The house on the cliff

He served as an officer on the Albanian front in World War II, and was evacuated to the Middle East with the army command, where his language skills - he was fluent in English, French, and German, and had learned Turkish in the prison camp - along with his family connections in Egypt and the few words of Arabic he picked up on the street, were put to operational use in various undisclosed ways. After the war he returned to politics, as ever with the liberal faction, more out of a sense of duty than any ambition. So he always declared, in any case, and I echo the sentiment, though Aunt Eléni and I always teased that he protested his reluctance too much. 1949 AT THE CAVE “You can light my lantern, if you want to. Just be careful, the glass is cracked,” I said to my stranger, in the plural, as I had addressed him from the first. “Thank you. If I need to, I will.” “Of course a flashlight would be better, if you have one. The paraffin will stink.” “You’re right.” “I know you’re in hiding.” “If I were to say otherwise, would you believe me? If I said I was here to get away from all the noise and bustle, in retreat from the modern world?” “I wouldn’t believe you.” He smiled a little sadly. “I believe you’re trying to get away. From something. Should I bring you a flashlight?” “Anthoúla, I want you to give me your word you won’t come back here until after I’ve gone.” He couldn’t possibly know this was the name my family called me, but the diminutive stung my pride. “I’m not a little kid! I can help. You’re going to need help.” “Please believe me. You’ll only cause trouble. All the necessary arrangements have been made.”