Part 2 Chapter Three

Part  2

Chapter  Three

1939

EARLY  MAY  BRINGS  Crete  its  most  perfect  and  heaven-­‐sent  days.  On  one  such day,  when  the  trees  were  heavy  with  blossom  and  the  very  last  of  the  mountain snows  had  melted  into  crystal  streams,  Eleni  left  the  mainland  for  Spinalonga.  In cruel  contrast  to  this  blackest  of  events,  the  sky  was  brilliant,  a  cloudless  blue.  A crowd  had  gathered  to  watch,  to  weep,  to  wave  a  final  goodbye.  Even  if  the  school had  not  officially  closed  for  the  day  out  of  respect  for  the  departing  teacher,  the classrooms  would  have  echoed  with  emptiness.  Pupils  and  teachers  alike  had deserted.  No  one  would  have  missed  the  chance  to  wave  goodbye  to  their  beloved 'Kyria  Petrakis'.

Eleni  Petrakis  was  loved  in  Plaka  and  the  surrounding  villages.  She  had  a magnetism  that  attracted  children  and  adults  alike  to  her  and  was  admired  and respected  by  them  all.  The  reason  was  simple.  For  Eleni,  teaching  was  a  vocation, and  her  enthusiasm  touched  the  children  like  a  torch.  'If  they  love  it  they  will  learn it'  was  her  mantra.  These  were  not  her  own  words,  but  the  saying  of  the  teacher with  fire  in  his  belly  who  had  been  her  own  doorway  into  learning  twenty  years before.

The  night  before  she  left  her  home  for  ever,  Eleni  had  filled  a  vase  with  spring flowers.  She  put  this  in  the  centre  of  the  table  and  the  small  spray  of  pale  blooms magically  transformed  the  room.  Shff  understood  the  potency  of  the  simple  act,  the power  of  detail.  She  knew,  for  example,  that  recollection  of  a  child's  birthday  or favourite  colour  could  be  the  key  to  winning  the  heart  and  then  the  mind.  Children absorbed  information  in  her  classroom  largely  because  they  wanted  to  please  her, not  because  they  were  forced  to  learn,  and  the  process  was  helped  by  the  way  she displayed  facts  and  figures,  each  one  written  on  a  card  and  suspended  from  the ceiling  so  it  seemed  as  though  a  flock  of  exotic  birds  hovered  permanently overhead.

But  it  was  not  just  a  favourite  teacher  who  would  be  making  her  way  over  the water  to  Spinalonga  that  day.  They  were  saying  goodbye  to  a  friend  as  well:  nine-­‐ year-­‐old  Dimitri,  whose  parents  had  gone  to  such  lengths  for  a  year  or  more  to conceal  the  signs  of  his  leprosy.  Each  month  there  had  been  some  new  attempt  to hide  his  blemishes—his  knee-­‐length  shorts  were  replaced  by  long  trousers,  open sandals  by  heavy  boots,  and  in  the  summer  he  was  banned  from  swimming  in  the sea  with  his  friends  lest  the  patches  on  his  back  should  be  noticed.  "Say  you're afraid  of  the  waves!"  pleaded  his  mother,  which  was  of  course  ridiculous.  These children  had  all  grown  up  to  enjoy  the  exhilarating  power  of  the  sea  and  actually looked  forward  to  those  days  when  the  Meltemi  wind  turned  the  glassy Mediterranean  into  a  wild  ocean.  Only  a  sissy  was  afraid  of  the  breakers.  The  child had  lived  with  the  fear  of  discovery  for  many  months,  always  knowing  in  his  heart that  this  was  a  temporary  state  and  that  sooner  or  later  he  would  be  found  out.

Anyone  unacquainted  with  the  extraordinary  circumstances  of  this  summer morning  might  well  have  assumed  that  the  crowd  had  gathered  for  a  funeral.  They were  nearly  one  hundred  in  number,  mostly  women  and  children,  and  there  was  a sad  stillness  about  them.  They  stood  in  the  village  square,  one  great  body,  silent, waiting,  breathing  in  unison.  Close  by,  in  an  adjacent  side  street,  Eleni  Petrakis opened  her  front  door.  She  was  confronted  by  the  unusual  sight  of  this  great  mass of  people  in  the  normally  empty  space  and  her  instinct  was  to  retreat  inside.  This was  not  an  option.  Giorgis  was  waiting  for  her  by  the  jetty,  his  boat  already  loaded up  with  some  of  her  possessions.  She  needed  few,  since  Giorgis  could  bring  more  to her  during  the  following  weeks,  and  she  had  no  desire  to  remove  anything  but  bare essentials  from  the  family  home.  Anna  and  Maria  remained  behind  the  closed  door. The  last  few  minutes  with  them  had  been  the  most  agonising  of  Eleni's  life.  She  felt the  strongest  desire  to  hold  them,  to  crush  them  in  her  embrace,  to  feel  their  hot tears  on  her  skin,  to  still  their  shaking  bodies.  But  she  could  do  none  of  these  things. Not  without  risk.  Their  faces  were  contorted  with  grief  and  their  eyes  swollen  with crying.  There  was  nothing  left  to  say.  Almost  nothing  left  to  feel.  Their  mother  was leaving.  She  would  not  be  coming  back  early  that  evening  weighed  down  with books,  sallow  with  exhaustion,  but  beaming  with  pleasure  to  be  at  home  with  them. There  would  be  no  return.

The  girls  had  behaved  precisely  as  Eleni  would  have  anticipated.  Anna,  the elder,  had  always  been  volatile,  and  there  was  never  any  doubt  about  what  she  was feeling.  Maria,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  quieter,  more  patient  child  who  was  slower to  lose  her  temper.  True  to  form,  Anna  had  been  more  openly  distressed  than  her sister  in  the  days  leading  up  to  her  mother's  departure,  and  her  inability  to  control her  emotions  had  never  been  more  on  display  than  on  this  day.  She  had  begged  her mother  not  to  go,  beseeched  her  to  stay,  ranted,  raved  and  torn  her  hair.  By contrast,  Maria  had  wept,  silently  at  first  and  then  with  huge  racking  sobs  that  could be  heard  out  in  the  street.  The  final  stage  for  both  of  them,  however,  was  the  same: they  both  became  subdued,  exhausted,  spent.

Eleni  was  determined  to  contain  the  volcanic  eruption  of  grief  that  threatened to  overwhelm  her.  She  could  vent  it  in  full  once  she  was  away  from  Plaka,  but  the only  hope  any  of  them  had  at  this  moment  was  that  her  self-­‐possession  would remain  intact.  If  she  caved  in,  they  were  all  done  for.  The  girls  were  to  stay  in  the house.  They  would  be  spared  the  vision  of  their  mothers  receding  figure,  a  sight  that might  burn  itself  for  ever  on  to  their  memory.

This  was  the  hardest  moment  of  Eleni's  life  and  now  the  least  private.  She  was watched  by  rows  of  sad  eyes.  She  knew  they  were  there  to  wish  her  farewell  but never  before  had  she  yearned  so  much  to  be  alone.  Every  face  in  the  crowd  was familiar  to  her,  each  was  one  she  loved.  "Goodbye,"  she  said  softly.  "Goodbye."  She kept  her  distance  from  them.  Her  old  instincts  to  embrace  had  died  a  sudden  death ten  days  ago,  that  fateful  morning  when  she  had  noticed  the  strange  patches  on  the back  of  her  leg.  They  were  unmistakable,  especially  when  she  compared  them  with  a picture  on  the  leaflet  that  had  been  circulated  to  warn  people  of  the  symptoms.  She hardly  needed  to  see  a  specialist  to  understand  the  awful  truth.  She  knew,  even before  she  visited  the  doctor,  that  she  had  somehow  contracted  that  most  dreaded of  diseases.  The  words  from  Leviticus,  read  out  with  more  frequency  than  strictly necessary  by  the  local  priest,  had  resounded  inside  her  head:

As  the  leprosy  appeareth  in  the  skin  of  the  flesh,  he  is  a  leprous  man,  he  is unclean  and  the  priest  shall  pronounce  him  utterly  unclean.  And  the  leper  in  whom the  plague  is,  his  clothes  shall  be  rent  and  his  head  bared  and  he  shall  put  a  covering upon  his  upper  lip  and  shall  cry  'Unclean,  Unclean'.

Many  people  still  believed  that  the  Old  Testament's  brutal  instructions  for  the treatment  of  lepers  should  be  followed.  This  passage  had  been  heard  in  church  for hundreds  of  years,  and  the  image  of  the  leper  as  a  man,  woman  or  even  child  to  be cast  out  of  society  was  deeply  ingrained.

As  she  approached  through  the  crowd  Giorgis  could  just  make  out  the  top  of Eleni's  head,  and  he  knew  the  moment  he  had  been  dreading  was  upon  him.  He  had been  to  Spinalonga  a  thousand  times,  for  years  supplementing  his  meagre fisherman's  income  by  making  regular  deliveries  to  the  leper  colony,  but  he  had never  imagined  making  a  journey  such  as  this.  The  boat  was  ready  and  he  stood watching  her  as  she  approached,  his  arms  wrapped  tightly  across  his  chest,  his  head

bowed.  He  thought  that  if  he  stood  like  this,  his  body  tense,  rigid,  he  could  subdue his  raging  emotions  and  prevent  them  from  spilling  out  as  huge  involuntary  cries  of anguish.  His  built-­‐in  ability  to  hide  his  feelings  was  bolstered  by  his  wife's  exemplary self-­‐control.  Inside,  though,  he  was  stricken  with  grief.  I  must  do  this,  he  told himself,  as  though  it  is  just  another  ordinary  boat  journey.  To  the  thousand crossings  he  had  already  made  would  be  added  this  one  and  a  thousand  more.

As  Eleni  approached  the  jetty,  the  crowd  remained  silent.  One  child  cried,  but was  hushed  by  its  mother.  One  false  emotional  move  and  these  grieving  people would  lose  their  composure.  The  control,  the  formality  would  be  gone  and  the dignity  of  this  farewell  would  be  no  more.  Though  the  few  hundred  metres  had seemed  an  impossible  distance,  Eleni's  walk  to  the  jetty  was  nearly  over,  and  she turned  round  to  look  at  the  throng  for  the  last  time.  Her  house  was  out  of  sight  now, but  she  knew  the  shutters  would  remain  closed  and  that  her  daughters  would  be weeping  in  the  darkness.

Suddenly  there  were  cries  to  be  heard.  They  were  the  loud,  heartbreaking sobs  of  a  grown  woman,  and  her  display  of  grief  was  as  unchecked  as  Eleni's  was controlled.  For  a  moment  Eleni  halted.  These  sounds  seemed  to  echo  her  own emotional  state.  They  were  the  precise  outward  expression  of  everything  she  felt inside,  but  she  knew  she  was  not  their  author.  The  crowd  stirred,  taking  their  eyes off  Eleni  and  looking  back  towards  the  far  corner  of  the  square  where  a  mule  had-­‐ been  tethered  to  a  tree  and,  close  by,  a  man  and  a  woman  stood.  Though  he  had  all but  disappeared  within  the  woman's  embrace,  there  was  also  a  boy.  The  top  of  his head  barely  reached  her  chest  and  she  was  bent  over  him,  her  arms  wrapped around  his  body  as  though  she  would  never  let  go.  "My  boy!"  she  cried  despairingly. "My  boy,  my  darling  boy!"  Her  husband  was  at  their  side.  "Katerina,"  he  coaxed. "Dimitri  must  go.  We  have  no  choice.  The  boat  is  waiting."  Gently  he  prised  the mother's  arms  away  from  the  child.  She  spoke  her  son's  name  one  final  time,  softly, indistinctly:  "Dimitri..."  but  the  boy  did  not  look  up.  His  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  dusty ground.  "Come,  Dimitri,"  his  father  said  firmly.  And  the  boy  followed.

He  kept  his  eyes  focused  on  his  father's  worn  leather  boots.  All  he  had  to  do was  plant  his  own  feet  in  the  prints  they  made  in  the  dust.  It  was  mechanical—a game  they  had  played  so  many  times,  when  his  father  would  take  giant  strides  and Dimitri  would  jump  and  leap  until  his  legs  could  stretch  no  more  and  he  would  fall over,  helpless  with  laughter.  This  time,  however,  his  father's  pace  was  slow  and faltering.  Dimitri  had  no  trouble  keeping  up.  His  father  had  relieved  the  sad-­‐faced mule  of  its  burden  and  now  balanced  the  small  crate  of  the  boy's  possessions  on  his shoulder,  the  very  same  shoulder  on  which  his  son  had  been  carried  so  many  times. It  seemed  a  long  way,  past  the  crowd,  to  the  water's  edge.

The  final  goodbye  between  father  and  son  was  a  brief,  almost  manly  one. Eleni,  aware  of  this  awkwardness,  greeted  Dimitri,  her  focus  now  solely  on  the  boy whose  life,  from  this  moment  on,  would  be  her  greatest  responsibility.  "Come,"  she said,  encouragingly.  "Let's  go  and  see  our  new  home."  And  she  took  the  child's  hand

and  helped  him  on  to  the  boat  as  though  they  were  going  on  an  adventure  and  the boxes  packed  around  them  contained  supplies  for-­‐a  picnic.

The  crowd  watched  the  departure,  maintaining  its  silence.  There  was  no protocol  for  this  moment.  Should  they  wave?  Should  they  shout  goodbye?  Skin paled,  stomachs  contracted,  hearts  felt  heavy.  Some  had  ambivalent  feelings  about the  boy,  blaming  him  for  Eleni's  situation  and  for  the  unease  they  now  had  about their  own  children's  health.  At  the  very  moment  of  their  departure,  though,  the mothers  and  fathers  felt  only  pity  for  the  two  unfortunates  who  were  leaving  their families  behind  for  ever.  Giorgis  pushed  the  boat  away  from  the  jetty  and  soon  his oars  were  engaged  in  the  usual  battle  with  the  current.  It  was  as  though  the  sea  did not  want  them  to  go.  For  a  short  while  the  crowd  watched,  but  as  the  figures became  less  distinct  they  began  to  disperse.

The  last  to  turn  away  and  leave  the  square  were  a  woman  of  about  Eleni's own  age  and  a  girl.  The  woman  was  Savina  Angelopoulos,  who  had  grown  up  with Eleni,  and  the  girl  was  her  daughter  Fotini,  who,  in  the  way  of  small  village  life,  was the  best  friend  of  Eleni's  youngest  daughter,  Maria.  Savina  wore  a  head  scarf,  which hid  her  thick  hair  but  accentuated  her  huge  kind  eyes;  childbearing  had  not  been kind  to  her  body  and  she  was  now  stocky,  with  heavy  legs.  By  contrast,  Fotini  was  as slim  as  an  olive  sapling  but  she  had  inherited  her  mother's  beautiful  eyes.  When  the little  boat  had  all  but  disappeared,  the  two  of  them  turned  and  walked  swiftly  across the  square.  Their  destination  was  the  house  with  the  faded  green  door,  the  house from  which  Eleni  had  emerged  some  time  earlier.  The  shutters  were  closed,  but  the front  door  was  unlocked  and  mother  and  daughter  stepped  inside.  Soon  Savina would  hold  the  girls  and  provide  the  embrace  that  their  own  mother,  in  her  wisdom, had  been  unable  to  give.

As  the  boat  neared  the  island,  Eleni  held  Dimitri's  hand  ever  more  tightly.  She was  glad  that  this  poor  boy  would  have  someone  to  care  for  him  and  at  this  moment did  not  give  a  second  thought  to  the  irony  of  this  position.  She  would  teach  him  and nurture  him  as  though  he  was  her  own  son,  and  do  her  best  to  ensure  that  his schooling  was  not  cut  short  by  this  terrible  turn  of  events.  She  was  now  close enough  to  see  that  there  were  a  few  people  standing  just  outside  the  fortress  wall and  realised  they  must  be  waiting  for  her.  Why  else  would  they  be  there?  It  was unlikely  that  they  were  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  island  themselves.

Giorgis  guided  the  boat  expertly  towards  the  jetty  and  soon  he  was  helping his  wife  and  Dimitri  on  to  dry  land.  Almost  subconsciously,  he  found  himself avoiding  contact  with  the  boy's  bare  skin,  taking  his  elbow  not  his  hand  as  he  helped him  out  of  the  boat.  He  then  concentrated  fiercely  on  tying  the  boat  fast  so  that  he could  unload  the  boxes  safely,  distracting  himself  from  the  thought  of  leaving  the island  without  his  wife.  The  small  wooden  crate  that  was  the  boy's  and  the  larger one  that  belonged  to  Eleni  soon  sat  on  the  quayside.

Now  that  they  were  on  Spinalonga,  it  seemed  to  both  Eleni  and  Dimitri  that they  had  crossed  a  wide  ocean  and  that  their  old  lives  were  already  a  million  miles

away.

Before  Eleni  had  thought  to  look  around  once  more,  Giorgis  had  gone.  They had  agreed  the  night  before  that  there  would  be  no  goodbyes  between  them,  and they  had  both  been  true  to  their  resolve.  Giorgis  had  already  set  off  on  the  return journey  and  was  a  hundred  metres  away,  his  hat  pulled  down  low  so  that  the  boat's dark  strips  of  wood  were  all  that  lay  in  his  field  of  vision.

Chapter  Four

T

HE  CLUSTER  OF  people  Eleni  had  noticed  earlier  now  moved  towards  them. Dimitri  remained  silent,  staring  down  at  his  feet,  while  Eleni  held  out  her  hand  to the  man  who  came  forward  to  greet  them.  It  was  a  gesture  that  demonstrated  an acceptance  that  this  was  her  new  home.  She  found  herself  reaching  out  to  take  a hand  that  was  as  bent  as  a  shepherd's  crook,  a  hand  so  badly  deformed  now  by leprosy  that  the  elderly  man  could  not  grasp  Eleni's  outstretched  hand.  But  his  smile said  enough,  and  Eleni  responded  with  a  polite  'Kalimera'.  Dimitri  stood  back,  silent. He  would  remain  in  this  state  of  shock  for  several  more  days.

It  was  a  custom  on  Spinalonga  for  new  members  of  the  colony  to  be  received with  some  degree  of  formality,  and  Eleni  and  Dimitri  were  welcomed  just  as  if  they had  finally  reached  a  far-­‐off,  long-­‐dreamed-­‐of  destination.  The  reality  was  that  for some  lepers  this  was  truly  the  case.  The  island  could  provide  a  welcome  refuge  from a  life  of  vagrancy;  many  of  the  lepers  had  spent  months  or  even  years  living  outside society,  sleeping  in  shacks  and  surviving  off  pilfered  scraps.  For  these  victims  of  the disease,  Spinalonga  was  a  relief,  respite  from  the  abject  misery  they  had  endured  as outcasts.

The  man  who  greeted  them  was  Petros  Kontomaris,  the  island  leader.  He  had been  voted  in,  along  with  a  group  of  elders,  by  the  three  hundred  or  so  inhabitants in  the  annual  election;  Spinalonga  was  a  model  of  democracy  and  the  regularity  of the  elections  was  intended  to  ensure  that  dissatisfaction  never  festered.  It  was Kontomaris's  duty  to  welcome  all  newcomers,  and  only  he  and  a  handful  of  other appointed  individuals  were  permitted  to  come  and  go  through  the  great  gateway.

Eleni  and  Dimitri  followed  Petros  Kontomaris  through  the  tunnel,  their  hands locked  together.  Eleni  probably  knew  more  about  Spinalonga  than  most  people  on the  mainland  because  of  Giorgis's  first-­‐hand  knowledge.  Even  so,  the  scene  that greeted  her  was  a  surprise.  In  the  narrow  street  ahead  of  them  was  a  throng  of people.  It  looked  just  like  market  day  in  Plaka.  People  went  to  and  fro  with  baskets full  of  produce,  a  priest  emerged  from  a  church  doorway  and  two  elderly  women made  their  way  slowly  up  the  street,  riding  side-­‐saddle  on  their  weary-­‐looking donkeys.  Some  turned  to  stare  at  the  new  arrivals  and  several  nodded  their  heads  in a  gesture  of  greeting.  Eleni  looked  around  her,  anxious  not  to  be  rude  but  unable  to contain  her  curiosity.  What  had  always  been  rumoured  was  true.  Most  of  the  lepers looked  as  she  did:  ostensibly  unblemished.

One  woman,  however,  whose  head  was  obscured  by  a  shawl,  stopped  to  let them  pass.  Eleni  glimpsed  a  face  deformed  by  lumps  the  size  of  walnuts  and shuddered.  Never  had  she  seen  anything  more  hideous,  and  she  prayed  that  Dimitri had  not  noticed  the  woman.

The  group  of  three  continued  to  walk  up  the  street,  followed  by  another elderly  man  who  led  two  donkeys  bearing  the  weight  of  their  possessions.  Petros Kontomaris  chatted  to  Eleni.  "We  have  a  house  for  you,"  he  explained.  "It  became vacant  last  week."

In  Spinalonga,  vacancies  were  only  created  by  death.  People  continued  to arrive  regardless  of  whether  there  was  space,  and  this  meant  that  the  island  was overcrowded.  Since  it  was  the  government's  policy  to  encourage  lepers  to  live  on Spinalonga,  it  was  entirely  in  its  own  interests  to  minimise  unrest  on  the  island,  so from  time  to  time  it  would  provide  funds  for  new  housing  or  small  grants  to  restore the  old.  The  previous  year,  just  when  existing  buildings  were  reaching  the  limit  of their  capacity,  an  ugly  but  functional  block  had  been  completed  and  a  housing  crisis averted.  Once  again,  every  islander  had  some  privacy.  The  man  who  made  the  final decision  on  where  newcomers  should  live  was  Kontomaris.  He  regarded  Eleni  and Dimitri  as  a  special  case;  they  were  to  be  treated  as  mother  and  son,  and  for  that reason  he  had  decided  that  they  should  not  be  housed  in  the  new  block,  but  should take  over  the  newly  vacant  house  in  the  high  street.  Dimitri  at  least  might  be  there for  many  years  to  come.

might  crumble  with  a  hand's  touch,  let  alone  the  full  weight  of  a  human  body.  What difference  between  she  and  Dimitri  and  those  frail  pieces  of  furniture?  Once  again, there  was  an  imperative  for  false  cheer.

They  crossed  the  unlit  room  and  climbed  the  stairs.  At  the  top  were  two doors.  Eleni  opened  the  left-­‐hand  one  and  went  in,  throwing  open  the  shutters.  The light  poured  in.  The  windows  looked  over  the  street  and  from  here  the  sparkle  of the  sea  could  be  seen  in  the  distance.  A  metal  bed  and  yet  another  decrepit  chair was  all  that  this  bare  cell  contained.  Eleni  left  Dimitri  standing  there  and  went  into the  other  bedroom,  which  was  smaller  and  somehow  greyer.  She  returned  to  the first,  where  Dimitri  still  stood.

As  they  descended  the  stairs  a  cockroach  scuttled  across  the  room  and disappeared  behind  the  wooden  chest  which  stood  in  the  corner.  Eleni  would  hunt  it out  later,  but  for  now  she  would  light  the  three  oil  lamps  which  would  help  to brighten  this  gloomy  dwelling.  Opening  her  box  of  possessions—which  contained mostly  books  and  other  materials  that  she  would  need  for  teaching  Dimitri—she found  paper  and  pencil  and  began  to  make  a  list:  three  lengths  of  cotton  for curtains,  two  pictures,  some  cushions,  five  blankets,  a  large  saucepan  and  a  few pieces  of  her  best  china.  She  knew  her  family  would  enjoy  the  idea  that  they  were all  eating  from  the  same  flower-­‐sprigged  plates.  Another  important  item  she requested  was  seeds.  Although  the  house  was  dismal,  Eleni  was  gready  cheered  by the  little  courtyard  in  front  of  it  and  had  already  begun  to  plan  what  she  would grow:  Giorgis  would  be  back  in  a  few  days,  so  within  a  week  or  two  she  would  have this  place  looking  as  she  wanted  it.  This  would  be  the  first  of  many  lists  for  Giorgis, and  Eleni  knew  that  he  would  fulfil  her  requirements  to  the  very  last  letter.

