things I could never be.
She challenged me to look at myself, my prejudices and assumptions, by her devotion and obedience to her parents. How I envied their tight little unit as they fussed over Solomon until he was finally back on his feet.
From those weeks when we squatted in Evadne’s house, I learned much about the Jewish faith. It was fortunate for me that they were not Orthodox in their religious observances so that we were able to accommodate some of their customs and traditions in a Gentile home. They gave me a lifetime love of Jewish cooking:
pastela,
a wondrous lamb pie that Sara said came from her Italian ancestors in Sicily, and almond crescents they called
boskochs
. Every festival had its special foods. I tried to explain what we made for Christmas but as our cook had prepared all our meals at Stokencourt, I’d not a clue how to make even the simplest dish.
Sara was quick to put this right, making me chop and stir, measure out and watch how flavoursome dishes could be created from the simplest and cheapest of ingredients. What Kyria Kaliope thought of this new arrangement I didn’t know or care, until the day when I received a curt call from the embassy saying the house was needed for another diplomat and we must vacate the premises forthwith.
When my guests left to return home, I missed their noisy, colourful, loving way of living, and I returned to my rooms at Margery McDade’s, determined that my life would change.
Anything Yolanda could do, I decided I would do and better. Oh yes, rivalry was always there under the surface of our growing friendship. We made an incongruous pair in our Red Cross uniforms, me tall and fair, she so slight and dark . . . But once again, I jump ahead.
Training as nurses in the days before penicillin and modern surgical techniques was no easy feat. Discipline and menial work were hard pills to swallow for someone like me. At the end of a back-breaking day, collapsing in laughter with a friend makes anything bearable. In the years that followed, our friendship became the rock to which we clung for survival. There’s hardly a day goes by when I don’t think back to those times, scrubbing floors on our knees, finding quiet corners out of Sister’s way to have a secret smoke. Why is it now that the past feels so close at hand that I can almost reach out and touch it? How can I return to Athens without thinking of Yolanda?
Athens, 1940
The two girls sat in the darkened lecture theatre watching the slide show in stunned silence. The new intake of Red Cross trainee nurses were layered up in rows behind last year’s. Everyone was forcing themselves to watch the unwatchable. Their lecturer was a sturdy Irish sister called Teresa McGrath, who had nursed British troops in the Great War. She explained her mission was to prepare them for injuries they might have to face should the present conflict with Italy over borderlines develop into something more serious.
The interpreter struggled to keep apace of her strong accent. ‘War is a filthy business. Guns take no prisoners, they mutilate soft tissue, bones, decapitate, disembowel whatever stands in their way.
‘I don’t want you to flinch from such injuries when they are presented to you. Better to see them now and be prepared than fail your duty of care. This is not a pleasant lecture – I know some will disapprove – but it must be done. I cannot prepare you for the smell of the battlefield or the sickly sweet smell of death in your nostrils. That you will overcome as best you can. A mask soaked in oil of lavender may help. Only experience and discipline will give you the confidence to withstand such sights as I am about to show you.’
She proceeded to illustrate how wounds left untreated became gangrenous balloons of rotting flesh. Penny was glad the photographs were not in colour. Then came clean amputations and bad ones, good stumps, infected ones, stomach wounds and entrails hanging from uniforms. Head and
She challenged me to look at myself, my prejudices and assumptions, by her devotion and obedience to her parents. How I envied their tight little unit as they fussed over Solomon until he was finally back on his feet.
From those weeks when we squatted in Evadne’s house, I learned much about the Jewish faith. It was fortunate for me that they were not Orthodox in their religious observances so that we were able to accommodate some of their customs and traditions in a Gentile home. They gave me a lifetime love of Jewish cooking:
pastela,
a wondrous lamb pie that Sara said came from her Italian ancestors in Sicily, and almond crescents they called
boskochs
. Every festival had its special foods. I tried to explain what we made for Christmas but as our cook had prepared all our meals at Stokencourt, I’d not a clue how to make even the simplest dish.
Sara was quick to put this right, making me chop and stir, measure out and watch how flavoursome dishes could be created from the simplest and cheapest of ingredients. What Kyria Kaliope thought of this new arrangement I didn’t know or care, until the day when I received a curt call from the embassy saying the house was needed for another diplomat and we must vacate the premises forthwith.
When my guests left to return home, I missed their noisy, colourful, loving way of living, and I returned to my rooms at Margery McDade’s, determined that my life would change.
Anything Yolanda could do, I decided I would do and better. Oh yes, rivalry was always there under the surface of our growing friendship. We made an incongruous pair in our Red Cross uniforms, me tall and fair, she so slight and dark . . . But once again, I jump ahead.
Training as nurses in the days before penicillin and modern surgical techniques was no easy feat. Discipline and menial work were hard pills to swallow for someone like me. At the end of a back-breaking day, collapsing in laughter with a friend makes anything bearable. In the years that followed, our friendship became the rock to which we clung for survival. There’s hardly a day goes by when I don’t think back to those times, scrubbing floors on our knees, finding quiet corners out of Sister’s way to have a secret smoke. Why is it now that the past feels so close at hand that I can almost reach out and touch it? How can I return to Athens without thinking of Yolanda?
Athens, 1940
The two girls sat in the darkened lecture theatre watching the slide show in stunned silence. The new intake of Red Cross trainee nurses were layered up in rows behind last year’s. Everyone was forcing themselves to watch the unwatchable. Their lecturer was a sturdy Irish sister called Teresa McGrath, who had nursed British troops in the Great War. She explained her mission was to prepare them for injuries they might have to face should the present conflict with Italy over borderlines develop into something more serious.
The interpreter struggled to keep apace of her strong accent. ‘War is a filthy business. Guns take no prisoners, they mutilate soft tissue, bones, decapitate, disembowel whatever stands in their way.
‘I don’t want you to flinch from such injuries when they are presented to you. Better to see them now and be prepared than fail your duty of care. This is not a pleasant lecture – I know some will disapprove – but it must be done. I cannot prepare you for the smell of the battlefield or the sickly sweet smell of death in your nostrils. That you will overcome as best you can. A mask soaked in oil of lavender may help. Only experience and discipline will give you the confidence to withstand such sights as I am about to show you.’
She proceeded to illustrate how wounds left untreated became gangrenous balloons of rotting flesh. Penny was glad the photographs were not in colour. Then came clean amputations and bad ones, good stumps, infected ones, stomach wounds and entrails hanging from uniforms. Head and
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