by Leah Fleming
None of these revellers would be reminiscing about such dark days of the past. He was sober and silent, solitary and in need of company, but there was no one of his age or nationality sitting close by. The memories kept flooding into his mind of the first time he had sat in almost this very spot, and all he could feel was the pain of being young and overwhelmed by responsibility. Why must duty always clash with personal desire in a war?
June 1941
‘You didn’t waste much time, Rainer,’ sniggered Helmut Krause, gulping down his beer. ‘Picked yourself a classy plum of a nurse before we could get a look at the fruit bowl. Quite the little heroine too . . .’
‘Shut it.’ Rainer felt his cheeks burning from too much krassi.
‘Don’t worry, she’s not my type, too skinny-arsed, bit of a cold fish, don’t you think? I like my fruit well ripened in the sun.’
Rainer wanted to kick his teeth into his throat at such insults but they were both so drunk it wasn’t worth a fight.
They’d taken over a taverna close to the cathedral square, spilling out onto the pavement, singing, shouting, eyeing up the women strolling past, whose eyes were averted in a brave attempt to pretend the evening harbour stroll wasn’t ruined by their noisy presence. The Germans were not welcome though their drachmas would be.
They’d spent the day making sure all their scattered dead were buried with full military honours, all information collated. It was a miserable job; no wonder everyone wanted to blot out the memory of their comrades’ remains, rotting in the fierce heat. Rainer was in no mood for ribbing about his personal life, not even from his friends.
He looked around at what was left of his men, once so cocky and confident. They had about them now a familiar world-weariness, their eyes blank with exhaustion, the same look he’d seen on the faces of British prisoners in the camp on their arrival in their old hospital.
Soldiers were all the same under the skin. He thought of all those wooden crates of personal effects being sent back to Germany, and the families who would not understand what a hellhole this place had turned out to be.
As for Nurse Georgiou, she was a mystery. So formal and on guard in his presence, with no intention of responding to his overtures. Yet the more she ignored his obvious interest the keener he became. She was becoming a challenge, a distraction from the weariness of mopping up the last of local resistance. He was running out of excuses to visit her, now she was housed in the French Catholic school, but being Catholic himself he hoped he’d catch sight of her in the local church.
He sensed she was relieved to be out of his company, though she was ever polite. ‘Thank you,’ she said, gathering her carpetbag, nodding curtly to his driver, when he dropped her off.
‘What about that trip to Knossos, I mentioned?’ he offered, leaning forward.
She stepped back, holding up her hand. ‘I’m sorry. Thank you. I shall be working here from now on,’ she replied, not looking at him, and then retreated into the convent hostel without a backward glance.
There was talk of the paratroopers being deployed to the North African desert, but until he was fully fit Rainer was ordered to remain here to quell any trouble and to flush out the remaining British in the hills.
He had hated his first duty: the destruction of two villages whose men had put up resistance to the parachute descent alongside a remnant of Greek soldiers. If this was what he was reduced to doing, he wanted none of it, but orders were orders, straight from Berlin. Punishment must be meted out with no trials or juries, just executions and villages on fire. Ten to forty Cretans for every paratrooper killed and no mercy.
How could he explain to ignorant peasants that they were collectively responsible for any act of resistance in their village, and that this would extend to whole families, children included? He also read out the demands for labourers of both sexes to make repairs to roads and airstrips without delay, detailing young men and old for backbreaking work so they could relieve their own soldiers in the heat.
He couldn’t sleep for seeing the bewildered looks on children’s faces as the soldiers lined up their fathers and shot them under the olive trees, forbidding anyone to return for their bodies for days afterwards. There were soldiers who were hardened and furious, who took pleasure in carrying out these orders, who counted heads, who joked and ransacked houses looking for arms, setting fire to beds and linen for the sheer hell of it, tearing up crops out of the ground and cutting down olive trees just because they could.
