‘You! Poutana! Where’s your ID?’ the one at the table yelled at me, his lips curling in disgust.
I scrambled to my feet, resisting the urge to run, knowing I would be shot if I did. He peered at my face for a second.
‘Pity,’ he muttered. ‘We’d have put you to good use.’
After taking my identity document, he ordered me into the next van, which was already half full of locals, all of whom had attended Spyridon’s funeral. There were three other women: Agapi, a working girl, from Madam Magdalena’s; Thina, the local midwife; and Honey, a cook from El Greco’s.
Eventually, we were driven away. Our van was crammed with frightened mourners. Nobody knew where we were going. We all remembered earlier times in Athens’s history when the people suffered one horror after another, so nobody wanted to speculate. We knew if we resisted, we would be shot without question.
Honey was a big woman. She wept quietly, her flesh trembling with each sob. She slipped her arm around my shoulders and we cried together. Agapi, who was not used to being awake in the daytime, remained quiet, her eyes fixed on nothing. Thina the midwife had been a close friend of Spyridon’s for many years. Nobody knew the extent of their relationship, but I suspected it was more than platonic. Although she was not a woman to show her emotions, her white face and red-rimmed eyes told me she had spent the night in tears. I heard that she had also been on the team that had tried to save Spyridon’s life.
‘Girls,’ Thina said, ‘when they ask what you do, say cook and nurse. That way there’s a chance we’ll stay together.’
Twenty minutes later, we were dripping with sweat in the back of the airless van. Sickened, I started to think of the ovens of Auschwitz. Many of those poor devils met their end when the exhaust pipe was fed into the vehicle that they travelled in. Suddenly the air seemed rancid, poisonous, and I feared we were being exterminated. The stories in the press had been horrific; nobody even talked about them.
Then, with a lurch, we pulled to a halt and the rear doors were opened. I gasped for air, filling my lungs. We were at the port of Piraeus.
As we were pulled out of the van, I caught a glimpse of Markos, his back turned to me. I longed to rush over to him, but Thina held me.
‘You’ll only make more trouble for him, and for yourself. Whatever you do, don’t let anyone know about the two of you.’
*
We were herded into small rooms and interrogated, one at a time. When it was my turn, I was shoved towards a desk and told to sit. After filling a form in, declaring my name, address, religion, and so on, my songbook was thrown in front of me.
A man in a smart grey uniform asked if the book was mine.
‘It looks like a notebook I had . . . but how can I be sure?’
‘Did you write the songs and poems inside?’
‘I . . . I’ve written hundreds of songs and poems for many people. I can’t remember most of them. They tell me what they want, and I think something up.’
‘Write down the last song you remember!’
I’d written nothing but rebel songs for longer than I could recall, both in Athens and Zoniana in Crete. For a moment I couldn’t think straight. I picked up the pen, my hand shaking, and then I wrote my mother’s song as Mr Zacharia had translated it into Greek. I felt a wave of relief as I put the pen down and smiled up at him.
‘Well done,’ the officer said, with a sneer. ‘But you made one mistake.’
I stared at the paper; there was nothing to connect me with the rebel songs.
‘You forgot to change your handwriting.’ He turned to his assistant and said the words that filled me with dread: ‘Take her!’
‘Where? No, no! I’m not a communist, I swear I’m not!’
His face did not change. ‘You write rebel songs, and you’re on our list of dissidents.’
*
An hour later, I found myself shoved into another overcrowded truck that belonged to flour-man Fannes. My only relief was that my friends were with me: Honey, Agapi, Thina and I clung together in a corner.
‘Don’t forget, separate when we’re leaving the wagon, but when they ask what you did, what you were, say cook or nurse. That way we’ll have access to food and medicines. We’ll be better treated, too.’
Several of the women were wailing and the racket added to everyone’s discomfort. Thina took control of the situation. I guess as a midwife, she was used to dealing with distressed women.
