Katis frowned. This girl was clearly not smart enough to understand how she was supposed to answer, but he would show her the risks of protecting the Amerikana. “We know, Comrade, that one day you went to the defendant and told her that our men were going to search her house,” he said, “and that you took clothing and valuables of hers to hide in your own house. Why would you do that?”
While Eleni was remembering that Stavroula Yakou had been sitting in her kitchen on that day, Rano swallowed and looked about as if for help. Then she shrugged unhappily. “I don’t know. Call it a stupid mistake … call it friendship …”
“But isn’t it true that at a time when all of her neighbors were sharing their goods with the Democratic Army, Eleni Gatzoyiannis was hoarding luxuries that no one else in this village could ever hope to own?”
Rano cleared her throat. “She hid the clothes, yes.”
“That will be enough,” snapped Katis, tossing down his papers with a satisfied air. Two guerrillas stepped forward and led Rano away. She was given just enough time to kiss her invalid father as they passed her house in the Perivoli, and then she was taken to Tsamanta, where she was assigned to Spiro Skevis’ batallion as an andartina.
Eleni struggled to keep her face impassive as she watched Rano being led away. They were using the people closest to her to put the last nails in her coffin. She ached to know what they had done with Glykeria.
“Stavroula Yakou,” rang out the voice of Katis. Eleni turned around to see the tall blond girl stand up and approach the judges’ table. Stavroula’s mother, Eleni’s friend Anastasia, uttered a heartbroken moan. The sound seemed to jar the girl, and when she met Eleni’s unnaturally wide eyes, she blushed to the roots of her hair.
Katis looked at her and in a resonant voice began to read a long statement from Stavroula testifying that Eleni was a known fascist, that she had burned her eldest daughter’s foot to keep her from being drafted as an andartina and that she had stubbornly refused to send her children to the people’s democracies. After he read a few sentences, Katis stopped and asked Stavroula, who was listening with her head bowed, “Is this not true, Comrade?” But Stavroula only stood like a statue of a saint in meditation and did not answer.
Katis read a bit more and repeated his query; then, seeing that she was determined not to reply, he lost his temper. When he had interrogated her in private, Stavroula overflowed with accusations against her neighbor, but now, before the united gaze of the village, she was tongue-tied. “Don’t be afraid of Eleni Gatzoyiannis, woman!” Katis thundered at the mute figure. “She has no power here any longer! Where is the strength you showed when you gave this statement?”
But still Stavroula would not speak and stared at the ground as Katis’ voice read on, piling up the allegations she had made against Eleni. The audience sat transfixed, watching the most feared woman in the village tremble. Katis reached the end of his patience. He gestured violently with the sheaf of papers in his hand, and a vein rose on his neck just where his collar pressed it. “Speak, damn it!” he shouted. “Did you say these things about the prisoner or not?”
The tension mounted until Stavroula’s mother Anastasia could bear it no longer. She had suffered in silence for years as this headstrong girl had done exactly as she pleased, flaunting the village traditions by arranging her own marriage, dishonoring her husband by becoming a collaborator of the guerrillas; a woman whose name was always spoken with a leer. It had been wormwood and gall to watch Stavroula stand up before the assembled village at the trial and denounce Vasili Nikou, but now her testimony was being used to condemn the woman who had been the kindest of their neighbors during the years of poverty. Something in Anastasia snapped and she rose to her feet, shrieking at her frightened daughter, “That’s right, Stavroula! Tell it! Say it out loud! Let us hear everything you’ve whispered to them about Eleni, just as you said it on that paper!”
Stavroula looked up with wet eyes and shook her head. Then she sat down without having said a word.
Stavroula Yakou’s unexpected refusal to testify threw Katis off balance. He hurriedly continued before the embarrassing scene made too great an impression on the other judges and the onlookers. He turned fiercely to Eleni.
“Amerikana,” he said, giving the word a sarcastic emphasis, “did any of our fighters ever annoy your daughters or make the slightest suggestive remark to them?”
“No,” Eleni replied, “I never said they did.”
