The smaller officer spoke quietly to Auntie; Petros doubted she could even hear him. Nearby, one of the men who’d watched the marble game said, “What’s the meaning of this?”
The other man said, “They’re making an example of the family.”
“No one has been there,” the nearby man said to Papa, who nodded. “It’s only the old woman and the boy.”
The Gestapo officer yelled into Auntie’s face, and she shook her head—no, she didn’t know where Lambros was, and no, to whatever else he asked in his poor Greek.
A dog started barking.
The other officer turned to Stavros, who shook his head also, no to both questions. “Where’s your brother hiding?” he shouted.
Stavros didn’t answer. His brows made a shelf over his eyes, hiding whatever he felt besides anger. Auntie knew this look too and became more shrill.
“Papa,” Petros said. It felt like a shout but came out as only a whisper. He noticed many other things at the same time. Papa’s grip tightening. Old Mario sitting in the truck. The frozen postures of so many people standing on the street.
Only soldiers moved, first into the middle of the street, and then, when the Gestapo officer pulled a gun, away again.
Petros stopped breathing.
Stavros stayed rigid with stubbornness. Petros understood why the Gestapo officer went on yelling and yelling. But that wasn’t the way to move Stavros.
Behind Petros, one of the Basilis sisters stood in the doorway, reporting the events to all who remained inside the bakery.
The Gestapo officer raised his gun to Stavros’s face, shouting so continuously Stavros wouldn’t have been heard if he’d answered. Auntie fought to free herself but could not.
Petros’s mind went on working. On the one hand, he believed the officer would spare Stavros at the last moment—or save him somehow. But on the other hand, how could the man back down?
The commander came out of the schoolhouse, running, and some small voice within Petros cheered his speed.
The officer holding the gun shook it, warning Stavros, but then heard the commander running up behind him. He looked away from Stavros as the gun went off.
A burst of color splashed at Stavros’s throat.
In the moment Stavros hit the dirt of the street, Papa clapped his hand over Petros’s eyes. In the moment Stavros hit the dirt of the street, questions lit Petros’s mind like flashes of lightning:
Why had the officer looked away? Was he afraid of seeing Stavros die? In the same way that Lambros used to faint at the sight of blood?
Had he only just heard the commander, and the gun went off accidentally?
Had the commander reached out and caused the gun to go off?
Petros had seen the whole thing, but his mind had begun wrapping the event in layers of questions, burying the details as deeply as Mama’s Lenox china wrapped in paper and straw.
As Stavros fell, there were screams of shock all around, and people began to cry. The commander and the Gestapo officer were in a shouting match, all garbled words.
Stavros lay in the street, so still, the red stain spreading over his white shirt. This much Petros saw before Auntie threw herself over him, as if to hold his soul within.
Papa turned Petros away from the square. “Go home,” he said. “Don’t stop anywhere. Don’t talk to anyone. Stay off the road.”
“Mama?”
“Tell her, but everyone’s to go into the house. No one stays in the yard or garden.”
The argument going on above Stavros broke off as suddenly as the gunshot tore the air, and there was silence behind Petros. But he went, letting Papa see him as he was meant to go, obedient. He got around the corner of the bakery before he looked back.
The men who’d gotten out of the car had returned to it. The commander stood long enough to watch them drive off in a reckless manner, the black car swerving all around the village square.
The commander’s back was turned to Auntie and Stavros, as if in his anger he’d forgotten them. The other soldiers appeared to ignore Auntie’s wailing. It was their job to wait for orders.
Petros waited long enough to see the commander turn on his heel and stomp back toward the command post. Some soldiers followed him, others simply walked away from the street as if they had something else to do.
Papa crouched over Auntie and Stavros. Old Mario got out of the truck, hurrying in a way that had only become true of late, when speed was called for. Other people had begun to move toward them to help.
Petros ran, still seeing in his mind’s eye the way Stavros lay, unmoving. Still seeing the bright blood at his throat.
chapter 44
The mile home stretched longer than it had ever been as Petros cut across one orchard and then another, through a farmyard where a dog chased him and then the Lemoses’ orchard.
