‘He had been killed.’
For a moment, a rare silence descended between them. Themis felt awkward, unsure of what to say.
Finally Fotini spoke.
‘All of that was a while ago. We packed up our things again and eventually came to Athens. My mother said she didn’t care how poor we would be. She couldn’t stay in a place where the bosses killed their workers. She wouldn’t be a slave. It was an injustice. That was the word she used.’
Injustice. Themis had heard the word plenty of times but mostly in relation to squabbles among the siblings: unequal portions of cake, or exclusion from a game and, for herself, being Margarita’s scapegoat.
Fotini was crying now and for the first time Themis understood what it was to feel sadness for someone she had never met. She too wept for Fotini’s loss.
At the dinner table that night, Themis recounted the story of Fotini’s misfortunes to her grandmother and siblings.
‘So your new friend is a communist?’ said Thanasis.
‘No,’ said Themis, who managed to face up to her big brother in a way that she could not with her sister.
‘It sounds as if her father was defending his rights,’ Panos retorted, defending his little sister. ‘I heard about a trade union in Kavala. They were protesting—’
‘Why?’ Margarita cut in. ‘What’s the point?’
Panos was intolerant of his sister.
‘What’s the point of protesting?’ demanded Panos. ‘To stop people being mistreated. To make the weak stronger—’
‘Well, he isn’t strong now, is he?’ his sister retorted cruelly.
‘He wasn’t just acting for himself,’ said Panos. ‘But that would never occur to you, would it? That anyone might make a sacrifice for someone else?’
‘Like Jesus, you mean?’ asked Themis, who had recently been obliged to learn parts of the liturgy by heart in religious education.
‘Don’t compare a communist to the Lord!’ Thanasis glared, slamming his fist down and making the table jump.
‘They’re not so different,’ Panos said firmly in support.
‘Theé mou,’ muttered Kyría Koralis, appealing to God to stop the pair of them arguing.
The argument continued viciously between the two boys and Themis wondered if God ever listened to her yiayiá’s incessant prayers. She had certainly not noticed it.
‘How dare you say that? How dare you suggest that the Church is on the side of those people!’ shouted Thanasis.
‘You mean trade unionists?’
‘They’re scum. They’ll wreck this country.’
‘What? By trying to make sure their families have enough to eat? That makes them scum?’
‘Feeding their families? You think this is their main aim? I don’t believe it. Most of those immigrants are just troublemakers.’
‘The refugees didn’t come because they wanted to. You’re a fool, Thanasis. They had no choice.’
‘You’re saying the politicians forced them to come and live here? To crowd us out? To take our jobs?’
‘You know it wasn’t like that,’ Panos tried to reason. ‘It was the government that took the decisions that led to the war. So it was their fault that all those people had to leave their homes and everything they owned.’
‘And they welcomed them into Greece so that they could make trouble, did they?’
Themis’ eyes went from brother to brother. Panos and Thanasis rarely agreed on anything, but the strength of feeling in this altercation was even stronger than usual and she knew that she had been responsible for igniting this particular flame. She looked across the table at Margarita, who seemed to be enjoying the fight.
‘Tell me,’ Thanasis screamed, thrusting his forefinger towards Panos, with undisguised aggression. ‘Do these communists have the right to go against the law?’
Their grandmother had got up to busy herself cutting up fruit for them all, but when Thanasis crashed a fork down on his plate and stormed out of the room, she returned to the table.
‘Panagiá mou, Mother of God,’ she snapped at Panos. ‘Now see what you have done. Why do you children have to argue all the time?’
‘Because we disagree on things,’ retorted Margarita, who felt she had a right to be rude to everyone, including her grandmother. ‘Even though Panos is always wrong.’
Panos good-naturedly cuffed his sister round the ear.
‘Come on, Margarita, have a heart. This new friend of Themis . . . She lost her father.’
‘I mean it, Panos. You’re wrong. Anyone would think you don’t love your motherland.’
Her brother refrained from answering. He got up from the table and silently left the apartment.
Themis had sat quietly, as one of her siblings described her new friend’s family as though they were criminals. She resolved never to repeat to Fotini what Thanasis had said. The cleft that had already opened within the family was beginning to widen.
Ten minutes later, Thanasis appeared at the door of his bedroom dressed in cadet uniform, the hat tilted at a jaunty angle. He was soon joined by Margarita, also very smart in her EON blue.
‘It’s the final practice for Friday’s parade,’ she said proudly to her grandmother. ‘You’ll be coming, won’t you?’
‘Yes, agápi mou. We’ll be there to watch, won’t we, Themis?’
Themis was still sitting at the kitchen table, her books now spread out in front of her. Her mind was far away. Why, she was asking herself, would Jesus not be on the communists’ side? Did he not say that the poor should come unto him? Did he not want everyone to be equal? They had been taken to church often enough and she was sure that this was what the priest had said. Perhaps the world was full of such contradictions and she had simply not noticed them before.
Chapter Four
THE FRIENDSHIP BETWEEN Themis and Fotini grew over the following months. Each morning they met on their way to school and were together for the whole day. One afternoon, as they walked home, deep in conversation as usual, Themis suddenly suggested a detour.
