Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘Anna was good.’

  Zoë blinked with surprise. ‘You understand English?’

  Sofia tapped keys again. ‘Little. Shy. I try speak more now, for you.’

  Megan came out of the cottage with her phone in her hand.

  ‘Right, ladies, tomorrow we’re going to Athens for the day. Leaving here at ten, then an eleven o’clock flight, arriving in Athens at noon. We have the five o’clock flight back.’

  ‘Can I ask why?’ Zoë said.

  Megan smiled. ‘All right, then. We’re going to see where you were born, Mum.’

  *

  In Athens, the crawling city traffic ground to a halt several times. Pavements thronged with midday pedestrians, café tables and street vendors. Eventually they squeezed down a busy street choked with traffic and came to a halt alongside a high cream-painted wall. A menacing flash of sunlight drew their attention to an endless coil of razor wire above.

  ‘Korydallos Prison!’ the bus driver cried.

  Zoë, Megan and Sofia dismounted and stared at the imposing double gates that appeared out of place in the built-up area. One would expect them to lead into a city park, not a notorious prison. They approached the guard, introduced themselves, and Megan produced a letter. They were led through the first gates, then held in no-man’s-land while a phone call was made. Embarrassed by the stares from passers-by, Megan, Zoe and Sofia were led into the prison yard beyond the bars. They were body-scanned, fingerprinted and their bags taken through security, then held.

  Sofia squeezed her companion’s hands as the three were then escorted to the prison governor’s office. Zoë and Megan noticed Sofia’s pallor and a certain reluctance to go ahead. They remained protectively either side of her. The place smelled of bleach.

  ‘Granny Sofia, you don’t have to do this,’ Megan said softly.

  Sofia stopped and turned to her daughter. Zoë saw her mother’s face crumple and her eyes fill with fear. She pulled her old mother against her heart and as she did, felt her own emotions simmering.

  ‘This must be terribly difficult for you, Mama. We can leave whenever you want – just let us know when you’re ready to move on.’

  Sofia was still; then she stepped away from Zoë. With a little shake of her shoulders, she nodded at the guard to continue. They met the prison governor. Then, with his secretary to translate Sofia’s notes, they visited the places where Sofia had slept, worked and given birth to Zoë.

  They visited the operating theatre where Sofia had spent her last moments in Markos’s arms, after their wedding. Sofia stood for a moment, then gently pushed them out into the corridor.

  Zoë swallowed hard and then whispered, ‘You want to remember your last moments in my father’s arms in private?’

  Sofia nodded and stepped back into the room.

  Zoë closed the door, pinched the bridge of her nose and turned to Megan.

  ‘This is too tragic. My poor, poor mother. I want so badly to ease her pain.’

  *

  Emotionally exhausted, the three women left the prison and drank coffee on the corner of a side street, where Megan scribbled all that had happened into her notebook.

  Zoë took her mother’s hand. ‘Thank you for taking us on this pilgrimage, Mama. I realise how painful it must have been to relive all those events from your past.’

  Sofia put her shaking hand on her heart and smiled sadly.

  ‘We’re almost done,’ Megan said, then, turning to her grandmother she asked, ‘Are you sure you can do this last thing, Yiayá?’

  Her grandmother nodded.

  *

  They stood for a moment, peering at the oasis of marble tombs and plastic flowers, until Sofia got her bearings. Then they followed her to a simple grave. A small headstone had the name MARKOS PAPAS cut into the marble.

  ‘Dear God, it’s my father’s grave,’ Zoë whispered, her eyes filling and overflowing.

  Sofia crossed herself three times, then tugged on Megan’s sleeve and pointed at the headstone. She made a clawing movement with her hand.

  ‘I don’t understand, Yiayá.’

  ‘I think she wants you to dig, Megan. She’s buried something there.’

  Sofia nodded.

  A few minutes later, the other half of Sofia’s wedding ring was recovered. The old lady clutched it to her chest, and turned her gaze towards Heaven.

  *

  The next morning, all the women – Trisha, Thina, Agapi, Honey, Megan and Sofia – bustled into Zoë’s room for the big ‘dress reveal’. They cheered and clapped when the sheet was pulled away from the hanger, leaving a simple, full-length, white silk shift.

