The Thread

by Victoria Hislop

  For Katerina, standing eagerly at the prow, the city that grew larger and clearer with every passing minute meant the end of the search for her mother. For so many weeks now, she had been sewing the hem of her dress and it was now edged in a multicoloured row of little crosses, with space for only one more.

  As the mist lifted, the city did not appear to be nearly as big as she had imagined. She had seen pictures of Athens in a book and this was not what she expected. For the most important city in Greece, it was disappointing. Where was the Acropolis?

  She then noticed something else. Along the waterfront were shells of burned-out buildings, and for a moment she believed they had been brought full circle and returned to the chaos of the city she had grown up in.

  ‘Kyria Eugenia! Kyria Eugenia!’ she said, tugging at her sleeve. ‘We’re back in Smyrna!’

  The three girls had been clinging on to the railings of the ship and now they all turned their faces away from the view. Eugenia found three eager, anxious faces looking up at her.

  ‘No, my dears, it isn’t Smyrna,’ she replied. ‘They have brought us to Thessaloniki.’

  ‘Thessaloniki?’ they chorused, like three birds in a nest. ‘Thessaloniki? We thought we were going to Athens?’

  Katerina found herself gulping back tears. This was not where her mother had gone. All those months of hope and expectation seemed to sink to the bottom of the sea.

  Eugenia bent down and hugged Katerina to her, feeling the little girl’s sobs banging against her shoulders. The twins then joined hands and made a circle around them. Not one of them was where they wanted to be.

  The four of them stayed like this for some time while the ship moved towards its destination. Then they felt a strange stirring beneath their feet as the engines went into reverse. The vessel was slowing, and soon afterwards they heard the metallic clanking of the anchor being lowered. They were not inside the harbour, but still some way out to sea.

  They watched the captain going ashore in a small tug and an hour or two then passed by. Rumours began to circulate that they were not going to be allowed off. Disease had spread rapidly around the ship, with a huge section of it now roped off as a makeshift quarantine, and everyone knew that this would not make them welcome arrivals.

  Those who were healthy were eager to get off the ship, and when the captain finally returned, many were clamouring to disembark. He made the announcement that he had been given permission to dock but those with dysentery and tuberculosis would have to stay on board for the time being.

  At last, after many hours, they came into the harbour and felt the walls wrap themselves around the ship.

  ‘Mana mou, look at all those people,’ cried Maria with excitement when she saw the crowd. ‘Look how many there are waiting to welcome us!’

  ‘I’m not really sure that’s what they are doing, darling . . . But they seem pleased to see us, don’t they?’

  In reality, the people at the port were not there to welcome the arrivals from Turkey. They were Muslims who were there to try to grab places for the return journey. They were pleased to see the ship rather than the people on it.

  If embarkation in Mytilini had seemed chaotic, it did not compare with the near breakdown in law and order that took place with disembarkation in Thessaloniki. In spite of the numbers of sick that they knew were still on board, people fought to get on the ship. Eugenia was leading the girls off when someone pushed past them, almost causing Katerina to fall under the gangplank and into the dark waters below.

  ‘Excuse me! Can’t you wait for one more minute?’ Eugenia shouted with indignation. The woman glanced round. It was clear that she had heard the fury in Eugenia’s voice, but her muttered reply in Turkish suggested that the actual meaning of the words was lost on her.

  As they moved into the surging crowd, Katerina held on so tightly to Eugenia’s hand that her fingers went numb. Maria and Sofia gripped on to each other and on to their mother’s skirt to make sure they were not separated. All four of them were mindful of Katerina’s history and did not want it to be repeated. It would be all too easy in this crowd.

  The quartet forced their way through the surging mass of humanity and once they were clear of it they paused to rest. Eugenia dragged their bundles of possessions a few more metres and then told the three girls to sit tight on them. She was confident that someone, somewhere in the vicinity would be waiting to tell them what they had to do next. This was supposedly an organised exchange of populations and they had all been promised that arrangements had been made for their accommodation.

  Katerina and the twins did as they were told and sat watching the comings and goings of this human traffic. One of the very significant differences between those who were arriving and those who were leaving was that the latter seemed to have huge quantities of possessions: crates, boxes, bags, trunks and mattresses. Even small children had something balanced on their heads as well as grasped in both arms. Katerina looked in amazement at all these worldly goods. It was a long time since she had owned more than what she stood up in. With one hand she absent-mindedly touched the stitches on the hem of her dress and with the other felt the piece of fabric she still kept in her pocket. These were all she had.

  Above the noise that swirled around them, there was a sound that reminded Katerina of somewhere far away: the muezzin. It was so many months since she had heard it.

  ‘Is this really Thessaloniki?’ she asked Maria, who looked at her blankly and shrugged.

  Even in the midst of the chaos, men got out their mats and kneeled to pray. This meant turning their backs against the sea, towards which they had been so eagerly rushing. They seemed no longer to care about time as they bowed repeatedly towards the earth, up and down, up and down, praying for the last time on Greek soil.

