Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction

by Suzanne Goldring

  ‘If you’re sure,’ Marian said, then waved to us both and set off.

  I sat down beside Inge and fanned myself. ‘This bit of shade isn’t going to last very long. You’ve picked just about the only spot on this street.’

  ‘Oh, I always sit here,’ Inge said.

  ‘You’re one of those people who always knows the best spots,’ I laughed. ‘I bet you always have your own favourite tables in restaurants too.’

  ‘No,’ Inge said. ‘I always sit here, because this is where they came when they left the island.’

  And then I suddenly knew what she was talking about, and looked at her weary face with its gentle smile. The sign to the fort on the lamppost was insignificant, almost apologetic. The many tourists who came to gaze across the sea or enjoy a cool drink at one of the many nearby cafe tables would never realise that this was a pathway to hell, that this was the way those thousands of men, women and children walked at the start of the journey to their deaths.

  ‘Then,’ she said, ‘if visitors are not sure whether to go in or if they ask about this place, I tell them what happened here. The fort does not talk about its history. It has nothing to say about that time. I have been coming here often, ever since Agata and Georgiou were gone. They did their duty and were proud of what they had done and I owe it to their memory to make sure others learn the truth. It cannot make it right, but it helps, I think.’

  I was in awe of her. Despite her frailty she was still true to herself and her beliefs and I didn’t know what to say in response, so I just clasped her thin, veined hands. Then she said, ‘At one point I was tempted to daub graffiti in Kollas Square, thinking it was named after that terrible mayor during the years of the war.’ She gave a little wispy laugh at herself. ‘I was all ready with my paint and my brush, but then I found out just in time that it was named after an earlier dignitary.’

  I laughed with her then. ‘You rebel, you. I can see you haven’t quite thrown off your revolutionary streak.’

  ‘I feel as passionate now as I did when I was a student. There was so much denial, so much turning away in my youth.’ She tilted her hat to shade her eyes and said, ‘When I was a child I loved my grandfather, he was so kind to me. But when I was older I found out that he printed propaganda for the Nazis at his press, and posters condemning the Jewish businesses in our town. Yet he denied he had any responsibility for all that happened.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘He did not think he had done anything wrong. And then my friends and I learnt that even our own home town, our beloved Reutlingen, had employed slave labour. It was everywhere, you see.’

  I put my arm around her. There was little I could add, but I said, ‘You are so strong. So principled. I really admire you.’

  ‘And when I am finally gone, Marian has promised me that she will come and take my place. It is such a comfort to me to think that my darling Agata and Georgiou’s work will continue.’

  ‘You really feel you have to do this, don’t you?’

  And her reply was stark and simple. ‘I am merely a witness to the truth. I cannot do much, but I can do this.’

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  August 2007

  James

  I can still remember the first time we saw a fire in the hills. It was one summer evening, the year we arrived on the island. We were driving back after taking my mother to Corfu airport. She had been staying with us for two weeks in the stifling heat of August and it was time for her to return to the wet cold summer days of England. I kissed her goodbye at the terminal, and then waved from the car as she wheeled her suitcase inside to the check-in desks. Amber said we should have stayed with her, but the airport parking was so limited I refused. I’m glad we left, because the flights were very delayed that night and we’d have had a long boring time waiting on hard seats with little refreshment.

  We drove through the back streets of Corfu Town, then hugged the glittering bay, garlanded with lights, as we began the drive further north, back to the beachside villa Ben had lent us that month. Above the resort of Agios, with its clusters of hotels, Amber said, ‘I don’t ever remember noticing lights up there before, do you?’

  I glanced towards the black mountain but couldn’t look long enough to see anything. I had to concentrate on driving those winding roads in the dark and slowed down as we approached the treacherous bends where the big coaches swung out into the road, their side mirrors like the claws of a praying mantis. Then, as we began our descent into Ipsos, where bars and discos were strung close to each other, parallel to the beach, I looked again, peering harder at the darkness, and Amber said, ‘There’s a string of orange flickering up there. It looks rather like fire. High up on the hillside, just above the bay.’

