Hearts of Stone

by Scarrow, Simon

  Anna had to smile. She had seen her grandmother only a month before on a visit to her mother’s home in Norwich and Eleni’s mind had been as pin sharp as ever, even if her body was stick thin and she only ventured to the post office once a week to claim her war widow’s pension. Yes, she was of sound mind, and sharp-tongued too. Anna smiled as she recalled Eleni addressing her sternly, telling her that she should get on and marry someone. Life was too short, she insisted, stabbing her bony finger as she spoke with a pronounced Greek accent. Eleni was compos mentis all right, but that was not the true difficulty in any interview that the German student might have in mind. Anna reached for the keyboard again.

  > My grandmother is sound of mind. But I doubt she would be interested. From what she has told me of her youth in Greece I suspect that she would not take kindly to a German asking her to relive it. I don’t think I can help you.

  > I am sorry to hear that. But think it over, please. If Eleni is unwilling to grant an interview then perhaps I could interview your mother or yourself concerning what you, or she, may know? I am in London next month. Could we meet and discuss this? I could explain my project in more detail. I am sure it would interest you.

  Anna shook her head. Despite the politely formal tone of his request she knew next to nothing about this Dieter Muller. But something made her hesitate. It would be interesting to know more about her grandmother’s background . . . Then she glanced up and saw the worksheets that needed marking. There were twenty-five minutes of lunch break left. If she worked quickly they could be dealt with and she would not have to take work home. Her fingers tapped quickly.

  > Sorry, can’t help you.

  Then, feeling that such a brusque dismissal was a poor-spirited response to the German student, she added a few more words.

  > I’m sure it is a very interesting project, but I have no time to spare to help you right now. Good luck with your research, Dieter.

  There was a short pause and then the message ‘Dieter is typing’ appeared in the message box.

  > I understand. If you change your mind then I give you my email: dietermuller3487@hotmail.com. Let me know. Best wishes, Dieter.

  For a moment Anna felt tempted to continue the exchange and offer one last message, but then she glanced at the worksheets again and made herself close down the Facebook screen and log off from the computer. She pushed the keyboard back towards the flat-screen monitor, slid the paper in front of her and reached for a green pen to begin marking the first worksheet. As she worked through the student’s responses Anna could not put aside the messages from the German and wondered precisely what it was about her grandmother that had provoked him to track her down. It had to be something significant. Something important. Something that Anna felt that she needed to know for herself.

  Chapter Three

  Anna woke early the next morning. She blinked her eyes open and automatically glanced at the clock on the bedside table. The dull yellow display told her that it was only six fifteen. Still half an hour before the alarm went off. The heating had not yet come on and there was a bite to the air in the room so she wriggled down a little further under the duvet. Anna recalled that there was still a new scheme of work for year seven that needed completing. Steeling herself, she slid out of the bed.

  Pulling on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and her dressing gown, Anna slipped her feet into her slippers and padded across the landing to the small second bedroom that she used as a study and sat down at the desk. She had left her notes out in front of her computer keyboard the previous night so that they would not be overlooked and now reached for a pen. Then she paused, staring at the blank monitor as she rolled the pen slowly between her thumb and forefinger. She set it down and tapped the keyboard.

  At once the computer stirred from its sleep mode as it whirred from beneath the desk and after a few moments the monitor flicked into life. Anna logged into Facebook and opened the exchange of messages between herself and Dieter Muller. She read through them once again, and then reflected on the prospect of finding out something about her family’s history. There were times when she felt that the subject she taught neglected the history of the vast majority of people. Untold numbers of remarkable experiences had been lost forever because ordinary people were overlooked and their memories went unrecorded. Perhaps she could do her bit to resist that process. She might discover something about the experiences of her grandmother during the Second World War. A story that would be worth recording and handing down to succeeding generations. Maybe it was even something she could use to inspire her students, to make them realise that everyone plays a part in the making of history.

  Even though she had the German’s email address Anna decided not to use it. She wasn’t ready to establish that line of communication yet. Better to use Facebook messaging. So she leaned forward and typed.

  > I apologise if I seemed rude yesterday. But your approach was a bit out of the blue, as we say here. Now that I’ve had a chance to think it over I would like to know more about your project. If you have any free time during your visit to London we could meet for a drink or a meal. I finish teaching on the 16th. So any time between then and the 23rd December would be good for me. Let me know if that suits you.

  She sent the message and then stared at the screen for a few moments but there was no sign that any reply was being prepared. With a sigh Anna picked up her pen again and returned to her work, keeping half an eye on the screen. There was no response by the time she had finished the scheme of work.

  In contrast to the swift exchange of messages on the first day that the German had got in touch, there was no reply from him that day, or the following week. Nor the week after that. She felt disappointed at first, then gradually it began to slip her mind as the term dragged on towards Christmas. Besides, she felt it beneath her dignity to send any follow-up message and decided that he must have given up on her, that it was just one of those brief flurries of communication that typified the social media.

