The Girl Under the Olive Tree (34 page)

Andreas was waiting at the clinic. ‘Everything must be as normal. You do your rounds with the junior nurses.’ He could see the agony on her face. ‘Be brave, my violet flower, in a few hours we’ll be free. I have arranged everything and by tomorrow we’ll be married. I promise. I have no intention of shaming you. Here’s the package of supplies to be delivered. You walk out to meet Giorgio’s cart with it as normal and wait for me. I will be following behind.’

Yolanda worked like an automaton, only stopping to breathe when she wondered if her mother would tidy her room and see the letter. Even now they could be rushing to get her . . . Her thoughts were racing as fast as her heart. Of course they wouldn’t come. They were proud and she had shamed them before the community. They would be dignified, counselled by the rabbi and his wife. Everyone would pity them, and Papa would hate that.

It was this thought that almost made her turn back and retrace her steps, tear up her letter, but her feet wouldn’t budge. Her stubborn heart was fixed and there was no going back.

True to his word, Andreas left his clinic, locked the shutters and doors as normal, and was waiting for her as arranged. They walked out of the town for miles and then picked up a mule cart and drove through the dusk, walking through a gorge and up a sheep track to a village cut out of the rock. Here a group of rough-looking men with guns were waiting. They patted Andreas on the back as if he were a hero. Then they banged on the priest’s door with rifle butts. The old man came to door in his shirt, puzzled and half asleep. He recognized Andreas.

‘We want to be married,’ Andreas said.

‘This is no time to wake a respectable holy man. It’s barely daybreak. Go home and see me in the church like everyone else.’ The priest made to close the door but the men stuck their boots in the way.

‘He will be married now,’ they ordered.

Yolanda slunk into the shadows, horrified.

‘No, you will not, Doctor.’

‘Who says?’ said his friend, built like a tree trunk, waving his gun in the priest’s face. The old man got the message, put on his robes. They were married in minutes as he conducted his office at full speed and heard their vows.

‘Now you are married. May I never see your faces again.’

Yolanda didn’t feel a bit married but Andreas crossed himself, satisfied. ‘Now to the mayor’s house to make it legal.’

The mayor was knocked awake in the same fashion, told of the ceremony just performed and persuaded at gunpoint to give them a certificate of marriage, which they duly signed on the dot in the light of the rising sun. Everyone cheered ‘
Chronia Polla
’, many years. Even the mayor got caught up in the romance of it all and gave them a pitcher of wine.

‘Welcome, Kyria Androulaki.’ Andreas kissed her deeply, and his friends melted away as he kissed the silver twisted ring he’d put on her finger and they sipped the wine. ‘Not much of a wedding breakfast, but that can come later.’

It was barely light but the night was warm. Their escorts walked ahead, leaving them alone in the narrow ravine before the track climbed steeply into the hills. Andreas paused to tether the mule and brought out a woven wool blanket of red, gold and black stripes from its saddle and put it down on the grass under the nearest olive tree. They sat, kissed again lying down until the moon dipped away and the sun began to rise. It was as sacred a wedding night as anyone could wish for, Yolanda thought as she lay back, expectant of what would happen next.

Now they were truly alone with no guards to quench the burning desire she’d felt inside for so many long months; all those sleepless nights, tossing under the sheets dreaming of such bliss, were over. Now she was locked in her lover’s arms, sinking down into an embrace that would change her for ever. He was tender and loving, but there was no shame in the passion they expressed with their bodies, the kisses they exchanged as their bodies melded into one. She lay back in his arms, hardly believing so much could happen in the course of one day. Yolanda Androulaki – how lovely it sounded. She was truly a married woman now.

Next day they made their way to his family’s farm high in the hills, walking through fields of yellow daisies and poppies, and over tracks high up so they had a wonderful view of the coast below. As they drew nearer Yolanda began to fear how his parents would react to his news. He had broken all their traditions marrying out of his faith, bringing a town girl into the family without asking approval. She had no dowry of beautiful embroidery to offer, no olive trees or livestock. Nothing but the clothes she stood up in. Even she knew this was not how most Cretans went about their marriages. What if they turned her away in disgust?

