Introduction - Part 06

It was bluer, warmer, greener, the olive tree flowers released more aroma and it seemed like there was a glaze of dew on the sun-burned, bluish grass that grew between the stones...

We left Trikeri, the island of torture and suffering, the island sowed with the pain and watered with the tears of thousands of women and girls and... with my own...

On Trikeri… We left behind the old American military tents. We left behind the damp and moldy cells in the monastery basements. We left behind the blooming olive trees, the booming waves, the crazy sea winds, the sunburned and rain washed boulders and steep cliffs, the hatred, the terrible cries in the cellars, the corpses of the mutilated and crazed, the begging, the suffering and the curses.

Behind me I left a petrifying silence under the blue sky and, in it, a spark of infinite, unbroken, great comforting joy and tears.

Trikeri remained behind me - burdened with the weight of the pain of the thousands of women tortured… including mine.

I dreamed and now I began the long-awaited journey to my dreams.

I was sent home without signing the dreaded statement. I have contempt for those sent home, for the many women and girls who

signed the statement. But I also have deep compassion for them. Many were sent to trial and shot by a firing squad. I have much admiration for them ... I bow before their remains.

They are all in my thoughts. Wherever they are, I love them and wish them luck...

* * *

For every woman who was sent to the camps for women, be it at Hios, Trikeri, Makronisos… there is a story… about what they experienced, how much they suffered and how much they had to endure… The stories might be similar but each experience is different...

Mine too was similar to the others, but at the same time it was different...

There, in the camps, they demanded that all of us to give up on our husbands, brothers, sisters, relatives and in the things that we believed...

But they demanded more from me...

And so the days and nights, weeks and months, passed and turned into years…

One thousand nine hundred and fifty-four!

That was the year the camps for women closed...

Goodbye Trikeri...

Chapter - 8

The main directorate for the women’s camps, based in Larissa, was located on the second floor. They brought me to the office of some chief who, without even saying hello, looking sullen, kept staring at me persistently, measuring me from head to toe. Some time later he took a blue folder from the shelf, opened it, turned a few pages and then said:

“You are going tomorrow...”

“Where am I going?” I asked.

“To your small homeland,” he replied.

“Are you saying I am going home? To my village?!” I asked

“Yes! Home! To your village in Kostur Region. Are you not from there?” he asked, paused, looked at me and continued:

“I have no idea where you will be staying there…” and left it at that.

While the Chief gathered his papers and put them back in the folder, which I believe was my record, it occurred to me, given that he said there was nowhere for me to stay, it was possible that the police were sending me to Kostur to arrest me and put me in jail.

The Chief put the folder back in the large brown envelope, took a long look at me and said:

“Go on, go now… gather your belongings and have a good trip. From today on you are free. Your fatherland has forgiven you… Go... today. Get your things and when you are ready come back and take your release papers… the certificate of your release from the camp...”

“I have nothing to get. Everything I have, I have here with me... in this bag...” I said.

“You have nothing else? Only that bag?” he asked acting surprised.

“Yes… Here, have a look,” I said and opened the bag. “I have a small comb, a mirror and two hairpins... That’s it!” I added.

I did not tell him who gave me the bag. I did not tell him that I always carried this little bag with me and that it was full of pain, suffering and tears…. and that when I returned from Makronisos the bag was full of dreams, expectations and hopes... I did not tell him that in it I carried everyone’s pain from the camps, both physical and mental, including my own pain...

“No, not like this, not in those rags and in those military boots… you can’t go like that. What will the world say, eh? Do you want to give the domestic and foreign journalists reasons to spread lies about how bad the camps were and how badly you were treated there, eh?” he said.

He then lifted the handset and with a vitriolic tone of voice, shouted:

“Duty officer come here!” After that he turned to me and said: “You must dress nicely so that you will look good… not like this!”

“Your orders Colonel, Sir!” reported the duty officer, standing at attention.

“Take her to the store and let her pick a dress, shoes, a head kerchief and a hat… the kind she likes…

The duty officer took me to the store. There were a pile of dresses on the floor. Further over there were shoes, hats, scarves, shawls, jackets...

“What is this?” I asked the duty officer.

As you can see it’s a store... a warehouse full of clothing…” he replied.

