He gave me a mock salute, ‘Yes, chef. I’ll certainly follow orders. Now, can we get on with business or do you want me to finish peeling spuds and washing-up first?’
‘You can sit over there, out of my way,’ I pointed to the little table with four chairs to one side of the kitchen, which I planned would one day become the so-called chef’s table, where guests would pay a premium to dine in the heightened atmosphere of a working kitchen and sample a tasting menu of my latest creations. ‘Just sit down and stay put while I finish this off.’ I sprinkled oil and seasoning over the artichokes and wiped down the countertop. I was meticulous about cleaning work areas and had to clear away as I finished each task. It helped me to feel in control and concentrate. Then I brewed coffee and brought it to the table with a plate of little sugary madeleines I’d made earlier.
‘Any luck?’ I said, looking at the fat file Greg had just opened. It was full of documents, copies of old deeds by the look of it, and faded maps.
‘I’ve asked Dimitri to join us. With his help, we should be able to throw a bit more light on this stuff. It’s as I suspected, all very complicated. A whole tangled mess of land transactions over the years. All interbred, like most of the peasants round here.’ He showed me a rough map, very similar to the one we’d seen when buying our house. ‘This is you,’ he said, stabbing at a section which someone had coloured in with a red pen, ‘and over here, this is the area we’re thinking about.’
‘What are all those lines criss-crossing over it?’
‘That’s the problem. Are they historic or are these parcels of land still owned separately?’ Greg sighed and showed me the stack of papers accompanying his maps. ‘My guy thinks the land isn’t registered to anyone actually still alive now, and that something similar to common land rights has been exercised in the past. But we can’t be absolutely sure, so that’s why I’ve asked Dimitri over.’
‘Are you sure he’ll be able to help?’ I looked at the documents, with their faded handwritten scribbles. ‘It’s all in Greek.’
‘Yeah, it’s all Greek to me too.’ He thumped the table with a whoop of delight. ‘But it won’t be to him, will it? Hah!’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
11 June 1944
‘Papa, wake up. Some people are leaving. Where are they going?’ Rebekka stands up, stretching on the tips of her toes, trying to see what is happening. There is a commotion on the far side of the fort quadrangle, where steps and slopes carved into the rock lead down to a harbour.
Soldiers are pushing groups of people forward and shouting. When a woman drops her sack and tries to turn back for it, she is hit with the butt of a rifle and the soldier kicks her possessions to one side as she stumbles forwards.
Papa groans and shakes himself awake from his uncomfortable sleep. They have been lying on the hard dirt floor of the fort for two nights and lumpy sacks and bundles make poor pillows. The cool night air has been a welcome relief after the scorching heat of the day, but their bones ache and their stomachs growl with hunger.
‘Sit down, child. I will try to see what’s happening.’ He crawls to the side of the terrace, between the tightly packed half-sleeping bodies. Some grumble as he kneels on a foot or a hand, some are already awake and on their knees swaying, eyes closed in prayer. A weeping woman is clutching an unresponsive grey-skinned baby to her breast and another group is singing softly.
‘What can you see?’ Rebekka calls, as he peers round the corner of the wall in the direction of the departing crowd. He doesn’t reply, but creeps back, and she can tell by his expression that it isn’t good news.
‘I can’t really see anything, but I heard them say that they have to wait for more boats,’ he says. ‘The first groups are being loaded onto boats now. Let us hope we won’t have to wait much longer and wherever we go will be better than here.’
