The Thread

  There was one thing the city’s residents had not lost during the occupation and that was their resilience. Their magnificent city, so multilayered and rich in history, had suffered a multitude of tribulations in the past decades but once again, they were faced with the challenge of making it better than before.

  A month before the Germans departed, an agreement had been signed between the various factions and opposing interests on both right and left. In the Caserta Agreement, as it was known, the resistance leaders pledged to forbid any of their units to take the law into their own hands once the Germans had gone. The Government of National Unity was installed and, just as the agreement had specified, there was no attempt by the Communists to seize power.

  The head of the right-wing army, EDES, even went to London to assure the British that he would work together with the Communists and with the new government to ensure the country’s democratic development. Peaceful transition was looking hopeful.

  Late one afternoon, Katerina called in to the Komninos house to deliver a coat she had repaired for Pavlina. In the hallway, she saw Kyria Komninos.

  ‘I haven’t heard from him, I’m afraid,’ Olga said without prompting. ‘It’s hard for him to get in touch.’

  Only a few weeks had passed since they had all been sitting around him in the kitchen, but Katerina had found Dimitri constantly occupying her thoughts.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be back soon,’ she said, trying to conceal her own concern.

  ‘I think there might have been some kind of truce between him and his father if he had returned when the Germans left,’ she said regretfully, ‘but I think his father realises now how committed he is.’

  ‘Well, he is, isn’t he?’ Katerina responded.

  ‘Yes, Katerina. But I’m so afraid,’ Olga admitted. ‘We thought the war was over but some people are saying that there might be more fighting. Kyrios Komninos is saying that the Left are making demands and the government shouldn’t give in to them.’

  Olga’s voice betrayed the disappointment that many people were sharing. Winter was rapidly approaching and, with the lengthening nights, a pall of pessimism was descending.

  Olga disappeared upstairs and Katerina went into the kitchen.

  ‘Here you are, Pavlina,’ she said. ‘I hope you like it.’

  She held out a green coat. It looked almost new. Using scraps of fabric from a box that still sat in the Morenos’ house, she had covered the old buttons with deep red velvet and given the collar and cuffs a fine edging with a piece of the same material. Additionally, she had relined the coat with the fabric from an old floral dress.

  Pavlina, who had been washing dishes, immediately dried her hands and took the garment from Katerina. She put the coat on and did a slow twirl to show it off. Pavlina’s access to good food meant that she had remained quite plump even during the years of hardship.

  ‘It’s just like new,’ she cried. ‘But better! You’re such a clever girl! Thank you so much. I can look forward to the winter now!’

  Katerina then remembered something. She needed Pavlina’s advice.

  ‘I had a letter today. Will you tell me what you think?’

  Producing an envelope from her pocket, she handed it to Pavlina.

  Pavlina read it aloud. ‘“Dear Kyria Sarafoglou, I hear on good authority that you are an excellent modistra. I have several vacancies in my new business in Thessaloniki and would like you to come for interview on Friday morning at ten o’clock.”’

  ‘That sounds good. You need to be back in a workshop now.’ She handed the letter back and teasingly added: ‘You’ll never meet anyone working on your own at home . . .’

  With so many young men away fighting, there were thousands of girls who, under normal circumstances, should have been married. Now that many men were coming back, she felt it was high time that Katerina had what she called ‘a nice young man’.

  ‘But don’t you recognise the address?’ Katerina said with a note of exasperation. ‘It’s the Morenos’ workshop!’

  She handed the letter back to Pavlina, who scrutinised it.

  ‘I went past with Eugenia and there were lots of people there, repainting it and getting it ready.’

  ‘And that name . . . I recognise that too. Grigoris Gourgouris has been here lots of times in the past few years. He and Kyrios Komninos obviously do lots of business together.’

  ‘But when the Morenos come back . . .?’

  ‘They’ll be given some compensation, Katerina,’ said Pavlina. ‘Don’t worry. The authorities can’t just leave all those businesses empty! We’ve got to get this city going again!’