I stepped over the threshold and went inside. I slowly approached the pile of dresses. I grabbed one, shook it and looked at it. I then felt the floor under me move like a ship, lifting, falling, swinging…

I felt like the walls were closing in on me, the ceiling rising, the windows rolling, making funny circles. Cold sweat began to form on my forehead. My throat tightened. I was gasping for air. Everything was melting in the fog… spinning… spinning… I felt like I was going to pass out. I shivered and slowly came back to consciousness. My view was obstructed by my tears but as soon as they began to drip out of my eyes I looked at it again… In my hand I was holding a dress with blue flowers that had a large stain of dried blood on the upper half.

“I recognize this dress…” I gasped. “It belonged to Anthoula.”

I had met Anthoula in a cell at the main office for the women’s camps. She was a happy sort, brownish complexion, about twenty two years old, a teacher from Athens. She was badly beaten and bleeding. She was the kind of woman who yelled at her torturers when they beat her and the harder they beat her the more she yelled:

“Hit me coward, beat me weakling, hit me, you like to beat girls and to torment women… don’t you? But I, I am Greece, I am its Caryatid, not you...”

Anthoula and five other women from my cell were court-martialed and executed… their hopes and dreams extinguishing… which they readily shared with us in the cell…

Before Anthoula left the camp she gave me this little bag.

“Take it,” he said, “as a souvenir to remember me by...”

All the time I was in Trikeri I carried it with me. I took it with me everywhere I went… that little bag… full of pain, torment and tears.

It also carried Anthoula’s dreams...

That little bag was always full of dreams, expectations, hope… It was a joy to have it and I felt happy like a bird on its first flight...

When I was lonely and suffering it kept me company and gave me support. It kept the evil away and brought me good thoughts and memories… in all the camps I was held prisoner...

I folded the dress very slowly, like I was folding a garland and put it back on the pile of clothes. I then stepped outside of the store carrying with me only my memory of Anthoula and the other women whose clothes were returned to this store after they were shot...

“No...” I said to the duty officer. “I don’t need anything from here. Take me back to the Chief...”

I could hear my prison shoes echoing as we moved along the long hallway, seeming like Anthoula was yelling:

“I am Greece, I am its Caryatid, I carry the sky, stars, the moon, the sun… everything... I am Greece!...”

I stopped, but very briefly, looked up and whispered:

“We all are Caryatid…”

The Chief saw me from his half open door and called me in.

“Did you get what you wanted?” he asked.

“No Sir, Chief...” I replied. “I don’t need anything. I am alright like this; I am not naked or barefoot…”

He looked at me sternly and tightened his fists.

“Take her to the Red Cross store!” he ordered the duty officer and then cursed my Holy Cross and Virgin Mary and slammed the door shut.

* * *

When the door slammed behind me, sounding like a great iron gate, I was not startled; I only felt chills and cold sweat all over my body.

But I quickly recovered… I tightened my shoulders, clenched my jaw, tightened my belly and chest… and my whole body shuddered. The entire experience felt like an unexpected blow. That’s how it felt, the same way as I felt after each interrogation.

I found myself in a wide open space. I stood there and looked around. I felt a lot of emptiness in my hands and in my soul. I had nothing with me. I looked at the vastness in front of me and swarms of thoughts began to fill my head.

Where? With whom am I going? Who will be waiting for me?

Where I am going, will someone be there to meet me, hug me and ask how I am?

There were people walking on the street. They were rushing, going somewhere, some were turning to look, stare at me. They must have wondered why I was standing alone in front of the prison. I took a few steps away. I stared at the sky. A bird was flying high above me. I followed its flight. It gave me courage. I continued to walk. I did not look back… I told myself - go - go – go, mix with the people...

I walked and walked and walked but I felt unsure about my walking. Fear began to creep all over me. I felt the rumble of old military boots that persistently and stubbornly followed me, like the times I had left behind. I took a deep breath still not believing that I was free and out among the people...

Women passing by me were wearing clean clothes, had nicely combed hair, smelled of perfume and wore make-up. Some were smiling, others were joking, laughing, hugging, and stopping to have conversations. Children were dashing around them, shouting. I watched everything with astonishment and wondered:

“Is this the real world? Has the world changed so much in the five years of life I spent on the dry island surrounded by barbed wire, behind bars, in the dark, cold and damp cells, in torn-up tents on the coast near the deep chasm? The five years I spent under the scorching sun, under the rainy skies and in the cold clammy cellars of torture? The five years of my young life that I spent in the claws

of my interrogators and torturers? Where day and night I faced the fists of my torturers and tasted my blood?”

