Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

The silence returned, and I made a plan.

  *

  The following year passed quickly. Zoë learned to count to ten and write a few letters. Anna slowly got over the death of her husband and was overjoyed to discover from her solicitor in Crete that an anonymous supporter of the junta had bequeathed a substantial monthly sum to Colonel Despotakis’s widow. This was primarily for the education of their daughter.

  That was the story I insisted Anna was told, and her solicitor obliged. Knowing I was responsible for my daughter’s education and welfare made me feel good. I was doing something – the only thing I could. My Wednesday visits grew from a few hours to most of the day, and Anna and I became good friends.

  My career escalated. By the end of the year, I had a large amount of money in the bank. I called the solicitor in Crete and told him I was doubling the money, and asked him to invest some in Zoë’s name.

  I bought Zacharia a modern, automatic bread-making machine which thrilled him. Installed in the back of the shop, the stainless steel monster did everything on a timer, and although there was no need for him to get up at one o’clock in the morning, we both went down to the bakery and watched the mixing, rising and baking go though its process every night for a week.

  CHAPTER 43

  ZOË

  Crete, present day.

  WHEN MEGAN HAD GONE TO meet her friends, Zoë opened the box again. She held the infant’s painting, having no memory of it, yet understanding it was her own work. Was it possible that Aunty Sofie was her biological mother, and that she had treasured a painting Zoë had done as a little girl for all this time? She tried to recall the woman, but her memories were vague. She took her father’s letter out of the brown envelope and read it again.

  My dearest Zoë Eleftheria,

  You will not remember me, your father. On this very night, I held you for the first time. I want to tell you that your mother and I love you more than life itself. I hope you can forgive us for giving you away. It is the only safe way we can get you out of this hellish place and secure a safe future for you.

  Our hearts are broken that you are leaving us, but we were lifted up to Heaven by your arrival into the big, wide world. I was with your mother when you first drew breath and made your first cry, a sound that was sweeter than any other in my entire life.

  When your mother placed you in my arms, I cried with joy. You seemed such a small, helpless little girl, but I know in my heart you will go on to do great things. Your mother is an amazing woman and I have always loved her above all others.

  I have written this letter to you because I don’t know what the future holds. I have spent my life fighting for a better world, a place where you can grow and be happy. I love you, Zoë Eleftheria.

  The strength of my love will always be within you, in your heart and all around you, now and forever.

  Your father,

  Markos Papas

  CHAPTER 44

  SOFIA

  Athens, 1976.

  GREGORIO AND HIS CREW WERE hurrying me along.

  ‘Come on, Sofia! We’ll miss the flight at this rate!’

  My excitement was beyond the sun. We were heading for London, the first stop on my big European tour. Two nights performing in each major city, eight countries, six months of concerts with magazine features, radio and TV interviews – the whole works. Pop music was multinational, great hits topped the charts. One of my favourites was Elton John’s ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’, and out of Sweden had come a new group that everyone loved, Abba, with ‘Dancing Queen’.

  Zoë’s favourite was ‘Save All Your Kisses For Me’, and we would sing it together and try to kiss each other’s necks in between the lines, which always resulted in a bout of tickling and hysterical laughter. Anna had asked me not to telephone while I was away; we both knew it would only upset Zoë.

  The Olympic Airways Boeing 737 climbed above Athens. I glanced down from the window and saw the Parthenon lit up, reminding me of the night I ran away from the orphanage. I thought about my daughter and wondered what she would think when I didn’t visit on Wednesday. Anna was right, and I knew it. Zoë had just started school, and there was enough unrest in her life without me phoning. I would miss her terribly.

  The tour was a huge success, but near the end, my throat started to give me pain. Remembering the old days with Spyridon, I often found myself looking for Markos in the audience. Oh, how I missed him. At my suggestion, the grand finale of the tour was back in Athens. It would be a free concert in Syntagma Square in honour of my mother, Alexa Bambaki. It would take place on Easter Monday, the following year. A cunning ploy, Gregorio claimed. The show would put me back at the top of the Greek charts, replacing Nana Mouskouri, who was still going strong, and Demis Roussos, who was at his best.

