Marika descended the decrepit pine stairs and entered the main room of their humble home which served as the kitchen, sitting room and also contained Papou’s bed; it was sparsely furnished with bare, bone-coloured walls. She knelt before the icon that rested on the hearth’s mantle; a small oil lamp in front of it provided soft, flickering light day and night. Looking up at the dusky icon of The Virgin Mary holding her infant son, she crossed herself and began her prayer, her morning and evening ritual:
Panayia mou deliver us from this Civil War. Bring an end to this violent struggle, which has pitted town against town, and brother against brother. Intercede Blessed Mother and bring us a truce. Grant us a lasting peace. Beneath your compassion, we seek refuge. Mother of God give us strength and courage to bear the fatigue of the coming day with all that it shall bring. I implore you to receive my prayer. Great is thy grace, glory to thee. Amen.
On the wooden table surrounded by six wicker chairs, Marika placed two mugs of chamomile tea, a small plate of feta cheese and another holding a few roughly cut pieces of whole-wheat bread. And momentarily, Yanni joined her.
“Kalimera, Yanni mou. Did you sleep well?”
“Fine, I slept fine.”
“If it’s alright with you, I want to go to the field today and gather the pears. I’m estimating that if I leave in a few minutes, I’ll make it there by eight thirty,” Marika uttered in a low voice.
“You, go to the field? Why? What’s brought this on? Gathering the fruit is my responsibility. You have enough to do here looking after the kids, Papou and your sewing.”
“Yes, I agree with you, but I’m uneasy with the idea of you going out today. It’s hard for me to explain, but I have a feeling that it will not be safe for you,” Marika said in a dire tone. A forlorn glance escaped her small brown eyes.
“What’s wrong with you this morning?”
“It’s hard for me to put it into plain words; you could call it an instinct. All I know is that I will feel less anxious if I went for the fruit today. Besides you can take care of the livestock here. Please, Yanni. Let me go this morning.”
Yanni did not say anything, but as he held the white mug with his right hand, he rapidly tapped his index finger against it, a sign of restlessness when his wishes were contradicted. He enjoyed the role of the patriarch in their household; he was comfortable with the customs and codes of his elders and the ways of yesterday. Any changes to their daily plans or this ordered way of life bewildered him. The idea of his wife – alone –making an almost two-hour trek to the countryside during this vicious conflict added to his discomfort.
Marika noticed the concern on his face. “I had a vivid dream; it sent me a powerful warning. Please don’t ask me to describe it. All I’m asking is that I should be the one leaving the house today.”
“Here we go again with dreams, superstitions! I have nothing to fear when venturing out of my house,” he snapped.
“Please, Yanni. I implore you; do not raise your voice. Papou will wake up and he’ll be cranky all day.”
For a moment no one spoke and then Yanni broke the silence. “This is all about your brother Pericles, isn’t it? He’s the one who has to worry. He’s the one roaming the mountains like a hungry wolf. Once his friend was hunted down, I begged him to go voluntarily to the authorities and renounce his Communist beliefs.”
“Yanni, let’s not mention my brother this morning. I beg you.”
“He risked his life by joining the Leftists, and put all our lives in danger. Just look at our situation: how can we go on when dreams and instincts determine our every move?”
Marika cut a few slices from the loaf of bread, placed some feta cheese between them and thought of ways to convince him. But Yanni continued, “if only your father had him apprentice with a talented craftsman—but no! After grade school, it was high school and then, off to university to study philosophy of all things. He came back with dreams and ideals for a just society. And look where’s he’s ended up: engulfed in the Andartiko, running from the authorities.” Yanni referred to the conflict as the Andartiko, a bandit war; Marika and her brother called it an Emfilios Polemos, a war between brothers.
“Yanni, it’s your safety that I’m concerned about,” Marika responded firmly. “If you’re with me on this… you’ll go out, saddle the horse and I’ll be on my way.” Speechless, Yanni got up suddenly and walked about back and forth in a state of mounting agitation. Then, he abruptly went outside and prepared the white mare.
