What she found instead turned her heart to glass—sharp and clear, but brittle, and when her mind caught up with her eyes, her glass heart shattered into a thousand pieces. A convoy of German trucks—they could only be German—slithered purposefully across the valley floor below her, dark and sinister as a viper. And the viper’s purpose, she knew, was the destruction of Kastania. The stench of death and decay lay so thick on the convoy that, even miles above, Chrysanthe nearly choked on it.
Before she knew what she was doing, Chrysanthe found herself scrambling downward onto a path that would take her back to the village. She would make them believe her—somehow. She would get them out, all of them—or some of them—or even one of them. She had to try. And she couldn’t tell her mother, who would surely try to stop her. But Kiveli would forgive Chrysanthe’s disobedience… if Chrysanthe lived.
Chrysanthe ran and ran until she could run no further. She allowed herself a short rest and a drink from the spring then pushed on, forcing the rubbery, shivery muscles of her legs to keep moving. She had to reach Kastania before the Germans did.
But the screaming began just as Chrysanthe tumbled down the final stretch of loose stone and thorns. At the bottom, she picked herself up and ran headlong into the storm of bullets and bloodshed that raged in the street. Overhead, the sky darkened.
As she sped through the village, she tried not to see the baby ripped from its mother’s arms and gutted before her eyes, but they were right in front of her, and the German youth laughed as he shoved the baby’s entrails into its mother’s face. To her left, Anastasia Papaioannou was being stripped naked by two Germans while a third lit her hair on fire. To her right, another soldier plunged a bayonet into the swollen belly of Elpida Akrivopoulou, who was to have given birth in a matter of days. Behind her, Soula Patoulidou sprawled in a doorway, strangled with her own intestines.
Chrysanthe clapped her hands over her ears, but she couldn’t escape the sound of the village’s lifeblood spilling onto the cobblestones or the smell of blood and excrement, so thick it seemed to coat her lungs, her tongue, even her teeth. It swelled and surged, hot, viscous—it would kill her in a moment, she couldn’t breathe—but then she was at Alexandra’s door, sobbing and trembling, but alive.
Chrysanthe stared at the door’s handle, too numb to realize she had made it, and in one piece. But a fresh wave of shrieks and moans recalled her to her purpose, and she burst through the door to find Alexandra and her mother, Maria, huddled together in the corner. They gaped at her, their eyes dark and wild like those of a hare in the jaws of a wolf.
“Come,” Chrysanthe gasped. “You must come with me.”
“But what—” Alexandra licked her dry lips. “What’s happening, Chrysa?”
“The Germans are killing everyone,” Chrysanthe replied, still dazed by the truth of it. “Everyone.”
“Nonsense,” Maria croaked. “They’re punishing troublemakers—but we haven’t done anything. We’re safe here. Quite safe.”
“You are not,” Chrysanthe cried. “Aleka, please.”
“Mother.” Alexandra raised a shaking hand to grasp her mother’s fingers. “I’m going. Will you come with us?”
Chrysanthe curled her fingers into the embroidered fabric of Alexandra’s apron, her breath coming in quick, nervous pants as a shadow of danger pressed its dirty thumb between her shoulder blades.
“Come away,” she whispered. “Come away.”
Muttering furiously to her mother, Alexandra unhooked Chrysanthe’s fingers from her apron and squeezed them with a tense smile. Chrysanthe whimpered. The shadow on her back moved and thickened until she could see it plainly in the doorway.
A German soldier—the German soldier, the one who had murdered Nikola—stepped into the room, his face flushed with a strange, frightening excitement that Chrysanthe had never before seen or even imagined. She didn’t know what to make of it… but Alexandra clearly did. Her face had gone dead white, and she tried to step backward only to find herself against the wall.
“Run, Aleka,” Chrysanthe ordered, her voice much too large for her small body.
She stepped in front of Alexandra, placing herself firmly in front of her friend. Her mother could divert a man from his goal with a word, a gesture, even a flicker of an eyelash so that he left scratching his head in puzzlement. Chrysanthe had seen it. But she was not her mother, not a magissa. She was just a little girl. The soldier brushed her aside like a spindly, clinging weed and threw her against the wall. Her head cracked against the stones, leaving a dark smear of blood.
“Chrysa!”
