Introduction - Part 04

“Poisonous snakes! The time has passed! Look around you for the last time; look at the sea, the sun, the light. If you don’t sign, you will die. For you there is no mercy! No philanthropy! Today you will have to sign if you want to or not!!! We did not bring you here to live, but to die. If you don’t want to die, then sign!”

His face and eyes were glowing, a reflection of evil and hatred.

He paused for a moment and then addressed the alfamiti. He said: “I now surrender them to you. They are in your hands; you can do with them as you wish...” He then urged all forces to deal with us whores and traitors...

That’s what the alfamiti were waiting for. They had sticks, yardsticks, iron rods, whips... in their hands. We all huddled together in a bunch, tight against one another.

“The time has passed!” shouted the commander.

The alfamiti lined us up then divided us into groups of forty women and ordered us to walk. Two alfamiti walked in front of us and two behind us. We did not know where they were taking us. We stopped at the shore. They lined us up about three steps away from an abyss.

They then, one by one, pulled us by the hair and made us look down. Roaring mad waves were crushing the walls at the bottom. Fear grew in me as I thought that they, one by one, would toss us into the abyss.

After everyone was given a turn to look down into the abyss, one of the alfamiti said: “Whoever does not want to find themselves in the bottom of the abyss, drowning in the wild waves, may step aside”. There was silence... Anticipation… In the silence that followed about fifty women separated themselves from the rest and stood about twenty metres away from the abyss.

Several alfamiti lined them up and led them back to command. The others, the ones who remained behind, were ordered to keep walking. And we did. We were given an opportunity to tour the rest of our island and prison...

I could not shake off the fear that had gripped me earlier. I was frozen with fear… it took my breath away.

As we walked along all I could see was grey rock. The island was ruthlessly beaten by waves from all directions. I saw no beauty, no tree, no grass and no trace of green… I heard no bird singing and saw none in flight. All I saw was stone and sand. The wind was blowing fine sand into my mouth, nose and eyes… and all I felt under my feet were angular, pointed and sharp pieces of stone that caused my feet to bleed.

I was stepping on barren and dry land which later would become my daily companion, which I would regularly dampen with my tears and sweat...

The alfamiti took us to the other side of the island where they showed us even more terrible precipices. Above them, along the full width, was a large rock that extended right down into the base. These were deep chasms. When I saw them it reminded me of what a soldier, a prisoner who was sent to Trikeri, had told me. He said: “There, in those depths is the abyss of death where they torture you until you sign...”

They returned us to our tents late in the afternoon and gave us cold beans and a piece of moldy bread to eat. This was our entire meal for the day. But even before we had a chance to eat our beans, they crashed into our tents screaming, swearing, insulting and threatening and ordered us all out of our tents. They then ordered us to line up. As soon as we did they began to beat us with whips, sticks, fists… punching, pulling hair, kicking, slapping… Left and right the battered women kept falling down. The air was filled with shrieks of horror and screams and cries of pain. The alfamiti brought stretchers and took away those who were down and did not have the strength to stand up… those who lay in the sand bleeding.

I heard the ominous whip whistle as it hit my head and shoulders.

I counted: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...

I counted up to twenty before I fell down. I lay down and protected my head with my arms. I felt the heavy military boots everywhere on my body. I was numb from being kicked. As he continued to kick the alfamiti standing above me, in a hoarse voice, kept yelling:

“Come on bitch, now, now bitch, sign! Will you sign or do I have to kill you?!”

The alfamiti stopped kicking me, grabbed me by my hair, lifted me up and then ordered me to take off my shoes. When I did he yelled:

Forward! Walk in front of me! Walk to the abyss!

I walked.

My feet were sore. I trudged along the sharp-edged stones. My shoulder and my head were sore from being whipped but I made it to the abyss on my own power. He then ordered me to look down.

I looked down, the sea water was roaring. It was boiling. It was madly hitting the rocks... I froze… I was petrified…

“Will you now sign?” the alfamiti growled behind me.

I turned a bit and shook my head… no!

“Are you going to jump or shall I push you?” he screamed.

“I will jump!” I yelled loudly and took a step toward the abyss.

