Chapter 7 Chapter 6

1940 The best winter in years on Spinalonga is over and the brightest spring is here.Wildflowers not only blanket the northern slopes of the island, but also protrude from every crevice in the rocks, wrapping them around, and the whole island has absorbed this sense of new life. On the main street of Spinalonga, there were only a few dilapidated houses a few months ago, and now there are rows of beautiful shops, and the doors and windows have been repainted in dark blue and dark green.They are now places where shopkeepers proudly display their wares, and islanders shop not only for necessity but also for pleasure.For the first time, the island has its own economy.People create wealth: barter, buy and sell, sometimes earning, sometimes losing.

The tavern is very prosperous now, and a new restaurant has also opened, specializing in kakavia, which is freshly cooked every day.Barbers became one of the busiest people on Main Street.Sterios Vandis was once the top hairstylist in Rethnon, the second largest city on the island of Keriro, but he gave up the trade after he was deported to Spinalonga.When Papadimitrio knew that there was such a character among them, he urged him to return to his old profession.The men of Athens were all vain peacocks, with the fashionable vanity of the city, and in the old days they all liked to have their hair and beard trimmed every other week, and the quality and shape of their hair was almost an expression of their manliness.Now that life has turned around, they find that someone can make them handsome again.It's not personal style that they crave, but identical, well-groomed, well-groomed hair.

"Sterios," said Papadimitririo, "make me your best Vanizelos." Vanizelos was a Cretan lawyer who became prime minister of Greece and was Considered to have the prettiest beard in Christendom.The men chatted and laughed, thinking that it would be fitting for Papadimitrio to emulate him, since he clearly aspires to be the leader of the island. As the power of Centumaris waned, the lord of the island became more and more dependent on Papadimitriio, an Athenian whose popularity among the islanders grew.Men admire him for what he has achieved in a short time; women are grateful for him; and soon he enjoys a heroic homage.There is no doubt that everyone is fascinated by his screen character-like appearance.Like most Athenians, he had been living in the city, and as a result he was not stooped and gray-haired like the common Cretan man who spends years out of doors, in the fields or at sea.Before these months of physical work, he seldom basks in the sun or even gets wind.

Ambitious as he is, Papadimitrio is not a ruthless man, and he won't be running unless Kentumaris is ready to retire. "Papati Metririo, I've been planning to give up this position for a long time." One night in early March, after playing a game of backgammon, the old man said, "I've told you thousands of times. This job requires fresh Blood - look at what you've done for this island! My supporters will be there for you, no doubt about it. Believe me, I'm just tired right now." Papadimitriou didn't take this last remark lightly.In the six months since he came to the island, he has seen Kentumaris' condition worsen.The two men were very close during this time, and he understood that the old island owner was recommending him as his successor.

"If you really intend to let go, I'll take it over." He said calmly, "but I think you should think about it for a few more days." "I've been thinking about it for months," Petros said gruffly, "and I know I can't do it." The two continued to play chess in silence, only the crackling sound of the pieces moving broke the silence. "One more thing, I want you to know." After playing chess, Papatimitririo said before leaving, "If I win the election, I will not live in your house." "But this is not my home," retorted Kentumaris, "this is the owner's home. It depends on the position, as it has always been."

Papadimitrio took a drag on his cigarette and paused for a moment as he let it out.He decided to put the matter aside for now.In any case, this topic is only a hypothesis, and the election is not yet a fait accompli.There may be two other contenders out there, Theodore Roth Majridakis has been on the island for six or seven years and has a huge following; in the end, at least Papadimitrio feels, he seems to have likely to be elected.There was a whole host of people who responded to Majridakis' negativity, and even though they greedily accepted all the hard work that Papatimitriou had put in, and six months of drastic change, they still felt that if a victim Anger-driven people come to their service, and they may get more good.One would be tempted to believe that the rage that drives Majridakis might help him achieve what reason and diplomacy cannot.

The annual elections at the end of March were the most bitterly contested in the island's history, and the results really mattered, Spinalonga was a place worth running, and leadership was no longer a poisonous holy grail.There are three candidates: Papadimitriou, Cypros Kazakis and Theodoros Makiridakis.On the day of the election, everyone, regardless of gender, has the right to vote. Even a leprosy patient who is locked up in the hospital and may never have the chance to get out of the hospital bed sent a ballot and sealed it after filling it out. Return on due date in a sealed envelope.