“Then why did you hide your daughters inside the house, try to prevent them from going on work details, which is the responsibility of every strong young woman in the village, and make them cover their faces with kerchiefs?”
“I always told my daughters to avoid becoming the subject of gossip in the village,” Eleni replied calmly. “That is the responsibility of a mother, especially when her husband is not present to help protect his daughters’ reputation. As for the kerchiefs, look around you; almost every woman here is wearing one.”
There was a stir among the crowd and Katis realized he had stepped on marshy ground. He returned to the main point of his condemnation. “Your actions hardly support your words,” he snapped. “You showed your contempt for the revolution by organizing the defection of your family and thirteen other civilians from this village. Listen to what the escaped prisoner, Marianthe Ziaras, had to say about your role in that betrayal:
“‘I was in the house cooking when Eleni Gatzoyiannis came. My father asked me to leave the room, but I went outside and listened under the window. I heard the Amerikana tell my father that she would give him one thousand dollars if he would take her family to the other side. When the first two attempts were not successful and it became necessary for her to go to the threshing fields, she told my father, “I’m going to where Glykeria is and if we can find a way to leave too, we will. But you must take my family and don’t think about us.”’”
He put down the papers and looked at Eleni. “What do you say to that?” he asked.
Eleni sighed. “It’s too bad that Marianthe isn’t here to speak for herself,” she said.
Katis’ brows drew together. “We have a witness who is present and is more than willing to say these things to your face,” he said. “I call Milia Drouboyiannis.”
The stocky young andartina with the masculine frizz of black hair came forward, holding her rifle at her side. She eagerly answered the questions Katis put to her, testifying that the Amerikana had organized the escape attempts and that Lukas Ziaras had tried to convince her mother, Alexandra Drouboyiannis, to take two of her daughters and come along. She described the first two attempts in convincing detail: how the group had turned back once because of a baby’s crying and again because of a heavy fog. “My mother and sisters were persuaded by the fascist Lukas Ziaras to consider leaving,” Milia declared, “but then I found out what they were planning and I told them that wherever they went, the Democratic Army would come. Soon all Greece will fly the Red Flag.”
The stocky girl, her face contorted with the intensity of her emotion, pulled herself up to her full height and thumped the butt of her rifle on the ground, a bit of theatrics that made an indelible impression on the watching villagers. “I swear by the gun I’m holding that my mother and my sisters abandoned all thought of leaving with the Amerikana’s family after I spoke to them!” she cried. As she testified, her mother sat on the sidelines, nodding her head at everything the girl said.
Heartened by the impression Milia Drouboyiannis had made, Katis turned suddenly on Eleni. “You organized the escape of your family and your friends because, like your father and your husband, your heart is with the fascists!” he charged. “You have tried from the beginning to turn the people of this village against us!”
Her face was ashen, but Eleni was calm. Unlike her cousin Antonova Paroussis, she had been careful not to speak out against the guerrillas and she would not admit to what she had not done.
“That is untrue,” she answered. “Show me a single mother w
ho will say that I told her not to give up her children.”
Katis looked around. “Who will answer her? Stand up and speak!”
The silence was complete, except for the mechanical whine of the cicadas. After several moments Katis turned on Eleni angrily. “You didn’t have to use words to influence the women of this village,” he said. “By refusing to volunteer your daughters and by holding on to your son, you were defying and sabotaging the goals of the revolution. By sending them to the fascists, you betrayed us all.”
Eleni regarded him in silence for a moment, then she said, quietly but clearly, “I had one daughter conscripted but she was sent back. Another daughter is now threshing wheat for the Democratic Army. But what could I say to my husband if I gave up his only son? I sent my children to where their father could support them because I could no longer feed them here. I have done no harm and wished no harm to anyone. I only wanted my children to be safe.”
