The Santorini Summer

by Christine Shaw

  That night I am unable to sleep again. My memory has been stirred, and I lie re-living it, while the muslin curtains billow around me in the draught from the open windows.

  *

  Early one morning I awoke suddenly, feeling the strangest of sensations. My bed was shuddering. There was a rumbling noise outside, like thunder, and at first I thought there must be a storm, but the air felt thick and unusually heavy. I heard Irini give a little scream, and then Niko shouted ‘Olivia, come outside quickly!’

  I put my feet on the floor, but the ground seemed to be slipping away from me. I fell forwards on to my face, and now the ground was swaying beneath me.

  ‘Olivia!’

  Niko was on his hands and knees in the doorway. ‘Earthquake! You must come outside!’

  We crawled out of the house and found the air filled with dust and an acrid smell of sulphur. Irini was crouching, cradling her belly, on the pathway which had cracked and opened, forming a pattern like the threads of a spider’s web. We could hear screams above the noise of breaking masonry and, as we watched, buildings began to disappear as if swallowed up by the ground. Great humps of earth grew up in front of us. Rocks rolled down the hill and splashed into the churning sea. Irini screamed as the front of her house collapsed into the courtyard which was now split in two. The noise was incredible, the earth groaning in protest as it heaved and buckled. And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

  Niko, clutched me with one arm, and Irini with his other. We were both coughing and she was sobbing.

  ‘Olivia!’

  I looked up to see Christos crouching on a piece of pathway just yards away from me, but between us was a deep chasm from which dust was still billowing.

  ‘Olivia! Stay there! I’ll come to you!’

  ‘No! Don’t move! Please – ’

  I watched in horror as Christos felt his way across a pile of stone which shifted beneath him. He fell flat to the ground, but lifted his head to shout, ‘I’m coming!’ Crawling and clutching at any piece of rock which looked stable enough to hold his weight, he began again to inch his way around the fissure. The earth had stopped shuddering beneath us, but rocks were still falling and you could not tell if the ground was firm beneath your feet or would crumble under your weight.

  Demetrios and his wife were clinging to rocks on their side of the chasm, too terrified to move. All around us I could hear the sounds of women, terrorised and grief-stricken, while the noise of falling masonry went on and on, as buildings continued to collapse like so playing cards.

  Christos was now further away from me as he tried to find a way around the fissure. I was torn between my terror for his safety and my need to be in his comforting arms. By slithering and crawling he got to me at last, covered in dirt and panting, and we clung to each other, shaking, coughing and weeping.

  They told us later that it had been 7.3 on the Richter scale, the largest natural disaster in the Aegean for the past seventy five years. Given that it occurred just after five in the morning, when most people were still at home, if not in bed, the miracle was that so few died – about fifty, they said. But Oia was a major casualty. Very few of its buildings remained intact. Most people had lost their homes and many their livelihoods. Fira also suffered badly, along with some of the inland villages. The east coast was the least affected area, and some Oians who had relatives there left Oia for good and eventually built new lives in Kamari and Monolithos.

  Niko, Irina, Christos and I stayed huddled together until we were sure that the worst was over. Dimitrios shouted to us, saying that he was taking his wife up to the town and we should make our way there too. Irini, anxious to know how her parents had fared, begged Niko to take her to them, so we made our way, slowly and cautiously, up the hill.

  All around us was devastation. Women were hugging each other and crying whilst the men clawed at the rubble to see if they could rescue any belongings from their ruined homes. Water gushed from a broken pipe main, and the stink of ordure confirmed our fears that the sewers had fractured too. A journey which normally took no more than ten minutes took us almost an hour as we navigated a safe path through the fallen rocks and masonry, stopping to check that neighbours had survived, commiserating with them about the shock and damage.

  Irina’s father’s house seemed to have suffered very little, perhaps because it had solid, stone foundations. Part of the pediment above the door had fallen, the windows had broken and the garden had a pyramid-shaped lump in the centre.

