It was a large dark cupboard with an ornate cornice and an iron handle, which I twisted so the door creaked open. It was totally empty inside apart from a few skeletal wire hangers swinging from a rail. Then Inge pointed to the interior, ‘Can you see the catch right at the back?’
I couldn’t see anything, it was so dark, but I fumbled around the edges of the back panel until I felt a small metal catch. ‘Now turn it,’ she said, so I did.
The catch was stiff, so I suppose it hadn’t been moved for years, but eventually it turned and the back of the wardrobe creaked open to reveal a deep alcove, with a little bit of light filtering through an upper ventilation grille. ‘What is this?’ I asked, leaning forwards inside the wardrobe and peering into the dark space, which was probably no more than twice the size of the cupboard which concealed it.
‘It’s where they hid the children,’ Inge said.
I turned towards her and saw she was smiling.
Chapter Forty-Six
June 2007
Amber
I never did find the right moment to tell James about Inge’s story. I came back that day wanting to tell him and yet feeling I’d been entrusted with a secret too precious to be tossed away in an idle conversation, with him only half listening as he busied himself in the kitchen. I wanted to savour it, hold onto it until he could appreciate the importance of what had been entrusted to me. And in the days that followed he was utterly preoccupied with prepping dishes and cooking for the restaurant, so I knew it would be some time before he could listen and fully appreciate the danger and bravery that story entailed.
But, in the heat of the market in the centre of Corfu Town, I couldn’t help remembering what she had said. I hadn’t really wanted to go in that day, but James had insisted, saying, ‘On top of sending snails instead of sea urchins, they haven’t delivered the samphire. I’ve got to have some today. You’ll have to go into the market for me again.’
The days were getting hotter. At the beginning of June, there was still a freshness in the air each morning, but the sun soon grew fierce, so I preferred visiting the market very early in the day. I parked near the harbour in a sliver of shade cast by the oleander bushes, then looked for a moment at the Old Fort that towered above the sea. Now I knew its terrible history, as told to me by Inge in her husky, smoker’s voice, still echoing in my head since my visit, I could no longer visualise its romantic Venetian past, only its more recent, more terrible function.
Although it was only 8.30 a.m., the market was already crowded with local people buying the best of the fish and fresh vegetables. Before I reached the covered stalls, I passed an old lady in black, waving me to piles of garlic in baskets at her feet. Next to her was a man with plastic flagons of golden liquid. I used to slow down to look more closely, wondering whether it was oil or vinegar, but James always pulled me away, saying, ‘I wouldn’t touch it. There’s no way of knowing what he’s put in it.’
My favourite olive stall lay in the centre of the market, where the different olives were piled in trays, some large and black, others green, marinated with garlic, chillies or various herbs. Bunches of dried oregano and thyme were always stacked at the back of the stall. And after I’d bought James’s vital sea urchins, I saw the woman with the samphire. She had a large plastic tub of the green fronds, smaller than those we’re used to eating in England, and she threw handfuls into clear plastic bags, charging what always seemed like pennies.
I found her so quickly, I thought I had time to stop at the market’s little cafe. It consisted of nothing more than a ramshackle veranda with a simple canvas awning, but nevertheless offered shade and a vantage point from which to survey the market’s early morning business. This was no high-street coffee chain with a bewildering array of concoctions; there was just Turkish, espresso or Nescafé, which was our usual choice, as the others offered such immensely strong charges of caffeine.
I sat on a white plastic chair, elbows on a clean aluminium table, watching the people of the market. Local women picked out cherries one by one, squeezed and sniffed melons, and examined enormous, bulbous tomatoes. A stallholder sat back in his chair, supervising his stock of cucumbers, all dark green, all fresh, but with more bumps and curves than would ever be permitted in supermarkets back home. He put his feet up on the edge of his stall, took a large knife out of his pocket and began to peel and eat some of his produce. The peel fell to the ground in slivers, then one by one he cut chunks of the vegetable with his knife and speared each one with the point of the blade before popping them in his mouth. It was a masterclass in market table manners.
The cafe owner brought me a white cup with the instant coffee frothed, looking remarkably like cappuccino, and when I asked for extra milk, he poured it from a can. It was thick and creamy, so I was sure it was evaporated milk. Watching the busy scene, I noticed a stall with a pile of courgette flowers. I couldn’t remember whether James had ordered any, but I loved them so much, I decided to buy some before leaving.
I bent over the box of flowers, some with courgettes the thickness of a man’s thumb, others with only a vestige of fruit, no bigger than a baby’s little finger. A wasp was crawling over the flowers but lazily crept away as I selected the ones I needed. ‘Take more,’ the female stallholder urged when I handed her the bag with only half a dozen flowers.
I resisted the urge to buy cherries and giant radishes and began the walk back to the car. It was getting hotter all the while and I was reminded again of Inge’s story. As I walked, I glanced around at the people and the streets. A moped zoomed past; its owner was bare-headed, like most of the local bike riders. I passed a group of English tourists debating whether they could safely buy fish from one of the many market stalls piled high with their silvery catch, iced water pooling with flaked scales in puddles at their feet, and I wondered how many of them knew about the Old Fort.
