Not long after Giannis left, the doors of the monastery had opened again. Dimitris hastened out. He could no longer endure the gaze of the saints who looked down at him from walls and ceilings, nor the images of heaven and hell that were portrayed around him. They taunted him. The certainty of salvation had left him. He was no longer sure that, when the time came, he would be with the sheep rather than the goats. Coffee … confession … Perhaps his brother was right. Perhaps they had as little value as each other.
He could not find God within the walls of the monastery. He had sometimes spent the night in one of the nearby caves where hermits had gone to meditate and be away from the world, but there he only looked deeper into the blackness of his own soul. The words of Jesus, from the Gospel of Matthew, followed him there and seemed to echo around the rocky walls:
‘Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.’
As darkness began to fall, he ran, almost tripping as he went, down a hidden pathway from the monastery, taking a detour to climb a mountain nearby, one that had never been built on by monks. Its summit was clear and free. There were no angelic faces, no images of the Last Judgement. This was the place.
The mist encircled him.
By now, Giannis had flicked the butt of a second cigarette out of the car window. Out of habit, he glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror, then inserted his key into the ignition. The engine roared into life and he sped away.
As he came round the corner, he glimpsed the monastery, unlit and lonely. The image of loneliness did not compare, however, with what he saw next. On a neighbouring mountaintop, he spotted the figure of a solitary man. Mist was swirling around him, and clouds constantly formed and re-formed as the wind blew. There was a moment when the fog obscured him completely and, a few seconds later, when it had dissipated, the man was gone. The mountain was empty.
Giannis turned up the volume on his radio and drove on.
Such isolation. Such misplaced guilt. Such tragic consequences. It can’t always be easy for priests who have taken a vow of celibacy. It must have profound psychological and physical effects on them.
Meteora is a spectacular place to visit, and it made me think about the difference between loneliness and solitude. The Greeks have one word for both: monaksia, which explains why some of them, when they see a man alone, pity him. In some situations, perhaps they had cause, but as time has gone on I have grown stronger in my solitude. I now know the difference between this and loneliness.
I spent a few days in Kalambaka, and went walking every day, allowing the landscape to get under my skin. On these long walks, I couldn’t help analysing our relationship, and looking for clues that might have indicated things were not right. Things I must have missed at the time.
At the end of my stay, I had had my fill of tranquillity, so I left for Thessaloniki, which was three hours away on a good, fast road. I was excited about feeling the warmth of a crowd, hearing some loud music in a bar, catching the smell of souvlaki in the street.
It was 25 March, and a warm spring day. As soon as I had checked into my hotel, I went down towards the sea to walk along the esplanade. I found myself surrounded by flags. They fluttered from balconies and public buildings, were waved in the roads and sold in the squares. I was soon absorbed into the crowds that lined the streets, and people cheerfully told me why we were all standing there, watching thousands of schoolchildren, soldiers and people in national costume marching by. It was their Independence Day parade.
I learned how history and emotion (perhaps inseparable in Greece) are bound up with the flag, and I also heard a story that showed how strongly the symbolism of this flag is rooted in the Greek soul.
Greece is haunted by two periods of occupation. The more recent one, by the Germans in the twentieth century, was for three years. The earlier one, by the Turks, was for nearly four centuries, and it is their liberation from this that the Greeks mark every 25 March with a huge parade.
This is also the Feast of the Annunciation, the Evangelismos, the day when the Archangel Gabriel told the Virgin Mary that she was to have a child. During a lull in the parade, a fiery old man standing next to me told me how the arrival of Jesus Christ and the departure of the Turks are linked, leaving me in no doubt that the war against the Turks to achieve the liberation of Greece was seen as a holy war.
‘We were outnumbered by the Turks, hopelessly outnumbered,’ he told me proudly. ‘But God was on our side, and that’s what mattered.’
Although he was with his family, I could see that he was happy to have, in me, a new audience. His wife and daughter had heard his stories so many times. I listened intently and nodded. Old men like him need little more than this as encouragement. He relived the events from the past as if the battlefield were still wet with the blood of Turks and Greeks.
‘After all those centuries, the Turks thought we had given up! But we have fire in our hearts. We never relinquished our language, our traditions, our religion! And it was a bishop who chose this day for us to rise up and fight.’
He raised aloft the small flag in his hand. People all around him were turning to listen to his rhetoric. A young woman next to us held her small child close and nodded with approval.
‘He chose this day, the day of the Evangelismos, to raise the Greek flag and to proclaim our freedom. It was the beginning! For nine years we fought. And then we were free!’
The old man was almost hopping with excitement; it was as if he had taken part in this nineteenth-century fight himself.
‘Look! They’re coming,’ said his middle-aged daughter, patiently touching him on the arm.
Then she turned to me and said discreetly:
‘I’ll tell you a story later, if you have time when all this is over. We’ll be going to have some lunch, and you’re welcome to join us. We eat a special dish for the Evangelismos.’
‘And it’s our pappou’s name day, too,’ said one of her teenagers. ‘So we have a huge cake!’
