A month later they planned to repeat the outing and Themis asked Fotini to come with them, knowing that she and her mother were struggling more than ever to find food.
A few days before, Fotini fainted in class. She used her ‘time of the month’ as an excuse, but the real reason was different. Many factories were closing now because of a lack of raw materials, and Kyría Karanidis had lost her job. With no money left for food, Fotini had not eaten for two days. She went home from school early and the following day did not return.
Themis went to her friend’s house that evening and, a few moments after she knocked, the door opened a few centimetres. A pale face peered out.
Even when she saw her friend, Fotini showed no sign of throwing the door open and letting her in.
‘I just came to see—’ began Themis.
‘I’m fine,’ said Fotini hastily. ‘It’s just my period. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine in a few days.’
Before Themis had time to wish her well, the door was closed. She was upset not to be able to speak for longer to Fotini. She had even brought a book for her in case she was worried about missing lessons, and a small container of cooked rice that her grandmother had pressed on her. She returned home, downcast, with both.
For the rest of that week Fotini did not appear at school, and Themis vowed to herself that she would go back and see her after the weekend that was now upon them.
Chapter Six
WHEN SATURDAY ARRIVED, the mood of the outing was very different from the previous time. For some while, the four Koralis siblings sheltered in the doorway of an empty shop waiting for a bus. They were infrequent and several did not stop because they were already overloaded with passengers. A cold rain turned to sleet and by the time the bus came, the girls were shivering and as it trundled and coughed its way out of the city, they huddled together for warmth. Themis did not dare to admit that she had already dropped one of her gloves. The streets were almost empty, with many shops boarded up. Occasionally they glimpsed someone in uniform: German or Italian, it was hard to distinguish through the steamed-up windows.
When they reached their stop, they soon realised things had changed. Many trees had been cut down and the remaining ones had been stripped bare of their branches. They returned home, damp and despondent, with only some scrappy twigs that might do for kindling once they had dried out.
Even as they climbed the stairs, the four of them commented on the smell of lamb but imagined it was emanating from a neighbour’s home.
As they opened their own door, the intoxicating scent of meat intensified and they saw a table already laid out for a meal. They followed their grandmother’s instruction to wash their hands and sit down, then watched wide-eyed as she set a bowl down in front of each of them filled to the brim with a knuckle of lamb, potatoes and carrots. In the middle of the table was a pan of spinach rice. They had not seen food like this in months. They ate greedily, their heads bent down to their plates, breathing in the aroma, feeling the warmth of the stew rising into their faces and opening the pores in their skin. There was even enough for the boys to have second helpings.
Only when their hunger was sated did any of them begin to ask questions.
‘How?’
‘Where?’
‘When?’
The old lady gave an answer that satisfied their curiosity and put an end to any further interrogation.
‘Your father sent some money,’ she said simply.
‘Was that all that came?’ asked Margarita, hoping that he might have sent a gift as well.
‘Just some money,’ she answered. ‘But I think we should all be grateful for that.’
She crossed herself several times and then began to clear the plates.
‘They hardly need washing,’ she smiled. Every last trace of sauce on their plates had been wiped clean with warm, doughy bread.
In truth there was no money coming from America.
Rumours had been flying that food shortages were going to get worse, and Kyría Koralis knew she would have to dip into the one reserve that remained to her. By selling the valuables that her daughter-in-law had brought to the marriage, she could purchase things on the black market. What else were those items of jewellery for now but to feed her own children? Kyría Koralis knew that they were not really hers to sell, but she could not even be certain if Eleftheria was still alive. Reports on her daughter-in-law’s condition had been only occasional, and she did not dare to imagine what conditions in the asylum must be like. The institution where her daughter-in-law lived was in an area occupied by the Bulgarians and their reputation for barbarism surpassed even that of the Germans and Italians. Before the occupation, Kyría Koralis had felt an occasional pang of guilt about not making some attempt to visit her, but that would be impossible now.
Two days before the children’s second excursion to the countryside, she had pulled out the box from beneath the pile of Eleftheria’s stale clothes. She was glad she had not discarded them because, with the shops empty and fabric impossible to find on the open market, she would have to adapt them all for the girls. She did not notice their slightly unruly order.
Opening the chest, Kyría Koralis stood in front of her mirror and held up a string of lustrous pearls against the pale, papery skin of her neck. It was the necklace that Eleftheria had worn on her wedding day. The weight of the sapphire clasp on her palm gave the old lady a small shiver of pleasure.
That alone should feed us all for a few weeks, she thought.
There was no sentimentality attached to any of these valuables and she had already heard that there was someone in the neighbourhood purchasing precious stones. Without any hesitation, she slipped the necklace into her pocket and left the apartment. It was likely that the jewellery would end up in the ownership of some German woman, but she did not care. The price was not bad for the circumstances and the millions of drachmas she received would go a long way, even if their value had dropped between the time they were handed to her and the moment she paid for her ingredients. As long as she could return home with her battered shopping bag bulging with food, she was happy.
