Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  She wondered how everyone in Amiras would react to seeing Poppy again. Her mother and grandmother reunited. Although, she was still none the wiser about her mother’s exile or unhappiness.

  Her thoughts went back to Nick and she felt terrible about her hurtful behaviour. Grow up, Angie!

  Manoli returned. Perhaps he had information about her family. After all, Angie thought, he was ‘very good friends’ with Demitri, and Angie needed a distraction from Nick and her worst fears.

  ‘Will you have a raki with me, Manoli?’ she asked.

  ‘Raki and beer? The grape and the grain, no, no, no, lady.’

  ‘Then I won’t drink the beer; let’s share a raki, and my name’s Angelika.’

  Manoli raised his eyebrows. ‘I like you,’ he said, throwing one of his lewd winks.

  ‘Oh, behave!’ Angie laughed, sensing he put his flirtatious act on for all women. She wondered if the real Manoli ever showed himself. He brought a small bottle of raki, glasses, and a bowl of peanuts.

  They chatted, easy banter, Manoli plying her with questions as usual.

  Angie decided to interrogate him for a change. ‘Manoli, tell me about the Kondulakis family, my family?’

  ‘What you want to know?’ He shared the raki between their glasses.

  ‘Yiayá’s telling me about the war but it’s quite a saga and very sad. She’s asked me to write her story, what do you think about that?’

  He frowned. ‘Is difficult for me to say these things.’

  ‘I speak Greek, Manoli, tell me your thoughts,’ Angie said.

  Manoli’s face changed like a summer storm rolling in, dark clouds consuming the sunshine. He knocked back the raki, refilled his glass, and then spoke in his native tongue.

  ‘If you write about the massacre, you must tell both sides of the story. There are government secrets that have never been disclosed, orders that were given. But it’s easier to blame the Germans.’ He exchanged a nod with a group of burly men dressed in black army fatigues, sitting on another table. ‘What happened here, the account of the burning villages and the holocaust, was a tragedy. But who was responsible and why? That debate is open and still ongoing.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Manoli. Wasn’t it the Nazis?’

  ‘Let me ask you a few hypothetical questions, Angelika. At that time, Britain was as paranoid about communism as the Americans; the Cretan people were mostly communist. Do you think Britain was going to help liberate a communist island?’

  Angie shook her head. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Britain couldn’t have given a toss about this island, except for one thing; the south coast of Crete was the perfect place for British submarines to pick up fleeing British military, and the capitulated Italian leaders.’

  Angie imagined a map of Europe. ‘Where would they take them?’

  ‘Egypt,’ Manoli said. ‘The British needed Crete, but not a Crete with socialist tendencies. Essentially, the Cretans had to be turned away from their political ideals, and what better way to do it than for the communist Andartes, freedom fighters of Crete, to be totally discredited?’

  Angie frowned.

  ‘Okay. You don’t understand,’ Manoli said. ‘Let’s say, hypothetically, there were two groups of freedom fighters in Crete, one lot taking their orders from Britain, the others made up of local communists. It’s a fact anyway. But let’s say the communist group received orders from the British group to kill the Germans in Simi, which was what they claimed. The actions of that communist group led directly to the reprisals, and the massacre.’

  Manoli stood, walked around the table and sat down again.

  ‘Job done! The communists are discredited and hated for causing murder and mayhem. The British led, capitalist Andartes had long since scarpered across the island and deny giving any orders. Of course, they condemn the communists for being hot headed, out of control, fools who caused the deaths of over five hundred innocent Cretans. You must realise that in World War Two, nearly as many civilian Greek lives were lost as the sum total of all the USA and the UK forces combined?’

  Angie blinked at him, remembering how small Greece was, hardly larger than England itself, never mind the UK.

  ‘It’s true,’ Manoli said, reading the doubt on her face. ‘More than six hundred thousand Greek men, women and children were killed, while America and Britain together only lost seven hundred thousand, and they were mostly soldiers, not innocent villagers.’ He banged his raki glass on the table and then knocked it back. ‘But there’s more, Angelika.’