He did not allow me to jump. He grabbed me by my shoulder, pulled me back a couple of steps and hit me hard with his fist. I fell down. He jumped on me and with his heavy boots began to dance the Sirtaki (a Greek dance) all over my body... I jerked with each step, with each blow and prayed that I remain rigid and silent for the next blow and that each blow silenced my cry of pain. When the pain was strong my body burned the most and with each blow I yelled:

“More! More!”

I felt more at ease and could hold out longer when I mocked my tormentor.

He took me back to command. There were tables laid out with sheets of paper and pens. There were women sitting down behind the table with their heads bowed down, signing. The alfamiti forced me to sit down and ordered me to sign.

I said: “No!”

He tried to force a pen into my hand but I tossed it away.

He slapped me hard on the face. I saw stars and felt dizzy. Droplets of blood were dripping into my lap. Two alfamiti took me by my arms and dragged me into a small shed where I remained all night fighting with hungry rats. The worst thing about being there in the dark was the thought that they would force a pen into my hand and draw a signature out of me.

The thought of that happening was tormenting me.

They returned me back to my tent all black and blue and bloodied from the beatings. The camp commander was there threatening the women prisoners who had also been beaten and bleeding. He said:

“None of you are leaving here alive unless you sign. You will suffer here and you will die here… and the worms will eat your rotting bodies here!”

They left me alone for several hours. I tried to pull myself together and rub the parts of my body that hurt the most. I kept telling myself that this storm too would pass and to be patient. When I felt better, as much as I could, I helped the other women, the ones who had suffered even more…

Sometime after midnight a new madness gripped the alfamiti. They stormed our tents wearing black face masks and, with the same threats, the same whips, rods, hammers and iron bars, beat us all over again.

There was screaming, shouting, whining, moaning and begging… women were bleeding and falling unconscious everywhere… everything was mixed in this new cry of horror…

This is how the day and night of January 30, 1950 ended.

And this is how we spent the days and nights that followed.

* * *

We were awakened at the crack of dawn with the sound of three short blows from a military trumpet. The alfamiti would crash our tents shouting and swearing and would chase us out. We would rush out with our eyes half-open and dreams unfinished and line up in front of our tents. The last ones to join the line, in addition to being denigrated and called everything vile and dirty, were also kicked and whipped with sticks and whips. They would count us and divide us into two rows. Breakfast consisted of a piece of bread and salted fish. After that we were returned to the line and made to stand at attention. It was forbidden to speak. We would wait and wait. We waited for the commander… Finally when he arrived, he would walk between the lines and stare into our eyes.

“She who has decided to sign the statement of repentance, step forward three steps!” he would then blurt out loud.

And then he would wait.

He would whip his palm with his whip while staring at us, looking for weakness, eyes filled with hatred. This is what he did every day.

No one would step out of the line.

Then he would give the order:

“This row in the direction of the quarry! This row to the other side of the island! March!!!”

They would order the line to straighten and they would count us again while thundering over the speakers:

Σοφια, Μοσχα ειναι το ονειρο µας (Sofia, Moscow in our dream)

Then the speakers would go silent and they would order us to march. We took steps in the sand as if we were taking steps to Sofia and Moscow.

Lined up we would march towards the stones. That’s where the hammers, the picks and the rocks waited for us.

We would line up, one behind the other in a long queue, barefoot. We would then walk through the cold and sharp gravel of crushed marble.

The quarry was not too far but the road that led there was unusually long. There was a big pile of stones, large and sharp stones, large enough to cover the entire shoulder and sharp enough to cut flesh. We were each ordered to pick up a stone and place it on our shoulder. The alfamiti made sure mine was large and had many sharp edges. I picked up the stone and placed it on my shoulder and, with my heart pounding and my soul full with fear, I walked down the path to the other side of the island. Somewhere in the middle of

the road the two lines met. One line placed the stones from the quarry in a pile and the other line took them from the pile and returned them to the quarry. And so we gave the stones a ride from the quarry to the shore and from the shore back to the quarry. And while doing so, we the slave women of Makronisos with bleeding feet and shoulders, left our sweat and blood on the crushed marble stones. And then when the lines changed places, we quietly whispered to each other:

“Cheer up! Keep your head up!”

