Introduction - Part 05

I was taught dressmaking by Madame Olga. That’s what she wanted me to call her. She was a city woman from Athens and often talked about her fashion salon. She spoke with excitement when she told us that in her salon she made dresses for the wives of ministers, diplomats, bankers, generals and rich merchants and that her designs came straight from the latest Paris fashions. “At that time,” she said, “Paris was the heart of fashion, Paris and Athens were separated only by the time it took the post office to deliver the magazines with the latest fashion dresses, hats, gloves and hairstyles.” When she was talking about fashion and models she would pause, lift her finger and say: “To be good at your craft you need to know the French language because fashion comes from Paris. In addition to teaching you tailoring, I will also teach you French. You will need to know what kind of dress to wear to the theater, to the opera, to a concert, or when going out to dinner with important company and so on... You will learn from me... It is difficult to learn but you need to know things...” Madame Olga would then pause, take a deep breath and remind us that this was what she did in Athens, at the most visited fashion salon, which was destroyed by the Germans because her husband disobeyed them and raised his rifle against them. In the middle of her lecture Madame Olga would interrupt and with each long interruption she would tell us how she conquered hunger in Athens for years. “Every day,” she would say, “hundreds of people died in Athens from starvation. But I, with my dear sister along with

other women, went north. People said that there, in Macedonia, there was enough food for everyone and we went there to seek relief from hunger. We went to the villages in Kostur region and begged the people for a piece of bread. In many villages the people did not understand us because the women and older men there, and sometimes the children, did not speak Greek and we did not understand their language. But it was a miracle because, even though the people did not understand us, they gave us bread, cheese, beans, flour... But in the villages where prosfigi (Christian Turkish settlers and colonists) lived we were chased away. They swore at us and sent their dogs after us, telling us that it was our fault that they had lost their homes and properties in Turkey. We were Athenians and it was our fault for them being here in Macedonia. But among them were also the endopie, the native people, who had compassion and gave bread. They were good, gentle, compassionate people… those endopie. Something good happened to me there in one of those endopie villages, which I call a miracle. It was raining hard one night and we were forced to sleep in a barn. I got sick with a fever. My sister went to get help from one of the closest houses. An old man came over but we had difficulty communicating. We did not understand a word of his language and he understood nothing of ours. He put his hand on my head, said something then picked me up and took me to his house. There he dressed me in warm clothes, rubbed my body with tsipouro (rakia) [alcohol] and covered me with a blanket. Occasionally he wiped the sweat off my body and gave me hot chicken soup to drink. He looked after me for two days. Then, in the afternoon when I was feeling better, he gave me a sack full of bread and sent me off. Before leaving I wanted to thank him but I did not speak his language. As I waited at his doorstep I thought about what I was going to say to him… But all I could think of was “efharisato” (thank you in Greek). I said it with much excitement and tears… I think he understood me. Then, as I caught up to my Athenian beggar companions, I carried with me a bag full of bread and kindness on my shoulders…” After pausing to reflect on her experience, Madam Olga would often say, “I still remember that kind old man and his wonderful house...”

Madame Olga’s stories always took me back to my time, to when I was thirteen years old.

I remember when grandpa brought a sick woman to our home and my mother looked after her for two days...

I remembered...

* * *

I did my knitting with one needle, chingulaki; I like it that way. A wonderful woman taught about a dozen girls. She was eighty years old and came from Crete. They brought her here because her husband had participated in the resistance movement and fought against the English in Athens. He was imprisoned in Makronisos.

There were many women in our cell, sometimes forty, sometimes more. They were different ages, from various places in the country with different professions and occupations. They were housewives, high school students, university students, teachers, high school teachers, university professors, villagers and farmers. While some were well-educated many were illiterate. Each, however, was unique in personality and character. Even though we were separate and of different character, we respected and helped each other. Life here on the island forced us to cooperate in order to survive. We were in solidarity with each other on just about everything. Those who received food packages from home, or from their friends in the outside, shared them with the others. They read their letters to each other out loud. We were happy being together; we cried together, mourned together and shared our joys and sorrows together. This made life a bit easier to live in exile.

