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.—He is better, now that it is morning.—Will he live, Kiria Panagis?Stavros wore a plain black shirt and held his cap rolled tight in his fist.He had entered the room quietly and had knelt down before his son’s bed.Even though the sickness had ravaged his small body, Kyriakos shared his father’s large honey-coloured eyes, the man’s thick brow and full mouth.If he lived, he too would be a good-looking man.Stavros turned to his wife.—Yiannoula, bring the child some food.Yiannoula’s scared eyes darted to Maritha.Stavros followed her look.His smile was bitter.—We can trust her.Yiannoula fell to her knees, lifted a stone from the floor, and beneath it Maritha could see a bundle of dried wheat and a few scrawny cobs of corn.Her stomach knotted and she exhaled slowly, praying for the hunger to leave her.Yiannoula stripped one of the cobs of its kernels and threw them into a small black pan over the fire.She turned to the old woman.—Are you hungry, Kiria Maritha?The old woman shook her head.The couple had two other sons and four daughters, and they all needed to be fed.She could not take their food.Instead, she came and stood before the man and whispered to him, Make sure your wife eats as well.Stavros took the old woman’s hand and squeezed it tight.She and the children will eat, he promised her.Stavros had already lost a son in the war.A year ago the English had dropped a load of provisions from their machines that flew in the air—he crossed himself—and the crates of food had been stored in the town hall in Thermos to be divided among the King’s soldiers.The news had flown quickly through the villages.It had been expected that the guerrillas would come down from the mountains and storm the building.A garrison of troops had been installed in the town to ensure the food was kept safe.In the end, it had not been the guerrillas who had attempted to steal the food.Four of the oldest boys in the village had hatched a plan together, and one of them had been Stavros’ Emmanuel.The idea had been to have the two oldest boys start a mock fight, hoping to draw the guards’ attention, and then the two youngest boys would climb through one of the small louvres in the back of the hall and cram as much of the food as they possibly could into their pockets.Afterwards, everyone agreed that it had been a ridiculous and incompetent plan.The youngest boys had not even managed to squeeze through the window before a soldier raised the alarm.On hearing the shouts of their friends, the two boys engaged in the diversion had set off at a run that was halted by swift bullets.The four corpses had been returned to the village, their heads severed from their bodies in retribution.It had been assumed that the boys had been guerrillas.The guerrillas had exacted their own revenge within a week.It had indeed been their plan to storm the hall and to take the provisions.But the military presence had increased after the failed attempt by the boys, and so, instead, the guerrillas swooped on the families of the dead youth and requisitioned any grain or food remaining in their houses.Is it my son, Yiannoula had asked Maritha the night before.Has he come back to haunt our village?—Quiet.Maritha had been stern.It is not Emmanuel.But he’s not in peace, wailed the dead boy’s mother, How can he be in peace with his body so desecrated?—It is not Emmanuel, I promise you.It is not Emmanuel.Maritha opened the gate to her own cottage, and on entering the courtyard, she unravelled her long black scarf.Her hair fell thickly around her shoulders; it was as white as the asbestos with which her son had dusted the courtyard trees.She shivered in the darkness and moved to the kitchen to light the fire.From across the courtyard she could hear her daughter-in-law singing.Maritha crossed herself and set the kindling alight.Her own home had been stripped nearly bare.As the wealthiest family and landowners in the village, they had been the first target of the guerrillas.The bearded men had fallen like furies upon the house, the cellar, the fields, taking livestock, grain, bread and wine.They had not looked like heroes, these gaunt ghosts wrapped in their grey overcoats that had become rags after the long winter in the mountains.Some of the men wore pants and coats they had stripped from dead Germans.Lucia and her Michaelis had cursed the guerrillas but Maritha had let them take what they wanted, watching them silently as they searched the cottage.She had been born in a room with no floors, only the dirt cold ground.Her whole family had slept in one bed.She did not fear poverty for herself.God had graced her with many years.The only words she spoke to the guerrillas were to implore them to leave enough rations for her grandson.Look, she had pleaded with the leader of the men, pointing to her daughter-in-law’s distended belly.We have another child coming.He had been kind, that man, for he had indeed ordered his men to return some of the provisions.Maritha doubted that he would be as kind if they returned this winter.If he were still alive.She tended the fire, then crossed the courtyard and entered Michaelis’ house.Maritha shivered and rubbed her hands together even though a fire blazed in the kitchen hearth.She went into the bedroom and found Lucia sitting on the bed, the boy large and obscene in her arms, suckling at her plump breast.On the bed the baby was crying, her bedclothes soiled.Maritha picked up her granddaughter.—The baby is dirty.Lucia laughed.She threw an old cloth at Maritha.—Wipe her arse, then.She turned back to her son, touched his dark thick hair, and began to sing.They were words of love.Maritha carefully scrubbed at Reveka’s tender red arse.She then held the baby close to her chest and the crying subsided.She looked across at her daughter-in-law, whose eyes were closed, who held her son tight into her chest.The demon was wrapped tight around Lucia’s feet, his grey dead cheek brushing against her legs.—Flee, Devil, Maritha snapped.Lucia opened her eyes.—Who are you talking to?Maritha said nothing.Lucia laughed.—You are going mad, Mother.—I am tired.—Has that bastard Kyriakos died yet?The old woman slapped Lucia harshly and the child in her arms awoke from his sleep and began to howl.—Look what you’ve done, you’ve woken him.—Lucia, leave Christo be.He’s too old now to be always suckling at your tit.Leave him be
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