The Girl Under the Olive Tree (32 page)

No one slept that night. The children kept crying out for their papa, Penny and Katrina taking it in turns to comfort them.

They heard later that their mayor and his assistant had gone down to Chania to protest and plead the cause of the village men but they didn’t return and were arrested themselves.

‘What did Ike mean about the mules? We haven’t any mules now?’ Penny asked.

‘It’s a code between us. I must get word to my father and brothers. This must be avenged and the man they say betrayed his friends will die . . .’ Katrina was crying, distraught about her husband’s fate. ‘Ike has done nothing but attend meetings.’

Penny said nothing. No use reminding her that they had British escapees on their land. There were guns hidden, buried, and a hoard of food, which was also forbidden. Thank God the Anzac boys had not been in the house scrounging breakfast. They must leave at once in case there was a more thorough search. The enemy was meticulous in such matters.

‘I’m taking the boys down the line,’ she announced.

Katrina looked up in alarm. ‘You can’t go alone, there are checkpoints.’

‘I’ll have my soldier escorts and we’ll go in darkness. Panayotis has told me a little of the route south on his last visit. It’s not safe for us to be here now.’

‘But this is your home. Panayotis insisted we keep you safe. It will be noticed if you disappear, and winter is coming.’

‘I will return. I’d not leave you on your own. When Ike returns, then we will think again. You have been so kind to all of us. If anything were to happen to you, how could I live?’

‘You think they will come back to us from the white-walled prison where death has taken up his residence?’ Katrina was staring at her new icon of the
Panagia.
‘She will help us in our hour of need.’

Penny sighed, fearing something terrible was happening in Agia Prison. She walked down to the chamber to tell the boys to prepare to move. Then she sat under her favourite olive tree until it was dark. It had a face that reminded her of uncle Clarence, with his whiskers, and leathery but kindly face.

Funny how she had taken to this old tree, with a hiding place close by under its low branches where she could think undisturbed, praying Bruce was safe. Here she could sift through all their recent encounters, one by one. She was sure he loved her but couldn’t commit to any future while they were living in such danger. Now she had seen how right he was to stay alert, sacrificing their own desires for the good of others when danger was so close.

Was she up to the job of leading men out into the stony rocky trail she hardly knew? She thought of the stalking expeditions in that other life. If anyone could do it she could. Perhaps she
was
a mountain goat, sure of foot, but the Allied soldiers weren’t. Bluey was recovering but hardly fit to walk two miles, let alone ten. If all else failed, Frank and Reg would carry him on their backs, such was their courage and loyalty to each other.

The journey was treacherous, the path stony and the men’s shoes were just makeshift rubber-tyre soles tied on with leather straps. They were cold and ill-clad but in good spirits. The night was clear and the moon bright enough to follow the path. It was the hill-climbing that soon had Bluey in trouble. They took it in turns to make a sling with their arms to carry him over the rough paths. The shadows loomed over them and the night sounds echoed around the rocks.

‘You must keep up with me,’ she ordered.

‘Slave driver!’ cursed Frank under his breath in English, but picked up his pace. Penny smiled, knowing the shepherd’s hut was just above the snowline and praying that the old man and his son would be wrapped in their cloaks with a firebox for warmth.

It was dawn before they found they’d been going round in circles and had missed the hut by only yards. Bluey was exhausted and fit to go no further.

Somehow, word had got to Manolis and Giorgos that the strangers were heading out, and they welcomed them into the sweaty fug of their milking hut, plying them with warm sheep’s milk to revive their flagging spirits. Penny left the ragged soldiers in their care, making an emotional farewell; all the boys promising to name their first girls Athina after her, if they got back home safe.

She borrowed a few sheep to take down the mountain as if she was just a peasant girl bringing a flock off the hills in case of bad weather. No one would stop her journey in daylight. The sheep were as cussed as
she
could be, and were not keen to be separated from the flock, but with her crook she pushed them into some order until it was safe to let them loose.

She returned to a house of gloom and the news that all the men were in Agia Prison, as Katrina feared. Soldiers had returned in force to search for the wireless set in Vafes, tearing the house apart in their search, destroying furniture, smashing crockery in an orgy of destruction. Elpida had kept quiet about the cave, though.