Chrysanthe couldn’t answer. She lay still, her head spinning, only dimly aware of Maria’s furious shouts and the soldier’s jeering. Tears leaked out of her eyes and dripped onto the floor as Alexandra let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a shriek. The soldier cried out, too. Chrysanthe stirred. There was anger in the soldier’s snarling, plenty of it, but also surprise.
Squinting, Chrysanthe lifted her head and focused on Alexandra’s blurry form. She was covered in blood—so much blood. The German soldier had her by the throat, pinning her against the opposite wall as he twisted a bloody kitchen knife out of Alexandra’s hands. Chrysanthe pushed herself up, teetering on hands and knees. She had to move, she had to help—but her arms and legs refused to do her bidding. She had failed, and now she and Alexandra were both going to die.
But death didn’t come for her, and neither did the soldier. There was another shout—male, but not German—a deafening gunshot, and the sharp tang of blood—and then there were hands on her, pulling her to her feet. There was a crack; her cheek stung.
“Chrysa!” the voice was yelling. “Chrysanthe!”
“Baba?” she mumbled, and all at once her head cleared. “Baba!”
“What were you thinking?” her father roared, shaking her until her teeth rattled. “Idiot child!”
But he crushed her against his chest, and Chrysanthe could feel his heart pounding like a hammer beneath her cheek. He must have been hard on her heels all the way down the mountain. Kiveli would have known what Chrysanthe was up to as soon as her course was set, and she must have sent Thanasi to fetch their daughter back. If only he had been just a little bit faster, Chrysanthe thought, he could have hauled her back to the cave and given her the beating she so richly deserved and saved her from this nightmare.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, I had to.”
Thanasi rested his cheek against her head for a moment, then set her on her feet. He turned to Alexandra, speaking much more gently. “Come, child. It’s time to go.”
“I killed him,” Alexandra said faintly. “I killed him.”
“No.” Thanasi showed her the gun and then the gaping hole in the soldier’s back. “See? You killed no one.”
Chrysanthe saw the lie clinging to the corners of his eyes and mouth, but she said nothing. Thanasi cleared his throat and ushered Chrysanthe toward the window.
“Come on, then,” he said roughly, picking her up and shoving her through.
Chrysanthe crouched in the shadow of the empty stable as Alexandra clambered out of the window and dropped down beside her. Thanasi followed much more gracefully and motioned for the girls to move.
“What about Kyria Maria?” Chrysanthe said, looking over her shoulder.
“Dead,” her father muttered, and jerked on her hand. “When we get to the edge of the village, run as fast as you can straight into the wood and keep running until you reach Father Lukas. I found him before the Germans did—thank God!—and he and a few others managed to escape.”
“But you’re coming too,” Chrysanthe protested. “Aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Thanasi said. “But when it’s time, you look straight ahead and run. Don’t stop, no matter what happens. Just run. You understand?”
“Yes, Baba,” she whispered.
Alexandra said nothing. She drifted behind them, stopping when they did and moving when she was told, seeming
ly deaf and blind to the horror surrounding them. Chrysanthe almost envied her. The air was thick with screams, the scent of blood, and the throbbing pressure of thunder pushing against the clouds. Copper and ozone mingled and seemed to cling to their skin like a fine dew as they made their way carefully from shadow to shadow, hardly daring to breathe. Overhead the storm clouds churned and rolled, but the thunder didn’t break free.
Chrysanthe clung to her father’s belt, sick with terror and guilt, sure that at any moment a German would appear and cut them down. But none did—whether by luck or skill or a wise woman’s blessing, Thanasi led them safely to the edge of the village under the devil’s very nose.
“Alright,” Thanasi said, taking a firmer grip on his rifle. “It’s time. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Chrysanthe replied, though she wasn’t ready at all. Alexandra said nothing.
Thanasi kissed her forehead and turned her toward the wood. “I’ll be just behind you, Chryssoula. Now, run!”
Chrysanthe seized Alexandra’s hand and pulled with all her might until Alexandra broke into a stumbling run. But Chrysanthe realized almost at once that Alexandra was moving much too slowly. It was all going to go wrong.
