“We can’t let them find the symbols,” I say, hoping to convince him.
Footsteps to the west, marching in unison. I seal the vessel back inside the leather pouch and climb down to the lintel.
“What about our symbols? Greek symbols?” Kostis looks at the Parthenon, and then the flagpole. “If they are destroyed, the people will lose hope. And hope is what will keep them alive in the dark days ahead. Wherever those squares lead you, that’s your battle. Mine is here in Athens. And it’s over.”
Surely he doesn’t mean that? Kostis throws the Welrod in the bag and goes to hide it. I can’t be on the Parthenon when the Germans arrive. Explaining that would be… difficult.
My arms just about fit around the column. I squeeze my legs against the pillar to act as brakes, and slide to the ground, cloth rustling against aged marble. I’m by Kostis’ side when German soldiers march in double file through the Propylaea, led by a flat-capped officer.
It is over. How can the two of us fight an army? There are over a dozen men on the Acropolis plateau, all armed with MP40 machine guns. Freezing time would only prolong the inevitable.
The officer unfurls a flag. A swastika over a black and white cross, on a blood red background. The German war banner.
“Are you the one guarding this hill?” he asks.
“I am,” Kostis says proudly. “My name is Konstantinos. On behalf of my people, I surrender.”
Chapter Eighteen: An Invisible Spy
The shutter rattles. Pots and pans clank. This tremor is the strongest so far, powerful enough to shift the dining table. These ‘earthquakes’ have been going on all night. The endless rumbling should keep me awake, but in case it doesn’t I’ve made myself uncomfortable on the cobblestones. It’s imperative I remain alert. If the Germans come calling, I’ll need to act quickly.
The first tremor hit yesterday evening, shortly after I made it back to my old training quarters. At first I thought the quake was natural, but a quick peek through the window revealed the true cause: German panzers bulldozing through Athens, treads pounding the streets. Troops have been arriving ever since. By sunrise the city will be totally overrun. I’m in enemy territory, with no allies to call on. Scar and Belfast dead – though I doubt the British are truly on my side – and Kostis… Why did he do it?
“On behalf of my people, I surrender,” he says.
Did I blink? I must have, because I’m back on the sunlit Acropolis, surrounded by Nazis.
“Who’s the girl?” the officer asks.
“His granddaughter,” I reply in Greek. “He wanted to show me the Parthenon. And the flag before you took it down.”
Good thing Kostis stashed the supply bag behind those ruins before the Germans arrived. Otherwise they wouldn’t have been so friendly.
“This place is so special,” I say, using the simplistic language of an ordinary teenage girl. “I really like playing around the temples.”
“This is a battlefield now. No place for a child.” The officer signals his men, issuing instructions in German. “Take the girl home. She’ll show you the way.”
Three soldiers come for me. Many more patrol the Acropolis plateau. Why did I go peacefully? If I’d frozen time instead of co-operating, I could have… No, I’d have been able to take out one man - maybe two - before the rest opened fire. That would have been a stupid move. I’d either be dead or have some very difficult questions to answer.
“Wait!” Kostis shouts, interrupting my reflective thoughts. “Alanna wanted us to take the flag down together.”
The officer thinks Kostis’ request over. “Very well,” he relents. “When she grows up, she can tell her own grandchildren the story of how Athens was conquered.”
When I grow up… Such an ironic comment. I walk slowly, noting the Germans’ positions as I join Kostis by the flagpole. Every soldier is nearer to a ruined pillar – and potential cover – than we are.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
The Germans have stood back, giving us some space. Kostis turns a squeaky metal crank. The Greek flag droops as it comes down the pole.
“What Lydia would want,” he replies solemnly. “Saving your life. And sending a message to the people.”
“What message?”
He doesn’t answer me.
“You said save my life. What about yours?”
Again, no reply. Kostis unthreads the flag from the rope. He lifts it high above his head, hands clamped around the upper corners. I follow him to the Acropolis’ edge, where the stone plateau ends abruptly at an unfenced, perilous drop. Nobody in Athens is outdoors to see Kostis’ patriotic gesture.
