He mounted his horse and posed proudly next to his friends. Seen through the camera lens, they made quite a sight, these four proud men who looked like they’d stepped in from another era.
Although my hands were still shaky, I managed to snap away quite a few photos. “If there is a print shop on the island, I’ll be able to make you some copies today,” I offered.
Thomas nodded. “Great. When you are back from your outing, pass by the kafeneio and we’ll do that. We’ll move on now, maybe get lucky and catch a hare today. We’ll leave you to steal more water behind our backs.”
This time around, my laughter was genuine, now that I was certain he really had no idea of what I’d been doing at the spring.
Thomas tugged on the reins of his horse and spurred it on. The other three followed suit raising their hands in a gesture of farewell and set off back toward the trees they’d come from.
I watched them withdraw and vowed not to reveal to anyone who I was. The stress just was not worth it.
As soon as the men disappeared from my eyesight, I relaxed and took a few moments to enjoy the view and capture the scenery before me. Then, I started to walk downhill, following the path of the stream that trickled away from the spring.
I thought it would lead to the edge of some cliff. Instead, I spotted a small path that led to a plateau, where the water pooled to form a small lake before carrying on its winding path through the bushes, presumably all the way down to the sea.
What I saw next was one of the most memorable moments of my life. A herd of five horses was drinking at the edge of the lake, no saddles or reins on them.
I started photographing them, approaching as softly as I could. They did not seem to notice and I was able to get quite close. A branch snapped under my foot, startling the horses away from the shore. Only a tall black horse stayed where it had stood, a white heart-shaped mark on its forehead. It stood still, looking at me, as if it knew me, inviting me to approach it.
I slowly stepped toward the horse and stopped at a safe distance. That’s when I noticed its front legs were in the lake, the water cloudy around its hooves with the ashes I had scattered.
I took another cautious step toward it. I was so near. The horse kept looking at me, unperturbed. Slowly, I lifted my hand and moved to pat its head. No reaction. When the tips of my fingers touched it, it turned to sniff my hand. And then suddenly, as if stung by a fly, it reared on its hind legs, neighing violently.
Startled, I took a step back and slipped on the muddy ground. I fell on my back, the horse now a dark, ominous shape against the blinding sun. Instinctively, I cradled my head in my hands and rolled to the side, eyes squeezed shut.
The thud of its front legs crashing on the ground beside my head broke like a thunderclap. Before I could even register my narrow escape, I felt the hot breath of the horse on my cheek and the nudge of its moist nostrils, like a faint, humid kiss.
I opened my eyes and stirred. It pulled back at this sign of movement and galloped off in the direction the rest of the herd had disappeared to. It only paused once more; a hundred feet away, it rose on its hind legs in a majestic farewell and disappeared behind the rocks.
I sat up trying to fully grasp what had just happened and to regain my composure. When I felt my legs could hold me, I stood up and dusted myself down. With mixed emotions, I turned back toward the spring.
Fear mingled with amazement at the horse’s strange comportment. Had I really just experienced this or was it a mirage, a hallucination born out of the alluring landscape and my fragile emotional state?
As soon as I reached the spring, I sat on a stone and pulled out my phone to call Anita. I longed to hear her voice and share this strange experience.
Macedonia, April 13, 1941
* * *
Daylight had just started to break through the mist and the veil of thin rain that covered the tents set up on the muddy soil. Dim lights sparkled like stars in the fog as the village nesting on the hill slopes across the field rose from its slumber.
Manolis had heard that the village was called Vlasti. The locals had been helping out the troops as much as they could by bringing the soldiers food and clothes during their stay.
The men huddled around small campfires, trying to keep the asthmatic flames going with whatever bits of dry wood they could find to keep themselves warm and dry. Their long beards and sunken cheeks, and the uncaring way in which they carried their rifles, ignoring orders to be on guard, bore testament to their fatigue and despair.
Starved mules snorted through the mud in a desperate attempt to find some grass, sidestepping the abandoned machine guns which, bereft of any ammunition, rusted in the field.
The unnatural silence that reigned over the camp was sporadically broken by the moans of pain escaping from the tents.
Men, animals, objects… all abandoned to their fate.
His back leaning against a mossy rock, Manolis sat enveloped in the acrid smoke of the wet branches that burned before him. His eyes, empty and expressionless, stared at the meager flames. Only the imperceptible movement of his bony chest gave away that this man was still alive. His torn and muddy uniform hung loosely around his skeletal frame, cinched at the waist with an old and frayed piece of cord.
Of the three thousand islanders who had formed the volunteer corps, only a few hundred remained. The others had either lost their lives in battle or been captured by the Nazis, who were storming through the country, overrunning the Greek and allied forces.
They had fought bravely, but were no match for the German war machine. The front had collapsed, unable to hold any longer against the relentless hammering of the German artillery and the Luftwaffe. They were withdrawing, hoping to regroup and form a new defensive line. They had been instructed to camp out there and await orders for their next movements.
