The Girl Under the Olive Tree

by Leah Fleming

  There were no books to read, no music to listen to on a gramophone, no piano to play, no services that held any meaning for her, but she kept her head down, trying not to worry about her parents. How she longed to write to them and receive their blessing. She begged paper and poured out her heart, telling them she was safe, that Andreas was kind and she still helped him in his work.

  She told them about all the village superstitions and remedies, some good, some harmful. She sent the letter down to Chania on the bus, praying for a reply, but there was none. Then there was a skirmish and shooting, and she was needed to hide a wounded man in case the enemy did a search, tending him hidden in the caves until he was fit to walk again.

  Adonis and Dimitra treated her well but she recalled the old saying: ‘The groom cannot become a son nor the bride a daughter.’

  The times when she could meet Penny were so precious, a link with her old life. Sometimes they could meet halfway on the hills, gathering sticks for fuel. Penny was working in another district, and she looked so thin and worn-out. Who would recognize them as those lively nurses in Athens? Her friend lived for news of ‘Panayotis’, but there’d been no word of him for months.

  Yolanda had never met the man or his group. It was dangerous to know anything of other bands, even false names. The British agents and runners went by nicknames, Greek versions of their own names: Michaelis, Ianni, Manolis, Vasilios. Who they really were, no one knew.

  Andreas said little about his mysterious disappearances in the night. He would unhook his sack from the door as it grew dark, grab his knife and what little food they had to spare. No one spoke, they knew not to ask any details. Yolanda followed him to the yard, fearful of the dangers ahead. She wanted to cling to him and beg him to stay, but stood clenching her fists watching him until he was just a speck in the darkness.

  It was such a relief when he returned, bloodied, exhausted and famished. He still risked excursions into Chania, disguising his blind eye with ill-fitting glasses and bandages, wearing filthy peasant clothes. There were safe houses where he picked up medical supplies, new intelligence from the girls at HQ, news of ruthless SS men, and agents to pass down the line, lists of wanted men on which, to his amusement, was his own name.

  Yolanda could hardly breathe until he returned to her arms each time. He’d brought news that Mussolini had been deposed, that Italy was on the brink of changing sides, that there were anti-German slogans chalked on the walls, posted for all to see.

  ‘There’ll be an invasion soon. We must be prepared. Then we’ll be free again. I hear the words, but the enemy looks strong to me,’ he warned.

  One night he came in with a stranger covered in blood. He’d slipped on the rocks and fallen badly, gashing his leg. His name was Stavros, and he was tall, bronzed, with sun-bleached hair. Stavros was apologetic, hesitant, and Yolanda recognized his accent. He’d been trapped for months, trying to escape and join the British army. He said his mother was English but he had the look of a German deserter to her. It was good to talk Greek without straining to understand the dialect, to hear familiar vowels . . . such a charming, handsome young man. Her heart warmed to him.

  She dressed his wounds, asking how he’d managed to stay free for so long.

  He smiled. ‘I was a taken in by a farmer in Lassithi district close to where the famous scholar-soldier John Pendlebury had his dig before the war. The farmer took one look at my arms and kept me digging in his fields. They fed me like a son but when the farmer left the house his wife had other ideas and made to seduce me . . . It became difficult. She was a pest, making eyes at me across the table. I had to get away before he killed me. One night I left. I’ve been wandering for weeks, moving west, but everywhere they say our soldiers are gone.’

  ‘You must be tired then,’ she replied, noticing how firm and brown his legs were, as if he had been living in shorts.

  ‘What brings an Athenian so far into the hills?’ he said, sipping her tea with relish.

  ‘It was my husband’s wish to return to his family. I came with him, of course.’

  ‘You are his nurse?’

  ‘Yes, in the Red Cross clinic.’ Yolanda stopped, fearing she was saying too much and changed the subject. ‘The wound is only superficial, looks worse than it is, no real damage. Keep it clean and fresh air will do the rest.’

  ‘Yolanda is a lovely name. It means violet flower,’ he offered. ‘Unusual . . .’

  She nodded. ‘It was my father’s choice. He loved the colour, I think.’