The officer presents his folded war banner, but Kostis makes no move to take it. “Raise that yourself,” he says defiantly. “I’m not touching a Nazi flag.”
From all around I hear the rattle of raised MP40s. The soldiers didn’t respond kindly to Kostis’ refusal.
“Don’t shoot!” barks the officer. “If this man wishes to sacrifice himself, there’s no need to waste bullets.”
“Get to the safe house,” Kostis whispers without turning his head. “You’ll have to find your own way out of the city. And remember to act dead.”
Kostis snares me with the Greek flag and wraps it tightly around my back. Stunned Germans watch as he bundles me over the Acropolis edge. Their anguished cries quieten as I hurtle toward Athens.
I spin, somersaulting head over heels. Through the azure canvas I see the Sun, the cityscape, the hill, and the Sun again. Then I smash into the cliff. The jarring impact leaves me breathless.
The flag unfurls, and my back slips up the canvas. I fly out onto a rough slope, eyes dazzled by sunlight. Loose rocks break off as I gather speed. I spread my arms and legs to slow my downward slide, but it does no good. The slope is simply too steep.
There’s a drop coming up, and nothing to grab hold of. I sail off the hillside into empty air. A church steeple blurs past, and then I land with a dirt-blasting thump.
I’m in dense, prickly bushes at the cliff base, in a crater of flattened branches. The back of my neck is wet with blood, and the Germans are still watching. People don’t survive four hundred foot falls – especially not little girls - so I feign death, head tilted sideways as if my neck’s broken.
I lie there for some time. Five minutes, at least. Long enough for the Nazis to lose interest. While I wait, I ask myself the same question over and over: Why did Kostis give himself up for me?
Seven hours and a sleepless night later, I still don’t know the answer. I hope it wasn’t for the symbols, otherwise Kostis’ sacrifice was for nothing. Unless I was too tired yesterday evening. Maybe I should try translating the marble again.
I close my eyes, reverse time to the moment I lean over the Parthenon roof, and study the three framed patterns. My vision goes dark. Blue dots appear, then lines, and… They criss-cross all over the place. No picture or structure. Only a meaningless, tangled mesh. Perhaps Athena drew the symbols incorrectly. But if she did, the Nazis won’t be able to find the cave either.
“Clear the streets!” an irritated German shouts. There’s faint chugging in the background, but no rumbling or tremors. A motor car?
Thin yellow rays cross my relaxed legs. It’s daylight! Was I so tired I slept through the invasion?
I force myself off the cobblestones, pondering what to do now. If the symbols on the marble frieze are useless, there’s no reason to stay in Athens. But getting out of the city won’t be easy. Not without help. I close my eyes and concentrate on the only man who can provide assistance. My teacher’s not here, but I’ll never forget his lessons.
“Before planning your next move,” Kostis says, “you need to know your enemy.”
We sit at his dining table, tucking into a deliciously-cooked moussaka. Only one chair is broken. This memory is from the early months of training, when I still treated Kostis with respect.
“Troop strength,” he goes on. “Equipment, what units they have left in
reserve. And most important, any weaknesses.”
“How do we find out their weaknesses?” I ask him.
“By watching and listening. You have an advantage. Two advantages. You are female, and you are a child. They won’t suspect a little girl. You’ll be able to wander right past an enemy, and eavesdrop on his deepest secrets. You’ll be in plain view, but nobody will see you. An invisible spy.”
Armed with Kostis’ advice, I return to the present. To be this invisible spy I’ll have to change how I look. My black cloth outfit is too conspicuous by day, and a lot of Germans watched me ‘die’. Unless I drastically alter my appearance, those same men are sure to recognise the girl who fell off the Acropolis.
I climb the stone stairs and enter my old bedroom. Am I viewing a memory from 1939? It’s hard to tell. Apart from slight furniture movement – which can be attributed to the tremors – nothing has changed. The wood-framed, straw-padded mattress and dresser have been kept in pristine condition, and the hand-carved wardrobe still swings out to reveal… Yes! My storage box.
