I had long ago, come to terms with my role in the U.S. as the wife of an immigrant, both of us uneducated. I knew I would never have the material life many of my peers were experiencing. Nick’s family could not have understood how difficult it was for us to scrape together the meager funds we brought with us each visit. We were working long hard hours, and I could not justify leaving my children, to scrounge for money left on restaurant tables so that I could give it to someone else. At the end of each trip to Margariti, I would leave Nikki’s clothes behind for Vaso’s daughters because I knew that Nikki would outgrow them. I wanted to help in some way, but that was the best I could do at that time. Sadly, I realized that there were those people who had succumbed to the widely-believed myth of money-paved roads in America. We could not change that.
On the flight home, I looked out over the blue sky beyond the wing of the plane. I thought about all the changes that had occurred since my first visit in Margariti and the new living room that had been created on that visit. We also had our newly drawn architectural plans tucked away in a suitcase and the cement that had cost us the last of the eight thousand dollars would arrive in our absence and be used for a foundation for our home—giving Fotis one more job to oversee. And Nick would return off-season the following fall with more loan money, to begin the construction of the walls. I turned away from the small airplane window. I'd been wondering about something.
“Nick, how did you know the room above the storeroom wasn’t going to collapse?”
“I didn’t." He smiled. “I just didn’t care if it did.”
My husband—fearless and strong—when you have someone like that backing you, it’s a little less scary to take chances. And that’s how we were as I finished up my last year at the university and met the world with my degree the following summer.
Armed with a teaching license, I felt sure that I would get the job opening at the school in which I had done my student teaching. I had been a substitute teacher there for a few weeks when the new position opened. But I did not get the job, and I was devastated. I could have stayed there and made a living, as it was one of the highest paid substitute jobs in the area, but I wanted to teach, not babysit. So, I left.
It was a pivotal moment in my career and I found an unlikely mentor on my daily jog around my neighborhood. Sy Rubin, the father of Joanne’s best friend, seemed to have the same walking routine as my running, and I would join him for a brief walk a few times a week. He had just retired from a long career in teaching.
“Are you sure you want to teach?!” He gave me his most sympathetic look.
I nodded.
“Teaching? Think about it. Are you sure?” He said the word teaching as if it were a cockroach.
I was sure. But I listened to what he told me and I acted on all his advice which would make a huge difference in my life and the lives of my family. He told me about one of his daughters who was a speech pathologist and he convinced me to apply for my Masters. I had just finished five years of school, and didn’t know if I had the stamina but he pointed out that New York teachers needed a Masters anyway and it would be better to get something useful for when I realized that teaching was not what I wanted. So a few weeks later, I found myself enrolled in the prerequisite courses in the Speech Pathology Department at Hofstra University—my life signed away for many years on the loans that I would need. And one month after that, I got a call from my local school district. After a brief interview I started my new position as the high school ESL teacher. I would spend the next five years struggling with the uphill climb, through many tears and an arduous course load, working days at my new teaching position and once again, leaving my children while I was attending class at night.
My first day as a teacher was October 31, 1994. There had been no meetings, no mentors. I was given one textbook and thrown into the closet-sized ESL classroom. The students consisted of two Latino gang members, one angry pregnant fifteen-year-old, two silent Korean sisters, an extremely enthusiastic Ukrainian girl and three others who had no idea what anyone was saying. My years in the restaurants had not prepared me for much problem solving in that new environment. I had seen a stuffed trout sail past my head and land on a wall, the trout sliding to the floor while the crabmeat stuffing stayed glued to the wall for months, fist fights between grown men on the slippery wet kitchen floor as I walked gingerly around them trying to balance a tray, waitresses smacked by a hand in moments of anger for infractions such as dropping a tray full of glassware. The most valuable skill I had gained from those years, was to make myself invisible.
