Katerina knew Kyria Moreno so well now and could picture her anxiety.
‘I can imagine how worried your mother will be right at this moment,’ she said. ‘She’ll be so happy when you reappear.’
‘I just hope they won’t have left by the time I get back,’ he said. ‘People have started getting on the trains.’
‘If you’re going somewhere so cold, don’t you want to take some extra blankets or clothes? Your parents left plenty behind in the house.’
‘That’s really why I came back here,’ he said.
Eugenia and Katerina accompanied him into his family home. After only ten days, it had the air of somewhere already abandoned for a decade. Cobwebs that Kyria Moreno would have flicked away in a moment had appeared on the ceiling and there was an unmistakable smell of damp.
Isaac made straight for the wooden chest where he knew his parents had left some linen and bedclothes.
‘I’m going to stay here tonight,’ he said. ‘I’ve worked out that it would be much harder to get back in while it’s dark. One small noise and they’d have you. Once it’s daytime, there are plenty of other distractions for the guards, with people moving around and queuing up for food and trains.’
‘You can’t sleep in here,’ said Eugenia, with concern. ‘So why don’t you come and spend the night in our house?’
Isaac did not protest and within a moment they were back next door.
Eugenia noticed Isaac looking at the saucepan.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘help yourself. Finish it off. And then go and get some sleep.’
Like a man used to obeying orders, Isaac did as he was told and wearily climbed the narrow stairs.
Even while she had been watching Isaac lifting blankets out of the chest, Katerina’s imagination had been at work and as soon as she heard the sound of the door closing upstairs, she started cutting. One of the soft woollen rugs would make an ideal coat, and she had even planned how she would trim it and what sort of buttons she would use. She had twelve hours, and even with Eugenia’s help, time was of the essence.
When Isaac woke up, there was a coat on the end of his bed for his mother, a jacket for Esther and a warm padded waistcoat for his father. They were beautiful too. Both coats had quilted linings and were carefully edged. For the first time in months, something lifted his spirits. He could imagine the pleasure on their faces when they saw their names embroidered into the lining and the pomegranate motif that appeared on the collars. Their main worry in the past few days had been the climate they were going to encounter in their new home, and now they had the solution.
‘Perhaps I’ll be sending you orders from Poland!’ said Isaac smiling. ‘Thank you, thank you . . .’
Eugenia wrapped the folded garments in brown paper and, clutching the package under his arm, Isaac sauntered off down the street, back to the ghetto.
The two women watched him. They were tired after their long night of sewing. Katerina could have a sleep now as she no longer had a job to go to, but Eugenia must leave for the rug factory.
That evening they both agreed to walk down to the railway station. There was even a chance that they might be able to say goodbye to their friends. When they arrived they could see immediately that this would not be possible. The Germans were keeping everyone well away. From behind the fencing they could hear crying, the grating sound of train carriages being coupled and expulsions of steam into the air.
They stood for a moment before turning and walking away. Eugenia crossed herself several times and on their way home they called in at the little church of Agios Nikolaos Orfanos.
‘Kalo taksidi . . .’ Katerina said quietly to the flames of the four candles she lit in front of the icon. ‘Safe journey.’
As they approached their house, Eugenia reminisced about their arrival in Irini Street when they had possessed nothing but the clothes they stood up in.
‘We were shown such generosity by that family,’ she said quietly. ‘I hope they’ll find even a fraction of such kindness when they reach their new home.’
Chapter Twenty-one
THE MORENOS WERE on one of the early transportations, and trains continued to trundle north to Poland throughout the summer.
Eugenia and Katerina received a postcard from their friends during June. It was a picture of Krakow and all it said was that they had arrived and that they missed their city. When the last train finally left in August, the ghettos were silent and the city had lost one fifth of its population.
