Orthokostá (9 page)

Márkos had gone. He'd come down from the mountains. Just in time. When he was a student he'd joined an anti-Metaxás
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organization. 1936. The year I first went to Athens. We lived on Ayíou Pávlou Street in Patíssia. The students had started this movement, and the Security Police dressed up as priests and whatnot and they caught them—eight of them. They took in a lot of them, they kept eight. Ilías Vlahákis, he's an ophthalmologist now, and our brother Márkos. They had them at Security Headquarters, near Tosítsa Street, one street over from Káningos Square. Stournára. Stournára Street. That's where they had Márkos and the others, and I'd go see them. I'd bring them cigarettes and food wrapped in that day's newspaper, so they could keep up with the news. I don't remember how long they held them. They took them up on the roof—Márkos's hands were swollen like loaves of bread from the beatings. I don't know if he had to drink castor oil too. Maybe he's just not telling. Maniadákis
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would force them to drink castor oil.
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And it tore right through them. The Security Police showed up, they arrested him at his house. He had a sore, a boil, on the back of his neck. Then they took them to the Army Transfer Section. Seven of them and Márkos eight, to exile them. 1936. I don't know how I managed it, I'd go and see them. They were covered in lice by then and they would catch them, put them in cigarette boxes and stroll around with them. Then Mavroyiórghis arrived, on the Feast of the Annunciation, I think. There was someone named Anghelétos, served on the police force in Kastrí, my father knew him. Because our house was like some kind of monastery, whoever passed
through would get a meal, even strangers. Anghelétos was getting on in years now. A commander. And they pulled it off, in the end Márkos wasn't exiled. But his papers stayed at Security Headquarters, the Italians found them. And that's how our troubles began. We left our house and slept at the Sotíris place. Seven times we evacuated our house. We'd hear that the Italians were coming to burn us down. We'd go upstairs, collect our clothing, our linens, and off we'd run. Well, anyway, during that period the Germans arrived. From the fire to the frying pan. We hid our things. In those so-called shelters. The Sotíris family had a storeroom. No. It was Omorfoúla's winepress behind the wall. We hid our things in there, the whole neighborhood did. Someone gave us away, I don't know how, and we took them to Old Man Sotíris's place. From there, we left a lot behind, we took them to Haroúlis Lenghéris's parents' place. Put them in the cistern. And someone told on us again. We were away. Old Gligóris's wife Stamáta took them, with Theodóti, her sister. Kókkinos's wife. They took them to their own cistern. Some things, not the whole lot. Again someone gave us away, our auntie Sokrátaina,
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Marinákos's wife, took them. Her husband was my mother's oldest nephew. And her mother-in-law was Mávroyiórgaina's sister. And Aunt Margaríta's. He was a watchman. A field guard. Auntie had an oakwood chest, and she buried it in her yard. Some blankets and two kilim rugs, one piece each, that we women had woven on our loom. And those were saved. Nothing else. The rest Haroúlis snitched about to someone, I don't know who. We had a whole suitcaseful. My father had given me quite a few things. I was a good girl. In fact he wanted to take me to Sýra, he used to travel there to stock up. He had given me a gold sovereign. There weren't any in circulation at that time. And there was also my mother's gold jewelry. She'd got it from her uncle the doctor. A diamond and other things. And embroideries of mine. Whatever Anna Papayiánnis had, I had too. We'd been friends from way back then, friends since childhood. Whatever one of us embroidered, the other did too. Some satins—those were taken by the rebels, from shelter to shelter. The sewing machine stayed at home. And I don't know why, I had taken out Granny's fur-trimmed jacket. I like saying that: Granny. She'd
given it to me, I was named after her. Grandma Eléni. When she married Grandpa Márkos, the doctor, her father borrowed two thousand gold drachmas. Back then, in 1800 and something. He was a licensed doctor. She was a priest's daughter. They made her an outfit just like Queen Amalia's. His brother was a tailor for the palace. Grandpa's brother. And his other brother a merchant in Venice, he went back and forth. Anyway, he gave me the fur jacket. I kept it in a sturdy cardboard box along with two embroideries. I'd copied the design from Mrs. Manolópoulos. The wife of the justice of the peace. They had come to Kastrí at that time. She was the only daughter with nine brothers, and they gave her everything. A fantastic dowry. Lace from Cyprus and the like. I had those things at home, I'd left them there along with the sewing machine. And they barged in, Galaxýdis and the others, and someone, I have no idea who, took those things. That's when the blockade started, the big blockade. The rebels said whoever stays in their houses we'll kill. All the men outside. And the Germans said everyone had to stay in their houses. They passed through Voúrvoura, they found sixty or so men in the woods, they killed them all. Their wives came to Athanásis's place to buy black mourning clothes. Four or five women. Ismíni opened up the shop. Maybe Andréas was there too. I was astonished, I went in, I asked, Which of your kinfolk did they kill? My husband, my son, and my father, one of them said. On the same day. Then the Security Battalions came. Mihális Galaxýdis and the others. They found Spýros Roúmelis. I think that's who it was. His shoes had nails in them, and he'd put paper in them so they wouldn't hurt him. They rounded up everyone. They searched them. The papers in Roúmelis's shoes were EAM leaflets. They rounded up all those men in the coffee shop, they took them to Trípolis. And they executed Roúmelis there. They took in Stávros Farmakídis, just a kid, Yiórghis
