Those Who Are Loved

by Victoria Hislop

  Giorgos brought two dining chairs into the bedroom and placed them one on either side of the bed. Themis sat down in one of them and bowed her head. She was thinking, not praying. No God, no Virgin Mary, came into her thoughts. It was just her and Nikos, replaying their last conversation. She told him that his mother would be proud of her warrior son. She told him over and over again, that she had loved him as if he were her own and promised that he would never be forgotten.

  Then she wept quietly, bringing her chair closer to the bed so that she could take his cold hand. She had no sense of time passing and perhaps one or two hours went by. She only looked up when she heard the door opening and Thanasis came in.

  ‘Can I sit with him?’ he asked.

  He put his arm around his sister before taking the other chair, crossing himself many times as he did so.

  They both sat for a while and then Themis left the room. Giorgos was just coming in. He had been upstairs using Thanasis’ phone to call Angelos.

  ‘It’s impossible for him to get a flight in time,’ he said. ‘But he’ll try and be here for the forty days.’

  Themis nodded. She could not bring herself to ask how Angelos had responded but understood that the conversation had been brief.

  The children were back in the apartment, sitting in a row on the sofa like birds on a wire. They were all still crying. The closest that death had ever come to them was when their great-grandmother had died. They had all been very sad, but this was what happened to people when they were old and stooped, and their hair was grey and their skin wrinkled like fruit forgotten in a bowl.

  Only Anna wanted to go in and see her brother. It was curiosity. Would he still look the same?

  The sixteen-year-old walked in and to begin with she kept her distance. Her parents must have made a mistake. It was impossible that her big brother was not going to leap up and roar. She remembered the game ‘sleeping lion’ which Nikos had often played with his younger siblings where he lay silently and then suddenly roared, sending them screaming from the room. They had even sometimes had complaints from the man who lived below, whose afternoon rest they had disturbed.

  She went slightly closer and leant in, to see if she could see his chest rising and falling.

  In spite of his total stillness, the girl left the room telling herself that her brother was simply asleep, slumbering like a wild beast in a far-off land.

  Giorgos, who was on reasonable terms with the priest, organised the funeral for the next day. The colonels were still denying that there had been any deaths but the whole city knew this was a lie. The service for Nikos was not the only one taking place that day.

  Immediate family and neighbours, including the Hatzopoulos family and the Sotirious, who had been released but never reopened their shop, almost filled the tiny church of Agios Andreas. A few friends of Nikos arrived and stood in the shadows at the back. Even now the authorities were hunting down perpetrators of the Polytechnic strike, along with demonstrators, and a few of Nikos’ paréa had been too afraid to come.

  The flicker of candlelight illuminated all their faces as they listened to the chanting priests. Their voices floated incomprehensibly over Themis. She was lost in her sea of grief, the casket in front of them all a moment-by-moment reminder of the harsh reality of death. She noticed the priest sprinkle it with holy oil and then a phrase cut through into her conscious mind.

  ‘All is dust, all is ashes, all is shadow.’

  With these words she agreed. It seemed as if the rest of her life would be this way. At this moment she felt herself nothing more than a shadow. Nothing seemed real.

  When the priest chanted: ‘What now is shapeless, ignoble, and bare of all the graces’, it was all she could do to restrain herself from shouting that their Nikos would never be ignoble. He was a hero, in death as he had been in life, just as his mother had been, she who had no grave, no marble to protect her bones, no place to be remembered except the barren island of Trikeri.

  She no more subscribed to the words of the Church now than she had before this day. They were all obliged to listen and watch for what seemed like hours, hypnotised by the liturgy and the ritual, but all the while Themis was talking to Nikos in her mind, telling him everything she knew about his mother, how she had been a great artist, a woman who had defied the guards and laughed in their faces when they pressurised her to sign a dílosi. She told him how all the other women admired her, how selfless she was, and how she had saved Angelos without hesitation.

  ‘Like you, Nikos, she was beautiful and strong and courageous,’ she muttered under her breath, too quietly for Giorgos to hear.

  During the service, it occurred to Themis that Aliki had never received burial rites. In her mind the priest was doing this for mother as well as son. Both of them deserved the dignity of a kind farewell, whatever their faith had been.

  ‘Kýrie eléison, Kýrie eléison, Kýrie eléison . . .’

  They all fell under the spell of the words.

  ‘Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy.’

  Each person inside the tiny church was calmed by the rhythm and the repetition, as though they had the power to heal. Even if they did not listen to the words themselves, the sounds they made soothed them like a balm.

  The children were like a row of marble statues. They were suffering deeply over the loss of their brother but the change in their mother had also profoundly affected them. Even the expression on her face was unfamiliar. Life no longer had the certainty that they were used to.

  The friends of Nikos who had been at the back of the church left first and had evaporated into nearby streets before the family emerged. Two soldiers stood on the street corner observing with interest.

  The casket was taken to the Second Cemetery of the city where they gathered around the tomb to say a final goodbye.

  When they returned home, a neighbour had brought in the traditional kóllyva that she had prepared. The children hungrily devoured the dish of mourning: wheat and sugar, nuts and raisins. For two days now they had not eaten anything but bread, rice and oranges. There was not much else in the house.

