The Girl Under the Olive Tree (22 page)

Yolanda stepped into the daylight behind the doctor, almost blinded by the sunlight.

‘No more steel birds,’ cried a woman, crossing herself, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘But they have murdered our holy churches and our houses. God will revenge Himself on them!’ she shouted to anyone who would listen, but most people stood stunned with shock, looking up to the empty sky with relief. Halepa might have been spared but there were more tongues of flame coiling up in the distance, and the choking smoke of destruction inside the city walls.

‘I have to find my parents,’ Yolanda said to Andreas Androulakis. ‘They’ll think me dead.’

He smiled and nodded. ‘You must go, but take care. We’ll need you back.’ He himself had been working all night.

Over the last four days something stronger than work and respect had pulled them closer. Amid all the darkness, danger and destruction, working alongside him Yolanda felt herself drawn to him in a way she’d never felt for a man before. There was a look of tenderness in his face when he talked to his patients, a quiet confidence in his manner that inspired hope.

‘Remember, you’ll be needed more than ever,’ he told her now. ‘You don’t flinch at the terrible injuries or when the bombs drop. The young nurses look up to you when they’re afraid and overwhelmed. You give them confidence by staying so calm.’

Yolanda felt a glow of pride in his praise. ‘I shall check Momma and Papa are safe, then return,’ she said, covering her head with a scarf as she picked her way down the cobbled street. The closer to the old city wall, to the Kastelli district, the worse the devastation. Barrels of wine spilled over the street, rats were gorging in daylight, broken pots of burning olive oil fouled the air and everywhere unburied corpses festered in the heat. Children wandered among the rubble searching, calling for pets, while woman keened at the devastation around them. Where once stood elegant Venetian town houses there was only smouldering beams and rubble.

Yolanda hurried on, not wanting to stop. It was a beautiful morning. The sea glistened in the bay, a deep sapphire-blue merging into emerald and pearl. How could there be such devastation on such a beautiful day?

No one quite knew what to do with Penelope Georgiou. Now it appeared she was a Greek citizen, not a British Army nurse, having trained in Athens, with a bona fide address there. She kept up this pretence, claiming all her papers had been lost at sea, and so far it was working. Only a true Greek would pick holes in her accent. She explained she’d been educated privately with an English governess, which explained her good grasp of English. She told them she was estranged from her wealthy family when she took up nursing. No one queried all these half-truths. The doctors in the camp confirmed she had arrived late, sent by the Red Cross to train up local women.

It was the wounded captain who translated on her behalf, who accompanied her around the camp as she tried to find orderlies to help the prisoners. When she expressed interest in Cretan history, he told her he had, himself, been keen on archaeology, and he seemed glad of common ground. Off guard she told him about the lectures at the BSA, open lectures, she added, and he asked her if she had read about the palace at Knossos. He recommended books she might like to read about Schliemann’s dig in Mycenae but she refused to be drawn further into intimacy.

The notoriety of her status as a single female in the caves, nursing men from both sides, caused curiosity, not least among senior officials. They wanted her interviewed, with an idea to further publicity: as an example of co-operation between Greece and the Third Reich. But attention was the last thing she needed now if her cover was not to be blown. They’d offered her a flight back to Athens with the wounded troops and her doctor friends, with the promise of a newspaper article about her experiences and a chance to continue nursing in the city. It was tempting, but her heart was in Crete and she had decided on staying on the island. In the brief moments she was alone with Pete and Doug before their departure, she begged them not to reveal her whereabouts or her English roots to anyone.

There was always the chance that Bruce was still on Crete, and she could find useful work in the local hospital. Perhaps, though, he had been whisked away already with important officers, as the rumours from the bush telegraph were hinting. Thousands of escaping British troops reached Sphakia in the south and were taken off the island by the Royal Navy, but not all of them, as the arrival of fresh prisoners here every day indicated. They were made to crawl back over the high mountains, barefoot, starving and demoralized, only to be caged back in the hospital now a prison camp

Then came the inevitable invitation to Penny to go to HQ to meet some of the senior staff, medical officers who would decide her fate, and she had no choice but to accept graciously. She was in no position to refuse. To her horror they sent a staff car for her and the captain offered to escort her into the city. She felt him watching her as if he was unsure of her motives. He had seen her working as an army nurse – why had he not called her bluff, or did he believe all the lies she had told them? Surely he had recognized her as the nurse in khaki, but he said nothing. It was unnerving.

