The Girl Under the Olive Tree (35 page)

Why was it important to see all this again, he mused. He’d not been stationed here. He stood in the overgrown court and shook his head. How full of plans he’d been in his youth, none of them achieved. The war had done that to him. This was a place of shadows. He must find another beer and get out of this empty place. It meant nothing to him now.

That first journey into Heraklion was not without incident. They fought off an ambush on the road somewhere close to Rethymno, a band of partisans, wild men with beards and rifles shooting at the convoy, thankfully with armed guards giving them as good as they got. These bands of rebels leaped out of nowhere with an uncanny knowledge of where and when they were coming, a worrying trend, which meant spies close to HQ. There was now a co-ordinated push into the badlands of the White Mountains to find the caches of arms and supplies being dropped from the air, ambushing the bandits in the act of retrieving them. They’d had some successes but the groups were being trained up by British agents into fighting platoons to make smash-and-grab raids, for which the villages supporting them must be rendered useless.

Recently there’d been a campaign of chalked messages scrawled in German on walls around the town, propaganda, with news of Italian capitulations and warnings that they feared were coming from their own men. There were disgruntled elements based on the island, a spate of suicides and desertions that had to be stamped out quickly, but an uneasy standoff with locals produced some informers.

The plan was to capture some of these enemy agents in the act of sabotage, squeeze out names and contacts, and Rainer hoped to meet a young man able to assist them in this. He was to give him the once-over and check he wasn’t a double agent.

He met him on site at Knossos, exploring the ruins with interest. To the casual eye they were two archaeologists on an outing, just talking over their interests. But there was another agenda.

At first Rainer didn’t know what to make of Agent Stavros. He was a strange mixture of English good looks and fiery Greek temperament: fair-haired, blue-eyed, full of zeal to follow the Führer and his creed, an ardent National Socialist, friend of Oswald Mosley, anti-communist to the point of fanaticism, and he could play a mean game of tennis, too. He thrashed Rainer six games to one. Rainer’s leg was healed by now so there were no excuses. The boy was too good for him, placing the ball just out of his reach, his face a picture of determined steeliness. When Rainer admitted defeat, Stavros replied in perfect English, ‘You can thank my public school for a killer forehand. I perfected it on the bottoms of my fags.’

Stavros was a student in Athens and keen to join the excavations out west, but he’d been told he must earn his keep. He was recruited after the fall of Athens and there was no doubting his loyalties. Converts always made the most fervent soldiers. Tested out in the hills in the Italian sector, he picked out a few British boys on the run and made sure they were executed before they could doubt his cover, as a spy.

He was the genuine article. There would be no silly gaffes with this man, the perfect English gentleman with the accent of the officer class. They were working up a new legend for him as his first attempt had backfired. He’d moved further towards the coast and filtered into the hills as an escapee, sheltering in a village for the night, where he was promptly beaten up and returned to the local gendarmerie as a prisoner of war.

This was either a rare case of Cretan loyalty to the occupying forces in yielding up evaders, or a clever ruse to play them at their own game. Either way, he had to be moved on with a better cover story. It would be hard to explain his presence on the island when most of the evaders were gone long ago. He must claim injury and that he had been staying on to help the natives in their struggle, but was now desperately trying to head south for a boat. Now he was happy to join the Resistance fighters and meet the agents. Stavros had added his own flourish, playing the absent-minded professor, keen on all things Minoan. This would explain his wandering around in search of findings, behaving like a total British eccentric in accent and looks. He would be perfect for reporting back any news from the White Mountains closer to Chania. Here he had a better chance of being picked up by a sympathetic village passing him down the line. If he got to Cairo he’d be implanted in the British Army. It was a daring scheme but this boy was unstoppable.

‘You’re a brave one,’ Rainer commented.

‘It has to be done. From what I’ve heard they’re all a bunch of thieves and bandits feuding amongst themselves. Divide and rule – long may it continue, I say.’

‘If you’re caught, there’s nothing we can do to save you,’ Rainer warned. ‘You are on your own, I’m afraid. We’d claim no knowledge of you.’

