One Summer in Crete

by Nadia Marks

  He had tried, he told her, he had tried to date girls; in fact, he said, when he was a youth he was much in demand. The two brothers were considered prime boyfriend material by girls of their own age; less than two years apart, they were both equally good-looking, athletic and clever, always at the top of their class at school.

  ‘If anything,’ Michalis told Calli as they sat side by side on the rocks looking out to sea, ‘when we were young I used to be even more popular with girls than Nicos, much to his irritation. But later on, when I was older, I realized that my popularity was due to the fact that I bore no threat to them, unlike my amorous younger brother. A girl’s honour was always safe with me.’ A wry smile played on his lips as he spoke. ‘One of the reasons I left the village for the big city was to get away from the small community,’ he continued. ‘I felt so ashamed. How could my mother and father comprehend what I was if I didn’t understand or accept it myself?’

  Michalis told no one, not even Nicos, for a long time, not until years later. Living in Heraklion in the hub of the big city made it easier to come to terms with himself, and although some opportunities for relationships with both men and women presented themselves, he felt awkward, inhibited, uncertain. ‘Then I met a girl, an Athenian, and I decided to try and make a go of it with her,’ he told Calli. ‘We came back to the village, thinking we could set up home here and get married . . . I thought it would please my mother, you see,’ he sighed, regret sounding in his voice. ‘I thought I could win, I thought I could fight against it, but fighting the waves of the sea is pointless . . . I realized that I had to give in, I had to accept the power of nature . . . my nature. That was a low time in my life. I felt bad, not only for the girl but for myself, too . . . that was the first time I decided I needed to talk to someone.’

  Michalis had thought that perhaps he could talk to his friend Costis: ‘He was my oldest friend, we knew each other since primary school. But I couldn’t do it. I thought of taking Chrysanthi into my confidence: she too had become a good friend over the years. But I just couldn’t bring myself to talk to her either.’ Her insistence on finding him a wife, Michalis told Calli, amused and saddened him at the same time. Instead he learned to be evasive and threw himself into his work. His love for the land must be solace enough for him.

  ‘My trees and my olive oil, all that went a long way, and still does, to keep me content and stable,’ he continued, ‘and I learned to accept my life. If I wanted to live here, I had to accept that this was how it had to be. So I locked it all inside and pretended it didn’t exist until I finally spoke to Nicos.’

  It was after Nicos had moved to Athens and Michalis went to visit him that at last, away from the village and the family, he summoned the courage and was able to speak about it. ‘I knew that my brother would be the only person I could truly trust not to judge me, I was certain that our bond was stronger than any prejudice, and I was right. He has been my rock ever since.’

  Calli, grateful and touched that he cared enough to take her into his confidence, sat silently, letting him speak. ‘When I first met you,’ he said, looking at her, ‘I honestly wished I could have been the man for you.’ He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. ‘Meeting you has been one of the best things that has ever happened to me, you’ve brought me courage . . . you brought me hope.’ He took in a deep breath before continuing. ‘That day in the chapel when you asked me if I wanted children . . . I thought about it endlessly. I couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than having a child with you.’

  He picked up a stone and threw it as far as he could into the sea, then turned to her. ‘But I am not the man for you, Calli mou . . . my brother is.’

  14

  By the time the two friends had finished talking and started to make their way back to the village, the mountains loomed indigo against the darkening sky and the flickering stars above them were beginning to multiply with each step they took.

  Michalis walked her all the way back to Thia Froso’s house but declined an invitation to join the ladies for a drink.

  ‘I’ve never known him to refuse a coffee or a drink with me,’ Froso commented, sensing a difference in the young man’s usual jovial manner.

  ‘We stayed by the sea longer than we intended,’ Calli excused him. ‘I expect they are waiting for him at his mother’s house for dinner.’

  ‘And Nicos? Where is he? Are you going to see him?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Not tonight, Mum,’ Calli replied, pulling up a chair to join them. ‘Tonight I’d like to be with you two, and I would like to cook for you for a change.’

