Formionos twins Thanos Kalamidas Formionos twins V y r o n a s C h r o n i C l e s “Sometimes the betrayal is not in the act, but in the silence that follows it. And in families, silence is inherited like silver, tarnished, weighty, and passed from drawer to drawer.” Thanos Kalamidas Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Formionos twins Formionos twins Thanos Kalamidas Vyronas Chronicles Thanos Kalamidas An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Formionos twins V yronas once dreamed of itself, and even now, in the mid-morning haze, the echoes of that dream still clung to the worn shut- ters and satellite dishes. a city stitched out of con- tradictions, half-orphaned by geography and history. on Formionos street, caught between a shuttered periptero and a pharmacy that hadn’t had antibiot- ics since the Papandreou years, stood the apostolou apartment, its plaster flaking off like moth wings. The twins lived there, and had for forty-one years. Kyriaki and Maria apostolou. Two unmarried wom- en in their late sixties, who still addressed each other with the formal “εσύ” and who, when asked if they were identical, would simply say, “We were once.” Thanos Kalamidas They were born during the last dark gasp of civil war. Their father, Panagiotis apostolou, had been a schoolteacher turned eaM courier, then a clerk in the Ministry of agriculture when it was no longer dangerous to be anything. Their mother, eleni, spoke only in whispers and only after the twins turned five. There had been a third daughter once, elpida, who died before she could speak at all. The apartment was built for a larger family. it had high ceilings and faded blue trim that still showed, here and there, where their mother had once taped up paper angels for Christmas. There was a balcony the size of a shoebox, but it caught the morning sun, and there, on an old stool softened by a ragged cush- ion, Maria would peel fruit with surgical precision. she peeled them as if they might confess some- thing. “soft today,” she murmured, letting the apricot skin curl into a golden coil on the plate. Kyriaki shuffled beside her, dragging her right leg slightly now, since the second fall. she held the paper from the postman in one hand and a pair of cracked glasses in the other. Formionos twins “They raised the property tax again,” she said. “so- fia called. she said her son might take us in, if things get worse.” “Which sofia?” “Cousin sofia. From nea smyrni. eleni’s daughter. The one with the stooped shoulders.” Maria sniffed. “They always want to take us in when we’re most ourselves.” “and when we’re weakest.” They sat in silence. The paper on Kyriaki’s lap flut- tered like a nervous bird. “Do you remember,” Maria said finally, “when Fa- ther came back from prison?” Kyriaki paused. her gaze went somewhere far be- yond the bakery across the street. “he said it smelled like wet matches in the cell. That’s what i remember.” “he said he met someone there,” Maria continued. “someone who wrote his name on the ceiling with chalk.” “Giorgos anagnostou,” Kyriaki nodded. “The one Thanos Kalamidas who became minister later. of public order or disor- der. one of the two.” They fell quiet again. The smell of toasted sesame from Kaisariani floated over the invisible border like an old friend who never said goodbye properly. * * * * * * * later that afternoon, their cousin eleni came to visit. The one from Chalandri, the daughter of their late brother, who had married a foreigner with polit- ical opinions and a house in Paros. eleni always arrived in a fuss, as if the act of visit- ing the twins was itself a political gesture, part pro- test, part penance. “i brought loukoumia from syros,” she said, put- ting down her canvas bag. “The rose ones you like.” Kyriaki waved her hand. “Too sweet. our teeth are on strike.” Maria allowed herself a smile. “let’s make tea.” They gathered around the small kitchen table, and for a while the conversation was harmless: rheuma- tism, the rent-controlled building next door being Formionos twins turned into an airbnb, the neighbour’s child who played the violin like someone strangling a chicken. Then eleni said it. The thing they all knew would come. “aunt Kyriaki. aunt Maria. We found a box in Fa- ther’s things.” neither