  Angie lifted her glass, realised it was empty, and watched Manoli fill it.

  ‘The beach, along the way a little,’ Manoli stuck his chin toward the distant sea. ‘The beach of Keratokampou was perfect for evacuating the British and Italians to Egypt in submarines, but the Germans were up here at Simi, keeping a lookout. The British needed a local distraction big enough to pull all the Germans away from the beaches and lookout posts. The battle at Simi did exactly that.’

  ‘Are you saying the British caused the Germans to send Nazi troops into the vicinity of Viannos, Manoli? Just to clear the beaches and discredit the communists?’ Angie said.

  ‘I’m giving you things to think about, Angelika, events you should investigate before you write about the history of Viannos. And ask yourself this: Two thousand enemy soldiers were gathered in this small area, and the British undoubtedly had that information. Their troops were near. So, why did they stand back and allow the atrocity to happen? Our allies should have followed the Nazis to Viannos and wiped them out. It was a great opportunity for them, but they choose to look the other way. Why was that?’

  Angie shook her head, trying to take in the facts and unravel the logic.

  ‘Right after our war with the Germans, we had civil war,’ Manoli said. ‘Then military rule, the junta. Two sides to everything; the communists and the capitalists; the war and the Colonels. Our villages divided into political groups. You see it, even today, with the doors and the table colours.’

  ‘What? I don’t understand – the table colours?’ Angie said.

  ‘The kafenions, you can see which political party they support by the table paint. Red, Communist; blue, Democrat; green, Liberal; yellow, Socialist.’

  Angie glanced at the yellow tabletop.

  ‘And if you’re going to write about your family, well . . . I was very young,’ Manoli said. ‘Only three years old when my parents were killed and things get changed a little each time they’re told. You can’t be sure of the truth unless you speak to the people involved.’ He thrust his jaw, fists clenched.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Manoli. It’s a tragedy to grow up without your parents.’ Angie considered his age, perhaps early forties. ‘I guess you won’t remember my father? Can you tell me what divided the Lambrakis and the Kondulakis families?’ She watched his face.

  Manoli stared into the branches of the big tree, his mouth hard and his face angry for a moment before he spoke.

  ‘You know the relationship between my father and your father? My mother was your father’s sister-in-law, by marriage of course. When they killed her my mother . . .’ Manoli’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  Confused, Angie tried to work out the family connection.

  Killed his mother?! Who killed his mother? Was Manoli her cousin?

  This was too much information to digest, she needed to think about what he said and work out what he meant. Was it possible that her father and his father were brothers? Manoli snatched a packet of Marlboro from the next table, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘When they killed my mother,’ he said again, blowing out smoke, ‘my father never got over it.’ His face turned sour, eyes unfocused. ‘That debt has not been paid.’ He tossed the cigarette packet back to the men on the next table and nodded sharply.

  What debt? Angie tried to keep up.

  ‘You shouldn’t ask these questions,’ he said, breaking her thoughts. ‘People spend decades trying to forget, and then you
come here opening old wounds. I don’t want to talk about it.’ He stared into the distance. ‘Anyway, going back to the war, you’re too British. Nobody would tell you the truth behind the massacre of ’43. It’s easier to blame the Germans – everyone does – but if you dug deep enough, Angelika, you would find another story. Let it go. You don’t know where it could lead.’

  Angie recognised bitterness in his eyes and remembered her mother using almost the same words. Could she prompt him to explain further?

  The men in black shouted, ‘Coffee, Manoli!’

  He flinched, his gaze flicked to Angie, irate, yet she suspected relieved to be distracted. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said.

  Angie waited but the kafenion tables filled and, knowing he wouldn’t have time for her, she returned to Amiras.

  It seemed everyone she met had a story about her family. But, at the source of the puzzle, she realised there were dark secrets that nobody wanted to share. She didn’t doubt Yiayá would tell her, but the old lady tired easily. Recalling the terrible events was so exhausting for her. Angie feared she was putting too much on her dear grandmother, even though they only covered a short episode each time.

  And Angie’s departure loomed ever closer.

