When the Cypress Whispers (21 page)

“Daphne
mou
—” She pointed her crooked finger toward the sky, toward the heavens. “Daphne, it was Father Petro himself who set the tone for others to follow. I will never forget, Daphne. He would not allow us to bury dear Rachel in our cemetery, saying the laws of the church would not allow it. Saying he was certain as well that Dora’s own rabbi would not have allowed it. At first I was angry, so angry with him. How, I argued, how could God not want this poor child to rest in eternal peace, had she not suffered enough? But gradually I understood. Father was bound by the rules of the church. He saw me that day, on my hands and knees, preparing the earth to receive little Rachel’s body. Father Petro came and stood with me, helped me prepare Rachel’s grave with his own two hands. He prayed over her tiny body, the most beautiful prayers, asking God to take this child into his kingdom and lead her into paradise.

“And each time I heard the warnings—each time the cypresses would whisper to me and tell me the Germans were coming—I would send Dora and Ester up to the dark and difficult side of the island to hide. Each time we did this, Father Petro would take a cross from the church altar and place it on Rachel’s grave so the soldiers would not find her and disturb her eternal peace. Again and again the Germans came, searching for Jews, intent on sniffing them out like a dog his dinner. Again and again they passed that poor child’s grave, and they never knew that what they were searching for was right below their feet. They never knew a Jewish child was buried right there, her grave hidden in plain sight.

“We lived in fear for six months, until the British solders came and liberated Kerkyra. But even then, Dora stayed with me here on the island, where she felt safest. Several more months passed, and finally a letter arrived from her sister in Athens, saying that she too had survived and that Dora had a home, a family to return to.”

Daphne could not sit quietly any longer. “But Yia-yia—how? How did you know all this? How did you know what to do, how to keep them safe, when to hide them? How?”

Yia-yia brought her fingers to her lips as if to quiet Daphne’s doubts. “I told you, Daphne
mou
. I have told you, but although you hear the words, you have chosen not to listen. It was the cypress whispers. It was the ancient voices on the breeze, the voices of the gods, our ancestors, my own
yia
-
yia
—a beautiful chorus of their voices, all joined together as one voice. One voice guiding me, guiding us all.”

Yia-yia reached out and took Daphne’s hand in her own.

“I know it is hard for you to understand, to believe. I too had little faith once. I was raised by my mother and grandmother, right here in this house. One day, as I was heading to play with the baby chicks, I found my
yia-yia
on her knees, crying under the shade of a cypress tree. I was no more than five years old, Evie’s age. ‘Yia-yia,’ I asked as I came up behind her and wrapped my little hands around her shoulder. ‘Yia-yia, what’s wrong?’ Still on her knees, my
yia-yia
turned to look at me. ‘It is decided. You have been chosen.’ She cried and pulled me into her arms. ‘What has been decided?’ I asked. And that is when my
yia-yia
turned to me and told me my fate. She told me that one day I would hear the island speak to me. That many would try to hear the cypress whispers, but only I would understand them. In that moment, in the doorway as Yianni’s mother wailed, I finally heard them. And that’s when I came to realize why Yia-yia was crying. My fate was both a blessing and a curse.”

“Your fate?” Daphne could not believe what she was hearing.

“My fate had been decided before I was born, Daphne. I was destined to understand the whispers. I had been given this gift that others would covet like Midas his gold. And at first I didn’t understand why, I didn’t know why I had been chosen. But then I brought Yianni’s shattered family home with me. Dora was a shell of a woman. We lived in silence for weeks. I shared with her what little I had, and finally, slowly, she began to share with me; stories of her family, their culture, their religion, and the skills she had learned working with her husband in the tailor’s shop. She taught me those skills—how to mend a blouse, how to make skirts from the sacks that held our flour and rice. How to make something valuable and beautiful out of scraps and rags. We mended old clothes and sewed new ones, and we traded our sewing for food and supplies. Your mother and I would have starved without Dora, without her guidance. When I saved Dora, she in turn saved me as well. I didn’t know that at first; I didn’t realize it until much later. Sometimes, Daphne
mou
, when we don’t know which path to take, when we feel hopeless and lost, we just need to be still and listen. Sometimes our salvation is right there, just waiting to be heard. The cypress whispers are always there for us, just waiting to be heard.”

