by Nadia Marks
‘You are not going to die!’ Rosaria said, turning around to look at her aunt. ‘You are going to England!’
‘Yes, it’s true,’ Philomena replied with a smile. ‘You’re right, cara mia, I’m not going to die; I’m much better now. Don’t worry, I’m not going to die, not yet anyway, but I’m not going to England either. I thank you for even thinking about me, but I must stay.’
‘Why?’ Alexis and Rosaria said in unison.
‘First of all I can’t believe for a moment that you will get permission for all of us to come with you, my son, but even if you did I must stay.’ And wiping her eyes with a big white handkerchief she turned to Rosaria. ‘What about your uncle, tesoro? What if he is still alive?’
There had been no word from Philomena’s husband, not since they left the village for Naples, and although it was not confirmed, everyone, apart from her, presumed him killed in action.
‘I will go to the north where his family lives; if he is alive they will help me find him. I can’t leave, cara . . .’ she continued. ‘Besides, I want to stay, I still have much to do.’
‘You can’t stay here!’ Rosaria burst out.
‘Who said I’m going to stay here? I shall go to Bologna where your uncle’s sister lives. She’ll take me in, I know, she is a good woman.’
‘What about Alfonso and Salvatore and the rest of them?’
‘I’m not frightened of those sons of the devil! Without you two girls to worry about I can more than handle them. Don’t you worry about me, cara mia. Besides, the minute you all leave I will disappear too.’
Philomena was adamant that she would not go with them, but she was even more adamant that Alexis should go ahead with his plan.
‘I have to stay,’ her aunt told Rosaria. ‘But you and Sofia, you both deserve a life away from this godforsaken place.’
Alexis thought hard about what he would say to his commanding officer. He had to be strong, he had to have faith and believe that although what he was doing was wrong, it was also right, and the only thing to do.
Shortly before his appointment with the Colonel, excited and nervous at the prospect of the meeting, Alexis went to visit Rosaria and Philomena. Both were in a terrible state of distress. Little Sofia had been taken ill. What had at first appeared to be the same virus that a few months previously had attacked Philomena had now turned into something extremely nasty.
‘She is delirious,’ Rosaria said, running into Alexis’s arms as soon as she saw him. ‘She is burning up and we don’t know what to do with her.’
‘Why didn’t you send for me?’ he asked, rushing to see the girl.
‘We didn’t want to bother you. We thought she would get better soon.’
But young Sofia had a delicate constitution and was prone to poor health, and her condition rapidly deteriorated.
Alexis rallied round, anxious to help. But as bad luck would have it, Sofia’s illness coincided with Alfonso’s visit to Naples so he had no option but to keep well away from them. All Alexis could do was hope to God that Alfonso would do the decent thing and provide the much-needed penicillin that he and the rest of his family were still trading on the black market.
To everyone’s relief, Alfonso did provide the penicillin, but what none of them realized was that the drug was worse than useless due to the Camorra’s habit of diluting it in order to sell more. The weak penicillin had no effect and Sofia’s condition, instead of improving, went from bad to worse. By the time Alfonso left and Alexis was able to get back to them, the girl was already in the grips of typhus. There was nothing he or anyone could do for her.
They buried her fragile little body in the village cemetery, next to her father, brother and two uncles. Philomena and Rosaria stood clinging to each other in grief and disbelief along with Alexis and a few people who still lived there. Luisa was absent, which was probably just as well, because her sister and her daughter would not have been responsible for their actions if they’d seen her.
In the four years since she’d left the village, Rosaria had dreamt endlessly of the time she would return, but she had never imagined she would be coming back with her baby sister in a coffin. Nothing was as she had left it. Their house was a pile of rubble, and the village square a bomb site. The village, by then, had been ripped apart not only by the war, but also by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius the previous year which had completed its destruction. There was nothing to keep Rosaria or Philomena there any more; their dream of ever returning had been destroyed.
