The Garden God Gave Me

By Angela C. DiVito and Pamela Coumas

As Pamela sits heartbroken in her favorite chair following the death of her beloved husband, Takis, she attempts to unravel the layers of her existence whose very first memory could have been her last. We follow her through her cinematic reality, rewinding time and space, to the orange groves of Kalamata, Greece, when Nazis bombed the harbor forcing her family to flee across the Taygetos Mountain Range to a small Spartan village for safety. As fate would have it, they came face to face with Nazi atrocities instead. Their survival in an underground cave was threatened when German soldiers were heard standing at the roof of the opening, laughing at the occupiers’ successful conflagration of Soustianous the night before. Desperate to flee the danger, her family searched for new shelter and a new beginning which came at a price, not all the family survived.

As World War II ended and Greece rebuilt, the family moved back to Kalamata where Pamela lived the monotony of a poor teenager until a soccer-playing banker named Takis crossed her path. The Andriopoulos family’s American Dream interrupted the couple’s love affair when they were separated for years by the Atlantic Ocean, their only connection was their love letters. Pamela returned to Kalamata to marry her soulmate who followed the love of his life back to Chicago for a taste of the American Pie. Their fairytale was not laid in a bed of roses, but rather thorns and weeds and unconditional love, all of God’s will. Pamela and Takis’ family thrived in the States, but Kalamata, and its people, continued to tug at their hearts, calling them back to their Greek Dream. But the vision for their family was shattered with broken memories that could not be recovered, so it seemed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9781663259400

Angela C. DiVito

Pamela Coumas is a neophyte narrator fulfilling a lifelong dream of two people to chronicle an unlikely love affair that began in the seaside town of Kalamata, Greece to the shores of America, and back again. Educated in the school of life, earning a master’s degree in agape with a minor in optimism, her greatest accomplishment is found in the pages of this book. The story narrates wartime horrors, peacetime inspiration, and adolescent ambitions to raising a family, empty nesting, coping with a spouse’s dementia, and loving of the divine kind. Pamela’s life is an extraordinary story of an ordinary woman whose journeys traveled rough waters, calm seas, and a whirlwind of uncommon experiences. The Garden God Gave Me is a tale of innocence, hope, devotion, perseverance, and above all, faith in God’s will. The book is dedicated to Takis B. Coumas, her late husband, with whom she dreamt of writing their love story together someday. She wrote it together with her daughter, Angela C. DiVito, in his honor instead, and for the Glory of God.

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Copyright © 2024 Angela C. DiVito and Pamela Coumas.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. If there are only a few historical figures or actual events in the novel, the disclaimer could name them: For example: Edwin Stanton and Salmon Chase are historical figures... or The King and Queen of Burma were actually exiled by the British in 1885. Authors’ Disclaimer: Characters in this book are based on memories, and imagination filled in gaps of time, texture, and truth. The wonderful thing about memories is that there can be multiple versions from many perspectives. I acknowledge that others may coincidently recognize stories and choose to remember a different history of events. I welcome them to write their own narrative.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-5941-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5942-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5940-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024900837

iUniverse rev. date: 03/15/2024

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Dedication

To Takis,

We did it, Boy

Acknowledgement

I was being swept downstream by a river of tears until Father Athanasios Pappagiannis performed a Greek house blessing after my husband of fifty-four years was called back to the Lord. We sat at the dining room table with my daughter, Georgia, for coffee after the sanctification.

So how did you meet your husband, Pamela? he asked.

It’s a long story, I answered.

Give me the short version then, he replied.

I shared more than the compressed edition, but he sat with attentiveness. He put down his glass of water when I finished and looked at me.

You should write a book for your children and grandchildren, he said.

So many people told them to write their love story, Georgia revealed.

Takis and I always said we should write a book together, I said. Although our fairytale romance was out of the ordinary, our childhood memories were similar to so many in our region of Greece who had equally harrowing survival stories of the war and the political turmoil thereafter. Our struggle to make the American Dream reality was shared with multitudes of others from all over the world who came to America for a piece of its pie. Keeping the faith kept us connected in every chapter of our lives, to the very end, and beyond. My husband often fantasized about us being co-authors, but our broken English dissuaded us. And we didn’t have time while raising our family.

You have time now, he observed.

Father Athanasios was the impetus for The Garden God Gave Me. I thank him for posing the question that inspired me to relive my life in the pages of this book. I will be forever grateful for his heartfelt encouragement and spiritual guidance.

Contents

Prologue

Act I

Sparta Girl Strong

To the Mountain!

The Kalivi in Karava

Goodbye, Martha. Hello, Niki!

The Bell and the Blessings

Forgiving the Evil Eye

Orphans of the War

Forty Waves

Nine Lives for Me Too

Protomayia

Summer of Siliboves

Sing, Vembo, Sing!

Pota’s Designer Label

Paparouna at the Panhellenic Café

Act II

The Day Love Happened

The Shooting Star

Ypapanti the Protectress

The Serenader’s Kiss

Happy New Year to Us

Ayeee, You #&$^%@, Bleep, Bleep!

