Olympia's Dream: No 2 in The Cypriot's Treasure Series

By Milton Johanides

A young girl is abandoned in a village full of bigots during World War 2. She is lost and confused and terrified by the horrific events overtaking her home country. In the middle of Nazi occupation she must find a way to honour her family and save herself. Along comes a handsome young man to rescue her but he is not all he seems and in many ways more terrifying than the Nazis. Salvation seems a long way off until the arrival of a group of young orphans who need her help to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781471728211

Book preview

Prologue

I turn now to my mother’s story, the fabled Olympia. Everything that happened to grandfather, Artemis Papayiannis - his time with Uncle Andoni in Greece, his trek through the war zones of Europe, his passionate affair with the Parisienne Lydia, and the period in London living in Zander’s house, where he fell in love with his best friend’s wife - all fade into the past once he marries Eftimia. By the time my mother is born the family is complete and nothing can hold back their happiness.

But just as he thought he’d put bad luck behind him, it rose up again. He believed it was selling the locket that altered their fortunes. The famous El Greco gem, entrusted to him by the young Eftimia when he was just a boy and which he carelessly lost and then fortuitously found again, causing them as much pain as joy, was the token of their love. Artie had reservations about selling it, but he also knew that Eftimia would not be happy tending goats for the rest of her life, scraping by as a poor farmer’s wife. She’d had the best of everything married to Alexi and the gangster would never let her forget what she gave up by leaving him. Artie wanted her to have everything she had with Alexi and selling the locket was the only way he could make that happen. Yet after they sold it, their problems returned even greater than before. Always after that, Artie feared wealth more than poverty.

Perhaps he was right to be wary. Bad luck follows good more so in rich lives than in poor, for it is easier to fall from the perch of privilege than it is to make paltry circumstances worse. Their children, brought up with every privilege, grew to expect privilege always, and none more so than my mother, so much so that when those things were taken away, Olympia found happiness hard to come by. Sickness and war overtook her dreams of fame and fortune. But she was beautiful and determined and like all beautiful, determined women, was not easily derailed from her dreams, even though trying to make those dreams come true took her into the most dangerous territory.

Euripides Aristopoulos

1.

From the moment he had in his hands the thing which had for so long escaped him, something else was lost.

The image, the elusive vision that led him through the adventures of his youth - through love and war, through rebellion and crime - had now become flesh in his hands: his Eftimia; she stood before him during long sunny days, slept beside him through balmy nights, blinked awake in the mornings and rested like the quiet beauty she was in the afternoons. 

But since the dream became real, he began to miss the dream. When Love had just been a dream it possessed mystery and allure, now that mystery was gone and he woke every morning to the cockerel´s call with Eftimia by his side, he wondered what else there was left to do.

Oh, Artie wasn’t disappointed; she was everything he had imagined she would be, and every minute of the day he wondered at how she had become his, at the surprising symmetry of the universe which had brought them together. There were times when he couldn’t believe she was really there, thought she must be an illusion, which might disappear in the blink of an eye; or, when he touched her to make sure she was real, she would appear to him as something quite delicate and fragile, her soft skin like a piece of sheer porcelain likely to shatter at his touch.

But life was never perfect. He got up every morning and went about his day, organizing his schedule, painting or working on Uncle Andoni´s farm in Paliochori, the ideal place for someone who valued creativity and the open air, yet couldn’t shift a painful yearning, an ache deep in his bones, which was like the desire for lost youth or the need to see again faces that were long gone. He couldn’t put a name to it, but it was real and present, a shadow lurking at his back.

At first, he thought it was fear of having to return to Cyprus. He feared the rough justice waiting for him there for his connection to the murder of Evangelis. This terror disturbed his thoughts for many years. But when news arrived that Koulli, drunk one night, had been overheard in a bar bragging about his deed, that it was he who had brought low the devil Evangelis, without mentioning Artie’s name, and was consequently arrested the next day and, following a brief trial, hanged, the case was closed, Artie at last was free from the worry of the noose. But always the same nagging voice returned.

Or perhaps it was to do with unfinished business, that he had never really fulfilled his artistic ambitions, yet even when he sold something or his reputation was praised in the press, the shadow refused to go away.