Dimitri  sat  and  watched  Eleni  as  she  drew  up  her  inventory  of  essentials.  He was  slightly  in  awe  of  this  woman  who  only  yesterday  had  been  his  teacher  and  now was  to  care  for  him  not  just  between  the  hours  of  eight  in  the  morning  and  two  in the  afternoon  but  for  all  the  others  as  well.  She  was  to  be  his  mother,  his  meetera. But  he  would  never  call  her  by  any  name  other  than  'Kyria  Petrakis'.  He  wondered what  his  real  mother  was  doing  now.  She  would  probably  be  stirring  the  big  cooking pot,  preparing  the  evening  meal.  In  Dimitri's  eyes  that  was  how  she  seemed  to spend  most  of  her  time,  while  he  and  his  brothers  and  sisters  played  outside  in  the street.  He  wondered  if  he  would  ever  see  them  again  and  wished  with  all  his  heart that  he  was  there  now,  messing  about  in  the  dust.  If  he  missed  them  this  much  after only  a  few  hours,  how  much  more  would  he  miss  them  each  day,  each  week,  each month?  he  wondered.  His  throat  tightened  until  it  hurt  so  much  the  tears  flowed

down  his  face.  Then  Kyria  Petrakis  was  by  his  side,  holding  him  close  and  whispering: "There,  there,  Dimitri.  Everything  will  be  all  right...Everything  will  be  all  right."  If  only he  believed  her.

That  afternoon  they  unpacked  their  boxes.  Surrounding  themselves  with  a few  familiar  objects  should  have  lifted  their  mood,  but  each  time  a  new  possession emerged  it  came  with  all  the  associations  of  their  past  lives  and  did  not  help  them forget.  Every  new  trinket,  book  or  toy  reminded  them  more  intensely  than  the  last of  what  they  had  left  behind.

One  of  Eleni's  treasures  was  a  small  clock,  a  gift  from  her  parents  on  her wedding  day.  She  placed  it  in  the  centre  of  the  mantelpiece  and  a  gentle  tick-­‐tock now  filled  the  long  silences.  It  struck  on  the  hour,  and  at  precisely  three  o'clock, before  the  chimes  had  quite  died  away,  there  was  a  gentle  knock  on  the  door.

Eleni  opened  the  door  wide  to  admit  her  visitor,  a  small,  round-­‐faced  woman with  flecks  of  silver  in  her  hair.

There  was  a  note  of  forced  jollity  in  her  voice  and  the  kind  of  enthusiasm  you would  summon  up  if  you  were  taking  a  terrified  child  to  have  a  tooth  pulled.  They emerged  from  the  gloom  of  the  house  into  the  late  afternoon  light  and  turned  right.

In  truth,  the  fact  that  they  had  to  trudge  several  hundred  metres  downhill  to fetch  water  and  then  all  the  way  back  with  it  angered  her  beyond  words.  She  could cope,  but  there  were  others  more  crippled  than  her  who  could  barely  lift  an  empty vessel  let  alone  one  that  brimmed  with  water.  Before  she  lived  on  Spinalonga  she had  rarely  lifted  more  than  a  glassful  of  water,  but  now  carrying  bucketfuls  was  part of  life's  daily  grind.  It  had  taken  her  several  years  to  get  used  to  this.  Things  had perhaps  changed  more  drastically  for  Elpida  than  for  many.  Coming  from  a  wealthy family  in  Hania,  she  had  been  a  stranger  to  manual  work  until  she  arrived  in Spinalonga  ten  years  earlier;  the  hardest  assignment  she  had  ever  undertaken  prior

to  that  was  to  embroider  a  bedspread.

As  usual,  Elpida  put  on  a  brave  front  for  her  introduction  to  the  island  and presented  only  the  positive  aspects  of  it  all.  She  showed  Eleni  Petrakis  the  few  shops as  though  they  were  the  finest  in  Iraklion,  pointed  out  where  the  bi-­‐weekly  market was  held  and  where  they  did  their  laundry.  She  also  took  her  to  the  pharmacy, which  for  many  was  the  most  important  building  of  all.  She  told  her  the  times  when the  baker's  oven  was  lit  and  where  the  kafenion  was  situated,  tucked  away  down  a little  side  street.  The  priest  would  call  on  her  later,  but  meanwhile  she  indicated where  he  lived  and  took  them  to  the  church.  She  enthused  to  the  boy  about  the puppet  shows  which  were  put  on  for  the  children  once  a  week  in  the  town  hall  and finally  she  pointed  out  the  schoolhouse,  which  stood  empty  today,  but  on  three mornings  each  week  contained  the  island's  small  population  of  children.

She  told  Dimitri  about  other  children  of  his  own  age  and  attempted  to  prise  a smile  out  of  him  by  describing  the  fun  and  games  they  had  together,  but  no  matter how  hard  she  tried,  his  face  remained  impassive.

What  she  refrained  from  speaking  of  today,  especially  in  front  of  the  boy,  was the  restlessness  that  was  brewing  on  Spinalonga.  Though  many  of  the  lepers  were initially  grateful  for  the  sanctuary  that  the  island  provided,  they  became disenchanted  after  a  while  and  believed  themselves  abandoned,  feeling  their  needs were  met  only  minimally.  Elpida  could  see  that  Eleni  would  soon  become  aware  of the  bitterness  that  consumed  many  of  the  lepers.  It  hung  in  the  very  air.

As  the  wife  of  the  island  leader  she  was  in  a  difficult  position.  Petros Kontomaris  had  been  elected  by  the  people  of  Spinalonga,  but  his  most  important task  was  to  act  as  mediator  and  go-­‐between  with  the  government.  He  was  a reasonable  man  and  knew  where  the  boundaries  lay  with  the  authorities  on  Crete, but  Elpida  saw  him  battling  continually  against  a  vociferous  and  sometimes  radical minority  in  the  leper  colony  who  felt  that  they  were  being  badly  treated  and  who agitated  constantly  for  improvements  to  the  island's  facilities.  Some  felt  that  they were  mere  squatters  in  the  Turkish  rubble  even  though  Kontomaris  had  done everything  he  could  in  the  years  he  had  been  in  charge.  He  had  negotiated  a monthly  allowance  of  twenty-­‐five  drachma  for  every  inhabitant,  a  grant  to  build  the new  block  of  flats,  a  decent  pharmacy  and  clinic  and  regular  visits  from  a  doctor from  the  mainland.  He  had  also  constructed  a  plan  which  allocated  land  to  each person  on  Spinalonga  who  wished  to  cultivate  their  own  fruit  and  vegetables  either to  eat  themselves  or  to  sell  at  the  weekly  market.  In  short,  he  had  done  everything he  humanly  could,  but  the  population  of  Spinalonga  always  wanted  more  and  Elpida was  not  sure  that  her  husband  had  the  energy  to  fulfil  their  expectations.  She worried  about  him  constantly.  He  was  in  his  late  fifties,  like  her,  but  his  health  was failing.  Leprosy  was  beginning  to  win  the  batde  for  his  body.

Elpida  had  seen  huge  changes  since  she  had  arrived,  and  most  of  these  had been  achieved  through  her  husband's  endeavours.  Still  the  rumbles  of dissatisfaction  grew  by  the  day.  The  water  situation  was  the  main  focus  of  unrest,

particularly  in  the  summer.  The  Venetian  water  system,  constructed  hundreds  of years  earlier,  collected  rainwater  in  tunnelled  watersheds  and  stored  it  in underground  tanks  to  prevent  evaporation.  It  was  ingeniously  simple,  but  the tunnels  were  now  beginning  to  crumble.  Additionally,  fresh  water  was  brought  over from  the  mainland  every  week,  but  there  was  never  enough  to  keep  more  than  two hundred  people  well  washed  and  watered.  It  was  a  daily  struggle,  even  with  the help  of  mules,  especially  for  the  elderly  and  crippled.  In  the  winter  it  was  electricity they  needed.  A  generator  had  been  installed  a  couple  of  years  earlier  and  everyone had  anticipated  the  pleasure  of  warmth  and  light  in  the  dark,  chilly  days  from November  to  February.  This  was  not  to  be.  The  generator  packed  up  after  only  three weeks  and  had  never  worked  again;  requests  for  new  parts  were  ignored  and  the machinery  stood  abandoned,  almost  entirely  covered  now  with  a  tangle  of  weeds.

Water  and  electricity  were  not  luxuries  but  necessities,  and  they  were  all aware  that  the  inadequacy  of  the  water  supply  in  particular  could  shorten  their  lives. Elpida  knew  that,  although  the  government  had  to  keep  their  lives  tolerable,  its commitment  to  making  them  better  was  perfunctory.  The  inhabitants  of  Spinalonga seethed  with  anger  and  she  shared  their  fury.  Why,  in  a  country  where  huge mountains  reared  up  into  the  sky,  their  snowy  peaks  clearly  visible  on  a  wintry  day, were  they  rationed?  They  wanted  a  reliable  fresh  water  supply.  They  wanted  it soon.  There  had  been,  as  far  as  there  could  be  amongst  men  and  women,  some  of whom  were  crippled,  violent  arguments  about  what  to  do.  Elpida  remembered  the time  when  one  group  had  threatened  to  storm  the  mainland  and  another  suggested the  taking  of  hostages.  In  the  end  they  had  realised  what  a  pathetic  straggling  crew they  would  make,  with,  no  boats,  no  weapons  and,  above  all,  very  little  strength.

All  they  could  do  was  try  and  make  their  voices  heard.  And  that  was  where Petros's  powers  of  argument  and  diplomacy  became  the  most  valuable  weapon  they had.  Elpida  had  to  maintain  some  distance  between  herself  and  the  rest  of  the community  but  her  ear  was  continually  bent,  mostly  by  the  women,  who  regarded her  as  a  conduit  to  her  husband.  She  was  tired  of  it  all  and  secretly  pressurised Petros  not  to  stand  in  the  next  elections.  Had  he  not  given  enough?

As  she  led  Eleni  and  Dimitri  around  the  little  streets  of  the  island,  Elpida  kept all  these  thoughts  to  herself.  She  saw  Dimitri  clutch  the  edge  of  Eleni's  billowing skirt  as  they  walked,  as  if  for  comfort,  and  sighed  to  herself.  What  sort  of  future  did the  boy  have  in  this  place?  She  almost  hoped  it  would  not  be  a  long  one.

Eleni  found  the  gentle  tug  at  her  skirt  reassuring.  It  reminded  her  that  she  was not  alone  and  had  someone  to  care  for.  Only  yesterday  she  had  had  a  husband  and daughters,  and  the  day  before  a  hundred  eager  faces  at  school  had  looked  up  into hers.  All  of  them  had  needed  her  and  she  had  thrived  on  that.  This  new  reality  was hard  to  grasp.  For  a  moment  she  wondered  if  she  had  already  died  and  this  woman was  a  chimera  showing  her  round  Hades,  telling  where  the  dead  souls  could  wash their  shrouds  and  buy  their  insubstantial  rations.  Her  mind,  however,  told  her  it  was all  real.  It  had  not  been  Charon  but  her  own  husband  who  had  brought  her  to  hell

and  left  her  here  to  die.  She  came  to  a  halt  and  Dimitri  stopped  too.  Her  head dropped  to  her  chest  and  she  could  feel  huge  tears  well  up  in  her  eyes.  For  the  first time  she  lost  control.  Her  throat  contracted  as  if  to  deny  her  another  breath  and  she took  one  desperate  gasp  to  drag  air  into  her  lungs.  Elpida,  until  now  so  matter-­‐of-­‐ fact,  so  businesslike,  turned  to  face  her  and  grasped  her  by  the  arms.  Dimitri  looked up  at  both  women.  He  had  seen  his  own  mother  cry  for  the  first  time  that  day.  Now it  was  the  turn  of  his  teacher.  The  tears  coursed  freely  down  her  cheeks.

Eleni  buried  her  head  in  Elpida's  shoulder.  Two  passers-­‐by  stopped  and stared.  Not  at  the  sight  of  a  woman  weeping,  but  simply  because  they  were  curious about  the  newcomers.  Dimitri  looked  away,  doubly  embarrassed  by  Eleni's  weeping and  the  strangers'  stares.  He  wished  the  ground  beneath  him  would  part  just  like  in the  earthquakes  he  had  learned  about  in  school,  and  then  swallow  him  up.  He  knew that  Crete  was  regularly  shaken,  but  why  not  today?

Elpida  could  see  what  Dimitri  was  feeling.  Eleni's  sobbing  had  begun  to  affect her  too:  she  sympathised  terribly  but  she  wanted  her  to  stop.  By  good  fortune  they had  come  to  a  halt  outside  her  own  house,  and  she  led  Eleni  firmly  inside.  For  a moment  she  felt  self-­‐conscious  about  the  size  of  her  home,  which  she  knew contrasted  starkly  with  the  place  Eleni  and  Dimitri  had  just  moved  into.  The Kontomaris  house,  the  official  residence  of  the  island  leader,  was  one  of  the buildings  from  the  island's  period  of  occupation  by  the  Venetians,  with  a  balcony that  could  almost  be  described  as  grand  and  a  porticoed  front  door.

They  had  lived  here  for  the  past  six  years,  and  so  sure  was  Elpida  of  her husband's  majority  in  the  yearly  elections  that  she  had  never  even  imagined  what  it would  be  like  to  live  anywhere  else.  Now,  of  course,  it  was  she  who  was discouraging  him  from  staying  on  in  his  position,  and  this  was  what  they  would  give up  if  Petros  chose  not  to  stand.  "But  who  is  there  to  take  over?"  he  would  ask.  It was  true.  The  only  others  who  were  rumoured  to  be  putting  themselves  up  had  few supporters.  One  of  them  was  the  chief  among  the  agitators,  Theodoras  Makridakis, and  though  many  of  his  causes  were  sound,  it  would  be  disastrous  for  the  island  if he  was  given  any  power.  His  lack  of  diplomacy  would  mean  that  any  progress  that had  already  been  made  with  the  government  would  be  undone  and  it  was  quite likely  that  privileges  could  be  subtly  withdrawn  rather  than  added  to.  The  only  other candidate  for  the  role  was  Spyros  Kazakis,  a  kind  but  weak  individual  whose  only real  interest  in  the  position  was  to  secure  himself  the  house  everyone  on  Spinalonga secretly  coveted.

The  interior  provided  an  extraordinary  contrast  with  almost  every  other  home on  the  island.  Floor-­‐to-­‐ceiling  windows  allowed  light  to  flood  in  on  three  sides,  and an  ornate  crystal  lamp  hung  down  into  the  middle  of  the  room  on  a  long  dusty chain,  the  small,  irregular  shapes  of  coloured  crystal  projecting  a  kaleidoscopic pattern  on  to  the  pastel  walls.

The  furniture  was  worn  but  comfortable,  and  Elpida  gestured  to  Eleni  to  take a  seat.  Dimitri  wandered  about  the  room,  examining  the  framed  photos  and  staring into  a  glass-­‐fronted  cabinet  that  housed  precious  pieces  of  Kontomaris  memorabilia: an  etched  silver  jug,  a  row  of  lace  bobbins,  some  pieces  of  precious  china,  more framed  pictures  and,  most  intriguingly  of  all,  row  upon  row  of  tiny  soldiers.  He  stood gazing  into  the  cabinet  for  some  minutes,  not  looking  beyond  the  glass  at  these objects  but  mesmerised  by  his  own  reflection.  His  face  seemed  as  strange  to  him  as the  room  where  he  stood  and  he  met  his  own  gaze  with  some  disquiet,  as  though  he did  not  recognise  the  dark  eyes  that  stared  back  at  him.  This  was  a  boy  whose  entire universe  had  encompassed  the  towns  of  Agios  Nikolaos,  Elounda  and  a  few  hamlets in  between  where  cousins,  aunts  and  uncles  lived  and  he  felt  he  had  been transported  into  another  galaxy.  His  face  was  mirrored  in  the  highly  polished  pane and  behind  him  he  could  see  Kyria  Kontomaris,  her  arms  wrapped  around  Kyria Petrakis,  comforting  her  as  she  wept.  He  watched  for  some  moments  and  then-­‐ refocused  his  eyes'so  that  they  could  once  more  study  the  soldiers  so  neatly arranged  in  their  regiments.

When  he  turned  around  to  face  the  women,  Kyria  Petrakis  had  regained  her composure  and  reached  out  both  hands  towards  him.  "Dimitri,"  she  said,  "I  am sorry."  Her  crying  had  shocked  as  well  as  embarrassed  him  and  the  thought suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  she  might  be  missing  her  children  as  much  as  he  was missing  his  mother.  He  tried  to  imagine  what  his  mother  would  be  feeling  if  she  had been  sent  to  Spinalonga  instead  of  him.  He  took  Kyria  Petrakis's  hands  and  squeezed them  hard.  "Don't  be  sorry,"  he  said.

Elpida  disappeared  into  her  kitchen  to  make  coffee  for  Eleni  and,  using sugared  water  with  a  twist  of  lemon,  some  lemonade  for  Dimitri.  When  she returned  she  found  her  visitors  sitting,  talking  quietly.  The  boy's  eyes  lit  up  when  he saw  his  drink  and  he  had  soon  drained  it  to  the  bottom.  As  for  Eleni,  whether  it  was the  sweetness  of  the  coffee  or  the  kindness,  she  could  not  tell,  but  she  felt  herself enveloped  in  Elpida's  warm  concern.  It  had  always  been  her  role  to  dispense  such sympathy  and  she  found  it  harder  to  receive  than  to  give.  She  would  be  challenged by  this  reversal.

The  afternoon  light  was  beginning  to  fade.  For  a  few  minutes  they  sat absorbed  in  their  own  thoughts,  the  silence  broken  only  by  the  careful  clink  of  their cups.  Dimitri  nursed  a  second  glass  of  lemonade.  Never  had  he  been  in  a  house  like, this  one,  where  the  light  shone  in  rainbow  patterns  and  the  chairs  were  softer  than anything  he  had  ever  slept  on.  It  was  so  unlike  his  own  home,  where  every  bench became  a  sleeping  place  at  night  and  every  rug  doubled  up  as  a  blanket.  He  had thought  that  was  how  everyone  lived.  But  not  here.

When  they  had  all  finished  their  drinks,  Elpida  spoke.

Eleni  and  Dimitri  followed  her  from  the  house.  Dimitri  was  reluctant  to  leave.

He  had  liked  it  there  and  hoped  he  might  go  back  one  day  and  sip  lemonade,  and perhaps  pluck  up  courage  to  ask  Kyria  Kontomaris  to  open  the  cabinet  so  that  he could  take  a  closer  look  at  the  soldiers,  maybe  even  pick  them  up.

Further  up  the  street  was  a  building  several  hundred  years  newer  than  the leader's  residence.  With  its  crisp,  straight  lines,  it  lacked  the  classical  aesthetics  of the  home  they  had  just  left.  This  functional  structure  was  the  hospital  and  was  their next  stop.

Eleni  and  Dimitri's  arrival  had  coincided  with  one  of  the  days  on  which  the doctor  came  from  the  mainland.  This  innovation  and  the  building  of  the  hospital  had been  the  result  of  Petros  Kontomaris's  campaign  to  improve  medical  treatment  for the  lepers.  The  first  hurdle  had  been  to  persuade  the  government  to  fund  such  a project  and  the  second  to  convince  them  that  a  careful  doctor  could  treat  and  help them  without  danger  of  infection  to  himself.  Finally  they  relented  on  all  counts,  and every  Monday,  Wednesday  and  Friday  a  doctor  would  arrive  from  Agios  Nikolaos. The  doctor  who  had  put  himself  forward  for  what  many  of  his  colleagues  thought was  a  dangerous  and  foolhardy  assignment  was  Christos  Lapakis.  He  was  a  jovial, red-­‐faced  fellow  in  his  early  thirties,  well  liked  by  the  staff  in  the dermatovenereology  department  at  the  hospital  and  loved  by  his  patients  on Spinalonga.  His  great  girth  was  evidence  of  his  hedonism,  in  itself  a  reflection  of  his belief  that  the  here  and  now  was  all  you  had  so  you  might  as  well  enjoy  it.  It disappointed  his  respectable  family  in  Agios  Nikolaos  that  he  was  still  a  bachelor, and  he  knew  himself  that  he  was  not  helping  his  marriage  prospects  by  working  in  a leper  colony.  This  did  not  bother  him  unduly,  however.  He  was  fulfilled  in  this  work and  enjoyed  the  difference,  albeit  limited,  that  he  could  make  to  these  poor people's  lives.  In  his  own  opinion,  there  was  no  afterlife,  no  second  chance.

Dr  Lapakis  spent  his  time  on  Spinalonga  treating  wounds  and  advising  his patients  on  all  the  extra  precautions  they  could  take  and  how  exercise  could  help them.  With  new  arrivals  he  would  always  do  a  thorough  examination.  The introduction  of  the  Doctor's  Days,  as  they  became  known  throughout  the community,  had  done  a  huge  amount  to  lift  morale  on  the  island  and  had  already improved  the  health  of  many  of  the  sufferers.  His  emphasis  on  cleanliness, sanitation  and  physiotherapy  gave  them  a  reason  to  get  up  in  the  morning  and  a feeling  that  they  were  not  simply  rising  from  their  beds  in  order  to  continue  their gradual  degeneration.  Dr  Lapakis  had  been  shocked  when  he  arrived  on  Spinalonga at  the  conditions  many  of  the  lepers  lived  in.  He  knew  it  was  essential  for  good health  that  they  keep  their  wounds  clean,  but  when  he  had  first  arrived,  he  had discovered  something  akin  to  apathy  among  many  of  them.  Their  sense  of abandonment  was  catastrophic  and  the  psychological  damage  inflicted  by  being  on the  island  was  actually  greater  than  the  physical  harm  caused  by  the  disease.  Many could  simply  no  longer  be  bothered  with  life.  Why  should  they?  Life  had  ceased  to bother  with  them.

Christos  Lapakis  treated  both  their  minds  and  their  bodies.  He  told  them  that

there  always  had  to  be  hope  and  that  they  should  never  give  up.  He  was authoritative  but  often  blunt:  "You  will  die  if  you  don't  wash  your  wounds,"  he would  say.  He  was  pragmatic  and  told  them  the  truth  dispassionately,  but  also  with enough  feeling  to  show  that  he  cared,  and  he  was  practical  too,  telling  them precisely  how  they  needed  to  care  for  themselves.  "This  is  how  you  wash  your wounds,"  he  would  say,  "and  this  is  how  you  exercise  your  hands  and  legs  if  you don't  want  to  lose  your  firigers  and  toes."  As  he  told  them  these  things,  he demonstrated  the  movements.  He  made  them  all  realise  more  than  ever  the  vital importance  of  clean  water.  Water  was  life.  And  for  them  the  difference  between  life and  death.  Lapakis  was  a  great  supporter  of  Kontomaris  and  gave  him  all  the  backing he  could  in  lobbying  for  the  fresh  water  supply  that  could  transform  the  island  and the  prognosis  of  many  who  lived  there.

They  found  themselves  in  a  space  as  cool  and  white  as  a  sepulchre  and  sat  on the  bench  that  ran  down  one  side  of  the  room.  They  were  not  seated  for  long.  The doctor  soon  came  out  to  greet  them,  and  in  turn,  the  woman  and  the  boy  were examined.  They  showed  him  their  patches  and  he  studied  them  carefully,  examining their  naked  skin  for  himself  and  looking  for  signs  of  development  in  their  condition that  they  might  not  even  have  noticed  themselves.  The  pale-­‐faced  Dimitri  had  a  few large,  dry  patches  on  his  back  and  legs,  indicating  that  at  this  stage  he  had  the  less damaging,  tuber-­‐culoid  strain  of  the  disease.  The  smaller,  shinier  lesions  on  Eleni Petrakis's  legs  and  feet  worried  Dr  Lapakis  much  more.  Without  any  doubt  she  had the  more  virulent,  lepromatous  form  and  there  was  a  distinct  possibility  that  she might  have  had  it  for  some  time  before  these  signs  had  appeared.

