Marian was quiet for a moment, then she exploded. ‘You’d think even a slimy character like him would have the decency to leave a terminally ill woman alone, wouldn’t you?’ She looked angry and drained her glass in one. ‘I swear his bullying tactics have caused Inge’s illness.’
‘Darling, you can’t say that,’ Inge said, shaking her head. ‘You know very well how much I used to smoke and drink.’
‘Maybe,’ Marian said, ‘but he hasn’t helped. And now we know what he is really capable of doing. He will stop at nothing to kick us out of here and out of the mountains.’
Chapter Seventy-Nine
24 June 1944
The old ewe does not have as much meat on her bones as the spring lambs, but she gives them a good kleftiko, flavoured with oregano and rich with tomatoes. ‘It’s as good as my mother’s,’ Georgiou says, his chin dripping with gravy.
‘That ewe served me well,’ Zenia says. ‘A good lamb every year for ten years. And now she will feed us until we have the pig.’
Agata does not like these references to killing in front of the children, even though she knows they must learn the facts of survival in these harsh times. They too have greasy chins from the fatty meat, meltingly tender after long, slow cooking with lemon and potatoes added towards the end. But one meal alone cannot finish all the good meat this one beast has provided, so she is thinking how they can be sure this bounty will not be wasted. ‘If only we had salt,’ she says, ‘then we could cure as well as smoking and air-drying.’
‘But we do,’ Zenia answers with a smile that reveals her toothless gums. ‘We can make pastirma and salami. It is not the best with mutton, but it will feed us.’ She slurps the finely chopped flesh and potatoes, spilling grease on her clothes. ‘And I have enough to cure the skin as well. Then you may give these poor children warm boots for their little feet. They will not want chilblains this winter, when the weather turns.’
‘I had been worrying about that,’ says Agata. ‘We have been looking through all the old houses to see if there was anything we could use to make shoes. But nothing has turned up so far.’
‘Ah, there was much to find,’ Zenia says with a sly grin. ‘Over the years I’ve sifted through every corner, every chest and every cupboard. You won’t find much of any use now, my dear, but tell me what you need and I may well have it tucked away in my little house.’
Georgiou roars with laughter. ‘Zenia Vasilakis, you crafty old witch! Does nothing escape you?’ He shakes his head and hugs his wife. ‘This is how the old survive, with cunning like a vixen and her cubs.’
‘What’s a vixen?’ Matilde rests against Agata, her greasy hands staining her dress.
‘A very clever fox, my dear. Zenia has been very sensible. She has made sure that nothing the old villagers left behind here has been wasted. Why, we may even be able to give your dirty scratched toes something to keep them warm this winter.’
‘And me,’ says Anna, climbing onto Georgiou’s lap. ‘I want shoes and a dress.’
‘You will have them, darlings. I will finish the sewing very soon. But as you are both so greasy and messy from eating so much kleftiko, I think you should stay in your old clothes for a bit.’
‘They will need more than dresses for the winter,’ Zenia says. ‘You must come and see what I have stored away. There is wool, sheepskin and cloth, all of which you may put to good use. You are used to the winters of the coast. There may be storms there, but they are not like the biting winters of the mountains. We must all prepare.’
‘And I will gather wood for our fires,’ says Georgiou. ‘There’s seasoned timber to be found around the village and in the olive groves. I must lay in a store of dry wood before the rains come. And I’ll stack logs for you, Zenia, so you have plenty to keep you warm through the winter.’
‘Thank you,’ Zenia says, with tears welling. ‘Thank you, my family. I give thanks to God that I have a family again, after all these years alone.’ Matilde and Anna are touched by her emotion and both go to her at her seat, patting her knees with their tiny hands. She sniffs, then says, in her usual gruff tones, ‘And you, my boy, you will make up for all the cherries you stole and ate by pruning my grapevine as well as yours. Here, we do it before Apokrias in the middle of February.’ She shakes her head and sighs. ‘Ah, if you could have been here then, when I was young. The dancing and feasting we had at that time, before the 40 days of Lent.’
