When the Cypress Whispers (14 page)

Yianni looked at Daphne for a moment, as if contemplating what to say. As the wind picked up again, he tossed a crust of bread over the side of the boat. It floated on the breeze for a moment before falling into the sea and being pounced on by a seagull who had been circling above, following the boat in anticipation of its next meal.

“I owe her my life,” he said, without a hint of his usual sarcasm or bravado. “I would not be sitting here if it were not for Thea Evangelia.”

Daphne didn’t understand. How could this big, burly man owe his life to frail Yia-yia? “What are you talking about?” She released the air from her lungs in a huff.

Here we go again, right back to square one, she thought. Since they’d shared a laugh as well as the sea urchins, Daphne had imagined that something had shifted between them. That perhaps he too had grown tired of this battle of wills they had engaged in since their first meeting. But now, with this latest grand, dramatic claim, it seemed Yianni was at it again, tainting a perfectly pleasant morning with his innate ability to summon the furies and, in turn, render Daphne furious.

“Don’t look at me like that, Daphne.” His dark eyes homed in on Daphne’s face like the seabird to the discarded piece of bread.

“Are you always so dramatic?”

“This is not a joke, Daphne. I owe your
yia-yia
my life, and my mother’s life, and my grandmother’s as well. She saved them both. She risked her own life to save theirs, and for that, I am eternally bonded to her.”

Daphne sat still for a few moments, attempting to process what Yianni was getting at. She gnawed on her lips, her teeth tearing their pink flesh as her mind raced.

“You’re serious?”

“I couldn’t be more serious.” He was devoid of sarcasm. “There’s much you don’t know about your
yia-yia
, Daphne. Things she never told you, things she wanted to protect you from.”

She wanted nothing more than to spring from her seat and tell him that what he was proposing was absurd—crazy, in fact. It was impossible that he would be privy to Yia-yia’s secrets while she, Yia-yia’s own flesh and blood, was kept in the dark, protected from whatever dark past Yianni was alluding to. It was impossible. Or was it? Her mind raced back to the way Yia-yia greeted Yianni, the way she coddled him—the way he knew about the shoe box under Yia-yia’s bed, the way they looked at each other as if they could read each other’s minds, each other’s secrets. As her mind flashed through the scenes, Daphne felt her heart beating faster and faster against her rib cage. She had been searching for answers, and now it seemed Yianni was willing to serve them up as readily as the sea urchin brunch he had produced. Daphne was desperate to hear what he had to say; whether or not she believed him would be another story.

“Tell me.” She folded her hands on her lap, promising herself not to judge, just to sit and listen. “Tell me. I need to know.”

Yianni began to speak before the words had even left her mouth.

Nineteen

“I was like you, Daphne,” he began. “You see, we are more alike than you could ever imagine. I too loved nothing more than to sit and listen to my grandmother’s stories. I, like you, lived for those stories.”

Daphne nodded in agreement as well as surprise. He watched her face change, the muscles around her mouth finally unclenching.

“My own grandmother told me what happened many times when I was a child. I loved listening to her stories, but to be honest, I thought they were the hallucinations of an old, tired woman who could no longer separate fact from reality. But then I met Thea Evangelia, and it all finally made sense.”

“What made sense—what did she tell you?” Daphne tucked her legs under her body and held the railing as if to brace herself for what might come next.

“She told me what had happened to them during the war. She told me how in one moment, strangers changed each other’s lives—saved each other’s lives. She told me what it is like to face the devil himself . . . and to refuse him your soul.”

This was indeed the story that Yia-yia and Nitsa had both mentioned to her. But Yianni’s version seemed different, darker.

“Why am I only learning about this now?”

He smiled at her, as if he’d anticipated this question before he could begin the tale in earnest.

“She wanted to put the past behind her, to forget. She didn’t want you weighed down by those old ghosts like she had been, like your mother was. She wanted you to be free of them, for you to know of only magic and beauty.” His face softened, but Daphne could still see the vein in his temple bulging, throbbing blue under his translucent light brown skin.

“Tell me,” she said. It was time she learned the truth.

“It started in Kerkyra,” he began. “My grandmother, Dora, lived in the old town, in a second-floor apartment just under the Venetian arches. My grandfather was a tailor, the finest tailor in Kerkyra. His suits and shirts so perfectly fitted, his stitches so immaculately precise—people marveled at his garments. They would line up ten deep just for a chance to purchase his exquisite clothes, my grandmother would boast. . . .” His voice drifted for a moment.

“She said everyone, everyone marveled at his gift, agreeing that no machine could match the skill in his nimble fingers—that this gift was a blessing from God himself. His shop was located just below the family’s apartment, on the ground floor in the Jewish quarter.”

“The Jewish quarter?” Daphne had never heard of a Jewish neighborhood in Kerkyra.