The war had changed Manolis. He was numb and withdrawn, hardened by the experience. As if at some point his heart had frozen over and nothing but the warm spark of Eleni’s memory could thaw it.
He thought of her and put his hand in his overcoat, taking out a small, worn notebook. His diary. He turned to the page where he kept the photo of the crowd gathered at the port, the day Eleni was departing for Italy. He picked it up as gently as he could with his cold fingers, bringing it close to his eyes. He squinted and Eleni’s smiling face came into focus, leaning against his chest with a smile. For a moment, his expression softened.
He was staring at the photo as if he wanted to enter the print, go into that moment, and stand beside her once again. He had not heard from her since he’d left for the front. He had written countless letters to her, but never received a reply. Neither had any of the men he was with and no one could explain why.
He did not even know whether any of his letters had reached her. He did not know if she was well and he was impatient to return to the island and see for himself. He could tell from the information and rumors circulating in the camp that the war was lost. Greece was on the verge of capitulating to Germany. It was a matter of days, hours even.
He pulled out the pocket watch she had given him and lifted the cover to read the time and see the inscription inside once more: Forever. Together. It had become a daily ritual, his brief snatched moments with her.
Suddenly, the sound of machine guns and loud explosions erupted. Manolis jumped up, hastily placing the photo back into the notebook and the notebook into his pocket, by his heart. He kicked the muddy soil over the fire to put it out and joined the soldiers running to the tent where the officers were gathered.
Before he could even reach it he heard they had to move, ASAP. German troops were approaching and daylight would bring the first enemy aircraft with it. Destroy all military equipment that cannot be carried! Hurry! Hurry!
Many had already started moving in the direction away from the sound of battle, carrying the injured on their backs or strapping them onto the exhausted mules. Men and beasts of burden had had no chance to rest after their exhausting
trek through the mountains; on the road once again to avoid falling into the hands of the mighty enemy.
An hour later, Manolis was one of the few men still left at the dismantled camp. Nothing remained but trampled cloth, smoking campfires, and the heavy machinery. They doused everything in petrol and set it alight. From a safe distance, a man threw a grenade onto the flames and everything blew up in a loud flash.
Quickly they turned to follow their departing comrades—but not quickly enough. Ten German soldiers suddenly appeared before them, their guns ready to shoot, shouting a barrage of incomprehensible orders. There was nothing they could do, a small band of men with barely three rifles between them. One by one, the men raised their arms in surrender.
Manolis kept his arms firmly by his sides. He refused to budge, even when a German officer walked up toward him, barking something in a language Manolis could not understand. Another soldier walked up behind him and roughly brought the butt of his rifle down on the defiant man’s head. The last image to flash before his eyes as he hit the ground losing consciousness was Eleni standing beside him, smiling, the boat waiting for them on the horizon.
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The rest of the day was relaxing and uneventful. I toured almost half the island on my motorbike. I walked miles to reach the hidden coves that could only be accessed on foot and to cool off with a swim. And I discovered the beauty of the hills; narrow dirt paths carpeted with wild flowers, occasionally dotted with the stone ruins of old buildings that sprung up among the tall grass; tiny white chapels crowned with small azure domes on deserted hillsides, casting their lonely gaze over the blue sea; tall, naked rocks, petrified giants that the hand of some ancient god had flung to earth.
The island exuded its strange allure and I slowly succumbed.
I did not meet many people during my wanderings, and I was grateful for that. People tend to destroy the nature that surrounds them, alter it with their actions and their presence; here, nature had remained largely untouched by the hand of man.
My encounter with the black horse remained with me all day. I searched in vain for a rational explanation, something that could dispel the strong feeling I had that the horse had responded to me as if I were a familiar face. Maybe I was too irrational to come up with a reasonable answer; maybe I’d spent too long in the sun without a hat.
As the day wore on, I turned full circle, coming back to the rooms from the top of the hill in the direction facing away from the port. A group of old stone houses belied the presence of a village that now lay abandoned, in ruins; a melancholy, gloomy presence. Was one of those my mother’s house? As far as I knew, neither Uncle Nikos nor mother owned anything here, but the more I thought about it, the more I wished that a tiny parcel of this place could be ours. Good luck telling my mother that, of course. Maybe if I found out what had happened here, the full facts, I could figure out if it were possible to claim back what must have belonged to her family. How would that be possible without letting anyone realize who I was?
The sun was almost setting by the time I pulled up outside Thekla’s rooms and all I wanted was some food. I was ravenous, the snack she’d packed long gone.
I left the motorbike at the same spot, its engine burning hot after the day’s travels, and stepped into the courtyard. I immediately asked for a portion of her stuffed vegetables, the dish of the day, and ran upstairs to wash off the dust and sea salt.
I walked in and flung my rucksack on the sofa, eager to strip off my muddy clothes. As I was pulling my t-shirt over my head, my eyes fell on the framed photo on the wall. A group of people had gathered at the port. I picked it up and walked to the window for better light and a closer inspection.
A strange wave of nostalgia washed over me. I had always been intrigued by anything that allowed me a glimpse into the past and the lives of people long gone, maybe because it filled the gaping void of my past.
