Those Who Are Loved Page 6

  Themis had no time to answer before Panos leapt in, not just to defend Themis but all those who objected to the dictatorship they lived under.

  ‘You two just can’t see it, can you?’ he shouted, waving his finger at both Thanasis and Margarita. ‘It doesn’t bother you that Metaxas admires a regime like Italy’s. And crushes the opposition with his bullies.’

  As usual when her four grandchildren were divided into warring camps, Kyría Koralis busied herself preparing food, washing dishes and reordering kitchen utensils that were already in place. She made the occasional plea to them to keep their voices down and sometimes, as she did now, interrupted with a political point that betrayed her own allegiance.

  ‘It’s correct that Metaxas looks up to Mussolini, Panos, but I think the admiration is mutual.’

  ‘Hitler admires the Greeks too. And we should all be proud of that!’ added Margarita.

  ‘She’s right, Panos,’ said Thanasis triumphantly. ‘Everyone knows that the Germans admire the Ancient Greeks!’

  It was true that the Ancient Greeks were depicted in Nazi textbooks as their ‘nearest racial brothers’ but Panos reacted with scorn.

  ‘They no longer exist!’ he said. ‘We’re not the same people. And the sooner we stop pretending we are, the better.’

  ‘Calm down, Panos,’ urged Thanasis. ‘It’s a great thing for Greece that Hitler respects Hellenistic ideals.’

  ‘I can’t listen to this. And don’t tell me to calm down!’

  Thanasis rarely failed to provoke his younger brother to anger.

  Margarita sat with her hands clapped over her ears as her brothers began to shout.

  Thanasis was not to be deterred. Now that he had stirred his younger brother to boiling point, he got in his stride, feeling in command of the debate, all his facts at his fingertips.

  ‘Look what great things Hitler is doing for his country! It’s about leadership and discipline, Panos.’

  ‘He even has a youth organisation,’ Margarita chipped in. ‘Lots of countries are following the same path.’

  ‘That’s the only thing you’ve said that I agree with,’ shouted Panos. ‘That fascists all follow the same path.’ Then a note of despair came to his voice: ‘But where will that path lead?’

  For a few moments, there was silence. No one seemed to have an answer to this.

  Themis wiped her nose on her sleeve. She desperately wanted her brothers to stop arguing.

  Margarita sat there smirking. In her view, Thanasis had gained the upper hand. Beneath the table, she swung her leg, occasionally kicking her sister’s shin.

  Thanasis got up from the table, sighing as he did so.

  ‘You’re just so stupid, Panos. You can’t see anything clearly, can you?’

  Panos did not reply. The argument had played itself out.

  Themis was used to seeing this happen and even though it was a mention of her own best friend and her mother that had sparked this particular altercation, she herself had hardly spoken a word. Instead, she had felt the heat from the raging fire that was, as usual, instantly extinguished when one of her brothers left the room.

  For Themis, the most important thing she had learnt that afternoon was that not everyone lived as they did. As she lay in bed that night, the image of Fotini’s mother carefully measuring out a few dried beans remained in her mind until she slept.

  The following morning, her friend was full of chatter.

  ‘My mother was so happy you came to our house,’ Fotini said. ‘You were the first guest we’ve had.’

  ‘Can I come again?’

  ‘Of course you can. As often as you are allowed,’ answered Fotini quickly.

  From that day, a new routine began. Every day, after school, Themis went to Fotini’s house in the narrow backstreet and the two girls diligently studied together. Although it was noisy out in the yard, where women gossiped and babies cried, nothing could disturb their concentration.

  Themis always stayed until Fotini’s mother appeared. They exchanged a few friendly words and then she left as the aroma of cooking began to rise.

  Their schoolwork was exemplary, delivered on time and scoring the highest marks. There was only one evening in the week when the pattern was broken and that was when they were obliged to attend an EON meeting. It was now compulsory for girls their age.

  ‘If we just mouth the words of the songs, then we’re not really singing them,’ said Fotini.

  ‘So we won’t really mean them . . .?’