  Stavros and his wife were greatly relieved to see their daughter unharmed, and made room for all of us without question. I knew that they would have done so even if they had not possessed so large a house. They had also taken in several of their neighbours, the women being found places inside while the men sat in those parts of the front garden which remained flat and not completely covered in rubble.

  By nightfall, with the aid of many jugs of wine, and the relief that naturally follows when you realise you have survived something deadly, the atmosphere was jovial, almost party-like. The women were cooking over a fire-pit and people took turns in relating memories of other near-misses: a minor eruption of Nea Komeni in 1950 which caused the island to be evacuated, and the earthquakes in 1953 and ’54. Stavros found an old photograph of an eruption which he could not date, and arguments broke out as different people came forward with their firm beliefs that it was 1925, or 1927...

  Irini had been put to bed by her mother by then, but Niko, Christos and I sat on the rocks which had fallen into the garden and listened.

  ‘If everyone knows how dangerous it is here, why have they stayed?’ I asked in bewilderment. ‘The volcano is obviously not dormant, and there have been three earthquakes in four years.’

  ‘Santorini is our home,’ explained Niko. ‘Where else would we go? We know there are risks, but there are risks every day when we go out to sea.’

  That did not reassure me. I had been waving Christos off every morning in the Ariadne, without thinking that fishing in itself is a potentially dangerous occupation and in the Aegean Arc, where volcanic activity is always a possibility, particularly fraught for the seamen of Santorini.

  ‘Christos,’ I whispered at last, ‘can we get away from everyone for a moment? Just to be alone?’

  He took my hand and we rose as if to stretch our legs. There were so many people packed into the garden that our escape went unnoticed. We climbed over rocks, Christos having to lift me over some of the fissures, until we found the steps leading down to the small beach at Amoudi. Some of the steps had disappeared, whilst others were covered with rubble, but we managed to clamber down what remained. The beach was littered with rocks and pieces of timber but it was deserted, and I turned into his arms with a sigh of relief.

  ‘You might have been killed today, Christos.’

  ‘And so might you, Olivia. I was in agony until I saw you emerge with Niko.’

  We kissed with a fervour born of fear. I had never been made to feel the fragility of existence until that morning and now that I knew how easily everything is lost, I felt panic rising inside me.

  ‘Hold me, hold me – ’

  We slithered down onto the sand, locked together, and Christos pulled me on top of him.

  ‘I love you, Olivia.’

  ‘I love you, too, Christos.’

  I had no qualms. He searched my face to be sure I knew what I was doing, but I whispered ‘Yes, Yes,’ so fiercely that he could have been in no doubt. We were celebrating being alive.

  Afterwards we swam in the sea to wash, staying in the shallows where the water was still warm and relatively calm. Then we made our way, slowly, and with great difficulty over the broken steps, back up the cliff face.

  It was dark as we approached Stavros’ garden, and if anyone noticed our arrival wearing damp clothes and having sand in our hair, no-one commented. After such a day, our absence and return meant very little to the devastated townspeople, but I was still amazed that nobody commented on
a difference in my appearance, for hadn’t I just become a woman?

  The next day the neighbours went back to their ruined homes to see what might be recovered. Most of the food eaten in Oia was fresh, so there was little to save from kitchens except cans of olive oil, but these were precious and were diligently searched for. Items of furniture which had survived were dragged outside and Christos and Niko tried to rescue the cradle made for Irina’s coming baby, but after hours of digging away at rocks they found only splinters of wood. Niko comforted his wife by telling her he was already working on a new one. Everyone had suffered some damage, and many had lost everything. There was no running water and no power. The town’s children had suffered a great trauma, and clung to their mothers either weeping or dumb with shock.

  Terrifyingly, there was an aftershock that afternoon, which set everyone screaming again, and those who still had an indoors running outside. More damage was done, and some of the women became hysterical. The older men tried to calm everyone down by explaining the nature of aftershocks, but for many it was simply another earthquake and to hear that we could expect more shocks over the next few days and weeks was horrifying.

