Eleni (74 page)

Eleni regarded him in silence for a moment, then she said, quietly but clearly, “I had one daughter conscripted but she was sent back. Another daughter is now threshing wheat for the Democratic Army. But what could I say to my husband if I gave up his only son? I sent my children to where their father could support them because I could no longer feed them here. I have done no harm and wished no harm to anyone. I only wanted my children to be safe.”

There was a murmur in the audience and the face of the judge Anagnostakis furrowed in a frown. Even the swarthy, high-cheekboned face of the third judge, Grigori Pappas, who had until now kept himself carefully impassive, showed concern. Katis spoke quickly. “This woman, like all the seven civilians on trial today, has betrayed our struggle to bring freedom and independence to Greece.” As he took another breath, he was interrupted by a young guerrilla who whispered in his ear. Katis looked up and announced, “There will be a short recess to permit the parents of children who are leaving for the people’s democracies to say goodbye.” He pointed to a throng coming into view along the path that wound past the ravine, up toward the peak of the Prophet Elias. “The parents of these children, who are setting out on a new and better life, have demonstrated their love for them without betraying our cause.”

The heavy shelling on the village two days before had convinced the guerrilla command that it was time to send the second group gathered for the
pedomasoma
out of harm’s way. The twenty-year-old daughter of the newly prominent Communist, Foto Bollis, had been chosen as a senior
guide of the group, and his nine-year-old son Sotiris was among the twenty children who were being led up the mountains toward Albania, where they would be put into camps.

Everyone turned around to look at the parade passing by on the road overhead. Relatives of the children suddenly pushed toward them. Before the eyes of the assemblage, mothers began to cry as they took their children in their arms. Eleni watched the scene and her own eyes filled with tears. She realized from the testimony against her that she would probably be judged guilty, but she knew that even if she lost her own life, she had won: Nikola was safe.

As Eleni stood there, the small blond son of Foto Bollis came down into the ravine to say goodbye to his father. Although the Bollis family had lived near her in the Perivoli, Eleni had never been close friends with Agathe Bollis. But there was a bond between them: both women had suffered the misfortune of giving birth to four girls before both had finally managed to produce a boy; Sotiris was born only forty days before Nikola.

The Bollis girl, Olga, who was guiding the group of children, recalled thirty-three years later, when she was found living in a village of Greek Communist refugees in Hungary, that Eleni embraced the tow-headed little boy with her free arm and kissed him. Sotiris, who had no idea that Eleni was a prisoner on trial, looked at her and asked eagerly, “Where’s Nikola? Why isn’t he going with us?”

Eleni smoothed his hair and smiled. “Nikola’s gone to his father,” she replied.

It took some time to bring the throng back to order after the children passed out of sight. Muffled sobbing could still be heard as Katis said, “You have listened to the testimony of your neighbors verifying the charges against these defendants. Before the court withdraws to consider its verdict, is there anyone who wishes to speak on the charges?”

Everyone in the audience involuntarily drew back. They had been spectators at this life-and-death drama, and now they were being asked to become participants. There were sidelong looks and nervous coughs, but no one spoke. Then one of the old men in the first row climbed with difficulty to his feet. It was sixty-five-year-old Gregory Tsavos, who, before his retirement, had been a cooper and a field warden in the village, mediating disputes over boundaries and water rights. He lived above the Gatzoyiannis house in the Perivoli.

Now he stood resolutely before Katis, a bearlike, awkward figure, his cheeks and nose red from drink, his jowls trembling over his scrawny neck. He raised his chin and spoke firmly. “I have known Eleni Gatzoyiannis all her life,” he said. “She lived nearly on my doorstep. And I know that she has done no injury to anyone in the village. On the contrary, she always shared whatever she had. And she has a letter from her husband that clearly shows—”

But Katis cut him off. “Enough!” he shouted in exasperation. Then he
examined Tsavos suspiciously. “What work do you do in this village, old man?” he asked.

“I was a field warden.”

Katis brought down his fist on the table in front of him. “Sit down, platelicker of the police!” he exploded.

As Tsavos obeyed, another of the old men in the first row got to his feet. His name was Kosta Poulos. He was thin and white-haired, and unlike Gregory Tsavos, he was a well-known Communist, highly respected by the guerrillas because his son had died fighting with them.

“Speak, Comrade!” said Katis in an encouraging voice, far different from the tone he used with Tsavos.

The former coffeehouse owner surveyed the prisoners, the judges and the witnesses. Everyone waited to hear what one of the Communist pillars of the community would say about this trial of his own villagers. Poulos’ gaze came to rest on Katis and he drew himself up. “What Tsavos said was true,” he growled. “I had only one son and he died fighting for the cause, and I’m speaking the truth. Eleni Gatzoyiannis has done nothing wrong. None of them has done anything to be killed for.”

Katis could hardly believe that the old man was defying him so blatantly. “Sit down!” he shouted.

With increasing irritation Katis called on three more villagers, who rose in turn. They all spoke for the defendants. Two of them were elders of the village: a woman named Yianova Pantos and a man named Vangeli Sioulis. The third was a young woman, Sofia Depi, who lived at the edge of Lia near Alexo’s house and came from a well-known Communist family. No one spoke against any of the defendants. None of the prisoners’ close friends or relatives said a word.

Katis could see that calling upon the villagers to speak had been a mistake. Each voice that described the innocence of the defendants eroded the impact his prosecution was making on the other judges and on the wide-eyed peasants. He raised his hand and shouted, “If you have evidence to add, then speak up, but otherwise, keep silent!”

There were no more volunteers. After a few moments of silence, Katis nodded. “The court will now retire to consider its verdict,” he said.