Marika threw a wool sweater on her shoulders to protect her from the morning’s damp and practically flew down the outdoor steps onto the cobbled courtyard.
Tethered to the trunk of the mulberry tree, the goat still slept deeply and so did the sow with her little ones in their sty. In the coop the chickens were beginning to stir. Marika grabbed the rein from Yanni and led her slender, hollow-eyed mare through the village. Everything around her revealed a battered and grim place: the few inhabitants, who also started their chores before daybreak, appeared weak and weary; hungry curs scrounged their usual haunts and sniffed every bit of debris in sight. The abandoned houses, the burned warehouses and plundered stores, the sun-scorched earth and untilled plots—everything blended into a single whole in the harsh, forbidding environment. Everything darkened Marika’s heart.
When she reached the outskirts of the village, an unnerving deadness greeted her. Facing the endless road leading to the low plain, she sighed deeply. The wide lifeless, arid road turned into a white, rolling ribbon on the red earth as she gazed further. Holding tighter on the mare’s rein she continued her journey. Anxious thoughts raced in Marika’s mind: would she encounter any vagabonds and gypsies in their yellow and red skirts; would peddlers and tradesmen stop her to bargain away their colourful kerchiefs; would wonderers beg her for some bread; and would desperate guerrillas running from the fascist forces cross her path? These fears possessed her. The road’s numerous potholes and pebbles were punishing her feet and limbs. Mentally and physically she was exhausted.
After an hour, Marika reached the shed at the crossroads; rudimentarily constructed from dried leaves, it sheltered a spring fountain. She rested there, removed her sweater, sampled the natural water and washed the red dust away which had coalesced with the perspiration on her face. Sitting on a boulder next to the shed, she remembered her mother’s words: “Life is a continuous struggle, Marika; look after your husband; life can be unbearable without a man.” It was for her husband Yanni and the rest of her family that Marika was enduring this hardship. His obsession with law and order was irrelevant to her; she loved him dearly.
But her brother Pericles, even though he had developed different views on society, also had a place in Marika’s heart. Pericles had encountered ideas based on other principles than economic necessity. And unlike Yanni, he linked happiness to good health, freedom and friendship, never to wealth. Always aware of the intellectual and social complexities around him, Pericles was consumed with discussions about equality, exploitation and the truth. ‘Where is Pericles now?’ Marika wondered. Was he freezing in some damp cave up in the mountains? Would he survive this troubled time? As much as Pericles’ well-being preoccupied Marika now, the words of warning she had received from the gendarme last week tormented her: “Make sure you turn him in or you will be arrested on the spot. You’ll be taken away from your children.” She couldn’t imagine running into a situation where she would have to make this choice, and for that matter she couldn’t turn any of her relatives or neighbours in. Engaged as they were in a never-ending war with hunger and each other, Marika felt for all of them. All of them were on the brink of starvation—when would it all end? Many had died; others had suffered from bullet wounds, and many more battled loneliness and depression. Would her countrymen survive this crisis, she agonized as she wiped her eyes and continued her journey.
III
About half an hour later, she saw the footpath, its dried red earth leading to a small forest of pine trees. W
ith the exception of the dried pine needles that pierced the sides of her feet through the slits of her old sandals, and the tiny lizards that occasionally jumped in front of her, Marika adored this little forest. She loved the pine’s resin that filled her nostrils and enjoyed the singing of the larks. The pine trees were short and nothing escaped the sun’s rays, but it was peaceful and serene; there was something magical in this isolation. Marika felt protected by the pines, as they stood erect like guards ready to serve her.
Within ten minutes Marika crossed this mystical world and stepped into the family plot her father had given her as a wedding gift. It consisted of olive, fig and pear trees; it also had a small vine grove. She hurried toward the pear tree, untied the earth-coloured sacks and busily gathered the fruit, after shaking every branch that she could reach. Tirelessly, she filled two sacks, tied them with string at the top and placed them near the mare. Then, she sat under the tree to have her snack before heading home.
