Those Who Are Loved

by Victoria Hislop

‘I must go,’ he said agitatedly. ‘My friends are waiting for me. I am sorry I called you a coward. And now I understand why I can’t be one either.’

  He quickly kissed her on the forehead and a moment later he was gone. He had not even bothered to take his jacket, which hung on the back of his chair, nor did he respond to her goodbye.

  Themis got up and opened the balcony door. She just caught the silhouette of her son disappearing round the corner. He must have run across the square. That Nikos had been in a hurry to leave was evident and it was understandable that he might want to digest what he had been told or perhaps share it with his paréa. She pictured him going to meet them in a kafeneío or, perhaps later on, in one of the bars he frequented. His friends were on the left, but she hoped he would be cautious about his choice of confidants. Being the son of an executed communist would not help to gain him employment under this regime.

  She knew that her words had shocked Nikos and was certain that he would need time to take it all in. No doubt he would soon return with a barrage of questions and would undoubtedly want to know who his father was.

  A small part of her felt a sense of relief that he now knew about his mother. There had been so few times in the past two decades when it had seemed right but if there had ever been a moment, it had to have been this. As the sense of elation gradually faded, the possible impact of her revelation on the rest of the family began to nag at her. She would, of course, need to tell Giorgos what she had done and this was something she feared. After that they would have to decide what to tell Angelos. Even though he was far away, he would need to know some version of the story.

  Themis came in from the balcony, went into the bedroom and, from the back of her locked bedside cabinet, took out the photograph taken on Trikeri. Scrutinising it closely, she realised that Nikos had become more like Aliki with the passing years. Pehaps he would be in the mood to see it when he returned.

  Far from needing time to assimilate the news, Nikos had decided on immediate action. The discovery that his mother, his true mother, had been a heroine, inspired him. He would ask a thousand questions later, but for now he felt as if there was revolutionary blood coursing through his veins. He was the offspring, the son, of a martyr and perhaps this was why he felt so compelled. It was not just a desire to protest, but an obligation.

  The demonstrations at the Polytechnic that had begun earlier that week had gained momentum. Support for the students had swelled and high-school pupils, factory workers, teachers and doctors were all now joining in, chanting slogans in and around the building.

  It weighed on Themis’ conscience that she should tell Giorgos as soon as possible that Nikos now knew about his mother and why she had felt such a need to tell him. All evening, she had silently rehearsed what she would say when he came in from the kafeneío, but courage failed her when he did. The three younger children were all in the apartment and she must tell him when they were alone.

  That night, Nikos had not come in when they went to bed. This was not unusual in itself and they all imagined that he had gone out with friends (‘To h-h-hear some of that terrible music,’ suggested his father, who disapproved of heavy metal even though he had never heard a note).

  The following morning, Themis saw that Nikos’ bed had not been slept in. Perhaps he had stayed with a friend.

  When evening came, and once again his place was empty, Themis’ anxiety reached a new level. She casually switched on the radio after their meal and heard that there was a group of students and subversives demonstrating in the centre of the city. People were being advised to stay away.

  She knew immediately that Nikos would be down there. She both feared for him, knowing that he would be in the middle of things, and admired him. Giorgos had heard that there had been violence against the demonstrators and that some of them were being attacked by the police.

  ‘They j-j-just want to disperse everyone,’ said Giorgos. ‘But Nikos is a fast runner. He’ll g-g-get away.’

  One of their neighbours who had passed close to the centre told them that the slogans being shouted were a huge provocation to the authorities.

  ‘They’re yelling “Torturers”, “Down with the Junta!” and “US Out!”,’ he said. ‘What good will that do?’

  Themis did not answer.

  Nikos, just as Themis had imagined, was in the city centre with his friends, chanting into the faces of the security forces, who were trying to make the crowd, which had swelled to many tens of thousands, disperse.

  The air was thick with tear gas sprayed by the police. In retaliation some of the demonstrators lit fires in the street. Despite choking on the acrid air, Nikos continued to shout. His passions, as those of all the others, were high.

  The demonstrators were aware that there were dozens of police, but they outnumbered them by a huge ratio. Surely there was safety in numbers. The adrenalin gave them almost limitless courage and they already felt themselves free from the tyranny of the Junta. The old regime would fall and a new society would be built on the foundations of their defiance.

  It was late at night now and outside the grounds of the Polytechnic Nikos became separated from his group. In the murky atmosphere he could not see how close he was to a policeman whose arm was lifted high into the air. Suddenly, he felt a weight come down on the back of his head and he screamed out in pain. Turning around, he saw the baton ready to strike him again. This time he ducked the blow. Weaving between the mass of people, he made his way towards the entrance to the Polytechnic.

  A crack of gunfire suddenly cut through the dense wall of noise. From somewhere, the demonstrators were being shot at. It was impossible to see the source and around him protestors scattered, running in any direction they could, panicking to escape this unexpected terror. It was chaos.

  Still feeling dizzy from the blow, Nikos could see that the Polytechnic’s gates were being shut from inside. He told himself he must get inside as soon as he could, but his body was moving slower than his thoughts.

