My Mother's Child

Poverty had settled over the small Greek village, a smothering, festering vapor that spared no one.  There was no escape; it was for all to share.

The devastation of the latest attack was visible as far as one could see.  Houses had been reduced to roofless cubes.  Rubble disfigured the rolling hills and countryside. Olive trees, once rich and fruitful, stretched barren limbs to the sky as if seeking forgiveness.  Birds no longer twittered and flowers no longer bloomed.  Only the pitiful meow of a lost kitten or a whimper of a wounded dog broke the silence.

Old men shuffled along the dirt road leading to nowhere in a desperate search for cronies from the coffee shop - the cafenion - that no longer existed.  Women sat on broken steps cuddling infants vainly seeking food at empty breasts.  Children with the endless stamina and innocence of youth ran up and down the heaps of rubble, fabricating war games and wounding imaginary enemy soldiers.

This was Adramit, Turkey, 1922.

Costandina shaded her eyes against the rising sun as she climbed the path to the village square in search of water.  She walked quickly, swinging the battered pails in monotonous rhythm.  “Good morning,” she muttered as she passed her neighbors.

“Good morning, Mrs. Costandina.”  She was highly regarded in the village hierarchy and the formal salutation was given as a matter of respect.  Mrs. Costandina, rarely Costandina.

“How did you sleep?” she would ask, never stopping for a reply.  Her quest for water was urgent and idle chatter would come later.  She soon reached the well and silently prayed that it would provide the nourishing water.  It was still early and she was the first to reach the well this day.

Costandina leaned over the side of the well and peered down into the murky darkness.  She threw a pebble into the well and waited for its descent.  She bent closer to the edge of the well, not daring to breathe or move until she heard the splash.  The pebble tumbled downwards and the comforting sounds of its arrival signaled Costandina to begin drawing the water.

She grasped the worn rope handles of the two buckets, carefully balancing their weight against her body.  Costandina was a small woman but her stature disguised the wiry strength within.  The buckets swayed back and forth, hitting her thighs with each step as she made her way homeward.

The sun climbed higher.  Blistering rays pointed their way downward towards the little village.  Another scorching day with no relief until sunset.  Only then would they feel the breeze from the sea and cool their burning bodies.  Costandina rested halfway home, lowering the buckets onto the rocky path.  She sat on a pile of broken stones and fanned her flushed face with her apron.  She was tempted to dip her fingers into the buckets and soothe her burning cheeks with the cool water.  But she did not.

Costandina arrived at the shell of a house and sighed as she remembered better days.  It was home for the six of them, but one with half a roof and little furniture.  She kicked the door open as she smiled to herself. A door? What use was a door when there was only half a roof?  The door banged against the stucco wall, releasing a battered board from the frame, sending it skittering across the floor.  “Oh, well,” Costandina sighed, “one more stick for firewood.”

She adjusted her eyes to the dim interior as she lowered the buckets near the washstand. There they would stay, closely guarded.  Portions would be doled out as needed.  Two trips a week to the well were all that they were allowed and the precious liquid was not to be wasted.

“Maria,” shouted Costandina.  “Maria, come here.  Where are you?”

A stirring in the far corner alerted her to Maria’s presence.  She walked across the tile floor and stood in front of Maria where she sat by the battered wood stove stirring a copper pot.  “Oh, mamma, I’m here.  I’ve been up a long time.  I’m warming milk for breakfast.  Do you want some?”

Costandina knew how much Maria loved to sleep in the morning and she doubted Maria’s early rising.  “A long time, eh?  Where did you get the milk? Where is Athena? Where are the boys?  You’re the mother when I’m not here.  You should know where they are.”

Maria sighed and continued stirring.  “I sent Charles to the neighbors. Their goat is finally giving milk and I traded some bread for milk.”  She smiled at her ingenuity and waited for her mother’s praise.

“The bread? You gave the bread away? That was to last us for two more days!” shrieked Costandina.