The Lace Tablecloth

by Anastasia Gessa-Liveriadis

  Back in Ptolemais after Christmas, her room continued to be dark, cold and depressing. She was living like a robot, bearing her hardship with a degree of detachment, but unable to see what lay ahead. Facing up to the exams after the first six months, Tasia wasn't quite sure how to prepare. In any case, she didn't think she was clever enough to pass and so was very surprised with her good marks.

  Bit by bit the weather improved. The days got longer and the clouds got thinner, letting the sunrays peep through. The warm air made the snow and the ice melt and the streets were once again covered by thick mud.

  'The days are getting longer. The trees are full of buds. Soon it'll be spring,' her father tried to reassure her one Wednesday afternoon after the market. He gave Tasia bread, cheese, olives and all the eggs and butter that were not sold. 'If it keeps that way, come and see us on Saturday. But you must come on the bus. The weather is still unreliable and you never know what it will do next.'

  Tasia didn't listen to him. She took the road on foot, with the sun blazing in her eyes, blinding her. The potholes, full of water, shimmered, reflecting the rays of the sun. Small streams of water formed by the melting ice and snow gurgled on either side of the road. Where the snow was thin and exposed to the sun, the first shy tips of grass could be seen. But the sun was moving fast and soon it tumbled down the huge mountain, leaving her in a shadow. The chill numbed her ear lobes, her nose, her fingertips, her toes. She reached home stiff, frozen and unable to speak, till she got warm in front of the open fire.

  Like a grand artist, the life-giving sun with bold and skilled brushstrokes was changing the appearance of the whole place. In the schoolyard the ground, hard like cement and trampled on by hundreds of feet, became soft and lush green and covered by weeds, grasses and chamomile that left a bittersweet aroma as it was crushed under foot. Close to the fence, weeds, nettles, grasses and all sorts of wild flowers protected by the barbed wire grew in abundance. With extra verve the swallows returned and, in pairs, started to repair their old nests or build new ones.

  Three weeks into spring when Tasia took the same road to the village, the beauty of the view left her breathless. The valley was all dressed up in an exquisite green gown that swung gently in the afternoon breeze, pulling along poppies, daisies, and all the other colourful flowers in its constant flow. Swarms of large and small insects with jewel-like bodies and gossamer wings danced in the crystal clear air against a blue sky. An over-abundance of field birds saturated the air with their trill, and a mixture of intoxicating smells indulged her senses.

  In her imagination Tasia could see Persephone, the tragic daughter of Demeter and goddess of the underworld on her six-month leave from her cold underground kingdom surfacing again on earth to visit her mother to savour the warmth of the sun and, in a state of delirious happiness, bestow on the upper world her most precious gifts including a sense of hope and optimism.

  Tasia felt the thrill of being alive, even though the thirteen-year-old was still afraid and lost in a maze of puzzles and queries about herself, about her future, about people and things, about life and death.

  She had somehow found herself in this alien world born to these parents, in this specific village, not from choice, nor had she chosen to be a student in high school living away from home all alone. Still, she had to adjust and do the best she could to study, learn and progress, even though she could not envisage the outcome. Tasia couldn't imagine that one day she would finish school and graduate. Now and then though she would let herself dream of the day everybody would look at her with love and admiration, saying to each other 'Bravo! Good for that girl! Let's hope our children will be like her. Bravo!' without understanding why, or what the value of such love and admiration would be.

  But she knew she was a good girl, an obedient and respectful daughter and a dutiful and attentive student. This knowledge filled her with pride and satisfaction, independent of anybody else's recognition of her qualities and her value. So, with a newfound confidence she walked with her body erect and her head held high, and greeted her contemporaries with warmth and sincerity unconcerned about their response. She kept on smiling and swallowed her tears, because her pride would not allow her to show her deeply felt inner pain.

  With time, even the first impressions she'd had about the other girls in her class changed. They were decent girls, shy and proper, and several of them were from the surrounding villages, living in rented rooms and waiting for the baskets of food prepared by their mothers to arrive. Most of the female students were Ptolemais residents. Some were the well-to-do daughters of public servants or proprietors of small businesses. They were neat and tidy, with polished shoes, well-pressed uniforms, well-groomed hands and hair, and smart leather schoolbags. They also had a special air to the way they talked and walked.

  A number of Ptolemais girls were from farming families like Eleni, her schoolmate and neighbour with whom she had struck up a friendship. In Eleni's house, for the first time in her life Tasia saw a radio. As she entered Eleni's house, Tasia looked around, curious to see what was producing the heavenly music that filled the room and saw a strange looking box on top of the table.

  'That radio? My uncle brought it from America last year. The music comes straight from Athens,' explained Eleni.

  'What do you mean?' Tasia was fascinated.

  'The music we hear now is produced in Athens and is broadcast here directly.'

  'No! That's not possible! How can it be?'

  'I have no idea. My uncle says that's the miracle of modern science. An example of human ingenuity.'

  Tasia was left with her mouth open, unable to understand how the voice of a person talking in Athens hundreds of kilometres away could come so clearly out of a box on top of Helen's table. That was inconceivable, out of this world.