“Yes, the Jewish quarter. My family was part of a thriving community of two thousand Jewish merchants and artisans. For generations, Kerkyra was their home, just as it was your family’s home. They were a part of that island, as were your own ancestors. But that was before the war, before the Germans came and everything changed.” He looked down at the floor and inhaled deeply. One hand gripped the wheel as he continued to direct the
kaiki
toward Sidari.

“It was 1943—the Italians were occupying Kerkyra, and there was an uneasy calm in the city. For the most part, the Italians left our people alone. The Italian soldiers were barbaric all across Greece, but not on Corfu. Here, with the islands so close to Italy, many of the men spoke Italian, and the soldiers looked kindly on the men who spoke their mother tongue, even warning them, telling them to flee as the Germans approached. The Italians were very aware of how this tragic script would play out should the Germans reach Corfu. But sadly, my grandparents and their community stayed rooted in the place they loved, the place they called home. My family had heard that the German troops were indeed getting closer, that they had decimated communities, massacred Greek resistance fighters and Jews across Greece. But my grandparents felt safe in Corfu, among these civilized and cultured people.” He paused. “Among their friends.

“But when the Italians finally surrendered, so did civilization—so did the eyes of God, as my grandmother used to say.” Daphne thought she saw dampness coat his eyes at the mention of his grandmother. Perhaps it was the sea mist—she couldn’t be certain.

“It was June 8, 1944. Just two days after the Allied forces landed on the beach in Normandy. Salvation was close, so incredibly close. But just not close enough. The Germans issued an ordinance that all the Jews in Corfu present themselves in the town square the next morning at six a.m.”

He shook his head and turned to look at Daphne. “Imagine someone coming into your home, the home where your own grandparents were born, where you cooked dinner every night and where your children played and slept. Imagine waking up one day and being told that you were nothing—that your family meant nothing. This is what was happening all across Greece. And it had finally reached Corfu. Many of their friends left that night, escaping to the mountains, to the tiny remote villages. But not my family. They stayed.”

Daphne stared at him, not making sense of his story. “But why? Why would they stay, if they knew how dangerous it was?”

“They couldn’t leave.” He shook his head again. His eye caught a seabird in the distance. He watched her gliding, soaring, flying gracefully around and around before finally diving and plucking a fish from the sea. Only then did he continue.

“They couldn’t leave. My grandmother, Dora, had gone to a clinic in Paleokastritsa. She took my mother, Ester, and her two-year-old sister, Rachel, with her, leaving my grandfather and their four-year-old son, David, at home. Rachel was a sickly child, and she had a fever once again that had not broken for days. The doctor in Paleokastritsa was truly skilled and knew the remedies that always made little Rachel better. Dora never thought twice about making the trip. The Germans were cruel and menacing, but the Jews had learned to avoid them, to stay quiet and out of their way. They lived like that for months, praying the Allied forces would get closer and that soon the Nazis would be expelled from their island. No one saw the trouble coming, but things changed overnight. Corfu became dangerous, and their whole world transformed overnight. My grandfather would never leave his wife and daughters behind. He chose to stay, to defy the order and wait for his wife and daughters to come home.

“The next morning,” Yianni continued, “as Allied bombs fell on Corfu, the Germans gathered all the Jews on the
platia
, in the town square. They emptied the prisons, the hospitals, and even the mental institutions. All the Jews of Kerkyra—even expectant mothers waiting to give birth—everyone was rounded up in the square. The soldiers went house to house, hunting for anyone; men, women, children, the elderly . . . anyone who dared defy the order. One day they were a thriving community; the next, ripped from their homes as if they were nothing. Imagine being dragged from your home by strangers like an animal being plucked from his cage, plucked like a fish from the sea . . .” He turned and looked at Daphne. This time there was no mistaking the source of his red, wet eyes.

“They stood there in the blazing sun, all morning and all day and into the evening, not knowing what would happen, not willing to believe their fate. Finally the soldiers took them. They were thrown into prison, all of them. Almost two thousand Jews, herded into the Frourio. The same place where they would stroll with their families on the Sabbath became their prison. They were all kept there with no food or water, stripped of their possessions, their identity—their dignity.” He finally looked away from her. His eyes closed, and his head sank to his chest. He sat silent and still for a few more moments before he could finally get the words out. “Before they were sent to Auschwitz.”

His words stung like a slap across the face. “What?” she cried, thinking of the scenic fort, always a symbol of protection, of strength and safety. “What are you saying?”

Yianni ignored her question. “My grandfather and David . . .” He exhaled. Daphne could see his fingers tremble as he grabbed the wheel tighter. “They were in the shop, my grandfather and David, when the soldiers came. They looted stores, arrested everyone, and shot those who dared protest. My grandfather refused to go, refused to leave without his wife and daughters. The soldiers beat him for his disobedience and ordered him to line up with the rest of the men that had been herded like cattle, like sheep to the slaughter. But he refused to let his son watch him being led away like an animal.” Yianni closed his eyes once again. “So they shot him.”

Daphne brought both hands to her mouth, but there was no quieting the sob that escaped from between her fingers.

“They shot my grandfather in the head. Right there in front of his son. They left his lifeless body draped across his sewing table.”

