Those Who Are Loved Page 16

  The old lady embraced him as if he were made of porcelain, then led him gently out on to the balcony. She sat him down on a chair, put a blanket over his legs and then went inside to make him some coffee. For the first time that year the balcony was touched by a shaft of sunshine. Perhaps this long and terrible winter was over at last. Down in the square too the trees were beginning to show signs of life.

  Thanasis was happy to be at home. After the initial period in the Grande Bretagne, about which he remembered nothing, he had been transferred to the Evangelismos Hospital and his time there had been wretched. Regardless of their wounds, the police were seen by the communists as the enemy and even as he lay there, he had feared attack.

  The brothers were obliged to co-exist and spent most of the day confined in the small apartment with little to do but read their respective politically biased newspapers. Soon they regained the strength to argue. Suspicion that the terms of the Varkiza agreement were not strictly adhered to by either side created immediate sparks between them.

  ‘ELAS was meant to hand in its firearms,’ said Thanasis.

  ‘They did,’ replied Panos firmly.

  ‘But not their automatic weapons,’ replied Thanasis, slapping his paper with his good hand to emphasise the point. ‘According to this, they kept everything but the unusable ones.’

  ‘Thanasis, are you just wanting to fight?’ asked Panos wearily. ‘Because neither of us is really in the right condition for that . . .’

  Themis listened but did not join in. She looked at them both and felt a great sadness. The two of them were no longer the young warriors they had once perceived themselves to be and were as irreparably damaged as the city itself.

  Thanasis did not reply.

  ‘The government has violated terms too, in any case,’ Panos continued. ‘They’ve arrested hundreds of ELAS fighters and thrown them into prison camps.’

  Thanasis came back at him straightaway. ‘But what if they had committed criminal acts?’

  ‘Demobilisation wasn’t meant to mean imprisonment,’ snapped Panos.

  He knew, though, that many ELAS soldiers, still armed, had retreated to the north of Greece or escaped beyond the borders. Brutal right-wing retaliation for the hostage-taking had begun, and with political instability and new fears of inflation, there was no sense that the conflict had ended.

  In the Koralis apartment, Thanasis was frustrated by his near inability to walk. As he confided to Margarita, it was his idea of hell to be trapped listening to the breath of a communist.

  Spurred by a similarly strong desire to get away from his brother, Panos started going out to meet the handful of old friends who remained in Athens, including Manolis, the soldier Themis had first encountered at Fotini’s house. Many in their group had fled or been captured, but they now heard that Zachariadis, the General Secretary of the Communist Party, had announced his plan to form a new army.

  ‘The fight isn’t over until our comrades are freed,’ said Manolis.

  ‘And if Zachariadis does what he’s promising, then we should all sign up,’ said Panos.

  In the smoky sidestreet kafeneío, there was rising enthusiasm.

  ‘Unless we want this country to be ruled by people who collaborated with the Nazis, we have to do something about it!’

  ‘Who’s happy to pick up a gun again?’

  There was a murmur of assent.

  The kafetzís who kept an eye open for them suddenly sent a teaspoon clattering across the floor in their direction. It was the sign he always used to warn them if they should leave. Across the street, he had spotted a member of the security battalions who was crossing the road right now.

  Panos and his friends slipped out through the back door.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE CITY WAS struggling to return to normality. Themis’ pharmacy reopened in another building and she was soon back at work, putting the inventory in order, weighing, measuring and taking notes on everything that Kýrios Dimitriadis was teaching her.

  In the Koralis apartment the routine of the old life no longer ticked with a regular beat. Thanasis was at home and in a state of profound grief. His disabilities were going to be lifelong and he was in constant pain for which the only relief could be morphine, which he refused to take. It was a daily struggle to deal with his new vulnerability. Painstakingly, he was teaching himself to write with his left hand but struggled to do other basic things like wash and dress himself. Kyría Koralis was always there to help him.