Or was it just that life permanently plagued him, living, breathing, working, getting through another day, simple operations which most people took for granted, made mournful, meaningless, by Life´s permanent companion, Death? That constant irritant, his own mortality, which in the past, in his maddest moments, had seemed beguilingly close and almost welcome, had become the enemy. That prospect of a superior mystery unfolding after he stopped breathing had once fascinated him, but with Eftimia now relying on him, making life wonderful and worth living, he was keen to postpone it indefinitely.

The truth was he had everything he had ever desired: marriage to Eftimia, possession of the locket, the defeat of his rival Alexis Antoniou, the Evangelis case closed, and with all the time in the world to paint and fulfil his vocation as an artist. But even when it was clear that none of the things he feared were ever likely to happen, his fears persisted like permanent impressions on a well-used seat.

After a few years on the farm, they saved enough to move to their own rented apartment in Thessaloniki, where Eftimia fell pregnant. Artie was glad to see children on the way because it was one more reason for her not to leave him. The apartment and the baby lifted him from his despondency. Little Christo arrived and before long Eftimia was heavy with number two, Herakles, and then number three, Dimitri. In no time at all they were surrounded not by mules, and pigs and chickens, as they had been on the farm, but by screeching toddlers. The strongest of the three was Dimitri, whom Eftimia felt moving restlessly around inside her long before he was due, as though trying to tunnel his way out ahead of time. Artie, with renewed motivation, got jobs wherever and whenever he could, in restaurants, in bars, and finally, best of all, in a print shop, as an assistant designing leaflets and inking presses, which employment suited him better than the rest. He still painted whenever he could.

The years passed quickly, in a whirl, so much so that, much later, looking back, he could barely remember them, only a blurred helter-skelter of happiness one minute, worry the next.

It was just as Dimitri was born and Eftimia was showing signs of nervous and physical exhaustion when Artie met the owner of a local art gallery in town, called Efron, a wealthy Sephardic Jew whose family had been for years part of the distinguished and thriving Jewish community of Thessaloniki. Efron arrived one day at the printers with designs for a leaflet, advertisements for a forthcoming art exhibition, and Artie, who had been sweeping the floor, stepped forward to introduce himself. I’m an artist, he told Efron, as if that fact alone was something quite extraordinary. Efron, who was in a hurry, smiled politely and was kind enough to arrange for him to call at the gallery so he could see his work. Artie did so and Efron was sufficiently impressed to give him wall space. So began not only a successful business partnership, but close friendship. The arrangement was sale-or-return, so neither party had anything to lose. Artie persuaded his boss at the print-shop to give Efron the best deals on leaflets.

It was a happy arrangement. Artie, after he sold a couple of pieces at Efron’s exhibition, excitedly explained to Eftimia that things were looking up; she baked a cake to celebrate. Efron and Artie agreed a long-term arrangement; Efron took a fifty percent commission, which Artie thought was a large cut but reasoned that fifty percent of something was better than a hundred percent of nothing. He painted diligently for a month then presented Efron with three more pieces, stunning views of local scenery. All three sold within a short time and people began to talk about the new rising star of Thessaloniki.

As Efron and Artie’s friendship blossomed, so Artie’s work improved. Efron offered to become his full-time agent and Artie immediately agreed since he hated the laborious task of hawking his pictures round galleries and having to keep records and accounts. Efron offered to do the work for him in return for ten percent of Artie’s fifty. They signed a contract. Soon, thanks to the dealer’s persuasive manner, other galleries began exhibiting Artie’s paintings too.

However, no matter how hard Artie tried, there was never enough to live on. From what was left of the sale price, he had to pay the costs of materials, framing, travel expenses and give Efron his cut. Efron, seeing that Artie was easily discouraged, did his best to raise his spirits, promising it wouldn’t be long before he could add a couple of zeros to the price of his work.

For a while, this was how things were for Artie, exhibiting in minor venues, making the occasional sale, while working at the printers. It was enough to satisfy him temporarily, but soon he tired of painting pretty scenery. He wanted what he had always wanted, to reveal through his painting the secrets of the soul and be recognized as a serious artist.

