Page 142 of Villa of Secrets

I felt his body tense. He lifted his hand away from my shoulder, but I was overcome with emotion and wept heavily. After a moment, he slipped his arms around me and held me tight. I had not been in a man’s arms since the morning Giovanni said goodbye in the villa.

Oh, Giovanni, how I loved him, how I missed him, how I longed to be in his arms again. I think I may have whispered his name, I’m not sure, but something made the priest pull away from me. I blinked at him, wiped my tears away and apologised. Then I could see that he was full of emotion too.

The priest got up and sat at the kitchen table, and I sat opposite him.

‘I’m so sorry, Papas. Please forgive me,’ I said. ‘It’s just. . . I’ve lost so many people that I loved . . .’

He nodded sadly, pulled off his glasses and pushed back his wild curly hair.

I stared at my neighbour, Papas Yiannis, Orthodox priest of Paradissi. No two people could have exactly the same scar across their eyebrow.

Images of the pink-faced Nazi returned. The shepherd boy with a gun held to his head, blood streaming down his face. The horror of Seven Springs. My dearest, darling, Giovanni.

I was sitting in the kitchen opposite the only man I’d ever kissed, ever loved.

I wanted to fall into his arms! I longed to be naked against him, desperate to taste his kisses just one more time.

‘Giovanni,’ I whispered.

‘No! No!’ he exclaimed, realising his mistake, thrusting his glasses back on. ‘I’m Papas Yiannis, Orthodox Priest of Paradissi. I have a wife and a child. Pandora Cohen, they know nothing of my past. Listen to me for their sake: I am Papas Yiannis, shepherd – soldier – priest. Never forget it.’

That night, I cried myself to sleep.

1 September 1976

It’s been such a long time since I picked up this beautiful pen that my dear papa gave me all those years ago. The ink had dried up, and that seemed symbolic somehow, although I am not sure of what. They found a dusty bottle of India ink for me in the post office and I’m delighted to use Papa’s birthday gift once more.

Tomorrow, young Naomi is getting married. Naomi’s more like a daughter to me, and I cannot take my mind away from her mother’s wedding. Bringing up Rebecca was hard work, her being little more than a newborn when my Sonia perished, but Naomi, ten years old at that time, practically brought herself up. She was no trouble; in fact she shared many of my responsibilities and I love her with all my heart.

Her husband-to-be is the steady sort. Costa will never be captain of the cruise ship he works on, but he’ll always have a job, and won’t drink or gamble his money away. I haven’t long to wait before I see my first great-grandchild. They have the process in hand already.

Chapter 60

The rest of the pages in the diary were blank. Naomi closed it and realised she was crying again. She lifted the ornament from the shelf and placed it beside the figurine of the shepherd boy.

The funeral parlour brought Pandora Cohen and Papas Yiannis home for burial the following morning. As was the Orthodox tradition, the priest’s ornate coffin lid stood outside the house, telling everyone they could come and pay their last respects to the deceased.

Naomi walked across the road and asked Marina if she could have a moment alone with the priest, before she let his parishioners in.

‘Of course. It’s the least I can do,’ Marina said. ‘I’ll close the door and stand outside until you leave. Take as long as you want.’

In his coffin, on a trestle in the centre of the living room, Papas Yiannis Voskos, shepherd, freedom fighter, father and friend, lay in a bed of white chrysanthemums. Only his face and hands visible in the sea of flowers. Naomi went to his side. It seemed the priest was about to smile.

‘Dear Papas,’ she said shakily. ‘I don’t know your beliefs, but I hope your soul lingers until after the funeral and you are here in this room, able to hear me.’ She glanced around. ‘My grandmother loved you. She never loved another man. I believe you knew that. I would have buried you together, but although religion unites us, it also divides us. Besides, your place is with your wife and daughter. Thank you for being a wonderful grandfather. Rest in peace, Papas Yiannis Voskos. Rest in peace, Giovanni Pastore.’

Naomi reached into her bag, pulled out the ornament of the singing girl, and tucked it deep under the white carnations. They would, in a way, be buried together. She left the priest’s house, bowed her head, and walked past his congregation who stood in a line that reached down the street, ready to file into the room and pay their respects. Mourners would kiss the icon of Saint John that lay on the priest’s chest before leaving the house and gathering in groups on the street.

Across the road, in respect for Bubba’s religion, Naomi had placed boiled eggs and small dishes of cooked lentils and chickpeas on the table around a large dish of apples and oranges. All ‘round’ food, in keeping with Jewish tradition – symbolising that life is a circle.

Later that afternoon, Naomi and her family stood at Bubba’s graveside with her friends and some of Costa’s relations. She placed the china shepherd boy in Bubba’s grave, followed by a branch from the cinnamon tree and a handful of earth.

‘Rest in peace, Pandora Cohen, freedom fighter, daughter, sister, mother, lover, friend, grandmother, and great-grandmother,’ Naomi said quietly. On the horizon the sun slipped into the sea, and overhead a brilliant explosion of fireworks lit up the dusk sky.

*

A little more than two months later, Rebecca and Fritz returned to Rhodes. The cruising season had finished, and Fritz enjoyed helping Costa with the olive harvest, coming back exhausted and satisfied with the manual labour. Rebecca made use of Naomi’s creams, rubbing balm into her husband’s tired arms, before he massaged cream to fight stretch marks on her belly.

‘Shall we go for a walk up Filerimos tomorrow, Naomi?’ Rebecca asked.