The Girl Under the Olive Tree

by Leah Fleming

  As she made her way back into the city, she fervently hoped the man would get good treatment. She must find Othos Dimitris, the street where the Markos family lived, and break the news to them. She was glad it was still daylight as she followed a trail of dark streets through Kokkinia, a rundown area of the city where houses were divided up into rooms, and lines of washing hung across the road. There were fierce dogs barking, a stench of rotten vegetables and rubbish. This was a world away from the icing-sugar villas on Kifissia Avenue, where the diplomats lived. Where she used to live.

  She asked some women sitting by their doors for the Markos family, but they just shrugged, spat and then pointed upwards to an attic. ‘The Jews live up there.’

  Penny wrinkled her nose at the stench coming from the stairs: stale fat, urine and the sweat of unwashed bodies. She struggled up the rickety staircase to the top where a battered door with flaking paint was shut. She knocked hard.

  ‘Who is it?’ a voice answered, but the door remained shut.

  ‘I have news from Kyrie Solomon Markos. It is important.’

  The door opened a crack and a pair of anxious dark eyes peered out at her. ‘Who are you? What do you want with him?’

  ‘Please may I come in? I have news of your husband. Mr Markos has had an accident.’

  Penny moved to enter as the door opened wider and the woman cried out, ‘He is dead. His heart has given up. I knew it . . .’ There was a girl standing in the shadows, a pale face with hair braided high over her head, wearing an apron like a waitress or a maid in one of the diplomatic houses.

  ‘Oh please, Kyria, you are wrong. He was quite alive when I left him. There was an accident in the street and his leg was broken. He is in the clinic at Piraeus, close to the harbour. They will set his leg,’ Penny tried to reassure the mother and daughter.

  ‘But we are sailing tonight to Egypt. It is all arranged. He went for tickets. Look, we are packed for our journey.’ Mrs Markos pointed desperately to two large carpetbags on the floor. Penny saw now that the walls were stripped of decoration and the room was almost bare.

  The girl stepped forward to comfort her mother. ‘Don’t worry, we can wait. Papa needs us here. Our journey can wait.’

  ‘But the tickets – who will exchange our tickets?’

  ‘I’m afraid there was a misunderstanding. There were no tickets. Your husband was cheated by a fraudster. There was a fight.’ Penny didn’t know how best to explain without alarming them even more.

  ‘Oh, no! Solomon is no match for harbour rats. I warned him but he wouldn’t listen, didn’t I?’ she cried, turning to her daughter. ‘We have no savings now to pay for more tickets.’

  ‘Shush, Momma,’ her daughter consoled. ‘We can still sew and mend, and I can work for Beulah Koen in the shop. We have friends who will help.’ She held out her hand to Penny. ‘Thank you for helping us. I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Penelope Georgiou. I am a student – or rather I was. And you are . . . ?’

  ‘Yolanda Markos.’ She held her mother’s arm. ‘We arrived from Thessaloniki six months ago. Papa was hoping to teach at the university but it hasn’t worked out. Many people, few posts. I was hoping to train as a doctor, but as you can see . . .’ she tailed off. ‘Poor Papa, we must go to him.’

  ‘I’m sorry to bring bad news.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Miss Penelope. We must bring him back here. There are doctors in our community who will help him. He’ll feel more comfortable with his own people. We are Jews,’ she said flashing her dark eyes, challenging Penny to respond.

  ‘And I am English,’ Penny smiled, holding out her hand again.

  ‘So we are all strangers in the city. Strangers helping strangers. We will thank you for your kindness. Now we must leave.’

  ‘I will show you the way,’ Penny offered, hesitating whether to tell them about her watch. It had been a parting gift from her father and she didn’t want to lose it. ‘It is not the best clinic but it was closest to where he fell. I’m sure they will reset his leg. I made splints . . .’

  ‘You are a nurse?’ Yolanda asked.

  Penny blushed. ‘Not exactly, I did some first-aid training in England with the Red Cross, but that was a long time ago.’

  ‘When we are settled I intend to do some training too. I fear nurses will be needed soon. Why are you not returning to England?’