Irini Street seemed dead now and for a while the houses that had belonged to the Moreno family and other Jewish neighbours remained empty. One terrible day, however, the peace and quiet was broken. Katerina and Eugenia were woken up in the early hours by the sound of banging and shouting. It was coming not only from the street but also through the walls from the house next door. At four in the morning, they found themselves looking out of the window and down onto a crowd that was brazenly dragging things out of the Moreno house. Among several other familiar possessions, they saw the trunk in which Kyria Moreno had kept her linen. It was sitting on top of a cart.
They had read of similar ransackings in areas where there had been a concentration of Jews, but they had not expected it to happen in their street.
‘We have to stop them!’ said Katerina.
‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea . . .’ said Eugenia, watching the vicious way in which two men below them were hacking open a mattress with a machete. They slashed the fabric with sadistic delight and pieces of white fluff drifted upwards like rising snow. There had been rumours that the Jews had hidden their gold inside their bedding and people were determined to find it.
The two women had to watch helplessly as their neighbours’ house was systematically looted. Katerina knew that Eugenia was right: there was nothing they could safely do. The only consolation was that some of the things that the Morenos had really treasured were under a different roof. Their own.
A few weeks later a representative of Konstantinos Komninos arrived in Irini Street with a message for Katerina, asking if she could continue to sew for some of his wealthy clients who still had access to the fine fabrics he could supply. They still wanted the best modistra that the city could offer, and even had the Jewish seamstresses still been in the city, Katerina would have held this title.
The following day a porter turned up at her door. He was struggling to carry a large carton.
‘Miss Sarafoglu?’
‘That’s right,’ she said.
‘Got something for you,’ he said.
Katerina invited him in and he manoeuvred the box onto the table.
‘Want to open it?’ he said. ‘It’s from Kyrios Komninos.’
‘Oh,’ she said, with surprise.
She had mixed feelings about Dimitri’s father. She knew that Dimitri did not get on with him and she had often wondered if Olga’s fears were something to do with the way he treated her. Every time she had met him, he had been cold and unfriendly, so it intrigued her that he had sent her a gift. She opened the top of the box. Glinting in the darkness, she saw the shine of black metal and as she removed the tissue-paper that protected it, she recognised a familiar, ornate pattern of flowers and foliage. It was a Singer sewing machine.
‘He said to give you this as well,’ said the delivery man.
She opened the note and read it straight away. ‘While you are working at home,’ it said, ‘you will need this.’
Between them, they lifted the machine onto the table. It was beautiful and her own, and she could see her face reflected in its gleaming, pristine curves. Katerina did not stop to question how Kyrios Komninos had come by such a thing in a time of war.
She was sorely tempted to ask about Dimitri. As one of Konstantinos Komninos’ staff, the delivery man might have heard something, but she restrained herself as she knew it would appear inappropriate.
Within days, the same Komninos employee returned to Irini Street. He had another note and a package conta
ining some fabric.
‘Dear Katerina, I would like something made from the enclosed for Kyria Komninos. Perhaps you could come as soon as possible to take some measurements.’
Katerina was flattered but nervous. She sent a message back with the man to confirm that she would be there at midday the following day.
She arrived punctually, excited to see Kyria Komninos. Pavlina let her in and showed her upstairs. After they had greeted one another and Katerina had fulsomely expressed her gratitude for the sewing machine, she got to work measuring Olga.
Almost immediately, Olga raised the subject of the Morenos, expressing her sadness that they had been obliged to leave the city.
‘I hope they’ll be all right in such a cold place.’
‘Well, Thessaloniki can be very chilly sometimes, can’t it?’ said Katerina. ‘And we are quite used to snow here, aren’t we?’
‘I think it’s much colder than Thessaloniki,’ said Olga.
Katerina told her about the warm clothes they had produced for the Morenos, and for a few moments neither woman spoke. The absence of the Jewish family had left a huge void in Katerina’s life and Olga was well aware that the young woman had lost people who were her neighbours, her employers and her friends. The years Olga had spent in Irini Street had been the happiest of her life and she knew that the area must seem very empty now.
