From Chapter 4, The Balcony

The next day a brilliant autumn sun shines in the sky. I step out on to the balcony, feel its warmth, and watch the gentle waves in the Thermaic harbor bouncing up and down in the sunlight, like children skipping merrily in the street. From our third floor apartment on Nikiforou Foka, a long, narrow street near the White Tower, I can clearly see the ocean. My heart tingles with joy, mixed with a feeling of deep calm and trust in the world as it unfolds before me. The blue, luminous sky gives me a sure feeling that all is going well. It’s truly an idyllic day, a moment of harmonious stillness. There’s something irresistible about it. It pulls like a magnetic, overpowering force that’s crossing its infinitely traveled path for the first time, it seems. I surrender without resisting, floating on air. So what if there’s no school? So what if there’s a war? Everything is beautiful and carefree.

This perfect stillness is shattered by the piercing shriek of a siren that punctures the air. The sky begins to rain bombs that explode into a sudden cacophony, spreading death in every direction. Buildings crumble, sidewalks are shattered, and stores burst into flames, like dry kindling wood. Pedestrians, who were carefree a moment earlier, run panic-stricken to find shelter, but in vain. Unprepared as they are, they don’t know which way to turn. Some are thrust into the air like puppets, while others stagger, mutilated, then fall in a pool of blood amidst the sound of cries, groans, and wails coming from everywhere.

From Chapter 7, Charge!

Fierce fighting rages on the Albanian battlefront with no sign of letting up,” the radio broadcasts the latest war developments. “Korytsa, Argyrokastro, Kleisoura; Tepeleni; glorious victories of our Greek soldiers matched only by the spirit of the people who muster every ounce of strength to help save their men from dying of cold and hunger on the rugged mountains of Albania. The whole country is marshaling its resources as one body, with a single-minded purpose.”

From the day we reach Katerini, a few days before Christmas, Aunt Toula is on the go. She gets started early and takes me with her on her daily treks through the neighborhood to enlist people’s help for the war effort.

“Let’s get going.” She springs into action. “Come on, come on. Household chores never end,” she urges the housewives who are busily cleaning house in their cotton floral dusters. “This is war. Our boys are counting on us for warm clothes so they won’t freeze in those godforsaken mountains of Albania. We owe it to them. They’re fighting for us, for our freedom.” She bounces from one house to another, full of the liveliness and humor she is known for. Her friendliness makes her welcome wherever she goes.

“Come in, come in, have a cup of coffee,” the women insist.

“Next time we’ll have a chat.” She hurries away. “I have a long list.” And off we go to the next house.

From Chapter 15, Revolution

A Commemorative Statue of the Bishop in Kozani

The Bishop is just finishing a top secret dinner meeting with the partisan chiefs of staff, and as is his habit, he wipes his long black beard, folds his napkin lengthwise without regard for the creases, folds it again into a square, and puts it down on the table next to his water glass.

It’s the first time he’s stopped talking for so long. His restless, penetrating glance studies the intense, ascetic faces seated around the wooden dining room table in his brother-in-law, my Uncle Leonidas’ house.

This meeting in the spring of 1942 with the valiant Bishop Seraphim captures the full attention of the partisans, who lean their elbows on the table waiting for him to continue. His zeal and enthusiasm for the revolutionary movement stirs them deeply. In the dreary darkness of the occupation, the dawning of resistance against the oppressors radiates like a ray of hope.

“Ready?” the Bishop booms and continues. “We have charted our course. Our aim is forthright and correct. We are following the path dictated by our national conscience as descendants of the revolution of 1821. May God be with us and guide us in our sacred endeavor. May you go well, my children. You have my blessing.”

The spiritual leader of the liberation movement of northern Greece gets up, deeply moved. I notice a slight quiver in his lips that he tries to hide in his thick black beard. He waves goodnight to his comrades, opens the double glass doors, and leaves the smoke-filled room to head for the terraced roof.

All at once a distant sound buzzes overhead. I look up and see nothing. It can’t be thunder. There isn’t a cloud in sight. The far away noise gets louder and louder, piercing the still, humid air. An air attack! I tremble, frightened to death. I glance up again to get a better look while the sun is momentarily hidden behind a wispy cloud. Squinting hard, I make out the bright, pewter-colored microscopic planes sparkling like shiny Christmas tinsel against the deep blue sky. Fluffy white tails grow in their wake, shedding streams of thread-like ribbons that slowly break up into a thousand and one pieces. They gently float down, fluttering like silvery-white seagulls until they reach the ground, covering the scorched earth with a wide expanse of shimmering whiteness as far as my eye can see. I catch one of the wispy feathers floating in the air. They’re leaflets! Printed on pure white paper. I’ve never seen such beautiful paper. Who ever sees any?

I hop off the donkey and grab a whole bunch of leaflets. The Americans are sending a message to the Greek people! I can’t get over it. It’s coming all the way from my country, the USA. I read without stopping:

Traveling at a donkey’s pace, I watch the planes disappearing at the speed of lightning, godlike birds sounding lively, joyous, hope-inspiring. How very different from the deathly groan of the Stukas which constantly threaten our lives. Hugging the leaflets in my arms, I feel I’m holding our liberation from this bloody, burdensome war in my very own hands.

