The Thread (39 page)

The Prime Minister, Georgios Papandreou, was showing little interest in pursuing and punishing those who had collaborated with the Germans, but instead seemed more interested in total demobilisation of the left-wing forces. The Left were unhappy and suspicious, and called for a demonstration to take place on 3 December. Thousands gathered in Syntagma, Athens’ central square, and without apparent provocation, a policeman fired into the crowd. In the ensuing chaos, sixteen demonstrators were killed and open fighting broke out in the streets between the police, British troops and ELAS fighters. In the next few days, the Left began to hunt down those who were known collaborators.

ELAS captured police stations and a prison but overall had underestimated the strength of their opponents, who were often well disciplined and armed. Massive reinforcements arrived a week or so later and ELAS then found themselves engaged in a running battle with the British.

By early January, most of ELAS had abandoned the capital in disarray, having lost up to three thousand of their forces. Seven and a half thousand others had been taken prisoner. The right-wing forces had lost over three thousand too and many were captured. During those weeks, Athens had become a battleground.

‘So this is what your son wanted?’ screamed Konstantinos to his wife. ‘And what has he gained?’

‘It wasn’t just him,’ said Olga reasonably. ‘Why do you always make it sound as though the entire situation is his fault? I don’t think he is the only one.’

‘Well he’s the only Communist I know!’

As usual, Olga had to bite her lip. She refused to think of her son as a Communist, but instead regarded him as someone who wanted democracy and justice. She never argued with her husband. One civil war seemed enough.

In Thessaloniki itself, hunger was already increasing. Shoes, clothes and medical supplies were also vanishing again. Many were attributing this to the activities of ELAS and were blaming them for new levels of starvation. Komninos was one of thousands who were against ELAS. With pictures of their victims circulating in the right-wing press and stories of mass graves and brutal vendetta killings, there were many others who did not feel they could side with people who executed enemies for personal revenge.

ELAS now took thousands of civilian hostages in Athens and in Thessaloniki. Most of them were members of the bourgeoisie, such as civil servants, army officers and police, and they were forced to march long distances in bitterly cold weather, without adequate clothing or shoes. Many died from exposure. Brutality and the cruelty of the executions that had been perpetrated began to fill the newspapers.

‘He seems so sure that his son is capable of such things,’ lamented Olga to Pavlina. ‘How can a father imagine the worst of his son? He thinks that being a Communist automatically makes you a murderer.’

‘And it’s not as if the other side are whiter than white, is it?’ responded Pavlina. ‘I’ve heard plenty of stories about things they’ve been up to and they’re not all so nice.’

Pavlina was right. There was extreme brutality on both sides but the Left was losing support, even in the areas that they had liberated from the Germans. Most people were sick of war and hungry for peace, and the Left seemed to be getting in the way of it.

In February 1945, it seemed as if their wish was going to be fulfilled. In the Varkiza Agreement, ELAS undertook to hand over their weapons in exchange for an amnesty on political crimes and a plebiscite on the constitution. For a brief time, both Olga and Katerina fondly imagined the return of Dimitri and a reconciliation with his father.

However, the Agreement soon turned out to be worthless. Right-wing death squads and paramilitary groups went on the rampage to hunt out Communists, and a reign of terror began against all of those who fought for the Left.

These developments were, of course, the main topic of conversation at Konstantinos Komninos’ dinner table, when he next entertained. The merchants and businessmen of Thessaloniki wanted nothing more than for business to return to normal, and the messiness of politics stood in the way of their profits.

Pavlina bustled about in the kitchen, waiting to go into the dining room to clear up after the main course. As soon as the conversation could be heard above the clatter of knives and forks, she knew that people had finished eating and were ready for the next course.

She hummed as she worked and stood back to admire her efforts. She was proud of her individual strawberry tarts: pert, preserved fruit under a glaze of syrup with a chocolate crème patissière, waiting invisibly beneath. She knew the latter would surprise the diners when they stuck in their forks and discovered that there was something else beneath the soft red flesh. She gave them a light dusting of icing sugar and moved them to the trolley, ready to take in.