  The old lady accepted that her three other grandchildren came and went to their own schedules and she always made sure there was a pot of something on the stove to which they could help themselves. Pulses or rice were once again the basis of their diet.

  At around ten o’clock one October evening, they all realised that they had not seen Margarita that day. She had found a job with a dressmaker, often working long hours, but it was unusual for her not to be home by this time.

  ‘She didn’t say anything to me about being late,’ said Thanasis, who spent more time with her than the others.

  Midnight came and their concern grew.

  The last time Themis had seen her was in the morning. Themis recalled that her sister was still sleeping when she left for work. She and her grandmother went into the bedroom. If her best dress was not hanging in the wardrobe, it might indicate that she had gone out for the evening, perhaps to a musical performance. Occasionally she was invited by a colleague or customer.

  Everything was in place except, Themis noticed, for one thing. Her winter coat was not on the back of the door. The weather was still warm in Athens and it was not yet time to wear anything woollen. Themis said nothing to her grandmother, who was standing anxiously next to her.

  Themis turned to look at her sister’s side of the bed; Margarita’s was lazily made, the counterpane still crumpled, the sheets untucked. Then she noticed something poking out from under the pillow.

  It was a note, hastily written on the back of a bill. Margarita must have known that sooner or later it would be found.

  Dear Family,

  It is now a year since Heinz left, and I cannot live another day of my life without him. I have decided to try and reach Germany. I will let you know when I get there.

  Margarita

  ‘Theé mou,’ whispered Kyría Koralis. ‘I knew she would do that one day.’

  Both the boys came into the room to see if something had been found, and Themis passed them the letter to read.

  While Panos and Thanasis comforted their grandmother, Themis slid open the top drawer of her sister’s bedside cabinet. It was empty. She had sometimes seen Margarita slipping her earnings in there and now understood what she had been saving for. She also saw that the little German phrase book that used to sit on top of the cabinet was missing.

  ‘But how will she get there? Who will she travel with? What if something happens to her?’

  ‘I am sure she’ll be all right, Yiayiá,’ said Thanasis, comfortingly. ‘She knows how to look after herself.’

  It was hard to imagine such a journey, especially with the terrible state of both road and rail systems, but there were thousands of refugees all across Europe, and, with her stubbornness and charm, Themis was confident that Margarita would survive. More importantly, she hoped her sister would find what she was looking for.

  For the next few months, they waited and hoped.

  In January 1946, news came that the first elections in a decade were to be held. That same week, Themis came home from the pharmacy and saw a letter lying on the mat. Her legs were shaking as she ran up the stairs, two at a time, and burst into the apartment.

  ‘It’s from Margarita!’ she called out, waving the battered envelope. ‘It’s from Germany!’

  She handed it to her grandmother, who slit it open carefully with the knife she was using to chop vegetables. The letter was as brief as the one that had announced her departure.

  Dear Everyone,

  I finally tracked H
einz down. Berlin is in a worse state than Athens. War destroys everything. I miss you and hope you are well. Take care.

  Love, Margarita

  The letter was non-committal and yet, in spite of its brevity, Themis read something unexpected between the lines. The ‘miss you’ and the ‘love’. Were they perhaps real?

  All those difficult years with her sister seemed to vanish as she began to picture her in Berlin. There had been photographs of its derelict streets in the newspapers, so she knew that this much was true. Themis realised how deeply her sister must love this foreigner to have left for somewhere so unknown and so austere. She had never experienced such a passion herself, and felt a momentary pang of envy.

  Thanasis had taken the letter out of her hands to read it.

  ‘Is there an address?’ asked Kyría Koralis. ‘Does it say where she is living?’

  ‘Nothing here,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s on the envelope?’

  Panos picked up the discarded envelope from the kitchen table and held it up to the light. An address had been smudged, probably by snow or rain on its journey.

  ‘Just the Berlin postmark. That’s all.’

  ‘We’ll have to wait for another letter,’ said Thanasis. ‘Perhaps the next one will tell us more.’

