Those Who Are Loved

by Victoria Hislop

  ‘At last,’ she muttered to herself one day when she was alone in the apartment and listening to the radio.

  It was January and the Junta leaders had been arrested. Separate trials were going to take place of those who had staged the coup, those responsible for the action at the Polytechnic and those who had been torturers for the regime.

  Themis was impatient but she had to wait six months until procedures began. There were dozens of defendants, but there was only one in whom Themis was really interested.

  Themis, who had never liked television before, went up to Thanasis’ apartment each day and insisted that they watch as much of the proceedings as were being shown. Together they sat on the sofa, mesmerised by the grainy black-and-white images projected into the apartment. It was electrifying to watch the accused, their every feature and expression shown in close-up. From time to time Ioannidis stared directly into the camera and Themis felt as if his cold eyes looked straight into hers. The apparent callousness of the man chilled her to the core and occasionally she had to look away. Both he and Papadopoulos wore expressions of total indifference and Themis hoped that their obvious arrogance would destroy their hopes of acquittal.

  She sat through every possible moment of the first trial, where both Papadopoulos and Ioannidis were found guilty and sentenced. The second trial obsessed her more. It was of those accused of perpetrating the crime at the Polytechnic, foremost among them being Ioannidis himself.

  After a two-month trial, the man she blamed for the death of her son was found guilty. Themis sat next to Thanasis, waiting as though they were both in the court itself. Both of them hated the man equally and when he was sentenced to life imprisonment they quietly embraced each other. They were still sitting like this, reflected in the glass of the television screen long after the programme had changed.

  Themis was initially disappointed that the psychopathic individual, whom she held responsible for the murder of her cherished son, did not receive the death penalty.

  ‘Perhaps death is too good for someone like that,’ she said to her brother.

  Thanasis nodded. His throat felt so tight that he could not trust himself to speak. Themis continued.

  ‘I hope that every day for the rest of his life he will wake up in a prison cell knowing that he will never have his liberty, never walk the streets again, never see the sunshine. Maybe that’s worse than execution.’

  She remembered her own time in solitary confinement and, satisfied by this thought, she wept with both pleasure and pain. She still partly blamed herself for her son’s actions but the ruthless monster responsible for his demise was finally punished. A deep sense of catharsis overwhelmed her. At last, some justice had been done for the innocents and the idealists who had died that November night.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  1976

  THE THREE-YEAR MEMORIAL of Nikos’ death was to take place in a few months and Themis was hoping that Angelos would return for it. It would be the first time he had been back to Athens since the forty-day service, though his letters came as regularly as ever, charting his steady upward trajectory: an office on a higher floor, a bigger pay packet, promotion to a better position, a new apartment and a flashier car. The letter twelve-year-old Spiros had just found in the hallway this morning announced that his big brother had proposed to Corabel, and photographs of the couple at their engagement party tumbled out of the envelope.

  ‘Look, Mána!’ Anna cried out, grabbing the one closest to her. ‘She’s so pretty!’

  It was Spiros’ turn to read from the pale blue airmail paper but he stopped in order to pick up one of the photographs that were being passed around.

  ‘Theé mou! Look at her big boobies! Andreas! Look!’

  ‘Spiros! S-s-stop it! N-n-now!’ snapped Giorgos.

  ‘Don’t talk about your brother’s fiancée like that,’ interjected Themis. ‘It’s very, very rude.’

  All the children were sniggering now and a crooked smile even passed across Thanasis’ face.

  Themis held an image of the couple in her hand and glanced at it. Spiros was right. Corabel’s low-cut dress emphasised that she was well endowed.

  What would be considered indecent in Greece was obviously acceptable in America, she thought to herself. She also noticed that her son had put on even more weight. The couple could only be described as overweight.

  ‘Carry on reading, Spiros!’ Themis instructed, when the mayhem had died down. They were all smiling now.

  He put on his impression of a radio announcer’s voice and continued. It was a description of all the food they had eaten at the party.

  ‘Pretzels – what are they?’ he asked.

  Everyone shook their heads, so he continued.

  ‘And we barbecued the biggest steaks that I have ever seen. And Corabel’s mum makes the best cheesecake.’

  ‘Cake made from cheese?’ exclaimed Andreas. ‘That sounds disgusting!’

  Laughter ricocheted from wall to wall. In the warmth of this shared moment of humour, Themis felt the intense joy of the present. The feeling was an unfamiliar one. The agonies of the past had cast a long shadow over her, but perhaps it was going to fade.

  Giorgos had never given up trying to encourage her into a more positive frame of mind, constantly reminding her that the children were all doing well, and how lucky they were not to have any money worries.

  Themis appreciated the higher standard of living that they all now enjoyed. There were often outings to local tavernas and the cinema (Themis insisted on seeing Aliki Vougiouklaki’s films as soon as they were released) and they were even planning to restore a small house in Tinos that Giorgos had inherited from an aunt. A telephone now sat proudly and prominently on a specially purchased table in the hallway, and they also had their own television, and the previous month had bought a new fridge and a vacuum cleaner. They would even be able to afford to send Andreas to study in London if he passed his exams. He had told them it was his dream.

