The Girl Under the Olive Tree (39 page)

Yolanda felt fury bursting over her.
‘Concerned?
You’re my husband, the father of my child. Who will look after us if you are gone for ever?’

‘Don’t talk like that in front of my men.’

Yolanda charged at him like a bull, yelling in Ladino, the old Jewish Spanish dialect, like her parents did when they argued. Out spilled all the frustrations of the past months. ‘Do you know what I gave up to follow you? Do you know I am now
dead
to my parents because of you? Now you call me
stupid
to come and warn you?’

Andreas argued back. ‘I didn’t say that, but this is men’s work.’ His men slunk away trying to be invisible. ‘Be quiet woman. This is what happens when women put their noses in matters that don’t involve them.’

This was a side to her husband she’d never seen before. They flung insults at each other until Yolanda was crying and screaming. Then Andreas threw his hands in the air, walking away. ‘Don’t be hysterical! The baby will not like it.’

‘To hell with you!’ She stormed off in fury. They’d never rowed in public before, or with such venom in private, and Yolanda was heartbroken. Why was he exerting his control before his men like this?

Now it was growing dark and she was stuck with them for the night. She was cold, tearful and sulking. Andreas kept to the other side of the cave, ignoring her. She kept her distance as well, too ashamed to move into the light.

At first light she rose and gathered her sack, tiptoed over the sleeping men and left, scrambling down the ridge, down towards the track as the sun rose like a golden globe. She’d not gone far when, to her horror, she saw a line of soldiers, hundreds of them, spread out with dogs, walking up the track far below. They were making a dawn raid. She was by now far too far away to give any warning and could only duck behind a boulder and wait to see what happened. As the line of soldiers moved forward, there was nothing she could do but pray.

It was good to be out in the cool dawn air, stretching his legs on a mountain hike. This was a patrol Rainer was leading himself. Now the whole island was on alert. His instinct was that the British Agents would be hiding somewhere up on the ridges. The patrol knew the Androulakis gang was lying up somewhere ahead, dozing off the night’s drinking. Stavros would take himself out to relieve himself and signal the exact position in Morse. There must be no warning and they’d net them all this time. In the battle, or after he was ‘captured’, Stavros would make a quick escape. No one would be any the wiser. Everything depended on silence and surprise. With luck they would retrieve the wireless set and the operator’s codes. This was war and the honour of the island garrison was at stake.

Rainer hadn’t realized how far south the trucks had brought them before they set off on foot. They had marched through the night and the men were thirsty and weary and needed regrouping. Every platoon leader had orders to rein in noise and muzzle the dogs. Rainer felt the old battle adrenaline kicking in, the excitement mounting. Action gave a thrill like no other; all his senses were heightened, tension taut as piano wire.

This was too well planned to go wrong. Right was on their side. Resistance was futile. He looked up towards the rocks. For many up there, it would be their last sleep in this life.

Yolanda crouched, her back aching, looking up and down, helpless. If only she had a gun to draw their fire and give warning. All she had were rocks to throw. Better to watch and wait. She prayed from the psalms for mercy for her husband. She closed her eyes and then opened them and noticed a pinprick of light, flickering, flashing on and off. She’d seen this on the Albanian front. The mirror was positioned to catch the light of the rising sun, on and off in a code. Someone was signalling from Andreas’ cave, sending a message to the soldiers down below, bringing the enemy to their lair. Who was betraying them?

In an instance she guessed there would be only one man, one stranger capable of doing this to them. Stavros, the man who had asked so much about Penny.

‘Your guts never lie to you,’ she heard her father say. ‘You were wary of him from the start . . .’ Her heart was thumping with fear for Andreas falling into a deadly trap. She tried to scream but her voice was carried away in the wind. She felt bitter hatred well up like acid in her stomach. ‘You will be sorry you ever saw my face,’ she cursed into the wind. ‘I will find you if it’s the last thing I do.’