Cypros Kazakis got only a few votes, and to Papadimitriou's relief and surprise, Majridakis got less than a hundred votes.That leaves the biggest share—a clear majority for him, the Athenian.People vote with their hearts and their wisdom.Makiridakis's gesture was very good, but the result was even more telling. For this, Papadimi Trio finally knew that he was accepted.This was a pivotal moment in civilizing the island. "My friends in Spinalonga," he said, "my hope for this island is your hope." On the evening after the election, in the small square outside City Hall, he spoke to those gathered there. said the crowd.The vote counts have been reviewed and the results have just been announced.

"We've civilized Spinalonga, and in a way, it's even better to live here now than in the cities and villages that serve us." He waved at Braca. Card has no electricity, but we have. We also have hard-working doctors and the most dedicated teachers. In Crete, some people live above and below the poverty line and starve, but we don’t. Last week, someone from Iro Da came rowing over exhausted, they had heard of our prosperity, and they came to beg us for food. Isn't this a huge change?" The crowd applauded. “We are no longer castaways with begging bowls, called 'Unclean! Unclean!'” he continued. “Now it is other people who come to us and beg for alms.”

He paused for a moment, waiting for someone in the crowd to shout: "Three cheers for Papadimitri!" When the cheers died down, he added a final note to his speech: "There is one thing that makes us Linked together - Leprosy. When we have our differences, let us not forget that we cannot escape each other. Let us do what we can to make life better as long as we live - it must be Our common goal.” He raised his hand, index finger to the sky, in a gesture of celebration and victory. "For Spinalonga!" he cried. More than two hundred people imitated him and made this gesture, shouting in unison: "For Spinalonga!" The voice was so loud that even Braca across the sea could hear it.

