The Gold Letter

by Lena Manta

  For Kleoniki, New Year’s of 1918 was the best of her life up to that point. Without explanation, which she wasn’t interested in anyway, Anargyros announced to her that their neighbor Myronas had invited them to his house for a New Year’s meal his wife had prepared, and he’d accepted. Blushing deeply, Kleoniki couldn’t believe her good fortune. Before Christmas, she had her clothes ready, although she didn’t know that her dark-blue dress would almost scuttle the holiday. She’d had it made recently, following the fashion of the time, which raised the height of the skirt to the ankle. With great difficulty, it must be said, she had accepted the dressmaker’s proposed design.

  “But Mrs. Kleoniki,” the girl insisted, “look around you. All the women shortened their dresses at least three years ago!”

  “Yes, my dear, but as a married woman, is it right for me to do such a thing?” she objected, her face bright red.

  “It has nothing to do with your being married. The fashion isn’t just for the unmarried girls. Anyway, with so much mud in the streets of Constantinople, why should we want dresses that drag on the ground?”

  This last remark was the most compelling. Every time she left her house to go to church or memorials, Kleoniki had to spend an awful lot of time cleaning the hems of her clothes. She decided to shorten the simple dark-blue dress herself, together with the rest of her clothes.

  That morning, she dressed the children first, adorning them in their jewelry, and combed their hair nicely so they could go to church with their father. Immediately after that, when she was alone, she began to get ready with a racing heart. She was impatient to put on her new acquisition, like a girl going to her first dance. She combed her hair so her hat would sit well on it, and before she put the hat on her head, she put on the dress and looked at herself in the large mirror of her room. In keeping with the more frugal fashions of wartime, jewels and ornaments weren’t necessary, but she wouldn’t go to a strange house without the good gold chain Anargyros had given her for their wedding. Nor could she not wear the gold earrings her mother had put on her that day. She gave up her large bracelet but wore her gold watch and, naturally, the ring, also a present from her husband, with a large blue stone that matched her dress. She didn’t forget to dab a little cologne on her headscarf after she put some behind her ears. Ready and adorned, she stood and waited so as not to crush her new clothes. Every now and then, she bent down and saw that her shoes showed, and she blushed. She felt a little depraved. Never in her life had she shown even an inch of her body, and now she was sure that, as soon as she sat down, her slim ankles would be on public display. A little smile rose to her lips, but she suppressed it as she heard the door. Anargyros and the girls had returned. She rushed to make his coffee and serve the girls breakfast very carefully so as not to dirty her clothes. Perhaps she shouldn’t have gotten dressed so early, but she couldn’t wait.

  It was Makrina who unintentionally caused a fuss. Chewing a slice of bread with quince preserves, her favorite, she admired her mother, who was standing at the window, waiting for them to finish so she could clear the table.

  “Father, did you see how beautiful Mama is today in her new dress?” she asked Anargyros, who was busy rolling his morning cigarette.

  He raised his eyes, and then he noticed her. Kleoniki saw his look pass over her, at first indifferently, but then it got stuck at the hemline of the dress.

  “What’s that?” he asked quietly, but his voice had become rough.

  “A new dress, my pasha. I told you I was going to have a new dress made, and you gave me the money.”

  Kleoniki was almost stammering she was so upset. She felt drops of sweat run down her back.

  “I paid for that rag? Is that the way you’re going out in the street? In half a dress?”

  “That’s the way they’re wearing them now, my husband, so their clothes won’t drag—”

  “Who’s wearing them? Respectable women? Kleoniki, go and change into an old dress so that we don’t ruin New Year’s Day!”

  “But it’s not so short, my bey!” she risked, wondering at her own courage and boldness.

  “Have you gone crazy, woman? If you try to sit down, everything shows. Sit and you’ll see I’m right!”

  Kleoniki dared to sit down carefully. The dress came up imperceptibly and just showed her ankles.

  “I told you so! You’re proud of that vulgar thing?” Anargyros fumed. “What did I tell you? Your legs show! See here, if you want us to visit the people next door, you’ll put on a dress that’s suitable for a respectable married woman!”

  Kleoniki’s eyes filled with tears. She got up, resigned to her fate, but help came from where she least expected it. Makrina, who had done all the damage, ran and hugged her.

  “Father, please! Mother looks so beautiful today! I don’t want her to put on another dress.”

  The other two girls came and formed a wall around their mother. Anargyros was astonished by this small rebellion happening in front of his eyes.

  “It seems to be that, with the New Year, all the ladies here have forgotten who’s the head of this house!” he roared.

  Makrina moved away from her mother and approached him. A timid smile lifted the corners of her mouth, but her eyes flashed, full of cunning as she exploited the weakness she knew her father had for her. “Come now, Father,” she pleaded. “Do you want to spoil our enjoyment on this day of all days? Anyway, don’t we deserve a treat? Mother is so beautiful!”

  The ten-year-old girl spoke in a way that was quite inappropriate for her age, and even dared to take her father’s hand. Kleoniki could see the battle raging inside him. She broke away from the embrace of the other two girls and gave a dry cough to clear her throat.

