PROLOGUE
SOFIA
Crete, present day.
UNDER A SPREADING TAMARISK TREE on Chania beach, I woke in the ghost of my lover’s arms. It seemed a beautiful place to be – until reality reminded me of hot, sweet coffee and breakfast. The last wisps of night still cowered beneath the branches. I lay still for a while, smiling, enjoying the silence, enjoying a world at peace.
The promise of a new day surged over the horizon. The sun rising like Aphrodite from the sea, bathing the island in soft light. The sky sifted through blushing pinks, the yellow of warm honey, and then the startling blue of another Mediterranean day.
Sometimes I wonder if this deep appreciation of dawn is a by-product of very old age. Every new morning is a surprise gift. And every night holds the threat of a final farewell.
I pulled myself up from the abandoned sunbed, plaited my long silver hair, then smoothed the dusty black dress that was past its best. The cool sand felt refreshing under my feet, but I cursed old joints that were reluctant to straighten.
I had bathed after dark, away from prying eyes, in the warm Cretan sea. In the light of day, that sparkling turquoise water seemed to go on forever – like my life.
Sometimes my memories have a similar clarity, enabling me to see a long way back, the pebbles of my past glittering in threads of refracted light. I remembered another time, another place – floating on the Aegean as a child, staring at an endless sky and wondering about the nature of eternity. My opulent childhood days filled with colour and laughter, food and friends and family. I wanted for nothing.
Reaching for my shoes, I noticed a peculiar glint and scooped up a handful of sand. The grains slipped through my gnarled fingers, leaving a smooth nugget of sea glass. Something once flawless, now smashed beyond repair. Only a fragment of its former self. The gem rested in my palm – changed beyond recognition, yet still unique and beautiful in its own way.
Was I, too, nothing but a piece of broken glass? A shattered remnant of a perfect life? Sometimes, I wished God would take me, and sometimes I prayed He would give me a little longer to achieve my quest.
On a whim, I slipped the glass into my pocket, then looked up and saw Ioanis spreading his orange nets on the beach.
He settled cross-legged on the sand, his blunt needle and yellow twine shuttling back and forth, replacing lost floats along the fishing net’s edge. If I could cast my nets and recapture all those I held close in my heart, I’d embrace them one last time, tell them how much I loved them, and beg their forgiveness . . .
Ioanis shouted the traditional greeting for the first of the month: ‘Kalo mina, Yiayá! ’
Good month, Grandmother! Most people call me grandmother because of my great age.
Now, at the outset of spring, his words seemed doubly poignant. Wild flowers bloomed. Sunny days had replaced the pallor of winter with bronzed faces and wider smiles; the prospect of a busy summer added an air of excitement in tavernas and shops.
A swallow dipped and dived over the water’s edge, chasing the last of dawn’s mosquitoes. It reminded me of another bird, flitting in through the prison bars of a broken window, then returning outdoors, preferring freedom. That was on the day my baby was born – the day I began to crochet.
If it was a good month, in the following weeks I might find my child. Just the thought made my tired heart skip.
I pulled the lemon shawl and crochet hook out of my cloth bag and plucked at the silken thread, working quickly despite my arthritic fingers. The shawl was my talisman, started with my first contraction nearly half a century ago. Later that day, with tears still wet on my face and my spirit as broken as the sea glass, I prayed to God that one day I would hold my daughter again, free to explain that I was her mother, and tell her that I had never stopped loving her. On that day, I would cast the final knot in my baby blanket.
A new month? I pulled at the last loop, found the end and rewound the ball of silk. Round and round the thread raced as four weeks of delicate shells and flowers unravelled. This month, I told myself. This month, I would complete the shawl.
I stared at Ioanis. My daughter must be about the same age as the fisherman now.
Ioanis ambled over to the beach taverna where his wife laid faded gingham cloths over wooden tables. He disappeared into the kitchen, then returned to my side with a bread roll still hot from the oven and a fried mullet on a paper napkin.
‘Here, Yiayá, get some breakfast. You look starved.’ He thrust the food at me. ‘It’s fresh – I caught it this morning.’
I wished to say ‘Thank you!’ but of course I could not, so I tapped my belly, nodded gratefully and held out one of my notes written in neat Greek letters.
‘I know, Yiayá, you can’t speak,’ Ioanis said sympathetically, before returning to his taverna.
I sat up straight and picked small mouthfuls of food, despite the growling hunger in my stomach. No excuse for bad eating habits. Mama’s words of wisdom came back to me. Always remember, manners tell a lot about a person, Sofia.
When Ioanis had returned to his restaurant, I feasted on the fresh fish.
*
I had arrived from Athens, where I lived, on the twelve-hour ferry the morning before. The packed ship transported two thousand tourists, families and students to Crete for the carnival weekend. Surely my daughter would come to watch the parade?
On the great ship, I took the lift to deck four and hurried to the front lounge. Quickly, I spread my belongings across three cushions under a window and laid my tired body down. Fellow passengers, also unable to afford a cabin, searched for a comfortable place to spend the night. Nobody would disturb a sleeping pensioner.
Oh, the luxury of resting on soft upholstery.
Although the voyage took twelve hours, I started my task at once. These days, everything takes longer. When my fellow passengers had settled, I sat up, drew a bundle of narrow strips of paper from my carpet bag, and started writing the same sentence, again and again.
I wrote long into the night, only stopping when cramp gripped my hand and I had to pull my fingers straight. Once or twice tiredness overtook me and I dozed for a while. At one point, the barman placed a cheese pie, coffee and a glass of water in front of me. I held a hand on my heart and silently bowed my thanks.
When everyone slept, I found the public bathroom, took a hot shower and washed my hair. The single braid that hung down my back had never seen a pair of scissors or felt the tender stroke of a man’s hand since the most wonderful – and terrible – day of my life.
Sensing the approach of dawn and feeling the excitement of another new day, I reached into my bag, withdrew my crochet hook and yarn, and began to work steadily on my daughter’s shawl.
As the light gained strength, passengers stirred. I left my belongings on the seat and passed out the slips of paper. As usual, tourists unable to read Greek thought I was begging. Some handed over a little money; others turned away, trying to ignore me. I didn’t mind. The Greek people read my note, then peered at me, crossing themselves. They said kind words and placed a few coins in my hand.
On the bus from Chania’s port to the city terminal, I took a seat by the door and passed my notes to everyone who got on.
A young foreign woman asked her companion, ‘What does it say? My Greek’s not so good yet.’
He read, ‘“I am Sofia, searching for my daughter, born in Korydallos prison, Athens, 1 November 1972. Can you help me?”’