  The old life seemed to have vanished overnight.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  GRIEF SAPPED HER physical energy so much that Themis could scarcely get out of bed. She slept for most of the day, only getting up to sit at the table with the children, but they could hardly look at her. Her weight had dropped away so rapidly that she resembled a crow, her face thin and drawn, with a black dress that flapped loosely around her. Anna was doing all the shopping and cooking, and skipped school for a few weeks.

  Even when, eight days after Nikos’ death, Giorgos told his wife that there had been a change in regime, Themis showed no interest.

  Following the disastrous outcome of the demonstration at the Polytechnic, a hard-liner, Brigadier Ioannidis, had ousted the hated Colonel Papadopoulos, claiming that order needed to be re-established. He accused the current leaders of corruption and put in his own men.

  ‘What difference does it make?’ said Themis wearily.

  ‘They’re saying he’ll take even more brutal measures against any opposition than his predecessors,’ said Thanasis. ‘And you know Ioannidis’ reputation, don’t you?’

  The new leader of the Junta was head of the notorious military police, a man who had already authorised so much terror, including the brutal crackdown during and after the recent Polytechnic uprising.

  Thanasis’ tolerant attitude towards the Junta had vanished in an instant after the shock of the previous week. He now regarded the leaders of the current and former military dictatorships as murderers. They had slaughtered his beloved nephew and for this they would never be forgiven.

  Every day over the following weeks, Themis took the bus to the cemetery. Sometimes Giorgos would come with her but her grief demanded solitude and she did not want company inside it.

  When Angelos came from America for the customary forty-day memorial service, Giorgos hoped his
wife’s spirits would lift and that she would be cheered by the visit of their long-absent son.

  They all noticed immediately how different he looked. It was five years since he had left and everything about him had changed. He had thickened around the waist (‘Blame this on the portions of food,’ he laughed, patting his stomach, ‘and the burgers!’). His weight did not bother Themis. She associated this with good health and prosperity. What she really disliked, however, was his haircut. It was short all over, with not a curl to be seen. But his presence seemed to cheer his siblings.

  ‘You even have an accent!’ teased Anna. ‘You sound strange when you speak Greek. Say something in English! I want to hear you talk like an American!’

  ‘Howdee, young lady!’ said Angelos, emulating a Hollywood star.

  The children all howled with laughter. It was as if their big brother had gone to the moon and been turned into an alien.

  Angelos stayed for only two days but during that time he talked only of his new life, hardly drawing breath between descriptions of Chicago, his office, his colleagues, his car and the basketball team he supported. Corabel, the girlfriend, came frequently into the conversation and he passed around a photo that he kept in his wallet. She was blonde and curvy with huge lips and a wide smile.

  When Angelos was out of earshot, Anna commented to everyone that her brother’s girlfriend looked like a character from an American cartoon she had watched on her uncle’s television. It was the first time the children had seen their mother smile since Nikos died.

  Angelos seemed so in love with his new homeland. Everything in America was the biggest and the best, and he saw nothing wrong with US involvement in Greek politics.

  ‘It’s a well-run country,’ he said as they ate. ‘Not everyone likes Nixon, but at least there’s no place for communists to hide with him around.’

  Themis got up and quietly left the room. She had neither the will nor the energy to respond to such a sentiment.

  ‘I suppose he did his grieving in the US,’ she said to Giorgos as they returned from taking Angelos to the airport. They had all noticed that he had expressed little sorrow and seemed unbothered by the absence of his brother.

  After the memorial service was over, Themis had told herself that she must try to rise above her sorrow, for the good of the family. Even if it was just for appearance’s sake, she must make the effort. The combination of her grief for Nikos and the guilt over what she had told him was a great weight. She would always imagine that her revelation about his mother had driven her son into the fray.

  The arrival of the new year brought little sense of renewal for Themis. The only excitement was when Andreas won the coveted cross in the Theophania diving competition in January. It was in the local swimming pool but many older boys entered too and the family was proud that Andreas, at fourteen years old, was one of the youngest ever champions.

  Spiros had made a crown out of cardboard for his brother and he kept it on throughout dinner. Everyone tried to keep conversation light and Themis had even done the cooking, making the apple cake that everyone loved so much, using her grandmother’s recipe. They all wanted to believe that normal life was returning and chatted about how the priest had got soaked through when he threw the cross into the water, how one of the other boys had fought Andreas in the water to take away his prize and they all teased him about the attention he had received from a group of girls.

  Towards the end of the evening, though, conversation grew darker. Even at the happy and traditional event they had gone to that morning, they had been aware of the presence of armed soldiers. They began to talk of the increased repression that Brigadier Ioannidis had instigated. It seemed in some way that sacrifices made by the Polytechnic victims had not only been in vain, their protests may even have led to a worse state of affairs than before. The regime continued to deny that there had been deaths and still hunted down anyone whom they suspected of being involved.

  ‘That man is a monster!’ Anna said.

  ‘It’s best not to say those words, even behind your own closed door,’ urged Thanasis, who well knew the sinister tactics of the police. ‘You never know who your neighbour is, or if they have the same views as you. If they overhear and they’re not on your side, you could find yourself on a list, so be careful.’

