Anna closed the door behind her mother and returned to the dining room where Eleni was already settled in her armchair beside the window. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, the sun had already dipped below the roofline of the houses backing on to their garden and the room was bisected horizontally by the glow of the sun high up on the walls, while the rest was in shadow. The room felt cool and Anna gestured towards the fan heater.
‘Would you like that on?’
Eleni nodded. ‘I feel the cold more and more.’
The heater hummed in the background as they faced each other each side of the low table. Anna was not certain how to begin the conversation. There was a short silence before Eleni spoke.
‘You want to know about my childhood? You have not asked me about it before. Why now?’
‘I never felt comfortable about it. Mother said that times were difficult and that it would only upset you.’
‘Marita worries too much. I am old. All I have is memories. If I do not use them then what is left to me? It is true that the old times were . . . difficult. But it was not always so. Before the fascists came, life was good. We did not live as comfortably as you do, but we had enough to make us happy.
‘Your father was a police inspector, I think.’
Eleni nodded. ‘A fine man. Strong and respected by all. But you know this.’
‘Mother told me. But not much else. For example, I never knew if you had any friends.’
‘I played with the other children in my school. I counted some as friends.’
‘And were there any others? After you left school?’
Eleni hesitated. ‘A few. Why do you ask me this?’
Anna chewed her lip and then took out her mobile phone. ‘I think it’s simpler if I show you something.’
She tapped the screen and then, warily, rose from her chair and knelt down beside her grandmother, offering her the device.
‘I can’t see this,’ the old woman complained. ‘I need my glasses. Over there, by the bed.’
Anna fetched them and her grandmother fumbled to get them on, balancing the middle over the bridge of her long nose. She picked up the phone again and stared at the screen, and gave a sharp gasp.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘It’s a picture someone sent me. An historian. He said it would be of interest. That’s you, isn’t it, Yiayia?’
She watched the rigid expression on the old woman’s face and then saw the corners of her mouth begin to tremble.
‘How is this possible?’ Eleni demanded quietly. ‘How? Tell me.’
‘As I said. It was sent to me.’
Eleni stared at the image and then thrust the phone back towards her granddaughter. ‘No. It’s a trick. Who would do a thing like this?’
She was trembling now and Anna felt alarmed by her reaction. ‘It’s just a picture of you with two friends. That’s what I was told.’
Eleni closed her eyes tightly for a moment and her wrinkled hands balled into fists.
‘Yiayia? . . . Yiayia, are you all right?’
Tears pricked out at the corners of the old woman’s eyes and Anna felt a stab of fear and compassion. ‘What is it? Tell me. What’s the matter?’
Eleni wept in silence and Anna took one of her hands and eased her thumb into the palm and rubbed soothingly.
‘I’m sorry. So sorry. I shouldn’t have shown you that.’ She was angry with herself. Angry with Dieter Muller for sharing the picture with her and bringing this all about in the first place. ‘Yiayia, I’m sorry . . .’
At length Eleni swallowed and raised her spare hand to dab away the tears before she opened her eyes, and Anna could clearly see the pain there. Eleni pointed to the bookcase.
‘Over there. Top shelf. You see the large brown book? There, at the back.’
Anna glanced round and nodded.
‘Bring it to me, girl.’
Anna straightened up and did as she was told, easing the dusty volume from the bookcase. The leather cover was cracked and flaking away in places and Anna held it carefully as she carried it back to her grandmother and set it down on the table. Eleni leaned forward and tentatively stretched out her hands to touch the cover, and stroke her fingertips over it. Then, with a little nod to herself, she eased the cover open and began to carefully leaf through the thin card pages. There were letters, photos and a few pressed flowers. At one time they had been stuck down but over the years many items had come loose and she had to take care to prevent any slipping free of the book. At length she turned another page and there lay the same picture that Dieter had shown Anna two days before. It was an original photograph, not a scanned image.