  Kyría Koralis’ expression was one of despair.

  ‘My poor little Margarita,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t even say if they are to marry.’

  ‘As long as she is safe, Yiayiá,’ responded Panos. ‘That’s what really matters.’

  The combined relief and disappointment aroused by the letter were soon overshadowed by the forthcoming elections. Although women did not have the right to vote, Themis was glad that they were taking place.

  ‘At least it’s a chance for fairness!’ she said. ‘Maybe it will be a new start for this country!’

  ‘Let’s hope so, agápi mou,’ responded Kyría Koralis. ‘I am sure everyone will vote sensibly.’

  ‘What do you mean, Yiayiá?’ challenged Panos.

  ‘I hope that every man will vote for the good of the country. That’s what I mean,’ she said.

  Thanasis interrupted, aggressively. ‘And not for his own selfish ideas. Or to open the gates to Stalin.’

  ‘Thanasis . . .’ said Themis, trying to calm the atmosphere, but he carried on, determined to make his point.

  ‘Make no mistake, Panos, if the communists have their way, this country will just become a Soviet satellite. And that is not what’s best for this country.’

  Panos got up and leaned over Thanasis, his fury ill concealed.

  ‘You think these are proper elections? That they’re democratic? When there are thousands of people still in prison? And hundreds of thousands being persecuted? The same people who resisted the Germans?’ Thanasis ignored the questions. ‘The left will abstain,’ Panos continued bluntly. ‘None of us will vote.’

  ‘That’s your choice, you stupid, fucking communist!’ Thanasis shouted triumphantly to his brother’s retreating back.

  Since his return from hospital, Thanasis had displayed extremes of emotion. Themis had once got home from work to find him quietly weeping on the balcony. More plentiful than tears were the moments when he lost all self-control. Even with his grandmother in the room, he showed no restraint in his language.

  Themis sat quietly. Even if she was shocked by Thanasis’ outburst, she did agree with him that there was something illogical about turning down the chance to decide who governed. Her grandmother felt the same.

  ‘It’s madness,’ muttered the old lady, shaking her head. ‘It’s their chance to have their say. And then they don’t take it. What’s the sense in that?’

  When the elections came in late March 1946, the mass abstention inevitably opened the way for a right-wing government, and the monarchy returned from exile. Former ELAS resistance fighters had already retreated into the mountains to escape repression and now the situation became even more polarised. Soon the new government was accusing the communists of receiving arms from across the borders in Bulgaria and Yugoslavia.

  Thanasis was still not mobile enough to return to work, but his mood improved following this election. As if to mark the moment, he decided to remove the bandages that had kept his face concealed for more than a year and a half.

  When Themis came in that day, she only just managed to repress a gasp. The whole of the left side of her brother’s face was hideously disfigured, a jagged scar ran from eye to chin.

  Panos said nothing. He rarely looked at his brother in any case.

  For the first few days Thanasis tried to maintain some dignity by continuing to shave, but could not confront himself in the mirror for more than a few moments. A beard began to grow on one side, but not a single hair emerged from anywhere close to the scar, merely accentuating the disfigurement. Only his grandmother referred to it.

  ‘You’re still such a handsome boy,’ she told him. ‘And it will fade.’

  Both of them knew she was lying.

  By the end of the year, the scattered resistance groups led by the Communist Party leadership formed the Democratic Army of Greece, DAG, the new army they had planned. Panos and most of his friends decided to join up straightaway. Manolis was hesitant.

  ‘I think I’ve had enough of fighting,’ he said.

  The rest of the group were scornful of his lack of commitment and an hour later, after listening to his friends’ arguments, he was persuaded to change his mind. The whole group clinked glasses together.

  ‘To the communist army of Greece!’ they chorused. ‘To DAG!’

  Back at home, Themis was dismayed that Panos would be leaving again.