  Anna resolved to forget the matter entirely and concentrate on school life. Classes came and went. Jamie Gould was interviewed by the head of year about his poor attitude and the school’s big musical production careered towards the grand opening night when the hall filled with dutiful parents and members of staff coerced into attending. After joining in the applause and then lingering to speak to some of the parents, Anna went to collect her belongings and head home.

  The staffroom was empty, and she hurried through to the workroom to pick up her bag and the coat hanging over the back of the chair. The computer was still on and she went to close it down, hesitated, and logged into Facebook. There was a message waiting for her, from Dieter Muller. She quickly clicked on it.

  > Apologies for the delay in replying to your message. I have been in Greece doing research. I am delighted to hear you will see me. Next week I am in London. Can meet you for lunch on Tuesday? I will pay of course. Shall we say one o’clock at Le Grand restaurant on Baker Street? Let me know if this is possible, soonest. Thank you. And best wishes.

  Anna sat still for a moment, then reached for the keyboard and typed quickly.

  > All right. I’ll be there.

  The streets of London were packed when Anna stepped out of Charing Cross station a few days later. To the left the usual crowd of sightseers visiting Trafalgar Square milled around street performers. The Christmas lights hung across the traffic like a latticework of stars glinting in the frosty air. The schools had broken up the previous Friday and hoards of children accompanied their parents as they bought the last of their presents.

  Anna was genuinely curious to discover why Dieter had said she would be interested in his research project. If it could shed some light on her grandmother’s past then it would be worthwhile. Eleni rarely spoke about her childhood to Anna, and mentioned little of what she had experienced during the war. Anna had asked her mother the reason for this reticence but she knew only the bare details from relatives from that side of the family.


  The Greeks had suffered greatly from the German and Italian occupation of their country. In Athens alone over three hundred thousand people had starved to death. Conditions had not been much better in the countryside. Although there was more food to go around, the bitter conflict between the partisans, the andartes, and the fascists had led to reprisals in which tens of thousands of Greeks had been shot out of hand, and their villages razed to the ground. Eleni had been brought up on the Ionian island of Lefkas which, as far as Anna knew, had suffered least under the occupation. Perhaps Dieter Muller would be able to tell her something about that, as well as the period he was investigating, the years before the war when his countrymen had been more interested in digging up the past than crushing those who lived in the present.

  As soon as the comparison had entered her mind, Anna felt a twinge of guilt. Remembering the war seemed to be something of a national obsession in Britain. The endless documentaries on television, and re-runs of Dad’s Army, ’Allo, ’Allo and Goodnight Sweetheart, and the shelves of Waterstones heaving with books about the war. Not to mention all the computer games she occasionally heard the boys talking about at school, and the childish headlines and images in the tabloid newspapers every time the England football team played Germany. It was over seventy years ago that the war had begun, yet it had lingered first as an open wound in the minds of those who had endured it, then an object of fascination for the following generations, and finally entertainment.

  Anna knew that it was different in Germany. She had been to Berlin on a school trip and seen for herself the shrines to their national sense of guilt: the holocaust memorial and the museum detailing, with appalling frankness, the murderous barbarity of the Gestapo and the SS. Sometimes, the burden of the past weighed heavily on Anna and reminded her why she had become a history teacher. There was a duty to remember, to learn from the past, if only to better understand the present. And yet, in Britain there was an alarming tendency to trivialise the catastrophe that had ripped the heart out of the middle of the twentieth century and still scarred the dwindling numbers of those who had lived through it.

  Her thoughts preoccupied her so much that she had already turned off Oxford Street and was heading north to Baker Street before she was aware of it. Glancing at her watch she saw that it had just gone half past twelve and nodded with satisfaction. She would reach the restaurant first and try to identify Dieter before he saw her. She had the advantage of knowing what he looked like and would get a first impression before they introduced themselves. It was an old habit that went back to her first dates when she wanted to see the boys as they were before they put on the mask they hoped to impress her with. Mind you, she reflected, it was more than likely he would recognise her too; there was so little privacy these days, thanks to the internet. But this was hardly a date, she reminded herself. Just a quick meeting with someone who wanted to share some information that might shed a light on her family history. Something interesting. That was all there was to it.

  She found the restaurant a short distance down the street. It had a small entrance with a large window to the side. A pair of printed linen curtains framed a display of baskets containing bread, onions, cheese and hams, with a large green jar of wine set to the side. Beyond the window Anna could see tables stretching back inside the restaurant, most of which had been taken by diners. That was good, she decided. Much less chance of standing out when Dieter arrived. Anna pushed open the door and entered. She was confronted by a bar at the end of a long counter. A dark-shirted woman with blond hair looked up from the till and smiled a greeting.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Yes, I believe a table has been booked by a Mr Muller. I’m joining him for lunch.’

  The waitress glanced down at the sheet beside the till and nodded. ‘Please follow me.’

  She led Anna towards the rear of the restaurant, between two lines of tables, and her heart gave a little skip as she saw a man looking up from a table where he sat alone. Dieter had reached the restaurant first, and had been there some time, judging by the notebooks in front of him and a near empty glass of wine. Hurriedly closing his notebooks and shoving them in a small rucksack beside his chair, the German rose to his feet and offered his hand as Anna approached.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Miss Thesskoudis.’ He spoke her name slowly and carefully, in an accent that sounded vaguely American as much as German.

