The Thread (46 page)

Gourgouris was panting from the exertion of being angry. He did not have the lung capacity to sustain his tirade and was running out of breath.

‘I’m not feeling well,’ she said over her shoulder, dropping the parcel of meat on a side-table as she ran from the room and up to the bathroom. She knew that he would not be able to pursue her up the stairs. He was simply too fat.

Soon afterwards, she heard the bang of the front door as her husband left the house. He would go to one of the city’s many restaurants, work his way through enough food for a family and then return. By then she would be asleep.

The reality of the situation hit her. She was married to a man she hated and the man she loved had come back from the dead. The combination of these catastrophes was only half the punishment. The real torture was to behave as though nothing had happened. It was the only way to survive.

‘Did it really happen?’ Olga asked Pavlina that evening. ‘Was he really here?’

Two days remained until Kyrios Komninos returned from his trip, so they were safe to talk of Dimitri’s visit without fear of being overheard.

‘Yes, it was truly him. I’m surprised we didn’t all die of the shock. What was he thinking of, turning up like that, knowing we thought he was dead?’

‘I think I did die of shock, for a second at least,’ smiled Olga. ‘I’m sure my heart stopped.’

‘Well, you were out cold for more than fifteen minutes. If I’d had to get the doctor I’m not sure how I would have explained it.’

‘Did you notice how happy Katerina seemed?’ asked Olga. ‘She was really overwhelmed.’

‘Well, she did grow up in the same street,’ Pavlina suggested. ‘He’s like a brother.’

‘She loves Dimitri, Pavlina,’ Olga said. ‘I only realised that today.’

Unusually for her, Pavlina said nothing. There was no need.

As far as Gourgouris was concerned, Katerina’s lack of punctuality that day had shown that she was not capable of working in the workshop as well as managing a house.

‘It was never a good idea for you to start sewing again,’ he announced to her the following evening. ‘At least not outside the home. There’s quite enough to do here.’

Katerina nodded. It was pointless to disagree. She ladled a helping of soup into her husband’s bowl and stirred in a spoonful of cream. As long as he was eating, he did not seem to notice that she scarcely spoke and, between courses, spent increasing amounts of time in the kitchen.

Each day, when she was not shopping and preparing for the enormous meals that her husband demanded, she plunged herself into the oblivion of her embroidery.

Occasionally she went to visit Eugenia, though she had to make very sure to be back in good time to cook the evening meal. On her way home, she would call in at the church of Agios Nikolaos Orfanos to light candles for the Morenos.

She found praying impossible. Whenever she asked God to release her from her misery, a picture of a dead Gourgouris flashed into her mind. Images of what had been found in the death camps in Poland circulated in her mind whenever she closed her eyes, and knowing that her husband had been responsible for sending people there filled her with an urge for revenge.

Desiring someone’s death seemed equal to murder, and knowing that she would wish it again the next time she was alone and on her knees made her feel as though she had committed a crime. To ask God for forgiveness at the very moment of transgression seemed a pointless exercise.

Deciding what was right and wrong to pray for was as difficult as deciding what was right and wrong in the continuing war. Stories circulated of atrocities, whether rumoured or witnessed, being committed by both sides. Katerina thought of Dimitri.

Very uncertain if God would listen, given the hatred that raged in her heart, Katerina prayed for all those who were in danger. Then she hurried home and dutifully began to prepare the dinner. Each day, the meals she made became more elaborate, and all the artistry that she had once poured into her work was now diverted into her cooking. She would perform her duties faultlessly.

K
ATERINA WAS NOT
the only woman needing to put on an act in order to protect herself. Olga Komninos had to do the same. In the past decades she had had plenty of practice. From her early days as a mannequin, when she had been instructed to appear demure, or haughty, or bashful, or regal (depending on the style of the fashions she was modelling) she had been pretending to be someone else. When they had returned to Niki Street and her agoraphobia had set in, she then had to act another role, that of the perfect hostess.

