The Girl Under the Olive Tree

by Leah Fleming

  ‘No,’ Andreas smiled. ‘I think I’d notice a tall blonde amongst my local girls. How does that feel?’

  ‘Much better these past few days,’ Rainer replied.

  ‘Why the hurry to get yourself out of the desk job? I should think it’s pleasant at HQ?’ Was the doctor fishing for information? But Rainer was so relaxed he felt like sharing a little of his desire to leave the island and join a fighting unit.

  ‘You don’t like our beautiful island? Many call it lotus-eaters’ land,’ the doctor offered, and Rainer didn’t know if he was being serious or not. It was a leading question when he was lying in such a vulnerable position.

  ‘You lost your eye, I see. In battle?’ Rainer asked, changing the subject.

  ‘It was a stupid injury with a loaded gun when I was young. Besides, I prefer patching people up to blowing them to pieces.’ There was a silence as both of them drew back from this remark. ‘Still, keep up the good work and you will be collecting your kitbag before long, but don’t rush it. It’s taken months to recover, a few more won’t matter. I still need to work on your leg.’

  Rainer soon began to enjoy these sessions, to relax and learn how the tension of the past year had caused such a violent reaction to his body. He felt his joint loosening, strengthening, and the pain was easing.

  In that second year of victory many changes were happening: the arrival of Gestapo officers, who were cold, clinical and efficient as they sifted through information brought by the agent known only as ‘K’. He knew that a wireless was operating in the White Mountains, relaying details of ship movements in Souda Bay. Several supply convoys had been attacked on strategic routes, the dates and times too accurate to be guesswork. Agent K had the full confidence of a local Resistance leader and the plans for a surprise raid on the Resistance group were well in hand.

  The other irritant to his men was evidence that some 300 evaders were still roaming free, sheltered and supplied by rebel villages and guided to the south coast by shepherds and British officers from Cairo. Flushing them out was not proving as easy as they had first thought.

  The slightest attempt to fool them with their own volunteers who had English relatives or could pass for South Africans pretending to be evaders themselves had failed and resulted in grisly executions. They betrayed themselves by the silliest slipups: using old-fashioned slang, not knowing which football players were in which team, not knowing how to make tea, or the words of certain romantic songs. Now they decided that it was better to send in Greek bogus officials and policemen to trick villagers in the hills.

  Despite these minor setbacks morale was high. Rommel was racing across North Africa and here resistance was proving weak. And one thing was in their favour on the island: no one could get Cretan warrior bandits into one united army. There were too many feuding factions and egos amongst those ruffian mountain men, brave and foolhardy as they were.

  It was time to enjoy summer fruits and sun, watch the labour force building roads and fortifications. As Rainer built up his stamina, he felt his spirits lifting. Soon he’d be off the island for good. He was only marking time.

  One evening he was strolling down to the harbour, staring out across the water with hope in his heart. There were a few tavernas in operation close to the bombed-out Venetian Arsenal and he caught sight of his Cretan doctor sitting under the shade of an awning with two women. One was short and dark; the other was tall, wearing black. and she rose at the sight of his approach and disappeared into an alleyway. There was something about her silhouet tethat was familiar. He would know that figure anywhere. Why had Androulakis said he didn’t know the cave nurse? There was only one way to find out the truth.

  Strolling up to the couple, he clicked his heels. ‘Herr Doktor, you see I am taking my exercise. I am pleased to see you are enjoying yours.’

  The doctor stood up, flushed. ‘Please sit down, Captain Brecht. We were taking our break. This is my fiancée.’

  Rainer saw the girl flush and touch his arm. ‘Andreas, please . . . it’s not public yet.’ The girl in the Red Cross uniform had that well-defined sharp profile of a beautiful Jewess. He saw she was uncomfortable in his presence but she was not his concern.

  He peered down the alley. ‘And the other young lady who rushed away . . . Did I scare her away?’

  ‘Athina? Ah, she’s already late for duty. I’m afraid she’ll be in trouble.’

