A Watermelon, a Fish and a Bible by Christy Lefteri

Author:Christy Lefteri [Lefteri, Christy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781849161275
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Day 3: 22 July 1974

It is early afternoon, the next day, and Koki and Maroulla sit side by side on two chairs in the garden of the prisoners’ house with trays on their laps; they are picking small stones out of some lentils that Olympia had found in the larder. Suddenly moving across the garden is a chicken followed briskly by Maria. She has decided that today they will eat their own food; they will not touch the scum that the soldiers bring. The chicken flaps hysterically as Maria rocks from one foot to the other and moves, if one were to remember her arthritis, at an unnaturally high speed. But she has strong lungs and a strong heart and better still, a strong will, which she will insist are all on account of the olive oil and lentils and black-eyed beans and raw onions and good chunks of white bread. She has the shoulders of a bull and certainly the bloody-mindedness, as her husband would have said. In her old age Maria had actually become even more bull-like, as the neighbours agreed. Her shoulders had broadened, her moustache had deepened, and as the children of the town insisted, the hairs on her chin had lengthened. It was true. She could kill animals with her bare hands, and not just chickens or rabbits, which was common amongst some of the older women, but rams and cows and pigs and even snakes. She owned a gun, for the most challenging animals. Maria lifts her dress and her knees higher and stomps around the garden. Maroulla giggles at how funny this old lady looks, and Koki nudges her gently.

In a few seconds Maria captures the chicken so that it flaps manically in her tight grip and she walks to the front end of the garden where she has already laid out, on a garden table, a tray, a towel and a knife. ‘Well, you’re a chunky one, aren’t you?’ she speaks to the chicken. ‘They must have fed you well. Now you’ll feed us well.’ She cracks a smile, bends down, breaks the chicken’s neck and then rips off its head. Then she releases it and allows it to flap in a frantic frenzy until it finally subsides to the ground and twitches slightly. Blood has splattered on her arms and she wipes them with the towel from the table.

Sophia is on a small stool collecting lemons from the tree at the front of the garden. The dog watches her with its head on its paws. Once Sophia’s apron is full, she secures it under her arm and climbs down from the stool and goes into the house. The dog follows lugubriously. The house is cool and grey compared to the garden that glows yellow with sunlight. Elenitsa can no longer hold her child. She lies in the bed, on her back, with her eyes half shut. Olympia sits beside her, with the little boy in her left arm and a damp cloth in her right hand, which she uses to dab Elenitsa’s forehead.

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