The Thread

by Victoria Hislop

  ‘Yes, it does, of course it does.’

  Mitsos did not want to turn his back and walk away, even though this young man would not see it. Just in those few moments with him, he felt his senses had been stirred. Philosophy classes had taught him that the things you see are not necessarily the most real, but this was a new experience of it.

  ‘My name’s Pavlos,’ the blind man said.

  ‘And mine is Dimitri or Mitsos.’

  ‘I love this place,’ Pavlos said. His words were heartfelt. ‘There are probably easier places for a blind person to live, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’

  ‘No, I see . . . I mean, I can understand that. It’s a beau—, I mean an amazing city.’ Mitsos quickly corrected himself, annoyed by his own carelessness. ‘Look . . . I’d better get back to my grandparents,’ he said. ‘But it’s been great to meet you.’

  ‘It was good to meet you too. And thanks for helping me across.’

  Pavlos turned and walked away, resuming the rapid tapping of his spindly white stick. Mitsos stood and watched him for a while. He was quite sure that he could feel the warmth of his eyes on his back. He hoped so and suppressed the urge to rush towards him, to share his walk along the sea, to continue talking to him. Perhaps another day . . .

  I love this place – the words seemed to echo around him.

  He returned to the café table, visibly affected by this encounter.

  ‘That was nice of you to give him a hand,’ said his grandfather. ‘We see him most days when we are out and he has had a few near misses on this road. People just don’t care.’

  ‘Are you all right, Mitsos?’ asked his grandmother. ‘You seem a bit quiet.’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m just thinking about something he said . . .’ he replied. ‘He loves this city so much, even though it must be really hard for him.’

  ‘We can sympathise with that, can’t we, Katerina?’ responded his grandfather. ‘These uneven pavements are difficult for us and nobody seems to be doing anything about it, in spite of election promises.’

  ‘So why do you stay?’ asked Mitsos. ‘You know that Mum and Dad really wish you would come and live with us in London. Life would be so much easier for you there.’

  The nonagenarians had open invitations from their son, who lived in leafy Highgate, and also from their daughter who lived in the States, in a wealthy Boston suburb, but something kept them from choosing an easier life. Mitsos had often overheard his parents discussing this.

  Katerina shot the briefest glance at her husband.

  ‘Even if we were given as many diamonds as there are drops in that ocean, there is nothing that would induce us to leave!’ she said, leaning close to her grandson and gripping his hand. ‘We will stay in Thessaloniki until we die.’

  The strength of the words took the boy completely by surprise. For a moment, her eyes blazed and then they welled up but not in the way that old eyes sometimes seem to water for no apparent reason. These were tears of passion that rolled down her cheeks.

  They sat there for a while in silence, Mitsos absolutely still, aware only of his grandmother’s firm grip on his hand. No one spoke or moved. He looked into his grandmother’s eyes, seeking more explanation. He would never have guessed that she was capable of such an outburst, having never thought of her as anything other than a kind elderly lady with a gentle disposition. Like most Greek women of her age, she usually let her husband speak first.

  Eventually his grandfather broke the silence.

  ‘We encouraged our children to go elsewhere for their education,’ he said. ‘It was the right thing to do at the time, but we assumed that they would eventually return. Instead, they stayed away for good.’

  ‘I didn’t realise . . .’ Mitsos said, squeezing his grandmother’s hand. ‘I didn’t realise how you felt. Dad did once talk a bit about why you sent him and Aunt Olga away, but I don’t know the full story. Something to do with a civil war?’

  ‘Yes, that was part of it,’ said his grandfather. ‘Perhaps it’s time we told you more. If you are interested, that is . . .?’

  ‘Of course I’m interested!’ said Mitsos. ‘I’ve spent my whole life half-knowing things about my father’s background and not being given answers. I think I’m old enough now, aren’t I?’

  His grandparents looked at each other.

  ‘What do you think, Katerina?’ asked the old man.

  ‘I think he should help us carry some vegetables back home, so that I can cook his favourite gemista for lunch,’ said Katerina brightly. ‘How about that, Mitsos?’