  The idea of cooking for her mother and aunt had occurred to her while she and Michalis were walking back from the beach and the tantalizing aromas from the little tavernas were wafting in the air.

  ‘So, what do you two feel like eating tonight?’ Calli said as she stood up, ready for action. ‘Actually,’ she added, laughing, ‘don’t answer that. I’ll go and see what there is . . . and I’ll surprise you.’

  Froso, as always, had been to the market and her larder was well stocked with produce; so Calli, rummaging through her aunt’s kitchen, found more than enough ingredients to make a meal. She was no stranger to cooking, having done enough of it for James and herself over the years; although, she mused to herself with a chuckle, it was a pleasure never to have to make a crème caramel or to see another ramekin again.

  The tomatoes, green bell peppers and courgettes she found in the fridge offered inspiration enough for Calli to delve among the stock of recipes she had memorized over the years and come up with a plan. The vegetables would be perfect, she decided, stuffed with rice, pine nuts and raisins mixed with herbs and spices from her aunt’s cupboard – no Greek kitchen, she knew, would be without oregano or cinnamon or fresh mint. Once the stuffing was mixed and the vegetables prepared, she would bake them in the oven; by the time she had washed, chopped and dressed the salad and had a glass of wine or two with Froso and Eleni in the garden, the dish would be almost done. She gathered her ingredients together and, humming the song that she had woken singing earlier, set about making a feast for her beloved mother and aunt.

  This is what life is all about, she thought as she busied herself with peeling, chopping and frying. It’s about the family and people who take care of one another, people who look out for each other, no matter what.

  She recalled all that she had been through during the past year, including her conversation with Michalis that afternoon, and once again thought of the importance of family. She was learning more of this way of life every day, and had been ever since she arrived on Crete. Perhaps, she thought, it was this love and protective care for one’s own that had prevented Calli’s grandparents from divulging their gruesome family history.

  It had been an extraordinary life-changing journey for her so far, and beyond that, she knew that there was more to come, not least from Froso whose story was apparently still incomplete.

  That night after they had finished eating and were heading for bed, Froso came to Calli’s room.

  ‘It is time for me to continue. It is time now to tell you everything,’ she told her niece. ‘Please talk to your mother, Calli mou.’

  Once again Calli had a sleepless night, this time worrying about what to say to her mother and where to begin. Her aunt’s story had been disturbing enough for her and she dreaded to think how Eleni would receive the revelations of her sister’s past. But there was something else too keeping her awake: Michalis’s confession had saddened her and she worried that her friend had opted for a life without love, conforming to some kind of prejudice which in their twenty-first-century world had no place. She had grown so fond of this man, her instincts about him had been right, he was all she thought him to be, sensitive, gentle, loving and tolerant. The idea that he had resolved to live a life of loneliness broke her heart.

  Usually she liked to wait until a sunbeam slipped through the wooden shutters before jumping out of bed, but that morning, as soon
as she heard the cockerel in the henhouse announce the break of day she was up, dressed for the beach and sitting waiting in the garden for her mother to come downstairs.

  ‘You’re up bright and early,’ Eleni said as she padded through the kitchen doorway in her nightdress with a cup of coffee in her hand. ‘What’s the rush this morning?’ She pulled out a chair next to Calli.

  ‘I thought we’d go down to the beach before it gets too hot.’

  ‘I don’t think your aunt is even up yet,’ Eleni replied.

  ‘Just you and me today, Mum, what do you say?’

  Froso was glad to see the two of them go out on their own together, so they left her at home with her embroidery and mother and daughter set off for the shore.

  As Calli had hoped, the beach was deserted, the cafes were just starting to set up their tables and chairs on their terraces and the day smelled fresh and cool. They swam around to the little bay where they could talk in privacy in the shade of the rocks.