Then, two weeks later, just when they had given up hope, Ike returned, thin, bruised and silent. No evidence had been brought against him but he had endured days without food. Three men had been tortured, broken by every cruel method until, unable to walk, they were tied together and executed in the yard. This was learned later from others. Ike hardly spoke a word of any of it. He clenched his fists and spat, showing broken teeth. The name of the traitor was on everyone’s lips but never uttered.

‘They will be avenged,’ Ike said. ‘And the traitor will know the point of our knives one night. Let him live a while longer with the uncertainty of knowing when or where his blood will be spilled. Let him spend his pieces of silver on wine and whores, they will bring him closer to his destiny.’ He sank back on the couch, shaking his head in despair.

Katrina brought a wash bowl and kneeled to sponge his feet. ‘Come, sleep, rest. We have you back.’ She looked to the corner where once the icon had been. The waxen image of the crucifix stood as a reminder. Tonight another curse would be laid on the traitor.

Penny slipped away, up into her loft to leave the couple to their reunion.

It was a sad Christmas and Epiphany. The loss of good men meant no dancing or rowdy celebrations. Food was scarce and no one had the will to stand, but they all sat singing their traditional songs of freedom, knowing life would be even harder in 1943.

Rainer Brecht was promoted to major. His expeditions brought arrests but no radios. He was told that torture had broken the key leaders, but no wireless was located. Winter kept the garrison close to base and the barracks were tense after news of the defeat at El Alamein.

So many of his bronzed comrades were lost in the desert. Others were brought back to Maleme, blinded by the sun, with septic wounds, paralysed throats, their hopes of further victories as tattered as their uniforms.

Their Christmas party was a drunken affair, a few carols and a feast for the men; boredom was making drunks of them all. There was no further talk of being transferred. Rainer could volunteer for service on the Russian front but only a madman would swap the warmth for those icy steppes and certain death.

He amused himself playing cards and drinking with Kurt Anhalt, not one of his close friends but someone who had time on his hands. There was a group of card sharps betting on anything they had to hand. It was from them he learned how much looting was going on.

‘The peasants have nothing worth taking but their daughter’s virginity. I leave them to my men, but now and then they pick up trifles in the better homes and churches, ancient pots, crucifixes. You’re our expert – what do you think of this little thing?’

Kurt pulled out an exquisite clay bull, a perfect piece of Minoan pottery.

‘Where did you get this?’ Rainer asked, knowing it was thousands of years old.

‘Can’t recall. Some shelf, or maybe it blew out of the ground,’ he winked. ‘It’s old?’

‘How much do you want for it?’ Rainer fingered it with care.

‘Nothing you could afford but I’ve got something more up your street.’

Kurt brought out a wrapped piece of wood, which opened out into a beautiful icon of St Katerina. It must be from the Cretan school of iconography, a fine example. He touched it reverently, knowing it was sacred. ‘You don’t like it?’

Kurt shrugged. ‘Her eyes follow me round the room. Gives me the creeps. I don’t go in for religious stuff. If we win the next game, she’s yours. There’s plenty more where she came from. They hang on every wall of any half-decent house. These people are so superstitious. Didn’t she end up doing cartwheels? See, I haven’t forgotten all the priest told me.’ Kurt laughed. ‘Oh, take it. It’s worth nothing. I can see you fancy her.’

‘I have a sister called Katerina, she might like it. I’ll package it up and send it to her for her birthday.’

Rainer thought no more about the icon until it was posted back to Germany, but a week after the card game, Kurt was dead, ambushed in some alleyway and knifed. Twenty-five hostages were shot for his murder. The post from Germany was getting less reliable but a welcome letter from his mother arrived, thanking him for the lace tablecloths and Father’s cigarettes he had sent at Christmas. There was news that poor Katerina had been knocked off her bicycle in the blackout after a bombing raid. She was in hospital with a head wound and it was causing fits, but she had loved the sacred picture of her namesake.

