by Nadia Marks
Clutching at the silver crucifix round her neck Katerina silently prayed.
The search continued for what seemed like hours as the soldiers went through the house room by room, opening and shutting doors, overturning possessions with brutal urgency and talking to each other. Katerina held her breath and waited.
At some point a shout came from one of the soldiers.
‘OVER HERE!’ he called, beckoning the others. The women also followed. They saw the soldier standing inside their little storeroom holding up a violin case: at his feet boxes and suitcases had been turned upside down, their contents – old shoes, clothes and broken toys – scattered all over the floor. Olga hadn’t seen that violin case for years; it belonged to Ivan and it was the only thing she hadn’t put out onto the street when she threw him out. Her respect for music and the beauty of the instrument prevented her from destroying it. She had also hoped that one of her girls might pick it up and learn. But Anita preferred the piano and Sonia the cello. Olga always maintained that the girls’ musical talent was the only gift they inherited from their father.
The soldier stood holding the case waiting for orders.
‘Open it!’ the one who was in charge commanded. Everyone stood watching as the soldier ripped the case open to discover the amber-coloured instrument innocently resting in its rightful place.
‘A violin!’ the soldier exclaimed, deflated, disappointment evident in his voice. A machine gun would have been so much more exciting … Many of these soldiers were young English boys no older than Anita and Mario, seeing out their national service and unlucky enough to find themselves in the middle of a small war they understood very little about. If Olga hadn’t been so furious she would have felt amused, almost sorry for this young man.
Hiding arms in a violin case! she thought to herself. Who do they take us for, Al Capone?
Although nothing was found during the night search, the incident was not without repercussions. The Linser household was now, as Olga had feared, under scrutiny. Anita’s relationship with Mario, who as a fully fledged member of EOKA was very much under British surveillance, was having an impact on the family.
‘Tomorrow at midnight we will be going out to write slogans on walls,’ he told Anita one day as they sat in his mother’s kitchen drinking sweet Turkish coffee. ‘Tomorrow is the perfect night as there’s no moon; we will dress in black so we will be almost invisible.’
‘I want to come with you,’ she begged, and not for the first time.
‘No, Anita mou, I don’t want you to. It’s dangerous, and as much as I’d like you by my side, it’s best you stay at home.’
‘But you are taking all the risks, I want to do my share,’ she carried on protesting.
‘You are! You are doing what you can, and I think we’ve given your mother enough trouble … we have to be sensible for her sake.’
‘I don’t feel as if I’m doing enough to help,’ she said again, reaching for his hand. ‘Please, Mario, let me come?’
‘You have helped plenty; both you and Katerina are doing your bit for the struggle. Just pray for us tomorrow and we’ll be fine.’
Anita’s heart was bursting with love for her boy and she trembled with fear lest something happen to him.
‘I think if you get caught I want to be caught with you,’ she said, holding tight onto his hand.
‘And I think that if I get caught I want you to be safe at home,’ Mario replied and gave her a kiss.
Was it bad luck or an informer? No one ever found out. They caught them before they had even dipped their brushes in paint. All four were arrested and kept in custody till dawn. After that night, Mario and the rest of the boys had to report every single day without fail to the British headquarters before sundown, or be arrested and imprisoned. The daily reporting was a safety measure to ensure that none of them took to the mountains as some partisans were now apparently doing in preparation for battle.
Under close supervision their activities were restricted and any midnight excursions reduced, although Mario continued to write literature and attend secret meetings with comrades. After all, he had taken the oath of an EOKA member swearing by the name of the Holy Trinity to struggle with all his youthful powers, in his case his pen, for the liberation of Cyprus, and not to abandon the struggle under any pretext.
April is the most beautiful month on the island. The wild orchids by Aphrodite’s baths are at their zenith, and multi-coloured anemones covering the land surrounding the temple of Apollo demand every inch of the earth.
The sap begins to rise in the bodies of the young in that month, and spring is heralded with all its glory.
‘Golden April, fragrant May …’ as the song goes, and love hovers in the air. On the first of the month every April, parents fabricate little lies to tell their children, and young and old join in the fun. But no songs, fun, or lies were to be exchanged on that April Fool’s Day in 1955 when Mario and Anita had been pledged to each other for less than a year. That day their world turned deadly serious. Thirty minutes after midnight a series of deafening explosions shook the towns of Nicosia, Larnaka and Limassol, announcing that ‘the struggle for freedom’ had officially begun. It took the British authorities and most of the population by surprise. Then the panic set in.
Anyone associated with EOKA was a prime suspect. Olga was alarmed and fearful for her family, and during the days that followed, Anita was forbidden to meet with Mario.
‘We all love him, Anita mou, but this is dangerous,’ she told her daughter, ‘and we cannot afford to be implicated.’
‘I am not going to abandon him, Mother!’ Anita said, running out of the room in tears.
‘We are five women living alone in a state of war,’ Olga called sternly after her. She turned to the other women who sat silently listening to her and said gravely, ‘We have no protector. We must be vigilant and take care of each other. Perhaps it would be best if I sent the girls to Vienna for safety,’ she added, looking at her mother.
