The House on Paradise Street

by Sofka Zinovieff

  The staff in the Elena Hospital were not unkind, though they did whisper and stare. After all, I had come in wearing handcuffs. They made jokes.

  “He’s a patriot,” one nurse said.

  He had certainly chosen a triumphant day. He arrived on October 28th, when we all remember our “No” to the Italians.

  “This boy won’t let anyone trample over him,” the nurse went on. “He’ll be a fighter.”

  I often thought of those words over the years, hoping they would be a form of blessing for my son.

  Although I had haemorrhaged badly and there were complications I didn’t understand at the time, I went back to jail after three days. But instead of being returned to Kallithea, I was taken to Averoff Prison, entering through the front door on Alexandra Avenue. The sun burnt my face and a Cyclops eye peered through a hole in the door. Bolts and bars screeched and I passed through several doors, before I was stopped and searched by a hag. She pawed at my clothes and thrust her hand between my legs.

  “Careful, I’m bleeding,” I said. “I have given birth.”

  She muttered, “May it live for you!” as though it was a curse. Then she led me out to the courtyard. Hundreds of women were gathered like a flock of crows, in black and grey clothes and dark headscarves. There were old crones and teenagers, virgins and widows, strong village mothers and pale city intellectuals. Over by a large palm tree and the prison chapel, dozens of little children were shouting and playing. From the other side of the high walls came men’s voices from the male section. My head spun from the sun and from some lingering weakness, and I looked for somewhere to sit. Before I could find a space, familiar voices called my name and Dora almost knocked me down with her embraces. Behind her was Storm. My old comrades shouted over the noise of the people who had gathered around to watch.

  “What happened? The baby? Are you all right?” Storm and Dora had been transferred to the Averoff a couple of months before and had heard nothing of me since then.

  They both looked well – Dora as small and springy as a rubber ball and Storm standing solid and dignified.

  “I have a son. He is well.” My voice was like somebody else’s. “They say they’ll bring him.” I swayed, ready to pass out, and Dora sat me down on a step. She placed a hand on my forehead, while Storm fetched water.

  “Not as good as the springs on Mount Iti.” Storm handed me a tin cup. “The fight continues, wherever we are. Your health, Antigone.”

  Dora said, “May your son live for you. May he have health, happiness and be a brave revolutionary. He’ll get a good training in here with all his aunties. But the godmother has to be me or Storm. You’ll be with me in the mother-and-baby dormitory. It’s noisy and crowded but it’s all right.” Dora glanced at Storm and paused.

  “Don’t worry – it’s no secret.” There was never any compromising with Storm. “I call figs, figs and troughs, troughs,” she liked to say. “I’m down in the dungeons – on death row. I can’t say it’s cheerful – we’re in single cells without windows, but we manage. We sing together, even if we’re twenty steps underground. It’s good practice for the time we’ll soon be spending beneath the earth.”

  Two small children ran up to Dora and pulled at her clothes. She told them, “Give a kiss to your Aunt Antigone.” Then she introduced me to Panos, her three-year-old, who jumped and shouted and refused to come near me. His sister, Evdokia, who was quiet and serious, kissed my cheek with such sadness that I felt faint all over again. Later, I met Kyria Tina, Dora’s mother, a woman even smaller and more energetic than Dora. Kyria Tina had been imprisoned for supporting her daughter and supplying other “bandits” with food and shelter. So, with nobody else to care for Dora’s children, the “poor mites” – as their granny called them – had been brought into prison too.

  A few hours after I arrived at Averoff, my baby was brought from the hospital. They told me to feed him and the older children gathered around to stare at the tiny creature. When I changed him, they pointed and laughed at his “fur”. After the feed, the nurse took him away. Three hours later, he was back again. This rigmarole continued for eight days, after which they said he could stay – I was allowed to keep my parcel. By then, my son had changed from the silent, questioning infant he had been at first. He wailed like a demon for hours on end. The only person who could help was Dora, who took him in her arms and calmed his raging. She boiled up camomile and fed him from a spoon when he had stomach pains. And she sang him songs to distract him.

  If it wasn’t Nikitas crying, it was another child – we were at least a hundred mothers and children in the special dormitory. Averoff had been built for two hundred inmates and now housed about twelve hundred. We were almost all “politicals” (criminals were kept separately) and we were locked up for nineteen hours of the day. There was nowhere to go but the triple-layered bunks in which the children were squeezed, two to a bed. Washing was strung along the bars over the high windows and a large bucket in the corner was used when the guards would not come to take us to the toilet. The smell of physical life was overwhelming – hair, skin, feet, and all that flows from women’s and babies’ bodies: dried milk gone sour; infant vomit; menstrual blood seeping onto rags; urine darkening in the bucket and soaking into nappies; and sweat from the constant struggle to keep ourselves and our offspring clean.