There was a murmur in the audience and the face of the judge Anagnostakis furrowed in a frown. Even the swarthy, high-cheekboned face of the third judge, Grigori Pappas, who had until now kept himself carefully impassive, showed concern. Katis spoke quickly. “This woman, like all the seven civilians on trial today, has betrayed our struggle to bring freedom and independence to Greece.” As he took another breath, he was interrupted by a young guerrilla who whispered in his ear. Katis looked up and announced, “There will be a short recess to permit the parents of children who are leaving for the people’s democracies to say goodbye.” He pointed to a throng coming into view along the path that wound past the ravine, up toward the peak of the Prophet Elias. “The parents of these children, who are setting out on a new and better life, have demonstrated their love for them without betraying our cause.”
The heavy shelling on the village two days before had convinced the guerrilla command that it was time to send the second group gathered for the pedomasoma out of harm’s way. The twenty-year-old daughter of the newly prominent Communist, Foto Bollis, had been chosen as a senior guide of the group, and his nine-year-old son Sotiris was among the twenty children who were being led up the mountains toward Albania, where they would be put into camps.
Everyone turned around to look at the parade passing by on the road overhead. Relatives of the children suddenly pushed toward them. Before the eyes of the assemblage, mothers began to cry as they took their children in their arms. Eleni watched the scene and her own eyes filled with tears. She realized from the testimony against her that she would probably be judged guilty, but she knew that even if she lost her own life, she had won: Nikola was safe.
As Eleni stood there, the small blond son of Foto Bollis came down into the ravine to say goodbye to his father. Although the Bollis family had lived near her in the Perivoli, Eleni had never been close friends with Agathe Bollis. But there was a bond between them: both women had suffered the misfortune of giving birth to four girls before both had finally managed to produce a boy; Sotiris was born only forty days before Nikola.
The Bollis girl, Olga, who was guiding the group of children, recalled thirty-three years later, when she was found living in a village of Greek Communist refugees in Hungary, that Eleni embraced the tow-headed little boy with her free arm and kissed him. Sotiris, who had no idea that Eleni was a prisoner on trial, looked at her and asked eagerly, “Where’s Nikola? Why isn’t he going with us?”
Eleni smoothed his hair and smiled. “Nikola’s gone to his father,” she replied.
It took some time to bring the throng back to order after the children passed out of sight. Muffled sobbing could still be heard as Katis said, “You have listened to the testimony of your neighbors verifying the charges against these defendants. Before the court withdraws to consider its verdict, is there anyone who wishes to speak on the charges?”
Everyone in the audience involuntarily drew back. They had been spectators at this life-and-death drama, and now they were being asked to become participants. There were sidelong looks and nervous coughs, but no one spoke. Then one of the old men in the first row climbed with difficulty to his feet. It was sixty-five-year-old Gregory Tsavos, who, before his retirement, had been a cooper and a field warden in the village, mediating disputes over boundaries and water rights. He lived above the Gatzoyiannis house in the Perivoli.
Now he stood resolutely before Katis, a bearlike, awkward figure, his cheeks and nose red from drink, his jowls trembling over his scrawny neck. He raised his chin and spoke firmly. “I have known Eleni Gatzoyiannis all her life,” he said. “She lived nearly on my doorstep. And I know that she has done no injury to anyone in the village. On the contrary, she always shared whatever she had. And she has a letter from her husband that clearly shows—”
But Katis cut him off. “Enough!” he shouted in exasperation. Then he examined Tsavos suspiciously. “What work do you do in this village, old man?” he asked.
“I was a field warden.”
Katis brought down his fist on the table in front of him. “Sit down, platelicker of the police!” he exploded.
As Tsavos obeyed, another of the old men in the first row got to his feet. His name was Kosta Poulos. He was thin and white-haired, and unlike Gregory Tsavos, he was a well-known Communist, highly respected by the guerrillas because his son had died fighting with them.
“Speak, Comrade!” said Katis in an encouraging voice, far different from the tone he used with Tsavos.
The former coffeehouse owner surveyed the prisoners, the judges and the witnesses. Everyone waited to hear what one of the Communist pillars of the community would say about this trial of his own villagers. Poulos’ gaze came to rest on Katis and he drew himself up. “What Tsavos said was true,” he growled. “I had only one son and he died fighting for the cause, and I’m speaking the truth. Eleni Gatzoyiannis has done nothing wrong. None of them has done anything to be killed for.”
