SOFIA
Crete, 1967.
AT FIRST, I WAS AFRAID of these fierce fighting men in their beige jodhpurs, black shirts and polished knee-high boots. They wore crocheted scarves around their heads, the fringes falling over their foreheads like random curls. Determined, bold eyes shone from tanned, rugged faces. I glanced at the daggers with ornate bone-carved handles tucked into their blood-red cummerbunds, wondering if they ever used them.
But my fear was unfounded. The villagers knew of Markos and treated him like a hero. They made us very welcome. After a night sleeping at Andreas’s house, we were given a small stone cottage on the outskirts. The village nestled in the shadow of the great snow-topped mountain, Psiloritis. The locals shared what they could with us; soon, we had old but clean blankets, badly fitting curtains, odd plates and dishes. Touched by their kindness, I wanted to give something in return, but it was impossible. They knew so much more than me.
Markos worked for the shepherds, slaughtering and skinning sheep and goats and helping to plant the hemp fields. At night, he played his lyra in the smoke-filled kafenio. Village men sang rebel songs and passed around a joint or two. For the women, evenings were spent in the street spinning wool, or embroidering elaborate clothes which were taken down to the next village, Anogia, and sold to the street traders.
When the village priest, who was also the baker, broke his wrist, I offered to help in the bakery. There was something therapeutic about the kneading of dough and I found peace in the back of the kitchen.
For months, life was almost idyllic. I was content until one evening in October, when Markos didn’t come home for his evening meal. I placed the plate of pasticcio on a pan of hot water, with an upturned plate on top, then hurried to the kafenio to ask if anyone had seen him. The sight that met my eyes was all confusion. The room, packed with village men, stank of cigarette smoke and alcohol, and they were all drunk. The older men banged their sticks on the floor, while they shouted the warrior mantinades.
I listened for a moment as they chanted and banged the tables uproariously; the little glasses and karafākis leaped to the rhythm.
My Cretan knife held
As the funeral bell’s knell
For Che was our brother
And a fighter as well!
We cry for our comrade
Our hearts truly sad
They killed Che Guevara
In black we are clad!
On the peak of Psiloritis
A little bird sings
But deep in our hearts
Guevara’s death stings!
From that day, when Markos received the news of his idol Che Guevara’s death, he not only wore the black beret, he also donned the black shirt and jodhpurs of the Cretan fighting men.
*
One morning, several weeks later, Markos came rushing into the bakery, sheep’s blood staining his hands.
‘I have to leave!’ he said. ‘Right now. I must return to Athens. Manno is waiting to take me to the port for the night ferry.’
He started washing his hands urgently.
My first thought was the marijuana fields outside the village, which I’d come to understand were the village’s main source of income. I’d heard there had been trouble before. Someone was shot when the police raided the village. Several men were arrested and taken to Heraklion prison. In retaliation, the village men had kidnapped the chief of police. Nobody would explain how the matter was resolved, but somehow it was. Soon, the hemp fields with their central crop of cannabis were re-planted, and the local marijuana trade continued to flourish.
‘Markos, what’s wrong? You’re frightening me.’
‘The kafenio had a phone call. Papa’s had a stroke. They don’t think he’ll survive.’
I felt sick. ‘Oh, Spyridon. Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Markos. You must be frantic. Of course we must go.’
‘You stay here, Sofia. I’m going on my own.’
‘Like hell you are. I’m coming with you.’
He marched to the cottage, hurriedly pushing a few things into a bag. I was behind him.
‘You’re not going without me!’
Two hours later, we arrived at the port of Heraklion. The ferry was late, which made Markos nervous.
‘I don’t like standing around here. Someone might recognise me.’ He grabbed my hand. ‘Come on, let’s go into the fort – at least we’ll be able to see the ferry before it arrives.’
I stared at the enormous sandstone blocks of Fort Koules, then at Markos as he peered out to sea. In Crete, we had set solid cornerstones on which to build a marriage and start a family, and I had been looking forward to our future. Now, I had a feeling those foundations were about to crumble, and felt the world shift from under our feet.