The  boy's  prognosis  is  not  too  bad,  Lapakis  mused.  But  that  poor  woman, she's  not  long  for  this  island.  His  face,  however,  did  not  betray  the  merest  hint  of what  he  had  discovered.

Chapter  Five

W

HEN  ELENI  LEFT  for  Spinalonga,  Anna  was  twelve  and  Maria  ten.  Giorgis  was faced  with  managing  the  job  of  home-­‐making  single-­‐handedly  and,  more importantly,  the  task  of  bringing  up  the  girls  without  their  mother.  Of  the  two,  Anna had  always  been  the  more  difficult.  She  had  been  obstreperous  to  the  point  of uncontrollability  even  before  she  could  walk,  and  from  the  day  her  younger  sister was  born  it  seemed  she  was  furious  with  life.  It  was  no  surprise  to  Giorgis  that  once Eleni  was  no  longer  there  Anna  rebelled  furiously  against  domesticity,  refusing  to take  on  the  maternal  mantle  just  because  she  was  the  elder  of  the  two  girls.  She made  this  painfully  clear  to  her  father  and  to  her  sister.

Maria  had  an  altogether  gentler  nature.  Two  people  with  her  sister's  temper could  not  have  lived  under  the  same  roof,  and  Maria  fell  into  the  role  of

peacekeeper  even  if  she  often  had  to  fight  an  instinct  to  react  against  Anna's aggression.  Unlike  Anna,  Maria  did  not  find  domestic  work  belittling.  She  was naturally  practical  and  sometimes  enjoyed  helping  her  father  clean  and  cook,  a tendency  for  which  Giorgis  silently  thanked  God.  Like  most  men  of  his  generation  he could  no  more  darn  a  sock  than  fly  to  the  moon.

To  the  world  at  large,  Giorgis  seemed  a  man  of  few  words.  Even  those  endless lonely  hours  at  sea  had  not  made  him  yearn  for  conversation  when  he  was  on  dry land.  He  loved  the  sound  of  silence,  and  when  he  passed  the  evening  at  the  kafenion table—a  requirement  of  manhood  rather  an  optional  social  activity—he  remained quiet,  listening  to  the  people  around  him  just  as  though  he  was  out  at  sea  listening to  the  lap  of  the  waves  against  the  hull  of  his  boat.

Though  his  family  knew  his  warm  heart  and  his  affectionate  embrace,  casual acquaintances  found  his  uncommunicative  behaviour  almost  antisocial  at  times. Those  who  knew  him  better  saw  it  as  a  reflection  of  a  quiet  stoicism,  a  quality  that stood  him  in  good  stead  now  that  his  circumstances  had  changed  so  drastically.

Life  for  Giorgis  had  rarely  been  anything  but  tough.  He  was  a  fisherman  like his  father  and  grandfather  before  him,  and  like  them  he  had  become  hardened  to long  stretches  spent  at  sea.  These  would  usually  be  whiled  away  in  tedious  hours  of chilly  inactivity,  but  sometimes  the  long,  dark  nights  would  be  spent  battling  against the  wild  waves,  and  at  times  like  those  there  was  a  distinct  danger  that  the  sea might  have  its  way  and  consume  him  once  and  for  all.  It  was  a  life  spent  crouched low  in  the  hull  of  a  wooden  caique,  but  a  Cretan  fisherman  never  questioned  his  lot. For  him  it  was  fate,  not  choice.

For  several  years  before  Eleni  had  been  exiled  there,  Giorgis  had supplemented  his  income  by  making  deliveries  to  Spinalonga.  Nowadays  he  had  a boat  with  a  motor  and  would  go  there  once  a  week  with  crates  of  essential  items, dropping  them  off  on  the  jetty  for  collection  by  the  lepers.

For  the  first  few  days  after  Eleni  left,  Giorgis  dared  not  leave  his  daughters  for a  moment.  Their  distress  seemed  to  intensify  the  longer  their  mother  was  away,  but he  knew  that  sooner  or  later  they  would  have  to  find  a  new  way  of  living.  Although kind  neighbours  came  with  food,  Giorgis  still  had  the  responsibility  of  getting  the girls  to  eat.  One  evening,  when  he  faced  the  task  of  cooking  a  meal  himself,  his woeful  inadequacy  at  the  stove  almost  brought  a  smile  to  Maria's  lips.  Anna, though,  could  only  mock  her  father's  efforts.

anguished  sobs.

The  day  eventually  came  when  they  had  to  return  to  school.  This  worked  like a  spell.  As  soon  as  their  minds  had  something  other  than  their  mother  to  focus  on, their  grief  began  to  abate.  This  was  also  the  day  when  Giorgis  could  point  the  prow of  his  boat  once  more  in  the  direction  of  Spinalonga.  With  a  curious  mix  of  dread and  excitement  he  made  his  way  across  the  narrow  strip  of  water.  Eleni  would  not know  he  was  coming,  and  a  message  would  have  to  be  sent  to  alert  her  to  his arrival.  But  news  travelled  fast  on  Spinalonga,  and  before  he  had  even  tied  his  boat to  the  mooring  post,  Eleni  had  appeared  round  the  corner  of  the  huge  wall  and stood  in  its  shadow.

What  could  they  say?  How  could  they  react?  They  did  not  touch  though  they desperately  wanted  to.  Instead  they  just  spoke  each  other's  names.  They  were words  they  had  uttered  a  thousand  times  before,  but  today  their  syllables  sounded like  noises  with  no  meaning.  At  that  moment  Giorgis  wished  he  had  not  come.  He had  mourned  his  wife  this  last  week,  and  yet  here  she  was,  just  as  she  always  had been,  as  vivid  and  lovely  as  ever,  which  only  added  to  the  unbearable  ache  of  their impending  separation.  Soon  he  would  have  to  leave  the  island  again  and  take  his boat  back  to  Plaka.  Each  time  he  visited  there  would  be  this  painful  parting.  His  was a  gloomy  soul  and  for  a  fleeting  moment  he  wished  them  both  dead.

Eleni's  first  week  on  the  island  had  been  full  of  activity  and  had  passed  more quickly  than  it  had  done  for  Giorgis,  but  when  she  heard  that  his  boat  had  been spotted  on  its  way  from  Plaka,  her  emotions  were  thrown  into  a  state  of  turmoil. Since  her  arrival  she  had  had  plenty  of  distractions,  almost  enough  to  keep  her  mind away  from  the  sea  change  which  had  taken  place,  but  now  that  Giorgis  was  standing there  before  her,  his  deep  green  eyes  gazing  into  hers,  there  was  only  one  focus  for her  thoughts:  how  much  she  loved  this  strong,  broad-­‐shouldered  man  and  how much  it  hurt  her  to  the  very  core  of  her  being  to  be  separated  from  him.

They  asked  almost  formally  about  each  other's  health,  and  Eleni  enquired after  the  girls.  How  could  he  respond,  except  with  an  answer  that  only  just  brushed the  surface  of  the  truth?  Sooner  or  later  they  would  get  used  to  it  all,  he  knew  that, and  then  he  would  be  able  to  tell  her  honestly  how  they  were.  The  only  truth  today was  in  Eleni's  answer  to  Giorgis's  question.

Giorgis  was  relieved  to  hear  such,  words.  Eleni  now  produced  a  folded  sheet

of  paper  from  her  pocket  and  gave  it  to  him.

Giorgis  noted  the  use  of  'we'  and  a  pang  of  envy  hit  him.  Once,  'we'  had included  Anna,  Maria  and  himself,  he  reflected.  Then  a  bitter  thought  of  which  he was  almost  instantly  ashamed  came  into  his  head:  now  'we'  meant  the  hated  child who  had  taken  Eleni  away  from  them.  The  'we'  of  his  family  no  longer  existed.  It  had been  split  asunder  and  redefined,  its  rock  solidity  replaced  by  such  fragility  he  hardly dared  contemplate  it.  Giorgis  was  finding  it  hard  to  believe  that  God  had  not deserted  them  all.  One  moment  he  had  been  the  head  of  a  household;  the  next  he was  just  a  man  with  two  daughters.  The  two  states  were  as  far  apart  as  different planets.

It  was  time  for  Giorgis  to  go.  The  girls  would  be  back  from  school  soon  and  he wanted  to  be  there  for  their  return.

They  smiled  and  simultaneously  turned  away  from  each  other,  Eleni  towards the  shadowy  entrance  in  the  high  Venetian  wall  and  Giorgis  to  his  boat.  Neither looked  back.

On  his  next  visit,  Eleni  had  written  a  letter  for  Giorgis  to  take  back  for  the  girls, but  the  moment  her  father  held  out  the  envelope,  Anna's  impatience  got  the  better of  her  and,  as  she  tried  to  snatch  it  out  of  his  hands,  it  was  ripped  in  two.

By  now  Anna  was  at  the  front  door.

A  few  hundred  yards  from  their  home  was  a  little  alleyway  that  ran  between two  houses,  and  this  was  where  Anna,  crouched  in  the  shadows  and,  holding  the two  halves  together,  read  her  mother's  first  letter:

Dear  Anna  and  Maria,

I  wonder  how  you  both  are?  I  hope  you  are  being  good  and  kind  and  working hard  at  school.  Your  father  tells  me  that  his  first  attempts  at  cooking  were  not  very successful  but  I  am  sure  he  will  get  better  at  it  and  that  soon  he  will  know  the difference  between  a  cucumber  and  a  courgette!  I  hope  it  won't  be  long  before  you are  helping  him  in  the  kitchen  too,  but  meanwhile  be  patient  with  him  while  he  is

learning.

Let  me  tell  you  about  Spinalonga.  I  am  living  in  a  small,  tumbledown  house  in the  main  street  with  one  room  downstairs  and  two  bedrooms  upstairs,  rather  like  at home.  It  is  quite  dark  but  I  am  planning  to  whitewash  the  walls,  and  once  I  have  put my  pictures  up  and  displayed  my  pieces  of  china  I  think  it  will  look  quite  pretty. Dimitri  likes  having  his  own  room—he  has  always  had  to  share  so  it  is  quite  a  novelty for  him.

I  have  a  new  friend.  Her  name  is  Elpida  and  she  is  the  wife  of  the  man  who  is in  charge  of  the  government  of  Spinalonga.  They  are  both  very  kind  people  and  we have  had  a  few  meals  at  their  home,  which  is  the  biggest  and  the  grandest  on  the whole  island.  It  has  chandeliers  and  every  table  and  every  chair  has  some  kind  of  lace draped  across  it.  Anna  especially  would  love  it.

I  have  already  planted  some  geranium  cuttings  in  the  courtyard  and  roses  are beginning  to  bloom  on  our  doorstep,  just  like  at  home.  I  will  write  and  tell  you  lots more  in  my  next  letter.  Meanwhile,  begood,  I  think  of  you  every  day.

With  love  and  kisses,

Your  loving  Mother  xxxxx

P.  S.  I  hope  the  bees  are  working  hard—don't  forget  to  collect  the  honey.

Anna  read  the  letter  over  and  over  again  before  walking  slowly  home.  She knew  she  would  be  in  trouble.  From  that  day  on,  Eleni  wrote  separate  letters  to  the two  girls.

Giorgis  visited  the  island  much  more  regularly  now  than  before  and  his meetings  with  Eleni  were  his  oxygen.  He  lived  for  those  moments  when  she  would appear  through  the  archway  in  the  wall.  Sometimes  they  would  sit  on  the  stone mooring  posts;  at  other  times  they  would  remain  standing  in  the  shade  of  the  pines that  grew,  as  if  for  the  purpose,  out  of  the  dry  earth.  Giorgis  would  tell  her  how  the girls  were,  what  they  had  been  doing,  and  would  confide'  in  her  about  Anna's behaviour.

Giorgis  was  not  even  forty  when  Eleni  left,  but  he  was  already  stooped  with anxiety,  and  over  the  next  few  months  he  was  to  age  beyond  recognition.  His  hair turned  from  olive  black  to  the  silvery  grey  of  the  eucalyptus,  and  people  seemed always  to  refer  to  him  as  'Poor  Giorgis'.  It  became  his  name.

Savina  Angelopoulos  did  as  much  as  she  was  able,  whilst  managing  her  own home  too.  On  still,  moonless  nights,  knowing  that  there  could  be  a  rich  catch, Giorgis  would  want  to  fish,  and  it  became  a  regular  event  for  Maria  and  Fotini  to sleep,  top  to  tail,  in  the  latter's  narrow  bed,  with  Anna  on  the  floor  next  to  them, two  thick  blankets  for  her  mattress.  Maria  and  Anna  also  found  they  were  eating more  meals  at  the  Angelopoulos  home  than  their  own,  and  it  was  as  if  Fotini's  own family  had  suddenly  grown  and  she  had  the  sisters  she  had  always  wanted.  On  those nights  there  would  be  eight  at  the  table:  Fotini  and  her  two  brothers,  Antonis  and Angelos,  her  parents,  and  Giorgis,  Anna  and  Maria.  Some  days,  if  she  had  the  time, Savina  would  try  to  teach  Anna  and  Maria  how  to  keep  their  house  tidy,  how  to  beat a  carpet  and  how  to  make  up  a  bed,  but  quite  often  she  would  end  up  doing  it  all  for them.  They  were  just  children,  and  Anna  for  one  had  no  interest  in  anything domestic.  Why  should  she  learn  to  patch  a  sheet,  gut  a  fish  or  bake  a  loaf?  She  was determined  that  she  would  never  need  such  skills  and  from  an  early  age  had  a powerful  urge  to  escape  and  get  away  from  what  she  regarded  as  pointless domestic  drudgery.

The  girls'  lives  could  not  have  been  more  altered  if  a  tornado  had  snatched them  and  dropped  them  on  Santorini.  They  acted  out  their  days  with  a  fixed  routine, for  only  with  a  rigid,  unthinking  pattern  of  activity  could  they  rise  in  the  morning.

Anna  battled  against  it  all,  constantly  complaining  and  questioning  why  things were  as  they  were;  Maria  simply  accepted.  She  knew  that  complaining  achieved nothing  at  all  and  probably  just  made  things  worse.  Her  sister  had  no  such  wisdom. Anna  always  wanted  to  fight  the  status  quo.

Giorgis's  fist  came  down  with  a  bang  on  the  table.  He  was  weary  of  Anna turning  every  small  domestic  task  she  was  asked  to  perform  into  an  argument  and now  even  she  knew  that  she  had  pushed  her  father  to  the  edge.

On  Spinalonga,  meanwhile,  Eleni  tried  to  grow  accustomed  to  what  would  be regarded  as  unacceptable  on  the  mainland  but  on  the  colony  passed  for  normality; she  failed,  however,  and  found  herself  wanting  to  change  whatever  she  could.  Just as  Giorgis  did  not  protect  Eleni  from  his  worries,  she  in  turn  shared  her  concerns about  her  life  and  her  future  on  Spinalonga.

The  first  really  disagreeable  encounter  she  experienced  on  the  island  was  with Kristina  Kroustalakis,  the  woman  who  ran  the  school.

Giorgis  sighed.  Eleni  had  never  been  reticent  about  her  views.

Almost  as  soon  as  they  had  arrived,  Eleni  had  seen  that  the  school  had  little  to offer  Dimitri.  After  his  first  day,  he  returned  silent  and  sullen,  and  when  she enquired  what  he  had  done  in  class  his  reply  was  "Nothing."

After  this,  Eleni  started  to  teach  Dimitri  herself,  and  his  friends  then  began  to come  to  her  for  lessons.  Soon  children  who  had  barely  been  able  to  distinguish  their letters  and  numbers  could  read  fluently  and  do  their  sums  and  within  a  few  months her  small  house  was  filled  with  children  on  five  long  mornings  a  week.  They  ranged in  age  from  six  to  sixteen  and,  with  one  exception,  a  boy  who  had  been  born  on  the island,  they  had  all  been  sent  to  the  island  from  Crete  when  they  had  shown  the symptoms  of  leprosy.  The  majority  of  them  had  received  some  basic  education before  they  arrived,  but  most  of  them,  even  the  older  ones,  had  made  little  progress in  all  the  time  they  had  spent  in  a  classroom  with  Kristina  Kroustalakis.  She  treated them  like  fools,  so  fools  they  remained.

The  tension  between  Kristina  Kroustalakis  and  Eleni  began  to  build  up.  It  was evident  to  almost  everyone  that  Eleni  should  take  over  the  school  and  that  the valuable  teacher's  stipend  should  be  hers.  Kristina  Kroustalakis  fought  her  own corner,  refusing  to  concede  or  even  consider  the  possibility  of  sharing  her  role,  but Eleni  was  tenacious.  She  drove  the  situation  to  a  conclusion,  not  for  her  own  gain but  for  the  good  of  the  island's  seventeen  children,  who  deserved  so  much  more than  they  would  ever  get  from  the  lackadaisical  Kroustalakis.  Pedagogy  was  an investment  in  the  future,  and  Kristina  Kroustalakis  saw  little  point  in  expending much  energy  on  those  who  might  not  be  around  for  long.

Finally,  one  day,  Eleni  was  invited  to  put  her  case  before  the  elders.  She brought  with  her  examples  of  the  work  the  children  had  been  doing  both  before  and after  she  arrived  on  the  island.  "But  this  simply  shows  natural  progress,"  protested one  elder,  known  to  be  a  close  friend  of  Kyria  Kroustalakis.  To  most  of  them  there, however,  the  evidence  was  plain.  Eleni's  zeal  and  commitment  to  her  task  showed results.  Her  driving  force  was  the  belief  that  education  was  not  a  means  to  some nebulous  end  but  had  intrinsic  value,  and  made  the  children  better  people.  The

strong  possibility  that  several  of  them  might  not  live  to  see  their  twenty-­‐first birthdays  was  of  no  relevance  to  Eleni.

There  were  a  few  dissenting  voices,  but  the  majority  of  elders  were  in  favour of  the  controversial,  decision  to  remove  the  established  teacher  from  her  position and  install  Eleni  instead.  For  ever  after  there  would  be  people  on  the  island  who regarded  Eleni  as  a  usurper,  but  she  was  profoundly  unbothered  by  such  an attitude.  The  children  were  what  mattered.

The  school  provided  Dimitri  with  almost  everything  he  needed:  a  structure  to his  day,  stimulation  for  his  mind,  and  companionship,  in  the  form  of  a  new  friend, Nikos,  who  was  the  only  child  to  have  been  born  on  the  island  but  not  taken  to  the mainland  for  adoption.  The  reason  for  this  was  that  he  had  developed  signs  of  the disease  as  a  baby.  If  he  had  been  healthy  he  would  have  been  taken  away  from  his parents,  who,  although  they  were  overwhelmed  with  guilt  that  the  child  shared their  affliction,  were  also  overjoyed  to  be  able  to  keep  him.

Every  moment  of  Dimitri's  life  was  filled,  successfully  keeping  him  from dwelling  on  how  things  used  to  be.  In  some  ways  this  life  was  an  improvement.  The small,  dark-­‐eyed  boy  now  endured  less  hardship,  less  anxiety  and  fewer  worries than  had  burdened  him  as  the  oldest  of  five  children  in  a  peasant  family.  Each afternoon,  however,  when  he  left  the  school  building  to  return  to  the  semi-­‐darkness of  his  new  home,  he  would  become  aware  of  the  undercurrents  of  adult  disquiet.  He would  hear  snatches  of  conversation  as  he  passed  the  kafenion  or  whispered discussions  between  people  as  they  talked  in  the  street.

Sometimes  there  were  new  rumours  mixed  in  with  the  old.  There  was  the endlessly  recycled  discussion  over  whether  they  would  be  getting  a  new  generator and  the  perennial  debate  over  the  water  supply.  In  the  past  few  months  there  had been  whispers  about  a  grant  for  new  accommodation  and  an  increased  'pension'  for every  member  of  the  colony.  Dimitri  listened  to  a  great  deal  of  adult  talk  and observed  that  grown-­‐ups  endlessly  chewed  over  the  same  matter,  like  dogs  with  old bones  long  since  stripped  of  their  flesh.  The  smallest  events,  as  well  as  the  larger ones  such  as  illness  and  death,  were  anticipated  and  mulled  over.  One  day,  though, something  took  place  for  which  there  had  been  no  build-­‐up  and  little  forewarning but  which  was  to  have  a  huge  impact  on  the  life  of  the  island.

One  night  a  few  months  after  Dimitri  and  Eleni  had  arrived  they  were  eating supper  when  they  were  disturbed  by  an  insistent  banging  on  the  door.  It  was  Elpida, and  the  elderly  woman  was  out  of  breath  and  flushed  with  excitement.

Eleni  knew  Elpida  well  enough  by  now  to  realise  that  if  she  said  help  was called  for,  no  questions  needed  to  be  asked.  Dimitri's  curiosity  was  aroused.  He dropped  his  cutlery  and  followed  the  women  as  they  hastened  down  the  twilit street,  listening  as  Kyria  Kontomaris  blurted  out  the  story,  her  words  tumbling  out one  after  the  other.

By  now  they  had  reached  the  entrance  to  the  long  tunnel  which  led  to  the quay,  and  Eleni  turned  to  Dimitri.

Even  from  the  end  of  the  tunnel  Dimitri  could  hear  the  muffled  echo  of  male voices,  and  he  was  more  curious  than  ever  about  what  was  causing  such commotion.  The  two  women  hurried  on  and  were  soon  out  of  sight.  Dimitri aimlessly  kicked  a  stone  about  at  the  tunnel  entrance  and  then,  looking  furtively behind  him,  darted  into  the  dark  passageway,  making  sure  he  kept  close  to  the sides.  As  he  turned  the  corner  he  could  see  quite  clearly  what  the  fuss  was  all  about.

New  inhabitants  usually  arrived  one  by  one  and  after  a  quiet  welcome  from Petros  Kontomaris  slipped  as  discreetly  into  the  community  as  they  could.  Initially, the  best  anyone  hoped  for  on  Spinalonga  was  anonymity,  and  most  people remained  silent  as  they  were  welcomed.  On  the  quayside  tonight,  however,  there was  no  such  calm.  As  they  tumbled  off  Giorgis's  small  boat,  many  of  the  new  arrivals lost  their  balance  before  landing  heavily  on  the  stony  ground.  They  shouted,  writhed and  howled,  some  of  them  clearly  in  pain,  and  from  his  shadowy  position,  Dimitri could  see  why  they  had  fallen.  The  newcomers  seemed  not  to  have  arms,  at  least not  arms  that  hung  freely  by  their  sides,  and  when  he  looked  closer,  he  realised  that they  were  all  wearing  strange  jackets  that  trapped  their  arms  behind  their  backs.

Dimitri  watched  as  Eleni  and  Elpida  bent  down,  one  by  one  undid  the  straps that  kept  these  people  tied  up  like  packages,  and  released  them  from  their  hessian prisons.  Lying  in  heaps  on  the  dusty  ground  these  creatures  seemed  less  than human.  One  of  them  then  staggered  to  the  water's  edge,  leant  towards  the  sea  and vomited  copiously.  Another  did  the  same—and  then  a  third.

Dimitri  watched  both  fascinated  and  fearful,  as  still  as  the  rocky  wall  which screened  him.  As  the  newcomers  unfurled  themselves  and  slowly  stood  upright  they regained  a  little  dignity.  Even  from  a  hundred  metres,  he  could  feel  the  anger  and aggression  that  emanated  from  them.  Gathering  round  one  particular  man  who appeared  to  be  attempting  to  calm  them,  several  talked  at  once,  their  voices  raised.