  They took the street that led away from the sea, and found a shortcut through some of the narrow old streets towards the Kapani Market.

  ‘Careful, Yiayia,’ Mitsos said as they found themselves in front of the stalls, where the road was carpeted with pieces of rotten fruit and stray vegetables.

  They shopped for shiny crimson peppers, ruby-coloured tomatoes as spherical as tennis balls, dense white onions and dark purple aubergines. On top of the shopping bag, the vendor laid a bunch of coriander, and its fragrance seemed to fill the street. All these ingredients looked good enough to eat raw, but Mitsos knew that his grandmother would transform them into the rich, savoury stuffed vegetables that had been his favourite dish as long as he could remember coming to Greece. His stomach began to rumble.

  In the area where meat was sold, the floor was slimy with blood that had dripped from the cutting blocks. They were greeted like family by their usual butcher, and Katerina was quickly served with one of the sheep’s heads that stared at them from a bucket.

  ‘Why are you buying that, Yiayia?’

  ‘For stock,’ she replied.

  ‘And a kilo of tripe, please.’

  She would be making patsas later. For a few euros she could feed all of them for days. Nothing was wasted here.

  ‘It’s a guaranteed cure for hangovers, Mitsos!’ said his grandfather, winking at his grandson. ‘So your grandmother has your best interest at heart!’

  A ten-minute walk through the dilapidated streets of old Thessaloniki brought them to where his grandparents lived. Just outside the entrance, on the corner, they stopped to greet Dimitri’s best friend, his koumbaros, at the periptero. The two men had known each other for more than seventy years and no day went by without a heated discussion on the latest news. Sitting in his kiosk all day, surrounded by the papers, Lefteris was better informed about the city’s politics than anyone else in Thessaloniki.

  The apartment building was an ugly four-storey block built during the 1950s. The communal hall was bright enough, with yellow walls and a row of fourteen lock-up boxes for post, one for each apartment. The pale stone floor, speckled like a hen’s egg, had been freshly cleaned with strongly smelling disinfectant, and Mitsos held his breath as they slowly climbed the flight of stairs that led to his grandparents’ door.

  The stairwell was brightly lit compared with the apartment itself. Whenever they went out, the shutters were always closed but Katerina would throw them open on her return to try and let in the breeze. The net curtains across the windows allowed little light to penetrate. It was always dusk here, but this was how Katerina and Dimitri liked it. Direct sunlight made all the fabrics fade and bleached their wooden furniture, so they preferred to live with pale light filtered through gauze and the dim glow of low-wattage bulbs to guide them around their home.

  Mitsos placed the shopping bag on the kitchen table, and his grandmother quickly unpacked their purchases and began chopping and slicing. Her grandson sat watching, mesmerised by the neatness of the tiny cubes of onion and the evenness of the aubergine slices. Having performed these same tasks ten thousand times, Katerina was as accurate as a machine. Not one shred of onion strayed from her board onto the flowery plastic table cloth. To the last atom they travelled without wastage into the frying pan where steam rose into the air as they met the oil. She had the dexterity of a woman half her age when she cooked, moving with the speed and nimbleness of a dance
r around the kitchen. She glided about on the vinyl flooring, moving between an ancient fridge that regularly rattled and back again to her electric cooker, whose ill-fitting door had to be banged hard to make it shut.

  Mitsos was completely absorbed, but when he looked up he saw his grandfather standing in the doorway.

  ‘Are you nearly done, my sweet?’

  ‘Five more minutes, and everything will be cooking,’ replied Katerina. ‘The boy has to eat!’

  ‘Of course he does. Come, Mitsos, leave your grandmother a moment.’

  The young man followed his grandfather into the gloomy living room and sat down opposite him on an upholstered wooden-framed seat. Every chair had an embroidered antimacassar, and every other surface was dressed with a white crocheted cloth. In front of the electric fire was a small screen on which was a finely appliqued vase of flowers. All his life, Mitsos had been watching his grandmother sew, and he knew that every item was a product of her handiwork. The only sound was the low rhythmic thud of the ticking clock.

