Love and hugs,
Sybil XX
When I got home I found Angus sitting in his usual place on the balcony. He looked tired, hung-over possibly from his randan the night before with village mates. He had his elbows on the table, staring out towards the gulf. When he turned and saw the bag from Thekla’s bakery, his eyes lit up. Never have I seen a man look so delighted at the prospect of eating bread that tastes like it has been hewn straight out of rock. I produced the village bread, the soft loaf, still with the hand-print, and the honey cake.
“Peace offering for last night,” I said. He smiled and shuffled off to the kitchen to make himself Greek coffee, returning with a tray loaded with crockery and the briki steaming with hot mud.
“Thanks, Bronte. Appreciate the thought.”
“Leonidas called about Saturday. Against my better judgement, I told him we’d be delighted to go out with him, but to Platanos instead. I don’t think he was all that keen, but he agreed to it.”
“That’s grand. See, I always said he was a good guy. Women think that just because a guy’s gorgeous he’s got to be arrogant. Not always true. Look at me, for example.”
“Ha! Very droll. Well, he does improve on acquaintance, I admit, and so do you, I hope.”
He wasn’t listening, however, and was carving through his village loaf and spreading slices thickly with what looked like butter from a thick pat on a white plate.
“I haven’t seen you eat butter before. This is new.”
“Great, isn’t it? Since I’m taking those cholesterol-busting tablets, I might as well live a little.”
“I don’t think it works that way, Angus. You’re still supposed to be careful about – if I can use the dirty word − lipids.”
“Shh. Don’t tell a soul. Our lipids must be sealed,” he said, touching his lips and cackling. I laughed as well and marvelled at the way he could make endless jokes about mortal fats. He was in a good mood, at least, with last night’s wrangle now forgotten.
I told him about meeting Cynthia, about her suggestion that everyone should put the hat around for Myrto and buy her land. He nearly choked on his bread and butter.
“For God’s sake! Why do expats always think they know what’s best for Greek villagers?” he said, shaking his head.
“They mean well, I think.”
“Oh sure, but they bumble into things they don’t understand.”
“If they’re as insular and dim as you make them out to be, why do they live here, in this remote place, and not somewhere easier, like the Costas in Spain?”
“Because a local Greek developer sold them new holiday villas, after advertising them in a UK newspaper, during the property boom seven years ago, when the expats had heaps of spare dosh. I bet they all wish they hadn’t done it now, with property prices tumbling here in the crisis. Honestly, I think expats leave their brains on the baggage carousel when they land in Greece.”
I could possibly have said the same of Angus!
Chapter 17
Platanos revisited
On the Saturday morning I looked longingly at the expensive outfits I had bought in Kalamata: the floral sundress, the strappy sandals, all inappropriate for that day’s hike around Platanos, where light trousers and stout walking shoes would be more practical. At 10am, with impeccable timing, Leonidas was at the front door of Villa Anemos. He looked fresh and sporty in casual clothes, reflective sunglasses and a cotton jumper tied over his shoulders. There was no sense of rancour at having his touring plans for the day changed.
He had an expensive black four-wheel drive vehicle that looked fairly new. I saw Angus give the car an appraising look as we got in. I let him sit in the front, while I sat in the back. A woman should know her place in Greece!
It was an easier drive up through the mountains this time and Leonidas knew how to negotiate the road. The scree we had encountered weeks ago had dispersed somewhat, and even if it hadn’t, the car would have floated over it. Greek music was playing on the radio when we set off, but after a while Leonidas switched it off. That was Angus’s cue to recap for Leonidas the whole story from the beginning of how he had read online about two Scottish soldiers last seen heading from the coast up to the mountains after the Battle of Kalamata and then to explain what we had discovered from Orestes. Leonidas listened closely to the tale, never interrupting until Angus finished. His face in the rear-view mirror betrayed nothing, apart from a slight arching of his eyebrows over the reflective shades.