While they were eating, Themis had been thinking of her best friend. Fotini had not returned to school since the day she had collapsed. This was almost a week ago now. Had Fotini’s mother moved them both back to Kavala? Her innocent thought was that Fotini had not had time to alert her.
On Monday, Themis disobeyed her grandmother’s strict instructions that she should come directly home from school. Now that acts of resistance were becoming more common, the Germans were looking to make arrests. Girls and boys, women and men, faced detention if they were out after the curfew so Themis knew it was not just foolhardy to wander the streets alone in the semi-darkness, it was dangerous too. With Germans or Italians, whose reputation was even worse, patrolling the street, a solitary sixteen-year-old girl was vulnerable. In spite of all this, Themis walked briskly past the road that led to their square and towards Fotini’s house.
She walked as fast as she could and arrived at a moment between afternoon and dusk when the light seemed reluctant to leave. It was mid-January and everything looked silver grey.
She knocked loudly on Fotini’s familiar door but there was no reply so she knocked again and then a third time, even louder. Themis looked around her. Perhaps one of the neighbours might know something, but there was nobody to ask.
Two German soldiers stood at the end of the street. One of them seemed preoccupied, looking in the other direction, blowing smoke rings into the damp air. The other stared at her. She was wearing an old coat of her mother’s but suddenly felt naked and pulled it tighter round her. Themis made one more futile attempt to rouse someone inside, but realised the house must be empty. It had only one room, after all.
When she looked up, the soldier who had been menacing her with his gaze was walking towards her. Without considering the impression it would give, Themis turned from the door and ran, taking a circuitous route that led her b
ack to the main street. Only then did she pause to catch her breath, hiding in the entrance of a derelict shop in case the soldier was on her tail. The street was not lit and the space where she crouched was in shadow.
She put her hand out and realised there was a sandbag across the door. Perhaps she should sit there for a moment. As she touched the rough sacking to balance herself, she heard a noise. Like a squeak. Rat-like. Themis was terrified of rodents. The city had been overrun with them recently, all of them as hungry as its inhabitants. They were crafty and successful competition for any human being scavenging for food.
She let out an involuntary yelp and jumped away. Only then, as her eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness, did she see that this was not a sandbag at all. It had a human shape and there was an area, the colour of an eggshell, that stood out from the rest.
The sound came again. It was a man’s voice.
‘Help me . . .’
With great trepidation, Themis bent down to take a closer look.
The man repeated his plea.
‘Help me,’ he whispered through parched lips.
Themis had not met such need face to face. She knew that most people in this city were lacking food and felt some guilt that her own family was fortunate in having money coming in from America.
‘I don’t have anything with me,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll bring you something.’
Her grandmother would be getting anxious now so she must be home soon. She would return with some food later.
Themis hurried through the dark streets. Several groups of soldiers scrutinised her as she passed.
As she ran up to the apartment, the fragrance from her grandmother’s cooking floated down the stairwell and when she pushed open the door, everyone was already seated round the table.
‘Yia sou, adelfí mou,’ said Panos sweetly. ‘Hello, little sister.’
‘She’s late,’ growled Margarita.
‘Your grandmother has been beside herself with worry,’ scolded Thanasis. ‘Where have you been?’
Themis was flushed with exertion and for a moment could not speak. She helped herself to a glass of water and then drew breath.
‘I met a man . . .’
‘Theé mou!’ Kyría Koralis cried out, her bread-knife held in mid-air. ‘Oh my God!’
‘I found him in a doorway. I need to take him something. Bread. Anything.’
‘Who is he, this person?’ asked Margarita.
‘Why were you talking to him anyway?’ demanded Thanasis. ‘What were you doing out there? You are meant to come straight home after school. Don’t you realise it’s dangerous? Don’t you know you are breaking all the rules? How stupid are you, Themis?’
Themis sipped her water but her mouth was dry.
‘I just saw him there,’ she said almost inaudibly.
‘You’re not going out into the street again at this time of night,’ said her grandmother.
‘And you’re not taking food into the streets – now or at any time, for that matter,’ Thanasis added emphatically.
‘There are soup kitchens for those people,’ said Margarita.
Dinner was served now and everyone sat with a full plate in front of them. It was the most filling recipe in their grandmother’s repertoire and everyone’s favourite: stuffed cabbage. The minced pork was so plentiful that it spilled out of the carefully rolled leaves to mingle with the lemon sauce poured over them.
Themis could not eat. She dug her fork into the cooked meat and sat there for a while staring at her plate. Everyone else continued. She was thinking of the man who was waiting for her to return. Then she thought of Fotini. The mystery was not solved. Her best friend’s name still got a negative reaction from her family, even after all these years, so she did not mention her anxiety.
She played with the piece of bread next to her plate and, when nobody was looking, dropped it into her lap and then later into her skirt pocket.
There was no chance of getting out of the apartment again tonight without causing a fuss, but the following day she would leave early for school, retrace her steps to the empty shop and after that go to Fotini’s again. Perhaps at that time of day she might catch someone in the street who had seen her.