When the ferry arrived, we hurried out of the shadows, heads down, nearly the first people to board. Once the ship had weighed anchor, we stood at the back rail, eyes fixed on the city of Heraklion as it slipped towards the horizon. Later, while I dozed on the upper deck, Markos joined a group of men. They talked quietly with their heads together. When I woke, I found him alone at the front rail. He stared across the sea, towards Athens.
‘Sofia, listen,’ he said, when I reached his side. ‘I don’t want to frighten you, but there’ve been developments in Athens. We’re in greater danger than I first thought. It’s better if you stay on the ship and return to Crete.’
‘No, I won’t hear of it! What’s happened?’
‘The communists were promised amnesty and inclusion in the country’s politics, if they surrendered their arms. Yesterday, all over the country, my comrades complied. Thousands threw their weapons to the ground in Syntagma Square, and others did the same in the centres of the other mainland cities.’ He rubbed his hands over his face. ‘It was all a government lie. My comrades were cheated. Now – defenceless – they’re being rounded up and sent to prison camps all over the country to be “re-indoctrinated”.’
I stared at him. How were the people supposed to have faith in their government, when they lied and cheated so openly? I wanted to share his concern, talk about the injustice and our predicament, but I didn’t know what to say. We sat shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the ship to dock.
I had fallen asleep when the loud rattle of the anchor chain woke me with a start.
‘Come on,’ Markos said tenderly, his face pale from lack of sleep and worry. ‘Let’s go and see how the old goat’s doing.’ He smiled sadly. ‘You realise he’ll probably ask if you can sing yet?’
‘It will be all right,’ I said, hugging his waist.
‘One of my comrades from the old days is meeting us. Let’s go to the back rail and look out, see if we can spot him as we dock. They won’t let us off before the biggest wagons have gone ashore.’
Everyone pushed and shoved towards the disembarkation ramp, with such determination you would think the ship was sinking. We stood at the empty rail overlooking the quayside while Markos searched for his friend in the dawn miasma. I stared out towards the city, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Parthenon on the horizon. As the sun appeared, the Acropolis was bathed in golden light, and beyond it, Mount Lycabettus. Memories returned of my walk up there when I was a girl. I’d thought about that day so often. How much I enjoyed the afternoon with my family, having no knowledge of the horror that awaited only hours later.
‘There he is!’ Markos cried, pointing to the throng of people waiting to board. ‘He’ll take us to the hospital.’ He waved both arms over his head and after a moment said, ‘He’s seen us, and look, the passengers are leaving. Let’s go down.’
When we got to the bottom of the ship’s stairway, Markos pulled me into a corner.
‘Listen to me, Sofia. If anything happens to me while we’re here, I want you to run, okay? Don’t hang about, just run! Run for my sake. Give me your word, now, before we get off the ferry.’
‘But—’
‘Just give me your damn word, now!’
Startled by the f
ierceness in his voice, I felt tears in my eyes.
‘I promise,’ I whispered. ‘You know I’ll do anything you want.’
‘Well, know this – I love you more than life itself. No matter what happens, I love you that much. Always remember it – even if you don’t understand my behaviour, even if I seem cruel and uncaring, I love you. Now and forever, for always.’
‘I will. But Markos, you’re frightening me. Whatever happens, we’re in this together.’
‘Don’t be stupid! You’re not listening, damn it! We’re not in anything together. At the first sign of any danger, you get as far away from me as possible. If the authorities catch me, they may hang me, or shoot me, or hack off my head. If you’re with me, you’ll suffer a worse fate, right in front of me, until they eventually kill you, too. That’s the way they work.’
I wanted to ask who they were, but he continued quickly and there was a sense of urgency about him.
‘So, you will get away from me. Otherwise I will suffer tenfold, once for me and ten times more for you.’ He rubbed the furrows in his forehead. ‘I shouldn’t have let you come.’
‘I had to be with you.’
I was filled with foreboding and more afraid than I had ever been in my life.