I wasn’t quite sure how to approach the school administrators around me. I made many mistakes in those days and hurt people that I had not known I was hurting until I acquired enough experience to figure it out. I was so surprised to see how much work there was that didn’t seem to have anything to do with teaching. When someone asked me what I thought of the whole thing, I remember answering truthfully.
“It’s like marriage and having children. It’s nothing like I thought it would be.”
But when I walked down the hall of my school, I was hardly able to breathe from the pride that was choking me; I couldn’t believe my good fortune—to be there—in a school, as a teacher, walking among some of my own former teachers. It was beyond wonderful and I was constantly fighting the lump in my throat that threatened tears as my elation won over my apprehension.
I was no longer able to work in the restaurant. My retreat was complete. And my income was cut in half. It was both painful and joyful.
CHAPTER 12
No one knew where Tomas worked or lived during his two year absence—not his children, not his wife, not even any of the Margariti workers in Germany. He had chosen to stay clear of the others and had gone further north to Nuremberg. He would never satisfy his curious children with much more than the information that Germany was a place that you had to stand at your job for hours and hours. And later questions of “What did you do at your work up there, Tomas?” would be met with sarcasm. “I danced all day!” or anger, “Work . . . I worked!” Whereas the other men always had stories and were eager to tell them.
In fact, the contract Tomas signed as a Gastarbeiter with the German machine manufacturer, called Siemens, committed him to work for two years and gave him a place to stay and a steady income of about twelve hundred marks a month, which was about seven hundred dollars or one hundred thousand Greek drachmas—of which only half would have allowed his family to live like royalty on the mountainside of Margariti, but alas, when Chevi went to the post office week after week, month after month, the postmaster always disappointed her, leaving her empty-handed until finally she stopped going and Markos’ sympathetic eyes had told her, had he received anything for her at all, he would have run to her house to deliver it, personally.
Chevi worried about her children. They were hungry and she was afraid they would not grow properly. Nikos was away in Athens with Tomas’ brother. He was going to high school there. That meant that he no longer worked with Thansi on the road crews and brought her the extra money, but it also meant that he would be educated, like the Bakayannis boys. He would change the course of the Lykas bloodline. An educated man has many choices in life. Chevi could not have realized that on his return from Germany, Tomas would summon his son home from the foolishness of Athens to work the farm. Thus, sentencing him to a life of manual labor, which in later years would be far from home.
Vaso had already lost her chance for such an education. A few years before, the elementary school teacher had recommended she go to a prestigious boarding school in Athens to further her studies. The teacher had even sent the application and begun the procedures, knowing that a bright girl such as she would go far in such an environment. And after no response from the student’s parents, the teacher had delivered the last paper to the house to get the signature for the eye exam—ready to escort the young girl to the doctor herself, if need be.
Tomas had been very personable, even a bi
t flirtatious—smiling graciously and making small talk as Vaso carried the coffee tray to the table under the tree. Her smile grew from the confidence brought to the yard with her teacher’s authority. As they sipped from their cups, the teacher presented her case, Chevi—listening quietly—as her daughter’s future was gingerly unfolded onto the table like a delicate lace cloth.
Tomas politely responded. “Thank you for coming by, Thaskala. We will certainly take it into consideration,” He was a perfect gentleman.
“Sir, I would be happy to continue the procedure for you and escort Vaso to Igoumenitsa for the eye exam. I only need your signature.” She smiled.
A bit more sternly, Tomas replied, “we will take care of it, thank you.”
And when she had gone, Chevi watched helplessly as her daughter’s hope drained in a steady flow like blood from an open vein and seeped into the dirt at her father’s feet, Tomas exclaiming, “Athens!?! My daughter is no putona. Forget it!”
Vaso was as headstrong as her father, but a young girl’s protests had no weight in that world. Tomas offered no further explanation, but Chevi suspected that her husband feared the possibility of losing his workers. It would be difficult to control his boys so he strove to secure the others—those who lacked autonomy.
