YANNIS (Cretan Saga Book 1) (80 page)

‘Yannis, you have to. It’s what she would have wanted. You’re still needed here. Everyone who’s survived needs help and you’re the person they look up to. They trust you. Phaedra would want you to build a new life. More sufferers will be sent over here soon, and what will happen to them if you don’t take charge? They’ll have no one to help them, no one to turn to when they have a problem. You created this community and you have to be strong enough to keep the community together. Everyone’s life has been torn apart in these last few years and you’re one of the few people able to help them rebuild.’

‘Rebuild. Rebuild. Rebuild.’ The word rang in Yannis’s ears as it had done so many years ago, whilst he continued to sob. Andreas began to pray aloud.

‘Please, God, give Yannis strength and peace of mind.’

Over and over he repeated the phrase until he felt Yannis’s sobs subsiding. Slowly he released him, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. Tears were still pouring from his eyes as Yannis mopped his face. Gently Andreas led him back to the taverna, calling for wine as they entered. He poured a glass for each of them and downed his in a single swallow, pouring another. Yannis picked up the glass and stared at the red liquid. His lip curled and he dashed the glass to the ground before he pushed his way out of the door.

Andreas let his head sink into his hands. He felt weak and with a trembling hand he lifted his glass. He could do no more today. Unwilling to move he forced himself to go in search of Yannis. He retraced his steps to the house and looked inside, then to the hospital, asking each person he encountered, until he finally discovered his cousin on his knees in the church.

Andreas genuflected. Father Minos was listening to Yannis’s heart-felt outpouring of his sins and asking for forgiveness. Quietly Andreas left. He had no wish to eavesdrop on a very private conversation.

Andreas returned to Heraklion feeling far happier about his cousin. Each day he had spent on the island he was able to see an improvement in Yannis’s attitude. He no longer sat in the taverna all day, befuddled by too much wine, his eyes, although filled with sorrow, were clearer and he was trying to take an interest in events around him. His parting shot to Andreas was to remind him that the generator was of prime importance.

It was a long list of requests that Andreas placed before the local government. He reminded them that Yiorgo Pavlakis had promised the generator before his death and they were under an obligation to honour the pledge. Grudgingly they agreed and then began to haggle over the other items on the list. He reminded them, gently at first, and then more forcibly that the islanders had suffered deprivation and starvation during the occupation and for that they were entitled to compensation. Subtly he pointed out that the cost of the materials and labour for essential repairs would be covered by the unpaid pensions of those who had died.

Dimitris sat, the figures on a pad before him, appearing to ignore the arguments around him. He waited for a temporary lull and then cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, if I may speak.’

Gradually they quieted and looked towards him expectantly.

‘Taking current prices for materials, labour and transportation, and allowing a margin for incidentals, by my reckoning we should have some money in hand. Before making a final decision I should like to check the figures for complete accuracy and also work out the probable time factor involved for the payment of labour. Assuming that we still come out on top I don’t see how we can refuse.’

‘I’d like to see it itemised.’

‘We should shop around for reasonable prices.’

‘I don’t see how we’ll get labour to work over there.’

‘We’ll probably have to pay them double.’

Dimitris tapped his pencil impatiently. ‘Do you want me to work on a breakdown of these figures?’

Hands were raised and the decision was almost unanimous.

When the council met again Dimitris had all the necessary figures, including the time it would take for materials to be assembled and the length of time the work should take. The council searched for faults, asked questions and finally had to agree that the work should go ahead. The next problem was who should act as co-ordinator, all of them were busy men and unwilling to give up their time.

Dimitris again suggested it should be left to him to find someone both willing and able to work for them. Already he had in mind his nephew, a young man not long out of High School. Glad to shift the responsibility onto another’s shoulders they agreed and Dimitris was able to tell Father Andreas that everything had been arranged.