It was evening, around eight o’clock, five days after the bombings. The weather had been unusually warm and the windows were open to let in the evening breeze. A curfew had now been declared by the British so no one was allowed out after sundown. Anita sat in the living room, a book on her lap, trying without success to keep her mind away from worrying about Mario and the events unfolding around them.
The phone rang persistently in the hall, making her jump. It echoed loudly through the house. Pushing Sonia out of the way she ran and seized the receiver. It was Mario’s mother.
‘He hasn’t come home yet,’ the woman’s worried voice told her. ‘Do you know where he is, Anita mou? Have you heard from him?’ she asked hopefully. Anita’s heart started to pound. She sensed danger.
‘Not since yesterday … I had a note from him,’ she replied, trying to keep calm for Mario’s mother, if not for herself.
‘It’s little Maria’s birthday today and he was meant to pick up a cake on his way back from the headquarters … but there is no sign of him,’ the woman continued, hope vanishing from her voice. ‘It’s well past curfew. He went on his bicycle … he’s never missed his sister’s birthday before.’
‘What about the others?’
‘I spoke to Michalis’s and Elia’s mothers; they have returned home as normal, but I couldn’t reach Savva’s mother, so I don’t know about him.’
Anita gripped the phone hard, the taste of fear choking her.
He was missing for forty-eight hours before Mario’s family was contacted. They were informed that Mario had been arrested as a terrorist suspect due to his involvement with EOKA. They were told that while he was held for questioning he had attempted to escape, and in the process he was shot and fatally wounded. The reason for the call was a summons for formal identification of the body by a family member. Both his parents went; his mother almost didn’t recognize him. He’d been beaten up for information.
His friend Savvas was moved to a detention camp to be held pr
isoner indefinitely for the duration of the hostilities.
Anita was bereft. She couldn’t accept that the young man she loved had been taken away from her so prematurely. ‘I will never fall in love again,’ she told her mother, secretly blaming her for her loss. Before loving Mario Anita thought her soul had been asleep. He had woken her from a great lethargy, which she feared would claim her again.
Olga felt wretched for preventing her daughter from seeing Mario during the days that led to his arrest. The whole family fell into deep mourning for the boy. Their only source of comfort and strength through that time was Padre Bernardino’s regular visits and discussions with them.
‘We must never lose sight of hope,’ the padre told Anita. ‘The human spirit has the ability to rise again, Anita.’
Having lived through the horrors of civil war in Spain, the padre knew what he was speaking of. But Anita was inconsolable. In the months that followed she began to sink into a great melancholy and the bouts of depression that would blight her existence began. The only person she spoke to was Katerina. She was her friend and ally and the one who understood.
‘We have to continue our support for the struggle,’ she would tell Katerina, who believed as passionately as Anita in the cause but whose respect and loyalty to Olga held her back. She understood her mistress’s concerns for the safety of their female household. She knew they were vulnerable.
‘My mother is the one who has brought us up to be as strong as any man,’ Anita would argue when Katerina tried to explain. ‘It’s rather hypocritical of her to now change her rules.’
‘It’s not hypocrisy, Anita mou,’ Katerina defended Olga. ‘Your mother is a fair-minded woman and as brave as anyone. She needs to be vigilant for all of us.’
‘Sometimes you have to act according to your beliefs regardless of the consequences,’ Anita would argue back.
‘Don’t think she hasn’t been aware of what you and I have been doing all this time and the consequences of that, yet she has turned a blind eye, which in itself is a contribution to the struggle.’
‘To my mind it’s not enough!’ Anita persisted.
‘Your mother is the only person who puts food on our plates! Never forget that!’ Katerina continued. ‘How can she provide for us if she doesn’t work? The only way she can survive is to appear impartial!’
Often Katerina would discuss the unfolding events with the padre. He shared the two young women’s commitment even if he didn’t voice it publicly; their talks always gave her courage.
‘Political oppression seems to follow me everywhere I go,’ he confided to her during their talks. He sometimes arrived for a visit in the middle of the day, when the house was empty apart from Ernestina and Katerina, and he would sit with the two women in the kitchen and talk about religion and politics. Ernestina was always fearful and shared her daughter’s concerns. The priest gave them enormous strength and they both looked forward to his visits.
Padre Bernardino was thirty-five years old; short in stature yet athletic in build with a dark complexion. It occurred to Katerina that if he wasn’t wearing his Catholic priest’s cassock he’d be well suited to wear the EOKA freedom fighters’ uniform of combat camouflage trousers and jacket, with a beret on his head. His eyes, dark blue like a stormy sea, were deep-set and troubled. He held your gaze as he talked softly, unhurriedly, in perfect Greek, with only a trace of an accent. Spanish, he always claimed, had many similarities to Greek, especially the Cypriot dialect. Sometimes he spoke to Ernestina in Italian, her native tongue, which brought her joy and solace.
‘We live in such turbulent times, Padre,’ she’d tell him, welcoming his comforting words, which she knew would always come.