So, it was her daughters Chevi worried most about. She knew well, the life they were destined for, there on the countryside. And it was these concerns that sparked a conversation in the Parga square with her friends from Senitsa as they sold their goods. One woman talked about her daughter in a government school right there in Parga. She was learning about sewing, weaving, needlepoint, housekeeping and household management. But most importantly, she lived at the school and was being well fed.
The following week, Chevi brought her eldest daughter to the school with gifts for the headmistress—a basket of eggs hanging from one arm and a live chicken clutched in the other.
Vaso’s application was accepted and the following week with a few possessions, she left her home, not for a husband’s home, but for a future. She would live at the school during the week and come home to help her mother on the weekends. And Chevi would see her each time she visited the market. Vaso had already been a reliable seamstress at her young age. It was known in Margariti that she was gifted with a needle and thread but at the school, she would fine tune that skill. Her teachers believed that she could be a top dressmaker and that she had a promising future with such a career.
As they became old enough, her sisters followed her to the same school. They would learn skills other than farming. They would choose their own husbands. They would create their own lives. Their freedom awaited. Sometimes, alone on the path to the farm, Chevi dreamed of their years ahead, and smiled.
* * * *
Pavlos stopped his hand cart to watch the bus lumber down the mountainside, a cloud of dust following it. The metal groaned and whined as it rocked from side to side between the worn ruts of the dirt road. Tattered curtains swung within, following each jolt, revealing faces behind the dusty windows.
The bus’ arrival in town was an honored event because the people of such a town where the bus would stop, were not an isolated backward bunch, rednecks on the peak of some desolate mountain, but rather a sophisticated people from within a valley so important and so sought after, as history had shown, that the bus stopped there—not once a month, not once a week—but every day! And that bus was no simple village-to-village bus, but rather The Athens Bus. It began its journey from the northern port of Igoumenitsa and arrived at its final destination, the city of the revered goddess, Athena, with stops only in important places—like Margariti.
Aliki with her two younger brothers jumped with excitement as they awaited its arrival at the side of the road, a low almond branch protecting them from the sun. They were eager to see what their mother had brought them back from Igoumenitsa and could barely contain themselves as the wheels squeaked to a halt.
“Mickey Mouse!” They jumped up and down with delight, clapping their hands as their mother emerged from the open doors holding up a comic book.
Pavlos smiled and was about to continue on his way, but as he grabbed the handles of the cart, another figure descended the bus stairs. There stood his friend, Tomas, back from that far off place—Germany. He dropped the cart and ran to Tomas, shook his hand vigorously while planting a loud kiss on each cheek and then a hearty slap on the back.
Tomas, eyes closed, drank in the aroma as the Margariti air embraced him: honeysuckle, thyme, wild oregano. He listened to the coos from the diving swallows as they rose and sank sharply through the air, and he watched them draw their half circles around him.
Home at last.
A deep sigh escaped as he exhaled. He was surprised at the joy he felt as his worn work boots landed in the dust on the road. He hungered to greet every villager, every animal, to pick up rocks and toss them into the air, to smell every flower, every weed. He scooped a handful of wild rosemary and crushed it in his fingers, bringing the fragments to his face and deeply inhaling.
The bus driver appeared and opened a large metal door on the side of the bus, revealing a storage area packed full. Tomas collected his belongings and with his friend at his side walked up the path toward his house.
“Well, well, look who it is,” Mitina exclaimed, putting her watering can down as he passed her front gate; she walked out to greet him.
“What have you there?” She pointed to a bicycle perched on his shoulders.
“A gift for my son.” Tomas puffed out his chest and continued his stride. Odysseus, the king, was returning to Ithaca.
As he continued on, more villagers joined the party as he relayed to them wonders of the great kingdom of Germany.
“Everyone has an automobile. And they are as big as three large donkeys put together. The roads are smooth and black. No stones! Not one.”
“Ahhh, yes.” They nodded their heads as if they could see the images he described.
