It seemed a good thing to talk to herself like this. She thought it would arouse her courage to get up soon and resume her life, her half-life. She could not lie there much longer. She had a great deal to do in the next few days or the next week or two. She began making plans, with a sense that they might cover all the remainder of her days; she might not have any life beyond what she saw so clearly.
In her planning and looking ahead naturally she addressed herself to Helianos her husband: she had done so always. “Helianos,” she whispered, “I am in trouble with that major, the one you do not know, the one with the dog, the one with a golden eye and a mouth like a piece of broken whip, the likable one. He is coming to see me one of these days, and I am afraid.
“He is coming, coming, to ask me to inform against your cousins, Petros and Giorges and even Demos, your old rascal. Demos said that you refused to answer their questions in prison. I will refuse too, I promise. I do not know what they will do to me if I refuse. I am not afraid.
“But if it comes to that, if I too must be a martyr to keep our Greek secrets, then I want all your family to know what is happening. If they are concerned about me it will help me to bear it well. I want them to be grateful to me if I do bear it well. Perhaps they will be sorry for me if it is more than I can bear.
“Yes, Helianos, I know, you told me, Petros is the head of the family now that you are dead. I will tell my trouble to Petros.
Then she forgot all about that matter of von Roesch for the time being; and when she next found energy to whisper, it was about the less desperate aspect of her mission to Petros.
“My dearest, forgive me for tearing up a part of your letter. I was lonely. I was jealous of your addressing it to Petros. There was no farewell to me in it. It was the political part that I hated. All my life I have hated what I could not understand.
“But do not mind, dear, it is no matter. I know it by heart. I can close my eyes and read the small torn pieces, and open my eyes and copy them for Petros. I will give him all your letter, although it is the only thing I have on earth that I love. I will explain it to him if he is not as intelligent as you think. I understand it now.
“I will tell him our story. Perhaps it will interest him. He is a fighter, and I think he must know only those lives that he is fighting with. Whereas our life, though a poor thing, is what he is fighting for.
“If it interests him, and he has time to sit and listen, I will tell it all. I will remember to put in the little things to make it interesting: the borrowed bed, the old dog eating our dinner, the child sucking its own blood, the perilous window, the lost key, the major’s dead brain like a tongue stuck out down his dimpled chin, the blaze of summer in the major’s dead eye, the cup of water spilled in my face on the floor in the corridor, the fish-hook hooked in my breast, the children when I had to use them to walk with like crutches.
“That is the kind of little thing that you used to put in your stories, Helianos, to make them interesting. Sometimes I can discover some such thing for myself, now that you are dead. Whenever you came home, you had some story to tell me; which is a good trait in a husband. I love you.”
Sometimes the neighbor woman heard her whispering and, not unamiably, laughed at her for it. It was well that she was a little deaf; she would have misunderstood everything. Now she happened to hear the words, “I love you,” and she shed tears, which embarrassed Mrs. Helianos.
Vlakos had asked the neighbor woman to keep the children out of the sick-room, and it was a part of Alex’s grievance against her: she enforced the doctor’s orders in a way which seemed to him loud and presumptuous. One afternoon, in spite of her, he slipped in. She came hopping after him in half a minute, all righteous indignation.
He appealed then to the sick woman herself: “Mother, she says that it is too soon for you to see me. Tell her that it is not so. I will be cheerful. I will behave well.”
It happened to be an afternoon of pain; Vlakos and the neighbor woman were right; it was too soon. Sickly, she began to try to tell him so. It might hurt his feelings badly if she had succeeded. But she was unable to speak: her lips broke and shook, her voice frayed away.
Alex stood staring. He heard her wordless mumble, and he saw how she looked: her ivory skin now a kind of soiled pallor like a mushroom; and under her eyebrows the hollows strung with little wrinkles in which her eyes burned and turned; and her mouth pulled down as if by an ugly finger in each corner; and her hair in dark serpentine locks upon her temples, not one gray hair.
Alex turned then and asked the neighbor woman to excuse him and with a manner of pitiful good sense, left the room. In spite of her sickness and her emotion his mother observed how he had grown up in those few days, as if they were weeks or months.
When she woke a little later in the afternoon, she found herself whispering to him: “Forgive me, forgive me, Alex. I forgot about Cimon, I burdened you with Leda, I could not bear to see or hear your hatred. I have had to learn it all the hard way.
“Alex, do not expect too much of me from now on. Your father was a tree and I was his vine. They have cut the tree and taken it away. Therefore I am misshapen, wound around the space, stretched out toward nothing, half on the ground.”
Toward the end of the week Demos came to see her again. Alex let him in, but Dr. Vlakos happened to be there and at first would not admit him to the sickroom. In general he wanted his patient to have no conversation at this stage of her illness; and in particular he despised Demos as a pro-German. The neighbor woman came into the sitting room then, with a broom in her hand whether by chance or for effect; and added a certain hue and cry to the doctor’s remarks, broom up in front of the bedroom door.
