by Kate Hewitt
The andarte had told her he would return in the morning with food and provisions. For what purpose, Sophia wondered bleakly. Would she live the rest of her life in a goatherd’s hut? When would this terrible, terrible war be over? Would it ever be over for her?
A nameless terror had kept Sophia awake at night for weeks, and yet now that the worst had actually happened, she could hardly believe it. As the hours slipped by, she began to feel the truth weigh inside her like a stone, heavy and impossible to bear. How did people live like this? she wondered, her face pressed against her knees as hot tears ran down her cheeks. How did you go on when you’d lost everything?
Sophia found out soon enough: you simply did. Time passed, the sky darkened, and she fell into a restless and uncomfortable doze. She hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, and despite the swamping sense of misery, her body craved sleep.
She woke several hours later, cold and aching, her senses snapping into alertness as she heard the crunch of boots on snow. She shrank back into a corner of the hut as the door slowly opened, half expecting the beam of a soldier’s torch, the shouted order, the end of it all…
“Sophia?” It was the andarte, and Sophia nearly wept with relief. He stepped into the hut, blocking out the weak dawn light. “Here.”
She watched as he took some dried plums and a hunk of bread out of a burlap sack and handed them to her. She had not thought of food since she’d first come to this hut, but as she took the bread, she realized she was starving.
He took other things out of the sack: boots, several men’s sweaters, more food. He glanced up at her, his face serious. “You will have to go.”
Sophia swallowed a lump of bread, her heart starting to thud. “Where?”
“Away from here. The Nazis are looking for you all the way from here to Karditsa. You cannot stay.”
“But how—where…?” She shook her head, overwhelmed at the thought of simply walking out into the night and disappearing.
“There are clothes here, and enough food for a few days. There is a woman in Makrakomi, a widow who will look after you. She will leave a red ribbon tied to her shutter.”
“Makrakomi—” Sophia had never been farther than Lamia.
“Thirty kilometers away,” the andarte confirmed. “You can walk it in two days, but you will have to stay in the mountains and forests.”
“With no shelter? I’ll freeze to death!”
He pressed his lips together and gave a little shrug. “It is your best chance.”
And yet it felt like no chance at all. “What will I do in Makrakomi, with this widow?” She could not imagine it.
“Stay and gain your strength. Move on, eventually. She cannot keep you for very long, for her own safety. But it is up to you, where you go.” He gave her a small, grim smile. “You are mistress of your own fate.”
She stared down at the pile of clothes and food. So this was her payment for a life given in service to the Resistance. For the loss of everything she’d ever had or wanted. A pair of boots and a bit of bread.
“Do you know anything of my family?” she asked after a long moment. “My father and sister Angelika? What has happened to them?”
The andarte’s jaw bunched. “The Nazis came to the village. They took your father and Angelika out—”
Sophia’s stomach churned and she doubled over, the little bread she’d eaten threatening to come up again. “No—”
“Your father will live,” he said. “He was badly beaten, but he is alive.”
Sophia swallowed bile. “And Angelika?”
He said nothing, and she looked up to see him staring at her grimly. He gave a little shake of his head. Sophia bit her lips to keep from crying out in anguish.
“What—what happened to her?”
“They shot her right there in the street. At least it was quick.”
“Mother of God.” And then the bread did come up as she retched helplessly onto the cold dirt floor, tears spilling down her cheeks. The andarte said nothing; he just waited until she was done before he packed up the things that he’d brought, back into the sack. Sophia wiped at her mouth and her eyes, knew that he had nothing else to give her. No advice, no salvation, no hope.
“What of the Englezoi?” she asked after a wretched moment, her heart an unbearable weight when she thought of her sister—so playful, so naïve. Dead. “Are they… are they all right?”
He shrugged, indifferent. “As far as I know. They are returning to Egypt. We have no need of them now.”
His obvious indifference stung, even though she knew it shouldn’t. “But what of Alex—the explosives engineer—he died on the bridge!”
The andarte stared at her for a long moment. “No one died on the bridge,” he finally said. “Except for some damned blackshirts.”
Sophia blinked, staring at him in disbelief. No one died on the bridge… Could Alex possibly be alive, then? And if so, why had Perseus told her otherwise? Had he lied deliberately, or had he been mistaken?
“I must go now.” He rose from the floor, brushing the dirt from his knees and adjusting his rifle. He paused by the door, his back to her. “God go with you,” he said gruffly, and then he was gone.
30
Now
Lukas Petrakides was quick-witted and spry for a man of his years, with sparse white hair and a faded scar curving down one cheek. He invited Helena and Ava into his home in Lamia with genial alacrity.
It had been two days since Simon had arrived, and Ava’s mind was still reeling from his presence. He’d insisted on sleeping on the sofa, even though she ached to have him hold her at night. But she understood that he wanted to take it slowly, do things right. And they had been talking more, or trying to, about what had happened in the last year and how they’d both felt. All those conversations had been good and necessary and even healing, but Ava wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about it any more. Like Simon perhaps, she’d had enough. She wanted to get on with living… whatever that looked like. However hard it felt.