  Katerina looked thoughtfully at the letter.

  ‘And if they return and get the workshop back, then they’ll be pleased to see that you are already working there!’ Pavlina added.

  Katerina could appreciate Pavlina’s neat and tidy logic.

  ‘I suppose I have to earn a living,’ she said. ‘Kyrios Moreno would definitely understand that.’

  Later that week, Katerina attended her interview. There was a room with fifty other women waiting to be seen, and while they were waiting they were each given a piece of linen on which they had to demonstrate five embroidery stitches, five edging techniques and a rouleau buttonhole.

  One by one, they were summoned to the interview room. By the time she was called, Katerina had been kept waiting for two hours.

  The man at the desk was three times the size of the diminutive previous owner. Katerina handed over her sampler and noticed big hands with soft pudgy fingers.

  ‘Mmm, good, good,’ he said, inspecting it closely. ‘I see your reputation is justified, Miss Sarafoglou.’

  She stayed silent.

  ‘I have seen your work,’ he said, looking up for the first time. ‘You make gowns for Konstantinos Komninos’ wife, don’t you? She is an excellent mannequin!’

  As he spoke, she noticed yellowing teeth beneath a silvery moustache and eyes in a full-moon face that almost disappeared when he grinned, just as he did at this moment.

  ‘I know children who can sew better than some of those women out there,’ he said wearily. ‘But this is good. This is what I was hoping to see.’

  Katerina attempted a smile. She thought it was the expected response to what was supposed to be a compliment.

  ‘I expect a lot of my modistras, so don’t expect to be sitting about chatting all day. In my workshops, it’s a twelve-hour day, half an hour for lunch. Half-day on Saturday. Sundays off. And if there is something that needs finishing for a customer, then it has to be finished. This is how I have made my reputation in Veria and Larissa, and soon it will be the same here. It’s why I am known as the “Top Tailor in Town”. You’ll see it on the side of my vans: “We make the date! We’re never late!”’

  He coughed once, as if giving his speech a full stop. He had made it a thousand times and his flowing truisms and mottoes tripped fluently off his tongue, inviting no response. Katerina knew she had got a job.

  ‘Monday next. Eight o’clock. Good morning, Miss Sarafoglou.’ He smiled at her and she knew this was the sign for her to go.

  As she left, she saw a queue of applicants that tailed down to the end of the street. There must have been two hundred women still waiting to be seen and she realised she was one of the lucky ones.

  The gleaming sign above the door, ‘GRIGORIS GOURGOURIS’, made her feel uneasy but at this moment, with hunger nagging at her insides, there seemed no choice.

  The company officially opened for business the following week. The modistras had been locally recruited, except for one, who had been brought by Grigoris Gourgouris from Athens. She was put in charge of the finishing room and oversaw the younger women with distinctly undermining condescension.

  Gourgouris had brought a handful of his tailors from Veria and Larissa but most of the new recruits lacked the experience that he would have liked. Many of the best tailors in the city had been Jewish, and their absence had left a huge gap of skille
d labour. It would be a long while before the Gourgouris label carried the same cachet as the Moreno name.

  Grigoris Gourgouris came himself to inspect the women’s work several times a day, even though they felt his interest was over-zealous. As far as they could tell, their boss did not even know how to run a straight line of stitches to join two pieces of fabric. As soon as he left the room, the girls gossiped about him, speculating on why he spent so long leaning over particular members of his staff. After several weeks, Katerina became the object of much teasing.

  ‘It’s Katerina this and Katerina that,’ they chanted. ‘Look at her satin stitch! Look at her ruching! Look at her edging!’

  They were right. It had become obvious that the person in whom Gourgouris took the greatest interest was herself. She became familiar with the strong waft of garlic that usually forewarned her that the boss was on his way, ambling slowly down the row of workers to see what they were doing, before stopping and leaning slightly too close to hear about the assignment she was working on.

