On the wall, an old clock ticked the minutes away. Angie wondered if a week was long enough to get to the bottom of her mother’s secrets.
Angie could hear her grandmother’s gentle snore over the hypnotic chirruping of cicadas from outside. Other village noises drifted in through the cottage door. Nearby, a cockerel thumped its wings against its body and then crowed in the warm midday air. Somewhere a man shouted and a cat screeched. A dog, probably on a short chain guarding chickens, barked and from a distance, another replied – canines conversing over the valley. Angie contemplated her grandmother’s story that had travelled across three generations, bridging a gap that she was yet to understand.
After a few minutes, she decided to slip away for a walk around the village. As she shifted her weight forward, Maria’s eyes opened. The old woman blinked, tears and tiredness gone.
‘Don’t leave. Let’s move on with the story, Angelika,’ she said.
*
Crete, 15th September 1943.
THE NEXT TIME I woke, under the sprawling fig tree, the boys were at my side. Stavro had his hand pressed over my mouth while Matthia shook my shoulder. With hardly enough light to see, Stavro put his face close to mine and placed a finger across his mouth. I understood at once.
He took his hand away and I sat up. The sound of marching on the road, only about twenty metres away, grew closer. Matthia started to whimper and at the same time, the goat bleated. I pulled Matthia to me but, just as the Nazis were level, he wriggled free. He barged through the umbrella of leaves and bolted up the hillside away from us and the soldiers.
The men came to an abrupt halt. I prayed they hadn’t seen Matthia and wondered if I should stay put, or go after him? Stavro and I heard barked orders in German. We peeped through the branches and, in the failing light, could see two Nazis start up the steep hill in our direction.
They swept the ground with torchlight and called, ‘Stop, or we shoot!’ in textbook Greek. Through the large fig leaves, I saw their silhouettes come closer.
Hidden in the depths of the tree, we were terrified. The Nazis saw the goat and an argument followed. I guessed they were deciding to take or leave it. We peeped through the branches and could see a soldier heading our way. Had he realised we were there? He would put his pistol to our heads if he found us.
Take Stavro first, I prayed. I couldn’t bear for my boy to see me shot and understand what would happen to him.
I shook so badly it’s a wonder they didn’t hear my bones rattling. Stavro sidled up to me. I folded my arms around his thin body and held him tightly. He stuffed his knuckles into his mouth, his heart pounding against my ribs.
The soldier stopped beside our tree. I could see the round tips of his jackboots poking beneath the branches. We hardly dared breathe. The Nazi balanced himself firmly, planting his feet on the soft earth. Judging by his silhouette, I saw him reach for his pistol. The coup de grâce . . . We were about to be slaughtered.
For a second, I considered pleading, but then I decided on a silent prayer and inched Stavro’s face against my chest. At least it would be quick and the boy would not see the end coming. Perhaps the same bullet would finish me off too. I hoped so. Death seemed a blessed relief at that moment.
I prepared, said a mental goodbye to Vassili and prayed Matthia had found a safe place up the hillside and that the Nazis hadn’t seen him. I trusted my husband would survive the war, find Matthia and live in peace. I concentrated on the boots less than a metre from me, not wanting to see the features of our executioner.
The Nazi grunted – pig, I thought – and then came the sound of piss hitting the ground. I felt warm splashes sprinkle through the leaves onto my bare legs. The man fumbled with his buttons and then turned away.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The goat, skittish in the presence of strangers, bleated nervously. My relief was so enormous that before I could stop myself, I had sighed louder than intended. The Nazi spun on his heels and returned to the tree, shouting something to his partner at the same time. I pushed Stavro’s head down to my lap and flattened myself over him. Perhaps in the dark, he would not see my boy and only shoot me. There was always hope.
The torchlight shone in our direction. Small dots of light broke through the dense canopy and jerked around our leafy cave as the man with the torch walked over uneven ground. A hand thrust between the thick silver branches above us, struggling to part the tangled leaves. I closed my eyes, held my breath tightly, knowing if I opened my mouth now a whimper would escape. If I had to die, I would go with dignity. The tree shook with a rustle, once, twice, three times . . . Then I realised, the Nazis were plucking figs from over our heads. I prayed for Matthia to be still, wherever he was.