Among all those women I became close friends with one of them. She had a peaceful look about her and a very calm gaze in her eyes. She was mild mannered, good natured and had a calming face. Her hair was blonde. When she smiled, this was a rare occasion on this island, her whole face lit up like a flower blooming. She did not talk much and always sat in the corner. She gathered her knees under her chin and, while holding a notebook and a pencil in her hands, always wrote about something, mostly poems. She read them to me at night. They were filled with humanity and closely described our hopes, desires and dreams, and the kind of life we lived in Trikeri. We slept next to each other and whispered about things, mostly

about our hopes and dreams. Her soft and gentle voice was soothing. Her words were like velvet, flowering from pencil to notebook and from notebook to our ears and from our ears to our hearts and souls.

We listened to the silence and felt bewitched.

Her name was Victoria Theodorou. She was from Hania, a city located in Crete.

One day, before we became good friends, during an early morning stroll, I caught up to her, greeted her and told her I could not sleep all night because of the excitement I felt from her poems. I told her that her words took me away and carried me to my hometown and that I mourned a lot all night. She looked at me gently, grabbed my hand, and quietly said:

“You are from Macedonia...? I know you are from Macedonia...”

“How do you know?” I asked.

She said, “By the way you pronounce the Greek ‘L’. We Greeks pronounce it like the French, soft. You Macedonians pronounce it like the English, hard. My father who was from Veles pronounced it the same way you do. My father was a painter, an iconographer. He came to Hania, to Crete, to seek work. Our neighbours sometimes called him Servos (Serbian) but you are not from that part of Macedonia are you? You’re from this part, right?”

“Yes I am, I am from one of the Kostur Region villages...” I replied.

She stopped walking, looked into my eyes as if begging for my help and quietly said:

“I want very much to one day visit the city where my father was born... Veles, the city is called Veles.”

“I have been to Veles but only very briefly,” I said. “I was sent there when I was wounded. They sent me, along with other partisans who were wounded, to a hospital near Skopje. The place is called Katlanovo...”

“You were a partisan?” she asked sounding surprised.

“Yes I was… for two and a half years...” I replied. “The second time I saw Veles was when they sent me back from the hospital to the front line, with my wound not quite healed. It was during the night, past midnight. The truck stopped on the hill before we passed through the city. We went to the toilet in the outdoors. I looked down and saw the city lights and, in the light of the full moon, I could see a river crossing through it...”

“That’s what my father used to say...” she said and then went quiet. I too stopped talking as we silently ended our “permissible” walk in the concentration camp.

During our next walk, somewhat unwelcoming, she asked:

“What is your name?”

“Kalina...” I said, “I was named after my grandmother...”

“And what is ‘kalina’?” she asked.

“It’s a name… my name,” I replied

“I know it’s a name... But what does it mean?” she asked.

“Kalina, kalinka is a fruit, a pomegranate...” I replied.

“Now I understand!” said Victoria. “But do you know what ‘Kalina’ symbolizes? I will tell you... the fruit ‘kalinka’, as you call it, has many meanings symbolizing power, victory, perfection, immortality, resurrection, a gift from God, virginity, femininity, purity, love, hope, fertility, blood, life, wisdom, harmony, fidelity...” Victoria counted on her fingers with each meaning she mentioned.

“Wow… so many meanings?” I said surprised.

“It is a gift of nature, Kalina... it is the source of many meanings and values...” she added.

This is how I befriended Victoria, the daughter of the artist from Veles, who lived on the island Crete, in the city Hania and who died there at a young age, leaving her orphaned to grow up in the orphanages.

Our acquaintance turned into a reliable and durable friendship. She had enough confidence in me to trust me with her notebooks, which I hid in the roots of an olive tree. Our friendship became permanent after we were released from the camps. We kept in touch through correspondence...

Her warmth, kindness, soft voice and calm, but very sad eyes had an effect on me. I felt calmer and safer around her. I felt like my bitterness and troubles melted away...

What did Victoria write in her notebooks?

Everything… everything that happened in the camps, everything we survived and experienced… she wrote it all down... I will never forget when, in one of her notebooks, I read:

“Το Μαη του 1949 αρχισαν επισης να ερχονται οι Σλαβοµακεδονισες, κοπαδιαστα, πεντακοσιες τοσες σε καθε αποστολη” (The Slavo-Macedonians began to arrive in great numbers in May 1949, five-hundred and even more with each shipload).