The Promise

Raining Oranges

The Hope of Goodbye

Reporting to Athens

The Last Lemonade

America, Hope of the Free

The Unwelcome

Pen Pals of Perseverance

Act IV

Queen Frederica to My King

The American Bride in the Parisian Gown

The Newlyweds

The B is for Basili

The Honeymooners

The Americans

Little Red (Blue) Corvette

The First Namesake

I Have a Dream Too

Pack Your Bags, We’re Going Back

Blizzard of a Lifetime

Made with Love

Beyond the Picket Fence and Picket Line

The Cyprus Gallbladder Attack

The Jalopy and the Cadillac

Levvy the Iconographer

The Hot-Blooded Greek

Not so Thankful Thanksgiving

Kalamata Kalokeri

The Empty Ashtray

The Tall Greek

They All Fly the Coop

Following in the Footsteps of Apollon

My Honor, Your Honor

The American Dream in Kalamata

The Xeno Wedding

Kalo Taxithi, Mama

Three More Angels

Returning to Our Roots for the Resurrection

Arizonans Come to Town

The Olive Branch and the Olympic Homecoming

The Miracle Child Makes It to Arizona

The Gospel According to Luke

Filling the Empty Nest with Bread

Peter and His Sister, the Googie

Act V

Three Days from Rand Road

Lewy Took My Lover

The Recliner and the Rash

The Non-Rehabilitation Center

Act VI

Six Feet in Three Days

Takopoulo’s Visit

The Blessing

Alpha - Omega

Act VII

Letters from Heaven

Glossary

Prologue

The rhythmic pulsing between my ears distracts me as I pensively sit in the corner alone. I lean forward in my favorite chair, off of the art deco pillow that gives the bedroom a splash of my favorite color purple, to balance my thoughts. I look like Le Penseur sculpture in the Rodin Museum Garden in Paris. Frozen in time, just like the statue, I try to unravel the layers of my existence. My index finger rubs against my thumb in nervous habit in my lap. I tell myself to stop. My eyes glance out the window overlooking the brick paved courtyard with the classic-looking, three-tiered stone water fountain in the center. I take a deep breath, and a sigh escapes me. A year ago, my husband and I moved into the second-floor corner unit of the luxury condo building in the Fountains of Arlington. So much has changed since we brought the first box here. I push the tinnitus into the background, thinking.

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My aged Mediterranean-brown eyes blankly stare as maple leaves lightly rustle near the fountain that was tarped tight the other day, hinting that winter is coming. I feel the chill in my bones. A shudder rattles me as my tired eyes shift back inside. The bed is made with a duvet in shades of peaceful purples, but the bedroom is anything but tranquil. My husband’s side of the mattress has been untouched for months. I will not disturb it. Ever.

The room is deafeningly quiet but not sealed silent. Cars motor by below on Rand Road while I voyage only through my psyche. Absorbed in reflection, my memories rewind through time like a motion picture film being played in reverse. Let me start from the beginning of the movie, before my hair turned a shimmery silver and my knuckles twisted in unnatural directions, to the first time I remember myself, which could have been my last memory of all. Time and space tangle in my cinematic reality as I meet myself at the beginning of my memories.

Start camera.

Action.

Act I

SPARTA GIRL STRONG

Each of my limbs was gripped by an adult as I screamed and cried in the upstairs bedroom of our house in Bariyiamaka, a neighborhood of orange groves on the edge of the southern seaside town of Kalamata, Greece. I was born in a small Spartan village, on the other side of Mount Taygetos, called Soustianous. We moved a couple of years earlier to live here with my grandparents when I was eighteen months old. It didn’t seem likely I would make it to kindergarten given the current crisis.

"Ela, Potoula," my mother said, trying to coax me to open my mouth.

One moment, I was shrieking, and the next, my lips were pinched tight as the dreadful spoon inched closer to my mouth. My grandmother, Yiayia Nikolina, had the worst of it trying to hold my little legs down. I squirmed and kicked with all my might, unbothered by her infirmity. Unfortunately for her, my legs were no match for her aged joints. My father’s face was upside down holding my arms open as though I was being crucified. My mother grabbed hold of my chin, but I managed to wiggle my face loose from her clutch as the spoon filled with pasty prescription reached closer to my puckered lips.

I felt as though I was about to be murdered despite their assurances that the medicine was going to make me feel better. I spiked another fever recently. I was weak and lay in bed most days of my toddlerhood, barely able to stay awake or stand. A high temperature would erupt from nowhere, and if it lasted long enough, my parents sent word for a house call. The doctor who examined me last night for my latest bout wrote a new prescription. Dad dissolved a pill in water, and it smelled terrible, like a witch’s potion.

Despite my best efforts, Mom managed to force the spoon between my guarded lips. The venomous taste snaked its way around my tongue. I was about to spit out the gritty substance, but she firmly cupped my mouth. There was nothing more I could do; I surrendered. Granular particles mixed with my saliva and stuck to the roof of my mouth, between my teeth, and inside my cheeks. The concoction tasted like dirty sand with a bitter, stinging aftertaste that remained even with the sip of water I was given to console me. I’ll spit out whatever’s left when no one is looking, I thought to myself. Mom picked me up in her arms and wiped the tears from my face. Oh, now she’s trying to be nice, I said to myself. I buried my face in her bosom to hide my tongue mopping up the remnants.

We just want you to get better. I remember how sick my baby brothers were with the grippe, she said, rocking me. We wished we could have given them medicine, anything to make them better, but they never had the chance.

I don’t know what she meant, but I doubted her baby brothers would have cooperated either. The worst was over, she promised, but I continued crying. All of a sudden, I felt as though I was choking. A tightening grip, like a python wrapping around my neck, constricted my throat. I gasped and cried all in the same breath, and the combination made a terrible barking sound. The pit of my stomach started percolating. I looked up at Mama but not a word came out. Alarm took over her face and drained the color from it.

Without notice, and with such force that surprised us all, I ejected the contents inside me like a volcano spewing burning lava. Medicine went everywhere. It might have even hit Yiayia Nikolina clear across the room.

Oh, no! Mama said. What are we going to do now? She looked at my father whose hands were rubbing his head. All that time and effort to get it in me, gone and wasted. Such a shame.

Yiayia Nikolina, who was naturally bossy, was about to give instructions. Her loving husband, Pappou Niko, was likely sitting quietly on the balcony or in the courtyard, away from the commotion. He didn’t speak much anyway. Just as Yiayia was about to open her mouth to dictate orders, we heard a man yelling outside our gate and pounding the wooden door. Father rushed down the exterior staircase outside my bedroom. He grabbed the cast iron key hanging from the hook next to the window at the bottom of the stairs.

Aye, what are you do- my dad shouted.

"Lathos! said the young pharmacy assistant through the fence before Baba had a chance to unlock the door. I made a mistake! Don’t give the child the prescription. It is for a man on the other side of town. Give the child this one," he said, in between panting breaths. He keeled over holding up a vial in one hand and his chest with the other just as Baba swung opened the gate.

