Those Who Are Loved

by Victoria Hislop

  Of ambush, capture and periods in the filthy prisons on the mainland and then on Makronisos and Trikeri, she spared Kyría Koralis all but the minimum details.

  ‘And the baby? Where was he born?’

  ‘Trikeri. He was born on Trikeri. His father was a soldier. One of our unit.’

  She knew that her grandmother would be wondering if the child was the product of rape by a guard. There were many babies who were the result of this, but she was anxious to reassure Kyría Koralis that Angelos was a child born out of love.

  ‘His father was killed.’

  She heard the words as if someone else had spoken them. And then the same words echoed by her grandmother.

  ‘His father was killed?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Themis, swallowing the words. ‘Fighting for our cause.’

  Angelos filled the otherwise uncomfortable silence with his contented gurgles.

  ‘Well, the child is a joy and a blessing,’ said the old lady warmly, touching the baby’s head.

  With his unruly mass of dark curls and cherubic smile, he would have won even the hardest of hearts. The apartment in Patissia had been lacking in life and joy for so long, and overnight it had returned.

  ‘He is a gift to us, Themis.’

  ‘That’s how I see him too, Yiayiá.’

  ‘And something good has to come out of the mess we’ve lived through. We have to get on with things now, agápi mou. Whatever the rights and wrongs of anything that’s happened, the little one is innocent.’

  Themis described to her grandmother the devastation she had seen on her journey south from Trikeri. Kyría Koralis had heard all about it on the radio, but Themis had seen the reality of it with her own eyes.

  ‘The whole country seems to be in ruins,’ reflected Themis sadly.

  ‘It can be rebuilt,’ said Kyría Koralis. ‘It’s gone through bad times before.’

  Themis feared this would take decades but did not say it.

  Kyría Koralis handed Angelos back to his mother and began chopping ingredients for their midday meal. It took her all morning nowadays and she carried on talking as she worked, with Themis sitting on the rug close by, playing with the baby.

  The past years had been so lonely for her and there was so much to share. Some aspects of normal life had carried on in the neighbourhood, with marriages and deaths, children and grandchildren, accidents as well as good fortune. Businesses had been opened, closed, and some had even thrived. Kyría Koralis shared every last detail with her granddaughter and the morning passed by easily. Ever since her bout of tuberculosis almost a decade before, she had enjoyed robust health, outliving most of her friends. She was overjoyed to have someone to talk to.

  ‘We’ll find you a hairdresser,’ she said at last. ‘It looks as if you have been cutting it yourself!’

  ‘I have,’ said Themis, laughing. ‘Does it look that bad?’

  Kyría Koralis smiled, before adding: ‘And the baby’s? Do you think we should cut his too? Or not before his baptism?’

  ‘Yes, we should wait until then,’ said Themis, realising that she had inadvertently agreed to have her child baptised, something she had not intended to do.

  Themis did not want to upset her grandmother and steered away from anything but light conversation. She would raise the subject of Nikos in the next few days.

  The food was simmering on the stove now and Kyría Koralis made coffee for them both and sat down for a moment.

  ‘And what about Margarita?’ asked Themis. ‘How does she sound in her letters?’

  ‘I think she is homesick in her way. She has been in Germany for over five years now. Would you imagine how fast time flies by . . .?’

  ‘And where does she live?’

  ‘Somewhere on the edge of Berlin, I think. She got married but not to the man she met in Athens. When she got there she discovered that he already had a wife.’

  ‘But is she happy?’

  ‘I don’t know about being happy,’ answered her grandmother. ‘The first few years she was there, she was clearing the city, picking up stones. It’s what a lot of women did.’

  ‘Thanasis mentioned it, but did our Margarita really do that?’ asked Themis incredulously.

  ‘It was the only way to survive.’

  ‘And she didn’t want to come back?’

  ‘She was too proud. But then she met Friedrich. That’s his name. And he sounds kind. He’s a bank clerk.’

