Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

  I ran back to my home and phoned Spyridon.

  ‘They’re rounding up the communists. They’ve killed Aphroditi’s husband, you won’t believe what they’ve done. It’s too terrible.’ I could hardly speak for sobbing. ‘I’m afraid for Markos!’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Kos. He’s due back on the ferry at 4 a.m. My home’s been broken into. Everything’s thrown about.’

  ‘Is there anything to connect you with the communists, Sofia?’

  ‘No, of course not . . .’ Then I remembered my book of rebel songs. ‘I’m not sure. I need to check.’

  ‘Get out of there – you’re in danger! Go and stay with a friend. I’ll collect Markos from the ferry. Go, do it now – the situation’s critical!’

  I grabbed clothes and stuffed them into a bag. I searched for my songbook, and it seemed to be the only thing missing. What was going on? Surely they didn’t think I was a threat to the government. I was only a singer – an ex-singer. I pulled the door closed, even though the lock was smashed. I kept to the backstreets and alleys until I arrived at the bakery. Mr Zacharia was there.

  ‘My home’s been ransacked. Can I sleep under the counter like in the old days?’

  He looked gaunt and grave. ‘No, you can sleep in the cellar. Much safer. Help me move the counter.’

  We lugged the heavy timber bench forward and I saw there was a trapdoor in the wooden floor. He went into the back and returned with a small torch.

  I followed him down some wooden steps and found a room the size of the shop above. There were ten mattresses covering most of the floor. Nearly all were mouldy. There was a coal-chute leading up to the backstreet, with a grille above letting in the only light and air.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘We hid Jews here in the war. Spyridon and Theo’s father would smuggle them out of the city at night.’

  ‘So you knew Markos before?’

  Zacharia nodded. ‘I went to school with Theo’s father, flour-man Fannes, and Spyridon. Between the four of us, we managed to save over two thousand souls. Markos and Theo were very young, but they delivered essential messages for us. Without the boys’ help, our work would have been impossible.’ He stared at nothing for a second, his mouth turned down. ‘One of them would drive the flour van over that grille. The van had a trapdoor in the floor. At the port, they were loaded onto ships in flour sacks, just a few at a time.’

  ‘Oh. You did that? He did that . . . ?’

  ‘Keep it to yourself, Sofia. I have no wish to end up like Aphroditi’s husband.’ At the surprise on my face he said softly, ‘The woman I loved was Jewish.’

  I was afraid to speak, afraid of saying the wrong thing, but there was no need; he answered my unspoken question.

  ‘She never came back from Auschwitz.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Zacharia, I’m so sorry.’

  He looked away, then glanced up at the grid as a vehicle drove over it.

  ‘There’s a tap and a latrine behind that curtain.’ He pointed to the corner. ‘And a candle, but try not to use it. We don’t want to attract attention when it’s dark outside.’ He fumbled in the pocket of his grey trousers and produced a box of matches. ‘Here, take these.’

  From the faint light that filtered down through the floorboards from the shop, I could see there was writing all over the peeling whitewashed walls. Different sizes, notes, small drawings.

  He turned away. ‘I must go. They’ll come here looking for you. I’ll drop a loaf down the coal-chute in the morning.’

  He hurried up the steps, lowered the trapdoor, and I heard the old counter being dragged over the floor above.

  In the dark, I tried to remember which was the cleanest-looking mattress, and finally lay down. With no watch or clock, I wondered where Markos was, and prayed Spyridon found him before the police did. I don’t know if I slept. My thoughts drifted through my life: my parents, the orphanage, the starvation that followed, Markos, my singing. Those glorious songs would have uplifted me now. Even to hum them would have given me courage, strength. But in the silence and darkness of the cellar, I was overcome with fear for Markos, and for myself.

  After what seemed like an endless length of time, I opened my eyes and realised I could make out the shape of the coal-chute. Dawn had arrived. For a moment, I was disorientated. I blinked rapidly, staring at the floor, then I realised . . . The moment I moved, a crackling sound came from the cement. A thousand cockroaches disappeared in an instant. I stared at the bare concrete and whimpered.

