Orthokostá (31 page)

Ah, those villagers from Tsíveri!
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If a lemon tree wouldn't come up, they'd go plant onions.

I knew Athens. For four years, while Márkos was a student, I would come there often. I would go to my uncle Kóstas Verétsos, my father's first cousin. He had a shop at 93 Aiólou Street. He sold men's clothing. Socks and the like. He says, Where's your uncle the doctor? My uncle the doctor had left. He says, Go to the Red Cross, where they told you to go. I went to the Red Cross. They put us in a school in Pláka.
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All of us girls who'd been in Haïdári. We each had a cot. They would give us milk, hot chocolate. They'd give us bread. Bread in those days. We'd go outside, and they'd offer us a sovereign for each loaf of bread. I left Pláka after a few days. I went to my aunt, Yiannoúla Ioannítzis. At 18 Notará Street. Or was it 20? I stayed there, I'd help my cousin Christina. I knew about men's shirts. I'd unstitched one of Márkos's shirts and made a pattern from it. I didn't know much but I learned. Loukía was working at Kaloyiánnis's shop. On the corner of Emmanuel Benáki and Stadíou Streets, back then. We'd go there and pick up a dress or two in the latest style. Christina was an accomplished seamstress. And I was pretty good at it too. I started sewing in people's homes. The woman from Xylókastro I was with in Haïdári—her sister. She'd been adopted by an aunt, a rich aunt. She lived near the museum, on Bouboulínas Street. They'd have me at their house to sew something for them, and my wages were two cans of food. That lady wore her hair high in a bun, and rings on her hands, and she had got her adopted daughter engaged to a naval officer. I was impressed by his uniform, I'd seen it hanging in the closet. Back then he really stood out because there was no navy. I'd work in people's homes, and
in the evening I'd go back to Aunt Yiannoúla's. But it had already become like a barracks. Rodópi Ioannítzis had come, and Lítsa, and maybe Loúrdos's wife Evyenía was there too. So many people. And they went through a lot, those folks. Take Loúrdos himself. He had brought oil from Astros. And that was quite something, but we all slept crowded one next to the other. The apartment was on the ground floor. It belonged to Zonar's,
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and that artist Alex lived above it. He had married Zonar's daughter, and there was also an M.P. living there. They had a piece of property on Spýrou Dontá Street. Not anything much, I mean, just an abandoned old room. It had a bathroom, it had once been used as a small kafeneío. I don't remember if it had a kitchen. We found Andréas Athanasíou, he was staying at his aunt Aspasía's in Kolonáki. His father's first cousin, from Epirus. And Ismíni. They were living there, and we'd meet. Every day at noon we'd go to a taverna called Anoúsi. The owner was from Ayios Pétros. Andréas would bring a sausage, I'd bring my food from Pláka, I was still getting rations, and we'd eat. Márkos too. So let me tell you. Márkos says, Let's go live at Ioánnou's place. Ioánnou was the one who had the property on Spýrou Dontá Street. He let us stay there free of charge. So I took the cot I was sleeping on at the shelter, at the school. I took it on my shoulders and I carried it to Spýrou Dontá Street. Off Makriyiánni Street, after Syngroú Avenue. At the Makriyiánni gendarmes station, just below it. I took two cots. One for each end of the room. With the door in between. Márkos and I slept there. I went to Notará Street, to Christina's, four times a day. On foot. I went and helped her with her sewing, she paid me. And I'd go back there, and we'd sleep. And we had a kerosene lamp, a gas burner, and Andréas gave us a can of olive oil. He owed it to us at any rate, and he gave it to us. Up until December. When the December Uprising started I was at Aunt Yiannoúla's. On a Saturday, I think. Or Sunday. Márkos had come down from Kifisiá to listen to Papandréou speak at Syntagma Square.