  ‘We even have a decent p-p-prime minister,’ Giorgos said to his wife one day.

  Themis smiled. ‘I didn’t vote for him, but I admit he’s not doing a bad job.’

  Themis still wore mourning. Over the past year, Giorgos had suggested that she should exchange her dark clothes for something a little brighter and one day made the mistake of buying a new blouse for her, white with blue flowers.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said politely, kissing him on the cheek. She then put it discreetly in the back of her cupboard. When Giorgos asked her a week later why she had not worn it, she replied curtly: ‘I’m not ready, Giorgos. I will know when I am. But it’s not yet.’

  Until she felt the moment was right, it would be a betrayal of Nikos. Month by month she had torn a page from a calendar but this merely represented the vanishing of time, not emotion. The death of her son was still fresh in her mind and she did not want it to be otherwise.

  With less than a month to go before the memorial service, the October days were short but there was still warmth in the air. Themis was on the balcony one afternoon when she heard a ring on the bell. She leaned over the railings hoping to see who it was but could only make out a head of silver hair and a dark blue jacket.

  The man then glanced up as if he could sense her gaze and Themis was almost certain he had spotted her.

  Since the legalisation of the Communist Party she no longer feared unexpected guests or cold callers, but in spite of this her heart began to beat with anxiety.

  She went to the door and pressed the intercom.

  ‘Who is it, please?’ she asked very formally, an audible tremble in her voice.

  A voice crackled through the speaker.

  ‘Tasos,’ came the answer, almost impatiently. ‘Tasos Makris.’

  A chill went down her spine. It was more than twenty-five years since she had heard that name and she had never imagined she would do so again.

  There was no choice. He knew she was there and she had to let him in.

 
Her trembling finger pressed the button that opened the outside door and, a second later, she saw a ghoulish shadow dancing on the wall. This man from her past was climbing the stairs. Immobile with shock and fear, Themis stood at her apartment door. Even now it would not be too late to disappear inside and refuse him entry. A moment’s hesitation lost her this opportunity and suddenly he was standing in front of her: Tasos Makris, almost unchanged from the last time they met.

  ‘Themis Koralis?’

  ‘That was my name,’ she answered. ‘Stavridis now.’

  They stood awkwardly on the threshold for a moment.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes. Of course.’

  Makris followed Themis into the apartment. It was so rare for anyone but family to come in and it felt awkward to have a stranger in the home. Neither Giorgos nor the children were expected until later.

  Themis offered Makris the armchair in front of the dresser. It was the one that Thanasis sat in when he came down to see them.

  There was little light in the apartment and the curtains were partly drawn. Themis decided she would leave them as they were.

  ‘Let me make you some coffee,’ she said. ‘With sugar?’

  ‘Without,’ he responded. ‘Sketo.’

  She turned away, wondering if he too could hear the pounding of her pulse. The awkward silence was only punctuated by the sound of clattering china and glass as Themis shakily went to work with refreshments. She slopped sugar carelessly into the little pan along with the coffee, not bothering to stir. Biscuits? No. She wanted to keep hospitality to a minimum. Even before the water had risen to the boil, she poured the murky, tepid mixture into two cups and, with her back turned to her visitor, used these moments to compose the questions that she would ask.

  With coffee and glasses of water now in position on a small tray, she walked slowly back towards the low table in front of Makris and set them down. Once seated, she allowed herself to look at him properly for the first time.

  He was lean and dapper. She took in his well-cut suit and highly polished leather shoes, neatly manicured nails and the flash of an ostentatious gold watch. His hair was still impressively curly, even though silver-grey now, but his moustache had streaks of dark. His face was lined but no more than Giorgos’, and his eyes were the same as she remembered them. She recalled the last time she had seen them. On Makronisos.

  ‘How did you . . .?’

  He anticipated her question and answered immediately.

  ‘Koralis. In the phone book.’

  ‘But it’s in the name Stavridis.’

  ‘Well, there’s a Koralis in the building,’ he answered.

  It was Thanasis’ name that had led him here and she did remember telling him, even all those years ago, that her family lived in Patissia.

  ‘I tried a few wrong addresses,’ he said. ‘But I got here in the end.’

  He gave her a smile. Decades earlier she had found it charismatic, but now she felt nothing. This man may as well have been a stranger in a crowd for all she cared. For so many reasons, she did not trust him. On Makronisos, his role had seamlessly shifted from being a victim of torturers to being a torturer himself. Even now a fascist element lurked in society and Themis could not be certain that he was not part of it.

  Makris had many questions for her but, unsure of the man’s reason for being here, she evaded them, answering vaguely and without commitment. Yes, she was married and she and her husband had three children. No, she did not need to work, as her husband had a good job. Yes, he was a public servant. Yes, one of her children had gone to live in America and was doing well. No, they did not really travel themselves. All her answers were true.