  As they sat on the bus back to Piraeus Penny tried to explain how she had come to Athens and how she was now reluctant to leave. She kept looking at Yolanda. Her skin had not that fleshy bloom of youth, and she was thin and drawn as if she had not been eating properly, but she was still beautiful in a graceful, serious way. It was lovely to see how close mother and daughter were, holding hands, chattering. A far cry from the relationship she had with her own mother. They had come down in the world; anyone could see that. Now their plans to emigrate had been thwarted by cruelty, greed and violence. She recalled Steven’s extreme views about nationalism in the light of the way the old man had been beaten and cheated and what she’d already witnessed. This was the first time she had ever considered how dangerous it could be to be of the Jewish race and she felt ashamed she’d never even given their plight much thought before now.

  She knew there were men in England who claimed Jews were behind all the woes of the world, men in black shirts such as those who had marched on Cable Street in the East End of London but were pushed back and defeated. It had been reported on the Pathé news and in the papers, but such political dramas had been a world away from her comfortable life in the Cotswolds and easily forgotten. Now it hit home that people like Yolanda and her family were vulnerable, even in such a cosmopolitan place as Athens.

  She took Sara Markos and her daughter to the clinic. Solomon had been sedated and his leg set in plaster of Paris. He would be helpless now for weeks.

  His wife cried at the sight of him. ‘We have to take him home. We can’t afford any more treatment here. Who paid for this?’

  The doctor pointed to the gold watch and shrugged, looking at Penny as he shoved it back in her hand. ‘She left this as surety.’

  ‘I see.’ Yolanda shook her head and shoved her hand down into her shirt, pulling out a thick gold chain on which was a six-pointed star. ‘Take this,’ she offered the doctor.

  Penny protested, knowing this symbol must be precious. ‘I can wait to redeem my watch, please, keep it!’ But Yolanda insisted on paying the man herself.

  ‘At least let me get you a taxi,’ Penny offered. ‘Your father is in no condition to travel any other way. Please, give him crutches,’ she said to the doctor.

  ‘Give the man what she asks,’ the doctor ordered his nurse, looking at Penny with new respect.

  As they made their weary way back to the shabby flat, Penny knew she couldn’t desert the Markos family now . . . Then she had an idea. ‘Kifissia Avenue!’ she ordered the taxi driver. ‘You are coming with me!’

  She still had the keys to Walter and Evadne’s villa. No one would mind if they used it for a few days. It was furnished and clean, with plenty of rooms. She could explain to Kyria Kaliope that she was staying there with friends for a few days. No one need know their business. In those hours since leaving the harbour, she’d been caught up in a drama and for once she’d known exactly what to do. In helping the Markos family she suddenly felt useful and determined once again.

  All that mattered now was making this family comfortable, and she could also spend more time with Yolanda. She had admired how calm and caring she was to her parents, how determined she was to pay her own way. There was something about her that was worth knowing.

  2001

  How our lives are changed in minutes by collisions of incidents upon which we arrive as innocent bystanders. The encounters I made that afternoon pushed me into another world, into other viewpoints, and my life in Athens turned to a totally different direction. The discovery that I could think on my feet, take charge of an emergency and not panic was a strange r
evelation to me. Then, taking charge of Solomon’s convalescence, I forged one of the deepest friendships of my life. Yolanda and I were from such different backgrounds and religions, yet in many ways we complemented each other, Yolanda being many things I could never be.

  She challenged me to look at myself, my prejudices and assumptions, by her devotion and obedience to her parents. How I envied their tight little unit as they fussed over Solomon until he was finally back on his feet.

  From those weeks when we squatted in Evadne’s house, I learned much about the Jewish faith. It was fortunate for me that they were not Orthodox in their religious observances so that we were able to accommodate some of their customs and traditions in a Gentile home. They gave me a lifetime love of Jewish cooking: pastela, a wondrous lamb pie that Sara said came from her Italian ancestors in Sicily, and almond crescents they called boskochs. Every festival had its special foods. I tried to explain what we made for Christmas but as our cook had prepared all our meals at Stokencourt, I’d not a clue how to make even the simplest dish.