At another place in the same notebook Victoria wrote:

“During the night a Slavo-Macedonian woman gave birth to twins -girls. The first we christened Eleftheria. Sadly the second girl died at birth… Eleftheria died two days later…”

Unfortunately that was all Victoria wrote about the fate of the twin who survived and whose eyes shone in the sun for only a very short time. That too was all that she wrote about the poor mother who forever was labeled a Slavo-Macedonian woman. She never did write her name. Only that she was a Slavo-Macedonian.

She was one of many in this camp…

Few words, a lot of pain…

Victoria wrote many things in her notebooks including all our pains. We and everything about us was recorded; our torture, our torment, our sickness, our pain, our durability and our ability to stay alive unbroken...

I read her notes secretly, while holding my breath with excitement, and then hastily clawing at the roots of the olive tree to hide them... I realized that not much was known out there about the women prisoners in Trikeri and in the other camps, and how important it was for our experiences not to be forgotten. Recorded events are not only permanent but also accurate and will remain alive for a long time, much longer than we will, and will perpetuate what happened to us; a record of our thoughts and experiences.

I personally did not write things down on paper but I made sure to remember everything. I used to say to myself if I ever got out of this hell with a clear mind and with my memories intact, I would tell my stories to everyone who was willing to listen, just like my grandparents told me their stories.

Often I thought and wondered if I would be able to find anyone who would have the patience to listen to me and to record everything I told them?

I told myself: “What happened here, to us, must be told, must be written down… Nothing about us was known up to now… Everything that happened must be told and written down so that it is permanently preserved...”

My thoughts guided me this way… Things that are written down last… they are permanent… That’s what remains from a person… from time… from the world...

I decided to remember everything, to forget nothing, to miss nothing of this heinous time...

Many years later an airplane flew from Hania and landed in Kostur airport. On her way to the Struga Nights, Victoria passed through Kostur and paid me a visit. During one of our conversations she said:

“Why don’t you come with me to Veles? We will look for my father’s roots together... Please come with me and help me… translate for me when I meet my relatives in Veles.”

Victoria found the graves of her father’s parents in Veles. She then wrote a poem about them and read it at the Struga poetry festival...

* * *

Special measures for endurance were introduced in the camp for line ups and running.

During the hottest or coldest days, or when it was raining or snowing a lot they would order us to line up outside, in the morning or in the afternoon, and leave us to stand at attention for two or three hours at a time, hungry, thirsty, exhausted... then they would force us to run...

When the rains became more frequent they brought large American military tents and lay them in the mud. The tents were full of holes, mostly bullet holes. When it rained, water dripped on our heads... About 50 to 60 women were placed in each tent. We sat and slept in mud for days, mud which dried on our bodies. And when it rained a lot, the mud swam in the water. And we sat in the mud. We were not allowed to get out of our tents. There was an armed policeman at each tent entrance.

Sometimes we heard gunshots echoing in the night...

When the sea was stormy and the wind blew hard, the tent ropes often broke and we were left naked under the sky in the mud.

There was not a single time, in all seasons, that the silence was not broken by tearfully stretched cries and screams of horror and despair in the dark of night.

Not once did we ever welcome the dawn without a great and terrible cry in the night...

Whose cry was it?

Whose voice was suddenly diminished by the crashing of waves?

We did not know… we could not recognize it. But the cry of horror remained imbedded deep in our consciousness… the screams of horror many have vanished, lost in the raging waves and swallowed by the sea but the cries of horror remained with us… in our consciousness…

During the most horrible nights they would take one woman or one girl from a tent and lead her to the highest point above the coast. And that’s were her footsteps would end. All that would be left of her was the crying and screaming in our consciousness, which would keep us horrified and awake all night. This was one of the measures they used to break our spirits.

Many women were unable to endure such horrific nights, full of screams of horror, and signed the statement of repentance just to avoid them.

A day or two later they would be gone from the island. We sent them off in silence with some respect and compassion... At night we would often hear voices and screams of horror and they then would disappear in the eerie noises of the waves. One night a strong wind blew away one of the tents that was set up near the coast. We were ordered out in the dark to look for its unfortunate occupants.