  Behind Makris, in the shadows, were several photographs. These were of her wedding, the baptisms of the younger children and the photo of the young and handsome Thanasis when he graduated from the police academy. In addition, there were two sizeable framed images on the wall: one of Angelos in his academic gown, quite pompous and proud, and one of Nikos, taken when he was in the school football team.

  Themis had a clear view of them as they talked and it seemed that they were trying to catch her eye. The likeness between father and sons was striking. Behind the halo of curls in front of her, Themis could see theirs, thick and black, and dark eyes that looked into hers.

  She asked a few bland questions. Where did he live? Was he married? Did he have children? What did he do?

  The answer to the last question was the only one that mattered to her. It came as no surprise that he had stayed in the army, eventually becoming an officer and retiring when the Junta fell. Many senior-ranking members of the army had evaded trial and prosecution by leaving at that moment. He had literally done a volte face, Themis thought, betraying all those ideals for which they had fought in the mountains. She wondered how many of her comrades might have died at his hand and how many people he had brutalised between then and now.

  Makris took a sip of his over-sweetened coffee and put it down again, his expression betraying that it was undrinkable.

  ‘Loipón. So,’ she said expectantly, to fill the silence. It was the prompt Makris needed. She wanted him to go very badly but at the same time knew he had come for a reason and was impatient to know why.

  ‘I want you to know that I saw you on Makronisos,’ he said, leaning forward.

  ‘Oh,’ Themis responded, blandly.

  ‘But I thought it would be better for you if nobody made the link between us.’

  ‘I see,’ said Themis. It was an obvious lie. It would have been worse for him than her.

  ‘And I wanted to explain that I had signed the dílosi so that I could rejoin the fight,’ he continued.

  Themis listened but did not believe a word. His self-justification sickened her, but he had yet more to say.

  ‘Instead of letting me go free, they kept me on Makronisos and made me supervise the new prisoners. It was the worse punishment they could have given me.’

  ‘But then you stayed in the army afterwards,’ Themis pointed out politely.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I wasn’t qualified to do anything else and it was a good job.’

  His explanation was shallow and his tone light-hearted.

  Something she had learnt during her life was that if you allow someone silence, then they fill it and tell you something you might want to know. That was exactly what Makris did.

  ‘I have started a new career now. I decided to go into local politics. Maybe in the longer term I’ll aim higher. New Democracy . . . What do you think?’

  His choice to join the centre-right party did not surprise her at all, but Themis was not prepared to engage in jovial conversation with this man. What she did think, though she had no intention of telling him, was that she now understood the reason he had come. He wanted to befriend her, to make sure that she would not betray him to people in his life who knew nothing of his past. Neither being an ex-communist nor an ex-torturer on Makronisos would help him in an election campaign.

  She shrugged her shoulders and mumbled that she did not take much interest in politics these days. She did not wish to prolong the visit any further.

  Makris then commented casually on the fact that she was in black.

  ‘You’re in mourning,’ he said. ‘One of your parents?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘They left us a long time ago.’

  ‘A relation?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not a blood relation, at least.’

  It was the truth.

  Right from the moment when Makris sat down, she had decided what she would reveal and what she would withhold. Nikos, Angelos and Aliki would not be mentioned by name.

  Themis felt no emotion for this man. Neither passion, nor pity was stirred. All she wanted was for him to leave and by starting to tidy the cups she made this clear.

  Suddenly Andreas and Spiros burst in through the door to dump their schoolbags and get ready for football practice.

  M
akris and Themis stood up. The likeness between the old man and their two elder brothers was very strong, but neither boy gave Makris a second glance.

  ‘Children, please greet our visitor,’ she told them. ‘Mr Makris.’

  The boys gave his hand a cursory shake and ran to their rooms to change. A moment later they were gone.

  Themis did not sit down again. She needed Makris to leave before he turned round and noticed the photos. Even more importantly, she wanted him gone before Giorgos returned from work.

  ‘I must be getting on,’ she said. ‘It was kind of you to find me.’

  ‘It was very nice to see you, little fox,’ he murmured, clearly hoping to raise a smile.

  She did not give even a flicker of response to this reference to their past.

  Until he was in the hallway, there was still a chance that the portraits would catch his eye, so she led him briskly from the room. He followed and did not look back.

  Without another word, Themis opened the door.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said, firmly.

  Makris held out his hand but she did not take it. He looked momentarily puzzled and then turned away.

  Themis shut the door immediately and stood with her ear pressed against it, listening to the sounds of footsteps descending the marble stairs. Hastening out on to the balcony, she stood and watched from the shadows. She could not resist. Just beneath the apartment she noticed a large, black Mercedes Benz. It had already moved off and was now purring down the street sending a cloud of exhaust fumes into the sky. It must have belonged to Makris. It did not surprise her. Everyone said that politics was a place where there was money to be made.

  She went back inside and quickly cleared the cups and saucers. In her mind was a vision of this man driving back to Metamorphosi, where he lived, his gloved hands on the steering wheel, occasionally admiring himself in the driver’s mirror or glancing down at his wristwatch to check the time. Themis had a feeling that it was a Rolex he had been wearing. She hoped that she would never see him again.