  In the evening everyone reconvened at Stavros’, telling uplifting stories of unexpectedly recovered items or dismal tales about the destruction they’d found. Rumours were circulating that a state of emergency had been declared and the Greek Army was already sailing to the island with emergency aid. In the meantime, food was the priority. The shops had been largely destroyed, and the donkey paths from Fira were blocked in many places, so the people of Oia needed food and water.

  Niko and Christos decided that the best they could do in the circumstances was to go back to sea and catch as much fish as they could to provide sustenance for the town.

  So the next morning they went off in the Ariadne and Irina and I joined the general move to repair the houses that were not beyond help.

  Stories were circulating that homes damaged beyond repair would be bulldozed and compensation paid to those who had lost everything. People were trying to make the best of the situation. There was a sense of unity, everyone trying to help everyone else. I felt part of it all, that I was accepted. I did not know that it was the last time I would feel like that.

  Chapter Five

  We have to leave early so that I can attend the conference which is my main reason for being here. Alexa drives confidently back to Fira and drops me off near the entrance to the cable car, from where I can reach the Centre by foot.

  ‘See you about four,’ she calls gaily and sets off alone.

  ‘Enjoy the museum,’ I say, but I doubt that she has heard me.

  The agenda for the day consists of the latest findings and theories about The Big Bang, as some of the younger volcanologists insisted upon calling the eruption of 1600BC. Since the Indian Ocean tsunami in 2004, scientists have had graphic evidence of the havoc such an event creates. The latest archaeological discoveries revealed that the explosion of Santorini must have been a truly massive one. The seismic wave which would have followed would have hit Crete within half an hour, causing catastrophic damage. The coastal settlements, including Knossus, would have been wiped out. The latest excavations at Akrotiri showed that the bull was a sacred symbol for the people of Santorini just as it was for Minoan Crete, that theirs was a wealthy and powerful state, familiar with the use of copper, and using the same cultivation methods that Plato tells us were used in Crete. So Santorini and Crete were connected culturally, and if they did not comprise Atlantis, then they suffered a very similar fate.

  Christos would have been in the forefront of these discussions, probably one of the speakers at the Conference, presenting the results of his life’s work and daring the doubters to dismiss his findings. I am here, officially, as an interested academic – I try to visit Santorini whenever a conference about its history is scheduled, and the scholars here knew me as someone with a personal interest in the subject – but in my heart I am here to see justice done to the man Christos would have become.

  There is a very pleasant courtyard behind the Centre, and I sit there in the shade waiting for Alexa. My fingers find my locket, as they often do at moments of relaxation, and I open it to look once more at the photograph of Christopher as a baby. He was a beautiful child. Naturally, every mother thinks her offspring is beautiful, but Christopher was one of those babies who attract strangers in the street. He had dark curls and huge brown eyes fringed with the longest lashes. His skin was olive-toned and without a single blemish. My mother fell in love with him the day of his birth and she adored him until the day she died, which made my life easier than it might otherwise have been.

  When I returned from Santorini I was still in a state of shock, but I had spun some story about having had a fall-out with one of the girls at the dig which had distressed me. My mother’s reaction was to suggest she should have a word with the Professor, but I managed to dissuade her by claiming that this would be seen as petty and might be reflected in my grades. I went back to Cambridge earlier than I needed to and threw myself into study. I did not tell Maureen or anyone else what had happened. I was aware of feeling tired and nauseous, but I put that down to heartbreak.

  Some mornings I would awake with a blank memory, and then it would slowly dawn on me that I would never see Christos again, and misery would make me curl up and howl. Most days I made it to lectures; sometimes, when I couldn’t control the weeping, I claimed a migraine.