The German soldiers were about two hundred yards from the cliff when they were spotted. Rainer glimpsed figures darting and fleeing in all directions, opening fire and scattering his men into cover. This was not going to be as easy as he’d envisaged, and by now the escapees would have made for other, deeper caves where the wireless was supposedly hidden. But grenades soon flushed the remaining
andartes
out from their original hiding place. The living were dragged out and tied together, the dead and dying left to their fate, but there was no sign of the doctor or Stavros.

Instructions were to make sure their agent was captured, but with enough loose rope so he could fake an escape. He would be the hero of the hour among the villages. To Rainer’s surprise there weren’t as many here as he had hoped. Stavros had signalled there would be two groups, and there was no British agent among the dead. Something wasn’t right. Rainer’s instinct kicked in. What if this was a trap?

It had been too easy, too quick, too predictable. Even as Rainer thought this there came a sudden burst of gunfire from the far side of the opposite ridge, pinning them down. The rebels had the advantage of height and now they must slug it out.

So. Stavros was a double agent and had drawn him into an ambush. ‘I’ll kill him with my bare hands,’ Rainer muttered.

A runner was sent for reinforcements, bringing back the men chasing the escapees. How could you find mountain men in their own mountains?

Rainer’s old training kicked in as he crawled from cover to cover, encouraging every trooper to make every bullet count. He saw three snipers felled but they were evenly matched now and he noticed the rebels’ guns and uniforms. This was no raggle-taggle band of freedom fighters but an army with berets and bandoliers, confident on their own terrain. The outcome was not looking good, Rainer decided, so he ordered his men to make an orderly retreat, rock by rock, dragging their wounded and dead with them.

The prisoners they had would have to suffice. This fierce arid moonscape was like a second enemy to defeat. There was no point trying to gain the advantage here. It had been lost before they began.

Rainer pulled his men back, chastened by the humiliation, wondering how many more bandit armies were lying in wait to ambush them. Defeat wearies legs and spirits. Now he would have to explain how so many troopers were lost and wounded, and why Stavros had made fools of them all.

Yolanda listened to the rattle of gunfire echoing around the valley: rapid fire, breaks and then more fire. But then the explosions and screams, sporadic firing and a blaze of guns puzzled her. Who was battling from the other side? She sat shivering, hugging her body in a ball to protect her unborn child. Andreas must be dead or captured. Yet she saw the German patrol gathering their wounded and retreating with only a handful of prisoners. She counted no more than ten out of the group, and so far away she couldn’t make who they were. In the silence that followed she knew she must make her way back up and see who was left, her heart in her mouth fearing the sights she must surely find there.

In the cave the grenades and flames had done their worst. She had seen charred bodies before in Arta, but here she knew each one by name: the shepherd’s son, Manolis, and the baker’s boy, Lefteris, and the widow’s grandson, Giorgos, but there was no sign of Andreas. He must be one of the prisoners. She heard a figure approaching and, terrified, she hid.

‘
Kyria, Kyria
, come we have injured men, please quickly . . .’

She followed the boy, scrambling up the other side to a group of uniformed men, strangers who had been waiting for instructions to join Andreas’ group when they had seen, as she had, that signalling to the patrols approaching. So they had held their fire and stayed to ambush them.

Andreas was not among them and, seeing the state of their wounded, Yolanda thought there was just a chance that in flight he’d left his medical bag behind in the cave. She called a boy to run back, describing the leather satchel and watching with relief when he had returned with it.

‘I’m the doctor’s wife. I can help you. I was a nurse on the Albanian front . . . Have no fear, I have seen worse things,’ she said, seeing the concern on their faces. She went from one wounded man to another, giving orders to tourniquet, to press pads onto open wounds.

Then a man was tugging her sleeve. ‘You must come, back here, one of our leaders, he needs your help.’

The men were standing round a prostrate figure struggling to breathe, his chest open, his shirt blackened. He looked up, his eyes glazed. ‘Kyria Yolanda,’ he whispered, trying to smile. ‘Stopped a bullet in my chest . . . Did the others get away?’ he gasped.

She nodded, recognizing at once the British agent.

Bending down to examine his wounds, holding his wrist to take his pulse, Yolanda tried not to cry.