I reached the car and let the air con run for a few minutes before beginning the drive back. And all the while, my memory was replaying everything that Inge had told me that day. I had turned to her from the wardrobe with its secret and said, ‘But I thought you told me that Georgiou and Agata didn’t ever have any children of their own.’
‘They didn’t,’ she’d said, shaking her head. ‘But they hid other people’s children here.’
I’d peered into the dim, hidden space again, imagining little bodies huddled in the corners. ‘When and why?’ I said.
‘Late in the war, in 1944, they hid two children here. My dear old friends, they were so brave. They could have been shot themselves for doing that. But they chose to save them.’
I’d crept forward a little more and poked my head inside the refuge. ‘I suppose it’s similar to a priest’s hole.’
‘Priest’s hole?’
‘Where a priest would hide during times of religious persecution. They’ve been found in some old English country houses, and I expect similar things have happened elsewhere.’
‘And this is like a little rabbit hole. For two frightened little bunnies.’ Inge sighed. ‘Georgiou and Agata were so brave, so honourable.’
‘Why were they hidden?’
‘They were Jewish. You do not know this part of Corfu’s history, I think. Very few do.’
‘I don’t know anything about it.’
‘That is what is so sad.’ She sighed again. ‘The tourist guides, well, the ones distributed by all the tour companies that is, they don’t mention it at all. There is a monument in the town, but so few visitors know what happened when they come here. They have come to enjoy the beach, the blue sea, to eat and drink, and they do not care to know about the past.’
‘Tell me then. Tell me what happened.’
So then she told me. She told me how in June 1944, when the end of the war was in sight, the Jews of Corfu were rounded up by the Germans. Those who escaped only did so because they were given refuge by local Greek families, like Inge’s Agata and Georgiou. ‘Those poor people, almost the entire Jewish population of the
island, were imprisoned in the Old Venetian Fort. Nearly 2,000 men, women and children, the sick, the dying and the old, all herded in together and left on dirt floors, open to rain and sun for five days. And it was so hot that year. Finally, they were marched out, pushed into barges, towed by motorboat to Lefkas and kept there for a day, where the locals who tried to feed them were beaten or shot.
‘It was five days in all before they got to Athens, where they were then loaded onto the trains to Auschwitz. Their journey took over twenty days in all, with almost no food or water. Many of them were dead on arrival, the rest so far gone that they were sent straight to the gas chambers. Three hundred of them were subjected to forced labour. The Mayor of Corfu at that time was a known collaborator and he issued a proclamation, when they left on their terrible journey, thanking the Germans for ridding the island of the Jews so that the economy of the island would revert to its “rightful owners”. That was not a sentiment shared by many local people, who had lived peaceably with the Jews for many, many years. And of the Jews of Corfu who were deported, only a handful came back.’
‘I feel quite ashamed,’ I said, shocked. ‘Ashamed of not knowing, of not even thinking about what might have happened here during those awful years.’
‘Not as ashamed as I feel,’ Inge had said. She looked sad and weary. ‘Now you can understand why I turned away from my countrymen. The war was coming to an end, the Allies had entered France, yet two days later the Germans still considered their greatest priority was to cleanse this island of a peaceful community which had never done any harm and had always lived in harmony with their neighbours. I thank God there were people like Agata and Georgiou who could make a difference, even a tiny one.’
‘There’s a saying, isn’t there, about saving a life and saving the world?’
Then Inge looked up at me and said, ‘Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world. It is from the Talmud.’
So Agata and Georgiou saved two worlds when they hid those two children, and I thought of them again as I sat in the cooling car, looking towards the rocky isle where the fort crumbled. I thought too of those frightened people, crowded together, hungry and thirsty in the roasting heat, that summer long ago.
Chapter Forty-Seven
15 June 1944
‘People are saying the Germans cannot find proper boats for us. They have only been able to get hold of rotten barges, not motorboats,’ Papa whispers. ‘They are towing the barges to Lefkas, then on to Patras. It will take days to get us there. We must conserve our supplies.’
Rebekka hides her crust in her bundle. She is very hungry, hungrier than she has ever been during the months since the Germans first came, but she understands. Her stomach is shrinking and if she stays still and tries to sleep more, she will not think about food so much. She longs to take great gulps of the water they still have and splash her face and hands to rinse away the dust of the arid quad where they sit, hour after hour under a merciless sun, but she knows it is precious and must be used sparingly.
Although some of their community departed the day after they had been brought to the Old Fort, most of them have been held here for nearly five days now. The fresh water has been refilled once, but the overflowing latrine buckets have not been replaced. And in that time there have been deaths and births. Bodies have been thrown over the harbour walls to join those of the Italian officers who were shot when the Germans took command of the island. They might soon be joined by the wizened babies of mothers too exhausted and dehydrated to feed their newborns.
‘Papa,’ whispers Rebekka, tugging at her father’s sleeve, ‘tell me again about Matilde and Anna. Tell me more.’
