Those Who Are Loved

by Victoria Hislop

  The only way she would know that four hours had gone was when someone came to relieve her of her duties. Meanwhile, she tried to judge the passage of time by observing the moon.

  For a while Themis hummed: nursery rhymes from childhood, songs she used to sing with Fotini, a favourite tune of Vamvakaris. When she ran out of music, she began to reflect. Random memories came back to her and with the benefit of geographical distance and time, she saw events of her life in new ways. She thought about the collapse of the childhood home, and the fall that had left Panos with a scar and remembered that he had always been the one to feel the wrong side of their father’s slipper. Her recollection of a thwack on bare skin coincided with the sharp snap of a twig and she sprang to her feet, her heart pounding. It was too soon for the end of her shift, she thought, but there must be somebody nearby.

  Themis was right. The dark outline of a figure was coming towards her through the trees. It was a silhouette she recognised immediately. The emotion this sight aroused was not one with which she was familiar. She had felt anger many times but it had always passed. The same with grief and loss. This sense of yearning, however, was different. It lingered, like an ache.

  Makris looked as if he was simply out for a stroll, hunting for game, perhaps, with his gun slung casually over his shoulder. There was a confidence about him that she had not noticed before. He did not look that much older than she did, but he had an enviable ease as though the situation they found themselves in was entirely normal. They were standing in a mountain forest, a long way from home, armed, on alert, hungry and yet he seemed contented.

  She was nervous, anxious about saying the wrong thing or giving a bad impression, so she waited until he spoke. His voice was familiar, but the tone was different. It was softer than she had heard it before and for the first time gave the impression of a good education.

  ‘I came to check that you were in the right place. Most soldiers can’t walk in a straight line.’

  ‘That’s something I can do very easily,’ she said, encouraged by his tone into risking a little humour. ‘From my home, down Patission Avenue towards the Acropolis is a direct route.’

  ‘I grew up climbing hills,’ he replied. ‘I was born under Lycabettus, in Kolonaki.’

  He could read surprise on Themis’ face when he mentioned the wealthiest area in Athens.

  ‘I know. You think it’s full of right-wingers and royalists . . . Well, it probably was among my parents’ generation. But among mine, it was almost the fashion to support the communists. So here I am. And I believe in the cause more than ever.’

  Themis was spellbound by his idealism. Each word charmed her and she was reminded of Panos, who had the same fire burning within him. Everything that had taken place that day was for a greater goal, the ultimate good. She must keep telling herself this.

  To her amazement Makris put his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You need to learn something. When we raid these villages the inhabitants have nothing to lose. There will always be someone who tries to escape or to attack. They are the enemy until we bring them round to our way of thinking. And even then they’re under suspicion.’

  His voice was soothing but then it suddenly changed, from kind to cruel. Themis was shocked. He began to criticise her, harshly and mercilessly.

  ‘If you don’t take more care during a raid, you will endanger the whole unit. Think, Koralis. Do nothing without thinking,’ he hectored. ‘You made a mistake today and it could have cost lives. You have to stay in charge in such situations.’

  By the end of his short speech, Themis’ eyes were stinging with tears. Then, as surprisingly as it had vanished, the gentle voice returned.

  They were standing face to face and Makris took Themis by the elbows this time. It was a gesture of reassurance, both comforting and gentle. The sweetness that returned to the distinctly cultivated voice was such a relief that her shaking knees could scarcely hold her up.

  ‘You will learn,’ he said. ‘And you will learn faster than anyone. I guarantee it.’

  ‘I promise to do my best,’ she replied. Themis wanted to please him perhaps more than she had ever wanted to please anyone.

  ‘Tomorrow there will be new opportunities to show what you can do,’ he said, continuing to hold her. ‘You will show me how good you are.’

  ‘I will,’ she replied.

  He held on to Themis for a moment longer than necessary. He was close enough for her to smell the tobacco on his breath.

  Then he consulted his watch.

  ‘I’ll keep you company for a while,’ he said. ‘Time goes slowly when you’re alone.’

  Themis did not know how to react so she said nothing. They sat leaning against the tree and Makris lit a cigarette for himself. Rings of smoke drifted up into the sky.

  ‘Tell me something about yourself,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to be shy.’

  ‘I was born in Athens. I’m twenty-two . . .’

  She was embarrassed. There was nothing much more to tell him.

  ‘How long have you been with the army?’ she asked. It seemed a formal enough question to be inoffensive.

  ‘I’ve been a communist for more than ten years now,’ he answered. ‘My uncle was arrested during the Metaxas dictatorship and sent to an island prison.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Themis.

  ‘He simply disagreed with the regime and said so in his newspaper.’

  ‘How long was he in prison?’

  ‘He died there after two years.’

  Themis wondered if a cloud had passed in front of the moon because the darkness seemed to intensify.

  ‘He printed the truth. And he died for it.’

  ‘My brother Panos used to talk about dying for the truth too,’ said Themis, feeling more relaxed now. ‘But my other brother had a different idea about what truth was, so there was always a lot of arguing.’

  ‘The freedom to print the truth matters beyond all else,’ he said. ‘And the truth is that the communists should be given their role in this country.’