  ‘Thank you darling, it’s beautiful!’ Zoë said to her daughter.

  Megan handed everyone a glass of prosecco and told them they had one hour to get ready and gather on the first-floor landing. When they did, Zoë realised everyone was wearing white, even her mother.

  As they started down the stairs, a bouzouki and a lyra player wearing the national costume played in the hotel lobby. Zoë noticed that the male guests, waiting at the hotel entrance, also wore only white.

  Josh took his mother’s hand and led her to Frank. In the forecourt, Don appeared leading a donkey laden with embroidered linen and crocheting. Silence fell as he made an announcement.

  ‘My dear friends, in keeping with Cretan tradition, Anna Despotakis started sewing her daughter’s dowry-linen shortly after Zoë was born. Sheets, pillowcases, tablecloths and napkins, carefully and lovingly crafted in preparation for the day her child would leave home to go and live with her husband and his family, after their marriage.

  ‘As this is not a custom in England, Anna told me she was too shy to make the gift at Zoë’s London wedding, where I first met her. However, Anna continued to add to her amazing collection of linen until the day she died. I think she would want Zoë to receive her dowry-linen on this special occasion, with all her love, blessings and congratulations. So, I would like you to join me and raise your voices in three cheers for Granny Anna, whom I feel sure is with us in spirit. Hip-hip . . .’

  Megan cheered the loudest, then threw herself into Zoë’s arms.

  ‘Oh, Mum! It’s true – don’t you feel Granny Anna’s with us today, smiling down from Heaven?’

  *

  The procession, led by the musicians, walked along the promenade towards the jetty. Delighted tourists and locals applauded and cars honked their horns in the traditional Cretan wedding salute.

  The music provided by the local musicians stopped, and a few lines of Brenda Lee singing ‘Always On My Mind’ came from a ghetto blaster. Zoë and Frank turned in time to see Sofia, supported by her three friends in their white wedding outfits, come forward. Sofia handed a ribbon-tied box to her daughter. The song faded into a pre-recorded woman’s voice that everyone realised was speaking for Sofia.

  ‘This is for you, my darling daughter Zoë. The shawl I started to crochet on the day you were born. I swore I would find you before I cast the final knot. Today, my work here is done. The knot is tied.’

  She lifted the crochet hook from the top of the filigree and tossed it into the sea.

  ‘I’m so lucky to have you,’ Zoë whispered, kissing her mother’s cheeks. She lifted the silk shawl and draped it around her shoulders. ‘It’s beautiful, thank you.’

  *

  The ceremony took place on the white sand beach of Balos Bay. Megan and Josh had kept everything simple. Trestles on the beach set with picnic hampers of wine, water and delicious mezze. Frank made an amazing speech, saying how precious every second of marriage is, because you never know when it might end.

  When Frank sat down, Josh rose and addressed his grandmother.

  ‘Dear Grandma Sofia, as I am the only male here who can proudly claim to have my grandfather’s blood running through my veins, I believe it’s my solemn duty to fulfil the task that Markos Papas started on your wedding day, shortly before his death.’

  As Thina, sitting on the other side
of Sofia, translated, Sofia’s hand came up and covered her mouth. With eyes blurred by tears, she stared as Josh picked up Markos’s beret, which lay on the table, and placed it on his head. He delved into his pocket and pulled out the repaired bone ring, then recited carefully rehearsed words in Greek.

  ‘Εκ μέρους του Markos Papas: Σου δίνω αυτό το δαχτυλίδι, Σοφία Μπαμπάκη, ως σύμβολο της ζωής, της ελευθερίας και της αιώνιας αγάπης του.’

  ‘On behalf of Markos Papas: I place this ring on your finger, Sofia Bambaki, as a symbol of life, freedom and his eternal love.’

  There was a moment of silence, then everyone clapped. Josh replaced the beret next to his grandmother. Sofia’s tears dripped onto the back of her hand as she stared at the bone ring. She struggled to her feet, remembering Markos’s words: Don’t ever forget me, my darling. When the sun comes up, say good morning and think of me. When you raise a glass, call my name, and tell our precious baby, Zoë, I will always love her.

