by Gary Cleaver
“Do you like my picture?”
There was a faint rustling sound; he turned to look at her. The shift had formed a puddle of gold and black around her feet, it had indeed been all that she was wearing. He opened his mouth to say that this was wrong, that he was married, that he was old enough to be her father. She placed a finger to her lips.
“For the oil, there will be money” she said matter of factly. “For your troubled mind, there is me.”
She stepped lightly into his arms, tilted her head and whispered, “Take me to where the Gods live.” Christo, now back in his trance, lowered her on to the bed. They went.
Later, he did not know how much later, Christo lay, staring at the ceiling. He was now quite sure he had lost his mind. First the voices, now hallucinations. He looked down, black hair streamed across his chest, one elegant hand was folded around his shoulder and he could feel warm breath against his neck. Oh this was all so real, and so wrong. She raised her head and smiled once again.
”Now” she said “payment.”
And she was gone. She squatted briefly to retrieve the shift. When she returned she was wearing it again, she held up one hand, it contained a roll of notes, for the first time in awhile Christo found his voice.
“Oh no, I really think it is I who should….”
The enormity of what he had been about to say suddenly dawned on him. He shook his head in confusion and shame.
“I am so sorry,” he was almost in tears. He was now sitting on the side of the bed, she knelt and placed her hands on his knees.
“Oh no, Christo, no” she said, softly, “No need to apologise, no need for sorrow. Take the money and go now, you will understand.”
When he had dressed, she walked with him to the door. On the steps outside he turned and looked at her, his head was full of things to say, but all he managed was to ask a stupid question.
“What is today’s date?”
For the last time she smiled her beautiful smile. “Don’t tell me you don’t know the date, Christo, it is January the twenty eighth.”
Back in the truck, without thinking, he slotted the key into the ignition and turned. The starter cranked once, the engine started and instantly settled to a pleasant hum. Christo sat for a moment and the bent forward until his head rested against the top of the steering wheel. As the engine murmured and the heater began to fill the cabin with warm air, he tried to think. How could he go home? The moment he walked through the door Irena would know, she would take one look at his face and she would know. Then it would start, the tears, the screaming and then everything in the house that wasn’t physically nailed to the floors, walls, and ceiling would come flying his way with great speed and unswerving accuracy. Then she would throw him from the house and he would die in the gutter, it was inevitable. Perhaps, he thought, it might be best to put the truck in gear and drive straight on into the sea, end it now. He looked up.
Instead of the sea, in front of him was the end of a rutted track and an olive grove. To his left was a small house, he was home. Had it all been his imagination? He turned in his seat and looked out of the rear window. The six canisters were gone, he thrust his hand into his trouser pocket, the roll of notes was there. He stared at them, realising only then that he had not counted the money. He did so now, placing each note on the passenger seat. He counted. He counted again. Then a third time to be absolutely sure. Each was a one hundred Euro note, and there were twenty eight of them.
He gathered up the money and put it back in his pocket. It was more than three times the oil’s true value and it might help, a little. For now it was time to face Irena. He went in through the kitchen door like a condemned man, with luck he thought, she would be watching television. She was standing at the kitchen sink. And she was smiling.
“Hello my dear” she said “I saw you pull in, you have sold the oil? That’s my clever husband.” She advanced and kissed him fondly on the cheek. “A good price?”
Christo managed to keep down the scream that was rising in his throat and, eventually was able to answer. “Yes a very good price”.
Irena sat in one of the plain wooden chairs and placed her hands, palms down on the table.
“Now” she began “I too have wonderful news, I called both of the boys today and guess what? They are both coming home for Easter, the whole family will be together, here for Easter.”
For the first time quite a while Christo and Irena Alexiou smiled at each other. “Wonderful” he said quietly. “Just wonderful.”
An hour later, at sunset, Christo was walking among his beloved trees again. He was going over in his mind the events of the last week. It was no good, for everything that made any kind of sense there was another that was ridiculous, insane. He looked at the pick-up, perhaps he should get it fixed, but was there anything wrong with it? Movement caught his eye. Dimitris Lambakis was in his olive grove again and staring at the very same tree, it was almost as if he had not left. Christo stepped over the low wall and joined him. Lambakis didn’t seem to notice him at first and when he spoke he did so without turning.
“You have sold your oil, Christo, good.”
There was silence for a while, Christo broke it.
“What are you looking at?” This time the silence was so long he didn’t think Dimitris was going to answer at all.
But finally he said “You know, my father used to say that if you looked at the trunk of an olive tree for long enough, you would see two lovers, their limbs entwined in endless embrace. Have you ever seen that?”
“If I’m honest, no.” Christo laughed shortly. “But I think I’ve seen where the Gods live.”
