Welcome to BOOK READERS HEAVEN! Books, Reviews, Short Stories, Authors, Publicity, a little poetry, music to complement...and other stuff including politics, about life... "Books, Cats: Life is Sweet..."
Some things touch my soul and pepper sweet my words.”*
“Relationships are like spider webs. Weave them, weave them. Cut them, snap them. Then, in the first strong wind, they blow away.”*
...“Well, I can nurse your mother in my digs, but the landlady’s an old orthodox Jew and doesn’t care for goyim, if you know what I mean? “ Willa did. Jessica McVie, who disliked anyone less than three-quarters Scottish and one-hundred percent Christian, regarded herself as tolerant. But most people who claim tolerance for diverse folk generally are intolerant. “That wouldn’t work out,” Willa said. “What would work is to move her back to Larkin Street. I can take the spare room and be in attendance around the clock. I said it before and I’ll say it again; you’d save a heap of money, as would I, if you set me up there to take care of my own.” Granny raised her beer, and then took a swig. “That would be best for all.” Willa recognized the worst scenario. Her mother would be home, but everyone’s nerves would fray; and Willa’s chore load would increase. Now she knew why they had made a bee-line to the Cow Hollow Noodle Shop. Granny wanted to discuss bringing the whole situation home — literally. “We could discuss it more,” Willa said. “And I’ll broach it with Dad and the boys.”
Change the subject, Willa thought. Change the subject before the next swig of beer. “But I’m curious.” “Curiosity killed the cat, dearie.” “Well, I’m not dying to know, but it would be helpful. About the ring.” “The Heritage Ring?” Granny asked. “It would be terrible if they stole it. I’d bring them to court if it went missing.” “That would be a shame.” “It’s not a shame to right a wrong?” “No, I meant, it would be a shame if it went missing.” “Oh. Yes.” “I know the ring has the family crest on it . . .” “Proud family crest, that of the McVie,” Granny said. “Represents the union of two ancient highland families — The Macbeths and the Beatons. That’s how the name came about.” “I don’t understand.” “It used to be MacBea, long before any of us were alive. But it made its way through the centuries as McVie, thanks to our English relatives.” She smirked, and then swigged again. “Now you don’t want me to tell you the whole family history, do you?” Willa had heard bits from her mother and a smidgeon from Granny, but if it would keep the subject off the convalescence arrangements, she would listen to the entire history of Scotland.
Besides, the Gyoza arrived — a dash in the conversation. “Actually, Granny, if it explains why it’s called the Heritage Ring, I’d welcome the chit-chat.” “More than chit-chat, dearie,” Granny said. “When we say Macbeth, we mean the Macbeth.”Willa shuddered. The only Macbeth she recalled was Shakespeare’s fictitious character, head deep in murder and mayhem — more myth and legend than ancestral history. “I thought it a stage invention,” Willa remarked; and then she remembered her High School English class. “Mrs. Bertinelli told us Shakespeare used a book by Hollingsworth for the Macbeth chronicle; and that Hollingsworth’s Histories is a supposition.” “Are you going to believe some Guinea school teacher’s words about Scottish history over your granny’s?” “Well, of course not.” “Good. Now, I’m not saying Mr. Shakespeare’s Macbeth was a true model for our ancestor. Willy the Bard was English, after all. But you’re descended from kings. Unfortunately, those kings had a downward spiral, their fortunes depleted after many wars and . . . you know how that goes. And the family married into a mixed-breed Shropshire bunch called the Beatons. Now, these Beatons were respectable chemists. They called them alchemists in those days. I’m sure most drugs used today the Beatons invented one way or another. So, when they crossed the pond as the McVie, they were handy with concoctions.” Granny took another swig. Quite handy, indeed, Willa thought “And the ring?”