  ‘And children?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. It’s a great sadness to her. In her last letter she asked if there was anything I could send her that might help. Some kind of remedy. From how she describes the diet there, it’s not surprising she hasn’t conceived. But she won’t come home. She’s afraid.’

  ‘She should be,’ said Themis bluntly. ‘She married a German, Yiayiá.’

  ‘She’s your sister, child.’

  There was silence for a few moments.

  ‘Well, she shouldn’t give up,’ said Themis, just for something to say. ‘I am sure it will happen.’

  ‘And then there’s Thanasis. I doubt that he will ever be a father. Girls never look at him. You can imagine.’

  Themis could.

  At that moment, she heard a key in the lock and her brother reappeared. She sat there, tense.

  ‘I’ve made your favourite,’ said Kyría Koralis cheerfully to him. ‘Gemistá!’

  Thanasis did not answer. He sat down in his uniform and waited to be served.

  With some trepidation, Themis picked up Angelos and brought him over to the table, hoping that he would not cry. She handed him a spoon to keep him occupied and he immediately started to bang it on the table.

  ‘So,’ said Thanasis to his sister above the noise. ‘You’re back here to live?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘You have nowhere else to go, I suppose?’

  Themis looked blank. Even though she knew what her brother was implying, she wanted to make him say it out loud.

  ‘The father’s family?’ he added. ‘I assume he was a leftie?’

  ‘Angelos’ father is dead,’ she said. ‘So I can’t go there.’

  Thanasis, who was served first, began to eat. Themis could see that he was chewing thoughtfully and waited to see what he would say next. She could sense that he was forming a strategy, and braced herself for the next blow.

  Kyría Koralis tried to make light conversation. This poisonous atmosphere was so familiar from those past times but she had forgotten how heavy the air could suddenly become, and how tension took away her appetite.

  ‘Shall I mash a little for the baby?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘Don’t worry, Yiayiá. I’ll feed him later.’

  ‘So I suppose you could go and find our father? Live in America maybe?’ persisted Thanasis. ‘I am sure he would be happy to see you.’

  Themis was aghast.

  ‘But this is my homeland!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘But you fought for the wrong side, Themis. Perhaps Greece isn’t really your patrída now?’

  Thanasis could not resist reminding her that the communists had lost. His tone was sardonic.

  ‘Thanasis, I really don’t think your sister wants to go on a long journey now. Specially with the baby,’ said Kyría Koralis.

  ‘I am thinking of all of us, Yiayiá,’ he said. ‘Not just Themis and this . . . child.’

  ‘His name is Angelos!’ Themis exclaimed, affronted by the way Thanasis dismissively waved his hand towards her baby.

  ‘I know what his name is, Themis. What I don’t know is his family name.’

  Thanasis’ scornful tone was more than Themis could tolerate. She had always been able to contain her emotions and to brush off insult (Margarita had provided good training) but now she made a new discovery about herself. When an insult was directed against her child, she lost all control.

  ‘How dare you, Thanasis? How dare you?’

  Themis stood up from her seat, with Angelos in her arm
s.

  At the sound of his mother’s raised voice, the child had begun to cry.

  ‘He’s a bastard, isn’t he?’ Thanasis responded, undeterred by his sister’s fury.

  ‘Thanasis, please,’ Kyría Koralis interjected weakly.

  Themis had borne so much grief and pain over past years, with neither self-pity nor complaint. Nevertheless, they simmered within her and, with this statement, Thanasis had poured oil on a flame. She felt as though her whole body was on fire. The knife next to the bread, her grandmother’s copper pan, even her own chair – all of them were potential weapons.

  Instead, wearing her grandmother’s old and shapeless dress, she held the protesting Angelos close and stormed out of the apartment. She heard her grandmother’s voice protesting weakly.

  ‘Themis! Don’t go, Themis . . . Please!’

  It was a damp April day and Themis immediately felt the drizzle on her face as she walked into the square. She tightened the shawl around Angelos to protect him and sat down on the bench next to the path. Every part of her was shaking with anger.