Dimitri  counted.  There  were  eighteen  of  them  here,  and  Giorgis  was  turning his  boat  around  again  to  return  to  Plaka.  One  more  boatload-­‐was  still  to  arrive.

Close  to  the  quayside  in  Plaka,  a  crowd  had  gathered  in  the  square  to  study this  curious  group.  A  few  days  before,  Giorgis  had  taken  a  letter  from  Athens  across to  Petros  Kontomaris  warning  him  of  the  lepers'  imminent  arrival.  Between  them they  had  agreed  to  keep  their  own  counsel.  The  prospect  of  nearly  two  dozen  new patients  arriving  simultaneously  on  Spinalonga  would  send  the  islanders  into  a  state of  panic.  All  Kontomaris  had  been  told  was  that  these  lepers  had  created  trouble  at

the  hospital  in  Athens—and  as  a  consequence  had  been  dispatched  to  Spinalonga. They  had  been  shipped  like  cattle  from  Piraeus  to  Iraklion  on  two  days  of  rough seas.  Stricken  with  sunstroke  and  sea  sickness,  they  were  then  transferred  to  a smaller  vessel  bound  for  Plaka.  From  there  Giorgis  was  to  bring  them,  six  at  a  time, on  the  final  stretch  of  their  journey.  It  was  plain  for  anyone  to  see  that  this bedraggled  mob  of  abused  and  uncared-­‐for  humanity  would  not  survive  such treatment  for  long.

The  village  children  in  Plaka,  unafraid  to  stare,  had  gathered  to  watch.  Fotini, Anna  and  Maria  were  among  them,  and  Anna  questioned  her  father  as  he  took  a short  break  before  taking  the  final  load  across  the  water.

Giorgis  turned  his  back  on  his  daughter  and  returned  to  his  boat.  There  were just  five  passengers  this  time.  When  they  reached  Spinalonga,  the  other  new  arrivals were  wandering  about.  It  was  the  first  time  in  thirty-­‐six  hours  that  they  had  stood upright.  The  four  women  among  them  remained  in  a  quiet  huddle.  Petros Kontomaris  was  walking  from  one  person  to  another  asking  for  names,  ages, occupations,  and  number  of  years  since  diagnosis.

All  the  while  he  did  this  task,  his  mind  was  spinning.  Every  additional  minute that  he  could  detain  them  here  with  this  bureaucracy  gave  him  more  time  for  some kind  of  inspiration  about  where,  in  heaven's  name,  these  people  were  going  to  be housed.  Each  second  of  procrastination  delayed  the  moment  when  they  would  be led  through  the  tunnel  to  find  that  they  did  not  have  homes  and  that,  potentially, they  were  even  worse  off  than  they  had  been  in  the  Athenian  hospital.  Each  short interview  took  a  few  minutes,  and  by  the  time  he  had  finished,  one  thing  was  very clear  to  him.  In  the  past,  when  he  had  taken  details  of  new  arrivals,  the  majority  had been  fishermen,  smallholders  or  shopkeepers.  This  time,  he  had  a  list  of  trained professionals:  lawyer,  teacher,  doctor,  master  stonemason,  editor,  engineer...the

catalogue  went  on.  This  was  an  entirely  different  category  of  folk  from  those  who made  up  the  bulk  of  the  population  on  Spinalonga,  and  for  a  moment,  Kontomaris felt  slightly  fearful  of  this  band  of  Athenian  citizens  who  had  arrived  in  the  guise  of beggars.

It  was  time  now  to  take  them  into  their  new  world.  Kontomaris  led  the  group through  the  tunnel.  Word  had  got  around  that  newcomers  had  arrived  and  people came  out  of  their  houses  to  stare.  In  the  square,  the  Athenians  drew  to  a  halt  behind the  leader,  who  now  turned  to  face  them,  waiting  until  he  had  their  attention before  he  spoke.

A  crowd  had  now  gathered  around  them  and  there  was  a  murmur  of  unrest  as they  too  listened  to  the  announcement.  Kontomaris,  however,  was  prepared  for hostility  to  the  plan  and  continued.

The  reason  for  the  antagonism  to  the  town  hall  being  used  as  a  dormitory  was that  it  was  where  the  social  life  of  Spinalonga,  such  as  it  was,  took  place.  It represented,  as  much  as  anything  could,  the  social  and  political  normality  of  life  on Spinalonga,  and  to  commandeer  it  was  to  strip  the  islanders  of  a  key  resource.  But where  else  was  there?  There  was  one  empty  room  in  'the  block',  the  soulless  new apartment  building,  and  this  was  where  the  Athenian  women  would  be  housed. Kontomaris  would  ask  Elpida  to  take  them  there  while  he  got  the  men  settled  into their  makeshift  quarters.  His  heart  sank  when  he  thought  about  his  wife's  task;  the only  difference  between  the  new  block  and  a  prison  was  that  the  doors  there  were bolted  from  the  inside  rather  than  from  the  outside.  But  for  the  men  it  had  to  be  the town  hall.

That  night,  Spinalonga  became  home  to  the  twenty-­‐three  Athenian newcomers.  Soon,  many  of  those  who  had  come  to  gawp  realised  that  more constructive  action  was  needed  and  made  offers  of  food,  drink  and  bedding.  Any donation  from  their  meagre  stores  meant  significant  sacrifice,  but  all,  bar  very  few, managed  some  gesture.

The  first  few  days  were  tense.  Everyone  waited  to  see  what  impact  these  new arrivals  would  have,  but  for  forty-­‐eight  hours  most  of  them  were  hardly  seen,  many lying  impassively  on  their  improvised  bedding.  Dr  Lapakis  visited  them  and  noted that  they  were  all  suffering  not  just  from  leprosy  but  also  from  the  rigours  of  a journey  without  adequate  food  or  water  and  without  shade  from  the  relentless  sun. It  would  take  each  one  of  them  several  weeks  to  recover  from  the  months,  perhaps years,  of  mistreatment  they  had  endured  even  before  they  had  embarked  on  their journey  from  Athens.  Lapakis  had  heard  that  there  was  no  discernible  difference between  conditions  in  the  leprosy  hospital  and  those  in  the  gaol  just  a  few  hundred

metres  away  on  the  edge  of  the  city.  The  story  went  that  the  lepers  were  fed  on scraps  from  the  prison  and  that  their  clothes  were  cast-­‐offs  stripped  from  corpses  in the  city's  main  hospital.  He  soon  learned  that  this  was  not  just  a  myth.

All  the  patients  had  been  treated  barbarically,  and  this  group  who  had  arrived in  Crete  had  been  the  driving  force  behind  a  rebellion.  Mostly  professional, educated  people,  they  had  led  a  hunger  strike,  drafted  letters  which  were  smuggled out  to  friends  and  politicians  and  stirred  up  dissent  throughout  the  hospital.  Rather than  agreeing  to  any  change,  however,  the  governor  of  the  hospital  decided  to  evict them;  or,  as  he  preferred  to  term  it,  'transfer  them  to  more,  suitable accommodation'.  Their  expulsion  to  Spinalonga  marked  an  end  for  them,  and  a  new beginning  for  the  island.

The  women  were  visited  each  day  by  Elpida  and  were  soon  recovered  enough to  have  their  tour  of  the  island  and  to  take  coffee  at  the  Kontomaris  house,  and even  to  begin  planning  how  they  would  make  use  of  the  small  plot  of  ground  which had  been  cleared  for  them  to  grow  vegetables.  They  recognised  very  quickly  that this  life  was  an  improvement  on  the  old.  At  least  it  was  a  life.  Conditions  at  the Athenian  hospital  had  been  horrific.  The  fires  of  hell  could  not  have  been  more stifling  than  the  suffocating  summer  heat  in  their  mean,  claustrophobic  rooms.  Add to  that  the  rats  that  scratched  about  on  the  floors  during  the  night,  and  they  had  felt no  worthier  than  vermin.

Spinalonga,  by  contrast,  was  paradise.  It  offered  unimag-­‐ined  freedom,  with fresh  air,  birdsong  and  a  street  to  amble  down;  here  they  could  rediscover  their humanity.  During  the  long  days  of  their  journey  from  Athens,  some  had  considered taking  their  own  lives,  assuming  that  they  were  being  sent  to  an  even  worse  place than  the  vile  Hades  where  they  had  been  struggling  to  survive.  On  Spinalonga,  from their  window  on  the  second  floor,  the  women  could  see  the  sun  rise,  and  during their  first  days  on  the  island  they  were  entranced  by  the  sight  of  the  slow-­‐breaking dawn.

Just  as  Eleni  had  done,  they  turned  the  space  they  were  given  into  a  home. Embroidered  cotton  cloths  hung  across  the  windows  at  night  and  woven  rugs  spread across  their  beds  transformed  the  room  and  made  it  look  like  any  simple  Cretan dwelling.

For  the  men,  it  was  a  different  story.  They  languished  on  their  beds  for  several days,  many  of  them  still  weakened  by  the  hunger  strike  they  had  staged  in  Athens. Kontomaris  organised  for  food  to  be  brought  to  the  hall  and  left  in  the  vestibule,  but when  the  dishes  were  collected  on  the  first  day  the  islanders  saw  that  their  offerings had  scarcely  been  touched.  The  great  metal  cooking  pot  was  still  full  to  the  brim with  lamb  stew;  the  only  indication  that  there  was  any  life  in  the  building  was  that of  the  five  loaves  brought  to  the  town  hall,  only  three  remained.

On  the  second  day  all  the  bread  was  eaten,  and  on  the  third,  a  pan  of  rabbit casserole  was  scraped  clean.  Each  day  such  signs  of  increased  appetite  signified  the revival  of  these  pitiful  creatures.  On  the  fourth  day,  Nikos  Papadimitriou  emerged,

blinking,  into  the  dazzling  sunlight.  Forty-­‐five  years  old  and  a  lawyer,  Papadimitriou had  once  been  at  the  centre  of  Athenian  life.  Now  he  was  the  leader  and  spokesman for  a  group  of  lepers,  playing  this  role  with  just  as  much  energy  as  he  had  put  into his  legal  career.  Nikos  was  a  natural  troublemaker,  and  if  he  had  not  gone  into  law, he  might  have  chosen  crime  instead.  His  attempts  to  oppose  the  Athenian authorities  by  organising  the  revolt  in  the  hospital  had  not  been  entirely  successful, but  he  was  more  determined  than  ever  to  win  better  conditions  for  his  fellow  lepers now  that  they  were  on  Spinalonga.  .

Though  sharp-­‐tongued,  Papadimitriou  had  great  charm  and  could  always gather  supporters.  His  great  ally  and  friend  was  Mihalis  Kouris,  an  engineer  who had,  like  Papadimitriou,  been  in  the  Athenian  hospital  for  nearly  five  years.  That  day, Kontomaris  took  them  around  Spinalonga.  Unlike  the  majority  of  newcomers  shown the  island  for  the  first  time,  a  constant  stream  of  questions  flowed  from  these  two men:  "So  where  is  the  water  source?"

Kontomaris  answered  their  questions  as  well  as  he  could,  but  could  tell  by their  every  grunt  and  sigh  that  they  were  rarely  satisfied  with  the  answers.  The island  leader  knew  perfectly  well  that  Spinalonga  was  underresourced.  He  had worked  tirelessly  for  six  years  to  improve  things  and  in  many  areas  he  had succeeded,  though  never  to  the  degree  that  everyone  wanted.  It  was  a  thankless task,  and  as  he  strolled  out  beyond  the  town  towards  the  cemetery,  he  wondered why  he  had  bothered  at  all.  This  was  where  they  would  all  end  up,  however  hard  he strived  to  make  things  better.  All  three  of  them  would  eventually  lie  beneath  a  stone slab  in  one  of  these  subterranean  concrete  bunkers  until  their  bones  were  moved  to one  side  to  make  way  for  the  next  corpse.  The  futility  of  it  all  and  the  distant  sound of  Papadimitriou's  insistent  questioning  made  him  want  to  sit  down  and  weep.  He decided  at  that  very  moment  that  he  would  tell  the  Athenians  the  bald  facts.  If  they were  more  interested  in  reality  than  in  simply  being  made  to  feel  welcome,  then  so be  it.

They  nodded  in  assent,  and  Kontomaris  began  to  give  them  the  details  of  the island's  shortcomings.  He  described  every  hoop  he  had  jumped  through  in  order  to make  any  changes  and  told  them  about  all  the  issues  currently  under  negotiation. Then  the  three  of  them  went  back  to  the  leader's  house  and,  with  Papadimitriou and  Kouris's  fresh  perspective  on  the  island's  facilities,  drew  up  a  new  plan.  This included  works  in  progress,  projects  to  be  started  and  finished  within  the  coming year  and  an  outline  of  what  would  be  undertaken  in  the  forthcoming  five-­‐year

period.  Such  prospects  in  themselves  would  create  the  sense  of  moving  forward  that these  people  needed  so  much.

From  that  day,  Papadimitriou  and  Kouris  became  Kontomaris's  great supporters.  No  longer  did  they  feel  like  condemned  men,  but  as  though  they  had been  given  a  new  start.  Life  had  not  held  so  much  potential  for  a  very  long  time. Within  weeks,  the  proposals,  which  included  specifications  for  building  and reconstruction,  were  ready  to  be  submitted  to  the  government.  Papadimitriou  knew how  to  lean  on  the  politicians,  and  his  law  firm  in  Athens,  a  family  practice  of  some influence,  became  involved.  "Everyone  on  this  island  is  a  citizen  of  Greece,"  he insisted.  "They  have  rights  and  I'm  damned  if  I  won't  fight  for  them."  To  the amazement  of  everyone—apart  from  Papadimitrou  himself—within  a  month  the government  had  agreed  to  provide  the  sum  of  money  they  had  asked  for.

The  other  Athenians,  once  they  had  risen  from  their  torpor,  threw  themselves into  new  building  projects.  No  longer  were  they  abandoned  invalids  but  members  of a  community  where  everyone  had  to  pull  their  weight.  It  was  now  late  September, and  though  temperatures  were  more  moderate,  the  issue  of  water  was  still pressing—the  addition  of  twenty-­‐three  new  inhabitants  had  placed  more  demand than  ever  on  the  supply  from  the  mainland  and  the  crumbling  water  tunnels. Something  had  to  be  done,  and  Mihalis  Kouris  was  the  man  to  do  it.

Once  repairs  were  complete,  everyone  looked  to  the  heavens  for  rain,  and one  night  in  early  November  their  prayers  were  answered.  In  a  spectacular  display of  sound  and  light,  the  skies  opened,  noisily  emptying  their  contents  on  to  the island,  the  mainland  and  the  sea  all  around.  Pebble-­‐sized  hailstones  bounced  down, breaking  windows  and  sending  goats  scampering  for  safety  on  the  hillsides,  as flashes  of  lightning  bathed  the  landscape  in  an  apocalyptic  luminescence.  Next morning  the  islanders  woke  to  find  their  watersheds  brimful  of  cool,  clear  water. Having  resolved  the  most  pressing  issue  of  all,  the  Athenians  then  turned  their attention  to  creating  homes  for  themselves.  There  was  a  derelict  area  between  the main  street  and  the  sea;  it  was  where  the  Turks  had  built  their  first  houses.  The dwellings,  mere  shells,  were  constructed  right  up  against  the  fortress  walls  and would  have  been  among  the  most  sheltered  of  all  enclaves.  With  the  sort  of  industry and  efficiency  rarely  seen  on  Crete,  the  old  houses  were  restored  and  raised  up  out of  the  rubble,  with  good-­‐as-­‐new  masonry  and  skilfully  planed  carpentry.  Well  before the  first  snowfall  crowned  Mount  Dhikti  they  were  ready  to  be  occupied  and  the town  hall  was  once  again  available  for  everyone.  Not  that  the  initial  resentment against  the  Athenian  lepers  had  lasted  for  long.  It  had  only  been  a  matter  of  weeks before  the  population  of  Spinalonga  had  recognised  the  potential  of  the  new islanders  and  realised  that  what  they  might  give  would  far  exceed  what  they  could ever  take.

Then,  as  winter  approached,  the  campaign  for  the  generator  began  again  in earnest.  Heat  and  light  would  become  the  most  valuable  commodities  as  the  winds began  to  find  their  way  through  chinks  in  every  door  and  window,  whipping  through

the  draughty  homes  in  the  fading  mid-­‐afternoon  light.  Now  that  the  government had  discovered  that  Spinalonga  had  a  more  strident  voice,  one  that  could  not  be disregarded,  it  was  not  long  before  a  letter  came  promising  everything  that  was required.  Many  of  the  islanders  were  cynical.  "I  wouldn't  put  money  on  them keeping  their  word,"  some  would  say.  "Until  I  can  turn  on  a  lamp  in  my  own  house,  I won't  trust  them  to  deliver,"  agreed  others.  The  general  view  among  people  who had  been  on  Spinalonga  for  more  than  a  few  years  was  that  the  government's promise  was  worth  no  more  than  the  flimsy  paper  it  was  written  on.

Just  ten  days  before  all  the  parts  arrived,  labelled  and  complete,  the anticipation  of  the  generator  was  the  main  topic  of  Eleni's  identical  letters  to  Anna and  Maria:

The  generator  is  going  to  make  so  much  difference  to  our  lives.  There  was  one here  once  before  so  some  of  the  electric  fittings  are  already  in  place  and  two  of  the men  from  Athens  are  expert  in  how  to  make  it  all  work  (thank  goodness).  Every house  is  promised  at  least  one  light  and  a  small  heater  and  those  are  due  to  arrive  at the  same  time  as  the  rest  of  the  equipment.

Anna  read  her  letter  in  the  dying  light  of  a  winter's  afternoon.  A  low  fire burned  in  the  grate  but  she  could  see  her  breath  on  the  cold  air.  A  candle  cast  a flickering  light  across  the  page  and  she  idly  poked  a  corner  of  the  sheet  into  its flame.  Slowly  the  fire  crept  across,  melting  the  paper  until  she  held  nothing  but  a fingertip-­‐sized  piece  which  she  then  dropped  into  the  wax.  Why  did  her  mother have  to  write  so  often?  Did  she  really  think  that  they  all  wanted  to  hear  of  her warm,  contented  and  now  well-­‐lit  life  with  that  boy?  Her  father  made  them  reply  to every  letter,  and  Anna  struggled  over  every  word.  She  was  not  happy  and  she  was not  going  to  pretend.

Maria  read  her  letter  and  showed  it  to  her  father.

By  the  beginning  of  winter,  before  the  sharpness  of  the  December  winds arrived,  the  island  had  warmth  and,  after  darkness  fell,  those  who  wished  could  now read  by  the  dimmest  of  dim  electric  lights.

When  Advent  began,  Giorgis  and  Eleni  needed  to  decide  how  to  deal  with Christmas.  It  was  to  be  their  first  one  apart  for  fifteen  years.  The  festival  did  not have  the  importance  of  Easter,  but  it  was  a  time  for  ritual  and  feasting  within  the family  and  Eleni's  absence  would  be  a  gaping  void.

For  a  few  days  before  and  after  Christmas  Giorgis  did  not  cross  the  choppy waters  to  visit  Eleni.  Not  just  because  the  vicious  wind  would  bite  into  his  hands  and face  until  they  were  raw,  but  because  his  daughters  needed  him  to  stay.  Similarly, Eleni's  attentions  had  to  be  on  Dimitri  and  they  played  out  in  parallel  the  age-­‐old traditions.  As  they  always  had,  the  girls  sang  tuneful  kalanda  from  house  to  house and  were  rewarded  with  sweets  and  dried  fruit,  and  after  early  morning  mass  on

Christmas  Day  they  feasted  with  the  Angelopoulos  family  on  pork  and  delicious kourambiethes,  sweet  nutty  biscuits  baked  by  Savina.  Things  were  not  so  very different  on  Spinalonga.  The  children  sang  in  the  square,  helped  bake  the  ornate seasonal  loaves  known  as  christopsomo,  Christ's  bread,  and  ate  as  never  before.  For Dimitri  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  enjoyed  such  plentiful  quantities  of  rich  food  and witnessed  such  hedonism.

Throughout  the  twelve  days  of  Christmas,  Giorgis  and  Eleni  sprinkled  a  little holy  water  in  each  room  of  their  respective  houses  to  deter  the  kallikantzari, seasonal  goblins  that  were  said  to  play  havoc  in  the  home,  and  on  1  January,  St Basil's  Day,  Giorgis  visited  Eleni  once  again,  bringing  her  presents  from  the  children and  from  Savina.  The  ending  of  the  old  year  and  the  beginning  of  the  new  was  a watershed,  a  milestone  that  had  been  safely  passed,  taking  the  Petrakis  family  into  a different  era.  Although  Anna  and  Maria  still  missed  their  mother,  they  now  knew that  they  could  survive  without  her.

Chapter  Six

1940

AFTER  ITS  BEST  winter  in  years  came  Spinalonga's  most  glorious  spring.  It  was not  just  the  carpets  of  wild  flowers  that  spread  across  the  slopes  of  the  island's north  side  and  peeped  out  of  every  crack  in  the  rocks  that  made  it  so,  but  also  the sense  of  new  life  that  had  been  breathed  into  the  community.

Spinalonga's  main  street,  only  a  few  months  earlier  a  series  of  dilapidated buildings,  was  now  a  smart  row  of  shops  with  shutters  and  doors  freshly  painted  in deep  blues  and  greens.  They  were  now  places  where  shopkeepers  displayed  their wares  with  pride  and  islanders  shopped  not  just  out  of  necessity  but  for  pleasure too.  For  the  first  time,  the  island  had  its  own  economy.  People  were  productive: they  bartered,  bought  and  sold,  sometimes  at  a  profit,  sometimes  at  a  loss.

The  kafenion  was  flourishing  too  and  a  new  taverna  opened  which  specialised in  kakavia,  fish  soup,  freshly  made  each  day.  One  of  the  busiest  places  in  the  main street  was  the  barber.  Stelios  Vandis  had  been  the  top  hair  stylist  in  Rethimnon, Crete's  second  city,  but  had  abandoned  his  trade  when  he  had  been  exiled  to Spinalonga.  When  Papadimitriou  learned  that  they  had  such  a  man  in  their  midst,  he insisted  Vandis  resume  his  work.  The  Athenian  men  were  all  peacocks.  They  had  the swaggering  vanity  of  the  city  type  and  in  their  former  days  had  all  enjoyed  the  ritual of  the  fortnightly  trim  to  both  hair  and  moustache,  the  condition  and  shape  of  which almost  defined  their  manliness.  Life  took  a  turn  for  the  better  now  that  they  had found  someone  who  could  make  them  handsome  again.  It  was  not  individual  style that  they  aspired  to  but  identically  luxurious  and  well-­‐coiffed  hair.

to  a  position  of  leadership  on  the  island.

As  Kontomaris's  strength  began  to  fail,  the  leader  relied  more  and  more  on Papadimitriou,  and  the  popularity  of  the  Athenian  grew  among  the  islanders.  The men  respected  him  for  what  he  had  achieved  in  such  a  short  time;  the  women  were grateful  too;  and  soon  he  enjoyed  a  sort  of  hero-­‐worship,  no  doubt  enhanced  by  his silver-­‐screen  looks.  Like  most  of  the  Athenians  he  had  always  lived  in  the  city,  and one  result  of  this  was  that  he  did  not  have  the  bent  and  grizzled  appearance  of  the average  Cretan  male  who  had  spent  the  best  part  of  his  life  in  the  open  air,  scraping a  living  off  the  land  or  out  of  the  sea.  Until  the  past  few  months  of  manual  labour, his  skin  had  seen  little  sunlight  and  even  less  wind.

Although  the  Athenian  had  ambitions,  he  was  not  a  ruthless  man,  and  he would  not  stand  for  election  unless  Kontomaris  was  ready  to  retire.

Papadimitriou  was  'unsurprised  at  this  last  comment.  During  the  six  months since  his  arrival  he  had  seen  Kontomaris's  condition  deteriorate.  The  two  men  had been  close  for  some  time  and  he  had  known  that  the  elderly  leader  was  grooming him  as  his  successor.