  “It doesn’t matter, girls. Your father is right. I’ll go and change. You finish your breakfast.”

  She went toward the bedroom and couldn’t believe her ears when she heard a stern voice calling her back: “Seeing that the girls want it too, leave it, wife. Wear your dress, but pull it down as much as you can when you sit!”

  And so, 1918 began very nicely for Kleoniki after all. When they arrived at Mrs. Marigo’s house, she noticed that all the women were wearing dresses like hers, which were similar in length and design, and she glanced discreetly at her husband to see whether he understood that he had unjustly provoked the scene at their house. His face revealed nothing.

  Apart from them, Mrs. Marigo and her husband had invited their cousins, Olympia’s parents, and another family, who had a son. While she was helping set the table, Kleoniki managed to ask her friend, “Mrs. Marigo, who are those people?”

  “My mother is matchmaking!” Paraskevi interjected, laughing.

  “Hush, you!” her mother scolded. “These things aren’t said in a loud voice. Wait and see if they like each other first.” She turned to Kleoniki and continued in a low voice: “Olympia is at an age to marry, and Kleonas is a very good boy. My husband and I are hoping something will come of our work, because her mother is bursting!”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean ‘why’? My niece is nearly thirty. Is it right for a girl her age to remain single? Teaching is all very well, but a woman must marry to have children.”

  “That’s right,” Kleoniki agreed.

  But Mrs. Marigo and Olympia’s mother had tried in vain. Kleonas was not to Olympia’s taste, nor she to his. At least the day passed pleasantly, and the men stayed far from unpleasant subjects, wanting to drive away whatever bad things awaited them in the new year. Information about the war reached them in a confused manner, and news about the Ottoman Empire wasn’t good. Their homeland was being tossed about like some giant whose legs had been chopped off. The German allies weren’t doing well at the front. There were rumors that the United States had joined in the game, but nobody knew whether this was a bad thing or a good thing.

  In 1918, the good and the bad came together. Fortunately, the bad came only to the Marigo family, while the good was the end of the war. In
October 1918 at Mudros, the Ottoman minister of the navy, Huseyin Rauf, signed an agreement that basically brought the Ottoman Empire to its knees. The terms were humiliating. Among other things, the armistice relinquished the Turkish fleet as well as their weapons to the Allies, decreed the immediate opening of the Dardanelles, and granted free passage for all shipping vessels in the region. The Greeks, who were on the side of the victors, couldn’t believe their good fortune. After so many years of oppression, after the expulsions they had suffered, they suddenly found themselves in a strong position. A short time later, the naval squadron passed through the straits. Among other vessels were the Greek battleships Kilkis and Averof, which anchored in front of the Dolmabahce Palace, its Greek flag visible even from Hagia Sophia. It seemed like a dream that had taken five centuries, since the sacking of Constantinople, to become a reality. The victory demonstrations were very moving, and most importantly for the Greeks, they were able to participate without fear.

  In the Kantardzis household, the first, naturally, to learn and then to sing a Greek song that was popular at the time was Makrina. Her clear voice reached all the way to the street: “To your health, always your health, we spoke of this. It was a dream that we forgot.”

  Kleoniki scolded her and told her to lower her voice, but the chatterbox Dorothea joined in.

  “What are you afraid of, Mother? It’s over! We’re not afraid of anyone. We won, didn’t we?”

  “Hush, girl. Don’t try to play the teacher with me,” Kleoniki retorted. “Turks are passing by. Do you want them to hear you and get angry? Who knows what we’ll wake up to next? You’re still young, but our eyes have seen a lot of things!”

  As she did whenever one of the girls was disobedient, Kleoniki grabbed her slipper and chased them to give them a beating. In any case, her husband seemed in better spirits recently, and she knew he’d been going to admire the Greek flag fluttering proudly in the harbor. Once he had taken her with him, but Kleoniki was more frightened than pleased. There were crowds, and men in uniform. Her gaze fell on a few Turks who were looking askance at the Averof, which was an impressive ship. She took Anargyros’s hand, and they left in a hurry. When they arrived home, as soon as she closed the door behind them, she blocked it once more with the chest.

  “What’s the matter, wife? What were you dragging me home for? Didn’t you enjoy our walk? You saw the ships, didn’t you? The Averof?”

  “The only thing I saw, my pasha, was the Turks looking at us furiously. Even if they gobble us up, it doesn’t satisfy them!”

  “You don’t know, and that’s why you’re frightened. We won!”

  “Ah, Holy Virgin, you’re talking to me like I’m one of your daughters! Do we know how long this peace will last? And what if they win again?”

  “Woman, come to your senses! The war’s over.”

  “Yes. And you think they’re not in a hurry to start it again? If you want my opinion, these people have no decency. Politics aren’t for us. Just do your work, my husband, and nothing more. And tell me, this ship . . .”

  “The Averof?”

  “Yes. Why did you tell me they call it ‘Satan’s Ship’?”

  “Because the Turks were afraid of it! They say they were beaten by a Greek convoy in the Balkan Wars.”

