The Girl Under the Olive Tree (30 page)

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.

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, and 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.

‘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, and 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.