At precisely that moment, she heard the doorbell ring. None of the guests was late, and ten thirty in the evening was a strange time for anyone to call. She put down her sifter and went to the door. She knew that if Olga had heard the sound, she would be thinking the same. Was it Dimitri? Each moment they hoped for his return, but their desire was always mixed with fear for the consequences.

She opened the door cautiously and peered out into the dimly lit street.

‘Pavlina!’ whispered a voice from the shadows. ‘It’s me.’

P
AVLINA WENT OUT
onto the doorstep.

‘Who is it?’ she hissed into the darkness. She knew it was not Dimitri. This voice had an accent.

‘It’s me. Elias.’

After a moment of hesitation, Pavlina reached into the shadows and pulled him gently into the light.

‘Come into the house!’ she whispered. ‘You must come into the house!’

The small figure shuffled in behind her and followed her to the kitchen.

‘Sit down there a moment,’ she said, taking in his pale and emaciated appearance. ‘
Panagia mou
, you look terrible. Even worse than Dimitri did when we last saw him.’

Elias looked up at Pavlina with his dark, hollow eyes. Every feature was exaggerated on his shrunken face. He seemed hardly human.

‘You look like you need feeding,’ she said, continuing to bustle and fuss. ‘Just give me a moment to go and clear the plates and serve the dessert.’

Within minutes, Pavlina was back in the kitchen. A pale, ethereal figure followed silently behind her and shut the door carefully.

‘Hello, Kyria Komninos,’ Elias said politely, standing up.

‘Elias! It’s been such a long time …’

She went to grasp his hands but he instinctively backed away, all too aware of how long it was since they had been washed.

They sat around the kitchen table. Elias’ filthy, sweat-stained shirt and the creamy perfection of Olga’s dress were the uniforms of different worlds.

There were a thousand things the women wanted to ask, but they knew Elias would have questions too. That must be why he was there. The women would wait their turn.

‘I’ve been to Irini Street and to Filipou Street,’ Elias began. ‘Our house is locked up, and someone else has taken over our business. Where are …?’

There was no point in deceiving him. He would find out the truth soon enough.

‘Your family went to Poland,’ said Pavlina. ‘Nearly two years ago. Katerina and Eugenia had a postcard a long while back, but nothing since.’

He had heard of some transportations to Poland.

‘But the workshop?’

‘The authorities think that some people may not come back, so they are selling them off.’

‘But it belongs to us!’

‘We must keep our voices down,’ warned Pavlina, putting her finger to her lips.

‘I think they want to get businesses going again,’ explained Olga. ‘But if your parents came back, I am sure they would be compensated.’

Elias choked back tears of anger. ‘But why wouldn’t they come back? The war is over in Greece, isn’t it?’

Olga and Pavlina exchanged uneasy glances. There had been rumours about the fate of some of the Jews, but as yet no first-hand information.

‘And what about our house?’

Half a decade of guerrilla warfare had toughened Elias almost to the point of brutality, but he was on the edge of breaking down. The plate of food that Pavlina had brought him lay untouched. It was hard to recognise him as the gentle young man who had been Dimitri’s closest friend.

‘What’s happened to our house?’ he demanded, almost aggressively, as though the two women were responsible. ‘Why are the windows all boarded up?’

‘I don’t know, Elias,’ said Pavlina, ‘but I think it might be to keep it safe.’

She talked to him slowly and gently as though he were a simple child, and he responded with appropriate petulance.

‘I want to get in!’

‘Eugenia has a key. Wasn’t she there when you went?’

‘No. Her house was dark.’

‘She was probably asleep,’ said Pavlina gently. ‘She and Katerina tend to go to bed very early. Let’s go together first thing tomorrow.’

‘I have to get back to the dining room,’ said Olga. ‘But before I go, can I ask you something. Have you seen Dimitri?’

‘Not for a couple of years,’ he replied. ‘He was moved to a different unit. I thought he might be back here, with you.’

Olga watched Elias. He was now devouring the food in front of him and she recalled how Dimitri had sat in the same chair the last time she had seen him, eating in the same ravenous way. She observed the movements of his jaw, the bone so close to the surface of the skin that she could see every muscle in his face moving up and down, side to side.

