by Leah Fleming
Why should she notice him, the enemy, a prisoner of no consequence except to his own men? He was the unwelcome invader, a killer among killers. He cursed that he’d let his men down by being injured and now he had no idea where they were or how their campaign was progressing. No wonder she had no words for him. But he couldn’t forget the way she had held the hand of that dying trooper. There had been compassion on her face, a warmth in her sadness as she had pulled the blanket over his face.
In another life they might have passed each other on an Athens street, perfect strangers, but this was their life now, both of them living on the edge, staring into a precarious abyss of uncertainty. He just wanted to know her name . . .
There was no warning. The firing was getting closer, too close for comfort as she tried to concentrate, packing up equipment for their hasty retreat. Then a volley of shots and yelling heralded the attack and a scream of angry bullets ricocheted off the wall of the cave. No time to do anything but fling herself on the ground, face down as boots trampled past yelling ‘Raus, raus . . .’ storming as only conquerors do.
She flattened herself, trying to hide her presence, hoping there were officers to control this pack of wolves as they yanked out the orderlies to line them up on the rocks.
Every second seemed more like an hour as she lay prostrate in the gloom, tasting the salty sand, the grit and the stench of dried blood on her lips, and her fear, trying not to shiver. She sensed it would be only minutes before discovery, so this was not the time to waver. Be British, be brave . . . Oh, be damned with all that guff, she thought. All she was feeling was a cold fury in her gut. How could she leave when there was still so much to be done? This was not how she hoped to end up.
Suddenly a pair of desert boots covered in mud stood at eye-level, a tanned hand jerked her upright. This was the test, the moment of truth and defiance. If she faced the enemy without fear, her bluff might just work . . .
They rounded up the medics, brandishing guns at their chests, and when someone came in waving the Swastika flags she knew there would be trouble.
Suddenly the polished boots covered in sand stood over her. ‘God in Heaven! What have we here?’ A strong hand pulled her up, examining her with surprise. She saw Doug and Pete straining in case she was harmed, but she calmly brushed down her uniform, wrapped her cloak tightly over her body and stood as tall as she could, looking the man straight in the eye. She rattled off her name and Red Cross details in rapid Greek, seeing the look of amazement on Doug’s face. She warned them with a scowl, not to intervene.
The officer stood bemused, not understanding her, but then the wounded officer from the cave hobbled forward to interpret, questioning her in halting Greek. He said she had been left to look after the seriously wounded and that she had nursed their captured troops with great kindness.
He was looking at her with admiration and she found herself blushing. For a second she wondered if he recognized her as the nurse in British uniform, but he seemed to be accepting her as a Greek national. The other officer ignored her and turned to Doug.
‘What is the meaning of using this flag?’ he ranted, waving the German flag in their faces.
Again Penny stepped forward, turning to the tall paratrooper to translate for her, and explaining in Greek that it had been her idea.
‘We were running short of supplies and your bombs were hampering us nursing all the patients of all nationalities, including your own. It is important to save lives, don’t you think?’ She stared up at him, uncertain if he would translate this accurately. ‘I have taken vows to nurse all sick, no matter what their nation or religion,’ she added.
The wounded officer stumbled out a translation, his eyes turning back to her for confirmation. The other officer clicked his heels and saluted her.
‘The captain says they were fortunate to have such a brave example of womanhood. She must be repatriated with the wounded prisoners to serve in another hospital.’ His English was good enough for her friends to look relieved.
‘You are a nun in a nursing order?’ the captain asked, surprised. She did not reply. ‘Have no fear, your uniform will protect you. The Red Cross is honoured where its symbols are not misused as camouflage.’ He turned back to the men and they opened a path for her to walk through.
Only when she was out of earshot did Penny feel her legs wobble. Thank God she had stayed silent and they thought her Greek, not English. Her war would be over once she was evacuated to the mainland. The uniform had saved her – that and her grasp of the language.
Her relief turned to concern for all those brave New Zealand and Aussie soldiers now at the mercy of their enemy. What would become of them?
‘You’ve got them fooled, Penny. Good on you!’ Doug leaned over to speak quietly.
‘Not all of them. The wounded captain from Galatas, he saw me in khakis though I never spoke to him.’
‘Well, he didn’t say anything. He sang your praises to his superior for helping his dying men. He said you saved his life. I know enough German to get their drift,’ said Doug.
‘I didn’t save him. He was never in danger. He exaggerates . . .’
‘They’ll be flying you out to Athens with the stretcher cases and you can nurse back there.’
‘I’ll go when you all go and not before. I’ll see them on that plane first,’ Penny insisted, as she found herself picking up things that had been scattered by the troops.
She needed time to think this all over. What had she done? Made it easy for herself? She recalled that look of fury on Bruce’s face when he’d driven off. There were other alternatives. ‘Head for the hills,’ he’d suggested only a week ago. How had things changed so quickly? Were there really freedom fighters willing to continue the battle if the Brits were retreating? If she could pass for Greek, escape out of here, where would she go? She had seen the torn leaflets threatening instant death to citizens who resisted. That would be her fate if she took the path into the mountains and took up arms.
