The Summer of Secrets, page 26
Tell your father about Frederick.
Write back soon.
Sending my eternal love,
Jamie XXX
Frederick was their code name for the enemy. Letters were censored by the military, so they were careful not to mention war or politics. Sofía hurried to Babá and passed on Jamie’s news.
‘Babá, Jamie says he’s in heaven – that’s Chania, in Crete. He says he thinks the war will soon be over. He’s heard that Frederick – that’s the Germans – are about to leave the island with their tails between their legs.’
‘For God’s sake, keep your voice down, Sofía!’ Kuríllos said. ‘You’ll get your husband shot! How can he possibly know what’s going on between Churchill and Hitler?’
‘It’s probably just hopeful gossip put about to hike up people’s morale,’ Babá added.
‘Or put about by the enemy so that people lower their guard,’ Kuríllos said.
Before she could comment, Babá spoke again. ‘Listen, your mother needs help. María’s gone into labour and George has a terrible bellyache. She wants you to take him to the doctor, to make sure it’s not food poisoning or appendicitis. Also, as soon as the baby’s born, we’re meeting with the Rhodini family about Ayeleen’s betrothal and dowry. She’s sweet on their eldest and they’re a good family. So, I’ve agreed to the marriage on her sixteenth birthday.’
Sofía grinned. ‘A wedding, just the thing to lift everyone’s spirits.’
Yet, as she walked away from her father and uncle, Sofía’s smile turned to a frown. Money had become a big problem for most people. Nobody had any and the Castellorizo people were a proud lot. Her neighbours made frequent trips into Gaza on the pretext of simply having a day with friends, but on her first visit, Sofía noticed a neighbour, Polyxena, carrying a large bundle, which was stashed with several others on the roof of the bus. The true mission, she guessed, was to sell something of value. No one discussed the situation, even when they recognised Castellorizo bits and pieces for sale by stall holders. A silver filigree button from the traditional costume, a gold ring or locket, a grandmother’s gold chain and crucifix. Also, the people of Castellorizo loved their gold coins, especially sovereigns and half-sovereigns, placing the same value on them as the Arabs did on gold teeth. One by one, as the months passed, family treasures were traded for cash in the Gaza bazaars. When nothing remained, the highly prized Castellorizo costume with its mink-lined coat garnered more necessary items and a little cash.
Sofía found George hugging his belly. ‘Come on, Georgikie, let’s get you to the doctor,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful despite her concern. ‘He’ll give you some medicine to make the pain go away. Have you eaten anything you shouldn’t?’ He shook his head, but then glanced at her sheepishly. ‘Come on now, tell me the truth. What have you eaten this morning?’
He drew his knees up and rocked back and forth. ‘Fevzi’s hiding, but he’s got the bellyache too.’
Eventually, Sofía found the underlying cause of her little brother’s discomfort. Cook had sat by the kitchen window, peeling sour apples all morning for pies. The boys, seeing the apple peel come flying out of the window towards the bin, had intercepted its journey, catching it and stuffing it into their mouths with great glee.
A good dose of Epsom salts from the doctor sorted out the gurgling intestines of both little rascals.
Next, Sofía went to see how her sister was getting on with her latest confinement but – to her dismay – she found her mother crying her heart out behind their hut.
‘Mamá! What’s going on? Is María all right?’
Convulsed by sobs, Mamá could hardly speak. ‘They took her away to be buried . . .’
Sofía slammed her hand over her heart. ‘María?’
‘No, María’s fine, just upset. I mean the baby; Loulouthi, Flower. She opened her eyes, took one breath, then closed her eyes forever. ‘They took her away, straight from María’s arms.’ She broke down again and Sofía had never seen her so devastated.
‘Oh, Mamá, I’m sorry. Please don’t get so upset.’
She sniffed hard, smudging tears from her cheeks. ‘You don’t understand . . . and how could you? Loulouthi was my granddaughter – my darling granddaughter – a part of me born through my daughter. I never got to hold her. Not for one second did she lie in my arms. She never even saw me. But that does not matter. I had all the love of a lifetime inside me, to give her. As María held her, I saw her perfect baby face, her thin eyelids closed, her cherub mouth, perfectly still when there should have been a cry. I ached to hold her to me – my granddaughter – but she stayed with María for as long as possible, then was suddenly whisked away by the priest. In that moment I lost the only chance I had to hold that tiny infant of my own heart. And all the love I had for her . . . that love is trapped inside me with nowhere to go.’