I mingled with the people and walked among them wondering if any of them, whom I now left behind, were responsible for my torment… Did any of them hug their mothers, wives, children, loved ones… with the same hands they tortured me? Would they caress their children and touch their foreheads, cheeks and lips and wrap their arms around their little bodies with the same hands that beat me? Do their mothers, fathers, wives, daughters, sons, friends, lovers, acquaintances… know what they have done?

Did they know where to hit us with their fists, during the interrogation down in the dungeon cells, in order to hurt us the most?...

I kept walking, walking and did not believe that I was not walking down the bloody basement stairs to the cells. But for some reason, I felt insecure walking in the open space among the people. I guess I was unaccustomed to being free. I was unaccustomed to seeing so many people walking, without bruises and black eyes, walking with a sure step, smiling, saying hello, stopping for a brief discussion and resuming their walk.

Was this freedom?

Whose freedom was it? What kind of freedom was this?

I kept walking and my thoughts kept swarming in my head. Where was I going?

What did I have?

Yes, in my pocket I had an envelope and in it was a piece of paper with a signature and a seal. The seal and signature confirmed that this person, who still had scars from the blows under their eyes and on the cheeks… that this person, me, was free to go home because their sins were forgiven.

I had another piece of paper. It too had a signature and seal. This one said that I had to surrender myself to the police responsible for me at my residence as soon as I got there...

The chief also gave me another, a small envelope, which contained money. I did not count it.

“Have a safe trip…” he said quietly and shook my hand.

I did not answer him.

When I went down the hallway I spat on my hand and rubbed it against my shirt to sterilize it… from the handshake...

Chapter - 9

It took the old bus two days to bring us to Kostur. It offloaded twelve women at the police station yard. Two guards ordered us to line up and, while we carried our meager possessions in our hands, they escorted us inside the police station where we had to surrender our records.

They called us up to the front one by one. They did not interrogate us. By our file they knew who we were and where we came from. The long and menacing glance I received from the Chief was enough testimony about who I was and what I had done. After looking at me for a second time he asked:

“How was your stay over there?”

“It was okay…” I said, “It was okay and very nice… like never before…”

I don’t know if he did not hear what I said because, without interruption, he kept tapping his pencil on my record and, at the same time, kept hitting the floor with his heavy boot.

Tap-tap-tap-tap with his pencil on my record...

Boom-boom-boom-boom on the floor with his boot...

It was driving me crazy… it was similar to the interrogation techniques they used in the prison cellars at central administration and in the cells at Trikeri... before they sent us to solitary confinement...

Tap-tap-tap-tap with the pencil on my record...

Boom-boom-boom-boom with the boot on the floor...

A painful reminder of my painful past...

At that moment I felt a little ill. It seemed as if heavy drops of cold water were falling from the ceiling and hitting me on the head, just

like they had in the prison cells. He kept up with the ticking and the thumping, occasionally raising his eyebrows and gawking at me with the look of a hungry wolf. Malice and hatred was hiding behind his eyelashes. His breath rustled like a snake ready to attack. His eyes, half squinting, were full of spark and the desire to attack. His left fist was tight and bulging, ready to strike.

“Yes... And now it’s time for you to hear the rules and the provisions of the rules that you must follow...” he said, sounding like the tapping of his pencil and thumping of his boot.

He took a book out of a drawer, spit on his finger and began to read:

“According to the existing rules you must strictly adhere to the following orders. For starters you are obliged twice a week, Monday and Friday, at ten o’clock in the morning or at seventeen hundred hours in the afternoon, to report to the police station… meaning here. You are prohibited from traveling at night from seven in the evening until six o’clock in the morning. You cannot travel more than five kilometres. You will require permission to travel outside the specified area. It is compulsory that you register your place of residence with the police, meaning your address. You must allow the police at all times, day and night, to access to your place of residence to perform searches. You are not allowed to participate in any protests, public manifestations and even concerts. You are not allowed to become a member of any organization. You must report on everyone you meet, what books, magazines and newspapers you buy and read, and letters and other mail you receive. You must report where you work, for whom you work and how much money you earn. You must report all encounters; with whomyou meet, where, why and what you talked about...”

While he was reading the rules I counted up to ten on my fingers.

