The Nifi Read online

  Only Yiayia Vasilliki recognized her son, Spyros, as he strode up the village path, eighteen years after having been killed in Asia Minor in the fighting that followed the first Great War, his hair white with age and suffering.

  Spyros Lykas, like his brothers Apostolis and John, had been a young man when he was sent to fight, but the wars ended, time passed and he did not return to convalesce in the bosom of the valley as his brothers had, though his mother waited and watched, ever vigilant as other young men slowly returned, experience etched in their eyes. And after several years of waiting, his mother had given up hope of ever seeing him again. But there he was, returned to his birthplace—still strong and powerful, tall and clear-headed—a man of middle age. Though he was prodded for details about his adventures, he shared very little of his years in captivity, of his procreating for his captor, a powerful Muslim landowner with a large harem, for whom he produced many heirs—sons who, as they grew tall, light haired, and blue-eyed—made it ever more apparent to the landowner that it would benefit him to have Spyros disappear from sight lest family members begin to see the children’s resemblance to the land owner’s slave. But those years that master and slave had shared, fostered a certain bond, though it was one based on servitude, it was still a bond, and it was worth his life. So upon receiving his freedom, he began his journey on foot, adding another year to his separation from his beloved home, having to travel only in darkness for fear of recapture and most certainly more enslavement. So, after tribulations that only Odysseus could have understood, and therefore he shared with no one, he found himself once again in Senitsa, hoping for the luxury of a quiet life, perhaps a small square of land to seed.

  Thus, he received from his father that parcel of land, rightfully his after Mr. Lykas was convinced it was truly his son, back from the bowels of Hades. And he set about tilling the hard earth with the help of his niece, Chevi, who naturally could not attend school when it was for reasons that had to do with the production of food. Chevi could not have been more pleased to meet that uncle she had heard many tales about.

  Years passed with the hardship of poverty and conflict. The second Great War, and the fight between Greeks devastated much of the little valley, but for its inhabitants, survival had always been a delicate thread.

  Chevi, an unmarried woman, a shaky-legged fawn among hungry wolves, approached her yard one morning, hunched over with the weight of the wood on her back. She did not hear the unfamiliar voice until she was too close to avoid him. A stranger stood with her father within the high walls of the courtyard, but they stopped speaking midsentence as she rounded the corner. She registered their uneasy smiles and knew something was amiss, but what? She wondered. She moved closer and let the wood fall from her back and straightened up to her full height—though it was no more than the mid-stone of the storeroom door—and she met their gaze, looking questioningly from the stranger to her father. The two resumed their conversation but they spoke gibberish.

  “He is not from the valley,” she thought and dismissed his presence. The smaller pieces of wood needed to be brought to the back room next to the fourno. She loaded up her arms, and walked toward the door, but the stranger stepped into her path and spoke.

  Her arms were shaking with the weight and she did not know what this person asked of her and why didn’t he just ask her father who appeared to know his language.

  “Get out of my way you idiot.” Chevi spoke quietly, as he continued to stand in her way and when she moved to the right he tried to clear a path for her to pass but he mistakenly chose to move in the same direction, so they danced back and forth and the wood grew heavier.

  “May lightning strike you dead.” She cursed him and swept past just as the first cut branches began to fall from her hands and the sound of their crashing to the floor as she entered the cooking room sent her father running in to aid her.

  “Father, who is that?”

  “No one, Chevi. Pick up the wood and bring it to the cooking pile.”

  “It is someone, father.”

  "He is here to buy some wheat.”

  “Well, he’s an imbecile,” she thought, and wondered where his sacks were and how he planned to cart the wheat away.

  John returned to the yard to Pavlos’ friend, Tomas. Pavlos had spoken well of him and his bravery during the war. He looked strong and healthy, important features for working the fields and providing grandsons to do the same.

  Tomas rubbed his chin. He had liked the look of the man’s daughter. And she seemed to be shy. She had spoken so softly, though he had no idea of what she had said; she appeared to be someone he could mold to his liking. Yes, he was interested in this arrangement and he told John as much.

  “But what was it she was saying to me John?”

  “She said she thinks you are very handsome and will love you as a good wife should.”

  Tomas smiled, shaking his head slowly, “Yes,” he thought, “I am handsome.”

  “There is one condition, though, Tomas,” John continued.

  “Yes?”

  “She must stay in this village. I need her here. You can live in this house with us.”

  Tomas made a very somber face as if he were contemplating this monstrous deviation from tradition. In fact, he could not have been more overjoyed to hear this news. His village, far from Margariti, hidden high within the mountain peaks, had nothing to offer except bickering between siblings for a small worthless piece of land. In this new place he could reinvent himself as Tomas, the worldly traveler, educated, sophisticated, handsome man of the household.

  “Well,” Tomas hesitated and cleared his throat long enough to seem as though he were sacrificing terribly for this woman, “alright, then.” He stuck out his hand and the two men shook and sealed the deal.

  * * * *

  “Uncle, I cannot marry that man,” Chevi whispered, “help me.”

