Greek Walls
In 1966, John Waller and his Danish wife visit the island. In the days before charter flights and package tours, Corfu is "heaven on earth". Taken under the wing of George Manessis, member of an influential local family, they explore an island which has few proper roads and no development.
In 1971 they buy a plot of land above undiscovered Agios Gordis on the west coast. The building of their own modest summer home parallels the construction of George's own large hotel. Both parties discover the sometimes high financial and emotional cost of possessing "Greek Walls".
INDEX
Agios Gordis 1966
America 1969
Albania
Anti-Paxos to Paxos
British Actors
Cricket
First Greek Lesson
Greek Food - Lamb on the spit
Greek Food - Meze
Greek Food - Oven baked lamb
Greek Food - Pots
Greek Politics - 1966
Greek Politics - 1971
Greeks as Lovers
Greek Wedding
Kassioipi 1971
Monastery at Paleokastritsa
New Yorkers from Corfu
Orthodox Easter
Pink Palace 1970
Pink Palace 1978
Sidari 1967
Termites Attack
Villa Iliovasilema
Workers on Strike
The following day we decided to go to Agios Gordis at the end of the road south of Sinarades. After going over the pass we stopped on the road to check out the beach. Way below us, an almost empty valley of vineyards ran right down to the shore, which was long and totally deserted except for a solitary taverna and a single small house at the south end below a huge rock pinnacle. Out to sea at the end of a curving cliff-lined bay rose a huge rock.
If the view from Peter’s place was magnificent, the beach at Glyfada idyllic and the bay at Paleokastritsa picturesque, then this view was just breathtaking. A great mountain rose up to the south with the sheer pinnacle standing like a sentry just in front of it. As it fell towards the sea, a little village perched up high, across the bay, over cliffs which embraced a tiny harbour. Just offshore the huge rock, perhaps 100 metres high, stabbed the distant horizon. Inland the mountain of Agii Deka towered over this great amphitheatre, with olive trees, as spectators, gazing out to sea. We looked along the shore. There were neither the crowds of Paleokastritsa, nor the couple at Glyfada – just nobody.
We slowly descended a narrow track in a long zigzag across the sheer mountain to the valley floor and turned down, between fields to the beach, along a sandy path, wide enough for our car but no-one else. After another perfect swim, we went to the taverna, owned by Theodore’s friend Theodoros Doukakis.
In June 1969 we had to make a decision. We were still in New York. For ten months, I had been working six and a half days a week. It was time to decide – were we to settle in the USA or just be visitors?
America is a country of immigrants. They come from far off lands, to work, to save and sometimes to settle. But deep down, a piece of their heart stays at home. For many, there is a yearning to return, maybe when they are rich. They can then build their dream house in the village they loved as a child. Often, however, if their roots have grown too deep in their new country, they decide to stay and their return is just a dream.
Our dream was still for a place in Corfu. Each evening after finishing the work I’d taken home, I would bring out my map of the island, a wartime army document I’d copied at the British Library. Then Jannie and I would discuss where our house would one day be built. Would it be on the ‘wild west’ coast or on the ‘tame east’ coast?
The east coast to me was like a painting: green olive groves in the foreground and mountains, sometimes pink, in the background with pretty boats on a silver sea between. The west coast was a movie: the drama of a roaring sea breaking on a deserted shore.
We looked across the narrow strait, little more than a mile wide, and saw pill boxes, which were concrete guard posts, on the rocky hills.
"Where are all the Albanians?" I asked.
“It is still a military area over there. Occasionally we see soldiers looking at us. We are still officially at war with Albania. I think Britain is as well. You never signed a peace agreement after the war. The Albanians destroyed one of your warships in 1946 and I don’t think you have forgiven them yet.”
“1946? But that was after the war was over. What happened?” I asked, unaware of such perfidy.
“In 1946, the British regularly swept the Corfu Channel to clear the mines. Then the Albanians said foreign ships needed their permission and you replied that it was international waters. In October, to prove your point, you sent two cruisers and two destroyers down the Channel. Both destroyers hit mines and 44 sailors were killed. It turned out that the Albanians had laid new mines. The International Court found them guilty but they never paid the damages and refused to apologize.”
I remembered the first map of the world I had ever seen. Most of it was coloured pink. I thought then that Britannia ruled the waves. It seemed that I was wrong.