The loss of Sofia was a heavy blow, one she had never anticipated. Her grief was boundless. She had feared for her sister’s safety and virginity, but not for her life. That was not how she’d hoped their sad little story would end. The two sisters had been through hell, and then, Alexis came along to give them hope, and a vision for a future.
Philomena was no less grief-stricken by little Sofia’s death, but she was determined to keep her focus and concentrate on Rosaria. She had lost one girl in circumstances beyond her control but the other had a chance, and she was going to try and save her no matter what it took. In her grief Rosaria was beginning to doubt Alexis’s plan. Philomena had to keep a cool head for both of them. It was now or never. Alexis had to put his plan into action and marry Rosaria as soon as possible. The fraudulent marriage was her passport to freedom, and her only chance of happiness.
‘Listen to me, Rosaria,’ Philomena told her niece when she started to voice a reluctance about leaving. ‘Sofia has been taken away from us before her time, we can’t do anything about it apart from mourn her; but we can do something about you! You love Alexis and he loves you. You have nothing to stay for in this hell hole any more. Don’t throw away your one chance of happiness, tesoro, it would be a crime, and if you stay, that would kill me.’
Part Four
Love on a Greek island, 1945
1
Ourania liked to be up with the dawn; she always wanted to make an early start for school. Besides, she had much to do before leaving the house. The two sisters kept the school going, despite all the obstacles. Apart from Calliope and Aunt Aphrodite, the rest of the house was still fast asleep and silent.
Ourania always helped Calliope get washed and dressed first, before attending to her own ablutions, while her aunt made coffee and laid out some bread and olives for the three of them. She too liked to start her day before everyone else was up.
Spring came early that year. By May the countryside was a carpet of wild flowers, and yellow daisies lined the ditch along the dirt road to school. Sometimes Ourania loved to take the shortcut through the fields. It was harder pushing Calliope’s chair over the rough path but she didn’t mind, it was so lovely, and she could pick some flowers on the way, which she liked to keep in a jar on her desk in the schoolhouse. Anemones were her favourite. If she was lucky there’d still be some left, and if they were very lucky they wouldn’t meet any Germans along the way.
That morning was like any other; the two sisters and their aunt had breakfast as usual, while outside a pair of swallows darted in and out of the nest under the kitchen window. Dawn was coming much earlier now and the sun in the east had made the milky sky blush a rosy pink. Nothing seemed to stir outside, not even the early morning breeze.
The sound reached Ourania’s ears when she stepped into the yard to feed Kotoula. It came from some distance away, muted and muffled at first, and she thought she must have imagined it. But in no time at all it became louder and louder, picking up momentum and echoing across the village. Ourania stood rooted to the spot, listening but not believing. It had been years since she, or anyone else, had heard it. The bells of the old church Agias Ekaterinis on the other side of the village were once again ringing loud and clear, with all their might and strength. They pealed with joy and jubilation as if the Resurrection of the Lord was being announced, as if the victory of life over death was being heralded. The last time anyone heard them resonate like that in the village was on the Easter Sunday before the Germans
arrived. But Easter had already come and gone, and the village church bells hadn’t sounded like that, not for three years.
Flustered, Ourania dropped the chicken feed and ran back into the kitchen to find Aphrodite and Calliope also in a state of shock.
‘You know what this means?’ Aphrodite gasped.
‘I don’t dare think of it!’ Ourania replied, blood draining from her cheeks.
‘They are leaving! Finally, they must be going!’ Calliope shouted and tried to get out of her wheelchair. ‘Oh, how I wish I could jump for joy,’ she said, falling back, just as the excitable screams of Kyria Maritsa from down the street ricocheted through the air.
‘The Germans have gone! The Germans have gone!’ she screamed, as she ran into the street.