No one paid attention to Cypros Kazakis, who walked slowly downhill into the shadows.He had longed to be this leader, and the disappointment was as bitter as an unripe olive. The next afternoon, Elpida Kentumaris started to pack her things.In a day or two she and Petros would be moving out of the house and into Papadimitri's current dormitory.She had been looking forward to this day for a long time, but its arrival did not lessen her fear.She could barely muster the strength to move under the weight of her fear.She packed her bags indiscriminately, her heavy body was unwilling to do this job, and her deformed feet hurt more than before.She got up and thought about cleaning out the treasures in the glass case—the tin soldiers in procession, the small pieces of china, the carved silver that had been passed down through generations.She asked herself who would give these things when she and Petros were gone.Neither of them had much time. A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.That must be Eleni, she thought.Despite the busy schedule at school and the responsibilities of motherhood, Eleni promised to come and help her that afternoon, and she always kept her word.But when Elpida opened the door, thinking it was her slender, good-looking friend, a man in dark clothes appeared at the door.It was Papadimitriol who came. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Kentumaris. May I come in?" he asked softly, sensing her surprise. "Of course . . . please come in," she replied, moving away from the door to let him in. "I just have one thing to say," he told her when they were face to face.Around them were crates half filled with books, china, and photographs. "You don't have to move out of here. I have no intention of taking the house from you. It's not necessary. Petros gave his whole life to the island, and I've decided to give him the house—if you want It's called a pension." "But it's the owner's. It's yours now, and Petros doesn't want to hear you say that." "I'm not interested in what the past was like," Papatimitrio replied. "I want you guys to stay here. Anyway, I want to live in the house I'm renovating. Please." He "It's better for us all," he insisted. Tears glistened in Elpida's eyes. "It's very kind of you," she said, holding out her arms to him, "very kind. I can see you mean it, but I don't know how to convince Petros." "He has no choice," said Papatimitrio firmly, "now it's up to me. I want you to take everything out of the box and put it back where it was. I'll be back in a little while, See if you did as I said." Elbida saw that this was not a casual gesture.This man meant it, and he was used to walking the talk.That's why he was elected as the owner of the island.As she rearranged the tin soldiers back in line, she tried to analyze what made Papadimitrió so irresistible.It's not just his physical height, that just makes him a thug.He has other, more subtle tricks.Sometimes he just needs a change of tone to move people to agree with him.On other occasions he used the force of logic to subdue them, with the same effect.Even in Spinalonga, his lawyer skills are as sharp as ever. Before Papadimitriou went out, Elpida asked him to come and have dinner with them again in the evening.Only a fool would refuse such an invitation as she cooks like no one in Spinalonga.As soon as he was gone, she began preparing dinner, making his favorite egg-lemon balls and measuring out the ingredients for lavani, a sweet cake made from refined wheat bran. When Kentumaris returned home that night, his leadership responsibilities finally relinquished, he walked with a sense of relief.Back home, the smell of baking cakes wafted across my face, and Elpida stood up in an apron and welcomed him with outstretched hands.They hugged, and he rested his head on her shoulder. "It's all over," he muttered. "Finally, finally." He looked up and looked around, and found that the room was still the same as when he left.There had been some wicker boxes in the room when he left in the morning, half full, but they were gone now. "Why didn't you pack it?" There was not only anger in his voice, but also fatigue.He was so tired, he wanted so much to wrap things up in the next few days, and wished they had moved into their new house.The fact that there was no sign of moving at home made him very angry and made him feel more tired than before. "I packed them, but I took them all out again," Elpida replied mysteriously, "We stay here and we won't go." Just then, there was a heavy knock on the door.Here comes Papadimitrio. "Mrs. Kentumaris invited me to dinner with you," he said simply. After the three of them were seated, each of them poured a large glass of ouzo, and Kentumaris regained his composure. "I think there's a conspiracy going on," he said. "I should be mad, but I know you all know full well that I have no choice in this." His smile showed how hypocritical the tone was harsh, the formality of the wording.He was privately delighted with Papadimitrió's generosity, especially since he knew what it meant to his wife.The three of them toasted together, and it was settled.The subject of the owner's house was never brought up between them again.There was some disagreement among committee members and a lively discussion about what to do if the next island owner wanted to repossess the lavish house, but a consensus was quickly reached: Occupancy should be assessed every five years. After the election, jobs and renovations on the island went hand in hand.Papatimitrio's efforts are not just a campaign tactic.Restoration and rebuilding continued until everyone had a decent place to live, their own stove, their own yard in front of the house, and, most importantly, a public toilet in the privacy of their own home that everyone could feel proud of. Now that the water is efficiently collected, there is plenty for everyone and the laundry room has been enlarged with a long row of smooth cement laundry sinks.It was nothing less than a luxury for the women, who could take their time doing the laundry, turning it into a lively social hub. People's social life has also improved a lot, but not in the workplace.The Athenian Panos Scolavones was an actor, and he started to work when the others were done.Not long after the election, he pulled Papatimitrio aside, and Scoravones behaved in a manly way, aggressively.He likes to be against people. When he was an actor in Athens, he was always in a hurry. “Boredom is spreading like a fungus here,” he said. “People need entertainment. Many of them may not live