, but grownups? People who were supposed to have logic and some pride...following people? Everyone better watch out, seemed to be the message.

With an extremely cold winter and coal, the only means to cook a family’s meal and keep warm, scarce and expensive life was rough. One sack of coal a day was hardly enough to both heat a house and cook. Neighbors got together in someone’s house

one evening and another’s the next snuggling around the hot

brassier for warmth and support. They were mostly in our house because Uncle Philip made sure we always had enough coal, after all he was dealing with the product. Those evenings I noticed that when either of us walked into the kitchen where the women were sitting, talk stopped abruptly. That embarrassed me mostly because of the young blue-uniformed man who lately visited our

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classrooms, almost twice a week and one by one took us to the office to ask questions about our parents, families and their friends, and what they were talking about, what newspaper they read and other things; the man seemed to exert pressure on me more than the others because I told him that I couldn’t understand some of what he was saying. Instinctively, I knew I had to mistrust him because he was saying that our country was above our parents and it’s all right if we tell about our parents since the country is above all. The king, he said was sent by God to save us. He and the government were our real parents. Even if I wanted to believe him, Mama’s unhappiness with the ‘government man’ and the barber’s son torn so brutally from his humble home never to be heard of again, were tugging at my guts, the atrocities people were

talking about, all

that was happening, were mysteriously connected with the secret service man. I sealed my mouth, and warned Nicky to do the same. When his turn came he did; I think he did a better job than I did. What if they came for Mama? Mama disliked the round man. Nicky did not need any more convincing. We did not tell Mama but she found out and questioned us. We told her the truth. She nodded and said that no one had the right to interrogate us, we were citizens of another country. I was afraid for her. Not only she spoke to the pictures on the wall, she could do

other crazy things as well. Like the day when the police came to

warn us that we

must fly the flag and post the dictator’s photograph on the

door. Mama told them to go to hell! They did! And they returned with the entire police force. The neighborhood was frightened. Oh, the poor widow will be going to prison or to exile, leaving two orphans, they said pitying her. My mother politely informed

the police that she would comply. I didn’t trust the

sweetness in her voice but I had no idea what madness she was cooking up. She

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dug up the American flag from the old trunk and tied it on the balcony rails. Then, Mr. Roosevelt came down from his wall, and was neatly nailed on the outer door. "You see, gentlemen," she told them with a malicious smile, "if we are to honor someone, we begin with our own." They believed her. They actually believed her and left. Were they stupid or just too servile to a super power? After they left, the neighbors came out in the street laughing; they got even. I hadn’t heard them laugh since that terrible day in August. What really scared me was the man in blue who kept insisting that the short round man was my father. My father was beautiful, tall and he smiled. More important, I loved him and no one could replace him.

Gradually, ’politics‘ became synonymous with ‘keeping secrets.’ My didn’t

teacher

ask me any more to read out loud though I was reading better

than

most. I feared politics so I didn’t tell my mother. It was probably her ‘politics’ they were afraid of. The teacher gave me the best grades in composition, yet, he never asked me to read them. They read other inferior compositions. I noticed that more and more students were writing about the new government. No one had asked me to do that; everything we did from eating to sleeping or talking and thinking had to do with politics, with what was happening to us, around us, the frustration, the bitterness and fear! People didn’t trust anyone, even the children mistrusted one another; I had no friends, either they avoided me or I was afraid of them. Nicky played ball, ran from block to block, I was happy if I could get my hands on a book. I read everything I could find, books weren’t so plentiful. I withdrew into my

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loneliness and silence and read. When Mama put the lights out, I read under the little flickering flame of the oil votive lamp when everyone else slept. "Glasses?" my mother yelled at the doctor as if he was at fault. "For the rest of her life?" she asked and he laughed. She was sure that my night reading would eventually blind me and she became more strict about it. "Let’s hope that she won’t have to wear them for a long time," he said, "provided she wears them now." So I wore glasses and the kids in school teased me for a while. I tried ‘losing’ them a few times but Mama always found them, until one morning the old woman who lived across the street and was for ever running after her chickens wandering in the street, stopped and looked at me. “Glasses?” she asked wiping her wrinkled nose. “Too bad, you are not that old, now, no one will marry you!” She walked away limping and I began to think that glasses may be good for me after all if they can save me from getting married. After that I made sure that my glasses were always nearby, safe; I never ‘lost’ them. With this and that no one was paying much attention to what was going on inside that little fragile body of mine; the ‘low grade fever’ struck terror in our hearts again. Doctors, shots, x-rays, rest...the works. Eat, sleep, rest, study, go to school, sit on the balcony looking at the world go by and watch the children at their play. They threw the ball at me with malice and I threw it back with equal venom. School picnics, roller-skating, running, swimming when the weather permitted, were all things of the past. Constant eating and rest were turning me into a butterball, which pleased everyone but me. Fat was beautiful, the Greeks believed; it meant wealth and health and I had neither. I was such a contradiction.

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ROOFLESS WONDERS Situated

at the center of the city the hill of Lecavetus is covered by pine

trees all the way to St. George’s monastery on the top; it’s a humble white church like a stone tossed from heaven by an irate titan. Perched on the top of the of Akropolis, was Parthenon, the ancient Temple of Goddess Athena. Both hill and Temple were visible from our home but the lush green foliage of Lecavetus was much closer. The sun came up in the morning from behind the church giving it an almost ethereal presence. Against the sunset, bathed in magenta glory, Parthenon looked eerie, forbidding, like a Temple of Zeus, imposing! On one of his frequent trips to Athens Uncle Philip took us to see the Parthenon. He was on one of his frequent business trips; he had brought a shipment of the island’s products, olive oil, wine, coal and would return with the staples his village and other villages did not produce. That Sunday, without warning or discussion, we walked to the Avenue and took a taxi to Akropolis. We rode in style, no bus, or trolley. From the

foot

of the hill I looked up and seeing everything so close, I realized that what I saw from the distance as a mount was really a good sized hill, the columns on the top weren’t the forbidding portals of Zeus’ abode, but a grand monument, a Temple. Its beauty made me shiver. Under the bright blue sky and the light of the sun, the ’golden‘ color surrounded me with a personal golden hue. Mama did not join us. "I’m not going," she said pointing to the top where shadows of people

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could be seen circling the monuments. "Go ahead, I’m tired of looking at ruins, dead ruins..." We left her in the little cafe at the foot of the hill and continued up the wide marble steps that had seen many parades and holy rituals in times long past, Uncle Philip said. We followed the visitors up the old steps. I listened to them speaking strange languages. Mom did not join us. Nicky was playing picking little stones and marble chips and aiming at the base of columns until Uncle Philip took his hand and then, without his game he was bored and grew moody. We walked from temple to statues and other structures, and climbed carefully over columns lying about. I felt happy as a free bird but a sadness was in my heart, one of those

that cannot be pinpointed; it wasn’t an ache of

misery or grief. It didn’t actually hurt, it was a scary strange feeling that left me short of breath especially when I stood in front of the Erechtheum. The statues of the ‘Caryatids’, the maidens holding a Temple on their heads, staring with empty eyes that seemed to be in pain, held the visitors in awe. I thought that even for marble it was tough for the Caryatids to

stand there

exposed to the hazards of the elements, the rain, the vicious winds that blew in from the Saronicos Bay so many centuries. Their noses were missing. Why don’t they take them inside? I asked my uncle. "Keep quiet," Uncle Philip said, "don’t be ridiculous".

They, who take

care of those things, should be ashamed, I thought to myself. I had seen men digging the foundation of a new house on our block; they found a statue and some other small pieces while digging, and left them in the street for dogs to piss on and people to sit or spit on until some brain decided to do something. They had been buried for centuries, they said, and instead of treating them

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with reverence, they let them lie in the dust. Then one day they were not there any more. God knows what they did with them; my age allowed me blessed ignorance and forgetting one thing I saw wrong, I moved on until something else struck me indignant, much to the concern of my mother and aunt who, I

had a

feeling, weren’t always happy to be with me in public places. But though young, I recognized neglect; I was angry more at the elements than the responsibility of man. Still, shouldn’t there be a roof over the Caryatids’ heads? After all, they were holding the Temple; my uncle was getting annoyed, but I could see that once there was a roof over their heads. In school, our 5th and 6th graders rehearsed the ‘Caryatids Dance’ for the May performance "...Exquisite marble maidens, spared by eons and storms..." The marble model of the Parthenon housed in the Museum behind the actual Temple showed the roof and whatever else was salvaged after Lord Elgin’s

illegal abduction of treasured ancient statues and

Parthenon’s pediment. Uncle Philip did not like me to question him; I nagged, he said. Why was the Parthenon, too, without a roof? "It’s been here a long time," he said, "thousands of years..." "How many years is

‘thousands of years’?" He did not answer. Thousands

could mean many years, long before I was born, I

thought, or even my mother,

or, worse yet, my teacher. "No one thought of a roof all those years?" I insisted. My uncle laughed and gently directed me away from the tourists. "O.K.," he said finally, "I’ll tell them to put an umbrella over it. "I was annoyed; that was a nasty answer. I am not Nicky, I thought, how can an umbrella cover an entire temple? He was annoyed but we were tired, Nicky was

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impossible and it was getting late. Uncle Philip said we should be going. We walked downhill; our shadows were getting longer now. We paused at a small hill nearby, Socrates’ famous prison. I had seen the Averoff prison close to our home, it was a lot different. Socrates’ prison in a cave was hewn on the gray rock except for the rusty iron rails. The grating was rusty, old; it could easily be forced open, a guard stood at the gate. The cave looked like a dungeon. Uncle Philip continued his lecture on the life and death by hemlock of the philosopher. I was the only listener; it was half lore half history, but even half was better then none, and that was no fairytale; I loved any bits of information, something to believe in that made sense because, many happenings around me made no sense, even those that had happened so long ago. "You will learn that in history," he said, "in due time". He always told me that when facing a strange or hard question or he was bored with me. I could wait. I was

tired!

Mom hadn’t moved since we left her hours before. Still sipping ouzo and Nicky and I went after the olives in her plate. The waiter brought us ice cream, and that kept us awake until the taxi came. "Well," Mama teased. "All marbles in place?"

We were too tired to

answer; Uncle Philip looked very serious. It was dark when the taxi left us at the door. I had fallen asleep on the way uptown trying to solve the enigma of the roofless temples that no one cared to protect from the rain. Another puzzle for a tired child’s brain...

Finally at some point

I understood what the word ’Politics‘ meant; one better

stay away from it. ’Poverty‘, ’poor‘ were words much used in our daily lives

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and it puzzled me because it was all around me, it was real. I saw it. The hunger, the misery, the need, I couldn’t put my finger on it because I didn’t know where it came from. In our house we didn’t have the word ’poor‘. Why so many of my schoolmates were always hungry? Who took their money and why were they shivering in the cold? Why were the church’s steps filled with beggars on Sundays? Pathetic, starving, desperate, children, men, women, some maimed, inert, hands stretched eyes empty. They were in corners and at the bus stop or our doors asking for a piece of bread and that broke my heart. Yet, my brother threw his food away and Mom had to run after him in the street to feed him, something didn’t jive. There were no beggars in the island except for one called the

‘village

idiot‘ that everyone fed. He seemed to be happy, always jovial, cursing the housewives after they fed him; no one minded. I believed that it was an indigenous plight of big cities, like the trolleys and their clatter, the train or the factory with its sooty smoke. In the island, the only noises we heard came from the animals, the passing carts, the phonograph at the cafe, the boat’s foghorn when it arrived and when it left and the new Electric Company. I understood that being poor was not natural. "Where does it come from?" It took me many years to find the answer. Mama’s explanation was too vague; it was the aftermath of too many wars, refugees, and homeless ’decorated‘ veterans. But then why some people were poor and some were not? Mama shrugged her ignorance and Aunt Popi characteristically, gestured upward as if it was ’His‘ will and decision. I was to understand that poverty and hunger were, among other things, a divine affair; each time I opened my mouth to ask, instead of an intelligent answer I got more confused by someone signaling for me to shut up. Without

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meaning to, I opened Pandora’s Box on things people seemed anxious to forget or turned the other way not to face them. Christmas 1937 was almost there. Then, In the middle of the very cold night an alarming pandemonium of glass and splintered wood brought us sitting upright on our

beds in panic. Police! Helmets, bayonets, same figures, same

tactics. This time it was our own yard. They went to the back breaking down peoples’ doors not sure which door to break down to surprise the person or persons they were to arrest. Shivering, wrapped in blankets not daring to move from fright we listened to glass and wood crunching under the boots. Not a sigh, not a sob or a curse only our heartbeats and our fear. The house was a tomb of silence, the two apartments downstairs, around the atrium, the two upstairs, no lights. They left! Mama lit the coals in the brassier. Without switching the lights on she silently opened the kitchen door to let in the mothers of the two young men who had been taken away. White faced, dry-eyed, terrified, they clasped a shawl or a tattered robe with trembling hands, fragile birds caught in a storm looking for warmth, for the human presence. Our house, not being assaulted yet by raids and arrests, was a shelter that offered some sanity and safety. Who would they arrest in our house, me, Nicky? My aunt who seemed to like them? Of course there was always Mom with the big mouth, but she had the audacious excuse that she flaunted at their silly faces: we were foreigners. Had we been ’foreigners‘ from Egypt, Ethiopia or Asia Minor as many others were, her reasoning would never do. But we were the ’Americans‘! Skyscrapers, millionaires, streets of gold. The fairytale went a long way even with high officials.

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"Shhh..." someone hissed as they crouched around the smoldering coals. "The children..." The children shivering in their pajamas, within earshot, had moved into the dining room and sat on the floor near the couple from upstairs, the widow with the student daughter, and a man who peddled dry goods. Preoccupied with their grief, they didn’t pay attention to us. Perhaps they hadn’t seen us as we crouched close to their feet wrapped in blankets. Nicky fell asleep. Scared and sad as I was I still wanted to hear. What did our neighborhood do to invite such anger and so much pain? It suddenly crossed my mind that I must ask Mama to move; if we lived in another neighborhood, maybe these terrible things would not happen. "...When his wife finds out..." one said. "Six months pregnant..." "He must have said something, done something...they don’t just

arrest

one because he teaches at the Polytechnic..." "You are kidding! The other day I waited at the trolley stop and a car stopped across the street; two men jumped out, grabbed the woman in front of me and disappeared. In the rush she dropped her pocketbook but the rest of us were afraid and didn’t run after them to give it to her..." "That sounds more like the ‘Black Hand’ than the secret police." "No, it was the police." Black hand? Whose hand was that? It was the first time I heard of it. A long drawn moan

broke the silence and brought me

out of my sleepy reveries, it was Lefteris’ mother! He was the young mechanic in the basement in the back of the house. They lived in a dank, dark and musty two-room apartment that was really a hole in the outer wall. She was crying. The police didn’t find Lefteris and took his younger brother instead, a student

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who was in bed staring at them, paralyzed with fear. "Why wasn’t I killed that night when I hid into the Greek boat burned..." she moaned. They tried to console her, to tell

as Smyrna

her not to hex her

son with evil thoughts. "I hid them in two baskets, they were babies," she continued staring at the coals, memories retrieved, it seemed, from the glowing ashes of the brassier,

flames that consumed the old city of Smyrna years

before. “My babies did not see the Turkish soldiers who laughed when they put our house to the torch. They did not see the Englishman either, when he pushed their father off the deck. The dark sea swallowed him, we never saw him. A Greek ship took me. We were saved, many didn’t make it. We came to the land of our ancestors, haven! Homeless, fifteen years living in tents and now! Look at the way ‘our’ land treats us." She began to cry again. In the half-light, she looked like a burned out tree branch; finished, yet, unbending, thrashed by storms and gales, still standing. I wanted to cry but then I remembered that when I cried I made noise, so I swallowed my tears until my eyes began to sting. Mama put a cup of coffee in front of the woman, then hugged her and pointed to the frame hanging over the door, hardly visible in the darkness. "Look," she said. Embroidered violets spelled a message: THIS

TOO, SHALL

PASS. Do violets count the mountains of laundry the woman has taken over the years to raise those two children alone in a strange land? Or the miles of filthy floors she had scrubbed? I had heard Mama say that to a neighbor and now I understood it, all except the meaning of the violets. "Your children are still small," the woman sobbed, "I hope you never... but I will not see my son again..."

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"Of course, you will...they probably want to question him..." the other women tried to console her. "Like the barber’s son?" someone asked. "Where is he?" There was

answer. That night, under the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling over the heads of people united in misery, clustered around the warmth of the coals, I sat unseen close to the legs of the table and everybody else’s legs. The drapes were drawn tightly ‘against evil ears,’ as Mama said.

Slowly, my tears came,

silent tears for the woman’s young son and for the young professor who was married the Spring before and the whole block had taken them to church. Afterwards, there was lots of drinking and dancing. That engagement had lasted four years. They were too poor to marry. Finally, he had his degree and a respectable position! their dream materialized. And now, he was arrested when his wife was in Salonica

visiting her mother. What will she do when she

returns? would she, too, be arrested? Panos was different than all the rest, my teacher and my mother included. He spoke to children as if we were really human. He answered

my questions. I wished I had asked him more questions. He

knew! But he was a professor, not just anybody, and one does not annoy a professor, Mama said. I cried for him; from what I heard, it was possible that we would never see him again. I vaguely remember daylight creeping in from the kitchen window facing the yard. I must have dozed

as I sat there all night because at times I have a

blurry vision of the languished faces of those women, and of tears and sighs and me on the floor. I remember asking my mother “what is Smyrna”? She said something like ‘a city in Asia Minor we lost to the Turks when I was a young girl’, but I didn’t know what Asia Minor was and I was too sleepy to ask her to

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solve yet another puzzle. I don’t know if I really slept, like Nicky who wasn’t next to me in the morning. The good thing was that no one scolded me for not being in bed. Anyway, there was no school.

Christmas the same as the year before; family dinners, a social visit with a tray of sweets to a house where a Chris or a Christine lived, church, cognac, bells, Merry Christmas, sad looks. Presents were practical necessities exchanged on New Year’s Day, at the feast of St. Basil. Parents bought their children what they needed for their frugal existence: material for a dress or pants or a coat; shoes, pencils, a notebook, some crayons, stockings. Most of those were imported and were

expensive. New Year’s Day was a repetition of Christmas, church,

dinner, visits,

and the rush for boys to enter as many homes as possible for

luck, to start the year right. Boys were a blessing, girls a curse! Somewhere in the back of my mind there were garlands of silver and lights, snowflakes in the air, laughter and noise and the two Christmas", memories I couldn’t even hold long enough

words: "Merry

in my present life to

gain comfort from, flitting through my Greek brain in and out too fast to make any sense. Yet, somewhere they did exist, those garlands and the lights and the words. Mama had told me about Santa Claus but she couldn’t make it clear, or I was too dense. Children writing letters to Santa? How did they get his address? The Post Office, I thought and secretly I wrote Santa a note, in Greek; he was a saint, he would have no problem with any language.

With two pennies,

the change I got from Aunt Popi’s newspaper, I bought an envelope. I had a few more for postage, for whatever country he was in. I didn’t ask for much, just a pair of roller skates and my father to come back. I asked him also if he could

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something to stop the police from being so brutal and then I took

the Post Office but the man laughed when I asked him for the me I was four hundred years too late. I told Mama only said, otherwise I would have

it to

address. He told

because of what he

kept it a secret. She did not think it was funny.

"It’s the thought that counts," she said, and "there will be another time." "In another four hundred years?" She explained to me then that in that part of he world, people did not get in touch with Santa as we had done in America. Santa was a name mentioned in church, she said, and that really made me sad. What, I wondered, do the children for presents? She enlightened me, there, too. They don’t get presents! Caroling was the best part of the holidays, but I couldn’t be part of it, I was a girl. Nicky went with the boys of the neighborhood. In big cities and small cities, in the farm country, villages, grimy factories or slums, mountains and shores, the families of the workers depended on the earnings of caroling. It meant meat for the holidays, or new shoes or feeding a family for a few days with the coins they collected. I followed them discreetly because Mama made me, to keep an eye on her son! I envied and resented them at the same time but didn’t show it, what would be the use? and Nicky was really a little boy, even if his

punch had grown disproportionately.

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A SUMMER STORM Spring

was uneventful, at least that’s what I thought as school time was

coming to an end and Mama announced her summer plans. Summer in the island! We hadn’t seen our cousins for two years. I missed the shore, too, the old olive trees, the fields and the vineyards shiny with heavy golden fruit. The thought that clouded my joy was what if Mama didn’t let me swim. The ‘fever’ was gone. "We will see", she said. I argued as I saw everyone in Greece do. I had learned hat in that country you learn to argue about everything, or lose. Not that one always won, but it was worth trying haggling over the price of fish or a field or the dowry of one’s daughter, or even politics. That did not apply to children; I was an exception only because they hadn’t found a way to shut my mouth and I had found a way

to shut theirs, meaning the adults. If I felt weak

or unable to match my horns ready to be locked in battle, I would stun them with something else; by the time they recovered I had either won my point or run for cover. Children of my generation in Greece and elsewhere, were seen not heard; unwritten law! Girls had no voice whatsoever. In our house we had more progressive rules because my mother was "liberated" (she thought) and because we were three females against the man of the house, little Nicky, who soon found that with Uncle Philip visiting he could get even! "We shall see," Mama repeated and I waited, but my thoughts were already racing to unspoiled beaches, shrimps and tiny crabs. In school I had passed with the best grades something that went unnoticed (why shouldn’t she? She has everything she needs, doesn’t she have a brain?) Words of encouragement

were not good for a girl. And all my work in Greek. I

was delighted, because I had studied so hard though I was two years younger

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than my classmates. Our neighbors pitied my mother who let a female child waste her time and money on books and such silly things instead of showing her how to sew and embroider and preparing her for a good Christian household upon marriage. Boys you educate, girls? What for? Mom knew better. She was almost illiterate herself but her daughter wasn't going to be one no matter what it took. We were to leave on the last day of June. The day before, we went downtown shopping for gifts and summer things. As usual, Mama waited until the very last moment to decide. We from shop to shop all morning shopping, haggling, Mamaâ€™s joy in life, and buying gifts for the cousins and whatever we would needed. We bought

my summer hat, wide brimmed with flowers and ribbons

at the very last store we went to, and I wore it so I wouldnâ€™t have to carry it. When we began walking toward the trolley stop, it was already past noon. We were loaded with messy packages wrapped in coarse khaki or newspapers and were thoroughly exhausted. Suddenly, without any warning or threatening clouds, out of clear blue sky, a sudden downpour drenched us, as if heaven had opened to drown the world. Just then the trolley came and we boarded it while around us the rain fell in sheets. The day that had started in brilliant sunlight became dark as night. The hard rain came down in torrents against the windows, and lightning tore the sky. I had never seen a storm like that; it was scary. A few stops further the trolley got stuck, electricity was cut off. We were stranded in the central square of the City in front of the Grand Bretagne and the King George hotels, the most prestigious buildings of modern Athens, facing the Parliament and the Tomb of the

Unknown Soldier. I wished I were within the safety of their

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luxurious walls. I could hardly make out their outlines. The torrents of rain that pelted us had all but obliterated them. Sometime later a bus rolled alongside our immobile trolley to take us uptown; the soaked bus driver, one leg firmly on the trolley step and the other on

his bus, began the evacuation

and helped the passengers leap into the bus. The trolley’s driver and conductor held the doors open and tried to keep the passengers calm. Parked right in front of the Grand Bretagne, its belly in water, a loaded peddler’s donkey waited patiently and in the Constitution Square, the café’s chairs were already submerged or being carried away down the Avenue by

the forceful current. How

can so much water fall in such a short time, was beyond me; Noah had survived the cataclysm, I thought

and thankfully, his animals had, too. Next, kind

hands transferred me from the trolley to the bus and Mom and Nicky followed and the other passengers, too, and off we went through mud and rushing waters on our way uptown; we looked like a motor boat swishing here and there but my precious hat had stayed behind, forgotten by the daydreamer who wore it thinking of Noah. I cried all the way home, and my mother said that not only I was careless, I was selfish as well and that I was punished for my vanity and greed; at that moment I didn’t care for her big words, all I knew was that I would not have a pretty hat to show off at the beach that summer. (Who to? Mom asked me later, the goats or the fishermen? And stupid Nicky said: anyway, you could leave it on the shore to go swimming and a goat would eat it, and he laughed, but

I was too sad to get mad; he had a knack for cruelty, that boy).

Downtown Athens was under about two feet of water; in our street, which was on a slope, damage was negligible, they said, but the basements where poor people

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lived were flooded to the ceiling; people were being be evacuated after they lost everything to the rushing water. Dry beds of ancient rivers that were an outlet, overflowed now because the surrounding area was left treeless on the way to progress. They were to be dug up into a modern sewer system, eventually, or filled to be used as lots for more cement monsters but became deathbeds for many a poor neighborhood, whenever a storm took the refugees’ tents and the makeshift shelters they lived in. The bells would spread the alarm and those not in immediate danger would answer to the urgency and rush to rescue children and the elderly before they were drowned or to salvage whatever possessions they could.

When we arrived I looked at the mess embarrassed that I had cried allowing

hat to really make me resentful when children were drowning! We continued the rest of the way uphill on foot trudging on mud paths holding clumsy packages which in a disaster like that really meant nothing. Groups of soaked men carried people from basements or armfuls of their belongings to safer

grounds.

A lot of cursing and mumbling was going on; the police wasn’t around to denounce the grievances to the authorities, or to help, they knew how to break into houses at night to seek the ‘enemy’. In an emergency the police felt safe; the ‘enemy’ were busy trying to save themselves. I began to understand ,many forms of ‘politics’. Our house was on a slightly slopping street and did not suffer from the storm.

The church bells went on monotonous, sad.

I didn’t sleep that night; what if the taxi was stranded, or trains were

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immobilized

by the storm? What if ships couldn’t sail and what if the

passengers were not on time? What if a storm waited for us in the open sea? Somewhere between one ‘if’ and the next I fell asleep. The next thing I remember was riding in a taxi and then walking into a train and looking at houses, dripping

trees and trolleys speeding past the train window going the

opposite direction. At last, the port! the ship at anchor in its pier, shrill whistle blowing, black smoke unfurling, and a comfortable cabin all to ourselves! Then I was thankfully and fully awake. Mama was immediately stricken with nausea and with good reason! Hundreds of cows, goats and sheep, lowing and bleating, were penned on the lower left deck. The day was hot, the stench unbearable. The ship was supposed to drop off the animals on the way, at the port of Patra. The passengers, unable to stand the odor, began moving to the deck away from the wind. In a very short time the ship was listing perilously. Our nice cabin was on the wrong side; a little higher but the smell was pretty bad. Aunt Popi raised pandemonium, she accused the captain of breach of international shipping laws. “What does she know about international shipping laws” Mama said to no one in one of her lucid moments. Aunt Popi insisted that ours was a passenger ship, with expensive cabins, not a livestock transport. Aside for my aunt’s not-so-delicate protests, the real danger was that the ship was over booked and as it listed, it was murmured, it presented a double danger. In the Isthmus of Corinth the sea between the two cliffs, was calm; even if we capsized (highly unlikely no matter what my aunt said) the passengers could swim to either side of the Isthmus. The open sea would be an ordeal. We traveled like that until dark. It was twelve hours later, after dinner, that we saw the lights of Patra, the city I had first

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glimpsed at when we arrived from America a few years back, the lights flickering in the dark horizon like a beacon. There still was no landing pier and again we dropped anchor far out waiting for the little rowboats whose lights bobbed in the darkness as they arrived to take passengers and merchandise. That done, they left. I sat on my berth looking out the porthole. We had some way to go, the whole night, in fact. Suddenly, there was a loud splash, then another and to my horror I saw in the dim light of the deck below that the animals were being pushed overboard. It’s all her fault, my aunt’s, I thought. She is the one who complained the loudest, and now they are drowning the poor animals. Who would save them? I started to yell

for someone to stop the killers oh, what is the

use, I cried, only she can hear me from the berth below. My mother was completely out! "They are drowning them," I cried, "they are killing them"! "Come down here," Aunt Popi pulled me down into her berth, but I was crying and didn’t need her solace. "Stop screaming, they are not killing them." she was trying to outshout me. “Animals don’t drown, they swim." "Why are they pushing them into the water in the dark?" “Because their owner is waiting to pick them up. Look out the window. They are swimming toward Patra." "How do they know it’s a city? I mean it has lights, but suppose there were no lights, where would they go?" "To the same place. It’s their sense of direction." Her voice was softer now. Sure enough the dark heads were bobbing toward the lights. I felt better

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and fell asleep thinking that maybe sometimes she knows what she is talking about! The blast of the ship’s horn, like the roar of a hundred hungry lions brought me to with a start. "Are we here?" Of course we were and it was morning, we had just turned the cape, soon we would see the village. Mom, pale and sick looking was helping Nicky get ready. Aunt Popi got our things together. All my cousins should be on deck, but they weren’t. In my anxiety I had forgotten that there was no landing pier.

Our baggage left ahead of us and when the next rowboat came I climbed down the swinging rope ladder all by myself avoiding looking down at the choppy water. The old oarsman said I had grown a lot. I was thankful he hadn’t paid me the ‘compliment’ that I had grown fat. To him, growing either way meant growing, and ‘fat’ was a compliment anyway! The sun broke through the morning mists; the mountaintop above the village was bathed in gold. The sight of our village coming toward us stunned us, no one had warned us. Balancing dangerously on the small boat, we stared at the unbelievable sight of disaster. The quay where the children played and ate ice cream, where the adults had their afternoon coffee and evening glass of ouzo, was gone or in shambles, the entire length of the harbor’s flagstone walk was shattered, strewn about as if evil giants worked all night leaving no stone whole or unturned. My mother and Aunt Popi were in tears; tree branches, chairs, wine barrels followed our wake; there were broken tables, windows, cellar doors, and shutters, debris. Silently, the men rowed gingerly, avoiding contact with the debris, toward the safety of the broken wharf. As we came

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close, we saw all of them waiting. They stood like statues on the shattered steps precariously, as if waving a silent goodbye instead of a welcome. Even the seagulls kept away, hiding. Was the storm that hit them the same one that had hit Athens two days before? They helped us come ashore on what was left of those steps and after the hugging, the tears and kisses they left for home; the rowboats went to their wrecked mooring site, the ship smudging the sky with its black sooty smoke, the vacationers. I stayed behind holding my little case, trying to connect the wrecked shore with the wide stone promenade

I had known. I walked over the

upturned stones from one side of the harbor to the other listening to little sucking noises in crevices I had not known. The water rushed in and splattered me with its foam as it hit the rocks. I looked for my shrimps and crabs in the sunlight but as I bent my crayon box slipped out of my case and was swallowed by the dark holes under the rocks. My heart sank with it. My precious crayons. Serves me right for being selfish, I was afraid that someone would take them from my case and use them before I had a chance to, and what would I do all summer? I slipped my hands into unfamiliar dark watery holes, got my thumb snipped a bit by a crab and realized that my crabs and shrimps were still there but no crayons. My cousins came to fetch me and I made them look, too. We stayed for hours. The cafes and shops got busy, the fishermen returned, I was still looking. I gave up and went home but I was sad and didnâ€™t eat. When I refused supper too, they sent me to bed.

Next morning when everyone went

swimming I watched them from the balcony, I cried some, but found no sympathy from my family who assumed that I was being stubborn and mad I was punished. From the balcony I watched my brother and cousins swimming further down at the

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beach. I was only crying for the wrecked shore and for my lost crayons.

C H A P T E R

“THAT WHEEL STRUCK YOUR HEAD”! My plight

of having to face a summer without crayons, moved my aunt’s

girlfriend. She gave me a pencil half-blue, half-red.

Nothing could replace

the beautiful tin box full of colors, but it had to do. The young woman used to visit us in Athens while studying. A teacher now, she was waiting for her appointment, to replace the retiring village teacher. My mother and aunt exchanged looks of bewilderment when she told them. Returning to work in the island was the same as being buried according to them. While we were on the island for the summer, she frequently walked with my aunt out to the valley and talked a lot; they always talked. "What is she going to do in the winter, when we aren’t here?"

Mama

wondered. "Throw a fit?" answered my aunt..."Die of boredom?" One afternoon they took me along; we stopped at her father’s farm and I understood then why she was staying. I would, too. I had watched our neighbor milk his three goats and once he let me suck milk. The experience was sheer ecstasy. Mama threw a

fit; germs, she said. My grandfather kept his horse in

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the stable. He kept chickens and pigeons and there were sheep and donkeys in the neighboring fields. The teacher had grown in her family’s farm and loved life there; I understood that because I, too, loved a farm life. If only we were farmers, I thought! In the village, children and animals lived and grew in a close environment, Animals were hard workers, their livelihood; as such they were respected and protected. In

bad weather they would be adequately sheltered and

when one of them trespassed without reason, there was always the enraged housewife with a ready broomstick and a curse. The two friends walked and talked that afternoon and I ran and skipped ahead avoiding their boring talk; I couldn’t understand what they were saying, anyway, especially when my aunt pronounced her famous sayings that I had no idea what they meant, like: “Vanity of vanities, all is vanities”! It must have been important because as soon as she said that one both of them sighed in resignation and that made me sad. The big puddle near the cistern that I found when we got there was ideal for making mud pies. They were busy sipping coffee, eating grapes. They spoke about school, fashion, men, dances, gossip, they weren’t paying attention to me. The twittering of many birds of all kinds in the thick foliage of the trees was the only life heard, that and the two larks on the lower branch of the oak tree going mad. Listening to them I wondered if they ever for breath. Their song was precise and sweet, as if they knew the same tune. I tried to play with the cute yellow chicks but they wouldn’t stay still; mother hen

ran after me and then a very upset brown goat

took it upon herself

to defend the barnyard’s residents. She lowered her head and rushed, her sharp

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horns aiming at my stomach. I ran into the stable and bolted the door. A white horse munching his hay thumped the ground with his hoofs; his tail swished off the flies, he paid no attention to me. The stable was cool but the odor was overpowering and as soon as I was sure that the goat had found something or someone else to go after I ran outside to breathe. I climbed an old moth eaten carriage that had seen better days and pretended I was Cinderella; four white mice turned into handsome coachmen to take me to the ball and then I saw that the reason the once elegant carriage was left to rot on the muddy

ground was that it rested on one wheel; the other

was leaning against the wall of the barn, a huge round monster double my size, sheathed in iron. Its steel spokes shone in the late sun. I had heard from my mother about the brave captain who had discovered the land where I was born. The new Columbus climbed on the wheel, feet steadied between two of the spokes for balance. I was ready, holding onto the ship’s helm much as I imagined the legendary adventurer did, pushing against the stubborn rough current that would not let me turn left or right; the wheel wouldn’t budge so I could direct the ship to its destiny. My ship was not responding. When I finally managed to shake the wheel just slightly, it didn’t go left nor right. It fell face front with me, the important navigator, flat beneath the monster! Afterwards I remembered only snatches of frantic screams that weren’t mine. I couldn’t scream. I was passing out into merciful clouds of oblivion. Thankfully, there was no pain or blood; my hysterical aunt shouted for me to wake up to open my eyes. I wasn’t asleep, couldn’t she see it? Her friend was pleading with her to offer my teen years to the Virgin’s monastery up on the

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top of the hill. If the Virgin knew that I

was to spend time with Her as a nun

for my teen years, she would spare my life, she said and my mother wouldn’t kill them. "Do it!" she commanded, "her mother will skin you alive!“ I don’t think my aunt did, even at that almost tragic moment. Maybe she weighed the lesser of two evils. In any case, my mother would kill her either for the nun offer or for returning a corpse. I survived with minor injuries but as I was growing up there were instances when I was obstinate or obnoxious (always according to my aunt) and she, 16 years my senior, would say: "if only that wheel hadn’t struck your head!" I could have told her that I was a child what was her excuse? But then I tried not to infuriate her more; it was enough that she missed no opportunity to call me rebellious, undisciplined and a ‘small body with a big mouth’. She was always under the stress of extremely difficult exams. I don’t know how she reported that accident to my mother, I couldn’t remember a thing; even if I did I wouldn’t talk; someone would punish me. I have no memory from the hospital or how we got there. We all tried to forget the incident, in fact, it was Aunt Popi who brought the subject up many years later. I had forgotten all about it. It was hot in the sun during the day, but evenings were cool. After the sun set somewhere in Africa, the breezes of the Adriatic Sea bathed the Ionian Islands. Everyone would be outside at that hour gossiping, matchmaking, the men at the cafe, (gossiping, match-making); dogs were lose, chicken asleep, cows and horses inside their stalls and children roamed the streets. Once in a while a small earthquake would shake us up and then we went back to normal, people and animals.

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I was watching the boys playing in the street in front of our home one afternoon after sunset. It was a rough game. The great boulder they had rolled downhill landed it in the middle of the dirt road. Mama was at the window upstairs also watching and holding on to Nicky. All animals were already penned, emergencies requiring the services of the taxi were rare. I watched the game for some time, something like a cross

between

prehistoric hockey and

ancient baseball still in its forming stage with equally prehistoric equipment. Each boy threw a stone in the air and as it came down, he was to hit it with a makeshift bat, a tree branch, and strike the large rock they had rolled downhill. To hit the rock from such a distance, required practice and strength. I leaned against the flowering ivy on the fence watching them with envy. "Can I play, too?" I asked one of my cousins, a senior in the

group and an

expert in the game. The others laughed. "This is for boys only, Elena," he said in a low, yet firm voice. There it was again. So why was it making me mad since I knew it was universally accepted like other ‘written/unwritten’ laws? I wanted to become a boy like them but didn’t know how. I was angry. "That’s not it," I said close to tears, "you don’t want to play with me because I’m an orphan." His face fell. I had shocked him. Actually, that was my intention. He called the game off. In a few seconds everyone was gone. I was alone in the

deserted street, but for my mother by the window upstairs. She hadn’t

heard. As if being without a father wasn’t in itself a personal tragedy, I had to add the social stigma to it and the ambiguity followed by pity. There were too many orphaned children in the country with no visible means of support and

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no government assistance. Evening shadows came down from the mountainside and I knew that Mama would call me in any minute; but it felt good to have the street all to myself, it seemed a good idea to slowly walk away from the house to spy on the stars that would soon be coming out. Where do they come from, how they do they sneak up on us at night, one minute the sky is blue, the next velvety black, pierced by thousands of little flickering lights like fireflies. No one had given me a satisfactory answer. Sleepy birds murmured softly the last song of the day hidden in the trees branches. I walked on tiptoe my eyes riveted on the sky. Suddenly, one star appeared, it sort of popped out from nowhere, then another and another, on top of the hill, so near yet too far. They were not falling stars, they stayed on, hanging...where have you been all day, I asked as I looked, where do you sleep, where do you hide? The loud thud shook me, the pain penetrated my heart and blinded me, but that scream couldnâ€™t be mine, I was dead until I opened my eyes and saw me sprawled at the foot of that monstrous boulder with which I had collided. What had happened to my face, I wondered but my darkened vision gave me no hint except for the stars still sparkling in front of me. It seemed that a star had fallen from the sky, crashed on my face for asking too many questions and then was shattered into a million little flickering lights; I could not move; my hand was bloody when it touched my face. So, I was the one who screamed! Half blind, in excruciating pain I stumbled home. I didnâ€™t know if Mama could see my face in the dark, perched at the window sill, but she knew, as mothers do, that something terrible had happened, she twisted her head to the left so suddenly, that she stayed frozen in that position screaming

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unable to move, with my brother in her arms. Neighbors rushed out, my uncle came, the pharmacist and the midwife came. Mom was carried sideways to the front seat of the taxi like a statue and I was deposited on my uncle’s lap on the back holding the pharmacist’s bandages, dripping blood. Nicky was whimpering because he was left with Aunt Popi, as if we were going to a party! I slept during the hour long drive to the hospital and awoke when we arrived. By then, I was in great pain. "I can’t begin to count the accidents this little girl of yours

had,"

the taxi driver told my mother, trying to be funny. "She is accident prone, did you ever consider having her exorcised? (Hadn’t he heard about old Memos?)all through the drive to the city in the night, I harbored my own scary thoughts. What if they try shots or knives; I will hide and they will never find me, Exorcism was much better, painless. We returned home early in the morning; the sun wasn’t up yet and streets were still dark and empty. Mama walked funny and wore a stiff collar on her sprained neck. My broken nose was bandaged. The doctor called my fall an unfortunate accident and then I heard ’broken nose’ which reminded me of the gracious Caryatids holding the Temple on their heads on the hill of Akropolis. Time, not accidents had mutilated their noses and I wondered if with all my ‘accidents’ I will end up looking like them when I grew.

LYING: A DOUBLE STANDARD We returned

to Athens in September, the best part of Summer, to prepare for

school and look for an apartment in a new neighborhood closer to the

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private

school Nicky was to attend and to register for school. That brother of mine attended the exclusive school because he was a finicky eater. No amount of coaxing, promises or punishment could make him open his mouth to eat what the rest of us were eating and Mama was frantic. She still ran after him into the street holding a spoonful of food or an egg, afraid that he may die of malnutrition; she gave in to his every whim and he took advantage victimizing all of us. At dinnertime our dining room looked and sounded like a battle field. In the middle of dinner, he would decide to leave the table with Mom in tow, pleading. Or, he would say that he wanted fried eggs which meant that I should stop eating and run to the dairy store, buy two eggs for Mom to fry, hoping that Nicky would eat them if by that time he hadn’t changed his mind again, which he frequently did. Those were days of no refrigerators except for some pharmacies, the King’s Palace, a few exclusive restaurants, hospitals, dairy stores and the butcher shops; The rest of the world use, those who could afford it, used ’ice boxes’ and those only in the summer because there was no ice in winter. Even with the blocks of ice that the ice peddler sold us daily, perishable food could not last more than a couple of hours. People bought food on a daily basis and kept it hanging in special wire cases to keep out bugs and flies and to be in the shade. The private school, was for Nicky the authority of the ‘male’ that he lacked at home. He was forced to sit still in the classroom, so he would be forced to behave in the dining room and eat under supervision, because he was to eat lunch with the principal and his family and he couldn’t get away with tricks. The children attending the public school system had no lunch hour; they

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attended school from 8 to 2 with a few recesses to eat whatever was in their pockets, or play. I took Nicky to school in the morning and then I went on to my school. At four I walked to his school holding his glass of milk to my discomfort. It was Momâ€™s last chance of the day to see him fed. Nicky had warned his buddies to tease me and call me names and keep me occupied, and of course, I chased them while he watered the ferns with his milk until he was caught by the custodian. After that day, a teacher stood by while

he drank his

milk. He ate lunch with the principalâ€™s family in their dining room. At some point he had managed to convince

them that

he wasnâ€™t feeling well and asked

to eat with his coat on. The meatballs, somehow, went into the lining of his coat through a hole he had cut. I was a little late picking him up that day because I had spilled some of his milk on the way and had to walk carefully. He was waiting for me at the gate throwing meatballs at the eucalyptus tree across the street singing happily: "One meatball for the top, one for the birds, ah..." he had seen me! At the end of the year he told my mother that he often pulled the meatball trick.

The year went well, nevertheless; we did well in our grade but Mama skip the island that summer and so did Aunt Popi who had

wanted to

to serve two months

as a resident in the maternity clinic. They both felt imprisoned within the village walls of provincial mediocrity, anyway. A small bungalow was rented at the shore but Nicky and I had mixed feelings about it, we

missed the island

and our cousins. I overheard my mother and aunt talking one evening, agreeing, a rare thing, that the two mishaps I had suffered the summer before in the island were a sure warning that the island was no place for me it was pushing

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me away. I knew they were talking like that because they didn’t like to go to the island, because I never felt any such ‘push’. The bungalow was close to the beach and not too far from Athens. The two rooms were small and there was no kitchen which meant that we would cook and eat outside beneath the grapevine pergola. I liked that.

The ‘front’ was the

garden and a nice-sized terrace. The shower and outhouse were in the back in public view. The cottage, as my aunt preferred to call it, couldn’t sleep all four of us inside, one would have to sleep on a cot out in the terrace. Nicky said he should be the one because he felt crowded inside the bungalow and because I snored like a donkey and kept him awake. Where had he ever heard a donkey snore? Mama fell for it again and she moved his cot outside. Nicky was the happiest boy in town that night until loneliness, the darkness of the mountain, the monotonous song of crickets and the soft whispering of the waves as they swished over sand and rocks, got him. Nothing stirred in the moonless night but the pine needles over his head. That, too, scared him, though to me all of it was and sounded beautiful. In the middle of the night Nicky’s whimpering awoke us. We rushed out and found him crying, shivering under the sheet. "This place is full of ghosts," he said his teeth chattering. "What kind?" I asked unkindly. Mom shoved me aside, Nicky was lapping it all up, he loved the attention. "They came from the sea, and they came from the cemetery..."He pointed further up the road with a shaky finger, "and...and... they came from St. Stefanos."

He pointed at the small church across the street. Aunt Popi crossed

herself. That one was for her, she was the worshiper for all of us. The ghost

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story was for my mother. After all, she did terrify us for years with Papa’s afterlife activities and various other supernatural threats and miracles or whatever her ripe imagination could cook up. I knew Nicky better than anyone else. He wanted to sleep in

Mama’s bed,

and he got his prize. I shared his cot with Aunt Popi on the porch. She, too, began to complain about my snoring. And I

thought only fat old men snored and

farted. Aunt Popi with her medical acumen declared me sick! "There is something wrong with her," she told my mother. "You must take her to the Children’s Hospital in Athens." That nuisance

upset me. It meant a

whole day away from the beach! And then buses, doctors, nurses and God only knew what else... At the hospital, the doctor inserted little metal funnels in my nostrils and turned screws that enlarged my nostrils until I thought his whole fist would fit in. He looked for an ’obstruction‘, he said poring into the dark mysterious cavities behind my nose. His

breath was hot on my face; I held my

own breath in fear. Would my nostrils regain their shape or would I walk around looking like Pinocchio? "Aha!" he startled me. The last digging in my left nostril was an extremely painful one. "What have we got here?" He was asking me? "What?" my anxious mother rushed to look over his shoulder as if she could understand all about basal anatomy. "This child has a broken nose." To my relief he took out his metal stick and the metal funnels leaving me with fear in my heart but relieved of the pain of the stretched nose. Somehow, I knew that would come someday, I don’t know how, but when my mother had to face unpleasant or difficult situations, she

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suffered from amnesia. "Never!" she declared emphatically. "Never," she repeated with

profound

conviction that she knew better than the doctor, for, wasn't that child hers? Who should know better? The doctor got up.

The visit was over.

"As you wish, Madam," he said. "You can deal with it in your own fashion." He was bored. "However, take this diagnosis if you care to have a second opinion.” He handed her a prescription. ”A bone shard is obstructing her breathing, apparently an accident." Mama tore the paper out of his hand and walked away angrily, dragging me behind

her. As usual, she had forgotten

her neckpiece, the

nose, the overnight trip to the hospital of the in her anger thinking that she had

bandages over my

summer before. She was panting

wasted a day. We waited for the bus in the

midday scorching sun. I was silent. An adult lies or ‘forgets’ but a child cannot remind that adult. I had already learned that there are two codes for lying. You can do it if you are a grown-up; you get punished if you are a child. I was very reluctant to remind my mother anything even for her own good because in the end I would be in trouble. Like the day we went shopping for shoes for her. She tried to convince the salesman of the most exclusive store in Athens that she had priced that particular pair of shoes at another fancy store for 9OO drachmas. Why should she pay 1,O5O: I couldn’t keep my mouth shut; I had to set her straight, so I helped her to remember that in fact, it was the other store that was more expensive by 2OO drachmas. I still recall the resounding slap across the face that I got for my trouble. Red faced, because she was caught lying, she took me away and told me that it was my last shopping trip with her.

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She didn’t buy the shoes and for days she looked at me with contempt. I’m afraid I didn’t learn from the first lesson; I remember getting smacked another time for correcting her. After that, I minded my manners and memory. I kept away from trouble and other than those two times I can’t remember even having been physically reprimanded. For me, it wasn’t the physical aspect of it, the pain one can inflict with the contact of a palm on one’s face or buttocks; it was the indignity. I never forgot the day when Papa was alive; I was watching two boys from the neighborhood playing in the backyard. They wide

had dug a hole about a fist

and placed a small stick in it. They hit that small stick with a bigger

one and ran, I don’t know where. Someone must have tried to teach them baseball and missed. They kept at it, and at one point I realized that they became frustrated and left. I ran to the yard and tried to hit the little stick and I succeeded the very first time. Nothing to it!

Fine! It was then that I noticed

that the hole was half full of water that dripped from the neighbor’s white sheets drying in the sun and had become mud. The sun shone on them and so did my muddy stick, smack in the middle of one sheet. Mama saw it from the back porch and if looks could kill, I was dead. She was breathing fire as she ran down the stairs two steps at a time. "Wait till I get you!" I was in a closed yard and my only exit would be some neighbor’s house. I had to save myself. I ducked into the first open door, not knowing that it was their sheet I had soiled. All I needed that moment was a shelter from Mama’s anger. Then, a warning flashed in front of my eyes: "if you enter a house where people are eating, you make an excuse and leave immediately." At that time our neighbors were having lunch and I stopped cold

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in my tracks; I began to retrace my steps mumbling excuses, but the good people rushed to me trying to make me sit and have lunch with them. I had to choose between a meal I didn’t want but offered a safe haven, and Mom’s angry figure framing the door, a belt in her hand! The belt was a new gimmick! "Coumbara!" the neighbor grabbed my mother’s arm. "Come in for a few minutes, you must try this octopus! my husband caught it last night, try it!" Mom, embarrassed had to sit for the few minutes which were enough for me to escape. As I very discreetly backed away towards the door, I heard her: "wait till your father comes home!" That meant that my crime was serious.

Mom had

never threatened me before with that childish ‘father’ business. I knew he would not punish me; I just didn’t want him to know that I had done something so terrible, whatever that was. "Elena," he thundered with his bass voice when he came home at

noon. He

was in the bedroom, the door closed! And I thought I was safe hiding under their bed. "Elena," he repeated in a whisper. "Come on out." I held my breath. Would he find me? How does he know I’m here? He lifted the coverlet. I was flattened like a fish under the bed. I crawled out and lifted my head and faced my tall father, feeling thwarted but unafraid. From where I sat on the floor, his large frame loomed as tall as the hill with the monastery on top.

His dark

face looked stern. Gently, he pulled me up and sat on the floor with me on his lap. "I heard," he said sternly. "Mama said I should punish you." He touched my face, tracing my cheeks lovingly with those

beautiful, long fingers of his,

his soft eyes a well of kindness and love. "You must be careful when you play," he said. Then he clapped his hands

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twice making a loud noise. He opened the bedroom door. "Now, no more nuisance, you hear?"

His voice was loud, harsh. He closed the door and I cried. I was

relieved but upset because he had lied for me. Mama was vindicated. "Let this be a lesson to you," she said later when she came into the room to fetch me for my midday nap. "Now, go wash your face and hands well and go to bed." She emphasized the word ‘well’ either because she had seen traces of tears on my face or mud on my hands.

Waiting for the bus in the hottest hour of the day, when everyone in the world was sleeping, I was faced once again with the same dilemma. Do I keep quiet and let things lie, or do I set her straight and risk another slap on the face in the middle of the street? People walked, some went up to the Children’s hospital two blocks away, cars drove by. The yellow stubby fields across looked scorched. I walked to that patch of threatening thorns at the edge of the sidewalk that stood tall and breathless in the shimmering heat and I knew that Mama followed me with her eyes as if I had gone mad. The weeds pricked my bare legs until the tears were stinging my eyelids like thousands of needles. I was sure that my mother would not cross that island of torture just to slap me if I reminded her. Because I had decided to remind her; it was the sensible thing to do, and the thorns were preferable to another public disaster, like that of a slap. "Mama," I yelled from behind the safety of the painful yellow thorns. "Remember when I fell and you sprained your neck and...” "My goodness, Elena, why didn’t you speak up? I had forgotten..." Suddenly, I saw a fragile woman in black, sheltered by her large black straw

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hat and her silly large, black umbrella, aids to protect her fine complexion from the sun with her jaw dropped as if struck! Back at the hospital the doctor received us kindly; he was both impressed and ill-at-ease with Mamaâ€™s apologies. She was a different person. "What do I do?" she asked. "Nothing," he said. "Wait until she comes of age and has stopped

growing,

letâ€™s say at the age of 21." I heaved a sigh of relief. Twenty-one? I thought, thatâ€™s ages away, everything would be forgotten by then. "And until then, what can I do for that snoring?" "You can try turning her on her right side; it will make it

easier for her

to breathe, too." When we left the hospital we were both depressed, each for her own reasons. Riding the afternoon bus home was a slow process; it was late when we arrived, too late to go swimming but not late for an ice cream cone which a foolish boy tossed out of my hand as he ran, after just one lick.

(In the clear chilly night in March, 1946, as I watch speechless the splendor of the brightly lit New York skyline, I wonder where all that electricity comes from. For the past 6 years, our illumination came either from the bright Mediterranean moon, the phosphorescent waters

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and the stars, or the flames consuming our homes, the city, after an air raid. Romantic as the moon and the stars are, they can’t be compared with this man-made magic. It is enough to boost my morale and re-establish my faith in myself and the world. The city that promises everything, even if it doesn’t always deliver, my cradle of expectations. If we are to live here, I don’t think I will ever go to sleep. But we are to go further west. And if I live here, I continued against all logic, I could also have my pick of schools. Among those dark

silhouettes of

buildings out there may be the hospital that

will inherit part of my cranium in that planned nose operation when I become 21. And to think that I didn’t believe I was going to make it ! ”Look at all those lights“. He was back again! Somehow my

brother

looked tame, gentle as a little boy who is afraid to go to sleep. ”I wonder if they ever get lost, it’s all so big...“ He spread his arms wide. ”Who?“ ”Them!” He pointed at the movement of cars and lights. ”The New Yorkers.” “Don’t be silly,” I said, “they belong here, they are they know the

Americans,

streets of a big city.”

“We are Americans, too, I suppose, do we...” “Are we?” I cut him short, annoyed. “Do you ever wonder what are

we, really, I mean what our status is?” “What’s that?” “Status? It’s position, place in society; it’s what we are I

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think...We are Americans by accident of birth...” “That was no accident,” he laughed and then shrugged. “Be serious. We are Greeks because...well...because we are Greeks, we came from Greece,” I finished with somewhat subdued enthusiasm. “I know, I know,” he shouted unnecessarily. I looked around o see if anyone heard him shout, but there were only the dark waves and the ships docked in their remote piers near the lights. “We are Greek-Americans,” he finished as if he had discovered something no one else had thought of. God, this kid can be a pain, I thought. “Why don’t you go to bed?” I asked. “What do I tell Mama?” “What, again? You mean you never got to her yet?” “Nope!” “Then, skip the cabin, keep going. I assure you she won’t up to look

come

for you or for me.”

“They snore.” “Who?” “The Americans, the soldiers, remember? The Greeks, too. They make

such a racket, like a thousand instruments out of tune.”

“Hey, that was beautiful!” I tried to make it sound funny. “What was beautiful, that they snore? You try sleeping.” “No, no, I meant what you said about the instruments, that was poetic.”

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“Yeach! You and your poetry, nuts!” “Tell the steward,” I said as he made his way to the staircase. “Maybe he’ll reassign you to our cabin.” “Yeah, right! You know all men and boys have to be below,” he threw at me, “and, anyway, I prefer snoring than a bunch of women in the cabin.” He left and my and

I realized that the dialogue I had with

brother was the longest discussion we had held in

our lifetime,

I found him wanting. He had matured to a ‘man’, a small sized

opinionated ‘man’! We are growing, I sighed, and he is maturing. In time, we

might be able to communicate. Then I thought of his question

about ‘status’ I had so thoughtlessly thrown at him. We obviously were not

immigrants, I rationalized; linguistically, ethnically, we are

Greeks. But

we cannot vote in Greece and Nicky cannot be drafted by

he Greek Army. Legally, in Greece we are

‘foreigners’ but we claim

our parents’ citizenship. Here, we can vote, go to be drafted; we belong, or do we? We

school, Nicky may

are ‘Americans’, or are we? The

minute we open our mouths to speak the language, we will

be labeled

‘foreigners’. But being Greek-Americans is no legal status; a title. Oh, forget it, we don’t have a problem, friends,

it’s just

we are a problem! My

blissfully asleep this last night unmindful of the

friendship we enjoyed during the crossing, were under twenty, like me. All of us on this ship, have something in common. We ‘Repatriates’, the American Consulate in Athens called us. We fires, executions, foreign occupation. We

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shared war, hunger,

are the lucky survivors.

How many did not make the title of a thought and decided to make my

‘repatriate’? I dismissed the

mother happy by going down to the

cabin.)

C H A P T E R

MY BROTHER Nicky,

the apple of everyone’s eye (including mine) was two and a half years

younger than me. His blond curls, round-face and sweet smile were earning him much that he didn’t deserve; not too many, though, knew how vicious he could be when he and I were alone; he and I, with no witnesses.

For a boy who hardly

ate, his pink cheeks made him look healthy. Only the immediate neighbors knew that it took all of Mom’s energy to keep up with him and to stop him long enough to feed him. Like in many other cultures, the son was, and to a degree still is, Lord and King over the females of the household, his and perhaps his relatives’ once or twice removed. I was lucky that our mother didn’t allow Nicky to boss me around; he retaliated by being brutal when no one was looking. Without meaning to though, Mom had managed to instill in me the inevitable; the guilt and obligations even the unwritten law, the ‘duty’ to my brother, perpetuating the fairytale of subjugation to the male. That accepted behavior was the invisible force which controlled sword suspended

our lives in all social strata, a

over every female head in villages or towns; sisters, mothers,

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wives, aunts, grandmothers, all subjects to ridicule or bad taste

jokes.

Depending on the temper of the male, his problems or the severity of her misdoing, a woman could face blows or pay with her life because of a malicious or irresponsible

piece of gossip or contrived accusation. In most cases, the

court exonerated the offender because he acted in ‘defense of his honor’! But for actual death, any brutality was considered a domestic affair, ‘normal’ reaction in the male world. It was after World War II, that laws were enacted according to which the killing of women for ‘honor’ is considered a crime. To her credit and due to my father’s liberal attitude, Mama’s social behavior was a little different, though at times ambivalent. She stood up for

women.

"Men," she said in her simple wisdom, "are weak. It’s a shame that can’t accept it. They have the muscles, they go to war, but they are the ones who make war, not the women. Remember, child, a weak person shouts and screams the loudest to conceal the fact

that he is scared, vulnerable." She stopped for a

while for breath and I was speechless. How did my Mother know about those things?

"...Those that shout the loudest, Elena, those that fight hard and

drink hard and dance hard and make deadly wars are the weakest..." she emphasized with profound wisdom. "Is Nicky weak, too?" I asked. I wanted to ask about Uncle Philip or even my dad but I didn’t dare. Nicky was a safe way to test the validity of her actual beliefs, though I wasn’t honest; I didn’t really care, I had already formed my own opinion about Nicky and it didn’t coincide with anyone else’s because no one knew him as well as I did. On the other hand, I wanted to see her reaction when she realized that I was on to her double standard system of beliefs where it concerned her son.

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"Leave Nicky out of it, Elena, I said ‘men’. Nicky is just a boy". Yes, I thought, with the nasty habit of growing into a man. For years I had received ambiguous double standard messages. There was no question in my mind that I loved my brother not because I was told, but because he was my brother; no one had to force me. I could not understand why he needed my protection. I was the one who needed protection from him. It was always like that. ‘He is a boy’...’he is adorable’, or ‘just like a boy.’ In my case, the moment I opened my mouth I heard the usual: ‘you’re a girl’...’girls don’t do that’...’girls walk straight’, ‘girls don’t look left and right’, ‘girls don’t whistle.’ And the icing on the cake...’yes, you are right, but you’re older.’ I had two reasons not to be thankful that I was a girl and he had all the reasons to be thankful for being a boy. He was a boy and his wish was law. He was a boy and everyone picked him up and kissed him and hugged him. He was a boy! He was given whatever he asked for. I was a girl and no one in my family picked me up, or kissed me. I asked if I was pretty and they almost brought the priest to exorcise the devil in me that uttered such unseemly word. Girls don’t look in the mirror. A good girl listens but keeps her mouth closed...No wonder I never smiled after Papa’s death. No one ever bothered to talk with me except to tell me how girls behave; Only my father loved me, I thought,

and he was gone before I realized the treasure I had

lost. Alex was my only real friend; he wasn't like the other grown-ups, but he was an exception. And he wasn’t around! I was the way everyone thought I should be, for a girl (everyone but me) I was growing into a fat, unsmiling, graceless, humorless girl.

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Nicky was always underfoot when he was smaller; if there was no adult around to admire him, I was his friend. If a threatening belt in Mama’s hand came his way, as it usually did when he exasperated her, he made sure that I put myself between him and the enemy. At times that belt landed on me when Mama missed. I hated violence; it meant that someone is hurting another human being, especially if that ‘another’ happened to be my brother. Surrounded by adoring women, Nicky felt his ‘manhood’ early; it was natural for him to expect to get and not to give. (‘Boys do those things’ in contrast to me who had to be perfect all the time because ‘you are older,’ or ‘you are a girl!’ the usual.) My friends wished to be boys; I had my doubts, the privileges not withstanding. Boys were aggressive and vulgar. One evening right after supper, I happened to turn around

in time to see

Nicky tearing through the rooms like an enraged bull. I knew what was coming! His little lethal foot was in position to kick without provocation or warning. There was no excuse for his exuberance other than he had an energy surge and needed to hurt someone really bad. This time, I thought, I will not run. I stood my ground prepared to defend myself; when he got close enough to almost touch my stomach with his foot, I got hold of that foot. He wasn’t prepared to face a sister who would stand up and not run away; he lost his balance and landed on the floor where he lay writhing in pain. Nothing would make

him stop

screaming but I was used to his acting and only when Aunt Popi looked at his swollen hand I realized that he was really hurt. She ran to the Avenue for a taxi. We spent half the night at the hospital while his right arm was put in a cast because the X Rays showed

multiple fracture. I waited alone guilt-ridden

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in the waiting room, fearful of what they would do to me, I knew, I was dead; Luckily, I wasn’t

scolded or punished and Nicky thrived in the newly acquired

glory of martyrdom for a month. Friends, neighbors and relatives brought the poor ’victim‘ candy and toys, but there was no beach that summer and that was punishment enough for both of us. If he couldn’t go, neither should I, and so I spent my days serving him and my free time feeling guilty just as my mother had in her time. "A brother is very important in a girl’s life." The same old story! "He protects her...” here I had to smile thinking of Nicky, "and when the time comes he takes care of her dowry..." "Mama, you are speaking last century ideas," I interrupted her. "And you are speaking out of turn," she answered. "Be careful, with a mouth bigger than your head, you’ll end up an old maid, you know like who...” Her eyes signaled at the closed door. But Mom did not believe the junk about dowries; she only remembered on occasion and probably believed that some traditions should not be forgotten. "I served my father and brother like a maid," she would say. “I heated

water for their morning toilet, did their

laundry since was eight years’ old, ironed it. I had to draw the water from the well, build a fire..." she would go on reminiscing. "...and did they provide you with a dowry?" I mocked her. I wondered how a girl my age could do all those things when I could not even wash my socks.

We had a woman who did our laundry, but in the villages girls

still slaved from a very young age. Doing the laundry was a serious and copious affair. The clothes got washed, scrubbed, rinsed, and folded into a huge bamboo basket with fresh laurel leaves. The basket was then securely covered with

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clean burlap and boiled ash water was slowly poured over everything. The burlap acted as a filter and the clothes were safely bleached. When all the water had dripped, the clothes were rinsed and spread on ropes, bushes or rocks to dry. If the washing or the rinsing was done in the river, it was easier to use the rocks. But that was extremely heavy work for little hands. Just squeezing the heavy, rough clothes needed strong adult arms. Washing wasn’t Mama’s only job as a child. She also went up the hill for firewood, berries, herbs or dandelions, helped with the cooking and when the men came home she would help them take off shoes and socks and washed their feet with warm soapy water before dinner to ease the fatigue of the day. She didn’t mind, she said, she was little and she was expected to do that like every girl. It was just that washing their feet like a servant humiliated her. "One day I complained; an open rebellion..." she reminisced. “My brother looked at me and said ‘Christ washed the feet of his ‘disciples;’ it sounded like preaching and I wanted to laugh; then he continued preaching: ‘no one asked Him to wash their

feet. Who do you think you are?’ So I said very

humbly: ‘certainly not the Lord,’ but added right away: ‘but neither are you an Apostle.’ I had to beat a hasty exit;

both my brother and father would skin me

alive for daring to answer back." Mama was lucky; she married a totally liberated man, something unique

rare and

in those days, but she lost him too soon. The few years they had lived

together, were the best of her life, she often said. She was happy, blessed, honored, respected. "No one loved a woman the way your father loved me." To the day she died, she vowed, she would never look at another man. She often remembered the day we arrived from America and her family had come aboard to

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welcome us. Uncle Philip looked at the woman with the wild, boyish hairdo, bright lipstick, dress above her knees, a cleavage that was a disgrace and two strings of pearls all the way down to her belly button. What happened to the innocent girl he had sent away to America as a bride? He paled. "Go below, and make yourself presentable," he commanded, his voice shaking with anger. She did not move. "You should have seen your father; He walked to your uncle slowly with those long legs of his and told him with a smile: ‘My dear brother-in-law, the name, remember that!’

woman that was your sister now bears my

Mortally offended, my brother called the rowboat and

left without looking back. Such a smooth talker, your father..." she said with a voice full of regret and painful memories. "He dealt my brother a blow; they were always the best of friends." When she came home from the hospital with a new baby, Mama said, I looked at him and pointed to the window. Too young to speak, they interpreted my gesture as that of a shock that left me speechless, judging from the unstoppable babble that issued forth

from my mouth. They missed the message

‘throw that thing out the window.’ I knew that my days of reign were over; little did I know that we would move to Greece; that I would lose my father, my only supporting force, and that I would actually live under the thumb of the oppressive Greek male. When Nicky was about two years old I gave him a bottle of juice; I missed the mouth and all but broke his skull; that was serious, bottles weren’t made of plastic then! His nose didn’t recover fully and it took them years to realize that he owed that crooked nose to me. They didn’t let me forget it, either. I actually felt that breaking my own nose could be a sort of divine

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retribution. The little boy in him was slowly maturing, and gradually, Nicky began to let go of me a little. He found other kids to beat up. I was relieved because I had friends of my own and needed privacy, I didn’t want him underfoot all the time; he also told on me and never forgot that there was a sister at home he could torment and taunt at will. When I thought he was out playing, he was under my chair or my desk pulling my socks; or he would pull my braids suddenly so violently that I would fall, just so he can laugh; it was a great joke when he pulled the chair from under me just as I was ready to sit. He glued my stickers to the window pane, cut holes in my shoes, threw pepper suddenly or squeezed tangerine peel in my eyes when no one was looking, tripped me... He had a whole collection of tortures. I never found out where he learned those ‘tricks’, or why I didn’t know them, at least to protect myself. My mother had a large toy box made to order for me for my name day: a shiny walnut piece of art which I treated with special care using furniture oil at least once a week; I treasured it, I kept all my ‘valuables’ there: a silk handkerchief, angel decals, a bar of luxury soap, my crayons, some shiny rocks and other things that girls love to keep under lock and key. The carpenter who made it was also an artist and carved it like a real antique; it was beautiful, it was my haven; I could lock it! Nicky couldn't stand anything stopping him, especially when he saw the key around my neck. One night he took the key while I was asleep and early in the morning he put it on the tracks of the street car and waited for the first car to flatten it. He came back triumphant with that flat piece of metal and I thought my heart would break; he would never give up. "Look what the fairy godmother brought!" he said. My mother was furious.