The  two  men  played  on  in  a  silence  only  broken  by  the  clack  of  the  counters.

Papadimitriou  drew  on  his  cigarette  and  paused  a  moment  as  he  exhaled.  He decided  to  let  the  matter  rest.  The  issue  might  be  hypothetical  in  any  case  since  the election  was  not  entirely  a  fait  accompli.  It  would  be  contested  by  two  others,  one of  whom  had  been  on  the  island  for  some  six  or  seven  years  and  had  a  large following;  the  election  of  Theodoras  Makridakis  seemed,  to  Papadimitriou  at  least,  a distinct  possibility.  A  large  contingent  of  the  population  responded  to  Makridakis's negativity,  and  although  they  loved  to  lap  up  the  benefits  of  all  Papadimitriou's  hard work  and  the  dramatic  changes  of  the  past  six  months,  they  also  felt  that  their interests  could  be  better  served  by  someone  who  was  driven  by  anger.  It  was  easy to  believe  that  the  fire  that  propelled  Makridakis  might  help  him  achieve  things  that reason  and  diplomacy  could  not.

The  annual  elections  in  late  March  were  the  mostly  hotly  contested  in  the history  of  the  island,  and  this  time  the  results  actually  mattered.  Spinalonga  was somewhere  worth  governing  and  leadership  was  no  longer  a  poisoned  chalice. Three  men  stood:  Papadimitriou,  Spyros  Kazakis  and  Theodores  Makridakis.  On  the day  of  the  election  every  man  and  woman  placed  a  vote,  and  even  the  lepers  who were  confined  in  the  hospital  with  little  chance  of  ever  emerging  again  from  their sickbeds  were  taken  a  ballot  paper  which  was  duly  returned  to  the  town  hall  in  a sealed  envelope.

Spyros  Kazakis  won  a  mere  handful  of  votes  and  Makridakis,  to Papadimitriou's  relief  and  surprise,  gained  fewer  than  one  hundred.  This  left  the lion's  share  and  the  clear  majority  to  the  Athenian.  The  population  had  voted  with their  hearts,  but  also  with  wisdom.  Makridakis's  posturing  was  all  very  well,  but achievement  counted  for  more,  and  for  this  Papadimitriou  knew  at  last  that  he  was recognised.  It  was  a  pivotal  moment  in  the  civilising  of  the  island.

He  paused  for  a  moment,  enough  time  for  someone  to  shout  out  from  the crowd:  "Three  cheers  for  Papadimitriou!"  When  the  cheers  died  down,  he  added one  final  note  to  his  message.

The  crowd  of  two  hundred  mirrored  the  gesture,  and  with  a  cry  that  was heard  across  the  water  in  Plaka  they  cried  out  in  unison:  "To  Spinalonga!"

Theodoras  Makridakis,  unnoticed  by  anyone,  sloped  away  into  the  shadows. He  had  long  yearned  to  be  the  leader  and  his  disappointment  was  as  bitter  as  an unripe  olive.

The  next  afternoon,  Elpida  Kontomaris  began  to  pack  her  possessions.  Within

a  day  or  two  she  and  Petros  would  need  to  move  out  of  this  house  and  into Papadimitriou's  current  accommodation.  She  had  expected  this  moment  for  a  long time  but  it  did  not  lessen  the  feeling  of  dread  that  weighed  her  down  so  that  she could  scarcely  summon  the  energy  to  move  one  foot  in  front  of  the  other.  She  went about  packing  in  a  desultory  fashion,  her  heavy  body  unwilling  to  do  the  task  and her  misshapen  feet  more  painful  than  'ever  before.  As  she  stood  contemplating  the prospect  of  tidying  away  the  precious  contents  of  the  glass-­‐fronted  cabinet—the rows  of  soldiers,  the  tiny  pieces  of  porcelain  and  the  engraved  silver  that  had  been in  her  family  for  many  generations—she  asked  herself  where  these  valuables  would go  when  she  and  Petros  were  no  more.  The  two  of  them  were  the  end  of  the  line.

A  gentle  tap  on  the  door  interrupted  her  thoughts.  That  must  be  Eleni,  she thought.  Though  busy  with  school  and  the  task  of  motherhood,  Eleni  had  promised to  come  by  that  afternoon  to  help  her,  and  she  was  always  true  to  her  word.  When Elpida  opened  the  door,  however,  expecting  to  see  her  slim,  fine-­‐featured  friend,  a large,  darkly  dressed  male  figure  filled  the  frame  instead.  It  was  Papadimitriou.

Elpida's  eyes  glistened  with  tears.  "It's  so  kind  of  you,"  she  said,  extending both  her  hands  towards  him.  "So  very  kind.  I  can  see  that  you  mean  it,  but  I  don't know  how  we  are  going  to  persuade  Petros."

Elpida  could  see  that  this  was  no  idle  gesture.  The  man  meant  what  he  said and  was  used  to  getting  what  he  wanted.  This  was  why  he  had  been  elected  leader, and  as  she  reposi-­‐tioned  the  lead  soldiers  in  their  ranks  she  tried  to  analyse  what  it was  that  made  Papadimitriou  so  hard  to  disagree  with.  It  was  not  merely  his  physical stature.  That  on  its  own  might  simply  have  made  him  a  bully.  He  had  other,  more subtle  techniques.  Sometimes  he  moved  people  round  to  his  point  of  view  simply through  the  modulations  of  his  voice.  On  other  occasions  he  would  achieve  the same  end  by  overpowering  them  with  the  force  of  his  logic.  His  lawyer's  skills  were

as  sharp  as  ever,  even  on  Spinalonga.

Before  Papadimitriou  went  on  his  way,  Elpida  asked  him  to  eat  with  them when  he  returned  that  evening.  Her  great  talent  was  in  the  kitchen.  She  cooked  as no  one  else  on  Spinalonga,  and  only  a  fool  would  ever  turn  down  such  an  invitation. As  soon  as  he  had  gone  she  went  about  preparing  the  meal,  fashioning  her  favourite kefethes,  meat  balls  in  egg-­‐lemon  sauce,  and  measuring  out  the  ingredients  for revani,  a  sweet  cake  made  with  semolina  and  syrup.

When  Kontomaris  came  home  that  evening,  his  duties  as  leader  finally completed,  there  was  a  lightness  in  his  step.  As  he  entered  his  home,  the  fragrant smells  of  baking  wafted  over  him  and  an  apron-­‐clad  Elpida  came  towards  him,  her arms  outstretched  in  welcome.  They  embraced,  his  head  resting  on  her  shoulder.

As  he  glanced  up,  he  noticed  that  the  room  looked  just  as  it  always  had.  There was  no  sign  of  the  half-­‐filled  crates  that  had  been  standing  about  the  room  when  he had  left  that  morning.

Precisely  on  cue,  there  was  a  firm  knock  at  the  door.  Papadimitriou  had arrived.

Once  they  were  all  seated  and  a  generous  glass  of  ouzo  had  been  poured  for each  of  them,  Kontomaris  regained  his  composure.

His  smile  belied  his  stern  tone  and  the  formality  of  his  words.  He  was  secretly delighted  at  Papadimitriou's  generosity,  not  least  because  he  knew  how  much  it meant  to  his  wife.  The  three  of  them  toasted  each  other  in  ratification  of  the  deal that  had  been  struck,  and  the  issue  of  the  leader's  house  was  never  mentioned between  them  again.  There  were  a  few  rumbles  of  dissent  among  the  council members  and  fervent  discussions  about  what  would  happen  if  a  future  leader wished  to  reclaim  the  splendid  house,  but  a  compromise  was  eventually  reached: tenancy  of  the  house  would  be  reassessed  every  five  years.

After  the  election,  work  continued  apace  with  the  renovation  of  the  island. Papadimitriou's  efforts  had  not  merely  been  an  electioneering  ploy.  Repairing  and rebuilding  went  on  until  everyone  had  a  decent  place  to  live,  their  own  oven,  usually in  the  courtyard  in  front  of  their  home,  and,  even  more  importantly  for  their  sense of  pride,  a  private  outdoor  latrine.

Now  that  water  was  being  collected  efficiently  there  was  plenty  for  everyone, and  an  extensive  communal  laundry  was  built  with  a  long  row  of  smooth  concrete sinks.  It  was  little  less  than  a  luxury  for  the  women,  who  would  linger  over  their washing,  making  the  area  a  vibrant  social  focus.

The  social  aspect  of  their  lives  was  also  enhanced,  however,  in  less  workaday situations.  For  Panos  Sklavounis,  an  Athenian  who  had  once  been  an  actor,  the working  day  began  when  everyone  else's  had  ended.  Not  long  after  the  election,  he took  Papadimitriou  to  one  side.  Sklavounis's  approach  was  aggressive,  which  was typical  of  the  man's  manner.  He  liked  confrontation  and  as  an  actor  back  in  Athens had  been  used  to  hustling.

Six  months  earlier,  such  a  proposal  would  have  seemed  ambitious  beyond words  and  as  laughable  as  telling  the  lepers  they  ceuld  swim  across  to  Elounda  to visit  the  cinema.  Now,  however,  it  was  not  beyond  the  realms  of  possibility.

Keeping  the  islanders  happy  and  occupied  in  the  evening  might  indeed  help rule  out  much  of  the  discontent  that  still  lingered.  While  people  sat  in  rows  in  the dark,  thought  Papadimitriou,  they  could  not  be  drinking  to  excess  or  hatching  plots in  the  kafenion.

Sklavounis  was  quick  to  reply.  He  had  already  worked  out  how  many  people could  fit  into  the  town  hall  and  where  he  could  get  a  projector,  a  screen  and  the  film reels.  He  had  also,  very  importantly,  done  the  figures.  The  missing  element,  until  he had  committee  approval,  was  money,  but  given  that  so  many  of  the  lepers  were now  earning  some  kind  of  income,  an  entry  fee  could  be  charged  to  the  new  cinema and  the  cost  of  the  entire  enterprise  might  eventually  cover  itself.

Within  a  few  weeks  of  his  initial  request,  posters  appeared  around  the  town:

Saturday  13  April,  7.00  p.m.

Town  Hall

The  Apaches  of  Athens

Tickets  2  drachma

By  six  o'clock  that  evening,  over  one  hundred  people  were  queuing  outside the  town  hall.  At  least  another  eighty  had  arrived  by  the  time  the  doors  opened  at

six-­‐thirty,  and  the  same  enthusiasm  greeted  the  film  the  following  Saturday.

Eleni  bubbled  with  excitement  when  she  wrote  to  her  daughters  about  the new  entertainment:

We  are  all  so  enjoying  the  films—they're  the  highlight  of  the  week.  Things don't  always  go  to  plan,  though.  Last  Saturday  the  reels  did  not  arrive  from  Agios Nikolaos.  There  was  such  disappointment  when  people  realised  that  the  film  was cancelled  that  there  was  nearly  a  riot,  and  for  several  days  peoplewent  about  long-­‐ faced,  as  though  the  harvest  had  failed!  Anyway,  everyone  cheered  up  as  the  week progressed,  and  we  were  all  so  relieved  when  your  father  was  spotted  carrying  the reels  ashore.

Within  weeks,  however,  Giorgis  began  to  bring  more  than  the  latest  feature film  from  Athens.  He  also  had  a  newsreel,  which  brought  the  audience  sharply  up  to date  with  the  sinister  events  that  were  taking  place  in  the  outside  world.  Though copies  of  Crete's  weekly  newspaper  made  their  way  to  the  island  and  radios occasionally  crackled  with  the  latest  news  bulletin,  no  one  had  had  any  idea  of  the scale  of  the  growing  havoc  being  wreaked  across  Europe  by  Nazi  Germany.  At  this stage  these  outrages  seemed  remote  and  the  inhabitants  of  Spinalonga  had  other more  immediate  things  to  concern  them.  With  the  elections  behind  them,  Easter was  approaching.

In  previous  years,  the  observance  of  this,  the  greatest  of  Christian  festivals, had  been  subdued.  The  festivities  taking  place  in  Plaka  made  plenty  of  noise,  and although  a  reduced  version  of  the  same  dramatic  rituals  was'  always  held  in Spinalonga's  little  church  of  St  Pantaleimon,  there  was  a  sense  that  it  was  not  the same  as  the  full-­‐scale  celebrations  taking  place  across  the  water.

This  year  it  was  to  be  different.  Papadimitriou  would  make  sure  of  that.  The commemoration  of  Christ's  resurrection  in  Spinalonga  was  to  be  no  less  extravagant in  expression  than  anything  held  on  Crete  or  in  mainland  Greece  itself.

Lent  had  been  strictly  observed.  Most  people  had  gone  without  meat  and  fish for  forty  days,  and  in  the  final  week,  wine  and  olive  oil  had  been  consigned  to  the darkest  recesses.  By  Thursday  of  Passion  Week  the  wooden  cross  in  the  church  that was  big  enough  to  accommodate  perhaps  one  hundred  souls  (so  long  as  they  were as  tight-­‐packed  as  grains  in  an  ear  of  wheat)  was  laden  with  lemon  blossom  and  a long  line  formed  down  the  street  to  mourn  Christ  and  kiss  his  feet.  The  throng  of worshippers  both  inside  and  outside  the  church  stood  hushed.  This  was  a melancholy  moment,  and  all  the  more  so  when  they  looked  on  the  icon  of  St Pantaleimon,  who  was,  as  the  more  cynical  of  the  lepers  described  him,  the supposed  patron  saint  of  healing.  Many  had  lost  faith  in  him  some  time  earlier,  but his  life  story  had  made  him  the  perfect  choice  for  such  a  church.  A  young  doctor  in Roman  times,  Pantaleimon  followed  his  mother's  lead  and  became  a  Christian,  an act  which  would  almost  certainly  result  in  persecution.  His  success  in  healing  the  sick aroused  suspicions  and  he  was  arrested,  stretched  out  on  a  wheel  and  finally  boiled alive.

However  cynical  the  islanders  might  be  about  the  healing  powers  of  the  saint, they  all  joined  in  Christ's  great  funeral  procession  the  next  day.  A  coffin  was decorated  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  late  afternoon  the  floral  epitaphoi  was  carried through  the  streets.  It  was  a  solemn  procession.

Saturday  was  a  quiet  day.  Men,  women  and  children  were  meant  to  be  in mourning.  Everyone  was  busy,  however.  Eleni  organised  the  children  into  a  working party  to  paint  eggs  and  then  decorate  them  with  tiny  leaf  stencils.  Meanwhile  other women  baked  the  traditional  cakes.  By  contrast  with  such  gentle  activities,  the  men all  helped  in  the  slaughter  and  preparation  of  the  lambs  which  had  been  shipped over  a  few  weeks  before.  Once  all  such  chores  were  done,  people  again  visited  the church  to  decorate  it  with  sprigs  of  rosemary,  kurel  leaves  and  myrtle  branches,  and by  early  evening  a  bittersweet  smell  emanated  from  the  building  and  the  air  was heavy  with  anticipation  and  incense.

Eleni  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  crowded  church.  The  people  were  silent, subdued  and  expectant,  straining  to  hear  the  initial  whispers  of  the  Kyrie  Eleison.  It began  so  softly  it  might  have  been  the  breeze  stirring  the  leaves  but  then  grew  into something  almost  tangible,  filling  the  building  and  exploding  into  the  world  outside. The  candles  which  had  burned  inside  the  church  were  now  extinguished  and  under  a starless,  moonless  sky,  the  world  was  plunged  into  darkness.

For  a  few  moments  Eleni  could  sense  nothing  but  the  heavy  scent  of  molten tallow  that  pervaded  the  air.

At  midnight,  when  the  bell  from  the  church  in  Plaka  could  be  heard  tolling resonantly  across  the  still  water,  the  priest  lit  a  single  candle.

Papa  Kazakos,  a  warm-­‐natured,  heavily  bearded  man  with  a  love  for  good living—making  some  justifiably  sceptical  about  whether  he  had  observed  any  kind  of

abstinence  during  Lent—now  began  to  read  the  Gospel.  It  was  a  familiar  passage and  many  of  the  older  islanders  moved  their  lips  in  perfect  synchronicity.

The  great  triumphant  cry  carried  on  in  the  street  for  some  time  as  people wished  each  other  many  happy  years—"Chronia  polla!"—responding  with enthusiasm:  "  E  pisis"—'Same  to  you'.

Then  it  was  time  to  carry  the  lighted  candles  carefully  home.

If  they  could  reach  their  house  with  the,  candle  still  lit,  it  would-­‐  bring  good luck  for  a  whole  year,  and  on  this  still  April  night  it  was  perfectly  feasible  to  do  so. Within  a  few  minutes  every  home  on  the  island  had  a  candle  glowing  in  its  window.

The  final  stage  of  the  ritual  was  the  lighting  of  the  bonfire,  the  symbolic burning  of  the  traitor  Judas  Iscariot.  All  day  people  had  brought  their  spare  kindling, and  bushes  had  been  stripped  of  dry  branches.  Now  the  priest  lit  the  pyre  and  there was  more  rejoicing  as  it  crackled  and  then  finally  went  up  with  a  roar  while  rockets soared  into  the  sky  all  around.  The  real  celebrations  had  begun.  In  every  far-­‐flung village,  town  and  city,  from  Plaka  to  Athens,  there  would  be  great  merrymaking,  and this  year  it  would  be  as  noisy  on  Spinalonga  as  anywhere  across  the  land.  Sure enough,  over  in  Plaka,  they  could  hear  the  lively  blasts  of  the  bouzouki  as  the dancing  on  the  island  began.

Many  of  the  lepers  had  not  danced  for  years,  but  unless  they  were  so  crippled that  they  could  not  walk,  they  were  encouraged  to  get  up  and  join  the  circle  as  it slowly  rotated.  Out  of  their  dust-­‐filled  trunks  had  come  pieces  of  traditional costume,  so  that  among  them  there  were  several  men  in  fringed  turbans,  long  boots and  knickerbockers,  and  many  of  the  women  had  donned  their  embroidered waistcoats  and  bright  headscarves  for  the  night.

Some  of  the  dances  were  stately,  but  when  they  were  not,  the  fit  and  active would  take  their  turn,  spinning  and  whirling  as  though  it  was  the  last  time  they would  ever  dance.  After  the  dances  came  the  songs,  the  mantinades.  Some  were sweet,  some  melancholy;  some  were  ballads  telling  long  stories  that  lulled  the  old folk  and  children  almost  to  a  slumber.

By  the  time  day  broke,  most  people  had  found  their  way  to  bed,  but  some  had passed  out  across  rows  of  chairs  in  the  taverna,  full  not  just  of  raki  but  of  the sweetest  lamb  they  had  ever  feasted  on.  Not  since  the  Turks  had  occupied  the  island had  Spinalonga  seen  such  high  spirits  and  hedonism.  It  was  in  God's  name  that  they were  celebrating.  Christ  was  risen  and  in  certain  ways  there  had  been  some  kind  of rising  from  the  dead  for  them  too,  a  resurrection  of  their  spirits.

What  was  left  of  April  became  a  period  of  intense  activity.  Several  more lepers  had  arrived  from  Athens  in  March,  adding  to  the  half-­‐dozen  who  had  come from  various  parts  of  Crete  during  the  winter  months.  This  meant  more  restoration

work  was  needed,  and  everyone  was  aware  that  once  the  temperatures  had  soared there  would  be  many  tasks  that  would  be  abandoned  until  the  autumn.  The  Turkish quarter  was  finally  finished  and  the  repairs  to  the  Venetian  water  tanks  were completed.  Front  doors  and  shutters  had  another  coat  of  paint  and  the  tiles  on  the church  roof  were  all  fastened  into  place.

As  Spinalonga  rose  from  its  own  ashes,  Eleni  began  to  decline.  She  watched the  continuing  restoration  process  and  could  not  help  comparing  it  to  her  own gradual  deterioration.  For  months  she  had  pretended  to  herself  that  the  disease  had met  resistance  in  her  body  and  that  there  was  no  development,  but  then  she  began to  notice  changes,  almost  by  the  day.  The  smooth  lumps  on  her  feet  had  multiplied, and  for  many  weeks  now  she  had  walked  without  feeling  in  them.

By  the  end  of  May,  life  had  settled  into  its  usual  summer  pattern  of  long siestas  and  sultry  nights.  Flies  buzzed  around  and  a  haze  of  heat  settled  over  the island  from  'midday  till  dusk.  Scarcely  anything  moved  during  these  hours  of simmering  heat.  There  was  a  sense  of  permanence  here  now  and,  though  it  was unspoken,  the  majority  of  people  felt  that  life  was  worth  living.  As  Eleni  hobbled slowly  to  school  on  a  typical  morning,  she  relished  the  strong  smell  of  coffee mingling  with  the  sweet  scent  of  mimosa  in  the  street;  the  sight  of  a  man  walking down  the  hill,  his  donkey  laden  with  oranges;  the  sound  of  ivory  backgammon counters  click-­‐clacking  as  they  were  pushed  about  the  baize  and  the  rattle  of  the dice  punctuating  a  buzz  of  conversation  in  the  kafenion.  Just  as  they  did  in  any Cretan  village,  elderly  women  sat  in  doorways  facing  the  street  and  nodded  a greeting  as  she  passed.  These  women  never  looked  directly  at  each  other  when  they spoke  in  case  they  should  miss  any  comings  and  goings.

There  was  plenty  happening  on  Spinalonga.  Occasionally  there  was  even  a marriage.  Such  major  events,  the  burgeoning  social  life  on  the  island  and  other significant  information  which  the  population  needed  to  know  soon  created  the  need for  a  newspaper.  Yiannis  Solomonidis,  formerly  a  journalist  in  Athens,  took  charge and,  once  he  had  got  hold  of  a  press,  printed  fifty  copies  of  a  weekly  newssheet,  The Spinalonga  Star.  These  were  passed  around  and  devoured  with  interest  by  everyone on  the  island.  To  start  with  the  newspaper  contained  the  parochial  affairs  of  the

island,  the  tide  of  that  week's  film,  the  opening  times  of  the  pharmacy,  items  lost, found  and  for  sale,  and,  of  course,  marriages  and  deaths.  As  time  went  on  it  began to  include  a  digest  of  events  on  the  mainland,  opinion  pieces  and  even  cartoons.

One  day  in  November  there  was  a  significant  event  that  went  unreported  by the  newspaper.  Not  a  sentence,  not  a  word  recorded  the  visit  of  a  mysterious  dark-­‐ haired  man  whose  smart  appearance  would  have  made  him  blend  into  a  crowd  in Iraklion.  In  Plaka  however,  he  was  noticed  by  several  people  because  it  was  rare  for someone  to  be  seen  in  the  village  wearing  a  suit,  unless  of  course  there  was  a wedding  or  a  funeral,  and  there  was  neither  that  day.

Chapter  Seven

DR  LAPAKIS  HAD  informed  Giorgis  that  he  was  expecting  a  visitor  who  would need  to  be  brought  across  to  Spinalonga  and  returned  to  Plaka  a  few  hours  later.  His name  was  Nikolaos  Kyritsis.  In  his  early  thirties,  with  thick,  black  hair,  he  was  slight by  comparison  with  most  Cretans  and  a  well-­‐cut  suit  accentuated  his  slender  build. His  skin  was  taut  across  his  prominent  cheek  bones.  Some  considered  him distinguished-­‐looking,  while  others  thought  he  appeared  undernourished,  and neither  view  was  wrong.

Kyritsis  looked  incongruous  on  the  Plaka  quayside.  He  had  no  baggage,  no boxes  and  no  tearful  family  as  did  most  of  the  people  Giorgis  took  across,  just  the slimmest  of  leather  portfolios  which  he  held  to  his  chest.  The  only  other  people  who went  to  Spinalonga  were  Lapakis  and  the  very  occasional  government representative  making  a  quick  visit  to  assess  financial  requests.  This  man  was  the first  real  visitor  Giorgis  had  ever  taken  there,  and  he  overcame  his  usual  reticence with  strangers  and  spoke  to  him.

