The Thread (16 page)

‘Kyria Eugenia! Kyria Eugenia! Come and see!’

Katerina tugged at her hand excitedly and Eugenia was willingly led from the reflection of the woman she had become.

‘Look at all those buttons! And all those ribbons! Can we go inside?’

Eugenia knew that Katerina’s mother had been a seamstress and that the child already had her own passion for sewing and embroidery. The child’s excitement was almost as great as her own in seeing these displays of colour and luxury.

‘Not now, Katerina. But we’ll come back another day.’

In the past hour or so the rest of the city had woken up. Several other people milled about in Irini Street, some sweeping their front doorsteps, others on their way to market or to their work. Eugenia knew she was the stranger and received, without embarrassment, the unabashed stares of the residents. The sight of her reflection in the haberdasher’s window had shown her how thin and ill she looked after all those months in Mytilini, and she was ashamed of her ragged clothes.

At that moment, she wondered if it would have been a better option to go to the rural area outside Thessaloniki, where at least she would have been with other refugees, perhaps even with someone from her village. It might have been a great comfort to have the company of people who had shared the experiences of fear and flight. Instead of that she felt marginalised.

Was the prickling sensation on her back caused by resentful eyes, or was it entirely in her imagination? She tried to catch the eye of one or two people as she passed, but received back nothing but blank looks. Even the presence of little Katerina by her side failed to arouse a friendly smile.

A voice close behind her interrupted these thoughts.

‘
Kalimera!
Good morning!’

Eugenia started.

The owner of the voice caught up with her. She was holding the hand of a small boy, who kicked at the ground with his heel as they spoke.

‘Good morning,’ the woman repeated. ‘I think you are our new neighbours?’

‘Good morning,’ said Eugenia politely, for the first time self-conscious that her accent made her sound very different from the residents of Thessaloniki. ‘We’re living up there on the left.’

Eugenia pointed at a house just up the street from where they stood and even now was slightly ashamed of its state of repair.

‘I’m Pavlina and we’re living next door to you, so if there is anything we can help you with …?’

‘Thank you so much,’ said Eugenia, smiling. ‘I’m sure there will be lots of things I need to know. We are trying to settle in, but it’s all very new to us.’

‘And what’s your little girl’s name?’ she asked, stooping down to Katerina.

‘I’m Katerina,’ Katerina answered. ‘But this isn’t my—’

‘I am sure you and Dimitri will be the best of friends,’ said Pavlina, interrupting.

The children looked at each other with mutual suspicion. Dimitri continued to dig at the dust with his heel and Katerina retreated into the folds of Eugenia’s skirt. It seemed unlikely to both of them.

It would take more than a few days for Eugenia and the girls to settle into their new environment. They had cleaned the house and rearranged all the objects they had inherited from their Turkish predecessors, but the smell of their dust and spices had infused the floorboards themselves. It would be many months before she forgot that the table, chairs, pots and pans had once belonged to someone else and Eugenia wondered how long it would be before she did not feel the presence of another woman in her kitchen.

The curious looks from neighbours soon turned to smiles. The next day on her way back from collecting the daily hand-outs at the dockyard, Pavlina spoke to Eugenia again.

Feeling bolder, Eugenia asked who the house used to belong to.

‘Didn’t they tell you that?’ asked Pavlina. ‘Seems odd to me that you don’t even know whose house you are living in.’

‘But the house isn’t theirs any more, is it?’

‘Well, they say they can’t come back. But who knows these days? Politicians say one thing one minute and then they change their minds. Mind you, it would be a long way for them to come …’

She seemed happy to supply her with information, so Eugenia pushed her a little further.

‘What was their name?’