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Nicky was used to punishment, and had forgotten it in an hour. Mama had another lock and key made and after that I kept it well hidden. When Mama went shopping we were told to stay indoors until her return. There were no cars for miles around, but she was afraid of humans, not engines, she said. Nicky loved those shopping days of Mama’s. She would take forever to return and he had time enough to have fun. He would go after me with such vehemence as if I was his mortal enemy and it was hunting time for the triumphant predator; within minutes the house would be in shambles. The only way to avoid him was to run all over the house over beds, the sofa, chairs, tables. I wouldn’t hit him, that was Mama’s job. After all, I was ‘a girl’ and I was ‘older’. The first person Mama would seek when she faced the destruction would be me: what did you do to him? Or how did you provoke him? I provoked him if I sang or sat near the window; I provoked

him when I read a book, did my

homework or drew a picture. I provoked him even when I breathed. Mama stayed up late on New Year’s Eve to wrap and hide our presents. It was late and she thought we were asleep; I was too excited to sleep so I feigned sleep and I saw her when she sneaked into our room to put the toys under our beds. When she tilted my box to fit it under the bed I heard the cry Ma-Ma and I knew that it was the doll I had hoped for; one couldn’t hope for much; toys were imported and very expensive. I couldn’t sleep all night waiting for morning. I managed to utter such cries of happiness and surprise when I opened the box that no one knew I had sneaked. Nicky was crazy with envy. He had the most wonderful toy motorcycle, big, shiny with red lights that flashed when wound and ran in circles in the room. Children from the surrounding neighborhoods were lining up outside the house to

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play with it, he should be happy with the attention he got. Not him! He began hiding the doll the moment I turned my back; he found unimaginable places to hide it, the top of a tree in a deserted bird nest, behind a sack of cement across the street where they were building a new house; he threw it out the window, teased a neighbor’s cat with it...No amount of threats or punishment stopped him until months later the doll finally disappeared for good. I was struck numb and Mama was upset. She coaxed and

threatened and finally told him

point black that unless the doll is found by morning his motorcycle will be at the bottom of Saronicos Bay. He burst into tears. "The doll died," he sobbed and his nose began to run. Another act! He looked a sight! both Mama and Aunt Popi fell for it; I felt that any minute they were going to offer him condolences. That was revolting; but I wasn’t allowed to butt in, just as they weren’t allowed when they were children, or even now. "How did she die?" They knew him all right, but their love was

greater

than his crime and that was his weapon. He didn’t detect the sarcasm. "Well," he sniffed, "she was crying ma-ma, ma-ma and I realized she was sick. I examined her and I thought she needed to have her appendix removed." Aunt Popi tried to stifle a chuckle. Spoken like a true nephew of a future doctor, she must have thought smugly; she was the worst offender in his male upbringing. I wondered where he had heard the word ‘appendix’, I didn’t

even

know what it meant. "I operated on her," he continued, "but she died on the operating table." "And...?" Mama was losing patience. "...And I buried her... I gave her a good burial, I said all the prayers,

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I sprinkled her with holy water..." We found the doll where he told us, in the garden, under the rose bush. Her stomach was gaping, the stuffing was clumped with soil. The coils of the voice spring were projecting from the mass. I was crying not because I had lost the toy I loved, but at the ugliness of death. Nicky was only curious to see the mechanism of the voice box. One rainy day we were alone in the house; Mama had gone shopping and Nicky was in a good mood.

"Let’s play barbers," he said and I told him no,

let’s play tea party, or doctors, or cops and robbers. What kind of a game was ‘barbers?’ Anyway, anything would be

better than killing each other.

compromised. I must say he was inventive and I fell for it because

I was

bored. "We’ll play beauty parlor!" He announced and for a while it was fine. He assembled his tools of ‘trade’: the large mirror, the towel around my neck, the glass of water and the comb to do the curls; just as he had seen Mama do with my hair every day. The comb was too wet and the right side curl came out pointy. He snipped it off. He tried again, the same. He kept snipping, then tried the other side. Soon he was bored. He parted my hair in a way that the longer side covered the shorter and said: "Now we play barber!" Me again! He shaved my arms, my fingers, the fine hair above my lips and at some point I finally realized that he was going for my eyebrows

and had enough sense to run...

It was late when Mama returned; the light wasn’t strong so she

could not

see or admire her son’s artistic accomplishments. We went to bed quietly after supper and only late at night when she came into our room carrying a lamp to check on us and took a closer look at me, she realized that something was

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terribly wrong with my head. She only let out a small cry but it was enough to awake us all. There was a big row...She knew who the culprit was but she turned on me. How could I have let him...how did I provoke him... the usual stuff. Of course I defended him; I took the blame and told her also, that there was nothing wrong with my head. I loved it.

The next morning in the kitchen Mom

laughed when she noticed my poor efforts to conceal my deformed, lopsided head. I was utterly humiliated. "Here," she said pressing something into my palm. It was a ten drachma coin. I looked up startled. Was she paying me on top of it? "Go to the barber and get a decent haircut." That really hurt. I ducked; I didn’t want her to see me cry. "Listen, tell him," she continued, "my mother said to give me a haircut ‘a la garcon.’ I walked out crying. My hair, my beautiful hair, I mourned as I walked toward the main road. What a cruel punishment to get a ‘boy’s’ haircut! It serves me right, it’s all my fault...I am older, I should know better, I know him, he is always up to no good. Until my hair grew I shut myself in after school feeling naked without my curls. My ‘innocent’ little brother got off Scot free. After all, he was a boy and boys ‘do those things!’

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SUMMER IN ATHENS In our house

Mama set the rules. Her decisions were the law. If her

or anyone else didnâ€™t take kindly to her authoritative manner

sister

there was a row

and sulking for a few days. No one could, certainly should not, prove Mama wrong. She found no reason to discuss anything with the rest of us; if she had thought it herself, it was right. It was her business and responsibility and we were to comply. She hardly ever changed her mind; her decisions, invariably hasty, were wrong more often than not. We were to spend summer in Athens. Aunt Popi agreed; Nicky and I sulked for days thinking of the island, the walks, the games. We missed our cousins and all that was going on in summer. Mama promised to take us to the beach on Mondays and Thursdays buses were not very crowded those days.

because according to her the

She kept that promise as best she

could. Loaded with baskets of her indispensable, famous meatballs, hard boiled eggs, bread, cheese, olives, tomatoes, cucumbers, her home-made fig jam, watermelon and I canâ€™t remember

what else- enough to feed the entire bathing

population at Faliron beach- blankets umbrellas, bathing suits, towels and hats, we staggered along to the streetcar ten long blocks away and rode downtown to catch the bus to Falliron. The crowded passengers did not appreciate the family that invaded and took over each available inch of space, like a caravan of gypsies. They were going to their jobs early in spite of what Mama thought of Mondays and Thursdays being days of lighter traffic. Sundays meant long lines, hours of waiting. It would have been virtually impossible to get into the bus with all we carried. Even on those days we managed to get off with less food than we started with, and I was in tears because invariably, someone pinched my bottom. Nicky usually unloaded whatever he was carrying

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before he got off pushing and kicking his way out of the bus. By the time we assembled all our provisions and stepped on the burning sand, he was in the water. The shore, an endless stretch of sand laced with the gentlest, bluest sea, began at the edge of the pine groves that sprawled all the way up the hill. There were no beach umbrellas then; only the ladies who wanted to take in the sun (dressed) for their health fearing its effect on their delicate skin held large black umbrellas. The beach looked like an English country funereal procession. Mom spread the tablecloth in the shade and covered the food with cheesecloth, then stood guard over her charges as if waiting for sharks to appear any minute. As soon as we hit the water, she became sergeant-at-arms patrolling the shore. "Is it cold?" she would yell, and her voice reverberated all the way to Athens making us the laughing stock of the Attica peninsula. "Don’t swim so far out... come back...". "I want to see your head..." "You’re turning blue... it’s time..." We pretended not to hear but she knew. She began giving orders as soon as we got in the water. In one hour we heard her better, especially when the inevitable threat worked its way into our water clogged ears: "...either you get out this minute or there will be no Falliron for the next two weeks." Then we turned shoreward to the wading black-clad figure holding her dress between her knees, hissing in anger. For

Mama sun was a

miraculous energy, made for children –hers! Indispensable; it protected us from colds in winter, killed germs, drained sinuses and cured stomach cramps. It was good for the bones of growing children and my lungs. The doctor had said so. Nicky’s gut had to be drained, she said. If a little sun was good, more is better. She practically baked us. Nicky was on his back, then on his tummy,

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then on each side like a fish being fried. Under the large black umbrella that protected our heads, we couldn’t even play marbles. That summer our thighs and backs were being toasted as we watched wistfully the little naked children play in the water. Older boys and girls up to about 11 or 12, wore shorts and shirts or skirts. Teenagers, those who could afford them, wore bathing suits, otherwise the boys bathed in their short pants and in that case they did not have to change and the girls bathed in their slips. Adults did the same. Nicky and I had regular bathing suits, his white and blue, very nautical Greek, mine red with a blue and white belt, very American. It was also made of wool! it itched! But it beat having to swim in my underwear and it gave me an excuse to get in the water often to ‘stop itching’! In this colorful array, the beach stretched on for miles hosting an innocently classless populace. Born and raised near the sea Mama never learned how to swim but loved the

water

though it represented danger to her children. After my father’s

death she gave up on anything that would give her pleasure and if she came to the beach at all, it was to see that Nicky’s tummy was baked and that my lungs absorbed enough sun for the coming winter. Even at the stifling hot beach she wore black and with her black umbrella, she looked like a blond messenger from Hades. The only concession she made was to shed those terrible black stockings while at the beach. She kept her hands busy with her crocheting while we were being roasted, as she sat on a blanket in the shade of a pine tree and still held the large black umbrella under her arms to ‘protect’ her head! How she managed that twisting position, I don’t know. We ate all day; if we didn’t, God forbid, we would have to carry It back. After ‘lunch’, we took a nap, still underneath that mournful umbrella

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with our bodies exposed to the sun’s ‘kindness’, then had a snack, took a dip to wash off the sand we doused each other with, then more sun, more food (the sun works up an appetite, her saying). During the endless tanning hours, in the ‘torture chamber’ we told jokes or the dirtiest words we had heard, pinched each other, pushed, threw sand down

each other’s back, while the merciless

Mediterranean sun used his ferocity on our young bodies and Mama kept doing whatever she was doing. To the day we die we will carry the freckles of Mama’s ‘scientific’ baking, her half-knowledge and convictions. Along with

the

freckles, we will carry the last happy memories before World War II shattered our childhood!

FIRST CRISIS The long

naps after lunch, that national habit, was hard to understand.

People slept at night, I reasoned and I refused to succumb to it. It was stupid going to bed in the middle of the day wasting all those hours. The entire country was asleep and I would feast my eyes on the hill of Akropolis from the balcony; that hill, too, looked asleep shimmering in the noon heat. I wanted to shout to the world: "Hey, is anybody awake?" Work stopped; everyone went home at noon in a mad rush for lunch, the main meal of the day, and a nap. In the afternoon, cool and refreshed they returned to their jobs until evening when the city became alive again with lights and music and shops that stayed open late; people crowded sidewalk cafes and outdoor cinemas, or walked leisurely on the tree-lined avenues holding hands. Children played outside until late; open doors and windows let in the cool breeze that drifted from the Saronicos Bay.

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Ancient theaters and

Odea performed all summer for the tourists and all who

enjoyed the classics. The insomniacs occupied the cafes until very late and in neighborhoods’ doorsteps chairs leaned against the walls for the latest local and international news flavored and analyzed according to individual taste; matchmakers were busy. In the darkness serenaders walked the narrow streets with guitars and accordions. With the lunch dishes done, Mama and Aunt Popi

went dutifully to bed but

Nicky and I found it hard to succumb unless the heat overcame us, or, in a rare occasion we were too tired to resist. Our backyard was just as silent with the chicken roosting as if it were limp like a thirsty

the middle of night, the apricot tree standing

picture, seemed asleep, too. Sometimes Mom took us to her

bed to tell us stories to keep us quiet. She was good at it and no matter how many times we heard the same story we never tired; she had an interesting way of repeating

stories with such alterations that we thought them new. One noon

she was telling us for the hundredth time how the hunter saved Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother

by tossing flaming branches down the chimney,

when Nicky leaped up yelling. "Blood, there is blood in her panties." he cried, his face screwed up in terror

and disgust. "Her panties are bleeding..." he kept

screaming pointing at me. It wasn’t always easy to believe stories he made up, but then Mama stopped her story and

Nicky with the

looked at me which

meant she believed him and I began to believe him, too, especially when Mama dragged me hurriedly to the bathroom; I a hemorrhage years back still

panicked. The picture of Mom dying of

haunted me.

"I’m dying..." I cried and held my knees tight to stop the bleeding.

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My mother

was the picture of serenity. My life was going down my legs and she

was silent. Nicky had opened the yard door and was shouting to the sleeping world outside in case someone had missed the news: "My sister is dying, she is bleeding." Mama rushed outside to get her son before the police came to investigate the murder, and I sat terrified on the toilet seat thinking of my impending death. Our next door neighbor came in with Mama; they shut the door behind them. "I’m dying!" I cried. The neighbor lady made cooing noises like a clucking hen, no use talking to either of them, they don’t care. I am bleeding from the worst possible part of my body, that was no nosebleed, I knew that consumptive people spat blood, but this was not my nose or my mouth. Aunt Popi was away on a trip with friends. An uncle of ours who was a doctor not far from our house had just left for Europe. They will take me to the hospital and there I will die, I thought and shivered feeling cold all over in the middle of summer. "So, it happened!" the neighbor said and Mom nodded. "It was time, eleven,

isn’t she?" Mama nodded again. Were they discussing me? I was eleven,

but what happened, did they expect me to die at eleven?

Nothing made sense. I

remembered snatches of strange conversations I overheard while playing outdoors after sunset and the meaningful side glances of gossiping well-meaning neighbors nodding wisely. "Any time now..." or, "they are growing fast these days... she is big for her age..." I waited. They eyed me mysteriously. I cried; I was afraid to die, and two grown women were trying to tell me something I couldn’t understand because they both talked at the same time. Why couldn’t one of them shut her mouth so I could listen to what the other was

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saying. They searched for words, started began anew and I looked now at Mama now at her friend as they perspired in

the closed bathroom trying to put

something into a sentence to explain a bodily function. They botched it badly; they had only a scant idea themselves. The natural process of menstruation became a terrifying and colossal impediment whose imagined or true perils

were

to complicate my life. "It’s normal," one said. "You, too?" She nodded. I was relieved. I wasn’t

dying, after all, what

joy! She lowered her head, blushed and nodded. I got the message that it was something not to be shared with anyone. "A woman’s secret?" they nodded, I was only joking, I had heard that somewhere and I thought it sounded smart. It turned out that I hit the spot. This is serious, I thought, then it dawned on me. Month after month for life? “W H A T?” "Shut up," said Mom who should have made some effort to warn me beforehand and warn poor Nicky. But Nicky was a boy; he wouldn’t have to go through that. That was the trick. He was a boy! And I had to bleed...What penalty! Bleeding without even falling. I was used to falling. I fell at least three times a day. I don’t remember myself without scraped knees and bloodsmeared hems on my dresses or school uniforms. How was I to play now with blood running down my legs? As if Mama read my thoughts she explained the practical and hygienic process; another responsibility. Will I remember? I began to worry. Now that I knew I wasn’t a candidate for the grave I began planning for my future survival in the street without being ridiculed. It was enough that I had to be penalized for being a girl. I was angry. Who asked my mother to make

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me a girl? "You’re a grown girl Elena," the woman said. "You must be discreet. Don’t discuss this with just everyone..." "Why? If every woman has it, it’s no secret..." "Mind your mouth", Mama said. She was more worried about my manners than my health; I had almost died of fright on that toilet seat until they found words to explain. "You can’t go outdoors in your pajamas or underwear," the woman said. My God, I thought, one rule after another... "And what else?" I could be sarcastic, too. They laughed. "Why?" I insisted. "Why...why...questions...because the boys mustn’t see your pants..." she faltered. Again with the pants...If no one was supposed to see them why were they shown in store windows and sold in stores where boys and girls could see them... (A few years back Uncle Philip had taken us to the park to play. Nicky wanted to sail his boat in the pond but on the way he saw the statues on the alley behind the Military Academy and, unmindful of the tourists admiring the ancient art, he began an Indian dance around the marble figures

singing: "they don’t

wear no underwear" pointing to their genitals. Uncle Philip dragged us hurriedly away to another part of the park and Nicky sat next to him on the bench sulking watching him read the paper; he was miserable. I was about seven at the time. I climbed into the small sandbox with my pail and got busy. Soon, Uncle Philip was signaling and then came over. "Be careful how you sit," he said lowering his voice and I nodded because

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I was polite not because I understood. Still, I had to ask the reason, I could only sit on the sand. "Because the boys will see your pants." That surprised me. The children were looking at their pails and their sand castles not at my pants. A very well dressed boy was very absorbed talking to himself repeating "germs...careful, there are germs" again and again. I looked at his pail but I could only see the sand, yet he was speaking to those ‘germs’. Maybe, I thought, he spoke another language; he wasn’t even looking my way. I returned to my play perplexed, I wanted to take my uncle out of his misery because I saw his worried eyes under those bushy eyebrows so I took my pants off, put them in the pail and covered them with sand. No one paid attention to me. My uncle was at the box instantly, his face an apoplectic red, he picked me up rather harshly and grabbed the pail. We were on our way. "You see," I told him happily, ‘the boys can’t see my pants.’)

Suddenly the panties became prominent again, as if that humble piece of clothing was a hideous enemy. For the second time in my short life, my underwear had become the focal point of my world without falling, without me being responsible for doing something wrong. A whole crisis for a pair of panties...

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SOUNDS OF WAR The school

year ended in June, 1940; my grades were good and I had made more

friends, I liked school. And suddenly, it was summer and I began to look forward to a peaceful vacation, swimming, picnics, when Mama threw a thunderbolt: Not only we were not going to the island, but we were staying away from the shore altogether. At the shore, I thought, I could escape the adults with their frightening discussions predictions of war, disaster and other calamities while the sun shone like always. Mama said she had her reasons for not going to the island. “Such as?” I asked. "Your health," she said; "the doctor said that sea air

isn’t good for

your lungs, you need the mountain air." No use reminding her of the evening walks by the sea with my aunt and the constant order to breathe the "iodine"; some contradiction! Once again we rented a two-room bungalow, this time away from the shore, in a small town at the foot of Mt. Pentelikon, famous for its ancient marble quarries, the new sanatorium and an abundance of pine trees. The cottage was surround by a vineyard and many fruit trees. Above us loomed a pine-covered hill and thus the small structure justified its name ‘country cottage!’ Only a few miles separated us from Athens; Aunt Popi could commute to the hospital easily. Those were the last years of pristine nature before humans began cutting trees and clearing woods to make way for super cement monstrous buildings and highways. Nicky was in a bad mood and murmured all the way to the country "...what kind of a vacation do you call this? Farms, peasants...no place to play, no

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beach,” he was bitching as we rode northward away from the sea and I thought how bored I will be and how endless the summer until schools opened again; the thought depressed me as the taxi plodded along the highway like an overfed turtle. We carried our things making our way on the narrow path through the vineyard to the door of the cottage and Mama and Aunt Popi brought in the suitcases. The driver followed with the heavier stuff. The garden was in full bloom, the fig, peach and lemon trees and a huge mulberry tree whose dense foliage hardly hid the black berries were a pleasant surprise, especially the mulberry tree which raised its majestic height next to the shaded porch. The grapes were still green. It’s not so bad, I thought out loud and Nicky mumbled his disapproval, but then spotting the tree, he ran and stood under it "My tree!"

He said.

A complete metamorphosis

had

taken

in awe:

place, he dropped

whatever he was carrying and went to the taxi to help with the baggage, back and forth a couple of times as if he really enjoyed helping. "See that?" he pointed to the tree. "No one will be allowed up there." "Up where?" I asked looking up. He pointed at the top of the tree. "Why?" I couldn’t see the point. "Are you planning to become a bird? Or you just decided you like berries?” "I’m going to build me a tree house!" I laughed; as I leaned against the trunk of the tree I accidentally shook the old strong slightly but apparently enough to cause a fallout of ripe juicy berries on our heads like purple rain. "Yeach..." the more he tried to rid himself of the berries, the more

purple he

got. He went inside to change. He really meant business when he said ‘his house.’ He found some discarded planks, nails and a hammer and began building

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his dream house the very next morning. He was going to call it ‘My House in Haven’ and I was commanded to make the sign. "Can I visit you in your house, too?" I asked. "Of course not, it’s for boys only." "What boys? You don’t know anyone in the village." "Don’t worry, they’ll come," he was sure of himself. "When you find them, have them make the sign." I walked away.

I didn’t

tell him that I was afraid of heights and would never climb on his tree. A few days later, with his house all done, the sign was nailed on the trunk: "FORBEATEN!" I couldn’t help laughing. A boy is a boy, they always said, let him climb his tree and let him spell his silly words. What was he doing up on that tree all day by himself? Certainly not reading...Even for Nicky with ants in his pants, being idle for long hours day after day must have been boring. How was he going to escape the berries ‘living’ on that tree like Tarzan? In a few days the neighborhood boys joined him; at least, he had something to do while I took naps, rested, ate, got fat and read and re-read the few books I possessed. I main idea was ‘rest’, they said! But books soon were finished, they were not easily accessible and were expensive, a valuable commodity. Aunt Popi’s books were heavy scientific stuff, boring; after leafing through them and looking at the

strange

pictures

of birth, I gave up, they were too

perplexing, and I couldn’t ask questions because I wasn’t allowed to touch those books. The only place where books were plenty and it was a joy

to look

at them, was the National Library. The beautiful building was downtown in the heart of Athens, who would take me there? "Such an insatiable appetite for books..." a neighbor had told

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my mother

and then added "you

must watch her, she will hurt her eyes.” And my mother

listened. Deep inside my head I nurtured a thought. I would grow up and write my own books; I will always have something to read. But then, I reasoned, it would not be fun, I would know what the book is all about and how it ended. But in Germany they were burning books, I heard. "If they don’t want them,” I asked my teacher, "why don’t they

send them

to us? We have so few..." "Those are dangerous books, Elena," she had answered but did not where the danger was and I was a little intimidated and did That day she gave me the key to the school’s library

explain

not ask further.

which consisted of about

5O volumes and told me to borrow one. The book was about stars and planets of which I had no idea except that stars pop up at night, I had broken my nose trying to find out how. By the time I walked home I had gone through half the book and even before I had closed the door behind me I was shouting at my mother: "You lied to us; you told us that the stars are candles for Papa’s soul. Do you know what they are, really?" "Of course!" "You lied." "Now, see here. You were little, you couldn’t understand."

I was sure I

would have understood; I wasn’t very sure that Mama understood, even then. When I returned the book, the teacher asked me to tell the class what I had learned and show the pictures. It was a great honor.

I was enthusiastic about it and

so was the teacher. She allowed me to borrow a book every week. The teacher showed us the country of Spain in a large map and mentioned that it was deeply

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immersed in a war but didn’t tell us who the enemy was, so I raised my hand, history was my favorite subject and here we were discussing geography when history came up. At that time I hadn’t heard that there was a war on. Who was Spain fighting with? Her answer was a shocking revelation. "Itself!" How can a country fight itself? It’s like the hand or the foot kicking the head..."That is called a civil war," she went on and tried to explain it as best she could. She told us about the Generalissimo who was fighting to save the children and the churches of Spain from those brutes who were trying to destroy them. "The

generalissimo," she explained, "is something like our beloved ‘Mr.

Metaxas.’ I knew right away that even though she told us to pray for the Generalissimo, as far as our house was concerned, she was on the wrong side. Mama’s negativity toward our dictator immediately placed me against any dictators. As the teacher began to describe the ‘civil war’, I closed my eyes and visualized bloodthirsty Bolsheviks, beards, torches, nails and swords dripping blood. They were all giants, dark, vicious looking, dressed in animal skins in stone age fashion but I was thoroughly confused as to who attacked whom and why. Later, Mama looked at me for a long time before she spoke. "Please," she said seriously, "stop asking such questions at school. In time you will find your answers." She left me more confused. Athens at the time was busy hosting its own fiery destruction of ‘dangerous’ books. I didn’t take the matter up with either teacher or mother. Books were being burned and I wanted to grow and write books. So that means, I figured, that dangerous people write dangerous books. Maybe those writers were the ones killing the children. But I wasn’t in Spain; I loved children, where do I fit in this mess, I

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wondered sadly. I never asked anymore about book burning or book writing. That summer I rested! When my aunt was home and went for a walk in the woods Mama sometimes went along. When both went, I walked ahead checking the woods for hedgehogs but mostly to avoid listening to their bickering or disagreements or the depressing discussions of the ‘coming war’! Everyone talked about a ‘war’ in shops, farms, in streetcars, and church, I began having nightmares. My knowledge of history and geography was being challenged; I was steeped in ancient and medieval affairs, the Bible, Byzantium and endless battles. Who was that man Hitler, what was he doing in Austria and in Poland? Who was Mussolini? Why was he in Abyssinia? Why did his submarine torpedo the Greek ship carrying pilgrims to the monastery in August on Virgin’s day no less, the biggest celebration of the year, right

in her port in the island of

Tinos, That day, as the shocked pilgrims and the Navy saw the famous ship sink under the submarine attack, many began to wonder how miraculous

was the holy

icon that couldn’t protect her own island. Would the ‘war’ they were talking about be like the crusades, or like World War I the one my mother knew in her own childhood? My twelve years did not offer any enlightenment as to what that war would do to me or how it will be? Will the enemy, whoever that was, kidnap me and my brother as the Ottomans did?

Frightening thoughts kept me awake

nights; my questions were unanswered; they ignored me as one would a pest; those times I was suddenly a child! Up to then I was a big girl and as usual, girls don’t whatever... It was that word ‘child’ that I rebelled against and told the ‘adult’ women in my household who saw nothing eye to eye, that the child needed some intelligent answers, at least some reassurance, no lies! I gave up. It just happened, suddenly I think, during one night. How can I, I

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thought,

ask scared mortals something that only God knows? Those bloody

history pages began to look frightfully real, almost familiar. Only names changed: submarines, ‘Maginot Line’, tanks, machine guns, bombs. I imagined Maginot Line to be a thick, crayon drawn line, a wall, across Europe and prayed to God to help and reinforce that line so that it would stop the onslaught of the coming armies before they aimed their terrorizing weapons at us, before they came close to our country to gobble us up.

WHILE THE WORLD SHOOK Blessed,

uninformed, innocent childhood! The summer of 194O was brewing

horrors, kingdoms crumbled, as my royalist aunt declared, the world shook, but life in the small suburban town at the foot of the hill with its monasteries and festivals, was beautiful; the magic of childhood obliterated fears; the world might go to pieces but we didn’t see it because the circus was in the town square alive with lights, visitors, games, rides, toys; there was a huge barrel-like structure where a clown on a motorcycle rode on the inside from bottom to the top of the barrel and back; the Ride of Death! And the bearded lady and the child with the two heads. The Merry go-Round, our favorite, straight from Italy...An Italian company entertained us with clowns, while Mussolini was amassing troops to attack us. But that was an afterthought, when in the rush of patriotism and hate, one saw spies everywhere like the catholic nuns or the tenors at the opera. The annual festival at the monastery on the top of the hill that loomed above us, was well worth waiting for. The feast was a religious holiday without the commercial fanfare, rides or games; instead, music, dancing and eating and

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the usual goodies found in such fairs made up all the fun. Home economy thrived on those festivals where all home made products necessary for our existence were exhibited and sold, from blankets and clothing woven on the loom, to sheep, and chicken and food cooked on the spot, musical instruments, arts and crafts. Nicky and I climbed up the hill ahead of the others running under the pine trees; that gave us a sense of freedom but soon, we tired and sat under a tree to wait for Mama and Aunt Popi and to take the thorns

out of our legs and

sandals. The sun was so hot the pine needles were wilting; up we continued with Insects buzzed in our ears and hair; the air was still, but the smell of wild flowers and thyme, and the music drifting downhill in ripples, flutes mixed with the song of birds hidden in trees and bushes, made up for the discomfort. When Mama and Aunt Popi caught up with us we continued the trek uphill on the narrow path. Fun time, the glendi, began in the morning of the saintâ€™s day, not the evening before as in other festivals; the feast was on the monastery grounds while the liturgy was going on all day inside the ancient church, whitewashed for the occasion, sparkling in the sun. Mom and Aunt Popi were out of breath by the time we arrived; they spread the blanket under a pine tree and plopped down and Nicky and I disappeared before they came to their senses and asked us to rest. "Careful!" Aunt Popi yelled after us, "donâ€™t get lost..." "Pipe down, the whole mountain heard you," Mama scolded her sister but we had fled. How could one get lost on the top of a hill, I thought, but as I turned around I saw that I had already lost Nicky; so, one could disappear, after all. I was free! I went from stall to stall checking farmers and gypsies,

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herbs and homespun, blossom-dyed material spread on bushes, ruffled by the soft breeze. Merchants were still pitching tents, arranging their wares, some were cooking, calling buyers in their local idioms, some hard to understand at times. The nomads traveled from fair to fair, living out the harsh winters on makeshift huts and sheds in protected valleys. Lucky kids, Nicky said, no school for them. Inside the small white church the monks had begun vespers which meant that Mama would be looking for us; I avoided the entrance and made my way to the back yard where the little round coffee tables had already been set up and old women were pensively reading fortunes in coffee cups. That was more interesting. The sun was casting long tree shadows as it sank beyond the mountaintop across the horizon. The acetylene lamps hanging from posts or tree boughs were lit and flickered weakly above the tables as darkness fell. Bonfires were started along the paths and the whole area seemed to be a ship aglow in a dark sea with millions of stars above guarding it. Lines of people were still climbing the paths slowly like so many slim snakes. Some, fulfilling a promised pilgrimage, were concluding the long upward trek on their knees and arrived bloody from thorns and stones but with a look of peace on their faces; I felt their pain on my own knees. Incense, mixed with the aroma of food being cooked filled the air making me hungry. I had eaten nothing all day. It serves me right, I thought; it was either starving or stay with Mama and spend that precious time shut up inside the monastery listening to the monks chanting. Still, rather than search for Mama who had the hamper, I

stayed on drooling over

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mounts of feta and kasseri

cheeses, and shiny olives. Whole lambs were slowly turning on spits over hot coals dripping fat that sizzled on the coals. "This is no festival; it’s a market! The one at the village was much better..." The killjoy had found me! “It’s a Fair, I reminded him, a religious market, don’t be so miserable.” For Nicky, the joy of a festival was the fun, the game; for me, it was handcrafts and food! But boys, I had already discovered, don’t care much about the finer things in life. Did I expect Nicky to admire the blanket where a story was spanned into its intricate designs? Or fall apart at the beauty of the white linen lace with Neptune raising his trident above the waters? Or a juicy slice of barbecued lamb or home baked bread? Nicky wanted fun, adventure, screams, and the only noise around us was music: flutes, violins and the cries of the vendors advertising their home made products. Some were preparing tables for the

monks on the flag-stoned

courtyard and groups of young men and women, dressed in their holiday finery, or local costumes, were competing in graceful regional dances. I felt that I had walked for hours listening, keeping an eye in case my mother surprised me and took me away. How could I convince her that in the cocoon of my comfort, in my bedroom, I couldn’t imagine women in their remote mountain villages spending long, lonely winter nights spinning cloth and stories, making up songs and myths, knitting, stitching the intricate masterpieces those they brought to sell and those they kept in their dowry trunks. This, I realized, was real education that neither she nor the schoolbooks could give me.

One learned quite a few things just by looking and

listening. How these strangers entertained themselves, secretly dreaming,

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perhaps of the ‘One’ who would one day gallop by their humble cottage on a fast horse to take them away onto a fairytale existence. They lived without most comforts that we enjoyed, like electricity; their families, their animals and nature itself were their sustenance, and those pots and urns they were selling That so closely related to their ancient past. Statuettes and clay utensils, the ancient and modern world side by side, visible, useful as ever. The same simple artisans, stranded folk, snowbound for months, getting over the winter months as best they could; they drove the herds down into the valley and cheesemaking over, carding and combing the raw fleece done with, they began the home industry in the long months of winter. They made shoes from

animal pelts,

rounded to a point for support on their mountain easier mountain climbing, and embellished them with colorful pompons; they made bamboo or reed flutes, clay pots and wood carvings. They made up new songs and practiced dance steps, those men without schooling, old, young, whose knowledge of history was the local lore and whatever they accidentally dug up trying to pitch a tent or till a field. Those long nights they retreated into an ancient world where a live memory cell perhaps guided their nimble fingers hardened by rough mountain life. I walked for a long time and didn’t feel tired, and then I stopped in front of a stall and immediately fell in love with a toy! A clay whistle lying among other clay toys. It wasn’t just a whistle, like the shrill one the merchant used every now and then to attract customers, piercing my ears. With all my heart I wished that the little, delicate whistle, carved and painted with flowers and birds, was mine. So small and yet, so rich in art. Only Mama could buy it for me, which meant that I would have to look for her. I decided

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to wait a little. I’ll find her later, I thought, but as I turned to go, I came face to face with her. "Let’s go," she said as if she hadn’t heard our pleas to buy us this or that. "We are late, we must eat and leave at once." "Leave?" Both Nicky and I shouted in unison. "People are still coming.” “They should have started earlier,” was her reply. But we were under the impression that we were staying the night like all normal people. "We’ll be the only ones to leave," Nicky complained. "Then, we’ll be the only ones," she answered and sauntered down to the path where our blanket was. We knew that it was dangerous to walk the mountain at night with snakes and scary animals, but Mama had decided and that was it, there was no use telling her that we had expected to walk around to exhaustion, and then dissolve into sleep propped against the trunk of a tree like the music in the night, as the gypsies and the merchants did. For Mama, the only place one could sleep was a bed on which the white sheets smelled of sun and laurel leaves! "The fires," Nicky shouted suddenly and ran off, he disappeared. "Please, Mama," I begged, “let’s stay for the bonfires; I don’t want the whistle, I want the bonfires; just stay until we leap over one at least once”. She agreed reluctantly, I could see she was exhausted. But after all, we had come to have fun. She came along as we walked the same paths over and over again looking for a chance to leap over the bonfires as flames subsided, an age old tradition, a ‘good luck’ omen that Mom called a ‘silly superstition’, though Aunt Popi said it was an ancient ritual, a victory over evil; maybe she knew better being educated and all though I had heard an old woman explaining

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that by leaping and not getting singed, one got rid of the sins of the year before, to be repeated, she said wisely. But I gave my aunt credit when it served me. The pleasant thing was that both Nicky and I leaped over as many fires as we could find where the people let us. There were hundreds of fires that night on the hill; people were careful, what with the dry ground and the trees brittle from the heat! Fortunately, there were no fires. St. John’s day celebration in June always ended at night with fires in front of each house where children and adults, were invited to leap over so that St. John would be looking after them during the year. As the mountain began sending down the night chilly drafts, the warmth of the embers’ afterglow was welcome when fire leaping was over. Tired now, the celebrants settled around the dying fires for the night, some sleepy, others singing, or making up little ditties usually about one another in harmless fun. I was in haven listening to the stories, and the competition to select the best singer, the worst dancer, the biggest liar, they were masters in the art of improvisation. They were making up much of the living they missed in winter and while the younger ones danced to the flute or to hand clapping, old women surreptitiously convened in dark corners or behind trees to conduct their matchmaking business. In the process I lost sight of my mother but she hadn’t lost me and like a ghost emerging from eerie smoke she appeared in front of me. "Time to go, it’s getting late," she said and Aunt Popi came from somewhere dragging Nicky, glassy-eyed, barely holding on. "Chicken," I murmured under my breath. But then I thought maybe he is faking it so we can stay the night. Even if he faked it, it didn’t work. Something that caught Aunt Popi’s eye made Mama look to where

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she was

pointing with her chin, but she shrugged. I followed the

glance to the tree

where Aunt Popi was heading to, my sleepy brother on tow. My mother followed dragging her tired feet and the remnants of our lunch or dinner in a shopping net. Bent over a black steaming pot, an elderly woman, her face red from the heat, was absorbed in her cooking. Silently, we and many others sitting on the ground watched her performance. I tugged at my mother's sleeve. Why is her cooking so important? A young woman had paid her to do a reading for her. According to the old woman, the metal item the girl had tossed to her pot would melt and create something entirely different. The woman would then tell the girl her destiny or Husband after reading and explaining the new shape. Holding a strainer, she extracted ceremoniously the new shape from the pot and placed it in a container of cold water; it sizzled as it took its final shape. The black, ugly form meant nothing, only the old woman seemed to know as she held it in her gnarled hands; she whispered something into the girl’s ear and they moved behind a tree. We lost them in the darkness. What she had to tell was only for the girl, not for the curious. My aunt’s face had a ridiculous dreamy expression; it must be magic, I thought. "She’s telling her who she’ll marry," she whispered. "How does she know"? "S h h h...I don’t know, it’s a gift, a vision she is blessed with; she can interpret shapes." "Can she read tree branches?" I asked. It was an innocent question, I wasn’t being sarcastic, as she thought. She threw a poisonous glance at me with

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eyes red from the fire and yanked her hand free. It must be magic then, I thought and moved next to my mother quietly. "It’s mostly games that people play at the fairs," Mama’s remark was sarcastic and she didn’t seem to care if we noticed. "They are naive, silly; they believe because they need to believe, to hope. So, your aunt is one of them, what can we do?” What had I started! "If only it was that simple, if only she could marry," she mumbled. I looked at my aunt sideways; I just realized that she should have been married a long time ago, but I always thought that it was preordained for women doctors never to marry, I didn’t think it was just hard for them to find someone to get married to. I remembered matchmakers in our house and gossip that women with big mouths and too much learning don’t marry; they are too learned for men. When I heard that I ran to the bathroom to check again because I heard that I had a big mouth but my mouth looked normal, the same as usual. My teeth were bigger than they should be, sometimes I’m afraid I looked like a rabbit, why weren’t they picking on my teeth? Mama took me to the dentist but she assured her that as my face grew, the teeth would stay the same and they wouldn’t look big. I certainly hopped so! But my mouth? "Oh, go ahead, go to the old woman,” Mama told Aunt Popi. “Give her that pin, it’s not worth much." She moved

next to her sister and nudged her toward

the old woman. Aunt Popi didn’t need more encouragement. She sat close to the old woman with Nicky asleep on her lap. Later on our way downhill we depended on my mother’s torch to stay on the rough path, trying to avoid, snakes and dark, threatening brambles but not totally avoiding betting bloody scratches when few stumbled; that trek downhill

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was treacherous. Nicky was now fully awake. "The lead shrank and became a donkey," he whispered and giggled his nasty, unkind little chuckle. â€œYou are making it up," I said feeling sorry for my aunt, "you were fast asleep." "I was faking it," he whispered, but with Nicky one could not be sure when he was being funny or serious. It took us forever to get home, or so it seemed; it couldn't be very late though because the streetlights were still on; they were turned off at midnight, people used torches to walk after that. Mom and Aunt Popi had taken turns carrying Nicky for the last part of our descend because he was asleep and nothing could keep him on his feet. Actually, we were all sort of sleepwalking. Later, half-asleep in my bed, I felt Mamaâ€™s lips on my cheek and her hand pulling the sheet up. She whispered "good night" and put something in my hand. It was the clay whistle!

THE "QUEENS" Those

who went to early mass were not even up that Sunday morning, when the

town crier with his tobacco harsh baritone awoke us. With a war going on someplace nearby, everyone was instantly up with a start and a lump in the throat, then dressed hastily and ran outside for the news. God forbid, one

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never knew what the darkness of night may be brewing and there were no radios about. Mama did not stir. Either she knew everything that was happening by osmosis, or didn’t care but Nick and I had joined the other children in the neighborhood. From the main road from we could hear the amplifiers blaring the news. The truck drove back and forth through the streets raising clouds of dust. The King and Queen would be passing through the village later that afternoon. "Attention, attention! Balconies and windows are to be decorated with flags and flowers."

The Department of Public Works were already erecting

large photographs of the royal family and the dictator on telephone poles. Ribbons and paper flowers were distributed to shop owners to decorate

their

storefronts. We moved to the town’s square where girls in fancy dresses and ribbon-and –flower-decorated curly heads waited along the sidewalks holding small bouquets of flowers. "They must have been

working all night," mumbled a disgruntled local man

under his breath using his hat to fan himself. “These children will suffer a sun stroke by mid-afternoon,” his friend added, clucking his disapproval. He walked on toward the bus stop. The local band were practicing the usual military marches nearby, the air shimmered with excitement; we, too, were caught in it. What a treat, to see the royal couple live! I remembered the English King a few years ago in the island, when I was little, but he was on a boat in a bathing suit. That wasn’t very kingly! Now, my fairytale would come alive. A king with a queen by his side and a crown, I hoped, in our own streets!

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We ran home and dressed in our Sunday best, this time with no bickering, no punches or yelling, hurrying to join the crowds already lining the road to welcome the royal couple. We had decided to join the sweating children

and

stand with them under the scorching sun even if we fainted. Mama walked into the room and we stood up proudly for her inspection. Her face became a cold expressionless mask; we looked at each other wondering what had we done wrong, she seemed angry. "You might as well undress," she said in a colorless voice, "unless you mean to go to church." "We aren’t going to church," I said, "the king and queen of Greece are passing through.” "You heard me," she answered and turned to go. "But Mama," Nick pleaded, "we’ve been good. Why are we being punished?" "You are not punished." Her voice was kinder. She sat on a chair. "I know it’s hard for you to understand, but please trust me. I know what I am doing and why. At this point let me tell you that first I don’t want any trouble with the authorities and second, and keep this to yourselves, I don’t want my children applauding those German clowns..." "No, Mama, no, they are not clowns," Nick tried to save the situation, "this is not a circus, they are the Greek King and Queen." He stopped when he saw that Mama’s stony face. "They are Greeks too, like us; they told us in school." Nothing would move her. I tried to warn my brother that he was saying something stupid, I nudged him, he didn’t get it. "Listen, they can’t talk about it at school, you don’t know yet how things work. These ‘visitors’ are not Greeks, not in a sense that you and I are so

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let’s not hear any more about it, please. And, remember, not a word to anyone; you have seen what can happen if one talks too much!" That we had! But it didn’t stop us from feeling bitter. That mother of ours was a real joy killer. There was no use arguing; we got undressed and we cried. Nick, frustrated, took off. At least he had his tree; he could climb and see them from there. I lay on my bed looking at the lace and silk on the floor. I would have suffocated in such finery I finally thought making the best of it. Mama had closed the door behind her, which meant no discussion. The room got very hot; I sat out on the porch in my underwear, in case she changed her mind, which I doubted. I became restless soon and moved back inside, took my doll and went to bed where it was a little cooler. Soon I was asleep. (Why was I shocked, I wondered years later when I realized what Mom had meant or insinuated. Just two years before an order was sent to schools that all schoolchildren must enroll in the Fascist Youth Movement. My brother and I were probably the only children in the land who didn’t belong; it scared and embarrassed us. Not only were we teased mercilessly at school but we were not allowed in the fun those who belonged enjoyed: picnics, outings and

special

treats. Both our schools had sent letters that we would be expelled. That was all Mama needed. Dressed in her mourning best, and suede shoes, she began her assault first at my school, then at Nicky’s. We tried to disappear to hide our embarrassment. "My children are Americans. They don’t have to belong to a political organization." She told them. "Yes," they answered, "but they are registered Athenians and attend a Greek school not an American one, therefore, they have to belong and obey the

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law." Mama didn’t know the word defeat. She was ready at any time to pull an ace from under her sleeve. "I don’t want to have go to the American Embassy. Perhaps you can go ask yourselves; they will tell you that my children must not join a ‘political’ organization anymore than they can be conscripted into the Greek Army. We are not talking Boy Scouts..." It was a long shot; she never knew what she was getting into or if she went too far. She was like a pendulum swaying between truths and half-truths or hearsay, but the amazing thing was that she got away with it; the unlearned woman could mesmerize authorities into believing her. She won! Our last hope evaporated; we became the scapegoats and from the way children and teachers treated us after that day, I suspected that we had made it to the system’s shit list of undesirable if not suspicious characters.)

Later that afternoon Nick picked up his soccer ball and went out to look for his buddies. He was back in a matter of minutes grinning. "Guess what?" he threw the ball my way barely missing me as I lay on the bed. He was laughing. "They never showed up." "Who?" "The Queens!" His atrocious grammar again. I began to laugh and told him that there was no such thing. "Yes, there is, none of them made it, either, no limousine, no officers!" "Maybe they went back to Germany," I said beginning to feel

vicious

because of Mama’s nonsense. "Or, maybe Mama knew," he said wisely. "All the fuss for balloons, the pictures, the flowers..."

nothing, the

There was frustration and

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disappointment in his voice. "The roads are empty, he continued, “flowers gone, girls gone, and the band is gone..." He walked out slamming the door as if it was all my fault. I put on my old clothes and followed him. I did not feel so bad after all, faith in my mother was restored.

A HOME FOR A PET That summer

seemed endless; it was the lack of the shore, I was sure, too

much green became boring after a while. What sort of a vacation can it be without swimming, Nick wondered aloud more than once each day and he was right. Midway through the summer the two of us went out one morning to explore the woods. We told Mama that we were going to the square and she only said the usual ‘don’t be late and don’t fight.’ We crossed the main road and followed the path that ended in the woods only to find a gate at some point almost hidden by pine trees, not far from the road. It was the gate of a farm. So much for exploring, we thought looking at the sign that mentioned the usual ‘Private, No Trespassing.’ We could see the farm which was not the typical farm we had seen in our island and other rural areas, a field or fields growing certain vegetables or grains or fruits with the farmer’s cottage in the middle and the watering well, stables and pigsties, and chicken pecking on the ground. We saw instead a model farm, or what we understood as such, organized like a museum. Neat tiers of flowers, rows of vegetables; straight lines of fruit and pistachio trees. The corn was the highest we had ever seen and some of the vegetables were strange looking, not Greek, if

one could classify plants by

ethnic background. We pushed the gate open and walked inside the grounds. "Celery, carrots...American..." We turned around. The farmer had seen us.

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We’re trespassing, I thought, he’ll throw us out. "We tried to cross the woods and got lost," I lied before Nick said something more stupid. “But you are not lost,” he said. “This was the woods up to a ago." We had no idea. "Come, I’ll show you

few years

the farm." He led the way. What a

revelation! It was like touring a living museum. Modern, clean buildings and swept paths and, wonder of wonders, heat and electricity in the barn and stables when the majority of the Greeks still used

dangerous coal braziers and

oil lamps in winter in their homes. And the most miraculous:

machines doing

the backbreaking work of man! The only agricultural life we knew of was in our village where land and people were poor. Suddenly we were realizing that there is life beyond our village, things we had no way of knowing

like that there

might be other places in the country where people were better off and the farmers didn’t have to work as hard or harder than their horses. The farmer’s house, situated within a grove of pine trees, looked clean and cool. He brought out lemonade and cookies and we sat in the

armchairs

under the trees. “My name is Steve,” he said. That certainly sounded foreign and it was. We told him our names and he said that he had made his money in America. I nudged Nick, not too gently I’m afraid, to keep his mouth shut. Steve’s farmer father had died poor trying to scratch a living in his rocky farm up north, and when he left for America as a young man, Steve vowed to return with money to create a model farm in honor of his father. "Isn’t the work too much for you?" Nick asked. "It’s a big farm." "And there are the animals... but I don’t work alone. I have

employees."

"What are those?" God, how that boy embarrassed me. At that moment

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realizing that he had blundered and before the man explained, Nicky rushed to tell him that we, too, had come from America but had not brought a farm with us. The man laughed; he was kind, I could have killed my brother. "Fellow Americans!" he exploded in English but, except for

the word

Americans, we didn’t understand the rest. "I was in Missouri," he said in Greek, realizing our difficulty. We nodded. We did not know what a Missouri was; how embarrassing! When we left he gave us raisins and pistachios, his products, and made us promise that we would come to visit again. The next time we went we asked Mama to come with us but she told us that it was different when children visited, it was fun. For adults visits become obligatory. We left wondering what she meant. The farmer had a surprise for us: he gave us a rabbit. We were

ecstatic,

we never had a pet, Mama thought that animals don’t belong in an apartment. Steve told us how to care for it, and told Nick -the ‘man’ of the house-to built a cage, he even gave us the materials. I wanted to hold the rabbit but Nick wouldn’t let me, he scratched me and made me hold the screen and the wood strips. "You mustn’t fight over it," Steve suggested, "animals get sad and die if they see fights around them." That stopped Nick. I wondered how could an animal understand what goes on in the human mind. We fought all the way home, he thought he should hold it because he would build its cage; then we fought about the name. I liked the name Shirley, because I was in love with Shirley Temple movies; Nicky, on the other hand, thought that Jim sounded better. Jim London the wrestler, was the idol of every boy though I doubted that my brother knew anything about wrestling. I didn’t either. Eventually he won, but only because

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Aunt Popi declared the rabbit a boy and of course, a boy couldn’t be named Shirley. The rabbit became the center of our lives, it was the first thing we ran to as soon as we awoke in the morning, the last one to

whisper goodnight to at

night. At times we let him ran free in the vineyard until we thought we lost him but he was only teasing us, came after us. He was the puppy we always wanted, or the bird we never had. It was at that time that a messenger brought to our door Uncle Philip’s customary basket of goodies from the island containing among other things a special gift for each one of us. Nick and I the usual envelope with cash; we did not care for the wine or the oil or the walnuts. Aunt Popi got a sack of fresh okra because she was very fond of, and Mama the nectar of her life: A large tin of wine must fresh from our grandfather’s vines, before it succumbed to the mortals’ greedy thirst for wine and was hid into the dark barrels in the cellar of the house to become ‘wine’! The moment she uncorked the jar, the room was filled with nostalgia. Even Nicky and I remembered the

excitement for a few minutes, the grape harvesting

that united the village in a common effort. Animals and carts were shared according to the size of the field stomping of the grapes a horse

and number of men and time required for the

squeezing the last drop. There was only one machine on

drawn cart to serve all households for the final extraction, for the

leftovers of the grape, dry as tree leaves in Fall that were made into liquid fire, the highly alcoholic beverage, ‘tsipouro’, clear and powerful like

fire.

Men sipped it on cold nights at the café or at home, women used it as rubbing alcohol.

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I got more emotional than my mother. I left them to their own devices; Nick looking for a place to hide his money, Aunt Popi recalling recipes to cook her precious okra and Mama hugging her wine must and for the life of me I couldn’t imagine what she was going to do with it, because what I had only seen done at the island could not possibly be done in Athens. Outside in the coolness of the late

afternoon, I recalled the winemaking protest. I saw it

only once, but it left a wonderful memory and the thought that maybe it’s not so hard being a farmer, though even at that tender age I knew that a farmer’s wife’s life was nothing less than brutal. But on that day when thick clusters of grapes were dripping under the August sun ready to be picked, the vine fields

sweetness

that surrounded the

village for miles up the hill and down the shore were spattered with colorful kerchiefs. Men and women worked in a green sea from

side by side, heads bobbing like so many sails

dawn to dusk, at times even later than that and someone

always began a song that echoed through the valley. Sharp short knives cut clusters, men carried the heavy bamboo baskets to the mules took them to the house where the wine making

the

waiting nearby and

was taking place that day. I

watched as the men scrubbed their feet before leaping into the rectangular cement enclosure to begin ‘dancing’; because that

was what I thought their

stomping was. Every house had one of those cement structures in their yard. A hole on the side allowed the liquid to run into a well built next to the stomping structure that had been covered for the winter and thoroughly scrubbed for the occasion. From

there

the wine must was taken in buckets to the

waiting barrels for the final process of the chemical changes hat would in a few months turn it into wine.

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The basketfuls of grapes kept coming until sunset; so did swarms of bees. At sunset the men finally climbed out, rinsed their feet, put on shoes, ate some bread with olives, drank their ouzo, (not wine! not yet!) and went home to rest. The stomping was a monotonous, trance-like almost ritualistic dance in the grape pressing enclosure, and the singing in tune with their steps, and the fighting with the bees. The whole routine would be repeated the next day and the next for as long as the baskets kept coming. During that time of wine making the word ‘vinegar’ was not heard, not even in a whisper, in case the wine turned sour. Another word was used instead, a word ironically meaning sweetener’. Curious children were always afoot but not a nuisance, they in the wine making ritual and ‘conspired’ with their

were initiated

mothers to ‘steal’ some

of the precious must when the men weren’t looking. That was boiled in huge cauldrons in another part of the yard, with flour and walnuts and thickened into a pudding that was poured into platters, plates and all kinds of containers, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon or sesame seeds, and placed outside in the sun preferably high enough so that animals couldn’t get to them until it dried. Some of it was consumed fresh before it had time to dry to an almost tender leather consistency. The children’s duty was to shoo flies, bees and birds away from their winter treats. I remembered my aunt’s fingers, so nimble as she sliced the not-yet-set pudding fresh laurel leaves and locked them goodies, walnuts, quince,

neatly, wrapped the slices in

in the food trunk with other winter

raisins, (also dried up in the sun before wine

making) and almonds.

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Mama began making plans to make her precious "moustalevria", the grape juice pudding, with the must Uncle Philip had sent us, something that looked a little hard to do in that small kitchen. My aunt had a better idea: make a little pudding every day until it was all used. (The few neighbors ate pudding that week). I took no part in their discussions. Alone, with Jim sprawled by my feet, I relived my memories. Jim looked listless, either he was sick or it was hot in the cage; maybe he just wanted to play but I wasn’t ready to get up and start running all over the vineyard to play catch and keep him happy. Aunt Popi wasn’t in-hospital attendance that Sunday, so she took us to church and Mama stayed home to cook. It was a sunny, very hot day; the pine needles hung limp and cones fell off from their branches as if paralyzed. Aunt Popi treated us to ice cream after church. The fragrance of stew welcomed us home. Stew, usually a winter meal, too hot for summer, was Mama’ success. She excelled in her cooking but not in her baking! "What delicate, tasteful meat," Aunt Popi said sopping sauce with a piece of bread. The okra turned out beautifully tender. What kind of meat is it?" "Certainly not butcher meat," Mama said proudly, “it’s the rabbit!

Hey,

where is everybody going? what happened? What did I say?" Aunt Popi was holding the fork high running to the bathroom to vomit, Nicky was instantly inside the rabbit’s cage sobbing and

I stayed not because

I was brave or sympathetic, but because I was too stunned to even walk away. How could she do that? What cold hearted person could pick up a knife to cut this little animal’s life, and then serve it to us to enjoy? cannibalism, Poor Jim! It was my turn to run to the bathroom.

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Our pet, what

Nicky fell asleep cramped in the small cage but I guess he was afraid to spend the night there

and some time during the night he climbed up in his tree

house and there he stayed for the next two days. Mama was worried because he wouldn’t eat. He just kept calling Jim to come back. After he was cooked, how could he return? I hated to tell him that seeing how hurt he was. Aunt Popi was too depressed for words. She kept to herself, went for long walks or took the bus silently to the city for her hospital service. When she didn't have to go, she slept a lot. My mother was persona-non-grata in the house. "It was only a rabbit," she exploded one day. "Rabbits are raised for the table." She was yelling at me and I was the only one who had

not accused her

verbally. She knew me well. Through the closed door she yelled at her sister: "You’d think that I have killed a human being. Do you go to you have to deliver a dead baby or cut a woman up to

pieces when

save her life without

batting an eyelash? How can you be angry for a mere a rabbit? Rabbits are food, as chickens are and I don’t see you complain". There was silence at the other side. For weeks Mom was isolated for her terrible crime. I heard her talking to the basil pots as she was watering them: "He was going to die, anyway, what do these fools know? rabbits cannot live long without a mate, he was already sick, wasting away." I had an idea the monologue was for my ears hoping I was eavesdropping and would ‘accidentally’ tell the injured parties. It was news to me. I had forgiven her because she hadn’t realized how much Jim meant to us. She had raised animals but never had a pet. For Mom animals field and

served man in

house, they were there for the hunters. Using an animal as a toy was

a sin; I’m sure that’s what she thought. I missed Jim; in the few weeks we had him I had grown to love him and

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Nicky thought him part of his life forever. One doesn’t eat his own friends, Nicky said a long time afterward when the pain subsided. Neither one of us ate okra ever again.

C H A P T E R

FALL, 1940 Summer

came to an end; a pall of fear hung over Athens, a threat of something

incomprehensible to us children, a frightening sense of impending doom, of a terrifying shadow

lurking around the corner to catch us unprepared, and it was

the adults around us that exhumed those feelings like a smell in the air. The long black limousine labored up our uneven road and stopped in front of our house; the strange car brought the neighbors out of doors. Is the ‘black bird’ a harbinger of disaster? What could the American Embassy limousine want in that neighborhood early in the morning. Swarms of children followed the big car as it bounced, swerved and reeled on the ruts that disappeared and reappeared in the wrong places after each rainfall. Both the elderly black chauffeur and the limousine with the American flag were novelties that provoked the neighbors to desert their morning coffee and their chairs at the café to watch the strange car from a discreet distance. The chauffeur who spoke fluent Greek brought us the Embassy’s urgent message: Get out! Americans were being be evacuated. That was a shocking piece of news for my mother, who, as usual, reacted emotionally, on the spot. My

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‘independent’ mother had made up her mind before the man was finished; she informed him that she ‘had to consult with her brother’. When I heard that I felt like asking her since when? But I knew better! I received the news with mixed emotions; the idea of going to America intrigued and scared me, but I was sure that once again no one was going to consult me; and Mama had chickened out! “I’ll be back,” the man said .”Make up your mind before it’s too late. ‘For the Embassy it’s politics,” he said as he was leaving, “but for you, lady, it’s economics; don’t forget, you get your pension through our office. If we go, your husband’s veteran pension will have to wait the end of this war.” It was amazing how easily he spoke of a ‘war’ as if speaking about an existing situation and with the ease one talks of vacations or Christmas. But we were not at war, I thought. “The Embassy is packing”, he said at the door and stepped outside where a crowd waited. “Soon, it may not be advisable to travel because of submarines.” He tipped his service hat and climbed into the limousine. The crowd stayed close to our door and the windows waiting for news, but Mom would not divulge our ‘domestic affairs’. To us she spoke of other ‘priorities’: the new school year that was about to begin, the new uniform I needed and books and a school bag. Schools were open except for mine because the building was condemned by the city as structurally defective. They were looking for another building and every morning I watched as my grouchy brother got ready for school looking at me with murder in his eyes because I would spent my mornings in bed laughing under my sheet for a whole month. But no building was found and school would open Monday morning, October 28, 1940. My life of leisure was over! Neatly spread on the chair next to my bed were my new

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school bag, uniform and my books. The school building was dangerous to be in, it was also overcrowded to the point that half of us had to go in the morning and the other half in the afternoon. I was in the second half and was unhappy because that separated me from Marika, my friend, whose name was in the beginning of the alphabet and mine was at the end; she was a morning student. We used to walk together but after the time division we hardly met. She was a slight girl with black, shiny curls, quiet and very shy. When the teacher asked her a question, she began to tremble even when she knew the answer. The fact that she passed the orals at the entrance exams and got to High School is still a wonder to me. I was terrified when I took mine though by that time my Greek was perfected. I still remember my terror as I walked into that large room to face a row of sour faces frowning down at me from their bench like judges or, executioners; I began to cry; I was eleven, posing for a sophisticated thirteen. They took a look at my application and sent me home; I was to return with my mother. ‘Next!’

One of

them shouted, while I backed out still crying, wishing I could disappear. The next morning, I was praying for an earthquake to level the building as Mama and I walked to school to face my torturers. I had done very well on the written exams , why are they interrogating me? When my mother approached their bench, they wanted to know why I was in High School two years ahead of every other child. My mother used her age-old weapons. “Because she began school at five, as they do in her country! She was ready, why waste two years?” “Was she registered as a citizen of Athens with a false birth certificate?” My mother looked at them with a straight face and nodded. The

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American Embassy had issued it, what could they do? The somber faces leafed through my records and grunted. They conceded that academically, if not chronologically, I was ready for the Gymnasium, and to my mother’s relief, I was allowed to proceed with the oral exams. Mama left and I stayed on facing my judges like a sinner, but either because I was bolstered by my mother’s nerve and presence or they were sorry for me because of my age, I was made to feel at ease and was relaxed when I answered their questions correctly. After I got to know Marika and saw how she stuttered when answering a question, I realized what an ordeal it must have been; then I heard the story that she had wet her pants, something we never discussed. Marika and her widowed mother lived in the refugee barracks with the other Asia Minor refugees for many years. Her parents had fled the Turkish genocide years ago, youngsters and though they were promised decent housing and jobs nothing changed; only governments changed and made the same promises. Shortly after Marika was born, her father was killed falling off a scaffold leaving a family in destitution. The mother took in washing, did ironing and cleaned houses for the rich. At least they ate, but there was never enough for both. Marika never bought a hot bun at recess like the rest of us, neither would she accept part of mine. She wore her hand-me-down clothes with dignity so much so, that helped by a pleasant disposition, her poverty wasn’t even noticeable. I would ask her to lunch when school hours were still normal and we walked part of the way home together. “Thank you no,” she answered once, “we still have some beans left from Sunday.” Beans on Sunday? I was shocked but did not insist, it was a delicate matter. As far as I could remember, Sunday was a

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meat day. “Not for all people,” Mama said sadly when I told her about it. She shrugged helplessly when I reminded her that we ate meat three times a week whether we liked it or not, and Nicky didn’t like it, but then, he didn’t like most everything. I missed walking with Marika this year with the new shift. I wished she would be with me because eight o’clock is a pretty dark and scary hour to walk the deserted streets in winter, poorly lit streets that looked spooky especially in the neighborhoods away from the center of the city, like ours. Mama picked me up every evening . She waited across the school by the small pine grove. She was there every night except that one night, the year before. I looked for her and called but soon everyone was picked up, the teachers left, the school was closed. Afraid and cold

in the darkness, I began to walk

retracing my mother’s route hoping to meet her on the way. Along the road, doors, windows and courtyards were closed, not even a stray dog or a car around; just me in the dimly lit street, listening to my heartbeats; my steps echoed strangely on the deserted street. Suddenly, I detected another set of scurrying feet behind me. What a relief! Mama! I thought, and looked behind me, only to see with horror a man in hot pursuit. At that moment he looked to me like an ogre from the fairytale world, only that was too real, it was obvious he was trying to catch up with me, because he began talking and then I started running. So did he; he didn’t know that I was a good runner even thought my legs were getting weak. The faster I walked, the faster he followed and his legs were longer than mine, how long would I hold? I cut suddenly and ran down a side road to continue on the parallel street that was busy with lights and shops and the streetcar, I would be safe there, but I had to return to my

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street afraid to miss my mother so on the next block I cut again

hoping that

the guy would lose me. He didn’t, he was still trailing me, getting closer, telling me crazy, horrible things, either aloud or in a hoarse whisper, all the things he would do to me that sounded so ominous even though I didn’t understand anything. I knew my life was in danger, I prayed and ran. Once more I went to the main road and back again but this time the man was so close I thought I could feel his panting breath. I knew I had to fight somehow, with the only weapon I had, my heavy school bag; if I manage to reach and hit him before he had a chance to grab me, I would be able to escape. But his hands were on me already like a steel vise and as I felt my legs giving way, a shrill whistle stopped him and he dropped me on the ground. He fled down the street toward the lights and the streetcar and disappeared in the traffic while a policeman ran after him and another was questioning my mother where she had found a police whistle! No one was paying attention to me. I was still on the ground, sitting, almost paralyzed. Mama came to me and sat on the cold ground . I was unable to speak; I began to cry

and she was explaining to the police

that it was my father’s whistle and that he had given it to her years ago when we were in America and she always carried it with her. He didn’t seem to care that I had gone through mortal danger. “My husband,” Mama shouted at him angrily, “came to save his daughter, with this whistle!” That was news to me, but it made me feel better, especially because the policeman tried did not succeed in taking the whistle as he wanted; it was a weapon for the police only, he said and then he added: “You must come to the station if you wish to press charges.” “Charges, against whom? Have you caught him?”