  On the shelf behind his grandfather there was a row of framed photographs. Most of them were of himself, or his cousins in America, but there were also wedding pictures – his parents’, and his aunt and uncle’s too. And one other framed photograph, a very formal portrait of his grandparents. It was impossible to tell how old they had been when it was taken.

  ‘We must wait for your grandmother before we begin,’ Dimitri said.

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s Yiayia who would forego a sack of diamonds to live here, isn’t it? She seemed so angry at the thought of ever leaving. I didn’t mean to offend her!’

  ‘You didn’t offend her,’ said his grandfather. ‘She just feels very strongly, that’s all.’

  Soon enough Katerina came into the room, suffused with the aroma of the slowly baking vegetables. Removing her apron she sat down on the sofa and smiled at both her Dimitris.

  ‘You have waited for me, haven’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied her husband lovingly. ‘It’s your story as much as mine.’

  And in the low light of the apartment, where it could have been dawn or dusk, they began.

  Chapter One

  May 1917

  THROUGH A PALE gossamer haze, the sea shimmered. Onshore, the most vibrant and cosmopolitan city in Greece went about its business. Thessaloniki was a place of dazzling cultural variety, where an almost evenly balanced population of Christians, Muslims and Jews coexisted and complemented each other like the interwoven threads of an oriental rug. Five years earlier, Thessaloniki had ceased to be part of the Ottoman Empire and become part of Greece, but it remained a place of diversity and tolerance.

  The colour and contrast of its rich ethnic meze was reflected in the variety of outfits paraded in the streets: there were men in fezzes, fedoras, trilbies and turbans. Jewish women wore traditional fur-lined jackets and Muslim men their long robes. Wealthy Greek ladies in tailored suits with a hint of Parisian haute couture were in striking contrast to peasants in richly embroidered aprons and headscarves, who had come in from the surrounding rural areas to sell their produce. The upper town tended to be dominated by Muslims, the area nearest to the sea by the Jews, with Greeks occupying the city’s outer edges, but there was no segregation and in every area people from all three cultures mixed together.

  Rising up the hillside behind a huge semicircular arc of coastline, Thessaloniki was like a giant’s amphitheatre. High up on the hill, at the furthest point from the sea, an ancient wall marked the boundary of the city. Looking down from this height the landmarks of religion dominated: dozens of minarets rose into the air like needles in a pincushion, red-tiled domes of churches and dozens of pale synagogues dotted the cityscape in its great sweep down towards the Gulf. Along with the evidence of the three religions that all thrived here were remains from Roman times: triumphal arches, sections of ancient wall and the occasional open space where ancient pillars stood like sentries.

  The city had improved in the past few decades, with the laying down of some broad boulevards, which contrasted with the ancient pattern of winding lanes that snaked like the serpents of the Medusa’s hair up the steep gradient towards the upper town. A handful of large stores had appeared, but the majority of retailing was still carried out from small shops no bigger than kiosks, family run, thousands of them, all vying with each other for business and squeezed into the narrow streets. As well as the hundreds of traditional kafenions, there were European-style cafés serving Viennese beer, and clubs where people discussed literature and philosophy.

  There was a density about this city. The volume of its inhabitants and their containment in a space enclosed by walls and water gave it a concentration of strong smells, vivid colours, and continuous noise. The calls of the ice-seller, the milk-seller, the fruit-seller, the yogurt-seller, all had their own distinctive pitch, but together made a pleasing chord.

  Night and day, there was never a pause in the continual music of the city. Many languages were spoken here: not just Greek, Turkish and Ladino, the language of the Sephardic Jews, but French, Armenian and Bulgarian were also commonly heard on the streets. The rattle of a tram, the cries of the street vendors, the clashing calls to prayer from dozens of muezzin, the clank of chains as ships came in to the dock, the rough voices of the stevedores as they unloaded cargoes of necessities and luxuries to satisfy the appetites of rich and poor – all of these combined to make the city’s endless tune.