These words often did not go unnoticed and landed us in trouble. More often than not we became victims of the whip, fist and stick… a tiny whisper… an impetuous look while passing by… words passed on from mouth to mouth, barely audible… lips barely moving… from burned lip to burned thirsty lip… yet enough to land us in trouble… to have us whipped and beaten…

“Cheer up!” we whispered moving along like living skeletons… a spark of defiance...

“Cheer up!” the long lines of women whispered while bent under the weight of the stones that cut the living flesh of their one time fragile female bodies.

They always returned us to our tents late. We were exhausted from carrying stones and frozen and, in the warmer months, burned by the sun, our only wish was to lie down, to rest, to refresh our rotten bodies with a nap. But we were not allowed. The alfamiti violently entered our tents at night and danced the evil dance over us.

It was part of the curriculum for national rehabilitation.

* * *

You can’t recognize anyone in the dark so we endured our pain and lay in our own blood until dawn. They came in the morning to check on us and see if we were still alive. They looked at us all wounded and bloody and sneered and then pretended to be surprised by the bloody spectacle. Then they would again force us to line up, go

down the steep bank and wash in the salty seawater. Our wounds burned from the salt. There would be dead corpses on the bank. The waves pulling them back and forth, hitting the rocky coast with them and tossing them out again… into the deep...

These were the bodies of those gone mad or of those killed during the night. The alfamiti threw them there in the dark of night...

The horror of the scene made our hearts freeze, it filled us with fear. But our fears subsided on the way back to our tents. Part of our line was pulled out and sent along the road that led to camp command.

That’s where the signing of the statement of repentance took place...

* * *

It was morning. Five alfamiti entered our tent. One of them, pointing with his finger, said:

“You, you and you! Out!”

I was one of the ones pointed at to get out.

We were each given a shovel and taken to the beach.

“Do you know how to dig?” asked the sergeant.

“I know how to dig!” I replied loudly, spat on my hands and began to dig in the sand with the shovel.

“Bravo!” he said, then asked: “Where did you learn how to dig? Have you been...?” he pointed towards the hill with his head.

“Yes, I have been...” I replied.

“So that’s where you learned to dig, eh?” he said with a sarcastic smile on his face.

“That’s right!” I replied.

“In other words, you dug trenches and bunkers... Is that right?” he asked.

“Exactly...” I replied.

He measured my height with a stick and then measured the same length on the sand, marked it and ordered:

“Dig!”

I spat on my hands and began to dig. I threw the sand far with a strong swing, left then right. When I had dug deep to my chest he ordered the women to:

“Put the sand back in the pit!”

Shovel by shovel they were slowly burying me in the pit. They kept burying me to my knees… to my waist… to my chest… the sand eventually reached my chin. I was cold and numb all over. I was unable to breathe...

The sergeant leaned over towards my head and said:

“If you sign a statement of repentance, I will immediately unearth you!”

The sand was clutching my throat. I could not speak. I could not move at all. I stood there motioning with my head that I would not sign. Every breath became harder to take… I was running out of air. I passed out.

I recovered in my tent late in the afternoon.

I did not see the women who buried me, on the sergeant’s orders, in evening line up.

I did not see them in the morning line up, the next day, either...

“Will I be rescued from the evil today?” That’s what I thought when we were returning to our tents. That’s what I thought when I went to bed exhausted; when all I wanted was some peace, to be free from torment… from the alfamiti. That’s when I lay in bed on my stomach, with my eyes closed, to avoid looking at the sky through the torn roof of the tent. That’s when I let my thoughts leave the island. How can one escape from here? Is there a way? There is no escape from here; not even for my thoughts. I can only dream of escaping... But even such a dream escaped me...

Rest and comfort were nonexistent here… they were only parts of my imagination… of our imagination. No one was able to have them… to make them part of their personal life. People were unable to control their time, life, thoughts, hope… or be masters of their own bodies. How life flowed in the daytime, at night, even at the very moment, was determined by command. The officers were responsible for delivering what command was ordered and the alfamiti were responsible for enforcing those orders, particularly against those who disobeyed them. Everything was done in accordance with the methods outlined in the curriculum designed to “correct” our behaviour. One of those methods was for the strong winds of the north and the south to alternatively blow wildly. They scattered the tents, picked up sand, carried salt water rain, created grey clouds that disappeared in the air… In the winter and early spring we froze in the cold tents. In late spring and summer we burned under the scorching sun. Over us was this associated satanic alliance of the torturers and nature.