“Oh, that’s a West Coast invention, dearie. It’s not that old, and its significance lies in membership. Not so much now.” “I don’t understand.” “Your Grandfather Wilton was a member of the Heritage Society, also known as the Heritage Society of Clans and True Bloods. Although I must say, none of us are really True bloods. Not me, although I’m close; and certainly not your Grandfather.” Granny set her beer aside, forked up a Gyoza, shunning the chopsticks, and sucked it down. Then, she crossed herself, much to Willa’s surprise. “I’m a God fearing woman,” Granny said. “So I never understood the ins and outs of that strange society.” She sniffed the stale air. “Your grandfather was young when I met him and young when I lost him. We knew each other for ten years, but married two years before his passing.” Willa knew this much; and that he was just nineteen and had a daughter on the way when that fatal meeting with the cable car happened; but she knew little else about the man. “He had that ring crafted by a chinky Chinaman down on Grant. Wilton brought a drawing of the McVie crest to the chink, and...well, those people can copy most anything. Why he scratched it on whalebone is beyond me, but your grandfather was hell bent on it. And he needed that ring as a sign he belonged to the Heritage gang.” “Gang?” “Well, you might call it a gang. They weren’t thugs, but they met in secret and exchanged whoppers, I suppose. Women aren’t allowed.” “Aren’t? They’re still around?” “I suppose so. They haven’t crossed my path since the incident.” She crossed herself again. “You do know your grandfather may not have had an accident.”
Willa had heard this before. “You think this Heritage Society had something to do with it?” “Murder, you’re thinking. No. They were mild-mannered men and, as I said, True bloods. But my Wilton was a brooder. He liked the Society because they dressed up in robes and chanted old hymns and explored old books.
Now, the McVie, being from chemist stock, contributed on that score. But beyond this hobby, the Heritage Society encouraged my man to brood even more. He pondered life like a smithy pounds his anvil. But Wilton was never strong steel.” “What are you saying, Granny?” “Not much of anything, but since you work on the crisis lines, you know the signs of a man considering . . .” “Suicide?” Granny crossed herself again, and Willa knew why her grandfather was almost a true blood. “I can’t be sure. I’ll never be sure. But the possibility is distinct.”
“I don’t think so,” Willa said. “How can you know?” “Well, I know one of his friends; and he’s told me my grandfather was lively, and not a brooder.” “Who told you that?” “Oh. Don’t put too much stock in Conlon.” “Was he a member of that Society? ” Granny laughed. “Joe’s a dreamer. In fact, your grandfather was a dreamer. But Joe was always quick with a passionate phrase and an over-the-top response. They were friends. In fact Joe knew him longer than I had. But Conlon was . . . well, went on to better things, but was anything but respectable. Anything but . . .”
~~~
Edward C. Patterson, also author of The Jade Owl, went into an entirely different path when he wrote Willa Goodheart. In fact, when I first started reading, I thought it was going to be chick lit, as we first meet Willa at her place of business where she has just been promoted to be an assistant to the assistant to the Marketing Director of Fidelity Fiscus, a collection firm.
Thing was that Willa didn't have a job description for her new job, but soon found... She would be doing what her boss was supposed to... You know, back when bosses were mean and you wanted to murder them...or they tried to get closer to you? Well, Willa got the latter attention the second day she was in her new position, and quickly moved to leave his office!
But soon, bits and pieces start to happen that pulled Willa into a murder investigation! And the twists and turns moved faster and faster... as Willa wondered whether she had a stalker, when she kept seeing a guy on a bike like a messenger would ride... While she was handling travel arrangements for her boss's boss, while she would leave the office and then come back wrinkled and her hair messed... Meanwhile on the floor where she used to work as a collector, one of her friends had been moved into a small room, but was threatening suing them for age discrimination...or, better yet, starting to tell all the secrets that he knew after working so many years...
Willa seems to be a key player in all that is happening, but she can't figure out why... An envelope is found with the name of the dead man... Then she starts getting calls at her volunteer location... And, to top it off, one of the officers on the case has taken an interest in her and arranged an evening time when he promised to share information with her about the case, and he proceeds to drink too much and told her much more than she should have known!
