Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  Neither of us spoke. Crouched, we peered between the branches, hardly believing what we saw pass along the highway. Soldiers led a procession of their plunder. A string of local donkeys laden with metal items, everything from mattocks to fire-tongs, confiscated from our villages. They trotted in the direction of Viannos. Raki stills, pots, ploughs and all kinds of ironware were stacked high and roped onto the beasts of burden, clashing and clattering through the silence of the mountain road.

  Behind this bizarre procession, a six-wheeled sheep truck followed at donkey pace. Not loaded with chattels of iron or copper, this lorry had a human cargo. Beautiful women, aged between fifteen and twenty-five, were packed to standing. Distressed, they wept and hugged each other, or grasped the vehicle’s surrounding rail as it lurched along the road. Even from that distance, I recognised them.

  My school friends were there, and also my students. The young females of Amiras, Viannos, and the other local villages. Although they wouldn’t be able to see me, I felt their despair, their sense of hopelessness. Would they ever return to their homes and the people they loved? What terrible experiences lay in wait for them? One thing I knew for sure, they would never be the same again.

  ‘Where are they going?’ Stavro whispered.

  I searched for an acceptable answer. ‘They’re taking them to work, son, probably to cook for the soldiers. We’re famous for our fantastic food and you know those Germans are brought up on nothing but pickled cabbage.’

  I had done right to leave Amiras, despite our hardship. If we had stayed, I would have ended up in that truck, and my poor boys . . .? Where would they be now?

  The Nazis’ proximity made it too dangerous to continue to the fig tree. Our possessions were not worth hanging for and I fretted about Matthia. Stavro, glad to turn back towards the shepherd’s cottage, scrambled ahead. I looked forward to washing my hands, which were bleeding again, attracting flies whenever they were still.

  We darted from tree to tree, staying in the shadows. As soon as we reached Andreas’s house, we pushed through the entrance. I had mixed feelings, remembering the big man but glad to return to the familiar place.

  We crept inside the room. Something wasn’t right, I sensed it at once. Then I realised: the cup was missing. Confused, I gawped at the spot, grasping for a logical explanation. A crash came from outside. I spun to face the door, pushing Stavro behind my back. He cried out and threw his arms around my hips.

  A Nazi with the tin bath rocking at his feet and a pistol in his hand. He stood just beyond the doorway. I stared, too terrified to speak. His pale, narrow face hardened as he jerked the gun up and down, beckoning us to go further inside the cottage. He followed, kicked the lower part of the door shut, and spoke in German.

  I didn’t understand but he kept waving his weapon, indicating for us to sit on the banquette. He sat on the low table with his elbow on his knee and the pistol pointing in our direction.

  I tried to think of something to say that he would comprehend. Did they have religion in the hellhole that spewed out these children of Satan? Could he possibly believe in God? I did, so I crossed myself, attempted to prayer-lock my blood-smeared hands and then recited the words of psalm 121, the entreaty that all Greek Orthodox knew. I hoped that even if he did not understand my language, he would recognise the rhythm of the anthem and, in his head, hear it in his own tongue.

  ‘I will lift up my eyes to the hills. From where comes my help? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. He will not allow your foot to be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber.’

  Stavro crossed himself and joined in the prayer.

  What would happen to Matthia if the Nazi killed us both? Was it possible for a four-year-old to survive on the mountain by himself? I imagined him waiting, and us never returning, and I wanted to tell the soldier why he should let us go.

  I glanced into his eyes, ice-blue, and saw the dullness of fatigue – a human trait that gave me hope. I should have been consumed by panic but I felt oddly calm. Perhaps the prayer had done it, or exhaustion. We had suffered so much horror in so few hours.

  He might kill me and my son, what could I do? I lowered my eyes, leaving our future up to God’s will.

  The Nazi groaned, muttered something and stared at my burned hands, shaking his head. We sat, motionless, the cottage as quiet as a tomb. I lost track of time. He seemed to come to a decision, stood, and placed the pistol to my temple. The metal barrel pressed at the side of my eye. I could see the knuckles of his fist, fine blond hairs standing to attention and the gun angled towards the back of my head. The rapid panting of my own breath drowned out my heartbeat.