The winds, the rain, the large waves, the cold… all of our torturers’ allies, were going wild that night. It seemed like nature was allied with our tormentors…

We had no choice but to obey command, which demanded unconditional execution of its orders. Even the slightest attempt not to comply with its orders was punishable by severe beatings,

running barefoot on the steep hill laced with crushed stone, deprivation of meals and water, standing in the rain, in the sun, and deprivation of sleep...

There was only one well in the camp. We waited for hours for water to collect… but there never was enough water to drink, let alone for other needs...

* * *

After some time the authorities allowed mail service to operate. Twice a month. This gave the women a chance to write letters to their families and friends.

In the beginning I sent a letter but it came back unopened, telling me that there was no one there to receive it. I assumed that my family was no longer in the village. I then sent another and it too came back. This one was stamped “recipient does not exist”.

Besides letters, the women in the camp also received packages, special packages that contained desperately needed items such as bread, canned foods, candy, homemade sweets, chocolates, dried fruits, books, newspapers... For many these were not the most important things. The most important things were the joy they received from hearing from their relatives, from opening that letter that came with the package and from reading it. Every time someone received a letter or a package they ran around full of joy and could not wait to share the information or the contents of the package with the others. Every letter and every package carried a lot of love, joy and hope. Every letter, every word written in every letter carried with it love, care, sorrow and pain… of a mother, of a sister, of a relative… Those receiving them saw the face of their loved ones in every letter, in every package… A feeling of great concern, pain, waiting, hope... poured out of each one of them.

But besides bringing joy, the letters and the packages also brought sadness and more pain… They reminded the women of their loneliness and separation from those they cared for the most. They were a reminded of their former lives. The letters also contained bad news, well-hidden news, of arrests, trials and killings of loved ones.

Many of the prisoners preferred not to receive letters and packages because on the island, together with good news, they received bad news and disappointments which broke their spirits. With their faces hidden, many cried day and night, mourning their loved ones who died in the mountains. They pulled their hair and sobbed for their loved ones who had died; fathers, brothers, close relatives...

I received no letters and no bad news but that does not mean that I did not suffer. I was always close to those who suffered and I did my best to comfort them. Their pain was my pain when they turned to me and wept… I silently cried with them and felt their pain as much as they did.

Both letters and packages, besides stirring joy, stirred sadness and pain in the women, opening emotional wounds. I could see that in the women’s eyes and the mood they were in. During such moments I tried to get away, hide… spare myself from the suffering that sprang from the tear-filled eyes...

Sometimes the letters and packages sat in the post office for a long time. The police wanted to read every letter and inspect every package. If they found anything suspicious they confiscated it, if they found something written which they did not like, they erased it with black ink. Newspapers that they did not like they burned. Sometimes letters and packages were left the way they were. This was done to punish us. It was yet another measure of mental torture to shatter our nerves.

I never received a letter or a package but I was always looking forward to receiving something… anything.

The day when we received mail was difficult. Everyone was anxious as everything had to pass through strict control, which sometimes lasted for days.

They gathered us all together when they distributed the mail. We all we had to stand in line. If someone was late to stand in the line then they had to wait for days before receiving their mail...

The camp commander personally handed out the mail. At the end he distributed the letters that had information about the convicted, jailed and shot. But before distributing them he read them out loud and then watched who was sobbing and crying. But it was not only their relatives who cried and sobbed but everyone who felt their pain. Sometimes there was an entire echo of crying and sobbing. Sometimes we all cried. In pain and in crying we were all one body, one thought, one pain...

Before opening a letter the commander would ask:

“I am sure that now you will sign a statement of repentance?”

If the unfortunate person agreed to sign then the commander would immediately give her the letter without reading it. If she did not want to sign then he would say come back tomorrow and take your letter.

What did he do with that particular woman the next day? He intimidated her and had her beaten.

The prisoners had the right to write a letter once a week. All the letters were read before they were sent out. They were always censored. Command was suspicious of every word and every word it did not agree with was erased with black ink. Every letter that arrived or left the island was checked. Every letter that had anything in it that was questionable was erased with black ink. Anything that had any important news about what was happening outside of the camp was erased. There were many cases of letters and packages waiting for days, left waiting in the post office, as a means of punishment.