  ‘What a pity. She reminded me of someone I once knew here. Penelope, the nurse I was telling you about the other day, but I must be mistaken.’ He saw the girl flinch at the name and then quickly recover, standing up.

  ‘Excuse me. I have some shopping to do before the shops shut . . .’

  ‘What a striking girl. She lives locally?’ Rainer leaned forward, smiling, looking after Yolanda with interest.

  ‘From Athens, her parents are strict . . . I shouldn’t have called her my fiancée. It is a secret for a while,’ said Andreas, looking at his watch.

  I bet it is, if the race laws imposed over Europe were upheld here. It was forbidden for German soldiers to intermarry with Jewish or alien women but this evidently didn’t hold among the Greek population. ‘Your secret is safe with me, Doctor.’

  He rose and walked on. How interesting, the doctor and his lover . . . and if that was Penelope, why was she working under the name Athina? How intriguing. What other little secrets lay uncovered here?

  Penny fled blindly down the ruined alley towards Splanzia Square, edging as far as she could from the harbour, over rubble and rocks, tripping in desperation to flee from the German. Had he recognized her, even in her widow’s weeds? She couldn’t risk exposure, not now when she was so involved in the network of escapees. Why had she been tempted to come back to Chania? It was stupid to think she could go unrecognized in public. She had dropped off a letter of apology to Mother Veronique for deserting her post and she had come to see Yolanda and collect letters from Andreas. It had been a touch of normality to sit with them in a café, catching up on news and taking instructions, but one look at the man crossing the street, smiling in their direction, and she had to get away.

  She’d been restless for company, for the bustle of town, but now she’d put all of them in danger. Why was that captain still here? She’d assumed he was long gone. There was always something in his commanding presence that disturbed her. If she had recognized him even from a distance, surely he must have guessed who she was.

  Now she must leave on the first bus, any bus going south, even if she had to walk miles out of her way to reach her village.

  Bruce had placed her with a merchant, Ike, and his wife, Katrina, as a servant nursemaid to their two children, Olivia and Taki. Ike had returned from America, from Chicago, before the occupation, and his English was useful with the escapees. His large villa was a haven for sick stragglers who hid in the basement. Katrina came from a long line of Cretan warriors and could wield a knife and a gun as well as any man. No one used their family names, just in case. The less you knew, the better, but one thing was shared and that was the knowledge of an ancient burial chamber hidden in an olive grove behind the house, a place of refuge if all else failed.

  Once she was living at Ike’s, Penny regularly walked the distance back to Bluey’s cave to check on him. He’d stay there until she felt he was strong enough to be brought down to the underground hiding place among the olives. He needed fresh greens and the warmth of the stones in the sun, and his friends would visit to keep his spirits up. She was the girl from the villa, seen regularly under the shade of the olive trees playing with little Taki. No one knew she brought food and water down to her sick patient hiding in the Minoan tomb chamber. It was a perfect ruse.

  Lately his mates brought wine, which she’d forbidden. Trying to stop Aussies celebrating was hopeless. Their raucous songs echoed across the valley in the small hours until Bruce threatened to chuck them out if they drew any more attention to their position. She had met him many times under the olive trees, but never alone, a
nd there was never a repeat of that first passionate encounter by the cave. Much as she longed for it.

  Now Penny trudged back to the villa, savouring her brief reunion with Yolanda. It had been good to see her friend so obviously in love. There was no chance to talk privately with her and confess her own despair since that passionate encounter with Bruce. She knew he was forming a Resistance group with some local men to protect the wireless operator working close by in a farmhouse. Everyone knew the risks this family was taking in broadcasting so close to the coastal strip. God help them if they were caught.

  Katrina kept their own household busy preparing preserves with their meagre sugar ration, gathering in vegetables and herbs for salting and drying. Most food supplies were hidden deep underground in case of a raid. They buried a stash of oil and beans in a hole under the olive grove. There would be no warning if German troops were to arrive demanding everything out of the store cupboards, and looting and smashing anything that took their fancy.