Daphne remained still, as still as her body would allow. She had sat here year after year and listened to Yia-yia’s stories of myths and legends, and once upon a time she had even wished for them to be true. As a child she had wondered what it would be like to sit at Hades’ feast beside Persephone, or if she, unlike Psyche, would have had the willpower to resist stealing a glance at her sleeping lover. But that was a lifetime ago. The very words that she’d once dreamed of hearing now made her every hair stand on end. How could this be? How could Yia-yia really hear voices speaking to her from beyond the grave, on the breeze? How was this possible? It was crazy. It was impossible.

She did as she had promised; she listened without interruption, with an open heart and open mind. But now that Yia-yia had finished her story, there was one more question Daphne needed to ask, one final thing she needed to know.

“Do they still speak to you, Yia-yia?”

The old woman didn’t hesitate. “Yes, they do. I am still blessed.”

A gentle breeze rolled across the patio and between the majestic trees that surrounded them on all sides. Daphne held her breath and strained to listen. Nothing. Nothing but the sound of shivering leaves dancing on the breeze. The silence confirmed what she had known all along. The cypress whispers did not exist.

“What are they saying to you?”

Yia-yia didn’t answer.

“What are they saying to you?” Daphne repeated.

The breeze died down. The old woman released Daphne’s hand and looked deep into her eyes. Finally, she spoke. “They are saying that this man is not for you. Do not marry him, Daphne. You cannot marry him.”

Twenty-nine

C
ONNECTICUT AND
B
ROOKLYN

2008

Alex’s parents had insisted the funeral be held in the Episcopal church where Alex had been baptized. It had always troubled the couple that their son had agreed to marry in the Greek Orthodox Church, with its foreign language and strange traditions. But Daphne had stood firm, insisting that their first steps as man and wife would be taken around the altar of her childhood church, where Alex had sat patiently waiting for her week after week. But as passionate as she had been about every decision when Alex was alive, she was as indifferent in his death.

“He’s gone. I don’t care,” was the mantra she had repeated when the funeral director asked her if she wanted him interred in the blue or the pinstripe suit, when the police reported back that the truck driver had indeed been drunk when he crashed into Alex’s car, and when Alex’s pale mother asked if she could say good-bye to her son in the church where she had watched him grow up. “He’s gone. I don’t care,” was all she could bring herself to say.

But on the day of Alex’s funeral, what had begun as mournful indifference evolved into exhausted gratitude. Daphne sat stone-still and watched as the funeral mass unfolded around her. It was a small, simple, civilized ceremony with no wailing, no lament songs, no women threatening to throw themselves into the casket, as the black-veiled women at Greek funerals so often do. The priest was young and golden-haired, wearing a simple white collar—worlds away from the ornately robed priests Daphne was accustomed to. The priest, in fact, was new to the parish and had never even met Alex. Daphne looked around as he rushed through the mass with his impersonal, monotone delivery. She thought how sterile it all seemed, how devoid of emotion . . . and for that, she was grateful.

After the burial and luncheon at the club, Daphne poured herself into the black car for the drive back home to Brooklyn and the reality of life without her husband. Evie, who had never been one for long car rides, wailed and cried from the moment they hit the parkway.

“Do you need me to pull over, lady?” The driver had looked into the rearview mirror. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” she mumbled.

When Evie’s cries turned to screams, he asked again, “Lady, do you need me to pull over?”

Still staring out the window, Daphne stuck a fresh bottle in Evie’s mouth.

He’s gone, and I don’t care.

The moment she stepped through the door at home, Daphne placed the baby carrier on the floor. She undid the buttons of her plain black dress and let it fall off her shoulders and down around her feet. She stepped out of her dress and carried Evie to her crib, thankful the baby had finally fallen asleep in her carrier. Getting Evie to sleep had become a nightly battle, one that Daphne had neither the stomach nor the strength for right now. She tucked Evie into her crib and removed the evil-eye medallion from the carrier before fastening it once again on the white ruffled crib bumper. Daphne poured herself a large glass of wine and climbed into bed. Her fingers reached for the phone.

She answered with the first ring. “
Ne
. . .” The tears came again with the sound of her voice.

“Yia-yia . . .” She could barely get the word out.

“
Koukla mou, koukla.
Oh, Daphne
mou
. What a dark day. It’s a dark, dark day.”

“It’s done, Yia-yia. He’s gone. It’s finished.” She sobbed. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“Koukla
, I am so sorry. He was a good boy, a fine boy.” The sound of Yia-yia’s voice soothed Daphne. Soon, her glass drained, Daphne curled into a fetal position, the phone nestled under her ear.