  As the light strengthened, I could hear Mr Zacharia above me, going about his morning toil. I recognised the sound of the back door, then a shower of dirt came down the chute as the grate was lifted for the first time in who knew how many years. I hurried over, desperate to catch the bread before it hit the floor. It was so hot I almost dropped it.

  Where was Markos? I glanced around, wondering where the roaches had gone, dreading the night ahead. The only indication of time passing was the length of the shaft of light shining down the coal-chute, moving as slowly as the hour hand of a clock.

  *

  I stood in the beam of light, my face turned up, feeling the sun’s warmth on my skin. Time crept by and I guessed it was early afternoon. The light-shaft grew longer again and slipped towards the left. I jumped every time I heard footsteps above, or whenever someone walked over the grate. The walls seemed to be closing in, the spacious cellar becoming smaller. I was trapped in a room with cockroaches waiting for darkness to descend. The peeling walls drew my attention, and while there was enough light, I decided to read the scribbled notes on the walls.

  I am with Mama, Papa, and my baby brother. Soshi Munkle. 8½ years old from Aristotle Street.

  Dear Sister, stay safe in Canada. Nana, Josh, and Sarah are with me. We will meet again. Kala Menzies.

  I have a toothache! It stinks in here! David Cohen, 15.

  There were hundreds of messages. Some were sad, while others were full of hope. I thought about the poor wretches who had passed that way and wondered how many had survived the war and come back to thank Mr Zacharia, or Markos and his friends.

  The sound of heavy stamping above took me out of my brooding. Soldiers’ boots, muffled shouting. Trouble. Wide-eyed, I stared at the ceiling and followed the footsteps across the floor above, blinking away the dust and flour that sprinkled down with each stomp.

  Something heavy fell to the floor, followed by banging and clattering. Zacharia warning me? Should I climb out through the coal grid? What if they discovered the cellar? They might kill Mr Zacharia like Aphroditi’s husband. I imagined his severed head and started shaking.

  Then Zacharia’s angry voice boomed from above. ‘If you find her, tell her from me she’s lost her job! I need somebody I can rely on!’ he thundered. ‘Any of you got a sister who can knead bread dough?’

  The ruckus seemed to calm down. I wanted to hug him. Dust continued to rain from between the floorboards as they marched out of the shop.

  *

  The sunlight had gone and with the dark came my dread of the cockroaches’ return. I sat on the bottom stair, my skirt tightly wrapped around my legs. To my relief, the shop above became quiet, but in the silence, every small noise seemed to pierce my skin. If only I had washed myself while the basement was lighter. My unease picked up every rustle, amplified the faintest sounds, and my eyes strained to detect movement across the dusky floor. Soon it would be night and I would not be able to stay awake.

  Footsteps in the backstreet drew my attention. The grid screeched as it moved. I dipped into the space under the stairs, pressed myself into the corner, felt cobwebs on the back of my neck, and held my breath. A fat paper bag, two corners twisted into tight ringlets, slid down the chute and landed on the floor. I realised it was food from Mr Zacharia. I leaped up to retrieve it, catching a whiff of the delicious olive bread.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered as I bent.

  Suddenly I was splayed on the floor with no
notion of what had hit me. Something big and heavy, filling the coal-hole, had followed the bread. In a terrifying second, I realised a man had come down the chute. Trapped in the dark, I fought with all I had, kicking and scratching and biting. He groaned, fended off my blows and tried to catch my wrists.

  ‘Stop! Stop, it’s me!’ he whispered urgently.

  Markos!

  I pulled back, gasping, then crying for joy in his arms, pressing myself against his chest. Like a bolt of lightning, he filled the room with energy.

  ‘Oh, Markos! I’ve been so worried. What’s going on? The police – or the army, I don’t know – they came looking for me. They broke into my home and ransacked the place.’

  He rocked me, smoothed my hair and whispered endearments until I calmed down.

  ‘It’s the junta,’ he explained. ‘They’re rounding up the communists. Some traitor has passed them a list and we’re on it.’

