The Thread (15 page)

The woman was brisk and businesslike, and her manner was not simply that of a woman wanting to pass the time of day.

‘Look, you remember the family I told you about yesterday …? I’ve been to their house …’

Eugenia swallowed hard. The girls had gathered round her now. Whether they were to be sent to one of the new villages in the agricultural area north of Thessaloniki, or to a house in the city itself, she must react as though she were glad. Under no circumstances must the children sense any disappointment.

‘… well, I think it would be ideal for you. You are a perfect match. Do you want to come and see it before you make a decision?’

‘No, no,’ replied Eugenia, almost inaudibly. ‘I’m sure it will be fine.’

Katerina was hanging back. ‘What about my mother?’ she asked Eugenia.

The American looked at the child, then back at Eugenia, a quizzical expression on her face.

‘I’m not her mother,’ explained Eugenia. ‘I’ve been looking after her since we left Smyrna in September—’

Katerina interrupted, ‘Because my mother and sister went to Athens and I got left behind and I thought we were being taken to Athens and then the boat went somewhere else and then it looked like we had sailed back to Smyrna, but we hadn’t, it just looked the same because it had burned down, and now I need to go to Athens to find them because they still don’t know where I am and …’

Katerina’s flow of words came out at such speed that the American struggled to understand.

‘Can you tell me all that again,’ she asked her.

Eugenia listened nervously. Without Katerina there would only be three of them and this might jeopardise their chance of securing the house. If only the child had kept quiet for a few hours longer about her mother. Eugenia found it hard to suppress her feelings of irritation.

‘… so can you help me find her?’ Katerina had repeated her breathless spiel, but this time a little slower.

The American took in everything she had said, made a speedy assessment and gave her verdict.

‘The best thing is to stay together for now, and meanwhile we will look into your mother’s whereabouts. Some records have been kept, but they are not accurate enough just to allow us to send a little girl off to Athens! Your mother could be there, she could be here, or she could be somewhere else entirely. But we will do our best to reunite you.’

She had taken both of Katerina’s hands in hers and looked into the child’s bright, believing eyes as she spoke. The little girl absorbed every word she said and accepted all of it unquestioningly.

‘Let’s go, shall we?’ she said briskly. ‘Come along. Give your mother a hand with her things.’

Eugenia almost wept with relief that they seemed to have secured the house and the four of them followed, the little ones struggling to keep up. For every one of the American’s strides, the girls took two paces.

They walked up and up and up, taking the road that climbed away from the sea. They saw every kind of building: ancient, modern, abandoned, burned-out, scaffolded, some palatial, others little more than hovels. They saw churches, mosques and synagogues. They walked past bathhouses, bazaars, department stores, indoor and outdoor markets and the state of these public buildings was as bafflingly varied as that of the homes. Devastation by fire, overcrowding and poverty, redevelopment by the wealthy and ambitious: evidence of every influence and event was written in the streets.

The city was built on a slope and their destination seemed to be at the very top of it. The streets, both big and small, thronged with people, trunks, carts, furniture, and even animals. As well as the boats that arrived with regularity, bringing people in, there was a constant flow of people departing. Like the movements of ants around a hill, the scurrying about and the bearing of burdens looked random and yet it had purpose. Everyone here was going somewhere. Though they did not all know precisely where their journey would end, one thing was certain: the Christians were coming and the Muslims were going.

Once or twice the American was obliged to pause to allow a group of people to pass. If they did not, she and her little group could all be swept back whence they came.

‘Here we are, at last,’ said the American, with a smile. ‘Irini Street.’

They were at the end of a narrow street that was touched by the sun only in high summer. The unsurfaced road was dusty and, Eugenia imagined, muddy in the winter. It was not unlike the centre of her village, where the upper floors of the buildings overhung the street, and chickens roamed looking for scraps. It felt almost like home.

To Katerina, the environment seemed less familiar. Back in Smyrna, the street where she had lived had marble paving stones and the only animals she had ever seen near her home were horses that were attached to carriages.