Why had the wounded officer spoken up for her? Had he not recognized her disguise? She thought he had, and she didn’t want to be beholden to the enemy, even in defeat. The fight must go on, but how?
I have three choices: to stay and be evacuated; to escape and find Bruce, join the retreat into the hills; or to fight on somehow here. Oh Lord, what do I do next?
Chania,
28 May 1941
Yolanda Markos sheltered in the basement of the Red Cross clinic through days of non-stop bombardment. District by district, Chania was being reduced to rubble. The nurses lived in a subterranean world lit by oil lamps and candles, trying to calm terrified civilians who were cramped together with soldiers from both sides, too sick to complain of the conditions.
Then, at last, came a morning when the skies were mercifully silent. Hardly daring to hope they had been spared another air raid, the medical staff cautiously opened the basement door. Was anything in their world left standing?
All Yolanda wanted was to head back into the city and find her parents in the Jewish quarter. All through the air raids she had prayed they were still alive.
Dr Androulakis went upstairs to view the damage which, to everyone’s astonishment, was minor: just broken windows, dust, glass and a queue already forming of blackened-faced patients who’d crept out of cellars and caves with their injured. Halepa district still remained almost intact.
Yolanda stepped into the daylight behind the doctor, almost blinded by the sunlight.
‘No more steel birds,’ cried a woman, crossing herself, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘But they have murdered our holy churches and our houses. God will revenge Himself on them!’ she shouted to anyone who would listen, but most people stood stunned with shock, looking up to the empty sky with relief. Halepa might have been spared but there were more tongues of flame coiling up in the distance, and the choking smoke of destruction inside the city walls.
‘I have to find my parents,’ Yolanda said to Andreas Androulakis. ‘They’
ll think me dead.’
He smiled and nodded. ‘You must go, but take care. We’ll need you back.’ He himself had been working all night.
Over the last four days something stronger than work and respect had pulled them closer. Amid all the darkness, danger and destruction, working alongside him Yolanda felt herself drawn to him in a way she’d never felt for a man before. There was a look of tenderness in his face when he talked to his patients, a quiet confidence in his manner that inspired hope.
‘Remember, you’ll be needed more than ever,’ he told her now. ‘You don’t flinch at the terrible injuries or when the bombs drop. The young nurses look up to you when they’re afraid and overwhelmed. You give them confidence by staying so calm.’
Yolanda felt a glow of pride in his praise. ‘I shall check Momma and Papa are safe, then return,’ she said, covering her head with a scarf as she picked her way down the cobbled street. The closer to the old city wall, to the Kastelli district, the worse the devastation. Barrels of wine spilled over the street, rats were gorging in daylight, broken pots of burning olive oil fouled the air and everywhere unburied corpses festered in the heat. Children wandered among the rubble searching, calling for pets, while woman keened at the devastation around them. Where once stood elegant Venetian town houses there was only smouldering beams and rubble.
Yolanda hurried on, not wanting to stop. It was a beautiful morning. The sea glistened in the bay, a deep sapphire-blue merging into emerald and pearl. How could there be such devastation on such a beautiful day?
No one quite knew what to do with Penelope Georgiou. Now it appeared she was a Greek citizen, not a British Army nurse, having trained in Athens, with a bona fide address there. She kept up this pretence, claiming all her papers had been lost at sea, and so far it was working. Only a true Greek would pick holes in her accent. She explained she’d been educated privately with an English governess, which explained her good grasp of English. She told them she was estranged from her wealthy family when she took up nursing. No one queried all these half-truths. The doctors in the camp confirmed she had arrived late, sent by the Red Cross to train up local women.
It was the wounded captain who translated on her behalf, who accompanied her around the camp as she tried to find orderlies to help the prisoners. When she expressed interest in Cretan history, he told her he had, himself, been keen on archaeology, and he seemed glad of common ground. Off guard she told him about the lectures at the BSA, open lectures, she added, and he asked her if she had read about the palace at Knossos. He recommended books she might like to read about Schliemann’s dig in Mycenae but she refused to be drawn further into intimacy.
The notoriety of her status as a single female in the caves, nursing men from both sides, caused curiosity, not least among senior officials. They wanted her interviewed, with an idea to further publicity: as an example of co-operation between Greece and the Third Reich. But attention was the last thing she needed now if her cover was not to be blown. They’d offered her a flight back to Athens with the wounded troops and her doctor friends, with the promise of a newspaper article about her experiences and a chance to continue nursing in the city. It was tempting, but her heart was in Crete and she had decided on staying on the island. In the brief moments she was alone with Pete and Doug before their departure, she begged them not to reveal her whereabouts or her English roots to anyone.