‘Then perhaps this year we should celebrate a little,’ Agata says. ‘We are safe, we have plenty, we should be happy then and give thanks for our good fortune.’
‘And I will teach the children how to dance like I danced in my youth,’ Zenia says, standing up unsteadily and waving her arms, then grabbing the hands of the two girls. ‘We shall all dance the rouga and feast like kings and queens. And we shall all wear our finest dresses.’
Chapter Eighty
August 2008
James
A couple of days after Greg and I had spoken, a nurse was helping me walk to my daily physiotherapy session. They wouldn’t let me use a wheelchair now so I was managing with a crutch and a helpful arm. Halfway there, Pam came bustling along the corridor towards my ward. As soon as she saw me she called out, ‘Oh, James, thank goodness, there you are. He says he has to see you today.’ Her mascara was streaked, her lipstick was smudged and she had a crumpled tissue in her hand. ‘I’ve been with him all night. He’s in such a bad way.’
‘I can come right now. But I thought he was getting much better?’ I transferred my hand from the nurse’s arm to Pam’s, and we started shuffling towards the private rooms.
‘He seemed to be improving, but he’s had chest pains since yesterday morning and now the doctors think he might have a clot.’ She dabbed at her eyes with the ragged tissue as we walked. ‘I tell you, it’s all too much for me. And Lavinia’s only just gone back to Vladi as well. She’ll be in absolute pieces, I know she will.’
‘Maybe you should go home and get some rest. I can stay with him for now. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere very exciting today.’
Pam didn’t get my little joke and just said, ‘I’d be so grateful, dear. Do you know, I’d feel so much better if one of his friends was with him today. I tried to call that nice Mr Barberis, but I can’t seem to get hold of him, even though I’ve left several messages. He’d do anything for Greg, I know he would.’
‘Did Greg say he wanted to see him?’
‘Yes, he was asking about him and wanted to know what he said when he called by the other day, when Greg was still only semi-conscious. He said he’s got some unfinished business with him, but I said darling, you can’t go thinking about business matters in your state. You’ve got to concentrate on getting better. I thought he’d be feeling a bit brighter after I told him about the hotel. I was sure that bit of news would really perk him up.’
Her long nails clawed my arm as we made slow progress along the corridor, but I tried to ignore the discomfort and said, ‘What’s happened to the hotel?’
‘They’ve had to close down, dear. Apparently, they’ve got a serious drains problem, so I’ve been told. I thought he’d be pleased to hear that, but he didn’t seem to be the slightest bit interested. That’s when I thought he must be feeling really ill, if that piece of news couldn’t cheer him up.’
We reached Greg’s private room and Pam helped me shuffle to his bedside, where Greg was lying back on white pillows, his eyes closed, looking even more drained than he had the last time I’d seen him.
‘I’ve brought James to see you, darling, just as you wanted. He’s going to stay with you for a bit while I nip home to freshen up.’ He opened his eyes as she leant over his grey face and kissed the top of his head. He noticed me, but didn’t say anything while she peered into her powder compact and applied lipstick.
‘Bye for now, you two. Be good.’ Her fingers fluttered at us both as she left the room, leaving a faint trail of scent.
I sat down next to the bed. ‘You’re l
ooking a bit rough, mate. You’ve not been eating enough of that fruit, I expect.’
He fixed me with bloodshot eyes. ‘Eat the lot, why don’t you? Help yourself to the whole bloody bunch, for all I care.’ He sounded exhausted, but there was still a little of his old fighting spirit left, I could tell.
‘I was on my way to physio, but Pam said you wanted to see me right away.’
‘Yeah, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since we had our last chat.’
‘About our mutual friend?’
‘That, and other things.’
‘Have you come up with anything we can use on him?’
‘Nothing that’s much use. Look,’ he sighed, ‘I know you blame me for this whole effing mess, and I’m not surprised. I’d have thought the same in your shoes. I’ve not lived a good life, you know. Been in trouble all my bloody life.’ He let his head loll back against the pillow and closed his eyes.