Isaac puts his arm around his daughter. She is his eldest, but she is still his child, even though she is already showing signs of becoming a woman. ‘They are living in a fine house and can cool themselves in the sea whenever they wish. They are eating fresh sardines and sea bream every day, cooked with tomatoes,’ he says. ‘They will help our friends grow maize, courgettes, aubergines and melons. There will be chickens for eggs and goats to give them milk and make cheese.’
‘But what if the Germans steal their crops? They take so much from all of our people. What will they do then?’
‘Our good friends live far away from the towns and villages. There is no proper road to their home, only a rough track down to a beach. When the Germans have learnt how to ride a donkey they may bother to search these hidden places, but until then I think your sisters will be quite safe.’
Isaac manages a hoarse laugh at this thought, then adds, ‘And if our friends fear that the Germans will come to search their home and may find your sisters, our friends will run away with Matilde and Anna, up to the mountains, where they will catch rabbits and pick wild greens. They will not starve, my dearest. Your sisters will grow big and strong and they will be waiting for us when we come back home after working for the Germans.’
Rebekka is comforted by these thoughts, and dreams of the little ones paddling in the sea or running through mountain meadows, chasing rabbits.
Chapter Forty-Eight
August 2007
Amber
The temperature climbed day by day. It peaked at 35°C in late July, but in early August it reached 42°C. Those who managed to endure the drive into the mountains during the day flopped into the chairs on our terrace and picked at little more than salads and iced tea. By the evening it was a little cooler, and we usually had a handful of guests for dinner, but I began to see how much more we would benefit if there were customers from a nearby development, as few people were willing to drive far after the roasting-oven heat of the day. They preferred to spend the evening sitting by their pools, or on the edge of the sea where there was the chance of a cooling breeze.
And yet again I had to drive into the town early in the morning for supplies. James was short of fresh tuna. ‘Everyone’s asking for it and I haven’t nearly enough. Get me a dozen steaks, will you? In this heat they all want salade niçoise or tuna tartare.’
The town was busy even early in the morning, with everyone trying to complete their shopping before the temperature rose even higher. I couldn’t park anywhere near the market and on my way back to the car park beside the harbour, having resisted the temptation to linger over the stalls heaped with peaches and cherries, or sit and watch the bustle over coffee, I stopped for a moment’s rest in a church. In a corner of its dark interior I hid and thought and cooled off. There was no service and a priest sat reading beside the entrance.
It was peaceful and soothing, an oasis before I would have to rush back in my hot car to face more dramas at Mountain Thyme. Then, while my eyes were closed and I was almost meditating, I heard the murmur of familiar voices. I opened my eyes and saw two figures shuffling through the door, walking towards the altar. At first, with the bright light of the day behind them through the doorway, I wasn’t too sure, but then I saw it was definitely Marian supporting Inge, guiding her and gently holding her arm.
Inge stepped up to the icon at the altar, clutching the rail. Marian sat on a chair at the end of a row and watched her. Inge was so thin and she had chosen to wear pale grey, which echoed the parchment tone of her fragile skin. Despite the heat of the day, she wore a crocheted cardigan covering her bony arms. Sprigged cotton hid her skeletal legs and a misshapen felt hat disguised the remains of her hair.
From behind she looked so old, so much older than her sixty-plus years. I saw her veined hand shaking as she made the sign of the cross. She had to hold the altar rail with both hands to bend to kiss the sarcophagus, below the gilded image of the saint. Then she attempted to kneel and Marian stepped forward and whispered, ‘Careful, Inge.’
But Inge waved her away, saying, ‘It’s all right. I can do it myself,’ then she shakily lowered herself, gripping the rail tight, while Marian hovered behind her. I supposed she expected to have to lift her weakened partne
r to her feet, but after a few minutes, in which Inge bent her head then looked up at the golden haloed face, Inge pulled herself up and I heard her whispery voice say, ‘Thank you. My suffering is nothing compared to His.’
Marian put her arm around Inge’s shoulders and they walked slowly towards the open door, then halted before the priest. He stood and offered Inge his hand. She bent and kissed his ring. Then Marian pulled Inge away and out into the sunshine, as if afraid she would be obliged to do the same.
I didn’t want to intrude, but I was curious to know where they were going next in such heat, so I rose from my dark corner and followed them. They were heading back towards the market and I thought they must have come, like me, to buy food before the day grew too hot. But they passed the turning to the market and headed for the main square. I thought perhaps they had parked there under the trees, as I often did, but instead of heading for one of the many cars lining both sides of the road, they carried on and crossed over the road towards the entrance to the Old Fort, then sat down on a low wall in the shade. Of course, Inge must be tired from her exertions – she tired easily, I knew. But she didn’t look weary, she was smiling as I approached and greeted them both.
‘You’ve made an early start, like me.’ I held up my bag of fish. ‘I’ve got to get back soon or James will be frantic.’
‘Don’t let us keep you,’ said Marian. ‘I’ve just got one more errand to run.’ She turned to Inge. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right for a bit? I won’t be very long.’
‘I can stay with Inge for a few minutes,’ I told her. ‘I’ll wait till you get back. The fish will be all right. I’ve got ice packs in there with it.’
Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Page 17