‘I want to show you our old house,’ she said brightly.
Taking a circuitous route and occasionally stopping to ask someone the way, they finally found themselves in Antigonis Street. Themis had a dim memory of how it had looked, but it did not match what she saw that day. From end to end the street was now lined on both sides with new buildings. Nothing remained of the old houses and all the trees had been cut down.
Themis could not hide her dismay. She rarely thought of her mother, but she came to her mind now and she was glad that Eleftheria Koralis was not there to see the place she must have loved so utterly erased.
‘It didn’t look like this before,’ she said quietly to her friend as they turned away.
She did not breathe a word to her family about what she had seen.
When one academic year rolled into the next, Fotini was moved into her correct alphabetical place, next to Themis. Karanidis and Koralis. The two girls were inseparable, sharing crushes, conversation and copies of books. The only other person in the class who provided any academic competition was the boy called Giorgos. He was especially good at mathematics but his stutter sometimes prevented him getting the answer out. Teased by many of the other children, Giorgos was pleased to be accepted by the girls. If he put his hand in the air, they always gave him the chance to answer first.
Arguments in the Koralis home had intensified. What might once have been simple fraternal competition between Thanasis and Panos had metamorphosed into a war of opposing ideals, bitterly fought and with neither side having any hope of achieving victory, big or small. Perhaps if their father had been a presence in the house he would have been able to douse the flames, but Pavlos Koralis had not visited for almost a year. Some while before, he had sent a letter from America saying that he was planning to stay there for the foreseeable future and would be sending money back on a regular basis. Economic necessity had obliged him to start a new life and the United States was a plac
e of unlimited possibilities.
Kyría Koralis broke selected parts of this news to the children, all of whom received it with sang froid except for Margarita, who adored her father and had always eagerly awaited his colourful and exotic gifts. She wept inconsolably for days and took the black-and-white framed photograph of him in naval uniform and put it on her bedside table.
Life continued as before and, from time to time, some American dollars arrived and were divided up by Kyría Koralis with small amounts evenly allocated to each of the children. Thanasis opened a bank account for himself, Panos used the money for books, Margarita always wanted new clothes and Themis asked for something each week so that she could have a few coins in her pocket. Themis was in her last year at elementary school and the others were at the nearby gymnásio, with Thanasis considering what to do next. His ambition was to train in the police force.
At mealtimes, Kyría Koralis could not make her voice heard above the raised tones of her grandsons, so she had given up trying. It was not simply a war of words. Their aggression with each other often exploded into something more physical and she was ashamed that she could not control them.
Themis often described to Fotini the relentlessness of the arguments and noise in the apartment, her sister’s meanness towards her and the constant slamming of doors. It was no environment for study, and with the pair of them about to move up to the next school, Fotini suggested that they could both go to her place to do their homework.
‘My mother won’t mind,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t get home until much later, in any case.’
As they wandered towards the street where Fotini lived, they each chewed on kouloúria, the fresh buns that Themis had bought with her drachmas. It was a steep climb away from the busy road, past several churches and into a warren of ever-narrowing streets where washing was strung from house to house.
Even the road surface changed. It had been raining earlier that day and Themis’ feet slipped in the mud as they walked up the slope. Small children stood in doorways as they passed, looking at them silently, their faces sullen, their feet bare.
Themis had assumed that Fotini lived somewhere just like her, in an apartment building. Now, as they turned into an alleyway, its width only just big enough for them to walk next to each other, she saw single-storey dwellings, very different from anything in Patissia. It was hard to tell if they were old or new, temporary or permanent, such was the flimsiness of their construction.
A few buildings down on the left, Fotini stopped and pushed open a grey door.
Themis watched her friend cross the room to light a gas lamp and the yellowish glow it created was just enough to show her the scale of the single room that was Fotini’s home.
At the far end, there was another door, which Fotini opened to let in more light before propping it back with a bucket.
Themis looked out and saw a courtyard, which was clearly shared with many other residents of the street, and noticed a woman pinning up sheets, and a child handing her wooden pegs as she did so.
Close by was a tank of water standing on a metal frame and next to it a flimsy curtain. That must be where Fotini has to wash, thought Themis with embarrassment. Both girls were beginning to feel self-conscious about their constantly changing bodies, and she found herself cringing at the awkwardness of such public bathing.
There was an enamel jug sitting on a small dresser and Fotini carefully lifted the little cloth edged with beads that protected the contents from flies, took some cups from a cupboard and filled them. She held one out to Themis and smiled.
‘Kalós órises,’ she said. ‘Welcome to our home.’
Themis’ eyes had now adjusted to the gloom and she looked around. It was impossible to conceal her curiosity.
‘The carpet,’ said Fotini, ‘is the only big thing they brought from our home in Smyrna.’
Themis looked down at her feet, conscious of the flecks of mud that had stuck to her shoes. The worn rug she was standing on had an indistinct pattern in shades of brown, not so unlike the one she remembered from Antigonis Street, and she was suddenly anxious that she might have brought dirt into the house. In the Koralis apartment, shoes always had to be left at the door.
