Giorgos was watching with a blank expression. He did not seem to register the seriousness of the situation.
For several hours, there was continuous footage of the dead and wounded, and then politicians and fire chiefs began to appear in front of the cameras. Several large factories had collapsed. If the earthquake had happened at night, said one politician, the workers would not have been affected but at three in the afternoon meant it had been catastrophic.
As he said this, two men passed in front of the camera carrying a stretcher. The body had his or her face concealed with a blanket but the arm hung limply down to the side.
‘Shall we turn it off, Giorgos?’ asked Themis. ‘I think we have seen enough now. Do you want me to turn to another channel?’
Giorgos had already nodded off to sleep, so Themis switched off the television and went out on to the balcony. The plants were dry. It was a very hot September day and she began to water them. She needed to do something to take her mind away from a tragedy that she could do nothing about.
As so often, her thoughts strayed to Nikos. Would he ever have allowed the construction of a building that was going to collapse in an earthquake? She doubted it. He had wanted better houses for everyone, not worse.
Anna, meanwhile, was at the hospital. She had done the right thing to go. There were dozens of people waiting to be treated, some mildly injured but many much more seriously, and every pair of nursing hands was needed. She was immediately assigned to the team dealing with those requiring the most intensive care, and soon the ward was full.
She dealt with several women first, cleaning wounds caused by falling masonry. She and another nurse worked together.
Anna wondered whether it was like this in a war zone, with the constant arrival of the wounded, having to prioritise one dying person over another, working with too few resources and trying to remain calm and not listen to calls from those in pain.
Her fourth patient was quieter. He was an old man. She was unsure if he was even alive at first because he was so still. He had a dressing on his head but blood was soaking through.
She spoke to him and his eyes opened wide.
‘Can I remove this?’ she said gently.
He did not reply so she went ahead.
As she peeled away the bandage, and carefully cleaned the deep gash on his forehead, she noticed his halo of silver-grey curls on the pillow. All the while that she went about her work, Anna was studying his face, mesmerised by the set of his eyes and the depth of their colour despite his age. He must have been so handsome as a young man. His was the kind of lean, sculpted face that never lost its beauty. What really struck her, though, was the sense of something familiar.
She noticed his shallow breathing and realised that he was struggling. His fathomless eyes seemed to plead with her.
‘Do you need some water?’ she asked.
The old man could not speak and she ran to find a doctor. All of them were busy tending to patients, most of them with more obviously life-threatening injuries.
‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ said one doctor.
‘You’ll have to deal with him on your own,’ said another crossly. ‘There just aren’t enough of us.’
Anna hurried back to her patient. She tried to lift him so that he could sip a glass of water and he gazed up at her, even now trying to say something. She soaked a spare bandage and squeezed a few drops on to his lips, instinctively taking his hand and holding it. Leaning in to try to hear him, Anna thought she heard the word ‘fox’, but it could have been his final breath escaping. His pulse seemed to weaken.
After a few minutes, without letting go of him, she leant over to see whether she could detect a heartbeat. His head had rolled to one side. He had gone. As gently as she could, she closed his eyes with her fingertips.
Anna looked at the colourless, waxy skin and thick hair and thought how strange it was that it would keep growing for another few days. She had seen many corpses in her nursing career, but suddenly recalled the very first time she had seen a dead body. Nikos. She realised that the man she was looking at reminded her strongly of her brother. Age seemed to melt away in death. She could not stop herself from staring. Once again she took his hand. It was impossible to let go.
After some time, one of the other nurses came across from the opposite side of the ward. She had noticed Anna sitting motionless, gazing at the face of her patient.
‘Are you all right? What’s happened?’ she asked with concern.
Anna could not speak. She was struggling to control her emotions.
Finally, a doctor appeared.
‘If this one has gone, there are plenty of others who haven’t,’ he said brusquely. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
Anna did not move.
‘Down at the end,’ instructed the doctor. ‘Second from the left. The patient needs stitches in her arm. She’ll bleed to death if you don’t get a move on.’
Anna got up. When she looked back, the face of the man she had failed to save was obscured by a sheet and his bed was already being wheeled away to the morgue.
All night and for the whole of the following day Anna worked ceaselessly as hospitals all around Athens struggled to keep up with the flow of major and minor casualties.
She did her work diligently but her mind kept wandering back to the old man. It was impossible to get him out of her mind.
When she was relieved of her duties, she took the bus home and wearily climbed the stairs to her apartment. She called in on her parents before going to her own place.
It was more than twenty-four hours since she had left. Her father was, as ever, sitting in front of the television. Anna sat down for a moment and watched. The screen was still showing images of the areas affected by the earthquake but there was more hard information now: they were still trying to locate the missing from beneath the rubble, the estimated number of dead was many more than one hundred, and thousands of houses and businesses would need to be rebuilt. Accusations were flying. Why had so many died? Amidst the personal tragedies, there was one element of good news. The Turkish government had come to Greece’s aid, helping them with rescue attempts and expertise. The gesture of friendship from an often hostile neighbour, an act that reciprocated Greece’s response to a similarly damaging earthquake in Izmir only three week earlier. was welcomed. ‘Disaster Diplomacy’ said one headline.
