War Games (13 page)

But when Petros leaned over the well to look inside, and saw Lambros lying in one of the water buckets, he still wouldn’t have known him.

Lambros’s face was bruised and cut over the eyebrow and on the cheekbone. He held his left hand to his chest, and one finger stuck out at an odd angle. Petros’s stomach turned over.

“I’ll get Papa,” he said.

“Wait,” Lambros said. “He’ll come soon enough. Tell me who else is around. Any Germans?”

“Not yet,” Petros said. “Perhaps tomorrow. There were other men here yesterday, looking for you.”

“Gestapo?”

“No, no. Like you.”

Lambros nodded. Petros thought the news heartened him.

“Old Mario’s coming,” Petros said, seeing him out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t let him turn on the well or I’ll drown for sure.”

Petros went straight to Old Mario and said everything right into his hairy left ear, which was the one that heard best.

“Bless him,” Old Mario said. He hurried over to the well, looked down, and said, “Bless you, boy. No one has escaped them but you.”

“Let us hope I continue to be so blessed,” Lambros said. “And you along with me. I hope it’s all right I came here.”

Petros and Old Mario looked up to see Papa coming toward them, carrying a small bucket of tomatoes, and probably asking himself why they were looking into the well.

“Is there trouble?” he called to them.

Petros signaled with his head, no, then realized it was indeed trouble. It was only not the trouble Papa meant.

When Papa reached them and looked down the well, he didn’t speak right away. When finally he did, he said, “I’m glad you aren’t killed.”

Lambros laughed a little. “Some of this damage I did to myself. I caught a ride on the fender of a truck, but when it hit a bump, I was thrown off.”

“We’ll get you out of there,” Papa said.

“Uncle, I’m sorry,” Lambros said. “When my grandfather built his house and set up his loom on such a busy thoroughfare, he didn’t anticipate how hard it would be to get through the village when it’s overrun with an occupying army.”

“He knew you could come here,” Papa said.

Old Mario said, “Lemos likes a cup of coffee after his nap, but the family may be in the garden by now.”

Papa yanked on a rope and pulled up a sack from inside the well. He said, “The season’s first artichokes. Petros, take them to the Lemos kitchen. If the family’s all there, stay ten minutes, visiting. If not, hurry back so we’ll know to wait till dark.”

Lambros’s cuts were tended to most easily, washed with vinegar and a stitch taken by the time Petros returned. Papa decided the finger wasn’t exactly broken. He yanked on it to make it take its proper place in the joint. It was over quickly
and Lambros didn’t make a sound. It was hunger and exhaustion that took the greatest toll on him.

“We heard you were captured,” Papa said when he’d finished being the doctor.

“They left me alone in a room,” Lambros said. “It was deep inside the building, no windows.”

Old Mario set a bowl of lentil soup in front of Lambros. He asked, “How did you get away?”

“The Germans grow overconfident. Once I was alone, I counted to five and opened the door. A washerwoman was there, mopping the floor. She said nothing but pointed to a hallway, then made a motion with her hands. Right, left, right.”

Papa and Old Mario grinned.

“I went down the hall, then right, left, right,” Lambros said. “Out the door and into a crowd of fellow Greeks, informers all. They thought me to be one of them and nodded as I passed by. I turned a corner and made myself look like someone with a place to go. Then I came home.”

“Where else would you go?” Old Mario asked him when Lambros couldn’t say more.

“I see we’ve been invaded since I was here last,” Lambros said in a near whisper. “I’ve put you in grave danger, Uncle.”

“Not if we hide you well enough,” Papa said.

“The roof?” Old Mario asked.

“For tonight, perhaps. We’ll put you back in the well for now,” Papa said. “The third tunnel as you climb down, it’s mostly dry.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

Papa shook his head. He didn’t like to be thanked.

“You must get a message to Uncle Spiro,” Lambros said. “He’ll know if there’s someone I might travel with. Another soldier.”

Papa said, “Spiro?”

“Yes, Uncle. If I could have made it the rest of the way, I wouldn’t trouble you.”

“Petros, make up a sack for your uncle,” Papa said. “Something he likes and may have in short supply. A jar of honey. Coffee. Bread. Tell your uncle Spiro of our visitor.”