His head knew this had to be done to stamp their authority over the island, but in his heart this cruelty lay heavy. He had not pulled a trigger on women and children but he gave the order nonetheless. He had not slept properly since.
There was no point meeting with the Cretan officials. He didn’t trust them. They drank too much raki, always giving him assurances that there’d be no further trouble, but their sullen compliance and sly looks made him uneasy.
Meanwhile, here they were, stuck on the island; a key Mediterranean gateway to the Middle East, a strategic supply point for North Africa and Rommel’s army.
The revenge they had wreaked in the villages was already being avenged in sneak attacks, ambushes and the disappearance of soldiers on guard duty. The prison camp on the beach was a shambles until the Hitler Youth Brigade took over and began a reign of terror, but those fit enough escaped under cover of darkness and some even in broad daylight. There was no respect for their authority, even when they imposed harsh punishments and cut rations.
Rainer had been given some useful ideas on how to flush evading enemy soldiers out of the hills but he had sympathy for their plight. If roles had been reversed wouldn’t he have done the same thing?
They were taking on new interpreters and agents, local men who could sniff out collaborators, but even these employees were under careful scrutiny. What if they were secret informers? Who could they honestly trust but their own men?
So why was he wasting time drooling over some foreign nurse? Was it her graceful figure, those long legs, sun-bleached hair and chocolate eyes, or something more potent to his senses? She was like no other woman he’d ever met, his equal in every way, but there was something unreachable within her that fascinated him. It was almost as if she was the victor and he the vanquished: a ridiculous fantasy. There could be no serious fraternizing, no romancing. If they needed relief, all the troops of any rank were free to make use of brothels, behind the harbour for the rank and file, and a more discreet house and club for the officers. It was ever thus.
Yet nothing could curb his admiration for the nurse. She’d saved lives and endured much hardship. Perhaps it was difficult for her to let go of her own fear and distrust after what she had witnessed. God! If I were Cretan, I wouldn’t like us much, he thought, knowing these thoughts amounted to treason. How could he doubt the policies that claimed they had the right to rule the world for a thousand years?
So far it had brought only death and suffering for his men here, but he must believe their leaders knew what they were doing, that their presence was of strategic importance and their sacrifices were for the ultimate goal.
Rainer swallowed his drink and staggered out across the square to the harbour, staring out towards the ancient Venetian lighthouse. He knew it was time to get over his infatuation before he made a fool of himself. He must stiffen the sinews, cool this childish ardour and flush out all resistance to the Nazi rule. There was no place in his life for romantic foolishness. Nurse Georgiou was the enemy.
Chania, 2001
‘We’ve just had such a brilliant tour of the city, Aunt Pen. I never knew it had such history,’ Lois announced as she came strolling down the street to meet me, wearing a new straw sunhat and dark glasses, her shoulders already bronzing in her pretty sundress. ‘We met Mr Fennimore at the “Hand” monument and he walked us up through the street where El Greco was born and past the hand-weaver’s studio. We met Michaelis there. You just have to see some of his work . . . Oh, and then we wandered in the
backstreets viewing the Venetian palazzos and architecture. We even caught a glimpse of the little synagogue, the last one left on Crete. It’s Saturday so it was closed for services, I expect. There was so much to take in, and Alex enjoyed it, didn’t you?’
Alex was too busy staring into a window full of knives to reply.
‘He walked us through Leather Alley and up to the Market Hall. Guess who we bumped into there? Mack, our rep, was shopping and told us about the open-air market. He says there’s a taverna at the end of the street that sells delicious souvlaki. Shall we join him there?’
What could I do but smile and go along with them as if I had never wandered these streets before? Soon we were staggering under bags of oranges, tomatoes and ripe cherries. Alex had to carry the thyme honey, mysethra cheese and early melons.
Mack was waiting, looking relaxed in long shorts and T-shirt, offering to find us shade, ordering cool bottles of golden Mythos, and barbecued pork souvlaki for Alex as if we were all one big happy family on holiday. He was eyeing Lois with interest once again, and she was starting to look relaxed at last.
