“Then why do they come at all? Why not stay there?”
“The mountains,” Mama said. “The Germans want Lambros and the soldiers like him to be cut off from food and medicine.”
“If that’s true,” Sophie said, “Lambros and the others should have stayed home and done nothing.”
“The Germans would still be in Athens and Piraeus,” Mama said as if the subject tired her. “An army must be dealt with.”
Petros understood the war to be something large and rolling toward them like an avalanche. Something they could do nothing about. But it made so little noise, he could sometimes forget it was coming.
At breakfast Papa told Zola he could no longer walk about town alone. He’d grown tall very fast, taller than Papa. He’d grown some pale down on his chin that made him look even more grown-up.
“Let me use your razor,” Zola said.
Papa said, “You’ll still be tall.” Zola stormed out of the house and to his work in the garden, his dog trotting worriedly behind.
Petros worked all morning to clear a bit more of his land. He put in several more pepper plants. When someone called his name, he looked up to see Mr. Katzen, who bought cheese and eggs from Mama, waving his cane. “You’ve lost a pepper plant. Do you see?”
Petros looked where Mr. Katzen pointed. The pepper plant was nearly covered by the weeds he’d pulled. “I stepped on it and the top broke off.”
“So that’s it? You won’t plant it?”
Petros picked up the pepper plant and his hand rake and dug a hole for it. What did it matter?
“Don’t give up on it, Petros,” Mr. Katzen said. “Not just because it’s a little bit crippled.”
“Are you leaving?” Petros asked.
“Leaving for where?”
“The Germans are coming.”
“I’ve heard,” Mr. Katzen said. “But there’s nowhere left to go.”
“To one of the islands,” Petros suggested. “To Crete.”
Mr. Katzen shook his head. “I already live in the hills. I’m too old to start living somewhere else.” He sounded like Papa. Petros guessed he was too old for the German army to bother with anyway.
When the morning’s work was done, Zola stopped to talk to Petros before going on to the house. “This next message is excellent.”
Petros didn’t rise to the bait.
“I’ve said we must lock arms to stand against the wind,” Zola added.
This was the note they would take such trouble for? “Don’t you have anything better to say?”
“It’s a more careful note,” Zola said.
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“The wind is on its way to Crete,” Zola said. “It was on the radio before Lambros came home. Didn’t you understand what they were saying?”
A fresh stubborn anger rose in Petros. “Surely there are a few things you don’t understand,” he said to Zola. “If you knew everything, you would have been the fellow speaking to us from Cairo.”
Zola sighed heavily, as if to say, Well, of course not everything. But this much! “It all comes down to the canal,” he said.
“The Suez Canal,” Petros said, to show he’d listened to the news.
“The British control the canal. If the Germans could fight from Crete, they could overcome the British.”
“So it all comes down to Crete,” Petros said. “The Germans want to go there.”
“Everyone goes there,” Zola said.
Petros wanted to burst Zola’s self-important bubble. “It’s the only way out of here now.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Why don’t you put that in the note?”
Zola smacked his forehead, making a little show of rolling his eyes. “Because everyone knows that already.”
chapter 16
At the midday meal, Petros swallowed a boiled egg, hardly bothering to chew. Old Mario put two eggs on his own plate.
Petros slowed down to fill up on macaroni with olive oil and garlic. The others ate zucchini and beans and tomatoes with this, but Petros was tired of eating vegetables.
Then, as the meal was nearly finished, the murmur of something like rocks falling could be heard in the distance. The family put down their forks as one, listening.
“Trucks,” Old Mario said, and Petros swallowed his last bite whole.
Papa said, “Old Mario, go up to the roof and count them. See if they all go to the village. Everyone else remain at the table.” He went to the front of the house, and from there, outside.
Mama sat just long enough to make up her mind to go with Papa.
Zola was right behind Mama as she left the kitchen.
