The Thread (42 page)

The tone in the second half changed to one of vitriol and abuse. They were the slightly insane ravings of a man hearing voices, and yet while he was writing, his heart was as cold as ice and his intentions as measured as would be expected from a man who has made money from calculating to the last millimetre the profit on a bolt of silk.

The stigma and shame that you will bring to our name can no longer be tolerated. I hope every day to hear news of your death, but each one brings more disappointment. Even now you are letting me down. I assume that you are a coward and not even willing to risk your life for what you believe. I have done all I can to conceal the crime of your political affiliation from everyone we know, but it is slipping out of my control.

As far as I am concerned you are dead to this family. Your mother will be informed within the next few days that you have been killed. In due course you will be thoroughly defeated, I am sure of that, but meanwhile, I would advise you to leave for Albania or Yugoslavia, where your fellow Communists will make you welcome. This is the best thing for the honour of the family name. Never – and I repeat, never – return to Thessaloniki.

He would pay someone to make discreet enquiries, track his son down and then deliver the letter. He estimated it would take no more than a fortnight. Almost before the ink had dried, he had found his man and the letter was on its way.

The second letter he wrote was a draft. He would need someone to copy and make it authentic in every detail, from the addressee to the postmark. There was no shortage of people to help. Counterfeiters had done good business in the early 1940s, charging astronomical sums for fake identity cards. Jews trying to avoid the ghettos would give almost everything they owned for a good one. The canny counterfeiters had accepted payment only in gold, and when the rest of the country had been bankrupted by hyperinflation, many of them had more money than they could spend.

As everyone else saw their savings disappear, the counterfeiters seized their next opportunity. Banknotes became so quickly replaced by those of ever higher denominations that no one ever became familiar with the new notes before they were replaced with fresh ones, meaning that it was easy to pass off a good fake. These men were artists and some of them were now even richer than Komninos himself. He went to the best of them.

Komninos had allowed a few days to pass before having the second of his letters delivered. He left the house in the morning knowing that, when he returned in the evening, Olga would be in mourning.

Olga was in the drawing room when Pavlina brought the letter up on a small silver tray. It was eleven o’clock. ‘Nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday,’ she wept later. It had been considered an inauspicious day ever since the Turks had seized Constantinople on a Tuesday nearly five hundred years before.

Olga picked the letter off the tray and stared at it. It was an official letter with a seal on the reverse of the envelope. Correspondence of this style never contained good news. For a moment she wondered whether she should wait for her husband to return, but dismissed the thought within an instant. This letter concerned her son. Her son. Her beloved Dimitri.

Pavlina watched her mistress with trepidation. She had already held it up to the light in the hallway, but its thickness had guarded the secret of its contents. She held her breath as she watched Olga slide her finger under the seal, remove the single sheet from its envelope and read the few lines.

She looked up at Pavlina. Her eyes full of unfathomable sorrow.

‘He’s dead,’ she said.

Her body was now racked with sobs.

Pavlina sat beside her and wept for the boy that she had seen come into the world. Though the possibility had always been there, it still came as a terrible shock to them. Pavlina had never imagined that her prayers for Dimitri’s protection would be so disregarded.

Meanwhile, Dimitri was up in the mountain area, awaiting orders for action. He recognised his father’s handwriting immediately and felt the rekindling of an old hatred. The contents chilled him. Judging by the date the letter had been written, he calculated that his mother would know of his ‘death’ by now, and the thought of what his father had subjected her to sickened him beyond belief.

Olga withdrew to her darkened room and Pavlina took the letter to the showroom. She left her employer alone to read it and then they walked back together to the house. Komninos asked her how his wife had taken the news. He did a reasonable job of feigning grief, knowing how important it was to get his performance right. Both his wife and their housekeeper were fully aware of how angry he was with their son, so his sorrow was restrained and his manner dignified.

Konstantinos Komninos went into this wife’s room and stood at the door.

‘Olga …’ he said.

His wife was lying fully clothed on the bed and did not stir.