If her husband found out that Dimitri had returned and told her about his letter of banishment, Konstantinos Komninos’ anger would put both of them beyond safekeeping. She would not put it past Konstantinos to track Dimitri down, and she did not allow herself to imagine his wrath against her for welcoming him into the home. All of this gave Olga every incentive to behave as if nothing had happened.

A respectable period of mourning had now passed since the ‘death’ of their son, and Konstantinos Komninos decided that it was time to entertain again. Additionally, he wanted to show that things were carrying on as normal in spite of the upheaval taking place in the rest of the country. In the past few months, the government forces had been gaining ground over the Communists, so that in itself, thought Konstantinos, was grounds for celebration.

‘I have invited Kyrios and Kyria Gourgouris,’ he told Olga.

Poor Katerina, thought Olga. She must be dreading it.

She wondered if the young woman would find it strange to be a guest, when she had always come to the house as Olga’s
modistra
. She recalled her own unease when she had made the transition from model to hostess. On the positive side, the guest list included a number of such strongly opinionated people that Katerina’s shyness would pass noticed.

That Saturday evening, with ten people once again around the table, most of them politically like-minded, the conversation was dominated by the news of the civil war. It was now entering a new phase in the mountains of Grammos, which separate Epirus from Macedonia. The previous year, the Communists had successfully fortified the area but the government forces had now attacked. A battle had been raging for some days and the guests, who read the city’s right-wing press, were gripped by their daily account of events. One aspect of the reporting that contained no bias, even if the rest did, was the detail of the massive American support that the government now enjoyed, giving them great superiority over the Communists with artillery, armoured vehicles and air power.

As Komninos, Gourgouris and the rest were wishing success for the Government Army and for the defeat of the Democratic Army, Katerina and Olga pictured Dimitri caught in crossfire, his life in danger.

Katerina was dressed in a new burnished orange gown. The colour did not suit her at all, but she had been instructed to make it by Gourgouris. She pushed her food around her plate to disguise her lack of appetite and from time to time mechanically lifted her glass to her lips without sipping. Her throat was so constricted with tension that she could neither speak nor swallow. Having Olga on the other side of the table, sharing her every thought and fear, was a great comfort, and when Pavlina came and went with new dishes of food she made sure to serve Katerina very little. She knew that the seamstress would be in no mood to eat.

At the end of dinner, the entire party went upstairs to the drawing room and onto the balcony. Clouds of smoke billowed into the night air and glasses of brandy chinked together in celebratory anticipation of the government’s victory over the Communists. Olga and Katerina finally allowed their eyes to meet. None of the guests noticed this exchange of understanding and sympathy between the two women. They were too busy making toasts, refilling their glasses and leaning forward to light each other’s cigarettes.

Beneath them, people strolled on the promenade, many of them arm in arm. They looked up when they heard the noise and excitement above them and saw this group of wealthy men and women of Thessaloniki
en fête
.

Overhead hung the thinnest arc of silvery light. On an ebony-dark night such as this, with a new moon and no clouds, the stars seemed infinite. Olga and Katerina stood close, able to exchange a few quiet words without being overheard.

‘Can you see Orion?’ Olga asked, gazing upwards. ‘You know he’s the Hunter, don’t you? Dimitri used to love pointing him out.’

She gave Katerina’s arm a reassuring squeeze and moved off to speak to one of the other women who was standing on her own.

Several hundred kilometres away on the mountains of Grammos, the intense darkness of this almost moonless sky was an advantage to Dimitri. With other members of his brigade he was attempting the impossible: to move out of the area before they were surrounded. Although the blackness of the night made it hard to see a route through the pathless landscape, it also made it easier for the soldiers to remain hidden.

Dimitri was exhausted. For five days he had worked night and day without sleep, tending to the wounded. Anyone who was not sufficiently mobile to make it out of this situation would find themselves trapped. It was a treacherous journey but there was every danger that they would be shot on sight if caught.

For the remaining days of August, both Olga and Katerina were in a state of high anxiety, reading the newspapers and listening to the radio, hoping and fearing in equal measure. There was a massive assault on Grammos, where twelve thousand members of the Democratic Army were still hiding out. The Government Army’s ambition was the total annihilation of the opposition, and when it became clear that they faced defeat, the Communist leaders ordered their fighters to flee into Albania, through the one remaining route still open to them.