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“No, but you can press charges against an ‘unknown’ assailant.” “No, thank you, I’d rather go home, I have a sick child.” “I’ll be going then. Listen! You don’t let a young girl walk alone in the streets at this time of night; and another thing, get rid of the whistle, it’s dangerous...dangerous.” He left us twirling his night stick. Nick was very sick that afternoon and Mama had waited for the doctor for hours. He came late and as soon as he gave her the prescription and was on his way, Mama left, too, agonizing over Nicky, but afraid for me. She had no idea that Papa’s amulet with the sound of distress will save me. She cried the rest of the way home. Mama usually cried when no one could see her, but this time she was really overwhelmed, petrified. I gathered as much when I saw her double locking the door. She began to kiss me and got me all mushy with her tears. She blubbered sorry...sorry... I had to push her away. We never spoke of the incident after that but I never forgot the terror. Mama knew that whatever lesson one learns from such a frightening experience, I had learned it the hard way and through no fault of mine. I didn’t know that a rapist had accosted me but in my innocent way I had confronted him. After the initial fright, I thought that it would have been such fun if I had managed to break his head with my heavy books. After all, not everybody gets attacked by Homer and Virgil. I had no idea why he was after me but Mama had learned the most important lesson of her life: Her daughter had entered adolescence!

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A MONDAY IN OCTOBER Elena

awoke that Monday morning and her world was still rosy. The first day

of School, same old school, she sighed; in vain they searched, there were no better or larger buildings in the school district and, as usual, there were other priorities. Her mother was by the window waiting for Antonis, the milkman. Her shadow was outlined against the darkness in the dim light of the votive lamp. Antonis, who

usually left the milk at the windowsill, was rapping

shutters urgently. Anna opened the window with some trepidation and there followed an exchange of hurried whispers, Anna’s gasp, the word ‘war’; it all sounded as if someone had dropped a hammer. At that precise moment a bedlam broke loose,

a pandemonium of church

bells and sirens and of hurried steps

fast past their windows. Elena, still foggy from sleep hid her head under the pillow hoping that she would wake up from that bad dream and all will be like any other day, normal like. She heard her mother’s hoarse whisper to Antonis: "Go with God, I’ll pray for your safe return!” Elena pressed her lips not to cry out. It’s a bad dream, she kept thinking, but her heart told her that she was wide awake. A few more minutes, she prayed, please God, make it go away. Maybe if I pray hard enough it will go away, she closed her eyes tight. But even the slight noises her mother made closing the window, placing the jug of milk down, familiar, everyday noises, became terrifying dins, grievous, agonizing. She uncovered her head. The room was in darkness. "Mama," she whispered, "is it war?" Instead of an answer she

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heard the

shrieking cries of ambulances. That’s it, the world is

ending, she thought

holding back the tears. "Yes," her mother sighed and sat on her daughter’s bed tears running down her cheeks. Her mother’s fear was more frightening than hers. She thought that mothers were never afraid. "Antonis is going Mama?" Her mother nodded. "Mama, put the light on, I’m scared." Her mother sighed. Later she would tell her that she must learn to live in darkness; later, after she digested the news of unknown disastrous adventures. "...general mobilization..." the shutters were again rattled by a nervous hand. It was the young man from across the street, the groom. "Your lights," he said, "we are at war," his voice was hoarse. had become a grimace. "Mrs. Anna, please look after her."

His smile

She nodded and he

gave her his hand. "I’m on my way." "And he, married just a few hours ago." Anna murmured remembering the night before, the party, the music, the neighborhood dancing, and food and wine for all. "Go with God," she whispered close to tears; once again she closed the window leaving the room in the loneliness of the cold,

semi-dark dawn.

Elena had washed her face, combed her hair and put on her new school uniform. She was shaking Nicky awake. "Don’t wake him yet," her mother said. "It’s early, let him

sleep."

"Will you take us to school?" she asked her mother hopefully. Anna looked stupefied. Then she looked hard at her daughter. "There is a war on," she said sternly. "Do you understand what it

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means?" "That I can’t go to school?" "Yes, no one can." "Why is there a war on today of all days?" "Because people get crazy at times and try to kill one another." "And because they are crazy I can’t go to school? That’s

preposterous!"

"I agree," her mother said. "No," Elena said with spite, "this cannot be." There was no was no movement toward the kitchen, either, no

answer. There

breakfast. She went into the

dark living room and opened the window. But for the faint lines around the window frames and the steps scurrying on the Avenue, one would think that the entire city just got up and left. She first heard the roar and then saw the trucks on the Avenue sweeping past the darkened cafes, on their way to the train station carrying men leaving for the front. As soon as one passed, silence swallowed everything, until the next one rushed by and then another, their headlights almost invisible under their blue cover-ups. Elena took her school bag and walked out into the milky white, summer-like glow that spread over the city engulfing engulfed houses and trees, a sad mournful mantle. Trucks continued to roll urgently, almost noiselessly, down the Avenue their headlights a blue eerie testament of danger. She walked toward the sidewalk where the people stood waving

and wishing the young men "go with

God”, "come back safe," and “bring us victory..." They are actually going to war, just like in the movies, she thought with a heavy heart. It was hard to reconcile last evening with this. Her world had turned upside-down. This, what she was seeing, just couldn’t be true, it had to be a nightmare, a parade of

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sorts, maybe practice. "Goodbye little girl," someone shouted from a truck as it rolled in front of her and threw her a kiss, she waved back fighting the tears that began streaming down her cheeks. He may never return, she thought sadly, all of them may never return. What about their families, their work or school. This is no practice, she thought. And then, who has the right to pluck a human being from his family and send him to a far away place knowing all the time that death awaited; or that he may return blind or without legs or arms...what has he done? Who is responsible for this? Who has attacked us, why, what have we done to them and why should I fear for my life? Suddenly, for the first time, she began to connect her history books with the day’s reality that convinced her that war is not just

history lessons to study and tests questions to answer,

lessons to study, it’s real, it’s here! The realization hit her right there in the street where part of the prologue of a world war was being sketched for her. As in answer to her pestering thoughts, planes appeared on the sky buzzing them menacingly dark against the morning sky, the sun hadn’t come up yet; sirens wailed again and the crowds rushed for shelter pushing her against a door. Under cover, all stood still, breathless. The trucks froze on the spot, no waves, no good-byes, no patriotic songs. That wasn’t God making the noise up there; death stalked, choosing his victims that exact moment. The trees obstructed her view, she couldn’t see the sky, she only heard. One month before, perched on a ladder picture taken

behind an airplane painted on canvas, she had her

piloting the plane; she was all smiles that day at the park, her

curls flying in the breeze. Just a month, she thought, when it was circus fun, when we returned from the country...the airplane was for photographs, now it

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means death. The woman huddling next to her was praying, her lips moving imperceptibly. "Go home, little girl," she said. "Those are enemy planes; they are here to bomb us, go home!" Elena’s body grew cold; my mother will worry, she thought, and carefully began to walk home keeping close to the wall. A few blocks to the north there was a square where the Italian Circus had performed three years before. Oh, why can’t I move back three years when I had no enemy aiming at me from the sky, she sobbed. "Don’t listen to her,” someone whispered in passing. She looked around; the old man leaned on his cane and smiled. Was he a prophet then? He’s too old to go to war, anyway, he can prophesy. "Athens will not be bombed,” he said as if he had just received a special war bulletin. ‘It’s the antiquities, you know.” She looked at him perplexed. "How do you know?" she asked desperately longing to believe him. "International agreement!” Elena wondered what it meant. ”Athens

will be

spared and we wont bomb Rome." He began to laugh. Callous, mean people, Elena thought as she made her way home.

Who are

those who decide? Gods? She sat on her doorstep unable to face home and further realities; she tried to digest what she had heard. Then, without meaning to, she began to cry still holding on to her school bag. She was afraid not only of the war, but also because some people that had no names or consciences, while discussing ways and means to rid the earth of human beings, were worried about ancient art and how to save

statues and monuments. For what purpose? She

wondered. To show our callousness to the future generations, write more false history telling them how civilized we are? Maybe we should tell them that we

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are killers and that we haven’t learned anything from that ancient wisdom. She let the tears run down her cheeks and into her bosom and on to her uniform. She stood a while wiping the tears, she didn’t want her mother to see her like that. She continued walking, thinking no matter what they say, the brave words, the enthusiasm, there is no hope. A next door neighbor hurried past her running down to the Avenue. "Will you take me to school?" Elena asked her. "The planes left. Please!" The woman looked at her in passing as one would look at a tree that suddenly began to speak, then continued on. The mountaintop was already bright pink with the new day, the sun came out. From an open window came the sounds of a radio, military music, then a speech and someone, perhaps the dictator, calling everyone to arms, to the ultimate sacrifice for "God and Country". Windows opened to listen not every one had a radio, news and music were transmitted from that window or from the Avenue cafes. Inside her room she undressed, folded the uniform carefully and put it under her bed with her new books. "This is war," she told the

books. She

picked up the tattered doll from her pillow. "Do you understand?" she said. "It’s war." She put the doll on top of the books. Her mother was looking from the kitchen door sadly. "Come get your milk," she called from the kitchen. She wasn’t sure that there will be milk tomorrow but her daughter had to remind her. “Who will deliver the milk now that Antonis left?” Elena asked. “Elena,”

Anna said slowly, “in a war people die; people also learn to do

without food sometime or new clothes and other things that we thought were important and necessary.”

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"But why? the war is far from us, up in the mountains. Are they taking the cows there, too?" "Listen;" her mother said exasperated, "up to now I had your to deal with; I don’t need yours, too, go outs to play...." she mean ‘play’? I am almost twelve, there is a

aunt’s mouth

Play? what does

war on...play?

"Do they expect us to survive with no food or clothes?" she asked but Anna shrugged and went to the living room to camouflage the windows. The police were already out checking window panes and glass doors, those they hadn’t smashed during the first period of the dictator’s reign. They were now assigning shelters for each family. From the street Elena watched her mother paste paper strips on the windowpanes until they seemed to be big X-s. By noon the block looked like an exotic dance where the participants were masquerading as skeletons at carnival time; only it wasn’t carnival, not for another five months. Their landlady came downstairs to help Anna empty the china closet in the dining room and pack the china. They pasted strips on the

cabinet’s glass

doors as well. The police, looking for available space for shelter came into their house to evaluate and approve of the quarters as such space. They assigned Popi’s room as shelter for the five neighboring families and no one dared to protest. Bed and desk and the books and bookcases that could be removed were moved to the living room and the bookcases that were part of the wall were left there; the books were stacked in the corner and the room was reinforced with timber and sacks of sand. The workers sent by the police worked hurriedly and strangely for government work they finished fast A good thing, too, Anna thought, when Popi comes home she’s going to hit the roof..

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"When we need the police," the landlady murmured after they left, “they don’t know

us, or ship us off to exile islands. All of a sudden they are

sensitive, they want to protect us. They even pretend they know what they are doing." She went back upstairs still murmuring. "They don’t know their asses from their elbows". Elena was fully aware that almost no one in the land appreciated the police force nor its brutalities, though she believed that they should be there to protect the people though from what she had seen those past four years had proved those ideas unworkable. She knew that her thoughts were mostly childish and hoped to grow up fast so she can seek some answers. She walked from room to room feeling lonely and afraid feeling an air of strangeness in the air, as if she didn’t belong there anymore; she had a headache, she was thinking too much, fearing too much expecting nothing but more trouble that scared her more. She had gone home not to see or hear the women, maybe mothers of soldiers, walking the streets looking as if they were following a cortege. Inside was worse with the hammering and sawdust everywhere and other noises and Nicky was nowhere. By the end of the day her vocabulary

was enriched. She understood now

that the word ‘front’ had another ominous special meaning: it meant blood and death! It was a place where death was practiced. There was also an additional meaning for the word ‘shelter’. The small room was turned into a shelter with ceiling and walls reinforced; it shrank even more. One would think twice before taking a deep breath.’ She wondered what her aunt would do when she came home after spending the night at the lying-in hospital; yesterday there was no war; surely, she thought, she must have heard by now! I hate to be here when she comes. She left the men to their nails and hammers and her mother to her

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pasting, and wandered again aimlessly in the streets. Nicky was leaning against the mason’s fence. "What happened to the kids?" he asked. "Did they go to war, too?" "Kids don’t go to war," she said. "There is no school," Nicky said blinking happily as if dreaming. “At least something good came out of it. I’m going to fly my kite, there is a nice breeze." Elena looked at him and shook her head. "There is a war on, you are going to fly your kite?" "Will the war stop if I don’t fly my kite"? "Wait until later," she said, "when the men are through with the shelter." "What shelter?" he asked and dashed inside to verify the truth of the joke. After the men finished and left, Nicky picked up his kite and got it ready. He stood on a big chunk of marble left by the mason’s yard that was closed, and let the string go. The wind picked up the kite and it flew like a graceful eagle against the brilliance of the blue sky. Elena shaded her eyes against the sun then sat on the bust of a broken statue following the kite’s slow loops and turns as it flew higher. What lies between this peaceful moment, she thought painfully, and the war planes. Oh, let the world go crazy, we still have the sun. And thinking of the sun, a shadow fell across her shaded eyes and hid the sunlight. She looked at a man striking her brother. He was pushing Nicky onto the ground, kicking him. He tore the kite and stepped on it. "Let go of him," she shouted, "Let go, I’ll call my mother." "Why don’t you call your father?" he mocked and left with a

parting

kick. "My kite, my kite..." Nicky was crying. "Next time you fly a kite think that there is an enemy; don’t send no

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messages to the enemy, I’ll

take you in," the man shouted back at them; he

climbed on his bike and left. They looked at one another trying to translate a hidden meaning. The secret police.! They had never seen one; now they knew! "Don’t tell Mom," Nicky said. "And how are you going to explain the black, swollen eye? You should see your face," she answered him, "and look at

your clothes. We have to tell her,

explain your swollen eye; it will get black, you know." Anna was surprisingly calm; she didn’t raise hell as Elena had feared or go to the station to report the policeman, or ask for explanations. She washed Nicky and told him to stay indoors. “Some people are crazy,” she murmured. “You must not forget even for one minute from now on that we are at war, our lives don’t belong to us, I can’t explain any more." "Mom," Elena asked, "how long is this

going to last?"

"God knows," she sighed. "But you were in another war,” she reminded her. "World War I lasted four years or so, wars last years, or months. Who can say, but there were other involvements, a blockade… Wars can last weeks or months or years. Elena, what happened to your knowledge of the thirty-year war between Sparta and Athens?” We haven’t changed that much after two thousand years, Elena thought sadly. “When were we at war with Sparta?” asked Nicky. “Shut up, ” his sister said. “And what’s a block... block... that thing that Mama said?” Popi walked in at that moment; she took a look at her room and was hysterical. "When were we robbed or bombed?" she yelled. "I didn’t hear." No one

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answered her. She had lost her room and it meant that each time a siren wailed day or night, the neighbors, would infringe into her privacy pouring en masse into what had been up to then her ‘room’. "I won’t have it," she kept yelling, "I won’t have it," but there was no one to listen or console her. "Go complain to the War Department", Anna murmured under her she walked out. She kept thinking that having a shelter

breath as

in the house meant

that someone had to always be there in case of an air raid. This war, she thought, already seems to be much tougher than other wars.

Evening came, dark and sinister. The trucks with the blue camouflaged lights continued to roll down the avenue on the way to the train station with their precious cargo awaited urgently at the front: human flesh! Elena walked into the living room and sat on her aunt’s chair. The desk, filled with books and papers, all forbidden territory to her, now looked irrelevant, unimportant; she could look and touch if she cared to do so, because this was a common room, not her aunt’s, boring, uninviting. She tore a page from a notebook, took a pencil and sat on the desk to write. She did not want to cry anymore and even if she wanted, she couldn’t. I will keep a diary, she thought, forgetting how many times she had said that and never wrote down a word. I will write everything about the War! World War II as they have named it expecting I guess to have another one soon, number III! I will keep my stories hidden and I’ll give my journal a name, like “War! A Non-Historic

Story!” (Written by World’s Most

Ignorant Historian). She left the desk and sat on the floor where there was more space, and began to write knowing that no one will survive that new

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calamity that befell them: “War! Isn’t a fever that occurs, and you take an aspirin and it goes away; nor a fight or a bad soccer game. It’s everything and is everywhere; it’s carried with the cold gusts coming down nights from Mt. Parnassos, and the breeze from the gulf of Falliron; it burrows like a deceased bacterium; it is loneliness and fear and an age when one cannot dream. It’s empty bellies, hunger pains, it is bare pantries and empty coal bins, and it is darkness, hopeless darkness, my most fearful enemy, worse even than going without food. In heavy camouflage Athens looks as if it is in mourning. How can a city change so dramatically much is such a short time, it seems that the heavy boots of those foreign armies carried seeds of death. She fell asleep with the pencil in her hand, the diary on her lap.

In the coffee houses on the Avenue the radios blared important victories and patriotic songs and transmitted witty songs about the enemy; the press claimed important victories and printed humorous stories about the enemy; in secondary pages, dozens photos of handsome youths smiled their early patriotic demise at the frozen craggy mountains of Albania. Food lines got longer and ambulance convoys to the hospitals rode the primitive roads of the country day and night. Fall was giving way to an early winter. There were other news as well, the Bombed towns and villages turned to ashes. The refugees, innocent civilian victims poured into Athens daily; they walked the cold friendless streets shivering, begging for food or clothes, sleeping in doorways and empty lots. The radio didn’t have much to say about them, it was easier glorifying the death of the brave at the front. Already the first casualties, the veterans,

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rife with vermin, wounds still open, made their appearances in the streets occupying the same freezing corners at night. Hospitals had to let them go before they were healed because of the demand for beds for the very seriously injured. "How can the country be so unprepared?" one of the neighbors they huddled in Anna’s kitchen for warmth. "How can we

lamented as

fight a war with such

shortage of airplanes"? “You are exaggerating,”, his wife said. “The airplane shortage worries you, not the Army, shortage of ammunition, uniforms, food supplies. We are a seven million country fighting a country of over forty million." "What would you have us do, ask them in for tea?" her husband

scoffed.

"What do they want from us?" she said resigned. "You talk like a stupid woman," he said lighting a cigarette. He walked out, away from the women to find a friend, but no one was there; they were either at the front or dead. His age group was hiding. And still, Elena thought, we are winning, or so they tell

us.

"And another thing," the woman shouted at her retreating husband. “Did it ever occur to you that the Italians might let us win because they are fascists, like us?" Her husband didn’t hear. Her thin lips were pressed tight in triumph as she nodded to the women. They had not heard that argument before. A party called “fascist” rules Italy, they agreed;

Greece is ruled by a party called

"fascist"; why are we fighting each other? why are we told that we are fighting against fascism, we should be brothers; they shivered visibly and soundly. "You are thinking too hard," one said.

"We are just women, what do we

know about those complicated things? Let the men worry, we only know how to

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suffer and pay for everyone else’s insanity." "It’s my son who is at the front, fighting," the other woman said. There was no triumph in her cracked voice.

WINTER 1941 What once

was normal suddenly became absurd, if not downright grotesque.

Everyone’s life was intricately intertwined with the Front, no matter how far up north that was. Elena’s ‘normal life’ disappeared, her friends had disappeared now that schools were closed much to the delight of her brother. Stores were closing their doors except for those who could find suppliers in the rural areas and were provided with some domestic products, becoming the forerunner of the black market which flourished and became the scourge of the starving populace as larders emptied and food rationing became a national joke. Growing food lines became a way of life and for too many people the main reason to get out of bed in the morning. For a nation perpetually at the threshold of hunger, the scarcity of food was one more mortal blow, the sure road to extinction. As time went on, what in the beginning seemed grotesque now became the norm. The winter was unusually harsh, the coal scarce. Homes were at the mercy of the vicious north winds whipping the mountaintops around Athens that lashed the old, cracked walls with icy blows. There was a vicious circle fear-hungercold. In the darkness Athens was no more a city sparkling under the sun but a huge cemetery. The military trucks, such as they were, outdated, ramshackle,

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crawled in city

streets and national roads, and the rural areas day and night, their blue pin lights invisible to the enemy carrying men and supplies and arms to the front; they brought back to the hospitals the casualties. Those were the hospitals which were assigned to the military for the duration. Civilians couldn’t afford to be sick. Late in the evening when the outside world became a black void, Elena watched the trucks move like the outlandish phosphorescent caterpillars she had seen in a German science/fiction film the summer before. The stars were out each night and the moon, unmindful of human misery, made its monthly appearance as scheduled much to the concern of those who feared that

moonlight was helping the enemy planes find their targets.

People took to the streets

to celebrate each victory day or night, when the

bells rang and sang the new patriotic songs the singers belted on the radio to boost their morale. Amputees arrived with greater frequency, soldiers who, not used to the harsh winter of the Albanian mountains were facing frostbite in addition to man-made weapons. Frostbite, a new enemy, took their limbs. Prisoner of war! The long lines of Italian prisoners of war walking ten abreast to the prisoners’ camps up Alexandra’s Avenue in somber misery were a new experience for Elena and Nicky. To their surprise, they looked human, they Smiled, nice young men, like all men who leave for the Front, any Front!

December was cold and gray, the world seemed intent more than ever on total annihilation. The idea of approaching , once a happy holiday, became painful for the households with an empty chair at the dinner table if, indeed, food was to be found somewhere for a dinner table. Church bells sounded early that December evening.

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"Bells," Elena whispered, "holiday bells..." What could that mean? "In your head," her mother said but Nicky heard, too; it wasn’t a dream and it wasn’t Christmas yet. He dragged his sister outside. "Is it peace? is it peace?" Nicky kept asking the people who had rushed outdoors into the freezing night to learn the reason for the joyous bells. "Another victory at the Front," someone said. "Not just ‘another’ victory..." a man shouted. "A very important battle; it may mean a positive turn for victory." Nicky and Elena joined the singing crowds that danced, cried, hugged and kissed each other on the dark avenue and the surrounding streets

as if it was

Easter, unmindful of the freezing gusts of wind...’my boy, he’ll come home’; ‘my husband’,.. ‘my brother’. A truckload of youngsters arrived, leaped down carrying flags and banners. They were handsome and wore their blue, impeccable uniforms with grace. They joined the crowds, and one of them spoke from the military truck. He was eloquent in speech as he repeated the happy news about the importance of the last battle, he used an educated language, empty words but nice sounding, big patriotic words and slogans those that people in happy delirium usually wish to hear. An elderly man who looked like a 19th century scholar didn't seem too happy and Elena looked at him annoyed. "The elite corps of the fascist youth," he said with malice. "The sons of the rich and the politicians. They aren’t at the front; our sons will get killed. Not them...their blood is too precious..." Elena listened, shocked. She was so upset she wished she could pick up a stone and throw it at the man’s black, round hard hat; he had spoiled the fun he was grouchy like her mother.

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Not that she cared for the pompous youths, but the people were getting some encouragement at a very crucial time. She did, too, before he came, she needed that. Suddenly she felt she was in some danger, a vague, unfounded sense of dread penetrated her being. More people poured into the Avenue trying to soak up some courage in the

multitude; they wouldn’t even light cigarettes outdoors

keeping the blackout laws. Utterly alone and perturbed, Elena went home bracing herself against the pessimism of her kitchen. She burst in like a wind fresh from the snow-capped Hemettus pretending exuberance.. "We’ve won...We’ve won!” She shouted. “Uncle Philip! Why..." What a surprise, an unexpected visit. He was somberly listening to the radio his face almost touching it, that he didn’t turn to greet her. his somber face almost touching the radio. Elena looked at her mother questioningly. Whose radio? Her mother shrugged. Elena noticed the deep furrow that creased her uncle’s brow. "Come on, come on, finish," she murmured. "I have news...news of victory, we are winning the war is almost won."

Why is everyone looking at me like

that? She turned from her mother’s to her aunt’s stony faces. Did something happen while she was outside? Did her uncle catch them smoking and there was hell let loose in the house? Usually, when their uncle was expected, she and Nicky cleaned out the house of the evidence of cigarettes, packs, ashtrays; but she saw none on the table. And what brought Uncle Philip to Athens now? "You should have seen the wounded soldiers at the hospital gate," she panted, "If they had legs they would dance.". Still, she felt cheated. The land was celebrating, Athens was out in the streets, the king delivered a special speech; her family was in mourning! Her uncle turned to her and hugged her. "You are such a child, Elena!" He said kissing her and she felt that he

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had slapped her.’ Nice, but still a child. "Must you believe everything you hear?" She didn’t understand his question. What did one thing have to do with the other? "You were just listening to the radio, she told him. "Did you believe them?" "Less than half," he said and smiled. "Then, why listen"? "To be informed."

She shrugged more confused. "I hate to disillusion you,

my child," he continued, "but this war is not won, nor is it over." "Is any war won?" Anna murmured to herself. He’s definitely mad, Elena thought, unless he has become a traitor. "You are a liar," she screamed, "you lie because you are old and you can’t fight and you can’t be happy when everyone else is."

She waited for the

blow but her uncle crossed his hands on his chest calmly as if he hadn’t heard. Her mother raised a hand ready to slap her, then let it drop resignedly. It didn’t really matter. "Apologize to your uncle at once and then keep your mouth shut; you are to listen, not to speak... And get ready for bed quietly." Her low voice was threatening. Still stunned Elena refused to allow them to dampen her spirit, she pitied them because they were unable to enjoy the exaltation of glory. Her uncle’s monotonous drone reached her. "It’s not us, Elena; we know how to fight, God knows we have a bloody past...I've been in three wars. It’s not enough to know how to die fighting a war. That’s easy, but it’s more involved than that; you’re still too young to understand. This is a World War. Do you understand that?" She nodded. "It’s not

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up to us. Wars are decided by the big powers, we are a tiny speck on the map, easily expendable..." "That’s why we die gallantly," Her mother reacted to the obvious sarcasm and looked at her angrily warning her to be silent. "Exactly!" her uncle said. "Behind the retreating Italian Army stands a well organized, powerful country of steel and fire... supplies, ammunition, half of Europe conquered, and their mad leader, Hitler. Do you think for a moment that he will allow the Italians, their allies, to spoil their plans, to be defeated by this puny country?” In a few minutes her uncle had managed to mar her elation and immerse her in despair, she was close to tears. Her Aunt Popi had told her that the Germans were civilized people, that they respect countries and people, what had happened all of a sudden? Her uncle was silently, following the slim line of smoke from his cigarette traveling upward to the naked ceiling bulb dressed in blue paper. Absentminded, Elena followed the rings of smoke. "I don’t mean to frighten you, Elena. Before you came in we were discussing the situation with your mother and your aunt, because I don’t want you to have misconceptions. His voice was more toneless than before. You are so not little that you cannot be prepared for what is coming. And what is coming is rough, very difficult..." She shivered. How rough, she wanted to ask and she wanted to tell them all that she had not been a ‘little girl’ for some time; it’s just that now they thought it convenient. But what was the use? Are we all going to die then? The entire land? Depressing, frightening! Her family’s presence suffocated her. She avoided her uncle's eyes wondering what happens to people when they get old. Her Uncle Philip, decorated at the Front in Asia Minor

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during that other disaster in the early 2Os; missing in action for eight years, a brave man they had called him a long time before she was born...Oh, dear God, how she wished he was wrong, not a traitor, not him. "Whose radio?" she asked plainly, without interest "Mine!" "Stop listening then." With that she escaped to the street again to regain her waning courage and hope in the icy night, in the noise crowd and the merrymaking. She would not go to bed as her mother had told her, she needed the cold air, and

to forget what she had heard, but as she pushed further into the

streams of happy singing people, her happiness became more and more tarnished until it evaporated. She was a stranger, a lonely outsider, a freak. Empty, tightlipped, and feeling numb she let herself be swept hither and thither in the anonymous sway of the crowds in the darkness. She knew something they didn’t and the knowledge made her painfully special: The war was lost! How come my uncle knows and they don’t, she wondered sadly as she listened to their singing: "When we enter Rome," they sang, the fools, "we’ll raise our Greek flag..." “Idiots,”, Elena murmured bitterly, “idiots ! She shed the first tears of defeat.

(FROM ELENA'S DIARY) "I have never felt this cold and so hungry before. I didn’t know what hunger was. Food is scarce, we are trying to save heat.. I took it for it for granted that if one is hungry, one eats. Not so,

it’s not that

simple. Now every one is hungry, we may face death from hunger if not

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from the skies. I must keep this diary up; some humans might be spared and if they read what happened to us maybe they’ll learn that war is insanity and hopelessness. Hopefully, they may not repeat the stupidities of our century. Note: (A warning to you, Nicky: if you ever come across this diary, think twice before you even open it. Drop it, because if I catch you reading it, I'll chop your hands off.) "Today is Thursday, two weeks after the last ‘victory’ celebration. It’s freezing out; the gutters are packed with frozen litter; it swirls in the gusts of wind. There was some snow last night, the top of Mt. Hemettus is white, it looks nice. Regardless of the cold spell it brings, I sometimes wish

for snow, just for fun. As it is we enjoy looking at it from far,

it never snows in Athens. Only the jackals up in the mountain have the fun. On the other hand, what fun will it be when the snow covers our cold homes, and who can play in the snow on an empty stomach. Nowadays I am always tired and hungry; Aunt Popi says that the good life has spoiled us; now we must pay for our pre-war wastefulness and for being greedy. Now I see people slowly wasting as if wishing to evaporate; I am still fat though’ I am as hungry as the rest.

Our cupboards are empty but we

are better off than many. When my uncle left this morning, I begged Mama to let me go with him but she wouldn't hear of it. I’m sorry I asked. When he kissed me goodbye, I remembered another painful embrace the day my father died, when I was little; his eyes were just as sad. Does he believe that one of us will soon die? From behind closed shutters, our neighbors followed the movements of the men who were picking up my uncle.

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They unloaded the flour, oil and coal he had brought in the hope that these supplies would see us through the winter. The horse and buggy, a hilarious anachronism after one has seen tanks, looked ridiculous; taxis and private cars have been requisitioned to carry supplies to the front, to be used as ambulances. It’s back to the days of horse and buggy, as Mama says. Merchant ships are also serving in the navy and Uncle Philip uses the primitive, noisy and slow ‘caiques’; certainly not equipped for heavy commercial traffic but they look romantic; one travels close to the water like Ulysses, and like him, my uncle must pray for fair winds to bring him to his Ithaca. I know it’s romantic but I don’t think I would want to travel in such close proximity with the elements even with Ulysses as a fellow traveler. My uncle seems changed since the night when we had words; he looks at me in a strange way as if really to see who I am, actually. His presence was reassuring in our war darkened house, even his snoring is welcome. I hated to see him go, the house will feel empty and quiet, echoing and magnifying every little noise. I have not been sleeping well since the war began, I feel uneven and alone as if we are doomed and I am the only one who knows. Before he left, he had a talk with my mother; I couldn’t hear everything that was said but I saw their faces that were dead serious. I know they were discussing me, my ‘behavior’. A few days ago my aunt told me that I was becoming a ‘riotous child.’ She uses those pompous expressions. Still whatever Mama and her brother talked about, I don’t like it; I am worried, scared, but ‘riotous’, I am not! The dust from the horses’ hoofs haven’t settled yet; I need to be alone to think what to do if and when I find out that I am

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to die. Do I take anything with me, my diary, my doll? No, Mama sent my doll to my cousins, I am too old to play with dolls, she said when she packed it and I had a lump in my throat. What was I to say? First, it was too late, and she looked at me in a conspiratorial manner which somehow put us both on the same level, whatever that is, so that I didn’t mention the irony of that ‘you’re-a-big-girl-now' business. It doesn’t matter any more if I’m big or little. We are all in the same boat ready for sacrifice; death, they say, has no preference. Young or old, man or woman, child or adult, fat or skinny, blonde or brunette...whatever this whole stupid situation is, I don't like it!"

"Anna," Philip said somberly as they walked to the corner. "Did you ever think that your decision not to leave was a bit too hasty? She shrugged hopelessly. "I hope we don’t live to regret that decision." "I’m not so sure now," she said pensively. "But it’s really scary to be in a strange land with two small children. America is so far away! Too late now, it’s done, let’s hope that God gave me enough sense and that my decision wasn’t wrong. On the other hand, Philip, in time of crisis a family should be together. Let’s hope that God will help us all". He smiled his fake courage. Philip looked at his niece and nephew playing with the horse. "I worry about them," he said. "How about your own children?" Anna asked a little testily. Philip climbed on the buggy and left with a final wave. "Don’t worry about them," he shouted back. "My children have a father, yours have only me. Take care!" He was gone.

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A few days later the Greek dictator died. Elena sensed some of insecurity, she felt it in the streets, in the unrest and confusion and the somewhat timid commotion she couldn’t interpret. Should they mourn or celebrate? She overheard a discussion at the hospital between two wounded men who sounded confused themselves. "It’s like this," the patient said. " A person is in jail and suddenly they throw the doors open. He doesn’t know which way to go; are they joking? Should I walk out.” "Or if you are in chains and they remove the chains suddenly but instead of feeling happy and free you feel sort of naked," the guard added. Elena listened for a while but was afraid to ask what they meant; these were the amputees she was helping; she wrote their letters, she could not appear stupid to them. Out in the yard, a visitor asked the guard: "what will happen to those he kept in prison or exiled for more than four years?" the old guard shrugged and closed his peephole. "Mama is talking to the pictures on the wall again," Nicky told her when she went inside. He was outside the living room kneeling in front of the keyhole. "Move over," she whispered. "I can hear better, I’ll tell you what she says." Surprisingly, he did. She heard their mother report the dictator’s death to her dead husband and to President Roosevelt who for the privilege of the The terrible

was not dead. Nicky pushed

keyhole; she was trying to digest what she had heard:

hardships the country had suffered, the humiliations, prisons and

exiles, the tortures. They tried to hear their mother’s voice clearly, if not see her, but she was whispering story; she spoke as if the dictator or his dreaded secret police were outside the house, listening; they had expected to

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hear something that would interest them, a secret or a piece of gossip. What they heard was too disturbing. "All that..." Nicky whispered to his sister, "is it true?" "I don’t know," she said vaguely remembering the onset of the dictatorship. She couldn’t be sure. "Mama must know something," she added. "It’s worse than war," Nicky said pensively and made way for her. He wasn’t interested any more. "I don’t want to hear," he said. Now that he is dead, Elena reasoned, those terrible things should end. We may go back to normal. What is normal? She was surprised that her mother was aware of those secrets, unless she spoke about it when her children listening. One person makes himself a Premier, takes charge of the land and the army and muzzles a whole country and no one dares stop him. Slowly, the puzzle was beginning to take shape. At school she was taught that her country was the birthplace of democracy. And from her mother she had learned that America, her birthplace, was a country where democracy was practiced. She was confused. She remembered other things, like the war in Spain, the book burning; the young student being dragged out in the middle of night, arrests, she had heard of kangaroo courts, tortures and exiles; those couldn’t be signs of democracy, she thought, and then, maybe I still don’t understand what democracy is. Lucky Nicky, She thought, nothing upsets him; he goes out to play soccer and forgets. I wish I could kick! Anna pushed the door open knocking them both down. She knew they were eavesdropping, they always did, she didn’t scold them. She walked to the kitchen with

half a smile on her face. Elena followed her brother and walked

out quietly onto the cold street. Nicky and another boy were running to keep

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warm. She walked ahead toward the Avenue to watch the people, hoping to see a difference now that she knew things she didn’t know before. She expected to see relief, the exaltation she had seen on her mother’s face, but saw fear and indifference, or so she thought. People walked, looked up for the presence of an enemy plane, or behind them for the secret police. She remembered her teachers eulogizing the man who had just died. Was it possible, she wondered that they were coerced, ordered to intimidate the students into denouncing their parents? And had some children done that? she had thought then that it was part of one’s education, a necessity, a normal state of affairs; now she knew. Before the dictator was buried another man was named Premier, an obscure figure; he, too, was soon gone. They said he shot himself while the country celebrated yet another victory with delirium. There was talk of scandals, corruption, treason; all grown-up words rumors that were enigmas. The press was hinting that the country was at the verge of chaos. What’s chaos, Elena wondered not seeing any cliffs and precipices around her, but deep inside her, she knew! “Done’m in, they did," said the neighborhood prophet sage of internal and external affairs, the matchmaker, gossip and magician; the eternal pessimist. She shouted her opinion from her low balcony not caring who listened.

Elena

heard; she didn’t try to understand but wished, oh, so intensely, for her doll to hug, to hide with it and cuddle behind the couch in the living room for hours instead of circulating among mad people who changed their minds and premiers and announced victories from one day

to the next. She had no doll.

From one day to the next she had grown up; as her mother said, she was too old to play with dolls. Why had they moved to a neighborhood of old people and not

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even one girl her age she could play with? There were times when, squashed against the corner in the shelter, she felt she was tightrope walking while the world was crumbling around her. There was no escape! Sirens, casualties, enemies, ‘front’, hunger, food lines, and a country left to its fate with an inept king whom some called an ‘idiot’ and some even a ‘uniform stuffed with gold stars and shit’! At times Elena walked the streets for hours frightened, in a haze; no one asked her where she had been, it was assumed that whoever was out of the house was looking for food. She didn’t know what she was looking for, maybe comfort in the misery of the restless crowds or in the shelters she had to go if she was caught in an air raid and that only if prompted by the police. Her mother hired a teacher who came three times a week after the French tutor left to teach Elena Latin and Ancient Greek which she would have been in the curriculum of the year, and to make sure that Nicky hadn’t forgotten

what

he so painfully had learned up to then. “What do I need ancient Greek and Latin for?” Elena asked but her mother said tersely that it was precaution in case the schools opened and that was all! The teacher who was too old to be drafted because of age, had a perennial cold and a runny nose and sneezed all the time; the cold didn’t get better since the war began. He was also very demanding the old fashion way, even of Nicky whose curriculum did not include ancient languages and who was afraid of him. Most teachers were at the ‘front’ and female teachers seemed no to be available. Studying took Elena’s mind off the war for a while; she liked her French teacher and was upset to see her cry when she heard that Paris had fallen to the Germans’ advance. How much literature, how much study do I need

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she thought, to obliterate the world, to take Hitler off the globe and free Paris for her? She read stories about Paris in French with her tutor, stories about the children who lived there, speaking a different language, now dodging the enemy as she was dodging shells. That’s why people fight, she reasoned; you don’t get rid of an enemy with study but with fighting. Then, why study, she asked her teacher. "Because the more one learns the less one accepts wars.” Elena looked at her. The French lady shook her head sadly. “So it

depends on me, my generation and my education? The future of the

world, I mean. Are we responsible for past wars, from the beginning of the world, did they happen because I wasn’t here?” “You know what I mean. Maybe learning will teach you -I don’t mean you in particular- not to be greedy, because war is ‘g r e e d’, don’t forget that. Education means civilization.” Elena wanted to tell her that the twentieth century claims to be the civilized one. It was too much for her, she escaped outside to walk, to run; she did that whenever she had no answer to the questions that seared her mind; she also escaped from her mother’s and aunt’s bickering and nagging

when her aunt wasn’t at the hospital. It was boring and

depressing to see them like that; if she was around, they found something to scold her for, because they were frustrated and angry at one another. She tried to lose Nicky, too, who seemed to be in a world all his own where she did not even fit. Only when they were helping out at the hospital they could see eye to eye and cooperated like two responsible people. The wounded kept coming at a greater frequency and the winter wouldn’t let up. Frostbite was

maiming

thousands, there was a shortage of beds and linen and supplies were not

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forthcoming as needed.

The deserted outdoor cinemas on the Avenue looked like fields that had not been cultivated for years; one felt that they were not cinemas of a happier era, but, more to the fashion of the day, of neglected cemeteries, with weeds sprouting where the chairs used to be. On one wall, a faded Bette Davis poster in a rusty frame flapped in the wind, dripping bloody red paint from torn paper lips. Yellowing paper bits, old cinema programs, garbage and newspapers packed against the fences. Stacked and waiting for another season, the chairs in the back of the yard were the silent witnesses of what was and what was to be. Forgotten summer evenings of peace! Will she live to see another picture there? Will she make it to another summer, she thought as she crossed the Avenue where she had grown; she stood by the fountain, now dry and filled with debris goldfish gone, maybe someone ate them, she thought sadly. She had thrown crumbs to the fish when she played there evenings listening to new songs from the radios of the vine canopied cafes lining the sidewalks, in those peaceful evenings when the aroma of coffee being served drifted in the air. In that corner a man roasted chestnuts and salted chickpeas to the only winter cinema clientele, wrapped in his old quilt coat warming his hands over his brazier as he waited for customers. In the summer, what metamorphosis! The same man, younger looking with a different cart, sold ice cream while the block of ice slowly melting dripped on the sidewalk. He stood in the cool puddle with bliss! Just a few months before, when there was life and the radio of every cafe was blaring the new rage, an exotic import " South of the Border."

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(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) "Spring isn’t here yet according to the calendar but the weather changed and it’s pleasant except for the flies which like everything else seem to be more vicious and voracious than ever. There must be more flies than patients in the hospital. It's the smell of blood,

they say and it’s

that smell that made Nick puke in the beginning. It bothered me, too, but I got used to it faster than he did. No one had asked me to help; actually, children are not even allowed at a military hospital. One day, months ago, I walked in the front yard

of the hospital that used to be a

great garden. I searched the faces of the wounded men on stretched lined up on the sidewalk not knowing why; I thought I would recognize someone, but all I saw was unconscious young men, a lot of pain and bloody sheets and stumps where limbs had been. The thought that everyone believed I was a ‘big girl’ (at times, anyway,) prevented me from

sitting

that on the

ground next to the stretchers and weep. A nurse, her huge blue cape flying about her, asked me to hold her tray. I followed the sour looking large woman inside the yard when she began wheeling the stretcher toward the main door. One thing led to another, and I found myself an ‘aide’ without uniform at the hospital on Alexandra’s Avenue across from our house helping mornings when none of my teachers were due. When Nicky found out he joined me, I was upset and at the same time surprised. It was a revelation, but I had a thought that the hospital could be the best thing that could happen to my brother. Nicky became a responsible and hard worker. Human pain touched him; it was then that I realized that a sensitive boy was hiding under the tough shell of the brat.

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Once a mansion left to the city by a millionaire when he died, the building was turned into a very beautiful private white and pink hospital surrounded by palm trees and rose gardens. At the onset of the war, the Red Cross took over and turned it into a military hospital hurriedly releasing the existing patients to fend for themselves, a scandalous affair at the time. Casualties are now brought in at all hours, we are not allowed to stay too long because we are children they said, but we don’t mind, we have all the time in the world. Nicky and I do not make any difference in this crazy world's affairs whether we stay in the house, in the hospital or roam the streets. We now know how to make up beds (at home Mom doesn't think we are neat and does them herself); we empty bedpans and when the weather is fair we wheel the recuperating amputees out for a breath of air. Sometimes I write letters to families if the man has no hand to write with or doesn't know how to write. I don’t let Nicky do that because his handwriting is awful and his spelling worse. With

unusual charm, he tells them: ‘That’s my sister’s

department.’ In the wards everyone is in a hurry; the Operating Room. Though short of nurses, is working round the clock; most nurses are sent to the front for emergencies. As time goes by our duties become fearfully gory. Carrying amputated limps in a bucket isn’t exactly something a young person would enjoy doing, it's terrible, but we aren’t supposed to know what we are carrying. A few days ago they gave me that bucket to carry to the old man out in the back and I looked. He buried the lot in a trench behind the hospital wall where the beautiful rose garden used to be, maybe it’s still there, it’s too early in the season to tell, but if

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roses come up they should be red with all the blood and the buckets of mutilated human parts he feeds them with.

Nicky threw up when he saw it,

he wasn’t supposed to be there. Now he doesn’t vomit anymore, he just doesn’t look. One has to learn defense

tricks. We didn’t tell our

mother; we don’t tell her that he is still afraid when a man dies. She hears only the brave things she wants to hear. I’ve caught my brother once hunched up in the broom closet crying. He had seen a dead soldier on a stretcher going by, covered with a khaki blanket. Nicky was very little when Papa died, but at times I think that death reminds him of it and he is hurt. Things are rough at the Front. I know when there is a terrible battle or a real massacre from the number of casualties and the overflow from other hospitals, some on stretchers in the corridors because of lack of beds. Those are tiring days going up and down the marble stairs; I hurt all over, but I smile because that’s what the nurses do. They tell me that I would make a good nurse. I don’t tell them that I plan to be a doctor and go to Africa to join Dr. Schweitzer. The swallows are back from their wanderings in Africa. How did they manage to escape the bullets and the airplanes and bombs! I don’t know if

I should rejoice or cry when I see their black scissors tails draw graceful circles on the blue sky, bellies white like puffy clouds. They are back from their wintering in Africa to usher Spring. This morning they circled roofs windows and balconies searching for last year’s nests, it’s a wonder they remember places and even people, they are just birds; Early in the morning Mama spotted the pair and opened the window and they flew into the bedroom making familiar sounds like polite guests and after making the rounds of all the rooms they flew out. Luckily, the nest was

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intact, and they took to the skies to spot from above the material they need to mend their homes. Who will mend the human bombed homes? And how will the swallows find homes when they find the old nests in the ruins of bombarded houses, do they understand war? What do they think when they compete for sky space with those dark steel birds flying regularly from the north spitting death to nests, homes and people? When I have time I look at the casualties list. I don’t know what I am looking for, I have no one at the front; I‘m told that two of my cousins, my father’s nephews, are at the front, but I have never seen them and

don’t

recognize their names. I only wish that Uncle Stavros had been brought here. I would stay with him day and night, nursing him, taking care of him. But they never found his body. Uncle Stavros...!”

C H A P T E R

SPRING 1941 Days of gold;

whitewashed houses, red tiled roofs, streets and hills, all

golden. Hard to believe that on such a sparkling day people were slaughtered a

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few hundred miles away, or that at any moment a flock of steel birds could turn the azure sky into a wreath of death. Happy red poppies in empty lots, stone fences and sidewalks, and cracks, even in the un-swept marble dust in the masonâ€™s yard, and the wind-swept soil in street corners; they swayed graceful stems in the breeze as if obeying to cues from a secret orchestra. Elena leaned against the fence to look at the red petals almost white with the gentle film of marble dust that covered everything, graceful ballerinas on a stage their feet obeying

to dreamy music as they danced in

precise movements; the black mystery of their hearts were as deep as the eyes of gypsy children. More important, they matched the red color of her brand new velvet dress perfectly. She was proud of the Easter outfit she wore for the first time to go to church. The cold winter months and the terror of the darkness of nights, seemed to melt away. She picked a few poppies that grew outside the fence and blew the marble dust off. On a balcony across the street a woman was airing sheets, blankets and pillows on the rails shaking sleep out, in the clear sunlight. From a radio Byzantine chants reminded her of the service she was going to. The Sunday mass broadcast from the Cathedral, peaceful sounds of peace filled the air. The neighborhoodâ€™s radio! I must hurry, she thought, they have started. She turned to go and found herself in a sudden noiseless void; there was a scary silence; the strange, ominous quiet left her motionless, hoping, praying that the chants will begin again re-affirming her belief that everything is as it should be: beautiful, peaceful. The balcony was still open, the woman was there, but the radio was

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still mute. The world seemed to be on a stand still, like her, like that grew quiet, and the Avenue noises

the air

muffled; insects ceased to exist, the

tree leaves, new and bright green, the poppies, all stood still, breathless, like her. Ugly, brassy military music suddenly replaced the peaceful hymns; a few seconds later that, too, stopped abruptly and a colorless voice as cold as death announced to the world, the birds, the empty streets, the insects, the poppies and Elena that Germany had that morning declared war on Greece and its armed forces had broken through the northern borders. In the pause that she felt her heartbeats quicken, and looked surprised at the red stain in her palms and her new dress, unaware that she had squashed the poppies and that she had wiped her stained fingers on her dress. Motionless, she waited for someone to scream, to break the deafening silence; no one did. Is everything over, then, she wondered; innocent sky, street, doorbells, birds and flowers and the green window and balcony shutters sheltering Sunday dreams, is it all over? Is it Hitler? Her body seemed to be floating above everything, the city, the planet, looking down at a world foreign, detached; at the chubby girl with the black curls

and the red soiled dress, holding dead

poppies; looking down at the low flying swallows. The world was upside down; had she died? She heard the bells; remote, impersonal, neither happy nor unhappy, what more could they say, more war? There is no too little or too much war. A

war is a war, she wanted to shout to the empty street. She heard church

bells that had nothing to do with the morning services. There were no sirens, no take-cover, no alarm. Were they shocked, too? Dazed, she turned and ran home.

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The kitchen seemed small, maybe she was getting big. She watched her mother wash greens in the sink muttering to herself. Does she know, her daughter wondered, has she heard? Maybe, the bells... Anna felt her daughter’ presence and turned around to face her. "Don’t look at me this way," she said irritably. "I am not responsible. You were warned, you needn’t look so lost." She had heard. Elena felt guilty. There is no comfort here; she had to leave, to be outside in the open, not to suffer the guilt in her mother’s eyes. There was such emptiness and fear within her she felt a thirst for her mother’s arms, her warmth, to cry in her arms to be comforted by lies again, share the terrible load in the knowledge of what awaited them. But big girls don’t cry, either, she thought and left angry at her mother for not coming to her in her need, and because she chose to stay and go through hell instead of taking them back to America as she was asked; angry because she didn’t even explain to her what the word "declaration" again meant to them; remembering her uncle. Now she believed him. How had he known? Her mother came out of the kitchen into the garden, her hands dripping. Elena opened the yard door. "I sent you to church," she called after her sternly, "and that is where you are going." Elena didn’t answer; she turned and looked at her thinking: she is crazy, does she really expect me to go? Is that a priority? Am I a child again? Outside they’re slaughtering the century. She went back to the street, a young woman now, hurt, bewildered, yet, somehow with less fear. No church today, she told herself. I’m going where I’m wanted; where they consider me human. She crossed the Avenue and pushed the heavy hospital door. Her friends there knew war; their silence and amputated limbs were more familiar.

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Sitting on wheel chairs in the sun, pajama sleeves and legs hanging helplessly empty, they faced her silently in a heavy general mood of grief. Like me, she thought. Still, some managed to appear brave. "Look," one said unnecessarily loud and in a fake jocular voice. "Spring just walked in. Elena! She brings us Easter greetings; and what a lovely Easter dress.” Elena felt the tears sting her eyelids, but she smiled fighting the urge to run away screaming. They had given parts of their bodies, she only felt sad and scared. "Still a child...and she means to solve the world’s ills.."

her mother was

murmuring into her salad greens.

German planes hovered over Athens day and night, one couldn’t be sure if the sirens meant take cover or all-clear. Between

raids, confused and tired,

Athenians went, or at least tried to go, about their business and took cover when antiaircraft or bombs got too

close for comfort. The city had been

spared, there was hope, but the port of Piraeus, a few kilometers to the south, was

devastated. Good Friday was chilly with rain in the air, which was unusual. The streets

and Alexandra Avenue, always busy and noisy with shoppers, beggars... the café radios, were

quiet and that made her uneasy. No merchants, or even beggars on

the church steps

and that was more than unusual. By now peddlers should be out

for the sake of tradition, and the stalls ready with paper flowers and Easter souvenirs. The long candles ready, festive with colorful bows and ribbons for the evening service after which

the crucified Christ would be paraded through

the neighborhoods. Not this time, she thought sadly remembering other years

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when at night the Avenue looked like a long, bright snake from the thousands lit candles following Him, but today, she thought, is not like any other Good Friday, though it is always a sad day. And the candles, if really lit,would make a fine target for the enemy’s planes. This year, families with fathers or sons at the front, concealed their grief, their despair and fear behind closed doors.

Even walls are not safe,

any more, she thought feeling utterly alone. She had gone to church determined to have a talk with Him; she climbed the wide stairs up to the large open doors feeling grown-up, her steps echoing in the emptiness of the church. The flickering little flames of candles and votive lamps sent faint shadows on the icons and on the mosaic floor. And there He lay, swathed in purple linen with gold trimmings, in the middle of the church, alone, forgotten, surrounded by a vague

scent of old incense and wilted violets the King of Kings dead in His

holy bier, dwarfed her with the immensity of His magnitude. Near His heart, a stain, His sacred blood shone bright red,

phosphorescent.

Strange, she thought, I’ ve seen Him so many times and never noticed the painted wood; she had always thought it was His actual body, that He was hurting, and was sad for His pain. She concentrated on the circle of light on the floor, that filtered in through the high dome. He and I! The thought excited and frightened her, she looked around for a presence. Only the saints’ somber scowling faces on the icons, and over her head at the inner face of the dome, the Father, with his long white beard and bushy eyebrows, looking at her in anger, blessing her, no less. Why are You angry, You should be angry at the people who killed Your Son and will kill us, too, she thought; He still looked angry. How about your world

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crumbling right below your eyes, Your Lordship, she challenged Him. Both

the proximity to the bier and her aloneness, made her feel an

intruder. She looked closely at the thorn-perforated, spear pierced image with renewed awe. At that instant He was Greece crucified, the world dead amid expiring violets. On her knees in front of Him she touched the bier, expecting a miracle. Had He risen to a sitting position at that moment, she would not be at all surprised. But He lay there, unmindful of the drama being unfolded so close to Him. He has been asleep for almost

two thousand years, she reasoned, removed

from our reality, lost in the mist of centuries, how could He even remotely fathom the agony and helplessness of the modern world. She sat on the cold floor and cried helplessly; not for her fears and despair but for His bleeding Body and her great loss. "Help," she pleaded pitifully, trying to remember the prayers her mother taught her.

"Please help, there is no one else, don’t let them crucify us,

too." She stood up and wiped her eyes. A strange, profound peace had suddenly enveloped her. Has He heard? Will He come through? Will He stop the Germans? Sure, He could; they will not conquer us, didn’t He perform all those miracles? "Send me a sign, please send a sign,” she whispered looking down at the serene face, a sign...She looked around hopefully. In the fading light, the church had become a sad void, profoundly oppressive in its silence. "You haven’t heard a word I said," she murmured looking down at Him. The realization seared her deeply. "You couldn’t even help yourself, you let them do this to you." Sobbing she walked out into the wet, cool evening and stood at the top of the steps more alone than ever. She had seen no sign of a miracle,

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the enemy was closing in on their way to Athens; could she still hope that the enemy could be stooped? He had not heard her and the loss she had suffered while on her knees inside the church was a painful blow. The young girl of an hour ago, had emerged a mature little cynical woman. Beneath the eaves, the swallows were still busy building nests, getting ready for the night, their usual happy evening fluttering and chirping sang to her, all is lost, all is lost! Soon, the evening service will begin, the saddest day of the year, or is it?

Easter Sunday 1941, Hitler’s birthday. no candles

with the blessed light of love and

There was no midnight Service,

resurrection, no fireworks

lighting the sky over Athens at midnight, everyone was hoping that there would be no bombs doing that instead. Anna and Nicky walked to church early; the fearful Stukas were already at work lurking over their heads. Then English planes engaged them in dogfights over the city; a few burst in flames and were lost in the northern sky, others retreated coughing smoke and disappeared. “A present for Hitler’s

birthday,” someone shouted from the Avenue.

“Did he send you an invitation?” A woman mocked him and all rejoiced. “The newspaper said so; it’s April 20th.” Elena had stayed home to watch their dinner waiting for her aunt who was on night shift. The precious food, a chunk of goat’s meat her Mother managed to secure at a farm in the suburbs, could not be left unattended. What of all the refugees, hungry beggars and other strangers roaming the streets; it wasn’t wise to walk out leaving doors unlocked, someone had to be there to let people

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in if there was a raid though the planes were coming so fast now, that the sirens didn’t bother. The famous love for the stranger, the "filoxenia," made no sense anymore; people had become suspicious, self-centered. Popi came home exhausted. "The food is ready," her niece said and ran out before her aunt began to relate the hospital news of births, deaths, miscarriages and other agonies. Beggars, yesterday’s heroes today’s ragged burdens some on crutches, some still in uniform, sat on the church steps, a sad repetition of history; it was what her uncle had tried to warn her about. "Beggary is the only way this impoverished country can deal with what is of no use any more, the veteran." He had been one himself, he was lucky that he had no need of governmental charity. She paused on the stairs to listen to the Byzantine psalms drifting out with the scent of incense. She felt the warmth but no solace. There was much pain and despair in the cries of the beggars; planes buzzed overhead, the air was heavy with sadness. Good Friday was just two days past. She still felt the anger and frustration, the betrayal; her heart had turned to stone; from the open doors came the chanting of psalms. She didn’t enter the church, there was no relief there, either, faith wasn’t enough, she needed hope. She walked back down the steps. "Let Him strike me," she challenged, "He is resurrected now." But He didn’t and as she walked away from His house sirens began wailing and bells pealed urgently.

The blended sound was a singularly sinister duet of despair.

Those not so brave left the church to seek shelter while the priests tried to reassure them that nothing sinister happens to the House of God. But they knew,

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it had happened in Piraeus and they wouldn’t take chances.

Elena did not

follow them, on the day of His resurrection, she would not hide. She felt sorry for her aunt who had worked through the night and now had to be alert to open the house to nosy neighbors rushing to take cover. German Stukas flew low over Mt. Hemettus in ‘V’ formations, they appeared over the mountaintop in perfect waves, menacing black shapes under the strong sunlight, deadly. Anti-aircraft guns studded the sky embroidering its azure silk with white little puffs. A blue field with a cluster of white daisies! The people were ran for cover or gaped at the sky, marveling at the destructive power man can invent to annihilate mankind. Like a game of hide and seek, she thought distraught, or Sunday soccer. She arrived home still trying to overcome her panic. In the shelter, inside the apartment, people stood shoulder to shoulder, there was no room to sit; it was hard to breathe with so many people squeezed in such a small place. A child whimpered, someone wanted to talk, another hissed loudly: sh-h-h!! Popi sleepy, was leaning against the door post trying to keep awake. Elena’s mother and brother returned and Anna went straight to the

kitchen to make sure that

the piece of meat was intact in the pot; it had cost her plenty. "The world can go crazy", she murmured, "but food is food and while we are alive we must eat".

It looked quite close to the final take-over; the Germans were getting close, the raids more frequent, ten, twenty a day; life was a series of pauses between air raids. Listen for the sirens, take cover, seek food lines, help at the hospital, study French, finish Latin, priorities ingrained in Elena’s being. She knew her routine as she knew the palms of her hands or her myopia. Keeping

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busy took her mind off hunger pains that had began to ravage her body and destroy her sleep; also the fact that she and everyone else could at any moment die because of a variety of reasons that war made available, now called war casualties. Salonica fell; British Units stationed in Greece were hastily retreating, marching in streets that did not echo the â€˜hooraysâ€™ now they were being evacuated; they were leaving them to find more security on the southernmost part of Greece, the island of Crete and to continue the fighting and from there to Egypt, so they said, or maybe someone thought so, Elena couldnâ€™t make up her mind everyone had a story those days. The endless lines of refugees from Piraeus and adjacent areas fled their desolate bombarded neighborhoods and walked northward on the Avenue from morning to night. Truckloads of British soldiers or supplies

drove the

opposite way exiting: evacuation! "We shall return," they shouted, "we shall return!" they waved at any one who bothered to look or salute, but for the defeated it was desertion. "We have no homes, we have no food," the refugees chanted to doors closed to them, and to disinterested people. They dragged tired, hungry bodies and children northward, to where? "War makes animals of people", said the sage of the block, locking her door and securing her window. Nothing could stop the advance of the Nazi phalanxes as they marched toward Athens. The mechanized Army followed the same trail the Persians had traveled thousands of years before, but with one difference: in 1941 there was no Thermopylae!

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Ragged,

starving remnants of the disbanded Greek Army poured into the city in

groups or alone, after trekking

across mountains and valleys, with the enemy

close at their heels, hoping to reach their homes alive. Those from the islands tried in vain, the boats not actively involved in warfare, were evacuating the British forces to Crete while the remnants of the Cretan Division that had survived the fighting at the front were abandoned in Piraeus and other cities to fend for themselves. The country was in a state of utter disorder; the soldiers wandered, those wounded and the healthy ones, without food, shelter or protection, facing the danger of meeting the advancing German Army, which would mean instant execution or concentration camps, so they tried to lose themselves in larger cities among the vagrants and beggars where hunger, homelessness and armies of refugees were reaching epidemic proportions. Begging

for food, or a

cigarette, an old shirt or trousers to cover the incriminating uniform, was the victory they had earned trying to save their country. Yesterday’s celebrated ‘victorious Army’ slept in fields, doorsteps, beneath bushes in vacant lots, and under trees or the ancient ruins or those ruins of the new civilization, the bombed buildings. The arrival of the ‘saviors’ of Europe was imminent. The hospital staff, administrators, doctors and nurses tried frantically to evacuate the amputees at least, to their villages and hide the others in civilian hospitals. The project did not succeed as was expected. Elena and Nicky tried helping out a little with their own meager means and if their mother knew that her pantry was secretly pilfered by her children and that things were missing, she never let on. Sooner or later, we will all

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starve, anyway, she thought. On the other hand, her children kept to themselves and shared a secret; that was good, they kept off her hair because she had no answer for their questions any more than her own father had for her during World War I, the Balkan Wars, the Asia Minor disaster, to name a few. They’ll learn the same way I did, Anna reasoned, they must accept reality as adults now. It was painful to see small children burdened by world affairs, still more painful to involve them in the enormous struggle for survival that a war demands. And it was only the beginning. What’s a little food or some clothes? There was a positive element in the matter, she figured; her children showed compassion for human suffering. For Elena and Nicky there was no assurance that there will always be a tomorrow, or that they would find food. They were only certain of the frequency of air raids. As the Germans were closing in, their planes, those dark birds of death, hovered overhead day and night; no sooner had the

‘all-clear’ sounded, that

the ‘take-cover’ began. That day had started with a series of air raids after sunset. The planes came in waves, unloaded their lethal load, left; another wave replaced them immediately. The shelter was still full of people by midnight, numb, hungry people, scared by the stillness that follows terror; At the siren’s ‘all clear’ they rushed to their beds exhausted, and were drifting off to blissful sleep when it seemed that a volcano erupted beneath the city, and that the earth with its mountains and valleys and cities and monuments tossed in the air and then to the bottom of an abyss, suddenly, in the middle of the night. Shattered glass, screams and acrid smoke of sulfur, filled the night. To untangle

themselves from the tyranny of choking sheets in the

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threatening

darkness, to run away from shattered doors and windows, everyone’s

wish! Well, we have been bombed after all, run to the shelter...what for, we are already dead; panic displacing courage. When she was thrown out of her bed with a violence that left her stunned, Elena tried to get her wits about her; at that moment a ridiculous thought crossed her mind: the paper strips had not helped the windows, the shards had filled the room. She

stared at the shining shattered glass strewn around the

room and the red glow seeping into the darkness through the smoke that choked them. Anna was frantically calling her children; she tried to untangle herself from the bedclothes. Elena and Nicky, trapped in their own sheets and panic, answered her cries from under their beds. They saw each others’ silhouettes in the red glow both wondering if their aunt Popi made it. “Popi”...Anna’s anguished cry echoed in the rooms while the house began shaking again like an earthquake's after-shocks. "Popi!" Disheveled, hysterical, Popi almost fell into the room crushing the broken glass on the floor. "I’m not hurt," she panted, "I’m all right, where are you...are you all here?" "Yes," they all cried in unison, thankful that they were able to utter that insignificant, word. Elena wondered if they weren’t really ghosts and wouldn’t that be something to write in her diary. She knew they were no ghosts when the frantic pounding at their door became dangerously demanding. "Get to the door," Anna shouted at her sister who was close to hysteria. "You are not hurt, and we are not hurt, go already!" Popi’s dignity was hurt; “You go,” she said. Elena felt her aunt’s annoyance. She had lost her room to

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the ‘unwashed crowd’, as she referred to their neighbors, and had to guard her precious scientific books from them and their brats; those books were her life. "I’m coming," she finally answered the wild pounding at the door. "I’m coming damn you, stop clawing and screaming as if death was after you". She shuffled to the hall sleepily. Smaller explosions were shaking the house every now and then. The big explosion, the one that brought havoc and terror, seemed to have been the only major disaster; hopefully the last! "There are no planes," she said. "There is no all-clear, either," they said running past her to secure a tiny spot on the floor until whatever was to happen did happen. She shrugged, then took her post by the door guarding the books. The uninvited guests, were packed sardine-like; she noticed that in that moment when they all faced death, that last moment of sanity before they lost it, she cared more about books whish she may not survive to use, than life. That much she had in common with the ‘guests’ who had grabbed something as they were dashing out of their homes and held it as identification, something all their own that would remind them that they had a home, pride and dignity: a bowl, a blanket, a small vase, some sheets, trinkets considered valuable, jewelry, in that tiny space where they sat cramped for hours at a time; where there was no question of being comfortable, just hoping to make it until the next air raid. And to sleep, ah, sleep! It was almost dawn and the explosions continued; the residents of the shelter had stopped paying attention to the tremors. Popi asked Elena to stand guard and went inside to rest. "We’ve been here two hours," said an old man sitting on the floor resting his legs on his cane which interfered with the feet of a nursing mother who

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couldn’t shift her position. "The house is solid enough," he continued his monologue; everyone seemed to be immersed either in profound thoughts or stupor. "I saw it when they built it in 1912 before the other war; I don’t know if it can stand all this rocking and shaking though." He was mumbling remembering the flourishing farming community with hills of pine and fruit trees, before the first marble was dug up on the hill. “Now Athens isn’t the southern neighbor anymore; they are ‘Athens’”, he murmured to himself; “no sheep, chickens or goats or fruit trees and vines, and no hill either. Greed," he moaned..."yellow greed swallows all." "If a bomb falls on the house, you won’t have anything to worry about," his neighbor told him waking up, "we’ll all be gone!"

