Call Me Athena Read online

onto the ground.

  I hold an envelope in my hand

  There’s no name

  no address

  no stamp.

  I open

  the folded paper

  and begin to read.

  Letter #1

  October 7, 1918

  My dearest,

  I woke this morning afraid. No one knows where you are.

  How can I find you?

  I don’t even know where to send this.

  I pray you are alive.

  Always Yours,

  Petit Oiseau

  Letter #2

  October 10, 1918

  Love of my life,

  Lying in this field surround by smoke and fire, I feel as if our moments together never existed.

  How could I have been so happy? Loved you so innocently?

  I am sure by now the bed that I slept in is occupied by another wounded man.

  Have you forgotten me?

  I am afraid I will become what I most fear.

  Le Loup

  I read

  until my eyes blur.

  My skin grows cold

  with cellar

  darkness.

  Who were these people?

  Where are they now?

  Giorgos (Gio)

  Komnina, Central Greece

  1915

  The church bells chime

  through the windows

  of our house on the hill.

  My mother

  hums softly,

  a song she repeats night

  after night

  until it becomes a part of me

  and the air we breathe.

  It feels as if the wind

  might come from the sea

  and take me on its back

  a white Pegasus

  or a boat,

  with wings

  for sails.

  I go to school with the mountains

  the rocks

  the olive trees

  that grow in a tangled grove

  next to our house.

  My teachers are the lizards

  that love the dusty soil

  and explore the world

  with their flicked

  tongues.

  I go to school

  without books

  without the brick walls

  of a building

  with my fifteen-year-old twin,

  Violetta.

  Wiry and tough.

  Her hair braided

  in a black crown.

  A sweet-smelling halo

  curled around

  her head.

  Mother asks us

  to gather quail eggs

  from the low grasses and scrub

  on the hillside.

  We listen

  for the chuck-chuck-chuck

  of the hen

  as she scratches out

  hidden hollows

  at the bottom

  of a tree trunk.

  Startled,

  she leaps into the air

  in a quick burst

  of flight.

  We see

  the brown and white

  speckled eggs

  camouflaged

  against

  the undergrowth.

  Still warm from

  their mother’s breast,

  we cradle them

  in our palms.

  As we walk away,

  guilt rips

  at my chest.

  The thought

  of the mother

  frantically searching

  for what

  has been lost.

  Giorgos, come quick!

  Violetta has found a cave.

  There are wild animals,

  beasts,

  that live in these hills.

  Muscled cats, brown bears,

  and jackals.

  We imagine

  the great Spartan warriors

  of Thermopylae.

  We enter the mouth of the cave.

  All we find

  is a γίδα (gída),

  a small goat.

  Her bell jingles

  from a leather strap

  wrapped

  around her neck.

  She is staked to the ground.

  Miles of wilderness.

  No freedom.

  A circle of grass

  mowed down

  around her.

  We name the goat Alethea

  It means truth.

  She is stubborn.

  She will eat your clothes.

  And also trash.

  You have to watch her closely.

  She’s always trying

  to get away

  with something.

  I scratch her

  and she curls her head closer

  to my hand.

  When I stop

  she stares at me

  with her vertical

  amber eyes.

  A creature

  from the underworld

  who knows

  everything

  but will tell me

  nothing.

  The old men in the village

  are sighing

  and talking about war.

  The elders know what is coming.

  Young men puff up their chests.

  They will join the army.

  I do not want to fight.

  Why do I need to carry a gun

  to prove

  that I love my country

  and my home?

  Violetta ties her skirt

  in a knot between her legs.

  She wants to wear

  pants instead

  of the dress and apron

  she must wear

  everyday.

  She puts on my vest and hat

  when our mother is out.

  Ώπα! (Hopa!), she says.

  I look very brave!

  One day, Violetta falls asleep

  wearing my clothes.

  My mother comes

  home.

  She spits

  in Violetta’s face,

  Our house will be shamed

  because of you!

  I wipe the tears

  from Violetta’s eyes.

  She would be

  a very brave boy indeed.

  When my mother’s eyes are red

  like the juice of a blood orange,

  that is how I know

  she has been crying.

  She tries to do it in secret,

  but we all know it happens.

  She misses my father.

  She never says

  that she loved him,

  only that he was good

  to her.

  Most of the men from the village

  are not good to their wives.

  One time, I saw a man

  throwing stones at his wife

  while she covered her head

  with her hands.

  One day, I will become a man.

  I will try to be good.

  There are stories

  of dolphins

  and mermaids

  who push

  their heads

  out of the water.

  Offer
>
  their breath

  to men

  who are

  drifting.

  Sometimes

  I wonder

  if this happened

  to my father.

