The house on the cliff

withdrawing in small groups towards the northern borders, headed for the refuge of neighbouring countries in the Eastern Bloc. Albania was only a few kilometres away, on the other side of the strait. “Loxándra?” “Yes, my poppet?” “What do you know about ‘the insurrectionists’, the…rebels?” Started, she looked up from her crocheting. “Why do you ask?” “Curiosity…no-one tells me anything.” “It will all be over soon…” “You seem sad.” “It’s sad when people are killing each other. Especially brother against brother. I mean Greeks killing other Greeks.” “Is it Uncle Víctor you’re worried about? “Not really. He’s such a big deal now, he’s not in the line of fire” “So, he’s enjoying himself, then.” She smiled. “On the contrary. He’d be enjoying it more if he was in the line of fire,” That was something else I didn’t understand. She had raised him, what with my grandmother Ánthimi dying in childbirth. He went straight from her arms to the MilitaryAcademy, following an army career in his father’s footsteps. She was always telling stories about his childhood, his adventures and practical jokes and escapades. To the point where her obvious adoration for this wonderful little boy made me jealous, though I wouldn’t dream of admitting it. I wanted to be his equal, to be like him, to hear her speak this way about me. And yet, she didn't seem to have any contact with him now he was an adult. She seemed to take interest in his career, to praise his achievements on the Albanian Front and in the Middle East. She always asked after him and my cousins when we returned from the rare family occasions at their house, but as far as I could tell, she never saw him. I returned to the topic I was interested in. “Tell me about the rebels, Loxándra. They are good people, aren’t they? I called them ‘brigands’ once, like I’d heard people say, and got a scolding from Daddy…” “What did he say?”