‘Yeah, I know. You’re a crafty old rascal. But I know it wasn’t deliberate and I forgive you.’
‘Do you?’ He opened his eyes and tried to reach for my hand across the crisp, tightly tucked sheet. I grasped his hand in mine and he said, ‘I’ve done some terrible things in my time. Unforgiveable things.’
‘Surely not.’ I tried to laugh, thinking this was the old Greg, pulling my leg, but his hand was gripping mine with a force greater than I imagined such a sick man could muster. ‘Go on, you’re a bit of a bugger, but you’re a bloody daft old bugger.’
‘No, I mean it. When I was a boy… I never told anyone, I thought I’d killed her.’
‘What? Who?’
He was silent for a moment, and then he said, ‘I always was a hotshot with a catapult.’
I laughed as I still couldn’t take this soul-baring seriously. ‘I know, and you’re still a bloody good shot. Like that night at the pool. We had a right laugh, didn’t we? And hey, what’s this about the place being shut down? Result, eh? Pam just told me. Good news or what?’
He managed a slight smile. ‘Yeah. May have scored there.’ He paused again, then said, ‘But this was different. I’ve never told anyone about this before. She was one of my teachers. Miss Jones, taught us maths. Speccy Jones, we called her, cos of her glasses. She was on her bike.’
He released my hand and shut his eyes as if picturing the long-ago scene of his boyhood. ‘It was near the end of the summer holidays. I’d been out in the woods all day on my own, building a den and shooting at birds, and then suddenly, on my way home, there she was. I was behind these bushes and I heard her bike coming.’
‘You took a shot at her?’
‘I was aiming for her front tyre. But I missed. Got her bang between the eyes. Knocked her right off her bike.’
‘Blimey. What did you do?’
‘Scarpered, of course. Ran home and hoped no one saw me. Then, when she didn’t turn up at school for the autumn term, I was terrified I’d killed her. I was worried sick for weeks about what might have happened.’
‘But you hadn’t killed her, had you?’
‘No, but she didn’t come back to school for three months. When she did, she was limping. I couldn’t look at her, knowing I’d done that to her.’ He closed his eyes again and lay back, grey and withered, as if all his vitality and bravado had been deflated. Pam was right, he wasn’t looking too hot.
‘You feeling all right? Want me to call a nurse?’
He opened his eyes again and tried to smile. ‘Nah. They’ll only start making a fuss. I’m just tired, that’s all.’
‘Do you want me to go?’ I was really rather worried about him. I didn’t want to leave yet, as I’d been hoping he’d have something useful to add to our discussion about Dimitri, but I wasn’t sure that talking was helping him right now.
He was silent, staring at me, then he said, ‘The thing is, everyone has secrets. We all have something to hide.’
‘Do you mean you’ve got something on Dimitri?’
‘Wish I did,’ he said. ‘Mr Fix-it is too clever by half. He’s probably been up to no good several times in his life, but nothing’s stuck as far as I know.’
‘We could report him though, couldn’t we? Tell the police he’s an arsonist.’
Greg sighed. ‘He’s probably got them in his pocket too. He’s far too slippery to be caught out that way.’ He gave a little cough, his forehead creasing in pain, then whispered, ‘Anyway, he’d disappear the minute he got wind of any investigation. A quick little boat trip across the channel to Albania and they’d never find him in a million years.’
‘Then I’ll just have to deal with him when I’m back on my feet. I’m not going to forget what he did. He can’t be allowed to get away with it.’
‘I’d like to be around to see it when you do. Give me a good reason to get better.’ He managed a small laugh, then grimaced, putting his hand to his chest. ‘I’d like to see that. You, kicking the arse of the arsonist.’
Chapter Eighty-One
24 June 1944
Despite the horrors of confinement in the cramped, stinking boxcars, everyone grows to fear the stopping of the train. They long to be released, to stretch their limbs, to breathe clean air, but sometimes, when the train slows or comes to a complete halt, there are new terrors.