  ‘No. We won’t,’ said Fotini firmly. ‘We’ll sing different words in our heads so we’ll be thinking the opposite. My mother was annoyed that I had told you what happened to my father,’ she went on. ‘But I can’t forget it.’

  ‘Of course you can’t, Fotini. And nor will I, now,’ said Themis, still shocked by her own family’s antagonism. ‘But maybe she thinks it’s not safe for you to tell people how he died.’

  Fotini shrugged. ‘I am not ashamed of it and I won’t pretend it didn’t happen.’

  Fotini’s mother’s attempts to warn her daughter to be careful about what she expressed were brushed away. It was impossible to knock the rebellious streak out of Fotini.

  ‘I hate this dressing up as a soldier,’ Fotini complained one day, as she was putting on her EON hat. ‘Are we pretending to be at war? Who am I meant to be fighting? Tell me!’

  Her mother did not respond. War was closer than anyone imagined and the question of whose side to take soon became a topic of national conversation. In September 1939, Hitler invaded Poland, and Britain and France declared war on Germany. During the following months, the conflict escalated and it seemed that every country must decide who to support.

  Even Margarita, who had always loved her EON activities, found the possibility of war anathema. She blocked her ears when everyone began to talk of it. She wanted a different life. While Themis’ closest friend lived in the poorest area of Athens, her own best friend, Marina, lived in the most well-to-do. Marina’s mother had beautiful clothes and went to the hairdresser twice a week. Margarita wanted to be like her and nurtured aspirations beyond Patissia. As everyone else in her family debated between left and right and what was happening in Europe, Margarita daydreamed that she belonged to another family, and her destiny lay elsewhere. She began to look for evidence.

  One morning in early December, she found herself alone in the apartment, and could not resist the temptation to pry into places that she knew were out of bounds. These pieces of ‘grown-up furniture’, as she thought of them, included a desk that had belonged to her father. Having riffled through its drawers, she quickly established that paperwork was generally dull and put it all back. It was not in the same order but she could not imagine that anyone would ever notice the mess. Curiosity then led her to a small cupboard in her grandmother’s room. When she turned the handle and found it locked, her interest was immediately aroused. It must hold something interesting and secret.

  The key, tucked in the drawer of the bedside cabinet, was easy to find and the mechanism, though stiff, eventually turned. The cupboard was full of neatly folded clothes and Margarita carefully picked up the first garment and held it up to herself. The dress was half the width of the plump fifteen-year-old but finding the buttons down the back already open, she stepped into it, pulling it on over her dull green jumper and brown woollen skirt. Her nose was filled with the smell of damp and dust, and catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror she was filled with disgust. An image of her mother wearing this dress, curled up on her bed, lifeless and sad, leapt from somewhere in her memory. Quickly pulling it off, Margarita bundled it up and tossed it back in the cupboard.

  She had destabilised the pile of clothes, however, and it toppled forward, to make an untidy heap that spilled out of the cupboard and on to the floor. Now she could see that something had been concealed by the clothing. A box. It was about the size of a large book, but three times as deep. She bent down to lift it out. It was heavier than she expected b
ut she picked it up and sat on her grandmother’s bed to open it.

  Only in a children’s story about Turkish pirates had she seen such a sight: a chest spilling over with gold and silver, pearls and gems. She picked up the first item and found it entwined with another, chains and clasps were knotted together, with bracelets almost impossible to extricate from beads and brooches.

  For the next hour she patiently separated every item and lay them on the bed, sorting one from another. She hummed as she worked, happy, excited, her eyes sparkling with joy at her discovery. This was treasure.

  Once everything was unravelled she stood back and admired the collection. There were many necklaces (some with pearls, two with diamonds), pendants (one shaped like a snake with emerald eyes and another with a large central ruby) and a gold bracelet with a row of sapphires set in the centre. There were several rings too.

  Margarita did not know that they had been part of her mother’s dowry, along with the house in Antigonis Street, and at one time might have been worth more than the house itself. When she had left for the psychiatric hospital, Eleftheria had taken just one small bag of clothes and Kyría Koralis had promised her that everything else would follow. The first time her husband visited, he realised that his wife would not need any more of her clothing as she was mostly confined to bed. As a result nothing more was sent.

