Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  The dishes, in the garden sink, were covered in ash and cinders. I had a large dish, blue glazed pottery with painted yellow flowers; a miracle that it wasn’t broken. I soaked the rusks in the remaining goat’s milk and drizzled honey over the meal. I allowed my boys to poke their fingers into the honey pot and enjoy the special treat of sucking off the stickiness.

  Fortified by the food, I pulled myself to my feet and told Stavro to bring me the slaughter knife from the outside sink. I grabbed the goat’s kid. It had enough meat on its bones to be a viable kill. I straddled its back, gripped its ribcage between my knees and clamped its snout against my chest with my chin. Stavro passed me the knife, staring at my burned hands. Although they looked terrible, black blistered with raw flesh, the pain had subsided a little.

  Once I had sliced halfway around the animal’s neck, I snapped the spinal cord. The creature went through the usual spasmodic kicking reflexes and then relaxed into death. As it was with all the village children, since my early childhood, I had grown up with this routine – never thought twice about it. But, after witnessing recent horrors there seemed something almost satanic about the ritual. Horrified, I stared at the bloodied knife in my hand, unable to continue with what had always been a mundane chore.

  The mother goat skipped sideways and then looked on, as docile and bewildered as ever.

  ‘Mama?’ Stavro said, perceptive as usual. ‘What’s wrong?

  ‘My hands are painful, son. Can you take over?’ I tried to keep my voice steady but, inside, my heart was breaking.

  Petro, my child, so cruelly slaughtered! A desperate urge to turn my face to the sky and howl with grief was almost overpowering.

  With my guidance, Stavro butchered the carcass into small joints. We wrapped the portions in mulberry leaves and placed them in the smouldering ashes near the entrance to the house. In an hour, the meat would be cooked.

  Before sunrise, my boys and I would feast as kings. The fire had consumed itself now and the interior smouldered and glowed through empty windows like a fat and satisfied Satan. The screaming and wailing from the ridge, across the village, had quietened, as eventually even the most powerful grief must. I remembered that I had my own demons to face, and to explain to my children.

  I wiped the axe and leaned as far inside the appothiki as I dared. My blistered hands throbbed in the heat as I slid the hatchet under a black glob of melted cheese in the nearest wall nook and lifted it into the cool air. It soon solidified on the iron blade. Stavro cut away the burned exterior and divided the warm yellow insides into three. That cheese remains one of the most delicious mouthfuls of food I have ever eaten. I can recall the taste in an instant.

  We filled our bellies and wrapped the remaining meat into a bundle that Stavro tied onto the end of the axe.

  ‘I can carry it over my shoulder, Mama,’ he said eagerly.

  ‘Mama, where’s baby Petro?’ Matthia asked, staring at the burned-out house and looking panicky.

  My insides seemed to plummet. Unable to speak, I struggled against a sob as overwhelming grief held me in its grip. Stavro’s eyes read mine. I could see he understood nothing but tragedy and, in that fleeting moment, the seven-year-old boy became a man before his time.

  ‘Don’t ask questions,’ he said sharply. ‘Now, you’re in charge of the goat, mind you do a proper job, brother.’

  Bless you, Stavro.

  A tattered blue coverlet lay over the woodpile. We spread it on the ground and placed on it every useful item we could find. The petrol lighter, knife, a small can of fuel and flints, all stored in our outside oven, went into my apron pocket. The beans, corncobs, skapáni, and a dented pan that belonged to my deceased mother, were tied into the blanket.

  ‘I’ll carry that,’ Matthia said, mimicking his brother and nodding at the bundle. Stavro and I exchanged a look. The parcel weighed as much as him.

  ‘You bring the goat, Matthia, and put your shoes on.’ They were hanging in the olive tree. I used my teeth to pull out the damp sacking, hoping they had stretched a little. ‘Hurry, boys. Let’s go quietly.’

  Despite the food, we were incredibly weak. I had to explain the importance of getting away from the village. Quite possibly, my sons were the only two boys still alive in Amiras. The Nazis were bound to search.

  I had nothing to tell them but the truth, so terrible for a child to hear.

  ‘They’ll kill us if they find us,’ I said.

  Their brown eyes widened. Stavro chewed his lip, glanced at me and then spoke to Matthia. ‘We must be very quiet, brother. No crying, okay? It’s time to be a man, like me.’

