Eleni

by Nicholas Gage

  The two prisoners locked eyes and glared at each other with naked hatred. Each was now trying to save himself by sacrificing the other, but Michopoulos’ ploy didn’t work.

  “Why didn’t you tell us your doubts, Comrade?” Katis shouted. “Why didn’t you tell us what you suspected?”

  Spiro Michopoulos’ face collapsed and he whispered, “I thought it best to test him first.”

  “You didn’t tell us because the fact is that you wanted to leave yourself!” Katis exploded.

  Michopoulos began protesting so frantically that he wrenched Andreas’ wrist with his convulsive movements.

  “I’ve been with you from the start!” he cried. “I supported ELAS when Vasili Nikou was with EDES! I supported the Democratic Army and have worked tirelessly for you since the day you arrived. May I swim in God’s blood if I ever betrayed our cause!”

  Katis cut him off. “Sit down, Michopoulos,” he said. “We’ll soon find out how much support you have given the cause.”

  He turned to the other judges. “We have a number of witnesses who will show that the statements of loyalty made by Spiro Michopoulos are all lies.”

  He called forward Chrisoula Kouka, an old crone all in black, whose house and property bordered that of Spiro Michopoulos. Chrisoula, sixty-five, was notoriously crochety, given to arguments with other villagers over boundary lines and water rights. As she stood trembling, suddenly overwhelmed by finding the entire village hanging on her words, Katis read out a statement made by Chrisoula, charging that Spiro Michopoulos was an enemy of the cause, who favored the fascist sympathizers when passing out work details in order to curry favor with the enemy in case the nationalist forces ever retook the village. Her most damaging evidence against her neighbor was that she had seen him burying a large stock of foodstuffs from his now closed general store in his basement—boxes of soap, cans of oil, which should have been shared with the fighters of the Democratic Army. Katis announced triumphantly that the goods had indeed been found under Michopoulos’ cellar floor: “A king’s ransom of provisions, while our fighters and loyal supporters were suffering from hunger and cold.”

  After reading every few lines, Katis would stop and ask, “Isn’t this true, Comrade Kouka?” but the crone, terrified at hearing her words read in public, began to equivocate. “That’s the way it seemed to me,” she muttered. “That’s what I heard. Yes, you’re probably right.”

  Katis flushed with anger at her temporizing. Finally he threw down the paper and thrust his hand at her, twisting it like the movement of a snake. “Eh, Comrade Kouka!” he spat. “Not like the eel that slithers away from the knife! Tell it now as you told it to us before.”

  The old woman stared at his hand as if it were a live thing, then began to nod her head. “Yes, what you have read is true,” she said, and turned to look at the neighbor whom she had finally humbled.

  Spiro Michopoulos could no longer contain himself. He could see that the eccentric old woman was venting all her rancor against him and was killing him in the process. He clambered to his feet, elbows and knees jabbing every which way. “Not only have I supported the cause since the occupation, I was severely beaten by the fascist police for it!” he cried.

  The old woman uttered an explosive laugh, and forgetting her timidity before the crowd, she shook a knobby finger at him. “They beat you because you stole one of their sheep!” she crowed.

  Feeling better, Katis read testimony from nearly two dozen villagers against the unhappy former president: that he had unfairly chosen loyal supporters of the guerrillas for work duties, that he had favored the fascist sympathizers, that he had hinted to many individuals that they would be wise to escape the village. As each statement was read Michopoulos’ face grew paler; his long body seemed to fold in on itself, shrinking before the spectacle of death.

  The last witness called by Katis against Spiro was Dina Venetis. She stood up, her oval face so pale that the high cheekbones seemed about to break through the skin. Years later Dina Venetis insisted she couldn’t remember anything about what she said at the trial; she was too frightened. But other villagers recall her testimony well.

  “Did you pay a visit to the village president, Spiro Michopoulos, a few days after the twenty left?” Katis asked, leading her carefully.