  One by one, Margarita tried on each piece of jewellery and looked at herself in the mirror, carefully putting the item down when she took it off. Then she experimented with different combinations: amber with emerald, ruby with pearls, silver with gold, amethyst with diamonds. The number of permutations seemed infinite and she had no idea how much time passed.

  After she had put everything on at least once, she tried more extravagant pairings and then many items at once, until she had almost everything on at the same time – three necklaces, brooches running down like military medals from shoulder to chest, and bracelets from wrist to elbow. She pouted and pranced in front of the mirror, as if being photographed for a magazine, strutting as she imagined that actresses and models might strut, standing with her back to the mirror and throwing glances over her shoulder. And all the time she smiled. All their years hidden in the darkness had not dulled these gems.

  Margarita kept catching glimpses of herself in the mirror. Having never owned or even had the opportunity to try them, she now realised that gold and silver and precious stones cast a magic spell. They made her more beautiful. This must be why they were so coveted and why women desired them so much.

  Margarita wanted to be like one of the glamorous women who went to Zonars, the new café in central Athens. She had glimpsed them through the gleaming plate-glass windows, sipping their coffee with gloved hands. In the winter they wore mink, and in the summer pastel silks. Their hair was sculpted and without exception they wore heavy necklaces. Like Marina’s mother, Margarita would one day have a rendezvous there, and one of the uniformed staff would hold open the door as she passed. Her head held high, she would walk between the tables in her high heels and stockings that made it look as if her legs were bare, even though they were not.

  Still wearing most of the jewellery, she went over to the cupboard and tried to tidy the pile of clothes. If only she had some fur . . .

  Suddenly the apartment door slammed. Margarita froze as she heard the heavy footsteps of her older brother come to a halt outside.

  Thanasis was led to his grandmother’s room by the light and pushed open the door. The rest of the apartment was in darkness.

  There was nowhere to hide, so Margarita stood up. She had been caught red-handed.

  Thanasis’ reaction disarmed her completely.

  ‘You look so pretty!’ he exclaimed, smiling. ‘Look at you, in all our mother’s finery!’

  He stood back to admire her. Being a few years older than Margarita, he remembered their mother before her illness and held on to memories of her dressing in some of these clothes and putting on her jewellery.

  ‘I always wondered where her diamonds went,’ he said, gazing wistfully at his sister.

  ‘You knew she had these . . .?’

  ‘Not all of these. But I remember her wearing some of them. I think you should take them off before Yiayiá finds you here.’

  It was impossible to put the clothes back just as they had been, but they did their best, confident that their grandmother would not notice that anything had been disturbed. Judging by the musty smell, it seemed as if she rarely opened this cupboard.

  ‘It’s such a waste, leaving it all in there,’ Margarita said quietly, burying the box beneath the clothes.

  ‘The clothes?’

  ‘No. The jewellery.’

  ‘I am sure you’ll be given something when the time is right.’

  ‘How long do I have to wait? Until that woman dies?’

  ‘Margarita!’

  ‘Well, she wasn’t a proper mother, was she?’ said Margarita defensively.

  Thanasis still missed his mother. He had been the one closest to her, with the strongest memories of her love. As the first child, he had been the only one to receive her exclusive attention. He thought of her often, even though letters about her condition had become infrequent.

  He noticed a ladies’ handkerchief lying on the floor and, unobserved by Margarita, he picked it up and tucked it into his pocket. In the corner was an elaborately embroidered ‘E’. Later on he would hold it to his face. There was no trace of his mother’s scent but he would treasure the small square of silk.

  ‘But we never see her. We never hear from her. And it’s such a waste, all of this just hidden in here,’ protested Margarita.

  ‘You’re a bit too young for it yet,’ he stressed.

  Their voices drowned out the opening and shutting of the front door and they were entirely unaware of Themis’ entry into the room.