There was always the chance that Bruce was still on Crete, and she could find useful work in the local hospital. Perhaps, though, he had been whisked away already with important officers, as the rumours from the bush telegraph were hinting. Thousands of escaping British troops reached Sphakia in the south and were taken off the island by the Royal Navy, but not all of them, as the arrival of fresh prisoners here every day indicated. They were made to crawl back over the high mountains, barefoot, starving and demoralized, only to be caged back in the hospital now a prison camp
Then came the inevitable invitation to Penny to go to HQ to meet some of the senior staff, medical officers who would decide her fate, and she had no choice but to accept graciously. She was in no position to refuse. To her horror they sent a staff car for her and the captain offered to escort her into the city. She felt him watching her as if he was unsure of her motives. He had seen her working as an army nurse – why had he not called her bluff, or did he believe all the lies she had told them? Surely he had recognized her as the nurse in khaki, but he said nothing. It was unnerving.
There had been one terrible moment when one of her patients returned to the camp. Sick with bites and sunstroke, he waved, recognizing her. ‘I knew she’d still be here. Hello, Nursey, am I glad to see your pretty English face.’
‘There is nothing English about my face,’ she snapped in broken English. ‘Many of us Greek girls are blonde,’ she added, walking away, not wanting to see his surprise, but worried that her German escort had heard their exchange.
As they drove through the smouldering city on that sunny morning, she wanted to avert her eyes to all around her: the sad-eyed children, the broken doorways and arches, the women in black searching the rubble for their pots and pans. She sat stiffly in her freshly starched uniform, no longer caked in blood and dirt. How was she going to convince the Germans to let her stay on in some useful capacity?
The officer kept glancing at her and she tensed. He was always asking questions, trying to pry into her personal life.
‘You are brave to stay alone in such conditions. I’m surprised the medical authorities allowed it,’ he said.
‘They had no choice. I was sent. We were busy. My ship was sunk,’ she replied in slow Greek.
‘What did your parents think of your career? It is not the chosen work for a daughter of quality, not in my country.’
‘It is the highest calling for any woman to help the sick,’ she snapped, turning her face from him. ‘Even the queen herself supported our hospital in Athens.’ She wanted to scream, shut up, let me out of here, leave me alone, but instinct said she must keep on the right side of him. He might be the key to her escape.
Stay polite but not too warm. Give him hope that she found him sympathetic, but not too much, and every now and then drop the hint that she had taken vows of devotion to her profession, that all thoughts of a normal family life or romance were no longer an option for her.
She found herself back in the Halepa district, not far from her stay in Stella Vista and the diplomatic quarter. She passed the French convent school, largely untouched by the bombing, and she prayed all the little girls she had seen before the invasion, darting around the grounds like butterflies, were unharmed.
It was a shock to see the German flag flying above the Venezelos Palace. The British HQ was now in other hands. Her heart thumped as they entered the gracious building, the formal hall where the German adjutants were busy shifting furniture around and adorning the walls with posters proclaiming the virtues of the Third Reich.
She was shown into an office. A senior doctor stood stiffly to attention.
‘Miss Georgiou. We have heard all about your exploits. You are a credit to your calling. Please sit down.’
They passed pleasantries and, with the help of the captain, Penny explained how she thought herself suited to work among the Cretan Red Cross staff.
‘You don’t wish to return to Athens?’ He looked surprised. ‘A woman of your calibre will find nothing here but rough peasants and brigands.’
‘I had thought to return until I made this journey, but as I was passing that school down the road, St Joseph’s, I think it is called, it reminded me that I have knowledge to impart. The Red Cross needs young girls to train since many of its older women will return to their families now the hostilities have ceased.’ She looked to her chaperone, who was translating. ‘I would like to work with my own people.’
‘But you are not Cretan,’ said the doctor, spitting out the word as if it was distasteful.
‘Crete has been part of the Greek nation for many years,�
�� Penny smiled, looking from one of them to the other. ‘But I confess I do have another more selfish motive, having some interest in Minoan archaeology. I might be given permission some day to visit the famous sites, under escort, of course.’ She was laying it on thick for her interpreter’s benefit.
The doctor seemed impressed. ‘You are certainly a woman of many parts, but where would we house you?’
‘I have thought of that, Sir. There is a hostel attached to the convent. I am, after all, Red Cross, and a convent would be a suitable residence for someone dedicated to nursing.’
‘A sensible solution. You would be cloistered under their roof, chaperoned and out of harm’s way if there were any disturbances. We can make this happen but on one condition: that you do not do anything to support any British or local resistance to our governance here. We expect your loyalty at all times.’
‘The Red Cross is always neutral,’ she replied, not exactly answering the question, but it seemed to satisfy him.
The captain hovered when she left the office. ‘Shall I drop you off at the school? When things are settled and safer in Heraklion, let me take you out for the day to Knossos. You cannot come to Crete and not see this wonder of the world.’
‘I’m sure it is a wonder, but first I must return for my things and hope that your commanding officer is true to his word.’
So far it was all going her way and Penny could hardly believe her ruse had worked. But she had to be realistic – how long would it be before her luck ran out?
