The Thread (32 page)

Anti-Semitic feelings, which had lurked below the surface of the city for some years, were now acceptable.

Some things in Thessaloniki were the same for both Jew and Christian: lack of food. As cold weather approached, the shortages deepened. The Germans had shipped out everything they could to feed their own population and nothing could be imported.

That winter, people fought in the street for scraps or sorted through piles of rubbish, in the hope that someone might have tossed away a crust of bread. Shoeless children queued with emaciated parents outside soup kitchens, but there was little of any nutritional value in what they served. The Red Cross did what it could, but their efforts were almost futile. People in Thessaloniki began to die.

Every day, Katerina saw some new horror. One day, walking down Egnatia Street, the city’s main boulevard, she noticed two bowed figures with distended bellies and protruding ribs. This in itself was not an uncommon sight, but with their hollow eyes, and apparently enlarged heads, it was hard to tell if they were young or old. They seemed to be somewhere in between, a horrifying mixture of baby and octogenarian.

Only the following day, she saw someone lying on the pavement. She hardly gave him a second glance since there were many refugees sleeping on the streets as they had nowhere else to go. When she emerged from the workshop a few hours later, she realised her error. The body was being lifted onto a cart. A brief conversation with a woman who was standing close by confirmed what she had feared. The man Katerina had assumed was sleeping was being collected for burial. He had died of starvation. She crossed herself several times, mortified with shame.

The situation in Athens was known to be a hundred times worse. Katerina hoped her mother was managing to survive. She had not heard from her for some time now.

Everyone who worked for Moreno & Sons was aware of their strange good fortune. The Germans continued to visit the Moreno workshop with great regularity, and the income they provided gave the employees access to the black market. It was the only way to survive and meant that not only did they eat, but so could their neighbours.

Saul Moreno’s fabric was almost exhausted so his German customers went to the Komninos showroom and selected from his vast inventory. Konstantinos Komninos’ supply seemed to be unaffected by the shortages from which almost every other business in the city suffered. His silk production had continued, and his range of wool and linen was only minimally reduced. After the measurements were taken at the Moreno workshop, a messenger was then dispatched to collect the correct quantity of fabric.

‘Well, at least sewing takes our minds off what might be happening to our menfolk,’ said one of the seamstresses, to no one in particular.

‘Speak for yourself,’ answered another. ‘Every time I stick the needle into this dress, I imagine myself jabbing it into the German who has ordered it.’

‘Or the fat little wife who’s going to wear it,’ added another.

Katerina did not join in. She whiled the hours away in a reverie, wondering where and how Dimitri was. She knew that Kyria Moreno thought of Elias during these long stretches of work and the two women often speculated on where they might be and hoped that they would still be together. There had been no news. Katerina had been sent a few times to fit a dress for Olga, but it seemed that she had not received a letter in many, many months.

Time went slowly in the workshop now. A German ‘customer’ had arrived one day and caught them singing along to one of their rebetika records.

‘These are subversive!’ he shouted. There was no need for translation. One by one he picked up their precious records, smashed them over his knee and dropped them contemptuously to the ground. Fragments of Bezos, Eskenazi, Papazoglou, Vamvakaris and many more lay scattered over the floor for the terrified women to gather up later. On his next visit, he brought them a recording of Wagner
Lieder
. His ‘gift’, which was proffered with great politeness, was put away in a cupboard. They all agreed that silence was infinitely preferable.

As well as the tailoring of suits for German officers and gowns for their wives, there was other work which they had all begun to do. Even with ration coupons, few people could afford fabric for new clothes, so the making-do and adaptation of what people already had in their wardrobes turned into a huge industry. Girls’ dresses could be fashioned out of something their mothers had worn, and for men and women who had lost ten or fifteen kilograms in weight, there were waistbands to be resewn, and new darts to be made. Many children had nothing more than the rags they stood up in, so every evening was spent unpicking and adapting garments donated by wealthy Greeks.