  Much to their amazement, the girls saw the tears of grown men and heard their sobs. They also looked at the resigned faces of the women and the numb expressionless faces of children smaller than themselves.

  By now, Eugenia had returned to them and was watching the spectacle too. As the men finished praying, a group of people who were clearly Christians approached one family to say goodbye. Their farewell was tearful and the embraces long and heartfelt.

  ‘No one said goodbye to us like that, did they?’ Sofia asked her mother.

  It was not a question that required answering. All such things were beginning to fade in the children’s memories, but Eugenia would never forget that there had been no such love between Christian and Muslim in the village they had come from. The nature of their departure from home had been terrifying and sudden. She had had just enough time to seize her twin daughters before fleeing for her life in order to escape the band of Turkish soldiers who had arrived.

  For a time, they had to wait. Eugenia shared a sense of resignation to her fate with most of those around her. Until the dockside became less crowded, she knew it was pointless to try to find anyone responsible for helping them.

  A man passed by with a cart of sesame buns, but she had no money. Hunger had begun to gnaw at her patience. Why had nobody come to their aid? Why was no one bringing them food?

  ‘I’m sorry, girls,’ she said, unable to hide her own hunger and frustration. ‘Perhaps we should have stayed in Mytilini.’

  The twins looked at her blankly. Only Katerina spoke.

  ‘Look, the ship’s going. There won’t be so many people now.’

  She was right. As evening fell, everything changed. The ship had drawn out of the harbour and now only the newcomers remained.

  Moments later, a woman, taller than any Eugenia had ever seen before, came towards them. Wearing a crisp white shirt, an immaculate pale beige skirt, flat, brown leather shoes and her fair hair worn in a neat chignon, it was clear that she was neither a ‘local’ nor a Greek from Asia Minor. She looked like a chic French woman, but when she stooped down to speak to the children, her faltering Greek revealed an American accent.

  ‘Would you mind coming to fill in some fo
rms?’ she said, with a note of apology in her voice. It was said as though she was inconveniencing them. ‘You need to go over there,’ she continued, pointing towards the customs house.

  They joined a queue that snaked forty deep out of the door and waited patiently. Talk in the queue was that their final destination was not this city after all, but a new ‘village’ west of Thessaloniki, which was being specially constructed for refugees on agricultural land. They were told that land was being reclaimed from the swamp and that there would be jobs and a livelihood for everyone who went there. The main crop, tobacco, was a hugely valuable one.

  It sounded tempting and was much more than Eugenia had hoped for during all the months of living on hand-outs, but her skills were in rug weaving, not on the land, and she had hoped to be in a city where there might be an appropriate opportunity. She was without a drachma to her name, an outsider, a refugee, a woman with neither status nor money. Perhaps she had no right to boast about her skills and to remind others of what she had once had. Whatever life might have promised, this was what it had delivered.

  As she was giving the official the children’s ages, Eugenia noticed a second queue where people were differently dressed. Seeing a few men wearing fezzes, she realised that the Muslims were being made to stand in line for something as well.

  The American woman looked towards Eugenia and something connected in her mind. She came over to her.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘there is a Muslim family over there who has just given us the details of their home. They have three daughters, just like you, and a house in the old town – but this means staying in Thessaloniki rather than going to one of the new villages.’

  Eugenia’s reaction was not difficult to read.

  ‘So you would prefer to stay in Thessaloniki?’

  ‘Yes, I would! I truly would.’

  ‘Well, let me see if I can secure that house for you. There are a few people ahead of you in the queue but your family seems to match the one that’s leaving – and you would fit in so well there.’

  The American spoke with real concern and clearly wanted the best solution for those she was helping.

  Eugenia did not contradict her assumption about Katerina being her daughter. She did not want to jeopardise their chances of staying in the city.

  This was the population exchange in action. Lives were literally being swapped. One family was leaving and another arriving. If Eugenia could have the Muslims’ house, she could finally settle and begin her new life. It was all she wanted now. A chance to start again.

  By nightfall, the sorrowful Christians they had seen embracing their Muslim friends would have new neighbours. The Muslims who had left on their ship were well on their way to Turkey now, leaving behind them a life that they had loved and shared with every part of the community.

  The balance of Thessaloniki had already altered. Over the space of a few months, the city had become predominantly Greek, and the Jews were now a minority.

  Finishing his paperwork that night, Konstantinos Komninos contemplated this notion and did a rough calculation of what gains this would bring to him.

  Meanwhile, Eugenia had settled the girls under a blanket in a doorway close to the customs office. She sat watching them. It was not the unevenness of the cobbles that prevented her from sleeping, it was her almost uncontainable excitement that they might soon have a roof over their heads.

  Katerina lay between Maria and Sofia, still but sleepless. They had come a long way but she had still not found her mother and sister. Tomorrow her search would have to begin again. At least they were on the mainland of Greece now. Athens could not be so very far away.

  Chapter Nine

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Eugenia was the first in the queue for a hand-out of bread before returning to her position in sight of the customs office, determined to confront the American woman who had made a promise to them the night before. Another boat might arrive today and the house that she had already occupied in her dreams might be taken by someone else.