Rebekka huddles closer to her mother. She doesn’t like being imprisoned in the Old Fort and already there are signs of sickness and death. But now she fears leaving. All her short life she has lived in their house in Corfu Town, in the rooms above her father’s shop, where swallows nest in the eaves and call to each other as they return each night. She has attended the synagogue in Vellissariou Street, fetched provisions for her mother, called on the baker and delivered repaired shoes for her father, but she has never left the island, never travelled by boat and never been parted from her family. She hopes that whatever happens she will never be parted from Mama and Papa and she prays she will see Matilde and Anna again one day.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
March 2007
Amber
Much as I loved our new home, delighting in all we had achieved, I still relished escaping to visit Inge and Marian. Mountain Thyme was wonderful but it wasn’t yet peaceful, with workmen still completing various jobs around the place. As I left, one builder was hammering at the pergola over the terrace and another was drilling with an angle grinder into a slab of stone, filling the air with piercing screeches and blue smoke. But when I finally reached the Mill à la Mer early in the afternoon – after the long drive down through the hills, the straight road into Corfu Town and a successful shopping trip in which I purchased not only sensible comfortable white pants but also less sensible black lace – I knew I would find peace.
As I climbed the long flight of stone steps to their living quarters, I saw that they had hung their birdcage outside on the wide balcony to catch the sun. The two little green and yellow parakeets chirped and hopped, then nuzzled each other. Marian had told me they used to keep a rabbit on the balcony, but that the birds were less trouble, and Inge had added, ‘She means they don’t bite through the wires. Our naughty kaninchen, she loved to chew the telephone wire. And we wondered why we never had any phone calls.’
Inge was resting on the balcony terrace, her thin legs stretched out on a faded cushioned lounger, her shoulders, despite the spring sunshine, wrapped in a shawl. ‘Darling,’ she croaked, letting her cigarette smoulder in her fingers, ‘how wonderful to see you.’ She waved her hand, smoke trailing. ‘And I have you all to myself. Marian is working at the other shop today.’
‘I can go if you want to rest,’ I said. ‘I know I hadn’t warned you I was coming, but I just thought I’d drop by on my way back.’
‘No, stay, please. I’m tired of resting. Stay and talk to me. Talking will stop me smoking any more.’ She stubbed out her cigarette in a dish already filled with half a dozen fag ends. ‘What refreshment shall we have now? Did you eat?’
‘Don’t worry about me. I already grabbed some lunch in town. But I can get you something if you want. Just tell me what you’d like me to do.’
But she was already easing herself off the lounger and getting to her feet. ‘Come with me. Let us see what we can find.’ She led the way into their kitchen and dining area and opened a large cupboard, then took down a dented and scratched green cake tin. ‘Gut, we are in luck. Marian always takes some cake with her to work, but there is still enough here for us two.’ She showed me the contents of the tin. ‘Apfelkuchen. It is quite good cold, but we shall have it warm, just as my mother used to.’ She switched on the oven and pushed the pieces of cake inside on a baking tray, then looked inside the little fridge. ‘We should really eat it with schlagsahne or crème fraîche, but here,’ she picked up a plastic tub, ‘Greek yogurt will do just as well.’
Then Inge began to cough, holding onto the back of a chair for support, so I made her sit down while I boiled water to make coffee for her and tea for me. She told me where to find cups and plates and soon we were sitting with warm cake in front of us, each piece dusted with icing sugar and crowned with a dollop of yogurt. The moist sweet cake was better for the sharpness of the apples and had a hint of cinnamon. ‘I remember Marian praising this,’ I said, ‘when you came up to see the restaurant early in the year.’
Inge smiled as she broke the cake into pieces with her fork. ‘Such an exciting project, for you both. I understand how very special it is to share l
ove and work. Marian, she is my partner in business as well as in life.’
‘You’ve been together a long time, haven’t you? And Marian told me about how when you came here, you worked for the old couple who originally owned the shop. How long ago was that?’
‘So many years,’ Inge murmured, half closing her eyes. ‘Dear Agata, darling Georgiou. They were so sweet, so caring, and I shall never forget them. I owe everything to them and will do my best to respect and honour all they did for me and for others. And when I am finally gone, Marian will take over everything.’
I knew I shouldn’t pry, but I couldn’t resist. ‘Do you mean you’ll leave the shop to her?’