“We want to walk up to the cave first, if we can find it, just to see where the shooting occurred,” said Angus.
“I know where the cave is. I used to go up to the village in the summers as a kid to see my uncle Tomas. I know the hillsides there. I know of the family of Maneas. I have seen them once or twice when I was young, when there used to be a lot of summer yiortes in the village and the family came back from America. Now, I don’t think they do. I have not seen any of them for years, but then I don’t come up here much any more.”
“Perhaps we can go and talk to the man who runs the general store. He may know something about the son, Dimitris. It will be easier if you speak to him for us,” said Angus.
“Okay, we can do that.”
Driving past the Platanos signpost, we saw the two houses again, just a bit further on from the spring water outlet, and it all made Orestes’ story come to life. The bigger house was first, slightly further back from the road, the smaller one further towards the village, but both were out of sight of Platanos. Leonidas told us the big house was very old and that Panayiotis’s forebears had probably been kleftes, freedom fighters, against Turkish insurgents. They had built a house as a kind of lookout near the top of the kalderimi and the main road, both of which would have been no more than narrow dirt tracks back then. Both houses were crumbling now. Whoever had bought these houses last had left them to the ravages of the mountain climate.
Leonidas parked the car and we took the track up the ridge, or rather the one Leonidas imagined the Germans would have taken, which started just behind the spring outlet. After a while it became narrow and slightly overgrown, winding up between the fir trees. Leonidas asked Angus a few times as we ascended if he felt okay to climb.
“Of course. That’s why I’m here today,” he said, beginning to huff and puff before we’d gone too far up, so that we had to keep stopping.
“So, you think that this young soldier who was shot by the Germans could be your grandfather?” Leonidas asked Angus.
“I don’t know, Leo. We have no proof of anything. It could have been anyone at all. I don’t even know if Kieran came to this village. He could have gone further down the Mani to one of the other mountain villages.”
Leonidas looked thoughtful. Poor man, this surely wasn’t his idea of a jolly day out.
The path wasn’t difficult to climb, worn flat over the centuries perhaps by families taking their flocks up the ridge, but no-one seemed to have used it lately. Near the top there were empty sections, where trees had been cut down for firewood, no doubt, and which provided small, secluded grazing areas. The ridge faced south-west, so that from the clearings near the top of it you could see the whole length of the Taygetos range rolling down to Cape Tainaron. It was much more impressive from this height than anything we’d seen below. The air was cooler and fresher and there was no sound, apart from the wind in the trees and occasional birdsong. Leonidas led the way and I followed, while Angus trudged along behind. Now and then Leonidas stopped to let him catch up.
“Are you all right, Angus?” he asked again.
“Ach, a bit out of breath, I admit.”
“No chest pains?”
“No, nothing like that. Don’t worry if I have a heart attack. I’m in the right company, eh?” he said, with a smirk.
“Yes, but I have left my defibrillator in Kalamata,” Leonidas said, turning and winking at me when Angus wasn’t looking. I laughed.
“What did you say?” asked Angus.
�
��Oh, nothing,” Leonidas said.
At the top of the ridge, the land flattened out. The other side of the ridge looked north-east into a wooded ravine and more mountain peaks rose up beyond. Where we stood there was nothing apart from trees and a few rocky outcrops. Leonidas led the way to the cave. It was fringed at the front with low bushes. The mouth of it was high and inside it was roomy, sloping at the back to a damp seam of rock. It felt cold inside. There was nothing much to see here, apart from some discarded water bottles, the remains of a small fire, where probably a shepherd had sheltered, and the smell of animal dung. It wasn’t hard to conjure up an image of how the soldier had spent agonising hours in here, wondering how he could avoid his inevitable capture.
Angus sat down on a raised edge along the rock wall, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. He looked dispirited.
“Now that we’ve found this place,” he said, “I’m definitely hoping it wasn’t Kieran whose life ended here. It’s … dreich … sad.”
