War Games (11 page)

“You give it to her,” Zola said as Fifi sat down like a good dog would, waiting for a treat. “I won’t do her any favors.”

Petros fed the goat, saying, “I don’t think Elia should help us now that the Germans are here. His family could be safe if he doesn’t cause any trouble.”

“His family’s safe if he isn’t caught,” Zola said.

“Something could go wrong.”

Zola’s face darkened. “It’s a matter of courage, little brother. We may be frightened, but we fight anyway. That’s what a man does.”

Petros felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Did Zola think he didn’t have the courage for this?

Everything went very well at first. Stavros met them in the road and the boys played the game as before, but without laughter or cheers when they made a good catch. Before, it seemed this distracted the eye of anyone watching and it was good. But nerves stole the laughter out of the game.

Petros caught and threw the sand ball and dropped a note whenever he’d found a good place for it, but he saw how different it was this time. At first it was nerves, but when Stavros threw too hard, nerves quickly gave way to anger. They all threw the sand ball to be caught, but threw harder.

Only when the last note was dropped did the boys stop to argue about who threw the sand ball too hard first. The fight ended when Stavros threw the sand ball to the ground hard enough to burst the cloth. Petros expected to share a glance of
there he goes again
, but Elia didn’t look at him.

Petros wanted to have something funny to say, or wanted someone else to make a joke, but nothing like that came to any of them. Still, without a word to show he’d been angry or
now wasn’t, Stavros walked away from the village with them. Petros said, “There won’t be any more messages for a time. Zola said so.”

“I guessed it,” Stavros said. He sounded like this was the worst news he’d gotten since his mother left for the mountains. But also there was a certain relief in his voice.

Elia now felt free to complain that the palms of his hands still hurt. Stavros touched a fresh bruise on his collarbone—Petros thought he had a similar bruise. No one apologized, but all agreed they didn’t like catching the sand ball when they’d thrown it so hard.

The boys walked without speaking. Petros thought through the short list of things they’d do when they reached the farm. Everything paled beside the game of sand ball.

“If only we had a kite,” Stavros said.

“If only,” Elia said. “But with what paper?”

Bumps rose on Petros’s arms.

Since the iceman had gone, there was no ice to be had. Mamas wrapped their cheese and meat in newspaper and hung the food in burlap sacks inside the well.

Petros had excellent paper, of course.

“We could steal the paper from the cheese,” Stavros said, “if there were cheese.” Stavros didn’t have a goat. This was the case before the war—Auntie didn’t like goats. But her family had always had cheese. Petros felt the shock of this news, but only for a moment.

Whether they seized on this idea—a kite needed a big
piece of paper, the paper needed a frame, the frame needed a tail—or the idea seized them, it made the blood rush, it made them giddy with planning.

“Brown paper. There’s still brown paper,” Elia said, as if that settled the matter. It didn’t, for brown paper was among the many items people had begun to hoard.

Stavros said, “What good is a kite without a tail?”

“Money,” Elia said. “It’s worthless now.” He was right. The tail could be made from some of the useless drachmas Papa kept in boxes under his dresser. It pleased Petros to think of making a kite’s tail with the colorful paper money.

“String is hard to find,” Stavros said thoughtfully. “If we had a piece of rope …”

“That’s too heavy for a kite,” Petros said. The string had to be thin and light, and yet it must be strong.

“We might unravel the strands,” Elia said.

“Not strong enough then,” Petros said.

“A thinner rope, then,” Stavros said more insistently.

“So even if we have the tail,” Elia said, “we don’t have string.”

Stavros agreed. “A kite must have string. But it needs paper first.”

“If we had a genie’s lamp, we would have a kite with only one wish,” Elia said.

As they turned into the yard, Petros suddenly knew the perfect material for kite string. If only he could get at it. “I think you should stay for dinner,” he said to take Stavros’s
mind off the kite. “We’re having beans. If you stay, I won’t have to eat my full share.”

The boys pulled their slingshots out of their pockets and shot at cans. This was something to do until Mama called out to them, “Don’t shoot at my tomatoes.”