Between mouthfuls, Elias told them more about the situation for the Left.

‘With everything that’s been going on, lots of the units have moved into the mountains. So it’s quite likely he’s up there.’

The women watched him use a piece of bread to wipe every last trace of sauce from the plate. Pavlina already ladled him a second helping, but still he needed more. Then, as if to shock them, he looked up and made a gesture suggestive of throat-slitting.

‘They’re hunting us, Kyria Komninos,’ he said. ‘Like
animals
.’

The emotion that he had shown a few moments earlier had vanished. In its place was something steel hard. He put down his fork and looked Olga straight in the eye.

‘I’ve heard stories, Kyria Komninos. I’ve heard that the Russians have found evidence that the Germans have killed thousands of Jews. Have you heard that?’

Olga looked down at her feet before answering. ‘Yes, Elias, but we don’t know if it’s true. We hope it isn’t,’ she said. ‘Look, you should stay here tonight. But you will have to be careful. It will be difficult if Kyrios Komninos finds out that you are here.’

Elias nodded and Olga left the room.

‘You can sleep on my sofa. It will seem like a feather bed after what you’ve been sleeping on!’ said Pavlina. ‘Kyrios Komninos leaves very early, so we’ll be safe to go after that.’

‘To my house?’

‘Yes,’ said Pavlina. ‘As I said, we’ll go first thing in the morning.’

Elias slept fitfully, in spite of the relative comfort of Pavlina’s sofa. There was no depth to his slumber and his mind was active the entire night with images and visions without sequence or logic. The faces of his parents and brother appeared in bright flashes, laughing or screaming – he was not certain which – but the ill ease with which he awoke the following morning suggested that it had been the latter. These were nightmares, not dreams.

As usual, Konstantinos Komninos left the house at six thirty. Elias heard the door slam and sprang out of bed. He had been awake for two hours. He shook Pavlina to wake her and within fifteen minutes they were on their way to Irini Street.

It was a cold day so, before they left, Pavlina had run up to Dimitri’s room to find Elias a coat.

‘Two of you could fit into it,’ said Pavlina, ‘but at least it will keep you warm.’

He looked ridiculous in the heavy cashmere coat with its big collar. Konstantinos Komninos had had it made for Dimitri at Moreno’s just before he began at university. He had hardly worn it, so it had the distinctive stiffness of an expensive but unworn garment.

Katerina was leaving her house to take her brisk fifteen-minute walk to work when she saw Pavlina coming towards her, accompanied by a man. He looked strange, drowning inside a huge dark coat, but it took her only a second to recognise his features.

‘Elias! It’s me, Katerina.’

‘Hello, Katerina.’

It was a strange encounter. Knowing where she was going, Katerina reddened with shame.

‘Pavlina says that Kyria Karayanidis might have a key to our house.’

Katerina, who normally worried that she was going to be late, turned back into their house and called out for Eugenia.

Eugenia was overjoyed to see Elias. With all the rumours that were circulating, she had resigned herself to the idea of never seeing any of the Morenos again.

He was aware of being treated as though he had come back from the dead, but he did not dwell on it. He was impatient to see inside the house.

‘I’ve kept it as clean as I can,’ Eugenia explained. She was holding an oil lamp in an attempt to illuminate the almost empty room. The house no longer had electricity.

Elias threw open the shutters but the dim dawn had brought little light.

‘But where is everything? Didn’t there used to be a big chair here? And where’s my mother’s linen trunk?’

Eugenia remained silent. Elias did not seem to expect answers. He went upstairs and Eugenia remained below, listening to the sound of crisp, agitated footsteps marching from room to room. The bare floorboards magnified every sound.

Soon he came running down again and his breath came out in a cloud of vapour in the chill of the room. Even in Dimitri’s coat, he shivered.

‘They’ve taken everything with them!’ he said indignantly. ‘Even my bed. Even the picture I had on my wall.’

Eugenia was not going to disillusion him. It was better, in her view, that he should have an image of his parents carefully packing up their home to move to another country, rather than to know the truth: that the house had been pulled apart by looters when the Morenos had already left, almost empty-handed, for Poland.