“You will be all right,
koukla mou
. You are a strong girl. And you will be a good mother to that baby, I know you will.”

“I’m trying, Yia-yia. But it’s so unfair, and I’m so tired. I’m so tired, Yia-yia, I feel like I don’t have the strength to take care of her. How am I supposed to take care of her when I can’t even take care of myself right now?” She cried. “I just want to curl up and die.”

“I know,
koukla
. I know that is how you feel right now.” Yia-yia knew the feeling well.

“Yia-yia, will you do something for me?” Daphne asked as she wiped the tears with the corner of the bedsheet.

“
Ne, koukla mou
. Anything.”

“Tell me a story.” Daphne could barely get the words out. She reached her arm out to the side where Alex had slept and stroked the pillow with her fingers, just as she used to his hair. She laid her hand flat on the sheet, just where his head would have rested if he were still there lying beside her.

“Ah
, kala
.
Ne, koukla mou
. I’ll tell you a story.” Daphne closed her eyes as Yia-yia began to speak.

“I know your heart is broken today, Daphne
mou
, shattered and shredded. But there was once another beautiful girl, just like yourself, who thought her world would come to an end when she lost her love. But it didn’t. Life went on for her, Daphne
mou
, as I know it will for you. Her name was Ariadne—she was the daughter of King Minos of Crete.” Yia-yia could hear Daphne’s muffled whimpers on the other end of the line.

“When the hero Theseus came to Crete to slay the Minotaur, he knew he could not do it alone. Like most men, he needed a woman’s help to accomplish this task. And since the Minotaur was Ariadne’s brother, the sly prince knew she would hold the secret so Theseus could get close enough to kill him. Knowing this, Theseus whispered promises into Ariadne’s ear—promises of love, romance, and endless days of happiness together. Believing Theseus’s promises, Ariadne betrayed her brother and her entire family. She showed Theseus how he could slay the Minotaur. Once the deed was done, the couple made their escape. They sailed safely away from Crete and the family and friends Ariadne had betrayed for the sake of love. After a day at sea, they pulled in to the port of the island of Naxos. ‘Why are we not going to Athens so I can meet your father, the king?’ Ariadne asked. ‘We’re just going to spend the night here, and we’ll make sail in the morning,’ Theseus assured his young lover. Ariadne slept under the stars that night, dreaming of Theseus and the children they would have together. The next morning, Ariadne awoke to begin her new life. But she looked around and realized Theseus and the ship were gone. She had been abandoned. Ariadne wandered the island, inconsolable in her grief. She had lost everything: her love, her family, her homeland. She felt she didn’t deserve to walk among the living, and she prayed Queen Persephone would summon her down to her dark kingdom. One day, as she slept in the woods; disheveled, dirty hair matted like a wild animal, the three Graces stumbled upon her. They took pity on the girl and noted her fine bone structure, which was now caked in dirt, her once regal gown, which was now threadbare and torn. They knew this was Ariadne, the princess who had been abandoned by Theseus. The Graces gathered round and whispered in her ear as she slept—
Do not worry, young Ariadne.
We know your heart has been broken, that you have lost your faith and your will to live, but do not be dissuaded.
You have a purpose in life, and soon you will learn it.
Do not lose heart, young maiden, for the gods have promised to embrace you and protect you.
Just have faith and believe, and everything you have ever wished for will come true . . . for your heart, although broken, is pure and untainted.
The next morning, Ariadne awoke and remembered her dream of the Graces’ visit—or was it really a dream? She looked up at the sky and saw a gilded chariot covered with luscious vines and dripping with giant, sweet purple grapes. The chariot glided to earth and touched down next to where Ariadne lay. There, driving the chariot, was Dionysus, the god of wine and revelry.
Come with me
, he said.
We will live a blessed life together, one happier and more fulfilling than you could have ever imagined.
Dionysus reached his hand out to Ariadne, and she took it. She climbed beside him, and they sailed off in his chariot, back up to Mount Olympus, where they married and she was made a goddess herself. Ariadne finally lived the life she was destined to live; not as a Cretan princess, not as the beleaguered wife of Theseus, but as a deity whose days were more intoxicating and blissful than she could have ever imagined.”

Yia-yia finished her story and waited for Daphne to speak. But there were no words from the other end of the line, just the soft breathing of her brokenhearted granddaughter, who had fallen asleep with the phone still nestled against her ear.

“Good night, my
koukla
,” Yia-yia whispered into the phone. “Sleep soundly, my love, my beautiful goddess.”