We motored on to the island of Anti Paxos which George told us was uninhabited for most of the year, except for visiting shepherds and farmers tending their grapes. We moored in a stunning bay on the north east of the island. The water was exactly as one saw on advertisements for a ‘Caribbean Paradise’ – ranging from Cambridge blue near the shore, where the sea bottom was the finest sand, to Oxford blue further out.
George had been right – it was a day we wouldn’t forget – but even more was to come.
We rigged up the board and set off back to Paxos as the afternoon wind was dying. We made Gaios, a distance of about 5 kilometres, in about an hour. At that point, as the southern entrance to the harbour was too shallow, George and the yacht went on, past the island of Panagia, the Virgin Mary, to enter from the north. I windsurfed in. Diners were at their tables on the water side, looking out at the new arrival. I prayed that I wouldn’t fall in as I approached. I felt like James Bond as I slid up to the quay, stepped off, dropped the sail so the board stayed still and walked up to the waiter.
“Ena trapezi yia pente, para kalo – a table for five please.”
Perhaps I didn’t order the table, but the rest deserved the applause it didn’t get.
Some time later I tried again with the long suffering Mrs Williams. Noting that her husband seemed to be the centre of attention, I asked her what he did.
“Emlyn’s an actor.”
“Have I seen him on television?” I asked innocently.
Soon after, she suggested to the great Shakespearean actor that they should leave. I told George next day but he and Elena had not noticed my faux pas. It was our first evening out and had otherwise been a delight.
“John, don’t worry. Everyone makes mistakes. Only recently Albert Finney came into the office one morning. I asked him how he found driving to town on his donkey trap. He said there was no problem and how everyone was so friendly. They waved at him so he called back “Good Day”. He didn’t know why people then laughed at him. I asked him what he had said. He replied Kalamares. I had to tell him to try next time “Kali mera”, as he had been calling “Squid” to everyone.”
We followed Theodore in his little Fiat past a fortress and the majestic buildings we had seen from the sea and through an arch to a deserted dusty square surrounded by huge trees. Here we parked.
“This is where we play cricket and over there is where we’ll have breakfast,” said Theodore.
“Cricket!” I exclaimed in disbelief as we made our way over the stony outfield, “I thought cricket was played only in the old British Empire?”
“You were here for fifty years at the beginning of the last century,” he answered.
“The ground looks too rough to play cricket on,” I said.
“That’s how we like it,” he said with a huge laugh. “There are always small stones under the matting. We have very accurate bowlers; they know where the stones are.”
Seeing my surprise he continued with a wicked grin. “If we bat first, we take it very slowly, siga siga as we say in Greek. Then when the other team bats, it gets dark and the lights of cars sometimes dazzle our opponents.”
The Corfiots were clearly a cunning race.
Each morning, before seven, I would race into town for my ‘date’ with Maria Stini, my olive skinned Greek teacher.
On my first day, I was invited into the house by her mother and shown into the front room, where Maria rose to greet me. Putting on my best canvassing charm, I introduced myself.
“Hello, I’m John, you must be Maria.”
She didn’t smile but answered. “Kalee mera, tee kanete?”
I had no idea what she was saying, so I replied, “I’ve come for my Greek lesson.”
“Eemay ee Despeenees Steenee. Eemay ee daskala-sas.”
Confused, I tried a chat up line. “George says you’ll look after me.”
She pointed to the table. “Tee eenay afto?”
She touched the table. “Afto eenay ena trapezee.”
She pointed to the table again.“Tee eenay afto?”
She paused. “Afto eenay ena trapezee. Tee eenay afto?”
She paused again. After more pointing and touching, the penny dropped and I replied. “Afto een ena trazepee.”
She repeated the question and the answer and I soon realized mine was wrong. At last I got it right. For half an hour, I struggled. Not a word of English was spoken.
After asking Mattheos for a Xoriatiki, we waited but no salad arrived, so George got up, went into the kitchen and returned with a basket of bread and the salad. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary – perhaps this was the way a real taverna worked.
Some time later after a few words and lots of laughter, Mattheos arrived carrying a brown paper parcel which he plonked on the table. Inside were a couple of kilos of lamb straight off the spit. It was indeed the most succulent, delicious meat I had ever tasted. The skin was crispy and salty and there was little fat. We each forked a piece and it melted in the mouth. The room was so crowded that there was little room to move. Everyone was asking Mattheos for more wine, more salad or more meat. To each he replied “amesos” (immediately) but he seemed never to deliver their orders. This didn’t matter because the diners themselves would get up and go to the kitchen and bring back what they wanted.