‘Now you get off this ship without me and follow the other passengers out of the port. At some point, we’ll pull up beside you, and you’ll get into the car as quickly as possible. Go!’
In a few minutes, Markos had become a different person. A fierce soldier. A leader who gave orders. I had never seen him like this before and became very uneasy. I pulled his face towards me and kissed him hard, then turned and ran from the ship.
The sun rose quickly. I followed his instructions. Once outside the port, I walked towards the bus station. A black car pulled up alongside me. I dived in and the vehicle pulled away before I had closed the door.
We drove to the hospital, but it was all in vain. Spyridon was gone; he had died in the night. I cried for the martyr behind the showman – the man who performed for his own audience, while grieving for his beloved family, and always fearing for his much-loved son. Markos seemed so desolate, blaming himself for not getting to his father’s side sooner. We stayed by the bedside for half an hour, then there were forms to fill in. Spyridon would be buried the next day.
We were taken to a friend’s house outside the town, on the outer fringe of the suburbs. They presented us with a room barely larger that the bed it contained, then invited us to their table. Our hosts shared their bread, village sausage and a jug of the indigenous Savatiano wine. We ate and drank hungrily before they left us alone.
‘I love you,’ I whispered later, lying in Markos’s arms. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, my darling.’
He squeezed my hand, but it was a long time before he spoke.
‘Don’t forget what I said. We are both in danger while we’re here. The military are trying to purge the country of communists and the might of America’s behind them.’
‘I feel safe with you.’
‘My family felt safe, too. They lived not fifty metres from this place. From the window, you can see the field they’re buried in. You can’t imagine how awful it was.’
‘I can imagine,’ I said, my anger rising. ‘I suffered the same loss, remember?’
Once again, he was silent for a long time.
‘Can you ever forgive me?’
I held his hand. ‘I don’t have to. When I think about it, it wasn’t actually you that killed them, do you see? The real culprits are those who manipulate the political situation for their own gain. The murderers were the politicians, the ones who gave orders to bomb your family’s area just because they wanted to show the communists they were in control. They are the killers. You’re no more guilty of killing my family than the British pilots are guilty of murdering your mother and siblings.’
‘Thank you,’ he whispered, and I heard how much it meant to him. He stared at the ceiling. ‘I’m going to have to dig them up.’
‘Oh, God, no. Markos, no. Let them rest in peace.’
‘Papa would want it,’ he whispered. ‘He loved my mother and my siblings so much. He would want them to be buried with him. I’ll go before daybreak, take a sack and a shovel. It’s been so long, there’ll only be bones.’
He turned and hid his face in the side of my neck. His breathing was deep and laboured, his face wet. I held him tightly, my heart breaking for him.
*
I woke alone, the sun streaming through the window on a glorious day. Then, my surroundings brought back the reason why we were there. Oh, Spyridon . . . May his soul rest in peace. But where was Markos? I wondered if he was having breakfast with our kind benefactors? I rose, stretched every sinew, and reached for the window to let in some fresh air.
Although the house sat in the suburbs, it turned its back on the city and a picturesque country scene lay before my eyes. Distant olive trees, carefully pruned into silver-green lollipops, stood in straight rows. A vineyard followed the contours of the gentle hillside like the tines of a fork. Next to the grapevines, a wheat field rippled in the gentle breeze like creamy ocean waves, and in the foreground, a flock of sheep grazed in a lush meadow. Then, my eye was caught by an odd patch in that field. Something jarring, not right. A square of brown earth.
Markos had committed himself to reuniting his family in death. I watched, desperate to go down and support him, but knowing it would be wrong to invade his sadness at that private moment. I imagined the tears on his face, and the pain in his heart, as he recognised and pieced together his mother and siblings. As the weight of grief fell on me, Markos straightened and turned to face the house for a moment. He could not possibly see me from that distance, but it seemed as though he knew I was there.
An hour later, head bowed and shoulders slumped, he returned to the house. The family were together, awaiting reburial.
