Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-one
Winter had come to her island.
Katerina stood in the doorway that led into the bakery kitchen, watching as Leni prepared a batch of spanakopita. She could hear the rain as it pummeled the windows and walls, blown in by a wind so furious, it was as if the earth shaker Poseidon had sent it.
“Why doesn’t he write?”
Leni paused, her hands damp from rolling out the boiled spinach. It was not the first time Katerina had asked this question, and she could see that the subject was grating on her sister.
“They are busy, agápi mou.”
She scoffed.
“Too busy to scribble a few lines, tell us that they are alive?”
It had been weeks since her last communication from Stefanos, though he, at least, had written to her.
Michalis had sent not one word to his wife, and Leni must care—she must be angry with him, though she would never admit it.
Katerina had not told her what she knew of Michalis—what would be the point?
Becoming aware that her husband shook from fear when faced with battle would only cause her sister to suffer.
All this waiting they were required to do was pain enough.
“I am sure that they would write to us if they could,” Leni said. “Now, come here and help me with the pastries.”
Katerina dragged her feet. She did not like baking. Food, for her, was fuel, nothing more.
“Why do you put raisins inside?” she asked grumpily. “It is not a cake.”
“For energy,” Leni said, “and also for sweetness. It is the sugar that makes the flavor of the cheese come to life.”
Her sister’s fingers moved with practiced ease, sprinkling freshly chopped dill into her bowl before cracking in three eggs. Katerina waited to be told before splashing in olive oil, while Leni added a pinch of cinnamon.
“Stir,” she said, passing Katerina a wooden spoon stained black from the broiler.
Katerina obeyed, brooding in silent contemplation as Leni turned her attention to the phyllo pastry that was cooling between dry cloths.
Each individual sheet must be paper-thin, though thick enough not to tear.
It was a delicate balance, one that Katerina had no patience for nor could imagine having.
If she and Stefanos were ever to marry, he would have to survive on lemons, figs, and goat milk—anything more elaborate was out of the question.
“Do you think that Mama and Baba will come home soon?” she asked.
Leni looked up, eyes dark below the headscarf she wore, the shadows beneath them darker still.
“Why do you ask me so many questions? I do not know the answers any better than you do.”
“It has been a long time,” Katerina said, though her observation was both unneeded and unwanted. “The sea will be too rough for them now until the spring.”
“Perhaps.” Leni took the bowl from her and began to layer the mixture into a wide clay dish. Katerina sat on the edge of the table only to leap off as Leni scolded her.
“If you are bored,” she said, “there is plenty of work to be done at the house. Why don’t you write your own letter to Stefanos?”
“Another letter? I have sent one already today. I told him about the weather and the goats and about the teenager Kostas breaking his arm—it is all nonsense, noise. He is fighting, and me?” She huffed. “I am doing nothing, nothing to help our people.”
“éla re, agápi mou.” Leni sighed. “After the war, the men will want to come back to their homes. We must be here to welcome them. We must keep everything as it is, look after the animals and the crops and the trees. They are fighting for Greece, but there will be no Greece unless we look after it. That is our job in this war.”
She smoothed out the final square of pastry and rubbed her hands together. Katerina watched as a dusting of flour fell to the floor.
“Stefanos says that men and women are equal.” The words felt like a deliberate provocation, though she craved the satisfaction of having said them. “If they can fight, why can’t we?”
Leni turned away, her tray of spanakopita balanced in her hands.
“Open the oven,” she said.
With great reluctance, muttering under her breath, Katerina did as she’d been asked, standing back as Leni eased the pastries through the semicircular opening.
Her sister was not going to nibble at the bait, a fact she made clear a few moments later by leaving the room.
Katerina followed her through into the shop, ready to launch into her next argument until she saw that they had a customer.
Dafni stood by the counter, her scarf knotted tightly beneath her chin.
She and her husband, Giorgos, were in their seventies, though time had done little to dull the energy of either one.
Katerina often saw them outside their hillside home, tending plants or trimming trees—never idling like Baba but busy, active, full of purpose.
“Ah,” she said, dripping rainwater onto the tiles, “what is this? Two Sideris sisters—what a piece of luck.”
Dafni, reflected Katerina, always seemed to be on the verge of laughter, though she’d never once shared what amused her. Now her beady gaze was fixed on the display of Leni’s maza loaves, still warm from that morning’s baking.
“Giorgos has been on the boat and brought home a big swordfish,” she told them, not without pride. “There is too much for us alone—why don’t you come to eat with us later?”
Katerina perked up. A meal with Dafni and her husband signaled an opportunity to talk about something other than chores, goats, and the various merits of raisins.
“Is it true that Giorgos fought in the Great War?” she asked.
Dafni’s face immediately fell.
“Yes,” she said hesitantly, “although he does not like to speak about it.”
“Will he fight in this war?” Katerina went on, ignoring a stern look from Leni.
Dafni bent her head to remove a few coins from her purse.
“He is not young anymore,” she said, which was not strictly an answer. “The army needs young men, strong men.”
“But surely he wants to join them,” Katerina persisted.
“éla re,” Leni admonished, wrapping one of the loaves in wax paper but refusing the woman’s money. “Please,” she said, “take it—an apology for my sister’s rudeness.”
“How is it rude to ask a simple question?” Katerina demanded. “It is a fact that if the line cannot be held or if the Germans join with the Italians, then all the men will have to go.”
“Stop this,” Leni said, her tone harsh. Katerina stared wide-eyed. Her sister never raised her voice, let alone to shriek at her in this way. Her cheeks had turned bright red, as if it were her, not the spanakopita, that had been cooking over the wood fire.
“All this talk of war,” Leni hissed. “It is as if you enjoy it, the thought of it. You sound as if you are sick.” She tapped furiously on her forehead. “There is something wrong with you.”
Dafni no longer looked as if she wanted to laugh. Katerina took a single defiant breath.
“At least I am not pretending,” she said. “If the enemy arrives on Folegandros, what will you do, eh? Hide away like a turtle in its shell?”
“éla, éla,” Dafni soothed. “Do not fight. You are family.”
Katerina threw up her hands, though there was truth to the older woman’s words. If Baba could see her now, he would bring his hand hard across her face. Leni had begun to cry silently, her jaw rigid and shoulders hunched.
“I will tell you something I know about war,” Dafni said, darting a warning glance at Katerina when she began to interrupt.
“éla, listen to me—you had not yet been born the last time there was a war such as this one. You do not know what it was like for us, those who fought and those who did not. The Giorgos who came back to me was not the same man who left. He has not ever been the same, and I cannot help him. I cannot take away the horrors that he saw, the violence and the death. War is not glorious, it is barbaric.”
“I do not believe that it is glorious,” Katerina protested, “only that it is coming. I want to be ready if it does. I want all of us to be ready.”
With a sudden gasp, Leni ran back to the kitchen.
Katerina followed, Dafni close behind, all three crying out in dismay as the spanakopita, blackened beyond saving, was pulled from the oven.
For a moment, nobody spoke. Smoke trailed up toward the ceiling.
Outside, the rain beat steadily against the windows.
Dafni laid a hand on Katerina’s arm, her skin as papery-thin and fragile as the phyllo pastry smoldering before them.
“There is no way to prepare for war,” she said. “The only thing you can do is try to survive it.”