I had made my way up from the harbour, up Halidon Street to a bookshop I could’ve sworn was there sixty years ago. I had already found shade behind the cathedral. I’m fine if I take things at my own pace, and I wandered through the huge agora, savouring the familiar smells of grilled fish and chicken, tobacco smoke and strong cheese.
It was noon and the outdoor market would soon be closing for siesta. The heat and the heaviness was making me feel nostalgic. What stories these streets could tell – tales of despair and courage, cunning and defiance. Every Mediterranean town has its market, the very heart of its community.
I was entranced to see all the colours and smells, the variety and abundance on offer. There were stalls full of nothing but greens: great bunches of fresh parsley, mint, mountain herbs, spinach, artichokes. Chickens and rabbits were caged, ready for the pot, netted bags of snails, stalls of silvery fish lying on melting ice, tomatoes like billiard balls, vats of all the local cheeses, jars of honey and bottles full of raki.
Farmers’ wives and yiayias were sitting under umbrellas, watching as their sons yelled to the crowds. Down the streets came the busy matrons pushing trolley bags, widows bent double, slowly edging their way, bowing to long-haired priests pushing their children in buggies, and flame-haired beauties swaggering down the alley, catching the eyes of the farm boys.
It warmed my heart to see life restored. Suddenly I was back in the same cobbled street all those years ago, glimpsing my young self reflected in the shop window in a drab grey dress and overall like a nun. How could I have been so fearless and determined in the middle of such danger? How could I have done what I did?
July 1941
Penny found herself settling into the life of St Joseph’s with relief at being away from the turmoil of those last desperate days in Galatas, the sight of the POWs and her constant wariness of the German captain. It was a relief, too, to be in female company and have the distraction of caring for orphaned children in the makeshift nursery.
There was a stillness within these walls. When the gates were closed, the world outside could be forgotten for a few hours. She had not realized how exhausted she felt; she could sleep for hours, but for the discipline of the religious life.
They knew her situation. She had confessed to Mother Superior that she was asking for sanctuary as a Protestant, an alien, without proper papers, and fleeing from the attentions of a German officer, which was an exaggeration but helped her cause.
If Mother Veronique was dismayed by the responsibility of taking on a fugitive, she didn’t show or disclose it to anyone. She patiently listened to Penny’s story and, when she had finished, she sat back smiling. ‘You were sent here for a reason, my child. I can find you useful employment. We sent some of our staff to the hospital in Heraklion, but I fear they can’t return so you are a timely addition to our staff. We have a maternity wing here for mothers in difficulties. Since the bombing we have seen such sad cases, many stillbirths and miscarriages.’
‘I’m not a midwife,’ Penny replied with dismay, thinking of Effy and all she had gone through. She had never even delivered a baby.
‘Watch and learn, my dear. Nature usually takes its course but sometimes there are complications and fevers. I’m sure you are well rehearsed in dealing with such emergencies.’
Once again Penny recalled those terrible hours when Effy miscarried in Athens. Had she managed to achieve her dream yet? Was a nanny now in residence in Stokencourt? Had they all retreated into the country, away from the terrible bombings in London that some of German soldiers bragged about in the cafés for all to hear?
Thrown into the deep end, her learning was swift. How far away was Stokencourt Place and England and her family. It was as if she was a complete stranger to that way of life now. Would she herself ever go through such an undignified process as giving birth?
They gave her a long plain grey dress to wear, a serviceable apron and a headdress like a novice, treating her with kindness as she struggled with her halting French. She was not one of them nor ever could be. Much as she respected their life of religious observance and devotion, none of their ceremonies touched her heart. In services she found her mind wandering to the world outside the walls. Where were Bruce and Zander, and had that really been Yolanda she had seen in the crowd? She no longer trusted what she had thought. All she hoped was that the captain had moved on from Chania and that she was forgotten by the authorities now.
