The Girl Under the Olive Tree (44 page)

I stood looking out to sea, feeling foolish. All this time Bruce was here and you never bothered to find out, I sighed. Didn’t you care? All these friends and relatives travelling halfway across the world to attend today and you couldn’t be bothered to come back once in all this time to remember him?

Everything is heightened on Crete: light and shade, black and white, human passions in the heat. In such a place where big things happen the emotions lie in wait, dormant, never forgotten, waiting only to be reawoken. There was no more escaping from the past, and I knew why I hadn’t returned.

In the beauty of the sun-drenched evening, I was retreading those stormy days. I knew the reasons why I couldn’t face this island, hadn’t mourned Bruce as he deserved. I wasn’t worthy to be linked with his name. At least he never knew of my shame . . . The tears were dripping slowly. I gulped to gain control. I could not stay here among these worthy people.
If they only knew the truth about me . . .

‘There you are, Aunt Pen. We thought we’d lost you.’ Lois linked my arm. ‘This must be a sad place for you. Shall we go now?’

I swallowed my tears as we walked away from the grave I was not ready to share with them, grateful that her simple gesture of love had brought me to this sacred place. This pilgrimage had taken a new turn and I was not going to leave until I knew just where it was leading me.

Rainer stood on the fringes of the crowd, leaning on his walking stick, surveying the proceedings with interest, his eyes hidden behind tinted glasses. He was unsure of his welcome here. The absence of his own national flag was no surprise. Who wanted reminding of their occupation?

It was enough to recognize some of his old enemy agents, those daring officers who’d played havoc with his men in the mountains and stolen General Kreipe. He’d read their memoirs with interest, spotting Nicholas Hammond; Monty Wood-house; the hero of Galatas, Sandy Thomas; Patrick Leigh Fermor, the brashest of them all. He would like to shake their hands. Soldiers are the same under the skin, only the uniform marks them as different, he mused.

It would be good to meet them on equal terms and see what they had made of their lives. Some were statesmen, politicians, authors and adventurers even in old age. Others he knew lay here, as did so many of his comrades in Maleme.

The contrast of their two resting places was marked: one on land gifted by the Cretan peoples in gratitude on a shoreline overlooking the bay, the other a darker, shadier spot but just as poignant. That’s where he belonged but he wasn’t in a hurry to join them yet.

He stood back, not wanting to introduce himself now. This was their moment of victory. There were always two sides to a story and it could have so easily been himself interred under the Cretan sun. It was touch and go, who had been the victor in May’41. So much had changed since their defeat. Didn’t they say history is written by the victors?

He was proud that there’d been many acts of reparation by his countrymen after the war: rebuilding village houses, repairing wells and water supplies, scholarships for students.

He stood under the olive trees watching the crowds dispersing slowly. His eye caught an older woman in a black jacket and white slacks, bending over a grave in a private moment of grief. But there was something about her that flashed an image into his mind. She had that upright English posture of a certain class of woman, a military air, and the sight of her tugged at his memory.

He was still curious when her granddaughter, the granddaughter’s husband and son came to lead her away. He would like to have seen who she was visiting but somehow it felt discourteous and intrusive to follow. He watched them striding away and there was definitely something familiar in her gait and composure.

I’ve seen you before, he smiled with relief, realizing that they’d been on the same night ferry from Piraeus. He’d seen her standing alone on the deck as the ship moored into Souda Port at dawn: another pilgrim perhaps?

It was fanciful to think she had any other claim on his memory, but there was something ageless in her presence that reminded him of another time and another shore.

As the outline of Piraeus harbour came slowly into view, Rainer stared down from the crowded deck of the
Hera
at the sorry state of the survivors. About thirty ragged burned soldiers, slouching in shock, some crew men staring blankly at their feet, also shocked, like himself, to have survived the attack on the ship.