  I didn’t think anything of it at first and said, ‘Farmers, probably. Maybe they burn the old crops. Like they used to be allowed to do back home, before EU health and safety started laying down the bloody law.’

  I remember seeing those orange lights, dancing on the black hillside. It was wildfire, not crop burning, but so distant, so far away from the sea, nowhere near our villa or the rental offices where we were working that first summer. But later that same month, fire crept down the hillside, approaching the main road near Barbati and threatening the highly combustible olive groves.

  We smelt the smoke all that night and charred vine leaves were still drifting onto the terrace when the sun rose, leaving a delicate dusting of ash over the awnings, the sun beds and tables. It reminded me of our visit to Herculaneum, when we spent our honeymoon on the Amalfi coast. All that morning sea planes scooped water from the bay to drench the still-glowing cinders and fire forces ringed the scorched groves to prevent any stray sparks and embers spreading and causing further damage.

  It was just as hot and dry a year later, and Amber was taking forever to come back from the market. I was waiting to prepare lunch in the restaurant, and getting impatient for the tuna. I could sear steaks to order, but the tartare had to be made in advance and I was sure there would be demand again that day. Eventually she rushed in.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. The road was closed. I had to come all the way round from Sidari. There’s a big fire over on our side and the fire brigade’s out dealing with it, but they’ve closed that road off for now.’

  ‘Bugger!’ I shouted. ‘That’s all we need. The heat’s enough to put people off already without a sodding fire as well.’

  She handed me the dripping bag. ‘I’m sure the tuna will be all right. It’s still really cold with those ice packs, even though they’ve melted a bit.’

  ‘I don’t mean the bloody fish. I mean the people, stupid. They’re not making the effort to get here in the heat. We had three no-shows yesterday. We can’t afford any more.’

  She grabbed a cold bottle of water from the fridge and held it to her forehead. ‘I’m going. I need to cool off, then I’ll be on the front desk.’

  It wasn’t her fault, I knew that, but it was frustrating. The busiest time of the year, and we were missing out. I began to pray for a drop in the temperature, then thought what I needed was some sympathetic company, so I rang Greg and told him to come the long way round.

  ‘Mate, I need a bit of light relief up here. I know I’m always saying we’re too busy to fit you in last minute, but I’m sure we’ll have space again today if it’s anything like yesterday. Fancy coming over for lunch?’

  He did, and he fancied sitting at my kitchen table with Dimitri, who, though sober and serious, was always a good foil for Greg. ‘They don’t know what they’re missing,’ Greg said when I told him about the no-shows. ‘Give me their names and I’ll sort them out.’

  I laughed. ‘If it’s anything like what you’re doing to that poor hotel, I’d better not.’

  Greg slapped his knees, doubling up with laughter. ‘I’m nearly one hundred per cent foolproof now. Get ’em in every time. Dimitri here’s going to get me an inside mole. He knows someone who’s a seventh cousin of a cousin twice removed or something. He can
find out what the management’s saying and what effect it’s having.’

  Dimitri was shaking his head and looking sorrowful. ‘I tell Mr Richards I have cousins at this hotel. We must be very careful – I do not want Mr Richards to be in big trouble.’

  ‘He’s already big trouble,’ I said. ‘You want to watch yourself, Dimitri, associating with the likes of this character. He could get you into hot water.’

  Dimitri looked puzzled, then said, ‘The hotel swimming pool, it is cold water, not heated, no?’

  Greg doubled up with laughter again, and then I distracted him with a plate of tuna tartare, thinking I had to use it now we had it, plus a dish of salt and pepper squid. As I turned my attention back to the courgette flowers I’d stuffed, I said, ‘Was the road still closed on your way round?’

  Greg shook his head, his mouth full, but Dimitri said, ‘These peasants, so careless.’ Greg had a coughing fit and I passed him a glass of water, which he waved away in favour of the wine glass. Once he’d sipped some of the rich boutari and recovered, Dimitri continued, ‘Ignorant peasants, they do not think what they are doing.’