Artie had always hoped for a daughter and though he loved his sons he yearned for a girl who would replicate his wife’s beauty. Eftimia, already worn out by three pregnancies and four obstreperous males living together in a small apartment, in her usual quiet way, obliged. On October 21st, 1927, the twins, Tony and Olympia, were born, and on the same day, as though decreed by fate, Artie had the greatest moment of his art career. He claimed forever after that it was his baby girl who changed his luck! A few days after the birth Efron phoned to congratulate him on the new little additions to his family, then told him the National Gallery of Athens had accepted one of his pieces, The Indolent, a cubist portrayal of a small boy lying on his back in a field. That night, Artie left Eftimia standing at the door exhausted carrying two suckling infants while being chased by three tearaway toddlers and went out to celebrate. When he got home drunk in the small hours, he was surprised by how ill Eftimia was. The twins and the boys slept peacefully, but Eftimia was wide awake with a fever. I’m sorry, I should never have left you, he said, clutching his cap in his hand in agonized remorse.

It’s alright, she said, barely able to speak, pleased to see her husband happy for a change. Two of your dreams have come true: a new daughter and a place in the Gallery. That’s something worth celebrating.

In a few weeks, Eftimia recovered enough to accompany Artie to the National Gallery to view his work. They took the older boys with them and left the babies with a friend. Artie, nervously clutching his cap as he usually did in those days, had never felt such pride before as he walked through the grand entrance of the distinguished public building as he and Eftimia searched hand-in-hand for his little piece. They found it in an insignificant corner in the furthest quarter, overshadowed by much grander pieces, but it was enough for him to see it there, his name at last alongside the grandees; it moved him close to tears.

There followed several months of excitement as critics and dealers began to take an interest in Artie´s work. He received praise in the national press and a notable man approached Efron for the right to take over the management of his newfound star, but Efron turned him down. Artie approved Efron’s decision, happy to remain loyal to his old friend. Artie was sure Efron would lead him to that place he had always dreamed about, where his work would become recognized and celebrated. However, his next work, a more ambitious piece on a larger scale, an expressionist view of the Great War, was rejected by the National Gallery and shortly afterward The Indolent, after being exhibited for just a year, was taken down and stored in a tomb in the basement overfilled with other forgotten works.

It was the end of 1934 when Artie, tired of the struggle to make ends meet and with his family outgrowing the small apartment, made up his mind to put the locket up for auction. Eftimia agreed. It was a painful decision to make because the gem meant far more to them than its monetary value; it was the emblem of their romantic association, a priceless memento of their love, and of the life of Theodosi Charalambides the priest, Eftimia’s father, who had handed the gem over to her in the first place. Even so, they agreed it made no sense to keep it when the proceeds from its sale could bring them financial security. The truth was, they couldn’t survive otherwise. The locket, with its valuable miniature by El Greco, made a spectacular profit. In a salubrious, well-attended room at Sotheby’s in London, in 1934, Artie almost fainted and Eftimia screamed with delight when their prize piece fetched the equivalent of $48,000. Overnight, the Papayiannis coffers were full and Artie and Eftimia began looking for a plot of land near Thessaloniki where they could build their dream home.

Artie was generous with his money. Conscious of his obligations, he began to write cheques here, there and everywhere as a way of righting the wrongs of the past. He sent money to Margoulis to compensate him for the houses in London he had bought supposedly in his name but which in reality he had gifted to Zander, his old friend who had fallen on hard times; and he sent a cheque to Zander to help with the upkeep of those houses. He made sure Eftimia’s father was never short of money (he was by this time living and working as a gardener back in the convent in Thavma). Next, Artie secretly worded a letter to Lydia, his amoureux Parisiene, to whom he had devoted many years as a young man, and to their son Louis, expressing his fond wishes for them both, including with it a banker´s draft for the boy, enough to buy him a motor car and other luxuries (the boy was by now a man, successful lawyer with a substantial income of his own, so no one was more surprised than he when the sum arrived in his account from his estranged father). Even after Artie had repaid these debts of complicated moral obligation, which included a sizeable sum to his parents and his sister for all the anxiety he had caused them in the past, money which in any case they had no need of in their frugal lives, there was enough left over to pay for a grand mansion, the new family home, built on a choice piece of land overlooking the Aegean.

That year, despite the harsh difficulties experienced by the nation at large, Artie was at last able to offer his family the prospect of a life free from care.

