by Leah Fleming
Instructions were to make sure their agent was captured, but with enough loose rope so he could fake an escape. He would be the hero of the hour among the villages. To Rainer’s surprise there weren’t as many here as he had hoped. Stavros had signalled there would be two groups, and there was no British agent among the dead. Something wasn’t right. Rainer’s instinct kicked in. What if this was a trap?
It had been too easy, too quick, too predictable. Even as Rainer thought this there came a sudden burst of gunfire from the far side of the opposite ridge, pinning them down. The rebels had the advantage of height and now they must slug it out.
So. Stavros was a double agent and had drawn him into an ambush. ‘I’ll kill him with my bare hands,’ Rainer muttered.
A runner was sent for reinforcements, bringing back the men chasing the escapees. How could you find mountain men in their own mountains?
Rainer’s old training kicked in as he crawled from cover to cover, encouraging every trooper to make every bullet count. He saw three snipers felled but they were evenly matched now and he noticed the rebels’ guns and uniforms. This was no raggle-taggle band of freedom fighters but an army with berets and bandoliers, confident on their own terrain. The outcome was not looking good, Rainer decided, so he ordered his men to make an orderly retreat, rock by rock, dragging their wounded and dead with them.
The prisoners they had would have to suffice. This fierce arid moonscape was like a second enemy to defeat. There was no point trying to gain the advantage here. It had been lost before they began.
Rainer pulled his men back, chastened by the humiliation, wondering how many more bandit armies were lying in wait to ambush them. Defeat wearies legs and spirits. Now he would have to explain how so many troopers were lost and wounded, and why Stavros had made fools of them all.
Yolanda listened to the rattle of gunfire echoing around the valley: rapid fire, breaks and then more fire. But then the explosions and screams, sporadic firing and a blaze of guns puzzled her. Who was battling from the other side? She sat shivering, hugging her body in a ball to protect her unborn child. Andreas must be dead or captured. Yet she saw the German patrol gathering their wounded and retreating with only a handful of prisoners. She counted no more than ten out of the group, and so far away she couldn’t make who they were. In the silence that followed she knew she must make her way back up and see who was left, her heart in her mouth fearing the sights she must surely find there.
In the cave the grenades and flames had done their worst. She had seen charred bodies before in Arta, but here she knew each one by name: the shepherd’s son, Manolis, and the baker’s boy, Lefteris, and the widow’s grandson, Giorgos, but there was no sign of Andreas. He must be one of the prisoners. She heard a figure approaching and, terrified, she hid.
‘Kyria, Kyria, come we have injured men, please quickly . . .’
She followed the boy, scrambling up the other side to a group of uniformed men, strangers who had been waiting for instructions to join Andreas’ group when they had seen, as she had, that signalling to the patrols approaching. So they had held their fire and stayed to ambush them.
Andreas was not among them and, seeing the state of their wounded, Yolanda thought there was just a chance that in flight he’d left his medical bag behind in the cave. She called a boy to run back, describing the leather satchel and watching with relief when he had returned with it.
‘I’m the doctor’s wife. I can help you. I was a nurse on the Albanian front . . . Have no fear, I have seen worse things,’ she said, seeing the concern on their faces. She went from one wounded man to another, giving orders to tourniquet, to press pads onto open wounds.
Then a man was tugging her sleeve. ‘You must come, back here, one of our leaders, he needs your help.’
The men were standing round a prostrate figure struggling to breathe, his chest open, his shirt blackened. He looked up, his eyes glazed. ‘Kyria Yolanda,’ he whispered, trying to smile. ‘Stopped a bullet in my chest . . . Did the others get away?’ he gasped.
She nodded, recognizing at once the British agent.
Bending down to examine his wounds, holding his wrist to take his pulse, Yolanda tried not to cry.
Chania Harbour, 2001
The dishes kept coming: a plate of warm melted cream cheese called staka, a rich beef stifado in luscious sauce, thick crusty bread, wine, chicken in lemony sauce, followed by tsoukoudia with syrupy semolina cake. But I could only pick my way slowly through the feast. I haven’t got the appetite now of my youth and my stomach was knotted with tension by the location of this restaurant. How could I sit here under the stars and not recall all that had happened in these streets? But, for the others this was a night for music and dancing by flickering lamps. I must enjoy the view, all around me fresh faces, well fed, relaxed, all nations chattering under one roof, no curfews or uniforms to restrict our fun. Mack and Lois were laughing, Alex was stuffing his face as only boys with hollow legs can, listening to the lute and the accordion group singing lyrical ballads and jaunty upbeat folk songs, some of which I could just about understand. I was glad I’d returned to see the city repaired, prospering. It helped banish such sad pictures in my mind.
The old Jewish businesses on this street had been replaced by boutiques and stores selling the usual tourist gifts, a few craft outlets with fine jewellery and stones, and tavernas touting for business night and day. I wanted to buy something for Lois as a thank-you, something Cretan as a keepsake of our visit. I would make an excuse and wander down to have a recce. I said I’d meet them back by the car on the harbour.
‘Don’t get lost,’ Lois warned, not trusting me to put one foot in front of the other.