Which mythological god created this piece of rock in the sea?

There was only pain, fear, moaning, uncertainty and anticipation of new pogroms… inside and outside our tents in this cage designed for the Special School for Re-educating Women…

Re-education classes always ended with the triumphal anthem:

Το πρωτω ταγµα Μακρονισου Μισει τωρα το Σλαβισµο (The First Battalion Makronisos now hates Slavism).

One day two alfamiti took me to the shore. They told me to sit and watch the sea and the waves hit the rock.

I watched. Down below the roaring waves were pelting the rocky beach, the water churned. The high waves roared, slid wildly and foamed on the rocks. The alfamiti sat behind me, smoking cigarettes. At one point one of them said:

“What are we waiting for? Let’s push her down and then we can go...”

I was stunned. I froze. I moved slightly and slowly stood up. I stood upright and waited. I shivered and froze when I felt the hand of the alfamiti on my shoulder. He slowly pushed me towards the abyss. I took a step forward and stood over the edge. I was at the end of the rock. Half my foot was over the abyss. I stood and waited, watching the waves foam. They roared below. They boiled. I felt the alfamiti’s fingers squeezing my shoulders. I waited for him to push me. He did not push me. He pulled me back. He again pushed me to the edge, held me there and pulled me back again. He did this several times. Step forward, step back. He then stopped and asked me:

“Will you sign?”

There was silence… I did not reply.

“Sit down!” he yelled, “and think about it...”

I sat down goggle eyed. A butterfly landed on the stone beside me. It slowly flapped its wings. It was colourful with many dots and circles of various colours. This was the first time, since they brought me to this island, that I had seen another creature unlike us slaves and our tormentors. I wanted to touch it… to caress it. I slowly lowered my hand and at that very moment the wind blew and the butterfly flew off over the abyss. It disappeared. It reminded me of the crazy women. Did the wind blow them away like it did the butterfly or did the alfamiti throw them into the abyss...?

Sometimes in the few moments I had to myself in the cold tent, I thought wouldn’t it be nice if the wind could take me way, if I too became insane and they left me on the shore so that the mad wind could surrender me to the crazy waves?

That’s what I thought then, but later I was disappointed with myself for having had such thoughts. Yes there were moments when I had fallen prey to my weaknesses, when I was confused and when I thought my salvation was in the muddy waters. But that’s what they wanted from me… they loved it… for me to have blurred thoughts... I was afraid of that. Wherever they took me, whatever they did to me, I protected myself from my mind becoming a blur...

The alfamiti ordered me to stand up. They tied a rope around my chest under my arms and began to slowly drop me down into the abyss.

I dangled on the rope as I was slowly lowered into the abyss. Salty water droplets fell on me making my face wet. Both alfamiti held onto the rope while lowering me. The waves began to hit me and whip me against the rocks. They dragged me into the deep, spit me up and whipped me against the rocks. My cry of horror was lost in the roar of the waves. I could not hear myself screaming… I felt pain inflicted on my body every time I hit the rocks. I don’t know how long I was hanging over the water. The waves were in control of my body hitting against the rocks, then sucking it deep into the sea, then spitting it up again… again and again and again… I was drowning in salt water… my blood froze in my veins… I was filled with terrible fear.

They raised me slightly above the water. I breathed salty air. I said to myself “I’m alive...” and felt that they were slowly pulling me up. They threw me on the sand and stood over me yelling:

“Will you sign!!!?”

All I could think of, lying there in the sand, was that I was alive. I kept telling myself “I am alive,” while I listened to them yelling and cursing…

I was completely out of it, I thought I was out of my mind when I moved my head slightly. They interpreted my motion as positive… that I was going to sign. They picked me up and led me away. On the way they kept hitting me with their sticks and whips. The whips had a tiny lead ball at the end which penetrated my skin and opened a wound with each blow. They wiped my blood with a cloth soaked in salt water. I did not cry or scream; I just fainted. I fell flat on the sharp stinging stones. When I came to, I found myself in the room where women were forced to sign. They put a piece of paper in front of me and shoved a pen in my hand.

“Sign!” one of them yelled.

I blew on the paper as hard as I could and did not pick up the pen.

