7 February 1964
It’s been so long since I wrote anything in my diary. After Sonia’s wedding she went to live with her husband’s family, as is the custom. She comes to see me every day. Their house is on the other side of the main street of Paradissi, only a few minutes away.
Sonia’s old bedroom has become a junk room, cluttered with useless stuff that mostly needs to be mended or thrown out. I came across my diaries in there. How time has flown. The journals were in a box that used to contain six wine glasses but now holds all the special bits and pieces one collects over a lifetime.
Pandora’s Box.
I also found the childish drawing of a horse that Sonia made in her art lesson. It won a gold star that is still stuck in the corner. I touched it and smiled to remember how proud we both were. I discovered her school reports, a necklace she bought me with her first wages, a baby tooth from my first grandchild, Naomi, an envelope of dried rose petals from Mount Filerimos, and a lock of curly hair that belonged to the boy I loved.
I sat in my armchair and read the journals from start to finish. I didn’t realise how dark it had become until I reached the end. My eyes were sore from the dim light and the tears for my dear departed friends and family.
My dream has come true, I have two grandchildren, ten-year-old Naomi, and Rebecca who was born only one week ago. They are both beautiful, but not alike. I can already see that Rebecca will be the double of Sonia, fine-boned with almond eyes and full lips. Naomi looks a lot like her father, square-jawed and an aquiline nose. But Naomi also has the round heavy-lidded eyes of Giovanni, and his mouth that was always quick to smile. Sometimes, when the light catches her in a certain way, I’m so shocked by the likeness that my heart leaps.
I often think of him. It’s been thirty years since the clean-shaven soldier with an army haircut came looking for me. I wish I’d seen him, and I often try to imagine what he lookes like without his curls. I wonder, if I hadn’t chosen to plant tomatoes that day, how different my life might have turned out. Unfortunately, we can’t change the past. I go on alone – yet not alone.
After she was married, Sonia stopped working in the bank. The sedentary work gave her dreadful headaches, migraines, so Zorba taught her to fish with him on the boat. The fresh air seems to help. She had a break from fishing for her confinement, but tomorrow she’s going out with Zorba again.
They fish at night, and until baby Rebecca was born, I went to sleep at their house on the other side of the main street, to take care of my granddaughter. Zorba’s parents are too elderly to look after young children. The problem is that I share a bed with Naomi and, although she’s only ten, she’s already as tall as me and sleeps like a starfish.
Sonia’s going to bring the children to me this time. My suggestion. Then Sonia and Zorba will get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep after work, and I’ll send Naomi off to school. Sonia has looked pale lately and the headaches have come back. I persuaded her to return to the sea, night fishing with Zorba.
9 February 1964
I’m frantic! Sonia and Zorba haven’t returned. Why in God’s name did I encourage her to go with him?! Last night, an urn blew over on the patio and smashed, the noise woke me and I heard the unrelenting wind. A horrendous storm raged, turning into a hurricane. Rhodes’ radio station announced that an earthquake, deep below the sea and forty kilometres off shore, had triggered turbulent seas and steep waves over four metres high. Winds were gusting at more than fifty knots, and the Coastguard and Search & Rescue have been out since midnight.
I tried to call Elevtheria on the ship-to-shore radio but got no reply. I tuned to channel sixteen, the emergency and distress frequency, and kept it open all night. There were calls for help from local fishing boats but nothing from Zorba and Sonia. Perhaps they turned back and are waiting it out in some sheltered bay or the harbour. I can only pray for that.
When daylight arrived, I sent my granddaughter to school and fed Rebecca the bottle Sonia had left. By the time Naomi returned at two o’clock, I was beside myself with worry. Papas Yiannis came over and sat with me, assuring me they would be fine. Zorba was a good sailor and not one to take risks. Yet, I could see the concern in his eyes too. He loved Sonia.
And the wind blew.
Ever since he moved in, the priest had been a good friend. His wife, who is ten years younger than he is, has also grown close to Sonia and Zorba, almost like an older sister. She sent food over. A thoughtful gesture but I couldn’t eat for the worry; nevertheless, it saved me cooking for Naomi.
My granddaughter has not grasped the seriousness of the situation. Naomi’s positive her mother and father are safe in some distant cove. I hope she’s right, but I am unable to believe it myself.
1 March 1964
This morning I found my daughter’s wedding ring on her bedside table. I hadn’t been in her bedroom since she brought the children to me on that fateful evening. I slipped the ring onto my finger, and remembered those minutes on the villa’s Juliet balcony, when Giovanni took me as his wife. Then I recalled Sonia’s wedding, when Zorba slid this gold band onto my daughter’s finger. I wished with all my heart Giovanni could have seen his mother’s ring go on his child’s finger.
One day, the ring will go on Naomi’s finger, and I wonder if I will still be here to see it.
