Eleni (58 page)

The family of the miller Tassi Mitros also spent the day making preparations for their escape. They had to be especially careful because one of the guerrillas’ cooks, a crochety old man named Kyriakos, lived in their house.

Tassi’s wife Calliope had been telling her neighbors for days that her sister Soula’s baby was gravely ill. She left early in the morning for the Ziaras house, saying to Kyriakos that the baby was dying. Her husband Tassi and her two sons, Niko, twelve, and Gakis, seventeen, planned to join her at dusk, using the same excuse. In the meantime the younger boy was sent with the family’s flock up to the pasture at the top of the Perivoli.

Late in the afternoon a messenger from the guerrillas arrived at the Mitros house and told the shaken miller that he was summoned to appear before the village council to face charges that he had refused to go to Tsamanta to repair a mill. Out of earshot of the nosy guerrilla cook, Tassi told his elder son that he would try to get away from the hearing in time, but if he didn’t, Gakis should pick up Niko from the pasture and head for the Ziaras house without him.

When the sun was low in the sky, Gakis climbed up to the pasture where Niko was grazing the sheep. There were two other children there with their families’ flocks, a girl of about nine and a boy even younger.

“Come on, we’re going!” Gakis hissed to Niko. “Father’s not coming back in time.”

“But what do I do with the animals?” Niko asked.

“Leave them here!” Gakis ordered. As he pulled his brother down the path, they didn’t hear the other two children calling after them, “Where are you going? You forgot the animals!”

The Gatzoyiannis family had worried that they might be betrayed by
nosy neighbors, sharp-eyed guerrillas or even the bleating of their own sheep and goats, but nothing like that raised the alarm and set the Communists in pursuit; it was these two small children. Jealous of the way Niko walked off, leaving his animals behind, the little girl and boy did the same and returned home empty-handed, making their astonished mothers so angry that one of the guerrillas came over to see what the commotion was about. When he learned of the odd behavior of the Mitros boys, he set out for the miller’s house, where he found no one but the perplexed guerrilla cook.

Kanta, Nikola and Fotini arrived at the Ziaras house even before the sun set. In their eagerness they had turned the two goats loose to forage in Foto Gatzoyiannis’ precious fig tree and slipped away early.

Kanta was startled to find Calliope Mitros there, bending with Soula Ziaras over the cradle of the baby. While Soula watched in alarm, Calliope was spooning
tsipouro
, the clear, fiery moonshine, into Alexi’s mouth. There was a wad of cotton soaked in the same spirits taped to his navel. The burning taste made the baby scream, and he spit out the liquor as fast as his aunt poured it in him while Soula cried, “Enough! You’re killing him!” Eventually Alexi stopped screaming and his eyelids began to close. Finally he fell silent and Calliope straightened up, her face gleaming with perspiration.

Lukas was smoking nervously in a corner. Kanta went over to him and asked in an angry whisper what Calliope Mitros was doing there. Had he told her about the escape? The tinker stamped out his cigarette, avoiding her eyes, and shrugged. After all, he said, Calliope was his own wife’s sister and the guerrillas were threatening to take both her sons. Besides, he added, it was safer to have another man along, and Tassi Mitros—he cleared his throat self-consciously—knew the foothills nearly as well as he did himself.

“You promised
Mana
not to tell anyone!” Kanta reproached him, wishing her mother were there to handle this new threat. But there was a soft knock at the door, and Lukas turned away. Angrily Kanta led Nikola and Fotini over to a corner to await the arrival of the others.

Gakis and Niko Mitros came in out of breath and when they told their mother that Tassi hadn’t returned from the village council yet, Calliope wailed like a lost bird, “We can’t leave without him; they’ll hang him tomorrow!” Niko Mitros watched his mother’s outburst wide-eyed and pale. Nikola saw how frightened he was and wondered at the transformation of the tough “guerrilla captain” who had terrorized him and the other younger boys of the neighborhood.

