The House on Paradise Street

by Sofka Zinovieff

  They gave me a week’s training and I was looked after by Storm, whose real name was Anastasia Alexiou. At twenty-four, she was the oldest woman in our division, and we showed her the respect we felt her age deserved. She was short and stocky, with the strength of two men and the determination of thirty.

  “Better one hour of freedom than forty years of slavery and prison,” she repeated as often as possible. “If they could fight and die for that in 1821, it’s good enough for me now.” We really did see ourselves as the descendants of the War of Independence. We felt we had wings. That is very pleasing to the young.

  Storm had killed a German soldier and for some strange reason, she had taken his trousers. Other people took guns, perhaps a watch, but Storm had removed the dead Nazi’s muddy khakis, taken up the hems and now wore them herself. We couldn’t understand her distasteful attachment to these spoils of war, but we had to admire her bravery and determination. Eventually, when she was ordered to remove the Nazi uniform, she folded up her trophy and carried it around in her knapsack, as though the trousers had become a lucky charm.

  My lucky charm was a rifle – a Mauser, given to me by Captain Eagle. I suppose it had come from a German too. I carried the gun with me all day and slept with it close at night, its metallic smell strangely soothing. Eagle was a fighter, a committed andártis with arms hard as iron. He had a set look to his face, but his brown eyes reminded me of a calf. I knew he liked me, though, of course, he could do nothing about it. It was all in the angle of a glance or the tone of voice, and he was kind to me. I have often thought about how things might have ended up, if we had lived in another place or time. At that point, love was an irrelevance to be put on hold until the world had changed. And the truth is that, even if we had been free, I was still thinking about Johnny. I never mentioned my Englishman – already there was a suspicion that the English were only in Greece for their own gain. But at night when I stood on guard, it was Johnny’s face I saw. And when we trudged through the snow, I imagined him warming my hands in his. I spoke English words over and over in my mind like incantations. “Freedom” seemed a different thing to “Eleftheria” – more theoretical, but equally profound. In my dreams I saw things I could not admit to myself.

  Most of the time, my girls’ platoon was far from the ambushes and skirmishes with the Germans, though the threat was always there. Our main task was going to the villages, persuading people to join our movement and organising cultural performances, with songs, dances and small theatre pieces. We were “preparing the ground” so that once the war ended the people could run their own lives. Laokratia. Rule by the people. Women alongside men. Liberty would bring equality. Laokratia – in “our” villages, our banners proclaimed it with bright red paint on old sheets, hung from bedroom windows as they used to do with bridal sheets the morning after, as proof of virginity.

  “Justice is in your hands now,” we explained. We helped them set up people’s courts, organised classes for adult literacy and opened schools that had been closed and, had never taught children beyond the age of twelve. I realised for the first time how people lived in the villages, where hunger and isolation kept them weak and oppressed, and where the man of the house was a dictator. Girls and women were finally throwing down their headscarves and walking with heads uncovered.

  Our “government of the mountains” was ushering in a new era of justice and hope.

  The physical side of life was hard. I don’t remember ever having enough sleep or being completely dry. We were continually drenched, marching through streams, sleeping outside. When we lit fires, we gave off steam. Our legs were red and sore from the rough woollen trousers, but when we could, we’d take them off at night and press them under our packs so they’d get creases. We were still women. We cared about our appearance. And at our time of the month, we just had to cope. We washed our towels in the rivers – we always kept clean. And when we had no toothpaste, we used charcoal from the fire to clean our teeth. As to our hair, we tied it in plaits, and made a promise to each other to leave it uncut until we were rid of the occupiers.