twin moved. “a wooden box. With letters. your handwriting. and one from your father to someone named... Gi- orgos. is that...?” Maria stood suddenly. her chair creaked in pro- test. “We don’t talk about that,” Kyriaki said, too quickly. eleni hesitated. “There was a photo. Four men in a room with maps.” Maria stared at her, then turned away to refill the kettle. “What’s done is done.” “But why didn’t you ever tell me? Tell us? you helped Father when he was hiding in ’69? Before he fled to italy?” Thanos Kalamidas “not helped,” Kyriaki whispered. “We saved him.” eleni’s voice dropped. “Was Giorgos anagnostou part of it? The betrayal?” Maria’s hands trembled slightly. “he was the be- trayal.” For a moment, the air thinned. eleni leaned for- ward, softening. “i’m not accusing. i just want to un- derstand. My children should know. What this fam- ily carried.” “you say that like it’s heroic,” Kyriaki said, sharp now. “like it’s something to post on the internet.” eleni swallowed, visibly wounded. “you were al- ways the brave ones.” “no,” Maria said. “We were the ones who stayed behind.” * * * * * * * That night, Maria couldn’t sleep. she walked the apartment in slow circles, as if mapping out all the rooms again before they disappeared. The cupboard where their mother kept her sewing kit. The hallway mirror that had cracked the night the junta fell. The Formionos twins yellowed newspaper in the drawer from the Poly- technic uprising. and the shoebox, hidden behind a loose panel un- der the sink. she opened it. inside: folded letters, a photograph, a single badge with a red star, and one small enve- lope, never opened. her father’s last note, addressed only to “My daughters.” she never read it. not yet. * * * * * * * Morning arrived with the same dull light, the same pigeons cooing on the sill, as if the day refused to learn new things. Maria peeled another apricot. Kyriaki poured the tea. “What do we do now?” Kyriaki asked, eyes on the balcony. Maria said, “We tell her. Before someone else does.” Thanos Kalamidas “she’ll never see it the same way.” “she’s not meant to.” a long pause. “i dreamed of Mother last night,” Kyriaki said, qui- etly. Maria looked at her, but didn’t ask. “she said we never burned it. she said it’s not too late.” Maria nodded once. Then folded the letter into her apron pocket. * * * * * * * The autumn wind in Vyronas is not quite brave, it comes in sighs, stirring the faded curtains and lifting the scent of crushed basil from clay pots left too long without water. on Formionos street, traffic hummed with the tired persistence of lives going somewhere, or pretending to. But in the apostolou apartment, time had begun to sag, like the net of drying laundry pulled by too many pins. Maria was the first to rise. she moved barefoot, Formionos twins slow, her nightgown brushing the parquet with a hush. she paused in front of the mirror in the hall, its silver backing flecked with black stars of age, and pressed the unopened letter to her chest. Kyriaki was already in the kitchen, the transistor muttering in the corner. a man on the radio spoke of a museum exhibit on the exile years. Then a wom- an’s voice, trembling with age, recited part of a letter found sewn into the lining of a coat: “Tell our chil- dren we walked in the cold, not in silence.” Maria turned it off. “Too much remembering,” she said. “not enough,” Kyriaki replied. They sat. no apricots today. Just bread and thyme honey and the smell of brewing resignation. “you read it?” Kyriaki asked, staring at the letter. Maria shook her head. “i waited for you.” The two women locked eyes—there was still that old mirror-glint between them, the one that made strangers in buses look twice and whisper, “Which is which?” Thanos Kalamidas Maria tore the envelope. The paper inside was creased and smelled faintly of chalk. My daughters, If you read this, then I have gone somewhere not even politics can follow. You have heard many things about me, about what I did or did not do. I write this not to cleanse anything, only to say this: sometimes the betrayal is in the silence, not the act. Giorgos was my friend. He was also the man who condemned two people so that one might enter par- liament. I let him do it. I stayed quiet. That is my sin. You must decide what