He watched Penelope working down the lines of prostrate men, handing out cigarettes and drinks, never stopping, as if her whole concentration was just on the job in hand. Not once did she look up or talk to him. He’d saved her life but she was not going to give him the satisfaction of a thank-you. Her face was grey as granite, hawkish features, lips tightly drawn, the baggy trousers hanging off her skeletal frame.

By rights she must be handed over as a prisoner of war, a British Resistance worker, to be shipped north to some camp, perhaps to nurse under fire.

If she was not on the deposition list or if she was under her false name of Athina then she would be listed as missing with all the others. Once they landed she would have to be given papers, statements taken, identity proven and he knew he held that power over her. It made him uneasy. Was she too proud, too angry and shocked to care what happened to her any more?

He felt such a relief to be free of the island, free to go north away from the heat and dust, free to be an active soldier again, but Penelope wouldn’t be free to return to England to see her family. Who
were
her family? Who were the people who had reared such an iron-willed warrior? He was curious to know more about her before he let her go.

She had nothing but the sorry outfit they’d cobbled up for her from the crew. She looked good in trousers, reminding him of that first time he’d seen her walking along the line of stretchers at Galatas with that look of grim endurance on her face. Now she needed kitting out with uniform. Her oil-sodden hair was coiled up, her complexion leathered by squinting into sun and wind. Yet she’d never looked as awesome, in his eyes, as she did now. How he wished he could dress her in silk, with a corsage of orchids on her shoulder, and whisk her off to a fine restaurant to fill out those gaunt cheeks. He flushed at his ridiculous fantasy.

The ship shuddered, throwing him onto the deck railings, nearly somersaulting him into the murky black water beneath. Rainer scrambled to retain some dignity as Penelope watched, and for a second their eyes locked, and the corner of her lips twitched with amusement. It was in that brief softening, like sun blotting out the shadows, that he knew he was lost for ever.

The survivors of the
Tanais
shuffled off the ship, lining up to state their name and numbers and transit plans. There were no prisoners evident.

When it was Penelope’s turn, Rainer stepped forward in front of her. ‘You’ll not find her name on the list. She was a last-minute addition, drafted under the Red Cross, not an official passenger, and I would like to commend Nurse Georgiou for her bravery. Without her prompt attention some of these survivors would not have made it here. She has treated them despite injury to herself. As she is Red Cross, she must be billeted back in hospital as soon as possible.’

‘And you are?’ the official looked up.

‘Major Brecht. First Paratroop Division, late intelligence in Chania. En route for the front after two weeks’ leave.’ He saluted, clicking his heels even though he was barefoot.

‘Kyria,
is this correct?’

‘Apparently, the major knows my history better than I do,’ Penny said, staring at Brecht in surprise. ‘I can tell my own story, thank you. I want to report that hundreds of prisoners were locked in the ship’s hold, unable to be released when we were torpedoed. It must be reported to the highest level . . .’

‘Yes, yes, leave that to further enquiries. I take it you have no identification now? You must be registered at once. Next!’

Penelope stepped aside, uncertain where to go next, but she paused. ‘Don’t think I’m ungrateful that you helped me stay afloat or that your sending me on deck when you did saved my life, Major, but I can take care of myself now.’

‘Really? You have no papers, no money, no clothes, not even a pair of shoes. Please let me assist you. After all, you did that for me once,’ he said in halting English.

‘I did my duty, no more, no less,’ she snapped.

‘Then please allow me to take you for something to eat. You have eaten nothing for days, I suspect.’

‘Whose fault is that?’

‘I am not to blame for decisions my superiors made to put you in that truck or arrest you. Not all of us are animals.’

‘You stood by and did nothing. You let it happen. I saw you there.’

‘I am not standing by to watch you starve now, or be worked to death in some slave camp. That’s something I can do for you. Don’t be too proud to refuse help when it is offered sincerely.’

‘I know what officers expect from starving girls; I’ve treated enough of them,’ she said, but he was not willing to back off now. This was a battle of wills.

‘Why do you throw everything back in my face?’

‘Because of what you are wearing and all that I have seen done in its name,’ she spat, staring at his tattered uniform with contempt.