‘Of course. It is hers now anyway, I have seen to that. And the mountain shop is all hers too. She is the one who has had the ideas and the energy in recent years. I owe it to her to make sure she will be able to continue after I’ve gone, which will not be much longer now.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t talk like that.’
Inge shrugged. ‘But it is true. I have to accept that. And one day, when you know you don’t have much longer either, you too will want to think about what you will leave behind. You will give your favourite jewellery to your children; you will want a cousin to have your silver hairbrush and a friend to have the vase she has always admired. It is a time to be truthful and tell those you care about how much you love them.’
‘Is that what you feel you are doing now?’ I’d eaten only a little of the cake; I couldn’t manage to eat while she was in this mood.
‘There is only Marian. She is the one I care for most and she will have everything I possess. But,’ she hesitated and looked at me, ‘I worry that she will be alone, and the fact is I know she will almost certainly be on her own, for it is most unlikely she will find another partner to share her life. So I hope she will always have good friends around her.’
I nodded. ‘Of course she will. You mustn’t worry about that.’
She smiled. ‘And I hope she will have someone who can share with her my legacy in telling the truth.’
I was puzzled. ‘Telling the truth?’
‘Telling the truth about the past.’ She sighed. ‘For a long time I couldn’t do it. Tell the truth, I mean. Then, as I came to realise that time would disappear, I decided I should face it.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
She smiled at me. ‘Eat, meine kleine Mädchen, and I will tell you. I’ll tell you the story of how I came to live and work here, how I learnt what it means to be good and how I have tried to honour the memory of two brave people, Agata and Georgiou.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
March 2007
James
While Dimitri and Greg were hunched over the documents, I peeled potatoes to roast next to the lamb and rinsed freshly picked greens to wilt in garlic and oil. There was intense discussion between the two men and, what with the noise of both the boiling water in the pan on the hob and running water from the tap, I caught very little of what they were saying. When I finally sat down again, Greg said, ‘It seems we might not have a problem here after all.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because it appears that nobody actually owns the land.’
‘But there are fruit and olive trees out there. Surely someone must own them?’
‘They used to.’ He paused and smiled. ‘But not any more.’
‘How come?’
‘Dimitri, tell James what you’ve just been telling me. You’ll do it much better than I can.’ Greg got up from the table. ‘All right if I help myself?’ He was already standing by the wine rack, pointing to the bottles, so I just nodded.
‘The old families, the people who once lived here and owned the land, they moved away, long times past.’ Dimitri spread out the map and pointed to various sections. ‘See, here is written their names, but these people are no longer here. I know all of the families in this region. The old ones, they leave. They do not care for the land any more, so it does not belong to them now. And here and here,’ his finger circled other areas on the map, ‘the land has never been owned.’
‘But what does that mean exactly?’
He shrugged. ‘It means anyone can claim it.’
‘And can they then develop the land? Use it for building?’
Dimitri nodded. ‘Agricultural land, yes.’
I stood up and looked out of the window over the land in question. The gnarled groves were thick with weeds and scattered with rocks, but there were other areas of scrubland, dotted with tussocks of grass and thorn bushes. ‘And what about the uncultivated land around here? Have its owners disappeared too?’
Dimitri smiled. ‘That is not a problem either,’ he said. ‘It is, how you say, up for grabs.’
Greg sat down again with a large glass of red wine, holding the bottle in his other hand, and I could see he’d helped himself to one of the better vintages. ‘Didn’t I tell you this guy was great? He knows just about everyone and everything on this island. I knew he’d get to the bottom of it for us.’
‘But I don’t understand how this can work. It seems far too easy.’
Dimitri coughed, then said, ‘There are some restrictions to development, but in certain circumstances, if perhaps…’
He hesitated, as Greg put a hand on his arm. ‘Enough of that. We don’t need to go into the boring details. We know where we stand and that’s enough to be going on with.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘First things first, my friend.’ Greg stood up again and went to fetch two more glasses. ‘We have to toast this guy’s brilliance.’ He poured the wine and we clinked glasses. Greg then knocked back his drink and poured himself some more. ‘And our next move is getting this little lot,’ he tapped the papers on the table, ‘all registered correctly. And once it’s all above board, we can start making some proper plans.’