The letters were not allowed to have more than twenty lines of text. Excess lines were erased with black ink or the entire letter was torn to pieces and burned in front of the person who wrote it.

Letters were sent and received with joy, hope, courage, love, expectation but also with pain and sorrow, ending in tears, crying, groaning, cursing and anathemas that lasted until the next arrival of mail.

I too wrote again and again but received no reply... All my letters were returned...

* * *

Every month, for one day, the police brought an official photographer to the camp to take group pictures. He never once took a picture of an individual, only group images.

Before taking the picture, command ordered us to wash our faces, comb our hair and wear the clean clothes given to the camp by the Red Cross.

We were ordered to smile for the picture. We had no choice but to smile in spite of how we felt.

The smile was there to make us look pleased and happy.

The police gave these photographs to journalists who in turn published them in their newspapers with appropriate comments, describing our situation in the camps as pleasant, and telling the public that we were satisfied with our lives and with the behaviour of our jailers towards us. Naturally, this was confirmed by our smiles in the photographs.

But that broad and bright smile had a different aim for us here in the camp. By releasing the photographs to the public with our smiling faces, the police censors were inadvertently letting our friends and relatives know that we were still alive.

I always smiled for the camera in the group photographs but behind that smile hid my concern that I may look too cheerful and happy, but my smile never made it to my relatives. My letters with my group photographs always came back, stamped with the words “recipient does not exist” on the envelope.

From this I knew that none of my relatives were at home back in my village…

The more I tried to smile… with a brighter and wider smile, the more I sank into sadness and despair… I was in pain... But those who were forcing us to smile for the photographs did not care. They wanted us to smile… more… and watch the pain in our eyes. They wanted to hear a silent scream of horror coming from our lips… they wanted to see fear in our eyes… they wanted to watch our miserable cheeks covered with a forced smile… because this too was part of their job… well done. But they could not understand that in those saddened eyes, in those silent screams, in those miserable cheeks… was our endurance, our hope… as we waited for an uncertain tomorrow...

The day before the photographer arrived in the camp, we practiced smiling in our tents and cells. We had a small sliver of a mirror in front of us where we all tested our miserable smiles, trying to look cheerful, mild, meek, satisfied and hopeful and did everything to hide the pain sewn into our souls.

Before each picture was taken the police inspected us to see how we were dressed, how well those dresses from the Red Cross fit, whether our hair was properly combed and so on. They also had orders to make sure that we looked good for the pictures and that the pictures came out well. The world determined how we were by how we looked. A clear picture with smiles and good looks was a portrait of joy and happiness… All that… had to be reflected in our smiles, dresses, hairstyles and make-up...

We were checked to make sure that we had no bruised cheeks, swollen eyes… We were checked so that those seeing our picture knew that we were not only alive but happy and free… But the women who signed the dreaded statement of repentance and who were out there knew better. They knew what horrors, fear and death, lay hidden behind those smiles and what we had to do to get some peace through the nights.

While they were taking our picture, our eyes, cheeks and lips were full of smiles and joy but afterwards they were filled with tears of pain and sorrow...

And there, at home, those who saw our images certainly thought and were convinced that here, in the camps, their loved ones were so happy because that’s how we looked in the pictures... Only our pupils revealed our pain of suffering...

And so, along with everyone else, I too practiced for my next photo-op, wondering if I would still be alive for it...

This is what was ordered for me… a fist, a whip, a stick, a club, a lot of swearing, humiliation, fear... But then all that could be covered and hidden under a forced smile...

The photographs were well-reviewed and those who were not smiling or did not look cheerful enough were summoned to command the next day and returned to their cells and tents with bruised faces...

That chance did not pass me by...

* * *

There were many diseases on the island. The most common was dysentery. Many in the camp were taken to the camp hospital, but before they were taken they were asked to sign the statement of repentance.

There was the old saying: what does not kill you will make you stronger. That was also true of the daily physical slave work we did day in and day out. Everything that the ships delivered was our burden to unload and take up to the monastery.

We carried everything on our backs up a sharp and steep hill.

We suffered a lot from the cold, hunger, thirst, filth, uncertainty, fear…

Even the flies caused us distress. The filth in the camp gave birth to swarms of flies which spread diseases and infected our wounds. We couldn’t defend ourselves, especially when we stood at attention in line or when we were in line getting our food. We could not defend

ourselves because we were not allowed to move. The flies flew in our food and even crawled on our lips.

