Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

  Without her mother, Anna, managing the household and two demanding teenagers, these achievements would not have been possible.

  Since their last holiday, the Johnson family had spent little time together. Then Megan ran away, leaving only a short note that said she needed space to find her own way. The fact that her family life, her marriage itself, was seriously flawed, had been the biggest shock of Zoë’s life.

  CHAPTER 2

  SOFIA

  Crete, present day.

  I FELT A HAND ON MY SHOULDER.

  ‘Come on, Yiayá,’ the elderly bus driver said. ‘We’re at the bus station, end of the line.’

  I blinked and got to my feet. The driver cupped my elbow and helped me down the bus steps. He dipped into his pocket, then placed a couple of euros in my hand. I thumped myself in the chest and lowered my eyes humbly.

  ‘Get yourself a coffee. God keep you,’ he said. ‘Stay safe, Yiayá.’

  I ambled to the small café next to the ticket office and bought a bottle of water, then found a seat in the shade and rested my weary body. Was it really a year since I was last in Crete? It seemed less, and now perhaps I would never come again. The journey took too much out of me. Nobody would miss me. Yet, even as I resigned myself to these facts, I still hoped to hold my daughter one more time, before I passed away.

  Everywhere seemed busy, everyone rushing. Many school and university students were making use of the bus station’s free Wi-Fi; their thumbs worked furiously on smartphones.

  This generation – they have no notion of who I was, or how many people once threw flowers at my feet. They have never heard the roar of the applause, felt the adoration, seen the standing ovations in my honour. To them, I am nothing more than an old woman.

  A family at a nearby café was clearly celebrating one of their children’s name days. The father beckoned a balloon seller. His child picked a helium-filled foil Pokémon from the brightly coloured selection that hovered like a parachute over the seller’s head.

  I noticed several children clutched balloons and toys, while adults carried boxes of cakes or chocolates.

  ‘Yiasou Thalasa! Big year to you!’ somebody cried. Then I realised it was Saint Thalasa’s day. Such a beautiful name: thalasa, the sea. Every Thalasa and Thalasos in Greece, young or old, was rejoicing in the same way that other countries celebrated birthdays. ‘Congratulations! Big year!’ strangers called to those marking the day. Everyone was smiling, happy in the spring sunshine.

  A young girl in her party dress twirled with her arms out. The skirt billowed to make a pool of shadow beneath her. She swayed dizzily, just like I had on the day my life changed forever. The moment came back with such clarity that I hugged myself, feeling the strong arms of a theatre usher, Big Yiannis, around me. The tragedy of that long-past Christmas Eve came spinning back and, with it, the things my husband had told me so many years later. Secrets that had broken my heart – and yet shaped my life.

  CHAPTER 3

  SOFIA & MARKOS

  Sofia, Syntagma Theatre, Athens, 1944.

  FOR MAMA’S PERFORMANCE, I WORE my emerald-green taffeta dress she had made for my tenth birthday, with its full net petticoat. I knew every song Mama would sing that evening. Keeping out of her way in the corner of the theatre dressing room, I watched her apply lipstick as vibrant as a poppy in spring. Mama wore her brunette hair rolled up and back in the latest style, made popular by women working in the munitions factories. It was safer to have long curls pinned away from the cogs and wheels of machinery. My mother said her new hairstyle was a way of supporting those workers. She used a pencil to define her dark eyebrows, then added a beauty spot above her jawline.

  ‘How do I look, Sofia?’ she asked, turning her head left and right.

  ‘Oh, Mama, you’re perfect as always,’ I whispered.

  And she was. The darling of the soldiers, Alexa Bambaki, my wonderful mother, was about to perform a collection of Christmas carols and popular songs before visiting British dignitaries. The Christmas concert was a significant occasion for her. She hoped the event would lead to venues all over Europe now that the war was ending.

  The day before, after my piano lesson, I had strolled across Athens with my parents and two older brothers. We passed the Acropolis, then climbed through the pine trees and gardens until we reached the top of Mount Lycabettus, the highest point of the city. I had never been up there before. Since the war began it had been out of bounds, and before that I was too young for the steep path. The walk had two purposes: to calm Mama before her big performance, and to reach the chapel of Saint George to celebrate the name day of my oldest brother, Ignatius. Pavlos, two years older than me, had his name day on 29 June, the day when all the Pavloses in Greece handed out cakes to their friends and anyone who wished them ‘A big year!’