‘Have you heard from Dimitri? asked Katerina, seizing the moment.
‘Just one letter,’ Olga replied. ‘A few months ago.’
‘Is Elias still with him?’
‘Well, he was when Dimitri wrote,’ she answered. ‘But now, I don’t know.’
‘Where did the letter come from?’
‘I really don’t know. It had no postmark.’
There was a finality about the way Olga answered that told Katerina she did not wish to pursue the subject. Either she had no information or she did not want to give it. Whichever was the case, the subject was closed.
They were in Olga’s dressing room for the measuring. The doors of a vast wardrobe were open and Katerina saw a hundred dresses hanging on a rail. They were as numerous as the pages of a book. She noticed that one of them was the first dress she had embellished, and she remembered how the tiny amber beads around the hem had taken her a week to sew.
The new dress was going to be in a purple shot silk. The fabric was from Komninos’ own silk factory and she doubted that Olga had ever even seen it. As Katerina carefully recorded her customer’s measurements in a small notebook, she realised that the rich blue-mauve would look like a bruise against Kyria Komninos’ pallid skin.
She sketched a design for the dress opposite the row of numbers.
‘I thought this might be elegant,’ she said. ‘With three-quarter-length sleeves. Perhaps with lace cuffs? And the skirt will be cut on the cross.’
‘I am sure it will be very nice,’ said Olga, giving the drawing a cursory glance. She smiled at Katerina.
‘Go into the kitchen to see Pavlina before you leave,’ said Olga. ‘She’ll make you a cold drink.’
‘Thank you, Kyria Komninos,’ said Katerina politely.
The temperature had soared that day.
Down in the kitchen, Pavlina was busy chopping. She was bright red in the face.
‘In my view it’s much too hot for such events, but Kyrios Komninos is having one of his big dinners tomorrow night. And he wants everything “just so” as usual. Four courses, four wines, eight people, eight o’clock.’
‘Poor Pavlina,’ said Katerina. ‘Can I do anything?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, smiling. ‘Just help yourself to some lemonade from that jug and pour one for me as well, would you?’
Katerina took a seat at the big kitchen table and sipped her lemonade. She was fascinated by Pavlina’s dexterity with a knife and watched her slice, dice and finely chop a series of vegetables and herbs as though she was a machine. To Katerina, it seemed that the ingredients for this meal would be enough to feed the entire population of the city, most of whom were still starving.
‘Don’t ask me how we get all this,’ Pavlina said. ‘It’s more than my job is worth to know myself.’
She continued to chat as she worked. Nothing ever stopped her talking.
‘So,’ she said. ‘It must be as quiet as a grave in Irini Street.’
Katerina nodded.
‘It feels deserted,’ she said. ‘There are still plenty of families living there, but the Morenos were at the heart of everything somehow.’
‘And what about Elias?’
‘I suppose he must still be with Dimitri,’ answered Katerina. ‘His parents hadn’t heard anything from him before they left for Poland. I thought Kyria Komninos might know where they were, but she didn’t seem to. It must be awful not knowing where your son is . . .’
Pavlina was now peeling potatoes. Round and round went her knife as the skin unfurled in one unbroken ribbon and when she had completed a dozen in exactly the same way, she rhythmically sliced them into discs of precise and even thickness.
‘His father wasn’t best pleased when he found out that Dimitri had joined ELAS,’ said Pavlina, her words almost buried by the sound of her slicing.
‘Well, I can’t say that surprises me,’ replied Katerina, ‘But maybe he’ll be happier now that they’re winning parts of the country back from the Germans.’
‘Oh, Katerina, if only that were so.’
‘You mean his father isn’t proud of him?’ said Katerina with incredulity.
Pavlina shook her head. ‘I’m afraid precisely the opposite. He is furious. ELAS are Communist, you see.’
