Nicolai's Daughters (24 page)

Maria stood with her back to the counter facing them. Christina turned pages. Each picture had an accompanying story and as she listened, Alexia wondered how often and in how many ways these stories had been told. There were pictures of Katarina, Maria and Christina when they were children, a few more of Nicolai, then pictures of husbands and children, cousins and older relatives now gone. She had missed all of this growing up. Why did he keep them from her? She swallowed hard. He should be here sharing all this with her.

Christina and Maria grinned when they talked about cousins who had done well. “Vassilis owns a restaurant in Athens, and his wife is an engineer.” They laughed when they told stories about skipping school to go to the beach to meet friends. When they spoke about a dead relative, they crossed themselves. “Life is cruel. No?”

A picture fell out onto the table. A round-faced teenager sat alone on a bench, the beach in the background. Dark with a slight curl to it, her hair was pulled back off her face. Her head was tilted away from the camera, staring into the distance. Christina grabbed the picture and shoved it into the last page of the album, glanced over at Maria. “She's dead now,” Christina said. “God rest her soul.”

“If God allows it.” Maria turned and put her cup in the sink.

“What do you mean?”

“She didn't always do the right thing, so we don't talk about her in this family.”

“Who is she?” Alexia asked.

“A dead cousin,” Christina said. “We've seen enough for today.”

“
Dimitria
.” Maria turned. “The name means ‘of earth.' Because we didn't like her, we said she was of dirt.
Eh,
she's not part of the family,” Maria said when Christina gave her one of her looks and crossed herself. “What's the difference now?”

Christina flipped the page to a photograph of a man hunched over, his arms wrapped around a young boy's shoulders. The boy stood in front of the man, clutching the man's pant legs in his tiny hands. They were laughing. This is the way it's supposed to be, Alexia thought.

“This is your
pappou
when he was a little boy. He is with his father.”

“I saw the picture of my great-grandfather when we went to Kalavryta.” There was something they didn't want her to know. She hadn't found it yet, but she would. Maybe Kalavryta would be a good starting point.

Christina closed the album, stacked it on top of the others at one end of the table. She walked over to the counter. “We eat now and look at more pictures later.”

“There is more to the story,” Alexia said. You know it and I know it, she thought.

“Not much. He married our mother and had a family.” Christina pulled out a platter from the cupboard above the stove. A bowl sitting on top tumbled down and she caught it. She shook her head. “Life isn't always good, but with God's help, we manage.”

She handed the platter and the bowl to Maria. “Get the cheese, too,” she said. “We need it to help the buns go down.”

2010

The clicking sound echoed off the pavement, bouncing against the houses and the squat stone walls. Maria's high heels. There was no getting away. All Alexia wanted was some fresh air and to be alone to think and figure out what was in the stories they told, the pictures she'd seen, that they didn't want her to know. Christina bit her lip, shook her head just enough so Maria would notice, but she didn't want me to see. How could I miss it? Or the angry looks Christina gave Maria.

An albatross whined somewhere above their heads. Alexia looked for it, but the sun pierced her eyes. She turned away.

Maria prattled. “Solon is a good man. He adores Christina. Why doesn't she see that? And not to give him children. So selfish. She thought she'd turn out as angry as our father or maybe a bit conniving like our mother. Impossible. She'd never be like that. Ah, but maybe she was afraid too. Maybe she didn't want to bring a child into a world like this. I don't know. She doesn't tell me. She keeps things inside.”

“Yes,” Alexia said. Now we're getting somewhere. Keep going.

“Christina told me you are very busy and never relax.”

“And what else does she say?” Alexia pointed them towards a bench. When they sat down, Maria took off her shoes, stretched her long, slender feet and rubbed her heels against the top of her shoes as if scratching an itch. Her toenails, long and filed, were a flawless cherry red.

“We know Nicolai told you about your sister. This is why you came.”

Alexia turned to face Maria, who was admiring her bare feet, moving them in one direction, then another. So they all knew about Theodora.

A couple walked by and the man tipped his hat and nodded. Maria wished them a good afternoon. Alexia managed a quick nod. She'd forgotten her sunglasses and the sun made her eyes tear. She sniffled, dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her sweater. “Is this all you people do?” Alexia asked. “Gossip about other people behind their backs?”

“You get used to it.”

“Ladies.”

Achilles stood in front of them, Greek sailor hat in hand, his lips parted. His buttery teeth had a moist sheen.

Alexia couldn't see his eyes through his dark, over-sized sunglasses, but she noticed a couple of smudged fingerprints at one edge of the reflective lens. He's stuck in a time warp, she thought. The breeze picked up. She pulled her sweater over her shoulders. The albatross screamed.

Achilles stroked his beard. “Nice day,” he said. “Yes?” His smile flashed easily as if he kept it always at the ready.