Shortly after sunset Megali and Nitsa arrived, preceded by the sound of their frightened moans. Their fear infected the others, and Kanta nearly shrieked when the door opened to admit three unexpected figures: a woman and two girls who crowded into the smoky room carrying sacks of belongings.
Everyone recognized the tall, gray-haired amazon who towered a head above Lukas Ziaras as Chrysoula Drouboyiannis, forty-one, a sister-in-law of the woman whom Lukas had invited on the second attempt. Kanta’s nerves snapped and she turned on Lukas, accusing him of spilling the plot to half the village, now that her mother was not around to make him keep his promise. But her cousin Arete, who had come behind the new arrivals, stepped forward and admitted that she was the one who had invited Chrysoula to join them.

Arete and Chrysoula had been childhood friends. Both shared the stigma of being barren and knew they were in danger of being conscripted as
andartinas
because their husbands were living far away in Crete. Chrysoula had brought along her two teen-aged nieces, who had been left in her care by their mother, Constantina, when she was forced to go to the threshing fields in the same group as Eleni. Chrysoula was usually a sensible, cool-headed woman, but now she was trembling after the ordeal of walking from the eastern edge of the village past two guerrilla outposts. She reported that in the distant one, at the Church of St. Friday, a noisy party was going on, celebrating the birth of a son to the notorious guerrilla Stravos.

Lukas began to pace. “Where the hell is Tassi?” he muttered. “This is the time to leave!”

“Olga isn’t here yet either,” Kanta reminded him.

Lukas cursed under his breath. He raised a corner of a lace curtain to peer out the window, then abruptly dropped it and reached for his white towel, wrapping it around his neck. “There’s someone coming this way from the church!” he exclaimed. “And he’s got a gun. Everyone into the stable, and for God’s sake plug up your noise! I’ll stand on the trap door.”

Lukas and Gakis Mitros herded the Gatzoyiannis family, the Drouboyiannis women and Arete into the small dirt-floored cellar where the animals were kept, then closed the hatch over their heads. Kanta crowded against the others, cobwebs brushing her face, and took Nikola into her lap.

The Ziaras and Mitros families stayed upstairs to carry on the charade of attending to the baby Alexi, who now was wheezing in his alcoholic stupor and looked convincingly ill.

From the cellar the hidden fugitives could hear everything: Lukas coughing nervously, his wife Soula sobbing. She was so frightened that it was easy to produce tears for her “sick” child. “Oh, my poor little boy! Sweet Virgin, save him!” she cried as the guerrilla rapped on the door. Kanta could hear Lukas’ footsteps overhead, on his way to open it.

At the door was a young man from the nearby lookout post, carrying a handful of dried tobacco leaves. The fugitives learned to their relief that he had come to the Ziaras house, the nearest one to the church, simply because he wanted to use a knife and a cutting board to shred the tobacco.

Seeing the weeping women, the guerrilla inquired solicitously about the baby. Lukas shook his head and said his son might not survive the night. Studying the child, who was flushed and evidently unconscious, the
andarte
offered his sympathy and suggested they apply upturned glasses with candles
burning inside to his chest to draw out the evil vapors. While the guerrilla set about chopping the tobacco leaves, Lukas made a strained effort at conversation. “How goes the struggle, Comrade?” he asked. “What do you hear from Grammos?”

“It’s still holding,” the young man replied, “but it won’t last much longer. We’ve lost too many men. Every day there seems to be more of them and less of us. Next place they’ll attack is here. If you ask me, we’ll be pulling back into Albania soon. But don’t worry, we won’t leave you to the fascists. We’ll take everyone and everything that can walk. Within a month, mark my words, there won’t be a rooster crowing in this village.”

Hearing this from the cellar, Kanta shivered. Their mother had been right; they couldn’t have waited any longer. She heard Lukas say meekly, “Do what you can, Comrade! That’s all the people can ask of you boys. Whatever happens, we’re with you.” Then she heard his rasping cough and the sound of a match being struck.

Kanta’s trembling infected Nikola. They were both praying that the guerrilla would leave before Olga walked in.

Finally the visitor finished his cigarette and left with wishes for the baby’s recovery. As they climbed out of the cellar, Kanta began to fret that Olga had been captured on the way; it was now long past sundown. But within minutes there was a timid knock at the door. Olga hurried in and nearly screamed at the sight of all the strange faces in the room.

“Damn your husband!” Lukas said to Calliope Mitros, growing increasingly frightened at the realization he would have to lead the group without Tassi’s help. “We can’t wait any longer. We’ve got to start.”

