The Girl Under the Olive Tree (36 page)

HQ were pleased with Stavros’s first missive. He was embedded on a farm under the safekeeping of the osteopath and surgeon Dr Androulakis and his bride from the Jewish quarter. He wrote that most escapees were off the island apart from some too sick to move from their lairs, but their spy network was active, receiving fresh guns and supplies from airdrops, just as they expected. Stavros would stay close to the centre of operations and to make sure no units picked up the spies until he was sure of their plans.

Was it true, he asked, that Italy had capitulated in September and was now an ally of Greece? He had heard from secret wireless broadcasts that Americans were in Sicily. He trusted these were propaganda rumours and lies being spread just to dishearten morale. Crete must be held; it was the Führer’s wish.

Rainer smiled at the note. Poor Stavros was in for a big disappointment if he thought they could hold off the inevitable collapse now the battle for Africa was lost. Rumours that new weapons would be brought here to smash the armies across the Libyan Sea were just that. Rumours.

As for active enemy agents, they knew most of their code names: Leigh Fermor, Dunbabin, Fielding, Woodhouse, Reade; clever brave men toughened by years of outdoor bivouacking. They’d not be easy to flush out, no matter what this young hothead thought.

Penny spent another long winter cut off from civilization. A heavy fall of snow blocking the tracks made a visit to Yolanda impossible. She stood looking out over the whiteness and grey mist in despair. The routes they used were made by following the shepherd’s guide marks, stones piled on branches of trees. One false step off the trail could mean a drop into a ravine and certain death. Every slow journey was prodded out with a crook to find solid earth. She worried about the gangs roaming in the hills, living rough at the mercy of the elements and the ‘wind men’, bandit sheep rustlers whose allegiances were often only to their clan but who could be called upon to defend their territory should the enemy intrude.

This was the time when all the backbreaking work, cutting the olive sticks and collecting the kindling brushwood in the dry months, kept the cooking pot on the boil. It was the time for huddling together as the village women worked their needles and looms, spun wool, weaving cloth for cloaks and blankets and rugs, which kept the families from freezing. It was a time for stories of the old days when the Turks ruled over them and their own grandfathers fled into the hills to make a bid for freedom. They sang the songs of liberation and battles, sad haunting tunes in rich voices.

Too many were in mourning for relatives burned, shot and driven from a village raided further up the mountain. The younger women and children fled up the rocky mountainside to hide in caves, but the old were sometimes too frail to move and were left to burn in the raids on their homes. It was a terrible time. Christmas came and went with little celebration. Now they were waiting for the men of the Resistance to return for fresh food and supplies. It was a dangerous business appearing in villages where Germans were billeted, but it still went on.

News flew over the mountains that the Italians in the east were allies, though many were prisoners of war or deserters. Now there was talk of serious squabbling and feuds between those nationalist villagers who fought for the king and those who were communist sympathizers and wanted only to fight alongside their comrades. Secret meetings with the British agents were ending in disagreements and suspicion.

Ike would not speak either way. Since his arrest he had not been so eager to take sides with anyone. He drank heavily and snapped at Katrina. The atmosphere had changed in the villa. Everyone was tired, fearful of the future and sick of winter. Penny worried for her friends and for ‘Cyclops’, whose reputation was spreading. No one could halt Cretans from praising their heroes and gossiping. The one-eyed doctor was well known and she prayed their early-warning whistles would keep him safe.

Sometimes she shut her eyes and tried to imagine her old home: Nanny and Zander and Effy playing cards by the flickering flames of the nursery fire, toasting muffins on the brass fork with the horse handle, the tincture of Mummy’s perfume as she came in to say good night, how the sequins on her ball gown glistened in the lamplight. How safe and cosy those childhood winter nights had been. Where were they all now in the world? Did they ever think about her?

Penny tried to make up for being a mouth to feed by amusing the children, making cards out of anything to hand, telling them her own childhood fairy stories, ‘Cinderella’, ‘Hansel and Gretel’ and ‘Snow White’. She learned to spin fleece with a distaff over her shoulder. It was lumpy at first but with practice she got it smoother and fine. The lanolin in the oil soothed her rough hands and her hair grew out into its natural colour. When she coiled it up she could almost catch a fleeting glimpse of the smart young woman who had idled away her time in Athens. She sighed and turned away from the cracked mirror.