The author has thus far provided the reader with the background, characters involved; and, then chooses to create Part II when Willa and her new lover, take on the amateur detective role. But that wasn't enough for this author, he throws in a mysterious bicycle messenger who she begins to call her stalker, but actually is something far more "scifi--the spooky kind..." and, of course, romance of both the good and bad kind!
So we now start looking at those who have been murdered--yes more than 3...but then we get the explanation that this seems not to be a serial killer, at least according to the detectives on the case, who, for better or worse, soon learn that Willa Goodheart is smack in the middle of all of this, and so do not totally shut her out of the investigation. I fell in love with the book as Part II begins... Because he added a playlist beginning with pointing out it was the age of Aquarius, of free love, flower children and those who were gay began to come out, even if it was within tightly controlled meeting places...
So, during the evening when Willa met with Detective Schultz, he took her to the restaurant which was owned by his brother. The evening ended with Larry and Willa, recognizing an immediate attraction. And Willa taking the initiative, realizing it had been a decade since she even dated! You'll have fun as these two people ultimately come together and decide to solve the mystery... Larry had even stolen his brother's badge one night when he was so drunk that Larry had to drive him home... Now, he was quite willing to flash that badge as they started through their own deep investigation! Let's go along with them, shall we?
“My tiny hands barely reach the octave. I can manage Chopin, but Rachmaninoff would be an Olympic hurdle.” The author didn't specific a specific composition for this author...so I chose one of my favorites!
In the getting to know each other phase, Larry found that Willa was a pianist, but learned early that her small hands presented a problem in octaves...but since she really wasn't that passionate about playing, she slowly moved toward getting a job--which really got her into this entire mess...
Willa was pulled in because she picked up an envelope that had the name of the latest victim. Willa and her friend Jose spent their lunchtime talking about either the cruel boss or Jose's lover. He was openly gay, so Willa really wasn't surprised when he was there at The Painted Lips... Willa was astonished with Larry's being a restaurateur that he was able to get in many places and, indeed, knew exactly the person they would need to talk to. Along the way, I was picking up the many clues that the author provided and was fairly certain I knew how the plot would proceed...but that doesn't mean all readers will notice...So, before we go on, I highly recommend this book for plot, characters, genre/jumping and a fantastic playlist! Now, if you readers who don't dwell on the music that accompanies scenes, you can always just skip listening, OK? 'Cause I'm just having fun...!
Willa comes from a musical family, but only her brother is a professional who plays the oboe... Visit their home and it will be the sound in the background on most visits... I've liked Dvorak for many years, but also enjoyed compositions in the minor key, which this particular piece is... So what happened? Well a brilliant member of the local symphony was one of those killed... By the way, the search for the weapon used, which turned out to be the key "tell" for its being done by the same person, was the only way, at first, that the police detectives knew it was a singular villain...
Finding a symphony program which had been for a children's summer concert wasn't exactly significant, except for where that program had been found! After a full day of intense investigations by Willa and Larry, Willa went straight home...to bed...to dream... The total dream scene was fantastic!
The rain sound increased as she drifted into a dark place — a noisy crowded place held captive by a disco ball. Faces. Dozens of faces passed before her through the polka dot lights. She recognized some — Jose, Henry, Larry, Chatty, Simone; but others danced, passing by her — Granny McVie, Freddie, Lavinia and The Lash.
When the weight of law enforcement presses innocence, an uncorrupted path is difficult to discern. When a signature binds you to silence and yet your lips speak; and trust compels you to reveal new evidence and yet your fists ball in secrecy, the mind drifts to alternatives — retreating to a faraway land or seeking a name change or changing hair color. Such ideas crossed Willa’s mind as she wrestled with the chain of new facts, suppositions and evidence.*
To deliver bits of twine to bumblers would defeat the purpose. Willa slowly realized she wanted control — a strange desire considering she had been the controlled by everyone and everything in her life. In lieu of hopping a train to Mexico and growing a mustache, Willa settled down at Larkin Street for an evening with her family.*
Taking in her family entire, Willa realized the world had a shared stress. Every noggin on the planet set out on a personal road of pitfalls and celebrations; and not always coinciding to everyone’s likes. Knowing this settled Willa’s nerves. She was in the company of endless worlds, each to their own orbit — each with specific terrains — desolate or crowded according to their ability to draw or repel. Each hiding or shouting on their personal cycle, looping, lost in a boundless sea simultaneously calm or tempestuous.*
When Mindy appeared dancing a threesome with Sonny and Alice, Willa shuddered. The music had transformed from a disco beat to the sound of a banjo
with a lazy oboe descant soaring over the strum, a jaunty theme accentuated by the herky-jerky moves of dancers. Suddenly, the aroma of Chamomile overpowered the place, shrouding the dance floor in fog.