“We are talking,” Maria said. She put her hand on Alexia's shoulder.

Alexia nodded, but couldn't make herself turn away. Her face felt warm again. She pushed the sweater off her shoulders. It fell behind her onto the bench.

“So perhaps an interruption is good.”

Maria turned her back to him, making herself into a shield.

“Or perhaps not.”

He walked away. Alexia sat so she could watch him and hold Maria's gaze at the same time. He turned and winked. Alexia shifted, using Maria to block any further view of him.

“You like him?”

“Who?”

“That man.” Maria pointed her head in the direction where Achilles had gone.

“He's not my type.” She leaned against the back of the bench and watched the clouds shift across the sky. Well, actually if she looked at her record honestly, she could see that most of the men she'd been with had been older. They were mature and interesting, she told herself. Achilles was interesting in his own way. More like playing with fire. Nothing more serious than a diversion. Maybe for a couple of nights.

Alexia could feel Maria watching her. She closed her eyes. No sound, except the light breeze. “What was my grandfather like?”

“You don't like this talk.”

“I'm interested in the family.” She sat up and looked at Maria. “That's all.”

“You be careful with that one.”

“What happened to my grandfather in Kalavryta?”

“No one knows. Except he was supposed to die, but instead he lived.”

“They only killed those thirteen and over. I read about it in the museum.”

“Yes, it is true, but he had more years. When we were young, kids at school said he lied to save himself. I don't know what is true.”

“This is more gossip.”

“He worked to save his money, leave Greece. But then he met my mother.”

“That's it?”

Maria shrugged. She got up. “What more do you want?”

Alexia stood alone in the museum in Kalavryta, watching the video interviews with the survivors of the 1943 massacre. Some boomed their versions, looked steadily into the camera, resolute, like reporters informing everyone about the latest catastrophe. Others murmured, heads bent. English words scrolled along the bottom of the screen. She read the translation, listening to their voices. As she watched the screen, the woman came on with her story. As Alexia listened, the woman in the video looked away as if she'd realized someone was staring. The camera followed. In her lap, a handkerchief. Her knuckles white from wringing it.

We shared everything we had with our neighbours back then. It was a good life. When the Germans came, everything changed. My mother kept us inside. We couldn't play. They took over our church. We weren't allowed to go to pray.

The woman pushed herself forward on her chair and stared into the camera. Her pupils grew larger and darker. She raised her voice as if she wanted to make sure she was being heard.

They came through the door and told us to get out, their guns in our faces. Every house was cleared. We were a large group, walking toward the school with no idea about what was going to happen. It was a parade like the ones we have on Good Friday. We didn't know. We were separated. We were on one side with other women and children. We couldn't see our fathers or husbands. They asked each of the boys their age and then directed some of them to where we stood. Others were taken away.

The woman shook her head. The video flashed to another man. As he spoke about the last time he saw his father, he wept. Alexia turned. She couldn't watch anymore.

“It is very sad.”

A woman stood beside her. “You speak English,” Alexia said.

“A little.”

Alexia smiled. That's what they all said and then they'd go ahead and speak perfect English. The young woman was shorter than Alexia. She wore jeans and a T-shirt. Her nametag read Zoë.

“I have seen you here before.”

“My great-grandfather died here.” Alexia nodded. “My grandfather was just a boy. I don't know much.”

“Would you like to?” Zoë put her hand on Alexia's shoulder.

Alexia nodded only slightly. She didn't know what she'd find here, but for some reason she felt her family's secrets were somehow tied to this place.

“Maybe I have information in our archives.”

They sat in Zoë's office in two newly upholstered chairs, facing each other across an old wooden desk. Logbooks were stuffed into an entire wall of shelves that bent under the weight. Through the barred window, dust motes swam upstream in the bits of filtered sunlight. The room was freshly painted but smelled of rot. You can't hide that, Alexia thought.

Zoë turned the computer screen around so they could both see. Alexia told her her grandfather's name. Names and dates flipped by as Zoë searched the list. Slow down, Alexia wanted to say. She couldn't read a thing. The screen's bright light and the foreign letters moving so quickly made her dizzy. Alexia sat back in her chair.

“Many people moved away after this day because it was too difficult to stay. They didn't want their names to be recorded. They disappeared.”

Alexia leaned her elbows on the desk. “Are there any other records?” What was she really looking for?

“I have nothing on your grandfather. No.”

Alexia thanked Zoë. A dead end. Now what? She lingered.

“My grandmother was one of those children,” Zoë said. “You could talk to her.”

“I don't want to be a bother.” Alexia pushed her chair back and stood. “It's okay. I can ask my family.” It had started because she was sure Christina was keeping secrets from her about Theodora and the family. But what did Theodora and her father have to do with this massacre? She knew she was just stalling because she didn't know how she was going to tell Theodora who she was.