Stavros clicked his heels and gave the salute.
‘Heil Hitler!
It’s my honour to die for him.’

How confident, how committed and how naïve this boy was to think the Führer cared a hoot about him, dead or alive, but Rainer had to admire such loyalty. It made his own uncertainty and lazy compliance seem so hesitant. He’d seen too much now to be certain of anything but that innate desire to survive long enough to see his family again. His sister, Katerina, would be sixteen, a young lady. How was she growing up in the midst of such turmoil?

‘You have papers under your false identity. Is there anyone I should inform should . . .’ He hesitated to continue.

‘I have no family I wish to contact.’

They spent a pleasant evening in Heraklion, walking round the harbour and dining in the square. To have such an agent working in the Chania area was just the fillip needed. They were not going to rush; one false move and his cover would be blown. ‘
Siga, siga
,’ slowly, slowly, as the Greeks say. Stavros might be a bit of a cold fish but he was a brave one and needed the best support they could offer. Rainer wondered what whales or minnows he’d trawl into his net.

Yolanda was finding country living daunting: the pungent smells, the routine chores, all the physical work expected of a woman. She was a city girl at heart, but that part of her life was over. She was learning fast to understand the thick accent, the gestures, the rules she must live by here if she was to be accepted. The close-knit community watched her with interest and kept its distance.

There were no books to read, no music to listen to on a gramophone, no piano to play, no services that held any meaning for her, but she kept her head down, trying not to worry about her parents. How she longed to write to them and receive their blessing. She begged paper and poured out her heart, telling them she was safe, that Andreas was kind and she still helped him in his work.

She told them about all the village superstitions and remedies, some good, some harmful. She sent the letter down to Chania on the bus, praying for a reply, but there was none. Then there was a skirmish and shooting, and she was needed to hide a wounded man in case the enemy did a search, tending him hidden in the caves until he was fit to walk again.

Adonis and Dimitra treated her well but she recalled the old saying: ‘The groom cannot become a son nor the bride a daughter.’

The times when she could meet Penny were so precious, a link with her old life. Sometimes they could meet halfway on the hills, gathering sticks for fuel. Penny was working in another district, and she looked so thin and worn-out. Who would recognize them as those lively nurses in Athens? Her friend lived for news of ‘Panayotis’, but there’d been no word of him for months.

Yolanda had never met the man or his group. It was dangerous to know anything of other bands, even false names. The British agents and runners went by nicknames, Greek versions of their own names: Michaelis, Ianni, Manolis, Vasilios. Who they really were, no one knew.

Andreas said little about his mysterious disappearances in the night. He would unhook his sack from the door as it grew dark, grab his knife and what little food they had to spare. No one spoke, they knew not to ask any details. Yolanda followed him to the yard, fearful of the dangers ahead. She wanted to cling to him and beg him to stay, but stood clenching her fists watching him until he was just a speck in the darkness.

It was such a relief when he returned, bloodied, exhausted and famished. He still risked excursions into Chania, disguising his blind eye with ill-fitting glasses and bandages, wearing filthy peasant clothes. There were safe houses where he picked up medical supplies, new intelligence from the girls at HQ, news of ruthless SS men, and agents to pass down the line, lists of wanted men on which, to his amusement, was his own name.

Yolanda could hardly breathe until he returned to her arms each time. He’d brought news that Mussolini had been deposed, that Italy was on the brink of changing sides, that there were anti-German slogans chalked on the walls, posted for all to see.

‘There’ll be an invasion soon. We must be prepared. Then we’ll be free again. I hear the words, but the enemy looks strong to me,’ he warned.

One night he came in with a stranger covered in blood. He’d slipped on the rocks and fallen badly, gashing his leg. His name was Stavros, and he was tall, bronzed, with sun-bleached hair. Stavros was apologetic, hesitant, and Yolanda recognized his accent. He’d been trapped for months, trying to escape and join the British army. He said his mother was English but he had the look of a German deserter to her. It was good to talk Greek without straining to understand the dialect, to hear familiar vowels . . . such a charming, handsome young man. Her heart warmed to him.

She dressed his wounds, asking how he’d managed to stay free for so long.

