Beyond the Olive Grove: An absolutely gripping and heartbreaking WW2 historical novel

by Kate Hewitt

  “Yes, it’s getting late there, isn’t it? Thanks for ringing. I was wondering how you were.”

  Back to being brisk. Well, she could act the same. “Yes, fine, all right, thanks,” Ava babbled, and then with another rather incoherent attempt at a farewell, she severed the connection. She sat in the living room of her little house, twilight falling softly around her. She rose and went to the window; the pine-covered hills were violet with shadows. Everything was silent save the breeze rustling through the trees, and the echo of Simon’s words in her heart: I miss you.

  Suddenly she remembered when she’d first told him she was pregnant, after so many years of fertility pills and then the endless injections and empty hope of IVF. His face had softened into the most wonderful smile, and he’d gathered her up into a spontaneous hug and kissed her thoroughly. She’d felt so cherished, so loved. She’d been so happy then… and so had Simon.

  Happy and filled with hope.

  Where had those days gone? Why hadn’t their shared loss brought them closer together, instead of driving them so desperately apart? Was she being unreasonable, expecting something from Simon he didn’t seem able to give? Or was he the unreasonable one, shutting her out without even realizing he was doing it? She’d asked all the questions before, again and again, and yet still they came pounding in her head, demanding answers she couldn’t give.

  Slowly she put the phone down and sat back on the sofa, drawing her knees up to her chest. Closing her eyes, she listened to the rustle of the breeze and felt as if that lonely wind was blowing right through her.

  11

  Now

  The day for her lunch with Andreas was bright and clear, with a sharp breeze blowing off the mountains. Helena had called just as Ava was leaving the house; the man she was interviewing tomorrow had agreed to see Ava as well. The news buoyed Ava’s hopes so much that, as she climbed into her rental car, she heard herself humming under her breath, felt a smile bloom across her face. She was looking forward to lunch with Andreas and his daughter, although Kalista had done little so far to recommend herself. Who knew, Ava thought as she drove out of Iousidous, perhaps she could soften the teenager a little. She was good with kids, generally speaking. She’d been a teacher, after all. Perhaps she could help Andreas forge a stronger relationship with his daughter. It was the kind of day when almost anything felt possible.

  Her thoughts occupied her all the way to the Lethikos property, and she turned up the long tree-lined drive, the sky high and blue above her, the lemony sunshine like a benediction.

  Andreas came onto the veranda as she stepped out of the car, gave her a wave. Ava felt a funny little pang when she saw him, almost like a homesickness. What was she missing?

  Simon. They hadn’t spoken again since she’d rung him, and Ava had spent far too many hours dissecting every detail of that short phone conversation, every word, every moment’s pause or sudden, awkward laugh. I miss you.

  What had he meant by that, exactly? On the surface, of course, it seemed obvious. But Ava couldn’t tell whether Simon missed who she’d been before they’d lost their daughter, cheerful, slightly crazy Ava who made him laugh, or did he miss the person she’d been when she left, miserable, mopey, prone to tears?

  Nearly two months on, Ava was starting to accept that she might have been more than a little hard to deal with.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Andreas said, and he came down the steps to open her car door, a gesture Ava found both gentlemanly and the very tiniest bit annoying. “I thought we’d eat in the garden. It’s so nice today, and not too hot.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Ava said, and then pinned a smile on her face as Kalista came to the door. She was dressed in skinny jeans and a ripped T-shirt, and her long, dark hair streamed over her hunched shoulders. She gave both of them a sulky, defiant look that was halfway to a glare. “Hello, Kalista,” Ava said brightly. “I hope I’ll be of some use to you, practicing English.” Kalista didn’t reply, yet she still managed to convey her scornful incredulity that Ava could be of any use to her at all. Ava wondered whether she felt threatened by a woman’s presence, and wished she could somehow reassure the girl—but how? And about what? She wasn’t sure what Andreas’s real intentions were in inviting her today, and she wasn’t sure what hers were in accepting. She missed Simon, yes, but if her marriage was truly over… She put a stop to that thought before she could finish it.