  ‘A very discerning man. Is he still in Athens?’

  ‘No, he died,’ she lied. What am I saying? Yolanda shivered. This boy asked too many questions.

  Later, when he’d gone back to sleep in the sheep hut, she lay with Andreas but couldn’t sleep. ‘Where did you find Stavros?’ she asked.

  ‘He was lying injured on a rock, dehydrated, in shock. Another poor soldier who’d missed the boat, I fear. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He told me he was running away from a farmer’s wife. I suppose that explains why he is so well fed and sunburned. He’s been on the run for two years, surely that’s a long time?’ she added. ‘He has no sores or lice. He clearly hasn’t been living rough. He would be filthy and bitten raw.’

  ‘He’s an archaeology student from Athens, a little touched by the sun,’ Andreas laughed.

  ‘Perhaps Penny might know him? She studied there before she was a nurse,’ Yolanda whispered.

  ‘Of course . . . but we must be careful, no names, no risks. He looks as if he can hold a gun. We’ll be glad of another sniper.’

  They gave Stavros no more thought as they drew closer. The pleasure of making love had lost none of its delight in the past months, despite the hardships.

  Yolanda kept Stavros close to the farm, watching him closely to check if he knew how to milk sheep and make cheese. He was quite an expert, and so handy with a spade. His strong arms were useful on the farm in Andreas’ absences, and Dimitra thought him a Greek god from Olympus.

  There were no evaders left for him to join so he began to go out with Andreas on his round of meetings, joining his runner to pick up news, but his stamina was weak on long marches and scrambles. For all his fitness, he was soon out of breath.

  ‘I think his lungs are weakened,’ said Andreas’ runner. ‘He’s always last and can’t keep up. He’s led a soft life, too many cheese pies and krassi. We need to help him find his mountain legs if he’s to be any use in a raid. He’s just a city boy and half English. They aren’t built for the mountains. Give him time. Take him to Chania. His Greek is perfect, no one will challenge him.’

  Stavros was keen to stretch his legs downhill too. ‘I’ve been to Heraklion but never Chania. Are there still any Venetian palaces standing or a museum? Will we pass any frescoes on our journey? I have read that Crete holds so many treasures.’

  ‘You’re not going as a tourist,’ Andreas snapped. ‘There’s nothing left there to see, and anything of value has found its way overseas. There are Germans everywhere so be careful, don’t draw any attention to yourself.’

  Yolanda watched them leave, glad that Andreas had company, but there was something about Stavros that puzzled her. There was just a chance she might find Penny out on the slopes, picking berries for preserves. There was so much to check out about their new recruit and Penny was just the one to ask.

  No one noticed a tall young shepherd striding down through the alleyways towards the old western gate in the ruined Kastelli district. It was market day and many countrymen brought panniers of vegetables to barter for paraffin and salt. He paused by a well to scoop water over his face. No one saw him pull out a loose stone from the wall and shove in a letter – no one, that is, except a skinny boy with stick limbs who waited for the man to turn away. He would retrieve the drop under cover of darkness.

  HQ were pleased with Stavros’s first missive. He was embedded on a farm under the safekeeping of the osteopath and surgeon Dr Androulakis and his bride from the
Jewish quarter. He wrote that most escapees were off the island apart from some too sick to move from their lairs, but their spy network was active, receiving fresh guns and supplies from airdrops, just as they expected. Stavros would stay close to the centre of operations and to make sure no units picked up the spies until he was sure of their plans.

  Was it true, he asked, that Italy had capitulated in September and was now an ally of Greece? He had heard from secret wireless broadcasts that Americans were in Sicily. He trusted these were propaganda rumours and lies being spread just to dishearten morale. Crete must be held; it was the Führer’s wish.

  Rainer smiled at the note. Poor Stavros was in for a big disappointment if he thought they could hold off the inevitable collapse now the battle for Africa was lost. Rumours that new weapons would be brought here to smash the armies across the Libyan Sea were just that. Rumours.