The Twisted Branch
Katsimila July 1943
At the southern end of the little square that marked the centre of the village stood a single storey stone building - the office of the Mayor of Katsimila. There had not been a Mayor since the soldiers had come, two years earlier. Now it was the office of Oberleutnant Libuda, officer in charge of the small contingent of occupying German forces. It was not unusual for a junior officer like Libuda to be in charge, this was a tiny place and he, along with just a handful of subordinates, was able to keep order. Outside the front door of the office two young privates were standing guard, they were Heinrich Guessler from Munich and Josef Haller, the son of a watchmaker from Pforzheim, a small town on the northern edge of the Black Forest.
Josef was twenty one, he had joined the army as soon as he could after leaving high school and had undergone thorough training before being posted. Still an excited teenager he had found himself on the endless train ride to southern Russia. There was little to do on the journey but think and sleep. He had never fully understood National Socialism, his father had said it meant,
“You can do what you want so long as it’s exactly what we say.”
His father had also said, “A thug wearing an attractive uniform is still just a thug.”
Josef had told himself that a soldier is not a politician, his goal is not power, but glory. Armed with this simple philosophy and a rifle he was approaching an adventure that intoxicated him. After the train it had still taken three more days for his unit to catch up to the front line, so fast was the sixth army advancing. For Josef the campaign ended on that third day. He and his comrades were marching along a wet muddied road, they were being overtaken by a convoy of trucks heading for the lines with ammunition and food supplies. The convoy made them a target, without warning two Russian fighters appeared flying fast and low, there wasn’t even time to take cover. Josef had been lucky, the man in front of him had been neatly cut in half just below the rib-cage by a twenty millimetre cannon shell. A piece of shrapnel from this shell, no bigger than half a thumbnail hit him in the upper part of his left arm; it removed most of his bicep. He had descended from there into a nightmare. The dressing station, the field hospital and then the long journey back to Germany. He was informed that his arm would always be weak and that he was no longer fit for front line service. He we
nt back to Pforzheim to join his parents and his kid sister, Heike, for a period of convalescence. Three months later the army called him back and sent him to join the occupation force in Greece. Like any cheated young man Josef was bitter, frustrated and deeply angry. On a stifling summer’s day in this boring backwater of the war, his glorious task in the service of the Reich was to stand guard outside his superior’s office, waiting to salute a senior officer from headquarters on his monthly inspection tour of the area.
Less than two hundred metres away, in a narrow street that led off the square, six year old George Karamis was squatting in a small patch of gravel, taunting a scorpion by jabbing at it with a stick. Every so often he would look up from his work to check that he could still see his mother in the sunlit kitchen of the house a little distance away. He did not need to have her in sight for comfort or security, on the contrary he was waiting for her to move out of sight so he could escape. George was quite the adventurer and a very independent little soul. He resumed his efforts with the scorpion, it was the full focus of his attention until the moment he poked at it with a little too much enthusiasm and crushed the creature’s head. It twitched for a moment then became still. George looked up. His mother was gone. She had probably only gone to fetch something from another room, but he sensed this was his chance. He left the patch of gravel and it’s unfortunately deceased resident and trotted, giggling, up the street toward the square.
It was now eleven thirty and already forty degrees. A black Mercedes staff car rumbled across the cobblestones into the square and stopped in the centre. On its front right hand fender a small standard held a red flag, in the white circle at its centre was a black swastika. The driver got out and opened one of the passenger doors. The senior officer from headquarters got out, returned the salute of the two sentries and went into the building without speaking. Josef Haller sighed and stole a glance to his left. Guessler was tottering, the heat was taking its toll.
“Heinrich!” he hissed “Pull yourself together.”
Guessler straightened and renewed his efforts to concentrate. Josef realised that he himself didn’t feel very good. He propped his helmet up a little and wiped his streaming forehead. A small boy entered the square and goggled at the Mercedes. The boy had obviously never seen such a grand machine and he made a slow circuit of it, taking in every detail. When he reached out to touch the car’s shining flank the driver shooed him away. He turned his attention to the soldiers at the door.
George had seen soldiers before but he had never really understood their presence, they were, in a way, like the scorpion, entertainment value, nothing more. He called them names, they did not react; he decided bolder action was called for. He walked up and stood in front of the taller one. He blew the largest, loudest raspberry he could. Nothing. He repeated the raspberry and then turned to run away.
The heat of the day, his frustration and bitterness had brought Josef to boiling point. Now he had to contend with stupid kid who teased him in a language he didn’t understand and then made rude noises. When the boy turned to run Josef saw red, it was a red so dark it was almost black. All conscious thought drained from his head and he swung his right foot with all his strength. The heavy leather boot connected with George’s left leg mid way between knee and buttock. His femur snapped like a dry twig and he went sprawling on the cobblestones. Almost immediately he began to scream, it was a high, thin sound that pierced the hot air and carried easily along the narrow streets of the village.
“Oh my God, Josef!” As he spoke, Guessler propped his rifle against the wall and ran to the child.
Josef was unable to move, the sight of the boy and his sickeningly twisted leg rooted him to the spot. What had he done? He couldn’t believe what he had done. Then everything happened at once. People came running into the square, within seconds it seemed he, Guessler and the hapless driver were surrounded by an angry mob of villagers. Fists were shaken, insults thrown. The uproar brought Libuda and the senior officer running from the building. Libuda quickly summed up the situation and decided to deal with the mob first, he drew his pistol and fired three rapid shots into the air. There was a tense silence, punctuated only by the wailing of poor little George.