Katis could hardly believe that the old man was defying him so blatantly. “Sit down!” he shouted.
With increasing irritation Katis called on three more villagers, who rose in turn. They all spoke for the defendants. Two of them were elders of the village: a woman named Yianova Pantos and a man named Vangeli Sioulis. The third was a young woman, Sofia Depi, who lived at the edge of Lia near Alexo’s house and came from a well-known Communist family. No one spoke against any of the defendants. None of the prisoners’ close friends or relatives said a word.
Katis could see that calling upon the villagers to speak had been a mistake. Each voice that described the innocence of the defendants eroded the impact his prosecution was making on the other judges and on the wide-eyed peasants. He raised his hand and shouted, “If you have evidence to add, then speak up, but otherwise, keep silent!”
There were no more volunteers. After a few moments of silence, Katis nodded. “The court will now retire to consider its verdict,” he said.
An excited buzz rose toward the branches of the plane trees as the three judges stood up from their chairs and filed behind a large tree at the edge of the ravine. For what was only a few minutes but seemed much longer, the villagers looked from the spot where the judges were whispering to the faces of the prisoners, who sat rigid with suspense. Spiro Michopoulos still picked his teeth with a twig. The women prisoners showed no emotion, except for Constantina Drouboyiannis, who crossed herself several times. Andreas Michopoulos had his head resting on his knees. Vasili Nikou gazed dully into the distance. Eleni studied the tense faces of the villagers seated before her. The prisoners stiffened to attention as the three judges filed back and took their places behind the table. Katis stood in the middle, facing the wall of expectant faces. He waited, impressing his presence upon them.
“After carefully considering the evidence,” he announced, “the court has rendered the following verdicts: In the case of two defendants, Dina Venetis and Constantina Drouboyiannis, the evidence was not conclusive and they are found not guilty. The evidence against the other five—Spiro Michopoulos, Andreas Michopou
los, Vasili Nikou, Alexo Gatzoyiannis and Eleni Gatzoyiannis—was overwhelming. They have been judged guilty on all charges and are sentenced to death.”
A sound like a gust of wind roared through the ravine. There were no cries, only a few stifled moans from relatives of the condemned, a flutter of hands making the four taps of the Cross. The prisoners themselves sat stunned. Only Spiro Michopoulos buried his face in his arms.
Katis raised his hand for silence. “Today we do not condemn, we do not sentence!” he shouted. “The loyal people of this village provided all the evidence against the prisoners. You have told us where the last hen lays its eggs, and this is your judgment.”
His small black eyes gleaming with excitement, Katis studied the audience, brown faces mottled by the sunlight, black kerchiefs ruffled by the breeze, but in the eyes turned toward him he read only shock and fear, not the approval he had expected. He paused, then moved his hands benevolently like a priest. “But the People’s Army is not vindictive,” he added. “The condemned may yet be saved.”
The prisoners leaned forward in sudden hope. “They will be given the opportunity to send appeals for clemency to the president of the provincial government, Markos Vafiadis,” he went on. “We will await his decision on their petitions before carrying out the sentences.”
The drama that the village had watched for three days was in fact not a trial at all, but a carefully staged propaganda play in which all the sentences had been decided long beforehand. In such civilian trials in the Mourgana villages, which became more numerous in August and September of 1948 as the guerrillas were losing the war, the facts of each case were sent to Kostas Koliyiannis, the political commissar of the Epiros Command who ruled the Mourgana. From his headquarters in Babouri he sent back to the security police in each village the sentences which the judges would then pretend to reach after hearing the evidence.
During my investigation of my mother’s trial, this fact was confirmed by several people, including Christos Zeltas, the head of the security police in Lia, and Yiorgos Kalianesis, chief of staff in the Epiros Command. They all said that the decisions of life or death on those brought to trial were made beforehand by Koliyiannis, who sent judges to carry on a mockery of a trial.
Eleni Page 55
