The Girl Under the Olive Tree

by Leah Fleming

  Penny sighed. It was the field hospital all over again, one woman among many desperate men. Perhaps this was for the best. Bruce had come for her, sought her out, given her a role among this hidden army of evading troops. Part of her was feeling flattered, surprised and relieved to see him again.

  ‘You know I can’t stay alone, it will be talked about,’ she said as they left the men in the cave and walked out of sight of the others, sitting on a bank of thyme where the snow had melted, gazing down to the valley below.

  ‘Not if we tog you out like all the others, in trousers,’ Bruce suggested as he moved close to her. She could feel his breath in her ear.

  ‘No, not that old trick again. It was bad enough in the hospital in battledress,’ she replied, wondering when she would ever get to wear decent clothes again. She suddenly had a yearning for her blue silk dress and pretty sandals.

  ‘You’re tall, you’ve lost weight – you look quite boyish now – and if we cut your hair—’

  ‘My hair stays where it is. Everything I wear is drab and dark. No one notices me,’ she insisted. ‘This is my uniform now. These clothes suit my mission, plenty of pockets and layers,’ she replied, not looking at him.

  He grabbed her arm. ‘This isn’t a game of charades, Penny. There are still hundreds of poor stragglers stuck out here. It’s going to be a hellish winter. If you can keep a check on their health, get them accommodation if they become worse, gather news, as well as run errands for the doctor, you’ll be doing sterling work for us. You’re my mountain goat, fearless afoot . . .’ he laughed, his sunburned face crinkling like worn leather.

  ‘All the more reason why I must look like any downtrodden peasant. But I’m not a bloody goat, I’m a woman, not that you ever notice,’ she blurted, unable to hold back her frustration a moment longer. ‘I’m not your dogsbody!’

  ‘Don’t I know it, the bravest, toughest woman I know? Who else would hang on in a cave, nursing, refusing to leave until Jerry had to turf you out? Everyone knows what you did. I was so proud of you. They held back a ship in case you escaped to down to Sphakia but I knew you wouldn’t make it, not my Penny. When this lot’s over the whole world will know just what you did for your patients.’

  ‘I was only doing my duty, and you must call me Athina. Penny George doesn’t exist.’

  ‘She does to me,’ Bruce smiled, pulling her into his arms. ‘She has to stay safe. I promised Evadne, and I couldn’t bear to see you cooped up in a prison camp, not my beautiful gazelle.’

  He kissed her forehead tenderly and she turned up her face, staring at him in surprise at such tenderness, parting her lips as they fell back onto the thyme, kissing slowly, languorously as if they had a lifetime of love ahead of them. Penny sank into his body as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be making love on the side of a mountain with the wind whipping round them, the call of the black eagle soaring above them and the wondrous infusion of crushed herbs scenting the chill air. How long had she waited for such a moment . . . ?

  But Bruce jumped back. ‘I’m sorry, Penny, forgive me, most unprofessional. I didn’t mean to . . .’

  ‘But I wanted it too,’ she gasped, surprised by this sudden caution ‘We’re only human, we have feelings and desires . . .’

  ‘Not in war, not here and now. I have a job to do. I’m in no position to offer you anything . . .’ Bruce stood up. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Penny stared up at him, shocked. ‘Why? War or tempest, fire or flood can’t stop such feelings when they erupt.’

  ‘Love in war is a distraction. It stops us taking risks if we attach ourselves, holds us back from danger. Oh damn, perhaps I shouldn’t have sent for you . . .’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Penny jumped up angrily. ‘I‘ve got the message loud and clear, but I don’t understand you, Bruce, I never have. You blow hot and cold. What’s so wrong with finding comfort with each other at such a time as this? Who knows what the future holds? Better to have memories than nothing at all.’ Penny shook her head. ‘But don’t worry, I am professional too. Show me the next patient on your list.’ She twisted round, brushing the soil from her skirt, not looking at him in case he would see the tears in her eyes. ‘But don’t expect me to take orders from you now. Just find me somewhere to stay.’

