The Thread (49 page)

‘I thought Kyria Komninos would only ever leave the house to go to her own funeral, but you know what? There she was at her husband’s. With everything that’s gone on, I always thought she would die first,’ Pavlina rattled on, ‘but something gave her the will to keep going, didn’t it? And you know what I think it was?’

Katerina nodded. She understood the strength of Olga’s love for her son and now for her little grandson too.

On Giaros, Dimitri received a letter from his mother telling him that his father had died. For a while he simply sat and stared at it. Leaving this godforsaken island might be one kind of release, but at this moment he experienced an even greater one. His hatred of his father had been a great burden, but that was now lifted from him.

His decision to sign a
dilosei
was not taken lightly. He would always believe that the Democratic Army had fought for the right cause, but his urge to be reunited with the people he loved overcame any other issue now.

Although thousands had already signed, the guards were surprised when Dimitri volunteered to do so. His was an unexpected recantation and not done under duress.

He watched his hand pick up a pen to sign the declaration as though it belonged to someone else and his feeling of detachment grew as the nib moved across the page.

‘I was misguided by the Communists and deceived. I renounce the organisation as the enemy of the fatherland, by whose side I stand.’

The one thing he feared was that his declaration would be published in the Thessaloniki newspapers. It was usual for the details of a
dilosei
to be published in the signatory’s local press. Given that everyone imagined he was dead, he was anxious about the effect that this would have on his mother and the woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life. As the ink was drying, he looked up and caught the officer’s eye. Dimitri remembered that the officer had been ill during an outbreak of typhus on Makronisos, when he had volunteered his medical skills to look after the sick.

Although the officer had been delirious for many days, he still recalled Dimitri’s face as he re-emerged from unconsciousness.

‘So, you’ll be off soon,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s about time you were using your medical training properly.’

‘I won’t be able to do anything if you publish my details, will I?’

‘No, that’s true. It does tend to ruin a career, doesn’t it? Being a Communist.’

‘Or even an ex-Communist,’ suggested Dimitri.

He could see the officer softening.

‘Where do you come from then?’

These details would provide the information which would allow the government to publicise the declaration locally.

‘From Kalamata. Eighty-two Adrianou.’ It was the first address that came into his head.

‘That’s not what it says here,’ said the officer.

‘My family moved,’ replied Dimitri firmly.

The officer glanced up at him and winked. He crossed out the existing address, scrawled the ‘new’ one on his file and then signed a form, which he passed across to Dimitri.

As soon as he was back on the mainland, he sent letters to his mother and Katerina. He wanted them to have some warning of his return.

A few days later he was back in his own city. Since his last visit, there was a new sense of prosperity. The pastry shops were piled high with the triangular shaped pastries,
trigona
, and the pavement cafés were full of people sipping mint tea and coffee. The scent of baking bread from the
fournos
and flowers from the market had replaced the smell of fear.

He went straight to Niki Street and loudly rang the bell. There was no need for anxiety on this visit. Olga was overwhelmed with joy to see him. They talked for an hour and sat close on the sofa.

‘Isn’t it a problem,’ he said, ‘that my father told people I was dead?’

‘Well, there was no death certificate. And if we need to, we can always prove that the letter I received was a fake.’

‘I don’t want people treating me like a ghost for the rest of my days!’

‘We’ll say it was a joyous mistake,’ she said. ‘I think Katerina might be waiting for you, now. You should go.’

Still weak from the poor nutrition on Giaros, he could not run to Irini Street as he wanted. All he could manage was a fast walk.

It was now spring, the month for almond blossom, and he plucked a sprig of blooms just before he arrived. The door was open when he got there and he could hear the sound of voices.

Stepping inside he was confronted with an unexpected sight: Katerina was sitting at the table next to a small, dark-haired boy whom she was intent on feeding.

As soon as she saw Dimitri, she dropped the fork and got up. The little boy turned round to see where she had gone.

‘Hello, Katerina,’ said Dimitri, handing her the flowers.