‘Olga …’ he repeated, approaching the bed.

As he got closer, he saw that her eyes were open.

‘Go away,’ she said quietly. ‘Please go away.’

She could not bear to have him near and he willingly left.

For many days, Pavlina came and went with trays of food but failed to make Olga eat. She had her own sorrow, but the need to look after her mistress kept her occupied.

The day before anyone else had heard the news, Komninos sent a message to Gourgouris.

Katerina was working round the clock to finish a wedding dress. With its embroidered hem and beaded train, the dress still required another week of intensive work, but her employer told her to put it to one side to visit Kyria Komninos. Her protests were in vain.

‘You have to go immediately,’ snapped Gourgouris. ‘Someone else can finish the wedding dress for you. If an important customer like Kyrios Komninos needs some new outfits for his wife, we don’t tell him he has to wait.’

Katerina was in no position to argue, but she knew how anxious the bride would be that her dress was not yet finished and knew that it was impossible for a second seamstress to match the panel of stitching she had already completed. It would be asymmetrical. Usually she would be allowed to finish one project before being put onto the next but Katerina could tell she had no choice. She resolved to return to the workshop after hours and would sew all night to finish the bridal gown if necessary.

For a moment, the seamstress stood there, unsure if she was meant to leave the room. She felt uncomfortable under Gourgouris’ beady stare and realised that he had something else to say.

‘I’ve picked out these samples for her to choose from. Perhaps you can ask her to make her selection from these.’

He held out six fabric swatches. They were all black and of varying densities, ranging from wool and velvet through to crêpe and fine silk.

He noticed the expression on Katerina’s face changing.

‘Ah. I see this is news to you. They’ve lost their son.’

Katerina bit her lower lip to stop it trembling and took the pieces of fabric, which were being held out to her.

‘I’ll go straight away,’ she whispered, almost inaudibly.

Although her legs felt as if they might cave in beneath her, Katerina managed to get out into the street before her sobs came and tore her in two. Leaning against the wall of the building, she cried without shame, and people scurried past as though she were invisible.

Dimitri was dead. She gasped, trying to catch her breath between her sobs. After ten or perhaps twenty minutes, she managed to compose herself. She had a job to do. She would go to see the two people in the would who would feel the impact of this loss as much as her, and slowly she began walking towards the sea.

Pavlina answered the door quickly. The maid looked as though she had been punched in both eyes. They were so swollen with crying that she could scarcely see.

Katerina stepped inside.

‘How is Kyria Komninos?’

Pavlina shook her head. ‘Terrible. Absolutely terrible.’

The two women went into the kitchen and talked for a while. First one of them cried and then the other, their sorrow still fresh and hungry. Waves of sadness would overwhelm each of them in turn without warning.

‘Kyria Komninos hasn’t eaten for two days,’ said Pavlina, getting up to prepare a tray for her mistress. ‘Why don’t you come up with me? Perhaps you can persuade her.’

The two women ascended the stairs together, the rhythmic tick of the huge ormolu clock keeping time with their steps.

‘Wait out here a moment,’ Pavlina instructed.

Inside the bedroom, she drew the curtains back a few millimetres to let in some daylight. Olga was lying on top of the bed, fully clothed, still and composed, like a body laid out for burial.

‘Katerina is here, can I bring her in?’ she asked, putting the tray down. ‘Kyrios Komninos has asked her to come.’

Olga sat up. ‘Why?’ she asked.

‘To discuss mourning clothes,’ Pavlina answered.

‘Oh, yes,’ Olga said, as though she had forgotten the events of the past few days. ‘Mourning.’

Katerina came in. She managed to mumble a single word: ‘Commiserations’ and over the course of the next hour, quietly made notes of measurements and drew designs in her notebook for Olga’s approval. There was no conversation that could possibly have been appropriate.