“Yes, Papa.” Petros was careful not to sound too pleased.

Petros thought of a dozen things he wanted to tell Uncle Spiro, on his way to the other farm. He could hardly keep his mind on one bit of news before his thoughts turned as if blown on the wind he imagined for the kite.

He would tell Uncle Spiro Lambros was safe, of course. He’d say there were two valuables in the well. The glass marble. Uncle Spiro should know what a fine shooter it was.

And Lambros.

His spirits were excellent up to that point. After all, most of what he had to tell was good news. Only the end of the war felt uncertain, something to be waited for with a kind of dread, like the German commander.

But he’d also tell about the Georges, an interesting story Uncle Spiro would know nothing about. He told it to himself a couple of times as he trudged along. He’d come to the border of the farm when Uncle Spiro called his name.

Uncle Spiro sat at the top of a knoll, and Lump stood beside him, munching grass. When the little goat saw Petros, he
came bucketing down the hill like a rocking horse. He butted Petros playfully.

“You teach your goats bad manners, Uncle Spiro,” he said, laughing. He climbed the hill to sit beside his uncle. “I’ve come with news.”

Uncle Spiro offered a crust pulled out of his roomy pants pocket. “You look pale, boy. Are you hungry?”

“A little. I brought honey.”

Uncle Spiro looked into Petros’s sack. “It’s very poor bread we buy now. I could bake it for myself, but wheat is scarce—no one will trade it.” He shook his head as if the situation dizzied him.

“Perhaps you could talk to Papa,” Petros said, a little smile in his heart. “He grows wheat.”

“You’re a sly boy,” Uncle Spiro said, opening the jar of honey.

Patient until now, Petros’s stomach growled as loudly as an animal wanting to be fed. They shared the bread, dipping it into the honey.

It took only a minute to tell Uncle Spiro everything of great importance. “He said—I think he said you would know of any soldiers he could travel with.” Only now did Petros question why Lambros thought Uncle Spiro would be the one to know.

“Those four who came to your house,” Uncle Spiro said. “In what direction did they travel?”

Petros told him about Mr. Katzen, that the house stood
empty so far as anyone knew. But also there was no certainty these men stopped there.

“No, but it’s a place to start looking,” Uncle Spiro said. “Tell your papa he’ll have to manage for a couple of days.”

Petros nodded. “Then what?”

“Nothing is certain.”

When Petros returned home, Lambros had been hidden in the well. This he knew because everyone had returned to work. Except Papa, who was staying close to the house.

He stopped chasing Fifi long enough to complain that she’d broken into the shed and filled her belly with chicken feed. That much grain could kill a goat. “Get her up every time you see her lie down,” he told Petros. “Don’t let her rest until she’s digested that feed.”

Old Mario had driven into the village and returned with Mama and Sophie. They weeded around the bushy mounds of bitter dandelion. Mama called out requests for odd jobs and little repairs, glad to have Papa so nearby.

Otherwise, the ordinary work of late in the day had begun.

Old Mario started the well. The belt whined overhead, the buckets rose and fell, the water spilled. In the heat of the day, the squash leaves drooped as if the plants were dying, but in the cool of the evening, every evening, they recovered.

They sat down to an early meal of spaghetti with fried greens and olives. Mama and Sophie and Old Mario had
come home with news of the village, but all of it had the ring of complaints, not of news.

“Isn’t it strange that we don’t hear any talk of the war?” Zola asked.

“No one’s talking about anything but the weather and their bunions,” Papa said. “They wait.”

“Don’t rush bad news,” Old Mario said from his end of the table, and Papa agreed. As if Old Mario’s words were a prediction, they heard the growl of trucks coming down the road and the squeal of brakes at the gate.

For a moment no one moved. Sophie began to cry.

“Shah!” Mama said.

Two trucks and a jeep carrying officers came to a halt in front of the house, the motors running.

“Don’t turn off the well,” Papa said. Petros wondered if Lambros could hear the trucks or if the clank of the buckets covered the noise.

Half a dozen German soldiers, boys of about Zola’s age from the look of them, followed a leader up to the veranda. They looked as weary as Old Mario had looked after losing the night’s sleep in burying their belongings.