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Kontós's nephew. Mihális Galaxýdis. May God forgive him. And they beat that kid something awful. We were watching from our windows, the square was still unpaved, with all that marble lying there. They kicked him all the way from Mángas's house. Just like a ball. Where did he get all that strength? Kicked him all the way to the edge of the square. And there he whacks him one, knocks him down
onto Mákraina's outdoor clay oven. Stood over him and shot him
bam-bam-bam
with his automatic assault rifle. They took him away. I don't remember if it was them, if they took him and threw him in Marinákos's yard. Just below it, in Stelios's wife's field. Or was it us, did we take him there in a sheet? I don't remember how he got there. Then we laid him on a ladder, covered in blood, me, my sister Stella, Kóllias's daughters Dímitra and Stavroúla. The four of us. I think maybe Yeorghía Makrís was there too. We took him to the church, we dug a grave, and we buried him. We went down to the square. Our auntie was there, Petroú,
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Tatoúlis's wife. Her hands like this behind her, going round like a madwoman. Oh, Eléni. Eléni. What is it, Auntie? We have to go get Mihális, they killed Mihális. Stella went, I couldn't bear to. They found him somewhere near Ayios Panteleímonas with his brains blown out. It was the month of July. Then Galaxýdis and the rest, they tell us, The Germans are setting up base here. And the Security Battalions. We were so angry. Especially me. We said, Let them come, maybe we'll get some peace. Then someone confirmed it. I don't remember who. I went to Papadis's house to find Alexandra Chrónis. Stávros Karvouniáris was there. I went over to ask him. What are you doing here, you whore, you? Me, a whore! What are you doing here? They had someone in a coffin, they were loading him into a car. In the back. And he started to swear at me. Right outside Sávvas Papavasilíou's lumber shop. Sávvas was there, he'd been taken prisoner. Two or three days later, Karvouniáris himself comes round, he says, We're taking you to Trípolis for interrogation. More interrogations. They put us in a truck. He and Spýros Galaxýdis. They put our sewing machine in, and our goat. They put Christina, Stella, and Phaídros in. The old folks stayed behind. They didn't take them. They took us to Trípolis. They took us to Evanthía Makrís's house. They left us there. There were lots of people from Kastrí there. Whoever was in the Security Battalions could come and go freely. I thought about going to the Salivéris's place. I don't remember if I went. And I said, Darn it, why didn't I take a few things with me to give them so they could keep them for me. Granny's fur-trimmed jacket. And give it all to the Salivérises. Maria was a teacher in the
village, we were friends. I don't remember if I went. And I don't know how some of my clothes turned up there. A black velvet dress. Aunt Merópi had sent it to me from America. From Alabama. The fur-trimmed jacket was lost in the end. It was well made—it was wine-colored, I can still see it. A real dream. Iraklís Polítis came for us, he tells us, We're going for an interrogation. And he took us to the Gestapo. They interrogated us. At some point in there I tell Iraklís, You should be ashamed of yourself. He gives me a slap, my ears are still buzzing. They took us to the county jail. There were two girls named Haldoúpis there, from Ayios Pétros. One was a teacher. Alexandra and Nitsa Boínis were there. And Sávvas Papavasilíou from Kastrí. And Panayótis Gagás, who became Eléni's husband later. A man called the Donkey from Néa Hóra. Koutsoyiánnis, nicknamed the Donkey. A woman named Karapanayótis from Trípolis. Father Karapanayótis's niece. A woman named Pítsa, I don't remember her last name. We were going out to the yard. It was the month of July. We heard that on the Feast of Saint Paraskeví,
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they burned down our house. They had already set the big fire. The rebels. They had burned down the other village. A hundred and more houses. Galaxýdis was the one who burned down our house, the women came running—Aunt Efthymía and I don't know which other women. They took the holy icons, they took two trunks of my mother's. They saved those. But very little else. The rebels had taken the other things. They threw on some gasoline, but they had no matches. It was Spýros Galaxýdis, he wasn't alone. We were in jail, they told us about it. They couldn't find matches and they left. They had piled up chairs, tables, some cabinets. And on their way up to the square old Yiánnis Prásinos says, Haven't you set it ablaze yet? And he took out his flint lighter. They were going to burn it down one way or another. But old Yiánnis, he gave them his lighter. He tossed it to them from his bench. May God forgive him. Christina and I were in the jail. They had Stella in the slaughterhouse. And Phaídros in the basement of the Seminary. Why Phaídros, he was just a kid? He was born in 1929. In 1943 he wasn't even fourteen. They arrested him at Apáno Ayiánnis.