There was another round of

frantic pounding at the door. Elena counted heads. They were all there except for her own family, probably resting in the bedroom. Suddenly awake, sleep and fatigue gone from their faces, the shelter residents stirred uneasily and became alert. Anna looked around counting, looking for something. "I smell gas," someone said. Panic! Anna rushed into the shelter to calm them. "I’ll go," she said; she grabbed her flashlight. At the door stood a soldier holding her son by the ear. Nicky’s face was dark with rage and pain as he tried to extricate his ear from the hand of the brutal man who was twisting it almost out of his skull. "What...what..." his mother stammered, lost for words. In the moonlight her face was ashen. Nicky was more afraid of her than the soldier. "You were in the bedroom sleeping." Of course he was until the red glare aroused his adventurous spirit and when he saw his mother dropping off, he

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jumped out from the gaping window and was caught by the guards a few blocks away. The moment he felt his ear getting released he tried getting away but he didn’t make it past his mother; she held on to him crowded now by

people from

the shelter as they had come out of the shelter to learn what was happening. "What was he doing out?" Anna asked the soldier. She was still shaken. "God knows...crazy kid...!" "Were we bombed?" an anguished voice asked from inside the hall. Nicky was still squirming in his mother’s hold. "No," the soldier said, "we were not, Athens that is; Piraeus is burning." There was a painful groan from the shadows. "Are the Germans here?" "Hell, let them come so we can get some sleep..." "Pretty near..." "Why is Piraeus burning?" “I don’t know...it began at the port, boats are burning exploding..." He started to leave, then turned around before the door closed and said to Anna: "watch this kid, lady, he’ll get killed..." He left. In the discussion of events that followed the fear and anticipation, Nicky ran and hid in the living room near his aunt for protection from his mother’s anger. He lay crouched next to her and fell asleep. Slowly, the exhausted shelter residents began to trickle out, reassured by the soldiers that no German airplanes lurked behind the clouds waiting for them to exit to release their bombs. It was almost dawn; time for the planes to go home wherever in hell ‘home’ was.

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Light

was slowly creeping in the terror stricken city of Athens. Long lines

crawled up the Avenue on foot or horse drawn carts fleeing death; in the receding shadows they resembled a giant worm squirming up a tree. Burned out of their homes they cried and wailed through the night and into daylight for relatives lost, killed or missing in the explosion. The endless walk, hunger and terror, and lack of sleep were stamped on their faces. They dragged themselves leaning on one another, haggard and menacing looking, the picture of what people feared most, because they begged and they stole. They took over schools that had been closed for months, or forced the gates of vacant warehouses that the English had abandoned and settled there in a makeshift haven waiting for someone to throw them out; perhaps, by some miracle, the authorities.

The military truck rolling southward met with a solid human wall of the homeless seeking food and shelter waited on the Avenue, a roadblock like a cement wall. The English driver and a soldier were taken down and disarmed, things looked serious. A few men climbed up and removed the tarpaulin from the truck. "Food!" one shouted and all hell broke loose. Unable to control the hysterical mob, the two soldiers sat on the sidewalk smoking, watching the screaming crowd fight, hit each other blindly, curse, pushing to get hands on some of the army provisions, tins of food,

their

forks or canteens, pot

holders, chamber pots, thimbles, thread. In their frenzy, they spilled the supplies onto the street and stepped on them. No power, save a machine gun, could thwart their desperate efforts to gratify their needs, grab something

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they could hold on to or fill their bellies. Two blocks away Elena

the yelling, everyone heard and ran out into the

street to watch from a safe distance the frenzied crowds and the helpless soldiers torn between duty and pity. She walked toward the Avenue but the sight stopped her. She leaned on a tree hardly able to believe her eyes; she felt that the distraught she

peopleâ€™s plight stripped her of her dignity, she wished

could disappear; what, if driven by hunger and despair, she, herself would

someday be doing exactly what they were doing. The frightening thought made her tremble. So, she thought as she ran home away from the screams and the din, this is the real war. But in the safety and familiarity of her bedroom she felt that the street scene with its ugly noises, had penetrated the sanctity of her privacy through the gaping windows, allowing misery to follow her.

No one knew exactly what had happened that night. The radio did not elaborate except to report the extent of the damage, not where, nor from what. The press did the same. Rumors had it that during the last air raid the night before, a bomb hit a British ammunition ship that was getting ready to leave for Crete, wrecking the harbor; it touched off a series of explosions in the adjacent ammunition ships, and the fire spread to smaller craft until the entire harbor was burning along with the homes for many blocks around. The fire was soon out of control and the endangered population took to the streets. Athens, Piraeus, the suburbs, the foothills and Mt. Hemettus, were almost obliterated by the black smoke as thick as a wall that swallowed everything. A few days later, the press verified the rumors; by then no one could be helped and very few cares. They were just tasting another sample of the war.

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TWO BROTHERS (FROM ELENA’S DIARY) "At noon there was a knock on our door; lately no one bothers with the bell, they knock, or kick it open! Mom asked me to see who it was. Just another unshaved, ragged beggar; nothing new. This one looked worse than the Italian prisoners or the retreating Army. What do I tell him? I went back to the kitchen to ask Mama what to tell the man at the door. "Tell him that we don’t have any food in the house and we have given all our clothes away. And be gentle."

Why can’t she do that herself,

it’s beginning to hurt. I hate it, there are some things that I can’t face. I stood before him mute, my heart wouldn't let me open my mouth and the emaciated beggar's watery eyes stared at me with such sadness! "Elena...Elena..." he whispered and my knees began to shake, how does he know my name, is he someone back from the dead? "Who, who...are you?" I stammered. I was afraid of his answer, but tears were rolling down his soiled stubby cheeks. Somehow, that unshaven

haggard face , that voice, meant something. Faded images

began to emerge; a gentle, well-mannered man, London suits, charming presents from France, England, China. Glued to the spot I screamed! No hugging, no kissing. What was left of my Uncle Andreas was a sobbing ghost. He began to cry and hugged me; Mama alarmed when she heard my screams, thinking that someone was killing me, rushed to the door and fell in his arms. They rocked and cried. Their incoherent words gave

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me agonizing minutes. It was such a short time ago since we lost his brother, Uncle Stavros, never to be retrieved from the sea, that great love of his that finally claimed him. We were happy Uncle Andreas was spared, we couldn’t do enough for him, but all he wanted was a warm bath and a shave. Mama brought him a change of Uncle Stavros’ clothes. They were given to us after his ship was bombed claiming his life as well, and Mama must have them locked someplace where neither Nicky nor I can find them. I’m sure both Mama and I had the same thought: How to tell Uncle Andreas about his brother. We shirked the sad duty and it fell on Mama to do it. We left her in the kitchen to tell him of the shipwreck and Uncle Stavros’ death. It was terrible. How is it possible in days of war and death, with both of them in the Navy not to have some inclination that he might have to face such tragic loss? or Uncle Stavros for his brother? It was painful to see him grieve, crying silently, a wooden image transfixed, whispering monotonously over and

over ‘Stavros...Stavros...’ with

such anguish and all of us crying... "The Greek soldiers are still roaming the streets of Athens one step ahead of the advancing German armies. My secret place is not secret any more. The old pepper tree in front of our house is taken over by those who must hide, they are safe here, only Nicky and I know. The lacy leaves are thick and protective as a tent, the heavy branches droop all the way to the ground. Nicky and I realized the potential worth of the tree as a hiding place for soldiers to spend the night; we bring them whatever food we can get our hands on. It is strange;

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both of us don’t feel hungry when we do that, it must be the sin of stealing. Nicky forgets his ‘tree house’ with the ‘FORBEATEN’ sign and teases me. He calls my secret corner a "hotel", he doesn’t know that I hide there to write on my diary. Tonight the ‘hotel’ is not occupied, so for a little while at least, my diary and I can enjoy the cool escape. Soon it will be dark; even now it’s hard to write in the semidarkness, the lines of the page are blurry, maybe it’s just tears...Will I have any tears left by the end of this terrible war, ‘if’ this war ever ends. From my hiding place I can see the feet of people passing; Mr. Maginas, whom I recognize from his cane, or the ‘spider’ lady with the scuffed velvet slippers brittle now as she is. I’m not writing her real name in case this diary falls into the wrong hands and I end up in her gnarly hands or nasty mouth. She looks so much like a spider, I have a feeling that as she walks she is weaving an invisible net of darkness about her. She is mixed up in every gossip and scandal in the neighborhood and then she complains that no one needs her matrimonial services of matchmaking. I think she is a witch. The woman lives alone; no one visits her and it seems that she has no family or friends. She never buys a newspaper and has no radio, but she knows everything and everyone. When I close my eyes I imagine all of us caught in her invisible web. Then I see her gobble us up, the entire lot!

(If anyone happens to read this diary, I hope he/she excuses this gossipy girl; I’m only making up stories because I’m scared and this is the only fun I have making up silly images and stupid tales so I

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can forget the horror of my real life. If you are an adult, think! It’s the adult world that brings me here to hide under a tree to share secrets with a dumb blank page; I am too old to be a child, and too ‘childish’ to the grown-ups. No one knows how I feel, or cares and that’s why I find solace here because neither the tree nor the paper talk back.) When the sirens go off, in an air raid, the ‘spider’ woman is the first neighbor at the door. She sits in a corner, talks without stopping and doesn’t move until the all clear. Boy, can she talk! not a good word about anyone, I don’t know

And

much about spiders except

that we dust them off corners, the ceiling and from behind the sofa. For all I know, it could be a nice, sympathetic insect and in that case I apologize. But her claws remind me of a spider closing in on its victim; maybe it’s the way she holds on to the dinner napkin tied into a knot where she keeps her valuables, some silverware, custom jewelry, a small bible, part of her trousseau, I guess, whatever she didn’t to use as a bride since she never married. She carries her treasure into the shelter and holds it against her dry, flat chest afraid that in the panic of a bombardment someone might steal it. Instead of feeling relieved, or creative as I write about the ‘spider’ woman, I get more depressed, as if I am conspiring against someone. But then, I call this vicious gossip ‘an exercise’. I really want to be a writer and a doctor when I grow up, or maybe one or the other and now I try to practice at least one. Meanwhile, I manage to forget why I am here and why I write these silly things (sometimes). I cannot see the walls of our pink house from where I sit because of

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the branches. In our pink house, across the street Uncle Andreas is still weeping calling his dead brother: ‘Stavros...Stavros...’”

It took

a few days for Andreas to get his strength back and gradually begin

to talk about his own ordeal. It came out one evening naturally, while Anna was frying some potatoes for which Nicky had ‘missed’ his French lesson to track the precious ‘gold’! Popi was home early and the family was sitting around the table in the kitchen wallowing in the rancid odor of fried oil. "The whole world is in flames," he said slowly, his monologue apparently the uninterrupted chain of his thoughts. "Each hour, each minute thousands of men perish in the Mediterranean, Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, in the Aegean Sea, in all bodies of water; the war has spread like a disease." reliving the tragedy, he unraveled his

Slowly, painfully

story, the captain and mate burning to

a crisp, human flesh torched like candles, men trying to leap into a sea of fire to their death, or diving deep to avoid the flames when the oil spread on the surface and burst into flames; some surfaced further out, others never made it. Oil from the sinking ship continued to spread and so did the flames. Born and bred close to the sea, Andreas was an excellent

swimmer. He

held his breath until forced to surface. He floated face up watching his boat explode then going down leaving a lighted streak in the night sky...a dark sky above a thunderous sea. "The torpedo took us on the side about 8 nautical miles south of Kavo-Malia. I could reach the cape with no trouble because I wasn’t injured. The smoke was thick and I couldn’t make out the stars to tell which way I was going, coast or open sea? I shouted until I was hoarse; no answer, they were

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gone, all of them, strange!"

He choked, lit a cigarette; Anna gave him a glass

of water. He took it absentmindedly and sipped some looking at the window curtains swaying in the breeze. "At dawn I could see no land, I knew I was lost, the current had carried me away, I would never make it and the weather had changed, it was getting rough. I prayed, I promised St. Nicholas a gold ship as big as my fist." He stretched his hand to show them, it was shaking. "I don’t know how long I was in the water; when I next opened my eyes I was stretched like a cod on the beach totally naked surrounded by fishermen; they had found me and brought me ashore."

Odysseus, Elena thought, only then the rescuers were girls and the

island was Corfu far from Uncle Andreas’ shipwreck.. “They brought clothes”, Andreas continued, then his voice faltered. He stopped for a few seconds remembering the rags he wore when he showed up. He had a sour smile on his face. "These poor folk, dazed and scared, fed me and then took me to the end of the village and gently told me that I had to leave immediately because the Germans were closing in and I did just that, walking nights and sleeping during the day in the woods, the ravines or haystacks". He leaned forward, put out his cigarette and began coughing violently. Then slowly, deliberately, he exhaled deeply, as if extracting salt water from his sodden lungs. His mind was wandering, his hands still shaking. He walked to the kitchen door, opened it and stood there staring into the dark garden silently his hands two wounded doves crossed on his chest. Elena picked up her diary and fled. Forget the potatoes and my hunger, she thought hoping that she would find no ‘guest’ in need of shelter in her pepper tree secret refuge that evening. No one was there!

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(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “Once, it seems long ago, Sunday was

my most favorite day, my lazy

day; since the war began terrible things have happened on that day and I wish there were no more Sundays, or, since all those things have to happen on a Sunday, I wish I could sleep all day until everything that must come on Sunday is done with and then I can open my eyes without expecting a surprise. I especially dislike the fact that no matter how many bombs fall on Sunday, how much blood is shed, how many children are orphaned or cry ‘I’m hungry,’ the stupid flowers still bloom, the sky is be blue, the city is sparkling white and the sun shines, to mock misery. This Sunday was a nightmare such as children or even adults, except for those responsible for this misery, should experience. Watching the enemy take over the land while

we stand at

the gutter defeated, helpless; seeing freedom and humanity trampled under tanks and boots, watching the foreign army take over our life by force, is not history, it’s a tragedy of the greatest magnitude. Who do I talk to now,

my mother? My aunt? They have already accepted

slavery as preordained by their God. They tell me to shut up, mind my business and not to interfere with adult problems. But it’s because of the ‘adult’ problems that I, have to suffer. They try to educate me; I am taught history, values, ‘thou shall not kill’ and all that shit. Who are they kidding? I want to die now, today, before I am forced to witness worse days.”

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Moving slowly way up the Avenue

with a crunchy, grinding din, the German tanks inched their accepted and blessed already by Church and State, the puppet

government who had also offered them the key to the city; they, the new masters in a house they had just acquired with blood and fire, marched into humble communities in parade form with trucks and monstrous tanks churning up the roads under the hot noon sun, followed by columns of armed foot soldiers. If the obvious hate of the few people on the Avenue or behind the closed doors and windows piqued them, they did not show it; Elena watched the green uniformed, helmeted men and decided that they were definitely made of stone and steel. The doors of all the coffee houses lining the Avenue were shut;

that was a

first in the life of the community as far as she could remember; they were deserted, the chairs were stacked under the canopies, a respect offered only to a passing funeral. Isn’t it this really a funeral? She thought. Truckfulls of heavily armed German soldiers passed her, stern faces under square helmets, their shadowed eyes darting left and right suspiciously; one could almost smell fear on the stiff square shoulders, the tightly sealed lips, the white, trigger-happy knuckles holding machine guns.

Except for the movies,

Elena hadn’t seen a live German before. But these Germans were not actors, they walked, rode and looked as if given an order from God to be invincible, superior, always right, destined to rule on all the other unfortunate species. They march with the snobbish indifference and boredom of the conqueror. I, too, am bored, she realized as an afterthought, only they are the masters and I am their slave. The thought left a sour taste thought.

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in her mouth. I’ll throw up, she

The Avenue was leading to the foot of Mt. Hymettus, where the city ended in fields of thorns and wild bushes. In the past months while the war was going on, those wasted spaces were turned into camps for Italian prisoners of war. The English troops stationed nearby used the already erected

makeshift

military installations , now they would be used by the Germans. Like a house for rent, Elena thought of her city, we just change tenants. Tanks, trucks and rigid green men with banners and â€˜Heil Hitlerâ€™ aimed their power at the small groups of helpless people as they marched and disappeared into some of the poorest sections of the city. They would show their might to the soccer fields, the open markets with ghosts of empty stalls, refugee

camps, closed shops,

colorful homes that negated their approach, and the once happy little restaurants with vines climbing on their walls,

now serving no food.

Elena leaned against a palm tree on the Avenue across the hospital. Nicky and his buddies, little boys all of them, sat on the gutter as they did every time the Italian circus came to town and a few months back the Italian prisoners of war; they craned their necks not to miss anything. Months before when the lines of Italian prisoners of war were marching the same route, the children stood and watched but the spectacle became a common occurrence and they soon lost interest; the Italians looked Greek; maybe some of them were the performers of years past. Watching the steely eyes of the Germans, their new master marching up the Avenue, their small fists were clenched; they were aware of the drama that was being played fascinated by the incredible force marching past them. Nicky and his friends turned to look at Elena seemingly blinded by anger; her glasses reflected the sun, she could shed no tears of pity, her grief was too private even though it was an international

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historical disaster; she locked that pain in the secret domain within her; what does this mean? She wondered, what is going to happen to us, who are these green uniformed blond men on motorcycles? Their tight faces will break if they smile, the square jaws are ready to chew marble and swallow the whole city. The tanks' churning roar was frightening, a lethal din new to her. History books, pages of horror and bloodshed the historians dared name ‘valor’, ‘pride’. Lies...This is what it was all about, she thought. They were all the same, through the ages those conquering armies burning everything within sight in Babylon, Sparta or Mesopotamia, Constantinople, Troy and Marathon. Methods and weapons differ, war is the same: death! Persians, Hannibal, the Romans, Alexander the Great, the Ottomans, Napoleon, the Crusaders...horses, swords; now the blond race, tanks, machine guns, bombers...

we began with clubs, even

since the time of the caves; and now civilized with skyscrapers and electricity and modern weapons we can spray death from a plane, spew flames from a hand held toy, a gun! Lost in her thoughts she didn’t notice a ‘mask’ raising a hand into a ‘heil’ salute to her. When she saw him, she felt like spitting at him. Conquerors are all alike, she decided and then wondered if those soldiers knew how to sing or dance. Have they ever seen people waltzing in great shining halls and palaces? Do they love? Impossible! Somehow, bombs and war just don't fit with music, waltzes, love, and romance, she decided; she began to tremble in the hot sunlight. Can one dance holding a machine gun? How can a man hold a gun, kill with it and then embrace a woman to dance with, or hug a baby? I will never touch one of those things, she said to herself. Guns, swooping airplanes, tanks, bombs, bullets... the death that had plagued them for months spitting fire, those ugly pieces of the enemy’s ammunition stores stacked in carts

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pulled behind the military trucks. "What did you say?" Nicky got up and was looking at her strangely. "I said..." she hadn’t said anything. "I said that history is taking another turn and this time we are witnesses." "Does that mean I don’t have to read any more of that boring stuff?" She wanted to slap him; will he ever understand? "Cannons," he said suddenly and jumped as if someone had kicked him. "How do you know?" she asked him. "You have never seen one." "I saw them in the movies, in the news, and so did you," he answered. She had seen them, but cinema was fiction or was it? The cannons, as sure as death, were towed along the once peaceful Avenue, shiny steel surfaces gaping, avaricious mouths mocking the sun. "If that cannon fires," Nicky said in awe, "the hospital will be just a big hole in the ground." He was shouting above the din; the cannons rolling behind huge trucks made a terribly loud noise. The hospital! Nicky and his sister looked at the closed gates behind the flowering trees. The smooth, cream colored walls across the Avenue looked unoccupied, but the children knew that the amputees, the victors and victims of a lost war, were there watching behind closed shutters, maybe crying. They had defeated that enemy, they had left their limbs at the front in the process; now the enemy mocks their sacrifice parading beneath their bloodied refuge. "Let’s go," she told Nicky. "The show is over." He shrugged. "I’ll wait," he said, "the show is just beginning. They may have another surprise to scare us with..." "Don’t be such a child..." The caterpillar threads chewed the warm

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asphalt; the stench of tar, sweat, dust and soldiers nauseated her. The few people who, like her, watched the drama, were stony faced; they were totally out of the picture, strangers to their surroundings, it seemed. Elena was at a tender, confusing period of her life, she couldn’t draw the line between the hurt one conceals in a covert intoxication and the strength one draws when his national identity is mortally wounded. All she could think at that moment was that Spring was over, what with air raids, food lines, fears, rumors, ‘They’re coming’ and ‘what to do’. Where does one hide the children, does one hide from God? She thought. The enemy broke through. Salonica fell. Whisperings, Thessaly next, they’re outside of Athens...God, please, a miracle... They are coming, the machine lords of Europe with their New Order of sword and fire, the Third Reich...which was the first, which the second? How come I never heard of those? If the first and the second were not stopped who will stop the third? No one had stopped the Germans; even the English ran...And now these arrogant blond strangers from the north were taking over. The new masters! Theirs would be the decision whether one lives or dies; They will decide if we eat, what and when; tears welled in her eyes. She looked at the hospital across, the heavy door was shut, no sign of life but, Elena thought she could guess the presence of those who had lost parts of their bodies defending the country that was taken now by an invincible army. They were behind the shut windows, she realized and tears ran down her cheeks. What is it like to ‘give’ a part of one’s body for his country? She wondered. It’s not like giving a coat, or a drachma; it’s a leg, a hand, an eye for God’s sake! She ran home unable to bear it anymore leaving her brother sitting on the edge of the curb. She knew that Nicky would wait for the ‘parade’ to end so he

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can go to the hospital to talk with his buddies. Once again her uncle Stavros came to mind; his hospital ship torpedoed a few miles north of Piraeus shortly before Andreas’ ship was torpedoed; and for what? Anna had gone then to the port near the wreckage area and returned pale and dry-eyed two days later carrying a small sack with some of his belongings. Her favorite cousin’s body was not found. They cried and mourned, but Stavros was gone. Stavros had joined the Merchant Marine to see the world, while his mother had hoped that he would finally mature and settle down, buy a store in the village, get married, have a family. But Stavros was of another mind; he roamed the world with his guitar slung on his shoulder, returning with songs and presents, memories and knowledge, and many strange stories from those exotic far away lands. Elena remembered her handsome uncle fondly, his smile, his song. No, she had told her mother stubbornly, I know I will see him again. Shock, her mother and aunt said. Let them shake their heads, let them think I'm mad, I can wait... For her, the ‘now’ was a transition invented by a lunatic adult world. But this world, she thought, is the same world that has invented war to save peace! What a stupid, excuse! All they want is to invent new weapons,

to exterminate more children. No, she decided, I don’t believe

anything you say. Why should I let you have my Uncle Stavros to exterminate again and again?

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) "And why should I belong to this mad world? Did I ask to be here? When this madness ends, I will find my uncle!

I will find those lost in

the war, too. Mom almost hit me when I told her; she doesn’t

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understand; she shook me violently and told me to get back to my senses and to stop being a stubborn, impossible child! Grow up! She summarized it. I gave her the correct answer: Unfortunately, I told her, I did! Imagine, calling me a child while they are the ones destroying, killing, telling me to get back to my senses! They belong in a nut house, not me. My aunt had the nerve to tell me that I am suffering from brain fever. I don’t know what that is but it sounds like doctors, shots and medicines. I must defend myself, have my own shelter, a vacuum where I can

become invisible; where no noise

reaches me and no adult can distort my

views and muddle my sanity and

thoughts with their logic. Something like the shelter they have made in my aunt’s room between the bedroom and the dining room. I will shut myself in that vacuum when the going gets tough. I’m not calling it a shelter, or a vacuum. I have an exotic name: ‘Post-War Defense Plan’ because I will be alive when the war ends, if ever... God, what if they decide to make it another thirty-year war like the Peloponesian war, or even longer? I'll be an old woman and will never find my dead friends; they would be too old; I won't be able to recognize them and they won’t know me. How depressing!”

She left the Avenue and went to bed before noon, covered her head with her pillow and tried to make herself small, as small as a little kitten, to forget. "Are you sick?" her mother asked worried about her daughter’s reaction each time she faced a collapse of her romantic expectations. “I’m fine,” she grunted. Yes, she was fine, just sleepy; her mother left

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the room closing the door behind her. Elena took her diary under the sheet and began to write. She cried. The warmth of peace enveloped her, her peace, the diary that was the best friend she could invent, a friend no one could kill or take away. She thought of herself and the pen-paper set as an entity, an alliance against a world conspiracy. On the Avenue sidewalk, Nicky stared at the hospital hypnotized, his eyes stormy. Before the dust of the convoy had settled, one of the large covered trucks screeched and stopped in front of the hospital. German soldiers jumped down and pounded at the heavy steel door with rifle butts; they went wild when no one answered; the door remained closed. They tried to break it down. The resonance of metal striking

metal magnified the terror of a newly anticipated

disaster; it echoed in ripples and shimmering waves in the empty, sunny Avenue. They reached up and tore the Red Cross and the Greek flags and tore them to shreds with their bayonettes. Wild eyed, confused, afraid like all the rest, Nicky tried to cross the Avenue to get a little closer to the hospital. His eyes were full of tears ready to spill. He changed his mind, turned around and ran home. His sister was sprawled on her bed crying. He sat on the floor and burst into tears. Outside, the sun made its dutiful rounds on empty streets and colorful gardens, in an occupied city that had known glory and respect and was now overrun by barbarians.

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C H A P T E R

THE FIRST ACT OF RESISTANCE Parthenon, wrapped in its mists,

on top of the hill of Acropolis,

mist, was a rare sight that early spring morning. Elena screwed her eyes to locate the red and black of the hated swastika flying high on the sacred hill, a punishment she began imposing on herself as if all hardships were her fault. She would watch the two flags on the top of Akropolis, the tall mast with the German flag and next to it the small blue and white humble rag, limb and sorry looking in the distance

like a forgotten

comma after an important statement! The morning visits to the roof had become a sort of a ritual, a pilgrimage; before anyone stirred in the house, even before the fat landlady’s torn slippers were shuffling upstairs, Elena climbed the red spiral iron stairs, past the landlady’s kitchen door to the terrace on the roof from which she had the view of the entire city. She often

wondered if she

enjoyed being hurt. Perhaps I need to feed on hate since I have no breakfast, she laughed off her madness. On the other hand, deep inside, she believed in miracles; her fondest dream was of the day when she would look at the southern horizon and the red and black rag won’t be there! And she had worried when she was little that the extraordinary temple, was roofless! That should be my biggest worry she thought now as she looked for the swastika on the hill that even through the mist commanded the view of the most prized piece of real estate in the land for thousands of years. The haze was a little denser this morning, she could just about make out, rather than see in the far distance the

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puny blue flag hanging limply alongside...

alongside what? There was nothing

there! NOTHING! The hill seemed to float or was she delirious? I am crazy, hallucinating, I see what I want to see. She closed her eyes tight, opened them again and wiped her glasses with trembling hands, she could see clearer now; the Germans had left! And she thought they would be there for thirty years. God is merciful, He heard my pleas, she screamed then and ran down the stairs dizzy from the fast circular descend. In the street, the neighborhood opened sleepy shutters wondering if a murder was in process, but not opening doors just in case! "Open up, a MIRACLE!" She ran up and down the block shouting: "The Germans left, the Germans left!" but the windows, uninterested were closing again and Elena panting began to knock on shutters and doors urging the people

to go up to their roofs

themselves to look at the hill. "There’s no German flag!" Some did that out of curiosity or because they still hoped; soon, they, too, began to shout from their heights for everyone to come out to see the miracle of the missing flag. The cynics

said that it was a dream, it was the mist, it

was the wind, the distance or the soldiers were replacing flags torn by the wind!

The Germans had not left during the night. The Greek Radio, now under German control, announced that the German Army was indeed there to stay; to prove it, they issued a bulletin that the entire city was under Martial Law until the culprit who ‘stole’ the German flag was found. A five o’clock curfew was imposed. Since radios were a luxury item afforded by few people, German soldiers on bicycles, trucks and motorcycles, broadcast the orders with their

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bullhorns throughout Athens, Piraeus and the suburbs all day. The "First Resistance Action in Europe" it was called after the war, but not by the Greeks. Glezos and Santos, the two teenagers who had crawled up the hill the night through ancient sewers, of which the Germans were

during

not unaware,

brought down the hated symbol using knives and their teeth, practically under the noses of the guards. One of their mothers received the ‘prize’ of honor. They were not aware that they were heroes; nor that they had launched the resistance; or that after the war the public prosecutor would brand them traitors and request the death

penalty from the Greek Court for their ‘crime’

just as the Nazis had done before the end of World War II.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) "The ‘Battle for Crete’! They say that history repeats itself, and that we never learn so we are condemned to repeat it. In other words, every generation must be part of it. I see my mother under a different light now; she is a veteran of a few wars; it never occurred to me to get first hand information from her. Instead, I study sophisticated history books in an archaic language not even spoken by anyone I know. I just found out the language is called ‘katharevousa’ or clean (is the language I speak at home dirty, then?) Anyway, I know about Crete’s long past that goes on for thousands of years-from the books! The Minoan Civilization, Knossos, the Saracens, pirates, Venetians, Arabs, Ottomans, and now, the island at the southernmost corner of the Aegean Sea that looks like a sleeping eel

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(I haven’t seen a sleeping one, not even a live one, though I have eaten part of a broiled one),

is besieged and battered from the air by German

Stukas. They began as soon as the occupation of the mainland and the other islands was completed, as an egress to Africa, following the British, the other ‘civilized’ nation which continues the noble effort to ‘civilize’ the natives of the world! Crete is stripped of defense. Their military units are stranded on the mainland with the rest of the defeated Greek Armed Forces. We hear of peasants attacking German parachutists with axes, hoes, cranks, screwdrivers, brooms and rakes and any farm implement they possess and kill before they land into their fields. There must be some anti-aircraft left on the island because the German planes that are leaving each morning flying over our house are more numerous than the ones returning at sunset. We count them and always find some missing.’ ‘Mama’s curses are working,’ Nicky says. ‘It means that there are still English anti-aircraft there,’ I told him.

What will happen to that

island when enemy finally takes over? We are not using the shelter any more though we have air raids. The Germans don’t care if we get killed, the English planes make short appearances and some of us feel that they, too, will respect Athens (our landlady doesn’t think so). The police aren’t bothered about unimportant trivialities, they are cow-towing to the enemy, so, Aunt Popi decided to throw out the sand bags. The landlord, fearing repercussion from neighbors or the police, carried the bags up to the roof under cover of darkness; they’ll rot there. My aunt’s desk is in the ex-shelter now, her chair, bed, her

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‘trousseau’ trunk still sealed, and her precious Persian rug.(I doubt its ethnicity, but it makes her feel good

when she boasts to her pretty,

rich Jewish girlfriend who was to travel to England to specialize in some disease; unfortunately, she was too late and is now hiding. I know of no one else who must hide, I don’t understand why.) Tonight my aunt is on an all-night shift in a clinic called ‘Mother’, where babies are born. She promised to take me there one day. I keep reminding her that by the time I am a doctor I will know of many new scientific discoveries, or that perhaps I would discover new things. At first she laughed but lately she either takes me seriously or decided to let me be, I’m a lost cause anyway; suits me fine. I can use her room to study she said but never touch her books, never open one of them...Of course, I did. Big deal, I can’t understand learns

most of them, but the photographs are interesting, one

much from photographs. I have an idea about babies but I need

information, not hypotheses or theories which in my case are unfounded and highly imaginative. I must write a ‘special edition’ in the diary today; I am using my aunt’s desk to record it because, if what happened to my brother and me an hour ago is an indication or a precursor of what we must expect in this new era, then we are in more serious trouble that I thought any war could bring us. We were sitting on the stoop outside the door just like we do every evening since the Crete siege began, waiting the planes’ return. “Here they come," Nicky said rising to scan the southern horizon. I told him to sit, It was past curfew and we were not supposed to be outside, we

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could count them sitting down, we could hear them and we held our breath as the planes reached of the horizon on their way to the military airport. We keep a daily log: how many leave, how many return. Nicky still believes it’s Mama’s curses. I told him to grow up, those are planes, not cookies. He never listens when he gets excited, he never listens, period! He jumped up and began a wild dance, singing a little tune he made up like, ’Two today...no, three, listen. Listen to the engines...’ he whispered and we heard before we saw it, the low-flying plane putt-putting overhead spewing black smoke against the starlit sky, going down; we waited to see it plunge, to hear the crash, then the explosion and watch the horizon north of us light up red. We danced a bit, even I; I am supposed to have a little more sense. Before we knew what happened, or realized who was lurking in the darkness, both of us were tasting the dust of out dirty sidewalk. Suddenly, we had bloody noses and bruised bodies; Nicky threw up on the spot. I was afraid to look but I wanted to see the thugs that had attacked us. If they were Germans we would have heard. They would have shot us, anyway. I lifted my head and in the dusk I could make out the retreating shadow of a strange man, rather short. The evening was very warm but the man was wearing a trenchcoat. He strolled easily down to Alexandra Avenue as if nothing happened. He was a Greek! A killer? Maybe one of those Mom is constantly warning us about who go about kidnapping children; Mama thought that Nicky had a fight with

kids in the street but we told her what happened.

She shook her head sadly. ‘If you must exhibit

your exuberance,’ she said, ‘do it inside, we’ll

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celebrate together.’ ‘Aren’t you going to the police?’ I asked knowing my mother. She just looked at me. And it is this silence of hers that is more frightening than her silly protests of the past."

The sun was still high in the sky at five in the afternoon and keeping children cooped up inside small, airless rooms in the poor sections of the city -and most neighborhoods were just that-was a real nuisance. One could only get some fresh air in the back yard or garden if such existed, used exclusively for the late evening hours of summer like after ten, when men went to their coffee house pastime, the younger ones to the cinema or for a stroll or flirting up and down the Avenue and children went to bed. Now, men picked fights with their wives and their children, after the political arguments and war news were exhausted; women exchanged memories and gossip and an occasional hair pulling; before bed time, children were noisier than any known hell, and summer nights were

long and boring; even when the sirens shrilled ‘take cover’ no one moved. Usually, neighbors got together in the most lively backyard which also

meant the noisiest. But the Germans hadn’t declared war against speaking, not yet, just against people being out on the street, so they jumped over fences or leaped from terrace to terrace being extra careful especially after what happened to Anna’s children. The new word was making the rounds, a fashionable word, hostile, that was to be one of the most singularly terrifying nightmares of the war period: collaborator! Deep into the night, people were discussing the new phenomenon, not fully grasping its meaning or the disastrous effect it would or could have on their lives. Everyone knew that collaborating with the

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enemy, a conqueror, or any oppressor, wasn’t a new phenomenon; it’s been present in any conflict, any oppression from the beginning of time, yet, the function itself being so close at hand, was a blow. Elena’s backyard was a favorite spot. Days, weeks passed, life was becoming dangerously problematic. Bonds were created out of forced cohabitation something that hadn’t happened in the shelter where the imminence of death was almost tangible as if hanging over their heads, yet, everything was not story telling in a brotherly situation, all smooth friendly talk because of the bond that united all neighbors. At times that bond broke and situations arose going from adverse to open hostility. Myrsine, the fat landlady, was a kind spirit and managed to calm excited people when things got rough. She was well liked in the neighborhood and an interesting story teller, even her name had an exotic tinge on it. The landlady attacked the English vehemently at times, she had much to say, Elena thought. When came downstairs evenings for a ‘cool breath of air’ and sat with them, which meant that loneliness and boredom or the heated rooms got her, Elena made sure to be there. Myrsine’s tremendous size was a paradox in a city and country where people began to look like shadows from deprivation. Her husband, a loud contradiction, was puny. When she laughed, her triple stomach shook, her double jowls quivered with gusto, her bracelets jingled. That hearty laughter was gushing waters, a powerful river rushing over rocks that were really crystals! With eyes closed, Elena visualized crystals in her laughter. . One wondered where she drew her sense of humor or courage from. How could she really forgive the British, Elena wondered many an evening listening to Myrsine tell of her adventurous escape from the massacre of the

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Greek population by the Turks in Asia Minor. Myrsine, then Nicky’s age, had hidden her baby brother in a clothes hamper and carried it to the English destroyer in the port of Smyrna when the Turks unleashed their genocidal hatred in the aftermath of the Asia Minor disaster in the early 192O’. Elena had heard Stories from her uncle, she knew of that war when he, a soldier had taken part In the disastrous expedition. Myrsine wasn’t blessed with children of her own, God had punished her, she said, because she had fallen asleep and forgot to take her brother out of the hamper, wallowing, instead in the luxury of the thought that she had managed to escape the wrath of the Turk; of course, she knew that it was sheer exhaustion, but still, her brother had suffocated! Myrsine’s story was not unique, her mother had told her, her uncle had and dozens other people, thousands of such stories, in every refugee camp. “Remember, Elena,” her uncle had said, “we are speaking about millions of people, not thousands. Some thousands were lucky, they escaped.” Elena figured that the disaster was too recent to be included in history books. Myrsine’s

husband, also an orphaned child of the Asia Minor tragedy, was

taken to America as a youngster but, not having managed to become rich as they had told him, he returned to Greece with enough money to buy the house and a taxi which he had been working ever since, and which had began to show its age. Even the occupation forces rejected it when he went to report it after they ordered all vehicles registered and chose those that they appropriated. Only a handful of neighbors knew his name, most called him by his last name with a ‘Mr.’ attached to it. Elena had never heard it. He was away from home most of the day, and from his wife’s constant murmur, they said. Whenever he joined the evening get-togethers

while curfew lasted, he didn’t speak when his wife was

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talking, yet one could not call him hen-pecked, just kind, or indifferent, or maybe, subtly abused. He never interrupted or interfered when anyone else was speaking, either. Elena had a feeling that life, war, airplanes, the five o’clock curfew, were things way over his head, not affecting him; she had not known such a silent person. Even when he was asked a question he would either nod or shake his head. He listened to his wife's stories which she told and retold in

her peculiar Asiatic idiom sometimes nodding, sometimes falling

asleep in his chair. Nothing was new to him. "...Why should we sacrifice ourselves for the English?" She would ask and her husband nodded. "No one can stop the Germans, anyway... we are sacrificing Crete to save a few Englishmen? Don’t tell me we are helping the cause, I’ll laugh...let history speak." "They are our allies," Elena offered reluctantly. "We must help now that they need us, maybe for our own interests". "Ha! Myrsine exploded. The way they helped us when we needed them? The English look only after the English...all they want is to protect their holdings in the planet. ..what’s the matter, don’t they teach you anything at school?" Elena felt a little embarrassed; she wanted to defend her school and her learning but didn’t know what to say, instead, Myrsine took over the defense. "I forgot" she said. "We’ve had a dictatorship for too long, you didn’t have much of a chance to taste proper education." Neither did she; she didn’t have much schooling but Anna told her daughter that she was a wise woman, and that sometimes life is a better school than the school buildings of high walls, grades and diplomas" tough to understand especially when one doesn’t think much of the adults ‘logic.’

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"...Believe me, I know," Myrsine continued. She seemed to address Elena but everyone had fallen silent and listened whether they appreciated or agreed with her views, though she wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t know. "When the Turks came to our house my mother was breastfeeding my brother,” she continued. “They threw the baby down, cut her head off with one swift movement of the sword and then cut her nipples off in front of me." Her voice broke in a sob. Elena cupped her ears; she felt faint. The woman will never let up, she thought, how can she forget? Is this what awaited them? How can this woman speak as if she had witnessed someone just killing a chicken for the market? "My father came in at that moment," she continued tearfully, "and before he took one step inside the room they pushed the sword into his stomach as well." When the blood intoxicated soldiers left, Myrsine had crawled out from under the bed, picked up her baby brother who had been spared from the slaughter because strangely enough he hadn’t made a sound, and hid him in a dirty clothes hamper. “People were running in the street; Smyrna was burning”. There’s that word again, Elena thought, the same tragedy. She remembered four or five years before, that night when the mothers were mourning in her mother’s kitchen. Myrsine would never forget how she followed the people, alone and frightened, loaded with the basket with her baby brother, to the harbor where foreign ships were moored. She could see them from high up the hill as she was coming down to the harbor, strange flags fluttering in the breeze. When they got close she heard strange tongues and

still she followed the crowds hoping

to pass as a member of someone’s family, not looking back in case someone recognized her and asked her about her parents or her brother. Crowds were

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trying to board the ships but were either pushed overboard or, if pressed, the English doused them with boiling water to discourage them from climbing the rails; hands and fingers were cut off those rails. The foreigners tried to discourage the people of leaving though they knew that they were massacred. A smaller

French craft, took a few families aboard among them the family that

Myrsine had adopted without their knowledge. They thought that the girl with the hamper belonged to the other family. No official service existed to aid the hundreds of thousands refugees; no one saw them through the ordeal caused by England’s avarice and Greece’s subservient weakness to defy and refuse such foolhardy policies. In Greece they found the body of the suffocated baby brother. The Red Cross treated the girl who had temporarily lost her voice because of shock, and then placed her with a foster family where she was apprenticed as a maid. She stayed with them until the day she married and started thinking of herself as a human being freed from bondage. Myrsine could tell stories...But Elena was getting scared and depressed. My God, she thought, is the world mad? Are all men born killers?

SUMMER SCHOOL The Ministry

of Education, which no one really believed existed, decided to

open the schools in May through June so that the academic year would not be lost. A few weeks of school to make up for a missed year! "Why only Athens and Piraeus?" Nicky asked. "The children elsewhere have been going all along," his mother said and then added: "I don’t understand why, quite a few towns and villages have been

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bombed, yet the schools were open." School is school and the children dutifully donned their black or blue uniforms and endured the stifling heat of classrooms, which caused the black paint of their desks to stick to their thighs or uniforms. The one thing they did not do, was study. It was hot, they were starving, their minds were on food lines, not on Algebra or Sophocles. Elena was anxious to return to school, to see Marika, if for nothing else, again. But Marika did not show up in school. "Maybe she doesnâ€™t know," Anna said. They live far up on the hill. Sheâ€™ll show up." Elena doubted that. School was a bore and a waste of time, not worth the effort. It was hard to cope. Her schoolmates looked like little old women conspiring to hide a piece of bread in their pockets, or listen to rumors as to whereabouts of a store that sold black market potatoes or onions. Classrooms were still overcrowded, this time more so because of lack of teachers. Hot weather and gnawing hunger pains made the children faint in the stuffy classrooms, yet, one whole year of schooling was to be credited to them in the few weeks of suffering. The country was upset, people were lost, arrested, killed, stuck in hospitals or concentration camps...there were daily ads in the paper of people looking for relatives. Thousands of teachers were killed at the front, others were still hiding in their villages. While elementary schools had enough teachers because most were women, Gymnasiums and Lycees suffered the most because the majority of professors were men!

Teachers and professors of the

Cretan Division stranded in Athens while their island was putting up its futile

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struggle to retain its independence or delay capitulation, found teaching positions in the mainland. The first day the new professor of Ancient Greek walked into the classroom, half of the girls fell in love with him. He was young, handsome, square shouldered, tall with fierce black eyes and eyebrows and a quick smile. His kindness put them all at ease and made the girls swoon. He told them that he was from the island of Crete and that he had been at the front. Then he wrote his name on the chalkboard. Elena got hold of her desk not to faint.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “Last winter when we were still fighting a war and we were ‘winning’, and before we discovered the hospital, I asked my mother to teach me how to knit. She did not know how. Aunt Popi wanted to know why. ‘What for?’ she asked, so I surmised that she didn’t either. At school, both she and Mom, even I, were taught how to embroider, that was art. Knitting is survival. It was used by mountain people because goat’s wool protected them from the cold, so they knitted all summer. ‘I want to knit scarves, gloves and socks for the men at the front.’ They laughed but I watched the women in the shelter and soon I managed to learn the basics. After that I used my imagination. I did and undid plenty but succeeded to finish, through hard work and much frustration, a good straight scarf, a lopsided pair of gray socks and a passable pair of gloves that had only half fingers so that a soldier could handle the trigger.

Mom said they were fine, that one soldier

will thank me for my effort. She had bought me nice wool. I wrote a

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patriotic card and took the package to the post office. A month later I got a thank you post card, with the censor’s stamp of the War Department. It was kind and polite, but I thought patronizing. He ‘dared’ to suggest a spelling error! Of course, he was right! Of course he had to be a professor! Of course, he had to be the one who walked into my classroom and charmed everyone and then wrote his name on the blackboard! What do I do now? I swallowed my tongue; soon, he will get to my name. He may not remember it, I hope, I hope! I am so embarrassed...if he says anything in front of the class, I’ll die!”

The ‘Battle of Crete’ had everyone on edge; not knowing what was going on was sheer agony. The Nazi controlled radio had announced its ‘peaceful’ surrender a few times, but still

planes left each morning to return at dusk minus a few!

That morning the girls filed into the classroom but the teacher was not there. The math teacher came to tell them that he would stay until his return. The classroom windows faced the pine grove. Under the trees, the Cretan teachers were clustered as if holding a wake, heads bent; one’s shoulders were shaking. They knew! When their teacher walked in, the girls stood up as usual, but did not sit when he nodded, neither did they raise their head to look at him. He walked up to his desk on the platform, coughed a few times and then they looked and saw his eyes red, his hands holding the book of Ancient Greek the way a priest holds a Gospel. He leaned on the desk trying to regain his composure. "The battle for Crete is over," he said evenly and placed the book on the desk. Some girls groaned. "Today our subject will be history; what it means to

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us and what it means to you who will carry the word because today, you are part of history, you are creating it and hopefully, will remember it. History's greatest fault is that it suffers from amnesia. I hope this doesnâ€™t happen to you..." He choked and walked to the window. The girls followed him

with their

eyes, embarrassed to intrude in his pain, yet wishing him to know that they share his grief, that they were with him in that difficult hour. He was biting his pencil staring out the window at the limp pine branch and a patch of blue sky; a fly buzzed, a restless swallow knifed the limpid sky

that did not

belong to them any more. The sinister silence frightened Elena more than his words. He turned around but did not walk to his platform. Instead, he crossed his arms on his chest and leaned on the window frame. "They dropped like locusts," he began, "they scorched the land with daily bombings thousands of soldiers parachuted into villages and towns; streets, and fields were full of them...As you know, it was a massive assault." The girls were transfixed, magnetized by their teacherâ€™s even, pained voice. They could almost see the white clad figures dropping from the sky like locust bent on destroying everything living. "As long as you live and in your hearts you know you are remember that children, my children and

Greeks, you must

my brothersâ€™ children, faced the Nazi

paratroopers with pitchforks axes, broomsticks. They were heroes, because they had no choice; for those children, the old people, the women it was either fight or die. The grim details have been reaching us sporadically, old peasants forced to dig ditches and were machine-gunned into them; villages were burned, properties looted."

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Sophocles and Plato were forgotten that day; hunger was also forgotten. They listened for some hours, sweat pouring from their bodies and faces, mixed with their tears as they sat pinned on the sticky desks. The experience had detached them from the world outside, it made them part of something present, more pertinent: war brutality and the pain it inflicts on innocent people.

They

recognized their true identity through their past as a living entity not a cold page that a dictator, any

dictator alters to serve his purpose.

In the course of the ‘lesson’, there was discussion, questions and answers. That, to Elena was new. She had tried asking before but was told either that her question was out of context, subversive, or that she would find out later on. And there was always the fear of punishment. Church and State never separated and Education had to conform with the church’s motto of ‘believe without asking questions!’ (FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “May 31, 1941. I wish I were dead! C R E T E

F E L L !

Did we really

believe that it could last much longer? Still, it was a nourishing hope, this wishful thinking. I was only hoping; when the Ottoman Empire conquered Greece in the 15th century, it took them another 100 years to conquer Crete. So, I hoped!”

Early that evening, the first after curfew was lifted, Elena answered the doorbell. Her jaw fell. The professor! He knew who she was all along! But he pretended to be surprised, as surprised as she was. "You?" he asked, "do you live here?" she nodded, no mention of the letter yet.

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"Who is it?" her mother called from inside. "Come in," Elena said, "please come in." She opened the door

leading to

the ‘salon’, as her aunt called it, the room with the pictures on the wall and the china closet with the ‘good’ plates and glass sets that were back in place. Her mother came in and Elena introduced her professor. Her mother scowled. "What has she done?" Was her first reaction. "Nothing, nothing," he hastened to reply. "I came because of my sister Sophia, Popi’s friend at the university. I have a message for her. A fisherman brought it to me last night". "Please, sit down," Anna said relieved and showed him to the velvet sofa where no one was allowed to sit. Elena was trying to evaluate the new situation. Two problems now. “I’m sorry I only have water to offer you..." her mother was apologizing. "They haven’t left us much else," he said sadly, "water and air." "Let’s hope we can survive on those,” Anna said and they laughed. The tension

was gone. Elena thought it was time to clear at least her own part of

the mess. "Do you remember the post card you sent me from the front? She ventured. "Of course, I recognized your name in the class roster. I got the gloves and blessed you every day for them." She breathed a sigh of relief. "I am not bad in spelling, really, I must have been careless," she murmured. "It happens to all of us at times," he said. "Don’t let that bother you. I have seen this past month that you are good." Anna was looking at them in wonder; for a few seconds she could not grasp what

was going on. Front, woolen gift, Sophia, his sister, weird

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coincidences. "You! You are the officer, the front.." she finally muttered and then laughed. “What a small world, unbelievable, unbelievable..." "If you think that is unbelievable, Elena said, "you should have seen me when I saw his name on the blackboard..." "I can imagine," her mother said still laughing and went to the china closet from where to Elena’s surprise, she took out a small jar of sweet preserved quince. Both she and the professor opened their eyes wide. Now, that was unbelievable...a miracle! Elena’s teacher left the message and went away with the understanding that she would bring her aunt’s answer to school. He would leave for his island as soon as the semester was over.

Summer school, an admitted and accepted failure, ended! Students were given a promotion certificate and were free again to roam the streets or scavenge for food. Death had began to take a heavy toll among the aged and the children. Funeral processions became a common sight.

The nation was left to its fate to

make it or perish. Anna rationed the supplies her brother had left them carefully, bartering some occasionally for bread, or fruits or vegetables. The Germans were confiscating everything from farms and stores. "This," Elena explained to her brother, "is what a siege is.” “This," her mother corrected her, "isn’t a siege. In a siege, no

country

is allowed to bring the besieged country food. Here you don’t see another country rushing to bring us food because all the countries around us are in the

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same spot. To put it simply, we have an uninvited ‘guest’ who is trying to exterminate us through starvation. The food they steal from us feed their troops. Of course, they don’t the call this ‘stealing’, they take it because it belongs to them. That is the difference.” She saw Nicky scowl ready to correct her. “ It’s the law of war, Nicky, the spoils go to the victor. They conquered the land and all on it and we are part of the ‘all’. "Us, too?" Nicky was perplexed. "Us, too!" his mother said. There was no irony in her voice. Nicky’s question brought home the ultimate fear. What if something happens to my children...Did I have the right to stop them from returning to America? Yet, when Philip in another visit during the summer made a desperate attempt to convince her to take her family to the island, Anna fought him; he fought equally hard. “You are all going to die here," he said. "If you don’t care about yourself, think of them. What will you feed them, marbles, statues and temples? You said you stayed in Greece because families should be together in times of crisis. The troubled times, the crisis, are here and this is your family. I don’t think I can go on thinking that the children may be dying. I can’t move a scrap of food from the island now that it’s part of Italy. It’s illegal..." "Are we Italians now?" asked Elena confused. "Not you, us! The Ionian Islands have been annexed to Italy. We are Italian citizens." Elena looked at her uncle’s passport. She realized

that

she had never seen a passport before. Like a little bible, she thought; but what power! To change a person instantly from being Greek to being Italian.

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"Now that’s a siege," Nicky was triumphant; his uncle looked at

him;

Elena told her brother to shut up. Philip wasn’t used to discussion. He ordered, they obeyed. His older sister’s marriage had spoiled his authority. She also put ideas into the head of the younger one, the ‘scientist’, and now he had to fight the two of them. But fight he did. Elena and Nicky listened and rooted for the uncle. Elena saw the

hidden Eden, vast seas and hillsides of lush plants, caves, olive groves,

endless vineyards, adventures...more important, food. Away from the daily anxiety ‘which will be the lucky neighborhood today, where will I find food?’ No more food lines, no

more empty stomachs...no more dead people carried

secretly to the cemetery in hand carts like garbage. Anna closed the windows; Philip’s shouts could be heard out in the street. The heat became unbearable, Philip walked to the garden and sat in the shade smoking, clutching his stomach; his ulcers again. Anna and her sister exchanged looks. Popi gestured an emphatic no! Anna looked at her children, then both women shook their heads as they watched their brother in the garden, still clutching his stomach.

PHILIP At the time

of the Asia Minor disaster, Philip was studying Law in Athens.

The general mobilization found him fighting in the front; after battles, defeats and wounds, he was captured by the Turks, escaped before his execution day and was recaptured. He spent eight years in a terrible medieval prison until, with a daring dive from

the guard’s post into a wild sea and by

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miraculously missing the jagged rocks that lay underneath, a Greek fishing illegally, rescued him and brought him to the Greek island of Chios a few miles away. I guess he had to choose between two deaths: it was the execution squad or death by drowning. He chose the second. He reached home months later; his family had given him up years ago. Weak and disillusioned, he never mentioned the University. He felt old, his health had deteriorated. He settled into a loveless marriage which brought him the dowry that started his business. Eventually he achieved peace of mind and five children in quick succession. He traded with the fishermen and the farmers and those of the surrounding villages in his general store, and

traveled to Piraeus and Patra for supplies and legal

matters a few times a year. His life held no more surprises. When John, his brother-in-law brought his family back from

America because his war wounds

were giving him strange and ominous messages, he helped Philip financially to expand his business. The store was now successfully exporting the island’s products, olive oil, wine, cheese, figs and supplied the island with imported products, sugar, coffee, tea, spices, even silk and toiletries. There was never a need for signed papers between the two parties. The family structure was inherently such that formalities were obsolete, and when his brother-in-law passed away no one gave a thought to settling property matters. Instead, they concentrated on the crazy sister who was trying to kill herself and her children because she couldn’t face life without her husband. Eventually, things settled down; Anna moved to Athens never touching her interest from the business, or caring either.. She let it accumulate for ‘her children’s future’, until the economy collapsed and everything was lost!

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C H A P T E R

THE VOYAGE Piraeus streets

and squares that were close to the harbor were still filled

with debris that made traffic

almost impassible. Trees and houses still lay in

the street as they had fallen two months before and were rotting like slaughtered animals; the city was cruelly punished. they had fallen two months before and were rotting, like slaughtered animals. People shoved and shouted, carted packages and crates, wheeled barrows, life had to go on, somehow, yet, how could life continue as if nothing had happened? Looking at the commotion and rush Elena wondered if everyone was deserting the city as they were doing. The steely eyes of the enemy scrutinized them from under their helmets, ordering, they were all over the place. The overpowering squalor, the rank odor of frying oil in the air upsetting Elenaâ€™s stomach were smells that would always remind her of the day she left her youth in the ruined port. It had taken her mother two weeks to accept the fact that like millions refugees in Europe, they were to be uprooted again; she began to pack, more discussions and disagreements, what to take, what to leave behind knowing beforehand they may never see again what they were storing for the duration. Anna cried for her precious made-to-order furniture; Popi, over her precious books and with them her hopes for a career; still hopeful, she took along her

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hope chest with the ‘priceless’ trousseau waiting for the ‘blessed day’! Elena held on to her diary; it was her only assignment. She held it under the sheets that last night they spent in Athens, afraid that it might be misplaced in the upheaval. This time she had no toys to pack or carry; she did not need any. Neighbors walked in and out of the apartment, the day before their departure, packed and crated furniture and then helped to find a miserable wreck of a carriage that once had a horse on the other end, now replaced by three men; even that was a hard to find luxury. A few trips had brought everything to the warehouse for storage. Elena looked sadly at the cart with their furniture wobbling dangerously on the uneven road. At dawn, the family with their trunks and suitcases were on the sidewalk in front of the house waiting for the taxi. The neighbors weren’t awake yet. Elena stole into the dark empty apartment. It was as if the chaotic madness of the day before never was. Even their lives behind those walls were erased. That is how things end, she thought, our lives, our dreams; faint lines on the bare walls where her father’s and Mr. Roosevelt’s photographs had been; she stared nostalgically at the corner between the sofa and the china closet where Nicky used to squirm in to hide quietly until his mother’s anger abated. She was saying goodbye to her past, she reasoned, because she was growing. Still, it was hard to cut herself from all that connected her with that past, the only security she had known; if she did, would she be accepting defeat, she wondered. Will that mean that I may never come back? It was a frightening thought. What will the future days, months, or years bring after we lock this door and these walls erase us, as well? On the sidewalk the landlady was crying, a shaking bulk of a woman hugging her mother, then her aunt, asking, as if evoking all the spirits, if

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they would ever see each other again. She was still waving her handkerchief when the taxi turned the corner. Suddenly, Elena felt an unbearable wish to turn back, to retrace the few years of her life; she knew they would be irretrievable. But for her diary, nothing would console her as she started the to an unpredictable future. Popi, dressed in her best as if going to a lecture or the cinema instead of risking her life in a treacherous voyage in a wreck, sat primly in the taxi, holding onto her newly acquired medical degree that she kept in her large portfolio which, in her badly accented French she called a portmanteau, like a passport that could get her anywhere. Elena thought unkind thoughts but then she smiled as she looked at her aunt’s face; she looked so miserable as if she was being kidnapped. In a way she is, she thought, who knows what dreams she harbored in that scatterbrained head of hers. It had been dangerous for her uncle to register the children as having been born in the island in order to forge birth certificates. They were able to get Italian passports and travel as Italian citizens without interference from the Germans. Philip had a gnawing fear that by the time he returned his crazy sisters would refuse to come along and had therefore resolved, and told them so, that if they preferred to stay on, they could, but the children were going to

the island with him.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “It’s decided, we are leaving, going to the island! I am happy but also a little sad because this trip has caused many disagreements. I love the island, but living there...how will it be in winter? How about school? There is no gymnasium in the village. And how long will

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this war last? I don’t think even God knows. Needless to say, I don’t cherish the idea that I have changed nationality. I have been an American, then a Greek American, then a Greek and today I am Italian. My uncle doesn’t know, but we almost got another citizenship. We almost became residents of a concentration camp thanks to Mom’s naivete. The Germans issued a decree that those of a foreign nationality register with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. They called it a ‘Census’; our mother who never obeys orders, got dressed in her Sunday best as if going to visit a minister or to have an argument with the Greek authorities (and win it as usual), took us to the Ministry. We posed for the photographer stationed at the square in front of building, and I.D. photos in hand we started up the steps where beggars, among them veterans, lay next to their crutches. ‘Madam,’ one of them addressed my mother. She opened her pocketbook looking for inflated coins. ‘Over here, please, come over,’ he said urgently. Mom went to him, we followed. ‘Where are you taking these children?’ ‘To register them, they are Americans.’ ‘Ss-s-h...This is crazy. Please take your children and leave as fast as you can. You register them today, they’ll be in a concentration camp in Salonica tomorrow on route to Germany.’ Instinctually, she clutched both of us to her. ‘Why? No one can touch them, they are Americans.’ she kept repeating the same fairytale slogan, the up to now magic words. ‘Not so loud. America will be at war, any day now. If you can, buy

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forged documents for them.’ Mama, terrified, emptied all her coins into his torn military cap with trembling hands and practically pulled our arms out of their sockets as she dragged us down the stairs. We took the streetcar home and haven’t talked about this incident since. That was probably the decisive factor for our

trip:

We are running away! It would be easy for my uncle with the help of The village council and the priest to get forged birth certificates. And that is

why I am now an Italian citizen.”

Four pairs of strong seamen arms tried to lift Elena aboard the small caique. She kicked them and howled. She balked when she saw the small flimsy raft, there was no way she would climb up there. Her brother embarrassed her by leaping up like a monkey; she was too fat to do that, anyway, and too proud to let strangers carry her as they did her mother and aunt. She was unyielding, awkward and kicking didn’t help; her uncle was furious. As soon as she was on deck she ran toward the prow and hid behind a mass of coiled dirty rope. Popi, tearful, holding on to her ‘valuables’, sat stiffly on a soiled crate nearby staring vacantly up north. Elena followed her stare. The hill of Acropolis in the distance reflected the morning sun. What irony, she thought, they call that ‘ancient ruins’; within touching distance in side streets were the remnants of modern ruins of the current civilization from were rats darted in and out of torn floors and

walls. A few miles further

north, her French tutor, bent and half-starved scavenged for crumbs in a filthy corner of the aristocratic Patision Avenue before the sun appeared behind Hymettus Mountain.

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Anna nudged her sister as the ‘taxi’ cleared the Park and turned left. "Isn’t this near where..." she asked and then bit her lip so that Popi would understand that she had blundered and drop the subject. Popi didn’t. "She had to take the bus from this corner; that goes to show you. How many hovels behind these grand facades and black limousines." A second nudge from her sister made her look the other way and point to the glorious statue of a king long dead, but Elena had already seen what they didn’t want her to see. Her French tutor!

A little bundle of humanity, a handful of brittle bones in

a gray winter coat in the middle of summer, with a black peasant kerchief covering her head tied under the chin. She was searching a mount of garbage for ‘edible’ remnants. Just as the taxi swerved to the left, Elena picked up a movement, guessed rather than saw, a hand near the mouth, but one couldn’t be sure, except for her mother’s obvious attention to the statue of a king she abhorred and an unfamiliar pain in Elena’s guts, as if someone had stabbed her and she couldn’t cry. A heavy stone sat where her heart was. She was running away; from hunger, from fear, from her friends and neighbors, from her starving French teacher to save herself. She questioned

her reaction; if that is

normal, why do I feel guilty? Even her thoughts hurt her. The houses fled past, people walked dazed, the sun shone. All along the streets stores were closed; the enemy patrolled the roads where once the greatest minds of humanity had walked and taught.

The ‘caique’ began to shudder, then slowly it backed out leaving an odorous cloud of smoke. It putt putted backing out of the harbor picking its way amid the debris like a finicky ballerina. The harbor was chock full of the grim

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remnants of Nazi victory; sunken ships, protruding masts and planks on the slimy water, furniture, oil slicks, all under the baleful eye of the winning team: gray steel ships their swastikas omnipotent against the blue Greek sky. The entered the Gulf of Saronicos and the calmness of the harbor

was

immediately transformed into a herd of wild bulls let lose. The small vessel leaped from wave to wave meeting each gust of the gale that pummeled its prow and sides. Elena had never seen waves of that magnitude, at times they seemed to be as big as a house, neither could she believe that the sea where she had played and swam would be an enemy ready to devour them. It was as if a huge, dark frothing monster was trying to pull the boat down to a dark abyss, then toss it spitting it up to dizzying heights, an empty walnut shell. She closed her eyes not to watch them going down, not to see the bottom. Anna and Popi passed out after the first dip. Philip and the children squeezed lemon juice in their mouths when they stopped vomiting and rubbed their wrists to bring them to when they passed out. "They are better off when they are out," Nicky said holding on to a mast his legs spread wide for support. "The moment they come to, they begin to puke." Elena held on to the mast looking far into the horizon as the captain had told her, bracing herself against the wind so she couldnâ€™t hear the moaning and retching. Looking far, he had said, helps you not to get dizzy; the wind tore at her long hair and pinched her cheeks, but her glasses were too wet to see further out which was just as well. If I had wax in my ears and someone tied me to this mast, she thought, could pass for Odysseus but for the beard. She dreaded the

hour of sunset

afraid of the night and of whatever was lurking in wait for them out in the

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open sea. When night was upon them the winds did not abate as the captain had said they might; she wanted to cry, she couldnâ€™t even think of stupid things, like being Odysseus, or writing silly pages in her diary well hidden under her blouse keeping her body warm and her heart hoping. She missed that diary, but it was no help the way they were heaving and tossed about in that dark expanse. Travel was restricted for Greek boats after sunset; they found refuge in an alcove and dropped anchor among the rocks. She had to go out, there was no bathroom in the little boat, she assumed the seamen were using the open sea. Getting out of the boat required minimum help. The rocks made it easy for everybody to gratefully, though unsteadily, head for the woods. Elenaâ€™s sheltered life and gentle upbringing ended that night on the stinking, unwashed planks of the small craft. The still water with the gentle movement of the waves, the gurgling, the almost inaudible soughing of the pine trees, lulled her to sleep but the nauseating stench of tar and urine that had soaked the planks for years, alerted her brain to wakefulness with a sickening pain in her stomach. She shivered under the damp blanket, her body ached. She didnâ€™t know exactly where the rest of her family was bedded.