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And he comes and tells me, There's an uprising. We took—or rather I'd taken—two or three loaves of bread from the shelter. I left one at Aunt Yiannoúla's. Back then we had net bags, not plastic ones. I put the two loaves in the net bag, and we left. To go to
Spýrou Dontá Street, to spend the night. By the time we reached Stournára Street the gunfire was under way. And I'd keep my hands held high, with the net bag visible, hands up high, keep them up. And the net bag swinging, back and forth like this. I'd press myself against one wall after another, and how I escaped being shot, I don't know. We went into a basement, through a trapdoor. From there we went to the cathedral. But we couldn't get through. They had started fighting on Makriyiánni Street. I don't remember if we went back. Or if we got there. But we stayed on there, in that room, until Márkos left. They drafted him. He left, and I was left alone. There was a family from Ileía living next door. The Papakonstantínous. A mother and two sons. There was no father. Both lawyers. The two sons. The younger one had a motorcycle. He was a wintertime bather. He'd go swimming and come back. On his motorcycle. Someone who made car upholsteries lived across from me. Lálos. The house is still there. Small world. I asked a koumbára of my husband's niece about them last year. At any rate. She knows them, they're still there. At night alarms would go off, mortar shells would fall, and all of us, the whole neighborhood, would go to his basement. There were no apartment buildings yet. I was there alone, Márkos had been drafted then, but I knew where he was. So I'd take some bean soup, and Ismíni would come with me, and we'd go and find him. Once we met him on Akominátou Street. I saw houses that had been broken into there, with furniture and various household utensils scattered about upstairs. Imagine if the army were to get in there. At Christmastime, I don't know why, there was a cease-fire every day around noon. Twelve to two. I'd managed to get myself five or six passes. There were passes in those days. Back then Maíri Iatrídis, Mítsos Iatrídis's sister, was still alive. She used to come and vacation in the summer at Kastrí. We'd go together to Christina's, we were apprenticing as seamstresses. I had gotten a pass for her neighborhood. A pass for Pláka and one for Exárheia.
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I don't know how I managed it, maybe the police looked on us with a kind eye. I don't know. I'd be stocking up on food. Stocking up wherever I could, and I'd go to Márkos's place and he'd give us a dab of margarine, and some hard-baked bread. I'd go with Ismíni. On
Christmas Day Aunt Yiannoúla called me—Yiórgos Ioannítzis had been drafted too. Márkos Ioannítzis's brother. He'd been drafted and he was a guard on Heródou Attikoú Street at the palace. I went and saw him and he gave me a can of food. He was an officer. What did I take him? He gave me a can with potatoes, beans, and a piece of meat. I don't remember if I took him something or what it was. He told me, You're too thin. Maybe I took him matches because he smoked a pipe. I was tall and slim. Too thin. I remember him. Maybe I went to see him twice. He gave me that can of food and I took it to Mrs. Papakonstantínou, the lady with the two sons, and we ate it together. On New Year's Day I stayed in. I was in a bad mood, and I'd had a terrible fright the night before. Next to me was another door with the same little stairs, three steps that led up to a two-story apartment. Some Greeks were living upstairs, and British soldiers would come and play cards with them. The Brits would come, and that night they knocked on my door. Maybe they were drunk, or made a mistake. I was shaking. I didn't open the door, but it had a glass pane on the upper half, a pane of glass. And I signaled to them, go next door, next door. They got what they came for, and they left. In the morning I told Lálos about it. He had one son and one daughter. He tells me, If you have an old blanket, bring it, and we'll give it to them, and they'll give you a new one. Trade-offs like that happened, that sort of exchange. I took him an old blanket, and he gave me a new one, a wonderful khaki one. I don't remember the dates, I don't remember when I left that room. I couldn't go to Notará Street to Aunt Yiannoúla's. There were too many people crammed in. So I went to Kifisiá. I had nothing warm to wear. Christina tells me, a different Christina that one, another cousin, a Menglínas. She says, Let's dye this blanket and make it into a nice coat. I had taken it to Kifisiá, and Aunt Magdálo had a tub, and we dyed it brown. A nice soft brown color. But I didn't make it into a coat, I made a suit. People got by like that then. We had the Red Cross, and we had UNRRA.