He looked at me sternly and hit the book with his finger,which reminded me of the Ten Commandments, then he added:

“A declaration of loyalty must be signed. All endopii (natives) are required to sign such a statement. Tomorrow you will receive this statement and you must sign it without objecting. If you don’t sign

it, I will remind you right now, so that you don’t forget, the road you came on is not closed and that the islands you came from are still there... Do you want me to write down in a letter everything I told you?”

“No,” I said, “I have a good memory.”

“Okay then? But I am warning you, don’t forget... Unlike where you were, here we have different rules!” he added.

In the reporting piece of paper, which also served as my identity card, he wrote down the days and times I was expected to report at the police station and stamped it hard like a hammer hitting a board. He signed the paper and, with a wide swing, tossed it in front of me along with a ton of orders to remind me not to forget …

He then asked: “What did you say your name was?”

“Kalina...” I replied.

“Kalina… Kalina... ...That name has no meaning… It means nothing to me...” he remarked.

“Yes it has meaning!” I replied

The Chief called in the floor sweeper and asked him:

“In your Gypsy language, do you know what the word ‘kalina’ means?”

“Kalina… kalina…” the sweeper said out loud as he thought. “I think it’s a fruit”… “Ah, kalina… Chief, Sir, kalina is a fruit… Reddish on the outside with red juicy beans inside...”

In a loud, mocking voice the Chief laughed and said:

“What a name... That’s not a Greek name? They named you after a tree, a fruit! That’s the same as naming you after a pumpkin, a cucumber, a cabbage, onions, beans, lentils, green beans...”

“They probably could have…” I said, “But they decided to call me Kalina. They also affectionately called me Kalinka, Kalino and Kalinche... They named me after my grandmother...”

“It’s an ugly name, you can’t call yourself that,” said the Chief. “It is shameful for a beautiful girl to be named after a tree, or a fruit. It would be for the best if you chose a beautiful Greek name. The best Greek names are Persephone, Andromache, Aphrodite, Antigoni, Friederike, Pinelopi, Eurocity, Eurydice... Do you hear how nice they sound…? They are all names of goddesses, not like yours, Kalina, a vulgar name without meaning and beauty… Tell me, which one should I write down for you?”

“Kalina...” I replied.

“Think about it well...” he said then asked: “Is this a Slavic name?”

“It’s a Christian name from our region…” I replied.

“You mean endopio (native)?” he asked and then barked: “You must change it!”

“No!!” I replied firmly.

“Well then, too bad for you and too bad for your name!” he said and then asked: “So, tell me, is there any significance to that name?”

“Yes there is…” I said, remembering what Victoria had told me about the pomegranate and its symbolism, which also applied to my name. “Yes there is Chief, Sir, yes there is and it’s very important,” I added.

“Sure it does...” he said ominously. Then added: “In other words you will not give up this pagan name, right?”

“Right! I will not give it up…” I replied.

“Too bad young lady! Too bad for you and too bad for your name...” he said.

He threw the registration brochure in front of me and, in a raised tone of voice, said:

“You are free to go now! But you have to be back here in three days; twice a week, in accordance with your instructions and the law.”

“Under those conditions...” I remarked.

The Chief looked at me and said: “I said you are free to go...”

He gave me a piercing look and said:

“You should know that I personally knew your father. He bravely fought on the Albanian front for Greece, do you understand, he fought for Greece...”

I then locked my own eyes on his ugly face, gave him a hard look and, as mildly as I could, firmly said:

“I fought for Greece too but for a different Greece, not the one with Trikeri and Makronisos… and signing statements of repentance and pledging loyalty… and for your Ten Commandments...”

He looked at me with a murderous look in his yes, slammed his fist on the table, and yelled out loud:

“Exo, paliovulgara!!!” (Get out you ancient Bulgarian!!!)

* * *

I found myself on the street. I was lonely, bitter, burdened by the weight of loneliness and uncertain about today and tomorrow.

The street with the fewest people on it led me to the fish market. I sat on a bench next to the lakeshore. I smelled the aroma of fried fish coming from a nearby tavern. I could hear a mandolin playing quietly. I inhaled a deep breath of fresh lake air along with the aroma of fried fish. The aroma reminded me of how hungry I was. I had not eaten since yesterday morning. I went to a nearby bakery and bought a loaf of freshly baked bread. I then went back to the

same bench and started eating it, watching the pigeons squabble over the crumbs I dropped on the cobblestones.

