by Leah Fleming
The ship shuddered, throwing him onto the deck railings, nearly somersaulting him into the murky black water beneath. Rainer scrambled to retain some dignity as Penelope watched, and for a second their eyes locked, and the corner of her lips twitched with amusement. It was in that brief softening, like sun blotting out the shadows, that he knew he was lost for ever.
The survivors of the Tanais shuffled off the ship, lining up to state their name and numbers and transit plans. There were no prisoners evident.
When it was Penelope’s turn, Rainer stepped forward in front of her. ‘You’ll not find her name on the list. She was a last-minute addition, drafted under the Red Cross, not an official passenger, and I would like to commend Nurse Georgiou for her bravery. Without her prompt attention some of these survivors would not have made it here. She has treated them despite injury to herself. As she is Red Cross, she must be billeted back in hospital as soon as possible.’
‘And you are?’ the official looked up.
‘Major Brecht. First Paratroop Division, late intelligence in Chania. En route for the front after two weeks’ leave.’ He saluted, clicking his heels even though he was barefoot.
‘Kyria, is this correct?’
‘Apparently, the major knows my history better than I do,’ Penny said, staring at Brecht in surprise. ‘I can tell my own story, thank you. I want to report that hundreds of prisoners were locked in the ship’s hold, unable to be released when we were torpedoed. It must be reported to the highest level . . .’
‘Yes, yes, leave that to further enquiries. I take it you have no identification now? You must be registered at once. Next!’
Penelope stepped aside, uncertain where to go next, but she paused. ‘Don’t think I’m ungrateful that you helped me stay afloat or that your sending me on deck when you did saved my life, Major, but I can take care of myself now.’
‘Really? You have no papers, no money, no clothes, not even a pair of shoes. Please let me assist you. After all, you did that for me once,’ he said in halting English.
‘I did my duty, no more, no less,’ she snapped.
‘Then please allow me to take you for something to eat. You have eaten nothing for days, I suspect.’
‘Whose fault is that?’
‘I am not to blame for decisions my superiors made to put you in that truck or arrest you. Not all of us are animals.’
‘You stood by and did nothing. You let it happen. I saw you there.’
‘I am not standing by to watch you starve now, or be worked to death in some slave camp. That’s something I can do for you. Don’t be too proud to refuse help when it is offered sincerely.’
‘I know what officers expect from starving girls; I’ve treated enough of them,’ she said, but he was not willing to back off now. This was a battle of wills.
‘Why do you throw everything back in my face?’
‘Because of what you are wearing and all that I have seen done in its name,’ she spat, staring at his tattered uniform with contempt.
‘So if I were in civilian clothes, would you treat me any better?’
‘I don’t know,’ she answered after a pause, not looking at him. He could see she was hesitating, almost faint with exhaustion and hunger. He pressed home his advantage.
‘Then we go into the city and buy one dress for you and one shirt for me. Don’t look a horse’s gift in the mouth.’
The sun lit up her face as she smiled. ‘It is “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Am I really free to go?’ she asked, her dark eyes burning into his.
‘As far as I know you are a Greek Red Cross nurse from Athens. That is all that is necessary to know, but you must have papers.’
She brushed her hands into the air. ‘Papers, papers, why can’t we exist without wretched papers and numbers?’
‘Bureaucracy, I’m afraid, a good Greek word.’
‘Democracy is a better one,’ she argued as they limped slowly along the rubbled street, trying not to wince. Rainer felt a spring in his step for the first time in years.
Souda, 2001
After the memorial ceremony was over, Rainer found the fish restaurant, recommended by the hotel receptionist, close to the port in Souda. It was filling up with veterans and their families, but he was given a table on the roadside. The selection on display for him to view in the kitchen was mouth-watering. He waited, sipping his Mythos, glad of a seat. His old wound was aching again.
The English widow had reminded him of Penelope. Why were all his memories of this island suffused with glimpses of that nurse? Was he still searching for her after all these years, still pretending he’d meant anything to her? Had she used him, humoured him, deceived him? And yet . . .
He was old now, no longer so aroused by romantic feelings. Only the music of Bach, Mozart, Chopin and Schubert touched the soul of him. He lived a quiet life of the mind, reading, fishing. His hunting days were long over. When his wife, Marianne, died, he’d learned to live alone, cook for himself and not be a nuisance to his children.
It was with his two grandchildren that he was recapturing his youthful spirit, watching their football and tennis matches with pride. It was good to see them grow up with freedoms he’d never known.
They didn’t carry the same burden of guilt he’d noticed in his own boys for all that was done by his generation. He had never shared his wartime experience with them because they’d never asked about it. He was longing to see Joachim and Irmelie again. He must take them some presents now his thoughts were turning to home; perhaps a good sign. It would soon be time to leave for Athens but not before he made his own private reparations. There was something in his suitcase that must be returned, but quite where it would find a resting place he wasn’t sure. He had kept it far too long. Time to let go of the past and find some peace for himself.
2001
I spent a sleepless night listening to the owl whooping in the olive grove, the dogs barking in the village, waiting for the cock to crow. My mind was racing with the knowledge that someone alive remembered Bruce.
