Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

  Such was Markos’s rage that he hardly felt the pain in his shoulder. He swung his foot as hard as he could at the policeman’s knee and instantly found himself free. The priest made a grab for his hair, but Markos ducked under his arm and ran for the side streets.

  ‘Oi!’ a voice called from a half-open door. ‘Hide in here.’

  Markos saw a youth in a ragged striped shirt. He hesitated, then ducked into the building. The door was slammed shut and bolted. He found himself in a shady, high-walled courtyard with four other youths and two girls.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, staring around.

  ‘I ask the questions around here,’ the one in the striped shirt said. ‘Why were they chasing you?’ The other lads joined their leader, blocking Markos’s escape.

  He glanced at the surrounding wall, doubting he could scale the height before they grabbed his ankles. ‘I guess I got a little heavy-handed with the church door.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  Suddenly weary, Markos noticed a bale of clover next to an empty rabbit hutch. He sat down slowly, his back against the courtyard wall.

  ‘Because I wanted to light a candle for Mama, my three sisters and my baby brother. I buried them yesterday.’ He turned his head, fighting his emotions. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘We’re from the orphanage. They kick you out when you’re sixteen.’

  ‘And the house?’

  ‘Jews. I doubt they’ll be back any time soon.’

  ‘Why did you help me?’

  ‘I have my eye out for a good runner, someone small.’

  ‘I’m not small!’

  ‘You’re smaller than us, my friend. I’m Sotiris.’ He reached out and shook Markos’s hand. ‘If it’s revenge you want, you can join us.’

  ‘I’m Markos,’ he returned. ‘What do you mean, join you? Who are you, part of the Barefoot Brigade?’ He had heard of this highly organised bunch of boys. The Barefoot Brigade had stolen from the Axis, informers and black-marketeers, and given their booty to the needy, often saving the lives of the starving.

  ‘Not exactly. We are, what you might call, their older brothers. We do as much damage to our dictators and oppressors as possible.’ He stared at Markos for a moment. ‘You can run, and I saw your courage, kicking the policeman like that. We need you. Will you join us, brother?’

  Markos stared at the scruffy group and thought of his dear mother buried under the earth. The idea of belonging drew him. He felt so lonely, without Mama and his siblings, and now Papa was angry all the time, throwing things, yelling at Markos. He almost wished he had been in the house with his mother when the bomb dropped.

  Perhaps if he helped to commit some great act of revenge, his father would be proud of him and forgive him for being the only survivor.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Not so fast. First you will take the oath at midnight, at the start of a new day in Athens. Now eat, meet the others and get some rest. There’s rusk, herbs and water inside.’

  *

  At midnight, Sotiris and the other youths crept back to the church of the Sainted Mother. Two kept watch as Sotiris picked the lock, then they slipped inside and closed the door. Each crossed himself three times, then hurried to an icon of Saint George slaying the dragon.

  ‘Kiss the saint, place one hand on the icon and the other on your heart,’ Sotiris whispered. Markos did as instructed. ‘Now, repeat after me – “I swear with my life to keep the secrets of our group, and obey orders without question”.’

  Markos repeated the oath.

  Sotiris continued. ‘“I swear to fight for the freedom of Athens from the clutches of the Allies, the Axis and the royalists. I swear to fight for the liberty of Greece, free to be ruled by the People, for the People”.’

  Markos thought the pledge so simple. He had to stop himself shouting the words. The People of Athens would not have bombed his home, killed his family, as the British had done. The People of Greece would not have cut off the city’s food supplies, as the Germans had. He recalled the begging skeletons on street corners, and the morning wagon piled high with those who had succumbed to starvation and perished in the night – some of the 300,000 innocent Athenians who had died on the city’s streets.

  At last Markos had a cause, a purpose, and he resolved to obey orders and fight the dragons that oppressed his Greek countrymen – those heartless warmongers who kept thousands of bellies craving for food, and those cowards that dropped their bombs from planes to kill mothers and nameless babies.