“Sign!” they both shouted.

I shook my head: “No!”

“Sign!” they shouted again.

“No...” I said with a weak voice feeling cold sweat covering me. I felt light headed and began to lose my sight. Everything was turning into shadows. I felt faint, weak, empty and began to lose my strength...

They locked me up in a small, dark low and narrow shed. I stayed there until the next day. I had horrible thoughts of being tortured while I was unconscious and that they used the opportunity to put a pen in my hand and force me to write my name?

They returned me to my tent in the evening. I was beaten and battered. I was wounded on the head pretty badly. The women tried hard to cheer me up....

My days passed in a state of non-awareness. The doctors decided to send me to the hospital but the commander ordered that I sign the statement first and then they could send me wherever they wanted.

The pain persisted.

I was surprised that I did not slip away.

And this time too I said: “I’m alive...”

* * *

We were all one body in the tents and shared the same pain, care, compassion, suffering and courage… We had one thought and the same glimmer of hope. Here even a glimmer of hope was something to want to dream of...

I was not the first, the last, or the only one on the rock by the sea. There were other women before and after me. They brought them there during the day, at night and in the dark.

Some were swallowed by the sea, some were frightened into signing and, a day or so later, with bowed heads, they passed in a line in front of our tents. We watched them with disdain, but we understood their fear and apathy. By bowing our heads we wished them a safe trip home…

* * *

Parliamentary elections were scheduled to take place on March 5, 1950. All of us who were in the camp, wherever we were; whether we were in our tents at night waiting to be attacked by the alfamiti, or out in the quarry moving stones from coast to coast, or standing in line for hours in the cold, or were called in for questioning and forced to repent, we all eagerly awaited the outcome of the elections.

Sometimes secretly and sometimes openly we all hoped that there would be changes in this country and that perhaps those changes would improve things on this notorious rock.

The moment the results were announced we felt encouraged and openly, in front of the alfamiti, hugged, sang and jumped around. We trusted and expected that something in our lives might change. We felt so much at ease that we almost forgot our burden of having

to carry the stones, our fear of the rocky depths, the crazy waves, the black shadows of the alfamiti following behind us… It even felt like the furious winds had stopped blowing… in the tents… in the quarry… above the stones… on the cliffs… between the rusting barbed wire…

Smiles appeared, for the first time since we had been brought here, on my face and on the faces of hundreds of women and girls... and then hope lay open in our hearts that we might go home without having to sign, without the humiliating signature of remorse...

There was growing optimism but it did not last… The alfamiti were back to their old tricks and back to the night pogroms.

Unfortunately Makronisos remained Makronisos for a long time...

* * *

I don’t know how, but it was true that news of what was happening in Makronisos had reached the West and extensive stories were written about it.

So one day journalists from the French newspaper Le Figaro arrived on the island and asked for permission to check if what the communists were saying was true or whether they were spreading propaganda about the island. Among them was the well-known journalist Dominique Okler.

That day they gave us better food. There was no screaming and insults. The soldiers, the policemen, the guards, and everyone else who wore a military uniform, was well-groomed, shaven and dressed in clean and ironed clothing. The paths between the tents were cleared and all garbage was collected. Everything looked shiny and pure. The women who had signed the statement of remorse, who they called the “true Greeks”, were lined up outside. One of them, a more educated woman, was chosen to speak with the French journalists. She was instructed to assure them that everything was okay here on this island. She was to instruct them that only good things happened here and that we all learned plenty of things here in Makronisos and the Western world needed to know that. The

morning of the previous day, all the women who had been badly beaten, maimed, mad, sick and paralyzed were hastily transferred to the other side of the island and hidden behind the rocks. No one could see or hear them from the camp. They could yell as loud as they wanted and no one was going to hear them. Those were the rocks about which the Western press had written. We, the unruly and bad ones, were made to sit quietly in our tents and were prohibited from stepping out. Command thought that we did not know about the French journalists. Those who knew, however, had secretly informed us of the visit. Quietly, whispering from mouth to mouth, we spread the word that we were all going to come out of the tents, all at once and shout, run, jump on the barbed wire fence and attract all sorts of attention so that the journalists would notice us. We wanted to tell them what was truly happening here, on this island… we wanted to get out of our tents and shout, create a frenzy and let the journalists know what was hidden behind the curtain.