There were no apologies as they carried Mama’s furniture out to the trucks, but it was done quickly. Petros stood with his family in the yard, feeling oddly embarrassed. He could see Zola’s frustration at their helplessness, could see the determination with which Papa met that same helplessness.

Just as the ordeal should have been over, the leader went
into the house. He opened the door as if the house were his, and he let the others in. Mama and Papa—in fact everyone—followed him inside.

He pointed at the china cabinet and the chandelier.

“No,” Mama said, and Papa put a hand on her arm, reminding her. A soldier who’d come to the doorway signaled to the others, and in a moment the parlor was invaded.

The leader sent Petros outside with a wave of his hand. Papa nodded. Petros stopped beneath one of the persimmon trees flanking the gate. From there he could see everything that happened at his house and at the Lemoses’ house.

The air stank with the fumes from the growling motors.

The china cabinet, emptied of the pottery Mama had placed there to disguise the lack of dishes and crystal, was carried away in two pieces. Petros had never thought of it as something that might be moved.

The soldiers weren’t dressed for this work. Their uniforms stretched over their backs so tightly Petros heard stitches pop more than once. Sweat streamed down the soldiers’ faces, and wet patches began to appear on their jackets.

Mama scolded the two soldiers who first attempted to roll the chandelier over the edge of the veranda. Despite the leader, who moved to stop her, Mama didn’t hesitate to grab another young soldier by the arm and enlist his labor.

In very short order, two men were carrying the chandelier overhead like Cleopatra’s couch. His mother followed them out to the truck with an odd mixture of pride and heartsickness
etched on her face. Out in the road, Grandmother Lemos ran to meet Mama with outstretched arms.

Her furniture was being loaded onto a truck too. Elia stood near his mother. An officer coming from the Lemoses’ house crossed the street to oversee the men. When this one’s gaze touched Petros, he felt a chill, like leaning over the well.

It felt as if the man didn’t see Petros and his family as people but as male goats, not useful for very long. The officer didn’t go into the house but pointed to the shades on the veranda. He spoke sharply to Papa, who didn’t appear to understand.

Petros saw it all happen.

The officer climbed the steps, repeating what he’d said. When Papa didn’t move, the officer raised a hand. Zola quickly stepped forward to reach for the roller shades the officer had pointed at. Their father moved then too, to help Zola take the shades down.

When the shades had been put into the arms of one of the sweating soldiers, the officer focused on Zola. It was the same question over and over that Zola didn’t answer, and the officer’s voice rising.

Petros stood on one foot, then the other, wanting to help. But what should he do, what would Papa want him to do?

Mama grabbed Petros around the shoulders and held on to him so tightly he could hardly breathe. “Don’t move from here,” she said. “Let your papa take care of this.”

The officer finally screamed the same words in frustration. He slapped Zola with the back of his hand.

Petros flinched.

Sophie shrieked, then fell silent.

Zola had cringed away from the officer and begun to cry. He said something in Greek—words so garbled by furious tears, Petros could understand nothing. He couldn’t think of a time when he’d known Zola to cry.

Petros was dimly aware of the sound of guns being shaken into position to defend the officer. Of the Lemos family calling to each other. Papa put his arms around Zola the way Mama still held Petros, Papa looking both humble and outraged.

Old Mario came around the house with a pitchfork in his hand. Immediately a soldier pointed a rifle at him, forcing him to put the pitchfork on the ground.

Papa stood with his shoulders hunched in a manner Petros didn’t recognize. He spoke continuously in a low, calming voice, always looking at the soldier.

Zola pointed, over and over, to the place where the shades had been, saying he’d given the officer what he’d pointed at. Zola spoke only Greek.

Another officer and a translator came through the yard, the translator shouting in Greek that no one was to move. There were explanations on the veranda, but no apologies.

The officer shouted things at his men. A soldier shouted at Papa, something Petros didn’t understand. But he saw the way his father straightened up, pushing Zola into the house and out of sight.

The soldiers marched back across the yard and out through the gate, heavy boots making the ground tremble. The metal they wore clashed in Petros’s ears as they passed by. He got
the strong idea he’d be full of bruises if they only brushed against him.