  We had honoured the feast day differently this year. Terrible food shortages in Athens had led to people huddled on steps, dying of starvation. One morning I’d ventured onto our balcony at daybreak and, looking down, I saw the open wagon that collected the poor souls who had perished in the night – skeletons in rags that had fallen, starving, in the street. They were tossed into the truck like rubbish, faces gaunt and stretched. I had cried long and hard, and from that day Papa said I was not allowed on the balcony until after breakfast.

  Only the wealthy could keep food on their table.

  On Pavlos’s name day, Mama, always an angel of kindness, had baked trays and trays of bread rolls. We sprinkled them with olive oil, salt and wild oregano, and handed them out to the unfortunates in the street. One wizened man in rags had begged for another bun, telling Mama that his four children were starving. His sunken eyes stared at the bread as Mama gave him four rolls. She had tears in her eyes as we watched him hurry away, muttering his blessings and thanks.

  On the walk up Lycabettus, I had kept pace with Mama, proud when folk looked our way. People said ‘Good afternoon,’ as we passed, and we nodded and smiled and said ‘Good afternoon,’ in return.

  When we reached the steps leading up to the summit of Mount Lycabettus, it was easy to forget that we were still in the city. The greenery, lush and vibrant, soaked the air with a fresh perfume, and I realised that in a few weeks the cyclamen would break through with their delicate upside-down flowers.

  ‘Look, Sofia, narcissi!’ Mama cried, pointing at clumps of grey-green straplike leaves. ‘They’ll flower in a few weeks, then we’ll come back and pick them.’

  Narcissi were my favourite bloom. Every year, we went out together on a Sunday afternoon and picked the flowers. I loved how the spicy gardenia perfume filled the rooms of our house.

  At the summit of Mount Lycabettus, the sky appeared so clean and blue I felt I could reach up and touch it. I dashed to the low-retaining wall and looked over the top.

  ‘I can see to the end of the world!’ I cried, pointing out over the Parthenon, the city and the distant sea’s horizon. ‘Isn’t that the most amazing view, Papa? Look at the ships. Do you think the sailors can see us?’ I jumped up and down, waving my cotton handkerchief, imagining the men looking up from their ships and waving back.

  Windows in the city buildings below glinted gold, reflecting the setting sun. Two soldiers appeared on the summit and marched until they came to a halt below the flagpole. One played his bugle as the other lowered the Greek flag. Papa stood to attention, and my brothers and I lined up beside him and did the same.

  Athens had suffered terrible bloodshed only weeks before. On the third of December, in Syntagma Square, the city’s police and the British army had opened fire on peacefully demonstrating students, killing them in what Papa called ‘an unholy bloodbath’.

  ‘This is an important concert after the tragedy, Sofia,’ Mama said, taking in the view. ‘My first song will be for the poor mothers who lost their children – and just before Christmas, too. So much for the season of peace and goodwill.’ She sighed. ‘Thank God your brothers were too young to take part in the protest. Swear to me yo
u’ll never get involved in politics, child. Keep out of it like me and your papa. It’s the only way to stay safe.’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ I promised.

  *

  Sitting in the corner of Mama’s dressing room, I thought how lucky we were not to be starving or shot at, and to have beautiful clothes and a fine house. I watched Mama slip into her new gown, black taffeta with a sweetheart neckline. The tight-fitting dress flounced into a mermaid skirt that swished along the floor when she walked. I helped zip her in, then watched her don delicate lace gloves that reached the tops of her arms.

  I had never seen anyone look as lovely as my mother did that night.

  ‘Are you all right, Sofia? Do you have a clean handkerchief? I can’t have you sniffing in the theatre.’

  I patted the pocket of my skirt and nodded. ‘I’m so proud of you, Mama. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.’

  ‘I don’t usually wear black, do I? Bright colours stand out nicely for the audience, but I thought black was appropriate after the massacre.’