We waited and waited for the right moment but they kept talking with the officers, smoking cigarettes and laughing ... They seemed satisfied with what they saw. They were happy to shake hands with our tormentors as they left for their vehicles. And then something happened, something unexpected.

We rushed out from our tents shouting and breaking the silence. It was as if a storm had flooded the entire area and with a single loud voice called out:

“Ladies and gentlemen wait! Wait! Wait! They are deceiving you. They are not telling you the truth. Come back! We will tell you the truth. Come Back!!! They torture us here!!!” We screamed and ran to the surprise of the journalists. The alfamiti tried to stop us but we were an unbearable storm of women lashing riotously at a living wall of policemen. One woman managed to break through and approach the vehicles shouting in French:

“Madame Okler! Madame Okler! Stop !!! Wait!!!”

Surprised by our shouting Madame Okler came down from her vehicle and approached the woman and, as was later discussed, said in French:

“Madame Okler, help us. They torture us here. They beat and kill us here. Don’t trust them. We are slaves here. We are running to you to tell you the truth. Come with us; come so that we can talk. Come and see with your own eyes what is happening in these tents. Please do not go... Come; spend a bit of time here in this tent...

The officers tried to persuade Madame Okler that the woman was lying but she did not want to hear it from them. She wanted to hear it from us.

One by one we began to tell the journalist how they treated us here, how they tormented and tortured us, we told her about the pogrom on January 30, about the stones, about the abyss over the sea, about the women going mad, about us having to carry rocks, about the beatings, about the poor food… about this island being a torture chamber...

“Madame Okler, please listen to us. People are tortured on this island and some go crazy and others die from this torture. Please tell the world, tell free Europe the truth. Please tell the truth about what is happening here, save us from the hands of the torturers...” That’s what we said in hopes that, through Madame Okler, our truth would touch the European conscience.

The night after the French journalists left, the alfamiti declared a new war on us. They attacked us and beat and beat and beat us to no end. And that was not the only night that we had to endure the madness…

In Athens, in the meantime, a new government was formed and with the new government new hope was rooted in our thoughts… that perhaps this time the change would end our torment and we could all go home.

Unfortunately false hope was hard to swallow.

The officers repeatedly threatened us, telling us that the only way to go home was if we signed the statement of repentance.

They would say:

“Repent… if you don’t, then you will die here... The birds of prey will devour your bodies. They will tear you apart with their dirty claws and beaks and let the worms do the rest...”

Besides torturing us they used other forms of intimidation, which meant nothing to us so they continued to use torture and ran our lives with the butt of the rifle, stick, fist, whip, they made us carry stones, they constantly threatened us with violence… they also used nature to torture us. They made us stand in line in the heat and in the cold in front of our tents; for hours at a time. We stood in line three times a day, two hours each time… every day! The summer was a very difficult time for us in Makronisos, as if especially invented to torture us. It was not only hot from above, from the sun, it was hot from everywhere, from below from the hot sand and hot rocks and from the hot air all around us… there was not a tree anywhere that one could go under and cool in the shade… not even to shade one’s head. There was no water to splash one’s face with, wet one’s lips with, or soak one’s forehead...

One afternoon in late July, during one of the hottest days in Makronisos, command ordered us to form a line and then asked us to decide which we preferred: go back to Trikeri or stay in Makronisos.

Our answer was: “We cannot choose between two torture chambers!”

We said that we preferred to get off of this hideous island, as soon possible, but we did not want to go to Trikeri.

We didn’t have to wait long for their response. Two days later two cargo ships arrived and dropped anchor in the quieter coast of the island. They told us that the ships were here to take us away but would not tell us where they were taking us.

I was completely overcome with hopelessness.

In the morning of July 31, 1950, loud music broke out everywhere on the island. The loudspeakers were thundering with military marches. Then suddenly everything went silent, as if the speakers were disconnected. The silence was broken by some feedback noise and scratching followed by an announcement. A man’s voice came on and ordered:

“The women who originally came here from Trikeri are to collect their belongings and line up in front of their tents...”

We collected our things and lined up… as ordered. We waited and waited under the hot burning sun. It was not until noon that the voice came back on and said:

“Today you are leaving. Today you are leaving Makronisos. We are sending you back to Trikeri...”