He smiled. ‘I was a taken in by a farmer in Lassithi district close to where the famous scholar-soldier John Pendlebury had his dig before the war. The farmer took one look at my arms and kept me digging in his fields. They fed me like a son but when the farmer left the house his wife had other ideas and made to seduce me . . . It became difficult. She was a pest, making eyes at me across the table. I had to get away before he killed me. One night I left. I’ve been wandering for weeks, moving west, but everywhere they say our soldiers are gone.’

‘You must be tired then,’ she replied, noticing how firm and brown his legs were, as if he had been living in shorts.

‘What brings an Athenian so far into the hills?’ he said, sipping her tea with relish.

‘It was my husband’s wish to return to his family. I came with him, of course.’

‘You are his nurse?’

‘Yes, in the Red Cross clinic.’ Yolanda stopped, fearing she was saying too much and changed the subject. ‘The wound is only superficial, looks worse than it is, no real damage. Keep it clean and fresh air will do the rest.’

‘Yolanda is a lovely name. It means violet flower,’ he offered. ‘Unusual . . .’

She nodded. ‘It was my father’s choice. He loved the colour, I think.’

‘A very discerning man. Is he still in Athens?’

‘No, he died,’ she lied. What am I saying? Yolanda shivered. This boy asked too many questions.

Later, when he’d gone back to sleep in the sheep hut, she lay with Andreas but couldn’t sleep. ‘Where did you find Stavros?’ she asked.

‘He was lying injured on a rock, dehydrated, in shock. Another poor soldier who’d missed the boat, I fear. Why do you ask?’

‘He told me he was running away from a farmer’s wife. I suppose that explains why he is so well fed and sunburned. He’s been on the run for two years, surely that’s a long time?’ she added. ‘He has no sores or lice. He clearly hasn’t been living rough. He would be filthy and bitten raw.’

‘He’s an archaeology student from Athens, a little touched by the sun,’ Andreas laughed.

‘Perhaps Penny might know him? She studied there before she was a nurse,’ Yolanda whispered.

‘Of course . . . but we must be careful, no names, no risks. He looks as if he can hold a gun. We’ll be glad of another sniper.’

They gave Stavros no more thought as they drew closer. The pleasure of making love had lost none of its delight in the past months, despite the hardships.

Yolanda kept Stavros close to the farm, watching him closely to check if he knew how to milk sheep and make cheese. He was quite an expert, and so handy with a spade. His strong arms were useful on the farm in Andreas’ absences, and Dimitra thought him a Greek god from Olympus.

There were no evaders left for him to join so he began to go out with Andreas on his round of meetings, joining his runner to pick up news, but his stamina was weak on long marches and scrambles. For all his fitness, he was soon out of breath.

‘I think his lungs are weakened,’ said Andreas’ runner. ‘He’s always last and can’t keep up. He’s led a soft life, too many cheese pies and
krassi
. We need to help him find his mountain legs if he’s to be any use in a raid. He’s just a city boy and half English. They aren’t built for the mountains. Give him time. Take him to Chania. His Greek is perfect, no one will challenge him.’

Stavros was keen to stretch his legs downhill too. ‘I’ve been to Heraklion but never Chania. Are there still any Venetian palaces standing or a museum? Will we pass any frescoes on our journey? I have read that Crete holds so many treasures.’

‘You’re not going as a tourist,’ Andreas snapped. ‘There’s nothing left there to see, and anything of value has found its way overseas. There are Germans everywhere so be careful, don’t draw any attention to yourself.’

Yolanda watched them leave, glad that Andreas had company, but there was something about Stavros that puzzled her. There was just a chance she might find Penny out on the slopes, picking berries for preserves. There was so much to check out about their new recruit and Penny was just the one to ask.

No one noticed a tall young shepherd striding down through the alleyways towards the old western gate in the ruined Kastelli district. It was market day and many countrymen brought panniers of vegetables to barter for paraffin and salt. He paused by a well to scoop water over his face. No one saw him pull out a loose stone from the wall and shove in a letter – no one, that is, except a skinny boy with stick limbs who waited for the man to turn away. He would retrieve the drop under cover of darkness.