  I smoothed the full skirt of my dress. ‘Do you think I’ll ever own such an amazing frock?’

  Mama’s laughter was tense, tinkling, nervous as always before she went on stage. Although I couldn’t speak English, I had practised the new words with her, ready to sing to the British dignitaries in the front row. Now we recited the refrain together, ending with ‘. . . My love, you are life’s sweetest songs’.

  Mama raised her hands towards me as she ended the song, then we both laughed. I loved my mama so much sometimes it hurt my heart. I told her this once and she smiled and took me into her arms.

  ‘True love can be very painful, Sofia,’ she had said. ‘One day you’ll find out for yourself. But life without love is nothing.’

  A knock sounded on the door.

  ‘One minute!’

  The tension returned to Mama’s eyes. She would calm down soon. Her nerves always disappeared the moment she walked on stage to the sound of applause. Tonight, I would be clapping louder than anyone.

  She straightened the bow in my hair. ‘I must go now. Run to your seat, Sofia. Your father and brothers are in the middle of the second row. Hurry!’

  As I rushed through the door, she called, ‘Sofia!’ I turned. ‘I’m very proud of you, too,’ she said, her head to one side, a soft smile on her ruby-red lips and a sparkle in her eyes.

  My mother’s loving words, forever in my ears.

  *

  Markos, Athens, 1944.

  Six young men, members of the communist-led resistance movement, EAM, the National Liberation Front, huddled at the end of a long alley behind the theatre.

  ‘Markos Papas, we’re proud of you,’ said their leader, Sotiris, as he placed his hand on the fourteen-year-old boy’s shoulder. ‘Today, you’re our hero! Now, hold your hands above your head and turn slowly.’

  Markos, the youngest and smallest of them, had the most difficult task to perform. He raised his arms and turned, while two comrades fed out a roll of fuse wire. The coil steadily wrapped around his waist. Markos’s heart hammered violently in his ears.

  The youths froze as the stage door flew open. A pretty girl with a heart-shaped face, wearing a bow in her hair and an emerald-green dress, emerged. The door closed quickly behind her, trapping the hem of her skirt. She banged her fist on the door. It opened and a beautiful woman appeared, wearing the most amazing black dress. The woman bent and kissed the girl on the cheek before returning inside. The girl ran down the alley towards the theatre front, without appearing to notice them.

  Markos and his comrades sighed with relief.

  ‘You know what to do, Markos?’ Sotiris said. ‘Pull yourself along on your elbows – there’s no room to crawl. Every half a metre, roll over to unwind the wire around your waist. We’ll fix this end to the grid. When you get to the explosives, fix the blasting cap as we’ve shown you, then return. Be careful not to snag the fuse.’ He took off his neckerchief and passed it over. ‘Tie this over your face – it’s putrid as hell in there.’

  Markos nodded, unable to speak for the trembling that seemed to rise from his bony knees. Someone tied the cloth over his mouth and nose. Sotiris fixed a miner’s torch onto his head. A metal grid on the pavement was lifted and Markos stared down into the narrow, stinking sewer pipe a metre below.

  ‘Good luck,’ their leader said. ‘Don’t fail us now.’

  Markos glanced at the stage door, remembering the young girl, glad she would not be in the theatre. This concert was for the hateful warlords, not the place for innocent children.

  *

  Sofia, Athens, 1944.

  I raced down the backstreet and around into the foyer, almost tripping up the marble steps. After getting my hem trapped in the stage door, I was worried I would miss Mama’s opening number, and couldn’t bear that thought. This was the most precious day of my life and I could hardly breathe for excitement.

  ‘Wait!’ Big Yiannis, the chief usher, caught hold of my arm. ‘You can’t go in, Sofia. The lights have gone down, you know the rules.’ He reached into his pocket and gave me a barley sugar. He always had a sweet for me, and usually a smile as well. This time he seemed tense.

  ‘But my mama – I have to watch her sing, Mr Yianni. I have a seat with my family at the front.’