Even as a child, it had always been my mother Olympia´s greatest wish to be rich and famous. It was born in her. Her delicate sensibilities had suffered terribly as a child squeezed in that cramped apartment on the edge of town, sharing a bedroom with her parents, her needs ignored, drowned out by her brothers’ shouting, and she treated the move to the mansion when it finally came as her due. By then a gifted seven-year-old, she adopted the privileges of a moneyed life with pride. Her new bedroom was immense and it was soon filled with everything a young girl could wish for. Artie never completely lost his natural instinct for generosity, always giving more than he received, and he made sure that his family had whatever they needed, but to the jewel of his eye, little Olympia, he gave extra special attention. He made sure she had lessons in dancing, in riding, in piano; her own stage in the garden on which she could perform her shows, and in the villa’s grounds her own pony to ride; and on one very special summers day, a fabulous Steinway arrived in a truck, imported from New York; at last, she could practice to her heart’s content all the tunes she knew from the radio. She repaid her father by working hard at school. Girls back then were taught to be supportive wives and caring mothers, but the dictator Metaxas believed they should also be taught the rudiments of history, philosophy and literature, so as well as the domestic sciences of cookery and laundry, Olympia was educated in the ways of the world. She was quickly spotted by her teachers as an exceptional pupil and held up as a model for the new neolaia, the body of Greek Youth who were to be Greece’s hope for the future.

In July 1939, just eleven years old, she was selected as the pupil´s representative on prize-giving day and Artie couldn’t have been prouder. He was proud of all his sons too. Christo as the eldest took on the mantle of leader with Herakles his devout follower. Number three, Dimitri, soon grew bigger than both and rebelled against their authority, establishing his own little fiefdom and tried to persuade Tony, the youngest, to join him in an alliance; but Tony, shy and quiet, always refused.

So, for a few years, Artie spent summers with Eftimia on the porch at the front of their new home before a cloudless sky, watching the ribbon of sea, a tiny strip of glittering sapphire like a belt around the heavens, their fields of corn and barley glowing golden before it, a paradise which made everything that had gone before, the disappointments and every selfish preoccupation, worthwhile. He had never been happier. It gave him the sense that, despite everything, he had followed the correct path, for how could God be displeased with him if He had chosen to provide him with such blessings now?

The years passed and the children stretched up, happy and confident in their parents’ love. Their ambitions grew too. Olympia declared she would become a famous actress fêted by the press and adored by loyal fans; the boys mocked her whenever she spoke of signing autographs and posing before photographers, even though they too had their own fantastic dreams: the three eldest bragged they were going to be soldiers, fighting for their country; Tony, who seemed to have inherited a different nature, kept out of talk about war and glory, preferring to sit with his books, knowing from the start that he was different, preferring isolation, space to meditate on more profound matters. At nights he loved locking himself away to devote time to study and prayer, and spent his days in calm contemplation. His ambition was to become a priest, to pray and write religious treatises. He mentioned this quietly to his father one night, saying that there were times when he felt overwhelmed by the sweet majesty of God, and Artie nodded, wryly remembering his own early struggles with his faith. Tony’s future, Artie concluded, would, in its own way, be as filled with adventure and as celebrated as the others. I have three generals, a goddess of the silver screen, and a pope! he would joke after a couple of whiskies, laughing out loud. What more could a father wish for?

2.

Artie never forgot Uncle Andoni, who more than anyone made his present good fortune possible. They visited him in his little shack in Paliochori whenever they could and it gave the old man great pleasure to play with the children since he had never had any of his own. He had resumed his solitary life, praying in the mornings at the top of the hill at the back of his house and drinking himself into a stupor at night. He had become disenchanted with the political scene in Greece. During the period of the Second Republic, between 1924 and 1935, there were twenty-three changes of government, a dictatorship and thirteen coups, and when General Kondylis overthrew the republican government it paved the way for the reinstatement of monarchy, much to Andoni’s despair. The exiled King George II, informed at his London hotel where he had been living that his people demanded his return, packed his bags and flew home. His first royal decree ensured the release of all dissidents from jails. The cowboy-hatted, one-eyed Andoni, a known republican and renowned nuisance to the state, had been among those imprisoned by Kondylis during the clampdown, but was released under the king´s amnesty. Though he had only been locked up a few months, the experience weakened him and despite the mercy shown to him, the thought of a reinstated monarchy with a right-wing government in hock to England, depressed him.

One time, Artie and Eftimia, arriving suddenly with the children, found him staring blankly into space; that was all he did for hours. They left genuinely concerned. Then came news of the death of Andoni’s idol, Venizelos, on 18th March 1936. Andoni, old, weary, sensing that his political dreams were now as flimsy as dandelions in the wind, became a broken man. One night he took tea laced with poison, and died.