  The smells of the city were sometimes not as sweet as its sounds. A pungent stench of urine wafted from the tanneries, and sewerage and rotting household waste still flowed down into the harbour from some of the poorer areas. And when the women gutted the previous night’s catch, they left the steaming, odorous debris to be devoured by cats.

  In the centre was a flower market, where the fragrance of blooms still hung in the air for many hours after the stallholders had packed up and gone home, and in the long streets, orange trees in blossom provided not only shade, but the most intoxicating aroma of all. There were many houses where jasmine rampaged around the doors, its aromatic white petals carpeting the road like snow. At all times of day, the smell of cooking suffused the atmosphere, along with wafts of roasted coffee made on small stoves and carried through the streets. In the markets colourful savoury spices such as turmeric, paprika and cinnamon were shaped by the seller into small mountain peaks, and plumes of aromatic smoke curled up from narghiles, smoked outside the cafés.

  Thessaloniki was currently home to a provisional government led by the former Prime Minister, Eleftherios Venizelos. There was a deep division in the country – known as the National Schism – between those who supported the pro-German monarch, King Constantine, and supporters of the liberal Venizelos. As a consequence of the latter’s control over northern Greece, Allied troops were currently encamped outside the city in readiness for operations against Bulgaria. In spite of these distant rumblings, most people’s lives were untouched by the world war. For some, it even brought additional wealth and opportunity.

  One such person was Konstantinos Komninos and, on this perfect May morning, he strode in his usual purposeful manner across the cobbled dockyard. He had gone to check on the arrival of a shipment of cloth, and porters, beggars and boys with handcarts steered out of his path as he took his straight course towards the exit. He was not known for his patience with people who got in his way.

  His shoes were dusty and some fresh mule dung clung stubbornly to his heel so when Komninos stopped at his usual boot-black, one of a row kept busy next to the customs house, the man had at least ten minutes’ work to do.

  Well into his seventies, his skin as dark and leathery as the footwear he polished, he had been cleaning shoes for Konstantinos Komninos for three decades. They nodded a mutual greeting but neither spoke. This was typical of Komninos: all of his routines were carried out without conversation. The old man worked at the leather until it gleamed, polishing both of the expensive brogues simultaneously, applying the
polish, working it into the leather and finally brushing with sweeping strokes, ambidextrously, his arms flying left and right, crossing over, up and down, side to side, as though he were conducting an orchestra.

  Even before the job was finished, he heard the tinkle of a coin dropped into his tray. It was always the same, never more, never less.

  Today, as every day, Komninos wore a dark suit and, in spite of the rising temperature, kept his jacket on. Such habits were an indication of social standing. Going about one’s business in shirtsleeves was as unthinkable as taking off armour before a battle. The language of formal dress for both men and women was one he understood, and one that had made him rich. Suits lent a man both status and dignity, and well-cut clothes in the European style gave a woman elegance and chic.

  The cloth merchant caught sight of himself in the gleaming window of one of the new department stores and the shadowy glimpse was enough to remind him that he was due a visit to the barber. He took a detour into one of the side streets away from the seafront and was soon comfortably seated, his face lathered and every inch except his moustache closely shaved. Then his hair was meticulously clipped so that the space between the top of his collar and his hairline was precisely two millimetres. Komninos was annoyed to see that there were hints of silver in the specks of hair that the barber blew from his clippers.

  Finally, before making his way to his showroom, he sat for a while at a small circular table and a waiter brought him coffee as well as his favourite newspaper, the right-wing Makedonia. He dispensed with the news quickly, catching up on the latest political intrigues in Greece before giving the headlines on military developments in France a cursory glance. Finally he ran his finger down the share prices.

  The war was good for Komninos. He had opened a large warehouse near the port to help deal with his new business – the supply of fabric for military uniforms. With tens of thousands being called up for military service, this was a huge enterprise. He could not employ too many people, or deliver the orders fast enough. Additional quantities seemed to be required on a daily basis.