Sofía tried to imagine. ‘And you feel cheated?’ she asked quietly, struggling to understand the grief her mother would be feeling.
Mamá dropped her face into her hands and nodded before she gave free rein to her sadness. ‘How can anyone understand what it’s like to be a grandparent, unless they’re one themselves?’
‘Stay here a moment, perhaps it’s not too late,’ Sofía said.
She rushed around to the converted church, but it was empty. From there, she hurried to the administration building and told them what had happened.
‘You need to see the doctor,’ they said. ‘He’ll have to establish the cause of death.’
Why didn’t she think of that? She hurried to the surgery and found the doctor writing out a report.
Back at Mamá’s side, feeling all her mother’s grief, she placed her arm around her shoulders. ‘Come with me if you want to say hello and goodbye to your grandchild,’ she said softly. Overwhelmed, Sofía struggled to contain her own emotions. Together, they walked over to the medical centre where Sofía knocked on the door.
Inside, Doctor Ishmael indicated a baby crib. ‘I will leave you alone for a few minutes, Kıríea Konstantinidis.’ He made a short bow and left the room, exchanging a kindly glance with Sofía as he did so.
Sofía nodded and mouthed, ‘Thank you,’ as her mother headed for the crib and her tears overflowed.
*
In bed that night, Sofía tried to imagine how her sister must be feeling. She guessed it made no difference how many children a woman had: to lose one at birth must be terrible. How she longed to experience being pregnant. Sometimes she imagined the moment she would tell Jamie. His joy would be beyond measure. Building a home and starting a family was their ultimate goal, the thing they dreamed of above all else.
*
Mamá, María, Sofía and Ayeleen were getting the little ones ready for bed when Popi and Martha came rushing into the hut.
‘Have you heard the news? The King of Timbuktu’s coming to visit,’ Popi said.
‘They say he’s looking for a beautiful woman to make into a princess and marry,’ Martha added, swishing her long tresses over her shoulders.
‘Well, he’ll have to look hard to find any beauty around here – I haven’t had time to brush my hair for three days!’ Mamá cried with a weary grin. ‘Anyway, who wants to be Queen of Timbuktu? Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it?’
‘I do!’ cried Popi.
‘And me!’ said Martha.
‘I wouldn’t mind being Queen for a day,’ Ayeleen said, waving her arm around the room. ‘Just imagine: Who are all these children? Off with their heads!’ She giggled.
Bebe’s eyes widened and she started bawling. ‘I don’t want my head off!’
‘Tut! Now look what you’ve done,’ Mamá said, putting the dampers on a smile but her shoulders were still jigging. ‘It was a joke, Bebe; don’t fret, my precious. Your sister’s being silly and you’re overtired. Be a good girl and you can get into my bed for half an hour.’
*
Later, Babá came home with more accurate news. ‘The camp’s about to receive a visit from Prince Peter of Yugoslavia. The mayor’s ordered the women to wear their Castellorizo costumes.’ Every family had one, proudly passed from mother to daughter.
‘Mamá, help me find my costume, I must wear it for the prince! Where is it?’ Sofía cried staring at the bundles that lined one wall of their hut. ‘This is the most exciting thing to happen for ages!’
Mamá’s face paled. ‘It’s under the mattress, along with your father’s suit,’ she said.
Together, they lifted the bedding to one side and retrieved Babá’s best suit and Sofía’s costume, last worn for her wedding. Sofía rejoiced at the thought of wearing it again.
‘But Mamá, two of the silver brooch-buttons are missing. There’re only three boúkles closing the blouse.’
‘We’ve been robbed, like so many others,’ she said dully, glancing at Sofía with guilty eyes.
Sofía considered that her wonderful jewellery box, containing all Jamie’s letters, had not been disturbed. If thieves had been afoot, wouldn’t they have taken it? She stared at Mamá, saw her cheeks flare and her eyes fill with tears.