  Several hours passed. The girls ran around the dockyard, playing games, teasing stray cats and briefly encountering other children, but Eugenia stayed rooted to the spot. She was not going to let this opportunity get away.

  At about midday, she saw the statuesque American walking briskly down the street. She was even more perfectly and improbably dressed than on the previous day, wearing a white muslin shirt, a floral skirt and pale blue suede brogues that were now grey with dust. Eugenia had never met anyone quite like this, someone with the authority of a man but the grace of a woman.

  Her heart pounded. She was so fearful that the American might have forgotten them but, with great joy, she realised that she was heading straight towards her.

  ‘Kalimera, Kyria Karayanidis,’ she said.

  Eugenia smiled. She even remembered her name. With tens of thousands of other refugees that alone seemed miraculous.

  The woman was brisk and businesslike, and her manner was not simply that of a woman wanting to pass the time of day.

  ‘Look, you remember the family I told you about yesterday . . .? I’ve been to their house . . .’

  Eugenia swallowed hard. The girls had gathered round her now. Whether they were to be sent to one of the new villages in the agricultural area north of Thessaloniki, or to a house in the city itself, she must react as though she were glad. Under no circumstances must the children sense any disappointment.

  ‘. . . well, I think it would be ideal for you. You are a perfect match. Do you want to come and see it before you make a decision?’

  ‘No, no,’ replied Eugenia, almost inaudibly. ‘I’m sure it will be fine.’

  Katerina was hanging back. ‘What about my mother?’ she asked Eugenia.

  The American looked at the child, then back at Eugenia, a quizzical expression on her face.

  ‘I’m not her mother,’ explained Eugenia. ‘I’ve been looking after her since we left Smyrna in September—’

  Katerina interrupted, ‘Because my mother and sister went to Athens and I got left behind and I thought we were being taken to Athens and then the boat went somewhere else and then it looked like we had sailed back to Smyrna, but we hadn’t, it just looked the same because it had burned down, and now I need to go to Athens to find them because they still don’t know where I am and . . .’

  Katerina’s flow of words came out at such speed that the American struggled to understand.

  ‘Can you tell me all that again,’ she asked her.

  Eugenia listened nervously. Without Katerina there would only be three of them and this might jeopardise their chance of securing the house. If only the child had kept quiet for a few hours longer about her mother. Eugenia found it hard to suppress her feelings of irritation.

  ‘. . . so can you help me find her?’ Katerina had repeated her breathless spiel, but this time a little slower.

  The American took in everything she had said, made a speedy assessment and gave her verdict.

  ‘The best thing is to stay together for now, and meanwhile we will look into your mother’s whereabouts. Some records have been kept, but they are not accurate enough just to allow us to send a little girl off to Athens! Your mother could be there, she could be here, or she could be somewhere else entirely. But we will do our best to reunite you.’

  She had taken both of Katerina’s hands in hers and looked into the child’s bright, believing eyes as she spoke. The little girl absorbed every word she said and accepted all of it unquestioningly.

  ‘Let’s go, shall we?’ she said briskly. ‘Come along. Give your mother a hand with her things.’

  Eugenia almost wept with relief that they seemed to have secured the house and the four of them followed, the little ones struggling to keep up. For every one of the American’s strides, the girls took two paces.

  They walked up and up and up, taking the road that climbed away from the sea. They saw every kind of building: ancient, modern, abandoned, burned-out, scaffolded, some pal
atial, others little more than hovels. They saw churches, mosques and synagogues. They walked past bathhouses, bazaars, department stores, indoor and outdoor markets and the state of these public buildings was as bafflingly varied as that of the homes. Devastation by fire, overcrowding and poverty, redevelopment by the wealthy and ambitious: evidence of every influence and event was written in the streets.

  The city was built on a slope and their destination seemed to be at the very top of it. The streets, both big and small, thronged with people, trunks, carts, furniture, and even animals. As well as the boats that arrived with regularity, bringing people in, there was a constant flow of people departing. Like the movements of ants around a hill, the scurrying about and the bearing of burdens looked random and yet it had purpose. Everyone here was going somewhere. Though they did not all know precisely where their journey would end, one thing was certain: the Christians were coming and the Muslims were going.

  Once or twice the American was obliged to pause to allow a group of people to pass. If they did not, she and her little group could all be swept back whence they came.

  ‘Here we are, at last,’ said the American, with a smile. ‘Irini Street.’

  They were at the end of a narrow street that was touched by the sun only in high summer. The unsurfaced road was dusty and, Eugenia imagined, muddy in the winter. It was not unlike the centre of her village, where the upper floors of the buildings overhung the street, and chickens roamed looking for scraps. It felt almost like home.

  To Katerina, the environment seemed less familiar. Back in Smyrna, the street where she had lived had marble paving stones and the only animals she had ever seen near her home were horses that were attached to carriages.

  Unlike all the other streets they had passed on the way, this one was quiet. There was a dog lying in the middle of the road and a few chickens relentlessly pecking at the earth. Not a soul stirred at siesta hour.