‘Dimitri …’

They spoke as if Dimitri was returning after just a few days away and as they embraced, the little boy got down from the table and began pulling at Katerina’s skirt.

‘Mummy!’

‘You didn’t tell me you had a little one …’ Dimitri said.

‘This is Theodoris,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Say hello,
agapi mou
.’

Dimitri was adjusting to the vision of Katerina as a mother. It was so strange of her not to have mentioned anything in a letter.

‘He must have been so young when your husband died.’

‘He hadn’t even been born then.’

Katerina paused a moment and lifted the child up. Dimitri and he looked into each other’s eyes and then the little one buried his face into his mother’s shoulder, overcome with shyness.

‘Theodoris is yours, Dimitri.’

‘
Mine?
’ said Dimitri with stupefaction.

‘Yes,’ said Katerina. ‘This is your son.’

‘But …?’

‘There is no doubt,’ she said. ‘He couldn’t be anyone else’s.’

Dimitri’s bemusement turned to joy as he took in the news.

Back at the kitchen table, with Theodoris on Katerina’s lap, Dimitri took her hand and they began to talk.

‘But you said nothing in your letters. Nothing at all!’

‘I was worried. I thought it might make you come back, before you were ready. So it seemed better not to,’ said Katerina.

‘Katerina
mou
. Thank you. I had to wait until my father died but if I had known about Theodoris it would have been much more difficult. You did the right thing.’ He was almost overwhelmed by the intensity of the love he felt for this woman, a feeling that was made all the deeper when he reflected on her self-restraint.

Dimitri held Katerina’s hands but could not take his eyes off his son, who sat playing happily on the floor next to them. There was no denying that the likeness was a strong one.

‘And I couldn’t give him your father’s name. Theodoris seemed right,’ she said smiling at Dimitri, who was smiling at his little boy.

‘Gift from God,’ Dimitri replied. ‘It’s a perfect name.’

For the next hour, they sat and talked of their future.

The stigma of having fought with the Communists would hang over Dimitri for a long while, and he was reluctant to brand Katerina and their son.

‘Nothing you say will stop me wanting to marry you,’ Katerina assured him.

‘I won’t get a probity certificate. You realise that, don’t you?’ he asked.

The Certificate of National Probity was necessary for state employment, and without it Dimitri would not be able to continue his medical training or work in a hospital. The right-wing government was not making it easy for anyone who had fought with the Communists to reintegrate back into society.

‘We will manage,’ said Katerina. ‘And I know your mother will help us.’

‘I can’t accept any of my father’s wealth,’ said Dimitri. ‘Not even one drachma.’

‘Well, I will earn enough to keep us then,’ said Katerina. ‘And with the amount of work I have, we will be comfortable.’

Two months later, when Dimitri’s identity papers were once again in order (the only occasion when he had to accept any money from his mother, so exorbitant was the amount required), the marriage took place.

For the second time, Eugenia and Pavlina were guests at Katerina’s wedding but this time Olga came too. The
koumbaros
– best man – was Lefteris, Dimitri’s friend since university. Invitations had been sent to Sofia and Maria but they had both given birth recently and were unable to get there, and Katerina also wrote a letter to Zenia in Athens asking if she would come, but it had never been answered.

Katerina had made herself an exquisite dress of
crêpe de Chine
and a veil edged with pearls, and a small white suit for Theodoris with a sailor collar. Dimitri could still get into the suit that had been made for him when he was eighteen, though Katerina had to tailor it to improve its fit. This small family unit made its way on foot to Agios Nikolaos Orfanos, where Katerina had prayed so many times. God had not answered every prayer, but standing in the church there that day she felt that a miracle had taken place.

The tall-hatted priest was surprised when the entire party of seven arrived together and he watched patiently as they each took a handful of candles and lit them.

The names of the Moreno family – Saul, Roza, Isaac and Esther – were whispered over and over again, and they all prayed for Elias, hoping that somewhere in the world he at least was safe and carrying on the family name.

Katerina prayed too for the health of her mother and sister. One day, she would try to go to Athens to see them.

