Chapter 21
I dreamt about Dimítris last night. He was laying the foundation for a house with Thanásis Yiánnaros and Old Man Bakoúris. Right on the road, in front of the Biroúlis property. Poor Dína. In the morning she had Martha ask me to go light the oil candles at the Ayiánnis church.
— Martha? I say to her.
She started to cry.
— Our Yiórgos, he’s not well, Marigó.
Her voice kept fading over the telephone. That was the bitter cup destined for poor Dína.
Chapter 22
When did they burn down the village? It was on Saint Ilías’s Day. In 1944. In ’44 on July 20. They had burned down seven houses before that. Seven houses four months earlier. In the spring. First off they burned down the two Kyreléis houses. One where Tambákis is now and the other was Anna Kyreléis’s. It was their paternal homestead. Seven houses in all and then in July on Saint Ilías’s Day.
— When is Saint Ilías’s Day?
— July 20. They burned down 170–180 houses.
— Where were you?
— In bed, I was asleep. They came into the house, they broke down the door. Five o’clock in the morning. They took us out and they gathered us at the telephone company. It was an empty lot back then where they kept cars, but there were no cars there, they’d all been requisitioned during the Albanian campaign. Only Galaxýdis’s gazogene truck was there. Up above was Old Man Boúrdas’s house. And right below was Méngos’s kafeneío. And on the floor above a hotel, none better in all of Greece. They’d set up their machine guns there and crowded us all into that empty lot. All the villagers. At five o’clock in the morning. Five-thirty. The smart ones began slowly sneaking away. Because they saw the machine guns, they could see what the rebels’ intentions were. Seven-thirty, eight o’clock. They kept us there in the sun until ten. And then they took us to Ayios Panteleímonas.
— How many of you were there?
— All of Kastrí. And people from Mesorráhi and from Karátoula and from Roúvali. They had gathered all the so-called reactionaries. The reactionaries against the Communist Party. All of them. Under the command of Prekezés and Kontalónis. That’s right. They took us to Ayios Panteleímonas, in the middle of a pine wood. But their liaisons and the lookout post saw at about twelve that the Germans were coming from Trípolis. And they gave a signal. They set up a committee then and started to pick out who had or didn’t have a brother or a father or a relative in the Security Battalions. And whoever didn’t they let go. Meantime the houses were burning, One hundred eighty houses. From five-thirty in the morning. It was six o’clock when they started.
— You mean while they were holding you on the phone company lot?
— First they gathered us there. And first they set fire to Panayótis Háyios’s house. Used the same broomstick for Strífas’s house. Then Horaítis’s place. They burned down Méngos’s kafeneío. The best hotel in Greece. And from there, with the same broomstick they torched one house after another.
— Were there any local people in their ranks?
— That seven-member committee did quite a job.
— Who was in the seven-member committee?
— Six men and one woman. The most important member was — I hesitate to say.
— Tell me.
— The woman, the one who voted to burn down the village, was Eléni Gagás. Maiden name Eléni Tólias. She was the one. The others had no say.
— What happened to the others?
— They all died. They were killed.
— Haroúlis?
— Yes.
— Who else?
— From what I was told. Because I was thirteen years old then. Yiánnis Velissáris. Yiórgos Velissáris. I’m not sure about Yiórgos. One of the two. There were seven in the committee. They’d managed to persuade them, to scare them into voting to burn down Kastrí. But most of the blame was hers.
— Okay, you said that. Do you know about any others?
— Magoúlis, Haroúlis, Velissáris, three. Eléni four. I don’t remember the others. It’s been forty years. You start to forget, you say to hell with them.
— Then what happened? After the fire?
— When they burned down the houses. They didn’t leave anything standing. A hundred and eighty houses. And every household had two or three girls. All the houses had two or three dowries. If anyone still remembers such things. Because before the Occupation every girl had to have whatever she needed for the rest of her life. And she had to make it herself by hand. Sheets woven on the loom, blankets, towels, everything. They had to make it all themselves. A thousand and one things. Even a sewing machine. So that some day when they married they’d be ready to set up house. That’s right. Now some had dowries and others didn’t, but I know one thing. From Kastrí all the way to Palaiohóri, Kynouría, they had requisitioned all the mules.
— And they’d carry off the dowries.
— Whatever was in the houses. Burned down or not. The houses were looted.
— Did you see the mules leaving from where you were?
— We saw them. After they freed us. Because a signal came that the Germans were coming from Trípolis. With the local men in the Battalions. That’s when they let us go. But when the Security Battalions got here the houses were nothing but ashes.