“I deliver these unto you,” he said. Willa tried to speak, but couldn’t. She meant to take the stack, but wouldn’t. She knew what these were — invitations from death.. “Take these,” the messenger repeated. “Take them, and the weight shall be lifted. Your fog will evaporate.” Willa refused to accept.
“Sis, you know the Mahler is tricky. Mendelssohn is far easier.” Then, Freddie’s face changed to Kentwood Schulhoffer’s, who grinned sardonically. As he shook his head, the jeweler’s mug transformed into . . . into the Old Grandmother’s, who lifted Old Friend Cane toward Willa, and then pointed. “You cannot stand still in the same place forever, girl,” the old woman snapped. “Not when the rain calls your name and rallies you to action...”
“The rain comes to us all,” Simone said. “Each drop contains a memory, which sings to us, recalling the tender moments, the sad moments, and times we only remember when the song sighs over our souls. My people know this — both Jewish and gay. I hear the lowing of Shabbat shalom and the lullabies under the boardwalk. The drops recall pogroms and bashings, chicken soup and broken hearts.” She turned toward Willa. “You cannot stand still in the same place forever, girl; not when the rain calls your name and rallies you to action.”*
And during that dream, Willa started putting all of the pieces that had been gathered from the Police Detectives, through Larry and her investigations, which, admittedly, they had chosen not to share since they had the desire to actually solve the case... Waking, Willa found herself moving toward the one instrument that she could play, and started playing one of the most beautiful of Chopin's pieces, in my opinion... And, as she played, one by one of her family picked up the instrument that they played and joined Willa, as if they were all in the past, playing together on a nightly basis, laughing...loving...happily... sharing, perhaps, the most enjoyable times that had routinely occurred during past years!
As she fell into the music’s groove, it captured her conscience, setting the stress to rest — not a flight, but a hibernation, sure to return again. The piece called to an evening sea under an ebbing tide, the whistling of night birds at a mental distance. Willa rocked as she played, a rhythm worth capturing — a sound which went beyond the room, the card game, and even the garden’s mulch. She didn’t care if the sonorous ripples disturbed her family, hoping the piece evoked reconciliation. Suddenly, a hand stilled her playing. Willa looked down, spotting the Heritage Ring. Quickly, she glanced into her mother’s brightening eyes. with invigorated passion. Willa gazed from her mother’s fingers to her mother’s focused eyes. How a mind malfunctioning at one level could perform such keyboard wonders escaped explanation, unless music was housed in a separate compartment walled securely from the night soul. Willa couldn’t tell, but she heard the others stir, amazed and delighted.*
Once finished, Willa realized that her mother had come to sit beside her, and when Wilma sat down playing one of the most difficult pieces that she had ever played in the past... The family, stunned, because Wilma had short-term amnesia and often forgot what was happening at any given time, but this was the past, and she willingly opened her heart and mind to what her family offered to her...
Suddenly, Freddie led the next selection as he played the main melody while his mother complemented each note as if they were both playing at the symphony for hundreds of people... Only to be bested when Wilma once again took center stage with a honky tonk song by Robert Foster! What fun! With Granny taking the vocal... Come on! Sing along with her, because the words are right there in the book!
We are now, as readers, completely involved in the book! So much so, that Willa and all involved were totally caught off guard when The End quickly drew closer!