At one point, a German, the only other foreigner in the taverna, followed the others and went into the kitchen as well.
“Salad, please,” he said.
Obviously, Mattheos thought it was alright for Greeks to do this, but not for a German. Seconds later, Mr Amesos, as we decided to call him, came out brandishing a knife in one hand and a cucumber in the other. He threw them down on the German’s table. Even we could understand what he said.
“You want salad. Here, you make it!”
Firstly, lunch in Greece was after 3. Secondly, food took time to come, so one ordered first, then swam and then ate. Thirdly, a semi-naked body at a meal table was the dress code. Fourthly, there was more to Greek food than village salad and meat.
As a perfect host, George explained to Jannie all the details of the meze. It consisted of numerous small plates, fried sardines and squid, vegetables, battered and fried, spicey sausages, baby meatballs, large beans in a tomato sauce and chips, hand cut and crisp.
I could see that her appreciation of Corfu cuisine had been fully restored after her unfortunate initiation to our first Greek breakfast.
“Jannie, what do you fancy?” asked George.
“Everything,” she replied and then hesitated. “But I don’t think I’ll try the squids’ heads. Your meze reminds me of home, where we have a large number of things to choose from. Of course we each make our own open sandwiches.”
“It’s different in Greece. We don’t pile a little of everything on our plate but fork titbits from the shared portions in the centre of the table,” explained George. “We call it “ola mazi”, all together. But if you like, Jannie, you can make your own open sandwiches.”
Jannie laughed as she saw the bread basket. It contained a whole loaf cut into a dozen doorstep slices. “I think I’ll do it the Greek way,” she replied.
Ika says the secret is to cook it very slowly,” Petros said. “Use a shoulder of lamb – it is the best. Then make deep slits in the meat and insert half a clove of garlic in each. Rub it with a little salt and lots of oregani and pour on some lemon juice. Then cook it in the oven in a sealed pot.”
“For how long?” I asked. Our hosts had a further discussion.
“Use a low heat and cook it for three or four hours. Then the garlic will have dissolved into the meat. Do you know what Kleftiko means?” Petros asked.
“I am only on Lesson four,” I answered. “Tell me more.”
“It means – belonging to the Klefts. In Greek, words ending in ‘tiko’, such as the salad Horiatiko, tell us they belong – in this case to the Horio, the village. Kleftis means ‘thief’. Klefts were the bandits who stole, particularly, from the tax-collectors during Tourkokratia – Turkish rule.”
“Is that why Greeks don’t like paying taxes – they copy the Klefts?” I interrupted.
Petros smiled. “Maybe, but the Klefts are heroes in our history as they were the main fighters in our War of Independence.”
“Ika asks me to tell you that the Klefts, who lived in the mountains, would take whatever meat they caught – even sheep – and put it in a pot. They would take it to the village baker. After the bread had been baked, they would put their pot into the cooling oven – hence Kleftiko.”
O Jannis, which had opened in the November before, was next to the old Byzantine church of Saints Jason and Sosipatros. It lived up to his promise. He took us into the kitchen, where at least a dozen aluminium pots were standing on the stoves. Petros, as if he was the owner, took the lid off each and gave us a little explanation.
“Veal in garlic sauce – do you like that?” he asked. “Yes,” said Jannie.
“Rabbit in onions?” he asked again. “Yes,” I replied.
“Chicken in mushrooms?” “Yes,” said Jannie.
Lamb with courgettes, veal with cabbage and potatoes, octopus in tomato sauce, cuttlefish in its ink, salted cod in pepper sauce …. And so it went on. We liked them all.
We returned to the table where a litre of red wine was waiting for us – Petros was a regular customer.
A couple of plates of food were put in the middle of the table, Greek style. Petros tasted them, Jannie sampled them and I ate them.
“Excellent,” I exclaimed.
More plates came. It seemed that Petros had taken us at our word. Jannie was full, I was exploding and Petros was drinking. He laughed at our stories; we laughed at his. Well past midnight, we staggered out and returned to the boat. If there had been a drink-driving law of the sea in Greece, Petros would have failed the breath test. We chugged back to Perama and I drove very slowly home.