  Katerina always answered his questions precisely and politely, holding her breath in between answers to reduce the effect of his vaporous breath. He was sincerely lavish in his praise of her work and when she was sent round to see Olga Komninos for a fitting, she discovered that he had broadcast his high opinion of her at the Komninos dinner table too.

  ‘He is very impressed by you,’ said Olga to Katerina’s reflection, as the latter fastened a dress for her in front of a large mirror. ‘He was here on Saturday and he kept saying how thrilled he was with your work. Apparently you are in a different class from anyone else.’

  Katerina said nothing. She found it awkward that he paid her so much attention. It was uncomfortable to be singled out and she often found herself touching the mati that she had on a chain around her neck, the ‘evil eye’ that was meant to protect the wearer from jealousy.

  While Thessaloniki was beginning to regain some kind of normality, events were moving on apace in Athens. As the citizens of Thessaloniki read their newspapers, they knew that whatever happened in their capital, the consequences would have a profound effect on them.

  The Prime Minister, Georgios Papandreou, was showing little interest in pursuing and punishing those who had collaborated with the Germans, but instead seemed more interested in total demobilisation of the left-wing forces. The Left were unhappy and suspicious, and called for a demonstration to take place on 3 December. Thousands gathered in Syntagma, Athens’ central square, and without apparent provocation, a policeman fired into the crowd. In the ensuing chaos, sixteen demonstrators were killed and open fighting broke out in the streets between the police, British troops and ELAS fighters. In the next few days, the Left began to hunt down those who were known collaborators.

  ELAS captured police stations and a prison but overall had underestimated the strength of their opponents, who were often well disciplined and armed. Massive reinforcements arrived a week or so later and ELAS then found themselves engaged in a running battle with the British.

  By early January, most of ELAS had abandoned the capital in disarray, having lost up to three thousand of their forces. Seven and a half thousand others had been taken prisoner. The right-wing forces had lost over three thousand too and many were captured. During those weeks, Athens had become a battleground.

  ‘So this is what your son wanted?’ screamed Konstantinos to his wife. ‘And what has he gained?’

  ‘It wasn’t just him,’ said Olga reasonably. ‘Why do you always make it sound as though the entire situation is his fault? I don’t think he is the only one.’

  ‘Well he’s the only Communist I know!’

  As usual, Olga had to bite her lip. She refused to think of her son as a Communist, but instead regarded him as someone who wanted democracy and justice. She never argued with her husband. One civil war seemed enough.

  In Thessaloniki itself, hunger was already increasing. Shoes, clothes and medical supplies were also vanishing again. Many were attributing this to the activities of ELAS and were blaming them for new levels of starvation. Komninos was one of thousands who were against ELAS. With pictures of their victims circulating in the right-wing press and stories of mass graves and brutal vendetta killings, there were many others who did not feel they could side with people who executed enemies for personal revenge.

  ELAS now took thousands of civilian hostages in Athens and in Thessaloniki. Most of them were members of the bourgeoisie, such as civil servants, army officers and police, and they were forced to march long distances in bitterly cold weather, without adequate clothing or shoes. Many died from exposure. Brutality and the cruelty of the executions that had been perpetrated began to fill the newspapers.

  ‘He seems so sure that his son is capable of such things,’ lamented Olga to Pavlina. ‘How can a father imagine the worst of his son? He thinks that being a Communist automatically makes you a murderer.’

  ‘And it’s not as if the other side are whiter than white, is it?’ responded Pavlina. ‘I’ve heard plenty of stories about things they’ve been up to and they’re not all so nice.’

  Pavlina was right. There was extreme brutality on both sides but the Left was losing support, even in the areas that they had liberated from the Germans. Most people were sick of war and hungry for peace, and the Left seemed to be getting in the way of it.

  In February 1945, it seemed as if their wish was going to be fulfilled. In the Varkiza Agreement, ELAS undertook to hand over their weapons in exchange for an amnesty on political crimes and a plebiscite on the constitution. For a brief time, both Olga and Katerina fondly imagined the return of Dimitri and a reconciliation with his father.