Chrysanthe sensed the exact moment their luck failed, and as time seemed to slow, so did she. The air transformed into oil as she struggled to turn back. Yet she saw with perfect clarity the sweaty, ruddy-faced soldier take aim at her father’s back, and she heard the click of the trigger just before the blast. A tiny circle of red appeared in Thanasi’s chest and blossomed into a hideous red flower. He fell slowly, gracefully, almost, with his arms outstretched as if he were dancing the zeibekiko, the dance of mourning, of loneliness—he was falling alone into the dark—the red flower was blooming and blooming, filling her eyes—Chrysanthe saw it all, and yet she could do nothing.
Thanasi’s knees hit the ground, and the spell broke. Chrysanthe was running faster than she had ever run in her life, flying back toward her father. But when she laid her hand on him, no spark of life met her touch. He was gone. She stood and took a step toward the soldier, then another, holding his watery blue gaze with her own.
“Ich verfluche dich,” she hissed. “I curse you. I curse you.”
The soldier blanched and raised his rifle. But his hands shook; the shot went wild. Chrysanthe screamed, a wild shriek of grief and rage echoed by the storm clouds above. A deafening crack of thunder split the air, flinging the soldier’s gunshot back in his face. He threw himself onto the ground and cowered with his arms wrapped about his head.
Chrysanthe screamed again; a bolt of lightning cut the sky. A third time, and a column of light brighter than the sun plunged into the church tower like a javelin. For the second time that evening, Chrysanthe watched a red flower bloom. Flames soared upward and spread with preternatural speed until the whole of the village was consumed by fire. She returned her gaze to the soldier and pointed toward the village. The soldier picked himself up without hesitation and walked straight into the flames to join his fellows as they burned.
“Chrysa.” Alexandra was beside her, her eyes wide but no longer empty. “Come on. I found Father Lukas and the others. We have to go.”
“No,” Chrysanthe said, her voice distant and tinny in her ears. “I want to watch.”
“No, you don’t,” Alexandra said gently. “Come with me, Chrysa. Your mother will need you.”
At the mention of her mother, Chrysanthe’s hand fell to her pocket. She reached inside and pulled out a packet of herbs tied with a belled ribbon. A charm—one that certainly hadn’t been there when she left the mountain. Her father must have slipped it into her pocket at the last moment, just before they ran. It had protected her as it had protected him, and, without it, he had died in her stead.
“Chrysa,” Alexandra called. She was already among the trees. “Chrysa!”
Chrysanthe moved like a sleepwalker to the forest’s edge, where she paused for a moment, leaning her forehead against the rough bark of a chestnut tree. She tilted her head back toward Kastania. The screaming had died away, replaced by the crackling roar of the fire. The Germans, like the villagers, were dead.
“I curse you,” she whispered.
As the first tear dropped onto her cheek, rain began to fall.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
During the German occupation, thousands of atrocities were committed throughout Europe. Certain events and details depicted in The Flower Of Kastania are based on my grandmother’s experiences in her village while it was occupied by German forces. The larger story, however, was inspired by the massacre of Distomo, a small town near Delphi. Within two hours, 214 men, women, and children were brutally murdered by German soldiers in retaliation for an attack that had occurred several miles from the town. This massacre has been identified as one of the most despicable crimes of World War II.
ΤΟ ΛΟΥΛΟΥΔΙ ΤΗΣ ΚΑΣΤΑΝΙΑΣ
Πάνω από ένας χρόνος είχε περάσει από τότε που οι Γερμανοί εισέβαλλαν στην Ελλάδα και η χώρα πνιγόταν κάτω το ασήκωτο βάρος της κατοχής. Καθημερινά, κάτοικοι των πόλεων έφευγαν για την ύπαιθρο, ελπίζοντας να γλυτώσουν από την πείνα και τις αρρώστιες που είχαν γεμίσει τα νεκροταφεία με ομαδικούς τάφους. Αλλά ακόμη και για έναν ομαδικό τάφο χρειάζονταν χρήματα, και οι θάνατοι ήταν πολλοί, και οι άνθρωποι τόσο φτωχοί που πολλές φορές απλά άφηναν τους νεκρούς εκεί που έφυγε η τελευταία τους πνοή ή τους πετούσαν στον δρόμο και σάπιζαν.