After the funeral, we gathered outside the cemetery and received condolences from lots of people in the music business. Spyridon’s neighbour gave out spoonfuls of koliva, boiled wheat and nuts sweetened with honey and cinnamon. Several of Markos’s friends and fellow communists came to support him, although the junta had placed a ban on more than three people gathering together. They all came back to the house where Markos and I slept.
Zacharia hurried over. It brought tears to my ears that he had come.
‘Condolences to you both. Sorry I can’t stay – there’s bread in the oven. I went to visit Spyridon in hospital and he gave me this for you, Markos. He said it was the only thing of real value that he had left.’ He reached into his pocket, and when he opened his great fist, the small gold locket that had always been fixed to Spyridon’s tiepin lay in the palm of his hand. ‘I believe it was your mother’s.’
‘It should be buried with him,’ Markos said.
Zacharia shook his head. ‘No, he was insistent that you should have it. He said it was his most precious possession and he could not bear the thought of it being buried.’ He handed it over. ‘The little clasp is broken off, but you can probably get it open with a knife.’
‘There’s no need. It probably contains a photo of my mother.’ He slipped it into his jacket pocket.
‘Your father was much liked, Markos,’ I said, trying to ease his pain although my own grief was intense. ‘Look at all these people, paying their respects.’
‘They should go away from here. They put themselves and us in danger.’ Markos glanced around nervously. ‘I’m going to ask the men to leave now. Do me a favour and go around the women, will you?’
He had hardly uttered the words when military vehicles roared in from both ends of the road. People started running, rushing into each other. Soldiers leaped out of Land Rovers. Rifles were pointed skywards, boots stomped menacingly as a team of military men surrounded the house. We were trapped, penned in. A baby cried, a woman yelled, ‘Get off me!’ Somebody was shoved to the ground, his arm twisted up his back until he cried out. The tray of
koliva scattered.
Everyone was forced into the small house.
‘We fell into their trap,’ Markos muttered. ‘They knew I would come to my father’s funeral.’ He breathed in. ‘I have to give myself up before they start killing people.’
Before I had a chance to argue with him, one of the police yelled through the door.
‘Silence!’
We pressed against each other as the room became more crowded. Children wailed and the air became unbearably stuffy with the cloying smell of sweat and the dry, brittle stink of fear. A table was dragged to the front door and one by one people were questioned and their identity cards scrutinised. They were either set free or handcuffed and shoved into a van.
An air of panic filled the room. Most of the men were bundled into the van. One of the young men hurled abuse, swearing and kicking as the police tried to manhandle him into the vehicle. He pulled a knife. There was a gunshot, a woman’s scream, and the protester’s boots left two furrows in the earth as his limp body was dragged away.
The terror was palpable. Nobody spoke. People were trembling; everyone stared, white-faced.
‘Stop it!’ Markos yelled at the military. ‘It’s me you’re looking for! These people have just come to say goodbye to my father. They’re not guilty of any wrongdoing!’
A soldier pulled Markos roughly through the door. I moved so that I could see what was happening to him. He was shoved so fiercely he fell sprawling to the ground, catching his head on the corner of the van door. Blood spurted from a cut over his eye and ran down his face. Without thinking, I leaped to help him.
One of the officers made a grab for me, but I managed to wriggle free and threw myself at Markos, who was getting to his feet.
‘Get lost, you filthy slut! It’s over between us!’ Markos yelled, before slapping me so fiercely across the face I fell into the dirt, stunned. ‘Stay away from me, you bitch!’ He turned to the officer checking documents. ‘Do us all a favour, shoot this festering poutana – she’s given everyone around here the clap!’
I listened to his words in a daze of horror. Shamed, my face burned from the force of his hand and the shock of his words. Even though I saw what he was doing, I couldn’t help the sobs escaping me. He was trying to save me, I knew that. If they knew that we loved each other, they would have tortured me in front of him. That was what he’d been trying to tell me before. I opened my mouth, longing to shout after him as they bundled him into the wagon and slammed the doors, knowing it would risk both our lives if I did.
Greek Island Escape Page 22