‘Listen, everyone – we need to unite as a team if we’re to survive this shit. So, let’s get to know each other right now. I want everyone to say their name, where they’re from and what they do. Then touch the person next to them, and they continue. Got it? I’ll start. Thina Portokali, Pláka, midwife.’
She touched me.
‘Sofia Bambaki, Syntagma, ex-singer.’
I touched Honey, and so it went on.
*
We stood in the cramped, windowless space for a long time. Silent, each with our own thoughts, our own fears. I began to wonder if we were all destined to suffocate. Then, the door opened and flour-man Fannes slid a bucket of water in. Everyone pushed forward, whimpering and trying to grab the bucket. Thina took charge again.
‘Two swallows each. Then, if there’s any left, the bucket will go round again. Now push back and I’ll come round with the water.’ The midwife squeezed between us. ‘Heaven help any bitch that tries to cheat! ’Cos if you do, it’ll be a broken nose you’ll be nursing before we get out of here!’
The blast of fresh air when Fannes had opened the door dissipated the stench of urine and sweat for a while, and the tepid water refreshed us all. After several hours of confinement, we were unbalanced as the vehicle slammed to a halt. Dusk was falling by the time we jumped off the tailgate towards the unknown. Fannes was standing at the side of the wagon.
‘Where are we?’ I whispered, staring at the high fence and spotlights.
‘Korydallos Prison. I’ll tell Zacharia.’
I wondered why we had been in the truck for hours, when Korydallos was on the outskirts of Athens. Then, I realised it was probably because they were processing the men. There was no sign of them now.
Then I noticed the high barbed wire fence. Through that stark boundary, I stared at what seemed to be an endless, windowless cement building, and once again I recalled newsreels of Auschwitz.
We were marched towards the prison. I glanced over my shoulder at the city lights, reluctant to drag my eyes away from the free world. Once inside the tall gates, the place seemed deserted.
And then, a terrifying scream reverberated over the land. My blood chilled, and several of the others started to sob. What sort of hell were we going into?
CHAPTER 28
ZOË
Manchester, present day.
ZOË STOOD TOO NEAR THE platform edge and peered along the track. She tilted forward slightly in expectation, then dropped back onto her heels with the dullness of defeat. Anyone could see she was a smart, good-looking career woman dressed for work in high-quality clothes and shoes. Nobody would begin to imagine the pain in her heart, or the desolation that filled her mind, day after endless day. The constant feeling of failure as a wife – as a mother – had destroyed the bright, effervescent person she once was.
Zoë Johnson’s soul was trapped in the dark, dank basement of life, and she wanted out.
Oblivious to the bustle of early-morning commuters, she shut out Manchester, the station and her misery. Determined to raise her spirits, she closed her eyes and invoked the island of Crete. Memories flooded back. Warm sunlight caressing her sun-bronzed shoulders. Lazy breakfasts on the quayside. Chania’s charming waterfront. She remembered gazing over colourful wooden boats to the solid lighthouse, a beacon that told fishermen of a safe haven to its right and dangerous rocks to its left. One wrong decision, one mistake, and a terrible fate awaited the lonesome skipper.
On nearby tables, tourists had admired the picturesque harbour and smiled at little Josh sle
eping in his pushchair.
‘Enjoy the peace,’ one woman said. ‘It doesn’t last long.’
‘I know,’ Zoë replied, nodding at Megan, who skipped and danced a few feet away. ‘I have an overactive four-year-old too. She never sits still!’
They laughed together.
A night fisherman returned and chugged up to the quayside, metres from where they sat. Zoë remembered the cheeky wink of a waiter when her husband wasn’t looking, and how good she’d felt in herself. So much had happened since that perfect day thirteen years ago.
*
Zoë glared at the train tracks and rocked slightly. Tears spilled from beneath her dark lashes. Somewhere in her life she had taken the wrong turn, missed the warnings and crashed onto the rocks.