Compartmental trays make it easy to find black hair dye and skin-tanning cream. I apply both liberally, and exchange my reversible gloves for a fresh pair that match the ocean blue dress I pick out. When I leave the house, it’s not as Edith Clayton, but a terrified Greek girl.
Everyone is fooled: the German soldiers who speed by in armoured cars and supply trucks, and the few Athenian residents brave enough to come outside. Only one person pays more than passing attention: a beak-nosed crone watching from a second floor window. And she stares at everyone who passes by. I turn up a side street to break her line of sight, and I’m back to being invisible. I reach the taverna in time for lunch.
I won’t be sampling the local cuisine, and neither will the people of Athens. We can starve for all the Germans care. Soldiers have taken over the canopied seating area, where they sit stuffing their stomachs. Greek waiters wear plain white, the colour of surrender. Appropriate, since they serve their new masters without a hint of resistance. More than one porcelain plate wobbles on a trembling servant’s hand. Nerves are understandable. When customers eat with machine guns on their tables, it’s not wise to displease them.
“The Italians have taken some of the Aegean islands,” one talkative soldier says. He’s at the closest table, in a group of three. “Very little fighting. Maybe these Greeks realise they’re beaten.”
None of the men look up as I approach the hip-high stone wall surrounding the taverna. I perch within earshot, and gaze down gloomily at dusty panzer tracks in the street.
“But those islands are easy targets,” the man says whilst munching… a crusty cob I think, but I keep my back turned. “Crete is where the British forces are concentrated.”
Visiting the taverna was a wise decision. People gossip over lunch, and soldiers are no different. I’m less than ten feet away, yet they speak openly. They must know I can hear them. But I’m just a miserable, sulking Greek girl who doesn’t speak a word of German. What threat could I possibly pose?
“We’ll take Crete within a month,” boasts an older man – probably the one at the back with greying hair. “The British couldn’t stop us on the mainland.”
Crete is the largest of the Greek islands, some distance from the Attican coast. It’s a strategic location, but troop movements in the Mediterranean don’t concern me.
“…Acropolis…interested in the girl…”
Who said that? I stop time, go back to when I sat down, and listen again. The speaker is a few tables away, his quiet voice lost amid the clinking of knives and forks. Quite often the soldiers near me talk over him, so I only make out isolated snippets.
“…found some explosives…Greek on the Acropolis…a man from Berlin…interested in the girl who disappeared…him to the ship…Thank you, waiter.”
A polite Nazi? Surely not. I continue listening, but only pick up slurping and the scraping of metal on porcelain. The waiter must have served the German a bowl of soup, and people with manners don’t talk while eating. I take my leave to mull over what I heard.
I already know most of it: the bombs, Kostis’ desperate push to save me. The German mentioned a girl – surely me – and a ship. Athens is landlocked, so it would have to dock at Piraeus. With the Greek mainland occupied, the best way out is by sea. Was Kostis the one taken away?
I’m thinking too far ahead. I can’t simply ask the Nazis for a boat. And first I have to travel to Piraeus. That’s a six mile trip, and I won’t be so invisible on the open road. I’m still pondering how best to get there when I pass another taverna.
There are scores of these open air restaurants in Greece. This one has a larger seating area, but no perimeter wall or canopy. The Germans sat around the umbrella shaded tables aren’t army soldiers. They wear blue-collared shirts under grey leather jackets. I think they’re Kriegsmarine. Navy men.
“Another glass!” one shouts.
“Me too!” adds the man beside him. “And be quick.”
The sailors’ manners are as unpleasant as their hygiene, and they leer at the slim, long-haired waitress as if they’ve never seen a woman before. The few men who aren’t dining are busy loading crates and barrels onto a parked truck. Homes along the street are being stripped for supplies. Food, spirits, fuel. The Nazis are looting everything.
Black-capped Kriegsmarine officers oversee all aspects of the operation: house searches, requisition, and inventories. Whether the goods are for local use or shipping elsewhere, they’ll be transported to the docks. The truck is my ride to Piraeus, but where can I hide?