Finally Mrs. Helianos uttered feeble cries from her bed, and by pretending to lose her temper, which would have been bad for her, got Vlakos' permission to confer with her cousin-in-law upon an urgent family matter having to do with Helianos' death for five minutes, only five minutes.
Demos was sorry and indeed embarrassed to find her so ill, but they had no time to waste on that subject. He wanted to know whether she had seen von Roesch. The report was that he had returned to Athens; whereupon he had vanished into thin air; and Demos for one did not trust him.
Then Mrs. Helianos told him she wanted to see Petros, Petros.
He replied that they expected him to come into the city any day now, certainly within a week.
She pointed to the drawer in the night-table where she kept the keys to the apartment-building and the apartment itself, and made him put them in his pocket for Petros, so that if it suited him he could come in the middle of the night. She slept lightly; it would not frighten her.
“What do you want to see Petros for? Why isn’t it enough for you to see me? It’s safer to see me.”
“My poor Demos,” she whispered back, “you are not intellectual enough to advise me. Neither are you man enough to stir up my courage. You know, you know all that.”
“Ay, my cousin, you are sharp. Do you mean to make us all jump, now that you have von Roesch up your sleeve? What have you to do with Petros, if you please?”
Naturally she said nothing about the story of their lives, or Helianos' letter, or a matter still more romantic that she had in mind. She said that she wanted Petros to tell her what to say to von Roesch. It might be possible to turn the tables on von Roesch somehow. She wanted to give him false information, useless to him, disadvantageous to him, or even fatal if they had good luck. If he intended to use her as bait in his trap to catch any of them, well, then, let him beware! For she intended to take the trap and change it and re-set it for him to be caught himself. Perhaps Petros or some other important Greek would let her make a rendezvous for him somewhere, as it were to be captured by von Roesch’s men; where a sufficient number of Greeks could lie in ambush for the would-be capturers. “I think this a good idea,” she whispered, “but I know nothing, I cannot work it out in detail. Petros will know everything; and there never has been a Helianos who lacke
d imagination: even you do not lack that, Demos.”
He said, “You are mad, my cousin! You are as mad as your young Alex, as mad as your little Leda. You are a terrible family. Your Nikolas had no sense of self-preservation whatever. Now it appears that you have none either. You frighten me.”
But in his old loose woman-crazy eyes she saw a shrewdness and an admiration that she took for a good omen. Then Dr. Vlakos opened the door and would not be denied. Demos had to go, but in his pocket were the keys.
Suddenly it occurred to her that if Petros approved of her plan, it would mean pretending to be pro-German. Then she would be teamed up with Demos, misunderstood and condemned by the family as he was: the broken widow with the old libertine. Helianos was a proud man, and she was glad that he would never hear of this. But in the present plight of Greeks, she reminded herself, they must not be proud.
After that she began, in her whispers, rehearsing her discourse to Petros. This was what she chiefly wanted of him, she personally:—“Petros, I want you to take my son Alex to work for you in the underground. He is young, and he is undersized because he has been undernourished, but he is brave and clever, with the Helianos imagination.
“Petros, my husband told me, and Demos told me, that one thing you do is to place explosives in buildings occupied by the Germans, and perhaps bridges and perhaps railroad-trains: I do not remember everything they said.
“Now, this is a kind of work which my Alex could do very well. He is an attractive boy with a sunny smile, and so small: they would not think any ill of him if they observed him wandering here and there. We can wrap your explosives up neatly, to give him the appearance of any ordinary street-boy delivering a package. If I knew more of the details of your warfare I could suggest other little tasks. He would make a good messenger-boy.
“Please understand that this is not a thoughtless offer, Petros, no, not thoughtless. I do not underestimate the Germans any more. I can imagine the risks my son will have to run, working for you. I have considered the cost to myself, as it may turn out in the end.”
All that afternoon and the next morning, she went on whispering the same theme, off and on, clarifying it in her own mind:—“Do not blame me, Petros. I know myself and I know my son. He has never really loved anyone except my other son who died in battle on Mount Olympos. Ever since then he has been suffering from an inexpressible hatred. Now that they have slain his father as well, he needs to do something. For two years he has not had any life except the care of his little sister, Leda, whose mind is weak. Now I will not have him shut in here any longer, wasting his life on us two. Our lives as they are now are not worth it.
“It would be a great comfort to Leda and to me if he could still live here, at least a part of the time. I could advise him against his worst fault, which is imprudence. I could make sure that he understood your instructions. But if you think he would be more useful shifting for himself in the street with the other street-boys, very well. If you prefer to take him into the mountains, very well. In my proposal I make no reservations.
“Let me bring him to see you. Question him and see for yourself what his feeling is, and what he is like. Try to think of a way to make use of him. It is his dearest wish to give his life against the Germans. Nothing else interests him. My husband warned me of this long ago. In those days my only thought was to prevent it. I was frightened and ignorant. Now in my present misfortune, alone, helpless, and sick, I believe that I could prevent it. For in spite of his hatred he is kind. But now I feel that I have no right to prevent it. I have no desire to prevent it. Furthermore he will never be good for anything else.
