A woman with a child collided with them as if she and Angelos were invisible, and then, judging from her scowl, said something rude that was drowned by the noise of traffic. Themis looked down at her simple clothes, perhaps worn by several people even before her, and realised that she looked like a farmer’s wife, and a dirty one at that. Angelos was grubby too.
She glanced up at the Grande Bretagne Hotel. It gleamed as it always had done. A woman in a fur coat was emerging from a chauffeur-driven car and being greeted by the doorman. The rich were still rich, she thought. The world really had not changed.
Themis turned up Stadiou and walked slowly northwards. Angelos was getting heavy and her shoes were so worn that she could have been barefoot for all the difference it would make to her comfort. The cold of the paving stones penetrated her bones.
She soon passed the café that her sister had loved so much. Zonars. It had opened just before the Germans invaded and attracted the ‘best’ of Athens society. It seemed that it still did. Without shame she stared through the plate-glass windows. Perhaps feeling her gaze, one of a table of women drinking coffee inside looked up. Themis saw her put her coffee cup down and a moment later the woman had appeared next to her, so close that Themis was almost overwhelmed by her perfume. It was many years since she had smelled such a heavy fragrance and she was immediately reminded of Margarita.
‘My dear,’ said the woman, pressing several notes into Themis’ hands. ‘Please take this.’
Themis noticed that the woman had not even paused to put on her coat before running out on to the street. She stood there for a moment in her emerald-green silk dress, with rows of pearls at her neck and diamonds at her ears, then turned and quickly strode away.
Meanwhile, two of the woman’s friends were standing right up against the window, waving the backs of their hands. Themis easily read their lips: ‘Shoo, shoo!’ they were crying, as if she was a pigeon stealing a farmer’s newly sown seed.
Feeling her cheeks redden with shame and humiliation, she stuffed the money into her pocket and hurried away. Angelos bounced against her as she walked and she realised that the money she had just been given was all that stood between them and destitution. Anxiety now took hold of her. Supposing she got to Patissia and her family were no longer there? This was not beyond possibility and, if it were the case, they might both starve. Themis hurried on, her eyes cast down, not wishing to meet any curious gazes, contempt or pity, all of which she had felt in the first moments of her so-called freedom.
The streets were almost the same as she remembered, with some buildings still showing damage from shells and bullets. Many of the shops remained closed and she noticed that her pharmacy had been turned into a cheese shop.
Perhaps forty-five minutes later she reached Kerou Street. Her heart was beating from exertion and nervousness. The trees in the square were just as they had been and the small gate that led into their apartment building was the same, just slightly rustier and creakier than before.
Angelos gurgled. She stroked his head, running her fingers through the curls that had grown profusely in the past few months. She reassured him that everything was going to be all right. What did he know? Since the moment of his birth he had been loved and protected. Weeks of deprivation were forgotten and the days when her milk had not flowed were erased from memory. Even recollection of Aliki may already have vanished.
The main door to the building was ajar so she went in and began to climb the stairs. Familiar smells of cooking enveloped her: Kyría Danalis on the first floor, her dishes always heavy with garlic, Kyría Papadimitriou on the second, who always seemed to have burned something. One more floor. Her legs trembled. She was weak with excitement, with yearning, with fear. It was impossible to identify her overriding emotion. Like her grandmother’s cakes, a dozen ingredients were mixed so smoothly together it was impossible to extract one from another. Her grandmother’s perfect, sweet cakes . . . Yes, they were in her mind as a distinctive aroma wafted towards her. Vanilla. Cinnamon. Apple? She had reached the third floor.
Angelos was waving his arms. Perhaps he could smell the fragrance and recognised something desirable, even though the sweetest thing he had ever tasted was a drop of honey from the end of her finger.
She knocked on the door, gingerly at first. Then a little louder, when nothing happened. A moment later it was opened by a few centimetres.