  At midnight on that fateful day, Markos Papas became a freedom fighter for the Communist Party.

  *

  Sofia, Athens, 1944.

  On the pavement outside the theatre ruins, I stared at the imprint of my mother’s kiss. My other hand was bunched into a fist, and when I opened it, I saw the barley sugar. I offered it to Big Yiannis. With a shake of his head, he reached into his pocket and pulled out another one. In unison, we pulled on the ends of the wax paper, unwrapped them, popped them into our mouths.

  After a few minutes, Big Yiannis said, ‘Stay here.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the smouldering theatre and got to his feet. ‘I’ll be back, child. Don’t move.’

  Stunned and confused, I found myself overcome by tremors. There was an awful wailing going on, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. ‘There, there,’ someone said, through the ringing in my ears. They placed a blanket around my shoulders and asked if I could stand. When I tried to thank them, I realised it was me making the dreadful racket.

  What had happened? Where were Mama, Papa and my brothers? I stared at the chaos; the line of bodies on the road grew ever longer. People were running, shouting about a bomb. The air-raid siren still wailed.

  Big Yiannis returned, his face streaked with dust and tears. ‘My wife!’ he cried. ‘I can’t even remember what she was wearing . . . and now she’s gone!’ He turned his big face to the sky as if searching for her.

  I wanted to comfort him, but I couldn’t speak. Rescuers were emerging from the dust and rubble, and I told myself Mama and Papa would appear at any moment. ‘We were looking for you,’ they would say, hugging me. The ringing in my ears would stop, and we would walk home together and drink cocoa before bed. We always had cocoa on very special occasions.

  Time dragged by, and my shivering calmed. Big Yiannis ambled away again. I tugged the blanket around me. After a while, a new thought struck me and I got to my feet. Mama and Papa would have gone home, of course. When they couldn’t find me, they’d have gone home to see if I was there.

  Big Yiannis returned. ‘Where are you going, Sofia?’

  ‘I have to go home, Mr Yianni. My parents will fret if I’m not there.’

  ‘Sit here, child. Someone from the orphanage will come for you.’

  The orphanage? That terrible place where children with no mother or father were kept? No, no. That wasn’t right. My family must have missed me in the confusion and returned home. I had to join them. They’d be expecting me. They’d be worried.

  A line of men passed lumps of masonry from the theatre to a lorry that had trundled over debris in the street. The man at the start of the chain shouted, ‘Doctor, here! We’ve got a woman – she’s alive.’

  But what if they weren’t at home?

  My head filled with terrible thoughts. Screaming ‘Mama! Papa!’, I raced along the line of rescue workers. Poor Mama, her dress would be ruined.

  Someone swooped me up and handed me to a man wearing a Red Cross helmet.

  ‘Now, now. You can’t go in there, little girl. Don’t fret, we’ll look after you.’

  He carried me to a covered wagon and placed me on one of the two benches inside. I recognised some of the staff from the foyer. The concierge held a wad against his face, blood trickling down his arm. One of the ushers wore a bandage around his head, covering his eyes. The woman who sold tickets had both her arms in splints.

  ‘Did you see my mama?’ I asked th
e concierge. ‘Did you see her?’

  He exchanged a glance with the ticket seller and made a shake of his head. My tears broke free. I searched for my hankie but it had gone, so I used my fingertips to brush them away. Someone thrust the tailgate up and bolted it. The engine started with a shudder. I peered out of the back and saw Big Yiannis standing alone in the crowd. His head hung down, shoulders hunched. The big man appeared utterly defeated.

  ‘Mr Yianni, please!’

  He lifted his head and peered from under heavy brows.

  ‘Mr Yianni, it’s me – Sofia! Please! Don’t let them take me! Please!’

  The wagon started creeping forward. I jumped onto the bench, put one foot on the top of the tailgate, and leaped.

  Mr Yianni caught me, staggering backwards. I clung to his neck.

  ‘Don’t let them take me to the orphanage, please!’

  I felt his chest shudder against me.

  ‘Oh, Sofia, you should go with them. What can I do?’