until next year, but they better look forward to the week ahead.” "I see what you mean, and I totally agree," Papatimitrio responded, "but what are you going to do?" "Entertainment. A wide range of entertainment." Scolavone replied calmly. "What does that mean?" asked Papadimitrio. "Movies," Scoravones said. Six months ago such a suggestion would have been considered indescribably insane, as ridiculous as telling a leper to swim across the sea and go to the cinema in Elounda.But now, this is not a lie. "Okay, we have generators," Papadimitrio said. "It's only a good start, but it's not enough, is it?" Keeping the islanders happy and having something to do every night might help to reassure lingering grievances.As the people sat in rows in the dark, they couldn't drink too much, they couldn't conspire in the tavern, thought Papadimitriou. "What more do you want?" he asked. Scolavones answered quickly.He'd figured out how many people the town hall could hold, where he'd get projectors, screens, film holders.Most importantly, he also calculated: Before the committee agrees, what is lacking is money, but if you think about how many leprosy patients can earn some money now, the new cinema can charge tickets, and in the end it should be able to make ends meet . In the weeks after his request, posters appeared all over town: By six o'clock that night, about a hundred people had lined up outside City Hall.By the time the doors opened at six-thirty, at least eighty more had arrived, and the following Saturday saw the same enthusiasm. Eleni was so delighted that she wrote to her daughters about this new entertainment: Over the next few weeks, Giorgis will be bringing more of Athens' latest feature films, as well as newsreels, bringing audiences an update on horrific events taking place in the outside world.Although the Cretan weekly newspaper was read on the island, and the radio occasionally blared the latest announcements, no one knew about the devastation that Nazi Germany was sweeping across Europe.At this point, these atrocities seemed too far away, and the inhabitants of Spinalonga had many more pressing concerns on their minds.The campaign is behind them and Easter is fast approaching. In earlier years, the celebration of Easter, the greatest Christian holiday, was suppressed.The festivities in Plaka make a lot of noise, although in the small church of San Pantaleimon in Spinalonga there is always an equally exciting celebration, but on a much smaller scale and people always I don't think it is as grand as the celebrations in Plaka across the water. This year, everything will be different.Papa Dimitrio is sure of that.The commemoration of the Resurrection on Spinalonga could not have been less luxurious than that held on Crete or mainland Greece. Lent is strictly observed.Many went without fish or meat for forty days, and in the last week wine and olive oil were removed to the most hidden corners.By Thursday of Good Friday (the second week before Easter), the wooden cross in the church is full of lemon blossoms, and the cross is big enough to hold a hundred souls (provided they are as tight as grains on the ears of wheat). glued together).Long lines go down the street, mourning Christ and kissing his feet.Silent worshipers stood inside and outside the church.The atmosphere was gloomy now, and the melancholy grew even stronger as they looked at the statue of Saint Pantalemon.The saint, whom the sarcastic lepers called the so-called healing saint, was long since disbelieved by many, but his life story made him the perfect choice for the idol of such a church.Pantalemon was a young Roman doctor who had been taught by his mother to become a Christian, a move that would almost certainly result in religious persecution.Pantalaimon's success in curing many patients aroused suspicion, and he was captured, bound to a wheeled cart, and finally boiled alive. No matter how much the islanders blamed the saint for his healing powers, the next day they all joined in the procession of Christ's greatest funeral.Early in the morning the coffin was decorated, and by evening the road was strewn with flowers.This is a solemn procession. "We've practiced this many times, haven't we?" Elpida scoffed as Elpida and Irene made their way slowly down the street.The serpentine procession of more than two hundred people meandered through the town and onto the path leading to the north of the island. "Yes." Eleni agreed, "but this time it's different, this person is alive again—" "We've never practiced so many times," interposed Theodoros Majridakis, walking just behind them, who never could but be sarcastic.The resuscitation of corpses seemed impossible, but the devout among them knew what was promised was just that: a brand new, spotless, resuscitated body.This is the crux of the whole story, the meaning of the ceremony.Believers trust in this. Saturday is a quiet day.It stands to reason that men, women, and children are all to mourn.However, everyone is very busy.Eleni organized the children into working groups to paint the eggs, which were then decorated with tiny leaf stencils.Meanwhile, other women are busy baking traditional cakes.Instead of these subdued activities, the men are all busy preparing for the slaughter of lambs that have been delivered weeks earlier.When all these chores were done, people gathered in the church again, decorated the church with rosemary branches, bay leaves, myrtle branches, and it was just dark, and the bittersweet smell came from the church and filled the air. Expectations and admiration. Eleni stood at the door of the crowded church.People were silent, restrained, and expecting, ears pricked up to listen to the initial whisper of asking the Lord to have mercy.At first the sound was very soft, like a breeze moving leaves, but soon it became almost palpable, filling the church and bursting out into the world beyond.The lighted candles in the church were now all extinguished, and the world sank into darkness under a starless, moonless sky.For a long time, Eleni felt nothing but the thick smell of butter in the air. At midnight the priest lit a candle as the church bells in Plaka struck across the silent sea. "Come, receive the light," he ordered.Bishop Kazakos pronounced the holy word with awe, and with such directness that the islanders had no doubt that it was an order to draw them closer to him.One by one the people, those who were closest held out thin candles, and from these lights the light spread until the inside and outside of the church were a forest of flickering