As my plane soared into the sky towards a grey English November, I’d looked down at the clear blue sea and the marshland around the airport runways, and wondered if it would have made any difference to Amber if I had been able to demonstrate just how much I wanted to make amends. If I could have got even with the one person responsible for that terrible fire, might she have shown me some compassion? But I hadn’t been able to even remonstrate with Dimitri in person, let alone punch him in the face or slash his tyres.
I didn’t discover what had happened to him until I went to Greg’s funeral in the last week of September. I was walking independently by then, with the aid of a crutch, and I was determined to attend the ceremony held at the white church on the hill above his villa. Pam was dressed all in black, a huge feathered hat shading her face, while Lavinia hovered around her mother, alternately clutching her arm and that of a dark-suited man with slicked-back hair and aviator shades, who I assumed was the notorious Vladi.
The service was ponderous and the church was stifling with the heavy scent of white lilies. As the family filed out, after the coffin was carried to a waiting hearse, Lavinia noticed me through the lace of her dramatic black mantilla and reached for my arm. ‘Join us for drinks later, won’t you,’ she said in a breathy voice, which was either the result of her emotions or the restrictions imposed by her extremely tight corset-like dress.
When I met with the other mourners in the nearby restaurant, where the waiters were circulating with trays of wine and dishes of olives, I waited my turn to offer my respects to the widow. Pam was dignified and calm when she shook my hand. ‘It’s so good of you to come, James, especially when you are only just back on your feet yourself. Do you know, you were one of the last people to speak with Greg before the very end? He was so fond of you and always said how much he looked forward to your meetings, especially your little late-night heart-to-hearts.’
‘I’ll never forget him. He really was a great character.’
She smiled. ‘Everyone’s saying that about him.’ She looked around the room, at the drinking and laughing crowd of bereaved. ‘All these people here. I can’t believe how many good friends he had. And everyone’s been so very kind.’
I followed her gaze, scanning the heads and faces above the uniform of black suits and dresses. I knew hardly anyone there and I couldn’t see the one face I was really interested in finding. ‘I’m very surprised Dimitri isn’t here to pay his respects,’ I said. ‘He and Greg had worked together for quite a while, hadn’t they?’
‘Oh, Mr Barberis, you mean? Haven’t you heard?’
‘No, heard what?’
‘My dear, the most extraordinary thing. He died within a few days of Greg. His funeral is going to be held at the end of next week.’
I was shocked to hear this, but largely disappointed that even this opportunity to redeem myself had slipped through my fingers. Maybe someone else had taken his or her revenge before me. ‘No, I didn’t know that,’ I said. ‘Whatever happened to him?’
Pam shrugged, looking vague. ‘A fall, I believe. I’d like to have gone to the funeral, but Lavinia wants me to go straight back to London with her next Wednesday.’
At this mention of her name, Lavinia turned to her mother and put a protective arm around her shoulders. ‘Mummy can’t be expected to cope with everything all on her own here any more. The strain of it has all been simply too much for her.’ She lifted her lacy veil and looked at me with heavily made-up deep-blue eyes. ‘If you’ve still got any business matters to sort out, you’ll have to talk to Vladi.’ She touched the arm of the dark man standing by her side, turning him towards me. ‘He’s handling all of Daddy’s affairs now. It’s so dreadfully complicated and he’s awfully good at that sort of thing.’
Vladimir held out his hand for me to shake, saying, ‘And you are?’
‘James Young. I had a restaurant, Mountain Thyme, up in the mountains. Greg was a good friend and backed us when we were setting up.’
He frowned and said, ‘This is the business involved in the fire and where Greg had his unfortunate accident?’
‘I’m afraid so. It was pretty badly hit up there and we haven’t been able to reopen the restaurant again yet.’
His eyes narrowed under his frown. ‘Then we shall talk later.’