‘Ekrem. She was a lovely woman. He was all right, but he used to get drunk down at the kafenion sometimes, and you could hear him giving her a thrashing. And you know that Muslim men aren’t meant to drink! But she had a good soul. And there were three girls, all beautiful, with eyes as dark as coal. And do you know what, I think if they had been older, they would have run away rather than leave this city, so happy they were. It was a cruel business. I think they hoped nobody would notice they were still here. They went off to somewhere in central Turkey. She was dreading it; wept buckets the day they were leaving. She couldn’t stand the idea of going off to some town in the middle of nowhere to live with his family. Wouldn’t surprise me if she threw herself in the sea on the way. “You’ll drown in your own tears,” I said to her. “I’ll drown myself one way or another,” she said to me. Well, she started packing everything they had and then he said there was no point. They would have things in their new house. And she said she wanted to have her familiar things. And he said no. And on it went. With their windows open you could hear everything. You didn’t need to speak their language to know what was going on.’

Pavlina would have been happy to keep talking but Eugenia had heard enough. The more vivid the image of her Turkish pre decessors became, the less she felt this was her home.

A week after they arrived in the city, Eugenia got lost on her return home from the port and the family found themselves outside a small church. Like ducklings, the girls followed Eugenia through a gate and across the little yard. She pushed open the door and gradually their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Inside, an oil lamp flickered, dimly illuminating the face of the saint, whose dark, ovoid eyes gazed down at them. After a few moments, they realised that the ancient walls and ceiling were covered with beautiful frescos in deep earthy colours; dozens of saintly faces with pale halos seemed to hover over them.

They took it in turn to light a slim, tapered candle and plant it in a trough of sand. Eugenia guessed that Maria and Sofia prayed for their father. She also made a request to the
Panagia
concerning the family in whose house they now lived. She hoped for their wellbeing, but also that they would never return.

It was easy to guess what Katerina prayed for. Her lips endlessly repeated the words ‘
Mitera Mou
’, confirming what Eugenia already knew: that Katerina’s thoughts rarely strayed from her mother.

Their candles had given the church enough light for Eugenia to appreciate its size and beauty. A saint was portrayed performing various miraculous feats, and in this intimate space she felt as though a thousand pairs of ears might be listening to their prayers. Though she had brought with her an icon from her village church in the hope that a new one would be built in the name of their local saint, she now questioned if she would ever need such a church, when this perfect house of God was so close by.

The four of them stood in a circle watching the candle flames dance. The warmth and atmosphere were so embracing that they had no incentive to leave. Perhaps they had been there for ten or even twenty minutes, when they heard the creak of rusty hinges and the church was suddenly filled with daylight.

The huge man in black robes and a tall hat who entered seemed to fill the church. He boomed out a greeting, his voice too huge for the space, and they all jumped, as if caught misbehaving. It was the priest.

‘Welcome,’ he boomed, ‘to Agios Nikolaos Orfanos.’

Eugenia crossed herself several times. She had not noticed the name of the church as they came in but knew that Nikolaos Orfanos was the patron saint of widows and orphans. All those months of uncertainty, and now she suddenly felt sure. Her husband, the father of her twins, must be dead, otherwise why would God have drawn them to this place? It must be a sign.

In these past few years, so many women had been widowed and so many of their offspring orphaned. Greece was full of solitary wives and fatherless children, and she knew that the death of her husband was almost a certainty.

‘Good morning,
Pater
,’ muttered Eugenia, hastening past him and out of the church. The girls followed unquestioningly, sensitive to their mother’s change of mood.

Katerina was dazzled by the sunshine.
Orfanos
. She was so sure that her mother was waiting for her somewhere, that the idea of being an orphan did not seem possible. Even so, a shiver went down her spine. She was puzzled by the tears streaming down Eugenia’s face but decided they were caused by the brightness of the light into which they had emerged.

They soon turned back into Irini Street, and as they came down the hill towards their house, Pavlina was coming up the hill towards them. This time she was with another woman, taller than herself and strikingly beautiful.

‘Hello,’ said Pavlina. ‘How are you today, Kyria Karayanidis?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ answered Eugenia.

Katerina found herself staring at the beautiful, dark lady. She had not seen such an expensive dress for a long time and it reminded her a little of one that her mother used to wear, with a little pleat at the hem, that flapped in and out as she walked.