There had been one terrible moment when one of her patients returned to the camp. Sick with bites and sunstroke, he waved, recognizing her. ‘I knew she’d still be here. Hello, Nursey, am I glad to see your pretty English face.’

‘There is nothing English about my face,’ she snapped in broken English. ‘Many of us Greek girls are blonde,’ she added, walking away, not wanting to see his surprise, but worried that her German escort had heard their exchange.

As they drove through the smouldering city on that sunny morning, she wanted to avert her eyes to all around her: the sad-eyed children, the broken doorways and arches, the women in black searching the rubble for their pots and pans. She sat stiffly in her freshly starched uniform, no longer caked in blood and dirt. How was she going to convince the Germans to let her stay on in some useful capacity?

The officer kept glancing at her and she tensed. He was always asking questions, trying to pry into her personal life.

‘You are brave to stay alone in such conditions. I’m surprised the medical authorities allowed it,’ he said.

‘They had no choice. I was sent. We were busy. My ship was sunk,’ she replied in slow Greek.

‘What did your parents think of your career? It is not the chosen work for a daughter of quality, not in my country.’

‘It is the highest calling for any woman to help the sick,’ she snapped, turning her face from him. ‘Even the queen herself supported our hospital in Athens.’ She wanted to scream, shut up, let me out of here, leave me alone, but instinct said she must keep on the right side of him. He might be the key to her escape.

Stay polite but not too warm. Give him hope that she found him sympathetic, but not too much, and every now and then drop the hint that she had taken vows of devotion to her profession, that all thoughts of a normal family life or romance were no longer an option for her.

She found herself back in the Halepa district, not far from her stay in Stella Vista and the diplomatic quarter. She passed the French convent school, largely untouched by the bombing, and she prayed all the little girls she had seen before the invasion, darting around the grounds like butterflies, were unharmed.

It was a shock to see the German flag flying above the Venezelos Palace. The British HQ was now in other hands. Her heart thumped as they entered the gracious building, the formal hall where the German adjutants were busy shifting furniture around and adorning the walls with posters proclaiming the virtues of the Third Reich.

She was shown into an office. A senior doctor stood stiffly to attention.

‘Miss Georgiou. We have heard all about your exploits. You are a credit to your calling. Please sit down.’

They passed pleasantries and, with the help of the captain, Penny explained how she thought herself suited to work among the Cretan Red Cross staff.

‘You don’t wish to return to Athens?’ He looked surprised. ‘A woman of your calibre will find nothing here but rough peasants and brigands.’

‘I had thought to return until I made this journey, but as I was passing that school down the road, St Joseph’s, I think it is called, it reminded me that I have knowledge to impart. The Red Cross needs young girls to train since many of its older women will return to their families now the hostilities have ceased.’ She looked to her chaperone, who was translating. ‘I would like to work with my own people.’

‘But you are not Cretan,’ said the doctor, spitting out the word as if it was distasteful.

‘Crete has been part of the Greek nation for many years,’ Penny smiled, looking from one of them to the other. ‘But I confess I do have another more selfish motive, having some interest in Minoan archaeology. I might be given permission some day to visit the famous sites, under escort, of course.’ She was laying it on thick for her interpreter’s benefit.

The doctor seemed impressed. ‘You are certainly a woman of many parts, but where would we house you?’

‘I have thought of that, Sir. There is a hostel attached to the convent. I am, after all, Red Cross, and a convent would be a suitable residence for someone dedicated to nursing.’

‘A sensible solution. You would be cloistered under their roof, chaperoned and out of harm’s way if there were any disturbances. We can make this happen but on one condition: that you do not do anything to support any British or local resistance to our governance here. We expect your loyalty at all times.’