Artie was devastated. The funeral was held on a blustery spring day, when boats tottered in the harbour under the force of the wind, and the skies threatened to break into a destructive storm, reminding Artie of the time he led his uncle and the Bouzouki Bandits to their adventure in Anatolia. Despite the grim weather, everyone turned up to say goodbye to their old friend, the one-time schoolmaster-philosopher turned rebel. Former pupils, distinguished individuals, came from all over Greece to pay their respects, some in uniform with medals, others decked out splendidly in smart business suits, honouring the man, Papayiannis, who by his enlightened form of education had set them on the road to success. Artie was moved to see them all standing by his uncle’s grave. With grief came the familiar heart-stopping sense that nothing mattered. What was the sense of anything?

Eftimia held his hand throughout the ceremony and he thanked God she was there.

As mementoes he took home with him his uncle’s old cowboy hat and eye-patch.

By this time, Efron and Artie had been friends for years as well as business partners. Artie felt he owed Efron everything, for since meeting him he had achieved what might be called a modest career. Efron had a large family who always made Artie feel welcome and more than once he and Eftimia were invited to join them for meals. Faces of every age shone at them round the table, from babies and toddlers to great grandmothers and grandfathers, men with long sideburns and shovel-like beards, dressed in their kippahs and kittels, and women wearing modest headscarves and smiling with maternal pride, peering through the light of the menorah with quiet joy. Like a biblical prophet, the eldest read the Torah and the children listened respectfully; they made Artie and Eftimia feel welcome and loved, part of the family. They made no judgement on Artie’s past when he confessed his weaknesses, even when he told them about some of the bad things he had done. This wasn’t because they could see good in everyone, but because they understood that everyone had in them some bad. Just as, from time to time, God had to turn a blind eye, so did they.

The other thing Artie loved about Efron was his pedantic approach toward business. He was meticulous in the way he administered his clients’ affairs, taking care of all the things Artie hated doing himself, leaving Artie free to get on with what he did best, producing masterpieces!

So, Efron and Artie spent many years enjoying each other’s company, till one day Efron walked right past him in the street without saying a word.

Efron! Artie called.

Still Efron kept walking.

Artie chased after him.

Efron, are you deaf? Have you gone blind? Can’t you see it’s me bidding you a good day? Why do you ignore me?

Finally, Efron turned. Is it true? he asked.

Is what true? Artie replied, genuinely confused.

That you think I’m cheating you?

Artie was speechless.

So, it’s true? Efron went on.

No, Artie spluttered. I don’t know what you’re talking about!

Have you been talking to Yiorko?

Yiorko was another artist on Efron’s books.

Perhaps. Why?

He tells me you called me a thief behind my back.

No. That’s not true!

You didn’t have a conversation with him the other night about my charges?

Well yes, but…

And you mentioned my commission seemed a little high?

Well, yes, but…

Did you call me Shylock?

Artie blushed horribly.

Efron shook his head, unbearably hurt. Then our arrangement is at an end!

And with that, stormed off.

That was all it took to end the friendship which for so long had been a source of joy to them both.

It was true that Artie and Yiorko, over a drink one night, had talked about Efron’s fees and Artie had indeed commented on the large commission he took. Artie’s exact words were: That old Jew knows what he’s doing when it comes to taking his cut! That’s all it was, his tone jocular, more in admiration of Efron’s talent than a criticism of his methods, though the moment he said it he knew it sounded unfair and wished he could take it back. But Yiorko, a jealous man who had been urging him on to say much worse, couldn’t wait to repeat it. It was actually Yiorko who compared Efron to Shakespeare’s character and Artie, without thinking, head dizzy with drink, had just laughed. Artie never imagined their drunken conversation would go any further but, out of envy and to cause mischief between the two, Yiorko went straight to Efron the next day and reported, with more than a little exaggeration, what Artie had said.

Artie couldn’t find a way back into Efron’s heart after that. It was another blow, for he had relied on Efron for everything, and he knew the truth was that his hard-working friend had fully earned every penny of his commission. From then on, Artie could no longer focus on work and his painting suffered. Before long, the number of invitations from curators, without Efron to encourage them, declined.

In the same year, Eftimia´s health suffered. Artie couldn’t believe how quickly matters deteriorated. It was as though with the money and the new home and the prospect of complete happiness in the Papayiannis household, the Demons of Envy were unleashed. Eftimia suffered pain and other symptoms which baffled even the most progressive doctors. Suddenly, grandfather was faced with the greatest challenge of his life - not Pip Ridge or being tortured in a U-boat even came close - there was every possibility he might lose the love of his life.

