Excerpt
A dark windy night. Eteocles is about three years old, Nicolas five,
and their mother as old as the worry about how to feed her children
has made her, as old as any mother who lives in the ruins of war, a
woman whose husband is on the front line. It is a windy night, and
the gaps in the doors and windows make an apocalyptic music, as if
the inhabitants of this hovel are walking through the hallways of hell.
Eteocles remembers the scene well. They are sitting around the metal
bucket their mother has made into a heating element. She burns
wood in it, and the heat reaches out perhaps a meter all around it.
They are sitting warming themselves, listening to the wrath of the
tempest just a few meters away beyond the frames of the single door
and the courageous window to the north.
Suddenly from the deadly war of the elements outside a sudden
wind floods the room as the door opens. A man stands in the frame
gazing inside. It is their father returning from the war. He stands
there for long time, not knowing what to say, how to greet them; he
hasn’t seen them for twenty-seven long months. Their mother lets
out a cry, a cry that sounds like the name of the standing man, her
husband, the man who had gone to war when Eteocles was just a few
months old. Her husband is home at last, and she gets up and calls
him inside and walks up to him and hugs him with a fierceness that
expresses the emotional volcano boiling inside her. She hugs him for
a long time, then she pulls away, and their father kneels and calls his
sons to him. Neither of them dares approach this stranger. Eteocles
doesn’t know this man at all, while Nicolas, who was three years old
when his father left his sons, perhaps has some faint memory of him.
Neither of the two dares move toward the man in soldier’s clothes
who calls them again and again until Eteocles observes his feet making
small steps toward the open arms of their father and Nicolas follows
soon after. The soldier clings tightly to them, saying words the
two brothers only feel, the soothing words of a father who has missed
his sons, a man who had gone to war without knowing if he would
ever see them again. They feel those words, and they cuddle with the
man who has come inside their house and ignore the wind that has
entered with him and turned the room into a frozen habitat in which
the small metal bucket with the burning wood cannot warm more
Manolis Aligizakis 