The Girl Under the Olive Tree

by Leah Fleming

  They drove back towards the city in silence until they found themselves behind a troop of marching soldiers waving German flags. ‘It’s von der Heydte’s men. They’re making for the square . . . Driver, follow them!’

  The last thing Penny wanted was to be travelling with a German officer through streets lined with silent onlookers. Everywhere the red, black and white flag was flying high. And now they were following the parade as if they were part of it.

  She wanted to shrink back into the seat, cover her face, make herself invisible, but all she could do was pull down her headdress as far over her forehead as she could. How she wished for her beloved cloak to hide her.

  The sound of marching feet grew louder as Yolanda reached the city square. Here, a crowd of wounded soldiers in green-grey uniforms lounged against café walls, filling the street with their cheering. It was impossible for her to cross the square without drawing attention to herself, and she found their numbers, their arrogance, everything they stood for, threatening. Everywhere the German flag fluttered in the breeze: from building windows and even the top of the minaret of the old mosque.

  She flattened herself against the wall of a ruined shop, edging round the gathering groups of curious bystanders. Then into the square marched a battalion of the scruffiest paratroopers, in that confident stride that only victors make. At their head was a tall man in shorts with a handkerchief round his head as a makeshift cap, his legs sunburned to toast-brown. He looked like a gypsy vagabond rather than their leader.

  Local officials in suits were stepping forward in some sort of surrender, but they looked puzzled by the commander who stood before them. If ever an insulting message was given, it was here, as the officer clicked his heels. He couldn’t be bothered to smarten up for the occasion. The city had fallen, and even the priests trying to make a ceremony of the defeat could not redeem this humiliation. Yolanda could not bear to watch as a parade of British prisoners marched slowly into view, their eyes dead with exhaustion and defeat. Behind them, trucks of wounded were followed by other German officers in open-topped cars in some victory cavalcade through the ruined wreckage of a once-proud city.

  Her eye caught one of the cars with a woman in familiar nurse’s uniform, staring ahead. It was the white headdress that stood out from all the camouflage and olive-grey uniforms. For a second the woman turned her head, staring at her. Yolanda almost stepped out into the road to get a closer look. No, surely not . . . it couldn’t be? She raced to keep up with the car just to be sure. She felt the sky spinning above her as she craned her neck, hoping against hope that she was seeing things. That woman with the Nazi in the car couldn’t be Penelope, her friend Penny, not after all they’d seen on the mainland? It was a mistake, she must have a double. But then she saw the nurse turn her head again. They locked eyes in one terrible glance of recognition.

  Slowly the staff car edged through the streets. Faces were staring at them coldly and Penny wished she could jump out, run away and hide. This was not how it was meant to be. Ashamed, she averted her eyes for a second and saw a face, an oh so familiar face among the crowd. A face she would’ve recognized anywhere; those pinched cheeks, that strong nose, black hair covered by a floral headscarf. Their eyes locked for a few seconds. It was without doubt Yolanda. Yolanda was alive, here in Chania, looking right into her eyes as if she had seen a ghost, but with a look not of joy of recognition but of utter disbelief and contempt. Penny went cold at the thought of what her once-dear friend might be thinking and there was nothing she could do. She must not blow her cover.

  Yolanda tried to keep pace with the car to make sure what she’d witnessed was real. There must be some mistake. No English nurse would fraternize with a German officer in such a public display of unity. It must be the heat and confusion of this awful day that was making her imagine things. But in her heart she knew immediately this was no mistake. It was Penelope, her friend. After all they’d been through together, how could she forget a friend’s face? Had her friend become the enemy too?

  Penny caught that second of instant recognition and amazement, and she had to tear her eyes away in case she shouted out and drew attention to them both. She forced herself to look forward and show no emotion. Unsmiling, trying not to shake, she struggled not to look back. Her mind was racing. Now it made sense. Yolanda’s parents had come to Crete to relatives. Why shouldn’t their only child follow them? And now, instead of a joyful reunion, Yolanda had looked at her as if she was a turncoat. What a mess, what a bloody mess!