The things not said in the letter worried him. All was not well at home. The news of heavy bombing was a surprise. The soldiers on Crete had been told that the RAF was feeble and the Americans had suffered heavy losses, and now his little sister was injured. He’d been so long out here, he was beginning to forget his homeland. He wondered if he’d ever see his own family again. It had been two years since he left them and suddenly he felt anxious and trapped.

Who could you trust here but your own men? Certainly not the locals, anxious to serve them? He’d heard rumours that the Red Cross doctor from Chania who’d healed his limp was not all he claimed to be, that he was part of a network of resisters passing information down an invisible line they couldn’t penetrate. Tradesmen smiled, delivered promptly, made the right noises, but who knew what was going on behind those swarthy faces?

The recent reprisals had done nothing but inflame the population into further acts of violence. Any fool could see that this race was not bred for intimidation. God help the garrison if it were to be overrun and they were left to the Cretan hot-bloods to finish off. He’d seen enough now to know what his fate would be.

Yolanda was tiptoeing round her family, torn between trying to be an obedient and dutiful daughter and a desire to persuade them that she would have no man but Andreas. His name was unspoken but his presence wafted above them like incense. Momma would sigh and look soulful as she went about her chores.

The Mordo betrothal plan had fizzled out and was replaced by news of his and Rivka Katz’s wedding. She was a young seamstress who would make him a much more suitable wife than Yolanda would ever have done. Why couldn’t Momma and Papa see this?

The pool of suitable grooms was shrinking. There were prettier, younger girls looking for husbands now. Those boys who could bribe their way out of the city had gone and others were working in labour camps. She thought this fact might be in her favour, wearing down her family’s opposition like water on the limestone rock.

At least she’d been allowed to stay on at the clinic as a nurse. The rabbi had intervened, saying it was good for Jews to be seen abroad doing works essential to the wider community.

Yolanda began to travel out of town with other helpers, armed with food parcels and clothing to the starving and sick families stricken by the harsh winter and poverty. The clinic had only a small store of vitamin syrups to spare but they asked the local priests to intervene and beg supplies from doctors in the garrison hospital, who donated what they could from their supplies. The staff no longer cared where the precious medicines were sourced. Saving children from starvation was all that mattered now.

There’d been a poor crop of olives and oil, and much of that taken by the billeted troops. Without oil few could survive the rigours of winter. Wood was scarce, trees were chopped down and even furniture was broken up for fuel. Women exhausted themselves in an endless search for driftwood, snails and mountain greens. Goats and sheep were killed. Yolanda wept to see little children holding their hands out to German soldiers begging for food. To their credit, many gave them pieces of chocolate and hunks of bread to share out. Who could look into the face of a starving hungry child and not feel pity?

But for every good one among them there was the other sort, the pestering drunk, the foul-mouthed abuser, the greedy glutton and the arrogant, pushing Cretans out of the way and into the traffic in their rush to find amusement in the town.

The nurses dealt with girls from the brothels, beaten and degraded, with injuries Yolande could never explain to her parents.

They thought they were sheltering her honour but she, in turn, was protecting them from knowledge of the real price paid for occupation. Their world was changing beyond recognition, leaving them confused and clinging on to old ways. She knew this in her heart but it didn’t make her own life any easier.

Andreas’ private clinic helped supplement their meagre medical supplies, while his treating officers brought scraps of information, useful in finding out who was deployed and where. Extracting these facts was not without risk, however.

Andreas had known nothing about the big raid near Vrisses, but there were brave girls risking death in the German HQ offices, passing down crucial details of the arrests and who had been executed, risking exposure even when they knew a traitor agent was in their midst posing as an interpreter. This Agent K was moved for his own safety to a villa close to Venizelou Street but the address was known now to the Resistance and his days were numbered.

One night Andreas met Yolanda at their secret rendezvous, flushed and out of breath. ‘I’m being followed. I had to give someone the slip. I think some young hostage talked in the prison under torture. Now his mother is mad with grief, deranged and calling through the streets to anyone who’ll hear that her son was innocent and it should be others who should be shot, men who should know better. She’s been pointing out our clinic. I daren’t put any of my staff at risk. I’ll leave.