“He used the belt on him for stupid things,” Christina said. “He was always in trouble. And when Nicolai had enough and left us, our father did not even see him off at the ship when he went to America. He didn’t write to Nicolai and when Nicolai married your mother, po po po.” Christina bit at the bottom of her lip. “He didn’t send a gift, a card, nothing. It was as if Nicolai had died, just because he didn’t marry a Greek girl.” Christina shook her head and wiped at her eyes with her apron. “Our father, your pappou, was from a different time. He saw many things to make him like that. It was not only his fault.”
“He was this way with all of us,” Maria said. “He asked Katarina what was wrong with her after her fourth miscarriage. She still blames herself for not having a child. And look at you, you refused to have children. You know Solon wanted them, but you refused.”
“Ella, the right time never came.” Christina shrugged.
“You were afraid to be like him or maybe like our mother. Admit it.”
Christina shook her head. “This is what she thinks.” She placed her hand on Alexia’s leg. “She only has strange ideas. No one pays attention to her.”
Maria shrugged. “Believe what you want. You know it’s true.”
Christina turned the page. A girl dressed in white lace sat stiffly on a wooden chair. A boy stood behind, his hands on her shoulders. The rims of the girl’s eyes were creased as if to stifle a giggle. His were focused and stern, angry with the photographer maybe for wasting his time. “Our parents,” Christina said. She crossed herself. “God rest their souls.”
“But they are just kids,” Alexia said.
“Yes, they were very young, teenagers only,” Christina said. “Maybe too young.”
Alexia thought about her father. He never told her much, never complained, but during one of their last conversations, he’d hinted about his own father.
“I didn’t want to be a dad at first,” Nicolai said.
“You didn’t want me.” Alexia said.
He shook his head and hugged her. “You don’t understand.” He kissed her head. “I was afraid I’d be like my father. But I think you made me a better father. Not that I didn’t make mistakes.”
“Your pappou and yiayia,” Christina said. “On their wedding day.”
“They don’t look happy,” Alexia said.
“Happy? No one thought about this then,” Maria said. “She held us together.”
“My father used to say the same thing.”
“He wasn’t a bad man, our father,” Christina said. “He made us learn English, helped us buy houses, and did things to help. He helped Nicolai, too.”
“How?” Alexia turned.
Christina shook her head. “One day, God willing, you will understand.”
“He didn’t help Nicolai after he came home when your mother died,” Maria said. She reached over and touched Alexia’s hand. “He was a stubborn man.”
“He thought Nicolai brought his own trouble when he married someone outside our church and culture. This is what he told us, but I think he always wanted the best for Nicolai. He wanted him to do better with his life.”
“Christina forgets many things.” Maria laced her fingers around her cup. “You didn’t agree at first with Nicolai and his marriage either.”
“I listened to our father, then,” Christina said. “But when I met Sara, I changed.”
“How can you say that?” Maria glared at Christina. “You didn’t like how she kept her house. You told us that Alexia’s toys were all over the place, there was no discipline because they played all the time, there was dust and I don’t know what else.”
“Ah, did I say this?” Christina stared down at the picture.
“After you came back from America.”
“But I went,” Christina said and shrugged as if what Maria was saying was information she hadn’t heard before. “None of you did.”
“Maybe if our father helped Nicolai after your mother died,” Maria said, “life might have been different. We might have stayed close.”
Alexia caught Christina eyeing Maria severely.
“It was a different time. Solon’s family was demanding. Our father thought that Nicolai might hurt Christina’s chances of getting married. Christina thought so, too.”
“Why?” Alexia asked.
“Gossip, talk, who knows.” Christina sighed. “They have funny ideas in those days.”
“You had those same ideas, don’t forget,” Maria said. “You still do.”
Christina shook her head and rolled her eyes. She turned another page. Nicolai was older in this picture, in his early twenties. The collar of his shirt drooped around his neck even though his tie looked like it was bound as tight as a noose. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his suit jacket. Still, he looked like a little boy lost in his father’s clothes. That suit had been in her father’s closet since she was a child. “I bought the best I could afford,” he said, when she asked him about it. “I keep it to remember where I came from.” After he died, Alexia found it at the back of the closet. She’d cleared out most of his stuff, but kept this suit.
“Maybe if your father had brought you with him to Greece,” Christina said, “after your mother died. We might have been together.”
“It’s hard to know,” Alexia said.
She felt Christina’s stare and looked down at his picture.
His eyes seemed to be laughing as if he’d gotten a joke no one else could. He had that same silly grin most of his life, Alexia thought as she stared at the picture. Except maybe for the time after Sara got sick.
“He couldn’t manage,” Christina said. “And he probably thought our father would not accept you. We don’t know why we do things until much time has passed.”
“Your father told us you were very brave,” Maria said. “You took care of him after your mother died.”
An image came to mind. One of the lists she’d made to help her clean the house. The cleaning ladies had helped her make that list.
“You didn’t like to help your father. No?”
“I wasn’t given a choice.” Alexia shrugged.
