The grocery singer Thanos Kalamidas 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.” The grocery singer 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 The grocery singer The grocery singer 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 The grocery singer V yronas lay like a tired body in the heat, the old apartments slumping under television antennas, shutters closed halfway like eyes that didn’t want to wake. The street where Thodoris worked bent softly at the end, as if curving to avoid something, perhaps memory, or perhaps the noise of the city beyond. Thodoris stepped barefoot into the cool shade of the grocery shop, his skin still warm from carry- ing the tomatoes from the truck. The wooden crate thumped onto the scale. “Μην τα πετάς έτσι, ρε!” old yiannis leaned over the counter, his belly nearly toppling the stack of oranges. “Do you know what the athenians pay for these in Kolonaki? you throw them like they’re stones at a dog.” Thanos Kalamidas Thodoris lowered his eyes. “They’re not bruised.” “and your voice. That again. it was ‘Χαρά μου είσαι’ this morning. louder than the church bell.” “i didn’t notice,” Thodoris said, brushing tomato juice from his palms. “of course you didn’t. you never notice. Because your head’s in the clouds. Clouds don’t pay rent.” yiannis was always like this in the heat, sweaty, irritable, eyes like small spoons that scooped disap- pointment out of everyone. But his anger was tired, too, and Thodoris had learned to fold it away like leftover bread. he turned to stack the tomatoes on the display, humming low under his breath. not even a song, just sound, born from the movement of his body. a kind of hope shaped by vowels. a woman entered with a straw hat and a bag heavy with eggplants. Mrs. Despina from next door. “Αχ, παιδί μου, φωνή έχεις σαν το γιασεμί όταν ανθίζει,” she said softly. “you make even my old bones dance.” The grocery singer yiannis threw her a look, then turned toward the till with exaggerated purpose. “Madam, are you shopping or attending a concert?” Despina laughed. “you should be thankful, yian- nis. People come here because they know the boy sings. The potatoes are rotten, but the serenade is fresh.” * * * * * * * at home, the table was set for five, though only three plates would be touched. his sister, Katia, laid the forks with military precision, as if she were ready for a march. she was seventeen, already full of adult disappointments. his mother, Marina, stood by the stove, stirring lentils, her face sweaty and resolute. The scent of cumin filled the narrow kitchen, along with the hiss of pressure from the pot. “Did yiannis shout again?” Marina asked. “not really,” Thodoris said, placing his elbow against the window sill. “same as always.” “you should come work at the pharmacy with your uncle. Clean work. Better hours.” Thanos Kalamidas Katia snorted. “let him sing. That’s what he wants, no?” Marina shot her a look. “you don’t understand,” Thodoris muttered. “enlighten me, oh artist,” Katia said, smirking. Thodoris stood, suddenly angry. “you think it’s just noise. But it’s something. it’s not just what i do...” “it’s who you are, yes yes,” Katia said, mocking his tone. “you sound like Father.” The word lingered. he sat again. * * * * * * * That night, when the heat lifted just enough to breathe, Thodoris found the photograph box under his mother’s bed. he took it quietly, like a thief, and crept out to the balcony. The wooden shutters folded back like palms opening. in the box were black-and-white faces. his grand- father, eliezer, with a moustache like a crow’s wing. The grocery singer his father, Thanasis, in the front row of a school re- cital, mouth open in song. and a man he never met, a cousin, maybe, or great-uncle, with a violin in one hand and a cigarette in the other, staring off as if waiting for someone to return from war. Most of them had fled smyrna, he’d been told. in pieces. in boats. in silence. But some of them had brought music in their mouths. Thodoris didn’t know how to read history. he only felt it when he sang. * * * * * * * The next morning, the shop was busier than usual. The fishmonger across the street had finally closed down, leaving his place smelling like ghosts and sar- dines. everyone, it seemed, came to the grocer in- stead. Two men sat in the corner drinking souroti from small glass bottles. one was short and wore a cor- duroy blazer despite the heat. The other was taller, silent, with a face like a closed gate. Thodoris sang as he arranged apples. Thanos Kalamidas «Είχα ένα όνειρο, όνειρο μικρό...» he began, soft- ly. his voice crept into the corners, curved around the shelves, reached for ears like a cat looking for warmth. The short man nudged the tall one. “That’s the boy?” The tall man nodded once. “Better than the last one.” They paid for nothing. Just left. yiannis came out of the back, wiping his hands on his apron. “Did they speak to you?” “no.” “They’re not from here. They smell like Kolonaki.” “Who are they?” yiannis hesitated. “erT, maybe. or worse. What does it matter?” But Thodoris saw the look in his eyes. not worry, calculation. * * * * * * * The grocery singer That night, the kitchen erupted. “you’re not going anywhere!” Marina cried, slam- ming a pot onto the table. “it’s just a program, μάνα. one song,” Thodoris said. “yiannis knows someone who knows someone. They just want to hear.” “you don’t know who hears, that’s the problem!” she barked. “Do you think music saves you from pol- itics? From memory?” Katia lit a cigarette. “he should go. Better than rot- ting here with lentils and lectures.” “you don’t understand,” Marina said, turning on her. “They look for boys with voices. and when they’re done with them, they drop them.” “like Father?” Katia said softly. Marina froze. “like he was some pebble in their shoe?” Katia continued. “you never said what happened. you said he went for music. Then nothing.” The silence turned into air too thick to breathe. Thanos Kalamidas “he went to the Party first,” Marina whispered. “Then the music. and then he disappeared. The voice carried him away.” Thodoris stood slowly. The room had become an oven, a church, a prison. “i’m going anyway.” no one stopped him. * * * * * * * he stood at the corner of the street, in front of the old butcher’s shop, waiting. a van came. Grey. Un- marked. inside, there were microphones. a man who asked no questions. another who adjusted the levels. yian- nis sat beside