‘The Red Cross is always neutral,’ she replied, not exactly answering the question, but it seemed to satisfy him.

The captain hovered when she left the office. ‘Shall I drop you off at the school? When things are settled and safer in Heraklion, let me take you out for the day to Knossos. You cannot come to Crete and not see this wonder of the world.’

‘I’m sure it is a wonder, but first I must return for my things and hope that your commanding officer is true to his word.’

So far it was all going her way and Penny could hardly believe her ruse had worked. But she had to be realistic – how long would it be before her luck ran out?

They drove back towards the city in silence until they found themselves behind a troop of marching soldiers waving German flags. ‘It’s von der Heydte’s men. They’re making for the square . . . Driver, follow them!’

The last thing Penny wanted was to be travelling with a German officer through streets lined with silent onlookers. Everywhere the red, black and white flag was flying high. And now they were following the parade as if they were part of it.

She wanted to shrink back into the seat, cover her face, make herself invisible, but all she could do was pull down her headdress as far over her forehead as she could. How she wished for her beloved cloak to hide her.

The sound of marching feet grew louder as Yolanda reached the city square. Here, a crowd of wounded soldiers in green-grey uniforms lounged against café walls, filling the street with their cheering. It was impossible for her to cross the square without drawing attention to herself, and she found their numbers, their arrogance, everything they stood for, threatening. Everywhere the German flag fluttered in the breeze: from building windows and even the top of the minaret of the old mosque.

She flattened herself against the wall of a ruined shop, edging round the gathering groups of curious bystanders. Then into the square marched a battalion of the scruffiest paratroopers, in that confident stride that only victors make. At their head was a tall man in shorts with a handkerchief round his head as a makeshift cap, his legs sunburned to toast-brown. He looked like a gypsy vagabond rather than their leader.

Local officials in suits were stepping forward in some sort of surrender, but they looked puzzled by the commander who stood before them. If ever an insulting message was given, it was here, as the officer clicked his heels. He couldn’t be bothered to smarten up for the occasion. The city had fallen, and even the priests trying to make a ceremony of the defeat could not redeem this humiliation. Yolanda could not bear to watch as a parade of British prisoners marched slowly into view, their eyes dead with exhaustion and defeat. Behind them, trucks of wounded were followed by other German officers in open-topped cars in some victory cavalcade through the ruined wreckage of a once-proud city.

Her eye caught one of the cars with a woman in familiar nurse’s uniform, staring ahead. It was the white headdress that stood out from all the camouflage and olive-grey uniforms. For a second the woman turned her head, staring at her. Yolanda almost stepped out into the road to get a closer look. No, surely not . . . it couldn’t be? She raced to keep up with the car just to be sure. She felt the sky spinning above her as she craned her neck, hoping against hope that she was seeing things. That woman with the Nazi in the car couldn’t be Penelope, her friend Penny, not after all they’d seen on the mainland? It was a mistake, she must have a double. But then she saw the nurse turn her head again. They locked eyes in one terrible glance of recognition.

Slowly the staff car edged through the streets. Faces were staring at them coldly and Penny wished she could jump out, run away and hide. This was not how it was meant to be. Ashamed, she averted her eyes for a second and saw a face, an oh so familiar face among the crowd. A face she would’ve recognized anywhere; those pinched cheeks, that strong nose, black hair covered by a floral headscarf. Their eyes locked for a few seconds. It was without doubt Yolanda. Yolanda was alive, here in Chania, looking right into her eyes as if she had seen a ghost, but with a look not of joy of recognition but of utter disbelief and contempt. Penny went cold at the thought of what her once-dear friend might be thinking and there was nothing she could do. She must not blow her cover.

Yolanda tried to keep pace with the car to make sure what she’d witnessed was real. There must be some mistake. No English nurse would fraternize with a German officer in such a public display of unity. It must be the heat and confusion of this awful day that was making her imagine things. But in her heart she knew immediately this was no mistake. It was Penelope, her friend. After all they’d been through together, how could she forget a friend’s face? Had her friend become the enemy too?