  ‘Take me home, Mr Yianni, please. My parents – they’ll be there, they’ll come.’

  We stood for a moment, surrounded by mayhem. He rocked me from side to side.

  ‘Do you have a key?’

  At last, there was hope. I nodded, remembering the emergency key buried under the bougainvillea. I would go home, and tonight would be undone. Mama would be there, Papa, my brothers. Everything would be all right.

  CHAPTER 6

  ZOË

  London, present day.

  ZOË TURNED HER PHONE OFF and worked through the morning’s court files: one car theft; two shoplifting offences; threatening behaviour in possession of a knife; and one second offence for prostitution. She thought about the coming weekend. She and Josh were going to restart their search for Megan.

  Her son was the steady one of the family. Not artistic or excitable like Megan, he simply buckled down and got on with his work. Zoë was looking forward to spending Saturday afternoon with him, even though it meant eating in a burger bar.

  Staring at her hands, she noticed the pale band of skin on her ring finger, strangely bloodless after twenty years in the dark. That wide gold wedding ring lay buried in her purse. Rest in peace, old friend. Memories of the day she and Frank bought it came back, and she smiled. It hadn’t been all bad. Later, the symbol of never-ending love would be in a jeweller’s window, and the love it represented would be living in a flat ten miles away.

  It seemed impossible that they were breaking up, after twenty years together, but they both agreed that life had become impossible. All they had done since Megan left was snipe at each other. Zoë had found she was constantly testing how far she could push Frank. He, on the other hand, had only talked about work, barely listening to her worries about their daughter.

  Zoë stared at the offender’s file again. A sixteen-year-old prostitute. Dealing with youth prostitution was difficult. Vulnerable kids with complex emotional problems. She saw the need in their eyes, the hopelessness disguised as anger.

  Megan was only one year older than this girl. She frowned, wondered . . .

  Somebody knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in!’

  Don stuck his head around the door. ‘Morning, Zoë, can I have a word?’

  Zoë stood up. ‘Sure, come in.’

  His usual smile was absent as he came round the desk and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Sit down, Zoë.’ He bit his lip, the beard bristling below his mouth. ‘Take a breath.’

  Zoë felt the blood drain from her face. She stared into his eyes, fear building.

  ‘What is it? Is it . . . ? It’s Megan . . . ?’

  Don nodded, then shook his head, clearly emotional.

  ‘Christ, tell me!’ The question surfaced. ‘She’s alive, Don? She is, isn’t she?’

  He nodded, and a smile came to his lips.

  Although anguished, her body felt numb.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’s all right, Zoë. Take it easy.’

  Countless days and nights of dread were lifted from her in seconds.

  ‘Where is she? I have to go to her. I have to tell Josh – has anyone told Josh?’

  ‘No. We’ve just received a call from the Met. Yours and Frank’s phones were turned off, and you must have given my office number as a work contact.’

  Six whole months of hope and bottled feelings overwhelmed Zoë.

  ‘She is alive, Don. Tell me again! Tell me I’m not dreaming.’

  ‘She’s alive.’ He sat on the edge of her desk. ‘I’ve postponed court for an hour and called Pritchard in. There’s a rail strike, so Janis has booked you a flight to Manchester. You’ll be there in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Manchester? What’s Megan doing up north? You’re sure it’s Megan? It’s been so long. I couldn’t take it if . . .’

  ‘She’s been remanded for shoplifting. Don’t worry, she’s safe. Not talking – but she’s safe. It’s definitely her. They found her passport and birth certificate in her bag.’

  *

  Don drove Zoë to Heathrow from the court. She called Frank on the way, but his secretary answered.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Johnson, he’s in a meeting. Can I give him a message?’

  Damn. ‘It’s important – I need to speak to him now.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Zoë balled her fist, trying to contain her frustration. She needed him. If she couldn’t have his arms around her – and God knew she could do with the strength of him at her side at that moment – then at least she should be able to tell him this news herself. She drew in a breath, hating the barrier of his job that so often came between them.