The sunlight cut as sharply into his eyes as scissors, and his head ached, but he ran, Stavros’s book bag flopping against his back. Wave after wave of nausea made him stop to bend over, sweating, shaking. And then he ran on. And walked, and for a few minutes, crawled.
When he reached home, Mama and Sophie were on the veranda. “Who is that?” Sophie said to Mama while looking straight at him.
It seemed Mama looked for a long time as Petros clung shakily to the locked gate. He understood, remembering the look of Lambros in the well, how different he’d looked. Petros had no breath left in him to call out.
Everything happened next.
Mama shrieked and began to run at him.
And next.
“Zola!” Sophie yelled, and then began to scream.
And next.
Zola shot from the other side of the house at the sound of Mama’s voice and ran to unlock the gate, having the key in his pocket.
Petros’s throat tightened around any words he tried to speak. Mama grabbed him through the gate, holding him up. “What happened?” she kept saying, and finally Petros was able to say, “Stavros has been shot.”
The gate swung open and Petros fell a little against Mama. Sophie clung to Mama’s other side as Zola pushed him toward the house.
“What’s this?” Mama asked as she tugged at the book bag. She let go of it almost immediately, asking, “Where’s your father?”
“Has something happened to Papa?” Sophie cried. “I thought you were all together.”
Petros didn’t even try to answer. Their voices rose around him, and the dog’s barking was especially sharp. It was a comfort, nearly.
The house felt cool as they entered in a clump of family bodies clinging to each other, the kitchen looked dark after his run in the white sunlight. Mama said, “Why didn’t you come home with your father?” as she let him fall into a chair.
“Auntie needed him,” Petros said, answering her worry. “Old Mario too,” and here Petros let his head rest on the kitchen table, hot tears burning beneath his eyelids. “Stavros is dead.”
There was a sudden noise at a distance, Sophie shouting, and Mama argued with Zola, who wanted to run back to town. Mama pulled Petros upright and set a cool wet cloth against his face, and the noise of his family rushed at him again.
He knew there was something else he was to say, the answer to this, but he couldn’t bring it to mind. He heard the rustle of the kite tail in the book bag and leaned away from the chair.
At that moment Papa’s truck came through the open gate. Zola ran outside, his dog fast behind him. Sophie ran too, getting to the door just ahead of Petros and Mama.
Papa pulled up at the steps to the kitchen.
“Mama!” Sophie cried, and covered her eyes at the sight of Old Mario in the truck bed with Stavros’s bloodied body.
Sophie leaned against the door frame and slid to the floor, blocking the doorway. Mama slapped the wet towel, still in her hands, to the back of Sophie’s head. “You have to get out of the way,” she said, pulling at Sophie.
Zola climbed into the truck, touching Stavros’s leg, and said to Petros, “He i
sn’t dead, stupid.”
“Zola!” This was Papa and Mama together.
“I thought he was dead,” Papa said, perhaps defending Petros but also telling Mama what had happened.
Old Mario said, “It was perhaps the luckiest wound anyone ever received. The doctor came running and stopped the bleeding. But it’s only a little flesh missing.”
“Get up,” Mama told Sophie, pulling at her again. “You have to help Auntie.” The old lady sat in the truck, weeping. Sophie dragged herself up.
“We’ve told her and told her he’s breathing,” Papa said, “but she believes Stavros is gone.”
Helped by Zola, Old Mario lifted Stavros into Papa’s arms. “Thanks to the doctor’s quick thinking,” Old Mario said, “the whole village believes he’s dead.”
Zola took the weight of Stavros’s legs as they carried him into the house. “I’m going up to the roof,” Old Mario said.
Sophie reached through the truck window. “Auntie, don’t cry. Auntie, let’s go into the kitchen.”
They carried Stavros through the house, the dog nearly tripping them as he scurried around them. Papa ignored the dog as he said, “… the gun at his head. The man moved a little before he pulled the trigger, and the bullet nicked Stavros’s ear. A lot of blood, but not likely to kill him.”