‘I’ve seen this album before,’ said Anna. ‘I remember some of the other things, as well as this picture.’
Eleni nodded. ‘You picked it up once, in my house, many years before. You were four, no, five, at the time. Too young to know what it means to me, but young enough to be interested. So I did not mind, then.’ She tapped a finger on the picture. ‘I did not know there was a copy of this picture.’
She fixed her granddaughter with a piercing stare. ‘There is only one way there could be another. Karl Muller took this. But he is long dead. So, his son?’
‘Peter?’ Anna saw her grandmother shudder at the mention of his name. ‘No, not him. His grandson, Dieter, sent me the copy on my phone.’
‘You know him?’ Eleni hissed. ‘He is here, in England?’
‘No. No. At least I don’t think he is in London at the moment. He said that he had to return to Germany to continue his research.’ Anna explained hurriedly. ‘He wants to know about the island, before the fascists came. Back when the Germans were digging for ancient ruins. It has nothing to do with the war, Yiayia. I promise.’
‘He is a German. His promises mean nothing.’ Eleni grasped her hand tightly. ‘You will not see him again. You will not speak to him. Understand?’ The intensity of her expression and sudden strength of her grip frightened Anna.
‘But why? Tell me why.’
Eleni released her hand and sagged back into the armchair. She was silent a moment and Anna could see the pulse in her throat flickering like a candle in a draft. Then she sighed and spoke again in a calm voice.
‘The Greek boy at my side in the picture is Andreas Katarides.’
‘A close friend?’
She smiled thinly. ‘Then, yes. But more, much more, later on. The other boy was also . . . a friend. Peter Muller.’ She paused, and her voice hardened. ‘That was before he came back to the island to murder us. Became our enemy. How can these things be?’ She closed her eyes as she remembered. ‘I try to remember that it was not always so. There was a time before . . . Before the great evil came to our little island.’
Chapter Five
Lefkas, September 1938
The camera shutter clicked and the three teenagers relaxed from the pose they had struck and held while Peter’s father set the exposure and adjusted the focus. Karl Muller looked up and smiled at them.
‘That’s it. All done.’
As he lowered his Leica and reached for the camera case, Peter glanced at his friends and raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry. My father’s something of a photography addict.’
Eleni laughed, parting her thin lips to reveal white teeth and a smile that Peter considered faultless, even though there was a noticeable gap in the top incisors. She shook her head.
‘Don’t apologise. That’s all you seem to do about your father. He’s a nice man.’
‘Even for a German?’
‘Especially for a German.’ She nodded discreetly towards the young man sitting at the end of a long table, laden with bits of pottery, small stones and other fragments that might hold some archaeological value. ‘Unlike our friend over there.’
Peter glanced round. ‘Heinrich?’
He watched his father’s assistant carefully entering an item into the log. ‘He knows his job and works hard.’
Eleni sighed. ‘He’s a
cold one. I don’t trust him.’
Andreas stirred at her side, his dark brows knitting together. ‘He has offended you?’
‘No. Not like that. I just don’t like him much.’
‘He had better not upset you when I’m around.’
She touched his arm briefly. ‘You are not my brother. Nor my cousin.’
‘No.’ He relaxed his expression. ‘Just a friend.’
‘Exactly. And I can look after myself.’
Andreas smiled. ‘Of course you can, little Eleni. You’re fifteen. Almost a woman.’
She glared at him in jest and Andreas laughed. Peter joined in, a little pinprick of pain in his heart when her eyes lingered on Andreas just a moment longer than was necessary.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what they’ve found today.’
He stepped out towards the table and the others followed. Peter visited the site most days but his friends came less frequently. They had become friends after Andreas’s father had invited the German archaeologists to a dinner at his villa. Shyly at first, but quickly becoming close as youngsters will on a small island. The Germans had been digging in the small valley for over eighteen months and interest in their painstaking methods had soon palled and the local people turned back to their routines. The most recent finds were at the end of the table where Heinrich sat on a camp stool. He delicately held up a fragment of fine pottery and closely scrutinised it for a moment before lowering it and entering several words in the comments section of the log.