  She trusted Uncle Spyros, as he had become the only reliable man in her life. It was his advice that had helped her father become the owner of their Margariti house that they were living in. If not for him, they would still be living in the two-room hovel in Senitsa. While father had discussed and planned and philosophized while emptying his glass at the taverna, Uncle Spyros had listened and heard about the possibilities across the valley in Margariti.

  The Muslims had fled for fear of retribution at the end of the second Great War, but it was expected that some might try to return, once the dust of the civil unrest had settled. So, each day, across the valley, more Christian names were carved into the doors of the Muslim homes as a sign of new ownership and as insurance against their return. The center of town had been slowly occupied. But there had still been some good structures left on the mountainside.

  “Go Chevi, get a home. Mark a cross on the door. People will know it is taken.” Those were his words that had sent her on a trek across the valley and up the side of the mountain.

  Climbing the steep path of hard dirt, she came across a high stone wall that rose far above her head. Embedded in the wall, sat a large wooden gate with a bronze door knocker fashioned into a hand grasping a sphere—Atlas squeezing the world to a size Chevi could endure. She pushed it open and passed into a hidden courtyard. The house stood majestically within and it dwarfed her father’s small dwelling in Senitsa. The bottom floors held the customary storage rooms with rounded ceilings and thick walls. Next to them was the cooking house—a separate structure which housed the round belly of a well-used fourno sitting on a dirt floor. Just outside the cooking house stood an ornate staircase, waiting to take her to the living quarters on the second floor. Its first steps had been created in a flat arch, giving the stairs an elegant rounded look, like half of a wedding cake as it rose toward the wall. It ascended to a small landing where it changed direction and proceeded up to the house entrance where a flat platform with a small overhang contained a water trough for washing. She could see from the foot of the stairs that the door had no mark on it yet so, finding a rock, she wa
lked up the steps, rising above the wall as she went, the brown valley painted before her, witnessing her work as she scratched the cross into the worn wood. If only she could write her name, to be sure, so the others would know. But the Christian cross was enough.

  The crude marking erased the lives of the family who had fled months before. Rahim, with his young son, had tilled the fields and prayed to Allah for a fruitful harvest while his wife and daughters attended to the house, well protected within the walled courtyard. His brother had laughed at their labor and sought the promised power from the German soldiers who had occupied the village during the second Great War. He knew that the Muslims were the superior ones and would rule the land of Margariti. They needed only to whisper a few Christian names to the Germans, to insure that power. But Rahim was only interested in feeding his family and making more sons. He had no quarrel with the other villagers. And like all events—significant or inconsequential—an end came to that war; the Germans left and took with them their promise to the Muslims who had betrayed their neighbors. Rahim had to protect his wife and children from the revenge of those who had been wronged. So he and his family, with their few cows, disappeared like the morning mist at sunrise. But the villagers, with their long time grudges between brothers, their petty jealousies between friends, and their neighborhood border disputes of generations, fell prey to a war instigated by others, further plunging the people of the valley into the destruction of a civil war, as the rest of the world treated their wounds and grew stronger. Four years later, shrouded in their black shawls of the dead, the women of Greece emerged. Having completed the task of survival, they sought a better life.

  Thus, Chevi had claimed a house. Her father’s house. The Christian cross on the door proved it. She pushed the door open and walked from the brightness of the day into darkness. The house was colder than she had expected, and appeared to have no possessions inside, only the sitting platform built next to the fireplace. But leaning in the shadows, a broom made from the soft tassels of a corn plant, reached out to her. Another woman’s labor, left behind for the new occupant. Chevi went to retrieve it and to open the shutters for the sunlight, but a sudden movement on the floor caused her to push back against the door frame. A black snake sliced over the wood and struck her ankle. The pain momentarily stopped her. She faltered, then backed out of the house to look at her injury in the daylight.

  She would nurse the cut and the pain would subside but she was unable to ease the heaviness in her heart as she turned back to the entrance, once again disappearing into the darkness, setting about to create her new home.

  And, only a few years later, she implored Uncle Spyros. “I don’t like him. I won’t marry him.”

  “Chevi, you are too old and too poor. This is the best offer you will have. If you don’t take it, you’ll end up unmarried. Accept your fate properly as a village girl should.”

  “I don’t want to marry anyone. I can take care of myself.”

  Hadn’t she proven her worth during the communist invasion, though perhaps only to herself. The children and women had fled to the mountain heights with the elderly, as the Germans descended on the village. But Chevi had bravely stayed behind with Zizis Pateras, the old farmer who refused to leave before sowing his field. As he lumbered over the dirt with his hand plow, she pushed the seeds into the soil and when a sniper began to shoot the dirt around them, sending bits of earth into the air, she shook with fear, but she did not abandon him.

  Old Zizis remained calm.

  “Who is that fool, wasting bullets on an old man and a little girl?”

  He shook his head and continued forward. Finally, with the last seed in its place, Chevi ran home between random bursts of gunfire and found her house empty. Everyone had ascended into the mountains to hide. It was growing dark, but she had lived her fourteen years among those ancient rocks. She knew every stone, every blade of dry grass and could find her way in complete dark of night, even without a moon, which is what she did. She made her way to the others in the deep cave near the fresh water spring and she believed her strength and endurance were cultivated during those oppressive days in that cave. Didn’t that prove she was capable?