As Katerina’s fingers wove her needle in and out of fabrics old and new, the winter turned to spring. Orange trees burst into blossom, filling the streets with dense fragrance, oblivious to the grime beneath and the death in their shadows. Katerina looked at the white blooms and knew at least that Dimitri would no longer be in the snow.

She and Roza speculated each day on where he and Elias might be, and when spring had turned to summer and many other soldiers had returned, they concluded that they had joined the resistance. Though the Greek army could no longer oppose the Germans, there were still many men brave enough to continue a campaign of obstruction and sabotage.

K
ATERINA AND ROZA
were right. Dimitri and Elias were among the thousands of soldiers who had attached themselves to the resistance as soon as the occupation had begun, and were now in the mountains of central Greece, living rough and eating little. They had survived the greatest enemy of all, the cold, but the months of almost sleepless discomfort left them both fitfully dreaming of a night in their own beds

When the Germans had invaded, army officers had been ordered not to resist, but many within the ranks remained determined to subvert the enemy and became members of the Communist-backed National Liberation Front (EAM). It seemed the only way to be part of a continuing war against the occupiers.

King George and his government had withdrawn to the Middle East, together with some of the armed forces, an armistice had been signed with the Germans and a collaborationist government had been established in Athens. The major political parties had chosen not to back the resistance movement which, in the view of Elias and Dimitri and their fellow
andartes
, was tantamount to accepting that their country now belonged to Germany.

Initially, EAM concentrated on relief work to help feed the starving populations in both villages and towns and, at the beginning of the occupation, Dimitri and Elias had been drafted in to help raid a number of warehouses where food supplies had been hoarded by the Germans to feed their own troops.

Sometimes, they were heavy handed in their actions, but if it meant that their countrymen were fed, they believed that this was justified.

‘At least we’re
doing
something,’ said Dimitri. ‘We may not be fighting hand to hand, but this is still war, isn’t it?’

‘Personally, I would rather have a gun in my hand,’ said Elias. ‘I think we should be trying to get the bastards out of our country. Stealing their food isn’t enough. It’s tame.’

‘You have a point,’ conceded Dimitri reluctantly. ‘The way things are going, we’re more likely to die of starvation than a gunshot.’

‘So why not fight?’

‘Because we’re helping other people. And for now that might be enough.’

Dimitri was rational and measured compared with his friend. ‘EAM is doing everything it can to keep hospitals and pharmacies open as well. You know that don’t you?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard,’ responded Elias. ‘At least with your medical knowledge you can do something constructive. What I’m doing just doesn’t seem enough.’

‘It would be impossible to fight when people are so hungry. Can you imagine anyone trying to conduct a campaign when half the troops are too weak to hold a gun? Come on, Elias, think about it.’

‘There’s a rumour going round that some proper guerrilla action is going to start. If that’s the case, I’m in. Active rebellion. It’s the only way. It’s what Vassili would have done! Fight!’

Dimitri and Elias often had similar conversations. As a member of EAM, Dimitri believed in the same communist principles as his friend, but in the situation in which the country found itself, he could not see how they were ever going to rid Greece of the Germans. The war in the rest of Europe was not going the Allies’ way. France and Belgium were occupied and there were rumours that Britain would be next.

News of the organised guerrilla action that Elias had heard about turned out to be true. In February the armed resistance movement within EAM, known as the National Popular Liberation Army, had begun operations. Its other name was ELAS.

‘We’re joining,’ said Elias.

Dimitri was silent.

‘Dimitri? What’s wrong with you?’ he shouted. ‘What about all those Greek heroes? Aren’t they supposed to be your ancestors?’

Dimitri looked up at his friend and felt ashamed. Many still did not regard Sephardic Jews as true Greeks, but here was Elias more than willing to risk his life to liberate his
patrida
. How could he, Dimitri, not follow such an example? He must continue the fight. It seemed to him that this was the only way to be a true Greek. Elias was right. Putting aside your weapons and submitting to an enemy occupier was not the way for a proud nation to behave.

‘I’m with you, Elias,’ he said eventually, meaning it in every way.