My father’s disbelieving eyes turned away, and he raced back up the steps empty-handed. "To pethi," he yelled, skipping steps. He burst back into the room and announced the mix up. He fell to his knees doing the sign of the cross. The man who followed, stared at me from the door, sweaty and out of breath.

"Poh, poh," Mama said, distressed. She almost dropped me as she kept herself from fainting. She looked down at me sympathetically and continued rocking with a tighter grip and faster pace. She thanked God for giving me the strength to put up the fight. I felt some satisfaction in her comment that justified my behavior. Even I couldn’t say what had gotten into me. Panagia had a hand in protecting me, she announced to those in the room. I did not hear anyone disagree that the All-Holy Virgin Mary was involved.

Malaria was common in Kalamata, mostly affecting young children. Some did not survive. The agricultural rice swamp on the west side of town was the likely source of the disease, the pediatrician later informed my parents, due to the mosquito breeding environment in the lowlands where the river was diverted to flood the paddy field. The scourge of mosquitoes blanketed the sky on warm summer evenings, mesmerizing us with its movement as it traveled across the city. Even though I was placed on a corrective course of treatment, the pharmaceutical error caused damage to my esophagus and stomach lining. My only antidote was time and freshly squeezed orange juice.

It must have been her Spartan blood that fought the parasites for so long without giving up, my father joked.

My mother did not laugh. The doctor chuckled at first but quickly realized my mother wasn’t amused.

Rewind and sync.

Yiayia Nikolina¹ and Pappou Niko sold their property in Soustianous years ago and moved to Kalamata to be landowners of a small orange orchard just southeast of the city’s center. The cosmopolitan coastal town is the capital of Messenia province and one of the most populated cities of the mainland, Peloponnese. It has a hybrid big city feel with a small village pace where no one is ever in a rush. Mountain ranges and the Mediterranean Sea surround the piedmont region, seemingly making it isolated, but its magnificent beauty and friendly residents open it to year-round visitors, including thousands of Greek citizens who visit for holidays which are almost always religious.

My grandparents had a good size lot totaling seven stremmata which was equivalent to almost two acres. The fertile land was situated blocks from the Mediterranean Sea. The beach may as well have been on the other side of the Earth. We were never allowed to go to the famous waterfront.

Their house was big for just two people. Apart from the remodeled additions, the exterior looked like every other two-story stone house in the neighborhood with its terracotta tile roof. An adjacent stream caught rainwater flowing from the Taygetos Mountain and brought it down to the beach to empty into the Messenian Gulf. A stone retaining wall was also freshly erected between the livestock shelter up to where the chicken coop was to keep the rushing water full of silt from splashing the house in the spring. By the start of summer, only a claylike paste remained. At the end of summer, the channel was dead and cracked from the scorching heat.

Mom and Dad slept in a room with my baby brother, John, near them in the makeshift bassinet on the first floor. It was a multi-purpose room that they used as a bedroom, kitchen, and living room. An adjacent equally large room which remained locked at all times had a staircase along the side wall that was capped closed at the ceiling with a hatch door. There was a secret compartment between the wood ceiling planks where my father stored Yiayia and Pappou’s Italian gold liras acquired from shrewd business practices. They never used them. Every last one of them was eventually donated to the church.

Helen, my older sister by three years, and I slept on the upper level we accessed from the outdoor staircase. I loved the vantage point, especially in the spring, when the orange blossoms filled the landscape with beauty and fragrance. I often played at the top of the landing, away from farm duties. Our window overlooked the variety of garden flowers that surrounded the quad, and across the courtyard, the old wooden table with wicker chairs was losing its battle against the unrelenting sun. The splits and cracks looked older than my grandparents. Nearby, two medlar trees provided shade early in the day. Yiayia Nikolina would go down there first thing in the morning to drink her coffee. It wasn’t often that Pappou sat there when Yiayia was around. They usually greeted us with roll call and a to-do list. I think that is why Helen hid under the blanket, regardless of the season.

A narrow balcony that connected our bedrooms overlooked the courtyard and had a panoramic view of acres of orchards on one side, and the Taygetos Mountain Range on the other. Pappou was like a fixture on the gallery in the summers sitting on his wooden stool watching us play. The height did not discourage him from participating in our conversations. He loved to make us laugh even though he was a quiet man.

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One afternoon, when our grandmother put a pot of lentils on the fire and left to search for the goat in the back of the orchard, he peeked inside the pot of simmering soup. Apparently, she poured in too much water and not enough beans.

Hey, do either of you know how to swim? he asked Helen and me, knowing the answer.

What, Pappou? I said, hollering back.

Do you know how to snorkel?

Pardon us, Pappou? Helen answered.

We looked at each other. We were gullible and fell for it every time.

I am going to need one of you to get your gear and take a dive into the pot to find a bean for us to eat. All I see is water. He slapped himself on the leg in amusement. We laughed with him knowing Yiayia was elsewhere. He wouldn’t have dared said that if she was in the kitchen. On second thought, he might have. He was notorious for humorously critiquing his wife’s cooking. He was a food critique with flair, and she was a terrible cook.

The kitchen door opened to the veranda where red table grapes hung like a canopy in the summer. The grapevines were tied on the trellis, twisted up wire lines, and meticulously manicured by Pappou. He often used a spray gun of insecticides to keep the bugs from enjoying them before we did. We ate al fresco around the small table with stools. Sundays were the only days we ate together, inside or outside. It was another one of Pappou’s main hideaways.

Underneath the terrace, the barn allowed the animals to hide away from the pounding sun in the summers when the orange trees could not provide them with enough shade. They huddled underneath in the winter, only when the rain was heavy. We raised the cow, lamb, goat, and chickens for our own necessities. The ten or so free-range chickens roamed the property foraging whatever they could get their beaks on. It wasn’t often we had kitchen scraps to share. The moody rooster was usually on his own hunting insects or chicks.