I felt joy for the first time on this island. Deep inside I was smiling, I was happy but I had to devour my joy because it made it somehow easier for me to breathe… but I wondered:

“Is it really true; is it really possible that we are leaving this horrible island… this hideous hell on earth? Is it possible that we will never again see the snouts of these hungry wolves?

I must say that this bit of news cheered me up. We were going to leave Makronisos!

I was full of joy deep inside.

I could not help but be happy to finally be leaving this hell on earth… but then when I remembered that I was leaving this hell for another, all I could do was hope that the next hell wouldn’t be as bad as this one...

My joy was replaced with anxiety and anticipation and my eyes welled up with tears.

The last days before our departure were unusually difficult. The alfamiti stormed our tents every night and beat us badly in the dark. It seemed like time was running out for them and they had to satisfy their sadistic hunger as much as possible.

We lined up and marched towards the ship.

As we climbed up the narrow stairs I could not help but think:

“What kind of mothers gave birth to such terrible people? Are there any words that can describe these monsters with human faces?”

I couldn’t help wondering:

“In what kind of place did these alfamiti grow up? What kind of school did they attend? What kind of teachers taught them? In what churches did they pray? What kind of priests taught them to believe in God? Did they realize that they were committing crimes against God when they were killing us? Who gave them their military uniforms which they dishonoured by torturing helpless women? Who gave them military ranks and decorated them for being monsters and for supporting this horrible regime? How powerful could a country be if it rested on pillars built by horrid freaks?”

Woman behind woman, step after step, we climbed up. I was wearing wooden sandals. I made my way up without hanging onto the rope handrail. Let them hear the rumble of my wooden shoes, I thought. Let their sound thunder through the bowels of the ship. Let bursts of cannon fire spill beneath my steps and thunder and lightning beneath my feet.

“Hold you head up high!” I told myself.

“Forward! Up! Climb up, high, like you did on the peaks of Gramos...” I told myself.

“Forward!”

“Head up!”

“There is no space to charge the enemy here... There is only space for thought… to open a corridor of hope...”

“Head up! Forward!” I yelled at myself in my own thoughts…

After I climbed onto the ship I turned and took a good look at Makronisos. I then gave it the rude Italian salute while yelling, “This is for you Makronisos!”

There was much shouting, swearing, cursing and beating with rifle butts as the police tried to force us down into the ship’s stables. To avoid the whip, the stick, the rifle butt… we pushed each other, we fell and we walked over each other…. The stench of rotting fish in the stables was unbearable...

The water under the ship began to boil. The gap between Makronisos and the ship began to widen. We were moving away… It was true, we were leaving Makronisos… The gap became wider as we put more water between us and the black rocks of that cursed island...

The distance kept growing...

The ship kept moving. We were heading towards a lesser hell… we were headed to Trikeri.

A ray of sun was filtering through the crack of the ship’s window. I felt its heat on half of my face and it warmed my heart and soul. At that very moment I whispered to myself:

“The sun is shining! It is hugging my face! It is hugging me! It wants to warm me!”

I then whispered: “Shine, sun, shine! Enlighten the minds of the people so that they may know that here too, in Makronisos, they did not break me. They did not break my spirit and the spirits of thousands of other women like me.

“Shine, sun shine!”

Chapter - 6

They unloaded us on Trikeri in the evening...

They placed us in the cells in the Monastery basements. A week later they relocated us in tents that they had us put up.

Most of us were placed in old damaged America military tents that were riddled with bullet holes. We slept on bare ground and when it rained we were covered in muddy water. We later added olive tree branches to the ground to serve as our beds.

There was not enough room to accommodate everyone.

It was very hot on the island and the tents felt like hot ovens. We were burning in those tents. The intense heat dried us out. Sometimes we were able to sneak seawater to cool ourselves but that was rare. Camp administration considered it a punishable offense with two penalties.

Those who were caught sneaking water were ordered to stay and bake inside their tent from 10 am to 4 pm. This included everyone in the tent. That was one of the penalties.

The other penalty was to have all the women from the offender’s tent stand in line from 10 am to 4 pm so that they would bake in the open sun…

There was not a single day that they did not line us up in front of our tents. This was every day of every month, in every season. We stood in line when the sun was burning hot, when it rained hard, when it snowed and when the winds of the sea wreaked havoc...