The time came when she could no longer leave her bed. She lost her appetite and rarely slept. The sheets began to grow around her and consume her; every morning she seemed to have shrunk a little more. Within the space of a few months, what had for so long been an idyllic life, turned rotten.

She struggled on for three years. Artie stayed by her bed in a constant vigil. Her pain and suffering became his. He longed for their days in the sun, working on the farm or in the grounds of their mansion, but she could no longer go out into the light, and he wouldn’t go without her. The land was neglected and grew wild, but he did nothing about it because he was completely preoccupied with keeping her safe, making sure she was comfortable and taking her medicine as prescribed. He consulted the best physicians, who tried many treatments but to no avail; money couldn’t solve this particular problem. Artie could only watch with breaking heart as she crumbled, the only word he could think of to describe her decline, like a statue at the mercy of cyclonic winds. That intangible thing, Eftimia’s incandescence, which he had once imagined would last forever, dimmed, and her body became a husk, dry flesh tightening around aching bones.

Eftimia understood why it was happening to her. She wasn’t surprised. She had cheated on her first husband, Alexi, not once but twice: with Evangelis, his redoubtable rival, and then again with Artie, his childhood friend. I left one rogue to live with another, she often joked, but Artie never laughed.

In the final months she discovered an inner strength. She resigned herself to accept whatever fee God deemed fit to extract from her. She feared more than anything He would take her children, so when they remained healthy and strong, she was relieved, and, though God seemed to have fallen out with her, she never fell out with God. Whenever her children gathered round her bed, that was enough to sustain her. The lovely faces of her boys and little girl reassured her that everything she had done in the past had been for the best, for the result was the sweetest fruit, her wonderful brood of little angels!

The last joy of her life was the sight of Olympia´s Certificate of Merit from school. I came top of the class, mama!

That’s wonderful darling. You make me so proud!

She died in August 1939 and Artie lost his only love, his soul mate, his reason for living.

His mother Yiotoulla, now an old woman, was fetched from Cyprus to care for them. Artie retired to his bed and for six months spent more time in it than out of it. Suddenly their bright and graceful home became shrouded in black. The only saving grace, if it could be so called, was that Eftimia had gone before she could witness the terrible years that were to come, of Greece being ravaged by war and of the systematic destruction of the country she loved; the sight of jackboots on the streets, shops being looted, people driven from their homes, the spilling of so much innocent blood on the soil they loved… all these things she was spared.

But that was no comfort to Artie. With the death of his wife arrived new regrets about the way he had been with her. He felt guilty about all the times he had felt miserable in her presence, when she had given him every reason to be happy; he regretted the doubts, the fears, the misgivings regarding past errors, which he often forced her to share with him and which drove her to distraction. He wished he had told her every day how she had saved him, rescued him from the miseries of his naturally depressive state; he should have shown his gratitude more. Now depression, even blacker than before, returned, making it clear that it was only Eftimia who had kept it at bay. If he could have held her again, he would have shown her greater warmth, complained far less. Every morning, he ran his fingers over the sheets on the empty side of the bed hoping to discover some miniscule residue of her physical presence, even a single atom of her existence, over which he could pour his sincerest apologies. In his grief he convinced himself that it was his thoughtless neglect of her which pushed her to her end.

So, her funeral was a burial of his inner being, the essence of his conflicted self, leaving him utterly ignorant as to what he could put in its place. He would never be happy again! Despite his five children standing tall beside him, he felt his future wiped out. He looked to the condemning sky with gagging despair. Where was God now?

The children did their best to get on with their lives and Artie would sit in the rocking chair on the porch and take in the view alone. He remembered the happy years like a glorious firework that had briefly flared, illuminating the night, and just as quickly faded. Had it ever really happened? Had he ever really known joy at all or had it all been just a dream?

Christo, the eldest, was fifteen when his mother died, the twins nearly twelve. They were surprised by the hard nut of rage that began to grow in them which demanded settlement; they looked everywhere for an outlet. War gave them what they were looking for. In early 1940, barely sixteen, Christo enlisted and did so with relish, actually looking forward to the bloodshed. He joined at the most critical time, for in October that year Greece was attacked by Italy in a dispute over ancient rights. Christo was at the forefront of battle when Mussolini´s troops were repulsed, a time of rejoicing for the Greeks. He wrote home glorifying the