His sister could not speak but she clutched on to Panos’ hand. He could feel her shaking.
When the corpse carriers reached the edge of the square, Themis broke down and had to be supported by her brother. Fotini was being lifted on to a cart already occupied by several other bodies. For the first time, Themis noticed that her friend’s feet were bare and blue. Someone must have stolen her shoes. This was death without dignity.
The two men began to pull the cart, slowly and jerkily across the broken surface of the street and a few minutes later they had trundled into the main road. Panos watched until they were out of sight, with Themis’ head buried in his chest.
They stood there in the frozen twilight, grateful for each other’s warmth.
Gently Panos led his sister home. Kyría Koralis boiled water and made her a hot infusion using her few remaining dried herbs. Then she tucked her, still fully clothed, into bed.
Themis was trembling so violently that she could not hold her drink but sipped it from time to time from her grandmother’s steady hands. For now there was nothing to say. No words could lend comfort. Nothing justified Fotini Karanidis’ death and any attempt to rationalise it would just be empty words.
The sight of her friend’s lifeless body and crumpled coat would always haunt her.
Chapter Seven
THEMIS WAS CONVINCED that when Fotini had collapsed she must have been on her way to their apartment, perhaps even to ask for some food. It would have been the first time she had come to where they lived.
Two days later, when she had summoned the courage and the strength, she went back to Fotini’s house. There was a possibility that her mother was looking for her daughter.
Panos accompanied her and it was he who knocked on the door. After a moment or two, a small crack appeared.
‘Who is it?’ asked a man’s voice.
These days, when someone came to the door, there was always a chance that a German or Italian soldier might be on the other side.
‘We’re looking for Kyría Karanidis . . .’ Panos spoke a little hesitantly into the darkness.
The door was opened a little wider and they found themselves face to face with a man. From the look of him he was clearly relieved to find two young Greeks standing there.
‘Kyría Kara . . .? That’s who was living here . . .?’
‘Yes, she was,’ said Themis. ‘With her daughter.’
‘Have you seen her?’ enquired Panos.
A look of bewilderment passed across the man’s face.
‘I’ve seen no one. Look, do you want to come inside?’
Themis gripped tight on to her brother’s arm as they entered. Fotini’s books were still on the shelf. Even her school bag was there, sitting at the end of the bed. The same plates and the single metal pan were in their usual places.
Themis burst into tears.
‘All her things are here,’ she said quietly through her tears. ‘Exactly as before.’
‘My sister’s friend died. A few days ago,’ Panos explained to the stranger. ‘This was her house.’
The three of them sat at the kitchen table. Themis was in the same seat as she had always taken.
The stranger looked nervous.
‘Maybe I should explain why I am here,’ he said. ‘I’m a soldier, or maybe I should say “was”. When our unit was disbanded, I got back to my home to find it had been taken over by German officers. What could I do? I was wandering the streets. Lots of us were. We had nothing.’
‘I know,’ said Panos. ‘There are wounded soldiers everywhere and even they are living on the streets.’
‘Eventually, I started looking for somewhere to sleep,’ said the man. ‘And people were saying that there were empty houses up in this area.’
He paused for a moment.
‘I only realised the reason they were empty when I arrived a couple of days ago. But I needed a roof. It’s cold. It’s so bloody cold . . .’
Themis sat quietly, listening, weeping. It was left to Panos to respond.
‘You don’t have to justify what you’ve done,’ he said.
‘I’m Manolis, by the way,’ the man said. He forced a smile.
‘And I’m Panos and this is Themis. Themis’ friend was called Fotini. You understand that she lived here . . .’
‘Yes. I’m so sorry for your friend, Themis. These are terrible, terrible days.’
‘We don’t know if Fotini’s mother will ever come back. We don’t know what has happened to her. But if she does, will you say that Themis Koralis came to see her?’
‘Of course. Though I don’t know for how long I’ll be here. I want to fight again,’ he said. ‘How else are we going to get rid of these bastards?’
There was a pause. Panos fished around inside his coat and produced some tobacco. Themis knew her brother smoked because she could smell it on him but where he had found the tobacco she could not imagine.
He rolled a cigarette and passed it to Manolis. The other man accepted it as though he had been offered a bag of gold.
Panos then made another for himself and leaned so close that his words were almost inaudible to his sister.
‘There are a few things we can do,’ he said. ‘Behind the scenes, if you see what I mean.’
Themis realised Panos was putting his trust in this man. To admit that he took part in acts of espionage and resistance was a dangerous step, but instinct told him that Manolis was a kindred spirit. Manolis had fought in Albania almost to the death and had been rewarded with penury and a stranger’s empty house. Anger and despair were etched on his face.
Themis followed the low-voiced conversation, glancing from one man to another but she was impatient to leave. It made her so sad to be in this house without her friend. While the men were making their plans she left the table and went across to the bed. Fotini’s bag was lying there.
Kyría Karanidis might return even now, so it did not seem right to take it, but she wished very keenly to have something to remember Fotini by. Themis ran her hand over the smooth leather. Perhaps there was something inside, a keepsake that might not be missed if it was gone? Themis undid the buckle.