Zoë motioned for her to sit down. “I will call her. It is no trouble.”

Alexia followed Zoë to a souvenir shop. They entered the unlit store. The bell over the door sounded weakly, as though it had been stuffed with a cloth to silence it.

The old woman in the store walked out from behind the counter, a cane in her hand supporting each step. Her smile came slowly, deepening the wrinkles in her face. She hugged Zoë, asked her who her friend was. But when Zoë told her why she'd brought Alexia to see her, she shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I don't talk about these things.” The shawl she wore over her black dress seemed like a weight she was forced to carry, a load that might break her bent back in two. “When you called, you said you were coming for a visit. Not this.”

“But she looks for her family,” Zoë said. One hand was on the counter, the other raised as though she was pleading.

“Everyone leaves after that day.” She shuffled behind the counter, stood at the cash register and tapped the old-fashioned keys. They made a dull, broken sound.

“Her great-grandfather died here. Her grandfather disappeared.”

“Many people did.” She sat down on the stool and rested her arms on the counter. She picked at the grime under one fingernail, scraping the dirt out with another fingernail. Tiny black bits fell onto the counter. “My friends all go.”

“His name was Nicolai Sarinopoulos,” Alexia said, moving closer to the counter. “He was the second Nicolai. His father was the first and my father, the third.”

The old woman's cheeks collapsed into themselves, shrinking her face.

“Did they take him away?” Alexia persisted. “Do you remember?”

“Why must I talk about this?” She spoke to Zoë, but stared at Alexia.

“It might help me understand,” Alexia said. “Please.”

The woman closed her eyes as if in prayer, said nothing for several minutes. Alexia waited. Zoë rubbed her grandmother's shoulder, whispered in her ear. “How will people understand, if we don't tell them?”

“He was a neighbour who walked me to school every day. Our parents teased us. They told us that when we married, we would give them many grandchildren. He was a good boy.” She continued to pick at her fingernails as she told the story.

“They came in the early morning and ordered everyone out of their fields and back into their houses. No one was allowed to wander, go to school or work. This lasted several days. Nicolai was bored. He snuck out his bedroom window the first night, after his parents fell asleep. It was a test, to see if he could do it. There couldn't be as many Germans as the rumours had it. He walked as far as the end of the lane and ran back, climbed up the tree and slipped through my window. He told me all about it. I remember how proud he was. He was smarter than they were.

“Every night he went a little further, until eventually he was returning only a few hours before sunrise. It started as a game, but then he brought back food. He told me he had found the storage containers the Germans hid in the cellar of an old farmhouse they were using as their supply base. Nicolai shared whatever he had. ‘They take so much from us,' he said. ‘They won't miss a few crumbs.'

“He was my best friend and I tried to warn him. ‘Let's do what they tell us for now and when they leave, life will go back to normal.'

“‘Don't worry,' he said. ‘They aren't smarter than me.'”

The old woman shook her head, stared at her cracking nails and took another laboured breath. “I followed him one night. I don't know why. But I did. God, forgive me.

“I could see Nicolai standing to one side of the kitchen window, hidden but watching. He didn't see me. It was colder than usual. I could see his breath. I held mine. Inside the farmhouse, I heard the Germans talking and playing cards around the old wooden table. All of us kids had been in that kitchen at one time or another. The boy who lived there was one of our friends. We were all friends before the Germans. Music drifted in and out. I thought it must be a radio. I don't know if he could see much through the grimy film on the window, and I couldn't see anything in there, but I thought it must be a radio.

“Someone walked past the window and Nicolai ducked. He was probably holding his breath like I was. I'm sure he told himself to get the food and get home. Maybe he even thought about what I told him. Do what they tell us to do. That's what I said. But I knew he wouldn't. He said my way would never fill our stomachs. Maybe he was right. I don't know.

“I could see he was nervous. He shifted from one foot to the other, like he did sometimes when he was excited. Maybe he even thought he shouldn't have come out that night. Maybe he was mad at me for warning him. He probably told himself to stop listening to other people, just do what he knew was right. I could almost hear him. ‘Girls, what do they know? What good are they? They scare you so you do what they want.'

“I heard a crack nearby. Nicolai saw me then. I was in the bushes.”

Dirt lay on the counter in front of her. Alexia's hands were behind her back, clenched tight. Her breath was shallow. Do I really want to know? she asked herself.

“You don't have to say anymore,” Zoë said. “It's okay.”

The old woman stared at Zoë, then at Alexia. “It is time to get this off my conscience. I can go to my grave in peace.”

Zoë looked at Alexia as if to ask, “Are you all right?”

Alexia wasn't sure. She nodded.