I spent the night on the bench. The cold did not bother me much. I had become accustomed to sleeping outdoors on a hard bed in the cold, in the whirlwind of war and in the island prisons. I was awake most of the night but fell asleep at dawn. The pigeons woke me.

It was a new day. The sky was clear, the aroma of spring was in the air, a cool breeze blew over the lake and gently rolled the water into tiny waves, making them sparkle like countless pearls in the morning sun. There was an acacia tree in full bloom near the tavern. The air was fragrant with the aroma of lilac. There was a nightingale resting on a branch of a plum tree, singing its song, pausing to listen and then resuming again. It jumped from one branch to another and started its song anew. I noticed small white flower petals falling down from the fully blossomed plum tree.

For me this was a new day away from the island, outside of the camp cells and torture chambers, and away from the police station. I was in a new day in the middle of the surrounding mountains, which many times I had climbed in the midst of war. Today there was no shouting, swearing, no uniformed policeman, no rusty barbed wire, no crazy winds like those in Trikeri and Makronisos, no rocky chasms being wildly beaten by the waves, no threats of humiliation, no torn up smelly American tents, no women and girls with whom to share a common martyr’s fate… They had all sailed home…. On a calm sea… may gentle winds and clear skies let them find their way home...

The pigeons were all around me interacting, jumping from place to place, making their pigeon sounds, filling the cobblestone pavement with life… with me in it.

The ring of a church bell startled the pigeons. The entire flock soared into the sky, spinning in wide circles over the lake. When the bell stopped ringing the cobblestone pavement, once again, became a living, speaking grey carpet.

“Is this freedom?” I asked myself.

The church bell rang, calling...

It was Sunday.

A day of Prayer... A day to ease the soul... A day of meeting and union with God...

I stood up and joined the people on a walk to the church. Believers quietly walked in front of and behind me, conversing… saying something. The women carried baskets with foods to be given out… food for the souls. After I lit a candle I stood in front of the large icon of the Virgin Mary and, for the first time in several years, began to cross myself and pray. I prayed the way I as taught by my mother and grandmother, with my heart and soul, with my thoughts, desires and hopes... I prayed for the souls of the boys and girls whose bones remained in the mountains… I prayed for the crippled and maimed in the prison cellars, on the dry islands… for those who went back home… for the brave and for those who were afraid… and for those who were forced to the roads and to unfamiliar countries…

I prayed and prayed...

Everyone in the church was quiet and peaceful... the light was eternal… I prayed to the Virgin passionately...

When service ended the priest closed the royal gates behind him and disappeared into the altar.

The people crossed themselves again and slowly, step by step, left the church. The caretaker extinguishing all the candles then gathered the partly burned ones and placed them in a basket. He then extinguished the large candles glimmering in front of the altar. Then he, along with the priest, came out of the church and locked the church door with a big metal padlock.

No one checked to see if anyone was still inside the church.

I squatted in the corner staring at the Virgin Mary’s sad face.

Surrendered and subdued to my begging prayer, I passionately and charmingly spent the night in the church with Mary and Jesus Christ and with the angels and saints...

I prayed for a long time and for a long time I could not close an eye.

* * *

I went to look for work. I went knocking from door to door and when they opened the door, I asked for forgiveness for bothering them, saying:

“Pardon me; I am looking for work... Do you need a cleaning lady, a maid, a nanny...? I can do laundry, clean… I can look after small children... I don’t want a salary, only a corner to sleep in and some food to eat… I don’t mind eating leftovers or scraps off the table. That’s all... Please...”

Some looked at me with pity, some slammed the door on me, others told me to come back tomorrow and we would see. Some asked me where I was from; where I come from? I did not hide anything and I did not deceive them. And then they slammed the door on me.

The next day some said: “No! We don’t hire those released from prisons and camps, no...”

Only one woman said: “You are wasting your time knocking on doors. The police will not allow me to hire people like you…”

I was all alone in the city and feeling lonely. The streets were empty, deserted. In that kind of solitude I had a great desire to meet someone… with a big warm smile… so I could smile back at them… someone who would hold out their hand and greet me… speak to me… but that was not happening… I felt like cold air was blowing from every window, from every half-opened door. I felt like people were watching me suspiciously from every corner, from every narrow alley. I wondered:

“Why have people lost their warmth and sight of the world? Who among them sowed so much fear? Why is there so much doubt? Why so much distrust? Why so much hate? Why so much disgust?”

I did not despise them.

I only sympathized with them.