  Sara was quick to put this right, making me chop and stir, measure out and watch how flavoursome dishes could be created from the simplest and cheapest of ingredients. What Kyria Kaliope thought of this new arrangement I didn’t know or care, until the day when I received a curt call from the embassy saying the house was needed for another diplomat and we must vacate the premises forthwith.

  When my guests left to return home, I missed their noisy, colourful, loving way of living, and I returned to my rooms at Margery McDade’s, determined that my life would change.

  Anything Yolanda could do, I decided I would do and better. Oh yes, rivalry was always there under the surface of our growing friendship. We made an incongruous pair in our Red Cross uniforms, me tall and fair, she so slight and dark . . . But once again, I jump ahead.

  Training as nurses in the days before penicillin and modern surgical techniques was no easy feat. Discipline and menial work were hard pills to swallow for someone like me. At the end of a back-breaking day, collapsing in laughter with a friend makes anything bearable. In the years that followed, our friendship became the rock to which we clung for survival. There’s hardly a day goes by when I don’t think back to those times, scrubbing floors on our knees, finding quiet corners out of Sister’s way to have a secret smoke. Why is it now that the past feels so close at hand that I can almost reach out and touch it? How can I return to Athens without thinking of Yolanda?

  Athens, 1940

  The two girls sat in the darkened lecture theatre watching the slide show in stunned silence. The new intake of Red Cross trainee nurses were layered up in rows behind last year’s. Everyone was forcing themselves to watch the unwatchable. Their lecturer was a sturdy Irish sister called Teresa McGrath, who had nursed British troops in the Great War. She explained her mission was to prepare them for injuries they might have to face should the present conflict with Italy over borderlines develop into something more serious.

  The interpreter struggled to keep apace of her strong accent. ‘War is a filthy business. Guns take no prisoners, they mutilate soft tissue, bones, decapitate, disembowel whatever stands in their way.

  ‘I don’t want you to flinch from such injuries when they are presented to you. Better to see them now and be prepared than fail your duty of care. This is not a pleasant lecture – I know some will disapprove – but it must be done. I cannot prepare you for the smell of the battlefield or the sickly sweet smell of death in your nostrils. That you will overcome as best you can. A mask soaked in oil of lavender may help. Only experience and discipline will give you the confidence to withstand such sights as I am about to show you.’

  She proceeded to illustrate how wounds left untreated became gangrenous balloons of rotting flesh. Penny was glad the photographs were not in colour. Then came clean amputations and bad ones, good stumps, infected ones, stomach wounds and entrails hanging from uniforms. Head and facial pictures next. There were faces all but destroyed, noses and eyes lost, men disfigured by burns. No one asked any questions at first. Penny shivered at the thought of her brother, Zan, being subjected to such atrocious wounds. She was glad that letters from home were still getting through and she knew he was safe.

  ‘Each of these young men gave himself up to his country’s cause. Some here are British, German, French. Guns make no distinction and neither must we. This is the principle that underpins the work of the Red Cross. We treat all who need our help, regardless of nation, race or creed. We feed the starving, we do not judge or take up our own national cause, only that of suffering humanity.’

  When Sister McGrath had finished and the blinds were lifted, Penny and Yolanda stumbled out into the light, wanting to breathe fresh air.

  In the six months since she had begun training, Penny found there was no hiding place from the eagle eye of the matron. The wards were inspected twice a day for any sign of slacking among the new trainees. The hospital had been founded by no lesser person than the late Queen Olga of Greece. The twenty-five beds had been expanded over the years and it was considered one of the best hospitals in Athens.

  They’d started as the lowest of the low, scrubbing floors, emptying bed pans, mopping up vomit and blood. Yet Penny found herself taking to each task with relish, knowing it was a step closer to proper medical instruction.

  Her back ached and her legs throbbed at the end of a shift, but she retired back to Margery McDade’s rooms, satisfied that no one could ever call her a social butterfly again. The severe uniform, with its thick dark-blue cloak and stiff white headdress, was a bit like wearing a nun’s habit, but she was proud of the Red Cross emblem on her chest.

  It was Yolanda who had challenged her to sign up for training. She’d watched a film about Florence Nightingale in Salonika, and at first had wanted to train to be a doctor, but now, like Penny, she moaned after a hard day and they both wished she’d seen some other film.