Petros dashed out the back door. He eyed the bushes critically. The gravel looked fresh to his eyes, but it covered all the signs of digging. A few of the smaller flowering plants still looked a bit wilted, but only a gardener might notice the roots had been disturbed.
At the corner of the house, Petros stopped and concentrated on what he’d really come to see. A jeep was stopped in the road. Trucks rumbled past, going toward the village, raising dust.
Papa stood at the gate, Mama and Zola right behind him, facing two soldiers. A few more stood at the ready in the road. The soldiers looked exactly as Zola had told him they would, as Lambros had described them. Their faces set as if carved in stone. Bodies so upright they appeared to be tall, even though neither one was taller than Zola.
They started for the house. Petros froze, watching, but in his head, he screamed. If the Germans searched the house, they’d find the notes drying on the shelf over his bed. All that Papa had done to save them would be lost.
Papa argued and shook his head no. They brushed past him, stiff with importance. Petros felt as if his arms and legs had filled with sand, but he turned and ran clumsily back to the kitchen.
Ignoring Sophie’s shrill scolding, he snatched up Mama’s scrap bucket. He heard the soldiers’ boots on the veranda, and then in the parlor, as he ran to the room he shared with Zola. If his arms and legs were filled with sand, it drained from his fingers and the bottoms of his feet with each step.
Petros scrambled onto his bed, reaching high to scoop up the notes into the bucket. Several of them floated to the floor. He made sure the shelf was clean, then climbed down to capture the rest of the slippery notes.
In the parlor, someone spoke in a harsh tone, and then another voice followed like a shadow, saying everything again in Greek because Papa and Zola both pretended not to understand German.
Petros was only grateful this conversation took so long. Some of the notes had floated under the bed.
“Some of this furniture must be removed. The commander needs this room.”
“Someone sleeps here.” A lie.
Petros nodded. Sometimes a lie was necessary.
The shadow followed more closely on the harsh voice, saying, “Whoever sleeps here can use another room. The commander will bring his own bed.”
Papa said nothing. Someone moved around the parlor, wooden boot heels loud on the floor.
Petros dropped the last note into the bucket. Remembering the way Papa had reacted when Zola suggested hanging a flag, he lifted Zola’s mattress and yanked the paper flag out from under it.
His hands shook as he rolled it up and threw the rolled paper out the bedroom window like a spear, where it would fall into the bushes at the side of the house. This war was no longer a game—Petros saw that now.
Petros grabbed the bucket and peeked out to see Sophie standing just outside the parlor. Without looking his way, she motioned with her hand to hurry him.
Petros ran toward her quietly.
“Your family will stay and tend your farm. Your wife will cook. Is this understood?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, sir,” the shadow said, and Papa echoed, “Yes, sir.”
One soldier—Petros realized he was an officer—was pointing to things around the room. “These chairs, the sofa, put them outside. A truck
will come for them. Empty this chest. We’ll take that table.”
His mother made a small sound.
“I don’t understand why this matters,” Papa said, reminding Mama there was nothing of any importance but their lives. The hard voice didn’t reply, but the shadow spoke.
“We need them at the command post,” the officer said, and Mama gripped Papa’s arm. But Papa nodded and the officer said, “Put everything on the veranda before morning.” He turned away, reading the list in the shadow’s hands.
Petros hurried into the kitchen, where he stopped to scrape his plate over the notes in the bucket. Sophie followed him, whispering, “What are you doing?”
A soldier stepped into the back doorway, a dark form blocking the sunlight. “What do you do here?” he said in poor Greek. Something inside Petros stood still. Even his hands forgot to shake.
“For the pig.” Petros was glad his father and brother and Old Mario ate as if they were in a race. Their plates looked as if he’d already scraped them. The soldier didn’t look closely at the bucket. Sophie stood against the wall, watching, as Petros scraped her plate clean and Zola’s.
The soldier crossed the kitchen and started down the hall toward the bedrooms.