— And they burned the rest down.
— They burned three or four houses. In retaliation. But not the same day. They came back later. To retaliate. Against Velissáris, and Mávros.
— Yes.
— Because Níkos Mávros was also a ranking member.
— Kapetán Foúrias.
— Kapetán Foúrias. The worst, the most barbaric of the lot, here in Kastrí. While the Velissáris brothers, we could say by comparison, they were restrained. One was a lawyer, and the other a soft-spoken type, he had actually finished high school, they kept their distance. But not Kapetán Foúrias. But the thing I remember is. .
— About the fire?
— About the fire. It’s that complete strangers came here, and they had their informants here, and they showed them where my mother or yours or this one or that one had hidden their things, and they’d tell on them, and they went and opened those so-called shelters and took those things. And that’s the story of the big looting.
Chapter 23
We loaded up the chestnuts. To haul all through the night. We passed Sourávla, we arrived down outside Ayios Pétros. Was it the devil playing tricks, or was it the smell of blood — three years since Fotiás was killed there, the mules wouldn’t set foot there. We couldn’t see a thing.
Chapter 24
They arrested me in place of Márkos and our uncle the doctor. My uncle had left first. Márkos later on. Toward the end of November. There’d been a light snow, about two fingers high. In February, the seventh or fourteenth of the month. And it had frozen. Two rebels came by, strangers. Which of you is Eléni? I am. At daybreak. They took me to Mángas’s house. Old Man Dínos Haloúlos was there. Yiannoúkos’s father. And Biniáris I think. And the Braílas woman. Aunt Eléni Kyreléis with Kikí. And Kyriákos Galaxýdis. They took us down to Loukoú Monastery. Old Dínos had a shaggy wool cover. I don’t remember if I took blankets. I must have taken something. They might have brought me something. At Loukoú we found others. Eléni Roúgas. Pétros’s mother. She was crying all the time, she wouldn’t eat anything. I tell her, Whatever happens to us, we’ll get through it. Mítsos Kapetanéas was there, and Chrístos Panayotoúros. From Stólos now living in Kastrí. Stólos was nearby, they brought them food, they brought meat to those men. They’d grill the meat. As though it were Carnival. One day they let us go out. The rebels were guarding us, and we went outside the stone-fenced yard of the monastery. A sunny February day. I thought about running off. About escaping. But where would I go? My folks were in Kastrí. They had stayed there. Old Mavroyiórghis and Mavroyiórgaina. They’d be the ones who would pay for it. In about a week’s time they got us up. At night, it was raining. Get up, we’re going. They didn’t tell us where. They just took us. We passed by Astros. I had on some thin wooden shoes, they came apart, I walked barefoot. My feet were all cut. We reached Orthokostá at daybreak. Fifty or sixty people. Maybe less. We went into the monastery. Instead of asking for some warm water I put my feet in a water trough. And I fell sick. I came down with a fever. We slept on the same mattress, me, Aunt Eléni, and Kikí. A couple of days later my parents send me a basket, or rather a shoulder sack, from Kastrí. Eggs, walnuts, dried figs. But it all had to be inspected. With a fine-tooth comb. The rebels kept half of it, they gave us the other half. They had nothing either. We found out that Penelope Kaloútsis was leaving, they’d soon be letting her go. So I wrote a letter. I wrote it in front of Kikí. I wrote about how we were doing. I wrote them not to send us things because they kept them. I was planning to give it to Penelope, to hide and take with her. So she could give it to them. But what with my fever and all I forgot in the end. Luckily. They got Penelope in the end. She had a patchwork woolen quilt, they put her up on a mule. And a rebel escorted her. Was it Vasílis Tóyias maybe? I don’t remember. Kikí says to me the next day. Kikí Kyreléis. See Penelope’s quilt? They’d left it on the stone fence. They’d folded it. We spent our time there in the yard. Walking. Up and down. Kyriákos Galaxýdis was there. Someone named Tálas from Trípolis. Someone else named Krígas, old Liás Krígas, from Rízes. Whose house is on the right as you enter the village. And a young fellow named Yiórgos, I see him in Trípolis, that fellow. He sells gasoline now, I can’t remember his last name. Everyone took a liking to me. All of them. Kyriákos Galaxýdis would pace back and forth all the time. A nervous man, with a long face. And all he would talk about was his car. About the tires or about one thing or another. Finally he would stop and he’d look outside. Do you see Mount Malevós? Kastrí is on the other side. When they let us go we’ll cut right through the brush, and we’ll get there. One day the abbot came over to me. The monastery had a few monks. Not too many. They didn’t let them speak to us. Are you Mavroyiórghis’s daughter? I am. Do you know I’m a friend of your uncle Ayisílaos? Uncle