Wow! I have just spent hours putting this together, finding the music playing it as I continued to talk about the story... And yet, the sting of what happened lingers... From the heights of glory as those who truly enjoy the classics, as well as any other music genre, we are faced with the reality of that time... Was it truly just from history? Or, did the author use the historical framework to point out that, for whatever reason, the murder and mayhem continues in America--perhaps, even more so... in 2019 when it was published.
This author is a wonderful storyteller. In fact, some books, like this one, allows the reader to simply let the book write its own review... You will see that I was already invested from the first page, reckoning back to when women faced discrimination in offices and other work areas... But, after acknowledging and spotlighting, the main character showed that we women do not have to accept the sexual overtures of others, even if they are bosses!
Characters include those who are thirsty for power, those who have been forced by the outside world to keep their lives secret, and those who reached the point, that they couldn't take the hate within or spewed into their lives... And chose violence as what they perceived to be their only option--Perhaps, since it continues, it has been citizens in America who have caused those harmful feelings? Surely the author expected us to ponder how we treat our "neighbors..."
I have added this to my personal list of favorites... Do check it out!
GABixlerReviews
I fell on the grass, lying on my back, looking at the sky through the filigree of trees. Then I rolled over watching a ladybird climbing a single blade of grass. Now, I wasn’t a genius or by any means extraordinary, but for a moment the entire world was caught in that blade of grass. All other leaves faded. It was the only thing I saw. I’ll never forget it. Couldn’t put a name on it or broadcast it to the world. But I’ve never forgotten how I viewed things on that day. It was . . . a day of discovery. Yes, that’s what it was, and I believe I’ve seen my life through that lens ever since — a single blade of grass on a day of deep discovery.” As Larry continued to chomp on his mystical lettuce leaf, Willa had an urge to leap across the table and grab this man and plant a kiss smack on the dressing drips. She imagined the ladybird on the blade of grass and somehow it liberated her from the spaghetti pot, the swirl of Nob Hill and, yes . . . even the eleventh floor of Fidelity Fiscus. She felt her hands stretching for the octave.*
And, if you haven't heard enough, stay while I listen to one of my favorite composers and post! Have a good night and God Bless Us All...
*These are quotes or scenes that I found simply beautiful in the telling... Shared to be read purely at your discretion.
By Mark Bacon When I was growing up in Southern California, the dream summer job of every teen was to work at Disneyland. Whether you were sweeping up trash on Main Street—or had one of the cream assignments on a riverboat in...
Adventureland—the Magic Kingdom was where you wanted to be. As we lived too many miles from Anaheim to make a daily trip to the park feasible, I settled for wrestling boxes as a shipping clerk in West L.A.
Years later, my half-forgotten theme-park dreams were realized when I went to work for Knott’s Berry Farm, a Disneyland rival a few miles up the Santa Ana Freeway. Most of my time, however, was not spent near the rides or even on the park grounds. I was a copywriter; I wrote Knott’s ads and commercials. I had been a city-side newspaper reporter covering the police and other beats, and I traded journalism for advertising, where I thought I’d have more room for creativity.
Although I spent much of my time in a quiet cubicle thinking up catchy phrases for Knott’s radio spots, occasionally I worked on promotions in the park. I got to know costumed employees who entertained visitors and saw, from behind the scenes, what it took to keep a sprawling entertainment enterprise rolling smoothly. Sometimes it’s controlled chaos, in part because—hard to believe—not everyone who goes to an amusement park is on his or her best behavior. Maybe it’s the “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” syndrome on a smaller scale.
No one knows for sure where writers get their inspiration, but I think it comes from a slow-simmering cranial soup, a mixture of all our experiences in which various ingredients bubble to the top. That’s my explanation, anyway, for how my jobs as a police reporter and Knott’s Berry Farm copywriter combined to create Death in Nostalgia City, a theme park murder mystery.