I tried to recall the names of all the Cretan friends who’d sheltered us. Ike and Nikos, Tassi and Stella; Yolanda’s husband, Andreas, but for the life of me I couldn’t recall his second name. Had he remarried and had children? Where would I start with so little time left before we flew home?
That posy was a woman’s touch. Had Bruce found a woman in the hills to comfort him? He’d not be the first to go native. There was so much I didn’t know but I wasn’t leaving Chania until I found out who had placed the flowers on his gravestone. There would be enough people still alive from that time who knew the truth.
As dawn broke I was making lists in my head of ideas to follow up. The island was full of visiting veterans, evaders, escapees. Why not catch them before they left for home? I’d need to know where they were billeted, but Mack would have his ear to the ground about that. There would be Crete veterans’ associations who might help in the search. Lois would help me drive around tomorrow and find out more.
More than that was the shame I felt in neglecting Bruce’s memory. I wanted to thank whoever it was for tending his memory far more than I had done. Perhaps it was time to leave a legacy here in his name, a scholarship fund. I wondered why I had left it so late in the day. I hoped I’d not left it too late.
Lois drove me to the resort village of Platanias, close to the beach where the tent hospital had been erected and the battle for Galatas village. The olive groves had shrunk away from the sea; villas and hotels were springing up, taking advantage of the view over the bay. Many of the veterans might already have left so the chance of making contact with someone who knew Bruce was slim.
Over breakfast I’d tried to explain to Lois what happened and how I needed to find out more about the person who had left the flowers. As I thought, the veteran party had left, not for the airport, but a day trip to Lake Kournas, and were not expected back until late.
Victoria, the resort receptionist, was concerned
that my visit was proving fruitless. I told her a little of my mission and its urgency. She smiled, offering her own idea. ‘If your friend was in the Resistance, you should contact the Cretan Resistance Association. They will have tales to tell you. My grandfather was a partisan – if you like, I can contact him.’ She asked the name.
‘Bruce Jardine,’ I replied. ‘But no, they would only know him as Panayotis, his cover name.’
‘That’s easy to remember, it’s my boyfriend’s name,’ she smiled, taking down contact details, promising to get back to me if there was anything useful.
We drove back and I must have looked as exhausted as I felt.
‘Siesta, now,’ Lois ordered. ‘You need to rest.’
I had no energy left to protest when we got back to the villa.
Alex was excited at the latest mission. ‘Are we going to find Aunt Pen’s boyfriend?’ Lois shooed him outside to the pool.
‘Bruce was always your special one,’ Lois said. ‘I thought Adam was mine but things change.’
‘They do indeed,’ I sighed. ‘At least you lived with him, found out what he was really like. We never had that luxury. Our love affair was never earthed in the physical way. It was fuelled by danger and separation but we never actually . . .’ I paused, flushing. ‘I never really knew what he thought of me.’
‘But you never looked at another man? We often wondered . . .’ It was Lois’s turn to hesitate.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Things were complicated then but I had my moments.’
‘Tell me more,’ Lois said.
‘Certainly not! Bruce was my first love and you know the saying, first love leaves the longest scar. I had no idea he was buried here. Isn’t that awful? Once I knew he was gone, I just shut the pain of it out of my life. Now I feel ashamed. I saw all those widows and orphans, read what they put on their crosses yesterday. I was so cold and cut off, just like my mother when Papa died.’
‘But you went on to do sterling work, devoting your life to caring for others, all that teaching work in Africa. You should be proud.’
I leaned back in my chair, uncomfortable with compliments I didn’t deserve. ‘Don’t think I wouldn’t have given up some of it gladly to have a family, children and a home of my own.’
‘But you have family, children and grandchildren; we are your family. You’re the nearest thing I’ve had to a proper granny, but we never think of our parents and grandparents having lovers and dreams and disappointments like our own.’
I reached out for Lois’s hand. ‘You’ve had a rough two years but I think you’re coming out of that dark tunnel?’
She blushed. ‘Actually, Mack’s asked me if I’d like to return later before the season ends for a bit of a break. He’s coming back to England then, planning a travel book: Crete by Car, Cycle or Foot.’ She smiled. ‘I have to admit this holiday’s gone rather better than I thought.’
‘I like Mack. He strikes me as genuine. You do right to seize the moments that spring out of nowhere. I’d like to see you settled again.’
‘Oh, not yet. I don’t want Alex involved.’
‘Come on, he’s got his own life to lead, school. Blink, and he’ll be off to college. Follow your heart in this, Lois. Don’t shut yourself off like I’ve done.’
‘I’ll try. It’s good to share all this but it feels like beginning all over again.’ She paused for a deep breath. ‘I know you’re not telling me everything, but I hope coming back has helped you.’
‘It will when I find out what I’m looking for. I feel it’s just out of reach, round the corner, very close, waiting for me. Oh, listen to this romantic tosh! Everything we’ve done here’s prepared me for this moment. I’m getting excited, and at my age it’s good to have something to look forward to.’