For some while they had enjoyed great success, attacking gendarmerie stations and Italian posts in remote mountain areas. They felt that they were achieving something and slowly but surely were regaining control of their country. Even if the central government had done nothing, ELAS was proving itself.

More than eighteen months had passed since the two friends had left Thessaloniki and they now had a few days’ leave. They yearned to see their loved ones. They had fake papers, which were easily come by, but still had to be careful to avoid road blocks and the occasional gendarme, whose suspicion would be easily aroused. Travelling mostly at night, taking lifts with farmers who still had fuel supplies, Thessaloniki was in sight within five days.

It was June and the two men kept assiduously to the generous shadows created by the trees on the city’s main streets. Their families and homes were almost within reach.

They were pleased to be there but Thessaloniki was not the same city that they had left. A pall of sadness hung over it. Gone was the hustle and bustle that had characterised Egnatia Street and the small roads on either side of it. Many shops were boarded up and the others that still functioned had nothing in their windows. Street vendors who used to add vibrancy and music to the general scene, with their cries and calls, had vanished, and near the station there were only two boot-blacks where there used to be at least a dozen. They saw several Germans soldiers in the street, but they took not the slightest interest in either Dimitri or Elias.

Dimitri watched a group of children overturning a bin. The hunger he had experienced in the mountains and villages had never looked as desperate as the famine here. At least, away from the city, there was always some kind of vegetation that could be made into a soup, or even fruit, nuts or roots. With guidance from trustworthy locals who taught them which ones to avoid, even berries had been an important part of their diet. Nature nearly always provided, but in the city the cobbles yielded nothing but mud in winter and, now that temperatures were rising, a choking dust. The urban landscape was a barren place for the starving.

They came to the grand space of Aristotelous Square where cafés still buzzed with activity just as they always had done. Customers were enjoying the afternoon sunshine and the sight of the glistening Gulf and far-off Mount Olympus, a view that had not changed. Many of the tables were frequented by German soldiers, and there were even a few Greek girls sitting chatting with them. Additionally, there were groups of sleek and well-fed Greeks. Dimitri realised that some of his father’s wealthy friends and customers could easily be among them.

‘We’d better separate now,’ said Dimitri, knowing that he must avoid being recognised by any of these people. With their heavy boots and unshaved faces, they felt conspicuous.

‘Do you think we look like
andartes
?’ asked Elias, almost jokingly.

‘Unfortunately, I think we probably do.’

Alone, it would be easier to blend into a crowd, vanish into a shop doorway or melt into a crowded kafenion. Dimitri and Elias had been warned that they must trust no one. In the cities, Germans were employing waiters and concierges and anyone else who might lead them to subversives or resisters. All of those who eavesdropped on their fellow citizens had families to feed, and consorting with the enemy could mean a day or two without the cramping pains of a hollow stomach and a child’s endless whining for food. Hunger had made Thessaloniki a dangerous place.

The gendarmes, the military police, who had been feared and despised in the past, were detested even more now because they were serving the Germans. Theirs was a bleak choice. If they refused to co-operate with the occupying force, they would be tortured and executed. Some of them remained in their positions and took the risk of helping resisters, but it was hard to tell who was a ‘good’ gendarme and who was a ‘bad’ one. It was best to avoid them, just in case.

‘Let’s meet up again in twenty-four hours,’ said Dimitri. ‘I’ll come to Irini Street at six o’clock.’ He was hopeful of catching a glimpse of Katerina.

He checked his watch. It was a miracle that it still worked after all the months of rain and snow and dirt to which it had been exposed. It was an expensive Swiss make, a present from his father for his twenty-first birthday, which he had worn with great reluctance at first. It symbolised his father’s love of money and status, and Dimitri had been embarrassed to wear it during his time at the university. It seemed to single him out. On the night when he had left the house, he had grabbed it at the last moment. He knew it would be useful, perhaps even something that he could sell. Now that the face was scratched and the gold around it dull, he had grown to love it and even to rely on it. Many times, the accuracy of its mechanism had been invaluable, when he and his fellow
andartes
had needed to orientate themselves in the mountains.