It was as if her whole life was on hold, as if she was waiting. There was no word from Bruce. No one could move in such snow storms. Her hopes dwindled of ever seeing him again. For the first time in months she began to wonder if it was time to head back into Chania, give herself up, even. How she longed for the safe routines of the hospital wards again, and the calm of St Joseph’s Convent. Then she recalled how eager she’d been to escape the restrictions.

How could she even think of giving herself up, compromising her friends? She knew too many faces and locations. This was hunger, worry and boredom talking. Soon it would be 1944, a new start; surely this occupation couldn’t go on much longer?

She was sick of the same old village gossip; who had set their cap at whom, who would not see out the year, how widow X was hoarding. I will go mad with this, she sighed. The only good thing was that the snow kept the Nazis from the door, the patrols preferring to stay in their barracks and get drunk on looted wine and raki, plying kids with handouts and scraps, and keeping their heads down.

These troops distributed leaflets, claiming a new amnesty with the population on condition the villagers took no part in the criminal acts of bandits; asking them to report movements for which, in return, they would be left in peace, but any resistance would be dealt with harshly. It was the same old ploy. Be good children and you won’t be punished. Still the paper came in handy for kindling.

Then one morning towards the end of January, Penny woke to feel the warmth coming in through the shutter, the drip-dripping of snow and the chatter of birdsong. Spring had won its annual battle. Soon there’d be almond blossoms and fresh greens to pick. Hope lifted her spirits.

A few days later a runner came down saying a group was resting above them and needed fresh food and supplies. He took back what he could and Penny offered to take up the rest.

‘There are twenty of us and we have another Englishman to feed now. Come soon,’ he shouted.

She set off with a pannier strapped to her back, taking with her Ike’s daughter, Olivia, who was twelve. She was so excited and proud to be a courier, providing cover for Penny.

‘Remember, we are gathering food, we zigzag across the hills in case binoculars are plotting our path. Don’t draw attention to yourself. The mountains have a thousand eyes,’ Penny warned the wide-eyed child. ‘You are my special helper but don’t say your name or where you live to anyone. Loose tongues cost a whole village its men and its homes because somebody was boasting . . .’ She had to warn the child, scare her from blabbing out information. Penny knew by now that isolated gangs of men, trapped for weeks in caves and hiding holes, were desperate for fresh news to chew over. It was only natural, and the little girl might say too much in her eagerness to please.

They made the trek up the side of the ridge through cypress woods and pine trees dripping with snow melt. Penny felt it was so good to stretch out her limbs after being indoors. She was like a colt let loose into a meadow, wanting to leap over rocks, but she was aware her little helper was struggling under her load so she pulled a few almonds and raisins out of her pocket to spur her upwards in the climb.

Then they heard a familiar whistle: the approach was being watched from lookouts hidden in the trees. One by one, faces appeared, smiling and waving, and out of the mountain cave emerged men like trolls, unshaven, long-haired, with smoke-black faces, all in rough clothes that blended so well into the earth and rocks. Then a young man stepped out into the sunshine, took off his cap and shook out his blond hair. His beard was flaked with glints of gold.

Penny stared up in amazement at the face she’d seen all those years ago in Athenian bars, the very guy who made a nuisance of himself until she gave him the hard word. It was Steven Leonidis. What was he doing here? She remembered some of the dubious attitudes he’d held before the war and she felt a flicker of unease. Luckily he hadn’t yet seen her. Pushing Olivia forward she whispered, ‘You go and take the basket, I’ve got something in my shoe.’ She bent over to adjust her scarf right up to her chin and over her forehead like a widow would do. Her heart was thumping. Why was Steven here? Should she go and greet him?

One of the
andartes
rushed to lift off her pannier and take it into the cave. ‘Come and meet our new man, Stavros. He’s from Athens, Athina . . . Come and talk to him.’