She needed harmony at home, and she thought she’d had it. Now she realised the foundations of her marriage had been crumbling away for years, and nobody had noticed, until the entire fabric collapsed. One week’s holiday, when they were all together, talking to each other and sharing dreams, was not enough to cement them together for the rest of the year.
Now, the very structure of their family life was utterly broken, beyond repair.
It was her fault. She had never concerned herself with the maintenance. There had always been her mother to take care of everyone’s home life. And Zoë rewarded her mother by fulfilling her dreams of succeeding in a highly prestigious career.
She needed Frank’s arms around her so badly, but if he was with her, she knew she would be pushing him away, frantic with worry about Megan or Josh.
The noise of the morning’s commuters faded as she hugged herself. Withdrawing into the silence of her mind, she remembered the precious day when her baby girl was first placed, protesting loudly, on her chest. The full force of Zoë’s love poured towards the tiny newborn. Her daughter would be amazing. She would be responsible for the next inventions – or become a doctor, saving people’s lives, or enter politics like her father, making the world a better place. Her daughter’s generation would change the world, choose kindness and love over hate and prejudice. Baby Megan was precious beyond belief and that conviction had never wavered.
Zoë heard the distant rumble of the next train. Commuters moved forward. Her weight shifted over one foot. She balled her fists, but the moment she closed her eyes the scene at that Cretan harbour returned. She and Frank were eating delicious eggs, on bread still warm from the bakery. Her chest expanded as she recalled the aroma. And there was Megan, in her new yellow sundress and sandals, fascinated by the gently bobbing boats.
She heard herself calling, ‘Be careful, Megan!’ as her little girl ventured closer to the water.
Her daughter looked back, grinning, and then returned to her parents.
Frank’s fingers sought Zoë’s across the table and, even before looking up, she knew he was smiling. They had so much to be thankful for. The perfect family, with perfect lives.
*
Zoë returned to the present and tried to forget her bitterness, his betrayal, how much she had loved him . . . and for a short while, hated him. When he first announced he was moving out, she hadn’t been able to believe it. Angry, she had said ‘Good!’ Now, she was numb, despairing. She had lost the path back to his love. Megan had left her. Frank had left her. And now, so had Josh. If only she could talk to her mother . . . but that was impossible too.
She glanced around the platform. Under the glare of artificial light, people raced against time. There was no hint of happiness, friendship or support for each other in that place. Everything was unfriendly, cold and scentless. Nothing would change in the world if she was no longer a part of it.
In the echoing station, Zoë knew she could not live without the people she loved. They had been the sunshine of her life. Mama, Frank, Josh and Megan. All gone.
A computer-generated voice announced the next train. Only the vending machines, filled with junk food, stood still.
In just a second, Zoë’s pain would be over.
*
Someone grabbed her arm – the shock made her jump out of the fog of desolation.
‘Lady, can I help you?’ the guard asked, pulling her back, then stepping away, keeping a safe distance.
Zoë flinched, blinked at the small Asian guard, then turned her back and fled towards the station exit. The train arrived and screeched to a halt.
The guard hurried after her and shouted, ‘Madam, you dropped something!’
She hesitated, then took the business card from his outstretched fist.
Samaritans.
Horrified, unable to respond, her mind was on rewind for a second. She had come so close. Filled by a compulsion to explain, she stared at the guard and searched for the right words.
He nodded at the card. ‘They can help.’
She slipped it into her pocket, took a sideways glance at the train and groaned.
‘Thanks,’ she whispered, her voice trembling. ‘I . . .’ She gulped, frowning. ‘It’s my fault, you see. All my fault.’
The enormity of what might have been hit her. She placed her hands on her cheeks, her mouth falling open. Then she spun on her heels, about to disappear into the throng of Manchester’s rush hour, lugging her turmoil with her.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ the guard called after her. ‘I’ve finished my shift. It would be my pleasure, madam.’