  Then he felt a sharp pain in his side, as if he had been kicked hard in the ribs. He was almost doubled up but nobody heard his cry. All around was a deafening cacophony of sirens and shouting.

  As Nikos approached the closing gates, one of his friends caught sight of him and grabbed his arm, roughly pulling him inside a second before they were bolted and padlocked.

  The scenario excited the students. There was already a sense of triumph along with a stirring of collective memory. The siege of Missolonghi was on their minds, the moment when the Greeks had defiantly stood up against the cruel Turks and refused to be bowed. For Nikos, this was the true ‘Óchi!’, the true ‘No!’, the refusal to accept the situation any longer. This was the thought going through his mind as he slumped quietly to the ground. ‘Óchi . . . Óchi . . .’

  Most of the students inside crowded against the barricaded gates and no one noticed Nikos lying there. Their attention was focused on what was taking place in the street. They had heard a low distinctive rumble. To the horror of everyone who stood there, a tank had positioned itself outside with its guns trained on them.

  One of Nikos’ friends saw him, blood pooling around his body, and pulled him further away from the mêlée. Panic-stricken, he told one of the others to get help but it was already too late. When a young doctor reached him, his life had already drained away through the hole in his side and the gash in his head. The medical student closed Nikos’ eyes and found a blanket to put over him. For now, there was nothing they could do with the corpse. It would have to lie there while they waited and watched the tanks that were positioned in front of the main and side gates in the street outside.

  Back in Patissia, Themis could not sleep. She was listening to the radio, half awake, when an announcement came that the Polytechnic had been occupied. ‘It is expected, however, that this situation will be resolved soon,’ said a clipped military voice.

  In the early hours of Saturday morning, she managed to retune to another station. It was one t
hat was broadcasting from within the university grounds. It seemed that the students already sensed victory and she felt proud knowing Nikos was out there. Giorgos was fast asleep, oblivious to the unfolding events.

  Eventually Themis dozed off on the sofa, with the volume turned low, and when she woke at five it was to a continual hiss from the radio. Sitting up and rubbing her eyes, she tiptoed into the bedroom and had another hour or two of sleep, filled with confused nightmares of fire and falling buildings. Even Margarita had made an appearance in her subconscious.

  It was Spiros who woke her.

  ‘Mána! Mána! They smashed down the gates! A tank smashed the gates! Of Nikos’ university!’

  ‘Where did you hear this?’ she asked, springing out of bed immediately.

  ‘Uncle Thanasis just came to the door. He saw an announcement on his television and thought we ought to know.’

  Themis was still half-clothed from the night before and it took her only a moment to put on her skirt and find her shoes.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Spiros asked, seeing his mother throw on her coat and pick up her key. It was only seven in the morning and she did not usually go out at that time.

  ‘I’m going to see . . .’

  Then she was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THEMIS RAN. SHE knew every paving stone of the road that ran down towards the Parthenon. There were several road blocks that day and many soldiers on the streets but they allowed her to pass. They did not seem to care about a middle-aged woman who looked as if she was late for a train. They would have had to run to catch up with her in any case as she skirted round their cordons. Fear fuelled her speed.

  Over the heads of the soldiers and policemen who were all standing around, some of them smoking, some even laughing, she could see that the gates of the Polytechnic had been crushed. The mangled wreckage lay there, tangled up with flags and debris. The entire area was littered with abandoned flyers, lifted by the wind like autumn leaves. These manifestos seemed futile now.

  No one got in Themis’ way as she stealthily bypassed a group of uniformed men to get a closer look. Her heart was pounding from exertion and fear, and the coolness of the November day was not sufficient to prevent sweat dripping down her back.

  Through the twisted metal bars she could see the remains of whatever had been used to try and create some kind of defence and for a moment this held her gaze. Then she saw something else. There were some bodies laid out on the pavement. They were not the wounded. They were the dead.

  Two of them seemed bulky, the third smaller. From the latter, protruded a boot. Its familiarity pierced her like a blade. She had polished its brown leather so many times.

  Themis pushed her way past a young soldier who was in her way.

  ‘You’re not permitted in this area,’ he barked at her. ‘These here are waiting for collection.’

  He referred to the corpses as though they were goods in a warehouse.

  Themis did not even hear him. She did not care for orders at this moment. Very carefully, as if not to wake him, she gently folded back the blanket. She saw the face of her son, calm, tranquil, handsome. On one side of his head, the long, thick curls were matted with blood.

  Themis sank to her knees. The soldier did not try to intervene as she lifted the body into her arms. Nikos was slight and it was no effort to hold him, lifeless and still. Her grief was so profound that at first she could not weep. She gently kissed his face as she had done every night of his childhood.

  The soldier was in his early twenties and knew his mother would do just the same. He turned his back on them and listened to the woman talking gently to her son. She whispered to him and then she was quiet for a while.

  ‘I want to take him home,’ she said to the soldier, her face now streaked with tears and blood.

  He did not reply, but Themis gave him her address and she watched him put it in his top pocket. She would go home and wait, hoping that he and his colleagues would show even the smallest shred of kindness.