  I tucked my head under his chin, squeezed my knees together and buried my face in his chest. I fitted perfectly into that innocent place against him and, for a few seconds, I believed everything would be all right. We were safe for the moment.

  ‘We’ll stay here for a couple of days, while my beard grows enough to disguise me – and then Zacharia will take us to Piraeus for the dawn ferry to Crete.’

  ‘We’re going to Crete?’

  Images raced through my head, lifting my spirit. I had seen a little of the island while working for Spyridon. Life consisted of eating, sleeping, preparing for the theatre and singing, but between events, we had travelled from one end of the island to the other on winding roads through quaint towns and villages. My first appearance was always in Chania and I loved that town above all others. Then I would perform in Rethymnon, and after, on to Agios Nikolaos, where we would return on the ferry to Athens. Ag. Nik., as the new breed of hippy tourists called it, heaved with discotheques, gift shops, and resonated with a popular wave of protest music that came from America. This had swept through Europe: Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan. Songs of peace and freedom.

  ‘Come and lie with me,’ Markos said, easing me towards the mattresses.

  ‘God, no! The place is teeming with cockroaches. They make my skin crawl. I’m staying on the stairs. There’re thousands of them, Markos, the floor was completely covered.’

  ‘Ah, you poor old thing. What time does Zacharia come back to work?’

  ‘Between twelve and one.’

  *

  We sat on the stairs for six hours, dozing in each other’s arms, whispering plans for our future, until I must have fallen asleep. A noise woke me suddenly and I realised Zacharia was unlocking the back door to the shop.

  ‘He’s here, Markos,’ I whispered, as pinpricks of light filtered down from between the floorboards.

  Markos made three sharp knocks in the boards and the light above us went out. I could hear Zacharia moving the counter and soon we were standing in the dark shop.

  ‘What is it? You shouldn’t come out, it’s too dangerous.’

  ‘The cellar’s full of cockroaches,’ Markos explained.

  ‘Right, well, I can’t have them coming up into the shop. You know what to do.’ He lifted a couple of white bags from the shelves. ‘Baking soda and sugar, mix them together and place a plate of water next to it. The roaches’ll be done for by tomorrow night. Hurry now, Markos. I’ll keep a lookout out front. The military police are in the streets.’

  ‘I’ll go in the back and start the dough, shall I, Mr Zacharia?’ I asked.

  ‘Good plan.’

  Ten minutes later, with the shop lights still out, Zacharia and Markos were shifting the counter back in place. Then Zacharia delved into his pocket and pulled out a key on a string, which he handed to Markos.

  ‘Go to my house,’ he said, nodding at the back door. ‘You’ll find clothes in the wardrobe. Disguise yourselves. I’ll pick you up at half five and take you to the port. The ferry leaves at six. Be ready. Get in the back of the van as soon as I pull up.’

  Markos nodded, took my floury hand and tugged me through the back door.

  *

  I woke, curled into the contours of Markos’s body. He, propped on one elbow, gazed lovingly at my face.

  ‘We have to go soon,’ he whispered. I wanted to stay where I was. ‘Come on, let’s shower,’ he said. ‘We’ll be a long time on the ferry.’ He pulled me to him and kissed me softly.

  We made love in the shower, dressed hurriedly, waited just inside the front door. When Zacharia pulled up, we tumbled into the back of his van. At the port, Zacharia got our tickets to Crete, then drove to the boarding ramp. Luckily, he knew the stevedore and asked about his family while we scurried up to the passenger deck. There was barely time to thank him properly.

  I gave him a fierce hug. ‘You’ve been like a father to me, Mr Zacharia, and I love you for it. Please stay safe!’

  ‘Go, go!’ he said. ‘The bread’s in the oven, I have to get back!’ His voice was gruff, and his damp eyes avoided mine. ‘Here, this is yours.’ He pushed an envelope into my hand. ‘All those years you worked for nearly nothing – well, I always put something aside for you for when you needed it. Use it wisely.’

  Then he turned away and was gone.

  A breeze, soft as the breath of spring, made the tears prickle on my cheeks.

  ‘Come on, let’s find a comfortable place to relax,’ Markos said. ‘We have plans to make. This is a historic day for us. A fresh start, Sofia.’