‘Mamá, what’s happening? Did you take the silver boúkles?’
Mamá’s tears overflowed. ‘Don’t tell anyone, Sofía. I needed the money so badly. We’ve never been short of money before, but now we’re in the same situation as everyone else. I heard of a souk paying good money for the silver boúkles.’
Sofía stared around the hut. ‘But what did you need the money for?’
She swiped at her tears. ‘I couldn’t allow them to toss baby Loulouthi into a pauper’s grave, in a foreign country.’ She made a determined nod, justifying her actions. ‘So I bought her a little plot with a bit of marble on top.’ She turned to Sofía, her resolution crumbling. ‘It’s so small, so very, very small, but it covers her two minutes of life with dignity.’ For a moment, she battled against more tears. ‘I don’t know why this has upset me so much . . . it’s just that, well, after the boys, I desperately wanted María to have another girl. I do love the girls so. Please, forgive me, Sofía. I’ll replace the boúkles as soon as I can.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive, Mamá. I’m pleased you did it. One day, you must show María the grave.’
Poor Mamá, Sofía thought. Such a good woman with a strong sense of right and wrong. How difficult it must have been for her to take the brooches and sell them.
Apparently, Mamá was not the only Castellorizo woman who needed money. Quite suddenly, many families claimed their tents were slashed open by thieves and their valuables taken. Everyone wore their flamboyant costume for the visitation, although most had a missing brooch or two.
The Prince remarked on the great beauty of the Castellorizo women and the intricate detail of their needlework. After his departure, crates of knitting wool and needles arrived with a request for the women to knit gloves, scarves and socks for the troops.
Ayeleen discovered the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration were opening a clothes distribution centre in the camp.
‘Mamá! We can get free clothes!’ she cried, dashing into their hut. ‘And they’re employing twenty-five women to manage the centre. Let’s all go and see if we can get a job!’
‘And who will look after the children?’ Mamá said.
‘Babá and Uncle?’ she replied, which made Mamá laugh.
Sofía came rushing into the hut. ‘They’re going to train women to be social workers, Mamá, can I apply, do you mind? The pay’s good and they’ll teach me about the welfare of the children.’
‘As if you don’t know already.’ Mamá saw the excitement in her daughter’s eyes and knew Sofía needed a challenge to take her mind off her husband. ‘I guess we can manage without you for a few hours each day.’
Sofía put her name on the list of applicants and, because of her language and teaching skills, was accepted immediately.
*
The officer of the camp, Major Galway, saw Sofía and her friend Kiriaki with their sewing machines set up in the shade of the clothing store. He nodded at the women, then, unable to speak Greek, he pointed his swagger-stick at the machines and spoke to his aid.
‘Who are these girls and what are they doing?’
‘Sir, I hope we’re not breaking any rules by helping people,’ Sofía said in English, glancing into his eyes.
‘Ah, you speak very well, young lady. Tell me how you help people?’ the Major asked.
She summoned her courage to converse with such an important person. ‘Well, you see, UNRRA are very good to us, sir. Without them, how would we clothe our growing children? But sometimes they don’t have the correct sizes. So, we alter things for them.’
He frowned at her. ‘And do you do this for money, or goodwill?’
‘Being honest, we would like to do it for money, sir, because we don’t have any. But mostly, we do it for goodwill. Who could see a child with his trousers falling down when we can make them fit in a few minutes?’
‘Very noble. Do many women have this skill?’
‘Practically every family on Castellorizo owns a sewing machine, but only two of us brought ours along, on account of them being heavy.’
‘I see. Well, carry on, ladies.’ He walked away, talking to his aid in a low voice.
*
Three days later, while Sofía and Kiriaki were working behind the clothes store again, the Major reappeared.
‘Good morning, dear ladies,’ he said with gusto. ‘Please answer some questions for me.’ The women nodded. ‘Good show! Now, If I had more sewing machines delivered and the equipment you’d require, could you manage a small sewing factory?’
They both stared at him, then each other, then nodded furiously.
‘That’s the ticket. You’ll be trained and well paid.’
