Harvest, 1917.

My dear, with this and that the Allies' goal has been achieved and I am dying of anxiety. From now on, please write to me more often, and don't frown! The live-fire exercises confirmed our combat readiness. The bombardments (live fire) officially began, as you know better. I am enraged by the Entente for what it has imposed with a knife to our throats, and now we belong to its war machine. I remain, of course, by the side of the Liberals, but I no longer trust anyone. In Athens, it is said that lower and higher judges have become blind instruments of the raging Militarization. The charge of "high treason" is pronounced every day against hundreds of citizens whose only crime is being with Venizelos. There are even executions in cold blood...

Vintage, 1922.

The refugees fear the ships less than they fear the people. Greeks in Greece have not felt like it. Perhaps in Volos. The port is filled with mournfully dressed individuals. A black wave. Among the crowd, Valasia is looking for her son. She holds a photo of him from when he wore short pants. “Is my Leonidas with you? Is he with you? Have you seen this young man!” Elderly people with limited hearing are moved. He resembles their own brave ones who stayed behind, and they are encouraged. They think their children arrived here before them. A painful misunderstanding, and they drag their steps without caring where, charred. The wailing sounds frenzied...