Olga introduced herself and asked the children’s names. They exchanged pleasantries and shortly afterwards were joined by another neighbour.

‘And this is Kyria Moreno,’ said Pavlina. ‘Her family lives at number seven.’

‘And that’s my son Elias over there, playing with Olga’s Dimitri,’ said Roza Moreno proudly.

Eugenia looked at the two dark-haired little boys whose heads were pressed close together in discussion. If they had not been so differently dressed, they could have been brothers.

Many more comments passed to and fro as they exchanged information about their lives, their children and how they made their living. Eugenia realised that all of them in some way were connected with clothing and fabrics and textiles, and she gingerly mentioned that she had once been a carpet weaver.

‘My husband might know someone who is looking for weavers!’ exclaimed Kyria Moreno with enthusiasm. ‘Let me ask him tonight. With all the Turks gone, you’d be surprised what a dent has been made in some trades. I don’t believe they really thought too much about what we would lose from this city when it was all signed and sealed.’

‘It’s been an upheaval but I am sure Kyria Karayanidis knows that better than anyone,’ said Olga quietly.

The children had all evaporated away during this adult conversation. Maria had gone inside the house but Sofia, the more confident of the two, remained outside, leaning against a wall and watching Dimitri rolling a hoop down the slope with the other boy. With each attempt, it stayed upright for longer. He was aware of her fascination with his progress and as a consequence began to show off. Ten minutes later Sofia was chatting with the boys and joining in their game.

Katerina wandered to the end of the street. The search for her mother must begin there and then, and the only way was to ask questions and to look. Was that not what her mother had always said to her: ‘If you don’t look, then you won’t find.’ So this was what she must do.

Once again, she found herself outside the little church and knew that if she kept walking downhill she would get back to the the port. Perhaps there would be someone there who had a list of people from Smyrna. Who was to say her mother was in Athens? Perhaps she had come to Thessaloniki instead. Until she asked, she would never know.

Before she got too much further, she found herself at a familiar row of shops. It was the one selling ribbons that attracted her.

In his window, the vendor had created a vivid rainbow of satin, and Katerina stopped to stare. A
zacharoplasteion
stacked from floor to ceiling with pastries would not have had greater allure. It evoked a memory that seemed from a thousand decades ago of a dancing skirt her mother had made for her, using rows and rows of ribbon hand-stitched together in a continuous spiral of gradually changing colour, from red to orange, then through shades of yellow to different hues of green to blue. Whether by hand, or with her precious sewing machine, Zenia Sarafoglou had sewn all Katerina’s dresses with love and originality.

This shop would be a paradise for my mother, Katerina thought. If she was in this city, she would be drawn here. It was the kind of place she used to go every day. With a boldness that did not belong to a child, she pushed against the door of the shop and walked in.

As she opened the door a small bell rang. It was intended to alert the shopkeeper that someone was entering but nobody appeared. Contrasting with the brightness of the exterior, the inside of the shop was gloomy but the chink of light through the door illuminated the pale gleam of the jars of beads. They sat on the shelf like candy.

Katerina closed the door behind her and ran her fingers along the spools of ribbon that lined the shelves. The sensation of satin beneath her fingers was luxurious and she could not resist picking one up and allowing it to unfurl into her hands. Then she heard a cough. The ribbon fell to the floor with a thump and the next moment, a match was struck and the shadow of a giant suddenly loomed over her.

Her heart beating with terror, she ran for the door but as she reached it she saw someone now stood at the counter. He was no giant, but an ordinary man with glasses on the end of his nose and white hair.

Her instinct to flee the shop vanished. What harm could he do her from behind his counter? Her desire to track down her mother overcame any timidity she felt.

‘Can I help you?’ The tone was kind, soft. The voice of a grandfather. ‘I suppose you would like something for your hair?’

She was still too afraid to speak.

‘You can have a little snippet, but any more than that and I will have to charge you.’

Katerina lifted her hand to her hair. It was straggly and not very clean. Perhaps a little piece of ribbon might keep it in place better.