  It wasn’t the fear of imminent death. My terror, purely distilled and potent, came from the unknown . . . the exact moment when he would pull the trigger, the end of life as I knew it. A second passed, then another, and another. Which tick of a billion clocks would bring that single bullet? Which breath would be my last? I wanted to swallow but couldn’t, anyhow what was the point?

  I grabbed Stavro and pulled his face hard into my chest. He shouldn’t see his mother shot, I didn’t want my brains splattered all over him and anyway, he would be next. If I held him tight enough, he might not get a chance to look up before the end came for him too. God take us.

  Unable to cope anymore, I cried silently. My last seconds on earth and all I did was snivel – stupid, stupid snivelling. I bit my top lip so hard I tasted blood, and I screwed my eyes tightly and then I opened them as wide as possible. I wanted to die looking down at my dear boy, Stavro.

  The German stepped back and, although the barrel didn’t leave my temple, I found I could sit up straight, and at least die with dignity. I guessed he did not want my blood spatter over his smart uniform. I waited for the shot, still expecting each breath to be my last, and then Stavro squirmed from my grasp.

  He looked the Nazi in the eye and said, boldly, pointing at me, ‘Mama, my Mama!’ and then he pointed at the soldier. ‘You, Mama? You have Mama?’ He put his arms around my neck and kissed my cheek. ‘My Mama! You have Mama? You don’t kill Mama!’

  The Nazi shook his head and, very slowly, Stavro raised his hand and moved the gun away from my head.

  After God knows how long, perhaps seconds, or even minutes, I dared to glance into the soldier’s face, afraid that with twisted malevolence he wanted me to see the bullet coming. He continued to stand over us and, when our eyes met, he lowered the gun and fastened it into its holster.

  His mouth worked as if he were chewing tough meat, then he frowned, reached into his tunic and pulled out a fistful of sweets. He threw them onto the table and I realised they were barley sugar twists. In that bizarre moment, I wanted to laugh hysterically, as if laughing would wipe out the irrationality of evil. Then, like a thrown switch in my soul, my emotions flipped.

  Given the chance at that instant, I would have bashed him to a bloody pulp with his own gun, killed him myself but not with a simple shot. The need to cause him indescribable pain surged through me. Bastard sperm of Satan! My thoughts screamed in my head, but the violent instincts quelled in seconds, being nothing but my unstable mind at breaking point. The spark that could have ignited an explosive scenario died and left me like a damp fuse. I sat, dumb and trembling, staring at his soft white hands, his nails bitten to the quick, the skin down the sides ragged.

  The soldier spoke, pointing at us and then at the ground. Stavro squirmed and I realised I had pulled him to me, suffocating him against my bosom.

  I nodded, indicating that I understood we should stay where we were. The soldier stared for a few moments longer, and then he left, reaching through the open top of the door and sliding the wooden bolt home.

  ‘Thank you.’ I sobbed quietly, not sure if I spoke to man or God but, anyway, the words hardly formed. I smoothed my son’s damp hair from his face and kissed his flushed cheeks.

  Again, he turned and pointed to the ground through the top half of the door before he left. I judged th
e soldier’s distance from the fading clatter of the tin bath down the hillside.

  Stavro and I were emotionally and physically exhausted. I shook so badly, a few minutes passed before I was able to stand. Stavro had wet himself. We held each other and cried relentlessly. I don’t know how long we took to come to our senses, but eventually we did. After drinking as much water as possible, we gathered all the useful things. We hardly spoke, equalised by fear and trust; and understanding each other. We had shared infinite terror. I kept thinking of my little Matthia, all alone. We had to return to him, up the mountain.

  We snuck out and I saw a mulberry tree, lopped back a year ago, which produced many long straight branches. The villagers used them for knocking down walnuts in September and, later, for the olives harvest. Seeing it near the shepherd’s cottage gave me an idea.