  “Yes,” Dina replied in a nearly inaudible voice. “I went to ask him for some corn from the village stores because I had nothing to feed my three small children.”

  “And what did he reply?” Katis encouraged her.

  No one could hear her answer. “Speak up!” Katis ordered.

  Dina raised her voice. “He said to me, ‘I have no corn left. You should have gone with the others.’”

  “That will be all,” Katis told her, and she sat down in relief.

  When all the testimony against Spiro Michopoulos had been read, the ravine was filled with shadows and the setting sun was sending up fingers of fire on the crest of the hills to the west. Katis announced that the trial would be halted to resume the following morning in the same spot.

  The first defendant called forward to be charged the next day was Andreas Michopoulos. The boy stood shakily, still weak from the torture after his attempted escape, as Katis addressed the crowd.

  “Two months ago, twenty civilians fled this village. For so many to escape without being observed, and to reach the fascist forces on the Great Ridge, it was necessary for them to know where our patrols were moving and where land mines were planted. All that information was given to them by Andreas Michopoulos, a traitor to the uniform we gave him when we came to this village.

  “If there remained any doubt about his complicity in the escape,” Katis went on, “it was erased by the attempt he made to flee the justice of the people. Realizing his guilt, Andreas Michopoulos is now prepared to admit to his crimes.”

  Katis turned toward Andreas, who licked his lips nervously. “Did the traitor Lukas Ziaras come to you as you stood lookout at the Church of the Virgin and on several occasions before the escape ask you about the movements of the patrols and the location of the minefields?”

  “He did,” Andreas answered.

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “We were just chatting, sir,” Andreas began haltingly. “I thought he was with us. I talked about patrol duty and where the patrols usually went. I had no idea that he wanted to leave.”

  “If you had known he was going to flee, would you have informed us?” asked Katis, warming to his task.

  “Yes, Comrade, of course!”

  “Did Dina Venetis ever tell you that she intended to leave the village?” Katis continued.

  The boy’s face fell, realizing where he was leading. “Yes,” he muttered.

  “What did she say, exactly?”

  “She came to me while I was on lookout duty and asked me which was the safest path to take to leave the village.”

  “And did you go immediately to your officers to report this conversation?”

  Andreas paused, trying to collect his thoughts. “No, not right away,” he said unhappily. “But later, when you asked me, I told you.”

  Katis smiled. “Yes, later, after you told others in the village about the conversation and we learned it from them,” he exclaimed. “You shame the uniform you wear!”

  He turned to the prisoners. “Dina Venetis will stand up.”

  Dina stood, a tiny figure facing the might of the court.

  “Is it true that you came to Andreas Michopoulos and asked him how to escape from the village?” Katis demanded

  Dina’s black eyes flashed. “It’s a complete lie!” she retorted, turning to glare at Andreas. “I live at the bottom of the village and know the paths out of it better than anyone! I would never ask this man for advice!”

  “Then you deny that you wanted to escape, to join your husband who is fighting with the monarcho-fascist forces?”

  “I don’t deny that I would have liked to leave, to take my children and join my husband,” Dina
replied, meeting Katis’ eyes. “But I do deny planning to escape. It would have been impossible for me to leave safely with three babies. Andreas Michopoulos is a liar, and he has shown how much you can trust his word by trying to flee.”

  Addressing the judges, Katis said a bit proudly that Andreas had named twenty-three more Liotes whom he suspected of planning to leave. This confirmed the suspicions of the security police that there was a village-wide conspiracy.

  The next witness to be called was Constantina Drouboyiannis, accused of sending her two teen-aged daughters on the escape with her sister-in-law. She rose, still trembling from the ordeal of testifying against Vasili Nikou, afraid that she would anger Katis even more.

  “Did you know that your daughters were going to leave?” he asked.

  “No, I didn’t,” she replied miserably. “I was threshing grain for the Democratic Army when they left.” She went on to say that her sister-in-law had taken the girls without her permission and against her will. Katis did not probe, fearing that the dull-witted woman would make another gaffe in front of Anagnostakis. He moved quickly on to the charges against Alexo Gatzoyiannis, who, he said, had sent her eldest daughter on the escape.