  * * *

  After my training was over and I had learned something about life in the mountains, Storm and I were instructed to take some supplies and a message to a camp high up on Mount Iti. It was early spring and down in the valley the blossom was out. At the last minute, Captain Eagle told Markos to go with us as a guide, and it was lucky he did, as I don’t think we would have found the place otherwise. Markos was also the only one who could keep our mule going. Storm started out by teasing me and my brother for being “bourgeois butter-babies” who wouldn’t have known the mule’s arse from its face if she hadn’t been there to help. But she had to eat her words when, half-way up the mountain, the mule refused to budge. It just stopped and stared at us as though it had had enough and whatever Storm or I did, we couldn’t change its mind. Strangely, though, Markos spoke to it, as if he was explaining something to a child, and stroked its neck. Gradually we realised it was going to move for him and it did. After that the animal would only proceed for Markos, who patted and praised it as we walked up towards the sky above the clouds. My brother was a privileged city boy, but he had absorbed the practical skills of a villager – he knew how to make things, how to chop wood or help with the animals. I saw Storm’s attitude change along with the mule’s, as Markos won them over.

  It was night when we reached the cave. It had been used as a hide-out since the Turkish occupation, and probably ever since men had first needed to disappear from the authorities. We saw flickering flames from the darkness within and, tethering our mule to the other animals near the entrance, we made our way in. We were like Odysseus’ men entering the Cyclops’ lair – in this case, a large rocky chamber, lit by a few oil lamps and a fire. A hefty, wild-eyed Kapetánios known as Jason greeted us.

  “Welcome, comrades! We’re expecting you.” He opened his arms as though this was his palace and he was the pashá. “Come and get warm, and then we’ll feed you.” About twenty-five bearded men were sprawled around a blazing fire, while others lay on make-shift beds of branches and leaves or sat cleaning their guns. They were dressed in a bizarre mix of clothes that included the official ELAS uniform, but also items acquired from Italians. Some men were dressed like the old klepht brigands, in the foustanélla. These kilts had 400 pleats to mark each year of slavery under the Turks. There was also a priest, his black robes spattered with mud and crossed with a double bandolier of bullets beneath a wooden crucifix. Of all the partisans in the cave, Papakarabinas was the most imposing. Father Rifle had a sonorous voice and slow-moving eyes that seemed to read your mind. He wore a stovepipe hat but kept a cutlass in his belt. Though I later heard him preach God’s love, it was clear that God meant us to kill Germans however we could.

  As we went towards the fire, two men rose to greet us. The first was Uncle Diamantis, who took me and Markos in his arms. He quickly wiped his eyes to prevent anyone seeing his tears of pleasure – despite his theoretical principles and belief in control, he was an emotional man who was quick to cry or be overwhelmed by anger. Beyond him I saw the other man, wrapped in a long cloak. It was his movement and the apologetic hunch of the shoulders that helped me recognise him– a loping movement of loosely jointed limbs.

  “Antigone! Markos!” The voice was unmistakable and, when our uncle released us, Johnny took our hands, then changed his mind and embraced us in turn. Numerous pairs of eyes were on this unlikely reunion. As Johnny’s dark-blonde beard rubbed against my face I thought I might faint. Perhaps it was the warmth of the cave after the cold outside. Luckily Johnny and Markos started asking each other questions, the andártes became animated and Kapetan Iasonas ordered a bottle of tsípouro to be passed around in celebration. We all took swigs of the burning spirit, and my shock was lost in the confusion and darkness. My uncle made a toast to the brave Greeks who were living on the mountain where Achilles was born. This was where klephts had hidden from the Turks and where history was on
ce more being made.

  When we had eaten there was music and singing – they had a couple of instruments. When the men began to dance, Markos pulled me and Johnny up and we joined them, making our way around the fire. Johnny stumbled as he tried to make up the steps and our boots pounded on the earth floor. Afterwards, when there were some quieter songs, Markos and I sat with Johnny and Uncle Diamantis and talked. Our clothes dried and our faces reddened from the fire. They were both there to prepare for an operation against a German convoy down in the valley. Negotiations were taking place. Johnny said, “The Nazis are finished and they know it. It’s just a matter of time now and they’ll be gone.”

