Only the wealthy could keep food on their table.
On Pavlos’s name day, Mama, always an angel of kindness, had baked trays and trays of bread rolls. We sprinkled them with olive oil, salt and wild oregano, and handed them out to the unfortunates in the street. One wizened man in rags had begged for another bun, telling Mama that his four children were starving. His sunken eyes stared at the bread as Mama gave him four rolls. She had tears in her eyes as we watched him hurry away, muttering his blessings and thanks.
On the walk up Lycabettus, I had kept pace with Mama, proud when folk looked our way. People said ‘Good afternoon,’ as we passed, and we nodded and smiled and said ‘Good afternoon,’ in return.
When we reached the steps leading up to the summit of Mount Lycabettus, it was easy to forget that we were still in the city. The greenery, lush and vibrant, soaked the air with a fresh perfume, and I realised that in a few weeks the cyclamen would break through with their delicate upside-down flowers.
‘Look, Sofia, narcissi!’ Mama cried, pointing at clumps of grey-green straplike leaves. ‘They’ll flower in a few weeks, then we’ll come back and pick them.’
Narcissi were my favourite bloom. Every year, we went out together on a Sunday afternoon and picked the flowers. I loved how the spicy gardenia perfume filled the rooms of our house.
At the summit of Mount Lycabettus, the sky appeared so clean and blue I felt I could reach up and touch it. I dashed to the low-retaining wall and looked over the top.
‘I can see to the end of the world!’ I cried, pointing out over the Parthenon, the city and the distant sea’s horizon. ‘Isn’t that the most amazing view, Papa? Look at the ships. Do you think the sailors can see us?’ I jumped up and down, waving my cotton handkerchief, imagining the men looking up from their ships and waving back.
Windows in the city buildings below glinted gold, reflecting the setting sun. Two soldiers appeared on the summit and marched until they came to a halt below the flagpole. One played his bugle as the other lowered the Greek flag. Papa stood to attention, and my brothers and I lined up beside him and did the same.
Athens had suffered terrible bloodshed only weeks before. On the third of December, in Syntagma Square, the city’s police and the British army had opened fire on peacefully demonstrating students, killing them in what Papa called ‘an unholy bloodbath’.
‘This is an important concert after the tragedy, Sofia,’ Mama said, taking in the view. ‘My first song will be for the poor mothers who lost their children – and just before Christmas, too. So much for the season of peace and goodwill.’ She sighed. ‘Thank God your brothers were too young to take part in the protest. Swear to me you’ll never get involved in politics, child. Keep out of it like me and your papa. It’s the only way to stay safe.’
‘Yes, Mama,’ I promised.
*
Sitting in the corner of Mama’s dressing room, I thought how lucky we were not to be starving or shot at, and to have beautiful clothes and a fine house. I watched Mama slip into her new gown, black taffeta with a sweetheart neckline. The tight-fitting dress flounced into a mermaid skirt that swished along the floor when she walked. I helped zip her in, then watched her don delicate lace gloves that reached the tops of her arms.
I had never seen anyone look as lovely as my mother did that night.
‘Are you all right, Sofia? Do you have a clean handkerchief? I can’t have you sniffing in the theatre.’
I patted the pocket of my skirt and nodded. ‘I’m so proud of you, Mama. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.’
‘I don’t usually wear black, do I? Bright colours stand out nicely for the audience, but I thought black was appropriate after the massacre.’
I smoothed the full skirt of my dress. ‘Do you think I’ll ever own such an amazing frock?’
Mama’s laughter was tense, tinkling, nervous as always before she went on stage. Although I couldn’t speak English, I had practised the new words with her, ready to sing to the British dignitaries in the front row. Now we recited the refrain together, ending with ‘. . . My love, you are life’s sweetest songs’.
Mama raised her hands towards me as she ended the song, then we both laughed. I loved my mama so much sometimes it hurt my heart. I told her this once and she smiled and took me into her arms.
‘True love can be very painful, Sofia,’ she had said. ‘One day you’ll find out for yourself. But life without love is nothing.’
A knock sounded on the door.
‘One minute!’
The tension returned to Mama’s eyes. She would calm down soon. Her nerves always disappeared the moment she walked on stage to the sound of applause. Tonight, I would be clapping louder than anyone.
She straightened the bow in my hair. ‘I must go now. Run to your seat, Sofia. Your father and brothers are in the middle of the second row. Hurry!’
As I rushed through the door, she called, ‘Sofia!’ I turned. ‘I’m very proud of you, too,’ she said, her head to one side, a soft smile on her ruby-red lips and a sparkle in her eyes.
My mother’s loving words, forever in my ears.
*
Markos, Athens, 1944.
Six young men, members of the communist-led resistance movement, EAM, the National Liberation Front, huddled at the end of a long alley behind the theatre.
‘Markos Papas, we’re proud of you,’ said their leader, Sotiris, as he placed his hand on the fourteen-year-old boy’s shoulder. ‘Today, you’re our hero! Now, hold your hands above your head and turn slowly.’
Markos, the youngest and smallest of them, had the most difficult task to perform. He raised his arms and turned, while two comrades fed out a roll of fuse wire. The coil steadily wrapped around his waist. Markos’s heart hammered violently in his ears.
The youths froze as the stage door flew open. A pretty girl with a heart-shaped face, wearing a bow in her hair and an emerald-green dress, emerged. The door closed quickly behind her, trapping the hem of her skirt. She banged her fist on the door. It opened and a beautiful woman appeared, wearing the most amazing black dress. The woman bent and kissed the girl on the cheek before returning inside. The girl ran down the alley towards the theatre front, without appearing to notice them.
Markos and his comrades sighed with relief.
‘You know what to do, Markos?’ Sotiris said. ‘Pull yourself along on your elbows – there’s no room to crawl. Every half a metre, roll over to unwind the wire around your waist. We’ll fix this end to the grid. When you get to the explosives, fix the blasting cap as we’ve shown you, then return. Be careful not to snag the fuse.’ He took off his neckerchief and passed it over. ‘Tie this over your face – it’s putrid as hell in there.’
Markos nodded, unable to speak for the trembling that seemed to rise from his bony knees. Someone tied the cloth over his mouth and nose. Sotiris fixed a miner’s torch onto his head. A metal grid on the pavement was lifted and Markos stared down into the narrow, stinking sewer pipe a metre below.
‘Good luck,’ their leader said. ‘Don’t fail us now.’
Markos glanced at the stage door, remembering the young girl, glad she would not be in the theatre. This concert was for the hateful warlords, not the place for innocent children.