Her grandfather’s name, she told me, was Vangelis.
‘That’s so kind,’ I answered, ‘but I’m a total stranger.’
Their mother shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, ‘What does that matter?’
‘We live just there,’ she said, indicating the ugly, grey concrete apartment block behind us. ‘My name is Penelope, by the way.’
A group of women in short, embroidered, red velvet jackets, their heads ornately wrapped in scarves, heavy necklaces of gold coins jangling around their necks, began to file past, and my attention reverted to the parade. The colour and variety of the regional costumes was spectacular – men in extravagant knickerbockers and long boots, others in full white skirts and shoes with enormous pompoms. The parade had turned into theatre.
Two hours later, I was settling down with Penelope, her father, husband and two teenage children at a table in their living room. There was a clear view of the sea. A huge dish of bakaliaros skordalia, salt cod with garlic mash, was set down in front of me. I helped myself, and ate hungrily while, with regular interruptions from her father, Penelope told me a story of love and war.
‘She’s making it all up,’ said her father, leaning in conspiratorially, but I was not so sure …
‘JE REVIENS’
It was so wet that the parade had nearly been called off that year. The streets were glassy, and the awning to protect the mayor and other VIPs was lashed with rain, each downpour making the canvas sag ever more dangerously. The musicians in the band played on, their fingers stiff with cold beneath their white gloves. Only the drummer, beating time vigorously for many hours, was able to keep his circulation flowing. The road along which they marched followed the seafront and a cool wind blew in across the Gulf. Mount Olympus had disappeared in a grey cloud.
There were spectators from every generation: babies with pompoms sewn to their soft-footed shoes, toddlers in foustanella fancy dress, students from the university, office workers happy to be h
aving the day off, mothers, fathers and grandparents. They were all out in force. There were plenty of people watching from their balconies along the seafront. Everyone wanted to see the parade.
Among the crowd watching from the pavement, an old woman remembered the day long ago when she had been a flag-bearer. If you were top of the class, you had the privilege of carrying the national flag in the parade. Though Evangelia’s moment of glory had been many decades before, she relived it each year. Now her heart swelled with pride in anticipation at seeing the granddaughter who bore her name also bearing the flag.
A man came by selling small plastic flags for just seventy cents. She could tell from his accent that he was Albanian, and his worn shoes had absorbed so much water that his socks and his trousers were wet to the knee. His fingers were slippery with rain and he struggled to give Evangelia her change.
She looked at her flag, its simple blue-and-white design full of meaning, the nine horizontal stripes each recalling the nine-syllable rallying cry used by the Greeks to rid their country of the Turks.
‘El-ef-the-ri-a i Tha-na-tos! Freedom or Death!’
As did many, she believed that God had been on their side in the fight against the Turks. With His help they had rid themselves of Ottoman oppression; the flag itself embodied their motto.
Wave after wave of teenage girls and boys walked past the crowd, awkwardly trying to march in step. ‘Ena, thio, ena, thio, ena sto aristero. One, two, one, two, one on the left.’
The old lady flicked her flag back and forth, trying to match their rhythm.
In spite of the academic achievements that were being recognised by a place in the parade, many of the girls looked as if they would rather be somewhere else. In their unpolished shoes, flesh-coloured tights, short black skirts and white shirts, they were damp and cold. All of them. The only effort they had made was the lavish attention they had given to their hair, rivers of it, now beginning to form into rats’ tails. Most looked sulky.
The ranks of boys seemed to be enjoying themselves, exchanging smirks as they passed by in a shambolic parody of a march, sporting asymmetrical haircuts that had been assembled with gel and the barber’s razor. Again, at the front of each group of fifty or so, one boy had been singled out to carry a large flag, which he did with pride.
It was tiring, waiting there in the drizzle, and Evangelia hoped her granddaughter would appear soon. At eighty years old, it was a huge effort to stand for so long. She noticed that the flag seller was taking a break and was now spectating, his flags lowered to his side.
At that moment, she caught sight of her granddaughter in the sea of faces.
‘Evangelia! Evangelia!’ she called, trying to attract the girl’s attention. ‘Congratulations, agapi mou! Bravo!’
The sallow, dark-haired, seventeen-year-old looked ahead, concentrating on balancing the weight of the flag and its heavy pole on her hip. She did not turn her head.
Neighbours of Evangelia who were standing nearby joined in with the applause. They had known the girl since she was a baby.
‘Bravo, little Evangelia! Bravo!’
The old lady beamed with pride.
Then came the representatives of another school, led by the boys. Out in the front was an exceptionally handsome youth with high cheekbones. He was black-haired and taller than the boys behind him, and he carried his flag with great conviction.
Evangelia’s neighbour lowered her own small flag, muttering.
‘It’s wrong,’ she said. ‘It’s all wrong. He shouldn’t be bearing our flag.’
Another one, close by, picked up on her theme.
‘Albanian …’ he said darkly, and under his breath.
Another man heard the word.
‘A foreigner carrying our flag?’
‘It’s not right. Not right at all,’ agreed his wife. ‘Only a pure Greek should have this honour!’