The future was something they had not yet discussed. Would they go back to their little house in York and pick up where they had left off? Perhaps that was all they could do. Just keep on, and eventually things would smooth out and feel normal. Good, even. She knew she couldn’t stay in Greece forever, although what would happen to her grandmother’s house or the cat she’d befriended she didn’t know. What about the life she’d made for herself, small as it was? Would she just say goodbye to it all?
Maybe she would have to.
Lukas led them into the living room and plied them with cups of thick Greek coffee as Helena explained the purpose of the interview. Although Helena had told her that Lukas had been in the Resistance, Ava didn’t know how likely it was that he knew or remembered Sophia. After Parthenope’s revelations, she longed for more information about her grandmother. What had happened to her, and how had she made it all the way to England?
“Of course, you want to know about Sophia Paranoussis,” Lukas said after they had chatted briefly about the war.
Ava sat up straight and nodded. “Yes, my grandmother—”
“As it happens, I did not really know her. I grew up in a different village.”
“Oh, I see.” Disappointment swamped her. So he wouldn’t know anything more. She’d never learn the answers she’d been looking for.
“Actually, I don’t think you do, young woman,” Lukas said with smiling severity. “You have the look of her, you know.”
“Then—you knew her?”
“In a manner of speaking. I recruited her.”
“Recruited…” Helena stopped abruptly, realization dawning. “Then you were a leader in the Resistance.”
“One of them,” the man once known as Perseus agreed with a gracious nod. “Sophia was working at a coffee house in Iousidous. It was run by a woman named Kristina who suggested I approach Sophia to help with our cause.”
“Why?” Ava asked, eager to know more, to understand her grandmothe
r as she never had before.
“Because she was quiet and discreet. And she didn’t want to help us, which made her more desirable. Too many people wanted to help and then bragged about it in the village square, threatened everything we were working for. Sophia would never have done that.” He smiled faintly. “She only knew me as Perseus.”
“So what did she do for you?” Ava asked.
“She brought the SOE agents from their drop to shelter. Gave them food—and saved them from being executed by that butcher Velouchiotis.” Lukas shook his head in remembrance, and Ava leaned forward.
“Saved their lives?”
“She was brave when she needed to be. I always knew she had it in her.” His smile of reminiscence faded slightly. “I have sometimes regretted… but it is too late now, of course.”
“What did you regret?” Helena asked softly, and Lukas shrugged.
“Perhaps only a small thing; who knows? There was a soldier, one of the Englezoi… Sophia was attached to him, I could see, and he felt it too. It seemed dangerous. People do all sorts of foolish things when they are in love, yes?”
“Yes,” Ava agreed quietly. She knew that only too well; she’d left her home because she’d loved Simon. And even though she knew it had been necessary to gain some distance, she half wished they’d been able to work it out without her taking such drastic measures.
Lukas sighed heavily. “So I told Sophia that this soldier—Alex, his name was—died during the explosion. I thought it was for the better, for both of them. Alex went back to Egypt and Sophia… alas, I did not know what became of her until now. But I have wondered if it would have lasted, if I hadn’t said such a thing.”
“They were in love?” Ava’s heart twisted as she took in Lukas’s words. It hadn’t lasted, because it hadn’t been given a chance. If Sophia had known her sweetheart was still alive, would she have come back? Would she have looked for him? Would she have taken such a risk on an uncertain future?
“She’s never mentioned an Alex,” she told Lukas quietly. She felt a pang of inexplicable grief for the unknown Alex. “But she married another Englishman. My grandfather Edward. I never knew him, but I believe they were happy.”
“I hope they were.” Lukas smiled sadly. “Perhaps it was all for the best, then. I have a photograph, if you’d like to see it, of the English SOE agents.”
“Oh, yes,” Ava said eagerly, leaning forward in her excitement.
Lukas rose from his chair and went to rifle through a drawer in a heavy wooden sideboard. “This was taken right after the bridge blew up. All the men were celebrating.” Smiling, he showed Ava a black-and-white photograph of a dozen men. Some stood, some sat; they all looked dirty, exhausted, and jubilant. “There, that one.” Lukas pointed at a man in the back row; he wasn’t looking at the camera, but rather off in the distance, as if searching for someone.
Ava took the worn photo and peered closely at it. “But… but that’s my grandfather!” she exclaimed. “At least, I think it is.”
“What?” Helena stared at the photograph as if she could find an explanation there.
“There was a picture of him in my grandmother’s house, back in Leeds, from the war years. I knew he fought in the war, but not that he was in the SOE. And his name wasn’t Alex.”
“Perhaps a nickname? Or even an alias? Many soldiers had them then.”
“Yes, that must have been it…” Ava shook her head. “It’s just so strange.” Her mind was spinning.
“It is good,” Lukas said with a laugh. “She must have found him, after all.”
“She must have,” Ava said softly. She felt bizarrely near tears. How incredibly difficult it must have been for her grandmother to go all the way to England and find the man she loved. But she had. She’d tried and persevered and at last succeeded. She’d been so strong.
Stronger than you think.