  I insisted Gregorio sent a couple of front row tickets to Zacharia and another two for Anna and Zoë. We only flew in from Milan that morning and, although exhausted, I was looking forward to the event. Gregorio had organised a dress the same as the one my mother wore on that last night, and my hair was to be styled the same way too.

  On the evening of the concert, the memories of that terrible day came back, vivid and terrifying. Still, I was determined that this would be a joyous occasion in memory of my family and Markos, the only love of my life. Gregorio had acquired some old black-and-white film of my mother, taken by a Pathé News reporter who had fled the theatre moments before the explosion to meet a deadline. The film was bought for an extortionate price to play on the backdrop before I sang.

  Six months away had seemed like an eternity, and I was longing to see those I loved in the audience. I knew I would see a big difference in Zoë, and that a young child’s memory could be short. I was worried that she might have forgotten me, but I could work on our relationship once again.

  Someone knocked on the dressing room door and the hairdresser answered it.

  ‘Flowers for Sofia Bambaki.’

  I turned to see the owner of the vaguely familiar voice, but he was hidden behind a huge bouquet.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Who are they from?’

  ‘They’re from me, Sofia,’ he said, lowering the flowers.

  It took a moment before I recognised the old man.

  ‘Oh, Mr Yianni! My goodness, how are you?’

  I stood as he wrapped me in one of his bear hugs.

  ‘I brought you something else, for luck.’

  He dipped into his pocket, held out his fist and placed a barley sugar in my palm. Our eyes met.

  ‘Your mother would be proud,’ Big Yiannis said quietly, before he kissed my cheeks and left.

  I sat for a moment, staring after him, wondering how he had fared after that terrible time when our lives crossed.

  *

  Once I stepped on stage, I was in another world, lifted away from everything. Each song had its own particular poignancy, taking me back to another place – but the highlight was my finale. Moments before the last song of the concert, ‘Love’s Sweet Song’, the lights went down. An air-raid siren wailed and searchlights, set at either end of the stage, played across the night sky. The air-raid warning faded. In front of me, beyond the crowd, stood the beautiful Grand Bretagne Hotel; to my right, the tomb of the unknown soldier with two evzones guarding the area, and the houses of parliament. Beyond those iconic buildings, Mount Lycabettus and the little chapel of Saint George on the summit were illuminated in the black sky.

  On the backdrop behind me, Mama sang the first few lines of her final performance, then the spotlight came over me and I continued. My tears rose, my heart breaking for all those I had loved and lost. The words of the song seemed so poignant.

  Mother, you are life’s sweet song,

  Without you, it’s hard to be strong.

  But you live in my heart

  Even though we’re apart

  As I sang, I could see my family at the top of Lycabettus – me, a ten-year-old, waving at the marines out at sea; and then Markos, holding Zoë in his
distorted hands. Tears of emotion ran down his face. My tears fell too as I sang for them all.

  Overcome by the moment, I held the last note far longer than I should have, holding out my hands as my mother had, towards the empty seat reserved for Zoë. I closed my eyes and saw my mother, nodding in approval.

  Even though my eyes were closed, I was aware of flashbulbs, thunderous applause, and a sudden weakness in my knees. I clutched the microphone stand, felt myself falling as the uproarious applause filled Syntagma Square. Someone caught me. I tasted blood in my throat and the world turned black.

  *

  I woke in hospital. Zacharia and Gregorio were at my side. Zacharia placed his finger across his lips. I became aware of a pipe down my throat.

  ‘Don’t try and speak, Sofia. You’ve had an operation.’ I noticed his eyes were red-rimmed in his unusually pale face. It was then I realised he was holding my hand. He squeezed gently. ‘You have to be strong now. You’ve overcome much greater tragedies than this in your life, Sofia, but you’ll find what I am about to tell you hard to accept.’ He glanced at Gregorio. ‘Could you leave us for a minute?’

