Twenty-one
December 1940
Winter had come to her island.
Katerina stood in the doorway that led into the bakery kitchen, watching as Leni prepared a batch of spanakopita. She could hear the rain as it pummeled the windows and walls, blown in by a wind so furious, it was as if the earth shaker Poseidon had sent it.
“Why doesn’t he write?”
Leni paused, her hands damp from rolling out the boiled spinach. It was not the first time Katerina had asked this question, and she could see that the subject was grating on her sister.
“They are busy,agápi mou.”
She scoffed.
“Too busy to scribble a few lines, tell us that they are alive?”
It had been weeks since her last communication from Stefanos, though he, at least, had written to her. Michalis had sent not one word to his wife, and Leni must care—she must be angry with him, though she would never admit it. Katerina had not told herwhat she knew of Michalis—what would be the point? Becoming aware that her husband shook from fear when faced with battle would only cause her sister to suffer. All this waiting they were required to do was pain enough.
“I am sure that they would write to us if they could,” Leni said. “Now, come here and help me with the pastries.”
Katerina dragged her feet. She did not like baking. Food, for her, was fuel, nothing more.
“Why do you put raisins inside?” she asked grumpily. “It is not a cake.”
“For energy,” Leni said, “and also for sweetness. It is the sugar that makes the flavor of the cheese come to life.”
Her sister’s fingers moved with practiced ease, sprinkling freshly chopped dill into her bowl before cracking in three eggs. Katerina waited to be told before splashing in olive oil, while Leni added a pinch of cinnamon.
“Stir,” she said, passing Katerina a wooden spoon stained black from the broiler.
Katerina obeyed, brooding in silent contemplation as Leni turned her attention to the phyllo pastry that was cooling between dry cloths. Each individual sheet must be paper-thin, though thick enough not to tear. It was a delicate balance, one that Katerina had no patience for nor could imagine having. If she and Stefanos were ever to marry, he would have to survive on lemons, figs, and goat milk—anything more elaborate was out of the question.
“Do you think that Mama and Baba will come home soon?” she asked.
Leni looked up, eyes dark below the headscarf she wore, the shadows beneath them darker still.
“Why do you ask me so many questions? I do not know the answers any better than you do.”
“It has been a long time,” Katerina said, though her observation was both unneeded and unwanted. “The sea will be too rough for them now until the spring.”
“Perhaps.” Leni took the bowl from her and began to layer the mixture into a wide clay dish. Katerina sat on the edge of the table only to leap off as Leni scolded her.
“If you are bored,” she said, “there is plenty of work to be done at the house. Why don’t you write your own letter to Stefanos?”
“Another letter? I have sent one already today. I told him about the weather and the goats and about the teenager Kostas breaking his arm—it is all nonsense, noise. He is fighting, and me?” She huffed. “I am doing nothing, nothing to help our people.”
“Éla re,agápi mou.” Leni sighed. “After the war, the men will want to come back to their homes. We must be here to welcome them. We must keep everything as it is, look after the animals and the crops and the trees. They are fighting for Greece, but there will be no Greece unless we look after it. That is our job in this war.”
She smoothed out the final square of pastry and rubbed her hands together. Katerina watched as a dusting of flour fell to the floor.
“Stefanos says that men and women are equal.” The words felt like a deliberate provocation, though she craved the satisfaction of having said them. “If they can fight, why can’t we?”
Leni turned away, her tray of spanakopita balanced in her hands.
“Open the oven,” she said.
With great reluctance, muttering under her breath, Katerina did as she’d been asked, standing back as Leni eased the pastries through the semicircular opening. Her sister was not going to nibble at the bait, a fact she made clear a few moments later by leaving the room. Katerina followed her through into the shop, ready to launch into her next argument until she saw that they had acustomer. Dafni stood by the counter, her scarf knotted tightly beneath her chin. She and her husband, Giorgos, were in their seventies, though time had done little to dull the energy of either one. Katerina often saw them outside their hillside home, tending plants or trimming trees—never idling like Baba but busy, active, full of purpose.