  Alexo rose and faced him, full of fire. “My daughter Arete has been a married woman for fifteen years and was not under my control,” she said. “The daughter who lives with me is still here. That should be ample proof that I had no knowledge of what the others were planning. If I knew, wouldn’t I have sent my youngest girl along?”

  “And if you had no idea that Arete was leaving, why did you allow her to bury five okas of solder in the field behind your house and then show us where it was hidden?” Katis rejoined.

  “That solder has been there for months, ever since Arete’s husband left, long before the guerrillas came to this village,” Alexo replied.

  “You answer glibly to our accusations,” Katis said, “but we have proof that you are guilty of something much more damaging to the Democratic Army. Your husband has repeatedly sneaked through our lines to visit you and collect information about our defenses. But you are such a loyal and secretive wife that you won’t admit it.”

  Alexo lost her temper entirely and began to shout. “Even during peacetime my worthless husband was never around the house. Would he come now? How could he do it without someone seeing him?”

  “But he was seen,” Katis said triumphantly. He called forward Olga Noussi, a thirty-year-old woman who was thin and yellow from the cancer that was spreading through her body and would kill her a few years later. She, too, had been accused of passing on guerrilla secrets and had been imprisoned for many days in the security-police station while her three children, all under seven years old, begged for food from their neighbors and dug potatoes out of the ground to eat. After she was released, Olga Noussi told several other women that the guerrillas had hung her upside down by the ankles and beaten her with rods. Now, as Katis put questions to her, she hesitantly testified that her neighbor, Alexo, had received a visit from her husband.

  “Is it true that Foto Gatzoyiannis paid secret visits to his wife at night?” Katis asked.

  “I heard Foto Gatzoyiannis come to meet his wife in the field below their house,” Olga Noussi replied. “I saw her standing by the edge of the cornfield and I saw the cornstalks in front of her moving. Then I saw her talking to him.”

  Anagnostakis was suddenly on his feet again. Katis felt a stab of apprehension. “Did you see his face?” Anagnostakis asked the sallow-faced woman. “Did you actually see Foto Gatzoyiannis speaking to his wife?”

  There was a long pause as she glanced at Katis. Then she looked down, twisting the fabric of her apron, and muttered, “I didn’t see his face, but I know it was her husband hiding in the corn. Who else could it be?”

  Katis quickly dismissed Olga Noussi, covertly watching Anagnostakis’ expression. He called for Foto Bollis to come forward.

  “When you were on the other side, on the Great Ridge, before you were able to return to this village, whom did you see helping the monarcho-fascists?” Katis demanded.

  “Foto Gatzoyiannis,” Bollis replied in a ringing voice.

  “How was he helping them?”

  “He was telling the soldiers about the lay of the land, the footpaths, the guerrilla fortifications in and around the village.”

  “And how would Foto Gatzoyiannis possess such knowledge?”

  “He came to his home secretly.”

  “How do you know that?” Katis persisted.

  Foto Bollis turned to grin at Alexo. “He said so, boasted about it to everyone.”

  Katis faced her. “Having heard this testimony, do you still deny that your husband visited you?”

  Alexo raised her chin. “I told you; I haven’t seen that soul of a devil since last November. If he had come, why would I keep it a secret? To tell in the next world? I know what’s in store for me!”

  Somewhat discomfited by her defiance, Katis ordered her to sit down.

  The testimony of Alexo Gatzoyiannis ended the second day of the trial. There remained only one more defendant to examine—Eleni Gatzoyiannis—and for the testimony against her, Katis wanted to interrogate a special witness who was not yet in the village.

  While Eleni was standing trial in Lia, her daughter Glykeria was working with the other women sent to the harvest, threshing grain and building pillboxes near the village of Vatsounia. It was now sixty days since she had been separated from her mother.