No one had injured a tomato, but Petros didn’t doubt it would happen now that Mama had shouted the likelihood into God’s ear. They put their slingshots back in their pockets and settled at the base of the well. They were friends again, and Petros could see that both Elia and Stavros were feeling better for it.

He thought he must be the only one with all they needed, and remained unwilling to tell them so. He hardly understood himself. Never had he kept a secret from Elia, and only rarely would he think of keeping one from Stavros.

He didn’t know if he’d keep quiet long or if this secret was going to want telling before the week was out.

That night, when the lights had been turned out all through the house, Zola sat on the edge of his bed so he wouldn’t fall asleep. Petros could see the shape of him in the moonlight.

This was the usual way he began a night of writing notes.

Petros pushed up on his elbow and said, “Are you going to be up all night?”

“Shah!”

“We have to stop—”

Zola swooped down on him. “Don’t talk about it,” he said. He put a hand on Petros’s chest that wasn’t gentle. “Now go to sleep.”

“All right,” Petros said.

Zola backed off to sit on the edge of his own bed again. Petros remained lying down, thinking his brother had become a little strange since all this war business had begun. He felt sleep coming to him, sweet and heavy, and he gave himself to it.

In his sleep, he heard Zola talking to himself in that radio voice.

*   *   *

Old Mario and Papa were out at first light to milk the goats. It was the clank of the buckets that got Petros out of bed. That and the delicious smell of boiling coffee. Mama stood at her worktable, chopping onions, tears streaming down her face.

When Mama didn’t have time to bake bread, she cooked potatoes in the evening and fried them with onions the next morning. Petros thought it strange at first, but he’d come to like the warm crustiness of potatoes for breakfast.

At the table, Petros was reminded of something he ought to tell. “Stavros and Auntie don’t have cheese.” Everyone stopped in the act of putting the next bite of potatoes with melted cheese into their mouths. Forks hung in midair.

“Tomorrow,” Mama said, “when Sophie and I take cheese and eggs to town to sell, there will be a packet for Auntie. We have more than enough.”

With that, all the forks were put into mouths.

Twice it had happened that Mama didn’t put hard-boiled eggs on the table to crumble over steamed vegetables. Petros knew when eggs couldn’t be served at his family’s table, it was because they were placed on someone else’s table. He chewed twice as long, knowing cheese might also be rationed.

His family did have more than enough, thanks to a dozen female goats and more chickens. But Petros knew Papa called these ample goats and chickens his insurance policy. Since the day of so many people leaving, Papa had arranged that only half of the eggs and cheese went to market. The rest fed
several families who were hungry and who knew Papa’s children were Americans.

Petros had never thought of Stavros and Auntie as being among the hungry. He was glad he’d remembered to tell.

From under the table, Zola’s dog barked once.

Four men stepped into the kitchen. Two from the back door and two from the front room. They were unshaven, wearing filthy Greek army uniforms. Petros’s throat felt too tight to cry out, and yet his last swallow could be tasted there, sharp and sour.

The one closest to him wore unmatched boots, one boot German, one boot Italian. The next one had eyes colored a bright blue. Petros was too frightened to look away.

Not a word was spoken at first, no hand was raised or weapon shown. The manner in which the men moved around them gave the feeling of being surrounded, if only by the few. Papa asked, “What do you want?”

“News of Lambros,” one of them said. Shaky with the fright these men had given him, Petros glanced at Zola, who was looking back at him.

“We’ve heard nothing,” Papa said. “Who sent you to us?”

One of the men said, “A friend to you as well as to us.”

“What of this?” another of them said, and tossed a crumpled wad of paper onto the table, making everyone but Papa jump. The paper was instantly recognizable to Petros and Zola.

Papa spread the paper out on the table. Zola had gone white.

So had Mama. “My shelf paper,” she said, reaching for the note. She smoothed the paper with trembling fingers. She read it in a whisper.

“A boy dropped it.” The fellow who threw the paper down was missing two front teeth, but it didn’t hamper his speech. The way he leaned in at Papa was scary. “There are more like it.”

Mama said, “I thought—I thought I didn’t have any more shelf paper. Perhaps someone else had the same kind.”