him, oddly quiet. “you’ll sing just once,” someone said. “Then we’ll see.” and so he did. he closed his eyes. sang like water climbing stone. sang for the tomatoes, for the fig tree, for his father’s violin, for the ghosts who had walked from the ashes of smyrna and left behind their sounds. The grocery singer and when it ended, no one applauded. They just looked at him, quiet. as if they were counting something invisible. as if they had been given a prophecy they didn’t know how to handle. * * * * * * * The day after the recording, Vyronas carried on as if no song had ever been sung. The streets buzzed with the usual hum of motorbikes, delivery men yell- ing about souvlaki orders, the elderly sitting like for- gotten saints outside the kafenio, nursing memories with their coffee. The sun didn’t shine any differently. But something in Thodoris had shifted, as if a string had been plucked deep inside, and the vibration would never leave him. yiannis gave him a curt nod and a day off, which was stranger than any compliment. at home, the table was silent. Marina folded the laundry without looking at him. Katia had left a note: “I’ve gone to Glyfada with Giorgos. Don’t wait up un- less you want to be bored.” Thanos Kalamidas he sat in the courtyard, beside the hydrangea his mother watered religiously every Thursday. a stray cat leapt into his lap, curled into his warmth without asking. From the radio inside, a folk song drifted out, a bouzouki dragging its heart across the strings. he waited. The call came on Tuesday. a woman’s voice, controlled, velvet and a clipped greeting: “Mr. Thodoris Giannopoulos? your voice has been selected for broadcast. Tomorrow. Come to the erT building. 8 a.m. Do not be late.” That was all. no encouragement. no celebration. Just a direc- tion, like orders from a general. * * * * * * * That night, Marina set down a letter across the ta- ble. The paper yellowed at the edges, the envelope brittle like old secrets. “i kept this,” she said. “i shouldn’t have.” he opened it carefully. it was addressed to her. Written in hurried, almost broken handwriting, as if The grocery singer the writer had to get the words out before someone arrived. Marina mou, if they take me, it won’t be for the Party. it’ll be for the song i sang in Komotini. i knew i shouldn’t have performed it. But i couldn’t help it. The colonel was there. he looked at me like i had confessed some- thing. if Thodoris ever sings, tell him to watch who lis- tens. Your Thanasis his fingers trembled. The cat purred. “Why now?” he asked. “Because it’s happening again,” she said. “and this time, you might not come back.” * * * * * * * The erT building rose behind iron gates and mir- rored windows, cold, official, like it had been pulled from a different athens. Uniformed guards stood at attention, not soldiers, but close enough. Thanos Kalamidas Thodoris walked in with his shoes polished and a knot in his throat. a man with a clipboard took his name. a woman handed him a paper with lyrics not his song, but one they’d chosen: “Η Πατρίδα μιλά” he barely had time to read it before he was pushed into a small recording booth. outside the glass, three men watched. he recognized one of them: the tall man from the shop. The other two wore dark suits. They spoke soft- ly, like priests deciding a penance. “start when ready,” the technician said. he took a breath. The microphone in front of him smelled faintly of metal and old cologne. his reflec- tion stared back from the glass. he began. The song was heavy, formal, filled with words like honour, soil, flag, sacrifice. he didn’t feel it in his chest like his own music. it stuck to his throat like chalk. But still, he sang it. The training of his body knew what to do. When he was done, they didn’t clap. The grocery singer They nodded. one of the suited men scribbled something. Then they opened the door. “Come with us,” the tall man said. * * * * * * * The room they led him to was windowless and qui- et. There was only one chair. he sat. “i knew your father,” the tall man said. The words dropped like weights into a still pond. “he sang at a gathering in ’66. a song about the uprising. Unapproved. he didn’t understand, back then, that everything is politics in this country. even silence. especially music.” Thodoris said nothing. “you sing well,” the man continued. “But the voice belongs to the state now. you understand?” he didn’t nod. The man leaned in. “We’ll take care of you. But you don’t get to choose the songs.” Thanos Kalamidas There was a knock. The door opened. a different man entered, older, in a grey linen jacket. his pres- ence shifted the air, like a draft in a sealed room. he placed a folder on the table and opened it. in- side was a photo, Thanasis, younger than Thodoris, smiling on a makeshift stage, a microphone in his hand. “your father was a beautiful fool,” the man said. Thodoris looked at the photo. “and you?” he lifted his head. “i’m not a fool,” he said. “Then you’ll sing for us?” “i’ll sing,” he said. “But not for you.” The man chuckled softly, without mirth. “every- one sings for someone.” * * * * * * * he never told Marina exactly what happened The grocery singer that day. he came home with his shoulders stiff, a new cassette in his pocket. The song on it wasn’t his choice. But it was his voice. When they played it on the radio a week later, yiannis cried in the back of the store, muttering something about his own mother who used to sing to the soldiers. People stopped Thodoris on the street. They said his voice gave them chills. That it reminded them of something lost. a country. a time. a promise. But none of them knew the cost. * * * * * * * one evening, years later, he stood on a stage in Thessaloniki, singing to a crowd of hundreds. The lights blurred the faces. But in the front row, there was an old woman in a black dress. her hands folded like a prayer. as he sang the final verse, a quiet one, not on the state’s list, but one his father had written long ago, she nodded. slowly. as if remembering a vow. and when he finished, there was no applause. only a long, slow silence. like a note held in the heart too long. Thanos Kalamidas he walked offstage without bowing. outside, the wind had picked up. Jasmine bloomed in the alleyway. The night air carried the scent of something ancient and unresolved. Thodoris lit a cigarette with shaking hands. Then, he sang... to no one, to himself, to his father. and no one stopped him. THE END