  ‘Sorry, child, you’ll have to sit this one out. Wait for the interval, and then you can go in.’ His attention was caught by a cavalcade of black cars, each with a little flag fluttering from the bonnet. As the vehicles drew up outside, Big Yiannis straightened and smoothed his green-and-gold uniform. Looking round at me, he tapped his cheek and laughed. ‘You’ve got—’

  Before he could say more, a commanding voice at the entrance distracted him.

  ‘They’re here!’ the concierge cried.

  Theatre staff hurriedly formed a line near the door, and Big Yiannis glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘Scoot! Get out of sight, Sofia!’

  I didn’t need telling twice and ducked through to the auditorium. I would be in trouble with Big Yiannis later, but I couldn’t miss Mama’s big moment.

  My plan to dash down the steps to the second row was scuppered when I found another usher blocking the aisle. As he started to turn, I dropped to my knees and crawled along the narrow gap behind the last seats.

  A lot of coughing and whispering was going on, and several men clacked their komboloi. I wanted to tell them all to shut up and still their worry beads. Soon, Mama would come on stage, and she ought to have silence. Wedged in my dark corner, I prayed nobody would notice me.

  A fire door near the orchestra pit opened, and silence fell. A shaft of light silhouetted the line of uniformed men as they entered. The audience rose to their feet as the orchestra struck up the British and then the Greek national anthems. I longed for that moment when the curtain rose. As soon as Mama appeared and everyone was focused on the stage, I would sneak down to my empty seat between Papa, Ignatius and Pavlos. I tried to pick them out in the audience, but then the door closed, and we were thrown into darkness.

  *

  Markos, Athens, 1944.

  Helped by his comrades, Markos lowered himself into the cement sewer pipe. He hesitated, afraid. Unable to bend at the waist because of the fuse wires, he struggled to manoeuvre into a horizontal position.

  Then they replaced the manhole cover and he was plunged into darkness.

  His hands and knees sank into the sludge. The pipe was less than a metre in diameter, lined with lumpy moss. It touched his shoulders, creeping against his skin. A shudder ran through him. The rancid dankness stank like nothing on earth.

  He waited for his comrades to tie the end of the fuse wire to the grid. Two clangs, metal against metal, told him it was done. His destination lay fifty metres away, directly under the first row of theatre seats. A ton of dynamite had been accumulated there over the past months, awaiting Markos and the detonation caps.

  Light fi
ltered down through the drain holes. Ahead, there was impenetrable darkness. He switched on his torch.

  Brown slurry filled a third of the tunnel. Straining to keep his head above water, he moved onwards. The top of his head scraped along the dank detritus that clung to the overhead curve. A pair of tiny red eyes flashed in the torchlight, then they were gone.

  Markos crawled forward, fighting the grey grip of claustrophobia. He was in the bowels of Athens – the hellhole of the city. Slimy blobs were touching his bare arms and slinking past in the black fluid. The eerie sounds, ghostly whispers – then nothing but rushing water somewhere far away – made him tremble with fear and revulsion.

  A metre further on, and the air changed. Stagnant fumes burned his throat. Now he had to straighten, lie in the quagmire and roll over, careful to keep his face out of the slurry. Trapped, with panic rising, he reminded himself why he was doing this.

  Markos remembered it only too well. His pride, to labour beside his father, shearing the sheep in a field just outside the city. They worked as a team. Papa pulled a ewe from the fold, sheared the belly, crotch and legs, and then passed it to Markos. The back was easier to clip, with less chance of a bad kick to his body, or an accidental snip through the sheep’s skin.

  And then the foreman, pointing at the sky, shouted to Papa. ‘Spyridon, look!’

  They both heard the plane, and looked up in time to see a British bomber drop its payload of bombs over the Athens suburbs. An area rumoured to be a communist enclave. An area packed with innocent families going about their daily lives, including his mother, his three sisters, and his newborn brother who hadn’t yet received his name.

  They both stared in shock as dust mushrooms bloomed upwards after each explosion.

  ‘Isabella!’ Papa screamed.

  He dropped the shears and sheep and ran full pelt towards home. By the time Markos caught up, his father was already tossing slabs of mortar aside as if they were paper. Their house, their home, reduced to nothing but rubble.