  Chapter 22

  DISAPPOINTED AND FRUSTRATED by her trip into Viannos, Angie pulled over to the side of the main road, next to the war memorial. Unsettled by Nick and the transitions manager in her home, and then by Manoli’s words, she was even more confused.

  Was Manoli trying to say the local people blamed the British for the massacre? She wondered if that was true; but if it were, why would her mother run away to England?

  Angie stared at the simple marble figures that lined the road. She blinked sadly at the list of names engraved down each slab, wanting to find baby Petro’s name, and her great-great-grandfather, Matthia. But if Stavro was leaving for Athens, and Nick managed to get Poppy to call Crete, she had to return to her grandmother’s at once.

  Again, she hated the idea that she was going to hurt Poppy, but she couldn’t go home and see her so unbearably miserable. Her mother deserved more out of life. She had always been completely selfless, bringing up Angie, never complaining. Now, the time had come for Angie to repay that kindness.

  At the top of the cement steps, next to Maria’s house, Angie paused and stared across the village to the monument. It seemed to beckon her.

  ‘Angelika, come!’ Voula shouted.

  Angie turned into the cottage garden and found Demitri swinging a long-handled skapáni. ‘What are you doing, digging in the afternoon sun, Demitri?’ she asked.

  Demitri nodded at his son, Young Mattie, who leaned on a shovel. ‘We’re planting your lemon tree, Angelika.’ He swung at the hard dry ground between the two olive trees.

  The ten-year-old shovelled away loose earth, struggling with the weight. His knees turned in and his back bent. Young Mattie glanced over his shoulder at Angie and she saw the pride in eyes.

  Yiayá, Papoú and Voula sat in garden chairs and watched. Each gave instructions on how to dig the hole.

  ‘Deeper, Demitri,’ Yiayá said.

  ‘Wider, for the roots,’ Papoú said.

  ‘Don’t forget the fertiliser,’ Voula said.

  ‘Not giving me any advice, Angelika?’ Demitri asked.

  ‘I suspect you’re getting enough already,’ Angie said and laughed. ‘And I believe you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘I’m glad somebody does.’ Demitri swung the pick again but a judder went through his body as he struck something solid. ‘Feels like another rock.’ He levered the skapáni blade under the obstacle and pushed. ‘Get your shovel right under and push with me, son. Let’s see if we can lift it.’

  They worked together and then Demitri fell to his knees on the loose earth.

  ‘It’s not a rock,’ he said, shifting the soil.

  The boy knelt opposite his father while they scraped the dirt away. The object was the same colour as the red-brown soil, but it took shape as the dry clods crumbled.

  ‘Virgin Mary, it’s a machine gun,’ Demitri said.

  Papoú crossed himself three times.

  Maria placed both hands flat over her face and whimpered.

  Young Mattie jumped to his feet, hopping with excitement. ‘Let me hold it, Papa. Let me hold it, please!’

  Demitri seemed stunned and, while his mind wandered, he let his son take the rusted gun from his hands. The boy pulled it to his shoulder and, grinning wildly, yelled, ‘Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!’ as he swung an imaginary death arc over everyone.

  Yiayá gasped, horror spread over her face.

  Papoú and Voula both launched from their chairs and attempted to protect Maria by blocking her view of the weapon, but she slapped their hands away and then peered up at the ridge.

  ‘Petro, my poor baby,’ Maria whispered.

  Demitri swung the flat of his hand at Young Mattie, immediately startled when the swipe knocked the child off his feet and sent the gun flying into the dirt.

  Maria stared at her great-grandson lying on the ground. ‘No, no!’ She shook her head, closing her eyes, a warble of hysteria in her voice.

  Angie ran into the kitchen and brought a glass of water. When she returned, she found Yiayá crying, her sobs broken by stuttered words. Maria grabbed Angie’s wrist, ignoring the glass as it fell and smashed.

  ‘You see, Angelika, it’s an omen,’ the old woman said. ‘What happened here can’t stay buried. Tell my story; you understand me? Write my story so that the world knows what happened. And tell the truth, promise me that, Angelika.’

