by Lena Manta
The third girl was baptized Smaragda Kantardzis, and as soon as she arrived, everyone forgot about her. As if the baby understood she was an inconvenience, she decided to remind them of her presence as little as possible. She ate and slept, ate and slept. And if she hadn’t felt the milk flowing in her breasts, Kleoniki might have forgotten to feed her. Not that she didn’t love her third child, but she felt she was a burden, especially on Kleoniki’s soul. Anargyros had given up too, and hardly spoke to his wife. What made the biggest impression on her was that, even once the baby had grown a little, Anargyros didn’t touch Kleoniki in the evenings. Instead, he would lie down beside her and, in a few moments, begin to snore. Not that she missed it, but she’d been waiting for the moment when her husband would demand a fourth child in the hopes that it would be a boy.
Perhaps, she reasoned, Anargyros had no desire to touch her for fear the result would be another girl. Three were enough and more than enough. He must have made up his mind that he was unlucky, that the woman he’d married would never produce anything except girls, and so he preferred not to risk such humiliation again.
He had no other complaint, it was true. Kleoniki was a capable housewife and a worthy woman, calm and obedient; he never heard her raise her voice. She made no demands; she had no girlfriends except for Mrs. Marigo and her daughter, both of whom he trusted completely. As to the other subject, he simply had to accept his fate. In addition, he spent time at the brothels, and the truth was he enjoyed it more. Beautiful women, and their attractions in full view, unlike respectable women who even went to bed fully dressed. A prostitute was one thing; the mother of your children was another. A simple matter, the sorting out of things in Anargyros’s mind, and just as much in Kleoniki’s. Without ever discussing it, they became simply two housemates who were raising three children.
When, one day, her husband blocked their front door with a heavy chest, Kleoniki was disturbed, but she never interfered in his business.
“Why, my husband?” she asked him later, as they were eating.
“The times are difficult,” he answered her gloomily.
“What makes the times more difficult than they were before?” she insisted.
“What can I tell you to make you understand? Look after the household and the children, and don’t talk! Just put the chest there as soon as I leave, and ask who it is before you open the door.”
“But except for Mrs. Marigo and her daughter, who comes to our house?”
“I’m not talking about our people, woman. You don’t understand a thing! Whatever tradesman comes past, you have a bad habit of letting him in. Be more careful!”
“Do you know Mrs. Marigo’s niece?”
“Isn’t she a teacher at Zappeion? What about the girl?”
“Nothing—just that she told her aunt that the new government, the one with the Young Turks, has turned very wild. The schools are being watched—not just ours but the Bulgarian and the Serbian ones too. They want to make us all Turks or kill us off. They’re really wild, Anargyros, and treacherous! In the beginning, they pretended they wanted to treat us all fine and equal, and now that they’ve risen up in the world, they’re showing who they really are!”
Anargyros stared at his wife as if he were seeing her for the first time. It wasn’t what he was hearing—he was well aware of current events—but that Kleoniki had said it.
“And how do you know about the Young Turks?”
“Mrs. Marigo tells me.”
“And how does Mrs. Marigo find out about them?”
“From her husband, Anargyros.”
“And do you women talk about politics when you get together?”
“What politics, my husband? We talk about our lives, and we’re afraid! We have children, husbands who are going about the neighborhood all day. And isn’t that the reason you put the chest there? You’re afraid too. Evlampia, Mrs. Marigo’s niece, told us something else she’d found out. They say that the local policemen are forcing their way into houses and searching for weapons. Is that true, my husband?”
“It’s true, wife. Moisis told me. That’s why I’m telling you—be careful!”
“You too, Anargyros.”
If only the Greeks had known how to protect themselves. Their information came mostly in the form of rumors. The Greek newspapers tried to protect themselves and their journalists by maintaining a neutral position, but they felt the Turks breathing down their necks, on the lookout for the slightest misstep. Asia Minor had borne the heaviest burden. Vague reports spoke of the expulsion of Greeks from the region. Erythraia and many parts of Asia Minor, from Adramyttium to Myra, had been emptied of non-Turks. Even in places where the inhabitants hadn’t been driven out, nobody dared to leave their houses, not even to work in the fields. Everything stopped. Killings, pillaging, torture, and acts of terrorism became regular, everyday phenomena. There were widespread rumors of women and children being abducted. In Cesme and Karabournou, approximately seventy thousand Greeks were deported. The audacity of the Young Turks was evident in the newspapers they circulated in Smyrna, in which they claimed that the Greeks had emigrated but that their fortunes would naturally be safeguarded until they returned. Armed police but also mobs entered shops and houses and ordered people to hand over everything they had before driving them away with orders never to return.