  ‘Here’s my plan,’ I said. ‘We’ll go up, along the ditch as far as the church, and then stop until it’s safe.’ They nodded, wide-eyed and frantic. ‘We need to cross the road and hide in the trees opposite, before sunrise. Come on, let’s move.’

  Was I doing the right thing? I prayed for God’s guidance.

  In dawn’s early light, we started our trek towards Omalos Plateau. The gully ran along the side of our patch. It channelled water from the melting snow that cascaded down from the plateau in spring, and then gushed through the village. The ditch, dry in September, concealed us under a dense tunnel of wild fig, damson, mulberry trees and myrtle shrubs. With the bundle tied like a sling on my back, I went first, crouching, sometimes crawling, torn strips from my petticoat wrapped around my hands. Stavro followed with Matthia and the goat behind.

  We struggled along, snagged by branches and stabbed by vicious damson thorns. I realised, although we could not be seen, perhaps someone would notice the branches moving above us as they caught our clothes and hair. Would the Nazis be waiting at the end of the tunnel? We could not go back, yet I was afraid to continue. Clouds of fruit flies, attracted to the moisture of our sweating faces, tickled our nostrils and flew into our eyes. The trench passed a small Byzantine church where a couple of laden mulberry trees covered the roadside edge of the ditch.

  ‘Good so far. Now, tether the goat and sit quietly while I go into the church.’ Stavro nodded and Matthia copied him. They were glad to rest after the arduous slog.

  I slipped into the chapel and prayed for Petro, asking God to keep him safe, in heaven. The reality of the last twenty-four hours seemed to hit me all at once. My heart shattered at that moment and I hugged myself with arms that should have held my baby. Tears broke free and raced down my face and I fell into the depths of despair. Why had this terrible thing happened to us? All the prayers in the world could not reverse it.

  Falling to my knees, I begged God to keep my family safe. I had to believe he heard my prayers and would protect us. He had his reasons for taking Petro, and perhaps I would understand them one day. For now, my sole job was to get my poor frightened sons as far away from danger as possible.

  I slipped a bundle of beeswax candles into my apron pocket and returned to Stavro and Matthia.

  My boys were feasting on ripe mulberries. They slurped at sweet juice that ran to their elbows and they blindly swiped burgundy tongues around their mouths. The goat, a rapacious ruminant, pleated heart-shaped leaves into its mouth; the rectangular pupils in her yellow eyes stared stupidly at nothing. We heard the bell in the church tower ring out six o’clock and then toll the funeral knell. Village dogs barked with hunger and several goats bleated to be milked. My engorged breasts echoed their pain, swollen, hot and throbbing with a need to suckle my child.

  Terrible wailing from the bereaved women drifted up on the morning air. I wondered if anyone had found Petro. I hardly dared imagine his little body. My tears ran freely, reminding me that we had no water. Poor Petro. How could I explain to my husband? What would he think of me, to have lost his child before he had even seen him? My emotions were all over the place but I knew, for the sake of our family, I should pull myself together.

  We had to cross the road, visible from most of the village; a dangerous but necessary manoeuvre. In the open, we risked capture and certain death.

  Stavro and
Matthia stared at me, waiting for instructions.

  ‘We’ll dash across, quick and quiet, when we’re sure no soldiers are coming,’ I said. A difficult call to make and its consequences rested with me. Bad timing would mean the end of everything.

  The sky became lighter by the second. My heartbeat raced as the urgency built. We loitered under cover at the edge of the ditch until there was no sound of approaching traffic, donkey hooves, or soldiers’ boots. The boys’ wide, unblinking eyes fixed on my face, anticipating the command.

  ‘Now!’ If God was with us, the Nazis on the ridge would be looking the other way. We raced across the tarmac and into the bushes on the upper side of the road.

  The goat, skittish for fresh vegetation, didn’t stop and dragged Matthia off his feet. Stavro and I dropped our parcels and made a grab for boy and goat as they came tearing by. I snatched the goat and Stavro caught Matthia. The brave little lad had clung to the rope even as the skin shredded from his knees. My burns had dried but, somewhere along the ditch, I’d lost my bandages. Reaching for the goat had cracked my flesh and blood oozed from my knuckles. Stavro stared at them.