Themis appeared from the bedroom. She was happy to see Anna.
‘You must be exhausted, agápi mou,’ she said. ‘Did you work all night?’
Anna nodded.
‘Let me make you something,’ she insisted.
‘I’m really not hungry,’ Anna replied. ‘And I must get upstairs to see the children.’
Before she went, however, there was something she needed to tell her mother.
‘I know this will sound strange,’ she said. ‘But I looked after a man. An old man. With silver hair . . .’
‘That doesn’t sound so unusual,’ her mother interjected. ‘It sounds as though a lot of elderly people were affected.’
‘He wasn’t just any man, Mána. He looked exactly like Nikos.’
Themis tried not to react.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that,’ she said emphatically. ‘When I looked at him, I saw Nikos.’
Anna had not given a thought to how her mother might respond and realised now that it might have been tactless. Twenty-five years had passed since her brother’s death but sometimes it seemed no less raw. She knew how sensitive her mother was to his memory.
‘What was his name?’
‘I don’t know. Most people came in without any form of identity.’
‘You didn’t ask?’
‘No, Mána. And he wasn’t in a condition to say his name.’
Themis was agitated.
‘You mean you don’t ask a patient their name? Doesn’t it have to go on their notes?’
‘Sometimes it’s not appropriate,’ Anna answered. ‘And this
man was dying.’
Anna noticed her mother blanch.
‘It was a very strange thing, that’s all. I felt as though I was treating someone I knew.’
Themis had sat down.
‘Enough,’ she said sharply. ‘Enough.’
Anna could see that her mother was crying.
‘There’s been too much suffering,’ Themis suddenly said. ‘Turn the television off, would you? You must need a break from it all too.’
Themis picked up a book and flicked idly through its pages. In reality she was watching her daughter.
On her way out, Anna paused in the hallway to look at the photographs of her two big brothers.
Themis remembered Makris telling her that he lived in Metamorphosi and knew with certainty he had died.
Anna turned to look at her mother and their eyes met. She could see the pain written on her face. Perhaps one day she would ask her more, but now was not the right time.
‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you.’
‘You didn’t, agápi mou,’ she replied. ‘I promise, you didn’t.’
For days after, the newspapers were dominated by the earthquake. One of them reported that a mayor in an area of Northern Attica, a suburb badly damaged by the earthquake, had been killed. There was no photograph and little detail, merely a quote from a fellow member of his party describing Mayor Makris as ‘a man dedicated to public duty’.
Then a week later came a damning front-page article about the faulty construction that was being blamed for the extent of the human tragedy. The number of fatalities and injured were both much higher than they could have been. Themis’ eye was drawn to a list of those who were suspected of taking bribes for rubber-stamping substandard plans. At the top of it was a familiar name: Tasos Makris.
2016
Both of Themis’ grandchildren were visibly shocked. Nikos wanted to say something, but he was not sure what. He understood why his grandmother had mentioned nothing about this before and he also knew that he would never mention it to his father. It would destroy Angelos Stavreed’s own sense of who he was and where he came from. There was no point.
Popi played with a crumb of baklava that remained on her plate. Nikos took awkward gulps from his water glass.
The waiter came over and gathered their cups and Themis dipped into her purse for a note.
It was time to leave.
Nikos took his grandmother’s arm to help her up and they all went out into the street.
She linked arms with them both, enjoying their youthful warmth as they strolled.
It was Nikos’ first visit to the church of Agios Andreas and he was struck by the beauty of this ancient building that nestled so discreetly between a souvlaki takeaway and a shop selling cheap Chinese goods.
Themis led them to a pew in the back corner and they sat and watched the handful of people who came in. Most of them were old ladies, dressed just as Themis, with the uniform hair, clothes and shoes of their generation. Themis was more keenly aware than her grandchildren that beneath their faded hair and papery skin, each of them carried thoughts and burdens unique to them.
The other women lit their candles, kissed the icon, crossed themselves and sat to pray. The priest had already gone. He would return later to lock up.
The three members of the Stavridis family made an unlikely trio sitting beneath the icon: the old lady in her polyester dress and loose cardigan, the girl with the savage asymmetrical haircut and dense rows of studs and rings in the semicircles of her ears, the besuited American boy, as clean-cut as a proselytising Mormon.
Their outward appearances said little about the reality. The old lady in the mass-produced floral print had once worn army uniform, traversed ravines weighed down by ammunition and killed for her beliefs. Even Nikos’ well-cut suit was no more than a costume. He would normally be found in jeans and a faded sweatshirt. Most of his waking hours were absorbed by teaching political economy, a subject that he passionately believed could make the world a fairer place. Perhaps only Popi was as she seemed, an angry young woman continually protesting at the state of her country.