  Yolanda fled from the noise and confusion through the back alleys that led to the Jewish quarter under the old city wall, avoiding the smouldering gaps and fallen debris at the top of Kondilaki Street, praying that the houses round Portou would be still standing. But to her horror Biet Shalom, the synagogue, and all around it had taken a direct hit.

  Smoke and dust blinded her path but she had to go on, to learn the worst. At first she could see no one. Then she saw faces looking out through cracked windows. The cobbled street was deserted, just dogs sniffing around for scraps. She gasped aloud in relief and joy to see Uncle Joseph’s house still standing, pockmarked by shrapnel, battered but upright. She rapped on the door and faces peered through the grill.

  ‘Yolanda, blessed be, she’s alive!’

  She was gathered into the house full of relatives and children, all hugging her as if to make sure she was real, all staring at her as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. Momma was crying and laughing with joy at the same time. ‘You came back to us. My child is spared.’

  Then the questions started. ‘Is it true, are the enemy at the door?’

  ‘They’re down in the square with the mayor. I heard he’s surrendered to save us from more bombs,’ she said, seeing the look of concern on their faces.

  ‘You came without an escort? God preserve us, four nights with no chaperone,’ said Aunt Miriam, bustling in to see who had arrived. ‘Who will marry her now? I will bring food, she looks so thin.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Yolanda said, but no one was listening. ‘You must save your supplies; half the shops are burned to the ground. Everywhere is the same.’

  Momma clung to her and Yolanda felt again that stifling concern for her every whim. Her clothes were laundered despite there being so little water. Over the next few hours, visitors came to see for themselves the miraculous return of the Markoses’ daughter.

  Five days later she sat at the Shabbat table, aware that she had been unable to step out of the door in all that time in case her mother collapsed again into weeping fits.

  Always at the back of her mind was the image of Penny in the German officer’s car. It was Penny. Had she been here for weeks and never made contact? But how would she know I was here? she reasoned. Unless she thinks I deserted my post, took the chance of a ship to Crete and escaped to be with my parents?

  That’s why she ignored me. Over and over she saw that strange look. Was Penny ashamed to know her, thinking her a deserter, as she was ashamed to recognize Penny as a traitor? How could she think such things of a friend? But then what was she doing in a German staff car? If there was to be any relief from this torment she just had to know the truth. She must find out more. If only they would let her leave the house alone . . .

  Six days after the surrender of the city, Yolanda received a visitor. Dr Androulakis stood in the street, having searched out where she was lodging. Miriam kept him outside, unsure of his intentions, but Yolanda rushed out to greet him with relief and brought him inside, where everyone stared at his eye patch.

  ‘When you didn’t return I thought the worst had happened,’ he explained, clutching his battered Panama hat.

  ‘As you can see, I am quite well. The family has been lucky but my mother has needed me. Mother, this is Dr Androulakis, one of our medical officers in the clinic. It was he who gave me permission to return home, but I have overstayed my leave.’ She silently gave him a pleading look to which he responded nobly.

  ‘We’re short-st
affed and Nurse Markos is our most experienced attendant. I don’t know how we would have coped without her. She is a constant example to the younger volunteers, who have much enthusiasm but little training—’

  It was Papa who stepped in to interrupt him, eyeing him with suspicion. ‘Yolanda is needed here.’

  ‘But, Papa, I am still under orders. I can’t just walk out.’

  ‘You have done your duty. Your place is in the home within this community.’

  Yolanda felt herself flushing with embarrassment. How could she argue with her father before a stranger, a Gentile? Andreas saw her distress and came to her aid.

  ‘I understand, sir, how important it is for you to have your daughter close to hand in such terrible times, but there are battles still raging outside the city. The British are holding a line close to Souda while their army is escaping over the mountains to the south coast. There are many wounded left behind who need our help.’