The swarms of flies were unbearable. They gathered at the filthiest places and brought the filth with them when they landed on our bodies, eyes, lips and open wounds, where they deposited all kinds of diseases including dysentery. Diseases were common in the camp and those who were exhausted seemed to catch them the most. Typhus too was present, originating from the muddy well water and from the poorly washed vegetables.

* * *

There was not a month that went by without an invitation to trial. It was usually at night, after midnight, that they took women from their cells and tents.

Our nights were turned into nightmares when the police knocked loudly and opened the doors of our cells or stormed our tents shouting loudly, calling women by name and ordering them to get out, with only five minutes to pack their belongings...

We know why they were calling them.

And those who were taken, left behind pieces of their clothing, pictures, letters, books, earrings, combs, mirrors… as souvenirs.

We sent the women in solemn… We gave them a bit of the hidden water to wash their faces… we helped them adjust their hair and clothes… to look beautiful… and we gave them words of encouragement. We encouraged them to be brave when they left the camp.

One night two girls were called out from my tent. They were ordered to come out quickly. We all got up, quickly tossed some clothes over our bodies and followed the police officers.

There was a strong wind blowing and rain was pouring. We could not see where the ground started and where it ended. We could

hardly hear the waves crashing on the shore, from the furious rain and wind storm.

The night was pitch black; you could not even see your finger in front of your eyes. The sky was dark and the sea was sliced by the brilliance of lightening and by the roar of thunder blasting over us. We started shouting but our voices were lost in the roar of thunder.

They always took girls in nights like this.

Always, be it at night or at dawn, we always went to send them off on their last trip, singing:

Farewell, goodbye sad world, Goodbye, farewell sweet life...

The women being sent to trial walked upright and tall and we ran behind them, many of us, escorting them to the shore before being prevented by loaded guns pointed at us. We stood on the high bank and, for as long as we could see the ship in the sea, we sang and clapped our hands for them.

With that we wished them a safe trip and good luck...

Our song accompanied them to the last step and breath along the wall of the shooting range.

That’s all we could do for those who were taken in the dark, when the winds and storms were most crazy, when the shore was smashed by the mad waves, when the island was beaten by lightning and thunder, when heaven and earth became one in the dark… that’s all we could do for them...

We felt drained, dead drained, broken and silent in the days they took the women from us… No one felt like talking...

In days like that everything seemed less important… questions about what would happen and what would become of us didn’t seem to matter. None of us were even sure if tomorrow or another day they

would be calling us… none knew which day they would be called… so every day was a day of anticipation and anxiety.

* * *

We had visitors come to the camp including government ministers, senior military and police figures, priests and bishops. They even brought deserters who had deserted the Democratic Army of Greece and some of those who left the camps as a result of signing the statement of remorse.

They all promised us one thing:

“If you sign a statement of repentance, you will immediately go home. If not, then you will die from starvation, disease, work, thirst, heat, cold, moisture, fear, hopelessness, loneliness…!”

Repent!

That’s what they said standing under in the shade while we burned lined up in the sun, while we were pelted by falling rain or frozen in the snow… standing there rigid waiting for them to be done deciding our fate...

* * *

Besides the many ways of creating despondency, the police also brought mothers to the camp to persuade their daughters to sign the statement of repentance.

I once heard a conversation that went something like this:

The mother said: “My dear child, sign, they will let you go…”

The daughter then replied: “No mother, I will not sign. I have been tortured far too much to forget the villainy. They want to bring discord between us… They want to give up on us, on all of us. They want me to be nothing ... They are now tormenting you with my pain. They are taking my and your happiness away. You must hold

hard mother, don’t let them see you hurting. Don’t give them the pleasure to see us broken… don’t give those dogs the satisfaction...”

The girl knelt in front of her mother, took her mother’s hand in her hand and all the time they hugged and kissed warm tears ran down their cheeks relieving their pain and all the weight from their shoulders.

But what hurt me the most was listening to them sigh...

* * *

The space where we were allowed to move was very tiny. It was marked by two rows of rusty barbed wire. The time that we were allowed to spend out there was really limited; just two hours a day. One hour in the morning just before noon and one hour in the afternoon. We were guarded by armed police at all times. They monitored our every move. We were not allowed to stare at the sky, the sea, or the hills beyond the barbed wire.