They laid him on Zola’s bed.
Mama hurried back to the kitchen, where she grabbed a handful of clean dish towels and pumped a bowl of water. Sophie came in at the kitchen, pulling Auntie along, nearly carrying her.
Petros hung back in the hallway. He wanted to help Sophie, who kept up a running stream of words in a voice that was anything but reassuring.
But he also wanted to be where Stavros was, and followed Mama back to the bedroom, where he hovered in the doorway.
Papa had stripped away the bloody clothing and covered Stavros with the sheet.
Mama soaked a towel and wrung it nearly dry to wipe the dirt off Stavros’s face. This seemed to bother him, but he went on sleeping.
Zola asked, “Why doesn’t he wake up?”
“The doctor gave him something to make him sleep,” Papa said, sounding … not cheerful, but so relieved it could have been mistaken for cheerfulness. “The bleeding cleaned the wound, which is good. Only, the doctor says, maybe his hearing will suffer. Such a blast so close to the ear is bad.”
Mama scolded with her tongue, a sign she would be angry over something later. Anything. Nothing.
Papa added, “He’s alive, and we can’t improve on that.”
Zola said, “We can’t hide him in the well.”
Petros said, “Uncle Spiro.” All of them looked at him, including Mama. “Take Stavros and Auntie to Uncle Spiro’s farm,” Petros said.
“It’s the best we can do,” Mama said, getting up. “If Stavros can travel, he should be taken to his mother.” She went back to the kitchen, and Petros followed her.
Sophie and Auntie had gotten no farther than the kitchen table and waited to hear about Stavros. Mama looked alarming, Petros thought, in her bloodied apron, telling good news.
Auntie cried, but differently, as if she finally believed Stavros lived. Despite the good news that he was in fact a lucky bird that day, Sophie remained badly upset.
“Sophie, go to your room,” Mama said as she pumped clean water.
When Old Mario called down from the stairs that all remained clear on the road to the village, the fright came back to Auntie’s face. Petros urged the old lady to her feet. “Auntie, come see Stavros. See what’s true.”
Auntie leaned on Petros, but also she pushed him ahead of her. When they reached the bedroom, Papa had taken over where Mama left off, cleaning the dirt off Stavros.
“If he’s going to live,” Auntie said, wearing the frown so familiar from Stavros’s face, “take him to Spiro, who can take him to Hypatia. I can’t see him killed again.”
Mama returned from the kitchen and talked constantly as she bandaged Stavros, trying to persuade Auntie to go too, but the old lady kept saying, “No. No.”
Mama sent Petros outside with shorts and two shirts for Stavros. The bottle of iodine. Papa was filling the gas tank as Zola threw buckets of water across the truck bed. Old Mario swept the blood out with a broom.
Papa sent Petros back inside. “Fold two blankets for Stavros to lie on.”
It was a simple thing to do, but Sophie helped him in that big-sister way of hers. “Whose bag is this?” she asked, pulling on the book bag Petros still wore.
“It belongs to Stavros,” he said. He dropped it on the table.
And as he carried the blankets outside, Sophie carried the book bag. “It weighs nothing,” she said, shaking it. “What’s inside?”
“Dead bugs,” Petros said, and caught the bag as she dropped it.
Zola had just finished mopping up the water in the truck bed. When Sophie went back inside, he asked, “What is it really?”
“A kite tail.” Petros opened the bag and showed Zola, who laughed.
Together they laid the blankets out in the truck bed. “We should send the kite with Stavros,” Petros told Zola.
“All right, all right,” Zola said in an irritated way.
“We don’t dare fly it anyway,” Petros said. “Papa would kill us for sure.”
“Still, it doesn’t hurt to dream,” Zola said.
Petros could hardly breathe. Zola wasn’t talking to him as the big brother talking to a little one. He was speaking simply as one brother to another.
Zola looked up from straightening the blanket. “What will he do for string?”