  But after Maureen heard me vomiting in the toilet three mornings in a row, I confided in her because I had no one else to talk to and felt so helpless. She was a good friend then, insisting on taking me back to my room, making tea and forcing me to eat some toast. She asked no questions other than when the baby was due, but I told her the bare facts because I wanted to forestall any mention of Christos, whose very name spoken aloud could destroy any composure I had managed to find. She was appalled, not because of any moral issue but because of the disastrous effect my pregnancy would have on my academic career. I had been hoping to do an MA.

  ‘It’s such a crying shame. You’d have got a First for sure, and I’ll be lucky to get a Lower Second. It’s rotten luck.’

  My feelings were very confused. A baby was not what I had planned, but it was Christos’s child, and a way of holding on to him. The practicalities, however, overwhelmed me. The baby was due in April and my finals were at the beginning of May.

  When my condition became public knowledge I’d be kicked out, for sure.

  Maureen kept my secret loyally, but after weeks of fretting about how I would cope, she encouraged me to go and see the Professor.

  ‘Throw yourself on her mercy,’ she said. ‘I’ll bet she isn’t as straight-laced as she seems.’

  I was not at all confident about that; the Professor was a middle-aged spinster, who had never demonstrated passion for anything other than ancient history, but I needed some advice, and I hadn’t anyone else to turn to.

  In the event she was terrific, although it didn’t seem that way at first. As I haltingly explained that Christos and I had fallen in love on Crete, she frowned.

  I muttered miserably, ‘I realise that you must be disappointed in me for behaving in such a …’

  ‘Human way?’ she said, wryly. ‘My dear, I have been teaching young people for many years and nothing is more human than young men making young women fall in love with them. But I must have been remiss in my supervision to allow things to have gone so far.’

  ‘Oh, no, it … nothing … happened on Crete. It was when I went to Santorini.’ I was deeply embarrassed to be discussing such things with her. ‘There was an earthquake, and everyone was so scared…’

  ‘And feelings were running high? What were you doing on Santorini?’

  She listened with great interest to Christos’ belief that Santorini was the Atlantis that caused the downfall of the Minoan culture and we spoke of the different theories for some minutes, before we realised we were getting side-tracke
d.

  ‘We will talk of this again. But I don’t believe you asked to see me this afternoon to discuss ancient history, did you? Am I to understand that you are now, “in an interesting condition”, as they used to say?’

  After I had told my story and sobbed on her bony shoulder for several minutes, she said firmly, ‘There will be a way to manage this. You must graduate.’

  By the end of the Michaelmas Term anyone who knew me well could see I was pregnant. Professor Margerison could feasibly not have noticed, being well known for an academic blindness to physical appearances, but she could not pretend blindness after the Christmas vacation when I would be five months gone.

  ‘When you return in January, you will share a room in town with Maureen,’ she told me. ‘You will not attend lectures, obviously, but Maureen will bring you your lecture notes and you must do a lot of studying alone. If you cannot persuade your mother to show Christian forbearance, then you will need a nurse to help you after the baby is born. I shall help you to find the room and the nurse. You will take your exams in May and you will graduate. My best student will not be lost to academia simply because of human error.’

  She was true to her word. Before I went down for Christmas she had somehow found a small flat that Maureen and I could share. It had two bedrooms, a kitchen, bathroom and sitting room, and was within walking distance of College. How she secured it, when such properties were like gold-dust and fiendishly expensive, I do not know. But the rent we were asked to pay was manageable, so I didn’t ask too many questions. It occurred to me that the Professor might be funding the shortfall, but I knew her well enough now not to ask.

  That just left me with the problem of explaining my predicament to my mother. I dreaded the confrontation to come. Her views on promiscuity and illegitimacy had been made clear to me the day she tried to explain the facts of life, so I did not expect sympathy. Not only was I pregnant, but I would have to admit to deceiving her about my trip, about Christos, everything. I told myself that if she threw me out I could still go to my father for Christmas, although how welcoming Susan would be I wasn’t sure.