  ‘You look like that painting of Jesus in the church, Mama.’ I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Do they hurt?’ he asked. His young voice, soft with concern, touched me deep inside. I had to take a calming breath before I could answer.

  ‘Not as much as before, son, but they’re getting stiff and it’s difficult to close them.’

  At this point, after so little sleep, I saw the risk of travelling in daylight. I spied an unruly old fig tree a short distance up the hill. It gave me an idea. The branches and big leaves drooped to the ground like a giant green umbrella. Dark violet figs hung heavy from the boughs. Many of the fruits were fat and overripe, their suede skins split to reveal succulent pink and golden flesh.

  ‘Come on, boys, let’s rest in there,’ I said.

  Matthia fought tears for his bleeding knees.

  ‘Spit on them,’ Stavro ordered. ‘Spit’s a natural healer.’

  The words made me smile and gave me strength.

  We tied the goat to a sapling, knowing she’d bleat a warning if anyone approached, and then we hid in the dark, leafy cave. The warm earth, cushioned with pale dead grass, made a soft bed. The sweet smell of hay, and the dim light, was calming and we soon relaxed. We shared the space with a cloud of gnats but didn’t care. The ground, sturdy as ever, gave us strange comfort and, after eating a couple of figs, my boys curled up close to my side and soon drifted off to sleep. I wished we had some water and remembered the cool spring in upper Amiras. The brass tap was not far away and would be our first call when darkness came. In a matter of minutes, I too had fallen asleep.

  *

  I woke suddenly; tense, listening. Judging by the shadows, it was around midday. A gentle wind soughed through the trees and whispered up the mountainside. l pondered, perhaps that very breeze bore the souls of our dead heavenward. Sadness shivered through me despite the heat. While I thought of Petro, the warm draught caressed my skin and felt like the breath of my sleeping baby. Goodbye my son. Rest in peace. The baby was not baptised, yet God would surely let the innocent into his Kingdom. I drifted back into the sleep of exhaustion and dreamt of what could have been.

  Chapter 10

  Crete, Present Day.

  ANGIE PICKED UP HER NOTEBOOK from Maria’s table and dropped it into her handbag. She had hardly written a sentence. The sharpest pencil in Greece could not record the emotions that swarmed around her grandmother’s words. They needed time before they went on paper.

  She too could taste the soft, warm cheese and feel the fierce passion of a mother determined to protect her children. As she pulled the zipper across her bag a stray sunbeam caught her engagement ring. Diamond-white sparkles spiralled and flashed around the whitewashed walls as if Nick’s spirit were in the room with her. Angie had so much to tell him. She recalled the day, a couple of years ago, when he gave her the simple solitaire engagement ring.

  They had taken part in a seven mile fun run in aid of the local hospice. Nick didn’t run, just the idea of exercise made him wince, but he had wanted to do it for Angie, and got everyone at work to sponsor him. He said it was absolute proof that he would do anything for her. They ran side by side, and at the halfway mark, she could see he was really hurting, but he dug in and carried on. At the end of the race, he took a medal from the official and put it around her neck himself.

  ‘I love you, Angie Lambrakis,’ he said, and then he went down on one knee, right there on the finishing line, and pulled the ring box out of his shorts pocket. ‘Will you marry me?’

  The local press loved it, spectators too, all taking photos.

  Angie, flustered, tears rising, couldn’t speak.

  ‘Say yes, love!’ a woman with a twin buggy shouted.

  Angie blinked at Nick, still down on his knee in the churned mud. ‘Oh, Nick . . .’ she said, the tears springing free, ‘of course I’ll marry you!’

  Poppy came rushing over. ‘Did I miss it? You great lummox! You could have waited for me!’ She whacked him playfully around his head and then, pulling her phone out, she said, ‘Go on then, get up, slip the ring on, and give her a kiss. I want a photo!’

  Angie smiled with the memory. How she loved them both. How she missed her Mam being so carefree.

  Maria’s eyes also followed the glinting light from Angie’s engagement ring. Her face took on a transcending absence. ‘Lost souls,’ she said quietly, as if praying. She lifted the hem of her apron and dabbed her eyes. ‘Each of the hundred and fourteen bodies on that ridge belonged to somebody’s family. Hundreds of hearts were broken that day, lives smashed, and for what?’ A sigh came from deep inside her. ‘How could I have known what would take place while I was up the mountain with Stavro and Matthia? How could I, Angelika? I wasn’t there.’