It was true. The occupiers had finally left as abruptly as they had arrived. They disappeared in the night, taking their motorbikes, trucks and guns, leaving behind only debris and mess. It took everyone weeks of scrubbing to eradicate what Andrikos called ‘that filthy German stench’ from their house, but the exodus was marked with the biggest celebration the island had ever seen. Every village and every town rejoiced in the way they used to do at weddings and feasts in the days before the war. Even if food was still in short supply, large quantities of homemade alcohol more than made up for it, and for three days and nights, the whole island pulsated with dancing and singing and undulated with the blue and white Greek flags that hung from every balcony, every window, every telegraph pole and tree on the island.
Over the next few months things gradually started to normalize again. The men returned to their fishing and the women tried to make their homes their own once more. Everyone lamented the lost lives and aftermath of war but were happy and relieved to welcome back those who survived it. Among the lucky ones was the young teacher eager to take up his post at the village school again.
The Academy in Lesbos had also resumed normal function and Ourania started to prepare for her return. This time her excitement was doubled; Calliope would be coming with her, and Michalis, who was back from the front, would be returning to his studies too. The two sisters were full of anticipation, a new chapter in their life was about to begin. Once they received their diploma, their dream for a new school to accommodate the older children in the village would be within reach.
‘I’m so happy you will finally meet Michalis,’ Ourania told Calliope as they packed their trunk in preparation for their journey to Lesbos. ‘I wonder what effect the war has had on him? I wonder if it’s changed him at all?’
‘The war has changed us all, Ourania mou,’ Calliope replied. ‘It would be a miracle if he hasn’t been affected too.’
Through the years of separation Ourania and Michalis had managed to keep in touch by writing to each other. His letters, even if they were few and far between, always reached her. She wrote to him regularly and conscientiously, even if there was no guarantee he’d receive any of her letters.
Each time Ourania went to the post office to collect a letter from Michalis, she felt a tightening in her heart. The memory of Alexis and those letters of long ago reproached her, and made her ache for him. Not that she didn’t care for Michalis, or that she was not glad to receive his news. On the contrary, she cared deeply for him and was genuinely looking forward to the day they would be together again. But by now Ourania had become resigned to the fact that no matter how many years had passed, or were still to come, Alexis would always be the love of her life.
Preparations were underway for the girls’ imminent departure to Lesbos and unlike the last time, Chrisoula was not making herself sick with worry about sending her daughters away.
‘Ourania is such a good girl,’ she told her husband, trying her best to keep calm, ‘I know she will take care of her sister.’
Calliope, full of anticipation, couldn’t wait for her new adventure.
‘You will love everyone,’ Ourania told her. ‘Kyria Ismini is just like mother, a bit of a task master but a very good cook and she means well. And Thalia, oh! She’s wonderful! You’ll love her too, and the other girls, they are such fun, and all my friends at the Academy . . .’ Ourania’s cheeks were flushed with excitement.
‘And?’ Calliope said, giving her sister a playful nudge, ‘. . . haven’t you forgotten someone? How about Michalis, isn’t he wonderful too?’
‘Of course, Calliope mou, Michalis too! I’m so looking forward to introducing you to him. He is fiercely intelligent! When he talks you can’t help but listen. You will have never heard anyone speak with such passion about the things he believes in, but not only that, he’s a gentle soul too. You’ll see, you’ll really like him and we’ll all get on famously together.’
A few days before the girls were due to leave, Andrikos and Chrisoula decided they wanted to send their daughters off with a festive farewell. Family and friends would all be invited. It would be the first proper family celebration and gathering since the war began.
Costandis and Andrikos had made a good catch that day. Usually on such occasions it was customary to roast a whole lamb or goat on a spit, but with livestock still in short supply, their feast that day was going to be an offering from the sea. Most of the women were busy preparing the rich and varied selection of fish that was brought into the house by the men, while Ourania was outside in charge of the tables. In the kitchen the fish was laid out on slabs of ice, while Chrisoula was busy giving instructions on how each dish was going to be cooked. There was octopus and red mullet, calamari and sardines, all so fresh; the whole kitchen smelled of the Aegean.
Outside, trestle tables were lined up under the lemon and mandarin trees in a row that stretched across the entire length of the back yard.