The first time it happens, Rebekka cannot understand why she suddenly hears agonised screams coming from the next car. Cries of terror combined with coarse laughter. Then, as the shrieks subside, she hears the ominous message being passed from one boxcar to another in her own language. ‘Stand back from the doors. Pass it on. The brutes are stabbing at us under the doors with knives.’
Rebekka isn’t near the door, although there is more air there. ‘What are they talking about, Papa?’ There are sobs and groans all around them.
The next time the train halts, those in Rebekka’s group who are still able to move shuffle back from the door as far as they can. Only inches, but precious inches. Slithering, slicing noises are heard, accompanied by cruel laughter and harsh words in German.
‘They didn’t manage to cut anyone in here this time,’ Papa says, as the soldiers pass down the train to see who else they can torment. ‘Who can believe it? Men of a civilised nation, trained soldiers, amusing themselves by pushing knives under the doors to slash the feet of the helpless. Is there nothing they won’t do for entertainment?’
About halfway through their journey, when the train stops again, they hear shouts followed by gunfire. They no longer know which country they are in or who might know about the cargo of this train.
‘What are they saying?’ Rebekka begs Papa, trying to understand the strange language she can hear.
He holds her even closer, trying to interpret the commotion outside. ‘I don’t think it’s German,’ he mutters. ‘And it’s not Greek or Italian… Someone’s shouting that they’re partisans, Balkan partisans attacking the train.’ They hear more shots and then the sound of doors crashing open, and people shouting in Greek that they have nothing, that the Germans have already taken anything of value.
‘Can you believe it?’ Papa says. ‘They are raiding the train and stealing from us. Stealing from dying people. How low can people get? Isn’t it enough that we have been forced to leave our homeland and are suffering? Are we to be left with nothing at all, not even our dignity?’
Then he covers Rebekka’s ears so the screams and shouts are muffled, but she can hear her father’s heart beating fast and she feels his fear.
Chapter Eighty-Two
September 2008
Amber
I imagine he didn’t have to knock on the door and ask to come in. The Mill à la Mer was never locked until late at night and the wide stone steps, lined with displays of pottery, led from the shop terrace right up to the kitchen and into the heart of the house. He must have walked straight in with an arrogant sense of entitlement, just because his family was distantly related to the original owners.
I had taken Theo into the bath with me and I suppose that, with the runnin
g water and the door shut, I never heard him arrive. But when I went back across the landing to my room, with Theo wrapped in a soft towel, I caught raised voices. Marian’s was loudest, Inge spoke occasionally and there was a deep and insistent man’s voice too.
I was only clothed in a bath towel myself, so I didn’t go down immediately. I dried Theo and dressed him in a vest and nappy, then settled down on my bed against the plumped pillows to feed him. As I was patting his back to burp him, which seemed to be taking longer than usual, I heard a scream and a crash, like crockery breaking.
I stepped out onto the landing and listened from the top of the stairs. Now I could only hear the commanding rumble of the male voice. I laid Theo down in his drawer cot and covered him with a sheet, then pulled on a loose dress and tiptoed down the stairs. My room was at the very top of the house on the third floor, and the voices were coming from the kitchen two floors down. I crept slowly down the stairs, listening as I went.
I knew that voice. It was forceful and demanding, where it had once been charming and helpful. And as I grew nearer, I began to think I could also hear crying. I crept closer until I was at the bottom of the dark flight of stairs, just before the kitchen doorway. I couldn’t see inside, but light fell through the half-open door and I could hear everything.
‘But there was a will,’ Inge said through tears. ‘It was signed. I saw their signatures and I’ve been told the will was valid.’
‘That means nothing. Without witnesses, it is worthless.’
‘But it was all done properly. I know it was.’
‘My lawyers say family rights take precedence. That is the law of this country and I am entitled to contest the will.’
Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Page 28