Inside there was a battered exercise book. Fotini’s neat handwriting on the front cover stating her name, her class and the name of their school, made Themis’ heart lurch. Opening the front cover, she read some lines of poetry that Fotini must have copied out in defiance of her mother. They were from Ritsos’ forbidden poem, ‘Epitáfios’.
All Fotini’s knowledge, hopes and emotions were gone now. Did they still exist but somewhere else? It was the first time in sixteen years that Themis had been struck by life’s futility.
Themis tucked the exercise book inside her coat, next to her heart. She would not look at the rest now, but in subsequent days she would turn each page and read every word.
As she looked up, the men were standing up to shake hands, agreeing to meet again.
What she had not heard were the words that Manolis spoke to Panos behind his hand.
‘The mother’s body was found in the street last week,’ he said discreetly. ‘The neighbour told me.’
Panos knew that now was not the moment to break such news to Themis. There was a limit to the sadness that his sister should have to face. Themis did not need to know that proper burial was rare these days and that Fotini’s mother had probably joined dozens of others in a mass grave. His only hope was that the bodies of mother and daughter were close to one another.
In Athens alone, almost fifty thousand had collapsed and died from malnutrition over these months. Freezing temperatures and food shortages were a lethal combination. There were children whose final hours were spent scavenging for food or lying, lice-ridden, in the street, too weak to move. They were such a common sight that people would simply step over them to go on their way. Every passer-by would have his agenda: to find food, visit a soup kitchen or even to call in on a seamstress who might be fashioning a new coat from an old one. Nobody had time to linge
r. Survival was the only concern.
Themis would not get out of bed for many days and her grandmother had to coax her to eat.
‘Just a little, sweetheart, just a spoonful. Just for me.’
It infuriated Margarita to hear their grandmother talking to Themis as if she were a baby. The older girl was as jealous of her younger sister now as she had been when she arrived and could not understand why Themis felt so much grief for what Margarita called ‘her refugee friend’.
‘Let her be,’ she said to her grandmother. ‘She’s just doing it to be the centre of attention. If she eats, she eats.’
Even putting the differences in their political sympathies to one side, Margarita found Themis irritating in all ways. One day, she saw her younger sister curled up in the foetal position on their bed and was reminded of their mother’s behaviour all those years before. Shame and anger filled her.
Although Themis was eating very little, the boys had voracious appetites. Piece by piece, Kyría Koralis had sold the jewellery to buy food and the box was empty but for one final item.
One late spring day she rolled the ruby earrings round in her hand and then, with neither guilt nor regret, set off across the square to sell them. Each piece she sold diminished the assets of her daughter-in-law, but improved the children’s chances of survival. As she accepted another packet stuffed with notes, she told herself that her son would have approved.
For several months, Margarita had not had the opportunity to pry in her grandmother’s cupboard. And in past weeks, it had been even trickier because Themis rarely left the apartment. That day, with her grandmother out and her sister asleep in the next room, Margarita took her chance.
She could feel immediately that something was wrong. The small chest that had once overflowed with treasure was light. Empty. Margarita, almost overcome with nausea, rummaged frantically through her mother’s clothes. Had the jewels somehow tumbled out and got lost in the folds of silk and wool? In a state of frenzy, she scattered blouses, skirts and scarves across the room, tossing them into the air so that if anything was concealed, it would fall out.
Just as she shook out the last garment, she heard the sound of a key in the lock.
It was Kyría Koralis, letting herself in, her arms filled with provisions. She had gone straight from selling the earrings to a place where she could purchase meat and potatoes. A delay of even a few hours could send the price of such things even higher and she needed to use the drachmas before their value plummeted further.
Her granddaughter burst out of the bedroom into the hallway holding the wooden chest, its lid wide open. Dismay was etched deep into her face, accusations ready to fly from her lips.
Kyría Koralis was prepared with a story.
‘They are all in the bank, paidí mou,’ she said. ‘When the Germans leave I’ll get them back again. You can’t be too careful.’
‘But weren’t they safe here?’
‘With the Germans on every street? And Italians? They’re even worse.’
‘But . . .’
Kyría Koralis bombarded Margarita with reasons and excuses.
‘And you know they sometimes go and live in people’s homes? So do you imagine they would think twice about taking our valuables?’
‘I know about that, Yiayiá. But they haven’t yet bothered us—’
‘And the streets!’ Kyría Koralis added. ‘You know how dangerous the streets are, agápi mou! Even if it’s just a few desperate people you can’t take the risk.’
Although she was lying about the jewels, it was true that not only the German and Italian soldiers were guilty of theft. There were also crimes of violence and opportunism carried out by Greeks against one another. Stories abounded of watches being ripped from wrists, and pendants from necks. Hunger drove people to desperate behaviour. What choice did a man have if he saw his wife vainly attempting to breastfeed their baby? If both mother and child were malnourished, he could not stand by while both of them starved to death. The rich were still rich and potentially the source of a meal.