Kyría Koralis peered through the crack and saw a vagrant on her threshold. It was common on the street to see such gypsies with their babies, but people rarely came right to the door to beg. She had a kind heart, though, and more than enough food, since she still cooked as though her home was full.
‘I’ll get you something,’ she said loudly enough for the beggar to hear. Then she shut the door, returning a moment later with some bread wrapped in brown paper.
‘Yiayiá,’ the beggar said quickly, ‘it’s me. It’s Themis.’
Kyría Koralis peered out into the darkness.
‘Themis?’
She threw open the door and a small amount of light from the open windows in the apartment flooded the hallway.
‘Panagiá mou. No. You can’t be Themis.’
She stood back in an attempt to focus on this woman with her worn-out clothes and ragged hair. She scarcely noticed the small child in her arms.
‘You’re not Themis,’ she said very definitely.
Themis heard footsteps coming slowly up the stairs behind her.
‘Is this person bothering you, Yiayiá?’ said a male voice.
‘She says she is Themis,’ Kyría Koralis answered.
‘Themis is dead,’ Thanasis said sharply. He had told other people this on previous occasions and, not having heard from her in a year, believed it to be true.
Themis turned round to face her brother.
Like his grandmother, Thanasis did not immediately recognise her.
‘What are you doing coming to our door?’ he said.
‘It’s my door too,’ said Themis boldly. ‘I used to live here.’
Her brother was dressed in police uniform, and she noticed that he leaned heavily on a stick. A ray of light fell across his face, illuminating his scarred cheek. She had forgotten the extent of his wounds.
‘So who . . .?’ asked Thanasis, pointing at Angelos.
‘This is my child,’ said Themis.
Thanasis stepped around her and stood in the doorway next to Kyría Koralis. Both of them scrutinised her.
‘You had better come in,’ muttered Thanasis.
‘It is your granddaughter, Yiayiá,’ he confirmed, as if Themis had been presented to them in an identity parade.
Kyría Koralis shook her head in disbelief.
‘Panagiá mou,’ she said. ‘Themis? Mátia mou . . . Is it really you?’
Tears were now streaming down her lined face and she was crossing herself over and over again.
Finally, Themis was allowed over the threshold. Angelos was being obligingly quiet and she held him tightly to her.
Once she had stopped weeping and exclaiming, Kyría Koralis began fussing. Surely Themis needed to eat? To drink? The baby? A blanket? Warm milk? Milk and honey?
Themis sat down at the familiar table and looked around her. Nothing had changed.
‘Perhaps you should explain yourself,’ barked Thanasis. His manner was of a police officer about to begin an interrogation.
Angelos was curious about what was happening around him and turned to look at his great-grandmother. The effect on her was immediate.
‘Agápi mou! Moró mou! My darling baby!’
Angelos smiled and clapped his hands together.
‘This is my yiayiá, Angelos,’ said Themis.
With the instinctive urge that a woman cannot resist, Kyría Koralis put out her arms to him. Angelos did not turn back towards his mother but rotated himself towards the old lady. Themis happily passed him over, relieved to be free of his weight for a while.
In that instant a bond
between child and great-grandmother was formed. He sat contentedly on her lap and then she rested him on her hip as she cut a new-baked apple cake into pieces and handed it round. Kyría Koralis was just eighty now but still strong, and proved that the power to carry a small child never wanes with age.
Themis helped herself to a glass of water. She knew she had to give a plausible account of the past two years, but first she wanted to know about Panos and Margarita.
‘The good news is that Margarita is settled in Berlin. It suits her,’ said Thanasis. ‘You can read the letters if you want. She writes every so often. She didn’t marry the officer, but things worked out in a different way. There was plenty of work there right from the beginning. Clearing the rubble in the streets of Berlin was largely done by women. Did you know that? The volume of debris, the damage done by the Allies was immense, and it had to be moved before any rebuilding could be done. Margarita helped move the stones and the broken bricks and shattered plaster, piece by piece . . .’