Four days after the final battle had begun, the newspapers announced that the Government Army was in full control of Greece. The civil war had come to an end and many people, Konstantinos Komninos included, celebrated. In October an official cease-fire was signed.

The three women who loved Dimitri met one day soon afterwards in the kitchen at Niki Street.

‘We may never know what happened to him,’ said Pavlina.

‘But we’ll always know he was fighting for something he believed in,’ responded Katerina.

If Dimitri was in Albania they might hear from him one day. If he was not, then he would be hunted. If he was dead, they had to accept it. There was nothing they could do to find out.

They watched the city gradually returning to normal and life for the three of them continued as before, superficially at least.

Katerina stayed at home most of the time and, from her cookery books, devised increasingly rich and lavish menus for her husband. Ingredients were becoming less difficult to find and good meat and dairy products were available each day at the market.

In her spare time she was making a quilt for one of the guest bedrooms. They rarely had people to stay so it would probably never be seen by another soul, but the pleasure in doing the work was an end in itself.

The initials of Saul, Isaac, Elias, Roza and Esther Moreno, and a P for Poland and Palestine, formed a circle around a dove. It gave her great satisfaction to read the single word that she had spelled out in stitches: ‘S
IEMPRE
’.

She had little knowledge of Ladino but she knew this meant ‘Forever’ and ‘Always’, and the stitching kept their memory alive.

With a pattern that mingled pomegranates and vines around the edge she used some of the most significant symbols of Judaism to create a private memorial for her friends. As she sat and sewed for an hour or so at the beginning of each afternoon, she would not have described her state as happy, but as hopeful. The radio gave her the company she needed and whenever she heard a song she liked, she tried to memorise the lyrics. Her current favourite was ‘
To Minore Tis Avgis’
:

Ksipna, mikro mou, ki akouse

Kapio minore tis avgis
.

Wake up, my little one, and hear

The minor key of dawning day.

The absolute sincerity and pathos of the music touched her right to the core.

One morning in December she paid one of her regular visits to see Eugenia in Irini Street. The postman had called the day before.

‘There’s a letter for you,’ she said smiling at Katerina. ‘From someone who doesn’t know you have got married. And can’t spell your name!’

‘That’s not unusual,’ said Katerina, taking the envelope. ‘No one ever manages to spell Sarafoglou correctly!’

She looked at the words ‘Kyria K Sarafolgaou’. Obviously it was not from her mother, who had long since ceased to write. There was something that had struck her about the name.

Katerina tore open the letter, bouncing with excitement and agitation.

‘I thought so!’ she said triumphantly, as she pulled the letter from the envelope. ‘It’s from Dimitri! He hid Olga’s name in mine!’

She immediately stuffed it back into the envelope, almost dancing with joy, and kissed Eugenia.

‘I must go,’ she said. ‘Olga must have this straight away.’

Katerina opened the door and took off down the street at a run. In all the months of overfeeding her husband, she had put on a few centimetres round the waist herself, and was scarlet with exertion when she arrived.

She hugged a bemused Pavlina but delivered her news in a hoarse whisper. There was always a small chance that Konstantinos was in the house.

‘Pavlina! He’s alive. Dimitri’s alive. Where’s Olga? There’s a letter!’

With watery eyes, Pavlina pointed up the stairs.

Olga was in her bedroom when Katerina burst in.

‘Look!’ she cried out, ‘Open it!’

The two women sat on the bed together and Olga opened the letter, her hands trembling so violently that the paper visibly shook.

My dear Mother,

Unlike most of my fellow fighters, I have not crossed the border into Albania. I have not been fighting all this time in order to become an exile. I was fighting because I love my country. At this stage I have no idea what this will mean for my future but I wanted to let you know that I am alive. Hundreds of my brave comrades fell around me on that mountain. Like me, they all believed they were fighting for a just cause. I am one of the few lucky ones.