  ‘It’s a great place to sit and think and sunbathe in peace,’ Calli told Eleni. ‘I’ve been coming here a lot since I arrived. It’s very private – we could even go topless if we wanted to, no one swims this far . . . only Michalis, but he’s at work now,’ she laughed.

  All the while they were in the water Calli was rehearsing how to begin what she had to tell her mother. It was less than twenty-four hours since her difficult conversation with Michalis and now she was about to do it all over again.

  Before Eleni arrived in Crete, her great concern had been how she would find her sister’s health, but since her arrival, to her great relief Froso seemed well enough or at least that was how she presented herself – calm and stoic. ‘I am not the first or last woman with breast cancer. Many recover. But if not, no one lives forever,’ she had said when Eleni anxiously enquired about her condition.

  Now the story she was hearing from her daughter threw her into a turmoil of emotion greater than any she had anticipated. While she was in England Calli had led her to believe that Froso’s health, if not good, was stable; there was no medical crisis and her visit to Crete would be a pleasant reunion and support for her sister. What she now heard was far from the pleasant restorative get-together she had anticipated, and from what she was being told it seemed there was more to come. Eleni sat listening with overflowing eyes until Calli finished talking. Then she buried her head in her hands and wept.

  ‘Oh! My poor, poor, sister,’ she repeated, wiping a tear-streaked face with her hand. ‘How could this have been kept hidden for so many years, why wasn’t I told?’ Eleni whispered.

  ‘All I can think of is that there are some things that carry shame in this community,’ Calli replied. ‘Rightly or wrongly, the family decided you should be spared that knowledge and be protected from it.’

  ‘I can understand that they couldn’t talk of such things when I was young, but later . . . when I was growing up, when I met your dad . . .’ Eleni’s words faded; she wiped her eyes again with the back of her hand. ‘We were so close,’ she began again, ‘she could have told me then.’

  ‘I know, Mum.’ Calli reached for her mother’s hand. ‘I kept asking myself the same thing . . . We go through life assuming we know all there is to know about the people we love, and then, wham! We find all our assumptions were wrong . . .’

  They found her as they had left her, sitting under the olive trees, a glass of water on the scrubbed wooden table by her side and her needlework in her hands – although Calli, looking closer, noticed that the work hadn’t progressed since they had left her there.

  15

  Crete, 1951

  Froso had no idea how long she had been lying semi-conscious on the ground before her sight and faculties returned. Dragging herself to her feet, she stumbled towards Kosmas’s bloodstained body sprawled across the mouth of the cave. Howling, she threw herself upon him and hugged and kissed the lifeless boy. Then in a state of confused frenzy and terror, not knowing what to do next, she stumbled from the cave to the place where she knew he always hid his bicycle and hurried to her village to raise the alarm. She didn’t go home to her mother; instead she made straight for Kosmas’s house in the hope that his brothers were there, and beat on the door with all the strength that was left in her. At the wretched sight of Froso, Vangelio let out a piercing scream and collapsed on the cold tiles, causing Manolios and their two sons to rush to the door.

  Soon a crowd gathered; angry voices and shrill laments echoed throughout the village. A group of men climbed into Manolios’s truck and headed for the ravine.

  Froso had the strongest sensation that she was sleepwalking; her vision was blurred, and her hearing muffled. Her mother was found and came to take her home. She removed Froso’s torn, soiled clothes and threw them onto a bonfire that Nikiforos had started in the yard, bathed her and put her to bed. Calliope asked nothing more of her daughter; the girl had suffered enough.

  The magnitude of the double crime that had been committed must be avenged. But first Kosmas’s brothers, Yiannis and Pavlis, together with their father and more men from the village, clambered down the ravine to the cave and carried the dead boy to the truck. They laid him in the back, covered him with a blanket as if he was asleep and drove back to the village.