The subtropical weather with its mostly mild winters and perpetual hot summers complimented our rich soil. The pleasant climate was such that we had a constant rotation of seasonal produce growing in the small open patches throughout the orchard. Cool-weather crops mixed with summer vegetation. We ate what the earth provided and the eggs the chickens laid. My parents were well aware that we put strain on the crops, more like small batches, with the added mouths to feed when we arrived. Everyone pitched in.

Before the roosters crowed on Saturdays, Baba pushed a cart with a couple of bushels of ripe vegetables and a basket of eggs across town to the agora to reserve a prime spot at the farmer’s market for Mama to sell and barter. Half of the meager proceeds went to our grandparents, which made Mother a good haggler on our behalf. Otherwise, there were vendors who traveled the back roads of Kalamata selling whatever they could fit in their bicycle basket; or what they could carry in the wooden box with the shoulder strap; or if they were lucky enough to have a mule, as much stock as the animal could pull in the cart. One never knew what might be for sale on any given day. One day, there might have been watermelons, cigarettes, and watches. Another day, there might have been cantaloupes, garlic, and blankets.

"Fresco psari. Fresco psari," announced the specialty wayfaring merchants, as they traveled the streets of Kalamata. The fishmongers waited at the pier for the boats to return from sea early in the morning and bargained for the catches of the day. Men carried large round wicker baskets on their heads balancing an assortment of fish. It was not often we stopped the peddlers passing our house.

The property was enclosed with a chain linked fence topped with barbed wire like most others around the neighborhood. Blackberry, mulberry, and other berry bushes shielded the fence from our view and gave us privacy. In the middle of the grove, we grew a variety of fruit trees like banana, apricot, pomegranate, pear, fig, and one of my favorite, plum. Of course, we had an olive tree and some lemon trees. Oranges were abundant when they were in season.

That one, Baba. Up there, I told my father.

Okay, that one? The ripe one, right? Dad whispered, confirming my selection.

I nodded. He lifted me up on his shoulders. Just as I stood balancing in the air, he pretended I chose one from a different tree and turned the opposite direction. I bent over holding on for dear life, clinging onto the hair on the crown of his head as he held the back of my legs.

Daddy, where are you going?

Under the branch so you can pick your orange.

No, Baba. You’re going the wrong way. I picked that one.

Yes, I know. I see it. Can you reach it? He teased me every time.

Baba…

I dug my thumbnail into its skin to peel back the rind being careful not to puncture the fruit. Sweet-smelling fragrance released into the air and made my mouth water. I worked my fingers around the orange and handed my father the scraps to hide in his pocket. I pulled apart a section for Baba who pretended to wait impatiently. He rolled his eyes in delight as he slurped the piece into his mouth and squeezed the segment between his cheeks. Nectar dripped down my chin with juicy freshness. I let the flavor linger on my tongue before I swallowed. We wiped away the evidence from our faces before we walked back to the avli. It was our secret because Yiayia Nikolina wouldn’t allow us to steal her fruit.

Play.

My parents treated me like a delicate flower after my mishap. When they recovered from their worry, and I was allowed to go outside after weeks, maybe months, of convalescing in my bedroom, my father carried me to the courtyard. My first chore was to make sure the donkey that he had bartered for the day did its job collecting ground water from the aquifer. Baba took a wicker chair from the picnic table and moved it to the well where the donkey circled the wheel to draw water. Even though I was well enough to stand, he made me sit. He told me I could get up only if absolutely necessary. He had work to do like everyone else in the family and asked Pappou to be my assistant. Pappou Niko kept guard from one of his favorite places, alone at the table.

I was happy to have some independence and fresh air. As I sat on the dusty, old chair, the sun warmed my skin, at least my face and little hands. The oversized sweater my mom insisted I wear covered most of my body. I was happy to be in the sun, so I did not complain. I twirled the twig that Baba gave me like a majorette and swung my legs to pass the time. For a while, I heard the churning water flow into the small storage tank as the donkey did its job. I looked up when the burble slowed. The donkey was losing interest. Its pace slowed as it flicked its long ears at me. I was usually an introverted and shy child, but Dad trusted me to get the job done, and I did not want to disappoint him.

I have a stick in my hand, I sang the words, and shook the stick for added effect. It wasn’t threatened in the slightest. I will flog you if you don’t keep moving, I said, more serious this time. To test my authority, the donkey stopped completely. As I hopped to my feet to let it know I meant business, I toppled over face first into the dirt. I startled the donkey which began moving quickly in the only direction it could, around the circle. My face was in its path.

"To pethi," my grandfather yelled. He didn’t have time to move.

Helen was just coming down the steps. Mama, she screamed to our mother who was in the chicken coop collecting eggs from the hens. I tried to crawl away but being tangled in the mega sweater slowed me down. I looked like a comic strip character spinning her wheels unable to escape. Potoula fell, she said, and rushed to pick me up.

I was not hurt. It was barely a scratch. Rather, I was shocked that I failed my first test. Helen brushed me off, and Mama briskly escorted me back into the house. Needless to say, I wasn’t allowed outside for a while.

Helen kept me company as I recuperated. She was more than my sister. She was my best friend. I looked up to her, not only because she was older and looked so much like our mother. She filled the room with her personality. She was a conversationalist. She was not bashful like me. She could tell story after story without taking a breath. She was witty and amusing. Her guttural laugh sounded like she was clearing her throat and made me laugh harder. Helen stood her ground when she disagreed with someone. To no one’s surprise, her adversary was usually Yiayia Nikolina, which deflected any attention from me since I always nodded in understanding whenever our grandmother told me to do something. She did her best to get through the daily skirmishes and typical monotony. She was also a nervous Nellie. Every now and then, she took the worry too far, even she admitted. We shared everything: secrets, dreams, even food was divided equally, no matter how much, or little, we had. Our bond was beyond special.

Helen and I should have been named the same as part of Greek tradition. Helen was named after our father’s mother, Helen Andriopoulos. Coincidently, our mother’s birth mother was Helen Doukas and even Nikolina, the adoptive mother, was actually Helen. As far as namesake custom went- first baby, paternal side; second baby, same gender, maternal side, making us both Helen. My parents named me after my maternal great-grandmother, Panagiota, instead. I was lucky. I always liked my name.