Snoring bodies

were scattered around her. She felt painfully alone. She awoke in choking smoke, gasoline odors, sharp Greek and Italian shouts and the sun about two yards above the horizon, blinding her. The men of the Italian patrol boat that had anchored alongside, were examining papers, and opening suitcases and trunks. It was the closest she had come to an Italian except for the prisoners of war who were a sorry mess. "Trouble with the engine," the captain announced. On his sun-blackened face his teeth seemed strangely white. One of the Italians went down to the engine

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room with him and soon the engine’s ugly normal noise put everyone at ease heaving a sigh of relief. The Greek captain surfaced oil-smeared. The Italian came up as clean as before, jumped into his boat and was gone with the others. "Some people dare to call themselves ‘captains’,” Philip murmured under his mustache. The wind blew the insult away.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “I am really grateful for not packing my diary before we left and keep it instead close to me. Mama sewed inside pockets for us in case we are frisked. I wish I could hide to write about the trip as it is happening, but the movement of the waves makes me dizzy. This is the first time I paid special attention to the Corinth Canal, though I have been through it a few times. We made it by afternoon, on the second day of our voyage. In peacetime, any boat that was a ‘real’ boat, would take half the time to cross it. It’s strip of water between gray granite glass-like sharp sides. Up to last century this strip o f water wasn’t navigable and boats even in ancient times, had to round the southern Peloponesus peninsula because of that narrow strip of land that connected the states of Peloponesus on its northern side with the southern part of Attica. When we passed its narrowest point seagulls sat on the mast and walked on the deck looking for crumbs. The skipper treated us to hard salt crackers and tea, which we ate on the hatchway. We had nothing to eat since the day before though Mom had brought a few things but was in no condition to even think about it. I feel better now that I ate; one of the seamen just told me

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that the weather had ‘freshened up’. He pointed to the open sea ahead, now a dark blue extending as far as the eye could see. The sun was trying to calm the water, but the wind continues to toss us with those stupid waves.“

Wind velocity increased as they faced the open sea after crossing the Canal. They almost saw the overwhelming blast that sent them tumbling on the heaving deck. It blew from every side thrashing and soaking them with salt water. Anna and Popi were holding fast at the rails two ghosts doused by foam. Almost immediately they lost the food they had enjoyed a while ago. Tears and salt water drenched Elena as she held on to the mast. The sails had to come down. They traveled like that until darkness and in the dark they touched shore, an uncomfortably menacing jagged rock filled cove that was no haven, but would have to do.’ There was no way for them to get to the shore as they had anticipated. The strong currents would smash them against the rocks. The rocks that would have protected them from the rage of the sea if the boat could get near, were treacherous, glass sharp. They were marooned, Elena thought, at the mercy of currents and waves, tossed in a delirium. The world was spinning around them and the passengers just prayed and tried to keep an even equilibrium. Suddenly the engine gave up again and the skipper and one of the men rushed under to work on it cursing loudly so that everyone could hear above the hiss and roar of the waves. The sky was dark, the stormy sea darker and the unseen foe more frightening now, an imminent danger. Elena, wrapped in her wet blanket nursed

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her hunger and her fears; she had to go to the bathroom. Her family thought her peacefully asleep, but she was crying silently; without meaning to, she thought of the hell her Uncle Stavros had gone through before his death when he was torpedoed, and her Uncle Andreas’ shipwreck. In the years that followed, and through many dangers, Elena would never forget the fear and despair of that night, when she thought she was ready to face her end, not a death at the bottom of the sea, but didn’t know how one prepares for it. prepares for it. Even the thought of her diary warm against her body. could not calm her. What a way to die, she moaned. When her uncle peeped down to check her, she feigned sleep; he went on to check his semiconscious sisters, afraid to fall asleep himself or even to doze because Popi had made two attempts to throw herself overboard. The same crew member had caught her both times. "Lady," he said angrily the second time, "give it time. Soon, we will all go under!" Philip told him to shut up. Suddenly, loud crashes, explosions and cannon blasts were added to the shrill screaming of the waves. Lifting the corner of her blanket Elena’s eyes focused on the flaming red southwest horizon. A sea battle was going on,! God, that’s what we need...well, this is it, then, she thought. A threatening sky, a raging sea and two countries at war a few

kilometers away. The wind brought

the acrid odor of gun powder. Instantly awaken, the people prayed forgetting that a few minutes before a watery grave was their main concern and fear. Incredible pyrotechnics Elena thought trembling. Nicky, shivering, crawled into her wet blanket. "Like the National Holiday celebration," he said trembling.

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"Yes, without the parade," his sister threw at him wretchedly; "and the King is missing!" "Mom would like that, he’s not Greek and all that; anyway he is doing pretty well in Egypt." "Oh, shut up," she said angrily. "Look, we may be blown to bits in a minute." Sitting next to her Nicky seemed small in the constant light of torpedoes and blasts; she thought he had shrunk and felt sorry. "Hey," she called, "look!" They watched the shadow of a boat blasted into the sky in a blaze of red flames. It sparked when it got higher and it seemed so close! Amazed at the display of such magnificent, colorful feat of death and destruction, they followed with their eyes the now black mass drop heavily into the darkness of the water with a strange moaning that had the anguish of a cry from a human soul. It must be the people in there; they are being killed right in front of our eyes, she cried to herself. This is war. This is what history glorifies through the ages and all generations, and all nations. "Is it over?" Nicky asked. "We’ll see," said his sister, "don’t be afraid, we are too small for anyone to bother." “You know,” he said and his lips trembled hiding tears, “we haven’t been to the front, but we have seen it all. The Hospital in Athens, ‘dogfights’ over Athens, ‘fish’ fights now, Uncle Stavros; how much more can exist in a war?” She shrugged. “It’s called a ‘naval battle,’ silly, not a ‘fish fight’”. Whatever happens to us from now on, is war, she thought to herself, we are part of an international insanity. The captain was standing in front of them. “Papanicoles," he said in a conspiratorial whisper which brought on a

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suppressed hooray from the joyful passengers, those who were conscious. They were relieved, it was some retribution to see an enemy ship go down. The exploits of the legendary ‘fathom’ Greek submarine ‘Papanicoles’ gave courage to the besieged people whenever the media announced proudly another loss of an enemy ship by ‘unknown’ submarines. How does he know it’s Papanicoles, Elena wanted to ask, and how can he be sure that it wasn’t Papanicoles that got hit but she held her tongue. Did she really want to know? And how would he know? "We can start now," her uncle told the captain. The captain pretended not to hear. He puffed on his pipe shielding it with the palm of his hand against the wind.

“They left," Philip repeated the request louder, "we can sneak across."

"Can’t," the skipper said. "It’s against the Italian rules, German rules! They’ll shoot. I’m responsible for human lives here." "Look," Philip said. "Patrol boats are busy now with this mess, they will not bother with our small craft." He paused for a few

minutes looking at the

once again dark horizon as if searching. "You are thinking of your caique, I think of my family. I say let’s go!" he said sternly. “I guarantee your safety as soon as we reach port". "Suppose a cutter intercepts us, then what?" the captain asked. Philip was pensive. "We’ll show them the two women," he said, "they are half dead, I’m sure they’ll understand that we need help. Maybe they are not such heartless dogs." The captain laughed. "Aren’t they now?" He said with a dry, chilly voice. "How little you know them. Power makes killers out of monks!" Philip ignored the statement; how well he knew! The young captain relented. Without another word but still in doubt, with no lights or stars to guide him, just from memory

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he raised anchor and loosened up the engine lightly. The roar of the sea drowned all noises. "We’ll be there by morning," Philip said in a way of thanking him and sat on the sails propped against the mast so that he would not be tossed overboard. He could hardly be heard above the vicious whistling of the foaming, crashing waters. "If St. Nicholas grants it!" The captain said. "I may lose my license yet..." the wind carried his voice away. "Once we reach the island, you’ll have nothing to worry about." Philip was shouting over the roar of the waves. His voice had become raspy. He was exhausted. "Are you a collaborator?" The captain asked Philip and laughed. But Philip wasn’t laughing. Perhaps the man didn’t know the meaning of the word. In rough times people become suspicious. "No,” he said, “I’m not a collaborator; I’m just the president of the village council and the owner of the only store. The Italians would have to think twice before they reject or punish you for such a simple, humanitarian gesture because of that store!" Elena tired of listening to them. Her brother had fallen

asleep curled up

next to her. She tried to keep him warm with her body; her legs had fallen asleep, too, it seemed hours later when unable to sleep she stretched and got hold of the main sail then dragged herself to where her uncle crouched on the coiled ropes. Together they watched the two sailors silently, as they bailed water from the hold. She was nauseous and numb. "Never saw the likes of them in all my years," said the younger one

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referring to the sick women, "sick, sick, like dogs." "Won’t last till morning," the other said. Elena tried to sit up; she looked at her uncle, he put a finger on his lips to be silent. "Sailors always talk like that," he whispered. "They make sure we are listening; this way they prove their courage under duress." "What for?" she asked. He shrugged.

Dawn broke on the horizon and with that, hope, but the sea seemed angrier. "Strange," the captain said, "it isn’t meltemi time yet. That peculiar summer wind strikes viciously on the shores of Eastern Mediterranean. It came early in 1941. "Why not?" Popi mumbled, "with everything else, why shouldn’t meltemi hit us as well?” She lapsed back into stupor. Suddenly, a miracle tore the morning mists far ahead in the western horizon: the tip of the island's mountain came into view born of the angry wine dark water like the ghost of a sunken ship, perhaps the one that was sunk the night before, Nicky thought out loud. "Aenos!" his sister corrected him, secure now, unafraid. “That is the name of the mountain.” He shrugged. Crew and passengers alert now that morning light bathed them with life and hope, began moving with new energy. The captain looked at the mountain and smiled as he nodded; he didn’t have to look, he had seen the miracle rising from the sea and the mists.

A miracle, thought those

haggard faces that seemed to be part of an El Greco painting, worn to the last threads of their endurance. The mere name of the mountain gave them strength. They had fled from hunger and death, they didn’t want to end their lives at the bottom of the Ionian Sea. This indeed was a miracle; and high time, too. The

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water was coming in faster than the sailors bailed it out; they bailed frantically. Nicky and Philip joined, and the only other able man aboard, much older, volunteered, too. The engine gave up, they were practically at the mercy of the waves. They were sinking! Philip dropped the can and teetered over to the captain who threw his hands in the air cursing violently. "She is dead," he shouted, "I can do nothing more, she is done for, finished!” There was a frightening finality and despair in his ominous prediction. It was over! "Try!" Philip ordered, as if telling someone to beat a dead horse to life, "try again!" He was pleading now. "Listen," the skipper said angrily. "Even if she takes off, we will never make it. We are taking in too much water." The human chain began working more rapidly; the passengers’ belongings were half submerged in the hold. Anna and Popi were not throwing up any more; they had given up. Elena looked at the mountain in full view now, gray, majestically tall, so near, so unapproachable...Even with the waves breaking on its dark, formidable, jagged shores, the dark mountain was the Eden eluding them. "Over there," Philip pointed; "try, we can make it, we have the wind! We can’t just sit here waiting to hit bottom without trying everything". "No," the captain shouted, "we can’t go there, that’s an Italian post; they tow the fishermen there to confiscate the fish. They are not expecting a caique, they’ll shoot." "We must risk it," Philip said. "You don’t believe for a second that they fear the English will land in your caique. Hoist a white flag, you don’t have any...Here, take my shirt." He tore off his shirt and tried desperately to hoist it high but the ropes were all tangled up since they had lowered the

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sails. He tied the sleeves around the mast hoping that the Italians were scanning the horizon with binoculars. "They’ll confiscate my ship," the captain cried. "They’ll take my license. I have a family..." "And so have I, and to hell with your caique and your license..." Philip shouted, "if I didn’t have these," and he

pointed at the half drowned lot, "I

would swim ashore and leave you and your craft to hell." How can he lie like that? Elena thought. He is so afraid of the water...He must be the only male in the island who doesn’t know how to swim. Philip, not particularly brave himself, detested cowardice. At that moment, with his people wet, shivering, the caique going under and the island in full view, he was beside himself. "Look," he said, "in another half hour we’ll sink and no on will know what happened to us. If you don’t start that engine, I’ll throw you overboard and if you make it to shore I’ll see to it that your boat is beached and you never sail again." He suddenly realized that in the madness of the moment he was choking the man twisting the collar of his shirt. Fatigue, danger and the sense of responsibility, had taken hold of his senses. The captain freed himself rubbed his neck and bent over the engine again. Soon the putt-putt, erratic but strong, was heard and they breathed easier. Even if they went under, Elena thought, the Italians might have seen them and come to their aid, perhaps to see if they were black marketeers. Elena had branded her uncle a coward more than once, contrary to what she had heard about his behavior in Asia Minor. That morning he became a beacon in her faith to

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humanity. She had witnessed her uncle’s first, last and only, she believed, spark of heroism!

THE ISLAND UNDER ITALIAN OCCUPATION The Italian Post

was housed in the cottage of the Lighthouse keeper who

had been dismissed since the war began. The lighthouse was built on a mass of rocks, jutting from the volcano formed depth, dangerous to navigation in the best of times and with the beacon alight. That it was a severe punishment for the garrison stationed there goes without saying. The only fun they had was scanning the horizon at night for boats carrying food to or from the mainland which was considered contraband. Their swift cutters would be on them at no time. It was thought that the garrison had secret powerful telescopes; but when the little half wrecked caique made its way toward them putt-putting its death rattle and they realized that there was no enemy landing or black marketers but shipwrecked Greeks, they recovered from their shock and ran to the floundering caique with a little rowboat, some swam, others waded in the shallow water when they realized there were children aboard, and worked with dedication to rescue the shipwrecked people. Noble and humane as their gesture was, it was at least one action of interest, an adventure in an otherwise dull and monotonous, uneventful existence. They began an organized rescue operation and soon, passengers and their waterlogged baggage, were taken ashore piece by piece. The problem was Elena who suddenly refused to be ‘rescued by the enemy’. At that moment and much to the consternation of her uncle, she exhibited a passive resistance

and refused

to cooperate when the young soldier waded to where she was sitting on the

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coiled ropes by the rail, her feet dangling in the water.

He picked her up

forcibly and she bit him getting even for the war she felt she had lost to the losers. The soldier let out a little moan more like a dog’s yelp, but didn’t let her go. In spite of her struggle, and the kicks and punches she delivered, he brought her ashore, put her down and ran inside the cottage to nurse his sore arm. Her uncle missed the commotion and the others were busy and didn’t hear the soldier cursing when she bit him; it was just as well. The Italian soldiers were laughing; they thought it was, they realized that the girl was a hungry, crazed kid who had been frightened; after all, they had almost drowned. Elena's first heroic act felt flat. It went unnoticed!

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “I am sitting in the shade of this large rock near the water. It’s clear like the sky but the bottom is full of large rocks. We are waiting to be picked up, it’s hard to believe that we are alive, on land, on our island! I don’t know who will take us out of this jutting rock that reaches the harbor with a narrow strip made up of more rocks. Our village is just across the bay. Today I faced to face with the enemy and I won. I bit that Italian soldier so hard, my teeth hurt. He didn’t dare touch me. I know it’s not much, maybe it was silly, but I feel that if I survived the most horrible stormy sea and a shipwreck, I can be strong enough to harm my enemy; I have no arms and bullets;

my good, strong teeth were my knives. Victory is not won

in a battle, on the front only. The Italians were defeated at the front, victory was given to them by their friends the Nazis on a

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platter. I cannot accept the disgrace and humiliation of a slave without protest. With enough hate in my heart, I may forget that I am branded a ‘slave’ in the enemy’s mind, let alone that I am neither a Greek at this point, nor an American. There is something going on at the shore. My mother and travelers, are

my aunt, joined by some other fellow

verbally attacking Uncle Philip; I have to go rescue

him.”

Only after they felt the rocky soil under their feet Anna and Popi believed they were safe. And whose fault was that? Was that trip so absolutely necessary to endanger their lives and expose them to such

hardships, Anna said, the

moment Philip walked up to them to see if they were O.K. and Anna let him have it, all the agony and their ordeal at the caique’s railing the past three days, her fears. It was his fault, they insisted; he was insensitive and callous, he had to have his way. Philip watched silently as members of the crew carried their belongings behind the lighthouse; he curse the entire female world then went away quickly half wading, half scaling the rocks to the village angrily to secure mules to carry the miserable looking trunks and luggage to the mainland and on to their own village. The farmers of the area knew him and came to help. He found a string of mules and secured a car as well, an ancient Model T still in running condition, not yet conscripted, to take his family once they crossed from the Lighthouse, to the village. The winding, dusty road hugging the wide harbor from the village they landed

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to their own, was vaguely familiar to Elena. She remembered looking across the water on moonless nights to see the flickering lights of the village and the fires of the shepherds on the hill above it. The road ran across fields that lay well below it, all the way to the sea; the hillsides were covered with vineyards and olive trees. The first stone house came into view long before they saw their village. Three oak trees in the back and two slender tall cypress trees in the front made it a landmark in the valley. The honorable distinction was the fact that there was no other sign of a tree around Elena remembered it as they passed it. The current residents waved from the porch; Jasmine, carnations and basil were in bloom, and summer scents overpowered that of the gasoline the wreck emitted, the dust and the cow dung. Fields of harvested wheat spread golden hues under the sun; the ripening grapes, the sea, and fragrances of thyme coming down from the mountain, fond memories that rushed back, welcoming her; she felt light and happy, as she hadn’t been for a long time. She was part of that environment, free. I’ll be happy here, she thought!

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “I knew that not all the little bare feet following the taxi from the moment we turned the bend, were those of my cousins. They were the neighborhood kids and friends caught up now in the excitement of welcoming the starving Athenian family as they call us. The house is as I remembered it. Blue shutters and the iron rails of the balcony. Under it the pergola, heavy with grapes. I recognized my cousins,

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taller now and thin, except for the last one born two years before. My namesake was tiny, adorable, a diminutive ‘Elenaki’! Even before the so-called ‘taxi’ paused as it tried to stop in front of the house, someone had helped her climb in through the window and the little barefoot, barebottomed darling landed on my lap. Her short, straight, honey-colored hair was all over her face covering the strange gold speckles in her green eyes. When she smiled at me my heart melted. Her few teeth were like little pearls and she had the most adorable dimples. Looking at her I saw an early version of my mother! The hair, the eyes, the dimples...no wonder, Mama never laughs; one cannot distinguish a dimple from a wrinkle in her sad grin, and let’s face it, her Elenaki is two and my mother is quite old, she must be in her thirties. I was the last one out of the contraption that miraculously delivered us home; my little cousin who apparently missed her nap wouldn’t let me move, she kept asking me in her secretive, lisping singsong voice if I brought chocolate. I laughed, I hadn’t seen the stuff in a year. ’No,’ I told her. ‘I’ll bring you many bars when the war is over.’ That’s the answer in vogue these days; it seems that everyone understands. I wondered if she did. ‘What’s a chocolate?’ She asked innocently answering my thoughts. She is too small. ‘Let’s go,’ I said. I picked her up off my lap but by that time she was already asleep and Aunt Popi took her so I got out. Asleep, with her cleft chin, she looks even more like Mom!”

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THE VILLAGE At the brassy

sound of the ‘taxi’s horn

announcing our arrival, the

neighbors began coming in the courtyard. Old friends, many from further away, all thirsty for news from the capital. The Italian patrol passed by, said ‘buon giorno’ and Philip returned their ‘good-morning’ politely; Elena threw both the patrol and her uncle a baleful look. There were hugs and kisses and the welcome of friendly smiles; under the warmth of arrival and safety, Anna and Popi relaxed; trunks and pieces of furniture were brought into the yard when the mules and the carriage arrived; Popi opened the trunks and spread the seawater soaked contents in the sun to dry. Neighbors and friends worked alongside, they brought fruits, and preserves, gifts of welcome, and someone made ‘coffee’, from roasted chickpeas which managed to smell almost like real coffee. War seemed far away, yet, only two nights before they had witnessed a sea battle, and 24 hours after that they had almost drowned.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “It feels good to see my mother and aunt regain some of their spirit; God, I thought we were losing them. Soon after we arrived, I saw my first ‘hunt’: The hunter, my Aunt Melania chasing two innocent white hens for dinner brandishing a murderous knife that glinted in the sun. The animals didn’t appreciate her taste for a feast, but the yard’s

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stone fence is impossibly high even for those birds and they flew about in short leaps upsetting crates and bamboo baskets, the vegetables that had already been washed by the well, cackling on the flagstones and flowering bushes calling for help. Do they feel that their slaughter means our lives? I can’t see very well thanks to my aunt Melania’s powerful love.

When the woman loves, she loves! I

remember her from the past; I should be more careful. How can I ever forget castor oil? As soon as I placed my little treasure, Elenaki, to Aunt Popi’s arms, Aunt Melania grabbed me and before I knew what happened my glasses were smashed in her loving bosom. I feel that my nose is sprained out of shape, not so strange after the ‘accident’ with the wheel the last time I was in the village. Now, someone will have to go to town for new glasses. Uncle Philip said not to worry, but I am the one who will be squinting until he does. Cousin Aristos is the oldest of the children. Born a few months after me, he bosses everyone about, including his mother, and is the guardian angel of her brood. As soon as we arrived, he took Nicky down to the harbor to show him around, as if we had never been here before. But now they are considered ‘grown-ups’ though they still wear short pants! I started going with them but Aristos turned around with a surprised look, which meant where are you going? I got the stupid message and saved face. ‘I thought I would go down the harbor,’ I said, ‘but since I have no glasses it’s not going to be fun, so go on without me.’ He laughed, and then my stupid brother laughed, too.

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What? Take a girl along? Ha! That was the first smile Aristos cracked; he has a sour face contrary to his smiling brother and sisters. Aunt Melania finally caught the hens. Holding them under her bare

heels first one then the other, she cut off the heads with a swift slash and kept the headless birds under her heel until all blood was drained, then released them; it was awful. One of the victims managed to escape her hold and began a macabre headless dance, flying crazily from bush to barrels, logs and plants sputtering blood. I felt sick to my stomach but it was to be my dinner and I haven’t had a chicken dinner since the war began. Still, their violent death, so close to our rescue from drowning, scared me. Is this what it’s all about then? Survival at all costs, no matter who pays? Life seems strange enough, death stranger still. They are now heating the brick oven, an imposing brick structure built in the back of every yard; a roaring fire of logs is heating it and in another hour they will remove the ashes leaving the heated bricks to

bake the chickens, now

dressed in

spices, olive oil, herbs and fresh tomatoes, waiting in a clay pan nearby.”

Elena’s expectations

weren’t quite as she had romanticized in regards to

her life in the village; she found that the life around her was the laughter of the children, their little fights, tears and games; even the adults

screaming

at them was some sign of life. The grownups seemed to carry a grudge, each in her private corner, they were mostly occupied with house or fieldwork, words were a waste of time, one of the luxuries ill afforded in times of war.

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Philip’s life began early in the morning when he left to attend to his official duties; he opened the store for a while, spent the morning with this and that, went home for lunch and a nap after which, refreshed, he drank his chamomile tea, and (always) wearing a tie, walked to the coffee house under the elm tree at the harbor to spend time with his friends, those who still cared for the village and its welfare. The now useless police would join them, the teacher, the pharmacist, occasionally the doctor, and though Italians were the real administrators, they nurtured the illusion that they still were the ‘village fathers’. His wife, Melania, was all over doing and redoing the things that her two sisters-in-law had already done. There were the children, the decision of what to cook when there was precious little of everything, laundry, straightening up the house, sweep, clear the yard, feed the chickens, draw water, tend the garden before sunset, and make sure that Philip had a clean shirt every day and hot water twice a day to wash. Anna, the picture of martyrdom, went about doing what she had to do, cooked, because she was the most efficient one for the job and spent her afternoons embroidering. Her silent days and nights were spent waiting for something, for the end of the war maybe, if it was God’s will, to see her children through the ordeal, she hardly exchanged a word with anyone except to scold Nicky when he put on ‘male’ airs; it was that male autocracy which made her denounce her island long ago. She wasn’t going to allow her son to be one of them! And her sister! Who does she think she is putting on airs because she has a degree! My fault, she thought bitterly. Some people should not be helped to get their snouts away from the sty. She is a doctor, she’s better than anyone on the island, including her own family.

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Popi however, was feeling lost, she was getting on in years and her life was lonely one under the scrutiny of the neighbors and friends of her youth; those

were now

married

with children,

what is wrong, why isn’t she married

those eyes said. The fact was that the woman had gone up in the world; her friends’ interests were vastly different than hers, now she found it hard to talk as they did of olive crops or coal kilns, discuss what one child told another, gossip about people she no longer knew. Her friends had never been away from the island and somehow felt dwarfed by Popi’s knowledge of forceps and tied tubes and God forbid, venereal diseases!

From necessity she kept to

herself; that was interpreted as ‘putting on airs’. She could always visit the village midwife, she was a good old soul, but too old for her; also. It was risky visiting her, only those ‘in trouble’ went to the old woman, or the decently pregnant wives. There was not one decent marriageable guy her own age and level around. Her only girlfriend was now teaching somewhere in the northern part of Greece; she didn’t manage to live in her father’s farm after all. Elena was in a dream world; after the perilous voyage, after the shock of the country’s surrender and the bleak and questionable future she had to face in Athens, her life had taken another turn, a beginning, away from the pseudo existence of a metropolis where everything was manufactured. There were no tanks here and no Germans; the Italians were the enemy, but Germans were the killers.

Aunt Melania had learned her first Italian words to show how

much

alike the Greeks and the Italians were: ‘una ratsa, una fatsa,’ she had said importantly. So, we look alike, Elena thought; not so far back in history we had been under their rule.

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She didn’t mind that the outhouse was downstairs, or that there was no electricity

or running water in the house. The first day they came she had

fallen asleep on her chair in the yard downstairs with the company still there. Her mother awoke her softly and took her upstairs to bed, which was next to the balcony, she was too exhausted to undress. She hadn’t slept for three nights and nothing could awake her. Somewhere in the depth of sleep, hands picked her up, pushed her out the door and down the rough stone stairs. Then she was standing stark naked by the well and in a dream she saw stars above and her aunt and Mom soaking wet; she smelled soap, the home-made green coarse kind that smelled of olive oil and laurel. They were telling her that she was taking a bath. She remembered the weekly ordeal of a bath in Athens in the tub where they did their laundry as well, and buckets of water heated in the same ‘laundry room’ in the yard, and the soap that smelled just like soap, but she had privacy and no stars for witnesses. She realized that she was actually taking a bath in the middle of the night next to the well when the cold water hit her face. She lost her voice. When had they undressed her? She screamed and cried not so much from the cold water but from the suddenness and audacity of it, and the indignity. She asked them if they were crazy to do that while she was asleep but they excused themselves saying that they thought she was awake. They wrapped her in a sheet and pushed, drove, propelled her up the stairs and into bed, one of them trying to dry her long hair. She was too tired to be angry, she never mentioned it again. Nights before sleep overcame her, she stole into the balcony to watch the fisherman leaving, their lanterns dancing on the choppy waters in the distance. If she could only travel with the

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moonbeams to the harbor across and from there to other places where there was no war, no fear, no enemy, no hunger!

Living in the village was like moving back in time. Everything functioned the way it did since time immemorial. People worked together, honored and defended each other or on occasion killed one another for ‘honor’ or property; those were Biblical realities of agricultural life, the primitive tools and instruments, the black-clad gnarled old women at the loom singing dirges for people long dead, or for their wasted youth. Girls Elena’s age worked from sun-up to sundown. They walked gracefully carrying heavy loads or jugs of water on their heads; their posture reminded her of ancient statues. Could girls like those, she wondered, have been what the ancient artists saw when they created the Caryatids?

The fishermen, singing old ballads, pulled nets full of fish

against magnificent magenta sunsets, under the vigilant eye of the enemy who expected his "share". Shepherds took goats and sheep to pasture at dawn, drove them back evenings to be milked, prodding them with sticks and their peculiar whistle. One day she went to the house where her father had died; other people lived there now; another time she climbed onto the window from where when very little she wanted to throw herself and shuddered. Children are self-destructive little brutes, she thought. She was happy enough that she was breathing the fragrant

mountain air and the breezes from the sea with all her senses. She

wanted that to be her reality; not the brutalities of a war. Utopia, her mother thought of her bucolic fantasies shaking thought, she will come down

her head. When she finds out, Anna

with a thud. She’s young, idealistic; she is

creating a world that exists in her mind only. One day she will wake up to

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recognize the prison walls of provincial mediocrity.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “Aunt Melania is right; the Italians look like us; but for the uniform, they can pass for Greeks, only the language differs. There are thousands of them on this small island which is too poor to feed thousands of their armed forces plus us. People say that soon we may have to fight to keep our own produce. They’ll take every bit of food out of our mouths. I only see the patrols and they seem

polite enough

in this quiet community. They stay away as long as the law, ‘their’ law, is upheld and they are strict about laws. They have understood already that their amorous attempts to anyone’s daughter, wife, sister, could mean a slit throat for ‘honor’! The Greeks have their own laws, too, I guess being neighbors they share the same unwritten laws about ‘honor’. What I don’t understand is the attitude of the people in the village, their indifference. They are resigned to this state of affairs with abandon I would

say, the way one accepts an

epidemic of cholera hoping that it will eventually wear off or move someplace else.

I had my first little conflict with the enemy, quite by accident a few days ago when they stopped at the fountain across the street while I was filling the water jug. We use the big one because it is made of clay and it keeps the water cool longer. I was halfway through when I felt the presence of the two Italian soldiers, not the patrol, and I looked the other way waiting for them to leave, hoping that Uncle Philip will not appear just then because he has told me that I

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look almost grown-up and that if soldiers are around I must make myself scarce. I couldn’t just go and leave my half-filled jug. I know the Italians run after girls, any female will do, they are lonely, I’ve heard their nice expression ‘bellissima signorina’. Being female, I suppose I fall into that category of the ‘most beautiful miss’, somewhere. Being female must be a dangerous state; my uncle informed me that I am not to have any friends, like girls my age -God forbid boys!- because ‘times are troublesome’. I am confined to the house, a prisoner, it seems, desperate for something to read. I don't like to embroider just because they say that girls ‘must’, and when there is no one about I sit by the window or in the balcony and soak up the beauty of the harbor and mountains or the green valley and wish I had paints to do some drawing; or I write in my journal. When I see a male, any male, or an Italian soldier at the bend of the road, about two blocks away, I dutifully disappear from view, in itself an accomplishment because this is the main thoroughfare and there is always someone going through. It does no good to protest; it’s for my own good; I have ‘too much time in my hands’...I should learn how to embroider! How can so many people not have one single book in this house. I get even, since all nice girls embroider and go to church, I don’t go to church, either.

Anyway, back to the fountain. The

soldiers began to talk, I pretended I was deaf. I couldn't understand the language, they kept pointing at me and repeating the word ‘aqua’ which in Greek means ‘I heard’; it got me worried because I didn’t know what they had heard. What if they came to arrest me, I thought, for something I had said about them, and I say plenty! Finally, I

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turned around, faced them and told them angrily: ‘So what if you heard, I don’t give a damn!’ I don’t know how long Aunt Melania was spying on me from her bedroom window which faces the fountain, but before I took another breath, her long bare feet were crossing the street raising white dust. She stood behind me and pinched my arm so hard my eyes smarted. She smiled at the soldiers and offered them water with apologies. I was confused. They left and she dragged me away hissing: ‘I’m not gonna let you disrupt our lives with your city airs; we don’t bother them, they leave us alone.’ She kept shoving me up the stairs and then pushed me into the dining room and slammed the door while I still wondered what had happened. The Italian word ‘aqua’ means water; why didn’t I associate it with Latin? Now she’ll tell the whole village!”

VILLAGE WAYS The village girls and boys didn’t seem to have much of a childhood but they had fun just the same. Because secondary education

was a financial burden and the

family had to sacrifice for it, if a child wasn’t too enthusiastic about more schooling after the sixth grade, it was all the better for the parents; they shared the responsibilities of the household in earning a living from a very young age. At thirteen, Aristos, a very bright student, for all intends and purposes thought himself a ‘man’! Yet, at times, the boy beneath ‘the man’s’ superior façade surfaced and felt that Elena could see through him; he did not play ‘man’ with her, in fact when no one was about, the two enjoyed chatting though still she felt that his chumminess was somehow patronizing, protective. Aristos had to be right; he was second in command in the house since women had

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no say. From the very first day of

Anna’s family arrival, he began to initiate

Nicky, and he, giving himself airs, began to avoid his sister. Elena felt betrayed, there were no more surreptitious kicks and bruising pinches, it must be a sign of his maturity, she thought, but his language was something else. To be a man, Nicky felt, you have to know how to curse, to be profane and he did when his mother was not around. The smaller children avoided Elena because schools were about to open and she was making overtures about preparing them for school. Summer, they said, wasn’t for learning. Lenaki, did not desert her; she loved to hear Elena’s stories even though she didn’t understand them, and didn’t know what school was

anyway. She followed her big cousin and sought her

out when she wet her pants because

her mother would spank her. She helped

Elena, she thought just by being her shadow when Elena fetched water from the well, or brought in the wash, put more coals in the iron, set the table; Elena loved her but missed friends her own age, secrets, whispering, girl talk, giggling. The sea was her only fun, looking at it, staring for hours longingly at night when everyone was asleep; the ripples, the silver of the moon streaking the glassy surface, the shadows of the mountain on its shores on moonless nights. It was the sea that first came into view at dawn,

a milky

white silk-like expanse. And later, when sun-light touched it painting it a rich blue the sea reminded her of a bride waiting for her lover, promising. The afternoon breezes changed it, ruffled it playfully, murmuring love words to the pebbles calling, until the purple silence of the evening placed all energy all urges and promises

to sleep under phosphorescent sparks that only she could

distinguish because she looked so hard. All that, of course when the Ionian Sea outside the harbor was in its good behavior because it often exhibited wild

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moods that altered not only the harbor’s serenity, but that of the entire village. In Athens, they traveled far to get to the beach where they stayed all day, in the sun for ‘health’ reasons. Earlier in her life

she was taken to the

water ‘to breathe in iodine’. Now for health reasons again, swimming wasn’t allowed.

The village wisdom was that swimming made them weak; it wasted

precious calories; that was no official diagnosis; if a boy wanted to swim, he just went without asking, it was different for girls. Elena ran to the water through the fields one hot morning when no one was about. Tall bamboo reeds protected her from all sides but except for peaceful flock of sheep grazing nearby not a soul was around. The coolness of the water, the peaceful morning, spread the taste of freedom a freedom she had snatched without permission by being disobedient. She dried in the sun and started back through the fields and reeds. The heat intensified the smells of wild thyme and flowers, and insects buzzed around her head, she felt lightheaded. Stubble and thorns scratched her legs, she didn’t mind. Her aunt Popi materialized out of nowhere; she stood before her planting her feet on the uneven stubby ground in the field and looked at her niece suspiciously. Elena’s happiness and bravado evaporated. With the sunlight on her back her aunt looked enormous and threatening. "And where have you been?" she asked her testily. "I’ve been looking all over for you." "Why?" Elena tried to gain time, to think of something. "Never mind why; you didn’t answer my question, where were you?" "Walking at the beach. " "At the shore..." she mimicked. "Alone?" "Yes, alone, except for the sheep..."

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"You are not funny. You went swimming against your motherâ€™s warning." "No," she lied and felt her face get red. She hated lying, but more he hated getting caught at it. Her aunt touched her hair.

"I had just washed my

hair before I came down to dry it in the sun." "Is that so? You shouldnâ€™t have, your hair is dark and the sun bleach

it." With a swift turn she almost fell on her and, as if by

will accident,

licked her curl. She spat with disgust, then slapped her niece for the time in her life. The slap stunned Elena, it left her the thorny ground. Popi, proud of herself, walked crying out little yelps when a sharp stone or thorn

first

reeling and she fell on

away stepping gingerly, pricked

her heels. Elena

picked herself and her wounded pride up and followed. Cheating, she

decided,

takes brains. I must learn to be smart, not to get caught.

Philipâ€™s general store on the main road of the village was a meeting place. Now with the shelves bare, jugs empty and barrels and sacks hanging limply, people came in to chat, gossip or trade, if there was anything to trade. As summer progressed, their visits were mostly for the exchange of news which

was

bad and getting steadily worse. The first Monday of the month was Court Day. Donkeys were tied in front of the store

while their owners, people from the surrounding villages,

attended

to their legal business upstairs when the court was in session and returned to load the rations if and when the Italians distributed food. As food supplies and rations dwindled the people went back to their villages sullen handed. The cup of wine or the coffee, the jokes and gossip, The Italian Army began confiscating their products

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and empty

became a memory.

straight from the fields,

giving them useless receipts instead of payment. After taking what they needed for the army, they ‘sold’ whatever was left to the peasants as rations - their own confiscated products- adding insult to injury. Philip was the distributor because his was the only store. He was paid for his services with double rations and that is how his family survive. He knew that the Italians did not use all they

managed to

kept; they sold the

surplus to shrewd individuals who also sold it back to the peasants at exorbitant prices, creating a three-cycle ring of misery and deception.

Black

market flourished. Philip hoarded whatever edible he could buy anticipating a long winter under siege. Fruits and vegetables kept them alive all summer but winter loomed ahead bleak and desolate. Late in the day, all available hands, children and adults, worked in the garden, a large piece of land that needed constant care but which gave them enough produce to feed them, and to barter for oil, coal, cheese, flour, and milk. Only work because of ‘delicate’ watered, Elena watched from coffee at the cafe by the other wrong with his liver. nothing wrong with Elena, sudden ‘delicate’

If her arms were for the back

health. While the

family weeded, dug, hoed and

the window, and her

uncle sipped his ersatz

harbor. Philip had his

ulcers and something or

He also wasn’t made for manual work. There was she was not stupid not to

health. The field ran parallel to

Italian patrol passed in the village had

Philip and Elena were excused from garden

guess the nature of her the main road. The

by every half hour, in fact, sooner

to pass that field. Too much commotion

or later, everyone for a young girl!

too delicate for field work, how come they were not delicate

breaking chores of the house, drawing heavy

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buckets of water

from the

well, scrubbing the rough planks of the floors that

blistered her

hands, ironing endless laundry baskets. That hypocrisy began to irritate her. More than once her mother caught her eyes

riveted on her as

if to say: you

were right, I had to find out myself, the

hard way, but you

can’t keep

sheltering me from the world for ever. She began to wonder why she had found the isolation of village life romantic. She had before; of friends and long walks. Too soon, she

thought of

running free as

thought, too soon I lost my

ideal world. I am child no more! A child has freedom, an adolescent

male has

freedom; a female is under constant surveillance. How was I to know? "This will not last for ever," her mother told her one day when she saw her

brooding in her loneliness. "There is a long life ahead for you to

enjoy." "Is there?" Her mother did not answer, she just looked at her and there was What

apprehension in those eyes that had began to age from worry and

hunger.

was it that her mother could see, that they wouldn’t survive the war? "I

feel like a war prisoner," she said only. "A prisoner of circumstances," her mother corrected her. "No, Mom, you were a ‘prisoner of circumstances’; you were born in these circumstances, in this village, this family. I have been thrown into it because...because..." "Of other circumstances," her mother finished for her. "Our lives are directed and dictated by circumstances Elena, it's what we try to do that counts and perhaps sidesteps or corrects the evil effects of those ‘circumstances’. A few months ago you were thrilled to be here.” Elena shook her head sadly. “ You couldn’t possibly understand what I was trying to tell

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you, that I knew; now you see, that’s another set of circumstances. If you try to do the best under this new set, you’ll come out the winner." Elena listened to her mother’s longest spiel. She hardly understood what she was driving at, she could just about follow but didn’t mind her, she

liked

that new phase of the image of her mother. "Well, for starters, why can’t you be happy that your uncle sent to the city to have your glasses repaired so you can see." "It was his wife who broke them, no fault of mine! And she spies on she smiled when she said that; she didn’t want her mother to think ungrateful. She also wanted her to know that she really wasn’t that

me."

her unhappy,

just bored. The talk with her mother made her feel better, it was the first time her mother spoke to her as an adult. She didn’t tell her how she longed for the congested streets of Athens, sirens, food lines and all, people, neighbors, without the suffocating restrictions of the village. Poor Aunt Popi, she thought, now I see! But Aunt Popi is a woman, she thought, I’m only a girl, maybe that’s worse! She scrutinized her face in the small mirror hidden behind the window; she saw the same face she had always known, much thinner; the black curls, large teeth, round eyebrows, dark wondering eyes behind the eyeglasses, clear skin that was getting transparent and pale. What is it that they see and I can’t, she wondered.

SIMEON’S FAMILY Old Simeon lived in a fairytale cottage nearby with his wife and daughter. The path going up the mountain and a grove of fig and walnut trees separated him from Philip’s house that stood higher like a big protective brother. His wife,

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a nagging, scrawny old woman, thin like a broomstick, was getting bald and impossible. Maria, their only daughter, a round-bosomed hefty girl, somewhat advanced in years according to the matchmaker, had a big, loud mouth. She, too, was balding though she was only in her mid-thirties. The rest of the household consisted of three goats, a pig, pigeons and lots of chickens, all circulating in and out of the house at will as if they, too, had every right to be there. The larger of the two rooms of the cottage was the earth packed kitchen whose floor was covered by hand hooked rugs Maria had made from her sewing remnants; they were colorful and always clean.

The brick oven built in one corner of the

room kept them warm in the winter months. In that room slept the old couple in their ancient iron bedstead. An armoire, a table and some chairs completed the room in which Maria was born. The rough, whitewashed walls were totally covered by yellowing post cards and old calendars. Everything ‘nice’ the family possessed was in the room adjacent to the kitchen, ‘Maria’s room’. She slept on the ancient sofa covered with her most important needlework. The frames on her walls were pictures cut from French fashion magazines. Large, hand-made pillows were on the floor; Maria was known as ‘lacy-fingers’, she managed to patch up and beautify centuries of neglect and decay, and still the matchmaker had not crossed their front door, nor hopeful bachelor sent his father or mother to seek her hand in marriage; like Popi, her childhood friend, the years were passing her by. Simeon and his family lived a simple life; it had been like that for ever; quarrelsome! Fighting, not in malice but because of boredom, was their sustenance. They couldn’t talk to one another, or agree, they snarled even when they smiled, nagging was their way of communicating.

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There was no income in the house even before the war; they existed on what their land, trees and animals produced. Simeon took care of the fields; Olga, his wife, was in charge of the animals and the outhouse, and Maria, of the house, the garden, sewing, the bread making and cooking in general. Their two beautifully curtained windows facing the street stood above the most colorful garden in the village. Despite the traffic that the cottage enjoyed with the animals walking in and out, Maria kept the cottage

immaculate. Other than

yelling at her mother for letting the animals wander into the rooms, she kept away from both her parents and would wield the broomstick at the animals and her mother but old Olga who was getting deaf continued doing what she was doing: talking! Talking to the grass, the vines, the frogs, the animals and the fig trees and yelling at her husband though he was nowhere around. If one sneaked behind her, one could learn of Maria’s youthful escapades which more or less undermined any chances of ever catching a worthwhile man to care for her. "She curses something sinful," Olga confided to the walnut tree. "Like the devil himself, can’t she curse with her mouth closed? Must everyone listen to her? And then she complains about gossip; how is she ever going to get a man when we cannot even see the matchmaker. Who needs a cursing wife? Pity, she is such a cook may she rot in hell, I’ll never see a grandchild shoo...shoo...it’s you I curse, three days no egg, you’re the devil’s hen.” She ran after the chicken hoping that the forces in charge oaths understood that her cursing wasn’t directed at her daughter! Further up at the end of the field, Simeon was weeding. He silently thanked the ugly weeds for shielding him from the two ‘poison’ mouths. Poor Simeon, the neighbors whispered; short and round, he had lost all his hair and most of his teeth. He rarely opened his mouth to speak,

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at times for days, except to Philip’s children whom he loved because they were fed by his goats’ milk since the day they were born. He spoke to his goats late in the afternoon when he milked them.

When they were fidgety he accused them

of being like the females of his household. Maria was hired to do most of the housework in Philip’s house. In the prewar years she had helped raise the children so that Melania could help at the store. She put away her earnings for the day when the ‘lucky’ man would show up. Rumors had it that Maria wasn’t merely Philip’s employee; she was also his mistress. Melania didn’t seem to know, or didn’t care, as long as she was left alone away from housework which she hated; with Maria in charge and the children fed, she could squat at the store’s stoop with neighbors, sip coffee, or pass the time with the latest gossip. All that when she was not pregnant, because she had a baby every two years like a clock. Popi and Maria were childhood friends. Now, their social equilibrium was upset. Popi felt the chilliness as soon as they met, Maria seemed to resent Popi’s decision to desert her and follow her sister to Athens. Who was she to demand education and be ‘somebody’ leaving her behind?

They were now apart

except for the few necessary daily verbal exchanges about the children, the cooking, the weather. At least, Popi thought, Maria had her romantic if thoughtless attempts, before she was twenty despite the snoopy neighbors. Virtuous Popi, proud and stuck up was drying up in her virginity. She had her reputation and her degree to think of! In the back of her mind was her one and only youthful escapade that had almost destroyed her; but one does not need to remember forgotten sins. Anyway, had she wished to renew their friendship, Philip, the most ‘virtuous’, would have objected. They were not to be seen

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together outside the house. Elena had no knowledge of all that nor anything of the past. She only saw what she saw and that was enough to get her in hot water at times, even though she was just an innocent bystander.

Maria played the field as best she could still hoping against all odds to snare a man. She looked aloof but was a shrewd woman. Many a night Elena in her romantic insomniac wanderings, saw a white, ghost like figure slip across the main road into the field below where a landlocked seaman spent his nights in a grass hut he had built on stilts

to guard his watermelon patch against

thieves. Elena, unthinking, told her Aunt Melania only because she never for a moment thought that the ghost was Maria. Later that day, her uncle had her bed removed from the proximity of the balcony and asked her to keep the curtained glass doors closed ‘for safety’! Even Elena did not buy the ‘safety’ nonsense in the middle of a hot summer, and with the Italian patrol passing under their house every half-hour. What crazy person would climb the delicate vine branches to get to the second floor without breaking his neck, for what? To steal, to kidnap Elena? Was there a Romeo wandering about that her uncle feared? Bitter and frustrated she lowered her eyes in silent acceptance. Then she looked at her aunt who was present with her holier-than-thou attitude, and walked out. She decided then that she would never take anyone of the household into her confidence. After that day, and since no one seemed to object, she took to sitting nights on the parapet of the outside staircase so she could at least look at the mountain and the moon when it rose over its peak; she had a limited view of the path going to the mountain

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and the back of Simeon’s cottage. Her uncle could rest; except for an occasional snake, not even goats walked the path at night, crickets and owls were the only nightlife, and the soft soughing of the eastern wind through the trees. Losing sight of the water was losing contact with her inner self, that undefined longing for something yet unknown that made the palms of her hands itch and perspire in anticipation like a salivating mouth when foods smells. Her secret poems were taking prominence slowly, pushing aside even the desire to keep up with her diary. What if they found her diary and confiscated it, or worse, yet, what if they read it? Disaster, she thought and shivered, I'd rather be dead; she feared her family more than she feared the enemy. It wasn’t long after that irrational decision when Elena discovered yet another phase of Maria’s nocturnal activities. She heard! And what she heard was no snake, or owl. Hares had long been extinct because of famine. It was a human sound, she decided, and very close; the night was dark like the bottom of the sea. "Who is there?" She whispered into that darkness but no one answered. Nothing stirred in Simeon’s orchard. Could it be that a thief came to steal fruit? But the fruit had been harvested. His goats? They would bleat. She stretched her body over the parapet and watched the man leaping over Simeon’s low stone fence onto the path passing directly under Elena’s hiding place; she could touch his head, not that she even thought of it, but she was stunned because she recognized the officer of the Financieria, the Harbor Police! She held her breath looking at the roundish, short and kind of older man walking gingerly on the rough stones trying to quiet the crunching of pebbles under his boots that would alarm the neighborhood for sure. While she watched with baited

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breath, the side of her eyes caught sight of the white ghost-like figure that slid through the darkness and into the silence and deafness of the cottage, her hair flying behind her. This is too good to be true, she thought, I don’t need books of romance and last century’s love intrigue; I have my own cinema. The front door was the escape for the Greek guy, the garden door was for the Italian. My God, what fun, and I can’t write anything! So, that’s why she smells so nice, Italian soap, when everyone looks scrawny and ugly, she flourishes. The Italian probably took care of soap, cigarettes, stockings and other small luxuries and Aunt Melania’s claw-hard hands were grasping her shoulders. She gasped. Elena’s fantasies were abruptly falling into the abyss of the hate in her aunt’s eyes that were sharp as scissors. Deeply absorbed in her thoughts of a 1942 war-time romance, she hadn’t heard the bare feet coming down the steps. What the devil, she thought, doesn’t the woman ever sleep? She made it the focal point of her life to spy on me, or is there some understanding between her and Maria? She tried to seal her ears not to hear the condemnation of the icy words because she knew what was coming. "And what’s more, Elena, you will not stay out nights from now on. It’s chilly and you need your rest, after all, you are only a child; we don’t eat well either, so..." she kept on but Elena was already going up the steps without giving her the opportunity to see the pity and disgust in her eyes. God, she thought, please let me be survive this nightmare...let me go back home safe with my family and I promise anything, anything, except to see this woman again as long as I live. She went through the dining room with the stale odor of onions and wine, through the living room where her mother slept and all that

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time Melania’s bare feet were close behind and the whispering reached her menacingly about young children getting moonstruck from gazing at the moon especially at a certain date of the

month and she guessed she was talking

about her period, but there was no moon that night and Elena knew all about her period and why she had it, and she had read where babies come from, so, what was this woman-turned-monster -at-night telling her. Quickly, she undressed and fell into her cot covering her head. Even through closed doors the sea managed to reach her with its cooing, the soothing whisperings; to talk to her about far away places where there was no war, no sinking ships and half devoured corpses washed onto the shore, but the curtains moved slightly and there was the ghost: her Aunt!

The nightmare wasn’t over. With her head next to her she

whispered. "I know you are not asleep. If I were you, I wouldn’t repeat silly tales, because that’s how youngsters get into the Saint’s monastery, they imagine things that Satan plants into their heads at night when everyone is asleep and the child is unprotected..." Elena began to shake; Mama, she thought, save me from this lunatic, she can spread the word that I am crazy; Elena had seen the mentally ill their Saint was supposed to cure. ” Plus,” her aunt continued, "if a thief was stealing Simeon’s goats they may call you as a witness and since you are under age your uncle will have to appear, you having no father. Think of that! It could kill him. Your uncle in Court? His ulcers, his reputation, his liver condition". Where have I heard that before, Elena wondered searching memories of her past for clues, the same words, the same fears, the insecurity my uncle in court, my uncle in jail, ages ago...She was asleep and didn’t hear the end

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of her uncle’s ailments and what would befall him, them, if she ever mentioned her hallucinations’ to anyone. Sunlight hit her eyes, the children were up and about, the balcony doors had been opened and Lenaki had crawled next to her, her small body curled and wrapped around her older cousin's body. She squeezed Elena awake; she was wet. Elena recalled the night’s events before opening her eyes. It amazed her that her aunt would stand up for Maria’s welfare not her niece’s. Did she hope to get Maria out of the way if the girl married someone, anyone? Could it be that Melania was a scheming woman trying to save her marriage? And what do I know about all these things? She realized with a shock that she knew a lot more than she thought she knew. I am a woman, the 14 year old thought and felt sad, not because she was growing older but because she had to suffer the indignities one suffers as a female child in a backward household and at the same time, paradoxically, the restrictions as a grown-up in the same environment. She couldn’t feign sleep anymore, her little cousin tickled her and laughed, the adorable dimples and green eyes melted her heart. What will you suffer my love, she thought, just another female to dictate rules, laws and superstitions to. She picked the little one

and squeezed her against her

heart; the child hugged her tightly with a happy giggle and then told her that she was wet.

PHILIP In his position

of questionable power in the village, inadequate and of

minimal importance as that was, even with a war on, Philip wasn’t the same as the pre-war Philip who visited Athens, a man-about-town, at ease in

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restaurants, museums and cinemas, a fun person. Surrounded by children, a wife, a mistress, two sisters, one a spinster with a know-it-all attitude and a goddamn degree to reinforce it, and his older sister’s two children, he was overwhelmed. His Officials duties to village and his family and the responsibility of retaining two families, plus the fear of the enemy who controlled their very existence plagued him; he didn’t know what darkness the war had in store for them all; Philip had become quarrelsome and sullen. Elena grew up with two women with diverse opinions and a lot of bickering, but without a man’s rule; she discounted the little brother being hatched and trained. The strict rules were transcriptions of the orders Philip received from his wife the night before; Melania was getting even for his indiscretions, that much Elena understood. Philip was the only one who used soap daily when he washed in his private commode, adorned with embroidered towels, Maria’s artful accomplishments. No one was allowed to touch his towels or set of brushes. War or no war, his freshly washed and starched white shirt and ironed pants with the sharp crease, were on his chair when he awoke in the morning, and by the time he made it to the dining room, his morning ‘coffee’ was there. The women sacrificed that luxury for his sake, what could Philip do without his coffee, tasteless enough as it was. Philip was weighed down with the cumbersome facts of the do or die of two families and it showed in his walk and his stooped shoulders; but if he really carried an affair with his neighbor as rumors had it, nothing showed, he was discreet about it. He didn’t know that his niece who kept out of his way and was considered moody due to growing pains, was actually studying his every move

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and interpreting his every look when they all thought she was brooding. It was less boring to play the silly, infantile detective game. In the game

she

looked for clues implicating him to the marital triangle whispered about. After witnessing Maria’s nightly exploits, she wasn’t sure she was going to succeed. She wondered if her uncle knew about Maria’s other exploits, and how would he react, the ‘staunch upholder of morality’, if he ever found out? Philip thought it extremely immoral to see a woman riding a bike; Elena’s last small pleasure was curtailed for his sake (his stomach, his liver, his reputation) and Melania, the guardian of her husband’s various organs’ ailments and his reputation, had lectured Elena accordingly, while the other ‘guardians’ of her virtue, Aristos, Nicky and her Aunt Popi, nodded approvingly. ‘Girls don’t spread their legs’. Elena’s face was as cold and non-committant as a statue’s, but her stomach churned. The look of triumph on the hypocritical faces nauseated her. Uncle Philip’s reputation, stomach and liver could rest at ease; no one would ‘catch’ her riding a bike! ‘Mama,’she cried to her pillow that night, I wish I could speak with you; but if I do, you will go crazy and do those things you did in Athens during the dictatorship. Mama, the domestic dictatorship is not easily overthrown, maybe you remember, meanwhile, sleep well in your ignorance, Mama.

END OFF SUMMER Summer was drawing

to an end; August was the busiest month; everyone

worked including the priest. Elena watched him work in the fields raising first the black robe then the purple underneath and tying them to his waist. Still

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she couldn’t see anything hidden under those robes; she hoped to at least see him get in the stone trough to stomp on the grapes, but he didn’t, so, she thought, maybe winemaking wasn’t one of the priest’s particular talents. Weddings and christenings were postponed until agricultural chores were over with. That summer God was on his or her side, no one died and the priest was totally free even from the unexpected. Elena’s ‘guardians’, her angels as she called them, were too busy to spy on her, she felt free of their nerveshattering surveillance. More than ever, it was important not only to gather and preserve food and stick together in their common destiny; it was also imperative for the village to hide their products from the enemy who took careful stock evaluating his share. It was a tacit agreement in the village that not one seed of grain would go to the enemy if they could help it. Let them find their products and confiscate them, they had ways to fool them; they would offer the patrol wine, get them tipsy until everything looked rosy and they couldn’t even think of searching the house or the stable. The method didn’t always work. Winemaking was in process. Figs and raisins were drying in the sun on clean sheets spread on all available threshing floors. Walnuts and almonds, the hardest to work with, were out in the sun, as well; tomatoes were squeezed and the juice thickened in the sun to be put away for the winter. The wheat harvested and threshed in June, was taken to the flourmill and all legumes, their survival staple, were milled, dried and hidden in holes dug in basements. Carefully wrapped, the quince fruit was secured in deep, dark trunks; potatoes, garlic and onions were dug, the potatoes hidden and onions and garlic braided. In this hive of activity, always under the enemy’s observation, Elena made

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herself proud. She liked her part of the chores braiding basketfuls of onions and garlic heads that would hang all winter from the kitchen rafters. The palms of her hands were as rough as the soles of her shoes. The fishermen of the village, unsettled rather than share their catch with the enemy, spent their afternoons at the harbor cafes watching the Italian patrols watch them. The Italians were wise, they knew that the village was mainly a fishing village. Everyone missed the long strings of salted eel, octopus and codfish, stinking, but necessary for their existence hanging along the harbor. The fishing boats, freshly painted and secured side by side like a row of colorful teeth in their

grim, yet triumphant presence,

danced their

idleness in the breeze. Winter would soon be upon the fishermen with its gales and murderous seas. Nature did not understand man’s destructive ambitions or world domination, it listened to and obeyed the law of God who for millions of years had directed and distributed seasons and products. War was man’s disastrous business; nature was God’s peaceful perseverance. The war did seem to abate; fear of famine this time with foreign oppressors amongst them eating their way through homes and lives was anticipated with dread. By the end of September Elena began to feel restless. The weather still held brilliantly warm, the sun would not dim neither brilliance nor strength; mountain shadows on the harbor water lengthened at twilight leaving a nostalgic twinge as she watched the motionless expanse change to a color of lead. The almost imperceptible rumble at night, was the precursor of winter storms, rains and winds. Winter! The crickets’ song died, the wind, though still calm but not a breeze, brought no exotic songs from countries where there lights and no war or famine; where people sang and children played and went to school as children

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were supposed to do. Olive picking and the rains came simultaneously in October, and still no news about school, even for the village elementary school. It was up to the new authorities who waited for orders and teachers from Italy. Usually, when the rains came to the island it rained day and night for a month or even more and the farmers welcomed the relief they brought after a dry summer. Early rains meant ploughing and sowing; the seeds would stay in the ground all winter to sprout in the spring; but if it rained for too long the seeds would be washed away. Philip’s one and only olive tree, was majestic in size and produce; though he was teased about it because no one had just one olive tree, his tree’s size admittedly was a wonder to be admired. It was in his field someplace in the valley and even the oldest people couldn’t remember it ever being young, it was always old and gnarled and bore fruit for four olive trees, which meant that they would have enough oil to see them through the winter, plus some olives to cure. More than the lore, Elena loved the tree’s cave-like hole on its trunk, her personal hideout. It could easily fit two persons. Strange, she thought, a tree has always shown up whenever I feel particularly lonely and in need

privacy and some courage. Aristos, Nicky and Maria shook the lower branches of the tree and

beat

the higher ones with sticks. The olives dropped on the clean sheets spread under the tree; it took two days for the picking. Elena was allowed to pick the olives from the sheet and carry them to the large baskets strapped on the mules nearby. The load was then taken to the oil press whose owner kept one fifth for his fee; the sweet smelling golden liquid with the bitterness of the first

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squeeze, was secured or buried in clay urns and covered until needed. The sweetish/tart odor of the oil press brought back fond memories of childhood and her old friend, Alex; she wondered about him, alone in Athens. Some of her other old friends were missing, like old Memos, long dead and lying next to his wife on the hillside. The rains came; it rained for weeks, a slow, even-tempered unending rain, silver threads that obliterated the distance between fields and sea. When the waters receded, harnessed cow and horse teams began the ploughing in earnest; behind the team, men labored with the plough blades glinting in the Autumn sun, much as their predecessors had for thousands of years. Their cries as they prodded the ploughing animals in the valley reached her in the loneliness of her hiding corner on the balcony. She followed the scudding clouds alongside the tips of the mountains, and watched the road for a sign of the messenger who would bring the much-anticipated news that schools were about to open. What will this winter bring? She wondered.

FALL 1941 When the news reached

them that schools were to open the end of October,

summer was officially over. Philip came home with the news and a sudden silence fell heavily into the room; even the children were still sensing that something was brewing; there was an almost palpable nervousness in the room as if fear had invaded and permeated the peace of the house. Aristos had attended school in the city the past winter; he had boarded with a nice family, who took care of him, or he took care of them as Elena maliciously began to think; but Aristos was one person, now they would need an apartment, furnishings, let

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alone school fees, and the city was one hour away by taxi. In the past, ambitious youngsters had been known to walk the distance daily crossing to the other side of the mountain and back, about six hours walk daily in all kinds of weather. Elena had met the uncle in Athens and heard the story of how he had gone to school that way. That was how he became a successful and respectable scientist; she feared and at times hated him because of the shots he gave her. Now that she had come face to face with the dilemma herself, she understood what he had gone through. The food shortage was a problem. The other was a serious housing shortage, since the city had been brutally punished by bombs and the occupation forces had taken over the biggest remaining buildings. It would be difficult to find a family who would take on a whole family as boarders. Philip was gloomy. It was obvious that he had discussed his problem with his friends who had advised him against sending a whole family to starve in the big city; instead, they offered, send the boys. Try to find a nice family to board them with. Education is wasted on girls, was the general idea. Relocating one family for the sake of a girl wasnâ€™t worth it.

Philip went home with those last words at the tip of

his tongue searing his mind. Elena heard and her knees got weak. Can he possibly think that he can get away with that? My mother will kill him. But what if he succeeds? There is no life without school, she thought swallowing tears and anger as one swallows burning coals. She walked out of the dining room. "Over my dead body," she heard Annaâ€™s calm voice. Anna looked at her brother straight in the eye, then they began to fight. Outside the door but within earshot, her daughter leaned against the dining room door; the exchanges

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were bitter and hurting like blows, she eavesdropped not to miss one word. It was a matter of life or death, it’s my life and future they are discussing in there, she kept thinking. The idea of spending the winter in the village behind closed doors and shutters isolated from the world, loomed in front of her eyes suddenly filling her with dread. Waiting for night, waiting for day, no books, no electricity, no human being to talk to unless one considered the children ‘human’ she mocked. Philip suggested that they apply to the school authorities to get permission for Aristos and Elena to study home and take the final exams. "That, my dear brother," Popi said pointedly, "occurs only on university level." Years before, when it was her time to leave they had the same discussion. Now she spoke up, against the established unjust ‘rules’! Because she was the expert. "You keep out of it," her brother shouted. "I won’t, I’m going with them, and you have no idea what you are talking about. The children must attend school," she emphasized the ‘must’, "they need books to study; they must do research at the Library. We are now

under another

country’s educational system. They know much more than what our mediocre system allows do and you are being ridiculous. The children are starting Latin this year, are you the one to teach them? And how about ancient Greek?" And Algebra, Elena threw her mental reinforcement from behind the closed door. "And Algebra," Popi finished as if she heard. Bravo, Aunt Popi, Elena congratulated her quick response. She could reach her with her thoughts, something she could never do verbally. "Algebra and Latin! Does a girl need those to get herself a husband? Why

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don’t you teach her how to sew and embroider a decent pillow to show some dowry someday..." Like your Maria, the balding spinster, Elena thought bitterly. "Aristos and Nicky are men, they need the education. I don’t have money to waste, we cannot make such sacrifices for something that will only be wasted when she marries and changes her name".

Elena grinded her teeth. Look what he

is thinking of, she murmured to herself feeling the contempt of his words crawl on her skin like a disease. She wept in the darkness of her corner. She was aware how men in the village felt about educated women, she just couldn’t see herself in that category; the revelation was a trauma, it was after all 1941, not the nineteen twenties, his attitude was disappointing. She had thought that he was above those petty biases. Only a fool can be that insensitive, she thought; uncle

Philip is educated. Philip, an intelligent man falling prey and

adhering to ‘tradition’? He would listen to any idiot in the village as long as the idiot wore pants...That was ‘honor’! She walked out onto the back porch. It had begun to rain again; just as well, the way she felt. The raindrops, thick and round splashed on the pergola’s flat leaves making little funny noises, then slid over the winter grapes onto the flagstones in the yard below. A cat mewed somewhere near the old stable

looking for shelter. Behind the door’s glass pane the flickering

flame of the oil wick lamp drew dancing shadows on the famished, somber faces sitting round the table. Lenaki, muddy from play, had fallen asleep on her mother’s lap.

The other children, small, prematurely old men and women,

listened and looked at each other, somberly, not understanding much. The rain on the tin roof of the porch was noisier, it drowned the voices inside the room. Elena saw her mother open her mouth; she pushed the door ever so

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slightly, certain that no one had missed her as yet. Hey hadn’t seen her tears, as if she didn’t exist, but the whole tiresome, sordid discussion was about her. No one could see her tears now. Her mother raised her face to talk to her brother. The sad smile on her face was more like a grimace accentuating wrinkles that weren’t there the last time she looked at her. Her bitterness made her look like an old woman disguised as her mother. "Let me tell you once more, Philip; even if I have to take to the streets begging, Elena goes to school." She got up to leave, but Philip wouldn’t let her have the last word. "Anna," he said a little more kindly, "this is different. We are at war, we are fighting for our lives, don’t you think it’s unfair to ask me to keep two households in two different parts of the island?" "Yes, it is unfair; and so is war and death and children dying of hunger, and we may not make it to the end. We all understand that. But I cannot ask Elena to sacrifice her education and forfeit her future, that is unfair, especially because you, an educated man, choose to accept the views of the ignorant part of the village that ‘education is wasted on a girl’! That is unfair", she shouted and pushed her chair; she had said all that was to be said. The subject was closed as far as she was concerned. But as she opened the door to the living room where her cot was, she turned to her brother and finished her thoughts. "In Greece school begins at the age of seven; at five Elena was in the first grade...she will not waste your money and effort, and remember, soon your daughters will be ready to go, too." She was gone. Philip bit his lip and ground his teeth; his wife was looking at him with

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apprehension. She had lost the thread of the discussion long ago and was upset. His stomach, his liver, his reputation, Elena thought mischievously, tears of joy running down her cheeks. Popi was still nodding approval and support, Elena hoped it wasn’t just drowsiness. Popi knew what it took. Her father who had fought equally vehemently against her own education, old now, was snoring peacefully in the apartment next door, oblivious to the bickering and his daughters’ bitter memories. "Going to school at five," he murmured just to have the last word, "doesn’t make her a doctor." He glanced at Popi but she looked the other way. Anna wasn’t through yet. She opened the door a crack, stuck her head out and hissed: "Perhaps it doesn’t, but with God’s help and my will, it just might. It just might..." she slammed the door then startling the children awake.