‘So if I were in civilian clothes, would you treat me any better?’

‘I don’t know,’ she answered after a pause, not looking at him. He could see she was hesitating, almost faint with exhaustion and hunger. He pressed home his advantage.

‘Then we go into the city and buy one dress for you and one shirt for me. Don’t look a horse’s gift in the mouth.’

The sun lit up her face as she smiled. ‘It is “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Am I really free to go?’ she asked, her dark eyes burning into his.

‘As far as I know you are a Greek Red Cross nurse from Athens. That is all that is necessary to know, but you must have papers.’

She brushed her hands into the air. ‘Papers, papers, why can’t we exist without wretched papers and numbers?’

‘Bureaucracy, I’m afraid, a good Greek word.’

‘Democracy is a better one,’ she argued as they limped slowly along the rubbled street, trying not to wince. Rainer felt a spring in his step for the first time in years.

After the memorial ceremony was over, Rainer found the fish restaurant, recommended by the hotel receptionist, close to the port in Souda. It was filling up with veterans and their families, but he was given a table on the roadside. The selection on display for him to view in the kitchen was mouth-watering. He waited, sipping his Mythos, glad of a seat. His old wound was aching again.

The English widow had reminded him of Penelope. Why were all his memories of this island suffused with glimpses of that nurse? Was he still searching for her after all these years, still pretending he’d meant anything to her? Had she used him, humoured him, deceived him? And yet . . .

He was old now, no longer so aroused by romantic feelings. Only the music of Bach, Mozart, Chopin and Schubert touched the soul of him. He lived a quiet life of the mind, reading, fishing. His hunting days were long over. When his wife, Marianne, died, he’d learned to live alone, cook for himself and not be a nuisance to his children.

It was with his two grandchildren that he was recapturing his youthful spirit, watching their football and tennis matches with pride. It was good to see them grow up with freedoms he’d never known.

They didn’t carry the same burden of guilt he’d noticed in his own boys for all that was done by his generation. He had never shared his wartime experience with them because they’d never asked about it. He was longing to see Joachim and Irmelie again. He must take them some presents now his thoughts were turning to home; perhaps a good sign. It would soon be time to leave for Athens but not before he made his own private reparations. There was something in his suitcase that must be returned, but quite where it would find a resting place he wasn’t sure. He had kept it far too long. Time to let go of the past and find some peace for himself.

I spent a sleepless night listening to the owl whooping in the olive grove, the dogs barking in the village, waiting for the cock to crow. My mind was racing with the knowledge that someone alive remembered Bruce.

I tried to recall the names of all the Cretan friends who’d sheltered us. Ike and Nikos, Tassi and Stella; Yolanda’s husband, Andreas, but for the life of me I couldn’t recall his second name. Had he remarried and had children? Where would I start with so little time left before we flew home?

That posy was a woman’s touch. Had Bruce found a woman in the hills to comfort him? He’d not be the first to go native. There was so much I didn’t know but I wasn’t leaving Chania until I found out who had placed the flowers on his gravestone. There would be enough people still alive from that time who knew the truth.

As dawn broke I was making lists in my head of ideas to follow up. The island was full of visiting veterans, evaders, escapees. Why not catch them before they left for home? I’d need to know where they were billeted, but Mack would have his ear to the ground about that. There would be Crete veterans’ associations who might help in the search. Lois would help me drive around tomorrow and find out more.

More than that was the shame I felt in neglecting Bruce’s memory. I wanted to thank whoever it was for tending his memory far more than I had done. Perhaps it was time to leave a legacy here in his name, a scholarship fund. I wondered why I had left it so late in the day. I hoped I’d not left it too late.

Lois drove me to the resort village of Platanias, close to the beach where the tent hospital had been erected and the battle for Galatas village. The olive groves had shrunk away from the sea; villas and hotels were springing up, taking advantage of the view over the bay. Many of the veterans might already have left so the chance of making contact with someone who knew Bruce was slim.