Fast forward.

The sun had pushed the winter rains aside. Umbrellas were packed away for the season. Bouquets of sweet blooms replaced the smell of wet soil as colorful flowers, lured by the increased warmth and bright blue skies, reemerged throughout the avli. Rising temperatures and dried out earth meant there was more work to do around the grove. The shovel, spade, and pickaxe were taken out of storage ready to dig. Even though my health was fine now at the age of five or so, my parents were still overprotective of me and gave me little to do. Helen, on the other hand, had a daily list of tasks that needed to be completed even after school. She labored around the farm and cared for our baby brother who was walking by now. Helen had no time to play, not by herself or with me.

Unlike Helen’s life, mine was full of fun and games. I played in the orchard with my other best friend. I adopted the lamb my father recently purchased as my pet and named her Potouli in my honor. Everyone knew Potouli was mine, even the neighbors. We often played games like Follow the Leader. Usually, I was in front, but, occasionally, I would let her lead as she hopped between the rows of trees. We jumped over the crisscrossing network of narrow canals and dikes playing tag. We danced and sang in the back of the grove. We played Make-believe. I climbed trees when Potouli looked for grass to graze or needed to rest. I did not take offense when she wanted to be with the other animals.

Potouli. Potouli, I called out, early in the morning standing at the top of the landing. The tattered beige dress I wore was handed down to me in a size I had not grown into yet. Beams of sunlight gently caressed my face as I waited. She raced to me when she heard me. I think I was Potouli’s best friend, too.

I ran unshod down the exterior stairway. I was barefoot, not because I didn’t want to wear shoes. It wasn’t a choice. I didn’t have any shoes. Not many people I knew did. The steps felt warm on the balls of my little feet even though the day just started. Strands of brown hair skimmed across my cheeks as I bounced down to the courtyard. Pebbles and dirt greeted my feet at the bottom, and Potouli rubbed against me waiting to be petted. Nothing gave me more joy than playing in the Mediterranean sun with the smell of oranges in the air, even if there was a remnant of reek from the cow, the goat, or the chickens. I might have been partial, but Potouli did not smell like an animal to me.

My father greeted us both. He recently returned as a veteran from his trip to the remote northern mountains at the border with Albania. By all accounts, we were lucky he came back alive. He was regaining his strength and slowly started working the orchard again. I liked watching him outside. He always had a smile on his face, even when he was sweating with work. I think he loved Potouli as much as I did because he told me to take good care of her. I did not know it at the time, but Potouli was supposed to be dinner one day.

Rewind and sync.

Word spread overnight that Italy declared war on Greece. The Axis forces already invaded Poland which pulled in other countries triggering Word War II. Italy, our neighbor, demanded Greece surrender certain strategic locations for the Axis agenda; otherwise, be overtaken by force. The Greek Prime Minister, Ioannis Metaxas, responded to the Italian dictator, Benito Mussolini, "Oxi! Then let it be war." The roads filled with people reporting what they heard on the radio or what they read posted in the city center. Mussolini claimed he would be drinking coffee at the Parthenon by the end of the week. I guessed the frenzy in the streets was to prevent that from happening. Everyone we knew gathered supplies, either packing bread or loading rifles. Being only four years old, I did not understand what was happening in the moment, but October 28, 1940, became an important holiday on Greece’s calendar.

Nick Andriopoulos lovingly kissed my mother, Angela, that morning and left with other men from our neighborhood who viewed it as their duty to protect Greece’s boundary up north. It was the first time I saw them kiss. It was the only time I heard my mother tell my father she loved him. Even though I never saw them being affectionate, they admired each other. I could tell by the way they treated each other. Baba carried heavy sacks for Mama without being asked, and Mama always cut Baba’s piece of bread a little bigger than everyone else’s. Despite previously serving his military tour of duty, he believed once a Greek soldier, always a Greek soldier. My mother understood. She reminded him there was still work to be done in the grove when he returned. He winked and told her he would tend to the chores soon enough. He kissed me on the forehead and waved goodbye. Just as I lost him in the crowd, he doubled back, and hugged and kissed Mama and John who was in her arms, one last time. He told me and Helen to listen to our mother. We promised.

Only after my father joined the rush of fellow comrades who were filled with their own valor, did I see my mom sobbing. I didn’t understand why Helen was crying so hard. I was too young to understand Dad was going off to war. There was no guarantee he would come back despite the fact he told Mama not to worry.

Thousands of brave men left by the truckloads and trainloads. As the men travelled hundreds of kilometers to the border, the new motto of Aera! and No! was often heard chanted along with Come and take them! King Leonidas of Sparta in 480 B.C. first shouted the phrase "Molon Labe to King Xerxes’s troops at the Battle of Thermopylae. The Persian king led thousands of soldiers through Greece while King Leonidas recruited three hundred courageous Spartan warriors to hike north to block the offensive. Despite being heavily outnumbered, the Greeks valiantly maintained their position against the Persians and unexpectedly caused massive casualties. King Leonidas and his men were ultimately killed during combat, but the king’s body was retrieved and returned to Sparta where his tombstone and statue continue to provide inspiration with the inscription Molon Labe." I was proud of the Spartan warrior roots my parents gave us.

The Greeks’ ability to maintain the border for so long and stop the Italian invasion was a Herculean achievement. The trained Italian infantry regiments outnumbered the Greek. They were equipped with stockpiled hand grenades, cannons, and tanks. The Greeks had few weapons and little rations. What the Greeks lacked in ammunition and food, they had in perseverance, honor, and pride. Newspaper headlines all over the world reported the astonishing stalemate. Even Winston Churchill, the British Prime Minister, recognized, Hence, Greeks do not fight like heroes, but heroes fight like Greeks.