She hardly slept that night. Anxiety about her friend and the sound of Margarita talking in her sleep did not help. She was out of the house before anyone stirred, checking that the lump of bread was still in her pocket and helping herself to the heel of the loaf left over after dinner. It was still on the table, wrapped in a cloth to keep it fresh.
There were many more people on the streets than the night before. Greeks outnumbered soldiers at seven in the morning and nobody gave her a second glance. It was a bitterly cold day and snow had fallen. Her breath came out in a cloud as she walked. She remembered the location of the shop, even though one derelict business looked very much like the next. It had a worn red sign above it: ‘Sidiropoleíon, Ironmonger’, and the windows were painted with the name of the owner, Vogiatzis, so she knew she had come to the right place. The doorway, however, was empty. Perhaps someone else had brought him something to eat.
With little further thought of the man, she continued on her route to Fotini’s, gnawing on a piece of her crust. She attracted envious stares from one or two children that she passed, and remembering bread was rationed she quickly concealed it inside her coat.
Themis pushed her bare hands deep into her pockets to keep them warm.
Once at her friend’s house, she knocked, timidly at first and then more loudly. There was the same silence from inside as before.
Tearfully, she made her way to school. It was no warmer there. The classroom was unheated and her fingers could scarcely grasp a pencil. At the end of the lesson she approached the teacher to see if she knew anything. Several other children had not turned up for some days now, but what could anyone do? There was a lot of sickness around that winter – from the common cold to tuberculosis. There were rumours of an epidemic of the latter.
When school ended that afternoon, she bumped into Giorgos Stavridis in the street. He was with Fotini’s ‘crush’, Dimitris, who asked Themis where Fotini was. The girls were so rarely seen without each other.
Themis shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said with a lump in her throat. She missed her friend’s voice, her clever answers to questions, their conversation. Everything about her.
The boys hurried off in separate directions. Everyone liked to be indoors by dark.
It was sadness that made Themis slow as she walked home that day rather than the deep snow. It was the first time she had experienced that just putting one foot in front of another could be an effort.
When she got back to Patissia, she looked up at the balcony and could see her grandmother sweeping. Dead leaves from her lemon trees fluttered down towards the street. She climbed the stairs and went out to tell her that she was home. Kyría Koralis pecked her on the cheek and they both stood for a moment looking out over the square. All the trees were bare now and the ground was blanketed in white. The sky was colourless too.
Then, even in the fading light, something caught Themis’ eye. It was something so familiar, something that she knew so well, that it was almost part of her. It was a particular shade of red and against the snow it stood out.
‘Yiayiá! Look! Over there. Do you see it? It looks exactly like Fotini’s coat!’
Kyría Koralis’ eyes followed the direction of Themis’ finger.
‘It does look as if someone’s dropped a coat,’ she agreed.
They both peered over.
‘Well, you should go and get it just in case. Whether or not it belongs to your friend, you can’t just drop a coat like that. So many people are without . . .’
‘I’ll go down,’ said Themis.
She took the stairs two at a time and as she walked across the square, she saw that two men had paused by it and were picking it up. Two people to lift a piece of clothing?
She
quickened her step and got there just as they had gathered what she now realised was more than just a coat. The temperature seemed to plummet even further.
‘It’s a girl,’ said the man, who now carried the lifeless body in his arms.
His comment was addressed to Themis, who stood by, staring with complete disbelief. She caught a glimpse of Fotini’s face. Her friend was almost unrecognisable with her cheekbones pushing through the skin and her eyes bulbous. She looked like a ninety-year-old woman, but there was no doubt in Themis’ mind that this was her friend.
As the head had lolled to one side, Themis found Fotini’s vacant eyes staring into hers. She had to look away.
‘Never seen a corpse before?’ said the other man, addressing Themis, who was sobbing now. He stepped forward to close her friend’s eyelids.
‘This is the tenth we’ve found this morning. Tragic.’
These workers were paid to walk the streets each day to gather corpses. Along with the black marketeers, they were among the few whose lot had improved since the start of the occupation.
Kyría Koralis watched from the balcony and saw her granddaughter plodding along behind a man who carried the red bundle. Panos had come in meanwhile and she called him outside.
‘Panos. Can you go down and fetch your sister,’ she said with urgency. ‘I think she has found her friend . . .’
‘Fotini?’
‘I think she’s died,’ Kyría Koralis said quietly.
‘Theé kai Kýrie, Lord God,’ muttered Panos with a catch in his throat.
Like everyone else, he knew it was the coldest winter for years and the famine was killing thousands each week in Athens alone. Until this moment, though, it had not yet touched their family. He left the flat and ran out into the square and towards his sister, who still followed the slow progression of her friend’s body, sobbing uncontrollably.
‘Themis,’ he said, putting his arm around her and keeping pace. ‘You can’t go with her.’ The majority of dead bodies, especially if they were not identified by family, were taken outside the city for burial.
Those Who Are Loved Page 9