“You are right, my friend,” said Leonidas, standing in the middle of the cave with his hands on his hips. “I have come here a few times as a child and I never liked it much. It has an atmosphere, I think.”
The place was making me shiver. I walked to the mouth of the cave and Leonidas followed, bending close and whispering. “We’ll let your father stay a few moments on his own. I think he needs that.”
I was glad to be out in the light again. I kept thinking about the spot where Orestes said he found the body, close to the edge of the north-facing ravine. Leonidas explained there were a few smaller caves on the side of the ravine that only villagers would have known about. They were only reached by narrow, perilous tracks and perhaps it was one of these the soldier had been heading for when he heard troops on the hillside.
We walked through the trees at the top of the hill and I kept wondering where the body might have been buried, but there was no grave marker at all. I guessed that even after the war, no-one had thought to erect one, or perhaps the grave was a long way from here.
When we walked back to the cave, we found Angus leaning against a fir tree, looking pensive. “I tend to believe that whoever betrayed the soldier knew this area well. He obviously knew there were hiding places up here.”
“Perhaps,” Leonidas said, rubbing his chin between his fingers. I didn’t doubt that the possibility of a local traitor would have made him feel deeply uncomfortable.
“Do you find it hard to believe a villager would betray a foreign soldier like that?” Angus asked.
Leonidas sighed. “In a way yes, but in war people can act out of character. But if it is any consolation, often the Germans shot those who betrayed others, perhaps to avoid paying out bounty money. There were many reprisals during that time on every side. I have even heard a story that a well-respected Kalamatan papas was shot by local Greeks for becoming too friendly with the Germans.”
The mood on the ridge had turned gloomy. “Shall we go?” I suggested.
“I think we’ve seen all there is to see for now,” said Angus.
We descended without talking, picking our way carefully down the path, letting Angus trail along slowly behind. When we returned to the car Leonidas agreed to take us to the pantopoleio to speak to Pavlos.
The plateia was deserted − just like the last time − though a small metal table and chairs were placed outside the shop, as if in the hope that someone, sometime, would pass this way. Luckily, the door was open.
“I will go inside and talk to Pavlos, but first what can I order for you both?” said Leonidas.
“I’ll skip coffee and have an ouzo,” said Angus boldly.
“Okay, and for you, Bronte?”
I didn’t know if he was having a laugh. Surely he knew there was nothing on offer here, apart from Greek coffee and ouzo. “I’ll have a cappuccino actually, no sugar,” I said, feeling a bit minxy.
“Okay, that’s fine,” said Leonidas, with a straight face. He went inside the shop and while we sat outside warming ourselves in the sun, we could hear the two men talking, sometimes vibrantly. Angus cocked his head but complained that he missed much of the conversation. Finally, the pair came outside, with Pavlos carrying a tray with one Greek coffee and two miniature bottles of ouzo.
“There’s an ouzo for you, Bronte. I think you might need one as well after our morning excursion. And anyway, Pavlos’s cappuccino machine is regretfully out of order today,” Leonidas said, with a sardonic grin, placing the small bottle in front of me. What the hell! I twisted the top off and poured the ouzo over the stack of ice cubes in a tall glass until it fizzed and popped, releasing its strong aniseed aroma. Angus gave me a sly look.
Leonidas sat down to drink his coffee and Pavlos joined us for a moment. He obviously recognised us from our previous visit and yet he didn’t refer to it. I was intrigued to see he was wearing the same dated, oversized suit, and the same slightly lugubrious expression. I began to feel as if Platanos was like a mythical Brigadoon but with a darker underbelly and no singing. A village from another dimension that only appeared every now and then, when the stars were in some kind of whacky alignment. Pavlos lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, blowing out a plume of smoke that drifted across the empty plateia.
“I have explained to Pavlos what you have discovered from Orestes,” said Leonidas. “As I think he told you last time, he was born in the sixties and does not remember many stories from the war. He says he is sorry but he has not heard of soldiers hiding in Platanos or the shooting.”