  But Uncle Spyros had heard a different version of that story, which Chevi conveyed many times as an older woman, years later, with the shake of her head and a faint smile. For days, the villagers had heard conflicting news of the impending communist invasion, and their anxiety wore on them. A distant thunder clap sent them running for cover. The odd bray of a donkey or cluck of a chicken produced omens from the wise old women. The mounting stress slowly seeped into everyday life, with the constant conjectures among the villagers, electrifying everyone’s nerves. Some of the older ones—in an attempt to relieve the somber state of anticipation—tried to lighten the mood by teasing the children around them.

  “Watch out for those communists! They are after all the socks in the village.”

  So that evening, after having parted with Zizis Pateras, Chevi had indeed slipped into the darkness and found her way up to the cave, and there had been much relief and a collective sigh from those who were concerned for her welfare when she entered unhurt until she began to pull from her apron pockets all the socks from the house, which she had taken time to collect before escaping. This vision of his niece was probably the one Uncle Spyros held when she implored him to remember her competence during the invasion.

  Chevi continued her plea.

  “Please Uncle, I can farm and sell my goods the way father does. I can take care of myself. I don’t need to marry him.” She tried to sound confident, using a tone she had often heard her father use while bargaining the price of his wheat.

  Uncle Spyros shook his head.

  “Chevi, do you see the stork nests on the houses?” He pointed to the top of the neighbor’s chimney where two white storks stood among the intertwined twigs of their giant nest.

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “When I was young, my friends and I would watch the baby storks learn to fly. The mother taught them to fly out of the nest and then fly back. Sometimes, a weak one would try to fly out before he was ready and he would fall to the ground.”

  Uncle Spyros continued, “Well, my friends and I would play with that little bird on the ground. We poked it with sticks, pushed it around in the dirt, pulled its feet off and then left it to die.”

  Chevi gasped.

  “My dear niece, what I am telling you is this. In a mountain village such as ours, a woman is a baby bird without wings. She is meant to stay in a nest. Your father will get old and die and then you will be left alone like the bird that fell to the ground.”

  * * * *

  A few months later, in her twenty-fifth year, a full decade after many of her peers had married, John gave his daughter to Tomas, saving her from the shame and abuse of being an unmarried woman. It was a somber day. Chevi spent most of it wiping tears from her eyes.

  As she entered the church and saw Tomas waiting patiently at the altar, a villager whispered to her.

  “I know that man, Tomas, he fought with the communists in the war . . . Yes, I’m sure. That’s him.”

  Chevi suddenly felt the smallness of the church—the walls seemed to crumble, its floor to buckle.

  “Communist!” she released the word in an exhale. She knew all about communists. They were to be feared—kidnappers of children—heartless, evil beings. She looked up at her father as he took her arm. Surely, he could not have known. He would never have allowed a communist in his house. She would tell him. But first she should run away. She looked around. All the relatives were there, smiling at her—watching. Many had travelled from far away. She was being slowly led to the altar, her father’s eyes straight ahead leading her to the communist like a compass needle drawn north, a smiled pasted on his face. The priest stood waiting.

  The priest! She would tell him instead. He would chase the communist from his church. Her heart thundered in her chest as she walked past her relatives and sh
e wondered at their calmness. And then she was at the altar, next to the communist who stood small and unassumingly under an overgrown mustache, ready to receive his prize. Chevi, legs shaking, took her place as her father deposited her and retreated to the back of the church. She kept her eyes riveted to the floor, barely able to breathe, trying to keep herself steady. She opened her mouth to alert the priest but no words came out. Then there were prayers, and vows before God, the wedding crowns exchanged, the priest leading them around the altar. And then it was over. She was the wife of a communist! Arm in arm, they walked down the aisle toward the door. As they left the church, she could stand it no more. She ran to her father.

  “Yes, I know,” he told her, “but you do not know what that means.” So, he explained it to her.

  It was true—a common practice during the civil war—a matter of survival, especially in isolated villages like that of Tomas. Families would send a child to fight with whichever party took power in one’s village. Tomas’ mother made the decision that he was the child that could be expended and so, Tomas waffled between the republican army and the communist army, depending on which took power, at any given time—his family kept safe as they were perceived as loyal, having a child fight for the cause. He needed only to survive until it ended.

  As Chevi left her father, Yiayia Vasiliki pulled her aside.

  “Chevi, my dear, let us walk to the celebration together.” She brushed the young bride’s hair under her headscarf and continued to walk, “tonight you will be the wife of Tomas. You must obey him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, yiayia.” Chevi had no idea what her grandmother was referring to but they spoke no more and continued to the celebration in silence.

  That night, Tomas brought the smell of onions and ouzo into the bedroom where Chevi lay waiting. He stumbled around the room, knocked over her washing bowl, hit his head on the window frame and fell to the straw sleeping mat.