Petros left the bucket and ran outside, heading for the other end of the house. He pushed his way behind the bushes, looking for the rolled paper flag. At the sound of voices in the room above, he dropped to a squat under the thickest bush. He sat still, even when the shutters flew open over his head.
The officer gave orders Petros didn’t understand. He moved to the corner of the house and saw the doors to the balcony off Mama’s room thrown open. Papa was right—the Germans were looking all through the house. Petros ran quickly to hide in the shadows of the arbor.
From the goat pen, Fifi saw him and bleated.
He stopped at the far end of the arbor, gripped one of the rocks at the base, and pulled against it with all his weight. The rock slid out and dropped heavily to the ground. Petros brushed his hand around inside the cavity to be sure it was dry. He found a few jars of mulberry juice that Zola had secreted there.
Each summer he and Zola picked several bunches of grapes and hid them here. Once hidden in the cool, dark hollow, the grapes lasted and could be enjoyed long after the crop had been crushed for wine or dried for raisins. It was the best hiding place they had. Petros angled the flag into the narrow space.
It was a struggle to get the rock back into place. Petros finally sat down and pushed with both feet. He felt great satisfaction, hearing a last scrape as it settled in. He would tell Zola later on, when they met in their room, and his brother would be pleased.
The crunch of boots on the gravel warned Petros of a soldier close by. His stomach tightened, his breath caught. He didn’t want to be found here, questioned. But his arms and legs were no longer made of sand. Excitement thrummed in his veins.
The soldier gave a shout.
chapter 17
Petros gathered his feet under him but didn’t try to run. He knew the names of some things in German and felt certain the German had shouted something about the truck, Papa’s truck.
He hid while the first German was joined by another, along with Papa, who told them he used the truck to take his vegetables to market. He told them twice, because the interpreter had stayed at the house and the soldiers didn’t understand. All of them walked back as Papa repeated his remarks about the truck.
Petros stayed there under the arbor, thinking about the soldiers and their tone of voice, hard and cold. Papa made his voice not afraid exactly, but hesitant as he pretended not to understand the soldiers, either.
Petros knew Papa felt small facing the soldiers and their cold manner. It bothered him. Papa could be as bossy as the soldiers, but his voice never made Petros feel small.
He heard the jeep start. Petros got up, reaching the driveway in time to see the Germans leaving, five of them looking straight ahead like the tiny carved figures in the toy trucks he’d buried.
Sophie, Mama, and Papa were all on the veranda. He could hear their voices. Zola was just coming into the kitchen as Petros stepped in through the back. “Did you take my notes?” Zola whispered.
Petros saw the awful white of his brother’s face and knew he was scared. He lifted the scraps bucket.
Zola snatched the bucket away, his fright turning suddenly into anger. Petros could hardly believe it and would have said so, only everyone started coming inside and the moment to fight was gone. Old Mario, coming from the roof, was shouting curses on the German army as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
“How can we live with a stranger in the house?” Mama clapped a hand to her forehead. “A German officer!”
“Papa, we are—” Zola was shouting. Whatever else he said couldn’t be understood through everyone else’s voices, but Petros gathered it had to do with going into town.
“Enough!” Papa said with a fast motion of his hands that suggested parting the waves. Mama crossed her arms.
Old Mario said, “Soldiers stopped at Lemos’s house at the same time. There were four trucks that drove on, then another, five in all. One remains down the road at Omeros’s.”
“I want to phone Lemos,” Papa said, speaking of Elia’s grandfather.
“Be careful what you say,” Old Mario said. “Someone may be listening in from Omeros’s house.”
Many times Mama believed the Omeros grandmother listened in on the party line, hoping to hear gossip. Lately Papa worried that gossip wasn’t all she listened for.
Papa said, “We’ll say only the things everyone else is saying. Then we make the parlor ready.” He picked up the telephone to dial.
Mama moved to the sink to wash dishes, working noisily, roughly.