  I hoped with all my heart it was. A cottage, steady work, children: these were my dreams and I felt myself on the verge of them.

  In a matter of minutes, we were settled in a quiet corner at the back of the middle deck. Markos spread a blanket we had brought with us. Under the rear stairway, we sat on the floor with our backs against the wall.

  He slid his arm around my shoulders. ‘I’m hoping it’s going to be third time lucky,’ he said, as the ship rocked gently and I knew we were pulling out of Piraeus harbour. ‘Sofia, I’m asking you again – will you marry me?’

  I smiled inside, but kept my face straight. ‘You know my answer, Markos. As soon as you have a regular job. As soon as we’re safe. I want us to have children, and I know you do too, so let’s set the foundations for a family in Crete, and once we’ve done that, I’ll say yes.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘You’re so practical. Can’t you just do something spontaneous occasionally? Let’s go for it, live dangerously.’

  ‘Go for what? I’ve had enough danger to last me a lifetime. I want to feel secure. Bliss for me is you coming home from work and me serving up your favourite food, putting the kids to bed and then watching television with you, listening to music on the record player and singing along. I’m not a complicated person, am I?’ I smiled with the thought. ‘I dream of you putting your knife and fork together and saying, “God, that was good!” I imagine bathing our children, telling them bedtime stories until they fall asleep with smiles on their faces.’

  Even as I spoke, I was lost in my imagination and hadn’t realised I had closed my eyes. Silent for a moment, content with my dreams, I embraced this new beginning on the island of Crete.

  ‘What’s your vision of the future?’ I whispered.

  ‘The same as yours,’ he whispered. ‘But I want our children to grow up with the freedom to be themselves, in a country where the government isn’t telling them who they can speak to, or what they should or should not wear, or which songs they’re allowed to sing.’ He started humming a Bob Dylan melody.

  ‘Markos, shush! You’ll get us into trouble!’

  My dreams shrank within me. Would he ever give up the fight?

  *

  Night had fallen by the time we arrived at the bustling port of Heraklion, capital of Crete. Wagons of live sheep and pigs rattled down the ramp. Impatient travellers pushed and shoved to get off the ferry, while others hurried on board to collect cardboard boxes that had come from Athens. Students also came on the ferry to collect carpet bags
sent from home. Clean underwear, freshly baked biscuits from Yiayá, cassettes for their tape players and the latest music and messages from girlfriends. Short, strong Cretan men pulled trolleys aboard to collect stock for their gift shops, and women stood on their toes, searching for family members.

  Several stevedores swiped their arms through the air, shouting ‘Ela! Ela!’ as if it would make anyone move faster. A loud whistle came from beyond the crowd, making Markos stretch his neck.

  ‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  We rounded the throng and found a man with red, swollen eyes, Yosef, and his son, Andreas. The son was about the same age as Markos. They stood by a battered pickup with no doors or tailgate. We got in the back and sat on the rolled-up blanket with our backs pressed against the cab.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ I asked, as cars and trucks disappeared into the city.

  ‘He’s picking something up off the ferry.’

  I stared when Yosef and two stevedores appeared with a pine coffin, which hardly fitted in the centre of the pickup. Markos and I squeezed into opposite corners while they tied it down.

  ‘Can’t they turn it on its side?’ I asked Markos. ‘Give us a bit more room?’

  ‘No, of course not – she’ll roll over, and the flowers will be crushed.’

  ‘You don’t mean there’s somebody in there? You’re pulling my leg.’

  Markos laughed, shaking his head. ‘The grandmother. She died in an Athens hospital, but they have to bury her in her own village with her ancestors.’

  We clung onto the coffin handles to stop it slipping from under the ropes as we climbed a steep hill.

  ‘Where’re we going?’ I asked, trying not to think about the poor woman who lay between us.

  ‘Zoniana, in the mountains. We’ll be safe there even if somebody comes looking for us. The locals are a fierce lot, and there’s always a couple with Kalashnikovs guarding the village.’

  I wasn’t sure the information made me feel any better.

  CHAPTER 27