Maria ran her hand through her hair and sighed. Christina turned to the album, outlined Nicolai’s face with her finger. “He had hopes for himself and for you, too, Alexia. You were the most important person to him. The most important. He made many choices to make sure you had a good life.”
“Like what?”
“One day.” Christina dabbed at her eyes with her apron.
“You haven’t seen these pictures before?” Maria asked.
“Oxi,” Alexia said.
“This is Christina’s fault.”
“Our history has to be in one place,” Christina said. “How else can we find what we need when we need it?” She dropped her apron, wiped her hands over it.
“Christina is the keeper of the pictures,” Maria said. “I beg and still she won’t give me any.”
“You still don’t know how to take care of things.” Christina pointed to the oven. “Get the buns, will you?” She shut the album and reached for the next one.
Using a tea cloth, Maria slid the buns out of the oven, placed them on the counter, turned off the element and opened one cupboard door after another, moved things around as she searched.
Christina put her hands over her ears and shook her head. “Stop!”
“Where is a platter for these?”
“Leave them to cool first,” Christina said. “We’ll eat soon.”
Maria stood with her back to the counter facing them. Christina turned pages. Each picture had an accompanying story and as she listened, Alexia wondered how often and in how many ways these stories had been told. There were pictures of Katarina, Maria and Christina when they were children, a few more of Nicolai, then pictures of husbands and children, cousins and older relatives now gone. She had missed all of this growing up. Why did he keep them from her? She swallowed hard. He should be here sharing all this with her.
/> Christina and Maria grinned when they talked about cousins who had done well. “Vassilis owns a restaurant in Athens, and his wife is an engineer.” They laughed when they told stories about skipping school to go to the beach to meet friends. When they spoke about a dead relative, they crossed themselves. “Life is cruel. No?”
A picture fell out onto the table. A round-faced teenager sat alone on a bench, the beach in the background. Dark with a slight curl to it, her hair was pulled back off her face. Her head was tilted away from the camera, staring into the distance. Christina grabbed the picture and shoved it into the last page of the album, glanced over at Maria. “She’s dead now,” Christina said. “God rest her soul.”
“If God allows it.” Maria turned and put her cup in the sink.
“What do you mean?”
“She didn’t always do the right thing, so we don’t talk about her in this family.”
“Who is she?” Alexia asked.
“A dead cousin,” Christina said. “We’ve seen enough for today.”
“Dimitria.” Maria turned. “The name means ‘of earth.’ Because we didn’t like her, we said she was of dirt. Eh, she’s not part of the family,” Maria said when Christina gave her one of her looks and crossed herself. “What’s the difference now?”
Christina flipped the page to a photograph of a man hunched over, his arms wrapped around a young boy’s shoulders. The boy stood in front of the man, clutching the man’s pant legs in his tiny hands. They were laughing. This is the way it’s supposed to be, Alexia thought.
“This is your pappou when he was a little boy. He is with his father.”
“I saw the picture of my great-grandfather when we went to Kalavryta.” There was something they didn’t want her to know. She hadn’t found it yet, but she would. Maybe Kalavryta would be a good starting point.
Christina closed the album, stacked it on top of the others at one end of the table. She walked over to the counter. “We eat now and look at more pictures later.”
“There is more to the story,” Alexia said. You know it and I know it, she thought.
“Not much. He married our mother and had a family.” Christina pulled out a platter from the cupboard above the stove. A bowl sitting on top tumbled down and she caught it. She shook her head. “Life isn’t always good, but with God’s help, we manage.”
She handed the platter and the bowl to Maria. “Get the cheese, too,” she said. “We need it to help the buns go down.”
16
2010
The clicking sound echoed off the pavement, bouncing against the houses and the squat stone walls. Maria’s high heels. There was no getting away. All Alexia wanted was some fresh air and to be alone to think and figure out what was in the stories they told, the pictures she’d seen, that they didn’t want her to know. Christina bit her lip, shook her head just enough so Maria would notice, but she didn’t want me to see. How could I miss it? Or the angry looks Christina gave Maria.
An albatross whined somewhere above their heads. Alexia looked for it, but the sun pierced her eyes. She turned away.
Maria prattled. “Solon is a good man. He adores Christina. Why doesn’t she see that? And not to give him children. So selfish. She thought she’d turn out as angry as our father or maybe a bit conniving like our mother. Impossible. She’d never be like that. Ah, but maybe she was afraid too. Maybe she didn’t want to bring a child into a world like this. I don’t know. She doesn’t tell me. She keeps things inside.”
“Yes,” Alexia said. Now we’re getting somewhere. Keep going.
“Christina told me you are very busy and never relax.”
“And what else does she say?” Alexia pointed them towards a bench. When they sat down, Maria took off her shoes, stretched her long, slender feet and rubbed her heels against the top of her shoes as if scratching an itch. Her toenails, long and filed, were a flawless cherry red.
“We know Nicolai told you about your sister. This is why you came.”
Alexia turned to face Maria, who was admiring her bare feet, moving them in one direction, then another. So they all knew about Theodora.