“But you can’t just leave him behind to be killed!” Calliope cried. “And he’s bringing all our sovereigns.”

“It’s time for the children to get started,” Lukas said. “If we wait any longer, the lookouts will get suspicious at seeing them up so late.” He explained the plan: the children were to pretend they were playing hide and seek, and gather in the gullies below the house, making plenty of noise. One by one they would creep together beneath the underbrush in the gullies. The mothers would set out next, calling for their children to come home, and when they reached them, they would crawl into hiding beside the children and wait for Lukas to come last and lead them through the wheat field just below.

Lukas surveyed the frightened faces gathered around him and wondered how he had ever agreed to this harebrained enterprise. There were nineteen people crowded into the small room, eight adults and eleven children. He had counted on the presence of Tassi Mitros, who worked out this plan. Now he would have to lead these terrified women and children out alone. Lukas squared his shoulders and mustered his courage. Why should he share the glory with his arrogant brother-in-law?

In his croaking voice, Lukas reminded the group that the first leg of the journey was the most dangerous. After they left the gullies, they had to pass through a field of tali ripe wheat that was within sight and hearing of the
lookout post. They must crouch down below the top of the wheat and walk very quietly, moving slowly. Once they were out of the wheat field there was a patch of open hillside, then they would be in a thick, dark grove of trees which would shield them from the sentinel’s eyes.

Lukas examined the women and children to see if they had understood, and was struck by what an unpromising group they were for such a risky undertaking. He tried to conceal the desperation welling up in him by assuming the demeanor of a military officer. “If anyone makes a sound, I’m sending them back!” he snapped, glaring at Nitsa, who was emitting a constant, wordless moan to herself. “And if anyone—woman or child—gets lost or separated from the rest, we leave them. We can’t sacrifice the whole group to save one life.”

Everyone jumped as a tattoo of knocks assaulted the door. Lukas opened it a crack and then nearly staggered with relief at the sight of the miller standing there, his fringe of gray hair disheveled and his face pale. “We’ve got to go now!” Tassi gasped. “I went back to the house to get the sovereigns I had there and that bastard Kyriakos was standing in the door wanting to know where everybody was. He was so suspicious I told him I’d bring Calliope and the boys back right away. It won’t be long until he starts raising a hue and cry.”

Lukas shooed the children out the door, his own offspring leading the way to the gullies. Nikola tried to shout with the rest, “Here I come, ready or not!” but his voice stuck in his throat. As the children approached the hiding place and crept together into one of the hollows, they fell silent and huddled together, shivering in the damp night air, heavy with the scent of gorse and heather.

A few minutes later Soula Ziaras stood on her front steps with the baby’s pouch on her back and shouted in a shrill voice: “George, you wicked boy! Where have you got to now? Devil take those children!”

One by one the women appeared in the gully, crowding in on top of one another until Fotini giggled that it was just like a game of “sardines.” Kanta put a hand over her mouth.

Tassi and Lukas came last, tense and silent. When they were all together, they sat for a moment, listening to the discordant singing and the melancholy lament of a harmonica, faintly audible from the lookout post on the far eastern edge of the village, below the Church of St. Friday.

Lukas passed the word along that they must take off their shoes to lessen the noise of their steps through the brittle straw and follow him in single file. “Keep low,” he hissed. “If they see a head popping up, we’re done for.”

Lukas crept off first, choosing a path he had stamped out earlier that day. He put down each foot heel first, bringing the toe down gently, as he did when stalking game. He slipped into the wheat field holding his breath, walking crouched over, almost on all fours, and disappeared into the sea of wheat, weaving through the crackling straw to diminish the rustling.

Kanta came next, walking ahead of Nikola and Fotini in case she stepped on a land mine. Soula Ziaras, with the baby on her back, held Olympia and George by the hand while her daughter Eftychia, ten, crowded behind. Megali leaned hard on Arete, who whispered to her, trying to make her hurry.

Behind them came Nitsa, sighing loudly and clutching Olga. Last of all, at the rear of his family, came the miller Tassi Mitros, who kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to see the guerrillas in pursuit. His ears ached with listening, his nerve ends were raw, his muscles clenched to run.