  Maria dabbed at another tear.

  ‘Please don’t get upset, Yiayá,’ Angie said. ‘You saved the lives of Matthia and Stavro all by yourself. That’s something to be very proud of.’ Angie regretted bringing all this tragedy back to her darling, sweet grandmother. The old lady had been through so much.

  Remorse deepened the lines on Maria’s face. She stared ahead as if seeing into the past. ‘I shouldn’t have left the village, Angelika. Your mother said that to me the day she left here. She suffered as much as anyone on that ridge.’

  ‘But, Yiayá, my mother wasn’t born then.’ Angie couldn’t figure out what was going on in her grandmother’s mind. She considered Maria’s great age and told herself that, at ninety years old, her grandmother was bound to experience some confusion. It seemed Maria was muddling Poppy with Petro.

  Maria shook her head, reached for Angie’s hand and read her palm. ‘No, Angelika, I’m not senile yet,’ she said, smiling.

  Angie felt the heat of a blush, ashamed of doubting the astute old woman.

  ‘You’ll understand when you’ve heard the rest of the story.’ Maria placed Angie’s hand back in her lap and pointed at a pool of sunlight on the floor near the window. ‘You see that? Every afternoon the sun shines through that big olive tree outside and marks the spot in here, where your poor mother stood nearly forty years ago. She said it was all my fault.’ Maria smiled sadly and turned to Angie. ‘When you go back to London, don’t forget to tell Poppy I’ve always loved her. I always have and I always will. And say I’m truly sorry.’

  Angie wondered if she had missed something. Her grandmother wasn’t making sense.

  ‘Tell me about my daughter, is she happy living in England, Angelika?’ Maria’s chin quivered, and Angie sensed her grandmother’s enormous pain.

  She thought for a moment. It seemed rather odd to talk about Poppy’s life. She had never considered it before. One thing she knew for sure; if her mother was around, Angie’s world ran smoothly. In a flash of realisation, Angie understood she had taken Poppy for granted, all these years. Poppy had dedicated her life to her daughter and nothin
g had ever been too much trouble, until the wedding.

  Maria waited, her eyes pleading.

  ‘Mam has always lived by herself, Yiayá. She has a house in Camberley, that’s near London. A semi. I grew up there.’

  ‘Does she still make her own clothes, Angelika?’

  Angie smiled. ‘Funny you should ask. Mam turned the smallest bedroom into her sewing room. She did her accounts in there before she retired. Did you know she was an accountant?’

  Maria nodded.

  ‘She does alterations and repairs for the local dry cleaners, and she always has some dressmaking of her own on the go.’ Not that she ever goes anywhere that requires dressing up, Angie thought sadly. That was about to change. ‘Mam doesn’t get out enough, Yiayá, so I’m thinking about taking her for a meal, or to the cinema, now and again.’

  Maria smiled and nodded. ‘Poppy learned to use my sewing machine when she was eleven years old. She fashioned peg bags from odd scraps of material.’ Maria chuckled. ‘I think every woman in the village had one of her fantastic creations.’ She stared into the past, her eyes sparkling. ‘When your Papoú had a hole in his trouser pocket, he asked her to fix it. She was so delighted, she made him extra-large pockets.’

  Proud of her mother, Angie tried to imagine Poppy as a young girl sitting at an old treadle machine.

  ‘Every time Vassili dropped anything in his pocket it went all the way down to his knees, which meant comical contortions to get it out again.’ Maria chuckled. ‘Everyone joked about him having deep pockets, but he hadn’t the heart to ask her to change them.’

  Angie was telling her grandmother about Poppy’s latest creation, a copy of a Chanel jacket she had seen in a magazine, when she realised Maria was dozing. Her putty eyelids had descended and the face that had shown so much emotion, relaxed. A soft smile rested on Maria’s lips. Angie noticed how peaceful she looked, and fancied she might be dreaming of Poppy.

  For a moment, she felt an aching sadness. How terrible to be parted from your child. No matter what your age, or what distance divides you, your daughter is still your own. Sadly, she imagined never seeing her mother again. Then she tried to imagine having an estranged daughter, and realised that must be heart-breaking. The thought renewed Angie’s determination to reunite Poppy and Maria.