  “Shall we?” Andreas said, and he lightly pressed his hand against the small of Ava’s back, urging her forward. It felt strange to have a man’s hand there, the pressure warm. It wasn’t unpleasant, but neither was it entirely welcome.

  Andreas led their silent little party outside, where a wooden plank table was laid with a variety of dishes. A green glass bottle of murky olive oil and a blue jar of agapanthus were the proud centerpieces. As Ava sat down, she gestured to the bottle. “Your own?”

  “Indeed,” Andreas returned with a smile. “I could hardly serve a competitor’s.”

  “I look forward to it,” Ava said, and she held out her plate as Andreas served her salad and fresh, crusty bread, as well as pieces of succulent lamb cooked in a lemony garlic sauce.

  “So,” he said, once they were all served and had started eating, “are you feeling more settled, now you’ve been here a couple of weeks?”

  “A bit,” Ava replied. “The house looks more lived in, at least, and I’ve found a few things to occupy my time—I’m fortunate so many of you know English, since I speak very little Greek.” She turned to Kalista, smiling, but the girl just looked down at her plate.

  “Perhaps you will learn,” Andreas said and Ava made a face.

  “I did an online course, but it was slow going. I’m not sure I can learn so much at my age.”

  He let out a laugh. “You are not as old as all that, surely.”

  “I’m nearly thirty-seven.”

  “A child.” He smiled at her, and Ava felt a prickle of annoyance. She was not a child. Her experience, her suffering, surely was proof of that.

  He poured some of the olive oil onto a saucer and dipped a piece of bread into the golden puddle. Ava followed suit, deliberately letting the remark go. Had he been, in his Greek way, flirting? Ignoring it was surely the safer option. She didn’t want an argument. And she didn’t think she wanted to flirt.

  “So I’m afraid I know nothing about olive oil production,” she said as she dipped another piece of bread in the golden oil. “It’s delicious, by the way, so much nuttier than the kind I buy in the supermarket.”

  “Bah.” Andreas waved a hand in expansive dismissal. “Imitators. Idiots.”

  “So how do you make it?”

  “It is very simple, really, although much work. We harvest the olives when they are not quite mature, not quite black. My family has used the old ways of making oil for many generations—presses rather than these new machines.”

  “So you do stamp on them with your feet?” Ava blurted out, and Andreas looked quite shocked.

  “Our feet? Signomi, no. We grind them into a paste and then put the paste into a cold press to gather the oil.”

  “And that’s the old-fashioned way?”

  “It’s the way,” Andreas said, an inflexible note entering his voice, “to make the best oil.” He glanced at Kalista as he said it, but the girl just tossed her hair and glanced away.

  “So your family has had this place for a hundred years, you said?”

  Andreas returned his gaze to Ava, looking, she thought, almost dispirited. He smiled quickly though and passed her more bread. “Yes. My great-grandfather first cultivated the land here.”

  “So your family was here during the war.”

  “Most certainly.” He arched an eyebrow, clearly waiting, and Ava fumbled through her explanation.

  “The house I live in, as you know, belonged to my grandmother’s family. I’m trying to find out more about her.”

  “Have you had any success?”

  “Not really,” Ava admi
tted with a self-conscious laugh. “No one likes to talk about those days.”

  “No, indeed not. It was a hard time. Very little food, and of course the constant danger of the occupation, first by the Italians and then the Nazis.”

  “Yes, Eleni was telling me a bit about it. I’m afraid I know very little about Greece’s history.”

  “As I said, people don’t talk about it. It is too painful. But neither do we forget.”

  “No, you don’t want to forget,” Ava agreed quietly. “And even if you wanted to, you can’t.”

  Andreas nodded, his gaze hooded and thoughtful. “You have some experience, I think, with sorrow.”

  “Yes.” She took a sip of water, averting her own gaze, and Andreas took her cue and continued his explanation.