At last Father Andreas felt he could pick up the threads of his life again. He took his responsibilities seriously and was worried by the neglect suffered by his parishioners during his absence. His flock were pleased to have him in their midst again and he was touched by the number who filled his tiny church that Sunday, lit a candle and touched the hem of his robe with their lips as they passed him. He loved them and it was gratifying to see that love returned.

He spent half an hour each morning on his knees in private devotions. The privacy and sense of communion he had at this time sustained him through the difficult and distressing times that he encountered so frequently and he was tempted to ignore the hammering on the church door that interrupted him. ‘Come in, my son.’

The young man shook his head. ‘They want you to come. To the hospital. Accident.’ He had obviously run all the way and was panting hard. ‘Urgent.’

Without ado Father Andreas followed, striding out to keep pace with the youngster. An accident could mean any thing and any number. At the heavy door he paused and breathed deeply, hoping not to appear too exhausted. He was shown into the main ward and guessed he was needed at the far end. Surrounded by screens, the body of a Greek officer lay, bleeding profusely from the temple with fluid oozing gently from his ear. Andreas crossed himself. He doubted that he would hear a confession; all he could do was give absolution and pray. The doctor acknowledged him briefly as he entered.

‘Who is he?’

‘No idea; found on the road.’

Father Andreas fell to his knees. The name of the victim was unimportant. His soul would be recognised. He had prayed for the souls of so many unknown young men over the past few years, yet each time it was with a sadness that gripped his heart so hard that it hurt physically. Such a waste of youth!

‘He’s gone.’

Father Andreas lifted his eyes to see the doctor covering the body with a sheet. He rose from his knees, staying the doctor’s hand and peering at the face.

‘He’s not familiar to me. Is there anything in his pockets?’

Between them the two men began to turn out the contents of the trouser pockets. There was the usual miscellany of coins, scraps of paper and dust. His jacket pockets revealed little more, except, neatly folded into the inside breast pocket, was a passing out slip from the army, stamped as being issued in Athens four days earlier and signed by Commander Stelios Christoforakis. Andreas turned it over in his hand.

‘Well, at least it gives us his name if anyone enquires after him. He could come from miles away.’

Andreas looked again at the signature on the paper. ‘Maybe if I wrote to Athens they could let me know where he came from and I could visit the family or write to them?’

The doctor shrugged. That was the priest’s affair.

‘May I keep this?’

‘If you wish; it’s of no value to anyone now.’

Andreas pushed it into the pocket of his robes, took a last look at the shrouded body and left. He would write to Athens for information. It was the least he could do for the young man.

Yannis watched as the men struggled to get the massive generator into position. It was ugly and looked out of place against the background of the Venetian wall that rose behind it. Men arrived, rolling out thick cables and trailing them through the arch and along the road to the hospital. For days cables were rolled out, moved, cut, joined to thinner lengths and then to no more than thick wires. Ladders were placed against walls and pottery holders fixed, the wires criss-crossing from one house to another like a spider’s web.

In each room a wire trailed across the ceiling and down the wall, connected to a brass switch by the door and a globe of glass that swung gently in the slightest breeze. Switches were clicked up and down and the bulbs stared at, but there was none of the promised light.

Spiro had other things to interest him. Manolis had arrived with half a dozen iron bedsteads that had to be assembled. Yannis shuddered at the sight of them. They brought back unpleasant memories of the hospital in Athens, but Doctor Stavros was delighted.

‘I’m developing corns on my knees. At least I’ll be able to stand when I examine patients. It will make them more mobile as well.’

‘I don’t see what difference it will make to them.’

‘You’ve never tried getting up from a mattress on the floor when you’re on crutches. It’s virtually impossible. What’s wrong with you, Yannis? Nothing seems to please you.’

Yannis shrugged. ‘I’m bored. I’ve read all my books until I know them by heart, I’ve watched the workmen and there’s nothing to do.’

‘You could give me a hand.’

‘I know nothing about medicine and I still don’t want to learn,’ replied Yannis firmly.

