Loaf of bread in hand, I held my breath and quickly made my way down into our basement. I placed a few scraps of bread and cheese on a table and looked deep into the darkness.
“Here’s your food,” I whispered and watched as three soldiers emerged, ready to gobble it up.
We were in the middle of World War II and the Nazis had taken control of Greece.
My husband, Dimitris, and I had decided to help some of the Italian soldiers fleeing the Germans by hiding them in our basement.
It was absolutely terrifying. If we were caught we would be killed, but Dimitris had strong morals. He made friends easily and as a Greek soldier himself he felt he owed it to these men to do everything he could.
“This war isn’t fair,” he said. “We need to save as many people as we can.”
It wasn’t the first time Dimitris and I had snuck around.
Back when we were just courting, we’d sneak into the basement of my parents’ house so we could talk a little more and get to know each other.
Our village, Kymi, was on a small Greek island, dotted with more olive trees than people and everyone knew everyone else. I made money for my family by stitching and mending clothes while Dimitris was renowned for his shoemaking business.
With deep brown eyes and a tall, muscly frame, he was the most sought-after bachelor.
Married life with him was bliss. One year after our wedding we were blessed with a daughter, Maria, and had another baby, George, right before the war.
Thankfully, my brave husband survived and every soldier we hid was able to return home to their family.
The Germans never caught us and they lost the war!
Dimitris and I had two more sons, Antoni and Yiannis, nicknamed John. We had a good life in our village, but as our children grew older they wanted to experience more than Greece had to offer.
Maria got engaged to a Greek-Australian man and moved to Perth. She loved Australia so much she convinced John to go over, too.
After a big discussion, Dimitris and I decided to join them.
Maria and her husband had organised our visas so we were able to settle in immediately and, within a few years, our other sons, Antoni and George, made the move, too.
I fell in love with Perth. The excitement and bustle of the city enthralled me, and the people were so friendly.
Trying to get a grip on the English language was very difficult, but I had enough family in Perth that I could still rely on communicating mostly in Greek. Dimitris fitted right into the Aussie way of life.
We kept busy, helping our kids with the fish and chip shop they bought. Soon we had plenty of grandchildren to look after. I knitted thick woollen booties for each of them.
Our family continued to grow and by the time we reached our 80s we also had great-grandchildren.
But one day Dimitris found blood in his urine. I wasn’t worried as Dimitris never smoked or drank, but what the doctor found shocked us.
“You have liver cancer,” he said grimly. “You don’t have long to live.”
I was in shock. We had been married for more than 50 years.
Luckily, he was able to stay at home and although it was hard to watch the love of my life deteriorate, I cared for him every day. But three months after his diagnosis, he was in worse shape than ever.
I knew I was losing him. We took him to the hospital and my daughter in-law, Soula, sat with me throughout the night. We held Dimitris’s hand as he slipped away.
Maria was nice enough to let me move in with her, even though it was hard on her and I was extremely grateful. Life continued on as it always had and I kept sewing tapestries and knitting clothes for my family.
When I reached my 100th birthday, we gathered for a huge family lunch at a traditional Greek restaurant.
I was even reunited with my sister, Lili, who I hadn’t seen since I left Greece! I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.
Although my mind was still quick my body started to get frailer as more years passed.
One day, when I was 108, I slipped over and broke my left hip.
“We have to operate, but the chances are not good,” the doctor told me.
He said I had only a 20 per cent chance of surviving.
Despite the risks the doctors operated and I was surprised when, hours later, I woke up.
“God’s forgotten about me,” I moaned, as 30 members of my family crowded around my bed. “How am I still living?”
“It’s okay to go,” my granddaughter Nicole whispered tearfully. “We love you and we’re so lucky to have had you this long.”
It was a hard battle and the surgery took a lot out of me. I was put in an aged care home.
My children and grandchildren set up a roster so that each of them visited me for a meal every day.
When my last birthday came around and I was still kicking, everyone was shocked, especially me!
We had a big family celebration at the home. Even a reporter and photographer from the local paper visited.
“Congratulations,” Soula cheered as she enveloped me in a hug. “You’ve made it to 110!”
“Don’t be silly,” I hushed. “If I was that old I’d be dead.”
I can’t believe I’ve been lucky enough to make it this far.
Now I have 12 grandchildren, 25 great-grandchildren, and my first great-great-grandchild is on the way. They’re all worried my mind will fade away.
“Do you remember me?” they say every time they visit.
Sometimes I play a little joke on them and pretend I have no idea who they are. I might have lived through two world wars and two centuries but I’ve learnt it’s important to have a laugh!