  When they arrived in the square the church bell started to toll mournfully while half a dozen men along with his father and his two brothers carried the boy on their shoulders, as if in a funeral procession, and delivered him to his bereft mother. Her own wailings and lamentations, and those of the other women, could be heard all over the village and reverberated across the hills and valleys and into young Froso’s ears as she lay in bed in a state of feverish delirium. She wanted to run to him, but her limbs would not move. Her mother, by her side, soothed her, stroking her brow and hands to make sure she lay still.

  The funeral took place on the following day. Once Kosmas was buried, it was time for the men of the village to take action. Mitros was a condemned man.

  After his brutal attacks committed in a frenzy of jealousy, Mitros vanished. His mother had been going out of her mind since his disappearance, fearing that perhaps he had done something terrible. Too frightened to raise the alarm or tell anyone, she locked herself in her house and waited for him to reappear. She knew of her son’s obsessions and feared what he was capable of; his preoccupation with knives had caused her much anguish.

  ‘He is a butcher’s son, killing is in his blood,’ her husband would tell her when he was alive, but she fretted about the disappearance of stray dogs and cats that roamed the neighbourhood. ‘It’s one thing to butcher a farm animal, a goat or a pig – another to harm dogs or cats when they’ve done nothing to hurt him . . .’ she would protest under her breath. But the father was proud of his son’s butchering work, proving that he was a real man. Now that her husband was gone, she was left alone with Mitros and had no way of controlling him, even if he was her only beloved child. There were times when his behaviour alarmed her so much that she blamed herself for spoiling him with her excessive love.

  Mitros had been gone for two days and two nights, yet the mother said nothing to anyone. Rumours of the killing of a young man from one of the villages by the coast reached her ears and she feared the worst: if Mitros did not return soon, she suspected he might be implicated, although as yet nothing had been said about a girl being involved. His obsession with Froso had worried her, fearing he might turn to violence if he didn’t get his way. Then again, her son was unpredictable: anything could have provoked him to act in a lawless manner. She prayed day and night that he had run away to the city or to the other side of the island; otherwise, she knew the inevitable would happen – in those parts nothing went unpunished. Only one thing was clear to her – she could not mention her concerns to anyone. If her son had killed a man and it became known, there would be no mercy; for the mother of a murderer there were no guarantees, not even for her own safety. Silence was her only option.

  Throughout the night after
the funeral, the black-clothed women kept vigil in Vangelio’s house, mourning the dead boy, their laments echoing throughout the village. The men sat huddled together in another room with the windows shuttered and barred, planning the revenge. They sat red-eyed and sombre and, solemnly taking an oath of secrecy, swore to each other that they would hunt Mitros down and kill him. The secret would remain in their village forever; they would carry it to their own graves.

  They went looking for him in his village and eventually found him hiding in one of the caves, biding his time while he planned his escape. He guessed that his pursuers would come out to look for him soon after they buried the boy, but he miscalculated by a day. Many men of all ages from the village joined the search and they pooled their knowledge of the places in the mountains where an outlaw might hide; he was not the first. They killed him by the knife, as he had killed Kosmas, then, under the black shroud of night, Manolios and his two sons dumped his body in their fishing boat and sailed into the night. The sea roared like a wild beast as if Poseidon himself was in as much of a rage as theirs. They sailed out as far as they dared to where the seabed shelved steeply, then pushed the lifeless body, weighted with an anchor, overboard into the deep to rot beneath the waves, never to be mentioned again.

  In the upper village, Mitros’s mother waited for his return but as time passed his fate became obvious to her; now, alone in the world she had to consider her own safety and future. The explanation she gave to her neighbours and inquisitive villagers about her son’s absence was that he had gone abroad, emigrated to America, as so many young men did in those days. Staying in the village, she had no other course of action.

  Froso spent several weeks in bed while her mother and father along with all the female members of her family nursed her back to health. At first the girl was so traumatized by her ordeal, she seemed to be struck completely mute, she found no voice to express her sorrow. Gradually, as she started to regain some of her senses, she began to cry and wail at the loss of everything she held dear and clung to her mother for support.