A few months before the beginning of the First World War, the Ecumenical Patriarchate announced that the Orthodox Church was being expelled and closed all its churches and schools. The only ceremonies held were funerals, and even those were perfunctory. The protests to foreign representatives fell on deaf ears. The foreign powers couldn’t interfere in the “internal affairs” of Turkey. The war turned everything on its head. The campaign against the Greeks ended with the general mobilization of the Ottoman Empire.
Kleoniki couldn’t understand why or how, quite suddenly, her husband had softened. Anargyros, who didn’t like much coming and going, abruptly asked her to invite the neighbors for a gathering at the house. Kleoniki nearly jumped for joy and rolled up her sleeves, ready to officially host Mrs. Marigo’s whole family for the first time. Apart from her friend and her friend’s husband, Myronas, Kleoniki invited their daughter, Paraskevi, with her own husband, Meletis, and their daughter, who was the same age as Smaragda. Anargyros invited his friend Moisis and his wife, Simela.
That evening, while the women gathered to help the mistress of the house, the men sat together in the large sitting room to discuss what was going on around them. More and more, Anargyros felt the need to be surrounded by people; he felt safer like that. He wanted to talk to others rather than be afraid by himself. Naturally, the main subject of the evening was the war and the conscription of thousands of Constantinople Greeks.
“What we went through,” began Myronas, “to save my brother-in-law, you can’t imagine! Since he was a Turkish national, he had to go to the war.”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed Anargyros.
“Yes, indeed! Forty-five Turkish gold pounds is the buyout for every year the war continues. What could we do? We gave it to them.”
“And whoever couldn’t pay,” Moisis interjected, “is hiding. In Stavrodromi, they say, the draft dodgers hide in the roofs of the houses!”
“Roof brigades,” Myronas’s son-in-law, Meletis, added, making a pun on the Turkish name for them, and nobody could suppress a smile despite the tension.
“The truth is,” Anargyros continued, “that here in the city, we have fewer problems with the Turks.”
“But for how long?” Moisis asked him. “You know what our late, lamented Patriarch Joachim said about the Young Turks: ‘We have nothing to hope for from these people’s chauvinism. We must fight to keep this house’ . . . We all know what he meant. They won’t settle until they’ve gotten rid of all of us. And now, they’ve got the war as an excuse.”
“It’s true!” said Myronas, a cigarette in his mouth. “On the coast, they say, people are leaving. They’re heading o
ver to Chios and Lesbos. And not of their own free will. A cousin of mine who comes from there told me the Turkish irregulars burst into the houses and grab whatever they find, then they burn them! Fokea is deserted. My poor cousin got away safely with his heart in his mouth, and what he told me made my blood freeze. I tell you, terrible things are happening down there. The Young Turks have gotten into the local people’s heads, stirred them up. They use religion to turn them into fanatics, but plunder and rape is their real reward.”
The atmosphere became heavier. Kleoniki came in with a tray loaded with snacks to accompany the men’s ouzo. As she left, she saw the men, as if they were obeying a single order, raise their glasses and empty them with dark looks, then hurriedly refill them.
“There are moments,” Meletis said softly, “when I think about taking my family and leaving.”
“And where would you go, sir?” asked Moisis. “This is our place.”
“Is it, Moisis? Your place is where you live, raise children, work, and get ahead. Your place isn’t where you’re scared stiff about whether you’ll wake up, whether you’ll see your wife and child tortured before everything is destroyed by fanatical Turks who don’t think but just obey.”
The women came into the sitting room, and the men changed the subject, despite the fact they’d have liked to talk more. They all had the same need: to talk, to exorcise their fears. The interruption, though, was imperative. These weren’t things for women to hear and be terrified about. They sat down at the table to eat the tasty things Kleoniki had prepared, but together with the delicious smell of the food, the air carried young Meletis’s last remarks.