Philip

slighted, got up, and violently threw his chair on the floor. One of its legs rolled on the floor as he stomped outside into the wet evening cursing with all his might. The children scrambled to their feet and hurried to bed fearing a possible explosion. "Damn female education," he screamed for the whole village to hear, "and all the gods and saints you believe in including the Virgin and all the women she stands for...I try to keep you alive..." his voice broke. Cringing in the shadows almost crushed behind the door he threw open, Elena tried not to breathe; he was so close she felt his anger and his body heat. Inside the dining room both her aunts made the sign of the cross against the blasphemy their man had mouthed. Philip had lost a battle to a woman. Philip, who had fought the Turks in Asia Minor. He exited angrily and strode down to the coffee

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house, his personal refuge in the rain ‘for men only’. Elena slipped inside unnoticed, vindicated, a winner because of the two women in her life. Men, she thought wisely, one can’t trust them... God help us now, she murmured to herself as she made ready for bed. "Not if He heard your uncle’s cursing," Popi murmured and closed her door. She had heard.

Their possessions, such as they were, salvaged from their perilous voyage to the island, were strapped on top of the old ‘taxi’ circa 1928 still driven by the same man Elena remembered from childhood, now old and bent. He secured bags and suitcases on the roof and back grill of the vehicle with Philip's help and strapped some on the side steps. Cots, chairs and bedding would follow on mules or a cart after they had secured an apartment. Philip, grim and pale next to his younger sister stared ahead. She ignored him and squeezed next to the driver scowling, taking as little space as was possible. Her tightened knuckles held on to her precious bag. Her air of detachment suggested that she didn’t belong there. Aristos, Elena and Anna squeezed in the back seat among suitcases and a folded mattress. Underneath her coat which made her uncomfortably warm, Elena wore her best dress, which hid her precious diary; with the new glasses she could pass for a young lady off to a voyage of pleasure. Anna

looked at her and blessed

her young age that made Elena oblivious to the dangers of ancient brakes, hairline mountain curves and God only knew what lay ahead. The thoughts of those sharp turns from their doom at the

where with a quirk of fate they could tumble down to

bottom of a gorge, made her heart pound. She shuddered at

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the thought; there was no other way. She flinched as she remembered the scene with Philip. Her brother had the last word. "Since you have decided to commit suicide and drive us all to a financial ruin" he said bitingly, "you might as well take Aristos with you; you need someone with a level head to watch over you." Anna let it go at that. She wouldn’t fall into the trap he was leading her by answering him. "He is sending him to spy on us," Popi hissed. "Aristos has to go to school, too," Anna answered. Elena welcomed Aristos’ company; away from his father and the mediocrity of peasant mentality, among youngsters of his own age, and busy with his academic efforts, she was certain he would emerge as the smart boy he was, a little happier maybe. “God willing,” Anna continued, “Nicky will be going next year, too.” It hurt her leaving him behind and it showed. The sun wasn’t up when the taxi was cranked into motion. Their

neighbors

were all out to see them off. They gave them messages and small packets of food, dry fruit or ‘something for the road’, and wished them well. Philip ignored the commotion; he didn’t even look at the window. The trip was his defeat and those well-wishers out there were his constituents; he had suffered an embarrassing blow not only as a man but also as a public servant all because of his bullheaded widowed sister who seemed to have the sympathy of the female population of the village. The pregnant taxi staggered out of the village, swaying happily up the mountain like an intoxicated man swerving dangerously at each curve sending flutters in Anna’s heart. Behind that mountain all the way to the bottom by the sea lay the city that loomed to at least three of them as the ramparts of

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liberation. Thus began the first winter of their siege!

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “Sunday night. Everything is different in this town. Here life begins at about the time it ceases in the village. Curfew or not, young and old rush madly from all directions as if answering a secret summons to meet at the town’s square, the heart of the town. Back and forth they walk across the square in twos or threes, holding hands, laughing, arguing, talking, gesturing, men smoking, lads flirting. Italian officers, men women children take to their strolls as if answering to a dinner bell! This seems to be the only social activity for this ‘fenced-in’ town. Happy sidewalk cafes border

three palm-lined sides

of the square. The fourth side is occupied by the Italian Police, the Carabinieria. It is a tall, old Venetian building previously used by the Greek police. The Italians are now spying on the people from its many windows. This tradition of the evening walk on the piazza goes back centuries, my uncle said, it is a Western habit for ‘lazy people’ to socialize. Here in the city, people

actually use money, the newly

issued ‘Ionian lirettas’. This paper currency hasn’t reached our village yet. Its purpose is to discourage ‘illicit trade’ with the rest of the country. I forgot, we are not part of Greece. Everyone seems to anticipate and actually enjoy strolling. They move like a sea current, with certain flair, as they walk slowly crossing the square, always from north to south, I don’t know why, nodding, smiling,

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greeting those they pass. I watched from the side of the square; the monotony of the human wave movement made me slightly seasick, I was tired. I’ve been up since down and the ride wasn’t smooth; we were in that taxi forever! At curfew time there was a mad exodus. Am I expected to promenade here evenings when -and if- I become a fullfledged resident? And what about winter with the rain and cold. I should wonder if I will have any friends to walk with in the first place; time will tell. Today is Sunday; Monday might be a different story. Uncle Philip had a grimace on his face all evening as he watched the ‘idlers’ walk. He said it drove him mad. I asked him why he brought us there. "To impress upon you the futility and waste of human frivolity especially in time of war," he answered. We made our way to the hotel, I, skipping on the cobblestones singing in the local idiom I have already picked up a sort of sing-song lilt. My uncle held on to my hand so I don’t fall, and scolded me for being childish, a grown girl yet; he lectured me on my not so lady-like behavior. There was no one about to pay attention to my ‘antics’. They are blowing out the kerosene lamp; I will continue tomorrow, I have much to tell. My paper is dwindling fast; I worry that I might not find paper for my diary; still I must get notebooks for school! I hope I’ll be able to use some for my diary. What if that, too, is rationed; paper was always imported.”

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C H A P T E R

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) MONDAY “My first impression of this medieval city: Very romantic, though dark; it’s as if I have entered the pages of a fairytale picture book. The narrow lanes begin at the harbor and wind upwards to the top of a hill; two cobblestone roads wider than the lanes, run parallel to the harbor, the commercial part of the town. Here and there, results of human cruelty and stupidity: gaping holes where shops and homes used to be, filled now with the debris recent bombardments have left. I have seen pictures of Venice and Florence and the architecture of this, our city, is very much like the buildings of those cities. Vine covered porches on two storied ochre colored buildings, thick walls, recessed windows on the narrow lanes. Returning to the hotel with my uncle last night, I had a weird feeling that we were followed by ghosts, maybe it was the ruins of the buildings whose remnants still block many roads, or the people who were killed in them; or the strangers, the Venetians who had built those castle-like homes centuries before. Our steps echoed eerily in the dark landscape; Palm trees still stand along the street tall and stately. According to Uncle Philip, they may be the only things standing in ‘this whole damn city.’ I was practically sleepwalking by the time we reached the hotel. It was a long day, and darkness and hunger took heir toll. Before my eyes were closed I overheard my uncle talking with my

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mother. "I gave her a lesson tonight; I hope she doesn’t forget it." I had no time

to analyze that piece of information but from the silence

that followed, I could guess my mother’s reaction in the darkness: she was either nodding, asleep, or stunned. ”I don’t want her strolling evenings with those idiots, not unless Aristos is with her." After that I literally passed out. Today I feel much better, hungry, but better. We have already eaten everything our neighbors gave us and I don’t know what we will do for our next meal because there is no kitchen facility in the hotel and if there ever were restaurants in this town they probably aren’t open for business now, we have no lirettas to buy anything even if they were open. The only luxury of this ‘hotel’ is the harbor. We are right by the water. It’s an old structure built for travelers stepping off the boat or boarding it. There are no boats now except Italian war ships and the only ‘guests’ who use the hotel are the traders who park their donkeys at the front door and expect a bed for the night. The beds are on a first come first served basis and if there is no bed in one room you move to another, or if all beds in the rooms are taken, one brings a portable cot in the room that has the least guests. In other words, move over buddy, or cover your feet, they stink! Hotel services don’t exist, I wouldn’t know what they are in the first place because I can’t remember, but Mom and my aunt and uncle complain and then they say, what do you expect, this is war... We are occupying the largest room which no one has bothered to

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clean; my mother had a fit. There is a musty smell of sea, unwashed bodies and socks, garlic and sweat spiked with wine. We use our own linen and towels but it makes us sick to watch bedbugs

stroll on the

clean white sheets. Aunt Popi argued with the hotel owner who simply told her to move to the other hotel if we don’t like it. His sarcasm is stupid,

the other ‘hotel’ has been razed by

bombs, the owner is

now occupied with the black market, a more profitable business. In the daylight the room seems to have retained something from each of the past visitors through the years; the perpetual odor of garlic, fish and wine, the bloody tracks of bedbugs slaughtered on the walls, the blackness of the floor which started out apparently as wood, the room’s history. The spiders are current. When I opened my eyes I was disoriented. Mom had secreted a small spirit stove, and cooked corn

meal that

tasted like paper glue, but

at least it was food. But when I got up, I noticed a stranger sleeping on a cot close to the balcony doors; I thought it was Uncle Philip who snored. And just as if he were in his own house, he got up and left discreetly without a word, an apology or even washing his face. He had slept with his clothes on and looked seedy. I would have slept with my clothes on had I known that we shared our room with a stranger but no one had bothered to tell me that they were renting beds, not rooms! No wonder my mother was acting as if there was no one else in the room but us. What’s the use of asking for explanations! Uncle Philip said that we must hurry, go out looking for an apartment and anyway, ‘we asked for it’. He misses his coffee and is irritable.

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When Aristos left for school he took off to look for a place, my mother went with him. Aunt Popi attacked the room with vehemence. I sat on the balcony to avoid her brooms and dust rags. The glass panes have been blown off, the doors are hanging on their hinges. The Italian boats, dark and threatening, further out in the harbor, keep the port busy; of course, they mean war. But still, it’s traffic! People are going to their business, and I feel I am the loneliest person in a world I can’t yet understand. At some point today, I expect someone to tell me that it’s time we went to school. After all, isn’t it what this is all about? I think!"

Gutted homes, empty, gaping stores, weeds already sprouting in the ruins; paths and lanes torn, sores on a deceased, rotting body. The harsh etchings were intensified by the unkind daylight which shows the ugliness of war scars and human brutality; especially as it began to rain and the grayness of the sky seeped into every crack identifying depressing shadows. Children hurried to school, men rushed to work, those who still had a job or a store or a service to perform. The Italian occupation authorities had taken over the civil services, schools, and public works. If one needs

work,

he has to work for them. Most shops were closed because of lack of goods and imports, supplies were quickly exhausted or confiscated. Barbershops and churches stayed open and were busy because they were not dealing in merchandise. Some coffee houses offered ersatz ‘coffee’, roasted chickpeas and the coffee aficionados fooled themselves just because they sat on the sidewalk

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cafes recalling the past and avoiding thinking of their present and future bleak life. Toward evening the rain stopped and it got chilly. There was a south stiff wind coming from the sea that turned the water in the harbor dark and foamy. Gusts of cold wind whistled mournfully through the loose window frames and the cracks of bombed houses. In the morning Elena walked to school with her mother and uncle. The wind lashed at her bare legs, her feet grew cold. They crossed the town, walked the torn streets, and passed churches with tall spires and gardens of spruce trees in backyards. Dark, tall and forbidding Venetian houses made her wander if people and homes breathed. They were so squeezed and so tall! The windows were narrow and deep, one could hardly guess the glass panes; she wondered if air got into the rooms, they were massive, no space in between, walls seemed impregnable. They were, her uncle assured her, protected! "The city was once surrounded by a wall, actually a fortress because of pirates’ frequent forays. Walls are crumbling now; you can see some of the guardhouses that used to be on the top of those walls. Now they are under the sea..." "I saw them in the village," Elena told him. "The same ruins at the shore. We used to climb up and dive from there." He nodded. “The big castle in the middle of the island still stands, almost intact,” he continued. “It was the shelter for the people of the surrounding villages when pirates attacked. You can see the castle, it still stands." "I would think that these would be enough protection." Elena murmured pointing at the high walls of the houses.

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"Not against cannonballs," her mother said. Elena looked at the adorned porticos, time mellowed but crumbly. Maybe this city was haven for the Venetians, she thought, but how do the twentieth century Greeks feel about these houses so narrow and gloomy like dungeons? She wished they could find an apartment facing the water. "In time of war," her wise uncle said, "the harbor is not a safe place to live, stop being romantic." There might be sailors passing under our balcony, Elena thought but said nothing. "If Italian or German ships come into the harbor," her uncle explained, "the Allies would bomb them. Homes will inevitably be hit." Elena shuddered; too many new and mostly crazy things crowded her mind.

The Girlsâ€™ Gymnasium was a rich ship ownerâ€™s mansion which he had willed to the city upon his death.

It was situated in the best part of the town where the

Philharmonic and the Museum were, and the very rich modern homes hidden behind luscious gardens. The Public Library and various foreign diplomatic services were close by as well and so was the Academy of Arts, an Italian Institution run by the catholic nuns. Rumors had it that it was actually an espionage center. It was an impressive neoclassical building partly hidden by stately palm trees behind the high walls. Perhaps it was only a center for the arts, but it was wartime and the enemy were their compatriots; imaginations ran wild. Elena remembered the hospital at the end of the wide Avenue where her mother almost died years before. "There is also the orphanage," her uncle said, "and the prison," his face soured, "and the clinic for the mentally unstable, all endowments of

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someone or other who immigrated to Rumania and Russia penniless sometime last century and returned very rich. They left their money to the city for this purpose." "They are far from the city," Elena said. Then she thought of the daily trek to school she would face, almost that far. "These are institutions, Elena," her mother reminded her. "The stigma still exists. People donâ€™t want to see mental cases or a tubercular, or uniformed orphans in the middle of the city, and such a snobbish city at that..." The school seemed too somber for a mansion. The black rails sharp and fearful reminded her of a cemetery, the walls, of a prison. Even with the trees inside the yard and the many windows it looked lifeless. There are no children, she thought thatâ€™s why. "They are in class," her uncle said noticing the quiet. He and Anna went to the office, Elena waited in the hallway lonely and scared. Soon her mother and uncle followed the dour faced principal to his office and Elena waited in the hall. She was scared, lonely and unhappy. When the principal came out, she gathered from

his silent look that she was to follow him and walked behind him

feeling the walls closing in on her. He opened a heavy door, pushed her inside, gave some papers to the teacher and left without a word. The girls sat straight on their black wooden desks staring at her; they wore their black uniforms and white collars, boy scout stockings and hair pushed back severely. They looked like little nuns. Elena lowered her eyes feeling swallowed by a hostile void. She looked over their heads for a vacant desk. Some of the girls were fat, some thin, short or tall, mostly blond, but

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not as hungry looking or emaciated as her schoolmates in Athens.

They were

checking the newcomer openly curious. Each desk was occupied by three girls. One desk at the corner was occupied by one girl; a big, dark girl. Her fierce looks made her look like a boy; her eagle eyes made Elena uneasy. The short teacher came down from his platform, took Elena by the hand and walked toward that girl who moved to give her room to sit. Sitting quietly, Elena concentrated on listening to the lesson already in progress, but felt the stares of thirty pairs of eyes on her, their faces blank. Under their scrutiny her palms got sweaty; she didn’t know what to do with her hands, she pushed her glasses higher on her nose, one girl giggled; Elena felt like crying, or running away. No one else in the class was wearing glasses. She was being sucked-in by a vacuum. As the teacher proceeded with his lesson, Elena recognized the Cretan idiom but in his mouth it somehow lost the beauty of the sound which suddenly became false and idiotic. He often interrupted his instruction to scold the girls using arrogant and sometimes inexcusable expressions. Mostly, she thought, he yelled without reason. Elena remembered the Summer Cretan teachers in Athens so kind and gentle, the last one a war hero, not at all like this one from the same island! Timid and scared as she was, she still managed to make an unforgivable mistake. When questioned by the teacher about the snake’s mating habits, all the girls cringed and giggled but kept their mouths shut. But when he turned to Elena, she got up to answer then sat down and was instantly aware of hostile

glares. She looked back at them somehow intimidated; she didn’t

understand why they had not answered. The teacher said acidly: "And what is wrong with that answer? Only the new girl knew it, that’s

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what!" Elena realized then that for a newcomer, she blew it by showing off. The tall fierce girl next to her ignored Elena; then slowly, quietly, she picked up her hand and stuck her index finger into the ink well. "Traitor!" she hissed. "Try raising that finger again to offer an answer."

Hot tears of embarrassment rolled down Elena’s cheeks. She wiped her

finger in her handkerchief careful not to be seen. The whisper of the girl next to her was hoarse, but for the uniform, Elena would have thought that she was sitting next to a boy with tobacco stained fingers. Girls were permanently expelled if caught smoking. She felt the teacher’s presence next to her in the frightening silence that followed. "Anastasia," the teacher yelled, "you are a filthy swine!” Elena was struck dumb, what kind of a school did she get into, how can a science professor speak like that to a student? Anastasia squirmed and got her great awkward body half out of the desk in mock respect. She pointed the tobacco stained finger at him. "Excuse me, professor, Sir," she said with her bass throaty voice, a heavy smoker’s voice, "as one swine to another, have a little respect, will ya?" The girls giggled, the teacher looked apoplectic. Elena sat speechless. She had never heard of a student talking back to a professor and in that manner! "How dare you?" The teacher screamed at Anastasia with a shrill voice. "Because your father is the mayor you think you can act like an insolent fool?" "Correction!" Anastasia was up again, this time faster. "Ex-Mayor! He gave up the honor so he wouldn’t have to salute every fascist pig as you do. As for insolence, like teachers like students, I say!" She sat back in triumph,

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amid the pandemonium of applause from her classmates. The teacher left the room and a few minutes later he was back with the principal who took Anastasia out and the class waited in silence. When the teacher returned alone and tried to pick up where he had left off, no one paid attention to him. Soon Anastasia returned and sat down. "Were you punished?" Elena whispered. "Me? Punished? I told the bastards off...fuck his daughters..." Elena gasped; the girls behind her giggled, the whole class exchanged meaningful glances that confused and shocked Elena. One surprise after another! By two o’clock when school was out, she had enriched her vocabulary with a few obscene words, some local idioms and the nicknames of most teachers. The latter did not surprise her; at least one of the teachers she had seen that day was a barbarian, to put it kindly.

At two thirty, Elena, hysterical and out of breath climbed the hotel stairs two at a time and fell on the bed sobbing. "What’s wrong?" her uncle asked worried. Elena pointed to the balcony. Philip didn’t even open the doors because of the cold draught; he raised the grayish curtain and looked out from the missing glass panes cursing under his breath. "Holy Mother of God," he said out loud. "The city’s boys population is down there. What did you do?" "What do you mean ‘what did I do’?" she cried. "How do I know...I know no one, I spoke to no one...I did nothing..." she whimpered. "Do you call this nothing?" her uncle was yelling at her pointing at the

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balcony. “Boys don’t follow girls unless they are encouraged. You must have provoked them." Elena continued to cry; she didn’t understand him. Her day was a disaster, she was blamed for things she didn’t know existed, and her mother had gone out with her aunt to look for an apartment. When Elena crossed the square in the middle of the town, the boys streaming out of the Boys’ Gymnasium began to call her names, she was a stranger, she asked to be taunted. Frightened, she began to run. The provocation was too much for them; that was all they needed, they ran after her. Philip opened the balcony doors and looked at them with anger. They didn’t budge. "Go home!" he ordered with a stern voice. Some boys answered back with a few nasty words of their own, but then Aristos showed up around the corner rushing into the crowd. He threw a few punches, pushed some of them and managed to disperse them. "He is looking after his girlfriend," one of them shouted back for which he got a stone right in the face. Once upstairs his father looked at him expecting an answer. "What was that all about?" he asked. "Nothing," Aristos said. "Nothing? That was nothing?" "Sometimes they get wild when a stranger comes to town, one not from the island I mean, especially a girl." "But I am from this island," Elena protested. "They don’t know that...they usually follow you once or twice then you begin to belong so they don’t bother."

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"That’s it!" she cried. "I’m not walking out of here any more." "I’ll pick you up after school for a few days," Aristos said quietly and she hated him for being a little old man at thirteen. She hid her head under the pillow and cried. "Tell me," Philip asked his son, "do they also follow boys, or this welcoming committee is reserved for girls only?" “Come on, father, why would they follow boys? If they do it they are only really for a stone fight, you know, rock throwing, bash a few heads battle. It’s nothing I tell you, it will blow

over."

"You have two sisters who will eventually face this”. "By that time things may be different," Aristos offered. That is a good education I’m getting, Elena thought listening to them hidden beneath the pillow. And to think that I fought so hard to come here!

It took two weeks to find an apartment. It was on the second story of an old building, a relic of the Venetian era like all other buildings, one of two still standing on the narrow congested lane amid the debris just what Elena hadn’t wished for! The lane connected the main road with the harbor. The first floor was occupied by a jewelry store, whose door was on the main cobblestone street that bore the marks of centuries of traffic. The dark cavity next to the store, was a sad reminder of the house that had been erased by a bomb. It was now occupied by rats. Elena stood in front of the house admiring the carvings on the impressive door, a door double the size of any other she had seen. A copy, if not an original, of the medieval castle doors just as she had seen them in history

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books; only the moat was missing, she thought. Dark ages! But she didn’t want to live in that era when houses had windows that looked like slits on the

gray

stone where men were always warring and cities were under siege. "I will not survive it," Popi sighed coming alongside her. "If bombs and starvation don’t kill me, this will." "Stay at the hotel, then," her brother snapped bitingly, "share the room with the smelly peasants; or you can stay with us in the village.” Popi turned her face to look at the harbor; her brother didn’t see the tears. In her mind she was planning her escape. The door wouldn’t give. Centuries of winds and storms had rusted nails and brass, and fossilized the hinges. It took the strength of all of them to open a small aperture so they could insert a crowbar. "All it needs it a little oil," Philip said slipping inside and pushing the door open. The foyer, whose walls and floor were gray stone slabs, opened to another heavy door. The keyhole was as big as Elena’s fist. The key hung on the wall; it was about a foot long and could very well pass for a weapon. She would never be able

to open that door.

"No one ever used it;"

her uncle said. "There was no need, I bet it’s

rusty, too. I’m afraid that now you may have to use it.”

Elena laughed. No one

could go around carrying that heavy iron. The dark, winding stairs, also a 15th century relic, led to a dungeon she was sure, she inhaled deeply and walked up the steep steps. This is our prison, she thought again swallowing the lump in her throat. A long narrow gallery that must have seen days of glory, connected their ‘apartment’ with the beauty parlor at the front of the building. At some time in its long history, when the

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gallery had windows, it must have looked nice, but after the bombs were through with it, the open wood frames made the entire hallway look like a toothless old hag. "Elena," her uncle interrupted her daydreaming. "Go back to the hotel and tell the porter to load our things and bring the cart. You are moving here." "Not now," her mother said, "not without cleaning first." "You clean after you move in; no use staying another night in that dump; your things are out in the yard getting wet. And I must get back to the village. Look! you have an apartment, the children

are in school, now try to

settle down as best you can. It’s war..." Elena left them quickly; the hotel was only two blocks away and she couldn’t stand their bickering. She had accepted the new state of affairs, it was the destiny of the whole world and she had no choice, neither did they, no matter how they nagged. The damp salty air struck her face. Sweet memories of summer. How kind summer is, she thought, light, warm...Aristos was coming around the corner to meet her.

The porter carried the wet possessions up into the dank rooms that seemed to smell of gunpowder, dust and century-old mold. Elena walked the length of the gaping gallery-hallway and looked down into the gray wet world. Across from where she stood were square colorful patches that once were rooms, maybe children’s rooms. Maybe a girl like me slept here and she was killed. This city is full of ghosts. The fireplace on the first floor showed its still standing blackened chimney, ridiculously intact among the ruins; another ghost! She stopped cold, her heart beating wildly, in front one of those ruined windows.

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My God, she thought, what is this, but she knew what it was. Surrounded by debris, half burned ruins and God knows what else, wedged half in, half out of the ground was a an unexploded bomb! Its exposed side faced the patch of gray sky, it’s looking at me, she thought in panic and pulled back in terror but checked her immediate reaction to scream. She had seen pictures of bombs, but one does not admire their sight window-shopping! Was anyone aware of its existence?

Gently, she tiptoed away from the window expecting a momentary

explosion and instant death. The porter came out of the room on his way to re-load. He saw her flat against the wall near the door, pale and terrified as if she had seen a ghost. She had, a deadly one! "She’s good ‘n dead, ain’t bothering nobody," he told her pulling his heavy handcart and scarring the old, magnificent floor. "She’s been there a year already. Three of’em. The other two went off; killed the old woman they did. She didn’t like shelters, ‘fraid someone would steal her trinkets and diamonds...well, someone did,

anyways..." he laughed and went downstairs.

Elena couldn’t help sneaking another look. What if it decided to go off this minute and sent them all to an early grave. Should she believe the man? What if it went off in the middle of night? "What if it goes off now"? She called after the man as he was maneuvering his way downstairs. She couldn’t see him anymore but she could hear him. "The old woman maybe back from the dead," he yelled back from his dark corner on the stairs, "but that lemon will stay there forever.” "Why didn’t it explode?" she wondered out loud. "Maybe the guy who made it was somebody like us," Aristos said. She hadn’t seen him slip out of the room. He did spooky things like that.

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"Who? What do you mean?" "I mean that not all Italians wanted war; they have nothing against us, maybe one of those who make bombs missed a few screws or something by mistake do you understand?" He winked as if to make it clearer. She had understood, and felt better; not that Aristos was a war expert, but he associated with grown men and heard things that were wiser than what she heard which usually left all decisions to God and prayer. She followed him into their new apartment; it was empty and smelly. The old chilly walls closed in on her, their uneven stones stared back at her unforgiving. Goodbye sun, she thought with sadness, goodbye fresh air... ‘all hope abandon ye who enter...’ The world outside was cold and damp, the one inside cold, damp and confining. But there were windows, high, deep seated; one would have to climb on a chair just to open or close them. The outlook of a winter in the two cold, dark rooms and a primitive kitchen facing the narrow lane, with electricity shut off evenings at 8, was dismal. The howling wind swept up from the harbor whistling through the ruins and the ancient shutters rapped against the crumbling fortress walls almost day and night. I shouldn’t be ungrateful, Elena thought, or I will end up like my aunt. How many children and elderly people don’t have even this? And how many are not alive to wish for something like that? With those brave thoughts she took stock of the rooms and decided where her cot would be, that is if Aristos didn’t object.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “We moved in today; it’s raining, so what else is new. I’m wet and cold. The apartment is a hundred times better than the stinking

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‘hotel’ room. The front room were we enter, is now called ‘dining room’ we have one table and four chairs and there is a beautiful built-in cupboard. Now, Mom said, all we need is some food and it will fit its name. The room has a door leading to an open square, something like an unfinished room;

with a little imagination we can

call it ‘terrace’. Rusty tins and dried plants are piled in one corner and on the other side stands a walled-in outhouse with its high stoop and a toilet of sorts. This corrugated tin structure is too ‘modern’ to be Venetian; it

must have been painted blue once,

some blue strips are still evident; rust makes surrealistic patterns, intricate lines and holes. I can imagine having to go to the bathroom in a hurry! A winter of comfort! Feet attacked by drafts, head rained on. Oh, those Venetian fathers who have planned this city didn’t they have bodily needs? Didn’t they need space, air, and closets? And the Greeks who kept rebuilding this monstrosity couldn’t they make it more permanent, more practical, more hygienic? The bedroom is square, small with high walls; the two narrow windows are recessed so that one cannot look out unless one climbs onto the sill. I guess we must do this twice every day just to open and close them. Aristos hammered nails on the walls and behind doors to hang our clothes. The mirrored wardrobes and chest of drawers are in Athens (too costly to move them and the way we traveled they would have never made it). The kitchen is something between a medieval hovel and a caveman’s hideout. It was originally made for wood burning and ‘modernized’ at

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some point to burn coal. There is a large, cave-like hole underneath apparently for storing wood. I stooped to look into the blackness. Surprise! Buried under sprigs and trash was a small radio, our radio! At least it was much like ours; I was sure Mom surrendered it when the Germans ordered us to before we came to the island. I don’t dare tell anyone, or ask. A hidden radio means certain death. Is my mother so crazy? My aunt? Not her, surely not her. That’s why I’m scared. We are now settled and I got my corner for my cot. The two sisters who operate the beauty parlor in the front of the building on our floor came to meet us; they invited us to use their balcony which overlooks the main street whenever we feel closeted! I thought it strange that in

such tragic times with no money for luxuries,

there are people who still think of permanent waves. But as I listened to their discussion pretending I was doing homework I learned that those who now afford this ‘frivolity’ are not the rich but the peasants. I looked up when the younger sister said the word ‘peasants’ with such distaste that her nose turned funny, sort of wrinkled; I couldn’t help giggling. Mom turned around with a nasty look so I stopped laughing and began to work. I didn’t know those things. Our peasants that I have so admired, forgotten for centuries by God and man, safely tucked away and isolated in their ignorance, illiteracy and poverty, have now come into an unprecedented prominence; they produce the food! The aristocracy in their fortresses suddenly realized that they cannot eat silver tea services, velvet drapes, marble tables, or grand pianos; these

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valuable items are now making a solemn one-way voyage to the villages beyond the ancient castle on the hill. What are they going to do with those things in their huts, is anybody’s guess. I can understand the up-to-now aristocracy

being consumed by distaste;

but they are hungry. They, too, are the losers in this war. A very big change, the four women in the dark, cold room concluded. The upper class was losing control; they will be in obscurity now. I wonder who to ask about those strange sounding prophecies without sounding ridiculous, rude or stupid. I wonder if I am still considered ‘a girl’ who should be seen and not heard. Why are these women speaking so freely in front of me? They, too, are females, like me, the younger barely out of her teens. Only she is a working female and I am nothing!

It was an endless winter of short days, long, cold nights and enemy soldiers patrols, their boots an echo of fear on deserted streets and lanes. Sea winds isolated the island making it inaccessible. Those cold days when the wind howled and shutters banged against wet walls and the people stayed inside, the two beauticians, having nothing to do, would sit by the hot brazier huddled in a blanket. A few feet away, Elena and Aristos would be doing their homework listening to the four women as they spoke in hushed voices. Parts of their whispered discussion reached the ears of the children. Elena strained her ears but Aristos paid no attention; Elena was not

familiar with what the women were

talking about, she couldn’t help eavesdropping, it was the peasants; the

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peasants she loved, their favorite subject; girls, finally overcoming shyness, to get out of years of subservience and isolation, cold or rain, walk to the city, maybe for the first time, get their hair done; to be connected to the ugly electrical cords of the permanent wave machines. They cut their life-long braids and with them, the bond of slavery to the soil and the barn, and emerged twentieth century young women, a competition to the city girls, a ‘threat’ to young men of marrying age. "The poor girls," exclaimed the older beautician, "all they know throughout their lives are pigs, farms, mud, olive picking, grapes; who is to teach them to read, to write. I feel sorry for them." And what is wrong with that? Elena wondered; it’s a beautiful life. "How about social behavior?" Popi added, "manners and poise, they have no poise". "How do they get the money for their hair?" Elena couldn’t help the question. "Are you through with your homework, Elena?" her mother was alert. "If so, there are still the dishes, go heat some water". Elena closed her books and went into the dimness of the cold kitchen.

Even from there, she could creep

near the door and listen. It was no use. At one point she had explained to her mother that she wanted to know more about her island, its history and people. Her mother said: "I try to inject you with culture and knowledge because God knows I had very little, and you care only for the soil, for the peasants. No matter what I do or say, you will always be a peasant, it's in your blood." Elena had felt good about it. The day Popi had the floor she was a bit cross and didn’t care to hide

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her irritation or lower her voice. "Social chaos," she declared, "mark my words, there will be bloodshed if they believe that they will replace the aristocracy. Social changes do not occur at a moment’s notice.

She sniffed wrinkling her nose; Anna coughed

loudly and Aristos in mock seriousness whispered in Elena’s ear: "See what you women do? The world will come to an end because of your permanent waves." She kicked him under the table. “Shush,” he mocked, “this is politics, very important.” They giggled. Anna looked at them steadily. Elena translated that look: What does this girl of mine want from me? She saw her mother shake her head suggesting the notebook. Elena grabbed a few roasted chick peas and turning her back at the company began to work.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “Aristos doesn’t have to take me to school; Anastasia took me under her wing. No adult, or boy dares cross her path. I was not thrilled with her protective attitude, she makes me very uncomfortable, I don’t know why. Mama cannot explain my discomfort, she seems less enlightened than I; she laughed when I confided to her that I couldn’t understand if Anastasia is a boy or a girl. As for my aunt, she is against my having any friends at all; they will ‘corrupt’ me! Her prejudices alone could isolate me from any friends, even from Anastasia. One look at Anastasia’s dark eagle eyes beneath those ferocious eyebrows, the tobacco stained fingers, the boyish haircut and the way she walks, will convince anyone that

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the ‘girl’ in her is lost somewhere. She has a girl’s name, she goes to an all girls’ school, but wears no bra though her breasts sag miserably under her uniform, like the rest of us, only we do wear one. She is as graceful as a broomstick and her Boy Scout socks and boys’ shoes don’t help. She is the only girl in town who wears her uniform on Sundays. The rest of us can’t wait to be rid of it. The school snobs respect Anastasia, maybe out of fear because her father was the mayor for many years; behind her back they speak with distaste about her hermaphroditic state and giggle. They don't confide in me either, they found out that I am two years younger than they are and they treat me like a child. I don’t snitch on them, I have heard of many a boy in town with a broken nose from Anastasia’s powerful fist. She has no friends and is jealous, possessive, tyrannical and a cynic; She also has a nasty temper. She has already given me a hard time because I played with other girls at recess. What I hate most is that she pats my legs under the desk something I could not understand at first since my information from home did not include explanation of such behavior. I wondered what made her decide to be my guardian angel. Maybe she is lonely or feels sorry for me because I am still considered a stranger and boys tease me. Now, as I slowly begin to fit into the school environment and the girls accept me by and by and I accept and use the local idiom much to my mother’s and aunt’s concern, I try to avoid Anastasia as much as I can; it’s not easy but I believe that after today I will be free of her unsolicited

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‘protection’, and that, through a stroke of luck. Some luck! It left me black and blue. The girl is crazy. In last week’s French test, I let her copy from my paper but she copied wrong because she hadn’t studied, she never studies. When the French teacher graded our papers, Anastasia’s grade didn’t even come near mine; she thought that I tricked her on purpose and waited for me after school. That giant of a girl, or whatever she is, fell on me like a cyclone. If the other girls hadn’t been quick to call a teacher, she would have killed me. I told Mom that I fell off a tree, but I will never tell her that my friendship with Anastasia is over (at least I hope so). She will not understand.”

(THE VICTORY OF THE AXIS AND THE YIELDING OF THE IONIAN ISLANDS TO ITALIAN OCCUPATIONAL FORCES BROUGHT A QUASI-STATE OF ITALIAN CITIZENSHIP TO THE ISLANDS. IN 1941 THE ISLANDERS WERE THIRD CLASS ITALIAN CITIZENS; SCHOOLS WERE UNDER THE JURISDICTION OF THE ITALIAN MINISTRY OF EDUCATION VIA ITS OFFICES IN THE ISLAND OF CORFU; THE PRIORITY WASN’T EDUCATION BUT THE INDOCTRINATION OF THE GREEK CHILDREN INTO FASCISM. HOWEVER, THE IONIAN STUDENTS DID NOT ENJOY ANY OF THE BENEFITS AND PRIVILEGES -WHICHEVER THOSE WERE- THE CHILDREN IN THE ITALIAN MAINLAND ENJOYED. LACK OF GREEK TEACHERS, EDUCATIONAL MATERIAL AND THE EVER PRESENT FATHOM OF HUNGER, MINIMIZED THE EDUCATION FURTHER. TEXTBOOKS, IF ONE WAS LUCKY ENOUGH TO FIND A BOOKSTORE OR MONEY TO BUY BOOKS, WERE REMNANTS OF THE PRE-WAR GREEK DICTATOR WHO HAD UNEDUCATED, COARSE NATIONAL SECURITY POLICE CENSOR TEXTBOOKS, MATERIAL AND THE TRANSLATED CLASSICS; THEY

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BANNED THOSE THEY THOUGHT DANGEROUS TO THE YOUNG MINDS, OR SIMPLY TORE OFF PAGES FROM HOMER, SOPHOCLES, ARISTOPHANES AND OTHERS THE DICTATOR DID NOT AGREE WITH OR HAD NO IDEA WHAT THEY WERE ABOUT. VISIONARY TEACHERS CONSIDERED ‘DANGEROUS,’ WERE ‘RE-APPOINTED’ TO REMOTE MOUNTAINS TO TEACH OR WERE EXILED TO VARIOUS ISLANDS FOR THE DURATION. WITH FEW EXCEPTIONS, MEDIOCRITY WAS WHAT THE STUDENTS WERE PROVIDED WITH. TEACHERS HAD A ROUGH TIME. TO THE STUDENTS THEY APPEARED AS COLLABORATING WITH THE ENEMY, AND MANY WERE; TO THE ENEMY THEY WERE CHATTELS WHO EITHER SALUTED AND MADE THEIR STUDENTS SALUTE OR WERE THOUGHT OF AS NOT FIT TO TEACH AND WERE SENT HOME IF NOT IN JAIL. THE FACT THAT MANY A GREAT MIND ESCAPED THE THORNS AND CHAINS OF WARTIME EDUCATION AND BECAME SHINING FIGURES IN ART AND SCIENCES AND EDUCATION, IS A

MIRACLE THAT CAN ONLY SIGNIFY THE

TENACITY OF A PEOPLE TO WITHSTAND AND INDEED OVERCOME DEFEAT, OPPRESSION AND OTHER EQUALLY FORMIDABLE SITUATIONS AND EMERGE VICTORIOUS).

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “March 25, 1942! If I live to be one hundred year’s old, I will never forget this day, our National Holiday. No one told us to wear blue and white that day instead of our usual school uniform, or that we must be exceptionally quiet during the first National holiday under an enemy who intends to make us forget who we are. We lined up in front of the school staff, Italians and Greeks, idle arms stuck to our side; we chanted the morning prayers, but behind our eyelids we harbored bitterness and hate. Hungry and resentful we passed the scrutiny of the scowling faces of our teachers, right

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arm dutifully raised in the fascist salute, without blinking, and walked to our class to face the other outrage: Mussolini’s portrait above the teacher’s desk alongside the icon of Jesus Christ blessing us. Mussolini is fat and scary with his chin stuck out, angry! No one paid any attention to Ancient Greek or Math; our minds were elsewhere: there were songs in our hearts unsung, Memories of parades

fireworks and dances, remembrances that hurt.

Will we ever see those days again, or are we all to die? The principal’s face looked uglier than Mussolini’s this morning; he has a sullen face, enough to erase noble thoughts and happy memories. Maybe it’s because he is a fifth columnist, he even has a fitting nickname: ‘Praetor’. It fits him to a T. Everyone in town knows that when his only son was killed in an air raid he said: ‘If the Third Reich wins, my son didn’t die in vain’. That man is in charge of our education. Still, with his devotion to the Third Reich, the ‘new era’ and all, he was not treated as he expected, the ‘new era’ thanked him by demoting

him to the position of

assistant principal. I don’t think he expected that, but as a divine retribution, it made us happy. Especially because as an ultimate insult, he is replaced by an Italian. What is worse, the new Italian principal, is a woman! Signorina Maria Vittoria Tescari. When she isn’t around, the praetor takes his frustrations out on us. He curses and insults us and pulls our braids as we walk to our classrooms; that hurts! On occasion, he slaps one of us if by some unfortunate misstep we pass too close to him, the girls are

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afraid to complain. If he ever does that to me, my mother would cut his hand off. As things are now, we enjoy his misery as he stands by the Italian lady, next in command, his hand raised in salute, dying to kick or slap one of us if our knee-high stockings are not dark enough to his requirements or just for his sadistic fun. Signorina

Tescari has informed him, I heard through the grapevine,

that medieval practices are forbidden in ‘her’ school. We pass him, dutifully raise our hand like the little fascists we are, and discreetly stick our tongues out at him. What happened today I will not confide even to my diary. It is too much; it burns and elates me, I want to shout, nothing can be described here. On the other hand, what if someone reads this.

When she walked to school that morning Elena felt strangely lonely and her stomach hurt; not only she could feel, but could touch the emptiness in it. A fresh March wind ruffled the water in the harbor a little breaking into small playful waves and as the sun came out;

slowly, all changed, took a new meaning,

color and freshness. Even the swallows flew low bringing messages of hope from the countries where they were wintering. ‘We are still slaves’, she told the birds as they pecked rooftops and edges of wrecked terraces and balconies looking for the old nests. ‘You are homeless, like us, she continued her thoughts, ‘homeless’. Italian power boats patrolled the harbor; the drone of their engines filled her with dread, despite the hypnotic effect the warm sunshine brought. Dressed in her pre-war parade blue skirt and white blouse, wrapped around her emaciated body, she left the harbor and walked uphill to

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school. Suddenly she was surprised and delighted to see that every girl she met on the way was dressed like her, as if going to join the parade. She knew then that all is not lost and her courage returned, she looked at them, cheeks pale, bodies shrunk; maybe we look like little old women, she thought, and our bodies seem shorter than the year before, but hope still surges inside. That morning, Elena saw the reason why she could not, they could not, give up. That she could, they could, fight back. Later in the morning again without previous arrangement, all girls took to the streets after school in small groups holding hands and walked nervously toward the center of town and onto the empty square. There they stopped not knowing where to go, facing the building of the Italian police, where the green-uniformed men, the dreaded

carabinieri, watched them from the

upstairs windows; were they going to shoot? Should they stay? What would happen if they were all arrested? Did the Italians know that they were marching in celebration of their National Holiday? Well, that’s why we are here, Elena thought, this is not strolling time and we are not in school uniform. Strange she thought, that Signorina Tescari didn’t make a comment, didn’t even have the police in school. She grabbed the hand of the girl who walked next to her and the girl pulled the next one and, once again hand in and hand, they resumed their march feeling stronger in their rebellious defiance. Back and forth they walked silently, under the enemy’s widows, their hunger forgotten. In their own insignificant presentation of purpose, they were making a statement challenging the enemy and the enemy’s power over their lives. They felt dynamic in their youthful intoxication and when they heard the bugle, they were shocked to discover that they had been at it for hours and it was already sunset, time to lower the flag which

meant that they should disappear from the square unless

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they

wanted to stand at attention to salute Mussolini’s flag. On that day of

all days? Never! Every schoolchild and most adults tried to avoid the humiliating ritual and no matter how busy the square was, at bugle time it emptied miraculously, within seconds. That perplexed the Italians but they didn’t take any special measures to enforce the presence of the population at their flag’s lowering time. A few weeks before Elena had her first encounter with an Italian Marshall who caught her running when the band struck the first notes of the fascist anthem. He grabbed her and pulled at her long hair to stop her and began slapping her to force her to attention and to salute the flag. The tall buildings that separated them from the square two blocks away, hid flag and band, but she suffered her humiliation with her pride hurting, but not allowing the enemy to gloat.

Inwardly, she was praying he wouldn’t arrest her. She had

to be more careful, she decided, to make her exit discreetly; meaning not to wait until she heard the band, but to make her exit when she saw it coming.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “I am tired of eating polenta; I know I should be thankful to the humble corn meal supper we have most evenings when others are starving. But I miss a piece of bread, nice, warm, soft bread I can chew. The rationing has stopped sometime ago. It’s embarrassing to admit that I miss food so much; it makes me feel like a pig. Before

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the war I couldn’t imagine that food was so important. Last night as I was trying to swallow that thick yellow stuff my adorable cousin Aristos came up with this: ‘You girls looked foolish today,’ then looked expectantly at my mother and Aunt Popi, and they looked up in alarm. “What happened?” My mother asked. At that moment, my cousin looked what he really is: ridiculously childish; I said nothing, I was still feeling good about our action, I just hoped that he wouldn’t keep harping at it much longer. But he wouldn’t give up such an entertaining game so easily. ‘You had to be the laughing stock of the town,’ he insisted making my mother more annoyed. “Well?” She insisted, “what’s going on?” Aristos was looking straight at me. ‘Have you ever considered a fistfight with a tank? He asked. ‘That’s the extend of the damage you did to the enemy with your childish walk.’ He stopped to take a deep breath and I wanted to slap his face when he began to relate the day’s events with the importance of a judge, the coward! Instead, I left the table quietly and crawled between the freezing sheets trying to understand what it was that ticked inside my cousin’s brain. Even old people showed enthusiasm sometime; Aristos has lost his before tasting it. For him and his father, fighting for your country is fighting a war in some mountains far from home, blessed by church and government. My question is what happens when both desert you? I don’t want to just sit and wait for death. Mama came into the room as I lay in my cold bed in the darkness trying to take as little space as possible to keep myself warm.

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“You are not to walk the square again,” she whispered and I nodded. Did she guess that I nodded? Did she feel it? Does she know that I am going to walk there tomorrow and the next day and the one after that? She didn’t say. I'm sure she knows, though. Let Aristos follow me and report to everyone. Final exams will be here soon; let’s see what he does with French, Latin and ancient Greek since he likes being a rat! Let him beg me for help!”

Signor Rufini, the Ionian Islands’ School Superintendent, was a short, middle aged, apoplectic man who serviced the islands and kept an office on each one of them. His base and home were in Corfu, which was closest to Italy, but he was a frequent visitor to all islands checking or investigating problems, or just to observe the success of the system of indoctrination. He viewed the Greeks as splintering bones that fell out of his Catholic God’s dinner the seventh day of creation. Whenever he visited the island, the authorities gave him the ‘red carpet’ treatment if the weather permitted. This time he brought his daughter with him, a tall, angular, anemic teenager who looked constructed of cardboard. The military limousine drove her around through the narrow streets to church and then back home; she never walked. She peered at the natives fearfully from behind the curtained car windows, waiting for someone to smash the window and abduct her. Her bodyguard was always by her side, and he carried her little red velvet praying cushion Sunday mornings when she went to church. Behind shop windows, half closed shutters and balconies, the Greeks pitied the pale young girl who looked hungrier than them. Benignly, they smiled at her haughty

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manner. If there was a mother, no one had seen her. The staunch pillar of education, indoctrination and survival, was Signorina Tescari, handsome, sophisticated, middle aged and well groomed; after upstaging the Greek Principal of the Girls’ Gymnasium she devoted her energies to the cause of fascism to which she was profoundly devoted. Compared to her modern ideas, the three prim and dull Greek teachers of the High Schools, faded; They couldn’t reach the student, they just parroted

lessons,

interrogated and indoctrinated. The students naturally detested feared and mistrusted them; not an ounce of child psychology existed among all of them. Even to a female teacher, a girl student was only half-human. Miss Tescari’s perfumed smile and grace, her calm voice and sweet manners were almost too good to be true; Greeks have been scorched by those who for ages were trying to civilize them, using words, bribes and whip, forgetting pages of a long history. They were not far-off in Miss Tescari’s case. The lady was after the young souls, determined to have them by force if necessary, preferably by doing good. She possessed the weapon: food, a sure hit! She initiated a daily ration of a handful of raisins for each student as they entered the building. Most of the students resented even that, the fruit was stolen from their own vineyards; they were the rejects of the shipments to Italy, wormy, gritty, rotten, a very unappetizing breakfast which, with some

effort became spit balls aimed at any

teacher who dared turn his back to write on the blackboard. The gravel made swallowing the raisins hard. Miss Tescari hired local seamstresses to sew fascist youth uniforms for hand picked elementary school children, and local women to cook the corn meal lunch for them. For some children it meant sheer survival and warm clothes on

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little emaciated bodies. The hired women ate there and were given a token salary. The mothers registered the children and brought them to the Girls’ Gymnasium after school in the afternoon for the bowl of hot cereal and to be fitted by the seamstresses. Then they waited for them outside in the cold while their young ones ate the hot cereal and the seamstresses fitted them. A few students, also undernourished but with good grades, were handpicked by Miss Tescari to serve the meals and watch the children. Elena was one of them to Anna’s relief; her daughter would get one meal each day, but Elena hated the idea and the meal itself. She did not tell her mother that she was embarrassed and a little devastated, with a handful of corn meal, the enemy was molding the new fascist youth. Hungry or not, soon Elena felt like vomiting at the thought of another cornmeal lunch. Miss Tescari was soon disappointed; she felt used, the students were unresponsive and dull. She had a professor of languages brought from Italy, to teach Italian, and she admitted that Greek children seemed to be stupid. After months of intensive teaching, the two educators hadn’t made a dent in the children’s minds. The result at the Lyceum and the Boys’ Gymnasium were equally disappointing, the students seemed to absorb what they were taught; they just didn’t perform. The title of stupidity given them by the enemy was preferable to any compliment. The pressure came from an inborn sense of honor; even to learn the language taught by an enemy was considered treason, that would bring total isolation, a social ostracism. In the process of brain washing, some of the Greek teachers lectured the students on the virtue of learning a new language, but the students felt that learning

is one story, forced to learn

with a gun, another. Those teachers were an anathema to the students, one of

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them, the math professor, the worst; he cow towed to the enemy because he felt a strong attachment to strict discipline. To him rules are rules no matter who imposed them. He denounced to the authorities those students who evaded him when he met them in the street to avoid returning to him the ‘Romanamente’ salute as they had been instructed by the school authorities. The students made rude remarks about his servility and were right as it turned out, because after the Italians left it became known that he was the one who gave the enemy resistance secrets. The Italian School Superintendent, Signor Rufini, brought Italian books to assist Miss Tescari, and distributed them free since the students of all schools could not afford to buy them. There was a bonfire in the three schools that afternoon, the students watched the books consumed by the flames and their teachers watched both students and flames from behind half closed windows. The professor of Ancient Greek, a short man with an even shorter moustache, walked out and stood behind Elena. She liked him because he never asked them to salute and because he looked like Charlie Chaplin. "Hitler did that.” he murmured in a sad voice. "What?" asked a red haired girl. "He burned books," he repeated monotonously. “Civilized people respect books; we don’t have to like them; ignore them." The girl looked at him angrily. She couldn’t say what she thought because he was her professor and a student just doesn’t talk back. (Two years later, Elena was forced by the German authorities to attend the court martial of the girl. She was tried for treason and was hanged a month later.) Before going back into the building the red headed girl told her professor: "We are not burning books, we are burning

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the ideas they convey, those you never taught us and are now forced upon us. You can’t possibly believe that this indoctrination is really education?”

The

teacher walked ahead to his class without another word. Elena admired the girl’s guts so small, so young, so vulnerable, how did she know so much? Schools were closed, the entire student body was expelled for three days and parents chastised their children according to their own evaluation of the severity of the crime their offspring had committed. At the end of the year their report cards showed a ‘minus’ on the ‘behavior’ column. However, when after three days of thinking over their crime, classes were resumed, the students were as ‘stupid’ and unresponsive as before.

In honor of Signore Rufini’s visit, Signorina Tescari organized a special show to impress him with the success of her endeavors. Fed and warmly dressed, the small children were to perform for the men and officers of the occupation forces singing the fascist songs she taught them, parrot in unison the pledge of allegiance to fascism and Italy and end with Greek dances. She would show the authorities that even if the hard core of the older, ungrateful students could not be bent, she could still be successful in conscripting the future fascists, as long as the corn meal kept coming. Sunday afternoon, dressed in a stunning green suit, Signorina Tescari faced the uniformed men in the theater’s auditorium, made a short inspired speech and started the celebration. Then she sat in the first row and waited for the curtain to rise. The curtain wasn’t raised that day, not a child or a parent showed up. She admitted defeat, closed the feeding station and fired cooks, seamstresses and waitresses.

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Signorina Tescari was not the same after that.

Throughout history, ‘friendly’ protectors and not-so-friendly oppressors have been the two sides of the same coin for many nations. The island had seen and suffered both and, except for the Saracens, both friends and foes claimed ‘protection’, the Norwegians, the French, the Venetians and the last and cruelest, the British. In the 2Oth century, a mere 8O years after the island was restored to the motherland by the British, through much bloodshed and punishment, Mussolini’s black-shirted Army, became the newest conqueror via Hitler’s blessing, without intent of any ‘protection.’ Ancient and more recent hordes have left marks on all islands of the Ionian Sea: statues of their governors, cemeteries and much hate. In the twentieth century, the capital of the island was just as busy and congested as it was in the Venetian era of the 18th century. The narrow cobblestone streets snaking uphill led to groups of comfortable homes crouching close to one another in a choking embrace; fig trees and pergolas relieved the closeness and allowed breathing space as if making a stand against the vicious gales when the city was at their mercy. Stately palm trees bordered the larger streets and the graceful theater close to the center, a replica of the Scala of Milan. The Venetian presence was so prominent that when the Italian Armies of the 1940’s marched through the city they felt at home. The short stay of the Frenchmen after the French revolution, left a disquieting

fever and quickening of the blood for freedom. The social reform,

the revolution’s intent, was an idea new to the natives; the occupation of the French was short but it did play a role in the islands’ struggle for

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independence against the British, the ‘protectors’ who had arrived shortly after the French, and were despised at the onset. They did not leave much behind when they left except hate, a couple of cemeteries with conspicuously tall spruce trees where they hanged the insurrectionists and some gold coins or little treasures buried in various places apparently stolen from their own government, in the hope that one day they would return someday to retrieve it. The Ottoman Empire which had occupied the rest of the land and indeed a great part of Europe since the 15th century, tried but did not succeed for long to occupy the Ionian Islands s they did the rest of the mainland and so it was that the islands, as part of the Western Renaissance, enjoyed an intellectual upsurge in contrast to the mainland where education and literacy in general were strictly prohibited by the totally illiterate conqueror, who had not as yet a formal written language. Still, the ‘uncivilized’ Ottomans were

not as

brutal as the ‘civilized’ British who finally ceded the islands to Greece after bloody struggles toward the end of the 19th century. The country had already freed itself of the Ottoman yoke. In the 1940’s the sentiment changed somewhat since war makes strange bedfellows. To win the war the Greeks became allied with Britain and that united the two countries in a relationship that was more a stranglehold than friendship; the Greeks in general had no misconception about the treachery of the British but for the moment the past had to be forgotten, new blood was shed, the British were losing young sons just as the Greeks were. The whole world was a mess.

British planes overhead were an everyday affair and were thought of as messengers of hope; the air raids were particularly scary when they happened

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during class and the students were locked into the classrooms where they huddled shaking, praying that they won’t die from a ‘friendly’ bomb. The day Elena became friends with Ourania, a quiet and shy girl, the planes had been circling the city as if looking for something or wondering if they should unload and go home. For more than an hour the girls squeezed in the school’s basement silent and afraid classroom tried to concentrate on the thought that the buzz overhead was a ‘friendly’ bomber. Then bombs began to fall behind the hill, the basement’s windows rattled; it was the nearest they had experienced to an aerial attack while in school. Elena held on to the little stub of pencil with shaky fingers, her back glued to the desk behind her, heart pounding, breathing quietly so the ‘enemy’ wouldn’t find out she was there. Ourania, pasty-faced, her huge black eyes filled with terror clawed at the door with choked sobs and the teacher the one who looked like Charlie Chaplin, was trying to calm her and get her back to her seat. The door was locked from the outside. Ourania kicked and fought him; as they passed Elena Ourania tripped on Elena’s foot as she sat poised for flight, and fell into her arms. They held on to each other and cried their fear. After that day they were inseparable.

The Lighthouse at the mouth of the harbor, was built on an extension of the promontory at the far north end of the city, a walking distance from the orphanage and the hospital. The British plane was flying too low when the airmen realized they were going to crash and in order to save people’s lives they released their lethal load into the bay just in time. One hundred yards further west, a whole side of the town would have been totally destroyed. The bombs were buried in the soft sea floor at the bottom of the bay. At the time

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it sounded like a not very serious earthquake, a usual occurrence, not a blast. The plane went down and the Lighthouse became its grave. The two British airmen who perished were to be buried in the old English cemetery. The day of the British pilot’s burial the students were sent home early and were advised to stay indoors away from balconies and windows and to avoid any show of jubilation or extra recognition of the event. Shops were closed for the afternoon; the shutters of every window and balcony on the main road hid thousands of eyes. The Italians loved parades, what if that was a funeral. The Franciscan Brothers’ church was on the main road, a block away from Elena’s house. The two coffins on the back of a truck were draped with the British flag and the padre came outside to bless the dead from the steps of the church while hundreds of the city’s officials made up a long line of ‘mourners’ behind the military band that was playing the English National anthem! Afterwards, the truck with the coffins rolled alone slowly toward the old stone bridge to cross the bay to the cemetery. Half way over the bridge a British plane appeared from behind the highest peak of the mountain as if it had waited on the other side for that exact moment; it buzzed the truck, dipped its wings and left but the driver of the truck and the soldiers who accompanied the cortege panicked, abandoned the truck with its precious cargo in the middle of the bridge and dived into the freezing water. When the plane was no longer visible, they ran back to the city shouting: ‘Bastard Greeks, you warned them; there is a wireless hidden somewhere.’ No one paid attention to them; behind closed shutters the young and the old mourned the death of the two pilots and pitied the cowardice and superficiality of the conqueror. The incident sent

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chills down the Italian spines; they felt espionage. To the Greeks, it was a small hope since in that game of death they had been the unwilling witnesses. Both sides, they felt, better realize that in that game there were only losers. Death from the skies knew neither

friend nor foe!

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “We were ordered indoors today. Doors, windows, balconies had to be shut; no audience of ‘mourners’ wanted! Aristos was eating his piece of

dried corn bread for lunch when I got home. I took mine and went

to the beauticians’ apartment. There was only one customer in the shop, her head full of curlers. Mama and Aunt Popi had drawn chairs behind the closed shutters of one window. When the band was heard, chairs were moved behind every available window; Aristos and I stood on our toes on a chair to be able to see the English flag draping the coffins passing underneath, the somber faces of the Italian officials walking solemnly behind the coffins in tune with the music of the death march, dressed in parade uniforms; the Greek ‘upper’ class and Greek officials those who collaborated with the Italians in one capacity or another all mourning our beloved departed ‘enemies’. Hypocritical faces stern as if holding back the tears, as if they were burying one of their own and not an enemy, they stood at attention when the British National Anthem was played; if they catch me whistling it, they’ll shoot me! I wonder if these pilots had a family, children. Do they know that today they were buried in someone else’s country? Is this where ‘duty’ to one’s country leads?”

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C H A P T E R

ANOTHER SUMMER The school year ended;

Once more the family began making plans to return

to the village. The landlord wanted his rent for the entire summer in advance and there was no money, the Ionian liretta devaluated daily. Anna decided to take everything back to the village and, come September, repeat the procedure in reverse hoping that with Godâ€™s help they would find another apartment. Anna had missed Nicky, and Popi vowed to escape to Athens for good; Elena who had missed her little cousins sorely, was dreaming of shores and green valleys with olive trees and vineyards. Ah, sweet release from stuffy classrooms! Once she arrived at the village she was told that the rule of no swimming was still in effect more so now than before after a winter of severely limited nutrition. "Iâ€™d rather swim than eat," she complained to her aunt, but she only shrugged. "Take a look at yourself," she said. "You are all bones." "You always complained that I was too fat," Elena reminded her. "There is a big difference between diet and starvation; and there is a difference between a slim girl and a skeleton." Subject closed. Elena had

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noticed that she was losing weight rapidly; she enjoyed her slim waistline, but when she noticed her legs and arms looking like sticks, and some tiny, imperceptible wrinkles on her 14-year-old face, she began to worry. Just the same, she couldn’t believe that swimming would make her any thinner, but, she thought, what’s the point of arguing when I know I’ll lose, anyway? The children were also thin, Nicky was thinner, too, and had grown a bit in contrast to her; she hadn’t grown at all.

It was apparent that they could not all fit into the house this time with all their belongings unpacked. They were now residents, not visitors, with trunks opened and cots spread all over. Nights, arms and legs were hanging from bed sheets in every corner. They moved into a small two room place with no kitchen facilities a block away. There was, however an outhouse which had to be shared. The rooms had been a storage for wheat before the war, but Elena liked the idea that she could be someplace without everyone’s eyes seeking her out. Let the grown-ups nag and the children fight. She could hide and write on her diary. She would be able to hide her poetry; her mother had already warned her: "I am not preparing you for that nonsense, you are to be a doctor not a poet walking in the

clouds”, to which Elena had no objection since she didn’t understand

what one thing had to do with the other. Their rooms were on the ground floor facing the street and were closer to the valley; bicycling was forbidden, but she could escape from the back gate with Nicky’s bike where she wouldn’t be visible and let them repeat the ‘girls don’t climb spreading their legs like boys’ routine. It was getting to be as familiar as the old story of her childhood about her panties. She wondered if that, too, would follow her for

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the rest of her life.

As soon as they were settled she began to walk in the

valley for the sheer pleasure of being able to let the golden stubble of the wheat scratch her legs. Or, she would sit under an olive tree and stare at the sea breathing the air fragrant with the oregano and honeysuckle smells. She was in good company; goats grazed and bleated their funny staccatos, sometimes they came close to play with her. Donkeys munched peacefully unaware of her presence and sheep ran from field to field leaping like tiny fleecy clouds. Nothing could erase the exhilaration she felt during those escapades. There were no air raids here and the world without walls

was her temple, all her own, tangible,

personal, organic, a world of beauty and serenity where ‘war’ was not present but always in one’s thoughts; for a few brief stolen minutes the world inside her was in perfect harmony with the world around her, very sacred communion! When she couldn’t run to the valley, she would watch the buzzards circling the hilltops and envy their freedom.

Italian patrols walked the streets of the village on a regular basis, looking serious under showy hats, they nodded and waved to people sitting by their doorsteps watching their small children at play. At night while on duty, they sang softly the sorrows of their loneliness, the children they missed, but held their guns ready. As soon as they returned to the barracks some put the guns down and took their guitars to serenade young girls on moonless nights as if all was well with the world. Those moonless nights the Greeks would secretly transport the oil to the mainland in the silence of darkness in noiseless little boats; where they traded it for corn or wheat. If caught, they faced court martial. Sometimes they were ambushed and forced on the rocks of the

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precipitous mountainside on the other side of the island, where their flimsy boats were crushed and they perished; or sudden gales got them.

Still, they

continued the perilous voyages and luck was with them most of the time.

The court was in session every second Monday; people went down to the coastal village to attend their business

with Justice or sell and trade their

products. It was also a chance for them to read the latest news which the Italians had prepared posted in the café windows. The news was grim: the Germans were winning on all fronts; Leningrad was besieged and Moscow’s fall was imminent. Fear and worry were widespread as the Summer wore on, thoughts were at the front where the battle for humanity’s future was being waged. If the Soviet capital fell, they argued, it would be the final, irreversible catastrophe, the end of the world, the end of civilization! Or the end of the war and some peace, any kind of peace, offered the optimists. What kind of a world will that be with insane Nazism controlling it? But all knew that this war, like all wars had to take its course. "Just like any pregnancy", offered the now bent, old midwife; but they preferred not to listen to her; what does a woman know, anyway?

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “Old Simeon has sold his goats, all but one, for oil and corn. He has just enough milk for our little ones, but for the rest of us there is no breakfast except for the small dry piece of bread that Uncle Philip rations in the morning; he gives us another piece for supper.

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Fruits and greens fresh from the garden keep us going but the watery diet is really boring; even our empty stomachs are beginning to reject the same diet day in and day out. We shouldn’t be ungrateful, in Athens we hear that thousands are dying in the streets daily from hunger; and we complain for a few hunger pains! Other than that and the fear, life goes on. Goats, sheep and cows are taken to pasture or to mate; fields are weeded, hoed and watered and people try to appear normal, though ‘normal’ is now the absurd. Weddings are rare, people can’t afford to feed another mouth and holidays pass without fuss or celebrations. Births occur even though rare, ‘God’s will’! Italian soldiers continue to raid households regularly. Slaughtering of animals is illegal unless a license is issued for same, when the commander must be present to take his choice part. If cooked meat smells are detected, the house is raided. That, too, doesn’t sound ridiculous or insane any more, it has

become part of the norm, part

of our daily life. What they don’t know is that when one has an animal he can spare for his family, he slaughters it up in the mountain which no patrol dares to climb. The animal is cooked there and brought to the family at night. The rationing of pasta has been discontinued; Uncle Philip padlocked his store and now stays at the coffeehouse most of the day playing backgammon with his buddies, or, idle hands clasped behind his back rolling and clicking his worry beads, he walks to his office to listen to people’s grievances and tales of woe. Since there is nothing he can do to help, he frequently suffers from ulcers attacks especially when he has to appear, for

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formality’s sake, to the commandant’s office to report like a puppet and sign bureaucratic nonsensical papers. He usually emerges from that office with a deep frown holding his stomach. There are no marriage licenses, leases, wills or contracts and no fields and flocks sold. Also, there are no elections. He comes home for lunch, takes a nap and those of us who don’t, walk on tiptoe. When he awakes, he sips his chamomile tea, smokes his cigarette and taking his time changes to a freshly pressed shirt. Slightly stooped, he walks down to the harbor slowly café to stare at the idle fishing boats and sip

the ersatz coffee with his friends until dusk. The

world’s miseries are resting heavily on his fragile, emaciated shoulders.”