She need not have feared. She was treated only with kindness, if a little surprise. When Adonis, Andreas’ father, heard about the midnight nuptials, he roared with laughter. ‘Heavens above, and the poor girl not even a Christian!’

It was the only time they referred to her religion. Andreas swore them to secrecy. From now on she was to be treated as any bride. All the talk now was of a feast and singing and a proper celebration in the village, which made Yolanda shudder. Her own parents would be in deep mourning for her elopement. For her husband’s sake, she would learn the Christian traditions. What was done was done and she had no regrets.

Now the heat of summer was coming, all talk was of the wedding feast, a sheep or two to be slaughtered, pies to be made, flour to be found. Everyone in Chania was starving, but this was the country and they had ways of eking out their supplies from hidden stores.

Besides, farmers knew a thing or two about making a little go a long way. No one would come to the feast empty-handed, and they would invite everyone so no one would go hungry.

Kyria Dimitra, Andreas’ mother, smiled. ‘It’s like the story of the loaves and fishes; much comes from little. It is a miracle how we always have enough to go round.’

Yolanda smiled and kept kneading the bread. She had nothing to offer but her gold chain, which they refused even to look at.

The night before the wedding feast, Andreas’ mother produced a simple white dress with lace at the sleeves and hem. It smelled of camphor balls. ‘You will wear my wedding dress. It will suit your slim figure. You town girls are like sparrows.’

Only then was Yolanda presented to the crowd of curious faces, her hair braided with blossom, her dress freshened with lavender water, a country bride, a stranger among strangers, but in wartime no one was surprised that customs had been ignored. His family towered over her, and to her it felt like living in a dream where music was playing, and she was expected to dance with all the handsome men and receive little gifts of money in a special purse. She felt like a ghost floating among them, half expecting to wake up in her little boxroom listening to Momma and Miriam arguing from the stairs.

Round and round she swirled, dizzy with dancing, drunk with wine, until her eyes alighted on the face of a woman standing by the wall and she stopped. Could it be . . . ? Surely not, here . . . And the red hair . . . ? What a wonderful surprise. Should she draw attention to her in public? No one would know their connection here, why shouldn’t they recognize each other. And yet . . . oh, why not?

‘Penny!’ she screamed. ‘My friend Penny is here.’

The girl in the cotton dress and headscarf rushed towards her with open arms, startled. Hugging her, she whispered in her ear, ‘Athina, please, not Penny . . .’

‘Why do I get everyone’s names wrong?’ Yolanda shouted to cover her mistake. ‘Of course, it’s Athina, one of my nurses.’

The mayor, who’d been snapping the party with a tiny box camera, drew close. ‘Smile,’ he commanded, but they were too busy grinning with delight at this unexpected reunion to notice the click of the shutter.

And so for a few precious months, a brief spell of brightness flickered in a tunnel of darkness. We danced and sang as if the world was not going to fall in on our heads, as if there were no enemies lurking on the fringes; even at these celebrations, loose tongues wagging that the doctor from Chania had brought a Jewish bride back to the farm. Yolanda looked so beautiful that night and I envied her. Oh, how I envied her for having a lover who would bang down doors to make her his bride.

But war or no war, I must wait for Bruce to return and do things the English way. I was furious that he wouldn’t even make love to me when he had had the chance. Was he not man enough to take the opportunity offered to him? It still rankled that his mission came before personal desires, though I despised myself for such terrible selfish thoughts.

All these frustrations I poured out to my silent audience, Clarence. If a tree is a living being, he was the nearest thing I ever had to a father confessor. I wondered if he was still there, grown fatter and more pock-marked in the last sixty years. I would love to find him again. Perhaps with a detailed map we could locate Katrina’s village, if only I could recall its name. I think it began with a K . . .

I wrote to them after the war but my letters were returned. Little did I realize that after the war far worse things happened between neighbours in the name of politics than ever happened in the conflict.

Memories of my time with Yolanda were so precious now. Our paths crossed many times after that. Being in her company was like an oasis in the desert of my life before the bad times returned . . .