“Petros, please accept him. I am a poor widow, a woman of no more worth, but with a strong and terrible heart. I have nothing else to give, and unless I give something I shall go mad.”
There was no make-believe about this. It was her firm resolution which she would recite to the hero of the family when he came; and if he would not help her she would find some other way. Alex might have a way of his own. She could tease Demos with talk of von Roesch, von Roesch, until he at least took her seriously. She grew impatient to be well.
On the ninth day she felt almost strong enough to get up, but still had the patience to obey Vlakos. The first time she got up was in the ensuing night, that is, just before the dawn of the tenth day. Helianos had appeared to her in a dream, which had pleased her; but when she woke it startled her so to find herself alone that she could not recall any of it, which was a little false loss like a mockery of her bereavement.
The furniture in the room, even the four walls, in a kind of unhealthy pearly light, anaemic blue, looked insubstantial. In spite of the filth and ailment and murder in Athens, the air coming in the window was sweet, like a child’s breath. Then she felt a nameless emotion. The beginning of her recovery of health had only increased her sadness. Probably from now on it would be measured only by her strength; as much as she was able to bear, so much would she feel. Now as it seemed, it thrust her heavily out of her bed and lifted her to her feet and held her up straight, although she was weak from the time of her illness.
Her instinct told her where to go, through the sitting room, down the corridor, softly past the open doorway of the room where the others slept, back to the kitchen. Then upon the threshold she stopped in dismay, finding the folding cot back in its place with the small figure of her son on it. No one had warned her of this. She felt an instant of superstition. No, no, it was only one of those excesses of little pattern in her life that she had had to accustom herself to. She went on into that strange bed-chamber which, now, Alex had inherited.
With her eyes feeling their way into the shadow, with cautious hands, she took an old stool out of its corner, and sat down beside the small boy doomed to heroism; the slight Helianos that she had left. She liked to be near him now that she had thought of a way to prove to him that life had taught her to understand and love him. He lay curled up close to the wall with his hands under his chin, his knees drawn up, somewhat in the position of a child unborn in the womb.
Oh, she sighed, unless Petros impressed her as an honest hero and a good man, she would not give him up; there was time to change her mind once more. But it was only a sigh; she did not really expect to find any such poor excuse, or any way out of her decision. She had Helianos' word for Petros' heroism and goodness.
It was time she asked Alex himself what he thought of it, although she knew his answer. His only hesitation would be his love of Leda. Was the little one to be a millstone around his neck always? Perhaps not; he had so perfectly enslaved her heart to him, she so delighted to do whatever pleased him: he might make use of her even upon deadly errands, or at least let her tag after him to keep him company. Stranger things than that had been seen in this war.
Meanwhile outside in the martyred city she heard a delicate whisper: the restlessness in its sleep preparing to get up presently. Then if she had cared to, she might have taken another look at the Acropolis, the temple in a blur, the hill in a black veil, her great reminder, her worst keepsake. She consciously kept her back turned to the window.
Before long she would come back here to cook famine, to sew rags, to clean havoc and contamination. It had occurred to her that the neighbor woman would be glad to stay and serve her forever. No, if she and Alex were going to work for Petros, they could not have this guileless talkative one so close to them. When she took over the housekeeping again, she meant to keep the curtains drawn close against the Acropolis, and work in a half-light.
Alex, restless, stretched himself out on the cot full length, and happened to push the pillow away from his face so that it slipped to the floor. His mother knelt and took it and for a moment sat on the floor with it in her arms. She found the warmth of his breath in it in one place. She let herself down from her knees and put her head on it for a moment’s rest, and then—thinking a dozen vague words in a row: life worth thinking about, interminable war, loving hearts—fell asleep.
A little late
r, when Alex woke and wanted his pillow, he saw her and exclaimed in fright; but at his cry she woke instantly, smiled, and apologized. “I couldn’t sleep, I do as I please when you are all asleep, I came to look out the window, I didn’t mean to fall asleep here.”
He told her how foolish she was, and in an affectionate voice but with a little pretentiousness of manhood, ordered her back to bed where she still belonged.
This is a New York Review Book
Published by The New York Review of Books
435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
www.nyrb.com
Copyright © 1944, 1945, 1972 by Glenway Wescott
Introduction copyright © 2004 by David Leavitt
All rights reserved.
Cover image: Antiaircraft guns, Athens, 1941; courtesy of Bundesarchiv, Germany
Cover design: Katy Homans
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wescott, Glenway, 1901—
Apartment in Athens / Glenway Wescott; introduction by David Leavitt.
p. cm. — (New York Review Books classics)
ISBN 1-59017-081-4 (pbk.:alk. paper)
1. Greece—History—Occupation, 1941—1944—Fiction. 2. Triangles
Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. 3. Germans—Greece—Fiction. 4. Apartment
houses—Fiction. 5. Athens (Greece)—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series.
PS3545.E827A845 2004 813'.52—dc22
2004003860
eISBN 978-1-59017-482-1
v1.0
For a complete list of books in the NYRB Classics series, visit www.nyrb.com or write to:
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Apartment in Athens Page 22