  Our confined existence settled into a regular pattern that contained all the joy and sorrow of life anywhere else. We all believed in the same thing so, if anything, we became more determined to keep our fight going by becoming better organised. We instituted morning gymnastics, and anyone with a profession or talent used it: there were four doctors, several lawyers and various teachers and artists. The seamstresses were the only ones who didn’t do general housework as they were so busy. Although there were restrictions on books and paper, we started reading and writing lessons. Some of the older children attended these, including Elpida, the youngest prisoner. At the age of twelve she was a political enemy, who had been through a court martial and been convicted of high treason. Her crime was handing out pamphlets – others were in for painting slogans on walls. She was a good girl, Elpida. She helped look after the babies and did her lessons, and as her name [Hope] suggests, she helped us stay optimistic with her sweet nature.

  We had a special programme for the “black cloud” – the group of old grandmothers who normally dressed in mourning clothes. Many were illiterate and we taught them to write so they could send letters to their families. I particularly liked Kyria Frosso, an ancient crone with a kind, wrinkled face, who must have been in her 80s – I never imagined I would reach that great age myself. Sometimes she would hold the baby for me when I was busy and I would write letters for her when she was too tired to spell out each word by herself. Of course, much of our day was spent dealing with the practicalities of living in cramped quarters with so many people. Apart from trying to keep ourselves and our children clean, we had rotas for chores. There were the “floor Marias”, “corridor Marias”, “canteen Marias” and so on. The “yard Marias” had to scrub the whole courtyard and the “washroom Marias” made the fires to heat cauldrons filled with water, which they then distributed: first to mothers and babies, then to death row prisoners so they would be clean if they were taken for execution, then to grandmothers and those with TB, and finally to the remaining inmates. Then the “canteen Marias” took the cauldrons and used them to cook food for over a thousand mouths. We had songs for different chores. The “washroom Marias” sang the Kalamatiano, Three boys from Volos. We were determined not to let the system beat us.

  Naturally, it was never quiet. Everyone wore wooden clogs and clattered up and down the stairs and stamped across the concrete yard like charging cavalry. Women calling, singing, arguing, children playing and crying. The noisiest person of all was Kyria Tina, Dora’s mother. I loved her like family and she became an honorary grandmother to Nikitas, despite being in a different dormitory to us. You could hear her voice all over the priso
n. In fact, she was chosen as the primary “caller”, who shouted out our names when there was a roll call or when we had visitors. At night, things were quieter, but the noises were more upsetting. Not so much the babies, but the women weeping, many of them crying out from nightmares, remembering the horrors that they had been through. Everyone had a story to tell about how they had been beaten or tortured. Kyria Tina had had salt put in her wounds and Storm had several fingernails pulled out. Dora told me how they took boiled eggs from the pan and pressed them under her arms. Her armpits were left scalded and weeks later, they were still tender. We all had worries that grew worse in the dark hours.

  Sometimes I envied the death row women down in their dungeons for the peace they had – I yearned for some relief from the constant swirl of humanity. The only time there was a moment of sudden quiet was when men from the isolation cells started singing before they were taken away for execution. Whenever we heard them we froze – we would stop dressing a child or mopping the floor, listening out for the sounds of their departure.

  In the darkest, coldest part of the year, when Nikitas was still only a few months old, I had a visitor. It was raining and I had been with the “cauldron Marias” that morning, so I was wet and dirty. I heard Kyria Tina yelling out my name for the visitors’ room. Prisoners went in ten at a time and had five minutes in which to exchange news and to get what we called “free air” from the outside. I had never been before, as nobody from my family had visited. I knew they would not be impressed by the arrival of a bastard – plenty of babies were pushed through the hatch at the foundling hospital for lesser crimes. It was dark and I couldn’t see well in the small room, though I did notice two windows covered in bars and wire mesh. The guard motioned me over to the far window and I peered through, wondering who had come for me.

  When I saw Johnny on the other side of the bars, I almost walked back into the rain. This was the second time he had come to stare at me as if I was a caged animal and I hated him for it. There was no place for an English oppressor in my country or my life. But I couldn’t turn around. I was weak.

  “How good of you to come.” I hoped I sounded like my mother at her haughtiest. He didn’t answer, but stood close to the bars, looking at me. I felt ashamed that he should see me with my hair like rats’ tails. I knew my face was red from the steam and I noticed how shabby my clothes were. Johnny was in uniform, his hair slicked down and his face so closely shaved it was like a boy’s.

  He said, “I am going home. I can’t stay in Greece any longer.” He paused and I waited in silence until he found his voice. “Markos… I’m so sorry.” He struggled with the words.

  I said, “You are a murderer, Johnny. Why did Markos have to die?”

  It was evident that he wanted me to believe him. He said, “You can’t hold me responsible. I wasn’t there. I only found out later. I loved Markos.” His face contracted and I wondered whether he was going to cry. “I’m leaving, but I would like to help you. I know you have a son. There must be so much he needs.” Time passed as slowly as water turning to ice while I stood there, hearing Johnny’s words but saying nothing. I shut out the memories of the joy we had experienced before all this – the Ilissos river, the poems and picnics. Another life. The bell rang and the guard shouted for prisoners to withdraw. The five minutes had passed.