  ‘But he was the one who sent the tank!’ she protested. ‘That killed our—’

  ‘Anna, please,’ interjected her father.

  Themis winced too. She knew there was a danger of both Anna and Andreas becoming politicised following their brother’s death and, despite being only ten, Spiros could easily be influenced by his brother.

  They all knew Ioannidis was a dictator, even though his style was to work behind the scenes. He had placed plenty of informers within the army to eliminate any soldiers who were not loyal and the small steps towards liberalisation that had been instigated by the deposed Papadopoulos were reversed. There was a new reign of fear.

  In spite of herself, Themis could not challenge the status quo. With a mixture of sorrow and despair, she accepted that this was the way they now lived. All she wanted was to shield from harm the three beautiful children who came and went each day into the streets of Athens. She had given up the fight and found herself discouraging even her own children from voicing any criticisms of the Junta. Through the rest of the winter and into the summer she kept her sons’ hair short and encouraged her daughter to wear her skirt long. The boys were enthusiastic pupils, Anna was studying very diligently for final school exams and all three went to church with their father.

  Then, just when Themis thought that this oppressive regime was going to continue for ever, the cold-blooded Ioannidis set out to achieve his long-held ambition to unify Cyprus with Greece. In mid-July he staged a military coup on the island to depose its democratically elected president, Archbishop Makarios, whom he regarded as a communist. It was a step too far. Greece’s interference gave the Turkish government an excuse to invade Cyprus, claiming it had to protect its citizens living on the island. The result was a huge loss of Greek Cypriot territory and lives. The Junta was forced to fight back, and the entire male population of Greece between the ages of twenty and forty-five was called up.

  Within a week, the conflict was over, a ceasefire agreed and Cyprus was sliced in two, with tens of thousands of Turkish troops remaining in the north. It was an unmitigated disaster for Greece but Themis, like many others, felt a sense of satisfaction at Ioannidis’ humiliating blunder.

  One hot day in July, windows all around the square were open. Thanasis had his television on and as usual the volume was turned up high. This was the hour when everyone slept, but he would ignore neighbours’ complaints today. Something had happened that he had to tell his sister.

  It was unheard of for anyone to knock on the door at this time but Themis meandered blearily towards the door when she heard the rapping. It was Thanasis. Unusually, he was smiling. Ioannidis’ catastrophic failure in Cyprus had heralded his end and Thanasis needed to share the news that power was being handed back to politicians.

  ‘It’s over,’ he said smiling.

  ‘What’s over?’ said his sister with incomprehension.

  ‘Military rule,’ said Thanasis. ‘It’s over. Finally, it’s over.’

  Thanasis came into the apartment and told Themis to put on her radio.

  It was true. The Junta had collapsed. Democracy was to be restored.

  At first it was almost impossible to believe and Themis sat listening without reaction. It was so unexpected that now it had happened it was hard to take in.

  Giorgos rushed in mid-afternoon and Themis held out her arms to him. They silently embraced. The belief that Nikos’ death may have played a role in the downfall of the Junta was in both their minds and, for the first time, Themis truly felt that he had not died in vain.

  Over the next few weeks, Themis watched with a new sense of hope as a former Prime Minister, Constantine Karamanlis, returned from self-imposed e
xile and established an interim government until elections could be held in November. Political freedom was reinstated and the Communist Party was legalised. The speed of change surprised them all.

  At the first democratic elections in a decade, Themis voted for the communists, but she was among a small minority, and Karamanlis, with his new centre-right party, New Democracy, was voted in as Prime Minister.

  Soon after, he held a referendum on the monarchy. Themis and Giorgos did not agree about the royal family. His parents had been very sentimental about them and he had been brought up with a portrait of King Constantine’s grandfather on the wall. Themis knew that he would vote in favour, and decided it was best not even to discuss it. She was just happy to be able to vote, and her vote would cancel out his. In December, when the country decided decisively in favour of the republic, Themis was thrilled.

  ‘At least that meddling woman won’t be back,’ she said. Even after all these years, she resented the way that Frederika had so blatantly interfered in Greek politics.

  The abolition of the monarchy was a significant change but it was not enough for Themis.

  ‘What I am waiting for,’ she said to Giorgos, ‘is for someone to be punished, for someone to pay for their crimes.’

  ‘You d-d-don’t think it would be better just to forget the past? And m-m-make a new start?’

  Themis did not conceal her scorn.

  ‘That was never their position,’ she said. ‘The right always saw things through to the bitter end. And now I want to do the same.’

  ‘That s-s-sounds vengeful,’ he said.

  ‘It is, Giorgos,’ answered Themis. ‘It’s revenge that I want. Don’t you understand?’

  Many people had chosen exile for the past seven years rather than live under the colonels, and during that time had campaigned against the Junta. Most were now returning to Athens, as were those who had been forcibly exiled. They returned from the islands with horrifying stories of abuse and torture, and were living witnesses to the horrors of the Junta. They had no fear of speaking out now. Like Themis, they felt that something was unfinished and that there should be some kind of recognition that crimes had been committed.