  One day a German patrol did arrive. The officer watched as one of his men snatched an ancient icon of the Virgin Mary, which had been handed down through the generations in Katrina’s family. She had to watch him remove it from the wall without muttering a word of complaint, but her black eyes blazed with hatred. When they had left she lit a candle, pricked her arm, mixed the blood into the wax and pressed her crucifix into the mould, uttering an incantation. ‘He and his kind will rue the day he took that from my wall,’ she spat.

  What worried the village most was that so many of them were forced to work on the roads and quarries so that there was no time to tend their olives and crops, water their vegetables or feed their animals. It was left to the children to work in the fields as best they could. Many schools had been bombed and closed, teachers forced into labour gangs, but some of the Anzacs risked exposure, dressing as local boys, hoeing and watering, helping with milking goats and making cheese in the shepherds’ stone huts. They scarpered into holes if soldiers appeared on the horizon.

  The Cretan’s own secret wireless service, carried over the air by runners and children, was accurate in giving warnings of patrols on the move. Only the previous week, three German officers had called in at Ike’s house for a drink while Bluey’s mates were still in the house. Penny served the officers, staying calm and composed, while Katrina smiled and played the perfect hostess, dressed in her American cotton dress that enhanced her magnificent bosom, neither of them giving any inkling that above their heads, three Aussies were hardly daring to breathe.

  In the height of summer, men gathered in groups high up, planning daring raids and ambushes when they had enough arms to make a decent attack. Once autumn came and winter drew in, there would be fewer opportunities for raids. There was no sign of an Allied counter-invasion of the island. They were far too busy trying to hold back Rommel in North Africa. The wireless had brought grim news of the fall of Tobruk.

  Bruce had explained how important it was for the Resistance to detail all troop movements and convoys. The enemy was depending on supplies from Crete, and there was great elation at news of an air raid on the oil tanks outside Chania when thousands of gallons of precious fuel for tanks were destroyed. The sky was black with smoke for days. It was a victory for which many hostages lost their lives.

  As Penny sat on the bus rattling back eastward on the road to Heraklion, past ruined houses, scattered flocks and burned olive groves where the wrecks of British planes lay rusting, she wondered if she would ever have a normal life again, that well-ordered life she had led in Athens. Her country childhood home at Stokencourt seemed so far away, she could no longer even think of herself as English.

  To think, once, all she had to worry about was resisting her mother’s plans to give her a debutante season in London. Now she felt a hundred years old, battered and bruised, but proud to be still battling here. There were so many far worse off than she; destitute, bereaved, homeless. She had a roof over her head, a good billet. She had been fortunate so far. But seeing Captain Brecht had shaken her complacency.

  To the onlooker she was just another worn-out peasant woman with coarse hands and sunburned face, but underneath, her heart was racing. From now on she would take no risks of being recognized as a British escapee, especially if found in a village house. There was one German officer in Chania who was suspicious. What if he came searching for her? She would never forgive herself if she put her Greek comrades in danger.

  When Yolanda finished her shift, she walked wearily home. She’d been tending to some poor kids who’d set off an unexploded bomb, killing three outright and leaving two almost limbless. Their bodies were mutilated and showing them to weeping mothers had been unbearable. Her heart was heavy with the frustration that there was so little they could do when these undetected bombs were lying around, hidden and lethal where children were playing.

  When she came through the door there was a posse of women gathered round the table staring at her with such glares, she wondered what new restrictions had been placed on them now.

  ‘Sit down,’ Aunt Miriam ordered, pointing to a chair.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Yolanda asked, flopping down, hot and exhausted. All she wanted to do was close the door of her room and shut her eyes from the horrors of the day.

  ‘That I should have to tell my own child . . . What’s happened? You were seen,’ Momma said, not looking at her.

  ‘Seen where? What’s all this about?’