In response, Adolph Hitler took matters into his own hands. The Nazis’ invasion was swift and barbaric. My father did not describe his World War II combat experience to us very often. I mostly overhead conversations between the adults. I listened as though he was a war correspondent. He reported that the mountainous warfare was an inescapable nightmare for frontline fighters and military logistics. The supply routes of rifles and rounds were often the targets of enemy fire including cannonballs from the sky and landmines underground. Transporting equipment and ammunition was of the highest importance and worth the risk, he claimed.

Blanketing fog, torrential rains, and howling blizzards alternated in the forecasts. Unprecedented frigid temperatures gripped the region. Campsites were flooded or frozen. The fighters slept under leaky tents, if they were lucky to be covered, which was not much of an advantage as the downpours puddled underneath and kept anyone from resting. It was chilly during the day and Arctic at night. They suffered from the horrific conditions of the merciless mountains more than the artillery battles and enemy airstrikes. The men had no training for these arduous conditions. Baba wasn’t sure it would have prepared them for this type of deployment anyway. Men accustomed to being swimmers turned to snowmen, he noted without an ounce of humor.

Exhaustion and starvation took hold on the warring alpine slopes. Men with lower ranks became scavengers for food, while the officers stayed in abandoned village houses and were treated to meat, in some cases. Some captain even complained about the quality of his lamb stew, my father heard, while the privates’ stomachs were empty. The animals were not immune to food shortages, diseases, or the elements.

My father, directing his horse loaded with critical provisions on its back, was the last in line of a special operation supply chain which was moving in a small unit of men through a narrow rocky trail. Step after slow step, he and the horse followed the deep footsteps ahead but fell further behind in the drifting snow. He pulled the horse’s reins to keep up even though he sympathized with the poor animal’s situation: laden, tired, and hungry. When the two finally rounded the turn, Dad could no longer see the group at all. He could not yell to them and expose their position or mission. He and the horse trekked on, solitary and silent.

The poor animal lost its confidence as its front leg slid on the icy surface and turned into a stubborn mule. It pulled back and snorted when Baba tried to sweet-talk it to continue forward. They both shared the misery, Dad told the horse, pretending to redistribute the load on its back, but they had to push on. It grunted in displeasure and shook its head. Patting the equine’s neck to soothe its doubt was not persuasive. Instead, he took the horse by the chin, looked into its eyes, and bribed it, offering extra hay if they made their objective. The horse finally agreed, but it should have trusted its intuition. Within steps, the ill-fated creature stumbled off the rocky edge and tumbled hoof over hoof. Dad let go of the rein in the nick of time not to be tugged down with it. Like an avalanche, all the supplies were swept down with the animal, crashing and banging all the way to the ravine. There was no chance to rescue the horse or salvage supplies over the sharp drop off. Dad stood there stunned, alone, and defenseless. He could not move. He could not scream. He was in a soup sandwich, as they say.

The chill dug deeper into Baba’s bones as he tried to continue. His boots were not high enough to keep snow from seeping into the leather uppers. He tried to ignore the frozen numbness of his feet. Knitted mittens, made as part of the war effort by women and girls like our family, did little to warm his fingers. His overcoat was frozen solid making it difficult to walk. The slower he moved, the faster his extremities were turning into ice cubes. There came a point when he could not lift his legs. He was stuck.

Just one more step, he said to himself, challenging his body in the battle. His feet did not respond. He lay motionless. He wasn’t sure whether he was in and out of consciousness, whether the overcast was heavy, or whether he was losing his life. He pictured Mama to whom he made a promise that she would not become a widow in his absence. He needed to get back to his wife and kids was Dad’s last thought of the mortal situation.

It was a risky recovery. When rescuers arrived, Dad couldn’t say how much time elapsed. All he knew was that he was grateful to be found. He was amazed at how lifesavers got him down to the nearby dwelling in the stretcher in the treacherous conditions. The medics at the makeshift infirmary had him transferred to a real hospital in Thessaloniki.

Nurses at the hospital carefully removed his boots and socks when they thawed and put warm, wet cloth and ointment on his feet that had turned an unnatural color to help restore blood flow. His hands had been tucked closer to his body and were not nearly as damaged, but they needed treatment. He could not tell the condition of his extremities from the bandages, nor could he feel them from the medication. He wasn’t even sure where he was much of the time. He preferred to keep his eyes closed.

Father overheard doctors say they were not optimistic about his prognosis. It was not a matter of saving his feet; it was a matter of saving his life. After days, maybe longer, of assessing my father’s condition, surgeons told him that a double amputation was the best option. Dad refused. Regardless of what they told him, he was not going home to his wife and children without his feet. He concluded he would be useless to my mother with two wheels instead of two legs. The stigma of disability in this era was too much for Baba. They told him there was no choice. They recommended he rest for surgery scheduled for the following day; there was going to be a long road to recovery.

Before morning, Dad dressed himself in clothes and socks he borrowed and took crutches on loan. He escaped from the hospital ward at dawn. He made his way to the main road where a charitable man travelling by wagon agreed to take him to the train station. Good Samaritans escorted him back to Kalamata on the rail. Days later, my parents heard a rumor that the hospital was hit by a bomb the same day he fled. No word on any survivors. Mama did not want to think about it but prayed just in case it was true.

Soldiers and civilians retreated back to their hometowns to defend and protect their families and property when Adolph Hitler’s military took control of Greece with vicious force. For months, it seemed, my mother nursed my father back to health as though she was a doctor. We didn’t have first aid like field dressing or gauze rolls. Instead, Mom used cloth we had that she washed in boiling water to sterilize, some homemade herbal oil or aloe vera gel, and much tender loving care. Whatever she was doing, it was working.

Let your father rest, Mama said. He would come out when he was better, she informed us.

My father remained in the downstairs bedroom, day after day. Even though she warned us not to disturb him, Baba welcomed our company. He was positive and in good spirits despite the throbbing pain. Pappou did his best to spend extra time with him between his other responsibilities. Even though they both were mild mannered, the two of them were often heard loudly laughing together. Pappou must have been good medicine, equal to Mama’s. It helped that our father was a chin up kind of guy.