We did talk later. It wasn’t the sort of conversation I enjoy having at any time, let alone in a fragile recuperative state. If Greg had recovered I could imagine him slapping me verbally, as well as physically, on the back and saying, ‘Don’t you worry, mate, we’ll show them, we’ll pick up the pieces and start again.’ But Greg was no longer around to joke and be optimistic and Vladi wasn’t interested in pipe dreams. ‘My father-in-law was a most generous man,’ he said. ‘But business is business. His estate requires his investment to be repaid.’
‘But I have nothing left,’ I protested. ‘There’s no viable business there at present and there’s unlikely to be any prospect of reopening for some time to come. We’re still waiting for the insurers to settle before we can start the repairs.’
‘That is most unfortunate,’ he said. ‘But I will be generous with you. I will require you to pay me at least a proportion of the insurance payout, equivalent to the share that was given originally.’ He slapped me on the back, his heavy hand lingering as he finished speaking, but it wasn’t a jovial, matey slap; it was proprietorial, insistent and belittling. ‘That is a fair deal, I think you will agree. We shall talk again soon, my friend.’
In the end, when the insurance settlement came through, I was left with nothing. I’d hoped to salvage a little from the smoke-blackened walls and begin again, but there was barely any cash left once I’d satisfied Vladi’s demands.
I turned to Ben, thinking I could carry on working for my old friend until I was back on my feet, both physically and financially. But he shrugged and said, ‘I’m really sorry, mate. Things aren’t looking so good. We’ve had a reasonable season this year, and usually by this time we’d already have a stack of repeat bookings and deposits for the coming year, but there’s barely anything coming through. The usual punters are sounding nervous, the way the financial markets are going right now. We’re going to be stretched to get through the winter at this rate.’
So I can’t avoid the truth any longer and there can be no more lies. In pursuing my dream of being a great chef, running an acclaimed and starred restaurant, I sacrificed both my wife and my child. I never blame Amber, I never blame Greg; I blame myself for not seeing what would happen. I blame myself for trusting too much and for not facing the truth. But I want to go back to remembering the good things, the hope and the happiness we had together at first. I want to go back to smelling lemons and fresh oregano, not smoke and destruction. And when I can, I hope we will go back and start again.
And now, instead of working for myself in my own business, where I once shook the hands of grateful, appreciative clients and looked out over the idyllic mountains of Corfu, I fry fish in a pub in Cornwall. I’m still cooking, I’m working hard, but every day I have to face the fact that because of my arrogant deceit, I left my wife and son in Corfu. Back then, I wasn’t afraid of lying, but I am now.
Chapter Eighty-Six
29 June 1944
‘Papa, the train has stopped.’ Rebekka’s voice is a hoarse whisper, her throat is parched, her tongue so dry it seems to stick to the roof of her mouth. But Papa doesn’t answer, nor does Mama. They slumped into an everlasting sleep days ago.
Mama insisted she wasn’t hungry, giving Rebekka tiny morsels of food throughout their long journey: raisins, nuts, hidden away in the pockets of her clothes. Sometimes, when the trains slowed on the tracks, they heard the gushing of water and droplets sprayed through gaps in the loose boards of the crammed boxcars. Rebekka was crammed against the wall of the train, so she licked at beads of moisture to ease her thirst and pressed her fevered forehead against the dampened wood to cool herself.
‘You are strong, you will survive if you
work hard,’ Mama said in a faint voice before she finally slept. Rebekka kept hold of her hand, which grew cold despite the stifling heat of the carriage, where the overpowering stench increased with every minute of their tortuous journey. No one could move unless their neighbour expired; everyone vomited, defecated, urinated and died where they stood and the floor was awash with slippery waste.
‘Tell me more about my sisters,’ Rebekka pleaded with Papa, hoping he too would not succumb to sleep. And he tried, he tried so hard, but he was so tired of standing day after day on their horrifying journey.
‘Tell me more about Matilde and Anna, Papa,’ she urged, trying to make him stay awake, so she could imagine she was anywhere but this stinking carriage.