“Oh my god.” Daphne sobbed, breathing deeply yet feeling as if she couldn’t pull any oxygen into her lungs. If he heard Daphne’s cries, Yianni didn’t let on. It was as if he had waited so long to share this story that nothing would stop him now. The words continued to pour out of him, even faster now, even more devastating.

“My grandmother arrived back in the Jewish quarter to find the streets empty. She ran all the way home, clutching her daughters’ hands. They ran into the store and found my grandfather there, cold and lifeless, and David—David, gone.”

Daphne could no longer suppress her tears. She felt them well up and spill over, tears falling down her face; crying for this little boy, crying for his father, for his mother and sisters, crying that Kerkyra was not the paradise she always pictured it to be; that it too had a dark and tragic past.

“That’s how your grandmother found them—my young mother and her sister, collapsed on the floor, caressing, cradling, their dead father’s body as my grandmother ran shrieking through the alleys, searching for her son.”

“Yia-yia found them? Yia-yia was there?”
How could this be?
It was impossible to imagine that her grandmother had witnessed this horrific scene. It made no sense to Daphne that Yia-yia was even there. She rarely left Erikousa. It was as if Yianni sensed that she had begun to doubt him. Before she could question the validity of his story, he continued.

“Your grandmother had just come from Erikousa and had not yet heard about the raid and the arrests. She was merely coming to the Jewish quarter to pay a debt. She owed my grandfather money. It had been months and months, and Evangelia still could not pay her bill. She walked into the shop with a basket of eggs and a bottle of olive oil, hoping he would accept them as payment. Instead, she walked right into my family’s hell. Thea Evangelia got down on her knees and pulled the children away from their father’s stiff and bloody body.”

It was as if Daphne could see the blood, smell it. She stopped breathing for a moment and listened, feeling as if she could hear their sobs still reverberating across the island.

“But David, what happened to David?”

“They took him away . . . but your
yia-yia
tried . . . She tried . . .” His voice trembled as he repeated the words.

“She dressed my grandmother as one of her own, placing her own black headscarf on Dora and draping her in the black sweater taken off Evangelia’s very own back. They took refuge in the church of Saint Spyridon, your
yia-yia
praying to the saint while my grandmother and her girls cried in each other’s arms in a heap on the floor. Your
yia-yia
told them to stay and pray with her. She told them Agios Spyridon would protect them. And he did, he did protect them. They hid there in the church for more than a full day, listening to the gunfire and chaos just outside the church door. But no German entered the church, not one. Finally, when the screams and the shooting stopped, your
yia-yia
told Dora to stay in the church, not to move and not to speak to anyone. Evangelia stepped outside and ran all the way to the Frourio
.
She planned to speak to the police and claim that there was a mistake, to say that David was her own son, a Greek and not a Jew. But it was too late. The Frourio had already been emptied, and the
Juden
, as the soldiers called them, spitting in disgust as they said the word, had been taken away.

“That night, under the safety of darkness, your
yia-yia
took Dora, my mother, and little Rachel to Erikousa. At first my grandmother refused to go—she refused to leave until she found her son. She vowed to die before she abandoned hope of finding her boy. But your grandmother made it very clear that there was no hope of finding David. Her little boy, her David, had been taken away with all of her friends, all of her family—it was too late to save him. It was too late to save any of them.”

Yianni brought his large, rough hand to his face and tugged at the whiskers of his beard. He turned to look at her. “Daphne, you are a mother. Imagine having to tell another mother to give up hope of finding her child. Imagine your Evie, the beautiful child you carried, gave birth to, nursed, and nurtured. Imagine walking away and leaving her for dead. Knowing that as you still live, breathe, and walk this earth, that you have left your baby in the hands of godless, soulless animals intent on making her suffer, intent on murdering her. Imagine your beautiful Evie discarded like a piece of trash. And now you can begin to imagine my grandmother’s hell.”

Daphne pictured her beautiful baby girl, her Evie—immediately willing the image of her daughter out of her head. She couldn’t bear the thought. . . . It was too much to contemplate . . . even from the safe distance of decades gone by. All she could do was shake her head. No.

“And imagine your own grandmother, Daphne. Having to tell another mother to forget this child—to forget her own child in the hopes of saving the others.”

“No, I can’t.” Her whisper was barely audible.

Yianni raised his head again and looked at Daphne dead on. “But your
yia-yia
did this, and it saved their lives. She saved my family’s heritage, our legacy. That morning, as your
yia-yia
dragged them from the tailor’s shop, Dora ran back in. She knew she could take nothing with her, that Evangelia was right, they needed to leave immediately, before the soldiers returned. But Dora grabbed one thing, the one thing that would bear proof that her family did indeed exist. It was her family menorah, the one her own father had carved of olive wood and given to her on her wedding day. Knowing they would be killed if anyone saw them carrying it through the streets, your
yia-yia
wrapped my grandmother’s menorah in her apron and hid it under the folds of her own skirt.