I wasn’t lying. I could feel a bubbling up of hope. The odds might be stacked against finding someone who didn’t want to be found, but it was a small island and people talk and remember. Tomorrow I was going on another private pilgrimage, something I’d been dreading but must be done, and it would be a private visit. Now I had seen Bruce’s resting place, I needed to find Yolanda’s.
Mid-morning, the door to Etz Hayyim synagogue was open. The bustling of Kondilaki Street hadn’t begun yet but it was already hot and I was glad to come into the enclosed courtyard, with its palm trees and pergola of shade, just to sit for a while.
Truth be told, I’d never been in a synagogue before. I don’t do churches any more, but the moment I stepped into the little oasis of green and calm, I felt the quiet and the peace of a house of worship restored from rubble and ruin, brought back into the life of the Chania community.
I felt a link back to those old days when the houses around teamed with noise and bustle, preparations for the Sabbath, the smell of the bread ovens. I recalled sitting at supper with the Markos family and their relations, sensing the tension in poor Yolanda in being expected to marry within her faith, her secret love for Andreas, that wedding party in the hills and that last visit I made to her parents. It all came flooding back.
I knew their fate only too well. I was there, I saw them drown, locked in the hold. I will never forget that sight for the rest of my life. I bore witness to a Red Cross official but never heard anything more about an inquiry. If there was one, I was never called. I was on no one’s list; as far as the world was concerned I was never there.
A surge of sadness washed over me.
A young man came to welcome me from the office. ‘Shalom, do feel free to look around.’ I felt curiously reluctant to go inside, but I wandered through the porch and saw how it was now a simple house of prayer. The young American guided me through its history, from a Venetian church given to the Jews by the Turks during their occupation. I sat down. ‘I just want to remember my friends who lived here before . . .’
‘You knew people before the war? Please, come when you’re ready, I’ll make us coffee. We want to know anything we can about those times. There are so few left, and of course none of them returned. Who was your friend?’
‘We nursed together in Athens and here for a while. She was my dear friend.’ It was hard to speak about her without crying and usually I am not one to break down in front of strangers. ‘I have come to pay my respects to her family.’
‘We do have a list of all those taken that night, and others,’ he offered, but I was not sure I wanted to face the enormity of a long list. Yet I knew it was my duty to the lost community to face who they all were in life.
‘The rabbi had to register all the names of the Jewish residents, their place of birth, ages, occupation and dependants.’ My guide brought out a booklet in which were pages and pages of names.
I scrolled down, marvelling at the detail, putting faces to some of them: Alegra, Soultana, Iosif, Miriam . . . My hands were trembling, my finger shaking as I came to the ones I dreaded most. It was then I noticed Yolanda’s name separate from the others.
‘Why is she not with her family?’ I asked.
‘Because she wasn’t there on the night of the roundup,’ he replied. ‘She married a Christian and they hid her. The Nazis never found her . . .’
I did not hear the rest as one glorious thought overwhelmed me. She was never on the ship . . . Yolanda lived.
‘Yes, but wait . . .’ he called after me as I fled. ‘Your name would be so useful to us.’
I sped out into the little alleyway and down the busy street. Yolanda survived. Was she still here on the island after all this time?
June 1944
Yolanda woke, back on the mattress in the hospital basement. The dream had been so real: all those figures looting the houses, carrying away pots and chairs in their handcarts, shouting and laughing to each other, ransacking what had already been ransacked. The pain in her back had turned to agony, there was a rumble of wheels of a cart and the touch of a stranger holding her hand. It was a nightmare she didn’t want to recall, but then she felt the cotton shift of a hospital gown, the mattress was upended with
books so her feet were raised, and she felt raw and sore inside. Her tongue was rough and there was a stench of ether on her pillow. Only then, as she came to her full senses, did she realize the nightmare was real.
Slowly she slid her hands down her stomach, feeling for the quickening of life. There was nothing but an emptiness, an aching void and wadding between her legs.
‘Lie back, Yolanda, rest,’ a voice said and she saw old Dr Frankakis peering down at her. ‘It all came away. We had to stop infection. I’m sorry.’
‘My baby, where is my baby?’ she mouthed without hope.
‘He was too small to live, it was too soon, the shock brought on the miscarriage.’
She turned her face from him. ‘I thought it was just a dream. How did I get here? I was down looking for my . . .’
‘We know, and you were lucky not to be denounced. Thank God some people still have the decency to protect their neighbours. You were hidden until dark and brought up here hidden in a cart. They saved your life.’
Yolanda tried to rise up. ‘I have to find my parents.’
‘They’re all gone, along with the captured partisans. We’ve heard to Heraklion and by ship. You’ve lost a lot of blood and we’ve not got a match for you so you must rest here and build up your strength.’
‘Is there news of Andreas?’
Frankakis shook his head. ‘Sadly no, but that is good news. Bad travels faster than the wind. Now rest. It is the best cure.’
How could she rest when everyone she loved was lost to her: Andreas, the baby, her parents and their heritage? What was the point of being alive when there was no future?
She felt the tingle of breast milk spilling across her bandaged chest. They were taking away the baby’s food, stopping the flow to ease her pains, but nothing would ease the ache in her heart. How could she recover from such a body blow?