Unlike all the other streets they had passed on the way, this one was quiet. There was a dog lying in the middle of the road and a few chickens relentlessly pecking at the earth. Not a soul stirred at siesta hour.

‘We’re almost there,’ the American said encouragingly to the girls. ‘Look, here’s the house and … here’s the key!’

She produced it from her pocket like a magician and they all stood looking at the front door, its dark paint chipped and in need of repair.

It took her a few moments of fiddling with the lock before, with a big ‘clunk’, the mechanism within it turned.

One by one they followed the American over the threshold, Eugenia first, followed by Maria, Sofia and then Katerina. A match was struck to light the oil lamp that stood in the corner. Strange shadows danced about in the ochre glow.

‘Let’s get some daylight in here,’ said Eugenia brightly. ‘We need to see where we are!’

She marched over to the other side of the room and pushed open the heavy wooden shutters. A shaft of strong sunlight slanted in, illuminating a table that was the central piece of furniture. The room seemed to breathe.

Katerina stood very still. She had not been inside a house for more than six months and the solidity of the walls around her felt unfamiliar. She had got used to the flimsy living space of the camp in Mytilini. It had felt right to be somewhere so temporary when she woke every day in the hope of a surprise reunion with mother and sister. It was different here: wooden furniture, a stone floor and, on the table, a vase of flowers. They had been fresh many days ago but dry petals now lay in a circle round the base of the vase. The daisy skeletons were almost sculptural and cast a crisp shadow on the table.

‘Well, girls,’ said Eugenia, with unnatural cheeriness, ‘here we are. Home. This is home.’

Not one of them spoke. It was beyond comprehension that a house could suddenly become a home just by being given the name, just by having a vase of dead flowers.

‘And look!’ she went on. ‘Here’s a letter for us!’

On a shelf was an envelope and next to it a small book. Eugenia opened the letter with care.

Inside was a single sheet folded in half. In the half-light, Eugenia blinked at the script that covered it.

‘Do you read Turkish?’ she asked the American.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t,’ she replied. ‘Not a word.’

After a lifetime of hearing Turkish each and every day, Eugenia understood a great deal, but could not read a word of it. The script was unintelligible to her.

‘Well, girls,’ she said, returning the letter to its envelope and tucking it inside the book, ‘we’ll keep these safe and one day perhaps we will find someone who can read them to us.’

Katerina was rooted to the spot. A stranger’s house, a stranger’s letter. A strange city. And – for the first time in many months, the awareness of it overpowered her – a strange family. Perhaps if she closed her eyes, everything would change back to how it had been.

‘Well, I shall be leaving you now,’ said the American, breaking the awkward silence. ‘Come back to the customs office later on and we should be able to help you with a small loan, but meanwhile I can get you some more clothes for the girls. We have had so many donations from America, it’s just been a matter of sorting them.’

She was a woman with a mission and keen to get on with her next task. There were hundreds of thousands of refugees in exactly the same situation as Eugenia, and she was not to be held up with any further questions.

‘Thank you for all you have done,’ Eugenia said. ‘We really are grateful to you for this house. What do you say, girls?’

‘Thank you,’ they chorused.

The American smiled and was gone.

Maria and Sofia were full of excitement, running up and down the stairs, chasing one another, grabbing each other’s skirts, shrieking and laughing. Once they had got used to the idea of this place being their own, they dashed about, opening cupboards, lifting lids of boxes and shouting information down to their mother.

‘They’ve left a mattress!’

‘There’s a big trunk up here!’

‘It’s got a blanket inside …’

‘… and there’s a rug on the floor!’

Meanwhile, as Katerina sat quietly in the corner on the floor, Eugenia was investigating every drawer and cupboard downstairs to see what the previous owners had left. She had acquired a few things on the way: metal drinking vessels and plates, and three blankets. Except for one, all her possessions, both workaday and sentimental, had been left behind in the terrifying haste of their departure. With a small prayer, she placed on a shelf her icon of Agios Andreas, which had once belonged to her grandparents. It was said in her old village that the saint had preached close by on the shores of the Black Sea and Eugenia had grown up under his constant gaze.