Five minutes of silence went by. They needed this time to reflect on all that had passed. When everyone was ready, the priest began to chant.

‘Evlogitos o Theos imon, pantote

Nin ke ai ke is tous eonas ton eonon
.

En irini tou Kyriou deithomen.’

For the first time in a decade the country was nominally at peace. Perhaps a million had died in the preceding ten years, during the occupation and civil war. Hundreds of villages had been burned down and thousands made homeless, but for Katerina and Dimitri this day marked a new beginning.

A
NTI-COMMUNIST FEELINGS STILL
lingered in the government, but at least Katerina, Dimitri and little Theodoris could lead something like a normal life. Mass production of clothing in factories was beginning to take off and so, although Katerina occasionally made a bridal gown, she was happy to leave fashion behind and do something new. Together she and Dimitri set up a new business and called it ‘Soft Furnishings and Furniture for the Modern Age’. They took on a carpenter and made their own chairs and settees, which Katerina upholstered in some of the new, washable, synthetic fabrics.

In the following year, Katerina found herself pregnant again and when the baby was born they named her after Dimitri’s mother. Six months later both the children were baptised. They were to grow up surrounded by people who adored them.

The death of her husband had released Olga. Many years after Dimitri’s birth, a doctor had diagnosed that she had suffered from post-natal depression, and although her complete recovery from agoraphobia would take the rest of her life, at least she now occasionally visited Irini Street. She lavished even more attention on the children than most grandmothers. Theodoris and Olga both called in at Niki Street every day on their way home from school and were always spoiled with plates of Pavlina’s freshly made cake and biscuits. The old housekeeper was too frail to come to Irini Street now, but she baked for them until the day she died at the age of ninety-five. Her funeral was the first time that Theodoris and little Olga had ever seen adults cry. Pavlina had been part of all their lives.

The two children were also close to their other
yiayia
, Eugenia, and it had never been appropriate to explain that she was not really their grandmother. With both parents working hard all day, the elderly lady kept the household running and shipshape. Sometimes she went to stay for a few weeks at a time with Sofia or Maria (who by now had nine children between them) but she was always glad to return to the relative tranquillity of Irini Street.

On Sundays the whole family, with both grandmothers, would sometimes go to their favourite café, Assos, on the seafront. The children would have ice creams, which they were only allowed once a week, and the women would all eat miniature
bougatsa
.

Dimitri and Katerina’s business began to thrive. Apartment blocks were going up all over the city and thousands of families were moving to better homes. For the first time, many of them had bathrooms with running water and kitchens complete with modern appliances. This new lifestyle called for new kinds of interior furnishing and design, and they struggled to keep up with demand.

Just before Easter in 1962, Katerina received a letter from Athens. The handwriting was unfamiliar. It came from Artemis and announced the news of their mother’s death. For Katerina, almost the worst thing was that she could not cry. Her memory of Zenia had faded to extinction and her sister was a total stranger. Naturally, she sent her condolences and said she would come to the memorial service to be held forty days after Zenia’s death.

Sadly, she was unable to fulfil her promise. Only a fortnight later, Eugenia developed a chest infection and within a week pneumonia had claimed her life. The whole family struggled to come to terms with their unexpected bereavement and Katerina found there was no limit to the depth of her grief. It was a far greater blow than the death of her birth mother.

‘But she was only sixty-nine,’ wept young Olga, inconsolably. It was average for a woman at that time, but both children had assumed that she would live to be as old as Pavlina. The small house seemed empty without her presence and the loom, with a half-finished rug, stood idle in the corner. For many months Katerina and Dimitri could not bear to get rid of it, in spite of the fact that it took up half the room.

If there was ever going to be a right moment to move, perhaps this was it. The children were clamouring to leave Irini Street for somewhere more modern and with more space. It would have made their parents’ lives much easier, if they could be in a brand-new building in a flat directly above their business, but their sentimental attachment to the old cobbled street was too strong. For both Katerina and Dimitri their ties to Irini Street were deeper than their children could begin to understand.