It was soon common knowledge that Komninos’ son had died fighting the Communists in the mountains. Several of Konstantinos’ acquaintances had also lost sons in a similar way, and many people sent their sincerest condolences, imagining the wealthy businessman overcome by grief, rather than relief. Soon he was going about his business as usual, earning himself a reputation for courage and resilience.

Katerina came and went several times in the following few weeks to fit the new gowns. Black added at least a decade to Olga’s appearance, and when she looked in the mirror now, a sad, elderly woman looked back.

As Katerina was leaving one afternoon, Pavlina thrust something into her hand. It was a small photograph.

‘They won’t notice it’s gone,’ she said. ‘I found it in a box with several others exactly the same.’

Katerina found herself looking at a picture of Dimitri. It had been taken on his first day at university. It made Katerina both happy and sad in equal measure.

‘Thank you, Pavlina,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll treasure it.’

As she emerged from the dark cavern of her grief, Olga began to notice that Katerina no longer wore the sunny smile that had once been such a distinctive characteristic of the seamstress. It had been like a light that she had carried around with her. Nowadays she had dark shadows beneath her eyes. Olga began to realise that the young woman carried her own deep sorrow.

F
OR THE NEXT
few months, Katerina was like a sleepwalker. She only functioned by doing the same things, in the same way, each day and was immersed in her grief.

Eugenia did all she could to help her survive these difficult months but knew that only time would really lighten the darkness.

The other girls in the workshop noticed how withdrawn she was and gave up trying to draw her out of this strange mood. Katerina was almost mute, finding conversation of any kind beyond her. The only thing that did not change was the brilliance and quality of her work. It was as fast and perfect as ever, and the only activity that absorbed her enough to take her mind away from the preoccupying obsession of her loss.

Gourgouris continued to single her out. One day she was not working fast enough. Another day she needed to be more original. On another he wanted her work to be less like a machine’s.

Every comment he made was unjustified and somehow ridiculous, but the other women had no objection to hearing that the boss was often critical of Katerina’s work. It made a change from having their own work criticised.

Life continued like this with regular summonses into his office. Even if she was tempted on every occasion, Katerina knew she must not answer back. Such behaviour could lead to immediate dismissal.

‘I’ll try and correct that, Kyrios Gourgouris,’ she would say, or ‘I’ll see if I can improve on that.’

At the end of one afternoon, she was summoned to see Gourgouris by his clerk. He was sitting behind his desk, enveloped in a cloud of smoke, but stubbed out his cigarette as she entered his office.

‘Sit down,’ he said, smiling at her, his currant-like eyes disappearing into his face.

One of the girls had been given her notice the previous week and, with the economic climate once again far from stable, there was always a good chance that some more girls might lose their jobs.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said.

Katerina steeled herself for what he would say next. She was certain that it was going to be dismissal and sat there planning where she would go to look for work.

‘I would like you to be my wife.’

Katerina’s mouth opened and closed a few times but nothing emerged, a reaction that Gourgouris mistook for pleasure rather than shock.

‘I think I know your answer,’ he said, grinning to reveal his stained teeth.

There was a moment of paralysis, followed by a desire to flee. Without apology or explanation, Katerina got up.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning, my dear,’ said Gourgouris with a self-satisfied smile. ‘You won’t be so overwhelmed by then.’

With those words ringing in her ears, she left the room and ran home.

Eugenia’s reaction was a surprise. Having been without a husband for decades herself, she saw this as a huge opportunity.

‘You’re not a girl any more, Katerina! You can’t turn such a proposal down! If you don’t marry now, you could be a spinster for ever,’ she pleaded. ‘And he’s wealthy!’

Even though she would miss Katerina terribly, Eugenia felt it was an offer she should not refuse. The ratio of men to women in Thessaloniki was still heavily imbalanced. There were more widows and unmarried women than ever before, and she was almost beside herself at the thought that Katerina might squander the chance for such security. Her two daughters, though married and with children, had been obliged to return to the tobacco factory to make ends meet. It was tough and unrewarding labour, and if they had been lucky enough to have Katerina’s good fortune their lives would have been so different.