Papa said to Lemos, “Are you well?” and then listened.
Sophie tried to look into the scraps bucket. Zola yanked it away. But it was Petros he punched in the shoulder. “Don’t you know better than to touch my things?” he whispered fiercely.
Petros ignored the hit. “Would you rather the soldiers touched them?” he said.
“You.” Sophie poked Petros with a sharp fingernail. “What were you up to?”
Zola answered for him. “Nothing.”
“No fighting,” Mama said. “Make yourselves useful.”
“I’m feeding the pig,” Zola said. He strode out, slamming the bucket against the doorway. Mama shouted at him, but Papa hissed at her to be quiet, and Zola was forgotten.
Petros stood rigid and swore to himself he would never tell where he’d hidden the paper flag. Zola could twist his arm and bend his little finger back, and Petros would never tell.
Papa said, “Good.” He hung up and asked Mama, “Now what is it?”
Mama shrugged. “Boys.”
“I think we’re the only ones to be honored with a house-guest,” Papa said heavily. He and Mama headed for the parlor.
Old Mario and Petros and Sophie followed them.
“Lemos’s wife is badly upset,” Papa said. “Her dining room, their bed. At least we have our bed.”
Old Mario nodded, but Mama sat down hard on the sofa that would be gone soon. She leaned like someone who’d been standing a long time in a strong wind. “What will we do?”
“We’ll put the furniture they want out on the veranda,” Papa said as Zola came back inside. Zola was put right to work.
No one could sleep that afternoon.
Elia came over to Petros’s house to escape his grandmother’s complaints. “Let’s play marbles next to your well.”
They’d no sooner begun than Stavros showed up. “Auntie’s spending her afternoon in the church,” he said. “It’s cool in there, but I’m surrounded by grandmothers.”
They each tried to win the game. But they also shouted encouragement to each other as they’d never done. All at once Mama stood over them. “What’s this?” she asked, scooping up the glass marble.
Elia was flushed with the happiness of winning. “Pe
tros’s shooter.”
Petros groaned. Mama turned a warrior’s eye on him. “Where’s a switch? I’ll beat all of you and feed you to the pig. Where was this?”
Elia looked an apology at Petros. “In my pouch,” Petros said. Where he hadn’t given it one thought.
“This came from Spiro?” Mama asked. “Are there more?”
“No.”
Mama turned, her arm coming up, and the boys screamed, “No!”
She threw the marble into the well. Stavros dropped to the ground in despair.
“You couldn’t keep it,” Mama said in a loud whisper, as if the Germans had already arrived. She left the boys slumped down beside the well.
Petros felt drained somehow, made flat, like something run over on the road. He and Elia dropped to sit beside Stavros, all of them with their backs against the well.
“I should have said it was mine,” Elia said.
“No, you should have said it was mine,” Stavros told him, and they laughed.
chapter 18
Later in the day, Papa sent Petros and Zola to clean the chicken house. This was hot, smelly work that disturbed the chickens. They flapped and squawked and made a trundling run or two at the boys’ ankles before escaping outside.
At first Petros and Zola didn’t speak, only scraped their shovels across the floor and sweated. The chill of fear was fading fast. Their bellies were full, and the Germans gone. No one hurt. Perhaps things weren’t so bad after all.
As the minutes wore on and Zola didn’t trouble him, Petros thought Zola now realized he’d been right to throw the notes into the bucket. He’d no sooner decided this was true than Zola said, “The notes we fed to the pig don’t matter. We must send out a more urgent message now.”
“Look for the other nests,” Petros said, because several of Mama’s chickens persisted in setting up housekeeping under the henhouse.
“Being commander is a big responsibility,” Zola said. He stopped working and leaned on his shovel.
Petros could see how this was going to go. His brother had done nothing to help when the Germans came and now acted as if he hadn’t gotten angry that Petros had. He thought enough time had passed that the whole matter would be forgotten.
War Games Page 6