“Greece is in a political crisis,” he said sadly. “I fear the Left is posing a real threat to the country’s stability. Two and a half years ago, Greece elected a left-wing politician, Papandreou, as Prime Minister. Last year the king, who is your age, John, sacked him when he asked to be appointed Minister of National Defence. A general strike resulted, and now we now have a complete breakdown of order. For eight years until 1963 we had an efficient Prime Minister, Konstantinos Karamanlis, who ran the country well. I wish he could be back in charge.”
“But George,” I countered, “in England, two years ago, Labour took over from the Conservatives and we don’t have chaos.”
He sharply retorted. “You cannot understand Greek politics until you understand Greek history. Only seventeen years ago the country was torn apart in a bitter four year civil war.” He pointed to the mountains on the mainland. “Just over there, Greek fought Greek and hundreds of thousands were killed. When the Communists began to lose in 1948, they took away the children and transported them to the countries in Eastern Europe so that they would not fall under what they called the Fascists. Today, those children are your age, John. They are still separated from their families. Even though the Communist leaders have been exiled, they send orders from abroad to their cells in the country.”
As we climbed up the hairpin bends towards Kastellani – we were now in deep countryside – he put a cassette into his tape player. Haunting, exciting, brave music came out of the speakers. It was unlike anything I’d heard in Corfu. It didn’t try to mimic western pop stars, yet it was not extreme in an ethnic whining way. The tune could have been based on folk music, but the whole arrangement had the hallmark of a composer. The words were meaningless to me, but I sensed they meant a lot to Petros, singing under his breath.
“You haven’t heard this before?” Petros asked. His question was almost rhetorical as he followed it up immediately. “And you won’t be hearing it whilst we have the Junta. Mikis Theodorakis is one of our greatest composers and they have banned him – just because he’s a communist. The only time I can play this music is out of town, in my car,” he added with disgust.
I guessed he was a supporter of one of the Papandreous. The father had offered moderation from the centre left before the Colonels took over. His son, the firebrand socialist George, was in exile in Canada.
Arriving at the appointed time of 9 o’clock we sat at our table and waited – and watched. Even waiting can be exciting when you don’t know what is going to happen. Of the forty or so tables, four were taken. At the other three sat three young attractive women – each alone. A half an hour later Theodore arrived.
After sundry starters and a salad, the grilled chicken and lamb chops came. We were impressed by the amount we were offered. The young ladies were still alone. We asked Theodore to solve the mystery.
“Oh, they are waiting for my brother,” he said.
Soon after ten, a dark, rugged bearded man made his entrance. Three pairs of eyes brightened up, but first he came over to us and introduced himself.
“Hello, I’m Theodore’s brother, Stephen.”
…. we watched as Stephen, with enormous charm, moved from table to table, ordering wine and food for his guests, and then spent time with each as a perfect host.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Theodore, how is it that Stephen has three girlfriends?” I asked.
“Every pretty female Stephen meets is invited to dinner. In the evening he goes out in his boat and does a little fishing and when he is finished he comes here for a relaxing dinner.”
“And then?” I ventured.
“We are Greeks!” he added with a smile which said everything.
The groom was outside to meet his bride. Rob bent down and gave Agalis a sweet kiss. He smiled at George as if to say “thank you”.
“I think you will look after her in the way she has been accustomed,” replied his future father-in-law. I look at Jannie and winked. Mogens, her father, had said the same to me.
They walked to the altar and stood before the priest. At Rob’s side was his best man, Andrew, from England. If he had been a Greek, he would have been Rob’s koumbaros, the influential friend of the family. George’s brother, Stephen, would have performed this duty a hundred times as he was the eldest son and was seen by the villagers as the most powerful person in the locality. Agalis’s koumbara, her grandmother’s sister, stood by her side. On each of their heads was placed a ring of white buds, the Stephanos, which, over the centuries, have possibly been modelled on the wreaths worn at Olympic Games. They were connected by a white ribbon. Rob stooped down to save his ring from being pulled off his head. After taking their vows, the best man swapped over the Stephanoi. Papas Petros, their white haired priest with a grey beard, then led Rob, Agalis, the Koumbaros and the Koumbara three times round the altar – each circuit celebrated by a sip of wine.
The taverna was on the quayside but, as it was now late September, we ate inside. Tables were moved together into the middle of the room, wine was brought and fish and salad served. The wooden ceiling and windows had recently been painted a bright yellow and the walls, on which the taverna’s collection of bottled wine was displayed, a bright aquamarine. Four bare bulbs hung and lighted the room.