  ‘You have other nurses,’ Papa argued.

  ‘If they go, who will look after our people here? The General Hospital is flooded with injured. We need every nurse we can get. Miss Markos will train others to take their place.’

  ‘I have to go back, Papa, please.’

  When her father shook his head Andreas butted in: ‘Once the roads are clear and order is brought back, there will be no more bombing raids over our heads, sir. Your daughter will be free to return here.’

  Solomon raised his hands in protest. ‘But it’s important we all stay together. The rabbi fears we will all be registered as Hebrews and our addresses made known to the Germans. Who knows what will happen then? I thought Crete would be a safe haven but now we are prisoners twice over, once as Jews and then as islanders.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Miriam. ‘We have good Christian neighbours who will look after us.’

  Yolanda could read the fear and concern on their faces. Poor Papa had thought he was bringing them to safety. How cruel it had turned out.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that, sir,’ Andreas tried to reassure everyone. ‘The Cretans have always lived side by side with people of all nations. Your community is one of the oldest on the island, far older than even the Turks. At least now there will be law and order, however draconian. Nurse Markos will be safe, I will guarantee that personally.’

  ‘You mean well, young man, but you know nothing of how it can be for us. We have lived in Salonika and Athens. My daughter must stay among her community for her own safety and respect.’

  ‘Papa!’ Yolanda was furious. Her father was treating her like a child. ‘We will discuss this later and I will see Dr Androulakis to the door.’ She was shaking with disappointment. What must Andreas think of them? Papa was being blunt and discourteous. He had not even offered him a drink. She was ashamed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Andreas,’ she said as she led him to the door, ‘they are frightened for my reputation. My uncle is very traditional. He doesn’t like to see an unmarried woman working out of the home.’

  ‘I understand, but we do need you. I need you,’ he whispered, and she shivered with a flood of love for his honesty. ‘I have plans of my own. I hoped I could rely on you to achieve them.’

  ‘You’re leaving us?’ Her heart began to race at this unwelcome news.

  ‘Not exactly, but from time to time I may have to disappear up into the hills. There’s news of bands of stragglers prepared to hide out. Many have walked sixty miles over rocks with no shoes, others have died en route. They’ve been shot at, parched of water and starved of food, hidden in olive groves, flushed out. A fleeing army will not be a pretty sight. Hundreds of men didn’t make the beaches and were left to fend for themselves. They need our help.’

  ‘It sounds dangerous,’ Yolanda whispered, for she sensed her mother hovering in the passageway.

  ‘I can relax if I know you are back in the clinic supervising the volunteers. I may need to disappear at short notice with instruments. I won’t say any more. You, of all people, mustn’t be compromised.’

  ‘Yolanda! Has the doctor gone?’ Mother was shouting now.

  ‘Just one moment, Momma,’ Yolanda yelled back. Then to Andreas: ‘Give me a few more days to win them over.’

  Andreas gripped her hand with both of his and smiled. There was no need for words. Something precious passed between them in that lingering farewell. She shut the door behind him and sighed. Nothing and no one was going to stop her going back now.

  Galatas Beach, 2001

  It was a glorious sunset on Galatas beach, the sun sliding down into the sea like a ball of flame. We parked on the busy main road from Chania, walking down steps past a little taverna and onto the sand. I’d forgotten where the turning was into the old hospital barracks, but there was now a campsite in the trees, and far in the distance a small white chapel. Perhaps it had always been there and I had forgotten. The caves were exactly as I recalled them and just as uninviting.

  Lois wanted Alex to take photos, but I was reluctant to be a tourist here. How could I explain that you don’t take snapshots in a cemetery. I wanted to remember it as it once was. Now it was just a sandy beach like many other suntraps. The view to Theodori island was unchanged and there were no reminders left now of how this place had once been, only the landscape.

  I’d been dreading this return and wanted to get it over with so we could enjoy the rest of the holiday without sombre reminders. It was throwing up images and flashbacks of scenes I’d tried to keep buried all of my life.