  One of their neighbours passed by and looked at her quizzically, but not with recognition. She was a friend of Kyría Koralis and recognised the pattern of the borrowed dress. It was this that made her pause. Nothing more. The sight of people like Themis was a common one.

  Themis looked up into the tree that sheltered her and saw that it was in bud, some of the leaves seemed almost to unfurl as she watched. The rain had stopped and patches of blue appeared between the clouds.

  She watched her grandmother’s friend disappearing across the square. The woman was carrying a basket of groceries and briefly stopped to greet a couple. Nothing seemed to have changed here, Themis reflected. Her own world had altered beyond recognition but in this square it was as though everything had stood still. The trees grew loftily as before, the shops were under the same ownership, the benches themselves were the ones she had clambered on as a child, just a little more bleached by the sun.

  On her route from the square she passed the baker that the family had always used. Remembering she had transferred to this dress pocket the money from the kind woman in Zonars, Themis went in to buy a small loaf to nibble on. Kyría Sotiriou was a little taken aback to see her but managed very quietly to say, ‘I’m so sorry about Panos,’ as she counted out her change. Themis merely nodded in acknowledgement. It was too early for conversation or to answer any questions, and she wanted to give her grandmother the chance to sprinkle the seeds of her story.

  Then she passed the kiosk and paused to read the headlines, several of which announced that Nikos Belogiannis, one of the leaders of the communist army, would face trial within a few months. Even now, the persecution continued, thought Themis.

  Other names in the headlines were completely unknown to her. As she walked down Patission Avenue, she realised it was not just political figures that were unrecognisable. Fashion had altered too. She stopped outside a dress shop. Unlike Margarita, Themis had never cared too much about her appearance but she knew that she looked out of place in Athens in her grandmother’s winter frock and hair that had been cut with a knife. In the next few days she would spend a few of her drachmas on a visit to the hairdresser.

  Angelos was getting heavy and her back had begun to ache. Now that she was feeling calmer, perhaps she should go home. Both Thanasis and her grandmother might be having an afternoon sleep.

  As she approached the main entrance, she saw her grandmother hurrying towards her. She was wearing a smile, but it was put there with some effort.

  ‘Paidí mou,’ she said breathlessly. ‘My child. I am so sorry. What do I say? You see how angry he gets. It bubbles up so quickly. And it’s worse now than it was all those years ago.’

  ‘I was angry too, Yiayiá. I’m sorry, but I had to get away from him . . .’

  ‘He’s sleeping now. But I thought we could go somewhere together. You didn’t eat even a mouthful.’

  ‘I’m not really hungry now.’

  ‘But we need to give the little one something to eat.’

  ‘He’s being so good. Especially when he doesn’t really know what’s happening,’ agreed Themis.

  ‘He is such a good baby,’ said Kyría Koralis, gently tweaking his cheek. ‘There is a small taverna down that little sidestreet. They’ll have something cooked and ready. And I will insist you eat something, otherwise the little one will suffer.’

  For a woman in her eighties, Kyría Koralis’ gait was strong and steady. She did not need a stick and Themis marvelled at her pace.

  The little taverna was full of people eating a midday meal, mostly men dining alone. Several looked up at the two women who walked in but most went back to their plates of stewed mutton, the dish of the day, almost immediately. They did not notice Angelos, who was asleep in Themis’ arms.

  The waiter brought them some bread and Themis flinched when his arm accidentally brushed hers.

  A moment later he brought two plates of stew, and when he noticed the baby he returned with a smaller bowl and a teaspoon. It was the first act of male kindness that Themis had experienced for so many months.

  ‘Efcharistó polý,’ she said, with almost exaggerated enthusiasm. ‘Thank you. That’s so very kind.’

  The waiter smiled back.

  ‘Hará mou,’ he said. ‘That’s a pleasure.’

  The three of them began eating their meal. It was Angelos’ first taste of meat. Even though he was given the smallest mouthfuls, his enthusiasm made it clear that he wanted more. Of the fatty sauce and the salty potatoes, he could not get enough.