St. Gerassimos’ monastery and its churches, halls and nunneries in the central valley of the island, was an impressive site. The fertile land was protected by precipitous mountains and gentle hillsides dotted with small or larger villages sparkling white with red tiled roofs. Ancient olive trees, rare cedar trees and vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see. Around the time of the celebration of the Saint’s ‘name day’ in Mid-August, the valley became a beehive of activity. It was a very special, sacred and miraculous holiday that lasted for days. Elena had been there twice before the war and though small, she still had fond memories of fireworks, music, stalls with toys and games, offerings, the usual fare of a saint’s fiesta except that in this case everyone expected a miracle or two because all the patients suffered from some mental disease from nervous break-downs to ‘demonic possessions’, which, as the nuns

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claimed, was why He was there after all, to exorcise the evil out of the poor suffering soul. Patients came from all over the land as well as from Europe. There were liturgies and a solemn procession during which the bier with the saintâ€™s remains was carried over the prostate bodies of the devout screaming patients, lined along the entire length of the road leading to and from the big church, on both sides. Some of the patients had to be forcibly restrained on the ground. The scenes that she remembered were not pleasant; neither was the 5OO year old mummified corpse of the saint even though it was literally swathed in gold. When Anna told Elena that they would be going to the monastery, she was overjoyed; not that she appreciated the hours of walking over the mountain, but it gave her a chance to get away, to see people, to think of something other than food, hunger and the enemy. Philip looked at his sister as if she was the one who needed the Saintâ€™s help to restore her sanity. There was no horse for her; both were weak from hunger, but Anna had decided on a pilgrimage and nothing could dissuade her; the fact that Elena wanted to go, too, gave her additional ammunition. They left at dawn as soon as the last night patrol went by. Four hours later, after a tortuous climb on goat paths up the mountain and down the other side, they arrived at the beautiful valley dusty and famished and with feet badly blistered from the wooden clogs. The crowd of pilgrims waiting for the miracle was larger than the celebrants. There were few stalls selling mostly little icons and home-made candles but no food or music. Armed Italians patrolled the main road watching with suspicion every one who entered the grounds.

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The two women went straight to the large church where the saintâ€™s crypt was moved to for the day and which was crowded with moaning, yelling, cursing patients, marriageable girls, nuns and old matchmakers looking shrewdly for the next matrimonial candidate. The scene, more morbid than she remembered, was oppressive and hopeless. A permeating odor of decay overpowered that of incense. Elena escaped and ran outside to walk under the ancient tall trees, to breathe. Inside the church she had felt strangled; the crowds, the screams, the smells made her dizzy. Eventually, she calmed down as she looked at the villages, tucked safely behind olive trees as if trying to hide, perched on the slopes of hills that surrounded the valley. They had taken a golden hue from the slanting rays of the sun. She sat in the shade of an oak tree and unwrapped the piece of corn bread her uncle had given her as they were leaving. She got up to dust the crumbs off her dress when she heard her name. Sitting in the shade of a nearby tree was Stathis, the boy from back home. He was chewing on a stalk of hay and raised a shy hand in salute but as she came closer he leaped up to greet her as if they were old friends and hadnâ€™t seen each other for years. He was a friend of a distant cousin whom she liked as far as relatives went, but she had hardly exchanged a couple of words with Stathis. She knew he was starving for a friendly face and a few kind words and so was she; she sat on the ground next to him and they spoke of mountains and the village, the war and the sick people, old/young persons repeating what everyone else was talking about. Elena liked his deep blue eyes and blond, straight hair. Everyone around her had black hair. He was tall, about sixteen, with the unmistakable marks of hunger; yet, she detected a faint smell of cigarettes, he was probably smoking on the sly. If my mother or uncle saw me

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now, she thought... "I’m here with my mother," he said. "So am I, she is inside the church," she told him. "I came out to smoke..." he wanted to sound important, but she knew that if his mother caught him she would beat him in front of everyone. Not everyone in the village liked that family because of the airs they gave themselves. The father was a port engineer and was sent to the island in the aftermath of the great storm for the harbor’s reconstruction which took years. They were marooned by the war and as a civil servant, the engineer was left in the island without income and in no one’s care. Nobody knew how they survived; apparently no one cared since they had kept to themselves a lot. It was a shame that Stathis could not go to school in the city because there was no money; so he spent his winters in the village with nothing to do but reading. He was a nice boy and the other boys were friendly but since he wasn’t allowed to mingle with the ‘peasants’, he kept his friends away from his harbor side home and his mother’s eyes. Stathis and Elena talked like old friends; for about an hour, they forgot war, Italians and hunger and only when Anna’s shadow covered the ground in front of their feet

and Elena looked up to face her scowling

reproachful eyes, they realized that the sun was setting and they had better start back if they were to get to the village before curfew. "Time to look for my mother," said Stathis getting up;

he greeted Anna

politely and went down the path to meet his mother. Elena’s heart felt light and free as she and her mother made their way back to their village. She didn’t feel hunger so much, nor the pain from the ugly blisters on her feet; she walked ahead of her mother in silence reliving every word she and Stathis had

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exchanged, every move, his smile and the twinkle of his blue eyes. She felt like dancing.

A week later, Stathis and her cousin passed her house and saw Elena next to her mother leaning on the window sill. They stopped to chat. It was just after sunset when the earth cools down and some ‘idlers’, as her uncle called those who

went for a stroll, took the road out of the village, or walked by the

shore depending on their mood and the weather. The cousin talked to his aunt and Stathis murmured a shy ‘good evening’ and then clumsily, handed Elena a small book. In a split second, even before Elena had time to look at the title Anna had caught the word ‘poetry’ and returned her attention to the young relative. Poetry wasn’t objectionable or dangerous for her daughter. Elena thanked him and her mother got up pulling her chair; the visit was over. Elena couldn’t wait to get to the book but in her mother’s presence it was not advisable and there was no electricity to read it later in the evening. She hid the book under her pillow and waited for morning. Before anyone else was up she was at her uncle’s house, collected her ration of bread and escaped jumping over the back fence clutching the treasure of words under her arm. She felt big and free and strong as she ran through the fields to the sea; her heart beat wildly as if preparing to enter an exciting world as yet unknown to her. She sat on a large rock that had long ago been placed at the root of the ancient olive tree perhaps as a resting post after a day’s olive picking. The sea below stretched calm and luminous a friend, always. When she opened the book a small flattened bouquet of jasmine, suddenly liberated, fell on her lap. Its smell filled the air. She looked at the page feeling that it was probably placed

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purposely there so that she can pay attention to Lamartino’s poem ‘The Lake’. Elena read the book again and again until her eyes smarted; she almost learned it by heart, it wasn’t that big. Maybe reading Elena’s happiness in her eyes, Stathis brought her another book the next evening. With her mother so close she could only

whisper a dutiful thank-you, he could guess how much she enjoyed

reading it. Anna's barricades were up; her daughter’s shy whisper did not fool her and though she didn't particularly like the book lending business, she couldn’t find fault in it either, nor a valid excuse to refuse the pleasure the books gave her daughter since she had brought no books of her own and he seemed to have books. She could forbid that, but then she would be acting like her brother and one dictator in the house, she thought, was enough already. Two days later, again after sunset, Stathis came up the road alone this time and as it happened, Anna was visiting across the street, still keeping an eye on her daughter when she saw Stathis approach the window. Elena was inside anyway, and Stathis outside. He took the book she returned, and gave her another. Anna saw nothing wrong in the few words that were exchanged; she saw no wordless messages. "I’m sorry I have nothing to give you in return," Elena said. "But you do," he whispered looking at his shoes. "May I...may I have a...a curl of your hair?" Elena stared at him stunned. This boy whose reality was living in a world of insanity and despair, could escape into the romantic eras of Lamartino or Byron enough to ask for a lady’s curl? Was he crazy? She was too startled to laugh because of his beautiful blue eyes, so innocent and kind. But a curl off her hair? Wouldn’t her mother notice? She ran inside, snipped a little curl from under the back where the hair was thick, tied it

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with a little ribbon and handed it to him. He put it into his shirt pocket and said: "here, where my heart beats" and

was off...

PAPA’S VILLAGE Since her father’s

death and the adventurous visit with her mother that

almost ended in violence years back, Elena had not seen any of his family. Now they heard that they had returned from Athens and her uncle, who still scared her, sent horses to get her, her brother and mother up to the village to visit the very old grandmother. The village was close to the top of the great mountain, a mountain of forests of spruce and cedar trees and rich in lore. Vultures and eagles tore the sky in circles; one had the ugly premonition that a buzzard at the crossroads might not wait for them to die first, it was scary, so was the tall white horse that sided at the doorstep early in the morning while Elena contemplated its height and the neighbors gave her advice how to approach and mount the animal. Her dress was drenched in sweat as she clenched her teeth trying not to cry in a last ditch effort to save her dignity. She climbed on a chair, closed her eyes and murmuring a prayer mounted the animal supported by kind hands. When she opened her eyes again the chair had been removed and a wave of panic and nausea filled her. The horse fidgeted and twisted and wouldn’t stay still, like a waving tree. Except for the ‘caique’, that floating death trap they had traveled in, which she tried not to remember, she had never been off her feet and now was suspended, filled with terror. She held on to the reins for dear life; she held its mane, the saddle, whatever she touched as the horse swayed from side to side. Her back began to

hurt. Miles

later up the stony road, she let go of the reins because she was holding so

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fast her palms were scraped and her knuckles hurt. The man who accompanied them walked alongside, he had no idea of her plight. He figured she was a big girl and needed no help so he walked ahead and held the reins of the other two horses. Horses know exactly where they are and where they go, she knew that why then did they follow that very narrow path at the edge of the road? If she looked, she would surely fall off into the chaotic gorge, which seemed bottomless and dark. She prayed that the horse didnâ€™t slip on a stone or a rut, otherwise, only vultures would find her carcass on the rocks. Three hours of agonizing ascent took them to a little clearing. The mountain didnâ€™t look so formidable now and the air was light, intoxicating. At some point they had left the road and continued on a steeper stone path that made Elena feel removed from the world. Somewhere, hidden in bushes and the surrounding hills were the sheep and goats whose bells she could hear faintly; there were birds somewhere and a small brook, she could hear the water. Thistle and thyme grew wild alongside their path; a picture of the past popped in her memory suddenly, as the three villages came into view at the almost bald hill on the lowest part of the mountain; they looked suspended but Elena thought she was receiving a strange

message, that of stone age. These

villages donâ€™t look real, she thought, they were not like other villages. She saw few trees and gardens, and no flowering vines climbing up terraces; there were no terraces! The mountain was present in its aloneness pushing wild bushes right onto the doorsteps of the stone cottages; stone prevailed. The villages, perched on the highest ridge of the great mountain were isolated as eagles' nests and apparently as unapproachable, wind whipped, dry. Precipices, harsh ravines and forests did nothing to soften the rugged terrain.

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She remembered her father’s village which was the first to come into view. When they entered the small square, she could imagine her father waving goodbye to his widowed mother to begin his long voyage to the other side of the world, not even ten years old! After years of laboring, after a World War that left him disabled, after marriage and children, he returned and was buried in that village. I will find him here, she thought with

a lump in her throat. She

looked at the square house across, the gendarmes station of old, and sure enough, she saw the carabinieri emerging to peer at the visitors. This time a tall mast bore the Italian flag and their guide dropped the reins and stopped to salute. Elena felt embarrassed. "What did you do that for?" she asked him. "I have to; everybody has to," he said in a sullen mood. "I don’t!" "Then you avoid the square, go through the ravine like others do." "Do they stay here in the sun all day waiting to see that everyone salutes the flag?" "More or less...strangers don’t come up here; but they check what we bring in, grapes or other produce, they stop us and confiscate their portion. And they flirt, they tease the girls..." Elena felt nauseous. What a place, she thought, it’s worse than ours. As if guessing her thoughts, he added: "This is a lonely outpost, they have nothing to do all day, they don’t see people. Don’t forget, they are

the bosses, they can do anything they wish...who is to tell

them no to..." When they arrived at the house, Elena brought the horse alongside the cement stoop built under the walnut tree for summer naps. She managed to

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scramble down and landed on the stoop with a reasonable degree of dignity, though her back and legs ached; still, she felt that she had overcome the initial panic and came through

without anyone noticing that she was going to

die any minute. Nicky jumped right down as if he was doing that all his life, and her mother was helped down by the guide. Elena looked around for her grandmother feeling that since she knew they were coming she would be outside waiting but she only saw a stranger, a humpback woman inside the door, staring at the tips of her pigskin home made slippers, stealing furtive glances at the newcomers from beneath the brown homespun kerchief lowered over her eyes. She kept her arms crossed on her chest; she had a large mouth and a long,

sour

face, but she didnâ€™t open that mouth to talk, she just stood there like a statue, and when Anna walked over and offered her hand she didnâ€™t take it. "You are Xanthi," Anna said and the woman nodded. "This is your uncleâ€™s wife," she told the children. Elena tried to get her hand by Xanthi pushed both hands further into her sleeves and retreated into the courtyard. She did give her a weak toothless smile however, bowed, then pointed to the stable and gestured for them to follow her. "She is probably in the shed...stealing eggs, no doubt," the toothless aunt said leading the way. Nicky, not wishing to face either the emotional greetings in the hot stable, or the smell, disappeared. The old lady was sitting on a pile of straw from where the cow was pulling strings for its lunch; all one could see of her was a little fragile black clad figure, bent, singing or moaning softly, moving her body to the tune she tried to convey to someone, either the chickens who roosted there to avoid the heat, or the cow. "After the eggs again no doubt,"

her daughter-in-law said but the old

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woman did not hear. Anna gestured for her to leave them alone. "Grandmother," Anna said, "I brought your granddaughter as you wished." "Why did you name your first child Elena?" she whined. "It was your duty to name her after your husband’s mother." Her voice was still as monotonous as her little weak song and she was still looking down where her toes would be if they were visible. "Because you already have a granddaughter named after you," Anna said evenly, "but I named my son after your respected husband, may God rest his soul." "Still...her father was my favorite son, the only one, the only one..." she began to cry. Elena felt uncomfortable; she moved back a little bit in the shadow under a rafter. The cow raised its head and looked at her with those big, sad eyes. I wonder, Elena thought suddenly, how I would feel if my name was Kalliope, instead of Elena...Hmm, not bad, after all, she was a Muse and I caused a disastrous war... "Come here, girl," the tremulous voice called. It was a kind voice, a childish one. Anna pushed her daughter toward her grandmother and she tried to find the hand to kiss as she knew she should, but she had to reach deep inside the large sleeves to dig out the gnarled, bony hand; she found it hard to dig up enough emotion within herself, a little bit of compassion for the woman who was her father’s mother; she felt guilty staring at something that she couldn’t connect with her father or the war, the day, or reality. The last memory she had of her grandmother was her mourning dirges as she sat at the bedside of her dead son years ago and now she was looking at the small opaque eyes buried under wrinkled lids trying to focus on her eyes that looked dead. That face had

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nothing to do with her father, it looked like a fallow field crisscrossed by a thousand furrows. "Just like him," she whimpered suddenly, "his image." She let go of Elenaâ€™s hand. Elena was upset, close to tears. She is half-blind, she thought miserably, how can she see my face in this darkness? She looked at her mother asking silently her permission to leave, Anna nodded. Elena ran outside into the sunlight

inhaling deeply to rid her lungs of the dung stench. Nicky was

playing in the yard with the small cousins; there were quite a few of them dirty, with badly shorn unwashed and uncombed blond hair. They rushed to her dancing around her giggling, touching her dress, and watching her with beautiful. innocent blue eyes. After her emotional encounter with her grandmother in the stable

it was a relief to be with children, to

play and laugh with them. In their simplicity and innocence she saw the and the mountains, the day of creation

sky

newborn and at the same time ageless as

time itself. She thought again of her father and of their father, her cousin, whom she hadnâ€™t met as of yet; not even 30 yet, and

he had fathered five

children. Their mother, already bent from field work, young enough to be their older sister, stood at the door of the small cottage in the yard. Elena looked at her but before she had time to greet her, she noticed the wild gesturing toward the outer door and turned her eyes there. The heavy door was flung open suddenly; the children stood still, close to the door. The Italian sergeant came in and stood in front of Elena scrutinizing her with a scowl. As if warned, Anna emerged from the stable followed by the grandmother; her aunt Xanthi stood on the threshold stock still. No one spoke. It is the flag, Elena surmised. The Italian raised a warning forefinger and was telling her off in

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very serious tone. No one understood a word. Xanthi sidled slowly inside the house and returned almost immediately creeping, cowering with servility, dragging her slippers on the stones like a whisper. She offered the Italian a large mug of wine bowing humbly and

apologized in her own way. Then she backed

noiselessly into her shadows. The Italian drank it in one gulp, wiped his mouth, smiled and pointing a warning finger at Elena again, left with a gallant bow.

C H A P T E R THE GRANDMOTHER

There was the grandmother

leaning against the wall, short and almost

shrunk black clad, shading her eyes with the edge of her black shawl. She pointed

a bony finger at Elena and said in her raspy voice:

“Don’t make no trouble for us now; we give them what they ask for because we want no trouble; hear?” Elena heard; she realized that her grandmother was scared, there was fear in her voice, not malice. Her mother tried to calm her; Elena had ran inside the house hurt and embarrassed. “It’s a lonely post, this mountain,” her mother said. “These young soldiers know that they are not welcome here, they miss their homes, they are at war and we are their enemies. Don’t forget, they are the conquerors; so, they intimidate

us. Keep away, out of their sight.” Elena didn’t walk out of the

house for a week. And there was the grave that Elena had waited to see; the one that was keeping her father so many years. The cemetery was in the back of the

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white washed church at the top of the hill, surrounded by tall cypress trees. The bell tower was taller still, and further to the west, towering above all else, its top forever in the clouds, the great mountain. She stopped suddenly when she saw her mother’s bent figure clutching the iron gate of the grave, her fragile body wracked by sobs. After so many years and so many tears, Elena thought, she didn’t make a move toward the grave. Next to his mother, Nicky, motionless like stone and dwarfed beneath the tall cypress trees, did not look up when he saw her.. But Elena wanted to see her father, alone! She walked away as quietly as she had come. (FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “The grave looked unbelievably small. How could that tall man fit in such a small plot? and how could the weeds, the soil, the stones and those rusty rails keep such a man? I couldn’t look down to find him. My father has to be found in the sky, among the scudding clouds, in the flight of the eagles; on the tree tops and the very tip of the great mountain. I can’t find him there, underneath a small plot, under the soil. The gate was rusty so I jumped into the plot to clear the plot from weeds and stones. Tomorrow I will plant flowers. I sat down and felt the warm earth. Maybe my father knew I was there, I felt it, I don’t know how, but my eyes were dry all that time. Not a tear. Is this what time does?” In a few days the little plot looked like a miniature garden. Elena weeded and watered and planted basil and flowers growing wild in the fields and

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thrived under her care. Her mother did not visit the grave after that first time and she had him all to herself. For the first time she got to know her father from the stories the elders told her, those who remembered him as a child before he left and those who knew him after he returned and saw him dead, too soon they said shaking their heads, too young. Slowly, a more realistic image of her father emerged; not that of a mystical, mythical hero dead in his prime and residing, as her mother would have him, in haven among the stars spying on his children and throwing stones when they misbehaved. The father who had died so young was a man

buried there like all mortals, and was

remembered. Finally, she had found her father. Strangely, she grew calm; she had found peace. The people in the village, so close to God as the priestâ€™s daughter told Elena, were like their mountain; a bit dark and wild looking when unshaved - they only shaved on holidays or when they had to go to church for communion. Their words were few and with strangers still less. But Elena was no stranger to them because of her father; some even said that when you looked hard at the girl, she almost bore a resemblance to her father. That made her happy, she felt she belonged to her fatherâ€™s past. From a very tender age they tended sheep and goats on the hills surrounding the great mountain. The women tended the fields, the young ones were taught from an early age how to embroider and sew and weave for their dowries. They were after all girls; all they had to know in life is how to be humble, go to church and make menâ€™s life comfortable so that they can work for their families. They did a hundred little things that Elena was unaware Soon Elena understood that a peasant had to respect his wife and love his animals because those two kept the

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house together and their bellies full. Which came first, she hated to elaborate. The fact was that they all worked. High on the mountain they were stranded in their little world minding their lives as best they could. suddenly they had found out that war, a tale for winter nights by the fire, was upon them and strangers with a foreign tongue, were their masters. The day Elena was to leave, the young girls of the village came to see her Off, they brought flowers and sang to her, eyes lowered under white kerchiefs. Their callused hands touched her; it was their way of not saying good-bye, but ‘until we meet again. They walked behind the horse

the end of

the village, then took the white kerchiefs off ceremoniously and waved them until Elena and her family disappeared down the road. Elena felt humbled, superfluous, and silly in a way. She was unable to lift an ax if her life depended on it; that lesson, she vowed, never to forget. Her mother had put it all in a nutshell: “Nothing changes up here, everything is as I remember it thirty years ago.” And then she added under her breath: “And they claim they live close to God.” Elena sat tall on the horse, proud of her sisters on the mountain; she forgot that she just passed the garrison where the flag was, the one she should have saluted. The two soldiers sitting on the stoop waved at her and for a second she thought, oh, oh, here we go again, but they continued playing cards and that was that. She breathed a sigh of relief. Did her mother notice? The mule driver saluted absentmindedly as he shuffled past, out of habit she supposed, and she murmured ‘slave’, as if he cared.

THE AUNTS The ride down

the steep mountainside was hard on her back as the ride up

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up had been; for the horse, it was a breeze though Elena’s heart was in her mouth when she saw the precipitous chasm below them. She was sad because her uncle Nicolas hadn’t offered any food as a gift for her little cousins; he knew how hungry they were.

It was the old animosity against her mother’s family.

Her father’s brother was keeping the vendetta alive. Maybe it’s his own conscience that makes him mean, she thought, if indeed he has one. Buried in the past was the crime of his alteration of his own brother’s Will, her father’s, while her mother was in the hospital fighting for a life she did not want; at that time no one could think or had the energy to go after her ‘cutthroat’ brother-in-law, even the courts would be afraid of him. Later, they had moved to Athens and her mother didn’t much care to get embroiled in the mysteries and inadequacies of Greek Justice. A man with a gun, especially a stalking mountain man, is justice itself! Her uncle Philip helped her dismount; the mule driver had stopped to help her mother and brother at the apartment. “It shows that you ate well,” he told his niece

smiling. “Your cheeks look

pink and healthy.” Elena was happy he had noticed, she had pinched herself to tears ever since they got close to the village road. Her uncle fastened the animal on the iron hoop outside the door, and handed her the bags; then he left for the coffeehouse. Elena entered the courtyard, her cheeks still smarting. She was anxious to show them to her aunts before the color faded. And there they were, both of them elbow deep in tomato pulp as they labored for the coming winter’s supply. Before she even said good-morning, she heard the heavy outer door creak; her uncle had forgotten something and was rushing upstairs, her aunts smiled at her but didn’t make the slightest move to greet and welcome her, as they normally would. Her uncle left and the

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moment he was out of sight the two women began hissing like snakes, ready to attack her, their faces distorted with anger rage and perspiration. My God, Elena thought, what a nightmare! Somebody please, wake me, who are they? What have I done, something bad? An unknown fear gripped her guts; she began to tremble as she slowly climbed the stairs backwards, never losing sight of the advancing aunts. Her aunt Melania who could never hold her temper, but who loved her just the same, lifted a tomato smeared fist that had been dripping since it left the tomato tub, and bit it angrily at the same time shaking her head. In her vocabulary that meant ‘wait till I get you!’ Aunt Popi, mimicked her sister-in-law. The Furies, Elena thought feeling her pink cheeks fading fast and her knees shaking violently. She prayed that her uncle returned. Where was her mother? What was keeping her in that tiny cubbyhole they called ‘apartment? Within seconds the aunts were behind her

in the dining

room seething with anger, dried tomato seeds on their arms and mouths that opened to unleash the most vile accusations and filthy insinuations whose meaning she hardly understood, and pointing accusing fingers at her. Suddenly, the little innocent curl she had given to Stathis, her cousin’s friend, loomed in front of her bathed in tomato sauce, like another gigantic accusing finger. That, had instantly promoted Elena to the level of a prostitute... (FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “I’ll keep it next to my heart,” what’s his name had said before he left my window that day embarrassed. And that was exactly what the idiot

has done, forgetting to remove my curl when his

mother washed his shirt. She had found the curl and went at him

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screaming and cursing until he divulged the name of the previous owner of the curl. She sailed directly to the house of the guilty party- who, fortunately was not home- holding the crushing evidence: a limp curl! I will never, never believe a boy again; they are unreliable sissies.” Her aunts had gone mad; stark, raving mad. Between the heat and those hundreds bushels of tomatoes waiting to be squeezed, they had lost it. Otherwise how could she explain the things they accused her of, things that would make a woman of the world blush, let alone Elena who usually ran to hide behind a door when she heard so much as a simple curse. They were getting closer and nastier. She could smell the tomato, feel their hot breaths, she panicked. She was hungry, empty and weak, emotionally shattered and no longer able to confront the torrent of accusations hurled at her. She felt the floor coming up to meet her and knew it was a coward’s way out but at least it offered some kind of oblivion because all of a sudden she didn’t care where she was or what they were saying. She was fine...fine... “My God,” one said, “what if Philip returns?” “The disgrace, the dishonor,” the other continued, “he will have an ulcer attack...” But it was Elena’s mother who showed up, and it was her face next to the doctor’s that Elena saw when she opened her eyes. She was lying on the sofa in the ‘nice’ room, her emaciated body weighing a ton. She closed her eyes immediately trying to reconstruct the scene, painful as that was. But what was the doctor doing there? Have they killed me?

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She overheard the

doctor telling her mother silly things, like ‘she needs rest.’ What rest, she wondered, I just came back from the mountains; I had rest and food, what else do I need? “There is

excessive loss of blood due to menstruation. At

her age, she should have better nutrition...” Elena wanted to laugh, where does the man live, in another universe? The doctor was her mother’s childhood friend and he had returned to serve the people because they never had a doctor in the village before. Someone was needed

who could offer

services past the limited knowledge of the midwife. To the doctor, a fainting girl in time of hunger meant just that, and there was nothing anyone could do about it until the end of the war but pray that the day would come soon. When Anna walked the doctor down the stairs. Elena opened her eyes and thought she could see the limp curl dance in front of her guilty eyes. She heard the heavy courtyard door close and her mother’s fast steps up the stairs. Moments later all hell broke loose in the next room. She couldn’t recognize her own mother’s hard, raging voice. “You miserable, horrible, stupid women,” she screamed. “You virtuous hypocrites; you almost killed my child because she gave a boy a stinking curl? Your warped minds have interpreted an innocent gesture into a monstrous affair to serve your sick fantasies. How dare you!” she screamed. “And who in hell appointed you guards of my daughter’s virtue?

It seems

that you are forgetting a few things: the fact that Elena has a mother...” she took a deep breath, “still,” she added as an afterthought. “Second: your own pranks, not as innocent as Elena’s. You, Popi...” My spinster aunt? Elena thought as she eavesdropped; this is too good to be true. “You were fifteen, as old as Elena is now, remember? You ran away with a married man.”

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Elena began to tremble. Suddenly she didn’t want to hear more, she covered her ears but her mother was not through... “If I hadn’t caught up with you and brought you home, Philip would have killed you. . .” Her aunt, the pious, virtuous ’nun’? And Popi not defending herself. Elena prayed that her aunt would say something to shut her sister and her accusations, but no, she kept quiet; a few minute before, or was it hours, that same aunt had done a lot of screaming at her niece explaining in the vilest terms possible what a man can do to a girl and how, her aunt, the scientist... “You dare torture my child, you coward...and as for you...” Elena supposed that it was Aunt Melania’s turn, “you married my brother only because I asked him to. You! A barefoot spinster herding goats on that hill of yours. But for my friendship you would never have dreamed that Philip would marry you and take you away from your old aunts and goats to make you a ‘lady.’ This is how you repay me, by trying to kill my child in times as dangerous as these? What do you know about raising children except giving birth to them? You just leave them on their own hoping that God and Maria, or her goats, will raise them.” Elena covered her ears again, that was too much. All those insinuations, that past that either bonded or separated her family leaving her outside, was just too much dirt she didn’t want to get into. “I had my dowry...” Aunt Melania whimpered. “For all the good it would to you, you could have shoved your dowry you know where. It was I, not your dowry that gave you a husband.” Elena was angry at her mother. She should not be so petty. She had lived so many years knowing all that, why bring it up now, what good did that do? It saddened her to hear them tear each other apart, though it seemed that her mother was doing

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the tearing while the others tried to tear their niece apart as if avenging a forgotten past. Are they raising me to be like them, she wondered, or ‘unlike’ them? For the first time she could think of a possible explanation, a weak one, why they were keeping her a virtual prisoner, away from friends who might pollute her mind, and were constantly reminding her of this new generation, so terrible that it would come to a bad end. It was to forget their own youth, and dead hopes, and who knows what else. And I, the idiot, believed them, she thought. But Elena knew some girls her age that had been kissed already, only her aunt had run away with a married man at fifteen, which generation is holding the dirtiest cards, she thought sadly. “It was for her own interest, we love her, too.” Elena couldn’t make out whose voice that was because the more her mother fumed and screamed, the more her aunts faltered under the onslaught and whispered in their defense and self-righteousness. “Look,” Anna said. “We all tried to have fun at her age. Compared to us, she is an angel, and don’t you forget it, so, shut up. You, Melania, can raise your daughters anyway you like, and you, Popi, wait till you marry and then raise your children as you like. But, and this is a warning, keep your filthy minds and hands away from my children.” She took a few very deep breaths. “And we shall forget about this, for ever.” She stormed out of the dining room and into the room where Elena, dumbfounded and unbelieving, barely had time to run to the sofa. Her mother was pale and breathing hard; Elena tried a weak smile, as if to thank her for defending her. But her mother raised a finger at her. Oh, no, Elena thought. Not another accusing finger.

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“I’ll deal with you privately,” she said scowling. “From now on, any talks with a boy, or any male in this forsaken place, must be conducted in my presence, do you understand?” Elena nodded. “And pay no attention to what I said in there because it wasn’t for your ears...” Elena wanted to tell her that she hadn’t heard but knew her mother better; she would never believe her, so she just nodded again. “I was mad,” her mother continued, “very mad”. Her last words were almost under her breath. “Yes, Mama,” Elena whispered, “but...but I didn’t have private talks with any boy except for that day at the festival and we were surrounded by people...” “I didn’t ask you.” “Yes, Ma’am.” With her mouth shut, she bit her tongue. If a boy wanted to talk with her she wasn’t going to ask him to wait until she had her mother’s permission or got a chaperone. She should either learn to face the consequences, like fainting or creating scenes like today, or try not to be caught. I must remember to be more careful, she rationalized. Romantic or not, Stathis is an idiot and I don’t need any problems. Too bad, I would have liked a friend. But

I really am too young to think of boys and all those

stupid things; I must wait. Boys are really immature. Exhausted of all that excitement, her voyage and her heavy, ‘mature’ thoughts, she dropped her head on the pillow and closed her eyes, and was instantly asleep.

In the warmth of September the grape must, sealed in huge barrels in the dark cellars fermented slowly into wine; all chores in preparation for the coming

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winter, those that the enemy allowed, were completed and until October where olives would be picked, fields plowed and the rains would come, everyone tried to relax and bask in the idleness of the season.

The children enjoyed

their last frolics at the shore, more stretching on the pebbles and playing than swimming because those precious calories should not be wasted in play, and store sunlight in their bodies for the winter. Just like wine and onions, Elena thought maliciously because she wasn’t allowed near the beach. In the beginning of September she fell ill, seriously ill. A combination of malaria and typhoid fever tortured her undernourished body; for a few days, her life was suspended neither here nor there. The high fever hardly left her when another attack began and she shook uncontrollably so that everyone around her thought she was half dead. The first ‘doctor,’ Aunt Melania, brought her cure-all, castor oil. If this doesn’t cure her, she said, only God can. This time Elena was much too weak to fight her. But as soon as she swallowed the vile stuff it came back, and no one scolded her. The fever kept up, the doctor had been summoned to the other side of the island where a woman was having a difficult delivery and the midwife had sent for him. They waited for him two days and two nights while the neighbors kept vigil outside the window and the Italian night patrol passed without saying a word; the church boy stood by the churchbell tower in case he had to announce a death. When the doctor finally showed up exhausted, unshaven, and

hungry, he

didn’t leave her side until he felt that her life was spared. He slept standing up, as her mother said. He had to deal with intestinal problems with typhus, malaria, exhaustion, anemia and, to make matters worse, she had

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developed respiratory problems as well.

When Elena came to, he winked at her.

In her foggy mind she was ready to hear him say that she needs good food, proper nutrition. And he did, only he was trying to be funny. She felt secure with him next to her. She was reassured because he was holding no needle. In a few minutes her delusion was scattered. “The fact that you are alive,” he said somberly, “is not a miracle, and it’s not something I achieved. It sounds strange, but the enemy saved you.” She looked at him unbelieving. The Italians? What did they have to do with her dying? They should be happy with one less Greek. Then he explained. A doctor without medicines is like a fishing boat without oars or sails, lost in a vast ocean. He had to beg the Italian authorities for medicine. The Italians dispersed reluctantly and only after he assured them that the patient would survive. Otherwise why waste good medicine on a doomed person when the soldiers might at any time contact malaria in this terrible island? Elena heard and winced. So, needles are coming, she thought. “So, while you were almost out most of the time, I gave you a shot each day and we won. Now, you will feel some bumps on your behind for sometime, but they don’t show, so don’t worry.” She wanted to laugh; secretly she fumbled under the sheet to find the bumps and sure enough they were there, painful, too. “Ouch,” escaped from her mouth. “Don’t touch,” he said, “it’s the least of your worries.” The Italians had extracted a stiff price for the medication, and a lot of money was needed for the black market to provide food and milk so that she could regain her health. Popi, a doctor herself, even though out of her field, tried to be the doctor’s nurse. She didn’t tell anyone how she managed to sell the entire contents of one of her hope chests

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which meant all the embroidered

underwear, nightwear, linen and whatever she had kept religiously for the nuptial night. Philip sold his two good suits to the black market, the store’s shelves and the empty oil vats. After that there was not much else they could dispense with. That black market was a bottomless pit swallowing everything the family put in, in exchange for a meager portion of sugar, a little flour, tea or some fish, or even bread. Nicky and her cousins went on a food quest daily, asking, begging, and stealing, to see her through. They even learned how to trap birds, any kind of birds that her aunt prepared for Elena. Every bit of food they secured was secretly cooked and smuggled into Elena’s sick room lest the smell reached the nostrils of the other hungry children. Recuperation was long and hard; everyone was still holding their breaths to see if she would really make it. She, herself was very aware of the fact that the elderly and the children were dying daily, she could hear the bells and that depressed her. What if one morning she didn’t awake, if she she never found out what this world was all about, and what of her dreams? She was now old enough to know that to die didn’t mean that she would be meeting with her father. And she so wanted to live! She was in one of those sad moods one afternoon when the warm Fall sun filtered through the window slats onto her bed and her aunt Melania was knitting silently nearby, when the elderly black-clad aunt walked into the room, her uncle Stavros’s mother. Her heart gave a leap, the old pain. She would never forget his smile and his songs. The old woman walked to her bed and touched her brow checking hands-on if Elena was still burning with fever. She found her brow to her satisfaction and walked to the window, her head high, body erect, tucking

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her hand once more under her apron where the other hand was. The two women began talking; in the beginning it was Elena’s progress, then Melania’s complains why the old aunt doesn’t visit any more and the old woman’s response that the stairs were too much for her arthritis and after all, how could she visit a house of children with empty hands... “Times are hard for everyone,” Melania said. “The children understand.” Elena watched them with half-closed eyes. Maybe, she thought, that is what this is all about. Small chit-chat, the children, the war, the coarse hairs sticking out above the lips and under the chin of the old woman; a lifetime full of struggle and grief, or her clean smell of vines and walnuts and quince in the winter. And Melania’s needles clicking madly...No, no, that wasn’t it, her mother’s life wasn’t that and yet this is where she grew up, with them. What is awaiting her? Where is my mother, she whispered. “What am I waiting for?” The old woman was saying. “The ones I loved are gone, young and old; I only take up space and eat the bread

the young

ones should eat to survive.” Melania tried to convince her that only the Lord knows what is right and what is wrong, and that maybe it is not her time yet, but she didn’t sound too convincing. Elena was bored to tears. This is a punishment, she thought, for being alive. I hope I don’t get too many visitors with such gloomy thoughts, mine are enough. The sunset’s last melancholy pink shadows creeped into the room, the marble sill reflected the setting sun. Anna’s shadow darkened the window. Melania rolled her knitting with precise movements, the flabby skin of her underarms shook miserably. She smiled at both of them showing her gold tooth and went to the door.

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“I must get home to collect my children,” she said and left as Anna came in. Anna touched her daughter’s brow, a gesture Elena was used to by now, and then walked into the other room, the old aunt followed her. She took her hands our from under her apron and gave Anna the round loaf of bread she was hiding all that time. Elena heard her mother’s feeble protests; she knew that her mother was mentally slicing the treasure ready to dry toast and store in the deep trunk to feed her daughter; it was part of the lifeline.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “Aunt Melania is a simple woman, a shopkeeper’s wife, and that gives her a status somewhat above the peasant women. She is functionally illiterate, religious and very superstitious as are all women around her. She trusts and believes every gypsy, monk or storyteller who wanders into the village, God knows from where. She secretly donates precious stonesif she has them- to various monasteries and saints in return for favors. She told her husband that since she lost weight and her fingers got thinner she put her wedding band away for the time being. I overheard Aunt Popi telling Mom that she gave the ring to a monk who promised her to say special prayers for her children to survive the war. The monk gave her amulets for all the children to wear; the amulets were a small pebble and some garlic tied up in a rag. He promised to bring a splinter from the Holy Cross on his return. Return from where, I wondered, Bethlehem? Millions of ‘holy’ crosses must have been invented and countless trees cut to feed the superstition of those Christians who feel strongly the need of reassurance that a splinter from the holy cross will see them

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through life without problems. I refused to go through this ordeal. My aunt believes that my illness was a direct warning to her from God that she had sinned. My illness was totally a personal punishment and in order to atone she made a covenant with the Virgin, to walk barefoot to Her monastery at the top of the hill on the other side of the village. This would be fine with me, it’s her own business; but I, the main reason behind her sin and atonement, must accompany her, also barefoot! I don’t like the idea of bleeding feet on the rough, stony path, or walking uphill for hours. She said we will leave that for next summer when I’ll be stronger; she has another thing coming. Maybe by that time the war will be over, or I’ll think of something. One thing is for sure, she will have to walk alone! Today is Sunday. Either this was the best day of my life so far, or for the first time in ages I felt reborn as I walked outside basking in the warmth of the sun, appreciating values I hadn’t thought about before. I half closed my eyes against the glare of the sun but also to conceal the tears that stung them when I saw all our neighbors lined up in the street applauding as if waiting for the parade to start. A woman walked up to me and sprinkled me with holy water; a little girl threw carnations at me. It did my heart good to see that in these bloody times the poor, humble people of my village cared for one of their own, as the girls in my father’s village had. It made me proud. So, weak and fragile as I felt, I walked slowly, careful not to miss a step, or stumble, praying that my legs used for the first time after so long would carry me the two hundred paces or so to my uncle’s house; it suddenly seemed kilometers away.

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There was an invigorating breeze that brought smells of basil and seaweed and I breathed deeply. I was actually glad for Aunt Melania’s presence blocking my way halfway down the road. She stood in the dust, her bare feet apart to hold her thin body, perspiration drenching her shiny face. Perhaps it was an effort for her, too. She made the sign of the cross in the air as if to ward off evil and smiled, the gold tooth sparkling in the sunlight. As I came closer I saw that she was crying, or she was in a religious frenzy because she shook and her tremendous black bun got loose spreading her hair over her back and shoulders. Unmindful of the neighbors with whom she had shared a lifetime of joys and sorrows, childbirths, burials, weddings, quarrels and gossips, she

began to sing

at the top of her voice the lullaby I loved as a child: “Welcome my little partridge, strutting like a queen...” I cried and forgave her; my strength was giving out. She greeted me back to life; I fell into her loving bosom (I had taken the precaution of removing my glasses this time). Beyond the fields, the white capped sea was changing its color to wine; its murmur and that of our neighbors filled my ears. I am alive, I thought, I am well. My aunt’s bosom smelled deliciously of cinnamon and sweat.”

It was getting close to October; days were shorter and the scenery began to change color in front of Elena’s eyes as she walked from window to door and balcony listening to the moaning wind, looking at the rain which seemed endless at times, day in and day out, soak fields and roads all the way to the shore. The lead colored sea looked angry. Elena was well, but for the anxiety about

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school, she would be happy. But she felt like a prisoner; she missed the feel of the wet pebbles under her feet, the soft waves, the soft breeze that made her hair dance like the reeds. She felt lonely, her cousins avoided her finding other interesting things to do even in the rain. Elena could not step out of the house; everyone was watching her. What if she had a relapse? She was isolated from the other children when eating, but her loneliness made her lose her sleep. Rainy days were different in the city. She had homework there, and friends. Here, she thought, I have emptiness. She remembered with nostalgia rainy afternoons when she was doing her homework with her friends and they joked and huddled on the floor for warmth and they studied or flirted discreetly and even that sourpuss Aristos, would join them. She was sure that he never reported those gatherings to his father. Only Popi watched them frowning, forever suspecting the worst. She eavesdropped and spied. “Those boys are looking at Elena”, she would tell her sister. “Looks don’t kill,” was Anna’s answer. “True,” Popi conceded, “but they bring hands out of their pockets.” “And that’s why I’m here; I told you again: stay out of it, she has a mother.” Popi pitied her sister; she shook her head, Anna was so naive. Her sister was naive. Anna was discreetly around, with the children, that year and the next, and the one after that, whenever they gathered to study or play and the youngsters seemed to enjoy her company because she knew how to be funny. She had lost so much weight that she almost looked like one of them. That way she had peace of mind, she knew that she could nip any budding romance if it ever started to sprout. Sometimes, one of them would bring her a cigarette he or she

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pilfered from an unsuspecting father. That was her way of innocently discouraging everything but the purest friendship in those years of awakening. Elena was on to it. Even under those circumstances which she inwardly called a peasant’s shrewdness, she missed those days. In November they were informed that schools were to open by the 15th. Exhilarating news, but for the last obstacle, the most serious one. Philip! He had been silent waiting for the news. What would be his reaction now, Elena wondered as she discussed it with her mother. “Only over my dead body he will stop you from going to school,”

her

mother said, and Elena knew then that in the weeks to follow the house would be a battleground. Her mother had decided to fight her cause on her own grounds, in the small apartment where everything would be heard by the neighbors and that, she hoped, would intimidate her brother. It would be unthinkable for the village President to either storm out of the apartment yelling or to be heard cursing. When time came for a talk his voice was subdued. “I can just about feed one family,” he argued, “let alone two so many kilometers apart. This is going to be the toughest winter yet, families should stick together. And what if Elena gets sick again?” “Elena is well now,” Anna answered, “and we will not be using any more food than we use here.” She had began her defense. “I say that now that Nicky is ready for the Gymnasium we board both boys with a nice family for the winter.” “And Elena?” Anna asked close to tears, her lips trembling. Elena hated him that moment as she listed to him. “Elena has had enough education.”

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“What is ‘enough’ in your dictionary, brother?” “Enough Latin, enough ancient Greek, enough Algebra, enough French...” “Enough!” Anna yelled. Do I take it that you are qualified to give her a degree for the ‘enough’ she has accumulated during her schooling?” “Oh, come off it, Anna, what in hell does she need a diploma for, she will marry and it will be wasted.” “And what if she never marries?” Anna asked secretly biting her tongue. “What if she needs that degree to make a living? Since when is education a ‘waste?’” “The war will not last for ever, Anna. After it’s over send her to one of those fancy schools to teach her how to be a lady, or how to get a good catch or whatever the hell they teach them.” “Philip, I’m afraid the war has done something to your brains,” Anna said not giving in. “My daughter has no dowry and I intend to see that she is not only educated but over-educated.” She banged her fist on the table to emphasize her words. “Furthermore, I like to remind you that father sent you to college because he wanted you to be something better than a coachman as he was, or a coal merchant burning logs at the kilns on the mountain. Unfortunately, you had to go to a war; unfortunately, you were a prisoner of war and lost eight years of your life in the Asia Minor disaster. Because you had to. You were a victim of that war and now you are trying to make Elena a victim of this war. She does not have to go to war, her presence or absence does not mean a thing to the madness of international politics, and if we paid attention to every calamity that befalls this land we would be a pretty illiterate country and God knows we are not far from it. I promised her father.”

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Exhausted, she stopped, to take a

deep breath, the thought of her husband hurting. “...I promised him on his deathbed to see to it that she gets an education even if means my life. And you know well how much he thought of education...” “I know all that, but this is not time to think of education; we are at war, we have another priority, to survive.” “You mean to think of education for the females, as it was done with me, not for the males, right? Listen! If she is meant to be a housewife and not a scientist, as her father wanted her, let her be an educated one. She will be a better human being and a better mother. Now stop it!” Once again she struck the table with her fist. She was breathing hard, perspiration was running down her face. As Anna’s voice gained momentum, Elena, listening in the next room, felt immense admiration for her mother’s eloquence. If she won her cause, her uncle’s defeat by a sister who was not allowed to finish grammar school in case knowledge got ‘to her head’, would be a triumph. She also banked on the invisible witnesses in the darkness outside, to stand by when the right moment came. Her uncle put out his cigarette and stood up.

“Is this your final decision?” He asked, his lips a tight, white line. She nodded; she hoped that he would not walk outside at that moment, angry without leaving room for more discussion or argument. “Won’t you at least wait this winter out until we see how the war goes?” She shook her head vehemently. “Over my dead body”, she repeated and there was finality in her voice, which was unreasonably loud because she hoped the neighbors would take the hint. “It could very well be,” said her brother softly. And at that moment the

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first head popped into view at the window. A small bag of potatoes was left on the sill and a voice whispered: “For your winter on foreign shores.” Philip was livid. Why the sarcasm, why the melodrama he wondered, and then there was a woman and a jar of tomato paste, then dry beans and a little oil, bags of flour and nuts, onions and a dazed rooster, its legs tied with a string, flapping his wings desperately. Soon, the windowsill and the space underneath looked like a miniature grocery store. Philip’s ashen face was stern. “They are doing this to humiliate me,” he hissed with clenched teeth. “No,” Anna said. “They do it to help you because they like you. They are taking the food out of the mouths of their children because they know that education is a survival, too.” Her voice was soft and kind. It was not an easy victory, and contrary to her brother’s belief, she didn’t let it go to her head. She knew that the struggle, a more vicious one, would continue; winter, famine and who knows what else the good Lord had in store for her. Pale and tired, Philip lowered his head and walked out biting his mustache nervously. He left without a word and disappeared into the night just as the food donors had done not to embarrass him. Anna bent her head on her arms as she at the table, and cried.

BACK TO THE CITY Once again

mule and carriage loaded with mattresses, trunks, cots, cabinet

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and other trivia along with the sad rooster, began its slow trek up the hill to get to the city on the other side of the mountain. The ‘taxi’ with its occupants preceded the house furnishings after waving to the whole neighborhood that saw them off. Philip’s absence from the waving crowd made the departure sad. The ‘refugees’ were embarking on the new academic year, 1942-1943 with trepidation, each keeping his or her own fears buried inside. The prospect of the second winter of their siege was frightening. Nicky squeezed silently in the corner of the back seat deep in thought holding a bag of rice and a jar of honey on his knees, last minute offerings from a well-wisher. He seemed to be in shock. But for his physical presence he didn’t seem to be there in spirit; not that anyone else looked any happier; it just wasn’t like him. He had grown into a tall, slim and somewhat handsome but awkward boy, Elena thought; his eyes were dark, eagle-like, his arched eyebrows made him look as if he was forever questioning something. She could hardly compare him with the boy who was her playmate in Athens two short years before, exasperating at times but always there, listening at least. She was growing older and he was growing apart. Aristos had done his job well initiating Nicky into assuming the role of a ‘man’ that Greek society bestowed upon them as males. Nicky was fourteen; to him, a sister was a weak being with a big mouth, but one whose honor had to be protected even against her will. For his troubles, that sister was to serve, honor and obey him blindly, and take the insults and /or cuffs. ‘Over my dead body,’ as Anna was fond of saying, she had seen to it that Nicky was to act a boy his age and was told in no uncertain terms that his sister was his equal and their mother’s affair, not his. Is he thinking of all that junk now? Elena wondered looking at him.

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Popi and Aristos, with their personal luggage were squeezed next to Nicky, staring ahead aloof, each for his or her own reasons. They missed the turns of the road, the hidden monasteries, and the tall spruce trees that ran the other way slowly, or fast, as the ‘taxi’ willed. Anna, sitting next to Elena on the front seat next to the driver, was nervous and anxious. Elena closed her eyes whenever she faced

the fearful gorges, at the bends of the

road, but admired the trees and the lakes with the thirst of a person who had come close to death and now sees everything under a new light, unaware of everyone else’s preoccupations,

but with secret trepidation: what if the

landlord had kept not the apartment for them as he had promised. “Did you say something”? She asked her mother; she thought she had heard her murmur. Her mother shook her shoulders. “No, nothing.” But she was also thinking that they were a month late and who could blame the landlord for not keeping the apartment for them. He hadn’t!

(ELENA’S DIARY) “Disaster! New tenants are now occupying the apartment. My mother cried; she didn’t want to get out of the taxi. Aunt Popi began pacing the sidewalk, she was a wreck. I am sure she was terrified at having to spend the winter at the village. Aristos remembered his old landlady and took Nicky there to see if she still had a place for us. I wouldn’t go back to the village even if it meant sleeping under bushes all winter; on the other hand, I never liked that apartment, it gave me the creeps. The taxi driver was leaning on his taxi smoking nervously, I could almost guess

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his fear that we would spend the night in his taxi. But he knew there was a hotel of sorts further down; we would not spend the night in his crummy taxi. What about curfew! I waited hoping that the boys will bring some good news. I walked to the harbor, the water was getting choppy, wine colored. Ourania, clutching her short jacket around her thin body and the threadbare school uniform was running against the cold windd. We stopped to talk. She saw the loaded taxi and I explained the ‘scared rabbit’ of the classroom, running against the wind, what had happened. Her face brightened. “Come with me,” she said. “There is a vacant apartment next to my house.” And her house only a few short blocks away. “Let’s go ask my mother.” We ran. Trust Ourania, I thought to run to Mamma. But the main thing was that a vacant apartment existed and we would have shelter that very night. I ran to get the taxi, meanwhile, Ourania would take care of things. I was thrilled, yet, there was an uncomfortable sensation at the pit of my stomach.”

The house belonged to Ourania’s father once. When he died a few years ago his relatives took possession making sure that the will was altered according to their wishes. Elena wasn’t surprised, the story was familiar, her uncle Nicolas was a prime example. Ourania’s relatives were friends with the chief of police and Ourania’s mother was only a ‘woman’, who was going to listen to a woman, a widow. As usual, Greek justice was on the side of those with power either in church or the government. The widow was afraid to protest, afraid that she might lose her own house as well. This now

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was her chance to get even. The two

tiny rooms and the small kitchen downstairs were vacant. By the time they returned from their village they would be legally occupied. Early next morning, the two mothers visited the office of the mayor, filed an application for the occupation of a vacant apartment by a refugee family, and got the certificate they needed, a miracle for both Greek and Italian bureaucracy. By the time the owners returned it was too late. They screamed and cursed but that was all. They got no bargain, they knew that; just a roof over their heads and a hateful landlord who would be living next to them all winter making their lives hell. Compared to last year’s apartment, which she disliked, this was a step away from Hades, she thought. “How will I go through the winter in these small cubes of rooms, she wondered, but then the village would have been worse. The house was in a lane so narrow that the cart couldn’t fit they unloaded at the corner and carried everything to the house manually. The taxi just about made it, but a donkey could pass easily. “I believe I long for the old apartment,” Elena told her aunt, “unexploded bomb and all”. Like most houses, the little one was war scarred, too. Another awful thing was that the bathroom and the kitchen downstairs would have to be shared with the landlord. Even before winter settled in, the walls were damp and dripping. They would need large amounts of coals to keep themselves a little warm and the walls dry. It would be rough because in order to avoid confrontations with the landowner they mostly cooked in the room on the brazier and that necessitated opening the only window allowing thus the ice cold sea gusts to cool the room and that defeated the purpose. “Remember,” Anna kept reminding them, “that some people have no homes at all and others have been killed by bombs. Consider this a temporary shelter.”

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She wished she could believe it herself. Those gusts! They whistled through the loose window frame even when the window was closed. The front room, the one with the window, was the coldest also the smallest, like a cell. They squeezed there to eat, sleep, chat, cry, play, do homework, pray and soon they learned to overlook discomfort and occasional hardship without too many grunts. In a war the priority was survival, discomfort and hardship came second.

C H A P T E R

SCHOOL The island city

had a new Italian commander. In one of his strolls

through the

he fell in love with the elegant building that housed the Girls’

Gymnasium and ordered his police to have it vacated and move the school someplace else. He moved in. Teachers’ and girls’ desks, files, records, were in the street for days

while soldiers were carrying into the building the

stolen treasures the commander had accumulated from the countries he had occupied till then, the rich houses where he was stationed. He began his social life in the villa on the hill with the palm trees. The Girls’ Gymnasium school was moved to the third floor of a once exclusive private school where the rich parents sent their daughters. It was on the other side of the town. They could only use the third floor because the second was occupied by the Italian Officers Club and the first was used as a warehouse. The rooms were small and the classrooms could not fit them all so classes were broken up into morning

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and afternoon, and only three times a week. The girls didn’t mind since they all faced the agonizing prospect of securing food or die, they would have time to look around now. What was more alarming was the scarcity of teachers. The school authorities did away with such ‘useless’ subjects as physics, psychology and chemistry. Ancient Greek, Latin, Religion and Italian lessons were intensified.

Here we go again, Elena thought walking to school that first morning. She braced herself making herself smaller against the cold wind that whipped her as it swept through the narrow harbor lanes, unmindful of her empty stomach that was sagging like an empty sack, her clothes were getting too small and threadbare. She was wind-swept, unable to resist its force. She felt that the year before was an eternity away, nothing was the same, everything was worse with more to come. She was getting weak, people died left and right in the street from hunger; and she become obsessed with the idea of food. If a girl was missing from class they knew that she either returned to her village succumbing to the logic of some Uncle Philip, or she had given up in despair, or, worse yet, that she had died during the summer. Teachers that were able to return to school tried their best to penetrate the students’ foggy minds with severe doses of Latin and Ancient Greek and Math to make up for the two days they were losing; Elena kept thinking of food. With terror, she realized one day that she was hallucinating: she visualized a particularly ugly teacher as a baked fish when he looked at her with those bulging, lifeless eyes; she garnished him with small browned potatoes on a platter and her eyes watered; the awful thing was that she thought she could smell the warm aroma of

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the baked fish, and that was dangerous, close to madness. If he could only guess her thoughts as she looked at him with rapt attention! The sirens brought her to. In the alarm and the confusion that followed as they scrambled down the stairs to the shelter in the basement, she forgot her hunger. She was half asleep leaning against the stinking, damp wall when the all clear sounded. She didn’t know how long the alarm had lasted; she didn’t hear any bombs, they sent them home. While the weather held, the family walked out of town to the fields in the after school hours to pick dandelions, their steady and most reliable diet. “It’s good for us,” Anna had said. But for the need to fill their stomachs with something, no one would listen. Stooping for hours, digging the moist earth, get filthy and carry the mud home, fighting with the grazing animals and snakes for those greens! All three tried to hide their faces not to be seen by their friends doing this menial chore that only the peasants were ‘supposed’ to be doing! Nonetheless, they knew that in a field or two further, their friends would be doing the same if they didn’t want to go to bed hungry. It was different on Sundays when the weather was nice. They crossed the bridge to the olive groves that covered the entire hillside and it was hard to be seen by others; they picked the green olives that had fallen on the ground before olive picking time in November. Most of the fruit on the ground was half-rotten olives but edible. Sometimes they ‘helped’ some to fall. After the trees were stripped by the owners, they picked the discarded or forgotten fruit. Once home, they crushed the olives and salted them with coarse sea salt they gathered from the cracks of the rocks. The seawater covered the rocks after a storm and it turned to salt. It was a luxury. In

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a country surrounded by sea

salt, too, was imported! The olives took a few days to lose bitterness but when there was nothing else to eat, they ate the bitter olives anyway, then

drank a

lot of water. The salt blistered tongue and lips and their water-filled bellies made funny noises when they moved. Those nights they went to bed early and Anna kept their spirits up by telling stories they had heard before or those she made up.

Anna was losing weight steadily; her feet were swollen and her eyes puffed; she pretended that nothing was wrong, and was thankful to see the covers move in the morning, which meant that all of them made it another night. Somehow, her courage was transmitted to the children who, as darkness covered them, felt the walls close in and were uneasy with a vague fear of facing sleep. Aristos fell asleep as soon as he hit the pillow, his mind was always in control as he tried daily to develop a still tougher shield against disasters, political upheavals, which he did not understand, and bothersome relatives he had to look after! Elena kept praying for God to forgive her for being such a spoiled brat before the war with a warm home and plenty to eat and new clothes and toys. She realized that come next winter she would have no shoes. What a difference between then and now, she thought. One would think that a century has passed in the past two years! Nicky fidgeted and asked for more stories. Now that war and hunger had expunged many sins, Nicky, the pre-war fussy eater, dared to tell them how he threw his eggs out of the window when the principal wasnâ€™t looking, or played handball with his meatballs, fed his milk to the plants and his lunch to the cat under the table. â€œAnd now you wish you could just smell them!â€? Elena threw at him in the

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darkness, disgusted because most of those sins had occurred almost in her presence.

In those painfully cold nights when their stomach lining touched

their spines, those memories bore a macabre tinge, yet, Nicky thought his stories were funny and was totally unabashed.

CHRISTMAS Christmas 1942

was as cold, dark and miserable as any other day. Even the

church bells did not help to dispel the gloom and hopelessness that hovered over them.

Elena missed music; music that would assure her that she is still

alive in that 20th century world, but even the carolers were not out. More than in any other day, she felt that she should not think of food but her stomach bothered her a lot. She awoke that morning with a sinking heart and heard the vicious wind coming from the sea, the waves thrashing and splashing over the quay. Nicky and Aristos were spending Christmas vacation in the village; they would be in their element, she thought with envy and at the same time she shivered. Imagine, someone being happy there, but, yes, they could be, they were ‘men’. The village was no place for a woman where any female was a slave, nothing more, her mother knew. Her mother! Anna took sick some days before and had been taken to the hospital to have a tumor removed. What’s a tumor? She had asked the kind doctor. “In your mother’s case, nothing dangerous, it’s fat tissue that has to be removed because it’s near her vocal chords. Are you giving her a tough time and making her yell?” he joked to make her feel better when he saw Elena’s eyes fill.

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The hospital at the other end of the city scared Elena, though it did not scare her the year before when she went to the doctor for her hands. It was, like everything else terribly understaffed with few poorly trained nurses, mostly girls from villages who wanted to be nurses or were running away to freedom from tyrannical families; they had found haven in the institution even without a salary. They were fed and had a bed to sleep on; they depended mostly on gratuities and other material things the patients’ families gave them, even food, and took good care of the patients only because it was their duty and using whatever primitive knowledge they had, or watching and listening to the doctors who were very few. Those doctors really performed miracles against all odds without proper facilities and medicines except what the Italians brought, and at times without electricity. The joke of the town was that more people got out dead from the hospital than went in sick! Elena was frantic with worry even with the doctor’s reassurance. The hospital provided beds, nurses, thermometers and bedpans. Food, linen and medicines, were the patients’ responsibility. Twice a day Elena or her aunt brought Anna food; their resources, meager to begin with, were running low; but today is Christmas, Elena thought painfully. It’s hopeless! At that moment Popi walked into the room clutching a stole around her thin shoulders. “I have an idea,” she said with false gaiety. “The rooster has lived a long time...” Elena waited, though she knew what was coming and she liked the idea. “We kept it for an emergency, right? Well, that emergency is now. Your mother is weak from the operation, it’s Christmas, and she must get strong. That bird will see her through for days.” Which means, Elena thought, that we will only smell it. “Right!” she said enthusiastically, shooting up like an

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arrow from her bed. “Let’s do it!” “There is only one thing,” her aunt said. “It must be killed and prepared before we cook it.” “Don’t look at me,” Elena said, the idea beginning to hit and terrify her. “I cannot do it,” her aunt said. “If you cannot do it either, two options remain. Your mother does not eat, or you go downstairs with the bird and a knife and ask the first person who goes by to kill the rooster for you.” “You are crazy,” Elena murmured while her aunt stretched her neck to hear what she said. Easier said than done. Elena put on whatever clothing she could find that would shield her against the icy wind

and stood outside the gate

waiting for the lucky killer, her teeth chattering in the howling wind. It seemed that no Christian soul, at least from their block, was going to church that morning, though the bells were ringing. Ah, she thought disgusted, where is your Christmas spirit? Just because there are no carols and no feast waiting at home you don’t get out of bed? Nobody goes to church? She threatened the entire population with eternal damnation; it didn’t work, still no one appeared. What am I to do, she thought as the bird, having apparently a premonition of its demise screeched and squirmed under her arm; but she already knew; her aunt Melania came to mind the first day they arrived at the island; the slaughtering, cold-blooded cutting of the bird’s head...God, it’s Christmas, but Mama must eat, she thought. She tucked the bird’s head under its wing as her aunt Melania had done and making short business out of it, which regretted later, she cut the head off and let it go. Big mistake! The bird began a headless, horrifying dance that left Elena numb and blood spattered.

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She watched stupefied as it flung itself from wall to wall, praying that it finally gave up ghost and drop someplace before someone decided to come through. She was still holding on to the head. When the rooster gave up she was spent; bloody and sick to her stomach Elena took the limp headless bird to her aunt upstairs who, seeing the blood all over her, fainted on the doorstep. Elena didn’t know who to help first with those bloody hands, her aunt, or the bird that had to be placed somewhere. She shouldn’t be surprised; her aunt who had actually lived in an operating room for years and had seen women die under the knife and wrote it all to God’s will or science, would faint at the sight of blood. She never had the nerve to ask her if she fainted in the operating room. Maybe, she reasoned, she loves animals more than she does humans. What is this woman doing in a war? She washed her hands, pulled her aunt inside away from the cold stoop, and revived her. Popi said nothing, she had to practical; without a word she started a fire and boiled water to pluck the feathers and then to cook the rooster. Elena took the food to her mother and

Anna had a real Christmas dinner

but worried sick if the others had any of the rooster; she wasn’t told her that both her daughter and her sister had only tasted the broth for their Christmas dinner. That bird had to be stretched as long as possible to give Anna some strength. She also was not to find out that Popi had sold her precious professional watch to a black marketeer for five pounds of potatoes, five pounds of corn meal a bottle of wine and a package of cigarettes. “One can buy everything back, if one survives,” Popi said, and Elena thought that once in a while those adults did come up with such wisdom and

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perhaps she should concentrate on those few and far in between profound words than the everyday mundane ones.

In was the afternoon of New Year’s Eve and Basil was giving a party to celebrate his name day. Early in the afternoon he knocked on the door asking Popi to allow Elena and Aristos to come to his party. “Aristos is away for the holidays,” Popi told him coldly, “and Elena is going nowhere.” “Why not?” Basil asked. “My mother is home and my sisters are Elena’s friends.” “Her mother is in the hospital and I don’t believe in joyrides while the world burns.” She turned and went inside holding the door for Elena to follow her while Basil’s myopic eyes were staring at her back in disbelief. He left without a word and a little later his mother gave it one more try. Elena kept wishing that out of respect for her son’s name day, her aunt would relent. But she was adamant. Before she left, Basil’s mother told her as a parting shot: “Dancing youngsters don’t influence the turn of history, nor the outcome of war; it’s hypocrites like us who bring this curse upon their future. Pray tonight then, that the children will be forgiven for dancing on one of His Saints name day.” Popi stared at the door that was slammed. How dared the woman talk to her that way? She faced her niece. “What’s so funny?” She asked angrily. “Actually, I wasn’t laughing, I was crying but not for me, for you!” She grabbed her jacket and left while her aunt was screaming for her to come back otherwise she would lock the door. Elena didn’t answer. She walked to the

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harbor; the cold wind came from the open sea in strong draughts but Elena felt nothing, she cried and cursed her aunt and her narrow-mindedness. What kind of God does she believe in? She asked herself. One who allows the world to burn in wars and would consider ‘sinful’ a girl who is surrounded by death and wants to go to a party? She dried her tears and began walking to the hospital. When she passed Basil’s door she didn’t even look. They would be making preparations; her heart ached. She liked Basil; she had never liked a boy before. And she was never asked before by a boy to go to a dance, she didn’t know if she was too young or things didn’t happen that way. She felt that missing her very first dance was like losing half her life. Basil was Elena’s age, a bright boy, shy and delicate, slightly nearsighted, but handsome. His two sisters were her best friends and though she had been to his house many times this year and the year before, he seemed to be hardly aware of her existence, or that she liked him. Maybe, she thought, he’s interested in other girls. But it was her that he had invited to his party; the first time a boy had asked her and she couldn’t go. Oh, how much she hated her aunt. She was going to hate her the entire year because it was the first day of the New Year! By the time she reached the hospital she was hysterical. Her mother saw her empty hands and guessed that something was wrong. Elena sat next to her and sobbed as she told her mother what had taken place that earlier in the day omitting the fact that she liked Basil. To her surprise her mother was as unresponsive as her aunt. “Your aunt has the responsibility of a mother as long as I’m not with you”, she told her weekly, “she must do what she thinks proper.”

