Eleni

by Nicholas Gage

  On the day the twenty fugitives set out from Lia, representatives of every Communist Party in the world were convening in Bucharest, Rumania, to consider the growing feud between Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin and Yugoslav leader Josip Broz Tito. This feud would shake the Communist world to its foundations and ultimately have a critical impact on the rebellion in Greece.

  Irked by the independent course Marshal Tito was setting for Yugoslavia, and jealous of his international fame, Stalin had begun trying early in 1948 to bend Tito to his will. He brought economic pressure on Yugoslavia, used Soviet agents to undermine Tito’s power at home and even delivered an implied threat to the resistance hero’s life. “We consider that the political career of Trotsky is a good enough lesson,” he wrote Tito, referring to the Soviet rival whom Stalin first had expelled from the party, then exiled and finally ordered assassinated. Tito refused to yield, and, realizing that Stalin might try to topple him, he isolated Russian advisers in Yugoslavia and jailed die-hard Moscow supporters in his own party.

  Stalin then called on the Cominform, the international organization of Communist parties, to judge Tito. Aware that the body was the tool of the Soviet dictator, Tito refused to participate. The Cominform met in Bucharest on June 20, and eight days later its delegates passed a unanimous resolution condemning Titoism.

  The Yugoslav leader and his top aides were accused of every crime in the Communist calendar: abandoning Marxism-Leninism, slandering the Soviet Union, persecuting good Communists, making concessions to the imperialists. The resolution called upon loyal Yugoslav Communists to pressure their leaders to correct their errors, and if they refused, to replace them.

  The Tito-Stalin split put the Greek Communists in an awkward position. They knew they could not risk Moscow’s displeasure because only Russia could give them the massive support they needed to win the war. At the moment, however, Yugoslavia was giving the insurgents the most help of any Communist country, and the Greeks couldn’t afford to anger Belgrade, either.

  A few days after the Cominform decision, Greek Communists held their fourth plenum on Grammos while the losing battle for the mountain range seethed around them. They decided to take a middle road in the dispute, secretly supporting the Cominform decision but not criticizing Yugoslavia publicly. This attempt at fence-sitting satisfied neither Moscow nor Belgrade, and in time Yugoslavia would deal a mortal blow to the guerrillas by cutting off all aid to them and sealing their border with Greece.

  The growing Stalin-Tito split was just one of several ominous clouds gathering over the embattled insurgents, who were fighting desperately to protect their shrinking mountain stronghold. Guerrillas in the front lines and the civilians in the occupied territories could read the omens as well as the military leadership, and there were increasing calls for a negotiated settlement.

  Hearing such pleas sent the obstinate Zachariadis into a fury. “Such fighters show that they have been broken,” he wrote to one of his commissars, Nikos Belloyiannis. “Those who are guilty of such treachery must be arrested, condemned by public outcry, and executed in the presence of their comrades.”

  LUKAS ZIARAS GOT HIS WISH; his name became a part of the folklore of the Mourgana villages. Even the outwitted guerrillas eventually composed a mocking ditty about the great escape, which came to enjoy considerable local popularity:

  He came to the Great Ridge

  To take a little air.

  He looked toward Taverra Hill

  Took off his towel and left it there.

  “Won’t you tell us, friend Luka,

  How did you find things in Lia?”

  “Fellows, boys, what can I say?

  Work and more work, night and day!

  And they’ve got comrades, warrior women

  To terrify the fascist vermin.”