  In fact, a few years earlier the first time she heard a gramophone, she recalled how curious she was to find out where the woman singing Riri, Riri, Ririka esy ise prama pedi mu gero was hiding. She looked all around and inside the horn, but she only saw a black disc turning speedily round and round, but no woman. Someone had shown her how to wind up the gramophone and place the needle on the disc. This increased her curiosity and her surprise even more, as she couldn't understand how a needle turning on a disc could produce such sound. She was sure there were many more incredible and unbelievable things produced by humans of which she knew nothing. How rich and varied the universe was, and how incredibly ignorant she felt!

  Like Tasia's mother, Eleni's parents were also refugees. They had come from a village in Eastern Thrace during the exchange of populations between Turkey and Greece. Penniless and tattered, they were brought by the Greek authorities to the town of Ptolemais where they had settled in old mud houses left empty after the transfer of Turks to Turkey.

  Eleni's family spoke Greek mixed in with a number of words unknown to Tasia. Their house was covered in its entirety from the windowsills, the divans and all the dirt floors by koureloudes (rugs woven with strips of old clothes). A strange, pleasant smell permeated the whole house. Tasia found out it was from the special herbs they used for cooking.

  The first time she met Eleni's parents and brother, Tasia didn't know what to say or how to behave, not only because she was shy but also because she had no social skills whatsoever. Eleni's parents were very friendly and soon made her feel comfortable. Tasia couldn't help making comparisons between her own mother and Eleni's, a talkative and jovial woman, who freely demonstrated her love and affection for her children. One day she gave Tasia a very thin slice of meat to taste. It had the same strange smell as the house and it was delicious.

  'It's pasturma, made from donkey meat,' Eleni's brother teased, while his sister chased him all around the room with a broom.

  'Don't take any notice of them. They always carry on that way,' said Eleni's mother, laughing. 'It is pasturma made from beef. Their father knows how to make pasturma. He is the best pasturma maker around here.'

  Somehow Tasia managed to s
urvive the school year and sit for the end-of-year exams. After that she went straight back to the village, ready to contribute to the demanding agricultural summer work. But she had changed a lot. Instead of waiting for her mother to wake her up before sunrise each morning as she had in the past having to call her several times to get up Tasia was now the first one out of bed. She would prepare whatever they had to take with them to the farm. She'd light the kerosene lamp, boil the mountain tea on the spirit stove, and fill up the round, wooden, water containers.

  Hundreds of questions and doubts still tormented her and, in an attempt to pacify her inner turmoil, Tasia kept extremely busy. She had a need to prove to herself she was a good girl, honest and hard-working, disciplined, moral and loyal to her family. She was aware people in the village always watched her, looking for reasons to criticise and belittle her. But she wasn't going to give them that satisfaction. She was going to prove to them she was the most dutiful and responsible girl in the village, regardless of where she was living and how much freedom she had. Besides, she always felt secure and protected behind the emotional fortresses she had built around herself.

  The hot summer sun, the country smells and the generosity of mother earth strengthened her resolve. She loved the late afternoon hours as she waited barefoot in the vegetable patch in the mud to divert the flow of water from one ditch to another with her pickaxe. She worked hard all day and, dead tired, would go to bed early to wake refreshed before daybreak. She would enjoy the comfort and the warmth of her bed while contemplating some of the village girls with a feeling of moral superiority. There they are comfortably sitting all day in the shade doing embroidery for their glory boxes. If I could get my hands on the right materials, I could show them! I could be the best embroiderer in the whole world! But, what is the value of a young girl spending all her time doing the best embroidery nobody is ever going to see again after the wedding.

  Yes, it was plainly obvious she was different from all the other girls in her village. However, at the same time an inner voice was scolding her for her haughtiness, shaming her, making her feel yet again, the pain of loneliness which, in the village environment, became increasingly more intense and unbearable.

  F

  ollowing the German occupation that had deprived them of not only their freedom but also of their most elementary needs, people now faced life with a newfound courage and optimism. Weddings followed one another and new babies were born in most households. Even Tasia’s parents were satisfied with the year’s harvesting, making her feel a bit better about the extra burden she was creating. That she also contributed to this positive outcome, made her happy. But soon she would have to abandon them while there was a great deal more to be done, and return to her studies in town. Still, there were times when Tasia looked forward to going back to school, and even found herself counting the remaining days with growing impatience.

  Tasia’s love and respect for mother earth was enormous. She loved the harsh agricultural work that kept her close to the soil. However, there was a void in her life. Something was missing. Maybe it was the lack of intellectual stimulation and the satisfaction she found in reading her school books, and learning. There was also a fake pretentiousness and prudishness in the behaviour of the village people that started to tire her. Her home atmosphere had become heavy and depressing, making her small rented room in Ptolemais a cool oasis waiting to embrace her tenderly and to quench her intellectual thirst.

