Those Who Are Loved
Page 1
Copyright © 2019 Victoria Hislop
The right of Victoria Hislop to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2019
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 1 4722 2325 8
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
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www.headline.co.uk
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
About the Book
About the Author
By Victoria Hislop
Praise for Victoria Hislop
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Note on the title
Acknowledgements
For my beloved uncle
Neville Eldridge
15 June 1927 – 19 March 2018
Those Who Are Loved
Athens, 1941. After decades of political uncertainty, Greece is polarised between right- and left-wing views when the Germans invade.
Fifteen-year-old Themis comes from a family divided by these political differences. The Nazi occupation deepens the fault-lines between those she loves just as it reduces Greece to destitution. She watches friends die in the ensuing famine and is moved to commit acts of resistance.
In the civil war that follows the end of the occupation, Themis joins the communist army, where she experiences the extremes of love and hatred and the paradoxes presented by a war in which Greek fights Greek.
Eventually imprisoned on the infamous islands of exile, Makronisos and then Trikeri, Themis encounters another prisoner whose life will entwine with her own in ways neither can foresee. She finds she must weigh her principles against her desire to escape and live.
As she looks back on her life, Themis realises how tightly the personal and political can become entangled. While some wounds heal, others deepen.
This powerful new novel from Number One bestseller Victoria Hislop sheds light on the complexity and trauma of Greece’s past and weaves it into the epic tale of an ordinary woman compelled to live an extraordinary life.
About the Author
Inspired by a visit to Spinalonga, the abandoned Greek leprosy colony, Victoria Hislop wrote The Island in 2005. It became an international bestseller and a 26-part Greek TV series. She was named Newcomer of the Year at the British Book Awards and is now an ambassador for Lepra. Her affection for the Mediterranean then took her to Spain, and in the number one bestseller The Return she wrote about the painful secrets of its civil war. In The Thread, Victoria returned to Greece to tell the turbulent tale of Thessaloniki and its people across the twentieth century. Shortlisted for a British Book Award, it confirmed her reputation as an inspirational storyteller. It was followed by her much-admired Greece-set collection, The Last Dance and Other Stories. Her fourth novel, The Sunrise, was published to widespread acclaim, and was a Sunday Times number one bestseller. Victoria Hislop's last book, Cartes Postales from Greece, is fiction illustrated with photographs. It was a Sunday Times bestseller in hardback and one of the biggest selling books of 2016. Victoria divides her time between England and Greece.
By Victoria Hislop
The Island
The Return
The Thread
The Last Dance
The Sunrise
Cartes Postales from Greece
Those Who Are Loved
The Last Dance and Other Stories
Praise for Victoria Hislop:
‘Storytelling at its best and just like a tapestry, when each thread is sewn into place, so emerge the layers and history of relationships past and present’ Sunday Express
‘Intelligent and immersive’ The Sunday Times
‘Fast-paced narrative and utterly convincing sense of place’ Guardian
‘Beguiling. Her characters are utterly convincing and she has perfected her knack for describing everyday Greek life’ Daily Mail
‘Vivid, moving and absorbing’ Observer
‘Fascinating and moving’ The Times
‘Excellent’ Sunday Telegraph
‘Captivating and deeply moving’ Look
‘Stunning . . . Intricate, beautifully observed’ Express
‘Wonderful descriptions, strong characters and an intimate portrait of island existence’ Woman & Home
Prologue
2016
IN A SMALL apartment in Athens, four generations gathered to celebrate a birthday. A diminutive woman with silver hair smiled as great-grandchildren ran giddily around the outside of the group and adults sang:
Pandoú na skorpízis,
Tis gnósis to fos,
Kai óloi na léne,
Na mía sofós.
May you spread out the light,
Of all that you know,
So everyone says,
How wise that you are.
Though she had heard them a thousand times, Themis Stavridis listened to the words, and reflected on all the wisdom she had shared. Her family were familiar with her ‘secret’ recipes, her technique for building a slow-burning fire and how to tell an edible berry from a poisonous one. In practical terms, she had taught them all that she knew.
Tightly packed round an old mahogany dining table were eighteen family members, and several of the children had been seated on their parents’ laps in order to fit. The meal was over, the cake devoured, and now, in the late afternoon, the younger generations were becoming restless, furtively looking at their phones to check messages and time. The two-bedroomed home could not contain the energies of children, small or large, for much longer, and under their mothers’ instructions they formed a queue to embrace the nonagenarian.