Not an ordinary theme park, Nostalgia City is a recreation of an entire small town from the late 1960s and early 1970s. Covering several square miles, it’s complete with period cars, clothes, food, music, stores, fads, restaurants, hair styles—the works. It’s a peaceful place to relive the past, something that attracted Lyle Deming, an anxiety-ridden ex-cop who thought driving a cab in a giant theme park would be the perfect stress-free job. He loves his new occupation, exchanging jokes with tourists as he chauffeurs them around. But as this is a murder mystery, of course, bad things happen and successive chapters bring surprises.
One twist for Nostalgia City’s young employees that’s not a concern for Southern California kids working at Disneyland, is the time warp. In the retro park, everything is as it was more than 40 years ago. Before they walk out into the park, therefore, all employees have to surrender to their lockers their cell phones, iPads and all 21st century electronics.
“Macs are hamburgers,” Lyle tells an employee orientation class, “blackberries are fruit and a tablet is a pad of yellow paper with lines on it.”
i LOVED THIS ONE!
One of My Favorites...
See what happens when I go Nostalgia? Wouldn't it be great to have a real Nostalgia City??!!!
Hey Mark, What's your plans to beat this one? Sure hope we get to go back to be with Lyle Deming soon!
Thanks so much for giving us a little background on your book...and allowing me to enjoy the time period with you!
Grigoris Lambrakis (Greek: Γρηγόρης Λαμπράκης) (April 3, 1912 – May 27, 1963) was a Greekpolitician, physician, track and field athlete, and member of the faculty of the School of Medicine at the University of Athens...On May 22, 1963, shortly after he had delivered the keynote speech at an anti-war meeting in Thessaloniki, two far-right extremists, Emannouel Emannouilides and Spyro Gotzamanis, driving a three-wheeled vehicle, struck Lambrakis with a club over the head in plain view of a large number of people and (allegedly) some police officers. He suffered brain injuries and died in the hospital five days later, on May 27. The two men were arrested because of the reaction of a passenger who jumped on their vehicle and fought with them (Manolis Hatziapostolou, nicknamed Tiger).
Maria Nafpliotou Nina subsided a little and gave a shrug. It's hard, Niko, I hate to see how Greece escaped the wretched Turks only to become a pawn for Britain and America. Nothing is sacred, democracy is lost. Plato would love it. He always liked an oligarchy. Nevertheless, his vision was one of reason and order. We have little left of that." ~~~
"Which is worse? The Americans, the British? They made a pawn of Greece. If Frederica hadn't come to England, Lambrakis might still be alive." ...He always wanted to fight for justice and peace... Nikos looked around and lowered his voice, "Shh... not so loud, Nina... ~~~
Nikos Galanis watched her covertly as she sat opposite him in the fashionable London bar. Her long slender fingers moved up and down the stem of the wine glass as if caressing it, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Nina Hammett was a beautiful woman, there was no denying it. Her dark hair was sleeked back into a loose bun at the nape of her neck On anyone else it would look unfashionable and severe; on her it looked elegant and poised. It was something to do with her eyes as well, he thought, looking into them now; unfathomable, enigmatic pools of brown, depending almost to black When she spoke, her voice was low but clear. Her Greek was impeccable, without a regional accent. An educated woman and an intelligent one.
"I have always admired Lambrakis," she said, "and I always will. I met him just before he was murdered. He was a friend of my great aunt, Christoula. Auntie lived in Kavalla but she had a flat in Thessaloniki as well, where she used to hold little soirees....
It was three years now since that left-wing politician, Dr. Grigoris Lambrakis, was mown down by a vehicle and clubbed to death during broad daylighy in the streets of Thessaloniki. For Heaven's sake, the man was dead and gone and still she thought of him! Nikos wished a woman would speak of him with such admiration. How little he had accomplished compared to the brave and splendid things which that martyr Lanbrakis had done in his short life...
~~~
Dying Phoenix
By Loretta Proctor
This novel, above all, is a love story. Like many, however, it was filled with conflict, anger, and two individuals with completely different lives...who discovered their love was deeper than they ever thought... But Nina had another love--a love for her country--that seemed to be more important than anything else... would that ultimately affect their lives?