  We could make a dragging stretcher and transport all the things we needed. With the help of my knife, we managed to remove the thinner twigs and push them through the sides of a couple of olive sacks. We gathered everything transportable and put it in another sack on the jute hammock.

  ‘But what about Andreas, Mama?’ Stavro asked.

  What should I say? ‘He’s gone to his cottage on the plateau,’ I lied. ‘He told me to take all that we needed, son, before the soldiers raided the place. We’ve already lost the bath.’

  When we were ready, I stood between the mulberry branches and Stavro tied the last piece of rope to the extending lengths and then around my waist. We moved as quietly as possible, up the slope, sucking on the blessed barley sugar. Such had been our slog that nothing but exhaustion ran through my veins. Stavro walked behind, kicking dirt over the tracks we left. The laborious trek uphill, with all that weight to pull, took a couple of hours.

  Night had fallen by the time we approached the sprawling holly oak.

  Stavro raced ahead. ‘Matthia!’ he called, pushing through the curtain of leaves and squirming away from sharp spines. We both expected to find him asleep on the ground.

  My little boy, the blanket and the goat, were gone.

  Chapter 21

  Crete, Present Day.

  VOULA BOUNDED THROUGH THE plastic fly-curtain, her face scrunched into a pug-like frown and her fists clenched.

  ‘They’re arguing again, your sons drive me crazy,’ she yelled at Maria.

  ‘Then let them get on with it, Voula. Come, eat baklava and tell us, what’s the problem?’

  Silent for a moment, Voula gazed at the plate of cakes, her eyes wide and her lips glistening.

  ‘Voula!’

  She snapped from her reverie. ‘Sorry. I’m cooking for tonight but Stavro insists he can’t stay. He must return to Athens. Matthia says our food’s not good enough for Mr High-and-Mighty and there’s no reason why the city can’t wait another day.’

  Frustrated, Angie wondered what had happened to young Matthia on the mountain side. Why was he so cantankerous now? Would she ever find out what caused the rift between her mother’s and father’s families? What made the war story relevant to Poppy’s self-exile? What further tragedy finally destroyed her other grandmother, Constantina? It seemed that with each day, more secrets came to light.

  Her grandmother’s laugh brought her to the present. ‘Will the food be ready for lunchtime, Voula?’ Maria said.

  Voula nodded, her eyes fixed on the baklava.

  ‘Then let’s all eat together before Stavro goes back. Now, make the coffee and force one of the cakes inside yourself.’

  Angie fingered her engagement ring, remembering that is was a bank holiday in the UK, and wondered if Nick would be home. If Stavro returned to Athens later today, this was Angie’s last chance to connect everyone with a call.

  ‘I have to go to Viannos. Do you need anything, Yiayá, Voula?’ she asked.

  ‘Tell me what you want, Angelika, perhaps I can save you the journey,’ Voula said.

  ‘It’s a surprise, Aunty. I’ll be back in an hour to help with the food.’

  While driving back to Viannos, a niggling doubt built up in Angie’s mind. Was she doing the right thing? Time was the problem.

  Poppy was going to be so upset by Angie’s plan, she knew her mother that well, but in the end, Angie was convinced, it was the right thing to do. An unpleasant action for her mother, Angie admitted, but administered with all the love and best intentions in the world.

  Once Poppy had recovered from the initial shock, she would see how right Angie was. Like ripping off a plaster to air a wound, so healing could begin. She would be cross with Angie, at first, but apart from that, what harm could come from a simple videocall between Poppy and her parents.

  Angie pulled over and stopped to let a wagon come over the narrow stone bridge, just before Viannos.

  It must be hard being a mother, she thought, having to hurt your children for the greater good. Vaccinations, discipline, first aid. She’d never thought about it before. If you love somebody enough, then you do everything necessary to make their lives better, regardless of what they might think of you, wasn’t that right?

  Nobody could love their mother more than Angie loved Poppy. She was determined to do whatever she had to, to bring Poppy and Maria together again, for their own good. Of course, Poppy would be angry at first, Angie felt miserable at the thought, but Poppy would understand her motives and forgive her eventually.