‘My mother always reminded me it was carried thousands of kilometres from Smyrna,’ continued Fotini. ‘So there was no question of leaving it in Kavala.’
She pointed to a small picture nailed to the wall.
‘And that’s a painting of our village. That was the other thing we brought with us. It travelled all the way in my mother’s skirt pocket. Along with a photo.’
When they had left Asia Minor, Fotini’s parents brought almost nothing with them. And from what Themis could see, they could still count all their possessions on one hand. For her, it was a moment of stark realisation. This was what Panos meant when he talked about refugees. Most of them struggled, even now, almost two decades since they had fled from their homes.
Fotini’s mother had made the best of the small space in which they lived. There was a narrow bed in the corner, neatly made with an embroidered cover over it, though Themis could not see where a second person would sleep. Three chairs were tucked under the wooden kitchen table, and on another smaller table sat a metal basin, inside which nestled a jumble of pots and pans. A small set of shelves was attached to the wall with a few plates and cups and, against the wall, there was a low wooden bench, on which rested some embroidered cushions. Beneath the bench there were several piles of books.
Fotini drew a chair out from under the kitchen table for her friend and then sat down opposite her. Above them was a photograph of a couple of indeterminate age, their arms hanging stiffly down by their sides.
It must be the one Fotini had referred to, thought Themis.
‘My father and mother. On their wedding day,’ Fotini said matter-of-factly.
‘Oh,’ Themis responded, not quite knowing what to say.
‘Let’s study,’ continued Fotini, eagerly taking her books out of her bag and opening one of them.
For an hour or more they read in silence and then moved on to some mathematics homework. They finished almost simultaneously, noting that they had reached the same solution in each case, but via a different route. As usual, Fotini’s workings out were written carefully in the margins. Themis’ were messier, her handwriting much bigger, some of her 5s and 6s indistinguishable. She could take up a whole page for one equation, while Fotini could fit three in the same space.
‘You’re so neat and tidy,’ Themis teased. ‘Not like me.’
‘My father told me not to waste any paper. It doesn’t grow on trees, he said!’
The girls laughed together, but Themis knew there was a serious point: that people with little can never afford to waste what they have.
They were still laughing when the door from the street swung open. A very slender woman with translucently pale skin and huge oval eyes, her hair pulled back from her face, came in.
Fotini got up and went over to embrace her mother.
‘This is my friend, Themis,’ she said proudly.
‘Very nice to meet you,’ said the woman, smiling. ‘Fotini hasn’t stopped talking about you since the day she first went to her new school!’
She put a small basket down on the dresser, took out two packages and began to unwrap them. Themis marvelled at the long dark plait that reached well below her waist. She seemed in a hurry to prepare something with the ingredients.
Themis was used to her grandmother’s large pan and was conscious that, over the small gas ring, Fotini’s mother was using a diminutive saucepan.
‘It’s getting quite late, you know,’ she commented.
Neither of the girls had kept track of the hour. They had no means of doing so.
‘Won’t your family be waiting for you?’
‘Yes . . . I must go home,’ said Themis, realising that she might have outstayed her welcome. She started packing her books away as the aroma of fasoláda, bean soup, began to dri
ft over her.
Fotini walked with Themis to the main street. She would never have been able to retrace her steps without a guide.
‘See you tomorrow,’ said Fotini. ‘It was nice that you came.’
As she entered her own home, Themis saw her siblings already sitting at the table. Her grandmother was about to serve from two large pans that were almost full to the brim, one of stew, the other of hórta. A whole loaf sat uncut on the table in front of them. Themis realised that the small amount that Fotini’s mother had been preparing might be all that she could afford. It would certainly explain why they had not invited her to stay.
‘Where’ve you been, then?’ asked Thanasis.
‘And why are you so late?’ demanded Margarita.
As the plates were passed around, any answer that Themis might have given would have been lost in the clatter of crockery and cutlery and water splashing into glasses. She had no wish to tell them where she had been. The past few hours had been contented ones, and she was not going to allow her siblings to destroy the memory.
Margarita was persistent, however, and in spite of her resolve Themis finally shared the truth of where she had been. As she had feared, it immediately provoked rage from Thanasis.
‘She is not Greek in the same way that we are,’ he said adamantly.
‘But she speaks Greek, she is Orthodox, she was baptised . . .’
‘Her parents—’
‘Her father is dead,’ protested Themis. ‘He was killed! I told you that.’
‘Her mother, then. Is she still a communist?’
Margarita joined the onslaught against her little sister.
‘So what does the EON slogan mean to your friend? “One Nation, One King, One Leader, One Youth”?’
Themis remembered the conversation with her friend. She knew Fotini’s mind almost as well as her own.
Thanasis spoke again, this time more gently. Even he could see that his younger sister’s eyes were brimming with tears.
‘Who is her mother’s “leader”, Themis? Is she obedient to Metaxas? Or does she support those who want to pull down the regime?’
Those Who Are Loved Page 5