They were obviously preparing to depart on a long journey, on the ship that could be made out on the horizon. Where to, for how long? Their faces looked forlorn, like faces usually did in photos from that era, as if looking somber before the lens was as mandatory as the wide grins in today’s photos. How had the years treated them? Was a distant relation of mine among them?
I took a closer, careful look. A woman in the arms of a man as he held her close to him stood out from the others, her blissful expression a sharp contrast to everyone’s solemn looks. The man looked serious but not stern. He was enjoying the moment as much as the girl beside him. The longer I looked, the more the couple seemed to stand out, come into focus, as everything else faded into a sepia-tinted blur.
The more I looked the more the woman in the photo resembled Anita. That thought caught me by surprise and made me laugh. The tricks my mind was playing today! Love-struck, sun-struck, hunger-struck, I was starting to see her everywhere.
I sighed and placed the photo on the sofa, glass facing down to protect it, and jumped into the shower. Anita was far away, but I could do something about the heat and the hunger.
As soon as I sat down at a table in the shady courtyard, Thekla materialized with a tray filled with gemistá, the stuffed vegetables accompanied with a generous helping of feta cheese and her oven-baked bread.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked.
“No, thank you, water will be fine.”
“How was your day? Did you go far?”
“It was great!” I mumbled enthusiastically between bites. “I saw something unexpected up on the mountain, near Mantani.”
Thekla pulled out a chair and sat down, wiping her hand on her apron.
“I saw a herd of horses, all alone and wild, but one of them let me stroke it.”
“They must have escaped from someone’s stable. Not many people have horses on the island. I’ll keep it in mind in case I hear someone’s looking for them. Near the spring at Mantani you say?”
“Yes, but then they moved away, toward the sea.” I swallowed and quickly changed the topic as I saw her get up to return to the kitchen. “Your island keeps many secrets.”
She looked at me, frowning. “More than you could imagine, Dimitri. I’ll leave you to eat, make sure you get some rest. Festivals go on until the early hours here.”
I watched her walk away and played with my bread crust. Would I get to discover some of those secrets?
The Island, August 1942
* * *
The sun had set behind the mountains, drowning the beach in a hazy golden glow. Before the Cave of Silence stood Yiannis, his wife Anna and their son, Nikos, all dressed in their Sunday best. In the sea, Eleni stood with the water reaching her knees and soaking her dress. She was holding a sheet in her arms, waiting to receive the baby that was being christened by the priest in the salty waters, his ceremonial robes wet and billowing around him. “We baptize thee, Maria…In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit…”
As soon as the baby was dunked in the water, three times, she burst into tears. Eleni looked fondly upon her goddaughter, happy in her new role as godmother to Manolis’ niece. Manolis, who they now knew was alive in captivity. After all the silence, the news, any news, was a welcome respite.
Further news was hard to come by. She had spent so much time worrying that one day she would wake up and hear of his death. The thought was unbearable, more so at a time when her father’s health was deteriorating rapidly and it looked like his end was near. Her only source of comfort had been Yiannis and his family.
Their worry over Manolis and his fate had brought them closer, they felt like family now. Any reservations Yiannis had had about his brother’s proposed marriage had long been overcome, and Nikos adored his aunt-to-be.
As soon as the service was over, the three walked back to the shore. Eleni held Maria in her arms, wrapped in the small white sheet, and ceremoniously returned the baby to her mother. She took a small gold cross on a thin chain from her pocket and passed it over the baby’s head. It seemed to
soothe Maria.
They dressed the baby in her baptismal gown and hastily departed. They could not linger any longer; it would soon be dark and the Italian curfew was still in place. Eleni decided to stay on the beach a moment longer. The family and the priest mounted the horses that had been patiently waiting by the nearby creek and set off, leaving Karme to carry Eleni back to her house.
She sat down and pulled out a photo from her pocket. It was a portrait of Manolis, taken just after he’d joined the army. It had arrived with his first letter to her, the only letter she’d ever received. Two years had passed without a word until she heard of his capture from another soldier who’d returned to the island the previous month.
She closed her eyes and thought back to the morning at Galazia Petra, when they had been alone. Her body had not forgotten the feeling of Manolis touching her, kissing her and the same shudder now went through her. If Yiannis had not interrupted them, she would have given herself to him. Right there, on the beach.
She lived with the fervent hope that she would one day be back in his arms, fully his.
She opened her eyes and gazed at the waters lapping the shore. With all her strength she prayed to the Virgin Mary that she keep him safe, that she bring him back to her, alive. Alive. Alive. Repeating the silent prayer over and over, she got up and walked up to Karme. She’d better hurry. Her ailing father was waiting for her back home.
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It was late in the afternoon when Anita was finally able to call it a day. She hurriedly returned to her room and a few minutes later was back at reception, smiling brightly and holding a small suitcase. She placed her keys on the desk and let the young receptionist know that she would be returning late the following day. Looking through the wide glass doors, she saw Mihalis waiting for her and ran toward him.
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