  When we were alone, Zacharia continued.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sofia. I wish I could take this from you, but I can’t.’ Pain seared my throat. I lifted my hand to my neck and found it bandaged. Zacharia stared at me with a look of utmost devastation. ‘You’ve had a total laryngectomy. You had cancer on your larynx, and they’ve had to remove your voice box. You won’t be able to speak, let alone sing. I’m so sorry. They had to remove your vocal cords in order to save your life.’

  A cold moment passed, a few seconds with nothing but the facts. I waited for some other emotions to arrive, but I guess I was in shock. I had no voice box. There was nothing to heal, no medicines to cure me. I would never make another sound.

  *

  The days merged into each other. I got used to writing things down, but I did so with the greatest sadness and impatience. I felt crippled, imprisoned, isolated and terribly lonely. I could not even laugh, and only demonstrated my pleasure or displeasure by turning my mouth up or down. People felt strangely embarrassed to talk to me, almost as if they were ashamed of their own voices. Others seemed to think I was deaf, too, and shouted. Despite all these awkward situations, I longed to be talked to. It broke my heart that I would never be able to speak to Zoë again.

  One of the first notes I wrote was to Zacharia: Where are Anna and Zoë?

  ‘After you left on tour, there was some trouble from the KKE party. They targeted Anna as a wife of one of the hated colonels and publicly asked how she was living in what they saw as luxury, when she was supposed to have no visible means of support. In the end, one of her windows was broken and she received a nasty cut from flying glass. She feared for Zoë’s safety. They went into hiding.’

  But how will I find them?

  ‘I think you will have to leave them for a while, until things calm down. You know Zoë is being well cared for, thanks to your generosity, and Anna is a good woman.’

  My grief was beyond measure, but I knew Zacharia was right.

  He visited me every day. He tried hard to cheer me up, but I gradually slipped into the depths of despair.

  *

  My career was over, my life of luxury ended. Anna and my daughter had disappeared, and even her solicitor did not have her address. I still had royalties coming in from my records, but once my payment towards Zoë’s education was taken out, there was hardly enough left to live on. I moved into a bedsit and lived as frugally as I could.

  I went back to working for Zacharia, though with his automated bread-making, he no longer needed me to come in at night. People were kind. For years, they brought records into the bakery for me to sign.

  *

  Old age finally caught up with Zacharia. His lungs gave him trouble after years of breathing in flour dust.

  On Christmas Day 1986, Zacharia died peacefully in his sleep. This gentle giant, one of life’s unsung heroes, had saved many Jewish lives in the war. He had provided people with their daily bread for over sixty years, and been a father to me for most of my life.

  He left the bakery to me.

  Fannes and I washed this humble man and dressed him in his one and only suit. On Saint Steven’s Day, we led the mourners from the bakery to the church. Fellow shopkeepers took time out from their Christmas celebrations to act as coffin-bearers as we progressed on foot to the local cemetery.

  We all stood in silence.

  *

  I struggled on with the bakery for another ten years, but with the arrival of cheap supermarket bread, trade fell off. Eventually I sold the premises, along with the wonderful bread-making machine, to Petros, Fannes’s son.

  All through those long years, I had never stopped thinking about Zoë. At last, when I had a little money in the bank again, I decided to concentrate on finding her. Lent approached and it occurred to me that Anna might have returned to her family home in Crete. I would go for the carnival. Surely, they would attend the celebration too. I was reaching for a small bag to take on my journey when an old box tumbled off the top of the wardrobe. Inside, I found the precious, yet useless, mementoes of my life: bits and pieces of sentimental value that I had kept over the years.

  Here was the lemon baby shawl I started when I was in labour. Of course, I had never given it to her, and she was too old for such a thing now. Spyridon’s locket was there too, which I opened and then wept over.

  My darling, Markos. How I miss you.

  My broken wedding ring reminded me of our wedding day and my beloved husband. And the tightly rolled piece of paper on which Markos had written his poignant words. Long ago, I had discovered it inside the rim of his beret, which still lay on the pillow next to mine every night. A red and yellow painting of a matchstick woman with the words, AUNTY SOFIE painted below it and Zoë 1976 written in the corner brought tears to my eyes.