The Nazis laughed, talking to each other as they returned to their troop, leaving the goat behind. Moments later, the group of soldiers continued their march towards the village of Pefkos. I shivered and couldn’t stop sobbing. My senses seemed to run away through me like a dropped stitch in a knitted blanket.
Stavro, young and strong, wriggled free of my grasp.
‘Shush! Come on, Mama.’ He tugged on my apron and the candles rolled out. Stavro gathered them and shoved them back into my pocket. ‘We must find Matthia, quickly, let’s go.’
We left the goat on its tether, and our belongings beneath the tree. Under cover of night, we rushed up the hillside in the direction Matthia had taken, moving as quietly as possible. Every snapping twig underfoot seemed like an explosion. Sick with fear for Matthia and what might have happened, I called his name softly as we moved along, aware that he may have crawled under one of the many scrub bushes.
Keeping Stavro close beside me, I hurried towards the upper village of Amiras. Hidden in the trees, this sparse cluster of houses with its spring of sweet water could have been overlooked by the Nazis. I prayed to the Blessed Virgin to keep my son safe, to keep us all safe. Surely we had lost enough.
Although the moon had not yet appeared, our eyes adjusted to the dark and we could see a sufficient distance to travel quietly between the trees. I knew the first house Matthia would come across belonged to the local shepherd, Andreas. This maverick Cretan and guardian of the village flocks was the subject of many outrageous stories.
Perhaps Andreas lay dead, along with the other men on the ridge, or would we find him inside? I didn’t recall seeing him with all the unfortunate men, but thought it best not to call his name. I used my elbow to press the latch, put my shoulder to the wood, and then bit on a cry of pain. I had forgotten the slam of the Nazi rifle. The door opened.
‘Kérios Andreas?’ I whispered in the dark, conscious that he may have shut some goats in there and I could instigate a racket. Greeted by silence, we crept inside.
In the gloom, at chest height next to the entrance, I recognised the semi-circular shape of a water-deposit with its small brass tap. I knocked the galvanised container with my elbow, relieved to hear a dull timbre that told me the tank was full. Luck had stayed with us. Stavro tripped over an enamel jug and washbowl below it, sending them skidding and clattering across the floor.
‘Shush, be careful, son.’
‘Sorry, Mama.’
I sensed Matthia’s presence. ‘Matthia, are you in here? It’s your Mama and Stavro,’ I called softly.
Stavro closed the door, took a candle from my pocket, and lit it. We found Matthia under the shepherd’s low table, curled tight into the corner, sucking his thumb, eyes wide with fear.
‘Poor child, don’t be afraid, we’re safe now,’ I said to calm him.
Matthia stared at me and whimpered.
‘Come on, it’s all right, brother,’ Stavro said. He held the candle while I stretched under the rough wood.
After a moment, Matthia crawled out of his sanctuary and clasped his arms around my neck. I pulled him to me, holding him so tightly he squealed and wriggled free.
‘Mama, I thought the soldiers were coming to kill me. I was scared.’
‘Don’t squash me, Mama,’ he cried.
I held him while my eyes adjusted to the meagre light. Stavro took the candle and investigated the nooks and crannies of the small room.
The cottage, sparse and windowless, had rough lime-washed walls. A simple fireplace had a wooden shelf across its breast that supported a single china cup. A black metal pot hung from the wall and old baskets from the roof beams. Ashes filled the hearth. A cluttered collection of eating and cooking implements, bottles and an oil lamp were stuffed into a square alcove, and kindling scattered the floor. We poured water and drank our fill, gulping and sighing over the cracked and grimy cup. Its contents sweeter than the finest wine.
A stone bed that we call a banquette ran against the wall opposite the door and a couple of grubby sheepskins and some olive sacks lay on it.
‘Stavro, help me to make a bed. You boys need some sleep,’ I whispered.