This  was  a  bold  statement  and  Giorgis's  heart  quickened  at  the  thought. Snippets  of  news—or  was  it  just  rumour?—occasionally  filtered  through  that  so-­‐ and-­‐so's  uncle  or  friend  had  heard  something  about  a  development  in  the  cure  for leprosy.  There  had  been  talk  of  injections  of  gold,  arsenic  and  snake  venom,  for example,  but  there  was  a  hint  of  madness  about  such  treatments,  and  even  if  they were  affordable,  would  they  really  work?  Only  the  Athenians,  people  gossiped, could  possibly  entertain  thoughts  of  paying  for  such  quack  remedies.  For  a  moment, Giorgis  day-­‐dreamed  as  he  loosened  the  boat  from  its  moorings  and  prepared  to take  this  new  doctor  across.  Eleni's  condition  had  been  getting  visibly  worse  in  the

past  few  months  and  he  had  begun  to  lose  hope  that  a  cure  would  ever  be  found  to bring  her  home,  but  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  taken  her  to  Spinalonga,  eighteen months  earlier,  his  heart  lifted.  Just  a  little.

Papadimitriou  was  waiting  on  the  quayside  to  greet  the  doctor,  and  Giorgis watched  as  they  both  disappeared  out  of  sight  through  the  tunnel,  the  dapper  figure with  his  slim  leather  case  and  the  powerful  figure  of  the  island's  leader  towering over  him.

An  icy  blast  of  wind  blew  across  the  water,  fighting  against  Giorgis's  boat,  but in  spite  of  this,  he  found  himself  humming.  He  would  not  be  perturbed  by  the elements  today.

As  the  two  men  walked  up  the  main  street  together,  Papadimitriou  grilled Kyritsis.  He  had  enough  information  at  his  fingertips  to  know  what  questions  to  ask.

Papadimitriou,  a  consummate  actor,  concealed  his  mild  disappointment  that the  longed-­‐for  cure  was  still  out  of  reach  by  laughing  it  off:  "That's  too  bad.  I'd promised  my  family  I'd  be  back  in  Athens  by  Christmas,  so  I  was  relying  on  you  for  a magic  potion."

Kyritsis  was  a  realist.  He  knew  it  could  be  some  years  until  these  people received  successful  treatment  and  he  would  not  raise  their  hopes.  Leprosy  was  a disease  almost  as  old  as  the  hills  themselves  and  was  not  going  to  vanish  overnight.

As  the  men  walked  together  to  the  hospital,  Kyritsis  took  in  the  sights  and sounds  around  him  with  some  incredulity.

It  looked  like  any  normal  village,  albeit  less  run-­‐down  than  many  in  that  part of  Crete.  Except  for  the  occasional  inhabitant  he  spotted  with  an  enlarged  earlobe or  perhaps  a  crippled  foot—signs  which  might  not  have  been  noticed  by  most—the people  living  there  could  have  been  ordinary  folk  going  about  their  business.  At  this time  of  year  there  were  few  faces  in  full  view.  Men  wore  their  caps  pulled  down  and their  collars  turned  up  and  women  had  their  woollen  shawls  furled  tightly  around their  heads  and  shoulders,  protecting  themselves  from  the  elements,  the  wind which  grew  wilder  by  the  day  and  the  rain  which  fell  in  torrents  and  turned  streets into  streams.

The  two  men  passed  the  glass-­‐fronted  shops  with  their  brightly  painted

shutters,  and  the  baker,  removing  a  batch  of  sandy-­‐coloured  loaves  from  his  oven, caught  Kyritsis's  eye  and  nodded.  Kyritsis  touched  the  brim  of  his  hat  in  reply.  Just before  the  church,  they  turned  off  the  central  street.  High  above  them  was  the hospital.  Particularly  from  below,  it  was  an  imposing  sight,  a  building  far  grander than  any  other  on  the  island.

Lapakis  was  at  the  front  entrance  to  greet  Kyritsis,  and  the  two  men embraced  in  a  spontaneous  display  of  genuine  affection.  For  a  few  moments greetings  and  questions  overlapped  each  other  in  a  helter-­‐skelter  of  enthusiasm. "How  are  you?  How  long  have  you  been  here?  What's  happening  in  Athens?  Tell  me your  news!"  Eventually,  their  mutual  delight  at  seeing  each  other  gave  way  to practicalities.  Time  was  running  away.  Lapakis  took  Kyritsis  on  a  swift  guided  tour  of the  hospital,  showing  him  the  outpatients'  clinic  and  treatment  rooms  and  finally the  ward.

In  the  ward,  ten  beds  were  packed  in  with  no  more  than  half  a  metre  between each.  All  of  them  were  occupied,  some  by  men  and  some  by  women,  though  it  was hard  to  tell  which  was  which,  since  the  shutters  were  closed  and  only  a  few  faint streaks  of  light  filtered  through.  Most  of  these  patients  were  at  the  end  of  the  line. Kyritsis,  who  had  spent  some  time  in  the  leprosy  hospital  in  Athens,  was  unshocked. The  conditions,  the  overcrowding  and  the  smell  there  had  been  a  hundred  times worse.  Here,  at  least,  there  was  some  attention  to  hygiene,  which  could  mean  the difference  between  life  and  death  for  someone  with  infected  ulcers.

As  the  two  men  stood  looking  into  the  room,  most  of  the  patients  were  quiet. One  moaned  intermittently  and  another,  whom  Kyritsis  thought  was  a  woman  but could  not  be  sure,  groaned.  Lapakis  and  Kyritsis  withdrew  from  the  doorway.  It seemed  intrusive  to  stand  there:

He  led  Kyritsis  down  a  dark  corridor  to  the  very  last  door  on  the  left.  Unlike the  ward,  this  was  a  room  with  a  view.

Huge  windows  which  reached  from  waist  height  almost  to  the  lofty  ceiling looked  out  towards  Plaka  and  the  mountains  that  rose  up  behind  it.  Pinned  up  on the  wall  was  a  large  architectural  drawing  of  the  hospital  as  it  was  now  and,  in  red, the  outline  of  an  additional  building.

Lapakis  saw  that  the  drawing  had  caught  Kyritsis's  eye.

Kyritsis  strolled  over  to  look  at  the  scheme.  He  knew  how  low  a  priority  the government  gave  to  health,  particularly  of  those  they  regarded  as  terminally  ill,  and he  could  not  help  but  let  his  cynicism  show.

The  two  men  began  to  speak  with  the  easy  intimacy  of  those  who  had  spent their  student  years  together.  They  had  both  been  at  medical  school  in  Athens,  and although  six  years  had  passed  since  they  had  last  met,  they  were  able  to  pick  up their  friendship  as  if  they  had  never  been  apart.

Lapakis  sat  at  his  desk.  He  had  listened  intently  and  his  heart  had  lifted  with every  word  that  Kyritsis  had  spoken.  For  five  long  years  he  had  been  the  only  doctor prepared  to  visit  Spinalonga,  and  during  that  time  he  had  treated  a  relentless stream  of  the  sick  and  the  dying.  Every  night  when  he  undressed  for  bed  he  checked his  ample  body  for  signs  of  the  disease.  He  knew  this  was  ridiculous  and  that  the bacteria  could  be  living  in  his  system  for  months  or  even  years  before  he  was  aware of  their  presence,  but  his  deep  anxieties  were  one  of  the  reasons  he  only  came across  to  Spinalonga  on  three  days  a  week.  He  had  to  give  himself  a  fighting  chance. His  role  here  was  a  calling  that  he  had  felt  obliged  to  follow,  but  he  feared  the possibility  of  his  remaining  free  of  leprosy  was  no  greater  than  the  prospect  of  a long  life  for  a  man  who  regularly  played  Russian  roulette.

Lapakis  did  have  some  help  now.  It  was  at  precisely  the  moment  when  he could  no  longer  cope  with  the  slow  wave  of  the  sick  who  hobbled  up  the  hill  each

day,  some  to  stay  for  weeks  and  others  just  to  have  their  bandages  and  dressings replaced,  that  Athina  Manakis  arrived.  She  had  been  a  doctor  in  Athens  before discovering  that  she  had  leprosy  and  admitting  herself  to  the  leprosarium  there before  being  sent  to  Spinalonga  with  the  rest  of  the  Athenian  rebels.  Here  she  had  a new  role.  Lapakis  could  not  believe  his  luck:  here  was  someone  not  only  willing  to live  in  at  the  hospital  but  who  also  had  an  encyclopaedic  knowledge  of  general practice;  just  because  they  were  leprous  it  did  not  stop  the  inhabitants  of Spinalonga  from  suffering  from  a  whole  gamut  of  other  complaints,  such  as  mumps, measles  and  simple  earache,  and  these  ailments  were  often  left  unattended.  Athina Manakis's  twenty-­‐five  years'  experience  and  her  willingness  to  work  every  hour except  those  when  she  slept  made  her  invaluable,  and  Lapakis  did  not  at  all  mind the  fact  that  she  treated  him  as  though  he  was  a  younger  brother  who  needed knocking  into  shape.  If  he  had  believed  in  God,  he  would  have  thanked  Him  heartily.

Now,  out  of  the  blue—or,  more  accurately,  out  of  the  grey  of  this  November day  when  sea  and  sky  competed  with  each  other  for  drabness—Nikolaos  Kyritsis  had arrived,  asking  if  he  could  make  regular  visits.  Lapakis  could  have  wept  with  relief. His  had  been  a  lonely  and  thankless  job  and  now  his  isolation  had  come  to  an  end. When  he  left  the  hospital  at  the  end  of  each  day,  washing  himself  down  with  a sulphurous  solution  in  the  great  Venetian  arsenal  that  now  served  as  the disinfection  room,  there  would  no  longer  be  a  nagging  sense  of  inadequacy.  There was  Athina,  and  now  there  would  sometimes  be  Kyritsis.

Lapakis  was  smiling.  This  was  an  arrangement  that  would  suit  them  both

equally.  Along  one  wall  of  his  office,  reaching  from  floor  to  ceiling,  were  rows  of filing  cabinets.  Some  contained  the  medical  records  of  every  living  inhabitant  of Spinalonga.  Others  were  where  the  records  were  transferred  when  they  died.  Until Lapakis  had  volunteered  to  work  on  the  island,  no  papers  had  been  kept.  There  had scarcely  been  any  treatment  worth  noting  and  the  only  progress  had  been  towards gradual  degeneration.  All  that  remained  to  remember  the  lepers  by  during  the  first few  decades  of  the  colony's  existence  was  a  large  black  ledger  listing  name,  date  of arrival  and  date  of  death.  Their  lives  were  reduced  to  a  single  entry  in  a  macabre visitors'  book  and  their  bones  now  lay  jumbled  and  indistinguishable  under  the stone  slabs  of  the  communal  graves  on  the  far  side  of  the  island.

Lapakis  tugged  open  the  heavy  top  drawer  of  the  cabinet  nearest  to  him.  It overflowed  with  papers,  and  with  a  sweep  of  his  arm  he  gave  Kyritsis  an  open invitation  to  browse.

An  hour  and  a  half,  later,  when  Lapakis  returned  to  his  office,  there  was  a stack  of  files  on  the  floor;  the  name  on  the  front  of  the_  top  one  was  'Eleni  Petrakis'.

They  made  a  note  of  all  the  chosen  patients,  had  a  brief  discussion  about  each and  then  Kyritsis  glanced  at  the  clock  on  the  wall.  It  was  time  to  go.  Before  he entered  the  disinfectant  room  to  spray  himself—though  he  knew  this  measure  to  try and  limit  the  spreading  of  bacteria  was  futile—the  two  men  shook  hands  firmly. Lapakis  then  led  him  back  down  the  hill  to  the  tunnel  entrance,  and  Kyritsis continued  alone  to  the  quayside,  where  Giorgis  was  waiting,  ready  to  take  him  on the  first  stage  of  his  long  journey  back  to  Iraklion.

Few  words  were  exchanged  on  the  return  journey  to  the  mainland.  It  seemed that  they  had  run  out  of  things  to  say  on  the  way  over.  When  they  reached  Plaka, however,  Kyritsis  asked  Giorgis  whether  he  could  be  there  on  the  same  day  the following  week  to  take  him  across  to  Spinalonga.  For  some  reason  he  could  not quite  fathom,  Giorgis  felt  pleased.  Not  just  because  of  the  fare.  He  was  simply  glad to  know  that  the  new  doctor,  as  he  thought  of  him,  would  be  back.

Through  the  bitter  cold  of  December,  the  arctic  temperatures  of  January  and February  and  the  howling  gales  of  March,  Nikolaos  Kyritsis  continued  to  visit  every Wednesday.  Neither  he  nor  Giorgis  was  a  man  for  small  talk,  but  they  did  strike  up short  conversations  as  they  crossed  the  water  to  the  leper  colony.

Giorgis  looked  forward  to  Kyritsis's  visits,  and  so  did  twelve-­‐year-­‐old  Maria,  as they  brought  a  hint  of  optimism  and  the  possibility  that  she  might  see  her  father smile.  Nothing  was  said,  it  was  just  something  she  could  sense.  In  the  late  afternoon she  would  go  to  the  quayside  and  wait  for  them  to  return.  Wrapping  her  woollen coat  tightly  around  her,  she  would  sit  and  watch  the  little  boat  making  its  way  back across  the  water  in  the  greyness  of  dusk,  catching  the  rope  from  her  father  and  tying it  expertly  to  the  post  to  secure  it  for  the  night.

By  April,  the  winds  had  lost  their  bite  and  there  was  a  subtle  change  in  the  air. The  earth  was  warming  up.  Purple  spring  anemones  and  pale  pink  orchids  had broken  through,  and  migrating  birds  flew  over  Crete  making  their  way  back  from Africa  after  winter.  Everyone  welcomed  the  change  of  season  and  the  keenly anticipated  warmth  that  would  now  arrive,  but  there  were  also  less  positive  changes in  the  air.

War  had  raged  in  Europe  for  some  time,  but  that  very  month  Greece  itself was  overrun.  The  people  of  Crete  were  now  living  under  the  sword  of  Damocles;  the colony's  newspaper,  The  Spinalonga  Star,  carried  regular  bulletins  on  the  situation, and  the  newsreels  that  came  with  the  weekly  film  stirred  the  population  into  a  state of  anxiety.  What  they  feared  most  then  happened:  the  Germans  turned  their  sights on  Crete.

Chapter  Eight

Anyone  who  knew  Anna  well  would  have  spotted  a  hint  of  excitement  in  her voice.  Her  view  was  that  anything  that  broke  the  monotony  of  an  existence governed  by  the  predictable  pattern  of  the  seasons  and  the  prospect  of  living  the rest  of  her  life  in  this  same  village  was  to  be  welcomed.

Anna  had  run  all  the  way  from  Fotini's  house,  where  a  group  of  them  had been  gathered  around  a  crackling  radio.  They  had  just  about  made  out  the  news that  German  paratroopers  had  landed  in  the  west  of  Crete.  Now  the  girls  both  raced to  the  village  square  where,  at  times  like  this,  everyone  would  gather.

It  was  late  afternoon  but  the  bar  was  overflowing  with  men  and,  unusually, women,  all  clamouring  to  listen  to  the  radio,  though  of  course  drowning  much  of  it out  with  their  din.

The  broadcast  information  was  stark  and  limited.  "At  around  six  o'clock  this morning  a  number  of  paratroopers  landed  on  Cretan  soil  near  the  airfield  of Maleme.  They  are  all  believed  to  be  dead."

It  seemed  after  all  that  Anna  was  wrong.  The  Germans  had  not  really  arrived at  all.  As  usual,  thought  Maria,  her  sister  had  overreacted.

There  was  tension  in  the  air,  however.  Athens  had  fallen  four  weeks  earlier and  the  German  flag  had  fluttered  over  the  Acropolis  since  then.  This  had  been disturbing  enough,  but  to  Maria,  who  had  never  been  there,  Athens  seemed  a  long way  off.  Why  should  events  there  bother  the  people  of  Plaka?  Besides,  thousands  of Allied  troops  had  just  arrived  on  Crete  from  the  mainland,  so  surely  that  would make  them  safe?  When  Maria  listened  to  the  adults  around  her  arguing  and debating  and  throwing  in  their  opinions  on  the  war,  her  sense  of  security  was reinforced  by  what  they  said.

This  was  not  an  empty  threat,  and  all  those  in  the  room  knew  it.  Even  if  Crete had  been  invaded  in  the  past,  the  inhabitants  had  always  put  up  the  fiercest resistance.  The  history  of  their  island  was  a  long  catalogue  of  fighting,  reprisals  and nationalism,  and  there  wasn't  a  single  house  to  be  found  that  was  not  equipped with  a  bandolier,  rifle  or  pistol.  The  rhythm  of  life  might  have  appeared  gentle,  but behind  the  facade  there  often  simmered  feuds  between  families  or  villages,  and among  males  over  the  age  of  fourteen  there  were  few  untrained  in  the  use  of  a lethal  weapon.

Savina  Angelopoulos,  who  stood  in  the  doorway  with  Fotini  and  the  two Petrakis  girls,  well  knew  why  the  threat  was  real  this  time.  The  speed  of  flight  was the  simple  reason.  The  German  planes  that  had  dropped  the  paratroopers  could cover  the  distance  from  their  base  in  Athens  to  this  island  in  not  much  more  time than  it  took  the  children  to  walk  to  school  in  Elounda.  But  she  kept  quiet.  Even  the presence  of  the  tens  of  thousands  of  Allied  troops  evacuated  from  the  mainland  to Crete  made  her  feel  more  vulnerable  than  safe.  She  did  not  have  the  confidence  of the  menfolk.  They  wanted  to  believe  that  the  killing  of  a  few  hundred  Germans  who had  landed  by  parachute  was  the  end  of  the  story.  Savina  felt  instinctively  that  it was  not.

Within  a  week,  the  true  picture  was  clearer.  Each  day  everyone  congregated at  the  bar,  spilling  out  into  the  square  on  those  late  May  evenings  which  were  the first  of  the  year  when  the  warmth  of  the  day  did  not  disappear  with  the  sun.  A hundred  or  so  miles  as  they  were  from  the  centre  of  the  action,  the  people  of  Plaka were  relying  on  rumours  and  fragments  of  information,  and  every  day  more  pieces of  the  story  would  drift  over  from  the  west  like  thistle  seeds  carried  on  the  air.  It seemed  that  although  many  of  the  men  who  had  dropped  from  the  sky  had  died, some  of  them  had  miraculously  survived  and  fled  into  hiding,  from  where  they  were now  managing  to  take  up  strategic  positions.  The  early  stories  had  told  only  of  spilt German  blood  and  of  men  speared  by  bamboo  canes,  strangled  by  their  own parachutes  in  the  olive  trees  or  dashed  on  to  rocks,  but  now  the  truth  emerged  that a  worrying  number  of  them  had  survived,  the  airfield  had  been  used  to  land thousands  more  and  the  tide  was  turning  in  the  Germans'  favour.  Within  a  week  of the  first  landing,  Germany  claimed  Crete  as  its  own.

That  night,  everyone  gathered  in  the  bar  once  again.  Maria  and  Fotini  were outside,  playing  tick-­‐tack-­‐toe  by  scratching  the  dusty  ground  with  sharp  sticks,  but their  ears  pricked  up  when  they  heard  the  sound  of  raised  voices.

Not  for  the  first  time  Pavlos  wondered  why  his  sons  could  never  agree  on anything.  He  drew  on  his  cigarette  and  delivered  his  own  verdict.

Pavlos  was  right.  For  many  of  them  it  had  been  little  more  than  suicide,  but the  Germans  thought  nothing  of  sacrificing  a  few  thousand  men  in  order  to  achieve their  aim,  and  before  the  Allies  had  organised  themselves  to  react,  the  key  airport  of Maleme,  near  Hania,  was  in  their  hands.

For  the  first  few  days,  Plaka  went  about  its  business  as  usual.  No  one  knew what  it  would  actually  mean  for  them  having  Germans  now  resident  on  Cretan  soil. For  several  days  they  were  in  a  state  of  shock  that  it  had  been  allowed  to  happen  at all.  News  filtered  through  that  the  picture  was  bleaker  than  they  had  ever  imagined. Within  a  week  the  40,000  combined  Greek  and  Allied  troops  on  Crete  had  been routed  and  thousands  of  Allies  had  to  be  evacuated  with  huge  numbers  of  casualties and  loss  of  life.  Debate  at  the  bar  intensified  and  there  were  further  mutterings about  how  the  village  should  prepare  to  defend  itself  for  when  the  Germans  came east.  The  desire  to  take  up  arms  began  to  spread  like  a  religious  fervour.  The

villagers  were  not  afraid  of  bloodshed.  Many  of  them  looked  forward  to  picking  up  a weapon.

It  became  reality  for  the  people  of  Plaka  when  the  first  German  troops marched  into  Agios  Nikolaos  and  a  small  unit  was  dispatched  from  there  to  Elounda. The  Petrakis  girls  were  walking  home  from  school  when  Anna  stopped  and  tugged her  sister's  sleeve.

Maria's  heart  missed  a  beat.  This  time  Anna  was  right.  The  Germans  really were  here.  Two  soldiers  were  walking  purposefully  towards  them.  What  did occupying  troops  do  once  they  invaded?  She  assumed  they  went  about  killing everyone.  Why  else  come?  Her  legs  turned  to  jelly.

The  soldiers  were  inscrutable,  their  blue  gazes  fixed  straight  ahead  of  them. They  were  dressed  in  heavy  grey  woollen  jackets,  and  their  steel-­‐capped  boots clicked  rhythmically  on  the  cobbled  street.  As  they  passed  they  appeared  not  to  see the  girls.  It  was  as  if  they  did  not  exist.

Only  days  later  Plaka  was  given  its  own  small  battalion  of  German  soldiers.  At the  far  end  of  the  village  one  family  had  a  rude  early  morning  awakening.

Despite  not  having  a  word  of  common  language,  the  family  understood  the command,  and  those  that  followed.  They  were  to  vacate  their  home  by  midday  or face  the  consequences.  From  that  day,  the  presence  Anna  had  excitedly  predicted was  in  their  midst,  and  the  atmosphere  in  the  village  darkened.

Day  to  day,  there  was  little  substantial  news  of  what  was  going  on  elsewhere on  Crete,  but  there  was  plenty  of  rumour,  including  talk  that  some  small  groups  of Allies  were  moving  eastwards  towards  Sitia.  One  night,  as  dusk  fell,  four  heavily disguised  British  soldiers  came  down  from  the  hills  where  they  had  been  sleeping  in an  abandoned  shepherd's  hut  and  strolled  insouciantly  into  the  village.  They  would not  have  received  a  warmer  welcome  had  they  appeared  in  their  own  villages  in  the Home  Counties.  It  was  not  just  the  hunger  for  first-­‐hand  news  that  drew  people  to them;  it  was  also  the  innate  desire  of  the  villagers  to  be  hospitable  and  to  treat every  stranger  as  though  he  might  have  been  sent  from  God.  The  men  made excellent  guests.  They  ate  and  drank  everything  that  was  offered,  but  only  after  one member  of  the  group,  who  had  a  good  grasp  of  Greek,  had  given  a  firsthand  account of  the  previous  week's  events  on  the  northwest  coast.

He  made  it  sound  almost  humane,  but  when  he  went  on  to  explain,  many  of the  villagers  paled.

One  of  the  other  soldiers  then  took  a  folded  sheet  of  paper  from  his  breast pocket  and,  carefully  flattening  it  out,  spread  it  on  the  table  in  front  of  him.  Below the  original  printed  German  someone  had  scribbled  translations  in  both  Greek  and English.—"I  think  you  all  ought  to  see  this.  The  head  of  the  German  air  corps, General  Student,  issued  these  orders  a  couple  of  days  ago."

The  villagers  crowded  round  the  table  to  read  what  was  written  on  the  paper.