  ‘Tell him they’ve found his daughter,’ she said into the phone, and then ended the call. A harsh thing to do, perhaps, but their children were more important than any job. She should always be the exception to his ‘no interruptions’ rule.

  Zoë felt ashamed when she remembered what he was working on: reuniting refugee kids with their parents.

  ‘There’re thousands of them,’ he’d told her last week, when they met at Josh’s parents’ evening. ‘They’re stressed and frightened, and their parents are frantic to find them and get them back. You can’t imagine what they’re going through.’

  ‘Of course I know what they’re going through,’ she’d snapped back. ‘Have you forgotten our own daughter already?’

  ‘God, no! Don’t twist things around, Zoë. We’re privileged, and have everyone on our side looking for Megan. Those people have nobody to fight for them.’

  Now she wanted to thump him, or put her arms around him. Her emotions had gone haywire since the day Megan disappeared. The months after she ran away had been unbearable. The relentless loneliness she felt in her search had led to depression, pills to help her sleep and far too much to drink. Since Frank left, afraid of her own actions, Zoë had refused to have alcohol in the house.

  The truth was, she wanted Frank so badly – and yet whenever he was near, he became the target for her anger and frustration. She could hear herself sniping at him, not satisfied until he retaliated and some small incident turned into a blazing row. Life had been unbearable for them both, and poor Josh had spent most of his home life locked in his bedroom, gaming.

  Zoë was utterly destroyed when Frank finally announced it would be better for everyone if he moved out for a while, three months ago. She didn’t want him to go, couldn’t stand to lose someone else that she loved – and yet she couldn’t say it. Her outrage and fear of what might have happened to Megan always got in the way.

  She called Trisha, who offered to drop everything and go up north with her – but the plane left at noon, Trisha wouldn’t make it across the city and besides, Zoë wanted to be alone. Trisha said she understood and agreed to collect Josh from school and then take him to Frank’s. Call waiting beeped.

  ‘Sorry, got to go, Trisha.’

  ‘Hello, darling,’ Frank said.

  Zoë’s heart t
umbled over at the sound of this old endearment.

  ‘They’ve found her, Frank. She’s alive . . .’ A sob escaped before she could stop it. ‘She’s in Manchester. I’m nearly at the airport, on my way up north.’

  ‘I know, Don texted me. I can be there this evening. Would you like me to come?’

  Be nice, be nice! Zoë told herself. Of course she wanted him to come!

  ‘Look, you’re busy and, who knows, we’ll probably be on our way back later today. I’ll call you as soon as I understand the situation. I can’t tell you how relieved I am.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s the most amazing news.’ After a moment of silence, he murmured, ‘It’s been hell, hasn’t it?’

  *

  In Heathrow’s departure lounge, Zoë stared into a gift shop window. What do you buy a seventeen-year-old whom you haven’t seen for months? She placed one hand over the other and pressed them against her chest, imagining the weight of Megan’s body as she hugged her.

  Nothing in the shops seemed suitable, but then she spotted an elegant page-a-day diary. Megan loved writing, and from her poems and songs, Zoë recognised her talent. The diary would be perfect for her jottings, so she bought it along with a stupidly expensive pen. While the assistant gift-wrapped them, Zoë imagined Megan recording the great times that awaited her once she returned home. They would shop together, eat at McDonald’s and talk, talk, talk. But Megan was practically an adult now – Zoë swapped McDonald’s for a grown-up lunch in a wine bar. The thought made her incredibly happy.

  Of course, there was much they had to discuss. Why had Megan run away? In her work as a youth magistrate, Zoë had heard many reasons from the kids themselves. Almost every instance could be worked through and resolved, and not one was worthy of the trauma inflicted on those who loved the runaway. They could sort out their differences, of that she felt confident.

  Her mobile rang as she walked towards the gate. Uplifted and eager, she saw Don’s name on the screen.

  ‘Zoë, there’s no easy way to say this so I won’t fanny about. It might not be Megan.’