  “Just listen to what he’s telling me—he doesn’t hear his own words! Was that another war?”

  “Yes, it was!”

  “Then you should realize I’m right. War doesn’t end, husband. I know that much. Now one has ended; at some point, another will begin. So, listen to me: I may not know many things, but the less you show yourself, the less danger you’re in.”

  Only a few days had passed after the end of the war before another one broke out in their neighborhood, right next door.

  Kleoniki was waiting for Olympia to come for the lesson when Mrs. Marigo burst into the house in tears, then fainted in her arms. Kleoniki didn’t know what to do. Fortunately, Mrs. Marigo’s daughter, Paraskevi, arrived, but she too was in a terrible state, her eyes red from crying and her hair uncombed.

  “Dear, what’s happened? Will you tell me?” Kleoniki asked.

  The older woman’s look spoke volumes. All four of their children had crowded around, not wanting to miss a single word.

  Kleoniki spoiled their plans. “Dorothea, take your sisters and Evanthia, and go to the back room to study something. We have to talk!”

  All four sulked, but Kleoniki’s expression made it clear that negotiating was impossible. Whoever opened her mouth to complain would be the first to pay the fine. The slipper was always Kleoniki’s first resource, but after that she would pull their braids. The girls lowered their heads and disappeared. Kleoniki heard their door closing and then closed the door to the living room before sitting down opposite the troubled women.

  “So, now tell me, Mrs. Marigo! What happened that you came here in such an awful state? Paraskevi, you tell me! Why are you like this, and why did your mother faint? Did something happen to the men?”

  “No!” cried Paraskevi.

  Her mother jumped in: “How can I tell you something so shameful, my dear? The disaster that befell us! Olympia—”

  “What’s happened to your niece?”

  “Bad luck to her, with the poison she’s fed us, the wretched girl! She’s been stolen, Kleoniki.”

  “Bah!” It was the only thing Kleoniki could say as she remained staring at the two weeping women. After a few minutes, when she’d taken in what she’d heard, she repeated it a little louder: “Bah! Stolen how?”

  “That’s the worst part, Kleoniki,” said Paraskevi. “She was taken away by a Turk, my crazy cousin.”

  Kleoniki closed her eyes as if trying to persuade herself that she hadn’t heard right. She held her ears to make sure they were in the proper place.

  “What are you telling me, Paraskevi? Come to your senses!” she scolded her. “Olympia with a Turk? Those things don’t happen.”

  “Well, then why are we like this?” continued Mrs. Marigo. “Our young Greek men asked for her hand many times. The girl was as refreshing as cold water! She had a good name, good fortune, good looks, and faith, and she went and got blinded, the cursed girl, by a Turk, an infidel!”

  “Yes, but how did it happen? Where did she meet him?”

  “He’s a teacher too,” Mrs. Marigo said. “How and when, don’t ask me. I went over to my cousin’s house, and she told me all the details. Olympia left a letter. She loves him, she says, and so as not to make things worse, he took her and they left. Do you hear? Do you hear what I’m saying? How much worse could things get?”

  “So, where did they go?”

  “To Batum. They’ll work there if they can, may they be forgiven! How can my poor cousin, who’s shut up in her house, forgive them? They can’t look anyone in the eye because of their shame. Olympia, with so much education, such a position, to go off with a Turk! And naturally, in order to marry him, she’ll change her faith, the slut!”

  New tears were shed, and this time Kleoniki wept with them. She couldn’t absorb the disaster that had happened to her friends and their family, and she had no words to comfort them.

  Anargyros took it even worse than she did when he found out that evening. Kleoniki waited for the girls to go to bed before she told him, speaking with a trembling voice. She saw him roll his eyes, and then his fist fell heavily on the table, making plates and glasses shake dangerously while out of his mouth came a string of curses in Turkish that made Kleoniki bite her lip. It was the first time she had ever heard her husband curse like that. She quickly served him a brandy to calm him down.

  “My bey, my pasha,” she begged him. “Don’t upset yourself so. It’s terrible what’s happened, but it’s not in our home, my husband. Olympia is no relative of ours.”

  “Don’t let me hear that name ever again! We made her the teacher of our children. Fine things she’s taught them!” shouted Anargyros.

  “Now, why are you mixing things up? Readi
ng and writing is what our girls learned—she didn’t teach them anything else.”

  “A Greek girl who runs off with a Turk, a girl who feeds her parents such poison. Since she doesn’t respect God and gives up her religion, she doesn’t deserve to be a teacher or come near our girls. Better for her that she ran, so they didn’t lynch her!”

  The only ones who were pleased by the disappearance of Olympia were Dorothea and Makrina, who were spared the everyday martyrdom of their lessons. More because they felt they should than because they cared, they asked their mother two days later: “Mother, won’t we be having lessons again with Miss Olympia?”

  “Your teacher got married and moved away,” their mother answered curtly.

  “And when did such a thing happen?” insisted Dorothea, who’d heard something and wanted to be sure about it.

  “And why didn’t she ask us?” complained Makrina, upset to have missed out on the celebration.