I hadn’t expected Pavlos to be any more helpful than he was last time. Leonidas sipped his Greek coffee, absently licking the thin line of froth that clung to his top lip. He seemed thoughtful. Pavlos smoked his cigarette without looking at us and pushed the packet around on the table top. Angus was sitting quietly, sipping his ouzo.
“Pavlos has said if Panayiotis Maneas had hidden a soldier, it would not have surprised anyone in the village,” Leonidas explained. “He was considered a very good man. The villagers always referred to him as ‘Barba’, a term of respect.”
Pavlos got up from the table and went back inside the shop, returning with a couple of photos that I imagined must have been pinned on the back wall we saw last time.
“This is Panayiotis,” he said, holding up a dog-eared black and white photograph showing a group of village men in formal clothing, standing with a papas in this same plateia, under the plane tree, not far from where we were sitting. Pavlos pointed to a tall, thin man with high cheekbones and a long nose. He looked dignified, proud. The other photo was more recent: a group shot of many villagers sitting at a long table in what looked like the forecourt of the large church beyond the plateia. Leonidas pointed to one of the figures in the group and explained, “This is Dimitris, the son, when he was in his fifties. This was taken in 1980. He had come back from America for a holiday and was here in the village for a summer yiorti.”
Dimitris had a similar long face and nose and a head of thick, greying hair. He was holding a glass of wine, smiling for the camera, along with several other villagers. I could see a row of plates on the table, a wine carafe, a basket of bread about to be offered by a young boy with curly hair and laughing dark eyes. There was a joyous feel to the scene, which contrasted so dismally with the deserted backwater the place was today.
Leonidas leaned over the photo and pointed. “This young boy, serving the bread – is me!”
We crowded in to get a better look. “Of course,” I told him. “The same smile, and the same hair, exactly. Very handsome. We should have known.” Leonidas almost seemed to blush. It was quite curious. It was a lovely snapshot, but what made it especially interesting was that it fixed Leonidas in this village finally, even if he hadn’t been born here and seemed to have little time for it now – at least we had proof he had been happy here sometimes.
Leonidas took the photo for a moment. “I was 10 years old. We used to come up here most summers for the village celebrations. It was fun, before everyone
started to move away.”
He handed it to me. “Pavlos says you can keep this picture, if you like.”
“Thank you,” I said. Pavlos shrugged nonchalantly.
“Pavlos has told me that he remembers talking to Dimitris a few times at these village gatherings, but he does not know him very well and does not have contact details for him in Athens, or America. Or if he did once he no longer has it. But he can ask around and see if anyone he knows from here has a number or address in either place, though it may take time.
“There is one small possibility, however. Every year in the village there is the feast day of Saint Dimitrios, in the main church named after this saint. It is one of the biggest feast days in Greece, and the name day for anyone called Dimitris, which is quite a common name here. As you know, the name day in Greece is like a birthday but more important. This photo was taken at the summer yiorti for Saint Dimitrios. In recent years few people are coming, and hardly any of the very old ones in their eighties and nineties. Pavlos seems to think that Dimitris comes to Greece every five or six years, to his Athens apartment, and when he does, he comes back to Platanos for this celebration.
“He remembers he saw him maybe five years ago. He is in his eighties now and a little frail. Pavlos doesn’t know if he would still make that trip. It is a small thread of hope, and maybe quicker than trying to track down a contact, but he may come this October 26th for the feast day of Saint Dimitrios, and maybe this will be his last time. So, you will have to come too, my friends, and see.”
Angus and I looked at each other. “That’s great,” he said. “That may be the only chance we’ll get to find him, even though it’s a long shot.”
“Will you come?” I asked Leonidas, thinking we might need his help again. He hesitated for a moment. “I don’t usually, because I have reason to celebrate it in other places, but this year I will so that I can help you with this. I am also intrigued by the story of your grandfather and I want you to find out what happened to him.”
A Saint for the Summer Page 18