  ‘There’s a network of houses in the hills. And I’ll be out of your hair soon enough; I will be returning to HQ shortly. Come on, we’d better go back; the others will be curious. Our work mustn’t be compromised. I have my reasons to stay sensible.’

  ‘Sensible’ – what a stupid word, thought Penny, feeling sick and confused as she scrambled down from their trysting place. What did Bruce mean by ‘compromised’? Why was he afraid to express his feelings? She’d given him every encouragement over the years. His body had stirred just as much as hers when they were kissing. Why was he afraid when she had more to lose than he did?

  She felt the irritation and anger mounting, choking her like acid in her throat as they made their way down the stony path. How dare he play with her feelings like this, encourage her one minute and then distance himself? It was natural for them to want to be physical. Who knew when or if they would ever meet again?

  It had been her dream for years for such a thing to unfold, and now this rejection, this abandonment. What was so wrong with her for him to react so?

  Now she was stranded high in the White Mountains at the mercy of the weather, the terrain and the unpredictable hospitality of strangers. She had never felt so confused or so alone. If only Yolanda were here to share all this with her, she felt she could face it better.

  Now there were only the wild winds of Crete swirling around her like all the frustrations tearing through her heart. Penny paused to draw in the chill air to steady her nerve.

  You chose this rough path when you stayed in the cave among the men. Now a new and dangerous journey has begun and who knows where it will lead?

  Spring 1942

  Yolanda had heard nothing from Penny for weeks. Perhaps the weather had trapped her in the hills above the snow line separating mountains from shore. Andreas told her only that there were rumours in the clinic that she’d been abducted by bandits from a bus en route for Chania, but he guessed her friend was now helping to nurse the Allied stragglers. He was worried that spies were pulling them in, tricking them into surrendering.

  The harshness of their first winter of occupation was easing. There had been no more restrictive measures against the little Jewish community other than strict trading laws imposed. No Jew could sell to the occupying force, only to locals, who had little money. The winter had brought starvation even to the shore. There was not much trade for soaps, jewellery, books, but everyone knew where the black market supplies could be found hidden in the backstreets. How could they not go hungry when the enemy stole the first pickings of crops and meat? But as ever their community thrived on its resourcefulness.

  The cobbler bartered for services, food in lieu of repairs or information. The rabbi and his wife went in and out of homes begging food for the starving children on the harbour front. The rich merchants began to sell their artwork and jewellery, aware that one by one they were being evicted out of their gracious houses to make way for German officers. Now they must find humbler properties or move in with relatives. The Jewish quarter was becoming even more crowded.

  There was, however, another more pressing and delicate matter hovering over Yolanda’s future. She sensed her parents were plotting to find her a suitable young husband from within the Sephardim.

  ‘We’re not getting any younger. We must see you settled and hold our grandchildren before . . . Solomon Markos sighed in a rare moment of shared contemplation, brought on by a headache from a party he had attended the night before.

  Abram Carlos had ordered his own hand-woven silk burial shroud and, according to custom, spent the evening with friends demonstrating its quality with the aid of enough raki and sweetmeats to make his future wake entirely unnecessary.

 
; Yolanda thought the sight of an old man dancing with a shroud over his head morbid but it was an honoured custom among the Haniote Jews. It may have been a jolly evening but it left her father with a residue of gloom. ‘Who knows when we will be free to leave and make our way to Palestine?’ was his latest lament. ‘Now you are old enough to make your own household, and there are many young men looking in your direction, if only you’d give them a second glance. It will bring joy to Momma’s heart to start sewing for your wedding trousseau, to line your skirts with golden coins.’ he smiled.

  She knew he was trying to soften her resolve to stay single, to make her feel guilty.