In a frayed but favourite armchair sat Themis’ husband, present and absent at the same time. Before leaving, the children queued to kiss him, mostly on the top of his head or on a cheek, wherever they could reach. He appeared not even to acknowledge that they were there. His face was like a dark house. In the past five years, the lights had gone out one by one and today his wife’s radiance accentuated the contrast between them. Giorgos Stavridis had no idea that most of these people were blood relations who owed their
very existence to him. At certain moments, their presence even baffled and alarmed him, now that all were forgotten and unknown.
Kisses and goodbyes and well-meant promises to meet soon took some time but eventually the apartment was quiet. Half-finished dishes of pastítsio, spanakópita and dolmadákia were spread across the table. There was still enough to feed every guest all over again. There was only one empty platter, on which remained a few crumbs and smears of icing from the creamy chocolate cake. It had been deftly divided and parcelled on to paper plates, the last of which now balanced on the arm of the old man’s chair.
Two grandchildren stayed behind: Popi, who lived close by, and Nikos, who had come from America to celebrate his grandmother’s birthday. Nikos sat in the corner of the room working on his laptop while Popi gathered dirty glasses on to a tray.
‘I’m going to help you with all this, Yiayiá,’ she said, beginning to pile up the dinner plates and to scoop untouched food into plastic containers.
‘No, no, Popi mou. There’s no need. I know how busy you young people are.’
‘I’m not busy, Yiayiá,’ she said, adding the words ‘if only’ under her breath. Popi was a translator, but her hours were part-time and her salary low. She was looking for bar work to supplement her income.
The chaos created by the party was too much for the old lady and she was secretly glad of the help.
Her youngest granddaughter was long-legged, almost thirty centimetres taller than her grandmother, but she had inherited the same cheekbones and fine fingers. Her hairstyle had upset her yiayiá when she had first arrived. It was the first time Themis had seen Popi since she had shaved her head on one side. The other side, still shoulder-length, was now streaked purple. She also had a small stud in her nose, but that was a few years old.
‘Look at all this food we couldn’t eat!’ she exclaimed with disapproval. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t be wasting so much in this crisis.’
‘Crisis?’ repeated the old lady.
‘Yes, Yiayiá. The crisis!’
The old lady was teasing her, but it took Popi a few moments to realise it.
‘I know. I know. Everyone talks of “the crisis”. But today I wanted to celebrate the plenty that we do have, rather than what we don’t have.’
‘I just feel guilty, that’s all. I can’t help it.’
‘Just for my sake, agápi mou, try not to feel guilty. Even if it feels a little wasteful.’
There was just enough space in the tiny kitchen for one person to wash and dry the plates and for another to put them away. The long-limbed Popi did not need to stand on a chair to reach the high shelves.
Once they were finished with the chores, and the kitchen was spotless, they went out on to the balcony, stepping over Giorgos’ legs to do so. Nikos joined them.
Nikos and Popi were in their late twenties but there the similarity ended. The contrast between them was startling, with Nikos dressed in a suit and Popi in leggings and a T-shirt. The pair had met only a few times in the past decade at family events, but usually gravitated towards each other when they did. Popi always wanted to grill her cousin about American politics, and on recent visits Nikos had been full of questions about Greek society. Their childhoods had greatly contrasted in terms of privilege and opportunity, but they had both enjoyed good university educations and talked to each other as equals.
Having grown up in a detached house surrounded by lawns, Nikos found plenty of things alien about Greek life. Several of them confronted him now. Open windows and ill-fitting shutters meant that everyone was familiar with intimate details of their neighbours’ lives: raised voices, babies crying, televisions blaring, a radio left playing, the relentless drone of angry teenage music. Silence was as rare as privacy here.
The ‘American cousin’, as Popi thought of him, was also unused to the way in which personal details were announced by washing lines. The number, age and size of family members was often evident; even the kind of work they did and perhaps their politics too were displayed.
Themis Stavridis caught her granddaughter scrutinising the balcony opposite. An unbroken row of black T-shirts confirmed her own fear.
‘Do you think they’re Chrysí Avgí?’ asked Popi, a note of alarm in her voice.
‘I am afraid so,’ Themis answered sadly. ‘The father and all three sons.’
‘Chrysí Avgí?’ queried Nikos.
‘They’re fascists,’ said Popi. ‘Anti-immigrant, violent fascists.’
Themis had seen on television that the far-right party had been demonstrating the previous day, and she found it deeply disturbing.