  She was consumed by a restless curiosity to understand things many other people took for granted: how the earth rotated around the sun, how the wheat matured, how the swallows found their nest in spring, how the voices and music from Athens could reach Eleni’s box in Ptolemais, how the small planes — periodically crossing the sky above — flew, and many other things. She wanted to learn, to truly understand, to know instantly about everything. She wanted to read from cover to cover her new school books, to learn about new things and new ideas, to feel exhilarated with every new discovery she read about as if it were her own, and every new idea she was exposed to as if it were her own creation. In the process, if she were lucky enough to get good marks and be promoted to a higher class, that would be an extra bonus: a just reward for her parents’ sacrifices, and a way of forcing the villagers to keep their mouths shut.

  Her lonely room was as dull and oppressive as ever and she now had to walk to school alone because Eleni had failed her exams and left school.

  ‘It’s best that way,’ she reassured Tasia when they met. ‘I’ve told you I don’t like school. I’m going to my aunt in Kozani for two years to learn dressmaking.’

  Tasia had lost her only close friend at a time when she needed her most. She wasn’t ready to trust any of the other girls. She had wanted to discuss with Eleni the worries she had about her health and about the strange changes she had noticed in her body. Two hard lumps the size of walnuts had appeared on her chest, and made her jump in pain every time she accidentally touched them. Hard bristles had appeared in some peculiar places and angry red pimples had sprouted all over her face, tempting her to squeeze them. She’d end up with a swollen red face making her too embarrassed to go out. She’d also find herself crying one minute for no apparent reason, while the next minute she’d be feeling deliriously happy.

  When Tasia came home from school one afternoon she had such an unbearable stomach ache and nausea that she went straight to bed and lay doubled over. Later on, when she went to the toilet, she saw blood and almost died of fright. There was no doubt about it: she was sick, very sick. Perhaps dying. Dying and all alone! What could she do? She urgently needed a doctor, but where could she find one? In despair she went to her landlady’s door and opened it without knocking.

  ‘I’m sick. I’m bleeding. I need a doctor. Help me, please help me. I’m dying!’ she cried full of fear.

  The old lady was sitting by her window to catch the last sunrays on her lace knitting. She lifted her head and looked at Tasia for a moment, asking her casually,

  ‘Did you see blood in your pants? Didn’t you know about it? Didn’t your mother tell you? That’s why I wasn’t keen to let the room to a girl.’

  She said this all in one breath. Tasia had no idea what the landlady was talking about, but was relieved to see her get up and walk towards her. Placing her arm around Tasia’s shoulders the old lady guided her gently back to her room and helped her get back into bed. She brought her a cup of hot mountain tea, a hot brick wrapped up in a towel and placed it on Tasia’s tummy, and she provided her with the necessary equipment to deal with her periods. Later she brought a bowl of steaming hot soup.

  ‘Come on, have some!’ she encouraged her. ‘It’ll do you good. You don’t need a doctor. What you have is natural. It’s the blessing and the curse of every woman. Your mother will explain,’ she said, and left, shutting the door behind her.

  Tasia was already feeling much better. She couldn’t get over her landlady’s totally unexpected caring and gentleness. She couldn’t believe this scary old woman, the thought of whom was enough to send shivers down her spine, could be so kind and compassionate. It was as if she was affirming Tasia’s existence, as if she were saying that she cared for and loved her, a revela-tion that made Tasia feel reassured and so emotional she cried for hours.

  She woke up in the morning, calm and in good spirits and decided to skip Saturday morning classes and go home. She started walking with the morning sun warming her back, revealing new shapes and shadows. She had never before seen the atmosphere so clear and the colours so bright. Never before were the smells so strong and so pleasant. Her rubber boots were sinking deep into the thick mud and her progress was slow and laboured. But she was unconcerned about all this because a new and unknown world had opened up inside her, with new sensa-tions making her feel one with mother earth. It was as if a bad spell had broken to reveal the true essence of life. She felt as if the universe embraced her with messages of love, hope, peace, harmony and fulfilment.

  ‘My l
ittle bird, you are so small and skinny. I thought there was still plenty of time to tell you,’ her mother apologised. ‘You’ve just turned fourteen and I got mine when I was seventeen. Every woman has it. It comes every month and lasts for three to four days. You have to get used to it; you have no choice. You are a woman now and must be very careful. Until today I was relaxed about your walking these distances alone. No one would touch a child. Nothing like that ever happened around here. But now it’s changed. You have to have your eyes open and you must never trust any boy. You must never come home walking alone. Take the bus or come with other girls from the surrounding villages.’

  Mother had said a lot: more than at any other time. However, something in her behaviour, in her difficulty to say what she wanted to say, her uneasiness, gave the strong message to Tasia that it was improper to talk about things that had to do with the private parts of a woman’s body; that some things in life must remain taboo and unexplored, that some words must never pass the lips of a proper girl.

  Nevertheless, her mother’s words got her thinking. What did she mean by telling her she was now a woman, that she should have her eyes open and not to trust any boy? Growing up in a rural setting she had seen chickens, dogs and even sheep and horses getting intimate. When she was sure no one else was around she watched this act with great curiosity, feeling tingly all over her body and getting anxious and bashful at the same time. When others were around she would pretend to look at something else.