As Marika raised the canteen to her lips, her heart suddenly stopped by the rustle in the vine leaves. Within seconds a fierce-looking man, holding a double barreled shotgun in both hands, emerged from the thicket of vine. Instantly, Marika jumped to her feet, and the bread wrapped in the cotton tea-towel dropped on the red earth. She could barely stand; her limbs felt like cotton, but she managed to reach the horse and hold onto its saddle.
As the scraggy figure dressed in a worn khaki outfit came closer, Marika’s paralysis intensified. His dirty beard, like a fan, reached down to his chest, his clammy hair covered the back of his neck; the sleeves of his shirt were torn, and his ripped trousers revealed greasy boots with discoloured yellow laces.
“It’s you, Marika,” he said in a weary, barely audible voice.
“Pericles,” she whispered. Shaken, her face felt cold. Her brother was the last person she expected to see and his grubbiness shocked her. His exhaustion was written in his sunken face and slow steps.
“What are you doing here? You’re a modistra, you belong with your sewing machine. Your world is a place of embroidery and crocheting.”
“It’s my land, why shouldn’t I be here? Who did you expect to see?” Marika’s voice was low and groggy.
“Your husband Yanni, and if he had come down here, this last bullet would have been waiting for him.” And he brandished his rifle in the air, his dark eyes smouldering. His words stung her ears and landed like hot coals in her heart. Horrified, Marika felt faint, but her fear united with a sense of stubbornness. She refused to collapse. Boiling water seemed to run along her spine. Her urge to shriek and overwhelm him with a volley of insults gained strength; she wanted to lecture and berate him, but she was dazed with indignation.
When Pericles came closer, his perspiration thickened the air. Even from a distance of a few metres she could smell the odour. He leaned down, picked up the bread and devoured it. With his mouth opening and closing ferociously, he turned to her, “You tell that husband of yours to stop bad-mouthing me and my comrades or I’ll get revenge.”
Marika snapped at this. “Have you no shame! How can you stand there and tell me you plan to kill my husband? Who gave you the right to destroy my home?”
She continued to hurl questions at him: “Did you consider my children in this plan of yours? Did you imagine me a widow struggling to feed them in this cursed time? Why don’t you shoot me instead, wouldn’t that be a better fate for me? Go on, shoot me!”
A fit of intense coughing seized Pericles and he crouched down close to the pear tree. As Marika watched him ride it out, she imagined Yanni’s fate if he had come down today. She envisioned him reeling on the ground, and the scene sickened her. That Pericles resented her husband’s outspokenness, Marika was well aware. In his condemnation of the Communist party, Yanni had expressed his views much too freely and openly; more recently he had been talking of joining the Rightist National Guard. But she had no idea that Pericles’ animosity had come to this. His fury stunned her.
As his cough subsided, Pericles turned his eyes and met hers. In that mutual glance, Marika noticed that his eyes were no longer ablaze, their passion had waned, and his sister felt trapped in their tenderness. As much as she loved her husband, her affection for her brother had never abated. She adored his heroic heart and admired his thirst for justice. But oh, God, how his spirit had hardened! She felt so sorry for him and could hardly bear to look at him. His grubbiness melted her heart. In a tender tone of concern for his safety, she asked, “Haven’t you had enough suffering? Aren’t you tired? Are you not aware that the gendarmes are roaming the countryside looking for you and your friends? I beg of you to give yourself up!” The compassionate tone of her questions, rather than the questions themselves seemed to soften his heart further. His eyes glistened now and the bitterness drained from his veins. Against his will he felt something—he couldn’t make out what. He stood there for a moment not knowing what to say or do.
Finally, he reached for her hand and asked, “Give myself up? Is that what you want me to do? Do you know where they’ll take me? No, you probably do not know, but I do. They’ll take me to Makronisos, a barren island off the coast of Attica. It’s a gigantic prison camp for Communist captives. Its only goal is to get a deilosi from us, a renunciation of our belief. You’re not aware of the torture and cruelty that my comrades have suffered there. Do you want me to go there as well?”