Themis found it hard to imagine her sister doing such manual labour but was glad that Margarita had found a new life. She was not sorry that she had stayed away. It was her beloved brother who was more on her mind in any case. Thanasis had given her more than enough information on Margarita for now.
‘Panos?’ she interrupted.
Thanasis hesitated for a moment, exchanging a look with their grandmother.
‘He’s dead.’
They were the words Themis had dreaded. She gripped the glass in her hand, her head bowed, and focused on the pattern on the tablecloth. It was a struggle to contain her anguish.
Thanasis continued without emotion.
‘He was killed at the very end of the war. On Grammos. We had a visit about a year ago from someone called Manolis, who had fought with him. All we know is that it was in the final assault. They should have given up. Admitted defeat. But they went on to the bitter end. The communists just wouldn’t accept defeat.’
Themis could not speak. Even though it was news that she half expected, it did not alleviate her grief. Thanasis used even the announcement of Panos’ death as an opportunity to vent his political views. He obviously had not changed during the time she had been away.
Kyría Koralis had taken Angelos to the balcony and was showing him her plants, telling him their names, pointing out things in the square below and attempting to teach him words: ‘bicycle’, ‘children’, ‘kafeneío’, ‘lorry’. She did not want to listen to her grandson describing what had happened to Panos. Even now she could not bear to be reminded of the animosity that had raged between the brothers. To hold the little one in her arms gave her unadulterated joy and she did not want this moment to be tarnished. The new life in her arms seemed a miracle after all the death and destruction.
Thanasis, however, did not regard the child as something wondrous. For him, the appearance of a baby added to the shame of Themis’ return. Not only had his sister fought for the wrong side but she had returned with a bastard child. As if this family was not tainted enough already by stigma.
Kyría Koralis came back inside with Angelos, who was happily playing with the gold cross that she wore round her neck. She sat down again, close to her granddaughter, and handed Angelos back to her.
Thanasis had limped from the room. He had no wish to see his sister’s tears.
‘I’m sorry it’s such terrible news, agápi mou,’ Kyría Koralis said to her granddaughter. ‘I am sure he died bravely, fighting for what you both believed in.’
Kyría Koralis’ words were well meant but she already worried that the civil war would be rekindled in Kerou Street.
There was other news to share with Themis. Like Thanasis, she delivered the good news first.
‘Your father is still in America. He is remarried and has another child. You have a half-sister! A few months old.’
‘But . . .? What about our mother?’
‘Sadly your mother died two years ago. That’s why he was able to remarry.’
Themis could not think of any ‘right’ response. There was so much to absorb and she was still taking in the death of her brother. Eleftheria Koralis seemed like a figure from another life. It was two decades since she had seen her mother and the information stirred almost no feeling.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see.’
Themis felt numb with it all.
‘You look tired, my dear.’
The word was inadequate for Themis’ state of exhaustion.
Kyría Koralis quickly made up the bed that Themis had slept in as a child and then held Angelos while she undressed.
It was two years since Themis had enjoyed the scent of soap and she slowly ran a sponge over every centimetre of her body before drying herself and climbing into a nightdress. It was borrowed from her grandmother, since her own clothes had been discarded. When the letter Themis had written from Trikeri had arrived, Thanasis had hidden it, believing it would be better not to raise any hopes in his grandmother of seeing Themis again.
Angelos had not felt warm water on his skin before and splashed about with delight as they bathed him in the sink. He cried when they took him out of the water but he was soon happily gurgling again.
Before long, mother and child lay beneath fresh linen sheets and a soft counterpane. Inhaling the smell of lavender, Angelos fell asleep almost immediately and Themis did soon after. It was years since she had slept on a proper mattress, with four walls around her, and the knowledge that there was no threat of being dragged from her bed, no chance of screaming or gunfire or sirens, allowed her a night of dreamless sleep with Angelos nestled in the crook of her arm.