Yes, Ava thought as she handed the photo back to Lukas. Yes, Sophia was strong—and so was she.
Ava and Helena were both quiet when they finally took their leave. Once outside, Helena ducked her head shyly and said, “I’d offer to take you out for a coffee, but I’m actually meeting Andreas.”
Ava couldn’t conceal her grin. “Oh, really?” she said, and Helena blushed. She laughed and pointed to Simon, who was waiting by the garden gate. “I’ve plans myself.” She hadn’t even told Helena that Simon was here yet. Clearly they were going to have a lot to catch up on.
Helena went on her way, and Ava started walking towards Simon. He quirked an eyebrow as she came towards him. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. I just learned quite a few things about my grandmother.” She stood before him and Simon smiled at her.
“Good things?”
“Mostly,” Ava said. She thought of all she’d learned of her grandmother during the war, and all she’d learned of herself in Greece. So many sad things: the needless tragedy of war, Parthenope’s betrayal, and her condition now. It was unlikely the old woman would recover. Ava had suggested Eleni take on her half-feral cat, a small comfort now that her mother would be staying in care.
But there were good things about her time in Greece too: Andreas’s strengthened relationship with his daughter, and his fledgling one with Helena. Her friendships with Helena and Eleni, and the lessening of her own grief. She would always mourn her daughter, always remember her. But it felt less like a burden than simply part of who she was and always would be.
And, of course, Simon. He was, Ava thought with a smile, a very good thing.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked, uncertainty and laughter both audible in his voice, and she put her arms around him.
“You,” she said, and kissed him. Simon kissed her back and Ava closed her eyes as he pulled her closer. She’d missed this—him—so much. “Us,” she amended softly. “I’m smiling about us.”
31
May 1946
Sophia stared at the terraced house in a busy little market town in the middle of England, a place she’d never imagined finding herself. It had been a long—an endless—journey to get here: first making her way across Greece, avoiding both Nazis and then the violence of the civil war, freezing and starving on hillsides when she could not find someone in the Resistance to help her. She’d never even been able to say goodbye to her father, although she had at least written him since she’d left.
Then she’d arrived in Brindisi and worked at a small seaside taverna to make enough money to pay for transport. She’d paid a piratical-looking sailor to stow her on his ship, and landed on the darkened shores of England in the summer of 1945.
The war was over, the world was being rebuilt, yet Greece was still gripped in the deadly claws of a terrible civil war. She’d heard no word of anyone, not her father or her aunt or any of her friends, despite her own letters back to Iousidous.
And as for Alex… she had heard nothing. She did not know whether he was alive or dead, if he was in England or some other country, or even if he would want to see her after all this time.
And yet she hoped. She clung to hope, frail thing that it was, because it was all that had sustained her through so many years of suffering and sorrow.
And now she was finally here, in front of this little house, a scrap of worn paper in her hand, her heart in her mouth.
The curtains twitched and a head peeked out from behind them. A woman, Sophia saw, and determinedly, knowing she must be just as brave as she once had been on the snowy side of Mount Oeta, she started forward.
She knocked once, twice, and then the woman answered the door, looking a little suspicious. “Can I help?”
Sophia had learned a bit more English in the last four years. “I’m looking for Alex.”
The woman frowned. “No one by the name of Alex lives here.”
Sophia’s heart sank, her hopes blowing away like so much ash. “Did anyone by that name live here?” she asked desperately. “During the war?”
The woman shook her head. “W
e’ve lived here for over twenty years, and my husband and son both answer to Edward. I’m sorry.” She eyed her up and down, not unkindly, although Sophia knew her clothes were both cheap and worn. “You’re looking for someone?”
“Yes… he gave me this address.” Sophia swallowed past the lump in her throat. “He must have got it wrong,” she said quietly. “Thank you for your time.” She turned away, and the woman watched her leave with a little frown.
Sophia’s steps were heavy as she went down the little paved path. She realized how much she’d put into this moment, how much hope and love and desperation. And for what? Had Alex given her the wrong address? How could he have done, unless it had been on purpose? And yet why would he do such a thing? He hadn’t had to give her anything at all. She hadn’t been expecting it. Why would he have been so needlessly cruel?
The back of her neck prickled, and she stopped. Turning around, she saw a man coming down the street. He was still quite far away, yet she recognized that jaunty stride. As he came closer, she saw the streaks of gray in his dark hair, new grooves from his nose to his mouth. But he was the same.
He was Alex.
She stood there, unable to move, to think, and then Alex looked up. Sophia felt as if she were pinned in place, trapped by his gaze, praying he would be happy to see her.
A look of disbelief flashed across Alex’s features and then Sophia saw it turn to wonder. “Sophia!”
He started running.
Sophia still couldn’t move, even though tears were now streaking down her face. Tears of both incredulity and joy.
Alex caught her up in his arms, kissing her thoroughly before he pulled back and looked at her as if he were trying to memorize her features. “I’ve been looking for you for years… I’ve asked everyone, followed every lead I could. I was afraid I’d never find you. I was afraid…” He trailed off, but Sophia knew what he’d been going to say. He was afraid she’d been dead.