‘You could help me by reading some of the circulars I have piled up. The only benefit from the war that I can see is the advance it gave to medicine. I’ll bring you some over and you can sort through them. I’m not interested in equipment, so you can dispose of those, but there’s a few new drugs that it could be useful to know about.’

Yannis nodded. He was not really interested, but felt it would be churlish to refuse outright. He watched the pile growing day by day until it became inevitable that he did something about them. Most were offering adjustable operating tables, wheelchairs, unbreakable bowls and the like. A few claimed a new medicine was a miracle cure for an ailment, and one or two were treatment reports written by doctors. These he placed to one side for Doctor Stavros to peruse and discard. He had almost finished when a thin sheet fluttered out separately from a brochure.

“Successful new treatment for Hansen’s Disease (Leprosy)

See next month’s issue for details.”

Yannis stared at the words. Successful! That must mean a cure. Shaking with excitement he went in search of the doctor and thrust the paper under his nose.

‘Have you seen this? What is it?’

Doctor Stavros glanced at it casually. ‘It’s probably more about Dapsone.’

‘You know about it?’

‘I’ve read about it.’

‘Is it a cure?’

‘Maybe. It will need more years of testing yet before anyone’s sure.’

‘Why aren’t you giving it to us?’

‘It’s not available in Greece.’

‘Why not? It should be available wherever there’s leprosy.’

Doctor Stavros shrugged. ‘How should I know? I’m not a politician.’

‘Well, shouldn’t you write to them or something?’

‘Yannis, I’m busy. I know there are less of you over here than there were a few years ago, but I’m not as young as I was, and when I get back I’m tired and I have other sick people waiting to see me. When am I supposed to have the time to sit down and write letters to politicians?’

‘Have you got more information about this?’

‘Probably. I’ll bring it over.’

Yannis pored through the literature, understanding very little of the technical terms and confused by the tiny illustrations. He plagued Doctor Stavros until the doctor finally consented to explain the details to him.

‘The government should be written to and this medicine should be demanded on our behalf,’ stormed Yannis angrily. ‘You could explain that we had no medication throughout the war and those of us who are left deserve the chance to regain our health.’

‘I’ve told you; I’ve no time to compose letters to the government. Write it yourself. Give it to me to read through and if I agree with it I’ll add a note with my signature.’

The more Yannis thought about it the more incensed and determined he became. A week later he handed his letter to Doctor Stavros and insisted he read it immediately.

‘You feel very strongly over this, don’t you, Yannis?’

Yannis nodded. ‘I feel we’ve just been forgotten over here. No one cares, they’re just waiting for us all to die so we’re no longer an embarrassment to them.’

‘They’re spending a good deal of money on the island at the moment.’

‘Our money. It won’t cost them a lepta.’

‘You’re so bitter, Yannis.’

‘Of course I’m bitter. We’re over here with nothing and all the time they have a cure.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘We should be given the chance. I won’t take no for an answer.’

Doctor Stavros tapped the letter against his fingers. ‘I’ll send it for you with my endorsement, but I don’t know if you’ll get an answer.’

Yannis’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘Then I’ll continue to write to them until I do – and it had better be the one I want.’

Anna saw the pin pricks of light over the island and for a moment she panicked, thinking it was a fire, then she smiled. At least life for her brother was improving. She decided she would ask Davros to take her over to the island so she could see this modern electricity. It would be an experience she would surely never forget if she pressed a switch and light came into a dark room.

She was surprised when she arrived on the island to see that it looked no different from the way it had before. She was not sure what she had expected to see, but felt there should have been something. Yannis was run to earth in his own little house. It had taken a good deal of persuasion by Father Minos to make him return, to be completely surrounded by memories of Phaedra and Anna, and able to keep them in perspective. He was composing a letter to the hospital authorities in Athens, complaining bitterly that the treatment available for lepers in other countries had not been offered to them in Crete. He greeted Anna with pleasure.

‘How is everyone?’

‘They’re all fine. Yiorgo is working hard and the farm’s picking up slowly. You look a good deal better than when I last saw you.’