Travelling from Trikeri had drained her of all energy but, the following morning, she woke with one thought only. A new journey must begin.
The smell of her grandmother’s coffee woke Themis and it took her a second to remember where she was. Angelos was just stirring.
How well he lives up to his name, she thought, lifting him as she rose from her bed and kissing him on the forehead.
Kyría Koralis had already stewed some fruit and had it ready to spoon into the mouth of the hungry child. Her enthusiasm for her great-grandchild was uncontainable.
‘Moró mou, my little one,’ she exclaimed, throwing her hands up with delight when he appeared at the door. ‘I have made something delicious for you!’
She chatted to him as though he had been there from the moment of his birth and Angelos accepted his great-grandmother too, happily being taken from his mother’s arms to be fed and played with by the old lady. Life in the camp had made him sociable. There had rarely been a moment when there were not other adoring women and noisy children around to hold him, play with him and sing him songs, and there had always been Aliki, of course.
Thanasis appeared briefly before departing for his shift at the police station. With each step he struck his stick hard on the tiled floor. It was nearly seven years now since his injuries. Ever since then he had been semi-retired on full pay, but was nevertheless obliged to present himself each day, to guarantee his pension.
A coffee, made a few moments earlier by Kyría Koralis, was sitting on the kitchen table: double, very sweet. As every day, he tipped it into his mouth without a word and crashed the cup back on to the saucer.
In the morning light, Themis could see his asymmetrical face more clearly. In all these years, the blemishes had not faded. On one side, the scars still looked as fresh as new wounds, the skin had never closed over the line of bulging flesh beneath. The perfect, right side was only a reminder of what he had lost and further emphasised the hideous damage.
Angelos looked up from the spoon that was being lifted to his mouth and caught sight of his uncle. He began to scream.
‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,’ said Themis, struck with embarrassment and shame. ‘I think it’s your uniform. He has seen so many soldiers. And most of them were shouting.’
It was a semi-plausible excuse for Angelos’ reaction. The highly polished buttons on
the jacket, these days done up with so much difficulty, the cap, the stiff navy-blue trousers were all reminiscent of the authorities on Trikeri and almost every man the baby had ever seen in his life was similarly dressed. None of them had spoken a kind word.
There was nothing they could do to stop him crying.
Without a word, Thanasis turned from the table and left the apartment.
As soon as he had gone, the child’s cries subsided.
‘Oh, Yiayiá, I am so sorry.’
‘Even adults sometimes react badly when they see him. But what can we do? Little Angelos can’t be expected to understand.’
‘It’s terrible. I thought . . .’
‘What? That his scars might have healed?’ said Kyría Koralis quietly. ‘Unfortunately not. And he lives with these reactions every day.’
‘He seems so angry with everything. Maybe it’s understandable.’
‘Thanasis was always angry, my dear. You know that. For a while he hasn’t really shown it, but I am afraid . . .’
‘What of? That I will provoke it?’
Kyría Koralis nodded.
‘After you and Panos left, he was always calm.’
Now that she was older, Themis understood how hard it must have been for her grandmother during those years when all four of her grandchildren were bickering and squabbling under her feet.
‘While he isn’t here,’ she said, referring obliquely to Thanasis, ‘you must tell me about the little one. Tell me about his father.’
Themis took a deep breath. The version of Angelos’ life story that she told now would be the one that was repeated over and over again. She could tell of her broken heart, the shock of discovering the truth about Makris, the chance meeting with Aliki, but, even before she began, she decided to reshape the past years, omitting much and adding a little.
She began with the excitement of training in Bulkes, the friends she had made there and what she had learnt. She described in detail the place where she had acquired new skills and felt so purposeful about the future they had wanted to achieve, where all would be equal and everyone would have enough. With conviction, Themis told her grandmother that she had no second thoughts about what she had been part of, and described the periods of fighting and travelling, though not how many times she had raised a gun to her shoulder.
Those Who Are Loved Page 27