For a few moments the three of them continued to look out. There was always something to watch. Some small boys kicked a ball, while their mothers sat on a bench nearby, smoking and chatting. Three teenagers mounted the pavement on their mopeds, parked and ambled into the café close by. One man stopped another, apparently to get a light for his cigarette, but both Popi and Nikos noticed him taking a small package and sliding it into his pocket.
Themis could not sit down for long. There were dozens of plants that needed watering, then there was sweeping to be done, and finally the tiles of the balcony itself to be hosed down.
While she was bustling about, Popi asked if she could make some coffee.
‘Should I make some for Pappoú too . . .?’ asked the young woman quietly.
‘He doesn’t drink it any more,’ Themis answered. ‘It just sits there getting cold.’
‘You know it’s almost twenty years since he last went to the kafeneío? It was just after my birthday – which is how I remember it. He came back that day in such a strange mood. I knew he would never go again. I think it was the last coffee he ever drank.’
Nikos looked at his grandfather with sadness. Even he understood the significance of a Greek man ceasing to visit his kafeneío.
‘He lives in his own world now,’ said Themis.
‘Perhaps it’s as well. Things aren’t so great in the real one, are they?’ said Popi.
Themis gave her a look of sorrow.
‘Sorry to sound gloomy, Yiayiá. I can’t help it sometimes.’
Themis took her granddaughter’s hand and squeezed it.
‘Things will get better,’ she reassured her. ‘I am sure of it.’
‘Why are you so sure?’
‘Because over time life just does. Sometimes it gets a little worse again. But on the whole, things improve.’
‘Are you serious? You can say that even now? When there are people queuing at soup kitchens and sleeping in doorways!’
‘I agree that things are bad at the moment. But everyone is so preoccupied with the present day. They should look back and remember how much worse it used to be.’
Popi looked at her quizzically.
‘I know I seem a bit extravagant to you, dear, but I promise you we wouldn’t have thrown anything away when I was your age. I know I shouldn’t now, but because I can . . .’
‘I didn’t mean to be critical,’ said Popi.
‘I know, I know.’
‘You’ve lived for so many years, Yiayiá. I sometimes wonder how all those memories fit in!’
‘It’s busy in there,’ the old lady said, tapping her forehead. ‘When I look down into the street, I don’t just see how it is now but how it was before.’
‘In what way?’ asked Nikos. ‘Nostalgically?’
‘Not always. Good things happened in the past – but bad things did too. And looking down there reminds me of so much.’
‘Such as?’
‘You know that photograph on the dresser in there? The one on the right?’
From where they sat, Popi could see through the open glass doors that led back into the living room. Silhouetted on the dresser was a row of framed photographs.
‘You mean the one of you and your sister?’
‘That’s not my sister, actually. It’s Fotini. We were best friends at school. And like sisters. Perhaps even closer than that.’
‘She died. Right there,’ she said.
Popi looked at her grandmother in disbelief and then turned her eyes to where she had indicated. She had never heard this before and the blunt revelation shocked her.
‘It was during the occupation. There was a famine, agápi mou. Hundreds of thousands died.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said Nikos. ‘I didn’t realise things were so desperate here.’
When he was a child, his father had given him only the broadest outline of Greece’s history. All he knew of it then was the Fall of Constantinople in 1453 and the Greek Revolution in 1821 but he could not name even one prime minister (though he could recite the name of every American president in date order, a party trick since he was precociously small). In his teens, however, his interest had grown and he had even taken intensive Greek lessons, so keen was he to connect with his roots.
‘Yes, Nikos. It was terrible. Really terrible. She was so young . . .’ Themis paused a moment to collect herself before continuing. ‘We were hungry all the time in those days. When there is more than enough, as there is now, I like to cook plenty – simply because I can. It probably looks like extravagance.’
‘It feels like it to me, Yiayiá,’ said Popi, squeezing her grandmother’s arm and smiling. ‘But can I take some home?’
‘You can take all of it,’ replied her grandmother firmly.
Leaving her grandparents’ home laden with leftovers was a ritual. They would see her through to the end of the week and be enough for her flatmates too.
Inside the apartment, her grandfather now snored quietly, occasionally muttering.
‘What do you think he dreams of, Yiayiá?’ asked Nikos.
‘I don’t think he has many thoughts or memories,’ she answered. ‘So it’s hard to imagine.’
‘I suppose things live on in the subconscious,’ he mused.
‘Sometimes I envy him having space in his mind,’ said Themis. ‘I imagine it might be quite peaceful.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Popi.
‘I can remember too much, perhaps, and it gives me a headache sometimes. Perhaps memories can be too vivid.’