The dishes kept coming: a plate of warm melted cream cheese called
staka,
a rich beef
stifado
in luscious sauce, thick crusty bread, wine, chicken in lemony sauce, followed by
tsoukoudia
with syrupy semolina cake. But I could only pick my way slowly through the feast. I haven’t got the appetite now of my youth and my stomach was knotted with tension by the location of this restaurant. How could I sit here under the stars and not recall all that had happened in these streets? But, for the others this was a night for music and dancing by flickering lamps. I must enjoy the view, all around me fresh faces, well fed, relaxed, all nations chattering under one roof, no curfews or uniforms to restrict our fun. Mack and Lois were laughing, Alex was stuffing his face as only boys with hollow legs can, listening to the lute and the accordion group singing lyrical ballads and jaunty upbeat folk songs, some of which I could just about understand. I was glad I’d returned to see the city repaired, prospering. It helped banish such sad pictures in my mind.

The old Jewish businesses on this street had been replaced by boutiques and stores selling the usual tourist gifts, a few craft outlets with fine jewellery and stones, and tavernas touting for business night and day. I wanted to buy something for Lois as a thank-you, something Cretan as a keepsake of our visit. I would make an excuse and wander down to have a recce. I said I’d meet them back by the car on the harbour.

‘Don’t get lost,’ Lois warned, not trusting me to put one foot in front of the other.

‘I’m coming with you,’ said Alex. ‘I’ll look after her.’

I wanted to snap that I’m not in my dotage yet, but I bit my tongue and smiled a gracious thank-you.

When we were outside, I explained my mission and we strolled down the busy street examining necklaces, earrings and bracelets, scarves, olive oil bowls. It was then I noticed the sign on the wall to the synagogue: ‘Etz Hayyim’. ‘Let’s have a look down here,’ I suggested, marching down the alley into the enclosed yard where the walls of the synagogue were standing but the wooden gates were shut for the evening. I stood looking at the notice board. Here were posters of services and times of opening.

I must pay my respects before I leave, for Yolanda’s sake, I decided. How could I not remember my dear friend?

‘Why are you staring at the wall, Aunt Pen?’

‘I had a friend who lived near here, a special friend,’ I replied, jumping out of my reverie.

‘Where is she now?’

‘She died in the war like so many of my friends did,’ I replied, not wanting to explain to the boy what I knew of her terrible fate. ‘This is one of her churches but it’s called a synagogue.’ It had been restored from a ruin, that I did know, but the other one that the Markos family attended had disappeared.

‘Does she have a shrine with a candle in it?’ Alex was still fascinated by the little roadside memorials and kept photographing ones that interested him.

‘I don’t think so,’ I smiled. ‘Come on, let’s find something pretty for your mother.’

‘She likes chunky beads,’ Alex offered. ‘I’ll show you where she was looking.’

I turned from the wall, knowing I must return. It was a relief to fix my attention to the job in hand, to stay in the present with Alex’s company, rather than dwelling on a past I could never change. Yet I couldn’t help noticing my surroundings, changed as they now were, the past was all around me, dredging up so many memories. It was here in this very street that my stay on Crete began to unravel. The more I saw, the deeper I went into my memory, facing things I had never told anyone. How could such a lively bright street have once been a street of death and despair?

After the kidnap of General Kreipe and his evacuation to Egypt, something civilians were not supposed to know about, the atmosphere changed in the city. There was a stirring of pride among the agitators, a flicker of hope. Perhaps the occupiers were not so safe after all, perhaps it was possible to attack and defeat them.

The soldiers on the streets were wary, quick to lash out, checking papers as if everyone was under suspicion. Penny hardly left the
kafenion.
Stella was stricken down with fever and Penny was needed night and day to help run the household and look after the children. She shopped for ever-dwindling supplies, knew who had secret stores under the counter for favoured customers. Babies she had helped deliver were now toddlers running around, and their mothers would greet her, shoving gifts they could ill afford into her hand. She knew better than to insult them by refusing. It was in the streets that she heard there had been heavy raids in the hills and men were captured and brought back into the city. Andreas’ raid had been repelled but nothing more was known.