Of course, it didn't help with Max had an affair with an office girl... They were now separated. Nina was working as a reporter at a relative's newspaper, while Max continued his work selling tractors.... His background is quite different, being of humble beginnings. But he had begun early to pick up knowledge of tractors and other machinery and, in fact, he was soon off to Greece to attend a major sales event... And that is where he made a personal enemy through no fault of his own! He had seen a man physically abusing a woman and stopped to help... She was the wife of the man and later escaped and came to find Max. He quickly worked with friends to help her escape to another location, but her husband found Max and beat him so badly, including a broken jaw, that he went into the hospital. Fortunately his friend and fellow worker, Dimitri, had a bad feeling and had got to find him, and fortunately did, because he would have died otherwise... Everybody was trying to find Nina to get her there, but she had not left any information on her location. When she finally heard, she quickly got there and then went home to help him recuperate. But nobody had ever explained to Nina the exact circumstances behind his assault... For a while, that was ok and they both returned to Greece when he was better, only to have the woman come to find Max, and ask for money... Nina saw the exchange! Nina was a passionate woman but had learned to control it, except she seemed not to be able to with her jealousy and lack of trust of Max.... They again separated... At a very dangerous time that was just beginning in Greece... The author takes the time to bring readers fully into the lives of her main characters, allowing us to form our opinions of what might happen in this volatile relationship. It was quite a shock, therefore, when in the midst of this personal drama, we move into a period of time when, in many ways, seemed worse than entering into a war... Because most people didn't know what was happening!
"I'm not sure what you mean...a sympathizer," she murmured at least. "You were concerned about the Lambrakis business and wrote a letter about it at the time; it was printed in the Guardian. It's common knowledge and many admired you for saying what you did. I admire you, Mrs. Hammett. It inspired me to join the Lambrakis Youth when I finished by National Service. I think it's a marvelous cause though, as you know, it's dangerous these days to belong to such causes. But we need to fight for justice in Greece. You heard about Petroulas?" Sotiris Petroulas was a young economic student, a member of the Lambrakides. He had carried Mikis Theodorakis through the crows in order for the heroic musician to make a rousing speech against the tyranny of the government. Later Petroulas was killed by a tear gas grenade that exploded above his head and his body was whisked away by the police... ~~~
It was while Nina was still in London, and working on an assignment, when she stopped in at the Troubadour. It was the type of place where the young and liberal congregated... many writers, journalists and other creative people. It was there that a young man came to talk to her. He introduced himself as George Praxiteles and explained he was attending school there... He knew who she was and quite a bit about her and her family, which, at first, made her feel concerned... Their discussion aroused Nina's passion and she knew she must go back to Greece. She believed, like George, that something was going to happen... There had already been many restrictions placed on the young--the music of Mikis Theodorakis had been banned, but was still played wherever they could. The group George had joined, the Lambrakides, were following the actions of Grigoris Lambrakis who had been murdered...
"My friends caught some agents trying to bury Sotiris secretly but Theodorakis roused the local people and made them hand over the body. Then, do you know this, Mrs. Hammett?... Hundreds of people accompanied the body from Athens Cathedral to the cemetery...hundreds! Theodorakis wrote a song in his memory and it was sung by the cortege. If was so moving. I wept and so did everyone else. My God, it was so moving.
Nine leant back in her chair and stared at the floor for a long moment. "I heard of it but didn't know the details." Where had she been when this happened? Little escaped her attention when it came to Greek politics. Ah, of course, it was last summer. The time when she and Max had been in the process of reconsidering their marriage. She had shouted at him like a fishwife, like a possessed creature. Was that dreadful harpy really her? Nina tore her mind away from the memories and the uncomfortable and guilty emotions they produced in her.
"I would have wept too," her voice low with feeling. "But sadly incidents like that are no longer uncommon are they? The government which the King has set in place is utterly corrupt; the plaything of the King and his generals..."
~~~
When Nina returned, she stayed with George's family and started out to learn more about what was happening. But then one night she awoke at 3AM... It had begun...