They climbed onto the fleeces, and Matthia clutched Stavro around the waist. In the candlelight, I tried to sound calm. ‘I have to go back down to the fig tree for our belongings and the goat, Stavro.’
‘I’ll come with you, Mama, you can’t do it alone.’
‘No, son. You look after your brother. I’ll make two trips. Now get some sleep. Once I’ve brought the food up, we’ll eat.’
‘But, Mama, I’m afraid. The soldiers might get you.’
‘I will be fine. Matthia needs you with him. If I’m not back by sunrise, leave here and continue up the hillside. Find another tree like the one that we hid in and stay there while it’s daylight. Don’t let anyone see you, right?’
He nodded.
‘It’s important. The Nazis will probably search the houses tomorrow.’ I ran my burned hands over my boys, finding it hard not to tell them my real fears. How I missed Vassili at that moment. If ever Stavro and Matthia needed their father, it was now. I tried to imagine him with us, looking over us, and it gave me great strength.
I heard his voice in my head. You can do it, Maria. Stick to your plan. Go and get the things you’ll need, woman.
Once again, I was almost overcome by the urge to gather my sons in my arms and crush their young bodies against me. I didn’t want to leave them knowing, if things went wrong, this could be the last time I ever saw them.
I gazed into Stavro’s eyes and tried to imagine how he would think of me if I never returned. ‘Always remember that I love you, son. Now, go to sleep. We have to move on before daylight.’
They curled up together and I covered them with a couple of hemp olive sacks, tucking the rough edges around their thin bodies. A final sack went over their heads to keep the September mosquitoes off their sweet faces. I sat on the edge of the bed for a while, listened to their even breathing, and wondered how I would ever cope if I were to lose them, too.
Life had been good to give me these precious children. Petro came into my heart too. The numbness of fatigue did nothing to relieve my overwhelming sense of loss.
There would be time for grieving. But at that moment, I had to protect my two remaining sons. Heavy hearted, I blew out the candle and turned to leave. Yet as I reached for the iron handle, it twisted and the door flew open. The great bulk of a man blocked my exit.
Chapter 11
Crete, Present Day.
THE OLD WOMAN YAWNED, her pale tired face stretching like The Scream. ‘Enough, Angelika,’ she said.
‘But, Yiayá, who found you, a Nazi soldier, or the shepherd?’
‘Ask me later. It’s time to sleep.’
Angie sighed louder than she intended.
Maria looked up, a smile on her lips.
‘All right, Angelika, I’ll tell you, it was Andreas, the custodian of our sheep and goats. Now, I need my siesta. I’m tired.’
‘Of course. You must be exhausted.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I’m being selfish. Sorry. I’ve recently come to realise it’s my worst fault. I could blame my mother for always giving me what I want but, at my age, I really should know better.’
Maria dropped her head to one side and smiled again.
Angie got to her feet. ‘To recall all this tragedy has to be absolutely awful for you. I can’t imagine how you’re feeling.’
‘Yes, it’s very hard, koritsie. But I’m glad to do it. The story needs to be told.’
Angie helped her grandmother out of the chair. The ninety-year-old stood and stared at Angie for a moment, her expression turning sad.
‘Can you bring my daughter back to me, Angelika? Our hearts are broken. For as long as you have lived, we have waited for Poppy’s return.’
‘I promise to do my best, Yiayá.’
Maria sniffed, shook her head, and shuffled through the curtained arch to her bedroom.
Angie waited for a moment, listening to her grandmother moving about, before stillness settled on the cottage.
In the dim light, she soaked up the atmosphere of the place and inspected a collection of ancient wedding photographs in tarnished frames. The pictures hung on the wall near the fireplace. She searched the brides’ faces for Poppy and the poker-faced bridegrooms for Yeorgo. Despite never having seen a clear photo of him, she guessed she would recognise her father. Angie had longed to hear her mother talk about him, especially when she was a child. But Poppy always broke down when Angie broached the subject. This made young Angie feel guilty, as if a tragedy, which seemed to destroy her mother, was her fault.