Peter waited until he had set his pen down again. ‘Anything interesting?’
Heinrich shrugged and gestured towards the scattered shards before him. ‘One of the men unearthed this,’ he responded in German. ‘He broke it with the first stroke of his trowel. The times I’ve warned them to go in gently. So now we have a little reconstruction work to do. Or would have, if we hadn’t been recalled. Have to wait until we return.’
Peter was conscious that his friends could not easily follow the exchange, despite his teaching them some German over the last few months, and switched back into Greek. ‘How old do you think it is?’
Heinrich grinned at him, and the others. ‘Late Mycenaean. Three thousand years old. And it’s a fine piece. Look here.’ He picked up one of the larger pieces and held it up for them to see. A row of delicately painted warriors, hoplites, ranged along the curve of the shard. ‘I’d bet that this came from a wealthy household. Perhaps these are the remains of a nobleman’s house. Or maybe that of a king. Either way, it’s more evidence that your father is on the right track.’
Eleni edged forward and examined the small figures, marvelling at the brightness of the colours. ‘Three thousand years old . . .’
‘That’s right. Back in an age when Greek civilisation was about to dominate the known world. A far cry from what it has become today, no?’
Andreas was silent for a moment before he responded. ‘Every civilisation has its day. Perhaps Greece may rise again. As Germany has.’
Heinrich laughed. ‘Ah, there’s the difference. History does not repeat itself. The greatness of Greece lies behind it. The greatness of Germany is just beginning. Even so, there’s much we can learn from the great nations of the past.’
Andreas arched an eyebrow. ‘You think so?’
‘I know it.’
There was a pause, and the heat trapped in the valley seemed to add to the tension. Eleni tore her gaze away from the figures on the pottery and turned to Peter.
‘There’s something I need to ask your father.’
‘Oh?’
‘That photograph he just took, of the three of us. I would like a copy to keep. For when you leave, so I can remember. Do you think he would give me a print?’
Peter glanced towards another table where his father had finished fastening the buckles of his camera case and removed his wide-brimmed straw hat to dab the sweat from his brow. He stared round the valley before fixing his gaze on a nearby cliff which rose steeply up to the mixed line of stunted oaks and cypress trees that grew above and covered the hillside.
‘Ask him. I’m sure he’ll agree.’
Eleni flashed him a smile and turned away to approach Peter’s father. Andreas moved further down the table, away from Heinrich, and looked over the other finds. Peter followed him, feeling awkward over the hubris of his compatriot. It was unfortunate, since he admired his father’s assistant. Heinrich Steiner was robustly cheerful and had been an avid sportsman back in his native Bavaria. Moreover, he had won the respect of Peter’s father, which was why he had been chosen from many applicants to join him on the site. In truth, Peter sought the same seal of approval and hoped to be like Heinrich one day. Nonetheless, he was sensitive enough to discern the friction between his father’s assistant and some of the islanders, particularly his friends.
Peter cleared his throat. ‘Are you all right, Andreas?’
The older boy did not look up as he replied. ‘All right? Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Heinrich didn’t mean to offend. Sometimes he is, well, a bit too proud of being German.’
‘Perhaps he has cause to be,’ Andreas mused. ‘Greece is only a small country, of little consequence. Germany has become a force to be reckoned with. It must warm your heart to be part of that, my friend.’
‘I suppose,’ Peter admitted. In the years since the National Socialists had come to power they had not ceased to proclaim that the nation had been reborn and a fine future lay ahead. It had been easy to be swept along with the euphoria and believe in it. But that was back in Germany. Since Peter had been with his father here on Lefkas, the affairs of their homeland had become remote and there was a lyrical serenity about the islands of the Ionian Sea, and its people, that diminished the grip of patriotism on Peter’s soul. In truth, being here felt like a release. A different pace of history, as his father put it. Both of them were saddened by the need to leave the island, and friends, behind, until the diplomatic crisis had passed.