flames.In less than a minute, the darkness turned into light. Bishop Kazakos, a mild-mannered, bushy-bearded man of life—who had expressed doubts that any form of abstinence from alcohol would be seen during Lent—now began to read the Gospels.This is a very familiar passage, and many elderly islanders moved their lips and followed him. "Christ is risen!" he declared at the end of the reading. "Christ is risen! Christ is risen!" the crowd cheered loudly. For a long time, cheers were heard throughout the streets, and people wished each other a Happy New Year over and over again - "Chronia polla!" - and responded enthusiastically: "Episis" - "Let's have fun together". Then, it was time to go home, carefully carrying the candle. "Come on, Dimitri." Eleni encouraged the boy. "Let's see if the candle can get home and stay alive." If they arrive home with the candles still alive, it will bring good luck for the whole year, which is easy to do on this quiet April night.Within minutes, every household on the island had candles flickering in their windows. The final step in the ritual is the lighting of a bonfire, symbolic of the burning of the traitor Judas Iscariot.During the day the men brought in all their spare kindling, and ripped dry branches from the bushes.Now the priest lit the pyre, and the fire crackled and rocketed into the sky, and the people rejoiced even more.The real celebration begins.In every remote village, town, from Plaka to Athens, people reveled in revelry, and this year on Spinalonga there was as much joy and rowdy as anywhere else.Of course, over Plaka, they could hear the merry bouzouki resounding through the sky and the people of the island dancing. Many lepers have not danced for years, but today, unless they are too limping to walk, they are all encouraged to stand up and join the dancing circle, and people start to spin slowly.Pieces of traditional clothing were dug out of dusty boxes, so in the crowd there were men in fringed turbans, boots, and knickerbockers, and some women in embroidered waistcoats and brightly colored kilts. scarf. Some of the dances were solemn, but when it came to the less solemn dances, it was the turn of the healthy and active people, and they turned and turned as if it was their last dance.After the dance, the ballad began to be sung—Martina.Some songs are sweet, some are sad; some tell long stories, which lull old people and children almost to sleep. Towards dawn, many people went to bed one after another, and some people fell asleep in the rows of chairs in the small restaurant, with plum wine and delicious lamb that they had never enjoyed before.Never since the Turks took Spinalonga had the island seen such high spirits, such joy.They are celebrating in the name of God, Christ is risen.In some ways they also came back from the dead.Their hearts are revived. The rest of April was an intense series of events.A few more lepers came from Athens in March, and during the winter months six more patients were brought from various parts of Crete.This meant more rebuilding to be done, and with the realization that much work would be put on hold until the fall once temperatures rose, the rebuilding of the Turkish settlements was finally complete and the Venetian tanks repaired.The front doors and shutters of the house were repainted, and the shingles on the church roof were all reinforced. As Spinalonga rose from the ashes, Eleni began to weaken.She watched the rebuilding work go by, and couldn't help comparing it to the gradual deterioration of her own body.For several months, she lied to herself that the disease was resisted by her body and did not continue to worsen, but she noticed changes almost every day. The smooth lumps on her feet multiplied, and she could not feel her feet when she walked for weeks. "Can the doctor help me?" Giorgis asked calmly. "No," she said, "I think we have to admit it." "How's Dimitri?" he asked, trying to change the subject. "He's fine. I find myself having trouble walking and he helps a lot now. He's grown a lot in the last few months and helps me get groceries, groceries home. I can't help but think he's happier than he was before , although I believe he still misses his parents." "Did he mention them?" "He hasn't said a word to them for weeks. You know he hasn't heard from them since he came here. Poor boy." Towards the end of May, life goes into summer mode, with long naps, sweltering nights, buzzing flies and heat that blankets the island from noon to dusk.During the hottest hours of the day, everything is pretty much motionless.There is a sense of eternity here now, and even though it's unspoken, most people feel that life is worth living.On an ordinary morning, Eleni walked to school with difficulty. She smelled the strong coffee smell on the street mixed with the scent of mimosa; she saw someone driving a donkey down the mountain with oranges on its back; she heard the smell of ivory. Colored backgammon thumped as they moved across the board, and the clack of dice rolled interrupted conversation in the tavern now and then.Like in a Cretan village, the old women sat facing the street at the door, and Eleni nodded to them as they passed.These women never look at each other when they chat, for fear that they will miss people and things coming and going. A lot happened on Spinalonga, there was even a wedding.Important events like this germinated social life on the island, and the need for other momentous information soon spawned a newspaper.Iannis Solomenides, a former Athenian journalist, presided over the work.As soon as the printing presses arrived, he ran fifty copies of the weekly leaflet, Spinalonga Star.Newspapers are circulated among the people, and people read them with great interest and hungrily.At first, the papers contained only parish affairs on the island, movie previews for the week, pharmacy hours, lost notices, found-found notices, auction notices, and, of course, wedding notices and obituaries.Slowly, summaries of events on the mainland, various opinions, and even comics were all available. One day in November, there was an important event that the newspapers did not report.Not a word, not a word, mentioned a visit from some mysterious dark-haired man.His handsome appearance did not stand out among the crowd in Heraklion, but in Plaka, a few people noticed him, because few people in the village wore suits except for wedding and funeral ceremonies, and there was no wedding in Plaka that day. There is no funeral either.

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