Why, Mam? I wanted a daddy so much when I was a kid. You could have invented one for me. Yours is lovely, my Papoú. A Greek Einstein with twinkly eyes and a quiet sense of humour. Why have you abandoned him for these past thirty-seven years? You’ve broken his heart.
Angie studied the photographs on the wall. The black moustaches, clean-parted, heavily-greased hair and the dark eyes of the bridegrooms had no effect on her. He’s not there, she thought. Disappointed, she slipped through the strip curtain and closed the cottage door.
The bone-deep silence of the village at siesta time made every small noise seem like a clash of cymbals. Angie realised Amiras was a natural auditorium. When she looked over to the ridge, she understood how the sound of marching feet and the women’s tragic wailing would not only carry across the rooftops, but also halfway up the mountain.
She turned left at the bottom of the steps and continued along the street. Heat from the tarmac pulsed through her thin sandals. Antirrhinums and poppies grew from cracks in the doorsteps. She stepped around a giant rosemary bush that spilled into the street, the shrub covered with pale mauve flowers. When she caught the sweet, soapy scent of the herb, she was instantly transported to her mother’s house; Sunday lunch, roast leg of lamb, roast potatoes, minted peas, buttered carrots. Her mouth watered.
The whitewashed houses lining the road appeared quite modern, yet she noticed the walls were half a metre thick. Angie guessed that behind the smooth plaster and white aluminium window frames stood stone and clay walls that had also witnessed the day of the massacre.
The narrow street, quiet with its secrets, seemed to push Angie onward. A tightly packed gathering of small, square houses with double-glazed eyes that watched her.
Beyond the dwellings, Angie recognised the field of olive trees her grandmother had mentioned. Stepping off the road, she enjoyed the shade of the grove and walked up the gentle slope between gnarled trunks. Like a new bookmark in an old history book, she felt slightly incongruous but soon slipped back in time. What age was Maria when all this happened? If she married at sixteen, and had Stavro the same year, that would have made her twenty-three. Although ninety now, Angie was very aware of Maria’s earlier beauty.
She visualised herself in her grandmother’s place on that September day in 1943, and rested her hand against a wide trunk. Looking up, she whispered to the overhead branches. ‘Did my grandmother stand right here, old tree, terrifi
ed for the lives of her children?’
Like young Maria, Angie peered through the canopy of silver-green leaves and olive blossom, searching for a sign or an omen. A swallow dived past, glossy black, skimming the ground before it ascended with acrobatic grace, trawling the sky for aerial plankton.
Turning to look the way she had come, Angie imagined the sound of two thousand marching soldiers. The scene Maria had described seemed to appear through the dappled sunlight. Shadows shapeshifting, ghostly around her. Sounds filtered in from the back of her mind, until she found herself totally immersed in her grandmother’s past.
Pictures from Maria’s story flashed and clashed before her eyes. She moved behind the tree, as her grandmother had done, and then peered towards the road. Her heartbeat quickened and a shudder raced through her body. The deep shadows took on a menacing air and a cloud seemed to drift over the sun. Minutes slid by, her head full of Maria’s words. Visions of that terrible day appeared before her. Then, she realised she was crying, sobbing bitterly. All the emotion she had fought against in the cottage poured out.
Angie was not a crier. She didn’t turn on the tears when things went wrong. She usually became angry, analysed, got organised, and addressed the issue. Yet there she was, for the second time in a week, sobbing her heart out. She buried her face in her hands, blocking the tragedy, damming her tears.
She hurried down to the street, gulping in the warm air, turning her face to the sun. Back on the tarmac, she experienced a loss of purpose and, for a moment, found herself overwhelmed by loneliness. Once again, she had a terrific sense that the street watched her.
You’re just missing Nick, she told herself, continuing along the road until she came to a cemetery.
Her thoughts returned to her mother. How terrible for Poppy to lose the man she loved. Angie yearned for Nick, and they had only been parted a couple of days.
Island of Secrets Page 10