  But on the morning of June 21, when twenty civilians were discovered missing from the village, none of the guerrillas was smiling. The news of the escape exploded throughout the Mourgana, reverberations reaching all the way to the pinnacle of the Democratic Army’s Epiros Command. It was inconceivable that so many men, women and children could walk out in a group under the very noses of the guerrilla lookouts. Even worse, these were some of the most influential families of Lia. Tassi Mitros and Lukas Ziaras were among the few men who had stayed to welcome the guerrillas on their arrival; they had in turn been rewarded with places on civilian committees set up by the occupiers to give the impression of local participation in the running of the village. Lukas, living just below the lookout station, was considered not only a sympathizer by the guerrillas, but a sort of fellow sentry as well. And with them had gone the family—the children, sister and mother—of the Amerikana, the most respected woman in the village. It was impossible that the crowd of fugitives could have blundered safely through the guerrilla patrols and minefields on their own, the DAG officers reasoned. They must have had help—from the inside, perhaps among the guerrillas themselves, or from the outside—some fascist who had come to the edge of the village to lead them out.

  The escape dramatized not only the widespread discontent in the occupied villages, but also the failure of the security police, who had been brought to Lia to prevent just such an act of apostasy. All the secret information Sotiris Drapetis and the police had been collecting had given them no warning. On the morning the disappearance was confirmed, Sotiris and the three police officers hysterically issued and countermanded orders. First they let it be known that the twenty fugitives had been captured, were being interrogated and would soon be brought to public trial. Then they pulled in every guerrilla who had been on duty that night and began interrogating them. Among those under suspicion was Andreas Michopoulos, who had been on duty at the Church of the Virgin on the evening of the escape.

  While insisting that the fugitives had been apprehended, the guerrillas ran frantically through the village trying to unearth clues as to how they had gotten away. The Mitros house, the Ziaras house and the Haidis house, where the Gatzoyiannis family had lived, were searched with such ferocity that built-in wooden alcoves were ripped out of the walls and sleeping pallets were slashed to shreds. The guerrillas found the letter that Olga had left for her mother in the wall niche, and at the Mitros house they discovered the twenty-four gold sovereigns that Tassi Mitros had been forced to abandon.

  Fearing that more villagers would be tempted to follow the fugitives’ example, the guerrillas issued a proclamation: from that day on, everyone living in the southernmost section of the village would be forbidden to stay at home after dark. If they could not find a relative’s house higher up the mountain to sleep in, they would have to spend the nights in the caves above the Perivoli.

  While guerrillas were dispatched to the distant threshing fields to bring back Eleni, Alexo and Marianthe, all other relatives of the escapees were called in for questioning. Giorgina Bardaka, daughter of the miller Tassi Mitros, was breast-feeding her six-month-old baby girl when the guerrillas came up the path toward her door. They were seen by Giorgina’s sister-in-law, Calliope Bardaka, the best-known collaborator of the guerrillas and the first mother to give her children to the pedomasoma. Although most of the village women regarded Calliope with a mixture of hatred and fear, she was loyal to her relatives and friends, often intervening with the guerrillas on their behalf. This morning, sensing trouble for Giorgina, she asked the men why they were headed for her sister-in-law’s house. As soon as she heard their reply Calliope told them that she would bring Giorgina in herself, and rushed ahead into the house, where she whispered to the young woman, “They’re coming to get you because your parents and brothers escaped yesterday! Whether you knew they were going or not, tell them you didn’t or they’ll kill you! Tell them if you knew about the escape, you would have gone with them because you want to be with your husband on the other side.”

  Shakily, Giorgina walked out the door beside Calliope toward the security station, carrying the baby in her arms.

  As soon as the army truck fil
led with fugitives entered the town of Filiates, it was surrounded by an excited crowd. News of the incredible escape had preceded the refugees, and dozens of men who had fled ahead of the guerrillas crowded around, shouting questions about their families still trapped in Lia.

  As the truck moved slowly over the cobbled streets, Nikola’s eyes widened in astonishment. He had never seen a real town before, and he gaped at the trucks and army vehicles, the great Turkish-style villas hidden behind vine-covered walls. There was a whole street of shops, all with large windows that displayed a dizzying variety of goods. The boy was embarrassed at all the attention they were receiving, but he was also excited to find himself in such a grand place.