Around the walls there were a few other tables where locals were sitting. The juke box blared and more wine flowed. The party was going well, when three girls got up to dance. Arms held out to link them in line, they gracefully moved feet and legs to the rhythm of the music. The sirtaki was being performed with passion.
Sitting next to the little square of concrete which was the dance floor, I caught the eye of one of the olive skinned Hellenes. She smiled and indicated I should join them. At this moment my physiological defect was confirmed. As with football, I found my brain was not connected to my feet. When the music stopped as another record loaded itself, my dancing companion offered me encouragement.
“The sirtaki is very difficult. After ten dances, you will be very good,” she said in broken English.
I sat down, hoping the ground would swallow me up, or that Nigel would join the line to take all those eyes off me. But my failure had discouraged the British, the Irish and the American.
The outbuildings we came to first were almost blinding in their whiteness set against the blue of the sky. Arched bridges crossed over a bare alley to connect the marble-tiled square beside the church to the accommodation on the first floor of the main building. A monk with a black stovepipe hat, sporting a black beard and wearing a long black gown, stood arms on hips. We had taken a picture of him, and was not happy.
We made our way into the church – our first step into the orthodox world which had split off from the splendours of Catholicism. From complete brightness outside we entered into an almost total darkness inside. As our eyes became accustomed to this new world, helped by a few burning candles, we realised that everything was silver and gold – it was if the icons which covered the walls and the altar were glowing. We sat and pondered what these icons were for. Were they telling us the Christian story, were they reminding us of great Christians or were they objects of worship? We had no answers, so we left and sat across the little garden overlooking the majestic sea below. My thoughts moved back in time, past Greek Byzantium, represented by the monastery, to Ancient Greece and the legend of Odysseus, who was said to have been shipwrecked on this coast since when this view had remained unchanged.
Petros and his partner Spiros were doing very well. They were building luxury apartments in and around the town. I was surprised that people could afford them as Europe was going through a bad time economically.
“Many of my clients have lived for years in America. They originally came from the Diapontian Islands to the north west of Corfu. Many, particularly in New York, ran hot dog stalls. They saved all the time and now send me their money, with which I build retirement flats for them in town.”
It made me think how ten years before we had been in New York. Without knowing it, I had probably eaten many Corfiot hot dogs. We had also saved and then built our home in Corfu. Would we too spend our retirement on the island?
Excitement was growing. People appeared from windows holding clay pots, some small, many large and a few enormous. They waved to their friends below. As the hour struck eleven, to a great cheer, the pots were thrown down, crashing on to the street below.
“This is something very special to Corfu,” said George. “Nobody is certain of its origin. Some say it came from the Venetians, who used to throw out their old crockery at New Year. The Corfiots copied the tradition but changed the date. It symbolizes a renewal of life. Other people claim it is even older. Perhaps it’s a statement against the Jews for crucifying Jesus or against Judas for betraying him. There are even those who suggest it goes back to Pagan times.”
As the crowds started to disperse, the bands could be heard again, marching round the town back to their bases, but now playing happy tunes. Ahead of us we could see the Old Philharmonic coming down past Theotoki Square to stop before they came to the Liston. They were home.
We returned to Agios Gordis and parked the car at the bottom of the track. Instead of turning left to Theodoros, we went to the right and walked along the shore towards the north. The first building we came to, just after the original plot of land we looked at, was little more than a single storey room where a couple of young Americans were drinking Coke. The owner, who was behind the bar, was short and stocky with an impressive moustache. Still in his thirties, he had set up business in a perfect spot.
“Hi, you want beer?” he called.
Brian, never one to turn down a drink, accepted.
“You want bed?” he continued and pointed to the roof, where some bedding lay under a canopy.
Brian answered in ancient Greek that, as we owned land, we wouldn’t take up his offer. The owner must have understood a couple of words.
“You Englishman?” he asked. “No, I’m Irish,” Brian replied slightly offended. He pointed to me. “He’s English.”
Turning to me our host continued. “I am Spiros Grammenos. My father is Stamatis Grammenos. You buy land next to his house?”
“Yes,” I replied, with a big smile. “My name is John.”
“Mr. John, you want another beer?”
I declined, which didn’t seem to please him. To him, it wasn’t a case of less business. I had turned down his hospitality.