  These were the treasures of my life, valuable beyond measure, and I decided they would go wherever I went. I packed two changes of underwear, all the cash I had and set off on a journey that I hoped would bring my daughter back to me. On the bus to the port of Piraeus, I decided on a diversion. My first stop at the outset of this adventure was to the prison outside Athens.

  I wrote a note to the bus driver: I’d like to get off at Korydallos cemetery, please.

  He frowned and nodded sadly.

  I sat in the front seat and remembered the first time I had made that journey, inside the truck of flour-man Fannes. Afraid, I had clung to my friends, Thina, Agapi and Honey. I wondered where they were now.

  Shortly, the cream cement prison came into view, running parallel with the main road. The area was now highly developed with houses and businesses crammed around the tall perimeter walls.

  I realised I had my hand over my mouth, my cry of anguish silent, yet intense. Events that took place behind those walls returned to me – images of Markos’s tortured body, my baby still slippery from the womb, the warm earth of my husband’s grave. When the bus stopped, the young driver read my expression, gave me a sympathetic look and waited patiently as I climbed down.

  I walked to the burial area and stared at the cemetery, which was much larger now. I remembered that they had buried Markos in a barren corner plot alongside mounds of unmarked graves. Now, rectangles were neatly marked out by kerbstones and gravel paths. Marble headstones, ornate tombs and plastic flowers loomed around me.

  Where are you, Markos?

  I wandered around that labyrinth of death searching for his name, ignoring the monumental structures and concentrating on the simple graves. Defeated, I closed my eyes for a moment, and in that darkness, remembered the moon, the proximity of the prison, and found my bearings. A few steps to my left lay a simple stone bearing the words MARKOS PAPAS.

  I hurried forward and my heart leaped.

  Markos.

  Yes, my darling.

  Somehow his soul knew I was there. I fell to my knees –
a mistake, as I felt them crack when I hit the dirt. Nevertheless, awash with joy and sadness at finding my husband’s grave, I proceeded to scrabble in the gravel below his headstone. After digging a small hole at the head of the grave, I pulled the broken wedding ring from my pocket.

  Freedom is yours, my darling, I whispered in my mind. Until we meet again, I’ll see you in my dreams.

  I kissed his half of the ring, dropped it into the hole, and quickly covered it.

  How are you, my love? What a stupid question, Markos, but you know what I mean. I’m still trying to find our daughter. It’s my quest. Once I have, I’m sure I’ll be joining you.

  I closed my eyes and saw him, complete with long hair and Che Guevara beret, nodding his head and smiling.

  I think about you every day, Markos.

  And I, you. I heard his words as clear as day.

  Can you hold me for a moment?

  I felt his arms slip around me, his breath in my ear.

  I love you, Sofia.

  I want to join you, my darling, but I must find Zoë. You understand?

  Of course. I’ll be waiting for you.

  I found a piece of flint and scratched a few words onto the headstone. On my feet again, I gathered a handful of poppies that grew from the base of the stone wall and placed them at his feet.

  Goodbye, my darling angel, until we meet again.

  *

  On my way back to the bus stop, my hand itched. I looked down and saw one of the red petals had stuck to my palm, like my mother’s last kiss. Bright and red and fresh as the day. I closed my fingers around it and smiled. They would always be with me, the people I loved.

  After taking a bus to Piraeus, I boarded the next ferry to Crete.

  CHAPTER 45

  SOFIA

  Crete, present day.

  I WOKE WITH A START as my head fell forward. Confused, I stared about for a moment, wondering where I was. Then my trek to Crete came back and I realised: Chania, Talos Square. The sea glass felt warm in my hand. I stared at it and remembered the poppy petal and Markos’s grave. So many years had passed since that day when I first set out on this fruitless quest. All to no avail. I reached into my bag for the shawl, deciding to do a little crocheting; but then I remembered, the blanket was now with the lawyer. My mission was over.