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Return to Paxos

Paxos, Greece – July 2017

Passport control gave me the collywobbles in case I was still persona non grata. Perhaps my file is gathering dust in a security police office. Anyway, I didn’t have a problem so maybe they have forgotten me. They returned to democracy in 1973 but I couldn’t face going back until now.

The statue to commemorate Georgios Anemogiannis’ attack on the Turkish fleet in 1821 is still there though it is weathered more than when I last saw it fifty years ago. Maybe Eleni thought she was a female Anemogiannis. Maybe she was. It didn’t end well for either.

A welcome breeze coming off the Ionian Sea carries with it the memories of days spent under the sun with Eleni so long ago. I sit on the stone surround of the statue and it all drifts back as if it were yesterday.

Paxos, Greece – July 1967

With the archaeology dig over and a week spare to enjoy myself before heading home I came to Gaios for a decent bed and meals. The dig site lacked amenities. The statue intrigued me. My studies at Oxford included excavation of Grecian settlements 3500 – 2500 BCE. I knew little about the Greek War of Independence from the Turks in the 1820s.

I sat reading a guidebook about the statue. A young woman with long black hair wearing a miniskirt and sleeveless white blouse stood by the road handing out leaflets to passers by. Not that there were many passers by.

I wandered over.

“Hello,” I said and managed to work out that the leaflets in her hand were communist.

She handed me a leaflet. The political situation in Greece at the time was fractious. The colonels had seized power in a coup. A warning not to get involved in anything political had been drummed into the students at the dig site.

“You understand Greek?” she said in a voice as smooth as silk and with only a trace of accent.

“A little.”

“Where are you from?”

“England.”

“I thought so. Tourist?”

“No, archaeologist at a dig.” It sounded better than student.

“Come to steal our artefacts?” A smile creased her pretty face.

I smiled back. “No, my name isn’t Elgin.”

She gave a little laugh and from that moment she captivated me.

I’m no expert with chat up lines so I tried: “I don’t know the town. Is there a café nearby, somewhere I can get a coffee?” How stupid was that? A café behind a terracotta wall was immediately opposite the statue.

“You could always try that one.” Her blue eyes with flecks of brown in the irises seemed to twinkle.

“Oh! Yes. Er, would you like to join me?”

“I’m not having much success with the leaflets, so why not.”

We strolled over to the café and took a table on the terrace. The waiter, a big chap with a bushy black moustache, gave my new acquaintance a cold look.

“He doesn’t seem to like you,” I said.

“He’s one of them.”

“One of them?”

“Fascist.”

Politics. Stay out of it my brain said. My body had a different reaction.

“I’m George.”

“Eleni. Pleased to meet you, George.”

“Are you a communist?”

“Not really. They’re the only ones putting up any real resistance to the coup.”

“Oh!” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“So, you are a capitalist bourgeois pig?” she said with a playful grin.

“Probably!” I laughed grateful to keep away from being serious. Public schoolboy, rich and connected parents, she wasn’t wrong apart from the pig bit.

“How long are you here for?”

“A week before I take the ferry to Corfu and fly home.”

“On your own here?”

“Yes. The rest of the team went back to Corfu, but I decided to enjoy a short holiday here.”

“There’s a party tonight if the cops don’t break it up. Want to come?”

“Love to.”

“Where are you staying.”

“The Apollo.”

“You are a capitalist pig!” That grin again.

“It’s only four star!”

“I’ll pick you up at nine. I must go to a meeting now.”

I watched Eleni walk away and hoped the day would fly by.

***

Sipping my blue cocktail on the front terrace of the hotel at nine I heard the unmistakable engine noise of a Lambretta. Not a Vespa. I knew the difference. In the sixth form at Harrow much to the consternation of the housemaster I was a mod. Not really the done thing for the son of an ambassador.

Eleni parked her scooter at the entrance to the terrace and ignored the doorman’s instruction to move it. She glided up the three steps to the terrace wearing a pair of white cut off slacks and a short sleeved blue blouse.

“Hi George.”

“Hi. Would you like a drink before we go?”

“No thanks. We should be going. You all right on the back?”

I laughed. “Yes, but I’ll drive if you like.”

“You like scooters?”

“Used to have a Vespa.”

“Cool! Okay then.”

Eleni slipped in behind and put her arms around me sending a glow through my body.

Following her instructions in my ear I drove for around fifteen minutes inland until we came to an olive grove where coloured lights hung from the trees. A few cars, scooters, cycles, and mopeds were abandoned in a haphazard fashion around a clearing. The Beatles blasted out of a pair of speakers.

I don’t know how many people were there, but it must have been more than a hundred. Some were dancing, some sitting or standing around and I saw a couple with their feet sticking out of the undergrowth being quite energetic.