Evangelia glanced at the flag seller, who clasped a bunch of fifty or so flags in his fist. His eyes glistened.
The conversation continued around him.
‘He’s top of the class, Dimitri,’ said another woman. ‘That’s why he’s carrying the flag. You might not agree with it, but that’s how it is.’
There were grumbles of discontent all around and silence in their section of the crowd. Nobody around cheered the group.
The boy came level with Evangelia and glanced over in her direction. His face creased into a dazzling smile, then he turned to face the direction in which he was marching, waving the flag so that it floated, blue and white, unfurled, liberated to flutter in the sky.
She looked at the man who was standing silently next to her. The flag seller’s eyes were full of tears, and Evangelia realised why the boy had looked their way.
‘Congratulations,’ she said quietly, turning to the man. ‘You must be proud.’
He nodded in acknowledgement, unable to speak. His eyes were still following the group from his son’s school, but all he could see now was the top of the flagpole his child held.
When Evangelia next looked round, the man had shuffled away and melted into the crowd. Almost immediately afterwards came troops of soldiers and young conscripts. Their boots hard and crisp on the tarmac, they marched along the street. Their chants were loud and fierce, giving the impression they were battle-ready.
I will fight for you,
Give my life for you,
Write in blood for you,
Use my heart for you,
To say ‘I love you.’
Ell- a- d- a mou, Ell-a-da mou!!!
I will fight for you,
Give my life for you.
It seemed they were ready to die for their country.
The conversation around Evangelia had moved on to other things, but she thought of what the Albanian might have heard (and prayed that his Greek was too poor for him to have understood). As the soldiers began to pass, she found her shame deepening, and not just because she should have supported the woman who objected to her neighbour’s comments.
If the Albanian boy had no right to carry the flag, then neither did her granddaughter. In all the world, she was the only one who knew this, but it was as true as the flag was white and blue.
Like the father of the boy who had passed before them a few minutes before, the father of her own child had spoken little Greek. Her granddaughter was by no means ‘pure’ in blood.
What had taken place had been so many years before, but the secret still endured.
Evangelia was eighteen years old when German soldiers marched into her city. At the time, her father owned a café, Je Reviens, close to the port. It was a convenient situation in a busy location and he was forbidden by the Germans to close it. The bar quickly became an establishment popular with the occupying soldiers.
Evangelia’s mother refused to have anything to do with it, and her brothers had managed to get out of the city to join the resistance. This left only Evangelia to help her father, which she did by washing glasses and cleaning the tables. She was not allowed to speak to the soldiers.
Many of the men were drunk and ill-disciplined when they were off duty. Evangelia hated them all, except for one, who always sat quietly on his own as if keeping an eye on his fellow Germans. When any fights got out of hand, he disciplined the perpetrators and threw them out on to the pavement. He was of a higher rank than the others and never drank with them. Instead, he sat and read.
As Evangelia carried a tray of glasses through one day, one of the young corporals touched her bottom. Her father saw and came from behind the bar to confront a table of jeering soldiers. One of them stood up to her father and drew his gun. For a few seconds of pure terror, Evangelia imagined that both she and her father would die. Their lives had no value for these young conscripts. Suddenly she was aware that the soldier who always sat quietly in the corner had also stood up. He barked something in German and the younger man immediately put away his gun. The group of offending soldiers never reappeared in the bar. From then on, Ev
angelia always felt safe when she saw him sitting, almost unnoticed, in his usual corner. Her father never charged him a drachma for his coffee or occasional glass of raki.
A few days after the incident with the gun, when the café was almost empty, Evangelia noticed that the man was reading something in French. It was one of the subjects in which she had excelled at school. Despite being under strict instructions to keep her distance at all times from the clientele, she could not resist speaking to him and seized the opportunity given by the book.
‘Merci,’ she said. ‘Vous avez sauvé mon père. Thank you for saving my father.’
He assured her that it was purely duty to act as he did. They then had a brief conversation, both of them happy to speak a language they loved. He told her that his name was Franz Dieter and she told him hers.
To hear him speaking the musical language that she associated with poetry and literature transformed him in her eyes. The guttural sound of German had not suited him.
Over a period of some months she had small conversations with him in this language that was foreign to them both and incomprehensible to everyone else in the bar.
‘S’il vous plaît, n’imaginez pas que tous les Allemands veulent la même chose, pensent la même chose …’
It was a polite request, his plea for understanding. He wanted her to believe that not all Germans were the same, with identical desires and beliefs. To state any more would have been enough to have him court-martialled. He was simply asking her to see him as an individual.
Later on, as their conversations continued, she discovered that he had not chosen to be a soldier; he had wanted neither to give up his post teaching French in a university nor to leave behind his home in Dresden. None of these things had been his choice.
Over the following year, Evangelia looked out for him each day. When he was going to be away on duty, he always told her in advance. He knew – they both knew –that an attachment between them was growing. Inside the formality of their conversation, much could be expressed, and only the two of them shared the significance of the day when he first asked if he could use tu, the informal ‘you’.