restless; she was tall and beautiful and was waiting to burst out of the small world she felt stuck in. She married young, at sixteen, and moved with her husband, a mechanical engineering student, to South Africa. Their mutual wanderlust took them to Johannesburg at the peak of apartheid. Trapped in a marriage that was violent and abusive, Della became a model. She was a local sensation; delicately tall, blonde and olive-skinned, Della soon won an international contract with Wilhelmina models in New York. She eventually left her husband and returned to Greece, where at a dinner party she met and fell in love with Michael Roufogalis, General Roufogalis to the men who feared him.
Twenty-five years her senior, the General – head of the State Information Department, the most dreaded office in military-led Greece – proposed to Della and married her a mere three months before his government was overthrown, with the junta dictator President Papadopolous serving as Roufogalis’s best man at the Greek Orthodox ceremony. In their wedding pictures, Papadopolous is waving a finger at Della, looking beautiful with her hair temporarily dyed red, as if warning her of something (the dangers of marrying into thejunta? Probably not). She returns the dictator’s bizarre remonstration by smiling gracefully.
The police came to take General Roufogalis to jail early one morning in 1974. Under the new government’s courts, the General was found guilty of treason and given a life sentence. Della, the General’s new bride, immediately took to lobbying for her husband’s release both in Greece and abroad.
She spoke to Aristotle Onassis months before he died, and travelled to the United States to meet CIA representatives sympathetic to the jailed Greek junta. There was no real hope that she could get her husband’s life sentence lifted, he had already been spared the initial death sentence meted out to his colleagues, including the former Prime Minister, Papadopoulos, but Della wasn’t used to sitting back and letting the blows fall without offering some serious resistance. After his trial, General Roufogalis told his young wife to carry on living instead of fighting. ‘This will last for a long time,’ he told her. ‘How long, I don’t know . . . you’re young, you’re beautiful and you need companionship. Try to find someone of your calibre.’ 4 So she did, but not as he had requested; she honoured her commitment to her husband through her work. Carrying sensitive messages and organizing support from right-leaning governments and leaders around the world, Della believed she had a mission: she was the voice of the jailed Greek junta leaders, and she sought reversals of their sentences on the grounds that they were indicted under retrospective laws.
It was this charge that brought Della to London and seated her at a table in Trader Vic’s basement restaurant with the Somalian Ambassador. Trader Vic’s was always packed with an international clientele; it was the hottest place in town. The Pacific island feel of the restaurant, complete with rattan furniture and décor, meant Trader Vic’s served the meanest ribs in London and packed equally exotic cocktails into flower-laden goblets and punchbowls. The Ambassador asked Della if she wished to be introduced to Murtaza Bhutto, the young man she’d been exchanging glances with all night, but she replied that it wasn’t necessary; they didn’t have to cut their discussion short to make introductions. A little later Della excused herselfto go to the ladies, and when she came out, Murtaza was waiting for her. They swapped phone numbers and returned to their respective tables. As they were both leaving, the Ambassador approached Murtaza, enquired about his father and formally presented Della Roufogalis.
Murtaza called Della the next day at eleven in the morning and they arranged to meet for lunch back at Trader Vic’s. They spent the afternoon exchanging their life histories:
Twenty-five years her senior, the General – head of the State Information Department, the most dreaded office in military-led Greece – proposed to Della and married her a mere three months before his government was overthrown, with the junta dictator President Papadopolous serving as Roufogalis’s best man at the Greek Orthodox ceremony. In their wedding pictures, Papadopolous is waving a finger at Della, looking beautiful with her hair temporarily dyed red, as if warning her of something (the dangers of marrying into thejunta? Probably not). She returns the dictator’s bizarre remonstration by smiling gracefully.
The police came to take General Roufogalis to jail early one morning in 1974. Under the new government’s courts, the General was found guilty of treason and given a life sentence. Della, the General’s new bride, immediately took to lobbying for her husband’s release both in Greece and abroad.
She spoke to Aristotle Onassis months before he died, and travelled to the United States to meet CIA representatives sympathetic to the jailed Greek junta. There was no real hope that she could get her husband’s life sentence lifted, he had already been spared the initial death sentence meted out to his colleagues, including the former Prime Minister, Papadopoulos, but Della wasn’t used to sitting back and letting the blows fall without offering some serious resistance. After his trial, General Roufogalis told his young wife to carry on living instead of fighting. ‘This will last for a long time,’ he told her. ‘How long, I don’t know . . . you’re young, you’re beautiful and you need companionship. Try to find someone of your calibre.’ 4 So she did, but not as he had requested; she honoured her commitment to her husband through her work. Carrying sensitive messages and organizing support from right-leaning governments and leaders around the world, Della believed she had a mission: she was the voice of the jailed Greek junta leaders, and she sought reversals of their sentences on the grounds that they were indicted under retrospective laws.
It was this charge that brought Della to London and seated her at a table in Trader Vic’s basement restaurant with the Somalian Ambassador. Trader Vic’s was always packed with an international clientele; it was the hottest place in town. The Pacific island feel of the restaurant, complete with rattan furniture and décor, meant Trader Vic’s served the meanest ribs in London and packed equally exotic cocktails into flower-laden goblets and punchbowls. The Ambassador asked Della if she wished to be introduced to Murtaza Bhutto, the young man she’d been exchanging glances with all night, but she replied that it wasn’t necessary; they didn’t have to cut their discussion short to make introductions. A little later Della excused herselfto go to the ladies, and when she came out, Murtaza was waiting for her. They swapped phone numbers and returned to their respective tables. As they were both leaving, the Ambassador approached Murtaza, enquired about his father and formally presented Della Roufogalis.
Murtaza called Della the next day at eleven in the morning and they arranged to meet for lunch back at Trader Vic’s. They spent the afternoon exchanging their life histories:
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