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“You think it’s improper to dance surrounded by

family?” Elena was

angry. “I didn’t say that.” She was too weak to argue though she knew her daughter was right, but it would be hell to pay if she went against her sister’s decision since she had given her the responsibility to care for her daughter in her absence. “You say nothing?” Elena shook her head. She very much wanted to remind her mother about the ugly accusations of last summer, and ask her what moral fiber in her aunt’s body saw evil in dancing? But she thought better, she had come to confide to her mother, not to worry her; true, she was negative and Elena found no understanding, but there was no point in making her upset weak as she was. She kissed her and got up to go. Her mother took her hand as if to thank her for understanding. Elena had not understood. “I’ll come back later with your supper,” she said, and kissed her. As she stepped down the main entrance she saw her aunt coming up. In a neatly folded napkin she held her sister’s dinner. “So, you have come to bring the news?” she said bitingly. Elena did not answer. She let her pass, then waited inside the door to walk home with her because she had no door key. A fine walk this is going to be, she thought bitterly wishing that she could just disappear and drop inside the house from the roof. Then she changed her mind. Why should I walk with her and be miserable, so that I can be miserable all year? She left and walked along the shore with measured steps. As darkness fell, it began to drizzle, the sea was dark and angry, its foam sprayed the flagstones and spattered her hair and glasses. The small craft moored at the pier danced crazily accompanying the swishing of the waves with the music of their own movement. The cold water

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seeped through the thin soles of her worn shoes freezing her feet but she liked the bitterness of the brine on her lips, it matched her mood. The streets were deserted, windows shut against the cold wind. She felt the lack of human presence, of lights, and song. Only the boots of the Italian patrol could be heard in the distance as they walked the dark, narrow lanes of the city. She ducked into recesses of doorways when they got too close. When she turned into her own narrow, dark lane there was the shadow of a human shape in front of her own door, apparently avoiding the drizzle and the sudden blasts of the wind; she approached carefully on her toes, staying close to the wall. Not another surprise, God, not today, please, she prayed. It was Basil!

(FROM ELENA’S

DIARY)

“Basil waited for me in front of the door downstairs, he ‘happened’ to be passing by, he said, but of course I know better, the sudden skip in my heart told me. In the darkness I could not see the beautiful green of his eyes but I could read a message and when he smiled the night lost its bleakness, and I could also see that he was really very handsome. He too, had lost a lot of weight and when he smiled there were wrinkles on his cheeks like the rest of us. I asked him to go for a short walk with me because if my aunt came by and found us together there would be hell to pay. ‘You left the party,’ I told him. ‘They are having fun,’ he answered, “they won’t miss me.” He didn’t realize how hurt I was. We turned the corner and a sudden gust of wind blew the hair away from my face; he saw the tears and took my hand in his

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squeezing my fingers gently, then he dropped it because he thought he heard steps but it was only a little rowboat rocking and touching another boat. We stopped under the arch of a shop’s door which protected us from the wind. He lifted my face and looked at my eyes intently. He kissed the tears and then he kissed my lips. His own lips were cold and trembling; I felt their stiffness and fear. I closed my eyes as I had seen done in the cinema, but still his kiss, stiff and awkward left me unimpressed. I tried forcing myself to feel whatever I am supposed to feel when kissed, but nothing came up. I only realized that I had no wish to be kissed by Basil or anyone else. That is not how I dreamed my first kiss to be, I thought. Maybe everyone is right, I’m not old enough. I still let him kiss me to spite my aunt. How I wished that she could see me in the arms of a boy! What would she have to say about that sort of merrymaking?

C H A P T E R

[New York, December 31, 1999. It’s snowing and it’s cold. It hasn’t been so cold for ages. It’s warm in the apartment and as I look out at the monstrous high-risers across the way, the brightly lit windows and balconies with the blinking colorful lights lift my spirit; I almost forget how bare my life is now, how alone I am. On the T. V screen the usual mad crowds are waiting for the ball to fall at the strike of midnight, the last midnight of the century, of the millenium. I remember. It’s frightening and at the same time

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astounding that the entire humanity is at this moment connected with this abstract, manufactured idea of time. If this could be done on a social or political thought this world would be a beautiful place to live; there would be no wars, no hate, just a happy universal family. I watch the various cultures in all continents celebrating life and happiness for having seen this historic date dawn all over the world and worry that tomorrow it will be another day to get back to war, to hate, steal, kill. The fireworks and music will be again what they were yesterday, implements of death. I remember New Year Eve’s of long ago when the children were little. Now, the three of us are living in three parts of the country, way apart and geographically hours apart, such is life. And I remember something that they never knew: the last day of 1946, (half century now!) my first year in America after more than 12 years absence. It was bitter cold then, too; it had been snowing for days much to my delight. I hadn’t seen snow in Greece and had no childhood memories of snow in America, and neither did Nicky who enjoyed sledding down St. Nicholas Avenue after school. I was siting perched on the windowsill of the fire escape of our mall 5th floor walk-up apartment in Washington Heights looking at the last snowflakes of the latest storm; the bundled people below rushed to or from the subway, and the Avenue stretched like a white ribbon. There were very few cars then. “Mom, can we go to the Avenue to watch the lights at the stores?” Nicky was bored out of his mind. He wouldn’t listen to the

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radio because of the language difficulty, and he had no friends yet. He lived between school and work. He had warned me that he would try to convince our mother to let us go out that evening. He wanted me to see how the Americans celebrated the New Year at Times Square. Knowing my brother, I did not entirely trust his cultural curiosity. “At this time?” Mama said. “It’s late!” “No, it isn’t, it’s New Year’s Eve. Why don’t you come with us,” he added slyly knowing –and hoping- that she would never leave the house so late with so much snow in the streets. He was already pulling on his boots. “Don’t go far and don’t be late,” she said giving in, and then added. “Dress well, both of you.” We were off and running down the stairs; when we reached the sidewalk we were at our best behavior. Mom was sitting quietly under the tall lamb knitting when we left, but we knew that the moment the door closed behind us, she would be stretched out on the fire escape her vigilant eyes following us to the corner, protecting us from evil.

It was past 11 when we emerged

from the subway into an ocean of humanity. The more we walked, the more I wondered how could the population of the United States fit into those few blocks. My brother’s ‘Time Square’ as I was seeing it, and the ‘Times Square’ I knew as a subway stop, coincided only geographically; they were two different worlds! Nicky held on to my hands so we don’t get separated and pushed on ahead making little progress in the pressing crowds. “I can’t breathe,” I shouted suddenly getting claustrophobic. “Wait till you see the ball at midnight,” he shouted back. What

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ball? I wondered, was there to be a soccer game? Here? We were surrounded by so much humanity in deafening noise, and that humanity was pushing us here and there, away from the subway.

Mom will be

worried, I thought, we shouldn’t have lied. “Let’s go home,” I shouted again, “it’s very late.” “Are you crazy? I wouldn’t miss this.” As it happened, he did miss it. He hadn’t anticipated the strange custom he encountered where each male took the liberty to kiss any female that crossed his path. Nicky’s sense of responsibility and duty as a ‘protector’ of his ‘weak’ sister forced him to change his mind. Every soldier and sailor -and it seemed that most of the male population was in uniform- that met with us, had to kiss me. “Beautiful customs the Americans have,” I shouted. Why don’t they kiss you?” `

“Don’t be stupid, they only kiss girls.” “I know, I know, but they all have women with them, why kiss me and every girl they meet?” “Maybe that’s the custom,” he answered and then, “let’s go, this is no fun.” He was right, that was no fun, no one asked me if I wanted to be kissed by so many drunks, ball or no ball. “I don’t see women doing that,” I said. “They have more sense.” “Yeah, you should see some of them...” I didn’t ask him if any female had kissed him; he is too young for that, I thought so I let it pass. But he must have known about this peculiar custom, and that’s why he was so eager that we go to Time Square to celebrate

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New Year’s Eve. We reached the subway stairs and it seemed that the Army and the Navy was following us. And more were going up. Where is everybody going, I wondered thankful for the comparatively silent intricate underground pathways. “They are all going to see the ball fall at midnight,” and at that moment we heard the roar from the street. Midnight! Nicky looked sad and tired, disappointed. If I told him that at least the profusion of lights had made me happy, he wouldn’t understand, so I said nothing all the way home.

After many a New Year’s Eve -and I

never tried Times Square again- when we talked to our friends about that holiday in 1946, everyone agreed that I was a miserable creature and didn’t know how to ‘open-up’ or how to have fun; I agreed. To each his own, I thought. If the Americans want to have fun kissing girls or the girls being kissed by strangers, drunk or not, good luck to them. I want to be kissed only by the person who I pick to kiss me! I thought. “I told you not to be late,” Mama said getting up to go to the kitchen to warm up the soup. We could see that her face was almost blue from cold and her hands were shaking when she was making believe that she was knitting. “Do you think she’s been at that fire escape all this time?” Nicky whispered. “If not all this time, most of the time,” I said. “One would think that you walked the Avenue all the way downtown,” Mama yelled from the kitchen. Nicky giggled. “Don’t tell

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Mama whatever you do”. I nodded. “Especially that so many nuts kissed you.” He made a face of disgust and so did I. “One sure would think so, Mama,” he shouted back,“ you should have come along.” He took his boots off and went to the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” he asked me when he came back, “why do you look so gloomy? So, a few idiots kissed you, you didn’t kiss them back, did you?” “Shush! She’ll hear.” I kept thinking that soon it would be midnight and then it will be 1947. I would have to eat Mama’s special cake, the New Year pita and her baking had not improved with the years. Nicky finished his soup and went straight to bed without the cake and without wishing us Happy New Year. Today, half a century later, I still wonder where those fifty years went in this crazy, changing world that keeps going not getting anywhere.]

C H A P T E R

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ANOTHER VOYAGE Anna recovered;

by the beginning of the year she went home and life

continued its miserable routine day in and day out; the boys came back from their village vacation and were in school, and Popi who felt that two winters in the island were already too much, began to feel suffocated. She hated the tiny damp rooms, her surroundings and thought she could no more stand children, their homework and their problems. She had made no friends, there was no place to go and no more books she could borrow. Her own books were stored in Athens along with the rest of the furniture and she suffered from migraine headaches and insomnia. Anna could see all that but there was nothing she could do; The day came when Popi, deciding that she had reached the end oh her endurance and could stand no more, confided to her sister. “If I stay here any longer, I’ll lose my mind,” she said. “You prefer the village?” her sister teased. “You know very well what I mean. The only alternative I have is to go from village to village peddling my wares, like the shoemaker patching shoes; waiting for a woman in labor. Oh, can’t you see?” Anna could see, but she was afraid; afraid of bombs, hunger, distance, and her brother. “Athens isn’t the great city you remember,” she said gently. The Germans are not like the Italians. Where would you go, how are you going to live?” “I’ll intern at the city hospital; I’ll live in and they’ll feed me. If they starve, I starve. I feel that I’ll be useful there and more secure. Here, I’ll go mad, is this what you want?” Anna was startled and for a few minutes both were silent. “Listen,” she said finally. “You can’t stop me, Philip cannot stop me.”

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“Let’s leave Philip out of it,” Anna reminded her. “He mustn’t know.” “You can’t do any more for me. You helped me get my degree, I am grateful, now you must let go; who knows, maybe one day I’ll be able to repay you, to help all of you.” Deep in her heart, Anna knew that had it been her in her sister’s place, with an education and without children and obligations, she would have fled long ago. She contacted her cousin Mitsos, a young stranded seaman and asked him to find a way to get Popi to Athens. She knew he was working with the underground resistance movement; getting documents couldn’t be that hard, though Athens was in ‘another’ country according to the Italian occupation forces. Getting the documents wasn’t hard; actually, he bribed the Port Engineer. The difficulty lay in finding the money for the passage and for room and board until she found work. It was at that point that Anna decided that her Seal coat had to go. She had only worn it a couple of times because in time of war, she thought, one doesn’t parade wearing such luxuries. It was a special order from Paris and had arrived months before the war broke out. Popi fought the suggestion, nothing, she said, was worth selling such a coat. Anna reminded her that Popi had sold her dowry to get food for Elena when she was very ill; Elena agreed. On the other hand, they had to be realistic and accept the fact that Anna’s decisions were irreversible. Without much talk, the family knew that the coat, wrapped in its original shipping tissues, would be the last to go in the most extreme case. The emergency is here, Anna thought, the coat had to go. Who would wear such a coat on the island, Elena wondered; those who had the food or the money were living in remove villages or the hills.

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In less than twenty-four hours after spreading the word, a middle aged woman was trying the coat. She ran her fingers and caressed the fur lovingly, impressed by its perfect condition and sheen; she hugged and pressed it against her face and the glow made her look soft and pretty in contrast to the rough hands and the tight peasant bun on her head. She tried it over her badly made dress and was instantly transformed. Her rosy cheeks made her seem as if she didn’t belong to a starving populace. Popi walked out, she didn’t want to see any more. Two days later, at dusk, a horse drawn cart stopped in front of their door; two men unloaded and brought upstairs before the neighbors saw them, a 5O lb. sack of flour, a demijohn of oil, a bag of dried beans, one of potatoes and enough Ionian-Italian lirettas in the pocket of one of the men, to buy Popi’s ticket to freedom. They were elated with the food; Popi cried all night. Anna didn’t seem to be bothered that she had lost the only luxury she had ever had in her life. The next evening, the same cart unloaded an irate farmer who apparently had more sense than his wife. Anna, much to her despair, took the coat back without an argument; everything was legal in an illegal sort of way. However, she recovered her composure when the farmer asked for the return of the money and the food. She took a deep breath and like an experience merchant, she began to bargain. “The only thing I can return,” she said, “is the flour. I have already traded parts of the other items, and used all the money. But let’s talk it over. I have something extremely valuable that you will like if you let me keep the flour as well.” She led the man to the corner of the room which was in the dark, and, turning her back, extricated from her bosom a tightly knotted handkerchief. She

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came into the dim light and showed him the diamond pin. The glow made everyone gasp. No one had known. “This was my husband’s tie-pin, may he rest in peace. We bought it in America, it costs a fortune. See the horseshoe? Nineteen diamonds, two sapphires, all set in platinum, a fortune! Worth more than my fur coat.” There was an instant change in the farmer’s face that looked almost like his wife’s did. It was obvious that he wanted it. Perhaps because of his wife’s frivolity, or the fact that it was a valuable item, he left with the pin and half the flour. The coat went back into its cozy wrappings much to the delight of everyone. That night Elena cried first because she didn’t know that something that belonged to her father was so close and also because she lost it before she had a chance to even touch it. She also knew that even with that sacrifice their survival was not guaranteed.

(ELENA’S DIARY) “Spring is here; the weather is much warmer. Winter, one of the enemies, is almost over. Mitsos brought the documents yesterday; everything seems to be in order after many weeks, and bribing, as if she is going to the

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moon and not 24 hours away! He came upstairs holding more than documents and placed the ‘present’ in front of me; it looked like a chicken leg, how could I know for sure, I haven’t seen one in years but it smelled good. I looked at him questioningly. Yes, he said, it was all mine since the boys were not home; we don’t tell, he said. I agreed, promising silently, that the next tidbit that comes our way will be theirs. It was a delicious piece of meat and admittedly, I would have enjoyed more if I didn’t feel guilty seeing three adults looking at me chewing. Don’t they know better? He told my mother and aunt, rather whispered, that I am too thin, that’s news? Anyway, I sort of made up last night; I said

I wasn’t

hungry and gave the boys my miserable supper. Aunt Popi and Mitsos exchanged looks then looked at me either with pride or with pity. I could have saved my conscience qualms. When he came today, he told us that the ‘chicken leg’ I ate was no chicken. It was part of a cat the Italian soldiers had killed, and had the tavern keeper prepare for them. Our cousin had seen the fragrant pieces of roast meat when he went to the tavern to buy wine and simply asked for one for a hungry child. The soldiers obliged, which surprised him, but he took it happily. It was funny; when Mom heard that her daughter had eaten cat, she dropped onto her bed yellow as death and aunt Popi ran downstairs to vomit. Again I wondered if she felt sorry for the cat or me. I felt nothing, I wish I had another one!

Sunday was a sunny spring day; the flowers and the crocuses sprouted everywhere even on the remnants of bombed houses. People were outdoors shedding winter’s mothballs, enjoying what looked like the fist day of many to

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come. But Monday dawned bleak, rainy and cold. Nicky and Aristos left for school and Elena lagged behind taking more time to dress. She was seeing her aunt off. When the boys left, Popi followed them with her eyes from the front window, tears running down her thin cheeks and onto the lapels of her red suit. Then she knelt in front of the icons to pray for them, not for herself until Mitsos, the cousin came to pick up her bag. The three women followed soon, creeping down the hall and into the deserted misty road, Anna and Elena after Popi, conspirators in her new, perhaps her last adventure. At the harbor, strong gusts made them shiver; the small craft, optimistically named ‘boat’, danced as if trying to cut free from its moorings. Men climbed in and out carrying merchandise. Elena remembered their voyage to the island three years before and how much her aunt had suffered. She seemed unperturbed as if someone else, not she, was leaving. They stood in the wind waving until the mists

swallowed the small

caique, then mother and daughter made their way home in silence. What was there to say, but to hope that they see each other home for lunch they didn’t seem to notice dipped their piece of stale bread in

again, alive. When the boys came

that their aunt was not there. They

water and ate it with two olives each.

Anna had baked the bread only the week before, but, in contrast to her cooking, her baking even under the best of circumstances never got better; it was

something between cement and disaster. They swallowed hard, ate a few soaked beans, drank a lot of water and went back to school. Aristos head appeared at the door momentarily. “Aren’t you going to school?” he asked Elena. “She doesn’t feel too well,” Anna said. “Keep going, you’ll be late.” Aristos left with a puzzled look. His cousin didn’t look sick to him.

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Late in the afternoon the weather changed; it was Spring again, all smells and light. And still the boys did not ask about their aunt. Later, as darkness fell and the stars were the only light in the street, Elena went

to a schoolmate’s house to pick up the notes from for the day’s

lessons. The

girl’s apartment, the one they had occupied the year before, was

just two blocks away. It was more an excuse to go out walking because loved to

she

walk out in the dark, much as her mother feared it. In the dark, the

city seemed to hold the magic of Venice locked within its ancient walls. She loved the murmur of the water, so secret and inviting, the stars twinkling, the luxury of

solitude, she was happy to be away from the smelly cell they called

‘home. And to think, she mused as she walked there, that last year I hated everything! The walk was short, only two blocks. The musty entrance she knew so well was pitch black. For the first time, as she reached for the brass knocker, she felt a strange fear, as if a ghost or a shadow was spying on her from a dark corner. Ghost stories came to her mind

as she fumbled at the heavy door but the two warm hands that gripped her

shoulders were too human. A moist, wine-stinking mouth sealed hers before she knew what was happening, she couldn’t scream. Panic paralyzed her, if the man relaxed his hold, she would have fallen. She struggled desperately to free herself from his embrace in vain. That kiss all like Basil’s first tender kiss. How

was disgusting and painful, not at

did he ever find my mouth in this

darkness, was her first crazy thought, as if that was important. Who is this man? What does he want from me? Her lips hurt; with a wave of nausea and a fresh attack of terror, she realized that the man had lain in ambush, not necessarily for her, but she was the victim

at that moment, she felt lost.

Raped or dead at that moment did not make much difference. For one second, the

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man left her mouth to get his breath

and for the

second time in her life

Elena got her wits together and summoned her strength

though the man had a

powerful hold on her. The blood-curdling scream that came out of her mouth stunned even her. Either someone hears, she thought, or I’m dead! She had little hope that her scream, strong and desperate as it was, would penetrate the thick walls, but the would-be assailant apparently taken

aback, let her

loose momentarily; she was too dazed to find the door, to run outside, he would follow her in the deserted streets, I’m lost, she thought in tears, I’m lost. She let out another scream more horrible sounding than the first one, then started feeling the damp, cobweb walls, but there, God

was with her. Hasty

footsteps were heard outside; she sobbed loudly. “Over here, over here,” she knew the voice. The two men got inside, one lit a match, their shapes were sketched against the door frame. The jeweler and his son who had the jewelry store on the ground floor. The old man caught Elena as she was falling and his son brought out a flashlight against the man’s face. It was an Italian soldier, hardly out of his teens, trembling in fear, stuttering in terror; the ‘man’ who minutes ago had almost destroyed the life of a young girl! Elena saw him shaking, even his boots seemed to be shaking. Her stomach

turned. He held on to his feathered green cap and was

pointing at Elena in total bewilderment. The older man collared the soldier against the wall; he told them his story, sobbing. It was the wrong girl who happened to come at the wrong moment and Romeo couldn’t distinguish facial characteristics in the darkness. Sure, Elena thought, the usual cliche: in the darkness all women look alike! She laughed. “Child,” the old man scolded her. ”Don’t you realize the danger you were in? If we hadn’t come by, you would be lost; you are laughing.”

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“Who, him, ‘dangerous’?” Elena pointed at the shaking Italian with disgust, but the man was serious. “You are not that brave, you are being silly,” he said seriously. “Now, run home and never walk alone at this hour.” “She is not that brave,” his son said, “she is in shock.” Elena lowered

her eyes. Humiliated, she walked home without notes or books. She

told her

mother what had transpired in the little time she was out,

omitting her daughter’s

desperate fear. Anna dismissed the story as another of her fantasies.

For the next few days the story made the rounds and was the topic of conversation in many different versions. Both the saviors, and the would-be assailant, for their own personal reasons, had not been discreet. It was a blessing that mysteriously, none of the versions named Elena. Aristos standing by the window looked at the dark sky and asked frowning. “Where is Aunt Popi? It’s past curfew”. Elena waited for the storm; she

bent to her book. “Your aunt left for Piraeus this morning with Mitsos,” Anna said evenly

and Nicky who was attached to Popi, began to cry. Aristos looked at Elena and as she looked up she thought she saw poison darts shooting from his eyes. “Without telling me?” Anna looked at him evenly; she did not swallowed the bait.

“Well, she didn’t publicize her decision, that’s true. She just told me, and I tell you. Now, if you are finished with homework, let’s all go to bed.” Aristos undressed in silence and went to bed. Elena followed soon. She had a hard time placing him anywhere in this world suspended as he was between

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childhood and adulthood. He had missed childhood, she thought, because of the younger siblings, but he assumed a lot that was not expected of him. In daytime he lived in his world, that of men, responsible for the weak females of his family and the youngsters that he bossed about. But come night, he became so small, as to fit into someone’s palm, and the only one who knew that was Elena because they shared the same cot. Usually, the air raids happened at night and when he heard the bombs or anti-aircraft he shook so much that the whole bed shook. She would move from the foot of the bed where her pillow was, to hug and comfort him until the all clear. In the morning he either didn’t want to remember, or he honestly forgot; he was once again the levelheaded boy wonder with both feet on the ground. Elena never told anyone, or reminded him even at the most difficult moment. But that first night of Popi’s escape, she was happy because she would be sleeping in her cot. Let Aristos fend for himself, she thought with a tinge of selfishness.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “It happened! Not that we did not expect it, it was just too abrupt, my uncle’s appearance I mean. Aristos had worked fast. His father stormed into the house at noon when we were all sitting at the table trying to believe that we were having lunch before returning to school; he began shouting to all of us that we treated him as an ass and not as a brother, an uncle and a father to be consulted; he cursed his sister’s ‘insurgency’ and threatened God and devil alike. Nicky, pale and frightened that Uncle Philip might find the boat that by now is in Piraeus, and bring her back, sat with me on the day bed. I was glad that Aunt Popi is away and couldn’t hear him. Aristos stood up with a face

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that said something like: ‘I told you so’, or, ‘she had it coming,’ or, ‘since when a woman picks up and goes unless she is one of ‘those?’ Maybe he portrayed neutrality; with him one never knows. I admired Mama! Not a sound. She let him blow off steam, and he was through and sat down shaking and in a deplorable state, she went downstairs and in a few minutes returned with two cups of her chickpea coffee, which I’m sure, is as bad for his stomach as real coffee is and may be harmful to all but still it smells good. She sat next to him looking as if she was treating the outburst as another everyday affair. She looked at us one at a time. “Isn’t time everyone went back to school? We’ll be here when you return,” she said in an even calm voice. At the door, I turned around for a last look. They were sitting side by side talking quietly, like two civilized human beings. God, I’ll never understand this world I came into. I feel for Uncle Philip. In a short while he has suffered two serious defeats, dealt to him by women, and what is worse, he can do nothing about it. Late in the night Mama made up Aunt Popi’s cot for him with all available blankets and as he blew out the oil wick and crossed himself preparing to sleep, he murmured: “It was the will of God, maybe it’s a good omen!” I think he has lost his mind, but perhaps her escape is a good omen. I hope so, this war has gone on too long.

March! It’s been weeks since my aunt left. I now weigh fifty-five libres less than on my 13th birthday. If it goes on this way, by the time my 18th birthday comes around, if the war is still on and if I’m still alive, no one will be able to see me. Nature is good, though, I have a slim figure, a tiny waistline and trim legs though they have a tendency to look like

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sticks. I should be thankful that I don’t have -yet- ugly sores and falling hair as other girls have from vitamin deficiency; they look like little skeletons. What bothers me most is that I have wrinkles on my face. My eyes are huge; they look sad and hungry, and I have a permanent pain in my stomach, it feels like an empty bag.

When I look in the

mirror I see an emaciated cow, or a gnome. Climbing stairs is also an ordeal, I feel transparent, flying out of breath, floating like dust that will scatter in the wind. I have a strange feeling about what’s happening to us, as though this mess is my fault; a constant anguish, almost like a physical pain. These thoughts come to me at night, because during the day with school activities, I forget.

But in the cold nights the darkness

brings back the despair. I’m afraid, I’m only 15, I don’t want to be turned to dust. I want to live and see the end of this war, to see lights in streets and homes; to enjoy food cooking, smells, to travel; to find out if the rest of the world is also mad. I want to study and fall in love; I want to be a scientist, to discover something that will make weapons obsolete so there won’t be another war, ever! I want to be happy, I want the whole world to be happy. Too many ‘I want’! Just an hour ago, I saw the most beautiful sunset as I looked out from our window. But then I thought that as the sun sinks into the beautiful blue waters it will probably find German or English submarines lurking right underneath to spread more death; the sunset lost its beauty. Fear grips my heart when I examine my supposedly ‘growing’ body and feel sharp bones; my fist fits in my rib cage. Courage leaves me then especially when I try to find comfort leaning against Mama’s shoulder and her bones stab me. I know she is silently crying with her head turned on the wall and I cry myself to

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sleep. I wish I could wake up one morning and find that all we suffered was just a horrible nightmare. But what if I awake one morning and Mama is cold and motionless next to me? Fear grips my heart at the thought. Are we doomed then? It’s better that I don’t wake up one morning because without her we are all lost. The air is damp, the room is damp...who will be next? Not Mama, please, God...Mama stirs in her sleep and then her breathing becomes normal. Is it normal? I hold my breath and count hers: one, inhale; exhale; one, two, one, two, now I can sleep.”

C H A P T E R

One Sunday early

in the evening, someone pounded at the door downstairs as

if there was an emergency. Whoever it was, was under the door canopy and couldn’t be seen. Anna went to open but returned alone, her face pale, drawn. Elena was the only one to notice the empty stare in her mother’s eyes, the boys were busy poking the coals to get them hot enough for cooking, soon they would be warm. At the same time, they would be inhaling the aroma of fava bean cooking. Elena kept watching her mother as she went about pretending to be doing this and that. Later that night, when the light was snuffed out and everything was quiet and the boys were asleep, Elena crawled into bed with her mother and hugged her; her mother was crying. “What is it, Mama?” she whispered. “Mitsos,” she said sobbing. “He was blown up inside a German train

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Northern Greece.” Her sobs choked her. Elena cried with her. “What was he doing inside a German train?” She asked. “He was to blow the train but didn’t manage to jump out in time. He went with the train, the Germans and their ammunition.” Elena drew in a loud breath that scared her; they cried silently for a while, each wondering why the sacrifices, why so much deaths. Wars are contrived, Anna was thinking, no matter who fights or for how long, it will end and it will be as if nothing happened. But how about those who gave their lives? Elena thought of her religion teacher

who had explained war as God’s

punishment; she wanted to ask him then how can He be so cruel when we know that He is forgiving and He loves Man; but she remembered that the year before he had asked her to leave the classroom when she dared to question him, so she decided to let it go. Her science teacher, on the other hand, mentioned a ‘natural process’ occurring with animals when they are faced with a struggle for the survival of the fittest. She paid no attention to any; she was sure that if she

made it to the end of the war she would find the truth somehow. If

I don’t make it, the information isn’t that important. “Mama,” she whispered close to her ears. “Hmm?” Anna answered sleepily. “Do I have syphilis?” First, she thought that en electric current went through her mother’s body, then she lay stiff as a board breathing hard as if struck by a bolt, living her last. Elena waited for an answer but Anna couldn’t open her mouth. She had to say something. “Don’t ever breathe that word,” she exhaled finally and punched he pillow to rest her head. Elena was dismissed. “Is it something very bad?” she asked without giving up.

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“Yes.” “Could I catch it?” “No!” she almost shouted. “Do people die from it?” Anna thought for a while hesitating to answer. “Yes,” she said finally, “go to sleep now.” She had a vague idea of what the disease was and her daughter’s brain was like a sponge, only that sponge was never satiated. As far as she was concerned, there were things that she could not explain; those she left to God. In a few minutes, her even breathing meant that she was asleep or she had passed out and the conversation ended. Elena was afraid to fall asleep, what if she had that disease and died in her sleep? What if it was leprosy eating her fingers? Maybe her mother knew that she had a terrible disease and that was the reason she was always sad and tearful. In the darkness that covered the four emaciated bodies who tried to forget hunger in sleep, Elena stared at the shadows on the ceiling, listening to the moans of the wind that came from the sea whistling through the bombed houses’ banging shutters like a macabre ghost dance music. Only the howling wind, not another sound, not even a dog’s cry, or the boots of the enemy. The Ionian Sea sealed the island in salty loneliness. There must be a place in this globe where people are not mad; there must be lights and music somewhere, food on the table, warm beds; people free to walk anywhere anytime they wanted, attend special schools, sing, dance...ah, for a little light, a little

warmth; light, please, a little light...she

drifted off to a restless sleep, hunger and fear clutching at her insides. Life, was her last thought, is pointless. Why live at all?

It had been a week of cold and rain; spring couldn’t make up its mind to stay

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or leave, as if bombs and hunger and threadbare clothes weren’t enough. But the farmers needed the rain at that exact time. Do they also need the cold, Elena wondered as she splashed in the puddles on her way to the hospital that Friday. It wasn’t raining hard but the fine drizzle penetrated her clothes and she was shivering. Her shoes were badly worn, she wondered why she bothered to wear them. Her bandaged hands were hidden in her pockets; she walked the side streets avoiding the main Avenue that would bring her straight to the hospital. Inside the hospital, she followed the long white corridor leaving wet marks on the floor hoping no one would just pop up from one of those doors to yell at her. From the rows of the large windows she could see the angry, dark sea. At the end of that corridor, watching the white caps on the winter blue in the bay lost in his thoughts, the doctor waited for her; he shook his head. “You are soaked,” he said, “you want to catch a cold; eh?” “My umbrella is at school.” “Good, she’ll learn how to read. Let’s go!” He led the way laughing; she liked him for his good mood; he managed to find a good word, or something funny to say to her to put her at ease but that day he interpreted his jokes as if he was trying to hide something from her. She followed him to the isolation wing where the Italian soldiers were. The nurses wore masks and tiptoed noiselessly in and out of the wards. The doctor walked funny right

with his head tilted to the

and his left hand in the pocket of his white robe. They entered what

looked like an examination room but there was no bed, only a desk and two chairs; it was too small for a bed, anyway, she thought. The doctor sat down and showed her a chair. “Doctor,” she said uncertainly, unaware that she was whispering, “is it possible that I have syphilis?” She waited for the explosion but none came; he

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just stared at her. Then he looked at his hands playing with a pencil, his eyes puffy now that he looked down. Elena’s heart was close to bursting. It’s true then, she thought, he is stalling. “What brought this up?” he asked. “I mean, whatever gave you that idea?” “Someone told me.” “Ah!” “Well, is it or isn’t it?” “You first. Tell me who told you. A doctor?” “Nnno... some boys.” “I see. Medical students specializing on venereal diseases.” “Hah?” She did not know that word. “No, no. When I left the hospital the other day, I passed the school and they were at recess climbing the fence; when they saw me they called me names, and said that my hands are bandaged because I have syphilis.” “That’s very serious,” he mocked. “First class diagnosis, straight from the fence. Elena, I am surprised at you, you are not unintelligent, how could you listen to boys who can’t lace their shoes yet. Have you ever heard the word before?” She shook her head. “Apparently they have, and it’s obvious they don’t know what it means either; they throw it like they throw stones at cats.” “My brother and cousin don’t do that.” “How do you know?” True, she couldn’t be sure, yet, all boys cannot be monsters. “Can you tell me what it is? My mother can’t answer, maybe she doesn’t know if it’s a secret disease.” “Unfortunately, it is real, it’s a dreaded disease and in all

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probabilities your mother does not know or does not know how to talk to you about it. It’s called a venereal disease...” “You mentioned that before, what does it mean?” He stopped for a moment to think. “I don’t believe you have any health lessons at school, have you?” “No, there is no teacher. There is one on the island but he lives very far away. His name is listed but we never saw him.” The doctor arose and walked to the other side of the little room where a white, enameled door led to another room. A large sign in Greek and Italian said: ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE. He pointed at it and then began to pace the floor. Elena tried following him with her eyes. The room was much too small for the big man and she was getting nauseous; but for the information he was revealing, she would throw up. Fumbling with his buttons, never stopping his shuffling steps, the doctor did his best to explain the disease to her as gently as possible, knowing that she would accept the information just as she did with her history lessons. Still he looked all done when it was over and sat down. “Is that it?” she asked. He would never know how relieved she was. “That’s it! I’m glad and relieved that I am the one to pass this information to you before you hear another silly explanation. And, by the way, your fingers don’t have a dreadful, fatal disease; this is a skin problem called eczema; you can’t die from it, and it’s not contagious. Also, and that should be more important to you than anything else, it doesn’t leave scars. Now, let’s go look for our Italian doctor;

I have a feeling he forgot about

us.” They walked to the other end of the hospital now looking for the only dermatologist sent to the island from Italy because of an outbreak of skin

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problems in the army. The elderly doctor was kind, a polite man. He was the one who took care of Elena’s hands and now she was feeling better knowing that what she suffered from was commonplace especially to persons with poor nutrition. Another war casualty, she thought, my beautiful hands! Elena had explained to both doctors that when they first came to the island from America she suffered something like that on her legs; at the time the doctor had told them that something in the water affected her. The old doctor shook he said. “That, too,” he said, but Elena, too late bit her tongue. The word “America” had escaped her lips without thinking; she saw the doctor look up; it was too late to take it back. The Italian smiled and touched the Greek doctor’s hands closing his eyes for a second as if to say: we are not here to discuss war, but health. How could I forget, she thought later, how could I be so flighty, as if I am a tourist. Two months later the bandages came off and the healed fingers were revealed thanks to the attention and medication of the Italian doctor. Her fingers looked new, like long, white strings, but they did not smell of sulfur medication any more. “Signorina,” the old doctor said, “look at your new, beautiful fingers, All you need now is a good manicurist.” He bowed and left.

Her new fingers were very delicate and needed constant care. But that ultimate luxury, soap, could not be found even in the black market; not that they had anything more of value to trade, but at times, Elena felt that she would even give up what little food she consumed for a small piece of soap. It was bad enough to wash hair, clothes and home and take baths with her mother’s boiled ashes, but it would mean havoc for her delicate hands. She watched her mother

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boil the ashes, cool and strain them, and tried to think that it was a misery everyone shared; she should be thankful for being clean and free of lice and bedbugs, their sheets and clothes smelled fresh and her hair was shiny; still, her mother had to give her a bath so that her hands wouldn’t touch the vile liquid. She suffered the embarrassment not without grunts and complains. “It’s only for a little while,” her mother said. “I can close my eyes if you want me to. I gave birth to you, after all, don’t be silly.” “To a baby, Elena complained, not to this.” She

pointed to her naked

body in tears. “No,” her mother agreed, “not to this,” and she pointed at the protruding bones instead. “Now, head down, I don’t want to be doing this all night. The boys have to bathe, too.”

C H A P T E R

THE FIRST REBELLION That year

on Independence Day, everyone seemed to expect something out of

the ordinary to occur. The older students remembered flag-draped buildings, music and parades. Shopkeepers peered at them from behind half closed doors as they walked to school, and felt sorry for them. The iron gate of the schoolyard clicked shut, the bell rang and the

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girls, not prompted by anyone, withdrew to the end of the yard and clustered there along the ivied wall restless, not knowing what to do next or what to expect. At the top of the stairs, Signorina Tescari, the Italian Principal, with the Greek ex-principal, now her assistant, and the other professors, waited for them to line up for morning prayers, their faces judgement stern. The girls didn’t move. The same colorless, humorless, dumpy girl, the assistant principal’s niece, walked up, as she did every morning, and stood there, her hands crossed for prayer, her lips tight, the wind playing with her stringy, mousy hair. She even looks like him, Elena thought for the hundredth time, and she

walks and talks like him! She can’t sing and she recites like a bullfrog;

I wish she knew how to smile. Couldn’t they find someone else? Thanks to her uncle, the girl passed the grades with good marks so, Elena believed that was the reason for the girl’s prominence. The girl coughed and recited the prayer. After she finished she stood there not knowing what else to do; she looked at the principal, then her uncle who nodded for her to sing alone. The girl realized that especially on that day she should keep her mouth shut; they would laugh her out of the school. Blushing, she returned to her line. Signorina Tescari was surprised and more offended than the rest; she had been nice to those girls; she had cured the ex-principal of his barbaric habit of beating them and she allowed them to wear their hair down and not in pigtails as they had to before. She walked down a few steps to face them on their ground. “Line up please, and back into the classrooms,” she said sternly, but no one moved. She tried staring them down; they stared back but didn’t move. She ran up the stairs for a quick conference with the staff and then walked inside the building. A few minutes later, the custodian was seen slipping out from the

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back gate. Elena looked at the Latin teacher with the Charlie Chaplin mustache, standing apart away from the others. He watched the girls as if he could see something no one else could see, but his eyes and his face held no contempt. He was short and seemed bodiless. The girls’ reaction to the day should be expected, he was thinking. We spend our lives teaching them values, love for one’s country, respect for their history and for those who died for their independence. Now we must castigate them for doing exactly what we taught them to do. Elena looked at him, the same thoughts crossing her mind. She waited. The new, gray-haired math teacher stood in the background, hands clasped in front of him. He hadn’t been assigned classes yet, it was his first day anyway.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “It’s not so bad, once you conquer fear. I was afraid for the smaller girls, though we shielded and protected them with our bodies. I thought, what can they do to us, kill us? So we waited to see what the enemy would do and we faced them when they came! They pushed and pulled our hair but then the Signorina came and stopped them. She had a sweet face and I smelled a trick, she was too nice.”

“Girls, girls, I understand your sentiment and your idealism, believe me, I do. But you must also understand that you are within the sacred and inviolable grounds of an education institution; as such, it must be respected.” She planted her delicate feet more securely on the ground, and the smile was replaced by a frown. At that moment the girls recognized, the teacher, any teacher, the school authority, the judge in any country! She was one of ‘them!’ Her gracefulness and femininity suddenly evaporated. “For you,”

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she continued, “who will grow into beautiful signorinas, Virgil and Homer are more important and academically more profitable, than insubordination. War is, after all, man’s trade, his affair, it has always been so. War is not for women, right?”

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “The woman has some nerve. Women and children seem to be the

most

obvious victims of every war. The are the ‘spoils’. They don’t have to go to the front, the front comes to them. Someone should inform the lady. At least in my history and culture, women were always involved when the country was in danger, even in my days, in this war women carried ammunition to the front on their backs to free the animals for heavier ammunition to fight her countrymen a mere two years before; if she is so educated and a woman of the world how come she doesn’t remember her history, the women who fought for independence? I just thought of something! Isn’t my mother fighting for her independence as a woman and a human being. Back to the lady in this predicament. I’m afraid that she thinks a woman’s worth is in her Parisian clothes...”

“...and poetry will open new horizons for you, a world of beauty that no rebellion can teach you. Geography will open boundaries, enlarge your knowledge of the world...” Which world, Elena wondered, the one you and Hitler envision after you exterminate half humanity? The one that will emerge after this hell? Then we will need new geography books. “...What do we women understand about politics and wars? Am I right girls?” She looked at them, almost at each one of them, scrutinizing them. Some stared back, some sniffed, others nodded, utterly

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confused. ”Now,” she continued, in obvious triumph. “Let’s all file in quietly and we shall forget this little incident. I don’t want the carabinieri to hear of this. They are, after all, the police and may not treat you like ladies. And we are ladies, not rioters.” She turned and started going up the stairs but not hearing footsteps behind her she turned to look. No one had moved. It was at that minute that the famous carabinieri threw the gates open and rushed in. The girls pushed their bodies against the wall trying to be one with the ivy, shielding the younger girls, trembling in fear as they saw the rifles so close to their bellies. The Italian police treated them as the principal had predicted: as they would deal with an unarmed enemy, one that had to be scattered: with rifle butts. What hurt more than that was the fact that the Greek teachers decided to join in.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “... They vented their anger at us as if we were the enemy and they, the Greek patriots. When the war is over, I’ll remember every one of them. Such hate in their eyes...all they’ve been teaching us of history and values and humanity and country evaporated in a few seconds. They are no better than the Italians. They, too, became the enemy; instead of weapons, they used their fists while our Italian principal stood delicately by, watching! I was punch drunk, my hair was pulled by so many hands, I felt I had no scalp left. It was partly my fault because instead of protecting my head I was protecting my face fearing for my glasses until I saw the hate of sinister eyes very close, those of the Greek assistant principal coming at me, and then I took them off and put them in my pocket. Then, someone’s hand was pushing me to the side away from

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the man’s slapping and hair pulling. Without glasses I couldn’t see who the man was, there was much dust, and many black uniforms about but when he brought his face close I recognized the gray-haired new math teacher and as I said thank you, he said: “get back to your classrooms, you fools, the bastards will kill you!” the traitor! Suddenly, what a surprise, I forgot the world around me, the mess I was in, the beatings. The man who got me out of that was the professor from Athens, what a story, I thought, wait till I tell Mama; maybe this will get me off the hook for today’s affair! “Getting yourself killed won’t prove anything,” he was shouting to us now, “they have the guns.” Maybe he was right, but we had tasted the power of resisting and though almost all of us -and we were hundreds- were hurt, we felt no pain because we knew why we were fighting, and because we had conquered panic which would be the only thing that could split us; we also knew that they just couldn’t carry physically all of us to jail. Of course, there is the question: Did we celebrate our National Independence Day? Protested that we were conquered by an army we had defeated, or the fact that on top of all other insults we had to be Italian citizens? Whatever it was we fought for, we paid the price with a few facial lacerations, cracked skulls and bloody noses, feet and hands.”

It was over. The Italian police pushed the girls toward the gate like sheep and physically threw them out into the street. Thank God for that, Elena thought, we wouldn’t have lasted much longer. “Now, what?” one of the girls asked. “Now, nothing,” Elena said. “We won!” At that moment, and while they were

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all there not knowing what was expected of them, the Assistant Principal appeared at the gate with a loudspeaker and told them to go home because they were all suspended for the next two days. Their behavior would be marked on their final report cards. Strangely enough, there was a loud cry of jubilation as if they were attending a soccer game; then, ragged and bloody as they were, they linked arms and marched to the center of the town, through the main road and into the Central Square singing; the bystanders gaped at them from shop doors or upstairs windows. Some, fearing reprisals, shut doors and windows and stayed hidden inside their homes, disassociating themselves from the ‘young nuts’. As the groups of the enthusiastic girls passed the Italian Police building and the Boys’ Gymnasium joined them, the ranks of the carabinieri were reinforced and at the right moment they attacked. The students used tactics they had read in their history books since their pages were filled with misfortunes and foreign occupations. They dispersed into the narrow intricate lanes and alleys of the city they knew so well, leading the soldiers to one way small streets and then jumping over friendly fences leaving the enemy at a loss as to where they

had disappeared to. Those caught, really got it. The

neighborhoods began to look like miniature battlegrounds, luckily, firearms weren’t used, just broken heads; the police was kept busy all day and that was sheer exhilaration. We celebrated Independence Day, after all! Elena thought as she made her way home in a jovial mood.

Suddenly, the gray-haired professor was in front of

her; he took her by surprise. “Mr. Marinos!”

She stopped in front of him. He placed his briefcase on

the ground by his feet.

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“It’s you,” he said, “Are you all right?” “Yes, yes, don’t you recognize me? I am Elena. Athens! Remember?” “Elena...Elenaki...how you’ve grown, how could I recognize you?” She saw tears in his eyes just when she wished she could poke those eyes out for what he had done to her aunt Popi. The truth was that since he hadn’t shown up after the collapse of the front, everyone thought he had left his body on the frozen Albanian mountaintops. And here he was! She looked at him as if he had really come back from the dead, and he looked at her thinking the same. “You have grown into a beautiful young lady, but you have lost so much weight,” he said sadly. Elena tried to laugh it off. “It’s the fashion nowadays,” she said. What if he asks me about Aunt Popi? She wondered. “And how is your mother and Nicky? How is Aunt Popi?” “Fine. We are still alive; Aunt Popi left for Athens a few weeks ago.” That seemed to unsettle him a bit... “Athens?” he asked surprised. He knew the family well, in a crisis they would not separate; and Athens nowadays was the city of the dead. “She went to find work,” Elena said. “She has her degree, then?” “Yes, in 1941. Mr. Marinos, I have a favor to ask.” “Sure, just give me your address and tell your mother I will visit you tonight, like old times.” Like old times, Elena thought but decided not to pursue the thought. “I’m sure Mama will be delighted to see you. I must ask you something else.” “Go ahead. We’ll have a nice evening like we used to. Remember, Elena?”

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Only too well, she wanted to say. “I’ll bring the violin, I’ll play.” “Good! But, please, don’t tell my mother about the. . .you know, school today...” “I promise.” Then he added in a lower voice: “But you shouldn’t lie to your mother.” Look who is talking about lying, she thought. How is he going to face my mother? Has he forgotten? “It’s not that,” she lied. “I wanted to tell her myself. This cannot be kept secret, we have all been suspended for two days”. “So I heard.”

She said nothing. Then looking up at him, she gave

him

directions to her house and for a while they walked together. “Tell your mother not to prepare dinner, I’ll bring something.” She nodded.

Before they parted she had found out that he had a wife and no

children and that his wife was with her sister in another island. She was expecting their first child. There is no High School there

and that was the

reason he was appointed to Elena’s island. Something inside her was collapsing; on behalf of her aunt she felt betrayed again. Poor Aunt Popi, she thought as she made her way home alone; poor world of hypocrites, grabbers, and maneaters. How does one reconstruct such a decadent world? The man was engaged to her aunt, he had been her one and only great love. They were making plans for the wedding when he disappeared without an explanation. There was furor in the house and screams and her aunt cried night and day neglecting her studies. Elena found out a lot by eavesdropping, but couldn’t understand most of it. She heard of a gun wedding, but she couldn’t interpret that one; Also that the older brother of a 15-year-old student of Mr. Marinos was holding the gun. He had married the 15 year-old student! Then war came, more worries, other priorities; Aunt Popi forgot about committing suicide and began to study day

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and night for her degree; she turned to religion with vehemence. And now you are back from the dead, Elena thought as they walked not knowing in which compartment of her mind to file that information. At home she found that she shouldn’t have bothered

warning Mr. Marinos, her mother already knew she saw

as soon as opened the door. The two boys were sitting on the cot looking as if they had swallowed the cat, Nicky in tears, Aristos the master!

They looked at

her, certain that the whole affair was her doing. Her mother pointed at the empty place next to Aristos. She sat down avoiding the boys, even her mother who paced back and forth in front of them. Surprised, she followed first her legs, then her face. She had expected hysterics, thrashings, etc. When her mother stopped in front of them, she had a funny look on her face. That prematurely wrinkled face didn’t seem upset; it had a young, playful gleam. “My heroes!” she said in a heavily accented sarcastic tone spreading her arms. “My private Army!” They looked at her not believing their ears. She was joking! “Now,” she continued. “Since we have all this time to our hands, I suggest you get your baskets and follow me to the fields for dandelions.” They shivered. Not that, they thought, the ultimate humiliation, what if the other boys, the other girls saw them, the humiliation, they would rather starve. “We need greens for supper, we have nothing in the house,” she continued. “I can’t go,” Elena began, “I...I have homework.” As soon as the boys heard, they nodded, they, too, had homework. “Really?” Anna asked. “And who gave you the homework if you please, the carabinieri?” Elena had a bright idea. “We don’t have to bother with dinner tonight,” she said smiling, “Mr. Marinos said he will bring dinner.” For a few seconds the quiet seemed as if all were catapulted to the bottom of an empty ship. Nicky opened his eyes wide

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remembering the professor but not the unpleasantness, and Aristos frowned looking from one to another as if to say, how dare you know someone I don’t know? “Mr. who?” Anna asked not believing in her ears. Maybe she heard wrong, she prayed. “You know who; Mr. Marinos!” Elena said impatiently alert to Aristos’ aroused suspicions. “Ah,” Anna said remembering but not relieved. “ That Mr. Marinos, the professor! All the same, we will need the vegetables, I am sure Mr. Marinos will not be bringing dandelions; we have some corn bread, and then we’ll see. Now, then! Get your baskets, off we go.” There could be no more excuses. One by one they filed out hoping that all their friends were either thrashed to death by their parents or hiding somewhere, away from the fields.

Elena opened the door downstairs when Mr. Marinos arrived later that afternoon, with his violin and a large fish. What luxury, she thought, what dumps, he thought, remembering their house in Athens. Anna, her previous dislike for him not withstanding, was jubilant when she saw the fish and began preparations. She had warned three children that war or no war, starvation or whatever their destiny had in store for them, their dinner manners were to be impeccable, or else! Mr. Marinos ate slowly, delicately; Anna followed his example. With half the fish remaining on the eaten fish, the children were living a sheer punishment as they watched their manners following the example of their guest. Mr. Marinos complimented the youngsters when, as soon as dinner was over, he saw the three of them rush to clear the table and carry

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the dirty dishes

downstairs with unreasonable, he had to admit, haste. By the time Elena brought the last plate to be washed Nicky and Aristos had licked every dish clean and sucked all the bones. She began to heat water and threw some ashes and lemon peel in it, seething in anger for their greed. She washed and they played and wrestled on the cement floor choking in the smoke; they weren’t allowed to leave her alone in the kitchen in case the landlord showed up; he was a mean one. Upstairs, the two adults the almost-had-been-in-laws as Elena thought of them, were deeply involved in their pre-war memories, reminiscing things she couldn’t even recognize and

they laughed. She stopped for a while to listen

her mother’s bell-like laughter. It seemed years since she heard her mother laugh. No one laughs in our house any more, she thought, but what is there to laugh about? She finished the dishes and went upstairs followed by the two boys who sat on the cot looking their usual charming gloomy selves. Elena’s thoughts traveled to those days long gone, and Kostas, Mr. Marinos’ friend who joined them from time to time and had been killed at the front; her aunt’s Jewish girlfriend, Leila, already a graduate, taken by the Nazis to a concentration camp somewhere; her aunt, trying to find a job in a hospital so she could survive and in the process maybe help them to survive, also. And us! She thought bitterly looking at the brazier with the half-burned coals and the shadows in the room where the dim light the oil wick flame could not reach. Reduced to skeletons, living like rats, with rats in this dark hole. She wanted to cry. As if guessing her misery, Mr. Marinos said he was going to play the violin. He had exhausted all the war stories, his adventures, the bodies of his buddies half-eaten by wolves,

his trek over mountains, starving,

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exhausted, wishing for death; all his neighbors that died in the hunger of 1941, even his mother-in-law ‘damn her filthy carcass wherever they threw it’, the baby he lost, the dead carried to the cemetery in hand carts in the dark hours of the evening without priest or death certificate, thrown over the wall so the bread ration could be retained.” “Such cruelty, we have become wolves, ourselves,” Anna said her eyes filling. “Well, yes...Elena, bring the violin and stand by to turn the pages like you used to, remember?” Sure, she remembered, she just felt too sad at that moment. Mr. Marinos tuned his violin, and Anna revived the fire with more coals. From her secret hiding place she extricated her famous ‘coffee’ the roasted chickpeas, and soon the aroma filled the room. Even that is fake, Elena thought looking for the right music sheet. The music, soft, unreal, changed everything around them, the viciousness of the bombs and the bullets, the stories of ugly deaths, the fear, the brutalities. Why the bombs and the machine guns, Elena thought if we can have that? Nicky’s eyes glistened in the flickering light, he is either getting to be a little more human, she thought, or has he fallen asleep with his eyes open. Music, she remembered, and laughter she remembered and a white enamel bed and white sheets, a warm blanket, the rug on the middle of the floor with the elephant woven at the center...When she had fever, he wiggled his large ears to amuse her; her mother heard her talk to the elephant and ran terrified to the doctor. Elena never told her that she was making up stories. And the lights...God all those lights that we took for granted and Aunt Popi used to tell them to shut them, ‘electricity is expensive’ and now there was none, so, is she happy now that her predictions had come true?

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The violin notes died away in a whisper, the joy of music began to dissolve into the dark damp walls, leaving the room in an eerie silence... For a little while they were richer, more alive and hopeful, but the aftermath with its silence

made them feel like small pieces of paper or

feathers whirling aimlessly in the crazy winds of a mad world. Elena felt sad, like crying sad, forgotten in a vacant universe; she was a nameless, unimportant child among millions of other products of a bloody 1940s Europe waiting for death. The old panic gripped her guts; she didn’t want to die, nor to end up in a ditch covered with dirt, as the one she had seen sometime ago in the fields outside the city covered with thorns and garbage... Loud knocks on the wall separating the two households brought her back to reality with a thud. “Shut up with the fiddle in there,” the landlord’s raspy voice ordered, “we wanna get a shuteye.” Mr. Marinos looked up startled, then began to put his instrument away. “Must be a music lover complaining,” he laughed. “The sign of the times,” Anna murmured. “That, too,” Mr. Marinos agreed getting up to leave. He snapped his case shut and looked at his watch. Curfew, he thought. The oil wick flickered and spurted as if in protest for the few drops of oil remaining from the evening’s allotment. Nicky was asleep against the wall and Aristos was nodding. The party was over.

(FROM ELENA’S DIARY) “A memorable evening, though it ended suddenly and rather sadly. At least

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Mr. Merinos left in good spirits. I showed him downstairs to secure the door and then listened to the quiet of the street for a few minutes. The silence was eerie, the hour early. I should be thankful for the quiet and no bombs! His steps echoed for a few minute on the narrow lane, then they died and only a cricket chirped in the weeds of the

small, stamp-size

backyard that was full of debris from the house that used to be next door. Parts of the walls were standing some time ago and we could see the colors of the rooms but a small earthquake took care of those, too. I looked at the stars flickering in the sky so far away, little golden dots unaware of bombs, death, me; the smoke blackened walls, the empty, rat infested yards, the rotting waste of what once were homes and were now suffocating me. I wanted to scream as I stood in that closed-in piece of smelly soil and rotting weeds for which I should be grateful; scream for what? For help? To let it all out? Who cares? I scream inside of me, at least I donâ€™t get embarrassed! A soft breeze blew in through the rubble, pleasant, as if trying to revive the dead night. I started going upstairs; I would much rather be going somewhere

to dance, in brightly lit buildings, see

what other girls are doing, what they are wearing how they were spending their evenings with no fear and hunger, I hope; what it is like not to wait for the plane that is stalking my dreams ready with its load of death; where is that heavenly place, in America perhaps? They, too, are at war, but they are rich; at least they are not hungry, and they are not

being bombed. The heavy boots of the brought

patrol passing outside our door

me back to reality as I stood in front of the room. Where is

America? I caught myself daydreaming again. This, these damp walls, is my reality; those heavy, sure steps outside, like heartbeats in a cavernous

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shelter, are deciding whether I should live and how, or for how long. This, I’m afraid, is my life: guns, sirens, boots, death! I came inside in tears; the boys were asleep, the room cold. Dressed as I was I curled up next to my mother’s warm body. She hugged me and her bones jabbed me. I wanted to cry in her arms but Mama is more scared than I am. I wish I could shrink and find my way back into her belly once again and wait there until I am reborn in another world, another time. I am beginning to realize that adults, are just as fragile, vulnerable and frightened as we are; except that they mustn’t show it, they have the responsibility to save us, to undo what other crazy adults are doing from time immemorial! ‘A good bag of bones, the two of us,’ Mama tried to joke. I was immersed in my own misery and had thought her asleep. ‘Imagine,’ she whispered, ‘showing up after six years...He’s got some nerve!’ ‘I’m glad Aunt Popi is not here,’ I said. ‘I bet she is still hurting,’ Mama said. Somehow, the oppression I had felt a few minutes before was lifted. I believe my mother is slowly learning to accept me into her world -whatever that implies- but at times, like tonight, she almost treats me as an adult. At least we don’t argue as she did with my aunt; I guess she needs me. ‘Aren’t you glad to see him, Mama?’ I asked. ’I suppose, in a way I am.’ She sighed, ‘I’m glad he wasn’t killed...’ I hardly heard the last words, she had fallen asleep and I was on my way to forgetfulness.

C H A P T E R 485

OURANIA Last year’s

schoolmate and friend, Ourania, was now a next door neighbor

much to Elena’s delight and to the anxiety of Ourania’s mother who did not encourage friendships; she, herself had no friends. The widow had no friends either; she was a lonely stern woman whose only interest in life was the proper upbringing of her daughter. Poor Ourania was the victim of motherly love. Elena envied her friend’s chalk-white smooth skin that had the quality of a gardenia, her glossy black hair and big black eyes. Except that those eyes looked down most of the time and especially

when they walked to school in the

morning and came back in the afternoon and met too many people on their way. When Elena met her for the first time the year before, she knew that one day Ourania would be a nun, she had all the qualities, the girl was destined for a monastery, she thought, she even walks like a nun, eyes lowered, back straight, her book bag held tight on her chest so that her hands were crossed. Even her name fit her, Ourania: the child from haven; she loved her enough to accept her the way she was, but the mother scared her who was always by her side, at times even in the school hallway waiting for her much to Ourania’s embarrassment. Who wants to be with a mother always, especially one with a permanent scowl on her face. Those were Elena’s secret thoughts; she never dared tell her mother, Anna would, as usual, ask her to mind her own business and dream her own dreams. She is right, Elena thought in her lucid moments. If Ourania heard a small child cry because of hunger, she cried, too, but as if the war-caused starvation were a social disease, she would not admit that she, too, was hungry. Every mortal in the city would go out to the fields to

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pick dandelions or olives but Ourania’s mother, who never forgot her ‘class’ and background, would not stoop to that; she was trading material things she could do without, for food; If the war doesn’t last too long she thought they wouldn’t starve. The black market had a feast getting household items that had been in her house for over a century, dirt cheap. And she was satisfied when told

that the buyer felt the great honor bestowed on him. Ourania had inherited her mother’s proud walk but not her arrogance.

Sometimes, when she needed help with homework, or pretended to, Elena went to her house to study with her. She liked the house, she loved her friend but could only enjoy the visit if the mother left for an errant and the two girls could talk or walk around without supervision. The mother’s presence transformed that beautiful, old, elegantly furnished aristocratic home into an army’s barracks with the appropriate strict discipline. The house, had religious objects in evidence all over as well as two very old and elaborately carved bookcases which housed few books of faith, the lives of saints and cooking; those would be the last to go, Elena thought. There were a couple written specifically for young aristocratic girls, like how to behave when at a tea party, announcements of weddings, dinner etiquette and such, but that was mostly, it! Needless to say, there was no phonograph; dancing was ‘the devil’s pastime.’ Noise was also an indication of low class upbringing; even when the mother wasn’t around the girls whispered, only peasants talk loudly because they are vulgar, the mother scolded them graciously

if she heard them talk out

loud; ladies use demure tones. What the mother didn’t know was that as soon as she left the two girls had a ball. They sang the forbidden songs and Ourania was learning to dance. Elena discovered that inside that girl were bubbles of

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life but still, as they danced, she felt her friend’s stiff body trembling fearing the sin she was committing. She hoped that maybe one day her friend will forget about the incense and the decay of the old house, and will not decide to spend her life in a monastery! It was beautiful to watch Ourania dancing. She was ethereal, she moved with the grace of a swan. One day as they were sitting on the steps waiting for the mother so that Elena could go home, Ourania told her of another terrifying fear that she had. She would never dance with a boy, she confided, because she had heard that’s how girls get pregnant. Elena almost fell off the steps. She wouldn’t give this explanation to Lenaki, her three-year-old cousin, because the little girl had seen animals, she was one with nature. But how does one talk to a teenager, whose own mother had sowed the infantile explanation? When Ourania raised her perfect ivory face and looked at Elena with such innocent eyes, Elena was felt bad and stopped laughing. She wasn’t that learned herself, but she knew the basics, she certainly knew that you really had to do much more than dancing to get a baby! Her mother wouldn’t tell her such stupidities; of course, her mother would point upwards to haven and close the subject. Elena had enough curiosity which gave her the audacity to disobey: she had gone through her aunt’s books, not thoroughly, but enough. She said nothing to Ourania expecting that any moment her friend would burst out laughing telling her that it was all a joke; but Ourania wasn’t joking. There is something very wrong in this house, Elena thought, that two wars won’t cure, never mind one. When she asked Ourania how her mother had reacted during their ‘insubordination’ at school, Ourania just turned her face and lowered her head; Elena did not insist, she told Ourania her own mother’s funny reaction and their trip to the fields! Then she had an idea; she wondered why she didn’t think of that before.

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The Library was open two afternoons a week; she was sure there were books there that Ourania could look through and simply and innocently find out at least that a girl doesn’t get pregnant by dancing with a boy. Ourania was less than enthusiastic, she had to ask her mother, but she wasn’t sure her mother would consent to the visit, she knew the answer: “we have all the books you need here!” One afternoon when the mother left shouting her last orders and warnings until she closed the gate behind her, Elena got up and said: “Now is the time, the Library is open today. Reluctantly, Ourania followed her. Both girls had no idea what they were to look for. Whatever that was, the book had to be studied there under the Librarian’s eyes who was stone deaf and a terrible gossip. The whole town would know within 24 hours what books they had picked. They scurried up the hill, their clogs echoing on the cobblestone lane, excited at the idea of a forbidden outing. At the corner of the Library they met two of Aristos’ schoolmates and Elena stopped for a few minutes, she introduced Ourania. Before she knew what was happening, Ourania had turned the corner and was doubled at the gutter vomiting. The excitement of speaking with boys was too much! Luckily, the boys weren’t looking. After the boys left Elena waited for Ourania to get herself together; she sat for a few minutes on the wide marble steps of the stately building which also was another estate of the very rich philanthropist who built libraries in other cities as well. Nowadays it was seldom visited, though it was fully equipped with endless rows of books that looked ancient and musty. Every dictatorship had gone through them, tearing and burning and what was left apparently met with the last dictator’s approval or the wife of the chief of police or some women’s society that worked with the bishop.

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The building was not heated and the sunlight filtering through the large windows helped very little. The old, prune-faced man welcomed them and signaled for them to follow him. Unless they had a specific order from school, he was to be the judge of what they needed, because of the girls’ age. He picked Hans Christian Andersen. Robinson Cruse, and Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Then looking serious raised his glasses and finally picked what he was looking for: Plato! Aha! He exclaimed and made for the large table under the window. His arms were so full he couldn’t see ahead of him and that gave Elena the chance she needed. She grabbed a totally incomprehensible Darwin, Homer’s Odyssey and the book she was looking for -and didn’t know what it was or what it was called. It was written by a German and translated into the impossible language of the Greek purists but the title was revealing: ‘Children are Born, not Found.’ She stuck it between the other two books making sure that when the old man released his load on the reader’s table, he would see those books that weren’t ‘dangerous’. She popped the book in front of the pile and while she leafed through the fairy tales, Ourania read. She was a fast reader, she had to because she found it fascinating but they had to rush in case her mother returned. It wasn’t dark yet when they left after they helped the Librarian pick up and place the books on the proper shelves. On the way home Elena was quiet; was she right to break Ourania’s cocoon, the false shield had mother had propped in front of her to protect her from misfortune? Ourania said nothing, either, so Elena had no idea what was her reaction. It’s worse if she doesn’t know, she tried to convince herself, she is a smart girl. If she feels that it’s a sin to dance, let her; but at least she won’t be terrified of being pregnant or of sinning. As she continued her way to her own house, she wondered how long it would take Ourania to speak with a boy without throwing up.

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