  Penny was glad when the Markos family left Othos Dimitris to stay with a rabbi friend in the Jewish quarter. They were hoping to ship out to Crete but Yolanda fought to stay and finish her training. She was lodging with another rabbi, Rabbi Israel, who lived nearer the hospital, helping his wife look after a handful of unruly children to pay for her board and lodging.

  Now at last they were learning about wound management, how to stem blood flow, give injections, all the latest techniques. Penny was keen to get her hands on real nursing techniques, but after the slide show she knew she would have to start getting used to the the simpler tasks before they were allowed to do anything complicated.

  There were lectures on hygiene, anatomy, and care of children, the elderly and the chronically infirm, but despite her studies Penny found time to read in the newspapers all about the war in Europe. The march of Italy to the Albanian border was causing concern throughout the Balkans, and there were letters from home once again, demanding she return.

  Yet she felt safer here in the city doing a job she loved. There was nothing to spoil the glory of spring and early summer before the heat got oppressive. There were flowers in bloom everywhere, which cheered the two nurses one hot afternoon as they staggered out of their lecture towards the National Garden, trying to absorb all the horrors to which they’d just been exposed.

  ‘Do you think we’ll cope if we’re faced with stuff like that?’ Yolanda asked. ‘I feel sick. How I ever thought I could be a doctor . . .’

  ‘You still could train,’ Penny said, but Yolanda dismissed this with a wave of her hand.

  ‘Poof ! I am a woman, a Jew . . . who will train me now? You know our situation. It’s not an option, just a silly dream.’

  ‘And it’s when we’re faced with stuff like that, not if,’ Penny replied, sensing Yolanda’s disappointment. ‘You can feel the tension in the air. The legation has people coming and going like Piccadilly Circus. They’ve taken on extra staff to help with administration and registration. Margery is working there now. I saw John Pendlebury in his uniform outside th
e Hotel Grande Bretagne. He’s only got one eye – I wonder how he passed a medical board . . . You know, while I was looking at those slides I kept thinking what if one of those pictures had been of my brother? He’s in the army in France now. I hope he’s safe.’

  Yolanda peered at her with serious eyes. ‘You ought to go back to your family. I don’t know how you can stay away from them

  ‘We’re not like you, we go our different ways.’ How could she explain how distant they all felt to her now? Effy’s letters were full of news of who was married and enlisting, what parties she’d missed in London and how the season would be cancelled. It was a world away from her life now.

  ‘I couldn’t bear anything to happen to mine. I’m so glad they’ve gone to Crete. Uncle Joseph will look after them. My father fears for the future of our race should Nazis come here, and I promised him I will join them if there’s trouble.’

  ‘I suppose you have more to fear than I do,’ Penny blurted out without thinking. ‘Sorry! You know what I mean.’

  Yolanda smiled, patting her arm. ‘They say we Jews belong to no nation but ourselves, but it’s not true. I’m Greek, these are my people,’ she indicated the passers-by. ‘I have to do what I can for my country. No harm will come to us here.’

  ‘That’s just how I feel too. I belong here now. This is my home and I’m not going to desert it.’

  Penny was learning fast that no matter what emergency there was in the hospital, a nurse must always walk not run, must stay calm for the patient’s sake, no matter what she was feeling inside. She mustn’t flinch or frighten a patient by showing emotion, even when death was close at hand. She’d learned to wash and lay out bodies according to their religious rites, respect each patient and the hierarchy of hospital procedures. She was not to speak unless spoken to, to put the patient’s comfort as a priority, listening to their grumbles and fears . . .

  Not that the nurses didn’t have fun after shifts. There were name-day parties with cakes and wine, flirtations with some of the young doctors, who tried to hook in pretty nurses with their smooth talking. She had no inclination to attach herself to any one in particular and understood, now she’d found her own vocation, why Bruce had backed away from any real intimacy with her. There was always safety in numbers and mild flirtations. He’d got his future to think of. She blushed every time she thought of how keen she must have seemed to him. She couldn’t help wondering just where he was now and if they would ever meet again.