‘Does it matter what party they are when they’re doing something to get our country back?’ queried Katerina.
‘Shhhh!’ whispered Pavlina, putting her forefinger to her lips. ‘Just in case Kyrios Komninos comes back. He doesn’t see it that way at all.’
Pavlina, who moved about the house like a shadow, had overheard a thousand conversations between Olga and Konstantinos over the years. She had always kept them to herself but she had been outraged at the way her employer now regarded his son. Some of the things she had heard him say to Olga were no less than spiteful.
‘As far as Kyrios Komninos is concerned, his son is living in the mountains like a peasant,’ said Pavlina.
Katerina was still slightly puzzled by such a reaction. It sounded to her as though Dimitri and Elias were part of a heroic effort.
‘He sees it as a class struggle,’ Pavlina explained. ‘And his son is on the wrong side.’
Katerina was thoughtful for a few moments, watching Pavlina stirring.
‘I listen to them all,’ she continued, ‘when they come to dinner. And it’s as much as I can do to stop myself pouring the soup down their necks. I know Kyria Komninos feels the same. She sits there all . . . rigid.’ Pavlina did an impression of her mistress’s stiffness. ‘I can see she hates most of the guests. Sometimes there’ll be a wife who looks as if she might be feeling the same way. But mostly, she sits there looking uncomfortable and alone.’
‘So who gets invited?’
‘Industrialists, who complain that their warehouses get broken into by the resistance, and bankers, who moan about inflation. In fact, what they mostly do is complain about ELAS. One of them was saying last week that he’d had a demand from them for protection money.’
‘Those people are happy that we’re occupied then? They don’t mind having the Germans here?’
‘As far as I can tell, even though they do nothing but complain, some of them have never had it so good. They’re certainly not short of money. And when there are German officers here, it seems they’re not short of friends in high places either.’
‘German officers! You don’t mean it!’
‘Keep your voice down a little, Katerina,’ Pavlina whispered, ‘And sometimes a senior gendarme, too.’
Katerina was shocked. ‘But how can you cook for those people?’
‘I don’t r
eally feel I have a choice,’ she reflected. ‘I do it for Olga. Even though she doesn’t eat most of it, I think she needs me here.’
‘Now I’m beginning to understand why Kyrios Komninos doesn’t like what Dimitri is doing.’
Pavlina had even heard rumours that her employer was funding collaborationist troops, but she did not share this with Katerina. Nor did she describe to the modistra how scornfully some of the wives talked of the women in ELAS who were fighting as equals with men.
‘Do you think they’re safe, wherever they are?’ asked Katerina. ‘Dimitri and Elias, I mean.’
‘My dear, I don’t know,’ answered Pavlina, pessimistically. ‘A letter takes so long to reach its destination, so even if Dimitri wrote to say he was fine, by the time it got here, he might not be.’
Katerina drained her glass and got up. Olga’s dress was needed at the end of the following week, so she had work to be getting on with. At least now she had the perfect excuse to come to Niki Street. Pavlina would be the first to tell her if there was any news of Dimitri.
She called back a few days later. The new gown was roughly tacked together and needed its first fitting.
Pavlina seemed happier than ever to gossip.
‘They were awful, the lot who came on Saturday,’ she said. ‘It’s not surprising women don’t get the vote in this country. This bunch would be too stupid to spell their own names.’
Katerina laughed. She could work on the dress while she was sitting there, so she was in no hurry that day.
Pavlina suddenly looked more serious. ‘Shall I tell you what they were talking about?’ she said.
Katerina did not need to answer.
‘Well, there was lots of talk about what the Communists are doing,’ she began, ‘especially how they are behaving up in the mountains. Apparently, even if they’re not welcome, they are taking over the villages, taking all the food and setting up their own courts. That’s what the dinner guests were saying, anyhow.’
‘So they’re reclaiming the country for Greece? Isn’t that what we want to happen?’
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