There would be thirty guests in all, and Ourania was busy working out the seating arrangements, making sure there were enough chairs to accommodate everyone. She was deep in contemplation, counting out knives, forks and plates, when all of a sudden, someone sneaked up from behind and, catching her unaware, covered her eyes with their hands. Startled, she screamed and dropped the handful of cutlery she was holding, scattering it all over the dusty ground.
‘Stop that, Stratos!’ she snapped, trying to pull his hands away, thinking it was one of the younger cousins playing around. ‘I don’t have time for games now.’
‘You guessed incorrectly!’ a man’s voice breathed in her ear, and swiftly swung her around to face him. Flustered, Ourania stumbled, and then regaining her balance she stared in disbelief at the man standing just inches away, his hands around her waist.
She almost didn’t recognize him. Dressed in civilian clothes, and looking smarter than ever, positively handsome in a dark blue suit, white shirt and tie, and a huge smile across his beaming face, stood Michalis.
‘A nice surprise?’ he asked, taking hold of her hands and stepping back a little to look at her. Suddenly he looked nervous. ‘Did I scare you?’ he asked, searching her face for clues.
‘Oh no! No, Michalis!’ she cried out and fell into his arms, ‘It’s a beautiful surprise! When did you come . . . how . . . why?’ she blurted out and then stopped in case he imagined she was less than delighted to see him. ‘I mean, I’m glad you are here, but in three days I would have been with you, in Lesbos.’
‘I know, Ourania mou, I know, but I couldn’t wait any longer,’ he said, lifting her hands to his lips and kissing them. ‘Three years is long enough. Besides, I had to come. I’ve come to ask your parents if they would let you be my wife . . . will you still have me, Ourania? Will you still be my bride?’
So, on a warm September day when the grapes hung heavy on the vine and the wheat in the fields was as yellow as the midsummer sun, Andrikos and Chrisoula agreed to give their eldest daughter to Michalis, who in return promised to love, cherish and take good care of her for as long as he lived. With no time to lose, the priest was summoned to the house to conduct the official religious ceremony that sanctified the couple’s union in the eyes of God. Michalis had brought with him two gold
bands, the aravones, which had to be blessed by the priest and placed on the third finger of their left hands to signify a promise of matrimony and their commitment to each other and their families. The aravones would stay there until the wedding ceremony when they’d be removed, blessed again, and placed this time on the same finger of the right hand, where they would be expected to stay for ever. Many tears of joy were shed for the couple’s happiness, especially by Andrikos and Chrisoula who had given up hope that their eldest daughter would ever agree to marriage. Aphrodite too shed tears of joy and gratitude. The burden of the secret she had been carrying for so long was a heavy one and she had feared that Ourania’s love for Alexis would prevent her from ever finding a match or happiness in her life.
Over the years Aphrodite thought a great deal about the love between her son and her niece. Although she could never condone it, she was filled with sorrow for the young couple’s fate. The accident of their birth was not their fault, yet it tore them apart and separated her from her only child. She missed Alexis more than she could ever speak of, and not a day went by that she didn’t pray for his safety, or light a candle in his name. Through his letters she knew that her son had been a lost soul and unhappy for years, so when he wrote to tell her that he had finally found love again and was going to marry Rosaria, she thanked God and wished the same for her niece. Now that finally Ourania too had found love, all she asked from the Panayia was that some day Alexis would be returned to her.
So on that day, what had begun as a farewell gathering for thirty people in the back yard, turned into the betrothal celebration of Michalis and Ourania, held in the village square, and all were invited. After the blessing, tables and chairs were quickly arranged in the square to accommodate everybody, and each household, along with the baker, the butcher and the greengrocer, rushed away to prepare whatever they could find in way of contribution to the feast. Once again, for the second time in six months, the village was going to enjoy the kind of festivity they had missed during the years of German occupation and they celebrated with food, drink, song and dance well into the warm autumn night.