The favourite part of her day was when she was allowed to play with the orphans brought into the day nursery. They sat like docile pets, wide-eyed, silent, too quiet for children. She wanted to take them to the beach to play but the shoreline was forbidden to all without permits. Even fishing now was difficult unless a guard was on board.
The convent had grounds and the vegetable garden was their storehouse. As supplies grew scarcer, Veronique asked a group to go in search of fresh fruit at the market. Penny was to accompany Sister Clothilde and another novice on the trip. It was her first outing for weeks and she felt like a girl let out of school. They rose early and made for the city, to arrive as the market opened. They walked in single file.
Clothilde was not one of Penny’s favourite sisters. She had a pinched, pale-faced ageless look, small eyes behind metal-rimmed glasses that missed nothing. She habitually eyed Penny with suspicion, appalled that she never received Mass and curious as to why. She corrected every wrong inflection in her accent, envious of her acumen as a nurse who commanded respect among the other sisters.
The market was disappointing, only a few stalls. ‘Where’s the fresh fish?’ demanded Clothilde. The fish had gone to the occupying army, they were told.
‘Where’s the fruit?’ she demanded, storming up to the empty tables. All gone, trees smashed by planes and fire, crops stolen in the night or dug up in reprisal for villages that had resisted the invasion. Many farmers were too scared to come into the city and many were dead.
‘I think it’s disgraceful that so few have made the effort to supply us,’ Clothilde sneered to one stallholder.
‘Yes, ma’am, and it’ll only get worse. Everyone is hoarding and hiding what they can before winter comes. We have some snails in a bucket?’ He offered them up.
‘They don’t smell fresh to me,’ she sniffed.
Embarrassed, Penny walked away to see if there were other stalls around the corner but there were just a few tables of second-hand clothes. People were rummaging over them as if it was a precious sale.
A girl turned away and almost bumped into her. ‘Signóme’ she said. She looked up briefly and glanced again as if she couldn’t believe who she was seeing. They both jumped back in recognition of each other. Penny’s stomach did a somersault and she stepped forward, shaking with emotion at such an unexpected meeting.
‘Yolanda? Oh thank God, it is you! You’re alive . . .’ Penny called out, but Yolanda backed off, stumbling into a
crate in her anxiety to flee from her. Penny ran forward to help her up. ‘Come back, I’m not a ghost . . . Please, we must talk.’
Yolanda picked herself up, scowling. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’ She turned to walk away but Penny was quick to dart in front and block her path as shoppers stopped to stare at them, hoping for a fight.
‘Well, I have something to ask you. Where have you been all this time? I searched for you? Why did you abandon us without so much as a word, desert your post, leave us in the lurch?’ she yelled into Yolanda’s face.
‘How could you think that?’ Yolanda replied, her eyes flashing in anger. ‘I might ask what a British nurse is doing in a German staff car. I saw you . . . you didn’t waste your time,’ Yolanda spat back.
Penny felt indignation flaring up. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing? I was being escorted back to the prison camp, which was our military hospital before it was overrun. I had no choice in the matter, none at all.’
‘And I was too busy nursing on a hospital ship to notice it had set sail. Lucky for me it came to Crete. I sent you all a postcard to explain.’ She paused, then her voice softened. ‘You never got it? I’m here with the Red Cross.’ She stood with her arms folded, waiting for Penny’s explanation. They both stood staring at each other.
Penny shook her head. ‘I left Athens in a caïque. It was blown out of the water and we were stranded on an island. This is where I ended up too . . . It seems we both had no choice in the matter.’ The crowd, hoping for a fight to begin, melted away.
Suddenly they locked eyes and their lips quivered with emotion. Penny threw her arms into the air in disbelief. ‘Oh hell . . . All this time here on Crete, both working ourselves into the ground . . . Yolanda, I’m so sorry,’ Penny smiled, and they fell into each other’s arms in a hug of relief and joy, crying with excitement.