  Perhaps

  they saved him

  and took him

  to an island

  with fresh water

  and fruit growing

  on trees.

  I like to think of this.

  Rather than his boat

  on the bottom

  of the sea.

  My sister and my mother

  clean the house

  bake the bread

  feed the animals

  milk the goat

  tend to the garden.

  I am not allowed to help.

  If I lift a plate,

  my mother slaps my hand

  and screeches,

  Women’s work!

  I hear the crack

  of my mother’s voice,

  Violetta! Come!

  I watch

  the anger rise

  on my sister’s pink cheeks

  like she has been struck

  by a willow switch.

  My mother has found a match

  for Violetta.

  She clasps her hands in triumph

  and grins as widely

  as a fisherman’s net

  spread across

  a harbor.

  He’s from a good family!

  I have been listening at the market,

  I have been talking to the women.

  She will go to a good home

  to a man

  who will care for her!

  We will wait

  until you turn sixteen,

  my mother says.

  Her hands

  placed firmly on her hips.

  My sister puts her cheek

  on the cool

  wooden table.

  Mother spoons

  large portions

  of tomatoes, feta,

  and beans

  onto our plates.

  She does not see

  that my sister

  has completely

  lost

  her appetite.

  I find my sister

  in the garden.

  She’s holding a small bouquet

  of wildflowers.

  I don’t know why

  I picked these.

  They will wilt by tomorrow.

  I put my hand

  on her shoulder.

  Think of all the words

  that could comfort.

  None of them seems right.

  She holds the flowers

  out to me.

  They would have been happier

  staying right where

  they were.

  My father told me

  the three most important

  things in life:

  the boat, the sea,

  the family.

  That’s all you need.

  My father is missing

  My sister is about to leave me.

  And I don’t have

  a boat.

  Jeanne

  Saint-Malo, France

  1915

  The smell of the sea

  climbs the walls

  of our city

  like a salty,

  dangerous

  pirate

  who steals

  into my bedroom

  and whispers

  in my ear.

  Come with me.

  The night turns me

  into a sparrow.

  Wings tipped

  with golden arrows.

  The stars sing

  in the firmament

  a song that belongs

  to me alone.

  Come home.

  We live in a house

  on the top of a hill

  filled with beautiful

  things

  and a maid

  to dust them.

  We live in a house

  with a small black dog

  named Felix

  who eats

  out of a crystal bowl.

  We live in a house

  filled with visitors

  who drink champagne

  and dine on oysters

  and canapé

  in the rose garden.

  We live in a house

  as old as the cathedral

  with a balcony door

  that opens

  to the emerald sea.

  We live in a house

  filled with books,

  tales of adventures

  and voyages.

  I wonder

  if these stories

  will ever be written

  about me.

  A letter arrives

  Papa breaks a government

  red wax seal

  to open it.

  He is needed in the war effort.

  They know

  he will be a wonderful doctor

  in the French Foreign Legion.

  It is time

  for him to fulfill his duty

  to his country.

  He will leave

  the day after Christmas.

  He throws the letter

  into the fire.

  It crackles and spits

  and rises up the chimney,

  black as smoke.

  It is mid-December

  and we gather

  with our neighbors

  for la fête de Noël,

  our winter festival.

  It is my favorite day

  of the year.

  We eat crêpes filled

  with sugar and jam

  and galettes saucisses,

  spiced sausages.

  Drink cider and chouchen,

  a honey brew.

  My father’s friends

  pat him on the back,

  wish him luck.

  Neighbors

  thank him for his service.

  The music begins.

  We laugh and breathe hard

  as we dance and sing

  in a circled chain

  to the bagpipes, the accordion,

  the fiddle, and the drum.

  Two sisters join the stage

  and sing

  an a cappella song.

  We stop to listen.

  Their voices wind

  around each other,

  a threaded bobbin

  whirling inside

  a spinning wheel.

  They sing le chant des marins.

  A sailor’s song

  for our people. 7

  The Bretons

  are wild

  like the purple heather

  that grows

  on our rocky shore.

  The Bretons

  are sweet

  like the gold

  we squeeze

  from the depths

  of the honey’s lore.

  The Bretons

  are brave

  as the northern wind

  and we know that

  we must pray.

  To the Lord, our God

  to keep our ships

  from that dark

  and watery grave.

  O keep us from

  that watery grave.

  O keep us fr
om

  that grave.

  Maman closes her eyes

  I see tears escape.

  We listen to the music,

  but I know we are both

  thinking of the boat

  that will take Papa

  to a country

  far from here.

  She hugs me close.

  My head fits perfectly

  in the curve of her neck.

  I can hear

  her heart

  beating.

  A lonely bird

  trapped in a cage.

  The day before

  my father leaves,

  the townspeople gather

  to see Louis Blériot