  When the truck stopped in front of army headquarters, Nikola got a better look at the crowd around them. Someone ran off to find his grandfather and Nitsa’s husband Andreas. People were asking where his mother was, and the question brought back the ache of her loss. He ducked the arms of those who tried to embrace him and took shelter behind Kanta, staring down at his bare feet which the soldiers had bound in torn strips of cloth to cover the cuts and blisters.

  One by one the adults among the group were led inside to be questioned while the rest tried to satisfy the curiosity of the crowd. Now that they had made it out safely, their adventures took on epic proportions. Each detail was enlarged and embroidered—whoever was speaking cast himself in the starring role. Lukas was basking in the admiration of the crowd, but Olga and Kanta exchanged nervous glances, worried that someone would let slip a detail that could be used against their mother. They tried to silence Nitsa when she launched into her recitation of how, seven months pregnant, she had fearlessly battled her way through hostile guerrilla patrols, but the more she talked, the more fantastic her story became.

  Because Kanta had been an andartina with the guerrillas, she was one of the first called inside. She was taken to a room where two soldiers had a map of Lia and the surrounding area. They asked her to point out the exact locations of the guerrilla headquarters, major storehouses and fortifications, but Kanta shook her head. “The andartes are animals and they’re doing terrible things to the people there,” she said. “I hope you’ll be able to liberate the village. But I’ve left my mother and sister behind, and I promised them not to say anything that could harm them until they get out too.”

  Next the soldiers brought in Olga, who repeated the same sentiments. The other adult women in the group were back out on the street within minutes after being questioned, but when Lukas Ziaras went inside, preening under the admiring gaze of the crowd, he was gone for over an hour. When he returned, Olga whispered, “What did you tell them?”

  “What should I tell them?” he answered. “The truth! How everyone in the village is fed up, even the president, Spiro Michopoulos. How despite the first two setbacks, my final plan for the escape worked perfectly.” He was flushed and wheezing with excitement. Nothing he had attempted in his life had succeeded so well, and he was anticipating the free drinks he would collect in the coffeehouses of Filiates in exchange for the tale of his exodus.

  Olga shook her head disapprovingly. “What did Mother tell you about careless words harming the ones we’ve left behind?”

  Lukas turned on her. “Don’t be a stupid girl!” he snapped. “This is the intelligence branch of the army. Do you think its officers trade secrets with the guerrillas? Everything I’ve told them can only help drive the Communists out.”

  Upset by the whispered argument and the threat of danger to his mother, Nikola leaned against Kanta, exhausted, from the long journey. His wounded feet hurt, and the hot sun and noise of the crowd was suffocating him. He searched the onlookers for the faces of his uncle Andreas and his grandfather—a link with the familiar scenes he had left behind in the village.

  Seeing the boy’s unhappiness, one of the men in the throng stepped forward and handed him a flat-bottomed waferlike cone topped with a scoop of white stuff. It reminded Nikola of the thick vanilla cream they used to drop into glasses of water, then eat with a spoon on summer days when he was little, a treat that Greeks call a “submarine.” The boy looked at the man, who nodded encouragingly, and then took a big bite, filling his mouth.

  He had never tasted anything frozen before and at the first instant, the icy cold seemed a scalding heat. He doubled over and spat the mouthful on the ground. “It burned me!” he cried while the crowd exploded with laughter. Tears of mortification were threatening to overflow when Nikola saw his gaunt uncle Andreas pushing toward him through the crowd. As usual, great emotion made Andreas almost speechless. He put a hand awkwardly on the boy’s shoulder, looked at his rotund wife and muttered, “You’re here.” Olga and Kanta began to cry.

  Nikola eagerly hugged his uncle. Nitsa, blushing, pulled her black dress tight against her great belly. “God has granted us a miracle, husband!” she announced. “We’re going to have a child. I’m seven months pregnant!”

  Andreas turned pale and swayed so that Nitsa had to reach out to steady him. Then there was a shout and Nikola saw his grandfather shoving his way through the crowd. The craggy face under the white hair was as fierce as he remembered. Kitso did not embrace his wife, Nitsa or his grandchildren. He stood and glared at them, looking from one to another. Then he said two words: “Where’s Eleni?”