A couple walked by and the man tipped his hat and nodded. Maria wished them a good afternoon. Alexia managed a quick nod. She’d forgotten her sunglasses and the sun made her eyes tear. She sniffled, dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her sweater. “Is this all you people do?” Alexia asked. “Gossip about other people behind their backs?”
“You get used to it.”
“Ladies.”
Achilles stood in front of them, Greek sailor hat in hand, his lips parted. His buttery teeth had a moist sheen.
Alexia couldn’t see his eyes through his dark, over-sized sunglasses, but she noticed a couple of smudged fingerprints at one edge of the reflective lens. He’s stuck in a time warp, she thought. The breeze picked up. She pulled her sweater over her shoulders. The albatross screamed.
Achilles stroked his beard. “Nice day,” he said. “Yes?” His smile flashed easily as if he kept it always at the ready.
“We are talking,” Maria said. She put her hand on Alexia’s shoulder.
Alexia nodded, but couldn’t make herself turn away. Her face felt warm again. She pushed the sweater off her shoulders. It fell behind her onto the bench.
“So perhaps an interruption is good.”
Maria turned her back to him, making herself into a shield.
“Or perhaps not.”
He walked away. Alexia sat so she could watch him and hold Maria’s gaze at the same time. He turned and winked. Alexia shifted, using Maria to block any further view of him.
“You like him?”
“Who?”
“That man.” Maria pointed her head in the direction where Achilles had gone.
“He’s not my type.” She leaned against the back of the bench and watched the clouds shift across the sky. Well, actually if she looked at her record honestly, she could see that most of the men she’d been with had been older. They were mature and interesting, she told herself. Achilles was interesting in his own way. More like playing with fire. Nothing more serious than a diversion. Maybe for a couple of nights.
Alexia could feel Maria watching her. She closed her eyes. No sound, except the light breeze. “What was my grandfather like?”
“You don’t like this talk.”
“I’m interested in the family.” She sat up and looked at Maria. “That’s all.”
“You be careful with that one.”
“What happened to my grandfather in Kalavryta?”
“No one knows. Except he was supposed to die, but instead he lived.”
“They only killed those thirteen and over. I read about it in the museum.”
“Yes, it is true, but he had more years. When we were young, kids at school said he lied to save himself. I don’t know what is true.”
“This is more gossip.”
“He worked to save his money, leave Greece. But then he met my mother.”
“That’s it?”
Maria shrugged. She got up. “What more do you want?”
Alexia stood alone in the museum in Kalavryta, watching the video interviews with the survivors of the 1943 massacre. Some boomed their versions, looked steadily into the camera, resolute, like reporters informing everyone about the latest catastrophe. Others murmured, heads bent. English words scrolled along the bottom of the screen. She read the translation, listening to their voices. As she watched the screen, the woman came on with her story. As Alexia listened, the woman in the video looked away as if she’d realized someone was staring. The camera followed. In her lap, a handkerchief. Her knuckles white from wringing it.
We shared everything we had with our neighbours back then. It was a good life. When the Germans came, everything changed. My mother kept us inside. We couldn’t play. They took over our church. We weren’t allowed to go to pray.
The woman pushed herself forward on her chair and stared into the camera. Her pupils grew larger a
nd darker. She raised her voice as if she wanted to make sure she was being heard.
They came through the door and told us to get out, their guns in our faces. Every house was cleared. We were a large group, walking toward the school with no idea about what was going to happen. It was a parade like the ones we have on Good Friday. We didn’t know. We were separated. We were on one side with other women and children. We couldn’t see our fathers or husbands. They asked each of the boys their age and then directed some of them to where we stood. Others were taken away.
The woman shook her head. The video flashed to another man. As he spoke about the last time he saw his father, he wept. Alexia turned. She couldn’t watch anymore.
“It is very sad.”
A woman stood beside her. “You speak English,” Alexia said.
“A little.”
Alexia smiled. That’s what they all said and then they’d go ahead and speak perfect English. The young woman was shorter than Alexia. She wore jeans and a T-shirt. Her nametag read Zoë.
“I have seen you here before.”
“My great-grandfather died here.” Alexia nodded. “My grandfather was just a boy. I don’t know much.”
“Would you like to?” Zoë put her hand on Alexia’s shoulder.
Alexia nodded only slightly. She didn’t know what she’d find here, but for some reason she felt her family’s secrets were somehow tied to this place.
“Maybe I have information in our archives.”
They sat in Zoë’s office in two newly upholstered chairs, facing each other across an old wooden desk. Logbooks were stuffed into an entire wall of shelves that bent under the weight. Through the barred window, dust motes swam upstream in the bits of filtered sunlight. The room was freshly painted but smelled of rot. You can’t hide that, Alexia thought.
Zoë turned the computer screen around so they could both see. Alexia told her her grandfather’s name. Names and dates flipped by as Zoë searched the list. Slow down, Alexia wanted to say. She couldn’t read a thing. The screen’s bright light and the foreign letters moving so quickly made her dizzy. Alexia sat back in her chair.
“Many people moved away after this day because it was too difficult to stay. They didn’t want their names to be recorded. They disappeared.”
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