‘They live on fresh eggs from chickens that scratch around the cottage and the vegetable garden,’ he whispered. ‘There may not be lamb or beef, but they have chickpeas to make buttery fava, flour for bread and goat’s milk to drink and make feta. They will be such big strong girls when we see them again.’ When his soothing words finally ceased and she knew he could never comfort her any more, Rebekka repeated these reassuring phrases in her head, over and over, telling herself, ‘My little sisters are safe. My sisters will be there, waiting for me when I return.’
And now the train has stopped. There are cries outside. Rebekka hears the harsh slam of bolts being drawn, doors crashing open and curt shouts from the soldiers, ‘Alles da lassen! Alle heraus, schneller!’
Those who are still alive and able to drag themselves from the stinking carriages are falling out of the train into the open air. Rebekka feels ashamed of her stained dress, but she drags her filthy bundle with her to the open door and looks out. Those who are not already dead and unable to leave are crawling, limping, stumbling alongside the track, guards watching over them. Is this where they are all going to live and work? There are men in striped clothes grabbing their sacks, throwing them into one big pile.
‘Schneller heraus!’ shout all the men and the soldiers. Rebekka doesn’t know what it means, but she jumps out and staggers with the few who can still walk, wondering when they will have to start work and when they will all have a good meal after their long journey.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
October 2009
Amber
There was much laughter in the house when I returned from my late-afternoon walk with Theo. We go out every day at around 4 p.m. once I’ve woken Inge from her nap. She is still with us, but so much weaker, and I have taken over her duties in the shop. Theo loves to see the donkey, wave at the cats scavenging around the mini-supermarket and be admired by all the elderly ladies who sit outside the shops and houses on their white plastic chairs to see the world pass by. He gurgled and smiled as they told him what a handsome bubala he is and how he will break many hearts when he is older.
So we returned from our excursions in a cheerful frame of mind, Theo ready for his supper and me thirsting for tea. And once I’d taken him out of his buggy and carried him up that long flight of stairs, I heard shrieks of laughter followed by Inge’s raucous cough. There, at the kitchen table, were two plump older women I’d never met before, but who were clearly well known to Marian and Inge. They were eating sticky pastries glistening with syrup and sipping strong coffee.
As soon as they all saw me and Theo, one of the women cried, ‘Bubala!’ and stretched out her arms towards him. I smiled at her, but continued to hold him.
‘Amber, we have unexpected visitors today,’ Marian said.
‘But most welcome all the same,’ Inge added in her croaky voice. ‘I must introduce you to our guests. They have not been back here for such a long time and it is such a great pleasure to see them again.’ More murmurs followed, with kisses blown by both the women, then Inge said, ‘Amber, I want you to meet two dear old friends. Their last visit to us was more than ten years ago, but you will know of their connection with this house.’
I believe I stared blankly and must have looked rather stupid, for Inge then said, ‘These ladies are the two children I told you about. The children Agata and Georgiou saved all those years ago.’ She waved her hand at each of them in turn. ‘This is Anna and Matilde.’
Both ladies smiled at me and then Anna stood up, waggled her broad hips and, with an infectious laugh, said, ‘I couldn’t get in our hiding place now for sure, not with this big behind!’
Her sister laughed too, saying, ‘Anna has eaten too many baklava. She always was the greedy one.’ Then she stood and embraced her sister, the wings of flesh on her arms wobbling as she tried to reach around Anna’s generous frame.
Inge was laughing and coughing at the same time, but managed to say, ‘The first time they came back, they both tried to crawl in through the wardrobe. It was so funny. They almost got stuck.’
‘How long ago was that?’ I asked.
‘Oh, the first time was 1976,’ Anna said. ‘When Georgy and Aggie were still alive and Inge had begun helping them.’
‘And we still couldn’t get inside,’ Matilde shrieked, tears of laughter running down her cheeks. ‘We were both pregnant again!’
‘But we had our older children with us and they all insisted on trying out our hiding place. They loved it.’
‘They wanted to sleep there, didn’t they?’ Inge said.