There  is  evidence  that  Cretan  civilians  have  been  responsible  for  the  mutilation and  murder  of  our  wounded  soldiers.  Reprisals  and  punishment  must  be  carried  out without  delay  or  restraint.  I  hereby  authorise  any  units  which  have  been  victims  of these  atrocities  to  carry  out  the  following  :

Shooting

Total  destruction  of  villages

Extermination  of  the  entire  male  population  in  any  village  harbouring perpetrators  of  the  above  crimes

Military  tribunals  will  not  be  required  to  pass  judgement  on  those  who  have assassinated  our  troops.

The  Englishman  broke  the  silence.  "The  Germans  have  never  before encountered  the  kind  of  resistance  they  are  meeting  in  Crete.  It  has  taken  them completely  by  surprise.  And  it's  not  just  from  men  but  from  women  and  children too—and  even  priests.  They  expected  a  full  and  uncompromising  surrender,  from you  as  well  as  the  Allies.  But  it's  only  fair  to  warn  you  that  they  have  already  dealt brutally  with  several  villages  over  in  the  west.  They've  razed  them  to  the  ground— even  the  churches  and  the  schools—"

He  was  unable  to  continue.  Uproar  broke  out  in  the  room.

Even  though  the  Germans  rarely  ventured  out  after  dark,  men  took  turns  to keep  watch  at  the  door  of  the  bar.  They  talked  long  into  the  small  hours  of  the

morning,  until  the  air  was  thick  with  smoke  and  silvery  forests  of  empty  raki  bottles sat  on  the  tables.  Knowing  it  would  be  a  fatal  error  to  be  spotted  in  daylight,  the soldiers  rose  to  go  just  before  dawn.  From  now  on  they  were  in  hiding.  Tens  of thousands  of  Allied  troops-­‐had  been  evacuated  to  Alexandria  a  few  days  earlier  and those  left  had  to  avoid  capture  by  the  Germans  if  they  were  to  perform  their  vital intelligence  operations.  This  group  was  on  its  way  to  Sitia,  where  the  Italians  had already  landed  and  taken  control.

In  the  Englishmen's  view,  the  farewells  and  embraces  were  long  and affectionate  for  such  a  short  acquaintance,  but  the  Cretans  thought  nothing  of putting  on  such  an  effusive  emotional  display.  While  the  men  had  been  drinking, some  of  the  wives  had  come  to  the  bar  with  parcels  of  provisions  almost  too  heavy for  the  soldiers  to  lift.  They  would  have  enough  to  last  them  a  fortnight  and  were fulsome  in  their  gratitude.  "Efharisto,  ejharisto,  "  repeated  one  of  them  over  and over  again,  using  the  only  word  of  the  Greek  language  he  knew.

While  they  were  all  still  in  the  bar,  Antonis  Angelopolous,  the  older,  of  Fotini's brothers,  had  slipped  away,  crept  into  the  house  and  gathered  a  few  possessions:  a sharp  knife,  a  woollen  blanket,  a  spare  shirt  and  his  gun,  a  small  pistol  which  his father  had  given  him  at  the  age  of  eighteen.  At  the  last  minute  he  grabbed  the wooden  pipe  which  lived  on  a  shelf  along  with  his  father's  more  precious  and  ornate lyre.  This  was  his  thiaboli,  a  wooden  flute,  which  he  had  played  since  he  was  a  child, and  since  he  did  not  know  when  he  would  be  home  again,  he  could  not  leave  it behind.

Just  as  he  was  fastening  the  buckle  of  his  leather  bag,  Savina  appeared  in  the doorway.  For  everyone  in  Plaka  sleep  had  been  elusive  in  the  past  few  days.  They were  all  on  alert,  restless  with  worry,  occasionally  roused  from  their  beds  by  bright flashes  in  the  sky  that  told  of  enemy  bombs  blasting  their  towns  and  cities.  How could  they  sleep  when  they  half  expected  their  own  homes  to  be  rocked  by  the impact  of  shell  fire  or  even  to  hear  the  strident  voices  of  the  German  soldiers  who now  lived  at  the  end  of  the  street?  Savina  had  been  sleeping  only  lightly  and  was easily  woken  by  the  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  hard  earth  floor  and  the  scrape  of  the pistol  on  the  rough  wall  as  it  was  lifted  from  its  hook.  Above  all,  Antonis  had  not wanted  to  be  seen  by  his  mother.  Savina  might  try  to  stop  him.

duty  to  support  them  however  we  can."

Savina  held  her  son  for  a  fleeting  moment  and  then  he  was  gone,  anxious  not to  miss  the  four  strangers  who  might  already  be  making  their  way  out  of  the  village.

Antonis  ran  back  to  the  bar.  By  now  the  soldiers  were  in  the  square  and  the last  farewells  had  been  said.  He  raced  up  to  them.

There  was  a  murmur  of  appreciation  from  the  soldiers  and  the  Greek-­‐speaker stepped  forward.  "It's  treacherous  out  there.  We  have  already  discovered  that  to our  cost,  on  many  occasions.  We  are  very  grateful  to  you."

Pavlos  stood  back.  Like  his  wife,  he  felt  sick  with  fear  at  what  his  firstborn  was committing  himself  to,  but  he  also  felt  admiration.  He  had  brought  his  two  boys  up to  understand  how  the  land  worked  and  he  knew  Antonis  had  the  knowledge  to help  these  men  sustain  themselves,  like  goats  on  apparently  barren  land.  He  knew what  would  poison  them  and  what  would  nourish  them;  he  even  knew  which  type of  scrub  made  the  best  tobacco.  Proud  of  Antonis's  courage  and  touched  by  his almost  naive  enthusiasm,  Pavlos  embraced  bis  son,  then,  before  the  five  men  were out  of  sight,  he  turned  away  and  began  walking  home,  knowing  that  Savina  would be  waiting  for  him.

Giorgis  related  all  of  this  to  Eleni  when  he  visited  the  following  day.

They  looked  out  across  the  strait  to  Plaka.  A  few  figures  moved  about  on  the waterfront,  going  about  their  daily  business.  From  this  distance  everything  looked normal.  No  one  would  have  known  that  Crete  was  an  island  occupied  by  an  enemy force.

The  last  thing  Giorgis  wanted  to  do  was  make  Eleni  aware  of  the  sense  of menace  that  now  pervaded  the  atmosphere.  He  changed  the  subject.

His  wife's  health  was  beginning  to  fail.  The  lesions  on  her  face  had  spread  and

her  voice  had  become  gravelly.

Giorgis  could  tell  that  she  wanted  to  change  the  subject.  He  knew  not  to  dwell on  the  subject  of  her  health.

His  words  were  a  lie,  of  course.  Antonis  was  not  the  only  one  of  the  local  boys to  have  joined  the  resistance,  and  tales  of  the  Germans'  infamously  vicious behaviour  at  the  slightest  whiff  of  espionage  made  the  people  of  Plaka  shiver  with fear.  But  somehow  life  appeared  to  go  on  as  normal.  There  were  daily  tasks  and those  that  the  seasons  dictated.  When  the  late  summer  came,  the  grapes  had  to  be trodden;  when  the  autumn  arrived  it  was  time  for  the  olives  to  be  harvested;  and  all year  round  there  were  goats  to  be  milked,  cheese  to  be  churned  and  weaving  to  be done.  The  sun  rose,  the  moon  saturated  the  night  sky  with  its  silver  light  and  the stars  blazed,  indifferent  to  the  events  happening  below  them.

Always,  however,  there  was  tension  in  the  air  and  the  expectation  of  violence. The  Cretan  resistance  became  more  organised,  and  several  more  men  from  the village  disappeared  to  play  their  role  in  the  unfolding  events  of  the  war.  This  added to  the  sense  of  anticipation  that  sooner  or  later  life  might  change  dramatically. ViUages  just  like  theirs,  where  men  had  become  andarte,  members  of  the resistance,  were  being  marked  out  by  the  Germans  and  targeted  for  the  most  brutal reprisals.

One  day  early  in  1942  a  group  of  children,  including  Anna  and  Maria,  were taking  the  long  walk  home  from  school  along  the  water's  edge.

Snow  had  ceased  to  fall  some  weeks  ago  and  it  would  only  be  a  matter  of

time  before  there  was  a  thaw  on  the  moun-­‐taintops.  So  what  was  this  flurry  of white  around  them?

Maria  was  the  first  to  realise  the  truth.  It  was  not  snow  that  was  falling  from the  sky.  It  was  paper.  Moments  earlier  a  small  aircraft  had  buzzed  overhead,  but they  had  barely  looked  up,  so  common  was  it  for  German  planes  to  fly  low  along  this part  of  the  coast.  It  had  dropped  a  blizzard  of  leaflets,  and  Anna  grabbed  one  as  it floated  down  towards  her.

A  WARNING  TO  THE  PEOPLE  OF  CRETE

IF  YOUR  COMMUNITY  GIVES  SHELTER  OR  SUPPLIES  TO  ALLIED  SOLDIERS  OR MEMBERS  OF  THE  RESISTANCE  MOVEMENT,  YOU  WILL  BE  PUNISHED  SEVERELY.  IF YOU  ARE  FOUND  GUILTY,  RETRIBUTION  WILL  BE  HARSH  AND  SWIFT  FOR  YOUR ENTIRE  VILLAGE.

The  paper  continued  to  drift  down,  creating  a  carpet  of  white  that  swirled around  their  feet  before  being  lifted  into  the  sea  and  merging  into  the  foamy  surf. The  children  stood  quietly.

Other  villages  had  been  similarly  targeted  with  this  warning,  but  the  effect was  not  the  one  the  Germans  had  hoped  for.

Maria  cowered  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  She  could  sense  an  impending explosion.  Giorgis  took  a  deep  breath.  He  was  struggling  to  control  his  temper, resisting  the  urge  to  tear  his  daughter  to  shreds  in  his  anger.

Anna  shrank.  She  loved  to  provoke  these  scenes  but  had  rarely  seen  her father  vent  such  fury.

Everything  Giorgis  said  was  true.  In  the  winter,  when  the  mountains  were capped  with  snow  and  the  wind  moaned  round  the  twisted  ilexes,  the  men  of  the resistance  nearly  froze  to  death;  cowering  in  the  network  of  caves  high  above  the villages  in  the  mountains,  where  the  only  drink  was  the  moisture  from  the  dripping stalactites,  some  reached  the  limits  of  their  endurance.  In  the  summer,  when  the

weather  was  the  very  opposite,  they  experienced  the  full  blaze  of  the  island's  heat and  a  thirst  which  was  unquenchable  when  the  streams  lay  dry.

Such  leaflets  only  reinforced  the  Cretan  determination  to  resist.  There  was  no question  of  surrender  and  they  would  carry  the  risks  that  went  with  it.  With increasing  regularity,  the  Germans  appeared  in  Plaka,  searching  houses  for  signs  of the  resistance,  such  as  radio  equipment,  and  interrogating  VangeHs  Lidaki  since,  as the  owner  of  the  bar,  he  was  generally  the  only  male  in  the  village  during  daylight hours.  Other  working  men  were  in  the  hills  or  on  the  sea.  The  Germans  did  not come  at  night  and  this  was  a  certainty  that  the  Cretans  came  to  value;  the  foreigners were  too  fearful  to  go  anywhere  after  dusk,  suspicious  of  the  island's  rocky  and difficult  terrain  and  aware  of  their  vulnerability  to  attack  in  the  dark.

One  night  in  September,  Giorgis  and  Pavlos  were  at  their  usual  corner  table  in the  bar  when  three  strangers  walked  in.  The  two  elderly  men  looked  up  briefly  but soon  resumed  their  conversation  and  the  rhythmic  clicking  of  their  worry  beads. Before  the  occupation  and  the  development  of  the  resistance  it  had  been  rare  to see  any  outsiders  in  the  village,  but  now  it  was  commonplace.  One  of  the  strangers walked  over  to  them.

Pavlos  looked  up,  open-­‐mouthed  with  amazement.  It  was  Antonis,  almost unrecognisable  from  the  boyish  youth  who  had  joined  up  so  idealistically  the previous  year.  His  clothes  hung  off  him  and  his  belt  was  wrapped  twice  around  his waist  to  keep  his  trousers  in  place.

Pavlos's  face  was  still  damp  with  tears  when  Savina,  Fotini  and  Angelos arrived.  Lidaki's  son  had  been  hastily  dispatched  to  bring  them  to  the  bar,  and  it  was just  as  a  reunion  should  be  between  people  who  loved  each  other  and  who  had  not, until  then,  been  separated  for  even  a  day  in  their  lives.  There  was  not  just  pleasure, there  was  pain  too  when  they  saw  Antonis,  who  looked  starved,  drawn  and  not  just one  year  but  a  whole  decade  older  than  when  they  had  last  seen  him.

Antonis  was  accompanied  by  two  Englishmen.  There  was  nothing,  however,  in their  appearance  to  betray  their  true  nationality.  Swarthy-­‐skinned  and  with extravagant  moustaches  that  they  had  trained  to  curl  in  the  local  style,  they  now had  enough  grasp  of  Greek  to  be  able  to  converse  with  their  hosts,  and  they  told tales  of  encountering  enemy  soldiers  and,  in  the  guise  of  shepherds,  fooling  them into  believing  that  they  were  Cretan.  They  had  travelled  across  the  island  several times  in  the  past  year,  and  one  of  their  tasks  was  to  observe  Italian  troop movements.  The  Italian  headquarters  was  in  Neapoli,  the  largest  town  in  their  own region  of  Lasithi,  and  the  troops  there  seemed  to  do  little  but  eat,  drink  and  be merry,  particularly  with  the  local  prostitutes.  Other  troops,  however,  were  stationed around  the  west  of  the  island,  and  their  manoeuvres  were  more  arduous  to monitor.

With  their  shrunken  stomachs  now  bloated  with  lamb  stew  and  their  heads whirling  with  tsikoudia,  the  three  men  told  stories  long  into  the  night.

Antonis  spent  one  night  with  his  family,  and  the  two  Englishmen  were garrisoned  with  other  families  willing  to  take  the  risk.  It  was  the  first  time  any  of them  had  slept  on  anything  but  hard  ground  in  nearly  a  year.  Since  they  had  to  leave before  dawn,  the  luxury  of  their  straw-­‐filled  mattresses  was  a  short-­‐lived  one,  and as  soon  as  they  had  pulled  on  their  long  boots  and  put  their  fringed  black  turbans back  on  their  heads,  they  walked  out  of  the  village.  Not  even  a  local  would  have questioned  whether  these  were  true  natives  of  Crete.  There  was  nothing  to  give them  away.  Nothing,  that  is,  except  someone  who  might  succumb  to  a  bribe.

Levels  of  starvation  in  Crete  were,  by  now,  reaching  such  high  levels  that  it was  not  unheard  of  for  local  people  to  accept  what  was  known  as  the  'Deutsche drachma'  for  a  tip-­‐off  about  the  whereabouts  of  resistance  fighters.  Famine  and hunger  could  corrupt  even  honest  people,  and  such  betrayals  led  to  some  of  the worst  atrocities  of  the  war,  with  mass  executions  and  the  destruction  of  whole villages.  The  old  and  sick  were  incinerated  in  their  beds  and  men  forced  to  hand over  their  weapons  before  being  shot  in  cold  blood.  The  dangers  of  betrayal  were real  and  meant  that  Antonis  and  all  like  him  made  only  rare  and  brief  visits  to  their families,  knowing  that  their  presence  might  endanger  those  they  loved  the  most.

Throughout  the  war,  the  only  place  that  really  remained  immune  from  the Germans  was  Spinalonga,  where  the  lepers  were  protected  from  the  worst  disease of  all:  the  occupation.  Leprosy  might  have  disrupted  families  and  friends  but  the Germans  made  an  even  more  effective  job  of  destroying  everything  they  touched.

As  a  result  of  the  occupation,  Nikolaos  Kyritsis's  visits  to  Plaka  immediately ceased,  since  unnecessary  travel  to  and  from  Iraklion  was  regarded  with  suspicion by  the  occupying  troops.  Loath  as  he  was  to  do  it,  Kyritsis  abandoned  his  research for  the  time  being;  the  needs  of  the  wounded  and  dying  all  around  him  in  Iraklion could  not  be  ignored.  The  repercussions  of  this  insane  invasion  meant  that  anyone with  any  medical  expertise  found  himself  working  round  the  clock  to  help  the  ill  and the  mutilated,  applying  dressings,  fixing  splints  and  treating  the  symptoms  of dysentery,  tuberculosis  and  malaria,  which  were  rife  in  the  field  hospitals.  When  he returned  from  the  hospital  at  night,  Kyritsis  was  so  exhausted  he  rarely  thought  of

the  lepers  who,  for  such  a  tantalisingly  brief  time,  had  been  the  focus  of  his  efforts.

The  absence  of  Dr  Kyritsis  was  perhaps  the  worst  side-­‐effect  of  the  war  on  the inhabitants  of  Spinalonga.  In  the  months  during  which  he  had  been  making  his weekly  visits  they  had  nurtured  hopes  for  the  future.  Now,  once  again,  the  present was  their  only  certainty.

Giorgis's  routine  of  coming  and  going  from  the  island  was  more  fixed  than ever.  He  was  soon  aware  that  the  Athenians  had  no  difficulty  in  affording  the  same luxuries  as  they  had  done  before  the  war,  in  spite  of  the  soaring  prices  they  had  to pay.

Jealousy  of  the  Athenians'  wealth  dominated  conversation  in  the  bar.

Giorgis  knew  it  was  pointless  arguing  with  them  and  said  nothing  more.  Even the  friends  who  had  known  her  well  now  occasionally  forgot  that  Eleni  was  on  the island.  Sometimes  he  would  get  a  muttered  apology  for  their  lack  of  tact.  Only  he and  Dr  Lapakis  knew  the  reality,  and  even  then  Giorgis  was  conscious  that  he  only knew  the  half  of  it.  He  saw  little  more  than  the  gateway  and  the  lofty  walls  but  he heard  plenty  of  stories  from  Eleni.

On  his  last  visit,  there  had  been  a  further  change  in  her  condition.  First  it  had been  the  unsightly  lumps  that  had  spread  to  her  chest  and  back  and,  most horrifyingly,  to  her  face.  Now  her  voice  was  becoming  less  and  less  audible,  and though  Giorgis  thought  this  could  sometimes  be  attributed  to  emotion,  he  knew  it was  not  the  entire  cause.  She  said  her  throat  felt  constricted  and  promised  she would  go  and  see  Dr  Lapakis  to  get  something  for  it.  Meanwhile  she  tried  to  remain cheerful  with  Giorgis  so  that  he  did  not  take  his  downcast  face  back  home  to  the girls.

He  knew  the  disease  was  taking  her  over  and  that  she,  like  the  majority  of  the lepers  on  the  island,  whether  they  were  impoverished  or  sitting  on  a  fortune,  was losing  hope.

These  men  with  whom  Giorgis  mended  nets  and  sat  in  the  bar  whiling  away

the  time  playing  backgammon  and  cards  were  the  same  people  he  had  grown  up with.  Their  bigoted,  narrow  views  would  have  been  his  too  if  he  had  not  been  set apart  by  his  connection  with  Spinalonga.  This  one  element  in  his  life  had  given  him an  understanding  they  would  never  have.  He  would  keep  his  temper  and  excuse their  ignorance,  for  that  was  all  it  was.

Giorgis  continued  to  take  his  packages  and  parcels  to  the  island.  What  did  he care  if  the  contents  were  procured  under  the  counter?  Would  everyone  not  have bought  the  best  if  only  they  had  the  resources  of  the  Athenians?  He  himself  yearned to  be  able  to  buy  the  luxuries  for  his  daughters  that  only  some  of  the  inhabitants  of Spinalonga  could  now  afford.  For  his  own  part,  he  very  consciously  took  the  best  of his  catch—once  Anna  and  Maria  had  eaten  their  fill—to  the  leper  colony.  Why should  they  not  have  his  biggest  bream  or  bass?  These  people  were  sick  and  cast  out of  society,  but  they  were  not  criminals.  That  was  something  the  people  of  Plaka conveniently  forgot.

The  Germans  feared  Spinalonga  with  its  hundreds  of  lepers  living  just  across the  water  and  allowed  deliveries  to  continue,  since  the  last  thing  they  wanted  was for  any  of  them  to  leave  the  island  to  search  out  their  own  supplies  on  the  mainland. One  of  them  did,  however,  take  his  chance  to  escape.  It  was  in  the  late  summer  of 1943,  and  the  Italian  armistice  had  led  to  a  heavier  German  presence  in  the  province of  Lasithi.

Late  one  afternoon,  Fotini,  Anna,  Maria  and  a  group  of  five  or  six  others  were playing  as  usual  on  the  beach.  They  were  accustomed  now  to  the  presence  of German  soldiers  among  them,  and  the  fact  that  there  was  one  patrolling  close  by  on the  beach  did  not  attract  their  interest.

There  was  no  shortage  of  smooth,  flat  pebbles  on  the  beach,  and  soon  their stones  were  flying  across  the  water,  bouncing  lightly  across  the  still  surface,  as  they all  tried  to  reach  the  ambitious'  target.

Suddenly  one  of  the  boys  was  shouting  at  them  all:  "Stop!  Stop!  There's someone  out  there!"

He  was  right.  There  was  a  figure  swimming  out  from  the  island.  The  German soldier  could  see  it  too  and  was  watching,  his  arms  folded  in  contempt.  The  children jumped  up  and  down,  screaming  at  the  swimmer  to  turn  back,  anticipating  the  awful outcome.

The  leper's  progress  was  slow  but  relentless.  He  was  either  unaware  of  the soldier's  presence  or  just  prepared  to  take  the  risk—however  suicidal  it  was— because  he  could  no  longer  bear  life  on  the  colony.  The  children  continued  to  shout at  the  tops  of  their  voices,  but  at  the  moment  when  the  German  raised  his  gun  to fire  they  were  all  silenced  by  fear.  He  waited  until  the  man  had  swum  to  within  fifty metres  of  the  beach  and  then  shot  him.  It  was  a  cold-­‐blooded  execution.  Simply

target  practice.  At  that  stage  of  the  war  the  air  was  thick  with  stories  of  bloodshed and  execution  but  the  children  had  witnessed  none  of  it  themselves.  In  that moment  they  saw  the  difference  between  stories  and  reality.  A  single  shot ricocheted  across  the  water,  the  noise  amplified  by  the  echo  from  the  mountains behind,  and  a  crimson  blanket  spread  itself  slowly  across  the  still  sea.

Anna,  the  oldest  among  them,  screamed  abuse  at  the  soldier.  "You  bastard! You  German  bastard!"

A  few  of  the  younger  children  wept  with  fear  and  shock.  These  were  the  tears of  lost  innocence.  By  now  dozens  of  people  had  rushed  from  their  homes  and  saw them  huddled  together,  sobbing  and  crying.  Rumours  had  reached  Plaka  only  that week  that  the  enemy  had  adopted  a  new  tactic:  whenever  they  suspected  the possibility  of  a  guerrilla  attack,  the  Germans  would  take  all  the  young  girls  from  a village  and  use  them  as  hostages.  Knowing  that  the  safety  of  their  children  was  far from  guaranteed,  the  villagers'  first  thought  was  that  some  atrocity  had  been committed  against  one  of  them  by  the  lone  soldier  who  stood  facing  them  a  few metres  down  the  beach.  They  were  ready,  although  unarmed,  to  tear  him  to  shreds. But  with  the  utmost  sang-­‐froid  he  turned  to  face  the  sea  and  gestured  defiantly towards  the  island.  The  body  had  long  since  disappeared  but  the  patch  of  crimson still  floated,  clinging  to  the  surface  like  an  oil  slick.

Anna,  always  the  ringleader,  broke  from  the  wailing  group  and  shouted  to  the group  of  anxious  adults:  "A  leper!"