  ‘Look at him, Yiayiá!’

  ‘I have never seen a happier child,’ replied Kyría Koralis.

  ‘I want him to remember this as the beginning!’ said Themis.

  ‘A nice rich stew and some potatoes?’ laughed the old lady.

  ‘Yes,’ she cried out. ‘And my grandmother’s smile.’

  When their plates were empty and wiped clean with bread, the women sat there for a few more minutes. Themis was in no hurry to go home.

  Kyría Koralis read her mind.

  ‘Thanasis will soon get used to you being there,’ she said, reassuringly. ‘And then he will leave you alone.’

  ‘His politics won’t change, though, will they?’

  ‘Nobody’s politics ever really change, agápi mou.’

  ‘We just have to tolerate each other, I suppose,’ said Themis. ‘Perhaps that’s all I can hope for.’

  ‘And the baby!’ Kyría Koralis reminded her granddaughter.

  ‘Well, I know already what his political views will be!’ said Themis.

  ‘Don’t be so sure,’ said Kyría Koralis. ‘You and your father would be an example of that. Politics don’t necessarily run in the blood. Think of you four children.’

  Themis felt her eyes pricking with tears. There had been so much to absorb in these past days and the confirmation that Panos was dead came back to her with force.

  Kyría Koralis saw her reaction and put her hand on Themis’ arm.

  ‘I wish we could do without politics altogether,’ she said.

  Themis tried to smile. A world without politics was hard to imagine, even if Kyría Koralis had always tried to steer a way around them.

  ‘Politics have destroyed this country,’ said Kyría Koralis. She was right. The country had been torn apart by politicians on both sides.

  ‘Maybe the Greeks are just ungovernable,’ reflected Themis.

  They had both been enjoying the warm and steamy restaurant, savouring the aromas that drifted from the kitchen as the trays of cooked food were lifted from the oven. The atmosphere changed with a reference to the conflict.

  The waiter had cleared the plates and the owner would close up for an hour or so before the evening customers came.

  ‘Now, we need to buy Angelos some new things and a dress or two for you,’ said Kyría Koralis, cheerily. ‘I’ve got enough this month from what Thanasis gives me. The State is quite
generous, you know, and this is what we should spend it on.’

  Themis eagerly accepted.

  ‘Do you have enough for shoes too?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ replied her grandmother.

  Themis had a feeling that in the next few months she would need stout footwear. She anticipated a good deal of walking and, in due course, would tell her grandmother why.

  They spent the next hour shopping.

  Angelos charmed the assistants by crawling around on the floor and happily playing with shoe boxes and tissue paper. At all times, Themis tried to avoid looking at herself in the mirror. Perhaps a haircut would help.

  By the end of the afternoon, she felt less out of place in the Athenian streets. She did not win looks of admiration (Themis remembered how Margarita used constantly to turn people’s heads) but nor did she attract looks of pity or curiosity. She felt neutral, invisible, which was how she liked it, whereas Angelos was the centre of attention wherever they went. Strangers felt the need to touch his dark, glossy curls and exclaim.

  ‘Thávma!’ they all said. ‘Miraculous!’

  Themis smiled every time. She silently agreed. He was indeed a miraculous child. Purely and simply, he spread joy to others.

  On the corner of the square, they bumped into two of Kyría Koralis’ neighbours. The women had all known each other for many years.

  ‘Who have we here?’ one of them exclaimed.

  The other woman was already weaving her fingers into Angelos’ hair.

  ‘Look at him! Moró mou! Kouklí mou!’ she cried. ‘My baby! What a doll!’

  Kyría Koralis answered, ‘You remember Themis, my granddaughter? This is her boy, little Angelos.’

  As if synchronised, both women tipped their heads to one side to take another look at Themis. They had not recognised her.

  ‘Of course! Themis!’

  Kyría Koralis continued, ‘Unfortunately, the baby’s father was killed, so they’re both living with me!’

  Themis gave a slight nod to affirm what her grandmother had said.