Eleni by Nicholas Gage Page A

had to take them back with him. It was too difficult to raise the girls alone! They needed their father. Hadn’t he always said that America was the finest country in the world? “I don’t want them to grow up here! I want them to have something better!” she concluded, her voice sounding shrill in her ears.
    Christos looked at her as if he had never seen her before. “What’s the matter with your life?” he demanded. “Don’t you have the best life of any woman in this village?”
    Eleni opened and shut her mouth, determined to stand her ground. “I don’t want us to be separated anymore!” she said. “I’m tired of raising the girls alone, not knowing if you’re alive or dead! I’ll get sick again!”
    Her words hit home and made him strike out at her in anger because with his produce truck and his money gone, he knew there was no way he could give her what she wanted. “Don’t you know there’s a depression on in America!” he shouted. “People are starving! In America you pay for electricity, food, clothes! Here you live off the land. Haven’t I just bought you another field to farm? You need money in the bank before they let you bring a family into America! And it’s not a fit place for children, especially if the children are girls!”
    He might as well have slapped her as reminded her of her failure. The shock of his words suddenly brought Christos clearly into focus for Eleni. For the first time she understood that he enjoyed having his family far away in Greece. He didn’t want to be burdened with the responsibility of their presence. He preferred returning now and then, hands full of gifts, to be admired by everyone.
    As if he could see her disenchantment, Christos turned defensive. “I came because you were sick! I’ve spent everything on this trip. Look what’s left!”
    He pulled out the much-handled roll of bills, now limp and pitifully small. Eleni stared in astonishment. “If that’s all you have, why were you spending like a pasha, keeping every good-for-nothing in these two villages in food and drink?”
    At a loss, he replied, “They expect it of me! I’m an American!”
    Eleni did not mention America again. The weight settled back on her shoulders. But she could not forget that she had seen, in a flash of insight, Christos’ vanity and his reluctance to take on responsibility. Like every village girl, she had married a stranger. But like every wife, she had finally seen through to her husband’s core.
    As the leaves of the beech trees turned yellow, Christos and Nassios planned their departure. They would meet Mourtos the mule driver at the monastery of St. Athanassios, which lay halfway down the mountain between Lia and Babouri.
    After midnight on November 17, 1938, Christos, Eleni and Olga set out for the monastery on foot, climbing quietly over the garden wall so that no one would hear them go. Nitsa had warned Christos that if he was seen, jealous villagers could throw black magic in his path and he would never return.
    When Mourtos arrived with the mules, Christos threw an arm around his shoulders and whispered in his ear. Eleni overheard the words “Just enough for the ferry to Italy.” She noticed the fleeting look of contempt on the Turk’s face and the exaggerated friendliness in her husband’s manner.
    Christos kissed her on both cheeks and said she must have courage; soon he would either send for her or come back to stay. She answered with a hint of defiance, “When we meet again, I want it to be on American soil.”
    Christos ignored the remark, and contented himself with giving her some final words of moral advice. The girls’ reputations were her responsibility, he reminded her. The house and all their land were in her hands. He quoted once more his favorite maxim: “Honor is beyond price or measure. A woman has no greater treasure.”
    Eleni listened silently to his advice, her fear growing at the thought that she was about to be left alone again with