Before the month’s end, a large hut was erected behind the clothes store. Twenty Singer treadle machines arrived and a total of twenty-five Greek women were trained as machinists. Before three months passed, the sewing factory dealt with vast bundles of cut-out uniforms at an exceptional rate. The workers treadled into the night to keep up with demand.
CHAPTER 35
OLIVIA
Castellorizo, Greece, present day
‘SO, HERE’S THE THING, DARLING GIRL. The news that will change everything,’ Uncle says, then hesitates. ‘But no, first we must finish the food. Rip open that tinfoil and let’s hope there’s a little warmth left in the loukoumades.’
‘You’re such a tease, Uncle!’ I say, putting a plate under the foil to catch any dripping honey as I tear open the packet. We stab them with our dessert forks. ‘Oh my God! They’re so delicious!’
We eat until we can’t swallow another mouthful. Even then, our forefingers slide over the foil scooping up warm honey and toasted sesame seeds.
‘Best meal ever!’ I laugh at the lunacy of enjoying soup and doughnuts so much.
‘I need to wash my hands before I show you my next surprise,’ he says.
‘OK, me too, I’ll use the kitchen sink, you’ve got the bathroom.’ I quickly clear the dishes and wash my hands.
We regroup with the ledgers and a couple of glasses of wine. ‘Go on, then.’ I’m impatient.
‘Right, well . . . if you do decide to re-open the precious oil business, I’ll sign it over to you on one condition.’ I nod, so he continues. ‘The first perfume that goes into production is this one.’ He turns to the last recipe in the ledger.
I stare at the title: ROSA. I’ve heard the name before, but where? ‘I can see it means a lot to you. Would you care to explain, Uncle?’
‘I will, but later. We’ve a lot to get through this evening.’ He goes to his open cabin bag on the sofa and pulls a stack of A5 envelopes. For a moment he hesitates, then places them on the dining table. ‘I took the liberty of sorting out the album. I’ve put the photographs into groups and have written a little of their history on each envelope.’ He stares out of the window for a moment, deep in thought. ‘We’ve been through the first ones: the earthquake at the time of your grandmother’s birth. That’s when the house was moved and rebuilt in front of the distillery. Most of the pictures are from newspaper archives, but they help tell the story.’
I pause to take in his words. ‘Just a minute, you said, rebuilt . . . where was the house before the earthquake?’
‘On the square.’ He catches my frown and explains. ‘You know, that space when you go to the bakery. Where the enormous, wide-trunked rubber tree is?’ He stops and smiles. ‘My grandmothers loved that tree’s predecessor, because of its dense shade. Sometimes they’d sit on its surrounding wall all day, crocheting and gossiping with passers-by.’
‘I’ll see it in a new light tomorrow,’ I say.
He smiles. ‘Later, my sister married Mustafa, the trader with a beautiful ship. Mustafa was an incredibly handsome and generous man. The gifts he brought were treasured.’ He shakes his head. ‘He bought my Uncle Kuríllos a camera and bought little Rosa a book on ballet and later pumps and a tutu. He had a knack for giving people exactly what they wanted most . . . even if they didn’t know their own desires. Uncle Kuríllos loved that camera and he took a picture at every important occasion, so, recorded the lives of the Konstantinidis family right up to his death . . . and oddly enough beyond.’ He takes a sip of wine and stares into the distance, then laughs. ‘Though he missed my greatest moment. And what a moment that was! However, I have a sneaking feeling my uncle saw it all from afar.’ He stops again, lost in a memory, then comes back to now. ‘Nevertheless, it’s imprinted on my brain and one of these days I’ll put it to canvas.’
I laugh. ‘Uncle, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
He grins. ‘You will. I have so much to tell you.’ He pulls two old black and white photographs out of an envelope and passes them to me. ‘The first one’s the whole family apart from Babá, my father. He’d come back to Castellorizo with the other men, to help get the town ready for the women and children. Kuríllos got one of the stevedores to take the picture on the quayside at Port Said. In the background, you can see the ship that was about to bring us all home, HMS Empire Patrol. We were just going to board. That was the very last time we were all together for a photo.’ Suddenly, his face drops and I see nothing but sadness. ‘Oh my dear. Give me a moment, will you?’