The first time I saw my father standing outside in the courtyard feeding the chickens, I thought I would lay my own egg from such delight. He kept his promise to Mama and did his share of chores when he recovered. She must have reconsidered because she did not like it when he did too many.

Play.

At some point that day, Nikolaki, as friends affectionately called my father, was hard at work tilling a patch of ground with a broad fork to plant new seeds for the small vegetable plot just on the other side of courtyard fence. Farming was rehabilitation for him. It did his body good. He was mobile, albeit slow. My mother was also outside, not far from Baba, gathering a few potatoes in the bushel basket. I sat nearby on my knees watching the donkey do laps around the circular path drawing water from our well. I was not responsible for him this time, but I would take matters into my own hands if I could help. Potouli was by my side nudging me to give her more attention.

Oh my God, Mama said, as her eyes focused on the cloudless sky. The basket with vegetables dropped out of her hands as if it caught fire. Nikolaki! I heard the panic in her voice before I saw it on her face. I stopped playing with Potouli. At first, I thought Dad fell, but he was standing and looking up to where Mama was pointing.

I was bewildered, until I heard the rumble of the propellers as it approached. The engines, fueled with aggressive testosterone, thundered with wrath. The sound of the spinning blades reverberated through the mountain range, and the ricochet echoed across the groves like an angry hum. I tried to make sense of what looked like two giant birds with incredible wingspans flying just above the treetops. I was puzzled by my parents’ reaction, but I understood enough that danger was coming.

Bogeys were advancing. The dive bombers were coming in waves. The two leading Stukas, shiny and dark, were flying at an unusually low altitude for the topography and were still descending, quickly. I watched the wing tips pitch and roll. I don’t recall hearing the air raid siren. We didn’t need one. My parents sounded the alarm. This was not a drill. My parents knew their pilots’ target: either the harbor, or the military base, or maybe both. Regardless, we lived within walking distance from the bull’s eye(s).

Come. Come quickly! Mother said, without disguising her terror.

The headscarf slipped off her head as she raced toward me, and the knot twisted to the side revealing the hairs on her neck that were standing straight up. She grabbed me by the arm, but my little legs could not keep up with hers. With a dry mouth, she yelled for everyone to run and hide as she dragged me toward the storage cellar. I reached back screaming for Potouli to follow.

My father ran out the gate as though he was sprinting on stilts. "Elate," he shouted. Neighbors relayed to run for shelter.

Although I never asked, Mama said, "Na mi mas piyiasoune ta vlimata," pulling me toward the house. So we don’t get hit by bombs? I thought to myself. I had no time to ask a follow up question. Just as we reached the storage room door, both aircraft dropped their payload. The barrage began. Boom! Boom, Boom! The ground trembled below our feet with each explosion. I felt the vibration in my teeth. Mama pushed me into the room and slammed the door just as Potouli hopped inside with us.

With the recent German occupation, my parents planned with the neighbors to gather in our cellar room under the protection of the reinforced concrete terrace should an emergency arise. This was our improvised bomb shelter. It was the only structure of its kind in the area with doublewide, solid concrete walls. Of course, they didn’t think it would protect us from a direct strike, but it might protect us from flying debris and projectiles in the aftermath. It was the only blockhouse we had. Shrapnel be damned.

Along the back wall, barrels of wine and olive oil were stored in no particular order on the dirt floor. Crates and containers of various sizes filled with dried goods were stacked up in the corner next to the burlap bags. Other livestock and agricultural supplies were tucked in various open gaps. Hay and straw were piled in a mound in the opposite corner. The goat slept there on occasion. I wouldn’t let Potouli leave my side to nibble.

Yiayia and Pappou were standing in the center of the room, a little defiant in my estimation, when my mom rushed to them. They were directing people where to stand. Helen and John were already in the deepest corner between barrels. Helen was covering her ears and covering John at the same time. She was trembling. John was crying. I, too, was shaking and crouched down next to them hugging my yearling between my legs. I might have squeezed too tightly because Potouli bleated. I apologized and tried to look out the window for Baba, but the men were peering out and blocking my view.

Make room, Pappou yelled to the group, as he swung open the door. He took a step outside and yelled, Hurry. The men crowded around my father and the old man as they ran inside.

Some of the children were crying. All of the adults were praying, Dear God. Please have mercy on us and save us.

"Mas epiyiase o polemos," our elderly neighbor lachrymosely proclaimed.

The group sorrowfully agreed, Yes, the war has caught up to us.

As the initial shock dissipated, the discussions increased. What news had they heard? What were the Nazis aiming at the harbor? It was used for cargo and fishing. It was not a navy base. Theories were thrown around the room. Someone heard the British and other Allied forces were using it for evacuations. I heard bits and pieces of simultaneous conversations.

…safehouse…

…brought food to the hiding Jewish man last night…

… British or New Zealand?"

The Boot in the capital…

Last week in Thessaloniki…

My cousin’s husband executed…

Germans.

Nazis.

Hitler.

Potouli was getting anxious and hopping between the group’s feet. She tried to enter the conversation, but they gently shooed her away. One of the men mentioned he read in the newspaper that famine was striking the northern regions very hard. Food was scarce in the capital because the Nazis pillaged grocery stores. Only empty shelves remained. Athenians were starving to death.

What are we going to do, Nikolaki, if that happens here? Mama asked, without secrecy.

Normally, those types of discussions were had in private. I waited for an answer. Ordinarily, I was more interested in frolicking than food. We were used to being hungry, so I wasn’t quite as concerned about my stomach as I was about falling debris that could kill us. Dad had no immediate response. He knew the Germans were on the ground in Kalamata already. It could have happened here if it hadn’t already started.

We’re not going to wait. We will go to Soustianous to my parents’ house. Hunger will not follow us there. The land is fertile, and the village is safe, he said, a while later.

"Kala les," Pappou agreed. Yiayia was the one who was quiet this time.

Yes, good idea, concurred the neighbor with three children.

Kalamatiani are strong people, the lifelong resident with the cane said. We will fight them like we fought the Turks and every other invader.