Αυτά λέγονταν και οι χωρικοί της Καστανιάς δεν είχαν κανένα λόγο να μην πιστεύουν τους τσακισμένους άντρες και γυναίκες που περνούσαν από το χωριό σαν φαντάσματα. Μερικοί έμεναν για μια μέρα, άλλοι για μια βδομάδα ή ένα μήνα, δουλεύοντας στα χωράφια και τα μποστάνια για τα λίγα αποφάγια που περίσσευαν στους ντόπιους, αλλά οι περισσότεροι συνέχιζαν το ταξίδι τους προς κάποιο προορισμό που κανείς δεν φαινόταν να γνωρίζει.
Για τη νεαρή Χρυσάνθη Χατζόγλου οι πρόσφυγες ήταν πιο τρομακτικοί ακόμη και από τους καυχησιάρηδες Γερμανούς στρατιώτες. Οι στρατιώτες ήταν τουλάχιστον ζωντανοί. Οι πρόσφυγες της θύμιζαν βρικόλακες, τα απέθαντα φαντάσματα που περιπλανιόταν στους λόφους. Όμως οι πρόσφυγες ήταν πάντα χλωμοί και λιπόσαρκοι, έμοιαζαν περισσότερο με σκελετούς παρά με ανθρώπους, ενώ οι αδελφοί της την είχαν διαβεβαιώσει ότι οι βρικόλακες ήταν ροδοκόκκινοι και πρησμένοι από το αίμα που έπιναν, όχι σαν τους πρόσφυγες που γέμιζαν τον δρόμο. Οι πρόσφυγες ήταν άνθρωποι… και δε μπορούσαν να ξεφύγουν από την άθλια, ανθρώπινη μοίρα τους.
Δε μπορούσε να πει κανείς το ίδιο και για τους Γερμανούς όμως, και να το πιστεύει κιόλας. Οι Γερμανοί είχαν επιτάξει τα ζώα των χωριανών, τις προμήθειες από στάρι και λάδι που είχαν για τον χειμώνα, οτιδήποτε μπορούσαν να κουβαλήσουν… και ήταν πολλοί στην Καστανιά εκείνοι που μαράζωσ�
�ν, μέχρι που χάθηκαν. Ανάμεσά τους η νεογέννητη κόρη της Μαρίας Γεωργίου, που ήταν πολύ μωρό για να καταλάβει γιατί στέρεψε το γάλα της μάνας της. Η ψυχή της έφυγε μακριά τη νύχτα, και κανείς δεν μπορούσε να την σώσει, ούτε καν η μάγισσα μάνα της Χρυσάνθης.
Κάποιοι έλεγαν ότι η μάγισσα ήταν κάτι παραπάνω από μια σοφή γυναίκα, με υπερφυσικές δυνάμεις έστω. Έλεγαν ότι η Κυβέλη Χατζόγλου ήταν μια νεράιδα. Και γιατί όχι; Το όνομα της ήταν ξενικό και ειδωλολατρικό. Η κόρη της ήταν ατίθαση σαν λαγός. Ποτέ δεν έκαιγε ο ήλιος το λευκό της δέρμα και καμιά άσπρη τρίχα δεν φύτρωνε στα κορακίσια της μαλλιά, αν και είχε σίγουρα κλείσει τα σαράντα. Οι χωριανοί γνώριζαν καλά ότι η Κυβέλη Χατζόγλου δεν ήταν συνηθισμένη γυναίκα.
Ωστόσο, παρά την παραξενιά της ή ίσως εξαιτίας της, οι ικανότητες της Κυβέλης ήταν περιζήτητες πριν να έλθουν οι Γερμανοί. Οι γυναίκες έρχονταν στο κατώφλι της ψάχνοντας για ιαματικά βάμματα και φυλαχτά ή ελπίζοντας να τους εξηγήσει τα όνειρα και να τους πει τη μοίρα τους. Όμως, τώρα οι χωριανοί κοιτούσαν την Κυβέλη με κακία και καχυποψία, γιατί πίστευαν ότι η μάγισσα και η κόρη της έτρωγαν περισσότερο από αυτούς. Ήταν σίγουροι ότι είχε μυστικά αποθέματα με φαγώσιμα ή ίσως απόκοσμες δυνάμεις που της έδιναν δύναμη.
The Roots Of Our Magic Page 5