  Uncle Diamantis rubbed the stumps of his missing fingers. He said, “He’s right. The Germans will go, and then the English must leave us to our own freedom.” He patted Johnny a little too heavily on the shoulder, and addressed Markos and me. “This young man is a good person. I know he gave you culture and education when you were young. But he must tell his people that the time has come to let us Greeks make our own future without interference. We don’t want any more of their kings and we don’t want to be an English colony. He’s a good man, but he and his people must let us run our country.” Johnny looked ill-at-ease, nodding and half-agreeing. “We’ll soon be off,” he said, managing a short laugh. Then he changed the subject, turning to mythology. Here we were up on Mount Iti, which was not only Achilles’ patch but the place where Hercules died, he said. After all his struggles, the strong man of myth had submitted, gathering trees and building his own funeral pyre. When he was ready, he had placed his lion’s skin over his body, laid his head on his club and commanded Philoctetes to light the fire.

  When Johnny thought the three of us were no longer being closely scrutinised, he told us in English that we had made a mistake by joining ELAS, that we had “backed the wrong horse”. Naturally, we were right to resist, “but not with the communists. You won’t get anywhere with them.” Markos grew angry. He asked Johnny, “So what are you doing here?” We began to get a sense of the “English games” that the andártes had told us about – how, while we were trying to build a new society, they always felt they knew better.

  Johnny said, “I’m on your side. I only want the best for you and Greece. I know the problems your kings have brought – of course there should be a referendum. But you won’t succeed with the Stalinists.” We asked him many questions and most of his answers have faded, though I will never forget how strange it was to hear his description of his recent stay in Egypt. The glamour of cocktails at the officers’ club, men in white uniforms and beautiful women in evening gowns. We heard about boat trips on the Nile, rumours, spies. I was like a child listening to a fairy story. There, in the darkness of the cave, with its strong aroma of unwashed men, horses and smoke, these images were scarcely credible.

  Before we settled down for the night, I went out of the cave and walked a little way to relieve myself. The clouds had cleared and the sky was bright with stars. The still, cold silence was overwhelmingly beautiful, as though the world had been left behind. When I went back, I saw Johnny and Markos standing by the entrance. Johnny had his arm around my brother’s shoulder. Then he held out his hand, gesturing at me and murmuring in English:

  “And the beautiful sister, the warrior Antigone.” By the time we went in again, most of the men had lain down and there was already some of the snoring and grunting that continued through the night. I lay back-to-back with Storm – it was the usual way of keeping warm – and Markos did the same with Johnny, whose eyes I spotted wide open and thoughtful in the darkness. It was a strange night, where my happiness at finding myself with the man I had longed for was countered by misgivings about what he had told us. As though to bring me down to earth, we all became infested with fleas, and by morning I was covered with small, intensely itchy bumps.

  My memories return like snapshots – isolated scenes, though the faces are often missing. I can’t properly remember what my brother looked like. I know he smiled a lot, but I can’t picture his features. Two days later, Markos left with most of the men to set up the ambush and Johnny made his own way – he didn’t say where he was heading. Storm and I stayed in the cave with a wounded man who couldn’t walk. We tried to make ourselves useful; we darned socks, cooked bean soup and tidied the branches into bed-shaped piles. There was nothing else to do except pick fleas from our clothes and throw them to crackle in the fire. I felt bereft.

  After the ambush, in which four Germans were killed and several vehicles destroyed, Storm and I were due to meet our platoon in Perivoli. My father’s birthplace was part of the cultural programme that had been set in motion, with a view to improving the deprivations of village life. We had staged theatre performances there and the villagers’ people’s court had been very successful. It was a still, hazy dusk when we approached Perivoli and even before we saw anything we smelled the stink. However, we didn’t notice the last plumes of smoke that were still twisting up skywards until we were close enough to see the horror. The whole village had been destroyed. The houses were blackened ruins with collapsed roofs. The streets were covered in ash. An old woman came up to us moaning in shock, her face filthy with soot.