  When Margarita caught sight of her she pushed her out again.

  ‘Why are you always spying? Get out!’

  Themis fled, but she had heard enough. Her older sister seemed no longer to care whether their mother lived or died. Her heartlessness seemed to have no bounds.

  Margarita was furious with Themis for catching her going through their mother’s things. As they were about to sleep that night, she sat on her little sister’s chest and swore that if she ever gave her away, she would kill her.

  Themis did not doubt it.

  Margarita regularly returned to the cupboard whenever her grandmother was out and became familiar with every item, lovingly getting to know each piece and putting them in order of their value, which she could only guess. The jewellery gave her dreams and aspirations, and filled her with fantasies about leading a life in which everyone appreciated her beauty and treated her like a princess. Perhaps she might even meet royalty? And if so, which piece of jewellery would she want to be wearing?

  While Margarita lived in her dream world, her brothers were watching events in the real but unpredictable one.

  Although General Metaxas had been happy to emulate aspects of the German and Italian regimes, he had not supported them on the outbreak of war in September 1939. Instead, he turned towards Britain.

  Early one October morning in 1940, just over a year later, the Italian ambassador arrived at Metaxas’ residence with a demand that he should allow Mussolini’s forces to enter Greece from Albania and to occupy certain territories. Metaxas’ response was a blank refusal.

  Italian forces crossed the border almost immediately.

  ‘They’ve invaded,’ said Kyría Koralis, wringing her hands. ‘What are we going to do?’

  The panic in her voice was palpable.

  Even at the age of fourteen, Themis had no practical sense of her country’s geography, never having been further than the coast twenty kilometres from the centre of Athens. If the Italians were marching south, they would arrive in Patissia by the morning. She was sure of it. The girl had a sleepless night.

  The next morning, everything looked less bleak. News r
eports told them that Greek forces had reacted with unexpected ferocity and power. Over the following months, despite harsh winter conditions, they pushed the Italians further back into Albania and briefly occupied an area in the south of the country themselves.

  By then, whether or not the Italians admired the Greeks was no longer relevant.

  ‘I am so glad you two boys aren’t there,’ said Kyría Koralis tearfully as they gathered round the radio. The conditions in which Greek soldiers were fighting were severe.

  ‘I’m not glad, Yiayiá,’ said Thanasis. ‘I’d be happy to defend my country. They’re showing how much they love their motherland. May God bless them.’

  ‘You’ll have your time,’ said Kyría Koralis. ‘I am sure of that. All that EON training won’t go to waste.’

  The success of the Greek forces was cause for celebration for everyone in the Koralis home. The simple ‘Óchi’ to the Italian ambassador had made Metaxas more popular among his admirers, and even those who objected to his dictatorship grudgingly admitted that he had protected his country from humiliation.

  ‘Here’s to our brave troops,’ said Thanasis, lifting a glass of firewater. All four of the Koralis children were in their EON uniforms that night. They had attended a victory parade that afternoon in front of their proud grandmother. Panos’ toast was half-hearted but even Themis had got swept up in the excitement.

  ‘To our general!’ she and Margarita chorused in an uncharacteristic display of unity.

  The repulsion of the Italians on the Albanian border was a great victory but Metaxas was still trying to avoid getting embroiled in the war.

  ‘He’s turned down Britain’s offer to send troops!’ said Panos. ‘Why? They would protect us!’

  Thanasis was swift with his answer.

  ‘If we have Churchill’s troops in our country, that will be the end of us,’ he snapped. ‘That’s when Hitler will see us as his enemy.’

  Everyone around the table was quiet. Their country was extremely vulnerable.

  During this time, the repressive measures of the Metaxas dictatorship continued. One January day, not long after they had gone back to school after Christmas, Themis witnessed its brutality. She was at Fotini’s house when the police arrived to search the street for suspected communists. She saw a young man around Thanasis’ age being dragged from his makeshift home and out into the street. As the group passed, she and Fotini had peered through a crack in the door, shivering with fear. Themis noticed that the youth’s face was already bleeding as he was bundled into a van.