I quickly scoop up as many leaflets as I can bring back so the others can share in my enthusiasm. I show them to everybody with a glowing feeling of triumph. No one turns a head to look.

From Chapter 21, Who Shall Mourn the Dead?

Hunger is a chronic affliction.

“Hunger and the Lord’s prayer,” as the saying goes, only for us it’s a daily worry.

“Click, click,” the worry beads in my mother’s hand snap, sliding down the twisted cord one by one, mimicking the hollow sound of one more hunger pang added to the constant ache going round and round. Each click a symbol of one less morsel of food, one click after another, endlessly filling my empty stomach with nothingness, to pass the time, to keep from screaming out loud.

“Give us our daily bread…” No longer a rote chant.

I’m constantly on the lookout for any leftover scraps that happen my way, but my mother and my brother Tasio can’t take it.

“Look, mommy, they touched the food with snotty fingers,” he cries out, clutching his stomach. She turns her head away in disgust.

“Never mind,” I tell my mother, “don’t let it bother you.” But, even when they’re starving, it’s impossible for them to look the other way, as I’ve learned to do.

“It makes me nauseous,” she complains. “I can’t force myself, besides what good would it do?” She looks at me, wan and drained. I get a terrible feeling of hopelessness knowing there’s no way of finding a scrap of food for them. Tasio always suffers from bellyaches, and drinks tea until it comes out of his ears. There’s nothing else unless one of the goats happens to give birth.

So I go to our neighbor to beg for a smidgen of milk to save him from complete starvation.

“Nikolena,” I yell from outside and push open the door, famished to the gills.

“What d’ya want?” she calls from the fireplace where she’s cooking.

As soon as I enter, the pungent odor of fried leeks draws me there straight as a magnet.

“A drop of milk for my brother, he’s sick again.” My lips move while my eyes stay riveted on the golden brown pancakes sizzling in the pan.

“Don’t be bashful. Come inside and wait a minute, I’m almost finished.” She motions with her head toward the frying pan.

I take a small step and stop short, trapped. I can neither stay nor leave to escape from this torture that has set my whole body aflame. Sure I can wait, but how can I endure this agony tormenting my insides?

Nikolena, as the wife of Niko is called in these parts, as though she’s not entitled to a name of her own, makes more pancakes-flours them, then pats each one and puts them in the frying pan side by side-totally unmindful of my suffering. They grow big right before my very eyes. The longer I look at the small, perfectly round pancakes the bigger they get, until everything is fused into one gigantic cyclopean eye. I’ve lost all sense of time and place. Just then a hallucinatory hand appears before me. I try to grasp it and feel warmth in the palm of my hand. Instantly, it hops into my mouth in one swift motion. It’s Nikolena’s pancake! In one sublime moment I’m transformed from a creature of flesh and bones into a delirium of taste and smell. Tripping lightly into the rosy sunset, I return home carrying a cup of warm milk for my brother Tasio.

From Chapter 22, Loziani

A view of Mt. Olympos from Livadi.

At the foot of Mount Olympos, near dawn, when the crowing roosters herald the start of a new day and the domed blue firmament awakens, fear slowly begins to fade as the threat of imminent danger and the gloom of night begin to disappear. But our anxiety has not left us. Weary after long hours of traveling, we’re distressed by an agonizing thought. Will we ever again see beloved places that still seem so far away?

As we approach the mountainous country near Olympos, we’re surrounded by devastated land. Everywhere, the aftermath of bombings, execution, and other cruelties have left their mark; killings, persecution, lamentation have taken their toll. The suffering has intensified and, along with it the resolve to put an end to it. The fight for freedom has spread from one end of the land to the other and embraces the vast majority of people.

“Our liberation struggle must succeed,” we hear villagers say, hush-hush, in the town squares.

“It’s our only hope, our deliverance from this foreign domination,” war-weary mothers whisper among themselves.

All at once, akin to a dream, my mother’s birthplace, and home of the legendary freedom fighter of 1821, Georgakis Olympios, rises before us. The sun’s rays are just bursting through the craggy saw-toothed peaks of the mountaintop, and its radiant brilliance absorbs the remaining trace of glow from the pale stars. We climb up the rocky terrain and hear from afar the church bells ringing. A shepherd wearing the traditional rough black wool cape over his shoulders stops whittling his staff with his pocketknife to wipe his long handlebar mustache with the back of his hand and gets up to cross himself. He’s startled momentarily when he sees us approaching, but quickly recovers and bids us good morning.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I’m going back to my hometown,” my mother answers, heaving a deep sigh.

Anna’s father, standing at the center of the group, at a gathering of friends and family at the Agia Triada Monastery in 1937.	Anna’s mother on the steps of her parental home in Livadi.

Anna’s mother and father with his brother, far right, at the Parthenon in 1928.