“I have string,” Petros said. “I’ll go get it.”
Zola jumped out of the truck, going for the kite. Petros heard him on the stairs to the roof. He set the book bag next to the box of clothing, then ran to the arbor for the balls of silken string. Holding them against his chest, he ran back to the truck, where everyone was gathering.
Papa was carrying Stavros out to the truck, but it was Auntie who stood with arms lifted as if she were doing the job.
“Burn it,” Papa said, having seen the kite as Zola came down the stairs. But Zola lifted the corner of the blankets, laid the kite flat, and threw the blankets back over it.
“Is it a kite?” Auntie asked. “He loves kites.”
“It’s nothing American,” Petros said, and quickly tossed the silken balls into the box with the clothing and tomatoes. “It will make Stavros live and be well. If it doesn’t get broken.”
Mama’s eyes sharpened at seeing the color of those balls, but she had her hands full with Auntie, who looked less lost every minute. Auntie was shouting instructions of her own as she climbed into the seat and briskly rolled down the window.
Old Mario climbed into the truck bed, helping Papa with Stavros. He placed Stavros’s legs over the area where the kite was hidden. The frame was strong enough to bear that much weight, Petros felt sure.
Papa looked torn, but was distracted when Zola said, “Let me come.”
Papa said, “It’s your job to think Stavros is dead, as Petros thought Stavros was dead. Help your mother and sister lay out a table for mourning. That’s your job.”
“You’re right,” Zola said as Papa got behind the wheel. “I didn’t think.”
“It’s good to know you sometimes rest from all that thinking,” Papa said. “Put a hen in a burlap sack and go trade the fishmonger.”
“I’ll do that,” Old Mario said, climbing back off the truck bed. “I’m an old man. This is too much for me. Take your grown son with you.”
Papa hesitated, then nodded. Zola stepped up into the truck, his face looking sunburned but satisfied. As Papa drove away, Mama told Sophie they had to kill a few chickens.
“No one has died,” Old Mario muttered. “Kill just one.”
“It can’t be helped,” Mama said.
Petros knew Mama would have things to tell him about the table, even though they had no dead to mourn. He would simply do as he was told. He a
llowed himself a minute to watch the truck out of sight, the road dust beginning to settle at the front gate.
Stavros would be with Lambros—that’s what he wanted most.
Across the street, Elia stepped out from behind a tree. He’d seen the whole thing, Petros thought, even if all he saw was Stavros carried out to the truck and Papa driving away.
chapter 45
Old Mario looked doubtfully at the burlap sack when he was ready to go. “What if the fishmonger wants more than one chicken?”
“Tell him his fish are dead,” Mama said. “The hen lays an egg a day.”
Mama’s courage began to fail at thinking of how many villagers would come to the church in the village. “It’s a necessary lie,” she said worriedly. “But one I’ve begun to dread living with.”
Sophie had recovered enough to help in the kitchen, but not enough to argue this with Mama. It fell to Petros to keep saying, “Everything will be fine. Fine.”
He and Sophie put two tables together in the kitchen and set out as many chairs as they could lay hands on. Some of these were in the cellar. Petros made quick work of it, passing the chairs upward to Mama and Sophie and then putting the room back to rights, sliding the bed over the cellar door.
They’d just finished with this when Old Mario returned, saying, “The fish weighs less than the chicken.” He seemed to want to grumble about this some more, but the commander drove into the yard. Less than an hour after Papa had gone, which made his hasty departure wise.
The commander came into the house at the front and knocked on the kitchen door. Mama opened it, wringing her hands, real tears of fright in her eyes. Her anger rose to meet the commander. “This was a terrible thing for my son to see.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” the commander said. He tried to walk the border of being the colonel, but also he showed real sadness. “A mistake.”
He almost whispered, asking, “Your husband has not returned, Mrs.?”
Mama nodded. “He’s gone to tell the rest of the family.” Her tears looked convincing to Petros, who remembered immediately how terrible he’d felt, running home believing Stavros had been killed.
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