  “The civil war that happened after the Germans left was in some ways worse than the occupation. Greeks fighting each other—very bloody.”

  “Who won?”

  “The Greek governmental army defeated the communists in 1949.”

  “Right.” Somehow she had a feeling she should have known that.

  “But for many years, during the Second World War and immediately after, the communists were more powerful. They certainly had a greater Resistance force against the Italians and Germans during the war.”

  “So most people in the Resistance were communists?”

  Andreas shook his head. “Not precisely. There were many communists, but most villagers in a place like Iousidous just wanted a better life, more food, more land, more comfort. Like most people.”

  “Yes.”

  “Some became quite—what is the word—strong about their politics?” He frowned faintly and Ava hazarded a guess.

  “Militant?”

  “I do not know that word, but it sounds right. They became so, whether communist or republican. Even when the country was occupied, they fought each other.”

  “Eleni mentioned that to me, I think.”

  “My grandfather wished to fight in EDES, the republican Resistance. But he was lame from an accident with his mule, and so he could not do as he wished and take a rifle and disappear into the mountains.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling as he recalled the story. “The Resistance fighters from both groups hid in the mountains here. They fought each other a bit, but it wasn’t until the summer of 1942 that it came to much.”

  Ava perked up at this. Her grandmother would have certainly been in Iousidous then. “What happened then?” she asked.

  “The two groups worked together, with the British, no less, to blow up the Gorgopotamos railway bridge. I showed the river to you last time you were here.”

  “Yes—”

  “The bridge was the only means of transporting supplies from Salonika to Athens. It was quite a good thing they blew it up.”

  “And what happened after that?”

  “The Resistance groups never worked together again. They fought all the more, so by 1944 it was getting to be very dangerous. And by 1946 it was a full war.” He sighed, shaking his head. “How could we fight each other, having endured so much? Yet that is the Greek spirit. Fight always. Resist.”

  Had her grandmother had that Greek spirit? She had certainly been strong-willed, in her own way. “And what of your grandfather?” Ava asked. “You said he couldn’t be involved—”

  “Not as a soldier, because of his leg. But he allowed the olive grove to be used for Resistance activities. He used to boast that the plans to explode the bridge were made right here…” Andreas swept his arm to the nearby twisted trunks. “Although who really knows? Neither Resistance group was going to say where they gathered!”

  “No, indeed,” Ava murmured. Her mind was spinning with all the new information. Could her grandmother have been involved in the Resistance in some way? When she thought of the rather stern, elderly lady she’d known in Leeds, it seemed hard to believe. Yet Sophia Paranoussis’s life in Greece was far from anything Ava could have ever imagined.

  After lunch Kalista excused herself, rather sullenly, and Andreas took Ava around the property. She admired the barns with their cold presses, cleaning system, and separator, and peeked into a dark cellar where Andreas stored the stainless-steel vats of oil.

  “In another month I will bottle what we have,” he said, and showed her a narrow-necked bottle of green glass. “And then begin shipping it out.”

  “It looks like a lot of work,” Ava said as Andreas led her back out into the sunshine.

  “It is. But I would not do anything else if I could.” Ava glanced at him and saw he was frowning, and wondered why, for a moment, he looked so grim. Then his expression cleared and he turned to her with a smile.

  “But let me show you the trees.”

  The sun was hot as they wandered through the grove of olive trees, their twisted trunks looking bent and misshapen against the bright blue sky.

  “Some olive trees in Greece are thought to be thousands of years old,” Andreas said as he led her through the rows of trees. “But the ones here are a few hundred only.”

  “That still seems quite old to me.” Ava lifted one hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “Will you pass the business on to Kalista? Fifth generation?”

  “Perhaps. If she is willing.”

  Was that what sometimes clouded Andreas’s expression? Ava wondered. The possibility that his daughter had no interest in living in rural Greece and making olive oil?

  “It is such a nice day,” Andreas said as they returned to the house. “Would you like to drive out to the Gorgopotamos Bridge? It is a beautiful sight.”