  For a moment Themis was confused. Makris clearly believed that some kinds of freedom were sacrosanct but the women being force-marched came to her mind. The thought was a fleeting one and she quickly slipped once again under the spell of his words.

  Soon enough, Makris got to his feet. Themis got up too.

  ‘See you at dawn.’

  Themis watched his back retreating through the trees. She had heard that he had the nickname liondári, the lion, and as he padded off noiselessly into the woods it was obvious why. He was as silent as a big cat and his halo of curls very like a mane. Themis wondered if she had ever felt happier. She was fighting for the winning side, her army was at the height of its powers, and she was in love.

  Every day she saw Makris and often they marched side by side. She told herself it was probably accidental, but he always seemed to brush against her, electrifying every hair on her body.

  A few weeks later, once again on guard duty, Makris came to keep her company. This time there was no moon and in the darkness he took her completely by surprise.

  They sat and talked for a while about tactics for raiding a nearby village the following day. Then Makris took Themis’ hand and began to play with her fingers, weaving them between his own. His skin was rough but his touch was gentle and she did not pull away. Only once before had she been the object of any male attention, when the son of the pharmacy owner had pursued her. This was a different situation. She craved this man’s every glance.

  The rule that there should be no relationships between men and women in the communist army was rigorously enforced. Since her infatuation with Makris had begun she questioned herself many times: did emotion alone constitute a liaison? Her naïvety did not help her to find the answer and she could not confide in anyone.

  As Makris stroked the surface of her skin, she succumbed to the sensation, and the questions faded from her mind. She felt an involuntary physical reaction t
hat did not seem to be contained in one part of her. A current seemed to run from the palm of her hand, on which he now traced small circles, to every extremity in her body, even to the tips of the hair.

  Though it was dark, Makris must be able to see how she was responding and when she closed her eyes, the sensation only grew more intense. She felt her temperature rise as his fingers moved to her neck and then traced a line towards the buttons, which he carefully undid. There were two conflicting voices, both appealing to Themis with equal volume. One of them told her to pull this stranger’s hands away. The other told her that she must submit to his seduction. In the end, the silent power of desire overruled all else.

  As her shirt fell open to the waist, his lips travelled from her neck to her mouth and then down to her breasts. She savoured the taste of tobacco that lingered on her tongue as she instinctively moved her hands to touch his head and to run her fingers through the curls that she had first noticed and admired so long ago. He gently slid her clothes away from her body and her uniform now protected them both from the dampness of the forest floor. She had seen a few romantic films but her knowledge of sex was non-existent. It had certainly not occurred to her that making love would be painful.

  An owl shrieked. Perhaps it covered the sound of her cry. Themis did not know. He held her close for a few seconds and then rolled away and got up.

  ‘I must get back to the camp,’ he said. ‘Someone else will be here soon to take over.’

  Themis dressed quickly, suddenly feeling cold and vulnerable, despite the balminess of the night.

  Over the following weeks and months, the pattern with Makris continued. He would post Themis to a far corner of the territory that needed to be watched and come to see her in the middle of the night. Privately, he began to call her ‘little fox’ because of the slightly ginger tone of her hair and she continued to be spellbound. He allowed her to call him by his real name, Tasos, when they were alone, which made her feel even closer to him. During the day they did not speak, but she knew he watched her and she watched him. Her feelings for this man were all-dominating, obscuring the pain of her aching limbs and the hunger in her stomach.

  In the same month that Themis lost her virginity, there was another significant event in her life. The unit arrived close to a small hamlet, and a recce had revealed that the half-dozen or so houses had been evacuated by its population. Themis was sent in with two other soldiers to gather anything useful that had been left there. She was about fifty metres behind the others with her gun loosely slung over her shoulder. As they sauntered down the main street, a slight figure suddenly and noiselessly appeared from a doorway. He was behind her comrades but in front of her. He shot them both expertly at point-blank range in the back. One bullet per man. Themis was unsure whether he had seen her or not but she could not take the risk.

  It seemed that the next moments were in slow motion and yet in reality it took less than two seconds for her to aim her rifle and fire. The months of training had been for this. It was kill or be killed, and she acted fast, letting off a whole magazine into the body to be sure of success. The sound of ammunition ricocheting off the walls around her was deafening. She stared at the still shape in front of her. She had stolen a life. She was a murderer, a thief. If she had strangled this man with her bare hands she could not have been more sickened by her action and, from the dark windows of the empty homes around her, she imagined that many pairs of eyes had watched.

  Curiosity made her go closer and it was then that she realised how young her victim had been. He had only the faintest hint of down above his top lip.

  ‘Theé mou,’ she whispered to herself, only now realising that she had tears rolling down her cheeks. He had not even taken his first shave.

  She backed away and walked across to the lifeless bodies that had once been her friends. This made her feel less remorse for the boy she had killed. It was impossible for her to move them so she ran back to the camp and soon returned with some others to help dig their graves. Themis could not bear to look as the corpse of the boy was also taken for burial in a nearby olive grove.