Women who received money from home were lined up in front of the wire fence facing the merchants on the other side, who were more than willing to take the hard earned money their relatives had sent them, in exchange for some soap, a piece of clothing, thread, pins, needles, pencils, envelopes, paper, candles... and of course all this was done under the watchful eye of the police.

I never bought anything because I had no money. But as long as this petty trade was taking place I used the opportunity to hide Victoria’s notebooks in the roots of the olive tree, while pretending to collect flowers in the olive grove. I usually gave the flowers I collected to the older women. They were fond of me. Some dried the flowers and sent them to their relatives with their letters.

I too sent dried flowers with my letters to my native village in Kostur, but the letters always returned… unanswered... silent… in pain…

Even though we were forbidden, some nights we gathered together at a secret place and quietly, almost whispering, sang joyful and sad songs. Loud and long sighs were always heard when we sang sad songs filling the place with sadness, reminding us of our pain.

The song that caused us most grief and pain was called “Kaποια µανα αναστεναζει” (A mother sighs a difficult sigh). The words and melody were very sad and even sadder for us in our situation. Even a mention of the song brought us to tears stirring sad memories and pain. It not only saddened us, it saddened the policemen who secretly listened to us singing. They allowed us to continue singing because they did not want us to see them looking sad.

* * *

We always observed national and religious holidays in the camp. We celebrated the national holidays with songs, dances and plays. The songs and plays had to be pre-approved by camp administration before we could sing and act. And, while the celebration was going on, the police stood on the side and carefully followed everything that was happening on the makeshift stage and everything the prisoners did, making sure the script was followed to the letter.

The days when we celebrated the religious holidays were very sad for us. We were in the camps on Trikeri in body only, our spirits and thoughts were always at home...

You sit on the bare floor and you imagine that you are at home. Your eyes are soaked in tears as you reflect on everything that was done at home before and during the holiday. The day before Easter all the girls in the village would get together and visit the forest and meadows to pick flowers to adorn the large icon of the Virgin Mary placed in front of the church just for this occasion. Everyone at home helped out with the preparations… clean the house, sweep the yard, knead and bake the bread, bake the cakes, bake the cookies… Then all these goodies were placed on the big dining table in the centre of the room… Everything that God provided for us was there… breads, cakes, cookies, roasted meats, boiled meats, red wine and, of course, a basket full of red Easter eggs... The oldest

person in the house, usually a grandfather, would raise his glass of red wine and toast:

“Cheers! May we live happy and healthy lives for many years! Joy to us all and more joy to us in the future!...”

Then all would raise and clink their glasses with sparkling wine and say cheers...

In my village, in the afternoon we would go to the Sv. Atanas Church and I would swing on the swing hanging from a thick oak branch. I would take turns swinging with other girls and sing a song dedicated to the Virgin Mary or, as we used to say, on the one watching and on those watching her...

Life was great… We were happy… We were cheerful… The times were festive...

That’s the way it was...

Sitting down with her chin between her knees, I would imagine seeing my new friend in our guest room at home, and my loved ones would all dissolve in the tears in my eyes.

And all this, here in the camp, was only a memory arousing in me grief and bitter pain.

In moments like these I felt very lonely and thinking about my past, in view of the torment I had been through, made me feel enormous pain, stronger than a policeman’s punch, stronger than a blow from a rod, stronger that the lash of a whip… I celebrated the holidays alone, in my own mind, and the holiday became warmth, a dream, a desire pronounced with a long sigh… a happy holiday… Lord, please free us so we can go home soon...

We were celebrating Easter that day but we did not finish the celebration…

Suddenly the cell door flung wide open and our wishes were ended...

They gave us an order… Every time a policeman stood at the door we were expected to stand up, on our feet, and stand at attention. I was the last one… and late to jump to my feet. The policeman grabbed me by my hair and pulled me out into the hallway. He beat me pretty hard. I was in pain and bleeding. But that pain did not hurt as much as the pain from my desire to be at home, to celebrate Easter Sunday at home...

It was Easter and we always celebrated Easter...

For many, many years...!