  In Viannos, she collected the tablet from her room and then went to Manoli’s kafenion. Under the big tree, she ordered a small beer and claimed one of the freshly vacated tables, which was littered with empty coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays.

  Angie phoned Nick at the apartment, smiling in anticipation. He would be waiting for her call, and realise it was her even before he picked up the phone.

  ‘Hi, sweetheart, good to find you at home. I’ve missed you,’ Angie said. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Hello, beautiful. I can’t remember a week being so long. Work’s panning out, difficult to tell how it’s going at this stage.’

  ‘Poor darling. You sound tired. I’ll bet you’ve been working all hours.’

  ‘Pretty much, yes. Working today too.’

  ‘I’ll make it up to you the moment I get back.’ She tried to lift his mood. ‘How about a box of the finest local honey cakes and my undivided attention.’

  ‘That’s the best thing I’ve heard all week’. Relieved, Angie caught his chuckle. ‘Seriously, darling, I’m counting the days until you get back.’

  She giggled. ‘I look forward to it, too.’ But then her concern returned. ‘How’re things going with the merger?’

  ‘Like I said, everything’s fine.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’m not alone, Angie.’

  Startled, Angie pulled her phone away and stared at the number. Yes, she had called their apartment. Nick was with somebody in their home. It had better not be that Whitekings woman again.

  He raised his voice. ‘I’m in a meeting, and I have another one this evening so I can’t talk. I can’t wait until you come back, love you.’

  ‘Wait! Listen, Nick,’ Angie said, trying to speak and analyse the situation at home at the same time. ‘Uncle Stavro’s returning to Athens later today. I’ve managed to get wifi connected at Yiayá’s cottage.’ Who was in their apartment? ‘Would you visit Mam and Skype us from there in an hour or two, so they can all see each other?’ Where is his meeting this evening? ‘I thought it would be lovely. Yiayá hasn’t seen Mam for so many years. The reason I came here was to bring them together, remember?’ Was he going out with the Whitekings woman, again? ‘It’s really important to me, Nick.’

  ‘You do drop them on me, Angie. I’m up to my eyes. I’ll try, honestly, but no promises. Just hold on a minute.’

  Muted talking came from the phone and Angie guessed his hand was over the receiver. Why did he do that? They had no secrets . . . did they?

  ‘I’ll be finished here at four, so what about four-thirty?’ Nick said.

  ‘Fine, or this evening.’ She tested him.


  ‘I’ve a meeting tonight and I have no idea what time we’ll finish.’

  ‘At the Meadows?’

  She actually heard him swallow, and then a door closed. Their bedroom door? She guessed he had gone in there for privacy.

  ‘Are you there, Nick?’

  ‘I am. Look, Angie, I realise what this looks like –’ His voice was hushed, almost a whisper, but angry. ‘I’m trying to keep my job.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. You have a business meeting, on a bank holiday evening, at a romantic little restaurant, while your fiancée is away. Just let me ask, Nick; how many people will be at this important meeting?’

  ‘Stop it, Angie! You make it sound as though I’m having an affair.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No, for God’s sake! I told you, I’m pulling out all the stops to try and keep my job.’

  ‘I have to go,’ she said smoothly and ended the call.

  She clenched her fists, screwed her eyes, and muttered, ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ When she opened them, Manoli was standing before her holding the beer. ‘Sorry, work problems,’ she said.

  ‘Lady, you have too many difficulties. He glanced at the table full of clutter, left Angie with her beer and returned with a tray and cloth. ‘A holiday means you leave work at home. Why you bring it with you?’ He cleared the table and wiped away the coffee drips and cigarette ash.

  ‘I must be mad, Manoli.’

  ‘This is true.’ He straightened, holding the full tray. ‘You want mezzé with your drink?’

  Angie planned to put Nick right out of her head. Nothing could be gained from fretting, and she had to trust him. That was the first time she had ended a call without saying she loved him. Perhaps she would phone him later, much later, just to check on him. That, she decided, was pathetic behaviour.