  The experience left her in a state of shock and remorse for several days, but with each subsequent killing, the impact on her progressively lessened. As time went by, and her technical skills improved, her ability to distance her emotions also got better. In spite of her unpromising start, she had become an accurate shot and was soon known as one of the soldiers who never wasted a bullet. Every time she killed, Themis’ first thought was whether Makris would praise her. His sparing words of encouragement were more than enough to satisfy her.

  The unit had many successes but some failures too, and Themis became as adept at tending wounds and even preparing a body for burial as at killing. Generally, though, theirs was a nimble team, narrowly missing capture many times and surviving a harsh winter and a wet spring that left them in damp uniform for days on end. Most of the captured women were still with them, though some of them had died en route, physically incapable of surviving the hardship.

  When the summer of 1949 came it brought extreme heat, giving them burnt faces and cracked lips.

  Circumstances had changed for the communist army during that year. In 1948 it had been at the height of its powers but now the border with Yugoslavia was closed and the government army was preparing a major offensive against them in the north-east. This was not far from where Themis’ unit was hiding out. Meanwhile the communists had begun to act more like a conventional army.

  The affair between Themis and Makris had continued throughout the changing seasons.

  Sometimes she allowed herself to wonder what would happen if and when the war was over. Would they return to Athens together? Where would they live? Themis even imagined introducing him to her grandmother and was certain that she would be won over by this handsome, educated man.

  ‘I think the captain suspects,’ Makris said, one hot night. ‘We have to be careful, little fox.’

  Themis was happy when he used the nom de guerre that he had given her, and nodded. Everyone knew that Solomonidis had been having a relationship with the same partisan for years now, but that did not mean he would show leniency to others.

  ‘We will have to be more cautious from now on,’ he said, pecking her on the forehead as he left. For the first time during their romance, their meeting had not ended with a passionate kiss. Themis was left with a feeling of emptiness. It nagged at her all night.

  Her guard duty seemed to go on for an eternity but eventually she heard the sound of approaching steps accompanied by cheerful humming. She immediately recognised the owner of the voice as Philipakis, a soldier who was always smiling and telling jokes to the women.

  ‘Here, that’s for you,’ he said, handing her a lump of bread he had saved from dinner. ‘I could do with eating less. Look at me!’

  She forced a smile. Even with the great distances they covered each day, Philipakis’ waistline seemed to expand. It was uncommon for anyone to give away their food and she gratefully nibbled on it as she returned to the camp.

  Back in the clearing, she realised she was shivering and put her blanket down next to Katerina. She lay close to her friend, desperate for any warmth.

  She slept deeply for the three hours that remained until dawn and was woken by the sound of her friend’s voice, low but urgent in her ear.

  ‘Come on,’ urged Katerina. ‘We’re leaving.’

  She handed Themis a sip of coffee and hauled her to her feet.

  Themis rolled up her blanket and fell in behind the column of soldiers, looking around her for Makris.

  The march was shambolic today. Some of the women they had recently captured were refusing to co-operate, which made the pace slow. Most of them were at the front of the column and several of them were being prodded with rifle butts to make them walk.

  Today they must cover many kilometres. Tomorrow they would be aiming to take another village.

  All through the day, Themis looked for her lover bu
t all around saw only a sea of grubby and unfamiliar faces. They had now joined with several other units and most of these soldiers were strangers.

  Several days went by and there was no sign of the man she loved. Fear and obsession made her reckless. She had to know what had happened to him. During a short pause in the trek to their destination, Themis strode up to the captain. She had a story ready.

  ‘Makris lent me some tobacco from his ration,’ she said, as casually as she could manage. ‘I can pay him back now but do you know where I’ll find him?’

  ‘Makris?’

  The captain looked at her, slightly puzzled.

  ‘A few of the units west of us were decimated,’ he said. ‘He’s been promoted to captain in one of them.’

  Almost sick with shock, Themis turned away so that Solomonidis could not see her expression.

  ‘Efcharistó,’ she muttered. ‘Thank you.’

  She found her place next to Katerina again and, against all rules, the older woman linked her arm through hers.

  Tears streamed unchecked down Themis’ face. She stumbled along blindly, reliant on her friend to guide her. Every member of the unit plodded up the hill with their eyes downcast, so no one else noticed the wretchedness of her expression.

  An hour or two into the march, Katerina spoke to her.

  ‘Whatever has made you cry,’ she said, using words that had always worked with her younger siblings, ‘it will seem better tomorrow.’

  The passage of time lent no comfort to Themis, though, and the ensuing days only brought a greater sense of desolation. She told herself many things. Perhaps Tasos had wanted to save them both from a painful farewell, or maybe he had not been given advance warning of his own relocation.

  Themis’ mind went back to Margarita’s anguish the day the love of her life had left and very belatedly felt sympathy for her sister. Only now did she appreciate what such loss and bereavement felt like. She discovered that the symptoms of a broken heart made her physically sick, but did not allow her to shirk responsibilities. For a few days she could not eat, but Katerina forced her to drink. In this heat, dehydration was becoming a problem and two sick women had already been left behind. Themis did not want to be left to die and steeled herself to swallow small amounts of food.