On the road to the beach, on the corner before the valley, a huge new building had sprung up. We were told that Spiros Grammenos, Stamatis’s son, who had worked on our building for a few days, had obtained a hundred metres of frontage from an old person’s charity in town and had built some rooms and a disco/dining hall for students. He called it the Pink Palace, the colour chosen as an indication of sex. Each night, rock music blared out. Spiros had come a long way from his poor upbringing and few rooms near the beach. Now he had a hostel – to call it a hotel would have been an exaggeration. Each day, as we passed, he would be outside with his mates.
“Capitalist!” Spiros would shout. “Have a beer!”
From that day on my building site, I was scared of him. Each time I turned his offer down, he must have treated it as an affront to Greek hospitality. I felt the enmity increase.
“How dare a cocky young foreigner with a lot of money come to my country and be so arrogant that he won’t accept a drink from me,” he surely thought.
Only much later was I told that his first two English words were probably ‘beer’ and ‘capitalist’.
We drove north on the Paleokastritsa road and then turned off to go over the mountains. We left the tarmac road soon after the Troumpeta pass and made our way through unspoilt countryside of olive groves and vineyards. George had recommended Sidari– he was right. The beach was sensational. Fields finished above sandstone cliffs, tall in the distance but less so nearby where we had access to a deserted golden beach. A sandbank extended to two small rock islands connected by a narrow bar. The seaward rock shaped like a wedge or perhaps a sphinx looking out to sea sloped in gentle steps back towards the land from a small cliff overlooking deep water. The landward rock was shaped like an armchair with the seat seaward and the back covered in grass towards the land. Between the two great legs was a gap, barely head high, the Canal d’Amour, a tunnel scoured out by the sea. We scrambled down the cliff to the beach and crawled and slipped on the sandstone rocks, made smooth by the waves beating on the shore. We walked, stooped, through the Canal d’Amour and talked of love – of the island, of everything.
The wooden shutters of the spare room fell apart when we opened the French doors. As we swept the floor, the broom hit one of the bed’s legs, which then collapsed. Under the lacquer, there was empty space. Further investigation showed the bed had almost disappeared, eaten by little white insects. We captured one and put it in a plastic cup, which we sealed on top. Arriving at Petros’s we proudly opened the lid of our trap – but our prisoner had disappeared.
“You have been invaded by termitus, termites,” diagnosed the solver of all our housing problems.
Before we had left Corfu, George had explained how the cost of building depended very much on the area of the building, as a major expense was the quantity of concrete poured.
With nights closing in we set out our parameters. The house would be for the summers when the children were on holiday, so each room must have a French door giving not only maximum ventilation but also access for everyone on to a small terrace. We would have to provide beds for no more than two couples and four children. It was at a time when anyone with three children was frowned on. We were all believers in Schumacher’s ‘Small is beautiful’. This philosophy would also extend to the house. I had also deduced that smaller was cheaper.
We would design the building using as our template a Danish summer house. First, all beds, except for ours, would be bunk beds. Secondly, the number of shower rooms would be minimal – that is one. Thirdly, living space would be open plan, so the main room would be for sitting and eating, and the kitchen would open on to the dining area. Finally, a veranda was important. In Denmark, this would keep the rain off in the summer; so one could live outside every day. In Greece, it would keep the sun off. As we had an enormous olive tree, perhaps twelve metres across, to sit under, we decided that the veranda was a luxury we could postpone.
A huge Caterpillar bulldozer had arrived at the beginning of August. Called O Tarzan, after the subject of the hit tune from the previous year, it crawled up from the lower road and clambered around the southern end of the broken wall. Pushing the land to one side, it created a twenty-five metre trench, six metres lower than the house and three metres wide right across the property from the sterna to the southern boundary. Eight wooden pens, each three metres high and three metres square were then erected.
At that point, with eight men hammering and nailing the timbers together, disaster struck. The first storm of the autumn arrived and the heavens opened, two weeks earlier than usual. The men stopped work. I rushed into town to get Petros Kardakis. Jannie started to pack. Petros arrived to find a strike on his hands.
“They say it’s too dangerous to work,” he said.“But it has stopped raining,” I argued.
“They say the land above the trench will slip and they will be buried alive,” Petros continued.
Jannie, who had finished packing, was on the workers’ side. “And the house will follow. They’ve dug the grave, now we’ll bury the house,” she argued.
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