It was a great mystery to Kleoniki how the three children she had given birth to and who had been raised by the same parents could be so very different. Every year that passed brought a new surprise for her.
Dorothea had inherited only her mother’s outward appearance. Tall, brown haired, and plump, with very pale skin, she gave an impression of sweetness and calm, whereas in fact she was a difficult child. In front of her father, she was always obedient, but she opened her little mouth and talked back to her mother without regard for her mother’s heavy hand. Whatever she had to say, she said, and never mind the consequences.
Makrina, the opposite of her sister, was short and very thin. Her features were very similar to Anargyros’s, but despite that, you wouldn’t call her ugly. Her character remained a mystery to Kleoniki, who asked herself where her daughter had come from. Smiling and cheerful, with a song on her lips from the moment she woke in the morning, she never annoyed anyone, and her father may not have admitted it, but he had a weakness for her.
Smaragda was the greatest mystery to her parents as well as her sisters. Externally, she seemed to possess all the beauty Anargyros and Kleoniki had between them. She was tall—the tallest of the three, with a body that became firmer and more desirable as she grew, and with eyes that were at times honey colored, and at other moments the color of the copper her father worked. Her hair was light; she liked to drip lemon juice on it and sit in the sun so it would turn blond. Her skin was almost transparent, like the girl herself. Despite her perfect beauty, she went everywhere unnoticed. As she grew, they wondered if she had any substance, if she was some sort of spirit. She never complained; she did as her mother asked quickly, never making a mistake. The person who knew her best was a girl of the same age, Evanthia, granddaughter of Mrs. Marigo. They had grown up together since infancy. With Evanthia, Smaragda wasn’t ashamed or speechless or transparent. During the hours they spent together, the little girl revealed all the things she might have said the following day, which she would spend in silence.
The big surprise for Kleoniki was that one day—while the two older girls learned to embroider and knit with great difficulty—little Smaragda, seated beside them, taught herself very quickly with a leftover length of wool that had fallen on the floor. When Kleoniki saw her struggling with the crochet hook in her tiny hands, she stared in amazement. As if remembering the child, she moved closer and began to show her. Smaragda was so disturbed by the unexpected attention that at first she froze, but she soon began to soak up the lesson like a sponge. And while Dorothea sat complaining as she tried to do the basic stitches, and Makrina, simpering and laughing, tried to escape her chore, Kleoniki’s youngest, her Smaragda, patiently and persistently learned beside her. Smaragda stubbornly bit her lip and wrestled with thread, cloth, needles, and crochet hooks. In the same way, she learned her letters. Kleoniki had to fight with Anargyros for permission to teach her. She waited to catch him in a good mood before sharing Mrs. Marigo’s suggestion.
It rained heavily that evening, and Jemal came back early without having managed to sell all the goods. The muddy streets made walking difficult for the few people who were out, and they hurried home. Despite this, the day’s profit was very good because the Turkish boy had managed to sell the most expensive items he was carrying, and Anargyros was satisfied. He tidied up the shop and, although it was still early, left to go home. Something about the cold, the dreariness of the weather, and the rain that got heavier every hour made him hurry to reach its warmth and put on his slippers.
When Kleoniki greeted him, he was soaked to the bone. She scolded him. “Mercy! God-fearing creature! You’ll catch a chill, and then what will become of me? Didn’t you think to take an umbrella?”
She helped him to change and, for good measure, rubbed him with alcohol. Anargyros didn’t tell her, but he enjoyed her attentions as he’d loved his mother’s caresses. Warm and dry, he sat down to eat and smiled when he saw in front of him the bowl of delicious, meaty soup and beside it the platter with the meat and vegetables.
“Bravo, wife!” he said. “Just the thing for a day like this!”
Kleoniki blushed. Her husband almost never praised her, and every kind word from him was balm to her. Sitting opposite him to keep him company, Kleoniki felt that surely this was the ideal opportunity to speak to him. She let him swallow the first mouthfuls before she began.
“My husband, I want to tell you something, but first I’ll ask—would you like to hear this now, or would you prefer we discuss this later?” she began sheepishly.
“If you’re going to make me angry, neither now nor later!” he answered, swallowing a large spoonful of his soup.