Anxious to change the subject out of deference to his friend’s pride, Peter pointed out a fragment of stone, sculpted into a small, open-palmed hand. ‘Look at this! Superb . . .’
Without thinking, Andreas picked it up and examined it closely.
At once Heinrich turned and said, ‘Please put that back.’
Andreas did as he was told. His pride was pricked by having to obey a young man only a few years older than him. He felt a momentary urge to defy Heinrich after the event, before sense returned and he mumbled, ‘Sorry.’
The student flashed a brief smile. ‘It’s just that it’s a valuable piece. The professor would have my hide if anything happened to it.’
Andreas stared back, until the German returned his attention to his logbook. Peter was embarrassed by the brief exchange, and blamed himself for pointing out the sculpture fragment to his friend. He began to move along the table, looking over the finds that had already been labelled, and Andreas followed him a short distance until they were out of earshot and whispered, ‘What was that about?’
‘There is a procedure. Nothing is to be touched until it is logged and labelled,’ Peter explained.
His Greek friend sighed. ‘I see. That man is a foreigner in my land, and he tells me not to touch what he has dug out of our soil.’
‘He did not mean to offend you, Andreas.’
‘Did he not?’ Andreas sniffed and gestured at the finds spread out along the table in front of him. ‘I wonder . . . Is this all not an offence in itself?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This is not the ancient Greece of your schoolbooks. It is a different age. Yet men like your father – and I mean him no disrespect, he is a good man – feel free to come here and treat this land, and these objects he has dug up, with no regard for our feelings. These are the relics of my people’s past. What will become of them? They will be boxed up and taken to Germany and put on display in a museum. If I should ever want to see the heritage of my people then I will be forced to t
ravel to your country and pay for the privilege.’
Peter shook his head. ‘It’s not like that. These relics need to be cared for properly, so that they can be enjoyed by everyone, regardless of where they happened to be found. Besides, he has the permission of the Greek government.’
Andreas snorted. ‘The permission of some corrupt official, you mean.’
Peter forced a smile. ‘My friend, all Europe owes a great debt to your ancestors. We are all the inheritors of the great works of the ancients. It is a bond we all share.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. And you may even mean it. But it does not change the fact that you are mining our past and taking it away.’
‘We are preserving it,’ Peter protested. ‘That’s all.’
‘And is it not preserved here, in this ground?’
‘Then who would ever see it? It has to be put in front of the world.’
‘Maybe, but why not here, in Greece?’
The response was obvious but Peter managed to moderate his reply. ‘I understand your pride, but if the past is to survive, it has to be looked after. When the museums are built here, all these relics will be returned.’
‘I see. Just like the Acropolis frieze then?’
Peter gritted his teeth. ‘We are not like the British. Germany understands the value of civilisation.’
‘Really?’ Andreas arched on eyebrow. ‘We shall see, eh?’
Before Peter could respond they were interrupted by a shout from Professor Muller.
‘Heinrich! Have you finished cataloguing the day’s finds?’
They passed his father’s car and made for the truck, an ageing Fiat, spotted with rust and coated with a layer of grime that made the already sun-bleached blue seem that much more faded. It had been an early purchase of the archaeological expedition when the flow of funds from the university had been more forthcoming. A thinly padded bench served as the seat for the driver and passenger, and sacking lay in the bed of the truck to cushion the loads carried back to Lefkada. Andreas handed Eleni into the back while Peter, as usual, went round to the front and slotted the starting handle into position. He took the grip in both hands and looked over the top of the radiator grille. Heinrich gave a nod and then Peter swung the handle round. It took three attempts before the engine choked into life. Heinrich gently revved it for a moment and then called out above the shrill rattle, ‘That’s it! In you get.’
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