An excited buzz rose toward the branches of the plane trees as the three judges stood up from their chairs and filed behind a large tree at the edge of the ravine. For what was only a few minutes but seemed much longer, the villagers looked from the spot where the judges were whispering to the faces of the prisoners, who sat rigid with suspense. Spiro Michopoulos still picked his teeth with a twig. The women prisoners showed no emotion, except for Constantina Drouboyiannis, who crossed herself several times. Andreas Michopoulos had his head resting on his knees. Vasili Nikou gazed dully into the distance. Eleni studied the tense faces of the villagers seated before her. The prisoners stiffened to attention as the three judges filed back and took their places behind the table. Katis stood in the middle, facing the wall of expectant faces. He waited, impressing his presence upon them.

“After carefully considering the evidence,” he announced, “the court has rendered the following verdicts: In the case of two defendants, Dina Venetis and Constantina Drouboyiannis, the evidence was not conclusive and they are found not guilty. The evidence against the other five—Spiro Michopoulos, Andreas Michopoulos, Vasili Nikou, Alexo Gatzoyiannis and Eleni Gatzoyiannis—was overwhelming. They have been judged guilty on all charges and are sentenced to death.”

A sound like a gust of wind roared through the ravine. There were no cries, only a few stifled moans from relatives of the condemned, a flutter of hands making the four taps of the Cross. The prisoners themselves sat stunned. Only Spiro Michopoulos buried his face in his arms.

Katis raised his hand for silence. “Today we do not condemn, we do not sentence!” he shouted. “The loyal people of this village provided all the evidence against the prisoners. You have told us where the last hen lays its eggs, and this is your judgment.”

His small black eyes gleaming with excitement, Katis studied the audience, brown faces mottled by the sunlight, black kerchiefs ruffled by the breeze, but in the eyes turned toward him he read only shock and fear, not the approval he had expected. He paused, then moved his hands benevolently like a priest. “But the People’s Army is not vindictive,” he added. “The condemned may yet be saved.”

The prisoners leaned forward in sudden hope. “They will be given the opportunity to send appeals for clemency to the president of the provincial government, Markos Vafiadis,” he went on. “We will await his decision on their petitions before carrying out the sentences.”

The drama that the village had watched for three days was in fact not a trial at all, but a carefully staged propaganda play in which all the sentences had been decided long beforehand. In such civilian trials in the Mourgana villages, which became more numerous in August and September of 1948 as the guerrillas were losing the war, the facts of each case were sent to Kostas Koliyiannis, the political commissar of the Epiros Command who ruled the Mourgana. From his headquarters in Babouri he sent back to the security police in each village the sentences which the judges would then pretend to reach after hearing the evidence.

During my investigation of my mother’s trial, this fact was confirmed by several people, including Christos Zeltas, the head of the security police in Lia, and Yiorgos Kalianesis, chief of staff in the Epiros Command. They all said that the decisions of life or death on those brought to trial were made beforehand by Koliyiannis, who sent judges to carry on a mockery of a trial.

“Headquarters controlled everything,” Zeltas told me. “Nobody could be arrested, beaten or executed without authorization from the political commissar, Koliyiannis…. The judicial service sent him the reports and then they talked to him by phone as to what was to be done,
execution or release. Then the trial was held to give a legal appearance to the process. At division headquarters, you must understand, Koliyiannis was the final word. If he said burn, we burned; if he said kill, we killed. No one else had the authority to do that.”

As the Greek Communist Party’s principal agent in the Mourgana, Kostas Koliyiannis was clearly carrying out the party’s will in ordering the civilian executions. He was rapidly promoted for his performance as leader of the Epiros Command and he ultimately replaced Nikos Zachariadis as party leader.

During his ten-month rule of the Mourgana range, Koliyiannis sent more than three hundred men and women before firing squads, including at least five civilians from every guerrilla-occupied village in the region.

On the same day that Katis was telling the condemned prisoners that they could petition General Markos Vafiadis for clemency, the guerrilla commander in chief had abandoned his army and was fleeing for his life toward Albania to escape the assassins sent after him by Greek Communist Party leader Nikos Zachariadis.

Their irreconcilable differences over war strategy, aggravated by the loss of Grammos and the summary execution of Yannoulis, boiled over during the retreat from Grammos. According to an account pieced together by French author Dominique Eudes from interviews with guerrilla leaders, Zachariadis decided that Markos must be eliminated, and ordered him north to Albania while the rest of the guerrillas retreated northeast to the Vitsi range along the Yugoslav border. Aware that his life was in danger, Markos selected ten of his most trusted men to accompany him and plunged immediately into inaccessible mountain terrain.

As soon as Markos had gone, Zachariadis summoned a guerrilla named Polydoras, an assassin he had often used in the past. He was to pursue Markos and kill him, Zachariadis explained, making it look as if he had died in an unfortunate border incident while headed toward Albania. Polydoras and his men were used to such missions, but when their quarry was their own commander in chief, it gave them pause, and they lagged a bit, not catching up with Markos and his men until they had already entered Albanian territory. The first shots fired by Polydoras’ men drew the attention of an Albanian detachment patrolling nearby and they provided covering fire which enabled Markos and his men to escape. Markos went straight to the Soviet mission in Albania and asked for protection.

Zachariadis, at Vitsi, tried to cover up Markos’ absence by issuing orders in his name while telling Markos’ loyal officers that the
commander was sick. Markos second-in-command, Lieutenant General Kikitsas, felt a shudder of fear when he was called to Vitsi headquarters on August 25 and told by Zachariadis, “Markos is gravely ill. We think he’s going to die.” Kikitsas refused to accept Zachariadis’ request to take over Markos’ command, and three days later he was sent away to travel the people’s democracies as a roving ambassador, ostensibly to sell the Communist countries on supporting the revolution. Most of Markos’ loyal
kapetani
soon were sent into exile on similar pretexts.