Kyría Koralis succeeded in pacifying her granddaughter and allowed her to preserve the dream of being reunited with the jewellery. Margarita promised herself that as soon as the Axis troops left, a new and glamorous life would begin. Diamonds, silks, stockings and visits to Zonars. Nowadays, she was more determined than ever to have these.
She had recently found work as an assistant in an expensive dress shop in Kolonaki and had higher than ever aspirations. Even during these days of desperation, there seemed to be women who had enough for beautiful clothes, or German officers who wanted to send something home for their wives.
Meanwhile, she had already learnt that the occasional kiss with a foreigner could translate to a pair of nylons or even a lipstick. There was a particular smile she had learnt in front of the mirror that seemed to invite some kind of exchange, and after studying a few old magazines she had practised to make it perfect. The jewellery, when she got it back, could only increase the opportunities she dreamed of.
As the months went by, though, there was no sign that occupation would ever end. Most members of the Koralis family became frustrated that neither the government in Athens nor the government in exile did anything to bring freedom closer. As Kyría Koralis had feared, Panos, along with many others, had joined the National Liberation Front, EAM, an organised resistance created to take action against the occupying forces. Her younger grandson was constantly in a state of fury that, from every angle, the country was being made to suffer and at least this group might do something.
‘First they occupy us, then they steal everything there is to eat,’ Panos ranted at his brother. They were sitting at the table and Panos pointed down at the meagre dinner in front of him. Thanasis had recently been accepted for police training and was sometimes given a meal at college, so he was not hungry that night. The girls carried on eating in silence, almost oblivious to the soundtrack of fraternal argument. Panos had more to say.
‘And then on top of that the Germans make the Greek government give them money. And you say these people are our friends!’
Whatever his brother said, Thanasis was steadfast in his beliefs. Even the preposterous ‘loans’ to cover the cost of occupation demanded by the Germans from Greece did not change his mind. He continued to support the collaborationist government without questioning their actions and believed that one day even Panos would come to terms with German influence in his country.
‘You would make life easier for yourself and everyone around you if you accepted things as they are.’
‘But even Tsolakoglou wants a reduction in the payments!’ retorted Panos.
It was true that the Prime Minister was reaching the limit of his tolerance and demanding greater leniency from the Germans.
Themis did not join in the debate. Everything Panos described was so obviously an injustice. Fotini was one of many thousands who had died from starvation in Athens that winter. Greece was at breaking point.
Chapter Eight
AFTER FOTINI’S DEATH, Themis lost interest in school. Perhaps she would return to her studies when life went back to normal, but no one could imagine what normality was any more and had no idea when it might return. The absence of the brightest spark in the class had left a space in the front row, but there were more than a dozen empty seats now. When she heard that learning German and Italian was now compulsory at school she had no regrets about not being there.
Instead of attending her gymnásio, Themis went each day to help at one of the city’s soup kitchens. A long line stretched down the road even before the place opened and people stood patiently in the cold and the rain for the next hour or more while she and the team of other female volunteers chopped vegetables and boiled up cauldrons of water. By ten in the morning, a thin soup was ready to serve.
Every day Themis looked for the face of Fotini’s mother in the queue. Surely if she was in need, she would come here? She scrutinised the crowd. Many looked less than h
uman: there were people with the bodies of children but the expressions of the old, men with eyes that bulged from their skulls, women with furry chins and limbs, this pelt being the body’s natural reaction to starvation and cold. Many were barefoot. Occasionally there was someone so weak that they struggled to hold a mug of soup.
Each day, she came home with the same question on her lips.
‘Do you think this will go on for ever?’ she would ask, looking for reassurance from her brother. The collaborationist government gave the ordinary Greek people little reassurance that it had any plans to improve the situation. It was obliged to meet the occupiers’ demands, so living conditions were next to impossible for all except those who exploited the black market.
‘Whenever you can,’ Panos told her, ‘scrawl something on a wall, but make sure you’re not seen. Every little word will help demoralise the bastards.’
Drawing graffiti seemed a little futile to Themis, but suddenly Panos seemed more optimistic and promised her that they would soon rid themselves of the Germans.
‘The government may not be doing anything,’ he told Themis, ‘but other people are.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked excitedly. ‘Is something going to happen?’
Of late there had been a rumour of German withdrawal, but it turned out to be just that. The only benefit of the rumour had been that those who hoarded their goods had released more on to the market and prices had temporarily fallen.
‘Something is already happening, Themis.’
He spoke to her quietly, even though there was no one else at home.
‘What?’ she whispered excitedly.
‘Something is happening every hour, every day,’ he explained.
‘But what?’ she asked, with urgency. ‘Tell me! Tell me!’
In spite of Panos’ desire to protect his sister’s innocence, he wanted her on his side. There might be moments when he needed her to cover for him and this could happen any time soon.
‘I’m helping someone,’ he said rapidly. ‘A woman who lives close by. She sometimes shelters British soldiers. You would never imagine it looking at her, but she is the bravest woman I have ever met.’
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