Every cupboard contained some kind of eloquent remnant of the former owners. As well as pots and pans and plates and cutlery, there were bags of ground spices, a jar of oil, honey and herbs. There was a trunk that still held blankets and even an inlaid box containing some papers.

The different scents of these residual possessions – the sharpness of the turmeric, the mustiness of the rug – seemed to spirit the previous occupants back into the house and filled Eugenia with unease. Who was to say that they would not return? Would there be a sudden knock at the door? Perhaps they even still had a key and were going to walk in any minute. She was full of trepidation.

She told herself to be calm. There was no evidence of a scramble to leave, and the house felt ordered and warm from the owners’ presence. It was as though they had eaten a meal and quietly left, taking what they needed, but leaving carefully selected items for their successors. There were still crumbs on the table but these were soon wiped away along with the shrivelled petals.

It was a long time since Eugenia had needed to keep a tidy house and the
nikokyra
, the housewife, readily reawoke in her. She found an old broom leaning against the wall and went to work with a vengeance. A desire to erase every trace of the previous occupants overcame her. One day, perhaps, she would even be able to replace the things in this house with her own: chairs, cupboards, cups and cushions. Though she had almost forgotten how, she hummed as she worked.

Upstairs the twins had found a treasure-trove. Some abandoned clothes along with a fez, whose felt had been eaten away by moths, suggested a new activity and, with joyful hysteria, they appeared at the foot of the stairs draped in their voluminous robes. They began to march up and down like sultans with great solemnity in front of their mother, and all three of them had difficulty suppressing their giggles. Maria was wearing the characteristic Turkish hat and Sofia had wrapped her head in a silk turban.

Katerina remained quietly sitting in the shadows. She did not have happy memories of people wearing such a style of dress.

Beside her there was a drawing in the dust. With her finger she had outlined a boat, with a thumbprint for each of the occupants: a captain and two passengers. Her mother and little sister were never far from her mind.

O
N THEIR FIRST
night in Irini Street, they curled up together on the same mattress. So accustomed were they to the comfort and proximity of each other’s warmth and breathing, they would not have it any other way.

The following morning, Katerina woke before it was light. She could see a silhouette moving about in the semi-darkness and sat up.

‘Kyria Eugenia!’ she whispered. ‘Is that you?’

The shadow came back towards the bed.

‘I am going out to find us some bread.’

‘Can I come with you?’ Katerina asked quietly. ‘I can’t go back to sleep now.’

‘Yes, but you will have to be as quiet as a mouse. I don’t want the twins to wake up.’

Katerina slid out of bed, put on her shoes and followed Eugenia out of the room.

It was almost impossible to get lost in Thessaloniki and Eugenia followed her nose back to the port. The sea was at the foot of the hill, the old town was at the top and everything else was in between.

By the time she got to her destination, the customs house, there was already a queue but she was determined to remain there until she could speak to an official. She had four mouths to feed and needed to know if anyone could help her.

Everyone involved with the refugee effort was doing so out of the goodness of their hearts, and the manner of the man in charge was kind and concerned. He explained that she should come each day with her family to receive hand-outs and to see about employment. There were plenty of opportunities in factories and in tobacco grading, he explained.

Eugenia wanted to tell him that neither of those things would suit her. The prospect of sorting tobacco leaves made her heart sink. She did not know whether she had any rights to refuse such work but did not want to seem ungrateful for what was being offered. The most important thing for now was that milk and vegetables were being handed out just along the street, so they went to get some before hastening back to Irini Street.

On her way back, they passed a row of little shops. One of them sold fabric, another every kind of upholstery trimming, and the window of the third was stacked from top to bottom with thread. Seeing the skeins of wool in every colour made her think, for the first time in many months, of the loom that she had left behind and she felt a surge of hope. She had been an expert weaver in a place that now seemed almost unbearably far away, but perhaps she could pick up that piece of her life once again? She stopped for a moment to feast her eyes, to dream, to fantasise about which colours she would buy. As well as the threads, she saw another image in the glass: a woman, twice her age, thin and ragged, with wispy, unkempt hair. She looked at her with sadness and disbelief.