* * *

One day I was passing by the football club administration building and saw a face that seemed familiar. I was not sure who he was so I asked a man passing by:

“Who is that man?”

“He is the stadium administrator…” the man replied and quietly continued on.

After looking at him for a while, I recognized him. I said to myself: “A familiar face…” A man from my village.... I went closer. He kept looking at me as I approached. Then there was a sudden surprise. He recognized me but looked bewildered. He said:

“You’re alive?!!”

“Yes I am…” I replied.

“Where have you been?” he asked. But before I had a chance to reply he asked: “What are you doing now?”

Briefly I told him where I was and what I was doing.

He kept looking at me, measuring me from head to toe. His cheeks began to vibrate when he whispered:

“Bleak and terrible times...” He then asked: “Where do you live… Where do you work?”

“In the city, on the streets… looking for a job...” I replied.

“Don’t worry. Tomorrow… Come back here around this time tomorrow… we will think of something,” he assured me.

The next day I saw him coming out of the police station. I don’t remember exactly but I think he was one of those village informants who managed to escape to Kostur when the partisans were recruiting young people from the villages and sending them to Gramos. I asked another man about him yesterday and he said:

“There are people who say that he is a bigger policeman than the policemen. He joined the volunteer paramilitary squads during the war and fearlessly fought against the partisans. He was given many awards for his loyalty and services, including a house in the city that belonged to someone else and a job as a manager in the stadium...” That’s what the man whispered in my ear before he disappeared into the narrow alley.

I knew why the man quickly disappeared into the narrow alley. Because in every bar, tavern, store, workshop, street corner, intersection, kiosk… there were eyes and ears lurking in the shadows. The shadows behind the shadows took turns watching and making notes of who did what, who said what to whom, who winked at whom, whether they winked with the left or with the right eye, who crossed into whose yard and whether they crossed with the right or left leg first, who bought a newspaper and who spoke to whom.

Beware of the shadows lurking in the shadows...

Now that I knew who I was dealing with I thought that maybe he was not the same kind of trash as those on the islands...

I arrived on time at the agreed place, went inside the stadium administration office and waited for him. When he arrived he greeted me and said:

“I found work for you.”

“Thank you and God bless you!” I replied.

“You will work here with me. You will work as a cleaner… I don’t have a better job…” he said.

“Oh, thank you… That will be fine…” I replied.

He took me to a small room from where he took two buckets, some rags and a broom.

“You will work from seven in the morning until five in the afternoon,” he said. “You will be cleaning the toilets in the stadium and at the market... We will agree on your salary later... Where do you live?” he asked.

I shook my shoulders and pointed to the sky.

“We will solve that too,” he said. “There is a small room on the other side. The guard sleeps there once in a while. Come and have a look...”

There was a window high up under the ceiling and an iron military bed under it. The pillow was dirty. There were two blankets on top of the bed. There was a tap and a sink on the opposite side. The floor was covered with tiles. It looked like a prison cell...

I accepted the job, the room and the shadow of the man from my village.

* * *

On market days when I had some free time from my cleaning job I took a stroll through the market, not to buy anything but to look at the people, so that I was not alone all the time. I felt better there...

A counter was set up and lying on it were laced doilies for sale. They were made to be used on top of a table on which to set drinking glasses and pitchers. Behind the counter sat a woman knitting them with one needle. Women passing by were looking at the doilies, touching them, turning them over, measuring them, asking how much they cost and haggling. Some made purchases

while others made special deals. As I watched the woman knit I remembered the other woman, the one from Crete, in Trikeri, who taught me to knit with a single needle. With a chingulaki, as she called it. I will never forget her love, her perseverance… knitting in the dark… staring and straining her eyes… It gave me a certain desire to live… to pray… Watching her knit made me feel good… warm all over… She taught me to knit and always made me think of and invent new patterns… those of roses, leaves of various trees, grapes, figs, blossoming flowers, birds in flight, deer, lambs, exquisitely dressed girls, playful children and so on...

The only thing that was different about these doilies sitting on the counter with those I was familiar with and made myself were the laces tied on them. This got me thinking, so I said to myself:

“What’s to stop me from doing this myself… knitting with a single needle?”

I decided to set some money aside from my first payment I received from my job and with it I purchased two reels of white thread and a needle. And then I began to knit at night by candle light... About a week later I went to the market and set up a counter with my wares.

When the woman, who challenged my knowledge of knitting, saw what I had to offer, she stood there frozen with her finger in her mouth.