Ayisílaos lived in Astros and rented the land from the monastery. Olives and the like, he worked the land for profit. On the twentieth of March the rebels get us up. We were leaving. For where, no one knew. The abbot calls me to his cell. He gives me six fresh eggs. Make a hole in them, he tells me, and suck on them. There was no food to take with us. The abbot was getting on in years. I would look around his cell. He had a hand made from bone, he had it hanging, a hand with wood, with a handle. What’s that, Father? My child, I have no wife to scratch my back. And that’s what it’s for. I was downright amazed. The rebels got us up. There was a justice of the peace in the detention camp. From Vlahokerasiá. Kikí and I went to see him. He couldn’t stand up. His legs were like barrels, black and blue underneath. They would take him outside the monastery, beat him, and bring him back. They got us up on the twentieth of March, they took us up the mountain. We came to a ravine. The rebels escorting us stopped, they made us stop. And we waited for some liaison. We learned later on that they were waiting for an order, whether to kill us or not. Whether they would kill us all in that ravine. The Germans had learned about our detention camp. They had captured a caïque from Ayios Andréas with army boots that were meant for the rebels. And the rebels were afraid that they would come and free us. They didn’t kill us. Night came and went. The next day they took us farther up. We came to a sheep pen. Nothing there but a shed with a small high window. That served as both the window and the door. They put us in there, they cut down some fir trees, they lit a fire. The shed filled up with smoke. There was a prisoner there with us called Bebéka, just a girl. She was pregnant. But she didn’t look it. Bebéka was her name, she wasn’t married. There may have also been two boys. I think they were from Loukoú. There were about forty of us all told. The shed filled up with smoke, we say, Let’s get out, we’ll suffocate, and they let us out. We went outside, it was snowing. There were fir trees, the snow would fall, by the time it reached the ground it would melt. And there was a hush in the air, a silence. We saw some lights off in the distance, Kikí says to me, That’s Athens. That’s how high up we were. Now I think it was probably Argos. In the morning they gave us half a boiled potato. That’s all they had. We went outside to urinate. Kikí and I went a bit farther out, and we saw some blood. That Bebéka, her belly gave out. Seems she gave birth to the child in the night and died. Either it was her time or she miscarried, what with all the hardship. I don’t know. A skinny young thing, pretty. Two days later they took us back down to Orthokostá. Outside the yard they had dug out a grave. At the edge of the road. They’d covered it up, the dirt was still fresh, they’d thrown some branches over it so it wouldn’t show. We never saw the justice of the peace again. Then Broúsalis arrived, a lawyer from Bertsová, and Níkos Delivoriás, I don’t remember the rest. They were the Central Committee for the Peloponnese. They were the head men. They put us in the church of the monastery, they talked to us. They asked us if we’d been treated well. We had no complaints. In other words they’d never beat us, they’d never tortured any of us. Whatever discomfort they had, we had too. The men guarding us. They tell us, The detention camp is being dismantled tomorrow. You’re leaving. I ask, Can we leave today? Anyone who wants to can leave. It was March 27. Or maybe 26. They got ready. Kyriákos Galaxýdis. Old Liás Krígas. Tálas and that Yiórgos. Maybe Biniáris was with them. Vasílis. It was probably just those four. It was in the afternoon of March 27 or 26. I tell them, I’m coming with you. They didn’t want to take me. We’ll be sleeping in sheep pens. Then I will too. So I started out. With those four men. We made our way through the brush, we kept pushing forward. When there was a wall they would get hold of my hand and help me over. I was wearing a simple two-piece outfit, made from one of our brother Márkos’s suits. I’d burned it with the iron, and he’d given it to me. Right between the wild pear trees and the gorse it began to come apart. In the end I grew tired. Night came. I realized I couldn’t go on. I say, Where are we, they tell me, At Asómatos. Old Sotíris Kóllias used to spend the winter there. They had olives, they had land. I say, I’ll go and find them. Tálas took me part way down. I reached the village easily from there. I found a woman, I asked her. She showed me the house. And I went there. The girls greeted me with tears. We went to sleep. In the morning Voúla says, We’re leaving. We’re going back to Kastrí. But we can’t put you on the mule. We’re taking the animals, we have things to carry. We got up in the morning. With the ewes tied, with the hens on the mule, it took us thirteen hours to get there. Word had got out they’d cut off my hair. They’d cut off Marina’s hair then, Aunt Iou