Zola said, “I wrote it,” and drew outraged cries from Papa and Mama.

“I knew it was you,” Sophie said. She was practically spitting at Zola, like a cat. “Maria
said
this is the kind of thing you would do. I kept saying, no, it couldn’t be, and now it
is
you.”

Mama turned on Sophie. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because I didn’t think he’d be so stupid.”

Zola bristled at this.

Petros felt as if he ought to say he’d taken part in this. It didn’t seem right to let Zola take all the blame.

Papa shouted for quiet.

“I wanted to give people courage,” Zola said, looking miserable about it.

Papa said, “When could you accomplish this?”

“While you slept,” Zola whispered, “I walked to the village.”

Petros couldn’t decide which of them this clever lie was meant to protect. Papa was angry, but he’d be much angrier with Zola if he knew the truth. Petros watched Zola, waiting to share knowing this with him, but Zola wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Papa said, “You’ve endangered your sister, your little brother, all of us.” Mama echoed these scoldings, although her voice was more sorrowful than angry.

Zola’s jaw had firmed in that way he had when he felt unfairly treated. “I only meant to cheer people. I wanted to do something that counts, like Lambros,” he said. “I’m too young to join the army. You’re too old.”

Papa went red in the face.

Old Mario chimed in here, saying, “We’re all in the army. Don’t we have the fight sitting right here at our table? The boy did what he thought was right. You can’t punish him for trying to win a little sooner.”

Papa’s brows came down like Stavros’s.

Old Mario got up and urged the men to eat, pushing the
family’s plates at them. He told Mama what to do with this gesture. Feed them.

Mama got up and motioned to the chairs. She pinched Sophie, who hopped up. As hungrily as they glanced at the potatoes and cheese, no one sat until Papa said, “Come.”

Sophie began putting the rest of the boiled potatoes and the wedge of cheese in a sack, as if eager to see these fellows on their way. But it might have been only that she needed something more to do, and this was the first thing to come to mind.

The man missing two teeth said, “You didn’t know Lambros was captured?”

Papa said, “Where?”

“Athens.”

“What was he doing there?”

“In Thebes, Lambros found two British officers in hiding. I knew them,” the blue-eyed man said. “They’d been part of the company of men sent here to train our army to fight the Germans. Trapped until Lambros came across them. And starving to death.”

Sophie said, “There isn’t enough food in Thebes?”

“German soldiers eat first.”

“Lambros got them to a safe house in Athens. We were to take over from there, get them to the southern coast. During the night, the Germans came. Wherever food is scarce, there are informers.”

The one missing teeth added, “Lambros slept at the open
window and heard too many cars coming. He led us all out of the house and over the rooftops. He walks a narrow board like a goat, crossing the city from roof to roof. That night we were all goats, knowing the Germans were coming in below.”

“How did
you
do it?” Sophie asked.

“Lambros held one end of a rope, we held the other. He was pulling, we stepped quickly. The rope allowed us to feel we were safe, and before we could take a wrong step, we were on the other side.”

“The man outsmarted our fear,” one of them said.

“That night Lambros saved us,” another said. “He saved the officers, and the fellow who owned the house and me. Four lives that would be over now.”

“What happened this time?” Papa asked. “When he was captured.”

“No doubt someone told the Gestapo where to find him,” the blue-eyed man said. “We hoped he escaped.”

“No one escapes,” another said with his mouth full. He went back to devouring potatoes and cheese.

The blue-eyed man looked angry. “Someone saw him walk out of there. He’s been lucky before.”

“If he’s lucky,” the man missing teeth said, “he’s dead.”

Sophie dropped a glass and began to cry as it shattered. Petros’s heart stopped, then beat too fast. Mama put her arms around Sophie, but also told her to get the broom.

Papa said, “Go to the gate, Petros. Keep watch.”

Petros ran to see if the road was clear of trucks and
Omeroses. He went back to stand beneath the window, where he could see the gate and still hope to hear what was being said.

Mama asked a question, and although he didn’t hear her clearly, he heard the answer. “Lambros led the highest-ranking British officer to Athens, where he hoped to put him in the hands of those who are smuggling the remaining British soldiers out of the country.”