He ascended the dirt hill to his house and was met with silence. No one was there. So what else could he do? He put his battered suitcase inside the entrance and hid the bicycle behind the well and headed to town for one small drink.
As darkness crept over the taverna window panes, Tomas became lost in time, telling and retelling stories of his long journey while providing an audience by way of a steady stream of ouzo, as was made clear to the proprietor upon his earlier arrival. But as night fell over the tiled rooftops, and his pockets grew lighter, he became eager to reacquaint himself with his wife, so he slowly made his way home, strengthened by the power of the drink, a victor, free at last from the toil of that far off land, back to claim his fair maiden.
Chevi stirred under the thick wool blanket when she heard the creaking floorboards. Tomas moved closer, his stocking feet remembering the worn wood with fondness. His bed on the opposite wall had been vacated upon his return. At the sight of his suitcase, Anastasia and Eftihia retreated to the cinderblock rooms at the foot of the stairs. But Tomas’ interest lay in the bed occupied by his wife. He slowly undressed and slid under the thick wool, his hand searching for her.
Chevi rolled to face her husband.
“Your children cried for bread. I went to the post office every day until my shame would no longer allow it.”
“I sent you money,” Tomas whispered.
“I got two hundred marks.”
“Yes, it was I who sent it.”
“They cried for bread. They have no shoes. The girls do not have a proper dress for school.”
“I sent you money.” He reached out to touch her.
“Two hundred marks? Two years!” She sucked the air in short convulsive inhales.
“It was hard work, Chevi.” His fingers tenderly felt her wet cheeks.
“You went there, so we could eat—”
“It was expensive to live there. It was hard. You don’t know.”
“The other men sent money.” Her words came between muffled sobs. “Every month.
Their women went to the butcher.” Her face was pressed to the pillow, barely audible, “their children ate meat . . . two hundred marks!?” She turned her back to him.
Tomas swung his feet to the floor and slumped to the other side of the room, almost stepping on little Fotis asleep on a mat.
“You waste money.” His voice was a wisp of air. The words held no power. “You don’t know how to manage.”
Chevi wiped her nose on her night dress and her muffled voice was lost in the cloth.
“You forgot us. You left me to take care of five hungry children.” She breathed heavily into the dark. “You forgot us. . .”
Then there was silence. And the darkness choked them like the smoke of an accidental summer fire that ignites with a spark on the dry ground and ends with a charred mountainside.
CHAPTER 13
The passing of time was measured in our Margariti construction projects and our school years. In the summer of 1997, I was one year away from my graduate degree. Thomas would enter sixth grade in the fall and Nikki, eighth grade. Her struggle to decipher words and letters had reached an apex a few years before. In the spring of her fifth grade year, as she had been preparing to leave elementary school with a second grade reading level, I had finally come to terms with the need to have her tested for a learning disability. The teachers had tried every year to get me to sign the consent form—but my child was not retarded. She had recited the Greek alphabet at age two and by three could hear any information and explain it back: how satellites work, the pollination of flowers, photosynthesis! So how was it that she could not read? It had to be the teachers' fault. But slowly, through my own coursework, I began to understand how such a situation was possible. And if that knowledge had been mine at an earlier time, I might have destroyed my daughter's sense of her self with the inevitable parental fears that would have driven my actions, but instead I had thought it cute when she held the book upside down or made up words—my laughter making her smile. She was my first child, only the second grandchild of the sixteen my parents would accumulate in rapid succession, and we didn't have a measuring stick of experience. But as time progressed and I began to write her name in the margins of my textbooks, studying about specific reading problems, identifying behaviors that I recognized were common for her, I began to understand and I focused all my energy into learning all I could on how to help her. In the meantime, Thomas, who had been able to read since kindergarten and would gobble a book, such as the Hobbit in a matter of days, who could write complex thoughts and understand inferences beyond his age, began to do all he could to get the attention of parents who seemed to be everywhere, except with him.
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