My doilies sold quickly. The poor woman was so embittered that she reported me to the police. They called me in and asked me for my work permit. When I said I did not have one, they fined me and took away half my earnings from the sales.

I stopped going to the market. The women who wanted to purchase my wares came to me, here to my room, where I knitted the materials. They placed orders not only for doilies for the table, but for other wares including knitted curtains. I custom made for them whatever they desired.

I did very well with my knitting, enough to quit my job cleaning toilets... I also moved out of the little room and rented an apartment.

I continued to function as was required of me by the police until year end with my loneliness as my only companion. Loneliness was a terrible thing and tormented me most evenings. I had a great desire to meet someone who would smile at me and shake my hand... I watched people pass me by and to me they looked depressed, somewhat slumped, with no warmth in their eyes, without kindness on their faces... full of visible fear and suspicion...

Deep in my own thoughts I existed in silence. When I took a break from my knitting I often walked to the top of the hill that rose above the city. There I sat on a stone facing west and looked into the distance...

In front of me, right and left, were the hills and mountains Bikovik, Vicho, Lisets, Mali-Madi, Stenite, Orleto, Odreto, Gorusha, Krusha, Aliavitsa and far, far away was the peak of Gramos.

I watched the hills and mountains… and myself in them… and the young men and women whose bones were left there… and then I wondered where were those who were left alive? Where did the whirlwind take them?

This is what I did in my spare time and this is how I escaped my loneliness... This was not regret but the cold, frozen truth, which was difficult to melt away. There was no joy in loneliness. And I loved the feeling of joy… big and small joy. Feeling joyous brought me greater relief. I loved the feel of joy. I preferred to feel great joy but feeling even a little joy brought me closer to dreaming, hoping and driving away the pain and sorrow…

Good memories always bring joy and are good for the soul...

I stared at the mountains and hills with excitement and often wondered:

“How many times had death smiled at me up there…?”

The fall of one thousand nine hundred and fifty-four marked a big event. Marshal Papagos came to power and gave us amnesty.

At the same time let us not forget that it was Papagos who crushed us (the partisans) at Vicho and Gramos.

The “Ten Commandments” imposed on me by the state, impeding on my freedom… were gone. Those exiled and imprisoned in the prison camps were released and sent home. Many returning to their villages found their homes, even their entire villages, in rubble. Others found a padlock hanging on the front door of their house with no one at home. Those returning were filled with hope but all they found was wasteland and desolation...

A great white ship arrived in Solun and offloaded hundreds and hundreds of women returning from the countries which they now called “countries behind the Iron Curtain”. Many of these women, whose husbands were migrant workers in Australia, Canada and America and who had fled, mostly to Romania, were returned.

The authorities took them to shelters where they were questioned for weeks and were helped to connect with their husbands. After that many were taken to Kostur. They were not allowed to go home to their villages. The women were told to wait until their papers arrived, meaning their passports and approval for settlement abroad with their husbands. Among them was my aunt Stoina, my mother’s first cousin. I found out from her what had happened to my own parents. She told me they were settled in a small town in Romania called Falticheni, where they remain to this day.

The news of my parents’ whereabouts was very painful for me.

Because I knew it would be impossible for them to return home.

My aunt Stoina also told me that all those who had left during the war sent letters to the Greek embassies in the countries they were in, asking and demanding to be returned to their homes. They waited for an answer from Greece but such an answer never came. The only answer they received was that of the Greek Communist Party

leadership which promised that everyone was going to be sent home, but collectively, not individually.

They only allowed the women from Kostur, Lerin and Voden Region, whose husbands were working in Australia, Canada and America, to return.

Later there was talk that it was at the request of the migrant workers in Australia, Canada and America that these women and their children had been collected from behind the Iron Curtain countries and sent abroad...

* * *

One day I saw a man in the market whom I thought I knew but I was not sure. Out of curiosity I went closer and had a good intense look at his face. There was a scar on his left cheek. His eyes were sunk in. He had thick black eyebrows. Then I remembered. It was Kostas. He was a wounded government soldier whom we had captured. I remember my commander ordering me to carry him on my back to a safe place. He was wounded in the chest; he spat blood and begged me not to shoot him. I took off his shirt, tore it into three pieces and bandaged his wound. He stopped bleeding. I fed him for two days with my own bread and gave him water to drink from my own canister. I consoled him, telling him his wound was not so bad and that any time now, together with the other wounded, we would be sending him to our partisan hospital. Lying in the ditch next to each other we talked as if we were old friends.