‘Will that cost much?’ I was suddenly worried that after all the expenditure involved with the restaurant, I might be expected to chip in after all.
Greg began to laugh and Dimitri joined him. I couldn’t understand what was so funny, then Greg said, ‘Just leave it to me. I’ll sort it, don’t you worry.’
He raised his glass again, and so I responded to his toast. Why should I question the details, when I just wanted to concentrate on running Mountain Thyme and making it a huge success? So my only comment was, ‘How long do you think it might take to start building, once you’ve got it all sorted out?’
‘Well, it ain’t gonna happen overnight, that’s for sure,’ Greg pulled a wry face. ‘I’ll need to sort the money side first. But I should think two years down the line we’ll certainly have started. I’ve done new build before and you get the money in before completing, so it becomes self-funding in the end.’
‘Two years? That’s not so very far away,’ I said. ‘If we get off the ground with our first season, we could be doing really well by then. We’ve already got a stack of bookings for this year and Amber’s working on more publicity for the restaurant too.’
I went to check the food. ‘You must tell me what you think of this,’ I said, fetching plates and cutlery. ‘I’m still developing the menu and I can’t afford to get it wrong.’ I took the lamb out of the oven and moved it to a platter to rest with the potatoes and artichokes, while I deglazed the pan with red wine.
The papers and maps were stowed away in their file and we settled down to eat. I squeezed lemon over the artichokes and spooned the reduced juices over the meat. As Greg and Dimitri tucked in, I said, ‘It’s a variation on a traditional Greek recipe. Lamb and artichokes, usually done with stewing lamb and served with an egg and lemon sauce. But I’m not sure that would suit a modern palate.’
Greg had his mouth full and just nodded, but Dimitri said, ‘Arni meh aginares meh avgolomeno. My mother, she make for us for special occasions. But this is very, very good too.’
‘I want to capture the essence of real Greek food,’ I said, ‘but bring it up to date a bit.�
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‘I’ve had that greasy stuff before,’ said Greg. ‘You can’t go giving sophisticated diners peasant food.’
‘That’s exactly what I think. I’ve got to start as I want to go on.’
‘I mean,’ said Greg, getting into his stride and waving his fork towards the file of documents, ‘if we get this development idea off the ground, we’re not going to build fucking pig sties and cow sheds, are we? If we started putting up authentic peasant dwellings, that wouldn’t bring you clientele wanting fucking fine dining, you’d just get riff-raff wanting chips and burgers. No, what we want are villas with wall-to-wall air con, infinity pools and Wi-Fi. That’ll bring in your Michelin-starred customers, not your Michelin men.’
‘I’m glad you think so, sir.’ I was always amused by Greg’s turn of phrase. ‘And is the food to your satisfaction today, sir?’
‘Fucking fabulous,’ he said with a big smile.
Chapter Forty
12 June 1944
They are beginning to look like normal healthy children again, Agata thinks. The sunshine, playing on the beach, helping to water the vegetables in the garden and collecting the eggs, have touched that pallid skin with gold, brushed away the shadows beneath their eyes. They are filling out too. They weren’t exactly starving when they arrived, but it was clear that their unfortunate parents had not been able to give them much nourishing food for quite some time.
Agata sits in the shade of the terrace, stripping chickpeas from their stalks, watching the girls chase each other, running towards the water then back again, not dressed in clothes but bare-skinned, like all healthy little children of the island should be. Rosy, golden girls with black hair, they could easily be taken for any Greek’s children, but still she is always alert, ever listening for the ominous sound of a boat or plane. Georgiou says the Germans have probably been scouring the island by car and motorbike, searching for missing Jews, but so far, no soldiers have ventured down the steep rocky hillside to this secret haven.
Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Page 14