Eleni led me over to a hippy group of four guys and two girls with flowers in their hair sitting in a circle on the ground looking like they belonged in San Francisco.

“This is George from England,” said Eleni, thankfully in English.

The group nodded. A bearded chap gestured me to sit down and offered me a drag on his spliff. I shook my head but sat down anyway.

The girls were Greek as were two of the guys including the one with the spliff. Of the other two one was French and one West German. The German had an acoustic guitar on his knee.

Most of the conversation was about a forthcoming demonstration. The hippies, peace and love types, were all for demonstrating against the coup but concerned the communists would turn it violent.

As the evening wore on the vibe became mellow helped by slow music from the speakers. The German sang and played his guitar. I danced holding Eleni tight and thought I had gone to heaven when she responded.

Two loud bangs made me jump in fright. People screamed and ran for their vehicles or into the olive grove.

“C’mon, quick,” said Eleni pulling me by the hand to her Lambretta.

“What’s happening?”

“Police. Drugs raid.”

“I haven’t got any drugs.”

“Neither have I but they will find some on us if they search us.”

“What?”

“C’mon.”

Eleni jumped onto the seat and started the engine. I got on behind. She weaved through the olive grove like a motocross professional until we hit a road, and then she slowed down.

“What the hell was all that about?”

“They use drugs raids to pull in people so they can interrogate them. They know there is an anti-coup movement and want to break it up.”

“And they plant drugs?” I had visions of my father having apoplexy if he heard I had been arrested in possession of drugs.

“Only if they need to. Some will have weed or other substances on them.”

“Oh!” It sounded a feeble response.

“We’ll go back to my place. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes.” I didn’t need any encouragement.

***

I woke with the sun’s rays sending dappling light through louvre shutters onto a white wall at the side of the bed. Eleni lay with her hair across the pillow.

She opened her eyes. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” It couldn’t be better than last night even if I did come close to getting arrested.

“That was close with the cops. I hope they don’t find out what our plans are for the demo.”

“What will they do, if they find out?”

“Arrest the ringleaders.”

“Are you a ringleader?”

“Sort of.”

“Do you have to go to work today?”

“No, I lost my job at the library.”

“Why?”

“For not keeping my mouth shut.”

***

The Lambretta took us all over the island. Hidden coves where we swam in the gin-clear water and picnicked on deserted beaches, we walked in the olive groves, we stopped in pretty villages and then back to her place where we made love. Those four days were the best in my life.

Eleni had to leave me for an hour or sometimes two to go to meetings. I was not invited though I didn’t want to go anyway. She didn’t say much about the meetings.

Who was Eleni? I can’t say I know. She waved away any personal questions and I was too smitten to push for answers, happy that she wanted my company.

***

The day of the demonstration arrived. We were to mass at the statue of Georgios Anemogiannis. The hippies including the German with his guitar, a group of what I took to be students and some men and women in black T shirts and black pants carrying red flags milled around waiting for instructions to set off for the town hall.

Eleni suggested I stayed at her apartment instead of going to the demonstration. It seemed cowardly though probably wise. What kind of a guy would that make me look? So, I went.

Everyone looked to Eleni for instructions. She formed the crowd into some semblance of order and with her at the front, me alongside her, we set off.

We didn’t get more than a hundred metres.

Three police vans roared into the street ahead of us. Two more came in behind. They disgorged police carrying batons.

The communists burst out of the line and ran at the police line ahead. The police responded with a baton charge clubbing them to the ground.

“Stop. Stop!” pleaded Eleni to the police and the communists but to no avail.

The hippies scattered except for the German. I saw a policeman push him to the ground and beat him with the guitar.

The students joined the communists in the melee.

I tried to drag Eleni away She resisted and yelled at an officer who seemed in charge. An officer next to him struck Eleni a single blow to her head with his baton. She collapsed to the ground. I bent down to her. Blood oozed from a crack in her skull. Straw coloured liquid leaked from her ear and she lay motionless.

Leaping to my feet I punched the officer who had struck her down. His nose cracked and blood spurted out. I followed up with a kick in the groin and then bent down to Eleni. Someone hit me from behind.

The next thing I remember I woke up in a prison hospital bed with one hell of a headache.

Over the next few days, I managed to ascertain from other prisoners who had visitors that according to the official record Eleni attacked a police officer with a knife. He acted in self defence. She died in hospital. With no known next of kin, she had an unmarked pauper’s grave.

With my one permitted phone call I managed to get my father. He arranged my release through diplomatic channels and his connections.

The Greek police deported me with a warning never to return to Greece.

Paxos, Greece – July 2017

I shuffle over to the café, still there behind the terracotta wall, and sit on the terrace.

So much has happened in my life since that fateful day in 1967 but I will never forget Eleni.

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