He liked to make time for the old lady. If his mother had been alive, he believed she would now look similar to Ernestina; but she was long gone along with the rest of his family. His own survival was a miracle and often a cause of mental anguish to him. His guilt for still living while everyone he loved had perished never left him, even after all the years that had passed.
On one unusually wet and stormy morning in early January the padre came to visit the Linser home. Katerina was alone that day – the girls were out and Ernestina had gone to see a friend. A neighbour had taken to inviting some ladies to morning coffee and Olga was encouraging her mother to participate.
‘It will do you good, Mother, to get some fresh sea air and be with people, instead of staying in the house all day. Come, it’s raining so I’ll drop you off in the car,’ she said, ushering her out of the front door.
Katerina was glad to have some time alone, which up until recently had been a rare occurrence, but when the padre rang the bell she was more than pleased to relinquish her free time for him. He was always welcome. He stood at the front door under a big black umbrella, wearing his usual smile.
‘Kalimera, Katerina,’ he said as he stepped into the front hall, leaving the wet umbrella beside the door, his black ankle-length clerical robe wet around the hem. ‘Miserable weather we are having today,’ he continued as he brushed some raindrops off his sleeve.
‘We need the rain as much as we need the sun, Father,’ Katerina replied. ‘What we don’t need is another drought this summer.’
‘Of course you’re right,’ he said, following her into the kitchen. It felt warm and welcoming in there. The windows were steamed up from Katerina’s cooking: on the stove a chicken was bubbling away for stock. She was going to make soupa avgolemono for lunch, everyone’s favourite winter soup. The chicken from the village market made rich fatty stock perfect for the soup and the boiled chicken would break into succulent pieces that would make the rice, egg and lemon base even more delicious.
‘Coffee, Father?’ she asked as she reached for the ibriki – the little enamel pot for making Turkish coffee in. She knew he liked his strong and sweet.
She cherished time alone with Father Bernardino. When Ernestina was there Katerina left them together out of respect for the old lady – she knew how much she needed his attention and reassurance. On the rare occasions she happened to be alone with him, Katerina would take advantage of his knowledge and wisdom. Some days he might read passages from the Bible to her, and other times discuss the political climate of the island; she learned much from him.
That morning the priest seemed in a pensive mood. Perhaps it was the stormy weather, or the homely domestic scene in the kitchen, or simply because he and Katerina were alone. As a rule, he avoided talking about himself, much preferring to focus on others and their problems. When at times she had quizzed him about his country, he dodged her questions. She had never been further than Nicosia or Paphos, and Spain was unimaginable. She longed to know about his homeland but the most he ever told her was that it wasn’t so different from Cyprus.
Too respectful to pursue it further she tried to imagine what Spain might be like. But something about him on that rainy January day seemed different. He was more talkative, more approachable, he looked more like a man and less like a priest to her. Even the way he drank his coffee was different that morning. As he crossed his legs and pushed the damp cassock to one side his dark trousers and wet leather shoes showed beneath, revealing the human being behind the priestly trappings, making Katerina almost blush.
‘Today your kitchen takes me back to when I was a boy …’ he said, glancing over his cup at her. She said nothing but looked back at him, willing him to say more. ‘Something about the atmosphere in here takes me back to better times …’ He let out a sigh, put the cup down, reached for a cigarette and sat back in his chair. ‘I would often sit in the kitchen while my mother cooked. There were some good times when I was a boy …’ his eyes clouded over, ‘then sorrow came and wiped them all out …’ Katerina held her breath and waited for more.
8
Guernica, 1937
It was market day on that April morning in 1937. Bright green leaves were beginning to show on the oak trees and the spring air smelled sweet. The town’s main square was fu
ll of people. Local farmers brought their crops to sell and others came to buy or to look, or just for the outing. Market day in Guernica was considered something of a fiesta and everyone looked forward to it. Bernardino, along with his father, his mother, younger brother, older sister and his uncle the priest, Padre Javier, had all arrived early to help on the stall. At seventeen, Bernardino was already his father’s right hand.
‘Soon you will be able to take over, my son,’ he had told the boy as they heaved sacks of grain to the stall. ‘You will make a great farmer and perhaps make more of a success of it than I have.’
‘Father, you know that is not my wish,’ Bernardino said as he had done many times before. He knew that his father wanted nothing more than for him to become a farmer. Bernardino’s dream was to follow in his uncle’s footsteps to a life in the Church. His father, a socialist and a republican, was firmly opposed to his son’s wishes and the principles of Catholicism.
‘Religion is control, my son. You think the Church is not corrupt? Where do you think they get all their money from?’ he would repeat to Bernardino, looking at his wife and hoping for support. But she was conflicted. As much as she wanted to agree with her husband, she had been brought up a Catholic and found it hard to take a firm stance against the Church.
‘As you very well know there are some good priests too,’ she’d remind her husband, ‘and your brother Javier is one of them!’
‘Yes, Father!’ Bernardino would argue. ‘Why didn’t you discourage your brother from training for the priesthood if you are so against it?’
