Ekaterini. Marija Knezevic

      This project has been funded with support from the European Commission. This publication reflects the views only of the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may be made of the information contained therein.

       List of main characters

      Yorgos and Maria Poriazi, a Greek couple who have five children. One of them is our heroine Ekaterini, the narrator’s grandmother.

      The anonymous narrator, born in Yugoslavia to Luka and Lucija. Her father sometimes calls her Marilyn, thinking of Marilyn Monroe.

      Ekaterini’s husband Stipe Kozmić, who comes from the Croatian coast. They have two daughters – Lucija and Ljubica.

      Dušan and Stanica are a couple from Montenegro with five children, one of whom is Luka, the husband of Ekaterini’s daughter, Lucija. Lucija and Luka are the narrator’s parents.

      Carol – the narrator’s friend from America.

       In the Beginning

      Who knows why there are so many wars. My father, Yorgos, says that wars have always been thought up by the powerful, and all because of money, and that if he was one of the richest men in Greece this latest Balkan war wouldn’t have broken out. I don’t know if the centuries remember all their wars. Do they need them so they can remember at all? ‘Eternal memory’ they called it on the radio a few days ago. I don’t know what they wanted to say. How long afterwards would that memory last for? There are lots of things I still don’t understand. Grown-ups usually say to children: ‘You’ll understand when you’re older.’ It looks like I’m not old enough yet, or the grown-ups have been fibbing. One or the other. Grown-ups talk about maturity, but that’s something people gain and lose and find again all their life.

      My name is Ekaterini. This is my first war. Father says it’s ‘against the Turks’, probably because some of his Turkish clients owe him lots of money: they placed orders for big buildings with him, he started to build, and then they ran away as soon as the trouble started. My older brother Taki says this is called ‘bankrupt’. Probably he means it’s like when you’re mad for chocolate, and there isn’t any, as if it never existed. But then you think of it all the more, and then all the situations come back to you where you’ve eaten it, just to annoy you, and it’s incredible how many there are! All the details, even the time of the year, the day of the week, the people and the things around you - at the bench by the waterfall in Edessa, or by the sea. Oh, the sea! It most of all. Afterwards the album of scenes with chocolate grows less, but the pictures that remain become sharper and clearer with every day of longing.

      Often I feel that my whole life has been about waiting and longing. You wait and wait until you forget what a day is and only the longing is left. Later, when you hear ‘capitulation’, you try hard to show joy. There’s no point, but you have to – because everyone is doing it. Actually you’ve long been taken over by weariness, but you can’t remember from what. It’s as if your whole life has been like that – in war.

      My mother, Maria, is directly angry at war. She argues with it out loud. She’s never had to work as hard as this, she shouts. Before the war she had servant girls, and now she has to do everything herself, and there are five of us children. She makes filo-pastry pies, it seems she’s always making them, and she yells and curses at the uniforms. ‘This is all because of the blasted uniforms! A bunch of fancy show-offs with their stuff! They know that women have a soft spot for uniforms! Dratted men’s business!’ Mother can’t stand priests either, for the same reason: ‘what does a man of God need a uniform for?! Look at me, I spend the whole day here in an apron and the only dressing gown I have left since those male idiots got the bright idea of strutting around and trying to outdo one another. And they’ve made a right big mess of things to show who was stronger – like rams butting horns. Now just let someone say I’m being irreligious! God sent me Yorgos and all our children, and I love him. Only I can know how much I love him. What is there to talk about? But I’ll have no truck with the priests! Especially now, when there’s hardly enough food to go round, and I’m supposed to feed them too. I won’t have it!’

      Mother really does work all day, and if she sleeps it’s never for more than five hours, and even that is in spells, depending on when she gets the chance. But I don’t think work itself is what she finds hardest. She even loved to work back in the days when she wore a new dress almost every day and didn’t go out without a carriage. She had her own dressmaker and shoemaker, not to mention maids and servants for everything. But she still worked, sometimes so Father wouldn’t find out. So work wasn’t the problem. I think it was the war that disappointed her, and very deeply. Human stupidity stunned her. She couldn’t believe and accept that it was like this – she was constantly up in arms about something. That’s why she copes better when she can yell, when her voice joins in the fray at top volume with the echoing explosions and the constant screams and groans that reach us here, not only in Greek but also in Spanish, Russian, Italian, and who knows what other languages.

      All of Thessaloniki knew the story about Father having been sent to her by God. How obstinate and self-willed she is, how terribly decent and, what’s worse, open – she says what’s on her mind and says it to you straight. A girl like that was certain never to find a husband. It was the night before the wedding of her best friend, Panagia. Mother was bridesmaid and went to inspect the bridegroom, who had been chosen by Panagia’s parents as custom prescribed. They only saw each other once, on that traditional visit. Maria assured herself that Yorgos was a respectable and sufficiently serious young man; she was satisfied. She dearly loved her friend Panagia and was a really natural person in general, without any brow-beating about morals, respectability and all that. She was devoted to her friends. Her few true friends. That’s why she woke up covered in sweat on the morning of Panagia’s wedding. She didn’t know what to think of the dream that she remembered from A to Z like a favourite story:

      ...It was a beautiful spring day. She and Yorgos were walking towards each other. Between them

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