  As for active enemy agents, they knew most of their code names: Leigh Fermor, Dunbabin, Fielding, Woodhouse, Reade; clever brave men toughened by years of outdoor bivouacking. They’d not be easy to flush out, no matter what this young hothead thought.

  Penny spent another long winter cut off from civilization. A heavy fall of snow blocking the tracks made a visit to Yolanda impossible. She stood looking out over the whiteness and grey mist in despair. The routes they used were made by following the shepherd’s guide marks, stones piled on branches of trees. One false step off the trail could mean a drop into a ravine and certain death. Every slow journey was prodded out with a crook to find solid earth. She worried about the gangs roaming in the hills, living rough at the mercy of the elements and the ‘wind men’, bandit sheep rustlers whose allegiances were often only to their clan but who could be called upon to defend their territory should the enemy intrude.

  This was the time when all the backbreaking work, cutting the olive sticks and collecting the kindling brushwood in the dry months, kept the cooking pot on the boil. It was the time for huddling together as the village women worked their needles and looms, spun wool, weaving cloth for cloaks and blankets and rugs, which kept the families from freezing. It was a time for stories of the old days when the Turks ruled over them and their own grandfathers fled into the hills to make a bid for freedom. They sang the songs of liberation and battles, sad haunting tunes in rich voices.

  Too many were in mourning for relatives burned, shot and driven from a village raided further up the mountain. The younger women and children fled up the rocky mountainside to hide in caves, but the old were sometimes too frail to move and were left to burn in the raids on their homes. It was a terrible time. Christmas came and went with little celebration. Now they were waiting for the men of the Resistance to return for fresh food and supplies. It was a dangerous business appearing in villages where Germans were billeted, but it still went on.

  News flew over the mountains that the Italians in the east were allies, though many were prisoners of war or deserters. Now there was talk of serious squabbling and feuds between those nationalist villagers who fought for the king and those who were communist sympathizers and wanted only to fight alongside their comrades. Secret meetings with the British agents were ending in disagreements and suspicion.

  Ike would not speak either way. Since his arrest he had not been so eager to take sides with anyone. He drank heavily and snapped at Katrina. The atmosphere had changed in the villa. Everyone was tired, fearful of the future and sick of winter. Penny worried for her friends and for ‘Cyclops’, whose reputation was spreading. No one could halt Cretans from praising their heroes and gossiping. The one-eyed doctor was well known and she prayed their early-warning whistles would keep him safe.

  Sometimes she shut her eyes and tried to imagine her old home: Nanny and Zander and Effy playing cards by the flickering flames of the nursery fire, toasting muffins on the brass fork with the horse handle, the tincture of Mummy’s perfume as she came in to say good night, how the sequins on her ball gown glistened in the lamplight. How safe and cosy those childhood winter nights had been. Where were they all now in the world? Did they ever think about her?

  Penny tried to make up for being a mouth to feed by amusing the children, making cards out of anything to hand, telling them her own childhood fairy stories, ‘Cinderella’, ‘Hansel and Gretel’ and ‘Snow White’. She learned to spin fleece with a distaff over her shoulder. It was lumpy at first but with practice she got it smoother and fine. The lanolin in the oil soothed her rough hands and her hair grew out into its natural colour. When she coiled it up she could almost catch a fleeting glimpse of the smart young woman who had idled away her time in Athens. She sighed and turned away from the cracked mirror.

  It was as if her whole life was on hold, as if she was waiting. There was no word from Bruce. No one could move in such snow storms. Her hopes dwindled of ever seeing him again. For the first time in months she began to wonder if it was time to head back into Chania, give herself up, even. How she longed for the safe routines of the hospital wards again, and the calm of St Joseph’s Convent. Then she recalled how eager she’d been to escape the restrictions.

  How could she even think of giving herself up, compromising her friends? She knew too many faces and locations. This was hunger, worry and boredom talking. Soon it would be 1944, a new start; surely this occupation couldn’t go on much longer?

  She was sick of the same old village gossip; who had set their cap at whom, who would not see out the year, how widow X was hoarding. I will go mad with this, she sighed. The only good thing was that the snow kept the Nazis from the door, the patrols preferring to stay in their barracks and get drunk on looted wine and raki, plying kids with handouts and scraps, and keeping their heads down.