to do with this truth. I loved you both. You were the only country I ever truly believed in. – P.A. Kyriaki reached for the table to steady herself. “he let it happen,” she whispered. “Father... he knew. about the roundup in ’69. about...” “about nikos,” Maria said. They had never said his name in thirty years. nikos: the man who sat with Maria in a church garden once, who passed her a book of poetry with a pistol hidden Formionos twins in its hollowed-out spine. nikos: who vanished with others in the winter of ‘69, when whispers turned into lists and names turned into graves. “he told us he tried to save him,” Kyriaki mur- mured. Maria folded the letter again. “he lied.” * * * * * * * eleni arrived that afternoon, as if summoned by history itself. she carried a tin of koulourakia and eyes that had not slept. The air between them crack- led, brittle with withheld things. “i called someone,” eleni said. “a journalist. she’s doing a piece on the disappeared activists. nikos was mentioned in the archives.” Maria went still. “his name?” “yes. and Father’s.” Kyriaki exhaled sharply. “What are you doing, child?” “Trying to make sense of it all,” eleni said. “you won’t tell the full story, so i have to find it myself.” Thanos Kalamidas Maria stood. “you want to wear our pain like a medal.” “That’s not fair...” “no,” Kyriaki interrupted. “it’s not fair. But it’s true.” They argued then, not like strangers, but like the family they were, bone-deep in disappointments. ev- ery old silence between them sharpened into speech: Why didn’t you protect him? Why did you stay here when you could’ve left? Why did you never marry? Why did you never let go? at last eleni wept. openly, without vanity. “My father never spoke of those years,” she said. “only once, after a stroke, he said your name, Maria. and then he cried. and i... i just want to know what happened to the men who never came home.” silence. Maria walked to the cabinet. she pulled the box from under the sink and placed it on the table. letters. Photos. a cassette tape. a Ministry memo with blurred names and one redacted line that still Formionos twins bled through faintly: ΑΠΟΣΤΟΛΟΥ ΜΑΡΙΑ — ΥΠΟ ΠΑΡΑΚΟΛΟΥΘΗΣΗ. “This is the story,” she said quietly. “But it will not set you free.” eleni opened the lid like one might a casket. Kyria- ki touched her hand. “you’re part of it now,” she said. * * * * * * * That evening, they sat on the balcony. all three women. The apricot tree across the street had shed its fruit. The shadows were longer now, folding over Formionos street like old secrets. Below, a couple argued over rent. a boy rode his bike with fierce intent, as if time itself could be chased and caught. Maria spoke first. “i loved him. nikos. i did. i said no to him twice. once when he asked me to flee. and once when he asked me to betray someone else to save him. That second no... haunts me.” Thanos Kalamidas Kyriaki nodded. “We all carry our cowardice dif- ferently.” “i told him to wait. That the tide would turn.” “it never did,” eleni said softly. “no,” Maria whispered. “it swallowed him.” * * * * * * * night came. Maria went to bed early. Kyriaki stayed at the win- dow, tracing patterns in the condensation on the glass. eleni sat with the box in her lap, reading one of the letters again. The radio played an old protest song, too low to make out the lyrics. Then the quiet cracked. a sound from the bedroom. a sigh, a crash. They ran. Maria had collapsed near the foot of the bed. her face pale, peaceful. Kyriaki knelt. “Maria—?” Formionos twins eleni called the ambulance. But even before the si- rens came, they knew. Maria apostolou, daughter of Vyronas, keeper of secrets, twin without a twin was gone. * * * * * * * Kyriaki stayed in the apartment alone for six more months. she wrote letters to nikos’s sister, who never replied. she watched eleni speak on a podcast about family and history and memory, her face lit by the same fragile fire that had once burned in Maria. she didn’t watch it again. When the apartment was cleared, the journalist came. she asked if the balcony held any significance. Kyriaki looked out. “yes,” she said. “it held everything.” END Thanos Kalamidas Formionos twins Vyronas Chronicles Thanos Kalamidas Ovi eBook Publishing 2025 Ovi magazine Design: Thanos