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“He knew he would die long before they killed him. After they’d burned the soles off his feet, and gouged out his eyes, all he could see was his daughter’s face when they told her he was dead, his young son not understanding why his father had gone forever, his wife moaning and trembling, her hands over her face. He gave no names – he had none to give – I could have told them that. But once the torture started, it would only finish when the torturers had had enough, when they’d shown the American how ruthless Greeks could be in eradicating the filth of Communism. And once torture had gone that far, then it was certain the man would die. He knew that. But when they took him from the car, his mouth was numb. He wet himself, the stain spreading, and with it his shame, which he tried vainly to hide from the men he knew were watching and judging. I don’t know for certain he knew that I was there, but I believe he did. His legs could not bear his weight and his shoes, loose without the laces they’d taken from him so he would not hang himself in his cell, made a trail in the dust as they dragged him to his place of execution on the wasteland behind the town’s dump beyond the first ridge of hills. As they pushed him to the ground, he made to scramble away, slithering on his belly, his fingers clawing the sand. He knew it was no use of course, but I understood his wish to go to his death resisting them, not giving in. A boot on his back forced him down. All of this in silence. The American grinned, his eyes hidden under his dark glasses, his trousers sharply creased. The man, his face pressed to the earth, would have felt the sharp metal of the gun in his neck. The air went out of him. I thought I heard him groan, “Eleftheria”, but this may have been what I wished, my prayer for him. And then the explosion, brief, discreet. His body went tense … ena lepta … and then he relaxed.

The American shook a packet of cigarettes loose, placed one on his thin lips, and offered the pack around. The executioner unrolled the tension from his neck and shoulders and took one. His men murmured and each accepted the gift. The American flicked his lighter open and a flame sprang up, and the faces of the defenders of Greek purity were lit, as they leaned forward, like a Caravaggio, proud and mean. And then the American, exhaling a thick cloud of fragrant tobacco in my face, offered the pack to me. I am ashamed of it now as I tell you this, but although my hand was shaking, I took a cigarette and allowed him to light it for me.

I have carried the ghost of that man on my back for nearly 40 years. He never leaves me, and I must not desert him. To do so, I too must be a wandering spirit. This is how my debt is paid. 

Greeks in all their wars have said Eleftheria i Thanatos. Freedom or Death. There have been many wars. Many people died. Who is free? Am I free? You tell me.”

                                                      ****************

2005.

The day I arrive on the island, I hear about the body in the bridge.

“Un-be-lieve-able!” Yiannis sets down the tiny white cup of coffee and a glass of water on the table facing the sea, the pale blue water in the bay glistening in the still fierce heat. My table is in the shade of an ancient tamarisk tree, its trunk twisted and deeply lined. “Unbelievable!” he says again, “A hand -  sticking out the cement - like this!” He shows me, his arm outstretched into a balled fist, his face contorted in disgust.

“Yianni! Ela!” His wife calls him and he disappeared into the tiny kitchen where all the food for the taverna is prepared on a two-plate electric cooker and a charcoal burner.

When I’d arrived at the island’s airport, I’d expected to see Lucy waiting for me. The terminal building was a low-roofed single room with a glass partition to separate the newly arrived from the already there. Nauseous and bone-jangled from the ride on the single prop island-hopper which had brought me to Mythos from Athens, I'd managed to retain a hope that, against the odds, she'd be there. I’d searched for her face amongst the bored faces waiting for their relatives to appear. I don’t know why I let myself believe she’d come to fetch me. She hadn’t replied to my messages. Wishful thinking I guess.