  These troops distributed leaflets, claiming a new amnesty with the population on condition the villagers took no part in the criminal acts of bandits; asking them to report movements for which, in return, they would be left in peace, but any resistance would be dealt with harshly. It was the same old ploy. Be good children and you won’t be punished. Still the paper came in handy for kindling.

  Then one morning towards the end of January, Penny woke to feel the warmth coming in through the shutter, the drip-dripping of snow and the chatter of birdsong. Spring had won its annual battle. Soon there’d be almond blossoms and fresh greens to pick. Hope lifted her spirits.

  A few days later a runner came down saying a group was resting above them and needed fresh food and supplies. He took back what he could and Penny offered to take up the rest.

  ‘There are twenty of us and we have another Englishman to feed now. Come soon,’ he shouted.

  She set off with a pannier strapped to her back, taking with her Ike’s daughter, Olivia, who was twelve. She was so excited and proud to be a courier, providing cover for Penny.

  ‘Remember, we are gathering food, we zigzag across the hills in case binoculars are plotting our path. Don’t draw attention to yourself. The mountains have a thousand eyes,’ Penny warned the wide-eyed child. ‘You are my special helper but don’t say your name or where you live to anyone. Loose tongues cost a whole village its men and its homes because somebody was boasting . . .’ She had to warn the child, scare her from blabbing out information. Penny knew by now that isolated gangs of men, trapped for weeks in caves and hiding holes, were desperate for fresh news to chew over. It was only natural, and the little girl might say too much in her eagerness to please.

  They made the trek up the side of the ridge through cypress woods and pine trees dripping with snow melt. Penny felt it was so good to stretch out her limbs after being indoors. She was like a colt let loose into a meadow, wanting to leap over rocks, but she was aware her little helper was struggling under her load so she pulled a few almonds and raisins out of her pocket to spur her upwards in the climb.

  Then they heard a familiar whistle: the approach was being watched from lookouts hidden in the trees. One by one, faces appeared, smiling and waving, and out of the mountain cave emerged men like trolls, unshaven, l
ong-haired, with smoke-black faces, all in rough clothes that blended so well into the earth and rocks. Then a young man stepped out into the sunshine, took off his cap and shook out his blond hair. His beard was flaked with glints of gold.

  Penny stared up in amazement at the face she’d seen all those years ago in Athenian bars, the very guy who made a nuisance of himself until she gave him the hard word. It was Steven Leonidis. What was he doing here? She remembered some of the dubious attitudes he’d held before the war and she felt a flicker of unease. Luckily he hadn’t yet seen her. Pushing Olivia forward she whispered, ‘You go and take the basket, I’ve got something in my shoe.’ She bent over to adjust her scarf right up to her chin and over her forehead like a widow would do. Her heart was thumping. Why was Steven here? Should she go and greet him?

  One of the andartes rushed to lift off her pannier and take it into the cave. ‘Come and meet our new man, Stavros. He’s from Athens, Athina . . . Come and talk to him.’

  ‘No, no, we must head back and collect sticks.’ She made her excuses, sorry that Olivia must rush away from her first important mission. They were happy to see a child, patting her cheek. What if she told them Athina was a nurse from Athens? She must stop her talking and drag her away.

  Then there was a shout. ‘Athina! Come and look at these sores,’ cried a young man. ‘They won’t heal.’

  Steven was looking at her but to her relief he turned away. She shuffled and bent herself to look older, examining the lad. ‘Boils again, always boils,’ she croaked in her roughest accent. With the lack of fresh food, the dampness and dirt, no wonder their arms and necks were covered in festering boils. She turned to find the pot of poultice ointment, smearing it onto a clean rag and bandaging it onto the young man’s arm, all the time trying not to look where Steven was. He mustn’t recognize her.

  She’d never rushed away so fast, but she was propelled down that hillside by a sudden irrational fear that seeing her student boyfriend had brought on. Something wasn’t right.