  “The Germans came just after dawn.” She said she had been on the hill with her sheep. She watched it all. She could do nothing.

  “First they took the men and shot them. Afterwards they put whoever they found inside the school.” We trudged with her through the charred rubble to the main square. A few bodies lay in the street, but there was a sinister silence – the pile of smoking stones and timbers which had been a school was filled with dead villagers. The murder location became a funeral pyre. Easy revenge for the ambush the day before.

  I felt utterly helpless in the face of the atrocity. Even Storm appeared paralysed, and she had developed a thick skin from witnessing death in many forms. We sat on a wall and smoked in silence. Then Storm shook herself into movement and addressed me formally as though she was giving orders to dismantle camp.

  “Kapetanissa Victory, we will search for survivors. After that, we’ll gather up the dead and wait for the rest of our platoon.” We didn’t find anyone alive apart from the old woman. Those who had escaped were up in the hills. Some returned the next day and moved about like ghosts, unable even to grieve properly. The tragedy was too great.

  Storm and I allocated an area near the destroyed school for laying out the bodies and we carried the murdered villagers there. My nostrils filled with ash and the awful stench of scorched flesh. Many of the blackened corpses were people I had known since childhood, though I was unable to identify most of them. The only thing that made it possible for me to carry out the job without breaking down was the hatred I felt against those who had perpetrated the atrocity. It brought an element of coldness to my panic. In one house we found a mother with four children, all of whom had been shot, except the baby, whose head was smashed against the wall. His brains were spilt on the floor. His woollen booties had come off and I put them back on his feet and swaddled him in a rug. That is something you can never forget. Or forgive.

  My clothes and hair became impregnated with the stink of smoke and burnt bodies and I couldn’t get rid of it for weeks. After some days, I washed my hair, but our thick woollen uniforms were too heavy to wash and dry in the cold winter weather, during constant changes of camp. Every time I lay down to sleep I felt nauseous from the lingering smell of people burnt to death.

  Our platoon arrived with some of the men from the cave, including Father Rifle. Storm took charge of our girls, forbidding them to give in to their emotions.

  “You are fighters,” she shouted. “Now let’s get on with it.” So we spent our time burying the people of Perivoli. We carried them to the cemetery and dug graves, though the bodies from the school were in such a bad state we placed them in one pit. The roots from a row of cypresses made it hard to extract the earth, but they stood by like dark guards of mourning. Father Rifle performed brief funerary
rites – nobody had the heart for more. The subdued ceremonies were nothing like the funerals for andártes, where we had sung the Internationale, wrapped the body in a Greek flag and fired a gun in the air.

  During the quiet after the warrior-priest’s chanting, I heard a noise coming from inside the ossuary – a moaning like an animal in pain. I opened the wooden door and saw someone curled up on the floor. She was emitting awful sounds. I thought it was an old woman – her hair was grey and matted and she was filthy. But then I saw it was Chryssa. Her fair hair was covered with soot. Initially I imagined she was wounded, but we found no injury. The damage was emotional. She was unable to speak or fully understand what we were saying, but we discovered later that her entire family had been killed. Her brothers, Panayiotis and Theodoros, had been taken off with their father and shot. Her mother had been burnt alive in the school with the others. We never found out exactly how Chryssa had escaped – her family’s house was now little more than four blackened walls. Some of the girls made her mountain tea and wrapped her in blankets, and while we buried the dead, golden-haired Chryssa lay in the ossuary among piles of boxes filled with the bones of her forebears.

  The following day Markos arrived with more men. He was so shocked he could not speak. I saw him leaning against the gaping mouth that had been Chryssa’s front door, trying not to let anyone see that he had vomited. Before we left Perivoli, Markos made me promise that one day we would rebuild our house there and that wherever he died, he should be buried in the village or at least end up in the ossuary. I would break both promises. Perivoli became one more name on the list of places that were annihilated – the hundreds of villages torched and ransacked, their ruins inhabited by grieving, black-ragged survivors.