  They were all locked in the past. No one here had money for dowries or wedding feasts. Those days were long gone. The few recent nuptials had been quiet modest affairs. It was hard for businessmen to see their incomes fall, their houses commandeered for soldiers, property looted. Most in her community were scratching a living sewing, serving at tables, begging for menial jobs and selling their best jewellery for peanuts. This was no time to be marrying and, besides, no one would ever stir her heart like Andreas Androulakis.

  ‘Dear Papa, this is no time for taking vows. Our world is falling apart, can’t you see how it is? Marriage can wait . . .’ Yolanda argued. Her parents meant well, wanting her happiness in these dark times. Women were working hard, were more independent, demanding education and choice as to who they would marry. But there were positives too, she thought guiltily.

  If only Penny were here to bolster her resolve. How could she tell them she couldn’t marry a man she didn’t love? If only they would accept Andreas as a son-in-law, but she knew it was impossible.

  She must stay resolute. It would not be easy. Uncle Joe and Aunt Miriam were behind this scheming too.

  Yolanda was worried that she was living on borrowed time. A tiger doesn’t go willingly into the cage when it has known the freedom of the jungle, she thought. Better not to marry at all than spend a lifetime chained to a man she didn’t respect or love. But for her to disobey, to refuse point-blank would bring such shame to her parents. How could she hurt them? She was all they had now, their only hope for the future. Oh, why had this war come and destroyed everything?

  The worry was affecting her work at the clinic, distracting her. The morning after Papa’s little talk she spilled precious disinfectant, tripped and banged her knee, bursting into tears at the slightest mistake, so that the other nurses complained that Nurse Markos was sickening for something.

  Andreas found her weeping in the storeroom. ‘What on earth’s got into you?’ he shouted. ‘My best nurse weeping like a junior on her first day in the mortuary?’

  Out it all poured – all her fears, her consternation and frustration: how she missed Penny and worried about her fate, how she dreaded going home in case she found Mordo and his parents waiting to greet her.

  ‘Who’s this Mordo? Do you want to marry this man?’ Andreas said, lighting his pipe and deliberately not looking at her.

  ‘No. He’s a good man, but no. He is not for me. I have no wedding plans,’ Yolanda replied, wiping her eyes and feeling foolish for crying at work.

  ‘That’s a relief I don’t want to lose one of my best nurses. Though should you change your plans I’d rather fancy eloping with you myself one day. Cretan style, of course, in the middle of the night, out of the window,’ he said with a very straight face.

  Yolanda looked up at him in shock, hardly believing what she was hearing. ‘Really?’

  He made no move towards her but busied himself with packing some instruments into a box ‘Perhaps it’s time you spread your wings a little, now I can’t rely on Athina. I’ve got an idea. If you take her place, pedalling a few supplies here and there round the district . . .’

  ‘My parents will never agree to me travelling unchaperoned away from home,’ she argued.

  ‘It’s either one or the other, my precious, freedom or the cage.’

  ‘You make it sound so simple.’

  ‘It’s dangerous work being a courier, but women make the best ones. They get stopped much less than men. We’ll start with a few little forays, let the street guards see you going on rounds in the daytime, returning home. Your parents will soon get used to you being absent for longer. It’s vital work. You’ll find a way.’

  Yolanda blew her nose. ‘I’ll try. I suppose I could present things in a way that seems just an extension of my work in the clinic’

  ‘There, you see, you can do it. I’ll join you when I can but not yet. I meant what I said, Yolanda. ‘I’m serious. You are the one for me.’ Andreas pulled her into his arms and kissed her hand. ‘So no more tears. You can’t marry Mr Mordo if you’re already spoken for, yes?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please,’ she laughed, stopping his smile with a kiss.

  Maleme, 2001

  Rainer Brecht caught his breath back, sitting on a bench in the German War Cemetery close to the old airstrip at Maleme. He sat staring out from the slopes onto the bay. This visit had been put off ever since his arrival from Athens, although he always knew that one morning he would have to brave the terraced garden to walk along the lines of flat headstones as a mark of respect.