Now I could feel the warmth of the sun easing my bones, its brightness lifting my spirits, my senses touched by familiar sounds and scents. Siesta time over, I felt refreshed, ready to carry on my pilgrimage as if those cheerful memories had given me the courage to face the darkness to come.

When will the skies grow clear?

When will the spring come round?

So I can take my gun again

My beautiful patroness

And go down to Omalos

And the path of the Mousouri . . .

Extract from ‘When will the skies grow clear’
A traditional Cretan folk song

The Minoan Palace of Knossos outside Heraklion city had changed out of all recognition. Coaches disgorged thousands of tourists in the heat of the May morning. There were entrance gates, tickets to buy, garish stalls selling souvenirs, all the usual trappings of a world-famous site. Rainer found himself ushered towards a guide and told to join the queue, which was not his intention. He would much prefer to wander through the excavations at his own pace. He wanted to consider whether he liked what had been reconstructed since the last earthquake, to revisit Sir Arthur Evans’s layout with a fresher eye.

Now there were roped-off areas, duckboards, guides with umbrellas waving their flocks from one section to another. He’d chosen a busy day in the height of summer and his coach party were more interested in finding benches in the shade and taking snapshots than taking a detailed tour of the buildings. They didn’t realize that the huge blocks of crystallized stone glinting in the sun, the timber-framed stonework, the sophisticated drainage systems and storage areas full of pots, hid an even older civilization underneath. This had been a sacred grove since the cradle of man. Who had lived here – a king, a priest, a dynastic family – no one was sure, but everyone seemed to have an opinion.

He filtered away from the group to look at the wall frescoes. He never tired of those ancient figures, men in pleated skirts, their jewelled ankles and wrists, and on the fabric were detailed patterns with symbols long lost to modern man: blue monkeys or birds, animals, figures. This place had been the centre of the archaeological universe when he was a student, but all their certainties were blown apart now by new theories. There were so many layers: Neolithic, Minoan, Mycenaen, Greco-Roman, and earthquakes shunting layers into each other making more puzzles. His own interest in Minoan history was fuelled by visits here before the war. The heat was too much for an old man, and as he sat watching the other tourists he thought how empires came and went. This had been a real centre of power once, but now all that was left were dust, stones and theories. Enough was enough; he needed a beer. These crowds were too much for him.

He found a taverna on the main road, cooled his hands on the chilled lager and took stock. He must be close to the Villa Ariadne, the HQ of the most senior German officers on Crete, the most famous being Commander General Kreipe, kidnapped towards the end of the war. The event was later made into a film. What a fiasco, and the consequences . . . But that was not his story to tell.

If he recalled correctly, if he walked up the side lane he would find a back entrance somewhere into the grounds of the villa now owned by the Greek Government, not the British School of Archaeology in Athens. He’d like to see it again.

It was a steep climb and he paused to turn and view the expanse of still-green valley where there were hectares of unexplored ruins waiting to be unearthed. He wondered if the gate was locked and if the tennis court was still there at the side of the main building, built in the style of an English country house by Sir Arthur Evans when he began his excavations.

He pushed open the door in the wall and followed a rough path towards the outbuildings. He was trespassing but no one was around to challenge him. There was an old taverna lodge still used by students as a field study centre somewhere towards the proper entrance. He’d stayed there once so he just wanted a peek at the villa for old times’ sake.

It was exactly as he recalled, surrounded by palms and a riot of plumbago, with morning glory tumbling over the walls, scattered pillars and plinths dotted around the grounds, a headless Hadrian at the foot of the stairs. The veranda remained to the side where he had watched generals dining alfresco all those years ago.

This place had seen many occupants, as a garrison mess, a hospital clinic, a refuge, a seat of learning. It was the signing place of their final surrender in 1945. The house had ensured its survival and Knossos remained untouched, in so far as any site could be undisturbed when there were bombs and battles, earthquakes and civil war. It would have been a pity to have lost such heritage. He was glad work was still going on, finds being recorded and students pursuing their dreams.