  Themis walked back to the apartment very, very slowly. No one stopped her. She passed through two road blocks, and soldiers stepped out of her way as though she were a ghost. It was as if the world had gone silent. All she was aware of were the paving stones under her feet. One step and then another and another. She was in no hurry to arrive home. The more time it took her to get there, the longer it would be before she had to share the terrible news, with Giorgos, with Anna, with Andreas, with Spiros, with Thanasis. When that moment came, she would take the burden of their grief on her shoulders, with all the guilt of someone who was its cause. Never in her fighting days had she had to confront anything with such courage.

  She did not even have to wait until she reached the apartment. Anna was walking across the square. She had gone out to find her mother and her brother. News as well as rumours were flying around. Common to them all was that the army had killed and wounded an as yet unconfirmed number.

  Anna saw her mother from a distance and immediately noticed her slow and painful gait. Even her downcast gaze told her that something terrible had happened.

  ‘Mána!’ she said, hastening towards her. ‘Mána . . .?’

  Themis’ expression was enough to tell Anna.

  ‘Nikos . . .?’

  Themis looked down. She could not look into her daughter’s eyes.

  Anna gasped. She held her mother and the two sobbed where they stood in the square. Other people passed and glanced at them with curiosity. Such naked emotion was rarely seen on the streets. Attracting attention to yourself was ill-advised under the regime.

  Giorgos had seen them from the balcony and came hurrying down. He shepherded them both across the square and into the hallway of the apartment, and supported Themis up the stairs. None of them spoke.

  The door to the apartment was open and the two boys were standing waiting. Two pairs of chestnut-brown eyes looked at her expectantly.

  ‘Where is Nikos?’ asked Spiros, innocently.

  Anna shook her head slowly.

  ‘He’s not coming back,’ she answered to her brother, tears coursing down her face.

  The boys grabbed each other and began to sob.

  Anna heard the customary sound of her uncle’s stick rapping on the door and opened it.

  Thanasis had been watching his television all morning and did not need to be told what had happened. He was soon weeping uncontrollably, his already crumpled face ghoulishly contorted.

  Nikos was the person who had brought him back to life. He felt so impotent that he was unable to do the same for him now, his beloved nephew, with whom he had shared so much time and conversation and who had showed him so much love.

  Anna helped him towards a chair and Thanasis sat bowed with his head in his hands.

  The room was almost silent, save for the sound of sniffing and the occasional gasp of someone drawing breath.

  A while later, a sudden knocking sliced through their mourning. They all jumped. It stopped for a moment, then resumed again, this time more impatiently.

  They looked anxiously at each other, knowing that it might be the authorities hunting for anyone who sympathised with the protesters. Not content with having slain an unknown number of innocents, it was possible that they were looking to round up others who had taken part.

  They had no choice. The security police had a reputation for kicking down doors if they were not opened. None of them wanted that.

  Giorgos went towards the door.

  ‘Be careful, agápi mou,’ whispered Themis, standing behind him.

  When he opened it, Themis recognised the face of the young soldier who had spoken to her down at the Polytechnic.

  The soldier recognised her instantly and addressed his words to her.

  ‘Kyría Stavridis, I submitted your request. Your son is being brought home.’

  ‘Efcharistó,’ Themis said, almost inaudibly. ‘Thank you.’

  There was silence for a moment and she could see that
the soldier had turned away and was already going down the stairs.

  ‘When will that be?’ she called after him.

  ‘He is here now,’ came the reply.

  Giorgos leant over to look down into the stairwell. He could already see some movement in the hallway. Then came the heavy clip of boots on the marble as other soldiers came up. Within a moment they had reached the Stavridis door, bearing a makeshift stretcher on which lay a still, human shape beneath a grey blanket.

  ‘Where . . .?’

  Giorgos and Themis led them into the apartment. The children were comforting each other, their heads bowed. Only Thanasis watched as they brought Nikos’ body in and laid him on his bed.

  Two of the younger soldiers wanted to take the stretcher away with them, but the third said there was no need. He addressed the comment to Themis as if there was something generous in his gesture.

  Once the door had closed behind them, Themis ran the tap. She wanted to bathe Nikos’ body and clean the blood from his face.

  The children went upstairs with their uncle. He would bring them down again when Themis had finished the task.

  With Giorgos’ help, she changed their son into a clean shirt and a pair of flared trousers, which he had recently bought.

  Even in death his curls were glossy as they dried.

  As she worked she paused to examine the wounds. The bullet in his side had made a neat, circular hole and it was impossible to know whether it was this that had caused his death or the much larger wound in his head. She imagined herself back in the mountains with her friend Katerina and the others, cleaning gashes or trying to prevent a life from draining away. Thinking of the other dead that she had prepared for burial almost thirty years before took her mind away from the fact that this was her son. She could not allow herself to face that it was him, her precious boy, Aliki’s Nikos, who lay on his bed in a sleep that would last an eternity. No, she did not allow her thoughts to dwell there.

  She was oblivious to Giorgos, who stood and watched as she did up the shirt buttons. She had placed a piece of rag on the wound so that no blood could seep through. Even at such a moment, Themis was practical.