They  understood  immediately  and  turned  away  from  the  German  soldier. Their  attitude  had  changed  now.  Some  of  them  were  less  than  bothered  by  the death  of  a  leper.  There  were  still  plenty  left.  In  the  short  time  it  took  for  the  parents to  reassure  themselves  that  their  children  were  unharmed,  the  soldier  had  vanished. So  too  had  the  victim  and  all  traces  of  him.  Everyone  could  forget  all  about  him.

Giorgis,  however,  would  not  find  it  so  easy.  His  feelings  about  the  inhabitants of  Spinalonga  were  anything  but  neutral.  That  night,  when  he  took  his  battered  old caique  across  the  water,  Eleni  told  him  that  the  leper  whose  cold-­‐blooded  execution they  had  all  witnessed  was  a  young  man  called  Nikos.  It  transpired  that  he  had  been making  regular  forays  from  the  island  when  it  was  pitch  dark  to  visit  his  wife  and child.  Rumour  had  it  that  it  had  been  his  son's  third  birthday  on  the  day  he  died  and he  wished  for  once  to  see  him  before  nightfall.

The  children  on  the  shore  at  Plaka  had  not  been  Nikos's  only  audience.  A crowd  had  also  gathered  to  watch  him  on  Spinalonga.  There  were  no  rules  or regulations  to  protect  people  from  such  folly  and  few  felt  the  restraining  hand  of husband,  wife  or  lover  when  they  were  spurred  to  some  spontaneous  act  of  insanity as  this.  Nikos  had  been  like  a  starving  man  and  his  hunger  dominated  his  every thought  and  waking  moment.  He  craved  the  company  of  his  wife,  but  even  more  the sight  of  his  son,  his  own  flesh  and  blood,  the  image  of  his  unscarred,  unblemished boyhood,  a  mirror  of  himself  as  a  child.  He  had  paid  for  his  desire  with  his  life.

Nikos  was  mourned  on  the  little  island  that  night.  Prayers  were  said  in  the

church  and  a  wake  was  held  for  him  even  though  there  was  no  body  to  bury.  Death was  never  ignored  on  Spinalonga.  It  was  handled  with  as  much  dignity  there  as  it would  be  anywhere  else  on  Crete.

After  this  incident,  Fotini,  Anna  and  Maria  and  all  the  other  children  playing with  them  that  day  lived  under  a  cloud  of  anxiety.  In  a  single  moment  on  this  stretch of  warm  pebbles  where  they  had  enjoyed  so  much  carefree  childhood  happiness, everything  had  changed.

Chapter  Nine

ALTHOUGH  THE  LEPER  executed  just  metres  off  their  shore  had  meant  little  to most  of  them  personally,  the  hatred  the  people  of  Plaka  felt  for  the  Germans intensified  after  this  incident.  It  had  brought  the  reality  of  war  to  the  very  threshold of  their  homes  and  made  them  realise  that  their  village  was  now  as  vulnerable  as anywhere  in  this  worldwide  conflict.  Reactions  varied.  For  many  people,  God  was the  only  source  of  true  peace,  and  the  churches  were  sometimes  full  to  overflowing with  people  bent  in  prayer.  A  few  of  the  old  people,  Fotini's  grandmother,  for instance,  spent  so  much  time  in  the  company  of  the  priest  that  they  permanently carried  the  sweet  perfume  of  incense  with  them.  "Grandma  smells  like  candle  wax!" Fotini  would  cry,  dancing  around  the  old  lady,  who  smiled  indulgently  at  her  only granddaughter.  Even  if  He  did  not  appear  to  be  doing  much  to  help  them  win  it,  her faith  told  her  that  God  was  on  their  side  in  this  war,  and  when  stories  of  the destruction  and  desecration  of  churches  reached  her,  it  only  intensified  her  belief.

The  panegyria,  saints'  days,  were  still  celebrated.  Icons  would  be  taken  from their  safe  places  and  carried  in  procession  by  the  priests,  the  town  band  following them  with  an  almost  unholy  cacophony  of  brass  and  drums.  Lavish  feasting  and  the sound  of  fireworks  may  have  been  missing,  but  when  the  relics  had  been  safely returned  to  the  church,  people  still  danced  wildly  and  sang  their  haunting  songs  with even  more  passion  than  in  times  of  peace.  Fury  and  frustration  at  the  continuing occupation  would  be  washed  away  with  the  best  wines,  but  as  dawn  broke  and sobriety  returned,  everything  was  as  it  had  been  before.  It  was  then  that  those whose  faith  was  less  than  rock  solid  began  to  question  why  God  had  not  answered their  prayers.

The  Germans  were  no  doubt  bemused  by  these  displays  of  the  sacred  and  the curiously  profane  but  knew  better  than  to  ban  them:  They  did,  however,  do  what they  could  to  interfere,  demanding  to  question  the  priest  just  as  he  was  about  to begin  a  service  or  to  search  houses  as  the  dancing  got  into  full  swing.

On  Spinalonga,  candles  were  lit  daily  for  those  suffering  on  the  mainland.  The islanders  were  well  aware  that  the  Cretans  were  living  in  fear  of  German  cruelty, and  prayed  for  a  swift  end  to  the  occupation.

Dr  Lapakis,  who  believed  in  the  power  of  medicine  rather  than  divine intervention,  began  to  grow  disillusioned.  He  knew  that  research  and  testing  had been  more  or  less  abandoned.  He  had  sent  letters  to  Kyritsis  in  Iraklion,  but  since

they  had  gone  unanswered  for  many  months,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  his colleague  must  be  dealing  with  more  pressing  issues  and  resigned  himself  to  a  long wait  before  he  saw  him  again.  Lapakis  increased  the  number  of  visits  he  made  to Spinalonga  from  three  to  six  days  a  week.  Some  of  the  lepers  needed  constant attention,  and  Athina  Manakis  could  not  cope  alone.  One  such  patient  was  Eleni.

Giorgis  would  never  forget  the  day  he  came  to  the  island  and  saw,  instead  of the  slender  silhouette  of  his  wife,  the  squatter  figure  of  Elpida,  her  friend.  His heartbeat  had  quickened.  What  had  happened  to  Eleni?  It  was  the  first  time  she  had not  been  there  to  greet  him.  Elpida  spoke  first.

Her  statement  was  noncommittal.  Elpida  knew  no  more  about  the  chances  of Eleni's  survival  than  Giorgis  himself.

Giorgis  left  the  packages  he  was  delivering  and  quickly  returned  to  Plaka.  It was  a  Saturday,  and  Maria  noticed  that  her  father  was  back  much  earlier  than  usual.

This  much  was  entirely  true,  but  he  left  the  house  quickly  before  Maria  could ask  any  more  questions.

Maria  could  tell  something  was  wrong,  and  the  feeling  lingered  with  her  all day.

For  the  next  four  months  Eleni  lay  in  the  hospital,  too  ill  to  struggle  through the  tunnel  to  meet  Giorgis.  Each  day  when  he  brought  Lapakis  to  Spinalonga  he looked  in  vain,  expecting  her  to  be  waiting  under  the  pine  trees  for  him.  Every evening  Lapakis  would  report  to  him,  at  first  with  a  diluted  version  of  the  truth.

But  the  doctor  soon  realised  that  he  was  building  false  hopes,  and  that  the more  these  were  reinforced  the  harder  it  would  be  when  the  final  days  came,  as  he knew,  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  they  would.  It  was  not  as  though  he  was  lying  when he  said  that  Eleni's  body  was  fighting.  It  was  engaged  in  a  raging  battle,  with  every tissue  fighting  the  bacteria  that  struggled  to  dominate.  Lepra  fever  had  two  possible outcomes:  deterioration  or  improvement.  The  lesions  on  Eleni's  legs,  back,  neck  and face  had  now  multiplied,  and  she  lay  racked  with  pain,  finding  no  comfort  whichever way  she  turned.  Her  body  was  a  mass  of  ulcers  which  Lapakis  did  everything  he

could  to  treat,  holding  on  to  the  basic  principle  that  if  they  were  kept  clean  and disinfected  he  might  be  able  to  minimise  the  virulently  multiplying  bacteria.

It  was  during  this  phase  that  Elpida  took  Dimitri  to  see  Eleni.  He  was  now living  at  the  Kontomaris  house,  an  arrangement  they  had  all  hoped  would  be temporary  but  that  was  now  looking  as  though  it  might  be  permanent.

Her  voice  was  very  quiet  but  Elpida  knew  what  her  words  had  acknowledged: that  the  thirteen-­‐year-­‐old  boy  was  now  in  her  capable  hands.  This  at  least  might  give her  some  peace  of  mind.

Eleni  had  been  moved  into  a  small  room  where  she  could  be  alone,  away  from the  stares  of  the  other  patients  and  neither  disturbed  by  them  nor  a  disturbance  to them  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  the  agony  worsened  and  her  sheets  became saturated  with  fever  and  her  groans  continuous.  Athina  Manakis  tended  to  her  in those  dark  hours,  spooning  watery  soup  between  her  lips  and  sponging  down  her fiery  brow.  The  quantities  of  soup  were  ever-­‐diminishing,  however,  and  one  night she  ceased  to  be  able  to  swallow  at  all.  Not  even  water  could  slip  down  her  throat.

It  was  when  Lapakis  found  his  patient  gasping  for  breath  the  next  morning and  incapable  of  replying  to  any  of  his  usual  questions  that  he  realised  Eleni  had entered  a  new  and  perhaps  final  stage.

The  two  doctors  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  quiedy  behind  them.  Dr Lapakis  spoke  quietly  and  hurriedly.

He  returned  to  the  room,  sat  down  beside  Eleni  and  took  her  hand.  Her breathlessness  seemed  to  have  worsened  in  the  moments  they  had  been  away.  It was  the  point  he  had  reached  before  with  so  many  patients,  when  he  knew  that there  was  nothing  more  he  could  do  for  them,  except  keep  them  company  for  the last  hours.  The  hospital's  elevated  position  gave  it  the  best  views  of  anywhere  in Spinalonga,  and  as  he  sat  by  Eleni's  bedside,  listening  to  her  increasingly  laboured breathing,  he  gazed  through  the  huge  window  which  looked  out  across  the  water  to Plaka.  He  thought  of  Giorgis,  who  would  be  setting  off  towards  Spinalonga  later  that day  to  race  with  the  white  horses  across  the  sea.

Eleni's  breathing  now  came  in  short  gasps,  and  her  eyes  were  wide  open, brimming  with  tears  and  full  of  fear.  He  could  see  there  would  be  no  peace  at  the end  of  this  life  and  gripped  her  hands  in  both  of  his  as'if  to  try  and  reassure  her.  It

may  have  been  for  two,  maybe  even  three  hours  that  he  sat  like  this  before  the  end finally  came.  Eleni's  last  breath  was  a  futile  struggle  for  another  which  failed  to arrive.

The  best  any  doctor  could  tell  a  bereaved  family  was  that  their  loved  one  had died  peacefully.  It  was  an  untruth  Lapakis  had  told  before  and  would  willingly  tell again.  He  hurried  out  of  the  hospital.  He  wanted  to  be  waiting  at  the  quayside  when Giorgis  arrived.

Some  way  off  shore,  the  boat  lurched  up  and  down  in  the  high,  early  spring waves.  Giorgis  was  puzzled  that  Dr  Lapakis  was  already  waiting.  It  was  unusual  for his  passenger  to  be  there  first,  but  there  was  also  something  in  his  manner  that made  Giorgis  nervous.

Giorgis  knew  even  before  the  doctor  spoke  that  his  hopes  were  about  to  be destroyed.

They  sat  down  on  the  low  stone  wall  that  had  been  built  around  the  pine trees  and  both  men  looked  out  across  the  sea.

He  had  his  arm  around  Giorgis's  shoulder,  and  the  older  man,  head  in  hands, now  shed  such  heavy  and  copious  tears  that  they  splashed  his  dirty  shoes  and darkened  the  dust  around  his  feet.  They  sat  like  this  for  more  than  an  hour,  and  it was  nearly  seven  o'clock,  the  sky  almost  dark  and  the  air  now  crisp  and  cold,  when the  tears  no  longer  coursed  down  his  face.  He  was  as  dry  as  a  wrung  cloth  and  had reached  the  moment  of  grieving  when  exhaustion  and  a  strange  sense  of  relief descend  as  those  first  intense  tidal  waves  of  grief  pass.

As  they  bumped  up  and  down  across  the  water  in  near  darkness  towards  the lights  of  Plaka,  Giorgis  confessed  to  Lapakis  that  he  had  kept  the  seriousness  of Eleni's  condition  from  his  daughters.

It  was  much  later  than  usual  when  Giorgis  arrived  home,  and  the  girls  had been  growing  anxious  about  him.  The  moment  he  walked  in  the  door  they  knew something  was  terribly  wrong.

her!"

Giorgis's  face  crumpled.  He  gripped  the  back  of  a  chair,  his  features contorted.  Maria  stepped  forward  and  put  her  arms  round  him.

Giorgis  sat  at  the  table  trying  to  compose  himself.  A  few  minutes  elapsed before  he  could  speak.

Anna  had  never  accepted  that  her  mother's  illness  could  have  only  one  real, inevitable  conclusion.  Giorgis's  decision  to  keep  the  news  of  her  deterioration  from them  meant  that  this  came  as  a  huge  shock  to  them  both.  It  was  as  though  their mother  had  died  twice  and  the  distress  they  had  felt  nearly  five  years  before  had  to be  experienced  all  over  again.  Older,  but  little  wiser  than  she  had  been  as  a  twelve-­‐ year-­‐old,  Anna's  first  reaction  was  one  of  anger  that  their  father  had  not  given  them any  warning  and  that  this  cataclysmic  event  had  come  out  of  the  blue.

For  half  a  decade,  the  photograph  of  Giorgis  and  Eleni  which  hung  on  the  wall by  the  fireplace  had  provided  the  image  of  their  mother  which  Anna  and  Maria carried  around  in  their  heads.  Their  only  memories  of  her  were  general  ones,  of maternal  kindness  and  the  aura  of  happy  routine.  They  had  long  since  forgotten  the reality  of  Eleni  and  had  only  this  idealised  picture  of  her  in  traditional  dress,  a  long, richly  draped  skirt,  a  narrow  apron  and  a  splendid  saltamarka,  an  embroidered blouse  with  sleeves  slit  to  the  elbows.  With  her  smiling  face  and  long  dark  hair, braided  and  wound  round  her  head,  she  was  the  archetype  of  Cretan  beauty, captured  for  ever  in  the  moment  when  the  camera's  shutters  had  snapped.  The finality  of  their  mother's  death  was  hard  to  grasp.  They  had  always  cherished  the hope  that  she  would  return,  and  as  talk  of  a  cure  had  increased,  their  hopes  had risen.  And  now  this.

Anna's  sobs  from  the  upstairs  room  were  audible  down  the  street  and  as  far as  the  village  square.  Maria's  tears  did  not  come  so  easily.  She  looked  at  her  father and  saw  a  man  physically  diminished  by  grief.  Eleni's  death  not  only  represented  an end  to  his  hopes  and  expectations,  but  the  end  of  a  friendship.  His  life  had  been turned  upside  down  when  she  was  exiled,  but  now  it  was  changed  beyond  repair.

Nothing  had  prepared  any  of  them  for  the  impact  of  Eleni's  death.  Their three-­‐cornered  family  unit  was  only  meant  to  be  temporary,  wasn't  it?  For  forty days  an  oil  lamp  burned  in  the  front  room  as  a  mark  of  respect  and  the  doors  and windows  of  their  home  remained  closed.  Eleni  had  been  buried  on  Spinalonga  under one  of  the  concrete  slabs  that  formed  the  communal  graveyard,  but  she  was remembered  in  Plaka  by  the  lighting  of  a  single  candle  in  the  church  of  Agia  Marina on  the  edge  of  the  village,  where  the  sea  was  so  close  it  lapped  against  the  church

steps.

After  a  few  months,  Maria,  and  even  Anna,  moved  beyond  the  stages  of mourning.  For  a  time,  their  own  personal  tragedy  had  eclipsed  wider  world  events, but  when  they  emerged  from  their  cocoon  of  grief,  all  continued  to  go  on  around them  just  as  it  had  before.

In  April,  the  daring  kidnap  of  General  Kreipe,  commander  of  the  Sebastopol Division  in  Crete,  added  to  the  state  of  tension  across  the  island.  With  the  help  of members  of  the  resistance,  Kreipe  had  been  ambushed  by  Allied  troops  disguised  as Germans  and,  in  spite  of  a  massive  manhunt,  was  smuggled  from  his  headquarters outside  Iraklion  over  the  mountains  to  the  south  coast  of  Crete.  From  here  he  was shipped  off  to  Egypt,  the  Allies'  most  valuable  prisoner  of  war.  There  were  fears  that the  reprisals  for  this  audacious  abduction  might  be  more  barbaric  than  ever.  The Germans  made  it  clear,  however,  that  the  terror  they  were  still  perpetrating  would have  happened  in  any  case.  One  of  the  worst  waves  of  all  took  place  in  May. Vangelis  Lidaki  had  been  returning  from  Neapoli  when  he  saw  the  awful  burnt-­‐out villages.  .

The  men  in  the  bar  listened  in  disbelief  to  his  descriptions  of  the  smoke  still rising  from  the  ashes  of  the  flame-­‐engulfed  villages  south  of  the  Lasithi  mountains, and  their  hearts  went  cold;

A  few  days  after  this  event,  a  copy  of  a  newssheet  published  by  the  Germans found  its  way  to  Plaka  via  Antonis,  who  had  visited  briefly  to  reassure  his  parents that  he  was  still  alive.  The  tone  of  it  was  as  threatening  as  ever:

The  villages  of  Margarikari,  Lokhria,  Kamares  and  Saktouria  and  the  nearby parts  of  the  Nome  of  lraklion  have  been  razed  to  the  ground  and  their  inhabitants have  been  dealt  with.

These  villages  had  offered  protection  to  Communist  bands  and  we  find  the entire  population  guilty  of  failing  to  report  these  treasonable  practices.

Bandits  have  roamed  freely  in  the  Saktouria  region  with  the  full  support  of  the local  populace  and  have  been  given  shelter  by  them.  At  Margarikari,  the  traitor Petrakgeorg  is  openly  celebrated  Easter  with  the  inhabitants.

Listen  carefully  to  us,  Cretans.  Recognise  who  your  real  enemies  are  and protect  yourselves  from  those  who  cause  retribution  to  be  brought  down  on  you.  We have  always  warned  you  of  the  dangers  of  collaboration  with  the  British.  We  are losing  patience  now.  The  German  sword  will  destroy  everyone  who  associates  with the  bandits  and  the  British.

The  sheet  was  passed  around,  read  and  reread  until  the  paper  was  worn  thin with  handling.  It  did  not  dampen  the  villagers'  resolve.

Conversation  continued  long  into  the  night.  To  surrender  and  co-­‐operate went  against  everything  that  was  instinctive  to  most  Cretans.  They  should  resist, they  should  fight.  Besides,  they  liked  fighting.  From  a  minor  argument  to  a  decade-­‐ old  blood  feud  between  families,  the  men  thrived  on  conflict.  Many  of  the  women, by  contrast,  prayed  hard  for  peace  and  thought  their  prayers  had  been  answered  as they  read  between  the  lines  and  detected  sinking  morale  among  their  occupiers.

The  printing  and  distribution  of  such  threats  might  well  be  an  act  of desperation,  but,  whatever  the  motivation  behind  them,  it  was  a  fact  that  villages had  been  razed  to  the  ground.  Every  home  in  them  had  been  reduced  to  a  smoking ruin  and  the  landscape  around  was  now  scarred  with  the  eerie  silhouettes  of blackened,  twisted  trees.  Anna  insisted  to  her  father  that  they  should  tell  the Germans  everything  they  knew.

The  propaganda  war  was  not  only  being  waged  by  the  Germans,  however. The  British  were  orchestrating  their  own  campaign  and  finding  it  an  efFective weapon.  They  produced  newssheets  that  gave  the  impression  that  the  enemy's position  was  weakening,  spread  rumours  of  a  British  landing  and  exaggerated  the success  of  resistance  activities.  'Kapitulation'  was  the  theme,  and  the  Germans would  wake  to  the  sight  of  huge  letter  Ks  daubed  liberally  on  their  sentry  boxes, barrack  walls  and  vehicles.  Even  in  villages  such  as  Plaka,  mothers  waited  nervously for  their  sons  to  return  after  trips  to  perpetrate  acts  of  graffiti  vandalism;  the  boys, of  course,  were  thrilled  to  be  contributing  something  to  the  effort,  never  imagining for  a  minute  that  they  were  putting  themselves  in  any  danger.

Such  attempts  to  undermine  the  Germans  may  have  been  small  in  themselves but  they  helped  to  change  the  bigger  picture.  The  tide  was  turning  throughout Europe,  and  cracks  had  appeared  in  the  Nazis'  firm  hold  on  the  continent.  In  Crete, morale  was  now  so  low  that  German  troops  were  starting  to  withdraw;  some,  even, to  desert.

It  was  Maria  who  noticed  that  the  small  garrison  in  Plaka  had  cleared  out.  At six  o'clock  sharp  there  was  always  a  show  of  force,  a  supposedly  intimidating  march through  the  main  street  and  back  again  with  the  occasional  interrogation  of someone  en  route.

It  did  not  take  long  to  work  it  out.  It  was  now  ten  past  six  and  the  familiar sound  of  steel-­‐capped  boots  had  not  been  heard.

The  tension  that  hung  in  the  air  seemed  to  have  lifted.

The  two  girls,  rather  than  ambling  on  to  the  beach  as  they  usually  did,  kept  to the  main  street  until  it  ran  out.  Right  at  this  point  was  the  house  where  the  German garrison  had  their  headquarters.  The  front  door  and  the  shutters  were  wide  open.

She  stood  on  tiptoes  and  peered  through  the  front  window.  She  could  see  a table,  bare  but  for  an  ashtray  piled  high  with  cigarette  butts,  and  four  chairs,  two  of them  tipped  carelessly  on  to  the  floor.

Except  for  a  few  stray  bits  of  rubbish  and  a  yellowing  German  newspaper discarded  on  the  floor,  the  house  was  empty.  The  two  girls  ran  home  and  reported the  news  to  Pavlos,  who  went  immediately  to  the  bar.  Within  an  hour  word  had swept  round  the  village,  and  that  evening  the  square  was  filled  with  people celebrating  the  release  of  their  own  small  corner  of  the  island.

Only  days  later,  on  11  October  1944,  Iraklion  was  liberated.  Remarkably,  given all  the  bloodshed  of  the  previous  few  years,  the  German  troops  were  calmly escorted  out  of  the  city  gate  without  any  loss  of  life;  the  violence  was  saved  for anyone  who  was  perceived  to  have  collaborated.  German  troops  did,  however, continue  to  occupy  parts  of  western  Crete,  and  it  was  some  months  before  that situation  changed.

One  morning  in  early  summer  the  following  year,  Lidaki  had  the  radio  blaring in  the  bar.  He  was  washing  glasses  from  the  night  before  in  his  customary  slapdash manner,  sluicing  them  in  a  bowl  of  grey  water  before  wiping  them  with  a  cloth  that had  already  been  used  to  mop  a  few  puddles  on  the  floor.  He  was  mildly  irritated when  the  music  was  suddenly  interrupted  for  a  news  announcement,  but  his  ears pricked  up  when  he  eaught  the  solemnity  of  the  tone.

The  music  resumed  and  Lidaki  wondered  if  the  announcement  had  just  been  a trick  of  his  own  mind.  He  stuck  his  head  out  of  the  door  of  the  bar  and  saw  Giorgis hastening  towards  him.

It  was  true  then.  The  tyranny  was  over.  Though  the  people  of  Crete  had always  believed  that  they  would  drive  the  enemy  from  their  island,  when  the moment  came  their  joy  was  unrestrained.  A  celebration  to  end  all  celebrations would  have  to  be  held.