  Ava hesitated. She’d enjoyed the afternoon, but she wasn’t sure what Andreas wanted from her. Or, if she was honest, what she wanted from him.

  “Perhaps you could talk English with Kalista,” Andreas continued. “I know she did not speak much during lunch.”

  She’d been completely silent, and Ava didn’t think going to see a bridge would turn Kalista into a chatterbox, but Andreas looked so hopeful, and she did want to see the Gorgopotamos. “All right,” she said and went to freshen up while Andreas called Kalista.

  A short while later the three of them drove in Andreas’s truck to the park surrounding the Gorgopotamos River. As they got out of the truck, Ava felt a ripple of trepidation at seeing the steep, verdant sides of the gorge. A railway bridge, one rebuilt after the war, Andreas told her, spanned the river rushing fiercely far below.

  “The original bridge was a bit farther down from that,” Andreas explained as he pointed to the current bridge. “Twelve British Special Operations Executive agents and one hundred and fifty Greeks were involved, some of them just untrained villagers.”

  Ava turned to him. “Do you think people from Iousidous helped?”

  Andreas shrugged. “Who can say? Some, I would think. We are a proud people. Not one of us liked being ruled.” His glance slid to his daughter, who stood a few meters away, her shoulders hunched, her hair blowing in the wind. She kicked at the rocky ground with one sneaker. “She’s been so unhappy lately,” he murmured, his voice soft and sad. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “It’s bound to be difficult,” Ava said hesitantly. “Since her mother—”

  “Althea died two years ago. We both still grieve, of course, but it’s not that.” He let out a little sigh. “It’s here. She wants to go to school in Athens and live with my sister-in-law there.” He spoke with a new bitterness that surprised Ava.

  “Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad,” she offered cautiously. “A woman’s influence can sometimes help—”

  Andreas shook his head. When he spoke, his tone was vehement. “Never. If Kalista goes to Athens, she won’t come back. I feel it here.” He gestured to his heart. “I can’t lose her like that.” He glanced at Ava, his expression softening. “Surely you can understand that?”

  “Yes,” Ava said after a moment. “I can.” She knew about loss and fear; she also knew you couldn’t hold on to people, or make them do or even feel what you wanted them to. T
hat wasn’t love. But Kalista was only fifteen, and Andreas surely knew what was best for his daughter. “Perhaps a weekend visit?” she suggested, but Andreas just shook his head again, and from the darkening of his eyes Ava knew he wasn’t pleased by her suggestion.

  “We should head back,” he said, drawing her away from the side of the gorge. He gestured to some dark clouds roiling near the horizon. “It looks like rain.”

  Ava spared one last glance to the gorge, with the river churning furiously below, before climbing back into the truck. She would have to ask Helena about the Gorgopotamos Bridge when she saw her tomorrow.

  12

  Now

  The house Helena led Ava to the next day was small and whitewashed and immaculately kept. It was perched on one of the higher streets of the village, near the church, with a commanding view of the countryside.

  The man who shuffled to the doorway was nearing ninety, his hair sparse and white, his cheeks sunken, but his eyes as bright as buttons. He spoke in rapid Greek to Helena, kissing her on both cheeks, before eyeing Ava curiously.

  Helena introduced Ava while she waited nervously, conscious just how much she was presuming, coming into people’s homes like this. No matter what Eleni said, she was still a stranger.

  After a moment of silent consideration, the man, whom Helena introduced as Angelos Mallos, led them both inside. Ava and Helena both sat down on a small settee in the living room while Angelos brought them tiny cups of strong Greek coffee. Helena began to speak in Greek again, her notepad resting on her knees, and Ava sat silently and sipped her coffee as the conversation flowed around her. She found herself growing sleepy despite the coffee, for the room was warm and she couldn’t understand a word of what either of them was saying.

  Helena turned to her, giving her a sharp poke in the ribs, and Ava started, embarrassed to have been caught drifting. “Yes…?”

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” Helena said with a grin. “Angelos has just said he knew your grandmother.”