“It’s nothing bad, my pasha, but I don’t know how you’ll take it.”
“Enough! Tell me, then, and we’ll see.”
“Mrs. Marigo’s niece Olympia, the one from Zappeion, said she could teach Evanthia to read.”
“So? What’s that got to do with us?”
“Well, the girl suggested that, since she’s coming to teach Evanthia, she could teach our girls too.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean ‘why,’ my husband? It’s good for them to learn something else. The times are changing. We don’t know what may happen to us. Let the girls learn their ABC’s at least. Look at me; I never even learned how to write my name properly. I don’t know how to read a newspaper or write a letter to my mother. And why would I write? How would she read it? Anyway—”
“Wife, learning lots of letters isn’t for women!”
“But I didn’t say lots, my husband . . . a few . . . just so they can sign their names. Besides, Olympia can only come for a few hours in the evening. I’m not talking about sending them to school.”
“I should hope not!” Anargyros snapped. “I won’t have my daughters sauntering around the streets like—”
“Stop, my pasha! Where is your mind going? I just said that, seeing as the girl is coming . . . What’s more, Anargyros, do you have anything to reproach Mrs. Marigo’s niece for? Isn’t she respectful and serious, despite the fact that she’s educated?”
“It’s true,” her husband admitted thoughtfully.
“You see? The girl teaches at Zappeion, and she tells us how much people respect the girls from good families who go there. They call them Zappies! And they say the school is a real palac
e. Such marble, such classrooms and offices for the teachers and the directors. She told us about it yesterday, and we all listened with our mouths open. Zappeion is a real jewel, she says. She also told us something else I didn’t understand.”
“What’s that?”
“That, for years now, the Zappeion has been declared on the same level as the Arsakeion school! That’s good, isn’t it, my bey?”
“Very good.”
“So, just think, our girls will have a young woman who teaches at such a school for their teacher! What do you say, husband? Will you give your permission?”
“Dammit, wife, you’ve got my head whirling like a top!” he said, pretending to scold her, but he already knew he’d accept. He saw nothing bad in his wife’s desire to educate their girls a little. Besides, Moisis’s daughter had a tutor coming to the house too.
Discerning the likelihood of a positive answer, Kleoniki wanted to make things more certain. She took her husband’s empty plate, and in a few minutes, a delicious piece of halva appeared, which she knew was his weakness, together with his coffee. She’d toasted pine nuts, which he loved, with the semolina, and the cinnamon sprinkled on top released its aroma to satisfy the sense of smell as well as sight. Anargyros looked at her happily, a hint of a smile on his face.
“It seems that you laid your plans carefully. All right, then! I give you permission. Starting tomorrow, the girls can begin to learn their letters.”
Kleoniki was so overjoyed she took his hand and kissed it, full of respect.
The lessons began, in fact, the next evening. It was decided that the Kantardzis house was the most convenient place for the lessons, since it was larger, and Kleoniki tried to transform the empty room behind the kitchen into a suitable classroom. This suited Anargyros, because then it wouldn’t be necessary for his girls to leave the house at all, especially in winter when it got dark early.
When the three girls found out about it, it was only Smaragda, the youngest, who showed any enthusiasm. The other two exchanged a look full of distaste, but they knew they couldn’t escape. Their mother was determined. They submitted to their fate, but from the beginning it appeared they had “no aptitude for learning,” as Miss Olympia said sadly. Dorothea was constantly glum and negative, and Makrina was much more interested in her teacher’s clothing than what she had to say. In contrast, Smaragda and Evanthia were attentive and studious. The conquest of reading was, for little Smaragda, the entrance to Paradise. It opened doors she could not have imagined. When her father left the house, she secretly opened his newspaper and tried to read it. She didn’t understand anything, but she persisted. Afterward, she took her workbook and copied down whole sentences for practice. That helped her very quickly to develop an even style of writing with round and legible letters. Naturally, the lessons were in Greek, but Olympia conscientiously taught them to read and write in Turkish too. Only in history was the whole lesson devoted to Greece and the achievements of their ancestors. It was the only hour when all of Olympia’s pupils were attentive; their interest in learning about their people comforted her, as did the performance of the two younger girls.