Talking in the line was forbidden... It was rare when we were allowed to move around in the space enclosed by barbed wire.

Often, during the hottest part of the day, during a rainstorm, when strong wind was blowing, they would order us to move our tents. And then, the moment the tents were tied down, they would order us to move them back to their old place. There was never a day or night

when there was no crying, moaning, whining, or groaning. Few were those who did not cry.

It was hot during the day and cold at night on Trikeri. There, even the dew froze. The police were not the only menace on this island. Nature was their ally.

* * *

Most of the women and girls imprisoned on this island were from villages. There were also a lot from the cities. Their husbands, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, etc., either fought in the ranks of the Democratic Army of Greece or were somehow associated with leftist commitments.

Because of their relatives being involved in such activities, the state decided to punish these women by sending them to the women’s camp on Trikeri and to other Island camps. Some were scientists; teachers, professors in schools and universities, writers, painters...

When they brought these new women to the Island they looked healthy; well-fed, well-dressed, hair combed, well-groomed… No one in the camp had combed hair, wore a nice dress, or did not have swollen lips or puffed eyes. But, despite our pathetic looks, we were proud people; proud and dignified with similar persistence. Few were those who did not weather. They signed, took their contempt and went home. Not one of them contacted us to say how things were on the outside.

The women and girls from the cities were gentle and sensitive and had greater difficulties with the conditions on the island created by the police and by nature. They were well-groomed people without wrinkles. They could hardly stand the physical effort. But they were very strong in spirit, in faith and in their commitments. They were able to endure the beatings and humiliation and cursed back. They did not cry but swore and spat to express their resistance. They were more educated compared to us village girls but we were more capable of enduring the beatings, the physical effort, the spiritual pressure, the bad food, the cold, the heat and the satanic weather. We differed greatly. We were resilient. We acquired our resilience

from the mountain, from the war, from when we were beaten by nature and pounded by our opponent. We were accustomed to the rain, the snow, the cold, hunger, lice, fear, trenches, bunkers, night marches, charging the enemy... The city women were astonished watching us endure while being beaten. When they were beaten they cried and yelled far louder than we did but they swore and cursed their tormentors with less fear than us. About the mountains, the forests, the mud, the cold, the hunger, the charges against the enemy… about us the partisans… they only knew what they had heard and read... They hardened in the camps the same way we hardened up on the mountains.

There was a great difference between the city, the mountains and the island. The island was surrounded by water and stone. Grass rarely grew on it. The sky above was mostly blue but sometimes black, filled with thunderclouds. One felt claustrophobic on the island, like they were in the grip of a giant paw. The mountains were vast with broad latitude that overlooked the land below. One felt like being closer to eagles, to the falcons, to the sky and to the stars. One could not collect the entire width in one round… One did not have enough steps or days to catch the end of the mountain… Whereas one could easily find the steps to measure the parched land on the island where grass rarely grew… where one could fry on its rocky shores and crashing waves under the blazing sun.

If you were to look into the distance from the top of the abyss, far away you would see a grey line merging the sea with the sky. Past that you would see only grey mist.

That’s all you would know about your world. It was forbidden for the women imprisoned on this island to see more...

There were all kinds of people in the camp; educated, skilled, literate, semi-literate and illiterate. I was among the semi-literate. I did not even have primary education. I was in grade four when Italy declared war on Greece and the schools closed down. Since then, since October 1940, the school in our village never reopened. The school, along with the entire village, was burned down in the fall of 1947.

There were also those who had never seen a school bench or held a book in their hands. Their first encounter with a teacher was here in Trikeri. They learned their first letters here… There were those who only knew how to write their name. For them and for others Trikeri became a secret school, a great secret night school, well hidden from the eyes and ears of the police. They were not only taught to read and write but also other subjects, similar to those provided by the educational system in primary and secondary schools. There were also professors who prepared students for university level education and tested them on it. The majority of the women studied dressmaking, sewing, embroidery, knitting, crafts… practical things that would help them earn a living when they were free.

Besides reading a lot at night, I studied dressmaking, sewing, knitting and embroidery. I liked to embroider and knit a lot.