* * *

One day they moved us out from the cells in the monastery and relocated us in tents along the coast, only a few steps away from the edge of the cliff. When the south winds blew we could hear the waves smashing against the rocky coast. It was an eerie sound that caused us terrible fear. I was afraid the sea would rise up, wash us out and draw us in its deep murky waters.

The blowing north winds were even more frightening. That’s when we opened the tent flaps on the north and south side, so that the wind could pass through the tent freely. Otherwise both the tent and us might take flight and be blown away into the sea.

One night sometime after midnight, along with the whistling wind blowing and the waves crashing against the shore, we heard an eerie sound full of terrible screams and calls for help. Our neighbouring tent had been blown away and the women were clutching at the posts and ropes.

It was very dark and noisy that night. The wind was strong and the pounding of the waves frightening. The screams from the women were even more frightening… their shrieks were horrible. The wind and the darkness had swallowed the terrible screams, which further heightened our fears. But we found them… Some were kneeling, some lying down… We found them, grabbed them and pulled them away… only steps away from the abyss. They were all there...

None of them was taken by the abyss… This time…

* * *

In one place, about three or four metres away from the tent, there were about a dozen graves. The men buried there were victims of the camp, brought here in the past.

There was cross made of chiseled olive wood located in the centre of the cemetery. My tent was located just three steps away from it. These graves were larger and different from the smaller graves located nearby. Young children were buried in the smaller graves. These children had been brought here with their mothers. There was a tiny cross on each, made of two olive branches tied together. Some had fallen over in the mud, probably blown down by the strong wind. There was mud covering the children’s graves.

My bed, consisting of a single old blanket, was closest to the smallest graves. I could almost reach out and touch them. These were the graves of the twins - Eleftheria and her nameless sister. I often caressed them… when I was awake and in my dreams... In the most difficult moments of my life, when I was overwhelmed with hopelessness, I often sat down near them, touched their graves and sang lullabies to them. I sang the lullabies that my grandmother and mother used to sing to me. I wanted them to have peace and calm their souls… With a quiet whisper I sang lullabies and wished them best wishes. Then I prayed for them to have peace in this barren and salty island...

Sleep my dear, my tiny little babies, my souls, sleep...

Sleep and dream of sunshine with me...

Chapter - 7

April. Morning. Nineteen fifty-four.

I came out of my tent to a surprising silence. It was sunny outside. A gentle breeze was blowing the rare few green, sun-burned, wind blown blades of grass that grew between the stones. The olive trees were flowering and spreading their beautiful aroma.

It was a surprising silence because the morning camp trumpet did not sound. The flag was not waving on the flagpole… There was no flag to wave… What surprises were waiting for us now? I returned to my tent, and found all the women huddled together, looking through one of the half-opened flaps in the tent. We all felt uneasy… We waited and there was nothing but silence. There was no movement. The silence was eerie and tense. Moments like these were difficult and full of uncertainty… What were they waiting for? The tension grew even more with the uncertainty. And suddenly -thunder. The camp loudspeakers thundered and shortly after that, orders:

“Attention! Attention! Attention! All to rally! All to rally! All to rally!...” These announcements were repeated every few minutes. There were no military marches here? I found it surprising that they would be calling us all to a rally. I also sensed that the announcer’s voice was not right… it was somewhat less enthusiastic… less loud… Frightened, everyone came out of their tents and cells. A big crowd began to gather at the meeting place. We all lined up and waited. There was uneasiness in everyone’s eyes and burning questions on their lips… What is happening? What awaits us? What will they do to us today? Insecurity and fear kept growing with every passing moment.

We stood in line in silence and waited - tense, twisted, scared...

It was noon. The camp commander climbed onto the stage. Every eye in the line was glued on him. He kept staring at us from up there, swallowing us whole. Finally he sighed deeply and said:

“Listen you...” he then paused and slowly looked at the entire line. For him we were just a line. “Listen and remember this long and well. As of today your beloved homeland is forgiving your evil deeds and is taking you back in her arms. From today onwards you are free. Gather your rags, you are going home...” That’s all he said and then walked away.

Was I surprised?

I was more scared than surprised... We all were…

Trikeri was emptied in the next few days. And for the time we were still there, after the announcement was made, it seemed to me like the sky above the island was brighter.