The House on Paradise Street by Zinovieff Sofka

Author:Zinovieff, Sofka [Zinovieff, Sofka]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781780720517
Publisher: Short Books
Published: 2012-01-03T05:00:00+00:00

The day-trip to Gorgopotamos shunted me back in time and the soothing grumble of the coach’s engine coaxed out memories. We sped along a large, new road, which I presume followed the same route I had taken sixty-five years earlier, when Markos and I went to the mountains. “To the mountains” – that was our dream, as it was for so many who dreamed of freedom. The landscape felt familiar, though as children we used to travel from Athens by train, rumbling slowly northwards to Lianokladi, on the plain outside Lamia. There was no road up to the village then, and one of my earliest memories was being in my mother’s arms as we rode up the winding track by mule. It was dark, and she had pointed into the distance.

“Can you see the lights up there? That’s Perivoli.”

When Markos and I went to those parts, in 1943, we had hidden in the back of a transport lorry driven by a friend of Uncle Diamantis. We couldn’t see anything as we were pressed in among a load of canvas rolls. Icy rain rattled like stones on the metal roof and I leaned against my brother. I remember noticing how wiry and strong he had become, even though he still looked young for his age. He put his arm around my shoulder and his hands were grimy from the floor of the truck. His breath smelled of lemon – we had brought one from our tree to suck against the travel sickness we both suffered from. We didn’t think about our mother. We had left her a note saying: “We have gone to do our duty as Greeks.” Markos said: “If I see a German I’ll kill him.” He showed me his knife in its leather sheath. We were both fuelled by youth and hatred of the enemy that was destroying our country.

There was a German checkpoint at Thermopylae, where the mountain cuts down steeply to the road and where Ephialtes betrayed his fellow Greeks to the Persians. Interesting that his treachery should be memorialised by using his name as the word for nightmare Is there a perverse pleasure in remembering our traitors? Why else should we burn effigies of Judas each year before Easter? Fortunately for us, the weather was abysmal (it was raining chair legs, as the driver commented), and there was not a thorough search, so the truck was soon on its way again. After a few kilometres, the driver turned off the road onto a track that ran through trees. He stopped and came round to the back. He said, “Kids, this is where you get out. You can make your way to Perivoli – it shouldn’t be more than a few hours. Keep in among the trees. This is your area, you must know the way.”

Markos did know and he led me like an agile goat, passing the sulphurous thermal springs and up into the oaks and firs that cover these slopes. We both loved this

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