  It was a silent peaceful place now, but once it has been the scene of a frantic battle for survival known only as Hill 107. Now it was tended and guarded by none other than George Psychoundakis, one of the great Cretan heroes of the conflict, who had chosen to end his working life making peace with his enemies by tending the garden and the grave markers.

  As the veteran patrolled along the aisles with their flat grave markers, so many familiar names and dates reminded him of those early days of combat, parachute drops, skirmishes in the hills, executions. He paused to wipe away the tears. All those lost boys who never got to live out their lives in peace as he had done.

  There was a torrent of feelings pent up inside him for so many years, buried under the busyness of his academic career, bringing up his family, watching his sons flourish in a way he had not. Sometimes it felt as if none of this slaughter had ever happened, but here was the brutal reality. How could he be the same man who had once sat panting under the Cretan sun, willing his wounds to heal so he could escape Crete, cross the Libyan Sea and fight on? This island had kept both its victors and vanquished captive.

  Summer 1942

  At HQ in Chania there was an interpreter who came to his notice. He was from the outer district, from a village close to Vrisses, an area known for trouble. He was the smartest of all the quisling agents, sharp-eyed, cunning, charming and utterly ruthless. There were many of these agents who promised much and delivered little of value, willing to sell their friends and relations for privileges, cash, or the chance to revenge some feud, but this one was befriending a known suspect, feeding him snippets, gaining his trust. It was only a matter of time before they made significant arrests.

  Most agents were weak men, vain, and Rainer despised them as he despised himself for not being able to get a transfer back to active service. He was needed in Rommel’s push across the desert into Egypt. Once the British succumbed to the onslaught, their own foothold in the Middle East would be secure. Crete was proving a valuable staging post for troop carriers, fuel and supplies. The oil tanks were guarded day and night against attack, and he was in charge of the troops stationed close by.

  His leg wound had stiffened his thigh muscles and no amount of sea bathing and treatments eased the pain of his restricted movement. Rainer was beginning to feel he would be crippled for the rest of his life, stuck in a second-class desk job. His future was looking grim and now he was pinning his hopes on some doctor in Chania. It was worth a try since his own medics had not offered anything but standard treatments, but he had no high expectations of a cure.

  The premises were not promising, just a room with a manipulation bed close to the Red Cross hospital. The first visit consisted of little more than questions from a one-eyed clinician of his own age and an examination of his wound, how he stood and bent, a
nd his musculature.

  ‘The wound is healed but the whole of your side has contracted and the limp twists you to the other side, putting strain on your balance. Have you heard of osteopathic manipulation?’ asked the young doctor.

  Rainer shrugged. He’d had no need of such treatments before.

  ‘We should make progress in about four sessions, if you can spare the time from your unit.’

  Rainer gave brief details of his present work, careful not to give anything away to this stranger.

  ‘Sitting at a desk won’t help you. You need to correct the damage, so exercises, walking, swimming too.’

  ‘But the pain?’

  ‘Ah, pain . . . If we sort out your frame and your balance, the pain will ease. Pain in muscles is often a state of mind caused by tensions and the stresses of duty.’

  Dr Androulakis dismissed his troubles as if they were nothing, but Rainer was curious enough to give him one or two sessions. To his surprise the sessions were brief, repositioning his spine, his stance, showing him exercises to do every day and even suggesting a change of footwear to rebalance the length of his bad leg.

  Getting an appointment with the busy doctor wasn’t always easy, for he worked in the Red Cross clinic and he travelled round the district with a special pass. He had picked up his osteopathic knowledge in Athens. Rainer was impressed with his efficient approach. He would run a tight ship in the hospital and Rainer wondered if the doctor had the cave nurse working in his clinics. He often thought of her but he’d not heard anything of her since she entered the convent months ago. When he passed the convent he found himself slowing down outside the gates just in case she was in sight, but the walls were high and there was no sign of her out shopping or escorting lines of orphan children in the streets.

  ‘There was a blonde Athenian nurse called Penelope, very tall. Does she work with your clinic?’ he asked as his lower back was pummelled hard.