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Alex. ‘I’ll look after her.’
I wanted to snap that I’m not in my dotage yet, but I bit my tongue and smiled a gracious thank-you.
When we were outside, I explained my mission and we strolled down the busy street examining necklaces, earrings and bracelets, scarves, olive oil bowls. It was then I noticed the sign on the wall to the synagogue: ‘Etz Hayyim’. ‘Let’s have a look down here,’ I suggested, marching down the alley into the enclosed yard where the walls of the synagogue were standing but the wooden gates were shut for the evening. I stood looking at the notice board. Here were posters of services and times of opening.
I must pay my respects before I leave, for Yolanda’s sake, I decided. How could I not remember my dear friend?
‘Why are you staring at the wall, Aunt Pen?’
‘I had a friend who lived near here, a special friend,’ I replied, jumping out of my reverie.
‘Where is she now?’
‘She died in the war like so many of my friends did,’ I replied, not wanting to explain to the boy what I knew of her terrible fate. ‘This is one of her churches but it’s called a synagogue.’ It had been restored from a ruin, that I did know, but the other one that the Markos family attended had disappeared.
‘Does she have a shrine with a candle in it?’ Alex was still fascinated by the little roadside memorials and kept photographing ones that interested him.
‘I don’t think so,’ I smiled. ‘Come on, let’s find something pretty for your mother.’
‘She likes chunky beads,’ Alex offered. ‘I’ll show you where she was looking.’
I turned from the wall, knowing I must return. It was a relief to fix my attention to the job in hand, to stay in the present with Alex’s company, rather than dwelling on a past I could never change. Yet I couldn’t help noticing my surroundings, changed as they now were, the past was all around me, dredging up so many memories. It was here in this very street that my stay on Crete began to unravel. The more I saw, the deeper I went into my memory, facing things I had never told anyone. How could such a lively bright street have once been a street of death and despair?
May 1944
After the kidnap of General Kreipe and his evacuation to Egypt, something civilians were not suppose
d to know about, the atmosphere changed in the city. There was a stirring of pride among the agitators, a flicker of hope. Perhaps the occupiers were not so safe after all, perhaps it was possible to attack and defeat them.
The soldiers on the streets were wary, quick to lash out, checking papers as if everyone was under suspicion. Penny hardly left the kafenion. Stella was stricken down with fever and Penny was needed night and day to help run the household and look after the children. She shopped for ever-dwindling supplies, knew who had secret stores under the counter for favoured customers. Babies she had helped deliver were now toddlers running around, and their mothers would greet her, shoving gifts they could ill afford into her hand. She knew better than to insult them by refusing. It was in the streets that she heard there had been heavy raids in the hills and men were captured and brought back into the city. Andreas’ raid had been repelled but nothing more was known.
Penny felt guilty about not being up there to help the rebels. She had not seen Yolanda for months, nor had she written about her visit to the Jewish quarter. This was not something to put on paper. It must be spoken, face to face.
The kafenion was quiet, no more midnight meetings for andartes groups behind closed doors. So she was able to hurry down to Kondilaki Street where there was a little cobbler who did good repairs out of his house. His stitching was the best and most reliable, but materials were scarce. If she was to go back into the country, she must have decent soles on her feet. But on arrival she found a crowd jostling at some commotion. A soldier was pulling an old man into the street, beating him hard.
‘What’s he done?’ demanded Penny.
‘Jew,’ yelled the soldier. ‘You cheating bastard!’
The man covered his head, protesting, ‘I have done nothing to you.’
More soldiers were kicking him down the street. At last a man yelled down after them, ‘Pigs! You take a little man because you can’t find Kreipe!’
The soldiers stopped and the object of their ire shot off to freedom, swallowed up by the crowd.
‘Who said that?’ No one spoke. He pointed his gun at the crowd. ‘Line up . . . papers.’
Penny joined the queue, searching for her identity papers, somewhere in the bottom of her apron pocket, along with her badge pinned to the inside of it.
‘Hurry up . . .’ The soldier’s voice was cold and threatening.
‘I am doing my best,’ she snapped in exasperation, pulling them out. He grabbed her papers and looked down at them, then at her. ‘These papers are out of date . . . Name!’ He pushed her to one side.
With a sickening heart, Penny realized she’d completely forgotten to go back and join the long queues in the documentation offices all those months ago. Not only were these false papers, they were out of date. God help her now.
‘I’m sorry, I was busy . . .’
‘Come with me.’
‘But I have to shop. My mistress is ill,’ she pleaded. ‘I will get them renewed.’
He pointed his gun. ‘Come now.’
There was nothing she could do but walk in front of him, people staring with pity. This was her own doing, her own stupid fault, and there was nothing she could do to warn Nikos of her arrest. She wanted to cry with frustration and fear.
Yolanda followed the sad procession of men carrying the wounded and dead on mules down through the gully by moonlight, a slow, tortuous journey back to the nearest village where the priest came out, nervous at first, to give them the funeral rites.
‘My poor boys,’ he sighed, looking into the faces of each of the bodies. ‘We will not forget them.’