  A few days after she arrived at Vatsounia, Glykeria was joined by Rano Athanassiou, who had also been sent from Granitsopoula. Rano told her that Eleni had been taken from the fields with some other women back to Lia, but Glykeria did not realize she was under arrest. She simply felt relief that her mother had been released from the heavy labor of threshing.

  In the two months that ensued, Glykeria became more and more worried about what had happened to her family. She knew nothing about the success of the escape or her mother’s imprisonment. She was wrapped up in her own problems; still suffering from the heat, struggling to keep up with the older women in the fields. Sometimes the girls from Lia taunted and hit her for her slowness. “Why did your mother send you, when you can’t do any work?” they complained. “She should have sent your sisters instead!”

  It was natural that Glykeria should turn for help to Rano Athanassiou, her sister Olga’s best friend, just as Kanta had taken comfort in her strength when they were both conscripted as andartinas. Rano encouraged Glykeria to keep up with the other girls, and she slept next to her on the wooden floors of the village houses at night.

  One morning in mid-August, just as the women were awakening, a guerrilla arrived on horseback and called the name of Rano Athanassiou, saying that she was to return with him to the village. Rano’s first thought was that something had happened to her married sister Tassina or that their invalid father had died. She tried to hide her apprehensions as she kissed Glykeria goodbye.

  “If you see my mother and sisters in the village, tell them I miss them!” Glykeria called after her.

  All the way back to Lia, Rano bit her lip to keep from asking questions. There was no way she could have guessed that she had been named by Stavroula Yakou as someone who knew details of the Amerikana’s treachery, and that she was being called back to testify against Eleni at her trial.

  On August 21, the third day of the trial, the slopes of the ravine were crowded long before the prisoners arrived, and the place was filled with a buzz like a million bees. Everyone knew that the testimony would end today and the sentences would be decided. The only defendant remaining to be tried was the Amerikana.

  Eleni stood still as a figure on an icon as the charges were read against her. The foliage of the plane trees sifted sunshine on her pale, immobile face and dark-blue dress.

  The main thrust of Katis’ case against her was that Eleni had organized and led two previous unsuccessful escape attempts, that she had sent away her children and that she had tried to c
onvince other women in the village to do the same. Her actions had seriously undermined the efforts of the Democratic Army in her village.

  Katis paused, scanning the faces before him to judge the reaction to what he had said. Then he added that the Amerikana had stayed behind to organize more escapes, that she had sabotaged the program to relocate village children, that she had slandered guerrilla fighters and hidden clothing and food needed by the army.

  As he spoke, Eleni turned to look at the group of witnesses gathered at one side. She gasped as she realized there was a new face among them: Rano Athanassiou. She turned and searched the audience; if Rano had returned from the threshing field, then perhaps Glykeria had too. But nowhere could she see her daughter’s face or her red dress.

  Katis planned to lay the ground for his condemnation of Eleni by establishing her fascist leanings and disloyalty to the cause. He had not previously interrogated Rano, but Stavroula Yakou had told him what questions to put to her. He felt his hands perspiring as the bewildered girl was called to testify. This was the climactic day of the trial and the most important prosecution and Katis was determined to conclude his case with an overwhelming barrage of testimony against the Amerikana.

  Rano stood petrified. She had no idea what she would be asked or how she should answer to protect herself from punishment.

  “You lived next to Eleni Gatzoyiannis for many years and you spent much time in her house,” Katis began. “Answer the following questions: Why did the Amerikana make her daughter Olga Gatzoyiannis wear her kerchief tied around her face? Doesn’t this imply a distrust of our andartes, who have respected the honor of every woman in this village?”

  Rano stared at him, blinking. “Many of us wear our kerchiefs that way, especially in winter!” she replied. “But Olga has an additional reason; she has a goiter on her neck. She was hiding the goiter because we are young girls and it doesn’t take much to be left a spinster.” Rano jumped at the sudden outburst of laughter from the villagers.