Sonia and Zorba’s wedding was the new priest’s first in our parish. I remember there was an embarrassing moment after he’d blessed the gold band when he seemed to lose his place. The priest pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Everyone stared at him until he recovered and said, ‘Apologies, a sneeze coming,’ and we all smiled. I’m crying as I write this. The memory of that wonderful day brings back so much happiness.
These have been the hardest three weeks of my life. I must accept that my dear, darling, daughter is not returning home. I am heartbroken. Why is God so cruel? It seems everyone I love is snatched from me and I am destined to suffer alone. Is this my punishment for shooting my sister? Poor Evangelisa. They say hell is on earth, and in my darkest hours I believe that’s true. I spend a lot of time talking to Irini in my head. I’m unable to say why, but she comforts me and I often feel she is near me, standing behind me, or in the next room, or holding me in the dead of night as I cry myself to sleep. Sweet Irini.
Jacob would like to come over from Italy and support me, but his health is not good. He never returned after Sonia’s wedding, the strenuous journey was too much for him. Perhaps one day I’ll go to Italy. He writes often, tells me about his wife, who’s having their second baby. I always get a lift from his correspondence and write back immediately.
10 February 1971
How could I know all those years ago the things I’d be writing in my journal today?
I’ve fallen in love with the most wonderful man. This sweet agony and ecstasy is tearing me apart, for this is a forbidden love than can lead nowhere. He’s happily married, with a child. What’s more, he’s Greek Orthodox.
I look out for him every day and dream about him at night. My lonely heart longs for him to take me in his arms, and my pulse races as I write this just from the very idea.
Papas Yiannis, the priest across the road. When I think of him, my emotions go crazy, sawing and breaking in the same instant.
After I lost my beloved daughter, the priest and his wife were a comfort, although Papas Yiannis always seems to keep his distance. Now, seven years after their tragic death, it is time to arrange the memorial service for Sonia and Zorba. Yesterday, Papas Yiannis came over to run through the church details. The priest understands that the situation is difficult for me, as I am Jewish and the memorial service will be in a Christian church.
We talked for some time, and then I’m afraid I got over emotional thinking of Sonia. I broke into tears. We were sitting on the banquette, and as I cried, the priest placed his hand on my shoulder and said something comforting. It was all too much for me. I turned towards him, threw my arms around his neck, and cried on his shoulder.
I felt his body tense. He lifted his hand away from my shoulder, but I was overcome with emotion and wept heavily. After a moment, he slipped his arms around me and held me tight. I had not been in a man’s arms since the morning Giovanni said goodbye in the villa.
Oh, Giovanni, how I loved him, how I missed him, how I longed to be in his arms again. I think I may have whispered his name, I’m not sure, but something made the priest pull away from me. I blinked at him, wiped my tears away and apologised. Then I could see that he was full of emotion too.
The priest got up and sat at the kitchen table, and I sat opposite him.
‘I’m so sorry, Papas. Please forgive me,’ I said. ‘It’s just. . . I’ve lost so many people that I loved . . .’
He nodded sadly, pulled off his glasses and pushed back his wild curly hair.
I stared at my neighbour, Papas Yiannis, Orthodox priest of Paradissi. No two people could have exactly the same scar across their eyebrow.
Images of the pink-faced Nazi returned. The shepherd boy with a gun held to his head, blood streaming down his face. The horror of Seven Springs. My dearest, darling, Giovanni.
I was sitting in the kitchen opposite the only man I’d ever kissed, ever loved.
I wanted to fall into his arms! I longed to be naked against him, desperate to taste his kisses just one more time.
‘Giovanni,’ I whispered.
‘No! No!’ he exclaimed, realising his mistake, thrusting his glasses back on. ‘I’m Papas Yiannis, Orthodox Priest of Paradissi. I have a wife and a child. Pandora Cohen, they know nothing of my past. Listen to me for their sake: I am Papas Yiannis, shepherd – soldier – priest. Never forget it.’
That night, I cried myself to sleep.
1 September 1976
It’s been such a long time since I picked up this beautiful pen that my dear papa gave me all those years ago. The ink had dried up, and that seemed symbolic somehow, although I am not sure of what. They found a dusty bottle of India ink for me in the post office and I’m delighted to use Papa’s birthday gift once more.
Tomorrow, young Naomi is getting married. Naomi’s more like a daughter to me, and I cannot take my mind away from her mother’s wedding. Bringing up Rebecca was hard work, her being little more than a newborn when my Sonia perished, but Naomi, ten years old at that time, practically brought herself up. She was no trouble; in fact she shared many of my responsibilities and I love her with all my heart.
Her husband-to-be is the steady sort. Costa will never be captain of the cruise ship he works on, but he’ll always have a job, and won’t drink or gamble his money away. I haven’t long to wait before I see my first great-grandchild. They have the process in hand already.