  It was a vision of hell in those final days. That terrible unexpected encounter in the street . . . I could feel my pulse racing.

  ‘I need a stiff drink,’ I announced, but Lois ignored my plea, taking my hand.

  ‘Just come over here and see the carpet of flowers clinging to the rocks, all the colours of the rainbow. You’ll know their names; I’m hopeless.’

  There were flowers and poppies of every hue, white mallows, silver stachys, yellow euphorbias, purple sea holly and tiny rock roses. How strange that so many of my own herbaceous perennials from the garden at Stokencourt were growing wild, unfettered, on this very spot, and I’d never known they were here. Who had time to notice such things in an air raid?

  The sea was the colour of expensive jade, the mountains still snow-capped, even at the end of May.

  ‘Just give me a minute,’ I said, walking away from them for privacy.

  Alex was bored. There was nothing for him on this deserted beach. He couldn’t see what I was seeing: those German troops laying posts and fixing wire, turning my hospital into one vast cage for the captured soldiers brought in after the surrender in Chania. There were guard towers just like the ones you see in war films. It was a camp with few facilities left standing, a few tattered tents and marquees, poor latrines and slit trenches, battered chairs and utensils scattered on the sand. How many wounded soldiers lost the will to live corralled into this bug-ridden space already full of dirt and disease?

  Deserting my patients was one of the bleakest moments of my life. Other, far worse, things happened later but never did I feel so alone. Now I was reliving the anguish of having to relinquish my post, leaving the weakened men to the tender mercies of an indifferent army bent on revenge for their own losses. I had my own problems. There were decisions to make about my own future and pressure was coming from an unlikely source.

  I thought again of the officer, my German patient, my rescuer – how that time haunts my mind like old wartime music. It was here I thought to give him the slip, but he had other ideas.

  Chania Harbour, 2001

  The Limani Ouzeria was a good spot for watching the world go by. It was early Friday night and families were out, enjoying a stroll round the harbour. One by one the lights flickered on in the cafés and restaurants, and the touts were out with their menus, trying to attract tourists inside with their smooth patter.

  This place suited Rainer well, overlooking the old Firkas Turkish fortress, now the Naval Museum. A place he had no desire to
revisit.

  Most of the old harbour houses had been rebuilt over the years. There were bars and gift shops. One or two were still crumbling ruins in need of repair, like bad teeth in need of filling, but that somehow added to the charm and character. He’d just browsed in the harbour bookshop, which had a good selection of novels and maps in English, German and French, and bought a detailed map of northwest Crete to refresh his memory and plan his next trip out into the mountains. His memory for place names often failed him these days, but there were one or two here that were etched into his brain: Kondomari, Kandanos, Alikianos. Who could ever forget what had gone on there?

  He sipped his ouzo, watching the water clouding into the spirit, tasting a plate of meze: squid, tiropita, sausage, cheese balls.

  Chania was now a bustling tourist destination, a vibrant city full of life. The local families walking past him were well dressed, pushing prams, old yiayias clustered round tables in their widow’s weeds, hair dyed all hues, laughing and shouting as only the Greeks can.

  He had chosen this place for old times’ sake, and as he turned to look into the dark recesses of the tavern, ancient men were busy playing backgammon, smoking, arguing, entirely unaware of him. How many of these old men had fought and suffered in the old days? How many would shake his hand now if they knew?

  The swift-filled sky was noisy with their screeching as darkness descended and the young of all nations came out in their finery: African students, lean-limbed, selling fake CDs; Asian girls with trays of trinkets; Roma children pushing roses onto the unwary; American military from the NATO base, out on the town in baggy shorts and baseball caps. There were Scandinavian girls of such beauty, white-haired and leggy in sundresses, and his fellow countrymen with cameras and portly wives. How different it all was from the last time he was here, this pulsating mass of humanity smelling of aftersun, all mixed together.