  ‘Seen in broad daylight sitting in a public place with two men, one a German and both goyim.’

  There was silence as the women glared, waiting for her reply.

  ‘Oh, you mean Dr Androulakis. You’ve met him before; he’s my medical officer,’ she smiled, relieved. ‘We were taking a rest. It’s been a terrible morning. You heard about the bomb in the Kastelli district, three little children—’

  ‘I don’t want excuses, I want an explanation. You were with a man, sitting alone, and then a German officer came and sat next to you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it was an awful morning and I met Penny . . . We had coffee or what passes for it now,’ she tried to joke. This was not going well and she wondered if she could win them over. ‘Dr Androulakis joined us and then one of his patients turned up just as Penny was leaving. I had to be polite.’

  ‘You were seen laughing together. It will not do, this shaming yourself in public, flaunting yourself when you are about to be betrothed. What will Mordo think?’ said Aunt Miriam.

  Yolanda jumped up. ‘Who said anything about marriage? I have no intention of being betrothed to anyone, not while we are occupied and under surveillance.’

  ‘You spend time alone with this doctor in the clinic. It has to stop.’

  ‘Andreas is an excellent doctor and a brave man,’ she argued, her arms folded in defiance.

  ‘You are not the daughter we brought up. He is not one of us.’

  ‘In these dangerous times, is that so important? And who’s been spying on me?’ she demanded angrily.

  ‘So you are attached to him? I feared as much,’ Momma sighed. ‘How can you do this to your own family?’

  ‘I’ve not done anything. Yes, he and I have become close through our work. He’s a good man. Surely you would want me to be happy with a good man?’

  ‘Only with a good Jewish man – that is what is expected if we are to survive. You carry the seed of your race. There must be no mixing of race or religion. It never works.’

  ‘In Athens there were friends who married Greeks. You always told me a heart must be free to choose its mate. Penny is a Gentile and she saved Papa’s life, or have you forgotten that?’

  ‘That was then, this is now,’ Momma said simply.

  ‘That’s no argument.’

  ‘Don’t cheek your mother in my house, ungrateful girl,’ said Miriam. ‘Remember the Commandment, thou shalt honour thy mother and father . . .’

  ‘How can I honour what is bigoted and unfair?’ Yolanda cried.

  ‘Yolanda,
you have said enough. Don’t make it any worse than it is. You must leave the clinic at once and come home and learn obedience to our Law.’ Momma had changed so much since she came here, defending the stricter rules of their religion where once she was happy to ignore them. ‘It will kill your father to hear such disobedience and ingratitude. Spare me the task of telling him all this.’

  ‘Why are you making me choose? Please don’t ask me to give up my work. If you could only see the injuries of those children and the faces of those poor mothers, it would break your heart. God hears the prayers of both Jews and Gentiles in their distress. He makes no distinctions. How can I sit here cooking and sewing when lives need mending? You can’t ask this of me now,’ she cried, fleeing the room of angry and judgemental women. This horrid day had suddenly got even worse. If she made her choice she would, she knew, break all their hearts.

  2001

  There comes a time midway in a holiday when you’ve done enough sightseeing, especially at my age. Trips to the beach, people-watching from the shade of a sun lounger, and gadding from one museum, church or taverna to another, were exhausting in the heat. What I needed was a good book and my own company. And no more questions about my wartime experience. This visit was bringing memories flooding back into my dreams, making me feel ancient and weary and more than a little anxious for what might I might discover next.

  Lois kept fussing, imagining me falling into the pool or dying of sunstroke while she and Alex went off on a mountain excursion accompanied by Mack, who was becoming her permanent companion.

  It would be bliss to hide among the olives and do nothing. I’d found an old tree, gnarled and nobbly with a beer belly of a trunk, hundreds of years old but still standing proud with sculpted branches and its blossoms promising a good yield of olives. It reminded me of one I knew all those years ago with its kindly face. I can never look at an ancient tree without seeing the living creature within. They are so majestic.