‘No, no, we must head back and collect sticks.’ She made her excuses, sorry that Olivia must rush away from her first important mission. They were happy to see a child, patting her cheek. What if she told them Athina was a nurse from Athens? She must stop her talking and drag her away.

Then there was a shout. ‘Athina! Come and look at these sores,’ cried a young man. ‘They won’t heal.’

Steven was looking at her but to her relief he turned away. She shuffled and bent herself to look older, examining the lad. ‘Boils again, always boils,’ she croaked in her roughest accent. With the lack of fresh food, the dampness and dirt, no wonder their arms and necks were covered in festering boils. She turned to find the pot of poultice ointment, smearing it onto a clean rag and bandaging it onto the young man’s arm, all the time trying not to look where Steven was. He mustn’t recognize her.

She’d never rushed away so fast, but she was propelled down that hillside by a sudden irrational fear that seeing her student boyfriend had brought on. Something wasn’t right.

Why had he suddenly appeared here out of nowhere? All her antennae were on alert as she and Olivia hurtled through the pines, picking sticks to fill their empty panniers. Olivia was upset. She thought she’d done something wrong.

Penny recalled all those political arguments they’d had, drinking together; his distaste for his Greek heritage and his delight in being so fair and blue-eyed. If anyone was a Fascist sympathizer, he was. Now he was a British escapee on the run when most of the men had long gone. He was fluent in Greek, he could have escaped so easily unless . . . unless. Oh God, could he be a plant? Was he passing himself off as English for the enemy?

Perhaps seeing all the atrocities committed on the island, he had had a change of heart. People did change. That was it, surely? How long had he been here, and how did he come to be so close to Ike and Katrina’s village? How could she be sure he was genuine? The seeds of doubt niggled all that night. One word to Ike and his group, and Steven Leonidis would be dead. How could she live with the possibility of killing an innocent man, especially one she could defend in many ways? But if she identified him, he would identify her as being English too. She must warn Andreas, and find Bruce, flag up a warning that the Athenian might be a spy. It was the only answer she could hear in her heart.

Sometimes you have to make a snap decision, one that changes everything, she thought, waking from a nightmare, reliving those moments when she sensed her friends were in danger. She had so few facts to go on, just an instinct. If she was wrong, Steven would be executed; if she was right, others far more precious might meet the same fate.

Next morning she sought out Ike to make her excuses. ‘Your kindness is too much. I am a burden on your family. I’m going back to Chania and to the convent life I left. Please give my good wishes to everyone, but I am a town girl at heart. If there is danger here, I will only make things much worse for you all.’

She saw the look of disappointment on his face. ‘Please be careful who crosses your threshold,’ she warned. ‘Keep the
andartes
out of the village. If anyone asks for Athina, show them the door, unless it is Panayotis, of course. Tell him I am back in town.’

‘What are you trying to tell me, my friend?’ Ike asked. ‘We have no secrets.’

‘Oh, yes, we have, more than most. I wish I knew why, but I feel danger coming, I must check things out.’

‘We shall miss you,’ Ike said.

‘When all this is over, I will return,’ Penny said, feeling the tears filling her eyes.

‘Bring your children to see us and we will be happy. You’ve been like a daughter to us, dear Athina. May the Blessed Saints guide your path in safety.
Kalo taxidi . . .
safe journey.’

It was hard to sneak off so ungraciously. Katrina came rushing out to hug her. Penny pressed into her hand a letter scribbled between the lines of an old pamphlet. It was the only paper to hand. She’d written it to Yolanda in formal Greek, warning her best friend that there may be a spy in their midst. She wrapped it in that precious little hanky kept safe all these years, which Yolanda would know came only from her.

‘Give this to Yolanda or her family. It explains a little. Tell everyone to be on the watch for smiling strangers.’ Penny kissed them all, tears now coursing down her face. She turned away down the track towards the village and the main road. She prayed there was a bus to Chania that day.

Andreas brought his augmented group down to the isolated farm for fresh milk and bread. There had been no troop patrols for weeks and the
andartes
were beginning to hope the worst was over.