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I think. And there was the Athens Archdiocese. They gave out different things, clothes and shoes—hand-me-downs. All those registered with the Red Cross could get one suit apiece. I made that suit, there was a piece of woolen material
left at the shop, and Christina from Notará Street made a flared Tyrolean skirt from it. I'd found a silk dress at UNRRA, an evening dress with a cigarette burn just below the waist. And I cut it, made it into a blouse, and embroidered it. I'd wear all those things, and now I was going to get war victims' assistance. Why you smashing young thing, you, Yiórgos Ioannítzis would tell me. You smashing young thing. You look like you just stepped out of a fashion house. I had a handkerchief here in my pocket, I was slim, I was at the height of my youth and beauty. At any rate. I was living in Kifísia, I'd begun to sew. The Támbaris family had a koumbára who was one of the best shirt makers. And she recommended me to various households. People would have new clothes made but mainly they would do alterations. I was good at that, too. I went to a villa in Kefalári,
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with velvet wallpaper, it was just like being in a movie theater. Impressive-looking furniture—and all that just when I started making money. But I left. There was the problem of what would become of my brother and sister, Phaídros and Stella. They had gotten out of prison, they'd survived, and they'd gone to Kastrí. And something had to be done. How stupid of me, I should have stayed in Athens. Instead of that I began to go back and forth, from Athens to Trípolis to Kastrí. In Trípolis the Salíveros family put me up. Maria was there, we'd become very close friends. And I sewed different things for them, and they were thrilled. I also sewed for the Athanasiádis family. And for Mavroyiórghis. They had stood by his side ungrudgingly. They tell me, Come and live in Trípolis, we'll help you. And stupidly, I did. I moved in September, so the younger ones could go to school. Stella had finished but she was studying English. Phaídros was attending the eight-year junior high school. He was going to enroll in fifth grade. Fifth grade, I think. I went to Trípolis. I couldn't find a house. I had no money. My father had sold some barrel staves, he got 350 drachmas for them. He gave me the money. Voúla Vasilópoulos was in Trípolis, she was pregnant with Maria. Ada Papayiánnis was there. All the men from the Battalions had come down there, Yiánnis Dránias, Iphigenia. They were there then. I don't know why they had moved house again. The Kavasális girls were there. It was a nightmare finding a room, but I found
one that fit us. The woman renting it to us had TB, we didn't know it. We stayed there, it had a smaller side room. It was September when we moved in. After that they brought those gendarmes back dead from Ayios Pétros, in their undershirts. I don't remember when that happened. The Galaxýdis brothers came down, they wanted to arrest us again. In Orthokostá they'd taken me as a hostage because of Márkos and my uncle the doctor. They had gone to Athens. I'd been in prison, I'd been in Haïdári. And now they wanted to arrest me again. They didn't let them. I've forgiven them all. But that Mihális Galaxýdis, there was a time when I was ready to throw a grenade under his car. Back when Phaídros was rejected from the Air Force Academy. He was about to become a squadron leader. I was really indignant. Phaídros left for Canada. He made a success of himself there, he has children. We stayed in Trípolis. Our atelier was doing well. I'd go up to Athens every once in a while. I always stayed with Iríni Koutsoúmbis. She lived on Zínonos Street, around there. It was convenient because the terminal for the bus from Trípolis was on Ayíou Konstantínou Street in the center of Athens. So she let me stay there. She had moved to Athens. From Corinth to Athens. Daphne and the younger sister went overseas, they emigrated. One went to Chicago, and the other I don't know where. When Iríni's brother Yiánnis died I was in Trípolis. I heard about it after the funeral. But I went to the forty-day memorial service. Iríni invited some people for a meal. Around 1955. Or was it in the sixties? She had guests, that Mihaíl fellow from Ayios Pétros. Who had a sister called Xáko. Short for Xakoustí. Mihaíl Manousákis. He had dealerships in Trípolis. And another man from Kosmás, a microbiologist, Maístros the microbiologist, at 40 Karneádou Street. They were talking, and they said something. Maístros did. She's Spade-and-Shovel's cousin. About me. Kind of allegorically. And I thought they were being sarcastic. I say, What's up, you guys? Mihaíl says, He's talking about Márkos Ioannítzis. I tell them, Now look. And they talked about my brother Márkos too. I tell them, Márkos Mávros may be my brother, but Márkos Ioannítzis was twice as much a brother to me. I won't allow any remarks from you. Maístros was from Kosmás. His father was a doctor too, a friend of our Níkos.
I tell him, You men must know his story—and how it all happened. Because certain people had spread the word that Níkos had finished him off. He stopped eating. He tells me, I only know what my godmother has told me. Márkos Ioannítzis left our house, and he asked her for a towel and a knife. Alímonos came and got him. This was on June 3. He came and got him from our house. I was just a kid, but I know where they buried him. I say, Go and tell all that to Yiórgos Ioannítzis. Because this is what happened to our family: Níkos got carried away by his ideas, and he made the mistake of writing things against Márkos to Yiórgos. Back then. And Yiórgos told me that very bitterly. I tell Maístros: Please go and tell all that to Ioannítzis. I think Márkos had also left a letter there. At that house. Maístros knew the true Ioannítzis story. And then our Christina said, Since that's how it is, let's tell the girls and go all together and help them dig up their brother's bones. But they didn't agree. They said they hadn't the courage. They hadn't worn black for ten years. For ten years they believed that Márkos was in the Middle East. Because the BBC had said something like that back then. Márkos was betrayed by Kontalónis. He spoke English, and he told the officers, their headquarters liaisons, to stop air dropping supplies to the Communists. He told them, They'll turn against us and against you. And Kontalónis betrayed him. I think that's why they killed him. I was twenty-two years old at the time.