  Sofia lifted her glass towards the sky and mouthed, Markos!

  The guests all stood, raised their glasses and called, ‘Markos!’

  *

  ‘That was a perfect day, wasn’t it?’ Zoë asked Frank once they were alone in the peace of their hotel room.

  ‘Perfect, indeed. Do you think the kids will be all right? Josh is a bit young for an all-night beach party.’

  ‘Don’t fret – they’re with Gary and Jeff. Don and Trish are there, too. They’ll keep an eye on them.’

  ‘What about Sofia?’

  ‘I’ve just settled her down. She’s very tired, but extremely happy. The kids were so thoughtful, making the day special for her too. I’m proud of them. Do you know, she puts that beret on the pillow next to her each night and tells Markos what’s been going on through the day?’

  ‘I’ll bet she doesn’t get very far tonight. She must be exhausted.’

  ‘I love you so much, Frank.’

  ‘And I love you too. More than you could understand.’

  *

  In the next bedroom, Sofia turned to face the pillow supporting Markos’s beret, and as she did, it slid forward and rested against her cheek. She smiled knowingly.

  It’s been a long day, Markos, but quite wonderful.

  I see you’re wearing our ring at last, my darling.

  I am. Your grandson slipped it onto my finger on your behalf.

  I’ve waited so long, Sofia, my love.

  My task is over, Markos. I finished the shawl and today my child placed it over her shoulders. My dearest, I’m so tired of life without you.

  When you are ready, darling Sofia, just say and I will reach for your hand.

  Oh, Markos, I want to be with you so much.

  Sofia felt her husband’s fingers against her palm. They were no longer broken and deformed, but the strong, perfect hand of the man she loved before their troubles began. She hesitated.

  But, Markos, I’m an old woman.

  Nonsense. You have always been beautiful.

  And it makes me sad to leave all those I love here, Markos.

  You’re not leaving them. A part of you will be in their hearts forever. Did your mother ever leave you?

  Ah, you’re right, she didn’t. Give me your hands then.

  Leaving a smile on her face for her precious family, Sofia Bambaki stepped into the afterlife to spend eternity with the only man she had ever loved.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Patricia Wilson was born in Liverpool. She retired early to Greece, where she now lives in the village of Paradissi in Rhodes. She was first inspired to write when she unearthed a rusted machine gun in her garden – one used in the events that unfolded during World War II on the island of Crete.

  www.pmwilson.net

  @pmwilson_author

  Also by Patricia Wilson:

  Island of Secrets

  Villa of Secrets

  Secrets of Santorini

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  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  AS IS USUALLY THE CASE, a number of random events came together like pieces of a jigsaw and led to the story behind Greek Island Escape. To celebrate the launch of Secrets of Santorini in 2019, my friend Patricia Castle gave me a beautiful nugget of sea glass that my talented Zumba teacher, Jill Dodgeon, had fashioned into a dragonfly shape. I often looked at the glass and wondered what it once was. This led me to consider how much we all change, like the sea glass, on our journey through life.

  At that time, photography and writer friends, Dave Hollis and Carol Gaymer, came to stay with me in Rhodes for a week. Carol, a natural chatterbox, had cancer of the throat and every day was a struggle for her. This made me realise how we all take our voice for granted, and how precious it is.

  Then, a local taverna owner told me the sad story of a distant relative of his: a famous Greek singer in Athens who’d secretly had a baby. Broken-hearted, she decided to give her newborn to a childless couple on one of the Greek islands in order to continue working and make enough money to give her child a good life. This happened at a terrible time in Greece’s history, when people actually succumbed to starvation and dropped dead on the streets of Athens.

  Shocked to learn that fellow Europeans would stand by and allow such suffering and death to happen on their doorstep, I investigated further and read about the awful struggles that took place, particularly in Athens, not only through World War II, but right up until the mid-1970s. It was a dark time in Greece’s history. However, it was a newspaper article about Manolis Glezos, who is often referred to as ‘a man of humbling greatness’, that influenced me more than anything else.