‘They did. They thought it was a great adventure. But Anna and I can hardly remember the time when we first came to stay here and had to hide. We were both so very young then.’
‘But we saw more of it later, when we came back from the house in the mountains, when the war was all over and it was safe again,’ Anna said. ‘We all came back to live here for – how long was it? Four years? No, five years, I think.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Yes, five years, it must have been 1950 when Uncle Costas came from Athens to fetch us. You were eleven then, and I was nine.’
I took all of this in, then with some hesitancy said, ‘So your uncle came to find you? Not your parents?’
Both women looked grave, then Matilde shook her head. ‘Sadly, they went, along with all the others. Very few came back. We don’t know exactly what happened or when, but we believe our mother and father died at some point during the deportation. Many people died on the way. The conditions were so terrible. But we know our older sister Rebekka reached the end of that dreadful long journey and arrived in Auschwitz.’
At this point I hoped there was a happy ending to the story, but Anna said, ‘Unfortunately, she did not survive, like so many of them. Most of them were gassed on arrival.’ She sighed. ‘It sounds harsh of me to say it, but sometimes I think it was better she didn’t have to endure any longer.’
Matilde hugged her sister and they both said something I didn’t understand. I think it might have been a prayer in Greek or Hebrew. Then they both pulled delicate hankies from hidden corners of their clothing, Anna from her sleeve, Matilde from the depths of her generous bosom, to dab their eyes.
‘But we are here,’ Matilde said. ‘We are the lucky ones. Our parents and sister loved us enough to give us away, to save us. If we had been rounded up with the others, we could never have survived. As it is, we are large of life, we have children…’
‘And grandchildren,’ added Anna. ‘And we’ve had a good life, here and in the mountains. Come on, Matilde, let us show them all the dance we learnt there, from that old woman.’ She grabbed her sister’s hand and they both stood and then began to sway and sing, clicking their fingers, stamping their feet and turning around each other. Two broad-hipped, grey-haired ladies, shrieking with laughter and dancing to the tunes of their childhood, bracelets jangling on their wrists. Marian and Inge clapped their hands in time as they danced and I bounced Theo on my hip, making him giggle.
When their dance came to an end, they collapsed on the chairs and gulped glasses of water. ‘Oof, I can’t do it like I used to,’ declared Matilde. ‘We were young and nimble then, not fat old ladies.’
Her sister reached for another pastry and with her mouth full of honeyed crum
bs, said, ‘The first time we learnt that dance we were wearing the dresses Aggie made for us, do you remember?’
‘Of course I do. White dresses. We were so excited to have new dresses. Dearest Aggie. And she was so proud of us. Like a grandmother, she was.’
‘And darling Georgy, a grandfather.’
‘And old Zenia, a great-grandmother. Our parents may have had to leave us behind, but we were so lucky. We gained another very loving family.’
‘It sounds as if you lived happily, in spite of those difficult times,’ I said.
‘Oh, we did,’ Anna said. ‘And we learnt so much from them. When we came back here to the coast we even learnt how to sail Georgy’s boat and catch fish. Georgy and Aggie told us we had to learn many skills in case we had to fend for ourselves.’
‘So many orphaned children were not so fortunate,’ Matilde said. ‘When Uncle Costas finally came for us and took us to join the rest of the family in Athens, it was very different to the life we had here. We didn’t know about it at first, because they didn’t tell us everything, but there was terrible famine in Athens during the war. The Germans took everything. Thousands of people starved to death in their homes and on the streets. As we grew old enough to know all the facts, it became clear to us, that in spite of occasional hardships, we had been very lucky.’
‘So lucky and so loved,’ added Anna. ‘Our years here and in the mountains were some of the happiest of our lives. We often say that, don’t we?’
‘Very happy,’ agreed Matilde. ‘My favourite time was in the mountains, with the sheep in the meadows and helping Georgy collect kindling for the stove. We haven’t been back to the house there in all these years. We wanted to go this visit, but we hear there’s been a terrible fire up there.’
Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Page 30