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He had a tray of Turkish Delight and was selling cigarettes. And they decided he
was a liaison. That's where they arrested the poor kid. And they had him in the basement of the Seminary. Stella at the slaughterhouse. And Christina and me in the jail. In three different places. My mother and father came a short time later. Liás Athanasiádis put them up. Athanasiádis Distilleries. He had a big fine house. The Germans had requisitioned two rooms for officers. We stayed in prison until August 5. How many days in all, I can't quite reckon. Every morning, every night, when the gate opened, they would take people to be executed. And our hearts would race and we'd look at each other. Whose turn would it be? We were on the list, they had us written there. We found out later that Kóstas Dránias had come and taken us off the list. One of us was going to be killed. They killed the Haldoúpis woman from Ayios Pétros. One of them. The other they left. We women prisoners had become very close. In a ditch in Ayios Nikólaos, behind the jail, they killed fifty people. A mass shooting. Behind the jail. We could hear the rifle shots. We could hear everything. There was a crossbar, there was a big door, it kept slamming,
bam-bam-bang
. And now at night, with the lights on, you had to say your name, and every morning they took us out and gave us something to drink. A watery broth. When they took us outside we wondered would we go back in or not. On August 5 they let us out of there. The Athanasiádises had made friends with the officers who were staying at their house. They told them they were taking us to Germany. So those officers—one of them was a doctor, I think. They sent us German Deutschmarks through my mother—I had saved those marks but then I threw them away. Stupid. They sent us lots of marks and an address. And they would write their relatives there to pick us up so we didn't fall into the wrong hands. As domestic servants and the like. We were 250 prisoners. Men and women. About 50 women, maybe more. On that day, August 5, everyone from Trípolis had come out to watch. Lined up from the prison to the train station. People on both sides of the road shaking with fear. I spoke to some people, I said hello—nothing. Only Vasílis Máïnas, he came over to me. Now there were guards, marching us along, right-left, right-left, on both sides of us, with their guns, with their bayonets. And Vasílis kept coming over
to me, Want anything, Eléni, do you want anything? All the way to the station. He walked up and down, Do any of you want anything? Like that all the way to the station. Asking if we wanted him to bring us anything. He had left Kastrí with the others. The villagers had left, to protect themselves. They put us on the train, so many women. That woman from Ayios Pétros. One of them. They killed the other one. And they killed Alexandra Boínis. And the Karapanayótis girl . . . A girl named Pítsa Birbílis. I just remembered her last name. Birbílis. A lively young woman. We had our picture taken together. A woman named Papadópoulos from Stenós. So many women. I don't remember their names. I had written them all down. We arrived in Corinth. There were Italians there, held prisoner. In the army barracks. They took us off the train, now the Germans were in charge. They took us inside. They gave us some gruel for sustenance. Corinth had no water, we were suffering. The Koutsoúmbis sisters found out about us, they came to see us. They were from Oriá. Iríni, Daphne, and the youngest girl. They brought us a basket of grapes. They called us outside. They were living in Corinth, they had settled there. They were seamstresses, they had opened an atelier. And they were working—they had twenty apprentices. Iríni and Daphne. I don't remember the youngest one's name. They brought us grapes and bread, I think. The Italians were hostages there. But there was one named Amadeo, tall with green eyes. The Germans put them on a train, and they pushed them into the Corinth Canal. But he and only he—that Karapanayótis girl, I don't know how, but she and he became sweethearts, and she managed it so they escaped. A beautiful girl, she fell in love with him, and very high-spirited. They escaped. Later we found out that they killed that Amadeo somewhere. With those green eyes, a real doll. We stayed there until August 15, the Feast of the Virgin.