  In the process of giving my office a spring clean, I found a flashcard that had fallen behind my desk drawer. I checked the pictures and realised it was from the time when I wrote Island of Secrets, my debut novel, in 2016. That novel was based in the village of Amiras, Crete, where I lived. I had taken photographs at the memorial service, which takes place in September each year, to commemorate the 525 innocent villagers who died there on 13 September 1943. In several of the photographs, sitting behind the president of Greece, the heads of the armed forces and the Church, was the man with an enigmatic face that I knew I had seen recently. I checked through the hundreds of sheets of research I had printed off for my 2020 novel, Greek Island Escape, and there he was again.

  In The Guardian newspaper (online), I read an article entitled ‘Athens 1944: Britain’s dirty secret’, and there was a photograph of this same unmistakable face, and finally a name: Manolis Glezos (born 1922), the oldest member of the European Parliament. As a boy, he had crawled through the sewers of Athens with fuse wire wrapped around his waist. In the newspaper article, Glezos also told of his brother’s beret, which I thought was a most moving story. I must emphasise that Greek Island Escape is not about Manolis Glezos or his brother – it is a work of fiction – but how could a writer not be influenced by these things? Manolis Glezos clearly loves his country with a passion and, like many Greek soldiers and patriots, was prepared to risk his life and freedom for Greece. A martyr in every sense of the word.

  Glezos was presented with the International Award of Journalism in 1958, the Golden Medal Joliot-Curie of the World Peace Council in 1959 and the Lenin Peace Prize in 1963. He has also published six books in Greek. Yet, Glezos has also been put on trial and sentenced to death several times in his political career.

  It was in this same article I read that Lt Gen. Ronald Scobie, on 5 December 1944, imposed martial law and ordered the aerial bombing of the working-class Metz quarter of Athens. I found this piece of information quite shocking. That the British would bomb the homes of ordinary families while the menfolk of those very same homes were for the most part fighting on our side, sacrificing their lives in our struggle to win the war against the Germans. All t
hese facts tumbled around in my head, until eventually Greek Island Escape revealed itself as my 2020 novel.

  I must stress, this is a work of fiction and not a documentary. All the characters are entirely fictitious, apart from the mention in passing of a few famous artists and politicians. However, the locations are real places, and the story is based on historical facts and many real events. For those interested in the modern history of Greece, I recommend a simple Google search on: Manolis Glezos, a man of humbling greatness.

  Last but not least, Greek Island Escape would not have come about without the help and guidance of my agent, Tina Betts, and the publishing team at Bonnier Books UK, mainly Sarah Bauer, Katie Lumsden, and also Martin Fletcher and Steve O’Gorman. Thanks also to Kim Pether for her legal advice.

  It goes without saying that, as always, without my husband’s constant support, I would not have been able to research and write this story. Thank you, Berty!

  WHY I LOVE CHANIA

  THE PREFECTURE OF CHANIA, on the island of Crete, is one of Greece’s most spectacular and picturesque areas. The breath-taking Samaria Gorge, the magnificent mountains of Lefka Ori, and the laid-back villages where life stands still, all beckon me. On the west coast lie some of the most beautiful beaches on earth. Falassarna, Elafonisi and Balos Bay are dotted with tiny islets that seem to float on the turquoise crystal water. And there is more. So much more that every time I leave, I feel I’ve missed something essential and I must return soon.

  The city of Chania is addictive. I relocated from the UK to Lassithi, east Crete, also a delightful area. But sometimes, on the spur of the moment, my wanderlust strikes. I grab a change of clothes and the car keys, lock the house, and head for the west of the island. Excited to revisit it, I sense a new adventure awaits, just over the horizon.

  *

  After a scenic, lazy, four-hour drive along the north coast, I book into a charming, rustic hotel next to Chania’s maritime museum, on the harbour. Dusk falls. Lights are turned on, and from my pavement table I watch their reflections dance on the dark water. I order food. My attention is drawn to the opposite point of the quay, where the elegant Egyptian lighthouse, bathed in golden light, points to a darkening sky. Noisy, colourful fishing boats chug past, on their way out to sea. A rugged skipper stands at his tiller. I sense his hope for a good catch and wonder if I’ll see his return at breakfast.