  Papoú seemed confused. ‘Let’s move to the table, old woman.’

  Yiayá patted the front of his shirt, her tears rising. ‘I wish you had seen him, Vassili.’ Her face turned up to her husband. ‘Your son, he was such a beautiful baby. Why did it happen to us?’

  ‘Who understands God’s plan, Maria?’ Vassili said. ‘It’s a mystery,’ he spoke in his calm and steady way. ‘Anyway, Petro never truly left us, did he? Even today, he’s here.’ He thumped his heart, the tremor shook brimming tears from his eyes and sent them tracing along the crags of his life-worn face.

  Angie found the moment terribly poignant. She filled with leaden sadness, far heavier than painful words or tears. How long could such suffering torture the people she had come to love? An entire lifetime? Her heart went out to her grandparents as she helped them move to the cracked marble table and settle themselves.

  Demitri took Young Mattie to the far end of the garden and spoke quietly to him. Angie was moved to see him hug his son and then kiss him on the cheeks. The boy came over to his great-grandmother.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pro Yiayá, I was being silly. I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Young Mattie said, staring at his trainers.

  Maria patted his shoulder and nodded.

  Voula brought raki; her answer to most problems. Everyone watched Papoú pour a half glass and then slide it towards Young Mattie.

  Angie recognised the importance of the gesture, a coming of age for the boy. She felt quite proud to witness the occasion. Papoú slammed his glass down and said, ‘Yammas!’ and Maria, Demitri, and Young Mattie did the same, his eyes flicking to Angie as he sat straight and sipped his drink.

  She smiled and threw him a wink, which made him grin. ‘I wondered if you could help me with my Greek, Mattie?’ she said.

  ‘You speak well, Aunty,’ he replied in perfect English.

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t understand many of the local words. Perhaps if I wrote the problematic ones down, you could translate them for me? When you have time, of course.’

  He nodded, sitting even taller.

  Demitri gave her a grateful smile and also sat straighter.

  Later, when the rest of the family arrived everyone gathered around the cracked marble table, tension between Stavro and Matthia escalated, flaring and dying over minutiae, each jibe stronger than the last. Angie fretted about Nick, their jobs, the damn woman intruding
on her home territory and perhaps encroaching on her future husband.

  As if that wasn’t enough, every time she looked at Maria, she remembered Matthia had disappeared from his hiding place. She imagined her grandmother’s torment and wanted to hear what had happened to the little boy.

  On top of everything, she wondered what Manoli had meant at the kafenion: because she was British they wouldn’t tell her the truth. What rubbish was that? She struggled to accept that blame for the local massacre lay at Britain’s door. But then again . . .

  Poor Maria, Angie thought.

  Until the appearance of the gun, Angie had accepted the war story as an emotional and tragic tale. Now she realised those past events lived with these people on a daily basis. Just seeing the monument on the ridge every day must bring the atrocities to mind again and again.

  Matthia and Demitri sat on the wall at the bottom of the garden having a heated discussion, occasionally glancing her way, their hands animated, angry voices subdued. Stavro looked over at them and frowned. Angie caught his eye. He glanced towards heaven and said, ‘Don’t worry; it’s not your fault.’

  What wasn’t her fault?

  Should she go over and talk to them? She stood.

  ‘Best leave it, Angelika,’ Stavro said.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Angie said, dismayed, her emotions welling dangerously close to the surface.

  ‘Matthia needs to vent his anger, he’ll be okay, let him get on with it.’

  What’s he angry about now?

  Suddenly, Angie recalled the letters from Stavro in the spare bedroom of Poppy’s house. Probably, she thought, Stavro knew Poppy better than anybody if they had kept in touch for so many years.

  ‘Uncle Stavro, I still don’t know why Mam left here, or what has made her so unhappy. I’ve organised for my fiancé to get Mam to videocall Yiayá, on my tablet later, so they can see each other and talk. Is there any reason why he shouldn’t do that? I don’t want to make matters worse.’

  Stavro frowned at her, then at the tablet, then at Yiayá. ‘You mean, live?’

  Angie nodded, trying to read his expression.