  “Send me soap,” I said, thinking of my son. “And wool, for knitting.” Johnny nodded, but said nothing.

  “Everyone needs paper and pencils, so anything like that is useful.”

  He put his hand up to the window, but the wire between us prevented any contact even if I had reciprocated.

  “Goodbye, Antigone. I hope your country’s misery will soon end.”

  I nodded and left the room with the other prisoners. I was disoriented by the visit, but my friends were delighted when, on the next visiting day, a large parcel arrived. The guards confiscated the coffee and cigarettes, but we were left with generous quantities of tea, sugar, soap, dozens of balls of wool (blue for a boy), and twenty notebooks and pencils.

  “Ask your Englishman to come again,” they begged. “Ask if he can send more. Never mind if they are royalist, colonialist pigs.” And he did. I must give him credit for that.

  * * *

  We baptised my son just after Easter. Storm insisted she should be godmother. She said, “I will die a virgin and never have a child of my own. At least let me have a godchild.” She teased me that, when the priest asked her for the name, she would say “Anaximandros” after her beloved father. But when the moment came, she called out “Nikitas”, so that even the crowds in the courtyard heard her from the chapel. We all understood she was talking of victory and hope. The baby watched quietly as Storm held him, wrapped in a towel, and the elderly Father Philippos got on with the service.

  “Out with the Devil, out with him.” He repeated the phrase over and over, making the spitting motions and looking pointedly at Storm. Needless to say, the prison’s priest was no lover of communists and we never enjoyed his visits. He pressed us to repent of our political sins and renounce the Party: “Sign the statement,” he’d say, “and go home to your families like good Christian Greek women. Stop wasting your time with godless criminals. You are lost children who can be saved by Christ and by yourselves.”

  When Nikitas’ towel was removed and he was covered from head to toe in olive oil, he became uneasy and then angry. I watched in dismay from the required distance as Father Philippos grabbed my screaming child around the midriff and made for the font. His grey beard was scratching the seven-month-old’s back. As he made to plunge Nikitas into the water, the baby started to slip from his grip. Dora and I lurched forward, but we were too far away to help. I glimpsed Storm’s face as she registered the danger and dived for him. Afterwards, we realised it was a movement like she had made so many times to escape bullets on the mountains. She caught my son just as his arms slithered from the priest’s hands and godmother and child landed together on the tiled floor. A small pause followed, as Nikitas stopped crying in surprise. Then his voice reverberated around the prison walls – lungfuls of air forced into screams. On and on. We established that he was not hurt, but the chapel was filled with noise. Dora’s children started crying and there was muttering from the hundreds of prisoners, who were crammed into the chapel and pressing around the entrance.

  It took some time before Father Philippos regained enough composure to continue, and then he didn’t have the heart to put Nikitas all the way under the water. Instead, he gave a hurried version of the rite, dipping my son in three times up to his waist. He handed the baby back to Storm.

  “Silly old goat,” she whispered, as we dressed Nikitas in beautiful blue woollen shorts and jacket, knitted by Kyria Tina. Of course, we had no boubouniéres to hand out – where would you get sugared almonds? But there were flowers left over from Good Friday, the only day of the year when visitors were allowed give them to prisoners, to decorate Christ’s bier: clove-scented carnations, white calla lilies, and some roses that had dropped their red petals everywhere and left smears all over the tiles.

  It was only a few hours later that they announced there would be executions the next morning. Storm and three other women were among those to be taken to Goudi, along with a group of men from the neighbouring part of the prison.

  Storm said, “We didn’t enter this fight to live, but to die.” Her face was grey, but she wouldn’t admit that this was more than any other battle.

  “Death will take us all, so it’s the same whether it’s now or later. The important thing is how you live and how you die.” The other women were equally brave, like early Christians going to their deaths, charged up with faith. They tried to comfort the rest of us but it was hard to stay calm. They also wrote letters for their families and prepared themselves. Dora and I helped Storm wash and fix her clothes, and I brushed her hair, braiding it into a thick rope. Dora cleaned her shoes, wiping away the dust that got everywhere and making them shine. It was impo
rtant to go to your death in a dignified way, looking as good as possible and with your head held high. When the call went for us to return to our cells and dormitories, the girls on death row went away singing and even after they were locked into their tiny dungeons, they continued. We could hear their voices all through the night, singing until they were hoarse.

  Farewell poor world,

  Farewell sweet life,

  And you, my poor country,

  Farewell for ever.

  They sang the dance of Zalongo, remembering the women of Souli, who had sung and danced along the edge of the cliffs, choosing death and honour over slavery under the Turks. As Ali Pasha’s troops came to capture them, the mothers threw their children off the cliff and then danced themselves over the edge, leaving the soldiers looking down at their bodies on the rocks below.

  As dawn came, the singing grew louder and we realised that the prisoners had come into the courtyard. We got out of bed, leaving the children sleeping, and climbed up to the windows, so we could see our friends for the last time.

  “Go to the good, Storm! Farewell! Take a good bullet!” Dora’s voice was steady.