It was really strange...

Until yesterday we were in two opposing trenches, now we were in one. As I watched the wounded man I wondered what kind of fate is a fate that binds kindness between enemies. One of us shot him and yet here he was now depending on me to save his life...

Why is it like that? Is it because this is what war does… fate brought by war?

I found out the man was from one of the Kostur Region villages located near the city. I told him that I too was from Kostur Region. Perhaps that’s what brought us closer together?

I was now certain that the man I was looking at was Kostas. The man I carried on my back when he was wounded. The man I took to a safe place and looked after for two days... It was him alright, the man we captured when he was wounded… a sergeant in the government army.

I moved through the people in the market and intentionally bumped into him.

“Excuse me Sir,” I said and stared at him penetratingly. I noticed a surprised and puzzled look on his face. He was trying to identify me.

We stood there facing each other… looking at each other...

His cheeks began to tremble, but barely noticeably. A smile formed on his face. He kept looking at me… and finally he said:

“It’s you! You! You, Kalina? You are Kalina, right?”

“And you are Kostas! Kostas…” I replied.

We hugged each other.

This was a moment in my life when for the first time in a long time I felt joy and, whether it was out of joy or not, to this day I don’t know, I shed many tears. Why? It was certainly not because years ago we watched each other through the sight of our guns...

My tears welled up and I did not know why.

Kostas slowly pulled away from our embrace, took a small step back, looked me in the eyes and, with a trembling voice, said:

“Kalina, I thought about you a lot. I looked for you after the war ended and for many years I kept in my heart a couple of words I wanted to say to you... Well now, after so much time has passed

forgive me for the tardiness, I can now say ‘thank you...’ Thank you for saving my life… You saved my life… I will never forget that. And there in Uzbekistan and Tashkent in the barracks, which the Soviets, before we arrived, used as prisons for the Japanese, every night exhausted from digging canals, lying on the iron military bed, I was constantly thinking about you. All the time I looked for you, asking everyone. I searched everywhere through the Red Cross and through the Party... In response they wrote back ‘the person you were looking for does not exist’...”

I silently held onto his hand listening to him speak for a long time.

Kostas put my fingers together, bowed forward and kissed my hand… covering it in tears...

I tilted my head and placed it on his shoulder and there I poured out my own bitterness...

* * *

I had a second life in notebooks… Everything was written down in notebooks; about me and about the others. Everything I did and everything I did not do...

The first notebook was held by the police… I was a suspicious person and dangerous for the state. Punishment for that was prison or concentration camp...

The second notebook was held by the Bureau of the Headquarters of the Democratic Army of Greece. It was a thick notebook about reconnaissance and counter-correspondence activities. This notebook also contained parts of the information supplied by the battalion’s political commissar.

When in doubt always consult the notebook… the first place to look...

One time, only by accident, I peered into the commissar’s notebook and read something he had written about me. It read:

“Voluntarily entered the ranks of the Democratic Army of Greece”

I was really surprised!

“Since when did I join voluntarily!?” I yelled out loud. “Did you not ‘abduct’ all the girls from my village, including me, at night?”

A girl who was standing near me whispered:

“You crazy girl, don’t say another word because they will put you in their sights and you will always be watched. Drop it. Let them fill their notebooks with whatever they want. Just be careful and don’t say anything. Least of all don’t ask any questions...”

I took her advice and since then my words were measured and few. But, in spite of all that, there was no one and nothing that accompanied me more than those notebooks. They followed me wherever I went. They were always there... always in the shadow of the police...

* * *

One day the police escorted me to the police station. The Chief handed me a printed piece of paper with the title:

“Declaration of loyalty”

“What does this mean?” I asked:

He said: “Sign it first then I will explain…”

“And what law of the state am I breaking that I must sign such a statement?” I asked.

“This is not about whether you respect or break any laws, this is about signing and you must sign the statement,” he said. “All endopii (natives) must sign the declaration of loyalty.” I said to him: “No, I will not sign!” He then threatened me with exiling me to the islands in the Aegean Sea and asked me if I remembered the islands. He also reminded me that the islands were still there...

With a completely calm voice I said to him that I had a good memory and that I had not forgotten how it was for me on the islands.

Several months passed and again I found myself in the police station.