Zoë pulled her chin in and stared at him incredulously, pushing her trembling fingertips over the lines in her forehead. She took a breath, her shoulders slumped, and she nodded.
They found a vacant corner in the bustling station café.
‘Sometimes, it is necessary to talk to a stranger in order to get things straight in the mind,’ he said. ‘I am Dalip, madam.’ He placed two steaming mugs on the table.
‘Thank you, Dalip. I’m Zoë.’ She sighed and tangled her fingers. ‘I was going to . . .’
He lifted his hand in a halting gesture, shaking his head slowly like a tired horse.
‘And I would be sitting here all alone right now instead of drinking Darjeeling with you.’
Zoë smiled sadly.
‘Why not tell me about it? I have plenty of time, and sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger. It can help to share your troubles. I am thinking that despite the hurt you are feeling, if you look at your situation from a fresh perspective, you will see it is not so bad after all.’
‘Not so bad! You can’t imagine . . .’ She sighed. ‘It’s such a long story, I don’t know where to start.’
‘At the beginning is certainly the best place. I am, as they say, all your ears.’
She stirred her tea in silence, gathering her thoughts. It took a few minutes for her insides to stop shaking.
‘The last seven months have been hell. First, my daughter disappeared. She left a note, saying she had run away, but we had no idea why. I took it out on my husband and made his life hell, God knows why. In the end, he moved out, and I suspect he’s having an affair with his secretary. My mother, who lived with us, returned to her homeland, Greece, without telling me she was dying. She was so ill, and I didn’t even notice. I was hardly coping myself, too busy searching for my daughter, Megan. And now my son’s had enough of me too. He’s moving in with his father because he thinks I only care about his sister.’ Her voice shook. ‘It was the final straw, simply too much for me to lose, too much for anyone. And there’s worse . . . Because of my bad judgement, a young girl the same age as my daughter has been killed. She was seventeen, Dalip . . . seventeen.’
Zoë’s grief seemed to stick in her throat. Unable to speak, she sipped her tea. When she found her voice she asked, quietly, ‘How did you know that I . . . ?’
‘We are trained to watch for these things. You see, the catastrophe is not only for the troubled person, like yourself, or their family. The poor train driver – it’s terrible for him too. Even the passengers, over a thousand commuters on that train.’ He lifted his chin towards the
platform. ‘They feel it, and when they realise what has happened, they get very upset. So many lives are changed by that one act of despair.’
‘I didn’t think . . .’ She tried to imagine. ‘Oh God, I didn’t even think! I’m so ashamed.’
She looked up, glanced into his kind eyes, placed her palms together and made a little dip.
‘This is my job,’ he said. ‘To spend eight hours a day trying to save people’s lives and helping the aged or confused. It’s an honour to be given such high responsibility.’
Zoë’s tension lifted a little and she smiled. ‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Six months now. I’m from Bangladesh. My family is still there, four boys and three girls. They’re very happy with the money I send home. My eldest son wants to play cricket for our national team. It’s his dream.’
‘You’re very proud of them.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He smiled. ‘It must be very hard for you, to have lost so much of your family.’
‘I was heartbroken when my mother passed away. She’d always been there for me. An anchor, amazingly supportive when Megan went missing . . .’ She stopped, suddenly wondering, hoping. ‘Oh, Dalip, maybe you have seen her on the platform. She juggles.’ Zoë reached into her bag, pulled out her phone and showed him her photographs. ‘This is Megan when she first disappeared.’ She scrolled down. ‘And this is a recent passport photo. Do you . . . ? Have you seen her? Perhaps she came to the station last night, or this morning?’
Her jaw stiffened. Hope was always there, in the back of her mind. The begging sort of hope that gripped her whenever she showed anyone the picture of her daughter.
He stared at the photographs for a minute, then shook his head.
‘I don’t recognise her, but that doesn’t mean you should give up. Someone will have seen her. Someone, somewhere can help you find her.’
Greek Island Escape Page 23