  ‘I suppose the undergrowth and grass are just tinder-dry at this time of year,’ I said, lifting the fried flowers out to drain on paper before serving them. ‘That’s why barbecues are banned. Ben’s always dealing with complaints about it from disappointed visitors, wanting to cook outside at their villas.’

  ‘It’s not the tourists. It’s the locals. They’re all bloody ignorant,’ said Greg. ‘Probably some dumb farmer or smallholder, trying to clear another bit of land. Stupid bastards.’ He and Dimitri looked at each other and both began to laugh. I couldn’t see what was so funny, but I didn’t ask and just handed them the stuffed flowers.

  Chapter Fifty

  15 June 1944

  Georgiou returns when the sun has almost departed and the cooling breeze of evening begins to drift from the sea. ‘I don’t think there is any need for us to worry,’ he begins, dropping his sack on the stone floor. ‘The explosions we heard before were just them blasting the rock. They’re installing a gun emplacement, but just the one, so there won’t be a large encampment nearby. I stayed long enough to see that there will only be a couple of soldiers there, three at the most.’

  ‘It doesn’t take many to find us,’ Agata says. ‘One is enough.’ She stirs the tomato sauce for the roasted aubergines they are about to eat.

  Georgiou is hungry. He hacks at a freshly picked cucumber with the knife he always carries in his belt and shoves chunks into his mouth. ‘Why, what’s happened? Where are the girls?’

  ‘We had a visitor late this morning,’ Agata says. ‘I told the children to hide as soon as I saw him and they ran off and didn’t make a sound. But I had to leave them there for the whole afternoon, till I was quite sure it was safe. They must have been shut in there for more than four hours. Luckily, they had the food and water I always leave there for them. I think they slept most of the time.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Asleep in bed. They wake so early, they were still tired. And very frightened too. This is the first time I’ve been afraid since they arrived.’

  ‘How many came here?’

  ‘Just the one. He swam round from the headland. An officer, I should think. He was well mannered, courteous even. He didn’t know anyone lived here and the girls had run upstairs before he was even out of the water, so he has no idea they exist.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘I gave him refreshments, he thanked me and then he left. He asked who else lived here and I said you were out checking the olive trees and would be back soon. He didn’t ask many questions and I don’t think he will give us trouble.’

  Georgiou shakes his head. ‘He may have left us alone for now, but he could easily come back. And he may talk about the beautiful bay he has found and about the kind hospitable host.’ He stabs at the cucumber, skewering a chunk on the end of his knife. ‘It’s too great a risk. We must leave. We must leave tonight.’

  ‘If I pull the blanket over your heads you must stay very still and be very, very quiet,’ Agata tells the girls. ‘We don’t want anyone to see you. Anyone at all.’

  Matilde looks fearful, but Anna curls up into a ball, saying, ‘No bad men can see me. I’m not here.’

  Agata laughs as she settles them into the handcart on cushioned sacks of straw. The moon has risen over the dark cypress trees at the top of the hill, lighting the track that threads through the twisted olive groves and up to the main road. She has packed dry goods, preserves, clothes, blankets and provisions for their journey. Georgiou has harvested all the ripe produce from the vegetable garden, tethered the goats to the cart and crammed the hens into a wicker crate. He has also assured his wife that he has carefully packaged seeds as well, in case they cannot return to their home and productive garden for some time.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Matilde asks. ‘I like it here.’

  Georgiou pats her head. ‘We’re going up to the mountains, my sweet. That’s where our ancestors once lived, far away from Albanian pirates. The air is cool and fresh up there and no one will ever find us.’

  ‘Do you think any of your family could still be there?’ Agata asks him.

  ‘Perhaps. An old aunt and a cousin were still living at the farm long before the Germans came, but the village has not been fully occupied for many years. And if we cannot stay in the farmhouse we will still find shelter there, I am sure.’