“But Pericles if you sign the deilosi and repent, they’ll let you go, you’ll be free!”
“Free! And what would I be if I was stripped of my beliefs? Who would associate with me? Who would give me a job? I would be met with snubs and stony faces wherever I went. No, I would rather kill myself than live an empty life.”
“Think about it carefully, Pericles. Winter is coming and it will bite.”
“Don’t worry about the cold. It’s nothing, I’ve gotten used to that enemy.” He squeezed her hand and the tears ran between the deep crevices of his pre-maturely aged and wrinkled skin. Before she could say anything further, he fled towards the olive trees.
Marika remained dumbfounded and motionless. No longer able to swallow her sobs, tears rose within her, rolled down her cheeks and poured like spring water on her bosom. The rustle of a snow-white rabbit as it emerged from the earth, broke the stillness. And just as quickly as it surfaced and grabbed her attention, it disappeared. She raised her grey apron and wiped her face. Then, mechanically she grabbed the sacks, loaded them on the mare and started her journey home.
After an hour of walking, the sun scorched Marika’s body, its glare blurred her eyes and her throat was parched from thirst. The horrible heat, the endless road ahead, the dust in her mouth and the sweat covering her body aggravated her discomfort. The physical irritation in her tormented state was unbearable. A need to rip her clothes off gripped her. Her head bowed, she continuously stared down as if the sun’s light was unbearable.
Just as Marika reached the crossroads, the earth began to tremble beneath her feet. Quickly, she turned behind her to see a cloud of dust; a vehicle headed rapidly towards her. As its thundering sound increased and the cloud became larger, she realized that it was an open jeep fast approaching. Instinctively, she shaded her eyes, squinted and saw two gendarmes sitting in the front. As the jeep drew closer, she recognized the passenger as the policeman who had brought her to the station for questioning. His warning still rang in her ears.
The jeep swerved to avoid her. And in that split second, she noticed a lifeless body in the back seat; its legs swung uncontrollably, threads of blood ran down soiled boots with yellow laces. Transfixed with horror, Marika stood with her mouth agape for a few seconds. When she grasped the scene’s meaning, Pericles’ death shook her to the core. Impulsively, she dropped the mare’s rein, and covered her mouth with both hands to muffle her scream. Then, Marika bent both knees, bowed her upper body forward and made every effort to maintain her balance. She crouched forward on her haunches, staring; her lips and nostrils fluttered with terror. In the distanc
e, the jeep became smaller and smaller in the cloud of dust. Holding on to her position, she continued to stare until everything had become invisible.
While the trail of dust had vanished like smoke, Pericles’ lifeless image was before her. It froze in the depths of her memory. It became Marika’s nightmare—the nightmare of her relatives, her neighbours and all her countrymen who lost their loved ones. Far too many died during that wretched decade of the nineteen forties, some by horrific means and in unimaginable conditions. And those who survived experienced a kind of death in living, for they were always torn between feelings of loyalty and betrayal.
Double Heartache
As Easter approached, Victoria yearned for the sky to sparkle once again, and the motionless air to be fragrant of spring and merriment in Plitra, a seacoast town in southern Greece. A minute woman, dressed in black, she sat alone by the window in her modest stone house overlooking the Laconic Bay. The honeysuckle, lilac and rose bushes bloomed in her garden and spread a heavenly aroma. The trees were overloaded with flowers and the swallows, in perpetual motion as they built their nests, fell in love and made their little ones. The speechless earth tried in so many colours, shapes and fragrances to cheer Victoria, but an immovable cloud with dark curtains obscured this beauty. She sunk voluntarily within the bitter pleasure of her heartache. Only one thought possessed her: Was Eleni well, would she hear from her?
Heightened by the holiday spirit, Victoria’s heart longed to contact her daughter. She wanted to confess her sins and renew her hope for peace, but couldn’t bear her sorrow any longer. Given her weak eyesight, she would seek her neighbour’s help to get word to Eleni.
The Buses and Other Short Stories Page 12