  ‘That is right? Thesskoudis? I was not certain. Your mother is called Hardy-Thesskoudis, and your grandmother is Mrs Carson, I believe?’

  ‘Yes,’ Anna smiled. ‘When my grandfather died she reverted to her Greek name, as did my mother. Until she married and took my father’s name as well – at least until they divorced. I changed mine to Thesskoudis after he left us.’

  The German blinked. ‘I see . . .’

  Anna laughed as she shook his hand, noting that it was warm to the touch and that he wore three ornate silver rings, the kind of jewellery she associated with art students.

  ‘I think you’d better stick with Anna. Much easier to deal with.’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ He grinned. ‘And you call me Dieter, please.’

  He gestured to the high-backed chair on the other side of the table and the waitress reached out. ‘Can I take your coat?’

  Anna nodded and slipped it off, and then sat down and made herself comfortable as Dieter resumed his seat. He raised an eyebrow enquiringly. ‘A drink before we start?’

  ‘A glass of dry white wine, thank you.’

  ‘The same for me,’ Dieter added.

  The waitress turned away and there was a brief, awkward silence before Anna smiled. ‘You look a little different to your photo on the university website.’

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘Your hair is a little longer, and there was a stud.’

  He self-consciously reached up to the ying-yang symbol hanging from his right lobe and then shrugged. ‘The university prefers the graduate students to look professional for the public.’

  Anna could not help a chuckle. ‘Same with my school. You’d think from our handbook that every child came to school in a spotless new blazer and was permanently ecstatic at the prospect of another day’s education.’

  He considered this for a moment and pursed his lips. ‘The ecstasy is optional in German educational institutions.’ Then, realising what he had said, he laughed. ‘I mean to say, the happiness, not the drug.’

  ‘I guessed.’ Anna felt herself warm to him and the initial strain of the introduction abated a little. She folded her hands on the table. ‘So, you’re studying for a doctorate in history?’

  It was a clumsy attempt to steer him towards the purpose of his meeting and Anna winced inwardly as he replied.

  ‘Archaeology. Rather than history.’

  ‘A similar discipline, I would have thought.’

  He looked surprised for a moment and tilted his head to one side. ‘I suppose the link is close enough. There are many routes to understanding the past. You have an interest in history?’

  ‘I teach it. At school. The Ashthorpe Victory Academy.’

  ‘An academy? It sounds impressive.’

  ‘Less so, if you understood our education system. Basically it’s a rebranded comprehensive school. No big deal. But I love teaching my subject. So, yes, I have a professional interest in history.’

  ‘Good. Very good. Then we share an interest in the past. So, I’d better tell you why I have asked to meet you.’

  Anna smiled encouragingly.

  Dieter sat back and collected his thoughts. ‘I am not the first archaeologist in my family. My great-grandfather was the first. A noted man in the field, back in the nineteen thirties. He was one of the best students of Professor Dörpfeld.’ He spoke the name as if Anna should have heard of it. ‘He in turn was an admirer of Schliemann, who discovered Troy. Like Schliemann, the professor was a passionate reader of Homer, and he wanted to continue Schliemann’s work. No. He wanted to achieve something greater. He wan
ted to find the palace and tomb of Odysseus, the hero of Homer’s second great work. You know the Odyssey?’

  ‘I’ve read some of it, when I was at school.’

  ‘Then you will know that after the war with Troy was over, Odysseus wandered for many years before he returned to his kingdom of Ithica. At least that is the story that Homer tells. In truth, his return was probably without so much incident. He, and his men, came back from the war, their ships laden with spoils from Troy. Treasures that he would have kept in his palace. That was what Dörpfeld believed and he led an expedition to Ithica to search for the remains of the palace of Odysseus.

  ‘He and his followers, my great-grandfather amongst them, searched Ithica for years, finding few ancient remains, never anything large enough to be the palace of a king. So he considered the possibility that the ancient sources might not provide enough information. Ithica is a small island. If it had a king then it is possible that his realm extended to other islands nearby. So, my great-grandfather, Karl Muller, was sent to carry out excavations on Lefkas, while another colleague searched on Kefalonia.’ Dieter raised his hands. ‘It was, as the phrase goes, a long shot, but Karl accepted the challenge. I think, maybe, he hoped he would find something that would make his own reputation. I have his diaries of those years. His diaries, his notebooks and his photographs.’

  ‘And did he discover anything?’

  Dieter hesitated an instant. ‘Not really. No. Just the remains of a large building. There was never enough evidence to identify it as the palace of Odysseus.’

  ‘Oh.’ Anna could not hide her disappointment. ‘What a shame. So what’s your interest? Do you hope to continue where he left off?’

  The German smiled. ‘Nothing like that. No. There’s barely any trace left of the excavations. Just fragments. My interest is more, ah, ethnographic. I want to provide an account of the relationship between my great-grandfather’s team and the local people at the time. My research is a comparative study between invasive and sympathetic archaeological methodology with respect to indigenous populations.’