Not in the back. I’ll be discovered when the Germans unload, and it’s too tight a squeeze anyway. The roof? Too exposed. I’ll have to follow my sister’s example, and conceal myself under the vehicle.
After the sailors complete the next load – and move away from the truck - I bend my knees, reducing my height so my dress brushes the ground. The material is twice the usual thickness, specially designed to obscure other clothes, weapons, or - in my case – crooked legs. I remain stooped so my eyeline is below the side mirror – low enough that the driver won’t see me approach. I stop by the truck’s rear end, check nobody is watching, and drop flat. A forward shuffle between the wheels, and I’m in position.
The smell of petrol is so intoxicating I cover my mouth. Everything is black: chassis, grease-covered axles, dripping oil. I identify the sturdiest pipe and get a firm grip. Or would do if my hands didn’t slide straight off. There’s too much lubrication. I knew holding on for six miles was a tough proposition, but I won’t even manage six feet.
Footsteps. A black-booted man – he must be an officer with that shiny leather – walks to the driver’s cabin. “All ready!” he shouts.
I’m not! If I can’t hold onto the pipe, maybe I can improvise. I pull my arms through my dress sleeves, and twist the loose material into makeshift ropes.
The engine grinds into life. I quickly tie the ropes around the front axle, and secure them both with double knots. The truck accelerates, leaving me clinging to the dress’ neckline as I’m dragged through the streets of Athens. Two layers of clothing to protect me, and I feel every bump. I’m not my sister. There’s no way I can endure six miles of this.
The truck slows down to turn, and the twisted sleeves slacken. I freeze time and study the chassis. There! A loose iron bar, pointing downward. I open my eyes, lift my legs, and slide the skirt of my dress over the rod. Before the truck speeds up, I hook my toecaps behind a pipe. My ‘hammock’ won’t stop swinging, and I have to hold the ropes so I don’t fall off. But at least I’m off the ground.
Once we leave the city, there’s not a lot to see except blades of grass, dirt, and paving stones. Rocking from side to side makes me feel sleepy, but I jerk awake as the truck shudders to a halt.
There are booted sailors stood on both sides, and – to my front right - a red and white-striped, wooden guard hut. A security checkpoint set up within twenty four hours. The Germans have liv
ed up to their reputation for efficiency. I hang on tight, hoping the sentries don’t check under the truck.
“Identification!” demands a guard.
Paper rustles. “Supplies and replacement crew.” I think it’s the driver talking.
“A week to sail from the Atlantic to Piraeus, even at surface speed. Another week to sail back. Why would they divert here?”
A ship not always on the surface… The guard must be talking about a U-boat, a German submarine.
“An important delivery.” The driver’s uncompromising tone suggests frustration. “None of your concern, or mine. I don’t want to be late.”
“Very well. You may proceed.”
Did the driver’s rude, unfriendly attitude cut the search short? If it did, I appreciate his help.
The truck drives on through the checkpoint, and the rural landscape changes to urban. Fields are replaced by warehouses, signposts, and crates. Most buildings are scorched ruins, with piles of scrap metal and charred rubble yet to be cleared. I’m witnessing the aftermath of another intense bombing campaign. Damage is extensive, but reconstruction has already begun. I hear men at work: hammers banging, brushes sweeping, the roar of blowtorches. A helmeted welder works on a crane ladder, orange sparks landing by his feet.
Wooden planks buckle under the truck’s weight. We’re driving on a pier, and I see blue seawater sparkling through the gaps. The end is only a hundred yards ahead. Pretty soon the truck will stop. I look for sailors’ legs. There are none nearby, but quite a few further along.
I unhook my feet, slide my dress off the iron rod, and hold my arms straight so they slip through the neck hole unhindered. The vessel pouch catches, but a sharp tug is enough to free it. I roll to one side and freeze time to review the image.
There are several wooden piers, all supported by crossed struts. Most berths are empty, and the supply cranes unmanned. To my left is a long and narrow, dark grey ship with small, elliptical holes in its hull. The U-boat. A Kriegsmarine captain and a blond ponytailed sailor stand on the conning tower. They haven’t seen me yet.
Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena Page 22