  ‘I am well enough now,’ Panos said to her. ‘I can’t sit here any longer, listening to the radio and reading the reports. I don’t just want to hear about the struggle, I want to take part in it.’

  ‘You’ll be restless if you don’t, Panos. But are you strong enough?’

  ‘I’ll soon find out,’ he said, taking his sister’s hand.

  ‘Will you be saying goodbye to our grandmother . . .?’

  ‘No. I would rather Thanasis didn’t know, so . . .’

  ‘I’ll help you, like the last time. It gave you a bit more time to get away.’

  For the next forty-eight hours, Themis tried to distract herself from the sadness of Panos’ impending departure, doing practical things such as darning the holes in his spare socks and buying some extra bread for him, which she wrapped in a cloth and stuffed into his pocket.

  He left early, creeping out so quietly that Thanasis, who was in the same room, was totally unaware.

  Only Themis, who had lain awake all night, heard the discreet ‘click’ of the latch. She resisted the temptation to leap out of bed, run and embrace her brother. She must not alert the rest of the household. Thanasis would have no hesitation in handing Panos over to his former colleagues. In these past years, many on the left had been betrayed by members of their own families and the grey area between friend and foe no longer existed. As far as the policeman was concerned, Panos was the enemy.

  Tears rolled down Themis’ face and into her pillow. She was missing her brother even before he had crossed the square to be picked up by a truck to begin his journey to the mountains.

  By the time Kyría Koralis and Thanasis realised that he had gone, he was already far away. Themis put on a show of dismay, though Thanasis was not fooled.

  ‘It’s no surprise to me that he’s left,’ said Thanasis almost smugly. ‘But he won’t find it easy up there in the north. The government army is ready to fight him.’

  Weeks went by and they heard nothing from Panos himself but the news stories of what was happening far away on the borders did nothing to reassure them of his safety.

  ‘He must be so hungry,’ Kyría Koralis fretted, listening to a radio report about small units attacking villages merely to find food. ‘He was thin enough before he went.’

  ‘There are innocent people in those villages. And they’re
killing them,’ said Thanasis. ‘They’ve had to impose martial law up there to stop the communists doing anything they damn well please.’

  Even though her heart was with Panos’ cause, Themis could not defend his army’s actions. There were many first-hand accounts of rape and abduction, and she hoped that her brother was not responsible for such atrocities.

  The broadcast they were listening to also suggested that other countries were supplying aid to the communists.

  ‘And if they start getting help from north of the border, then the government will destroy them,’ said Thanasis. ‘Because it makes them traitors. My brother is a bloody traitor.’

  ‘Please, Thanasis,’ pleaded his grandmother.

  When he got angry, his scar reddened. The jagged trench glistened now as though the wound was new and blood was still rising to the surface. The surgeon’s stitches had been swiftly but clumsily executed.

  It upset his grandmother to see him like this. She wanted him to be as he once was: her favourite grandson, the handsome one, the one who was most like his father. He had changed so much since his accident, not just in his looks but in his personality too.

  Themis watched Kyría Koralis play an ever more intensive role with her brother. Cutting up his food and doing up his buttons were merely the practical things. In addition, she had to soothe him, calm him and nod in agreement with his views. Themis understood that her grandmother was motivated by love, but was none the less sickened by it.

  The more reports came in of the communists gaining ground, the more regular became Thanasis’ outbursts of anger. Civil war had deepened and everything around him seemed to be collapsing. His own city was still in a state of disintegration, the government was falling apart and people averted their gaze when they saw him in the street.

  Thanasis scarcely left the apartment, whereas Themis tried to be out as much as possible to avoid her brother’s simmering fury. The gloom of their home, where the electricity often failed and their breath came out in icy plumes, was almost unremitting in those colourless January days.

  In spring 1947, Thanasis became a little more cheerful when the bleak outlook for the Greek government was marginally alleviated by aid from America. He knew that this economic support was not destined merely for feeding and rebuilding. It would also be used to finance military action against the communists, a fact that he openly celebrated.