Revolutionaries launched the uprising against the Turks in Kalamata on March 23, 1821. By March 25th, Greece declared its War of Independence against Turkish rule. The Square of March 23rd in the middle of town commemorated the historic event. The procession for the national holiday, and almost every parade route, began there. The adults did not believe we would have a victory march any time soon, but they prayed.

In the coming days, my family made plans to return to Soustianous. Our grandparents were not going to abandon their land and let the Nazis take over. No, Yiayia and Pappou were going to be just fine, the two of them, until death do them part. My parents could not persuade them otherwise. Unfortunately for me, our plans did not include Potouli. My grandparents assured me they would take extra care of her, and she would be there the next time I visited them. They were going to have to do all the chores themselves now, so I hoped they had time for my lamb.

My dad rented two horses for the fifteen-hour trip. The Taygetos Mountain Range, one of the largest in the country, provided a natural border separating the provinces of Kalamata, Messenia from Sparta, Laconia. The route had twists and turns, ascents and descents, and rough terrain that required good visibility and a good night’s rest. Dad’s acquaintances agreed to make it a two-day trip. The first leg of our voyage would be to a tiny village called Sitsova where father had relatives with whom we would stay.

The men wanted to reach the first village by sunset and needed every minute of daylight to travel. Two beautiful brown horses waited patiently for us near the gate. Each man made one last adjustment on his horse by rearranging folded blankets under the sun-worn saddles. They tightened the straps as I said my last goodbyes to Potouli. I kept hugging and kissing her until they could no longer wait for me.

The taller man propped me up on the smaller horse. I smiled as I gripped the horn even though my feet were too short to reach the stirrups. He gave me the reins, only temporarily. When Helen was lifted behind me and sat on the seat, she let out a wail. She was very frightened, and she let everyone know about it. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed the reins with white knuckles. I rested my back into her, but the tension in her muscles made me lean forward instead. I could feel her breathing heavily behind me. I told her not to worry, but I don’t think she heard me. The man also told her not to be afraid since he was going to be guiding the horse. She did not listen to him either.

Mother gathered the last of our supplies, and Father hung the heavy bags over either side of our horses. Mom took a pillowcase filled with freshly baked bread and tied it to a strap. My grandmother handed her a canteen with water from the well, the one Dad brought back with him from the Army. Mama tucked it in the harness pouch and turned to offer a last hug and kiss before she mounted. Dad handed her John who was already fidgety. She did her best to settle his squirming. Dad picked up the long gun he used for hunting that was resting on the side of the house and swung its strap over his shoulder. The man gave a double cluck and a slap on each hindquarter, and the horses began to walk.

"Kalo taxithi," Yiayia and Pappou said, following us out the gate and waving goodbye.

We weaved our way out of the neighborhood toward the foothills. I leaned over to look behind Helen to see if Potouli was trailing us. Apparently, I tipped too far over for Helen’s liking, and she quickly pushed me back to center. She cautioned me not to do that ever again for fear I might fall off next time, and she warned me that she wouldn’t try to catch me, if there was a next time. I had no interest in looking back after that, only forward. Eyes forward, Mama always said.

I wondered, like an explorer, what we would find on the other side of Mount Taygetos. I looked up and out at the massif in awe. Earth’s grandeur was on display with peaks and valleys and the most perfect blue sky. I looked down at the broad corridor of the deep green Nedonas River valley. The open vista was glorious with lighting and colors I never noticed at home. The course was coarse with sedimentary rocks that directed us through passes. The wrinkled folds of thrusted rock layers and joints of deep cracks lined our journey. We were hugged on either side by a forest cloaked in tall fir and pine evergreens, thorny bushes, and bright wildflowers. We were in the wilderness, removed from civilization.

People and animals merged into a single file line as the trail led us into the heart of the mountain. Father’s friend led the march, guiding Mom’s horse with one hand and holding his rifle’s strap with the other. Helen and I followed. Father trekked behind the other guide, doing his best to keep up as the caboose. I felt the terrain changing, more jagged and uneven as the horse’s hooves adjusted. I could see how a horse could lose its footing in this landscape, with or without passengers and packages. I prayed we wouldn’t suffer the same fate as Dad’s horse from the battle with the snow.

My arms were tired, and my fingers cramped as we hiked for hours. The skin on my legs rubbed against the blanket, the leather saddle, and the horse’s hair. I leaned over to exam my thighs for chafing, but Helen corrected my position before I had time to look. The stallions grunted as the path narrowed further. I wondered what they were saying to each other with their equine body language. They kept moving their heads and neck up and down, swishing their tails side to side, and moving their ears back and forth. They both let out a neigh and pushed upwards through the tight space between two boulders and made a sharp right turn. The man wheedled the animals to continue.

Mama, will we be back in time for school? I blurted out. I must have been daydreaming about what it was going to be like to be in my first grade. I could not wait to start reading books and writing essays.

Shh, Helen sounded, squeezing my ribs tightly. Do you want to get us killed? she asked rhetorically, pressing her tightly spoken words into my ear. We were not supposed to talk in case there were enemies in the mountains waiting to ambush people escaping the big cities.

God willing, my child, my mother said, turning around to assure me God’s path for us was already determined. Keep the faith she added. It was one of Mama’s favorite phrases. I would do my part. Look. That is a nice-looking dandelion, she said, gesturing off to the side of the trail with her elbow.

What a thing to notice, I thought.

Yes. At least back home we can eat dandelions and bread to survive, Dad answered.

The famine isn’t too far behind Kalamata, the guide said.

The second man added, You will be better off in the village.

You want us to eat weeds? Helen said, staring at a single petite purplish-green dandelion spreading its leaves in the dirt.

I turned to see Helen’s face of disgust and was confident I did not want to eat weeds in Soustianous. They claimed the greens had a lot of iron and other vitamins. They tried to convince us that their nutritional value made them tasty, but we were not persuaded. I would eat them only if it was the last resort.

My parents were looking forward to going back to their hometown.² Our parents wed in Soustianous in the early 1930s in an arranged marriage, but each was secretly smitten with the other. In fact, my mom was "the