Nikos took in everything that was going on around him with wide-eyed interest: the eyes of the saints that looked down from the walls, the strings of silver charms that asked for a cure or said thank you for an answered prayer, the intricately carved wooden screen. Nikos’ father had not introduced his children to Orthodox traditions. Angelos had baptised his children in the Roman Catholic faith, though they had never attended Mass after their first communion.
Both of the grandchildren were deep in thought, still trying to assimilate everything Themis had shared with them.
Eventually the three of them were alone in the church and in the low light felt free to talk.
‘I have never seen you as a warrior, Yiayiá,’ said Popi, squeezing her grandmother’s arm. ‘But you were.’
‘That’s an exaggeration, agápi mou.’
‘But I’ve been living close to you for my whole life, and had no idea what had happened to you!’
‘I was always good at silence,’ said Themis. ‘I learnt it early. And later on, I learnt about compromise.’
‘I am sure my father doesn’t know anything about what you went through either,’ added Nikos.
‘Your father doesn’t even know who his father was,’ said Themis with some regret.
‘And there is no need to tell him now,’ said Nikos. ‘At least that’s what I believe. Don’t you agree, Popi?’
Popi nodded.
‘I always got the impression that my father felt he had disappointed you,’ said Nikos.
‘But he’s made a huge success of his life!’ exclaimed Themis. ‘He runs all those companies! And made so much money!’
‘I think he felt inferior to his brother,’ said Nikos. ‘And I think that drove him.’
Themis had never imagined that Angelos saw things this way.
‘Uncle Nikos was part of a huge change, Yiayiá. His death made an impact on history,’ urged Popi, in agreement with her cousin. ‘Greece might still be a dictatorship if it wasn’t for people like him.’
‘Well, I certainly didn’t realise that your father had looked at the past in that way,’ said Themis to Nikos. ‘And I had no idea that his brother’s death had such an effect on him . . .’
‘I think he had a change of heart at some point. Why else do you think I was named after him?’
In this half-light Themis felt free to confess, to her grandchildren, if not to God.
‘I still feel guilty,’ she said. ‘If I hadn’t told him about his mother . . .’
She still imagined her beloved boy’s death was the consequence of her impetuous revelation.
There were many other burdens she carried too and even after many decades all of them still weighed heavily on her. Why had she not noticed Fotini’s desperation? Had she betrayed the communist cause by signing the dílosi? Should she have told Giorgos what had driven Nikos into such danger?
In the absence of God, nothing relieved her of these regrets. She envied those who enjoyed priestly absolution.
Themis took some coins from her pocket, dropped them in the wooden box and picked up a handful of slim yellow candles. A dozen or more had already been lit in front of the icon and she used the flame of the closest to light the first.
‘This is for my comrade Katerina . . . and this is for Aliki.’
She then handed candles to Popi and Nikos and they took turns to light them, as she directed.
‘For my brothers, Panos . . . and Thanasis. And one for my grandmother, of course,’ said Themis, as Popi held hers out to a flame.
And, as young Nikos dug his into the sand: ‘And this one is for Nikos.’
The last of the candles Themis placed herself, at the centre of the others.
‘Fotini,’ she said, simply.
The three of them sat down again and contemplated the seven golden flames that illuminated the darkness. A pleasing scent of t
allow filled the air.
‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ said Themis, not expecting an answer.
Instead, Nikos had a question.
‘Why do you light these candles when you’re not religious?’
His grandmother pondered her ritual for a moment.
Popi turned to look at her too.
‘Yes, why do you?’
Themis smiled.
‘It’s my way of keeping those wonderful people alive,’ she answered.
‘And does it work?’
‘I believe so, Nikos,’ she said. ‘There is a line I have always held on to. It comes from that poem Fotini copied out all those years ago.’
‘How does it go?’ asked Popi quietly.
Themis paused a moment.
‘Those who are loved,’ she quoted. ‘They shall not die . . .’
THE END
Note on the title
“Those who are loved” is a line from one of the best known poems in Greece, Epitáfios by Yannis Ritsos (1909-1990). In 1936, during a strike by tobacco workers in Thessaloniki, several men were killed and when Ritsos saw a photograph of a mother weeping over her son’s body, he was inspired to write his long work about love, grief and social justice. A few months later when a dictatorship was imposed, copies of the poem were burnt within sight of the Acropolis. Some twenty years later, the poem acquired new fame when parts of it were set to music by Mikis Theodorakis and recorded to great acclaim (1960) first by Nana Mouskouri and then by Grigoris Bithikotsis.
A lifelong communist, Ritsos supported the resistance against the Germans and, in the closing stages of the civil war and beyond, was interned in a series of island detention camps (1948-1952): on Lemnos, Makronisos and Ai-Strati. In April 1967, the Junta arrested him and imprisoned him firstly on the island of Leros and then on Giaros; from October 1968 until October 1970, he was kept under house-arrest at the family home in Karlovasi on Samos.
Among many other awards and distinctions, he won the First State Prize for Poetry (1956) and the Lenin Peace Prize (1977). He died in 1990 and is buried in the cemetery of Monemvasia, the peninsular town in SE Greece where he was born and raised.
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