  Then he turns to Agata and says, ‘I’m not sure the girls should be hidden on our journey. If we are stopped by a patrol, they will not hesitate to rifle our goods and the children will be found and then they will wonder why we’ve tried to hide them. It will look much less suspicious if we treat them like ordinary children.’

  Agata clutches his arm and looks at the girls, tucked up in the cart, arms curled around each other and beginning to fall asleep again. ‘I suppose you’re right. If we didn’t have to conceal their parentage, we would let them be seen. But we must always have a hiding place for them if needed. They are used to hiding.’

  ‘Of course, my love. But for now, they are Greek children. We are their guardians, that is all. We shall keep them safe – I think this is the wisest course of action.’ He looks at the sky. ‘We must leave now, while the moon lights the path.’

  Agata locks and bars the doors of the house, pulls a shawl around her shoulders and picks up a bundle of clothes. As the donkey begins to pull the cart up the stony track, Matilde’s head pops up from her bed of straw. ‘What about our dresses?’ she calls out. ‘You said you were going to make new dresses for us.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten, my dear.’ Agata laughs and holds up her bundle. ‘I have it all here. You will have your lovely new dresses as soon as we are settled into our new home. Now sleep, little one, for later you may have to walk with us.’

  Matilde settles down once more, murmuring, ‘New dresses…’

  Part Two

  THEY SURVIVED

  Chapter Fifty-One

  July 2008

  Amber

  It was our second summer since opening Mountain Thyme and I felt like an enormous whale. In fact, I would have preferred to be a whale, swimming in a cool, blue ocean, gliding through waves and diving fathoms deep below. But I was a beached whale. There was no ocean, there was no sea, just heat – merciless, baking heat – and I was eight months pregnant.

  The days had become so hot I longed to float in cool water, like one of the giant comical inflatable creatures sold in all the beach shops. Then I could be a dolphin or an octopus slowly swimming in circles, if I could only float in cold water. The beach was forty-five minutes away and we didn’t have a pool, up here in the mountains, so I rehydrated with glasses of water, cold showers and sometimes, when I couldn’t bear it any longer, I even sat with my feet in a bowl of water, run straight from the tap.

  If I could have planned it better, I would not have chosen to be pregnant right in the midd
le of the searing heat of summer in Corfu. But then I had never actually made a conscious decision to have this baby, in Greece or anywhere. Even in an English summer it would have been hard, bearing such a burden, such a huge sack of kicking potatoes on hot humid days, but in Corfu, as the sun heated the rocky soil to roasting temperature, it was almost unbearable. I could only sleep at night if the air conditioning was switched on, but James said it made ‘too much of a racket’ for him to sleep soundly. I could rarely sleep during the day because there were guests to check in and out, rooms to clean, beds to change and the restaurant to manage.

  Marian had been to see me a few times, but Inge was not feeling up to the long drives up here. ‘Maybe she’ll feel more like coming to see me when the weather is cooler,’ I said, but Marian had just nodded and replied, ‘She wants to spend as much time as she can down at the Old Fort during the summer season, while all the tourists are here.’

  And I remembered how Inge had said, ‘I am merely a witness to the truth. I cannot do much, but I can do this.’ So while I puffed and complained then cooled my swollen ankles in a bowl of cold water, I reminded myself of Inge’s purpose and how she was using her limited strength and energy. I hoped she would improve with the new treatment Marian said she was receiving, and that I could talk to her again soon, show her my new baby and give her hope.

  Pam very sweetly invited me to visit her, saying, ‘You’re more than welcome to just come and sit by the pool all day, darling.’ But I declined; even though the thought of her blue infinity pool with its gushing fountains was tempting, Lavinia was there too with her boisterous boys, shattering the peace. Luckily, we had more tables booked than ever, so I hadn’t had to fob Pam off with excuses every time she asked if we could find room for them all. And that meant one less argument with James, who said he never wanted to serve that ‘awful girl or her brats’ ever again.