  At once they all started explaining how Eleni and Glykeria had been forced to stay behind to harvest crops in the villages near the Kalamas. “But Mana and Glykeria are going to escape together from there, grandfather,” Olga cried, “as soon as they get our message that we’ve left.”

  A light went out of Kitso’s eyes. He had fled the village without speaking to Eleni, leaving her behind in anger. His desertion of his daughter had been festering inside him ever since, as reports of suffering and brutality filtered out of the Mourgana. When he heard of the miraculous escape of his family, a weight had lifted from his heart, but now it descended again, along with the ancient fear that his children had not finished paying for his murder of the Turkish brigand.

  Kitso turned away from his grandchildren and uttered two more words: “Eleni’s lost.”

  It was not until two days after the escape—when the villagers of Lia saw Eleni, Alexo and Marianthe brought shackled into the village on foot, led by armed guerrillas—that they knew the fugitives had truly gotten away. The silent procession passed through the village center and up the path to the Perivoli, where the gate of the security-police station closed behind the three women.

  During the next days the guerrillas interviewed them individually in the small room next to the main office. While two guerrillas stood by, Sotiris Drapetis conducted the interrogations, his eyes watching each captive like a snake contemplating a frog. The women were asked the same things over and over, to make them admit they knew about the escape plot. Sometimes they were threatened with a gun held to their temple; sometimes they were slapped or their ears twisted when they were slow in answering a question. There were no systematic beatings or torture at first.

  Eleni told her friend Olga Venetis some weeks later that the worst moments were when Sotiris said, “We’ve caught all your children and killed them.” She thought it was probably a bluff to break down her defenses, or else Sotiris wouldn’t be so insistent about trying to learn what she knew of the plot.

  But each time he said it her tears began, despite her resolution to remain calm. As she wept, Eleni would blame Lukas Ziaras for kidnapping her children.

  “Why would he take them away?” she cried. “How could my mother and my sister let him do it?”

  She suggested that Ziaras had taken the children for the money he knew he could collect from their father. “My husband was preparing the final papers for us to go to America,” she said. “Lukas must have convinced them to leave because the papers would lapse if they waited too long, and they’d lose the chance to go.” She spread her hands helplessly. “How do I know what he told them; how he convinced them to desert me? I was working for you, threshing the
wheat. I knew nothing of the plot.”

  “That’s not what your daughter Olga says,” Sotiris replied.

  “I thought you said she was dead.”

  Sotiris held up a piece of paper. “She wrote you this letter. We found it in your house. Isn’t this her handwriting?”

  “It looks like it,” Eleni admitted. “I’d have to see it closer to be sure.”

  “I’ll read it to you,” Sotiris answered smoothly. He read, inserting phrases that Eleni knew Olga would never have written: “‘Mana, we’re leaving with Lukas Ziaras and Megali, just as we planned, to go find Father.’”

  Eleni shrugged. “If she wrote that, it makes no sense. I knew nothing about any plan to escape.”

  Each prisoner was questioned several times a day. Eleni was forced to go over and over such details as how long her husband had been in America, how much money he made, what kind of work he did. Every day she repeated her ignorance of the escape plan. “That devil Lukas Ziaras had no right to take my children,” she would cry. “They were everything I had in the world! Now all I have is Glykeria.”

  Marianthe Ziaras insisted that her family had abandoned her. “If my father loved me, he would have taken me with them,” she repeated, wiping her eyes. “But my parents always liked me the least, that’s why they left me behind.”

  Alexo stolidly maintained that her daughter Arete never confided in her. “She was a married woman, married fifteen years! She didn’t tell me her secrets; she hardly ever spoke to me, living halfway across the village.”

  One of the guards who led the captives back and forth to the interrogation room, a young man with a kind face, whispered to them, “Whatever story you’ve told, stick to it. Be sure not to change a single detail. That way, perhaps you’ll have a chance.”