  However, the Agreement soon turned out to be worthless. Right-wing death squads and paramilitary groups went on the rampage to hunt out Communists, and a reign of terror began against all of those who fought for the Left.

  These developments were, of course, the main topic of conversation at Konstantinos Komninos’ dinner table, when he next entertained. The merchants and businessmen of Thessaloniki wanted nothing more than for business to return to normal, and the messiness of politics stood in the way of their profits.

  Pavlina bustled about in the kitchen, waiting to go into the dining room to clear up after the main course. As soon as the conversation could be heard above the clatter of knives and forks, she knew that people had finished eating and were ready for the next course.

  She hummed as she worked and stood back to admire her efforts. She was proud of her individual strawberry tarts: pert, preserved fruit under a glaze of syrup with a chocolate crème patissière, waiting invisibly beneath. She knew the latter would surprise the diners when they stuck in their forks and discovered that there was something else beneath the soft red flesh. She gave them a light dusting of icing sugar and moved them to the trolley, ready to take in.

  At precisely that moment, she heard the doorbell ring. None of the guests was late, and ten thirty in the evening was a strange time for anyone to call. She put down her sifter and went to the door. She knew that if Olga had heard the sound, she would be thinking the same. Was it Dimitri? Each moment they hoped for his return, but their desire was always mixed with fear for the consequences.

  She opened the door cautiously and peered out into the dimly lit street.

  ‘Pavlina!’ whispered a voice from the shadows. ‘It’s me.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  PAVLINA WENT OUT onto the doorstep.

  ‘Who is it?’ she hissed into the darkness. She knew it was not Dimitri. This voice had an accent.

  ‘It’s me. Elias.’

  After a moment of hesitation, Pavlina reached into the shadows and pulled him gently into the light.

  ‘Come into the house!’ she whispered. ‘You must come into the house!’

  The small figure shuffled in behind her and followed her to the kitchen.

  ‘Sit down there a moment,’ she said, taking in his pale and emaciated appearance. ‘Panagia m
ou, you look terrible. Even worse than Dimitri did when we last saw him.’

  Elias looked up at Pavlina with his dark, hollow eyes. Every feature was exaggerated on his shrunken face. He seemed hardly human.

  ‘You look like you need feeding,’ she said, continuing to bustle and fuss. ‘Just give me a moment to go and clear the plates and serve the dessert.’

  Within minutes, Pavlina was back in the kitchen. A pale, ethereal figure followed silently behind her and shut the door carefully.

  ‘Hello, Kyria Komninos,’ Elias said politely, standing up.

  ‘Elias! It’s been such a long time . . .’

  She went to grasp his hands but he instinctively backed away, all too aware of how long it was since they had been washed.

  They sat around the kitchen table. Elias’ filthy, sweat-stained shirt and the creamy perfection of Olga’s dress were the uniforms of different worlds.

  There were a thousand things the women wanted to ask, but they knew Elias would have questions too. That must be why he was there. The women would wait their turn.

  ‘I’ve been to Irini Street and to Filipou Street,’ Elias began. ‘Our house is locked up, and someone else has taken over our business. Where are . . .?’

  There was no point in deceiving him. He would find out the truth soon enough.

  ‘Your family went to Poland,’ said Pavlina. ‘Nearly two years ago. Katerina and Eugenia had a postcard a long while back, but nothing since.’

  He had heard of some transportations to Poland.

  ‘But the workshop?’

  ‘The authorities think that some people may not come back, so they are selling them off.’

  ‘But it belongs to us!’

  ‘We must keep our voices down,’ warned Pavlina, putting her finger to her lips.

  ‘I think they want to get businesses going again,’ explained Olga. ‘But if your parents came back, I am sure they would be compensated.’

  Elias choked back tears of anger. ‘But why wouldn’t they come back? The war is over in Greece, isn’t it?’