“Go to your homes at once!” Libuda shouted, his Greek was excellent, “This will be dealt with, go home.”
By this time several soldiers had arrived and the harsh clicking of rifle bolts supported his words. The crowd grudgingly dispersed. Two local men came back with an old wooden door. They gently lifted George on to it and carried him away to the house of Doctor Dritsas two streets away.
Throughout, Josef had stayed at his post beside the door. When the square was clear and quiet again the senior officer spoke briefly to Libuda, then got back into the car and was driven swiftly away. Libuda walked back to office and stood directly in front of Josef, his face thunderous.
“Haller, what in God’s name did you think you were doing?”
Josef began to explain “I am sorry sir but the child….”
“What about it? The child had only been playing.” Libuda was speaking again. “My job here is hard enough, Haller, without you inflaming the locals, obviously I will have to send you elsewhere, God knows what will happen if they see you on the streets after this. Go back to your quarters immediately and stay there! When I have sorted this out I will send for you. Dismissed, Private Haller.”
Josef went back to the house he shared with Guessler and two others. Was that it? Don’t do it again? You’re a naughty boy? In his mind he had committed a crime and should be punished. If there had been punishment he could, perhaps start to forgive himself. But now? It seemed that the German army was only interested in keeping order, small children and their well being were irrelevant. He lay down on his narrow bed and wept for an hour and a half.
Doctor Theo Dritsas straightened and studied his work. He had set the bone as best he could and splinted the leg. Then he had found bandages and wrapped it as tightly as he dared. He gave George’s weeping mother some aspirin and suggested she crush it up and put it in a little water to give to the child. He told her that as the bone had not broken through the skin that the risk of infection was low. With care, love and a little luck the boy would recover. It was too early to say but Dritsas doubted if George would ever walk properly again. George Karamis senior carried his little boy home late that evening, vowing to kill every German he could, before they killed him. Less than a week later, Josef Haller was posted away to Thessaloniki far to the north; he spent the rest of his time in Greece there. The war began to go badly for Germany as the year ended. By the summer of 1944, the army had become so short of manpower that even he was sent for front line service. He was posted to an infantry unit in Italy. The allies were pushing north and had already taken Rome long before he arrived in the country. The Italians had laid down their arms and Germany fought alone, trying in vain to stem the tide.
Josef’s Italian campaign lasted one day longer than the one in Russia. On day four he and his unit were caught up in a vicious fight for the town of Spoleto. Separated from his comrades he approached the corner of a ruined street and inched his way cautiously round and found himself staring down the barrel of an American army carbine. At the other end of the weapon was Sergeant John G Rasmussen of Minnesota, a veteran of the fighting in Italy and North Africa. Josef had quickly noticed the row of notches on the barrel and had guessed that this was not a man to trifle with; he dropped his weapon instantly and raised his hands. The prison camp wasn’t so bad once he adjusted to the boring routine of everyday life there and the food was quite good when compared to German army rations, he even developed a taste for American coffee, when he could find it. In June 1945, he went on his last long train journey of the war. His destination was Karlsruhe, here he boarded a dilapidated bus that would take him to Pforzheim and home.
That same month George Karamis was presented with his first walking stick. It was a tiny thing and the very sight of it made his mother weep, just
as the tiny crutches that preceded it, had. In spite of his vow George’s father did not kill any Germans, they simply left one day and did not return. The British and the Americans came and for a short time the people of Katsimila could rejoice. Everyday life slowly resumed, the fruit was picked and the animals were tended to. George was even able to go to school. Here he excelled straight away. He mastered reading and writing swiftly and easily, but it was at arithmetic that he really shone. One evening the schoolmaster had take George senior on one side and told him
“His legs may not be able to run, George, but it seems that his mind can fly.”
The post war years were hard in Greece, after just one year of peace the country descended into a bitter civil war that was to last another three years. Food became scarce again, young George was forced to learn which bushes bore fruit that could be eaten and which would make you sick. Things improved slightly for the family when his father found work at the village’s only bakery and the few orange trees they owned brought in more desperately needed income. When the time came for him to finish education the schoolmaster made George his special project. He pulled every string he could and spoke to every contact he had and was rewarded when the boy won a scholarship to attend university in Athens. The young man with the walking stick went to study economics in September 1955.
Ten years earlier, Josef Haller stepped from the old bus and looked at his home town. It had practically ceased to exist. He turned slowly around, at all points of the compass he saw the same thing, buildings smashed, burned and flattened. Whole streets simply gone. On the opposite side of the road an old man was sitting on a kerbstone, Josef walked over to him, the old man’s hands were trembling.
“What happened here?” Josef asked.
The old man gestured around him with one shaking hand. “Terrorflieger” he said. “The terror fliers came, they did this.”