She had done her best to nurse them on the hillside but their injuries were just too severe. If only Andreas had been with her, she felt sure their leader might have been saved. The sorrow weighed so heavy when the villagers came to collect the bodies of their sons. They were all buried side by side and the spot marked by crosses. There would be more painted black crosses on doors all over the district by the end of the day to indicate each family’s sacrifice.
Yolanda felt so weary and sick with worry about Andreas. No one had heard anything from the group for days and she was sure they must now be prisoners. She watched the village women keening over the dead boys. When she returned to Dimitra and Andonis with no news, they were distraught.
‘You must go into the far tops, out of sight, to grieve; take the flocks with you to stop thieves stealing them,’ Yolanda advised. She helped them pack up and load the mule for the journey. She still ached from the climbing and the terrors of the past days and her back was stiff and tight. She couldn’t go with them, not when Andreas was missing.
Where was he, in the prison under torture? She dare not think of what he was going through. Who would speak for these heroes or defend them? It would be the execution post for them, but not until the Gestapo had burned out every last drop of information from their broken limbs.
It was her duty, she decided, to get more information, to follow the captured men and find someone to help their cause down in Chania. This would be no easy task and fraught with danger but she was not going to sit here doing nothing. Leaving the hills was not easy. Perhaps she should wait for Andreas. She was so torn by the need to know what was happening down there and there must be travel papers to find. She had been away so long, she’d forgotten when a bus would pass through the village going north. The mayor would give her a travel pass on some pretext of market trading. Perhaps she would find Penny there and they would draw strength from each other in this bleak time. The mayor promised if Andreas appeared Yolanda would be sent a message to return.
Penny stood before the civil servant in the rimless glasses, waiting for her interview. She had been standing for hours trying not to shake. ‘Papadopouli?’
She was pushed forward, her hands were sweating.
‘Why are your papers out of date?’ he snapped. ‘Do you not know the order and the punishment?’
‘My mistress is ill. She keeps me very busy. I did come and queue but I was going to be late . . .’
‘She must’ve been ill for a long time. These are years out of date.’
‘I was in the country.’
‘Were you now?’ he said sternly. ‘Miss Papadopouli.’
‘I came to help my aunt and uncle Nikos.’
‘Nikos who?’
‘Kyrie Mandolakis in his kafenion . . . His wife is sick.’ There was a pause as the man examined her documents. Had she brought Stella and Nikos into danger now? ‘They warned me to update my papers but I forgot.’
‘But these papers say you worked at the convent, what were you doing there?’
‘I wanted to train as a nurse but it didn’t work out. I was needed in the café.’ She sensed his suspicion growing.
‘You are quite a mystery, Miss Papadopouli, but I see no mark against your name.’ He stamped on the documents. ‘But I will have to check. This is most irregular. Wait over there.’ He pointed to a chair. ‘See she doesn’t move.’
A clerk stood eyeing her with deep suspicion. It was hard to sit calmly, her left leg desperate to keep tapping the tiles. She swallowed back the fear and tried to make conversation with him.
‘You must be very busy in this office,’ she offered, but he ignored her. What man wouldn’t ignore such a rough peasant woman in a shabby overall, her face darkened by sun and exposure. Her own sister would walk past her and not recognize her now.
Had she come to the end of her journey in this little office? Her mind was racing with doubt and fear.
Then the little civil servant bustled in and waved his hand in her direction.
‘She can go and queue for the rest of the stamps. Dismissed.’ He let the clerk leave, then he marched up close to her.
‘Miss Athina, be careful. You have been lucky this time,’ he said quietly, then showed her the door. ‘Don’t go wandering in the Jew quarter again. It’s not advisable in these troubled times . . .’
Later, Penny stood on the court house steps gulping
in deep breaths of relief. Of all the officials in there she had found one who was sympathetic to the cause. Was it by chance or design? He knew Nikos’ kafenion; perhaps he’d eaten there and knew the secret set-up. She’d had a lucky escape, but she wondered what he meant about the Jewish quarter. It seemed to be some kind of warning.
Yolanda arrived in the city after a bumpy tiring journey, not knowing where to go to find help. After the quiet of their mountain life, she was unnerved by the bustle, the noise, the squalor all around her. First she had to set up a table in the market and sell the cheeses, eggs and greens that validated her journey.
It was a beautiful May morning and her spirits rose for a second until she remembered Andreas, possibly imprisoned in chains, perhaps already mutilated or dead. Someone here would know of his fate. No news was good news, she prayed. In her widow’s black she looked no different from hundreds of other women keeping to the shadows of the walls. Somewhere here, Penny was hiding out. She must find her, but first she must visit her parents, even if they shut the door in her face. She wanted them to know she was pregnant so they knew their family would go on, no matter what.
When the market began to pack up, and it was getting too hot to be outdoors, she wanted to find somewhere to rest her swollen feet.
There was one place, not far to walk, where she would be sure of a welcome. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Yolanda made her way uphill to the Red Cross clinic, a place where she had found both purpose and love. It would be good to see who remained there, and maybe the doctors would help her find Andreas. She wanted to be among friends if there was terrible news to bear.