Something was very wrong. She woke up and listened intently. There is was again, the sound of heavy solid wheels rumbing in the distance, but what wheel made a noise like that? Nina looked at the clock and stared into the darkness, broken only by the faint light that crept through the slats of the shutters. Her heart was beating with a mixture of alarm and excitement.
She rose, her throat parched and dry. Swallowing some water from the glass by her bed, she made her way over to the window. Pulling back the thickly pleated net curtains, Nina threw open the shutters and leant out into the coolness of an April night. Just a few hours earlier she had been chatting in a cafe with some friends; a normal and peaceful Athenian night. Now a strange atmosphere gripped the city, a sense of panic, anger and dismay. Shouts, strident voices and shrieks floated on the night air. She needed to find out what was happening. The commotion was round Fassileis Sofias, a main road some way beyond where the Praxiteies family owned a small block of apartments in a quiet back street in Zografou...
Hurriedly Nina dressed, flung on a jacket and seized her Leika camera. She had no idea what was going on but her instinct told her that the unusual hubbub was due to some major crisis. A fire? No, not that--there were no fire alarms or church bells ringing the tocsin. It sounded for all the world as if huge vehicles such as tanks were rumbling along.
It had long been rumored in political circles that the King intended to enforce some kind of military law and disband his Parliament. Greece had been filled with unrest for so long...
What was this deep fear in everyone's hearts? Yes, there were communists in Greece and many others who veered to the left like herself, but they were small in numbers; nothing like the threat imagined. But fear is like a virus, spreading to everyone. Stories of communist terrorism, half-imagined, became reality in the minds of the comfortable middle classes, fueled by the propaganda of the extreme right who spread tales of paidomazoma--the supposed kidnapping of children for brainwashing into communism--tortures, massacres to strike fear and loathing in people's hearts...
At the corner of one of the streets, she stopped in sheer amazement. Hugh armoured tanks were rolling past. So she was right, that was the noise she had heard. There seemed to be armed soldiers everywhere, shouting commands in deep, harsh tones, stopping cars, pointing guns at ordinary unarmed people as if they were involved in a film, in a mock battle. It was pretense, surely? It couldn't be real. Not Athens on a quiet night before Easter? There had been no warning at all, nothing of late to indicate that simmering beneath the surface were plots and counter-plots and discontented, power-hungry individuals ready to enforce their own version of the law. She snapped away with her camera, taking care not to be seen. Those soldiers looked unpleasant and she didn't want to get mixed up with them...
A soldier with a gun in his arms turned and stared in her direction...
~~~
Tanks were in the streets, communication lines had been cut...then the Prime Minister was taken...
And Nina was right in the middle, sending out the first exclusive article to England! But a later one was taken... All of her friends were in trouble and she went to the only man who had claimed he had connections... To get her friends' freedom, she must spend one night with him...
Wow! This story is full of thrilling human drama--the fear of the unknown, the loss, as people are taken without a cause, or family members must run to prevent being jailed... And the amazing thing was that the coup left the King helpless, since he had been bested by his opposition... Who was behind this quiet, silent invasion?
Like Nina, I was involved with my own life, working at a new interesting job in the 60s...What were you doing then? Did we even know that something like described in this novel was happening? No, I am sure many did not... And, yet, the most amazing thing for all of us should be that it was here, in Greek, that the world had its first democracy! This is a historical treasure that is well worth reading! Check it out!
Democracy can be traced back from the present day to classical Athens in the 6th century B.C.E. According to one definition, democracy is a political system in which all the members of the society have an equal share of formal political power. In modern representative democracy, this formal equality is embodied primarily in the right to vote...
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http://www.femalefirst.co.uk/books/loretta-proctor-396527.html - Check out interview with "Female First..." Born in Cairo, Egypt, to an English father and Greek mother, Loretta Proctor won prizes in the 1970's for essays and plays, then wrote specialized articles. She studied Jungian, psychology and worked as a counsellor. Now retired, she delights in story telling, writes poetry and is pleased to be a distant relation of Elizabeth Barrett-Browning. Dying Phoenix is Loretta's fourth novel.
