Island of Ghosts and Dreams, page 2
I push myself to the surface again.
I gasp for air between the swells and reach and feel my hair and find blood there, a great deal of blood, then I look for the boat but it’s been pushed away by current and wind and never-ending waves. I try to fight for a moment and swim towards it, but it’s too far and only getting sucked farther and farther from where I swim, and I need to conserve energy. I look around. Another wave comes and washes over me and I clear the salt and water from my eyes, and spit as much from my mouth as I can. I look around and still don’t see any land, not anywhere that I look. Is this it? Is this the end? Will I be lost here, and forgotten, my body never seen or found or brought back to England, or will my fate be something else, and something different?
I’m determined for it to be something different.
So I start to swim.
I pull myself in the direction I think is south, and even though I’m a strong swimmer, I soon begin to tire. I’m losing blood from the wound on my head and my mouth fills with more water, and my nose does, too. Soon my limbs don’t respond like they normally do; first it’s my arms, then my legs. My whole body seems to relax. I don’t want it to, but it does. I try to lift my head. I try to lift my eyes to see over the waves and towards the horizon, to see if there’s any land there, and even more water rushes into my mouth. I reach for my hand. I feel my ring. It’s still there, on the second finger, as it should be. At least that’s something that won’t be broken; at least, if nothing else, that’s a promise that will be kept, even if there are no others that will be fulfilled. I look at the bright and cold moon above and try to whisper another prayer, a prayer to any God, ancient or modern, that might be watching or listening, but before I finish and last words come, there’s more water. There’s more water, everywhere, all around me, rushing between my lips and then filling my lungs. I splutter and choke as I lose consciousness and finally succumb and begin to descend into the sea.
The last thing I taste is salt.
The last thing I see, above me, is light.
1 APRIL 25, 1941
I walk along the familiar road from Chania that heads west from the city. It hugs the rugged northern coast of the great southern island of Greece, and once I’m outside the city and beyond the ancient Venetian walls, I go past the place where sea meets rock until there’s sand, I round a sharp bend to where the water either laps or crashes against more rock, depending on the season, then when the rock turns to sand once more, that’s where I find his body. I stop walking and look towards where it’s washed onto the beach, squinting my eyes, making sure this is really what I’m seeing. It is. Is he alive or dead? I don’t know but I can tell it’s a man based on the size of the body and military uniform he’s wearing, even though it’s ripped, torn, and drenched with water. I look around. There’s no one else on the road. There’s no one else that can help, so I pick up the hem of my skirt and start to run down and towards him. The beach of Chryssi Akti is shaped into a crescent and there are only gentle waves that lap against the sand here as the beach is shielded from any larger ones by the small island that’s only a half kilometer into the sea and creates a natural barrier. I leave the path and when I reach the body, and see it even closer, I see the man doesn’t wear a Greek uniform, like I was expecting, but the uniform of a British soldier. It’s one I see often as there are British everywhere on Crete, quartered in the Old Town of Chania, here in the west, and they’ve been here for some months now; they’ve come from North Africa and are constantly shuttled between Chania and Souda Bay, a few kilometers east of the city, over the low and soft hills of the Akrotiri Peninsula, with Souda Bay being the largest and deepest harbor in the Mediterranean so also where much of the British fleet is now docked.
The British have garrisoned and held our ports and cities so the Greek soldiers of the Cretan 5th Division could go to the mainland to fight the Italians and Germans who came and invaded after the Greek victory over the Italians, which was the first Allied victory of the entire war. And it was Greece, and our Cretan soldiers, with my husband amongst them, who helped bring that victory. I received Demetrios’s last letter just two weeks ago. Every time I walk this road I look north, across the soft waves and past the small island, hoping to see a boat or any sign of him coming home. I haven’t seen anything yet, but I still look, every time I pass, and still hope, because I know one day he will.
I roll the soldier over, and when I do, I see his chest move.
He’s breathing.
It’s soft and shallow and labored, the type of breathing that feels like it could give out at any moment, but it hasn’t, at least not yet. I shake him to try to get him to return to consciousness, but his eyes don’t open. Then I see the wound on his leg and blood that’s stained his trousers and hasn’t washed away. Or, perhaps it has, but more has come since he’s washed ashore. How long has he been here? I shake him even harder and when he doesn’t respond, I gently slap him on the cheek, to try to get him to return to this world, but nothing seems to work.
I look around again.
There’s still no one else on the small, winding road that leads west and away from Chania, then up towards the mountains and my village, and I can’t carry or move him on my own. It’s risky to leave him in this state, but if he’s going to have a chance, it’s the only way, so I grab him underneath his arms and strain the muscles in my chest to pull him farther up onto the sand and away from the cold sea that’s been softly lapping against his body.
I turn back towards the path.
I look behind me, once more, at his pale skin, wet hair, and still-closed eyes.
Then I take a deep breath, pull the length of my skirt up to my knees again, and begin to run.
* * *
It’s not long until I come to the olive groves.
Our village is in a valley between two hills, just south of Chania, and a little west, on the way towards the high-peaked mountains called the White Mountains because of how long snow stays crested and bright on their greatest heights, and even when the snow finally melts in late summer, there’s limestone underneath which is white also, so the mountains always seem to look the same, no matter the season or time. But before you get to the mountains, and the valley between them, where we live, there are rows of olives that the family I’ve married into has owned and tended since before any on this island can remember. That’s where I find the boys. Our farm has both olives and sheep, and since all the young men we’d hired previously to help are now fighting on the mainland, it’s fallen to me and Demetrios’s two younger brothers, Ikaros and Tasos, just fifteen and thirteen, to keep the farm running and bring our wares to sell in the agora at Chania. When Demetrios first left more than six months ago, I started going to the olives alone because Tasos, his youngest brother, wasn’t yet tall enough to reach the branches, even with a ladder, or carry the buckets of water. But Tasos has grown a great deal in the last months, as boys do when they’re young, so he can reach the lowest branches to help prune now. He’s grown wider in the shoulders and arms, too, and is strong enough to carry the buckets, so I’ve been going to the fields above our village with the sheep to graze, which I prefer, and leaving the boys to take care of the trees that are closer to the coast and city, where it’s warmer, and where the olives grow better in the hot sun on the north-and-east-facing slopes, dusted by the salt carried to them on the breeze from the Sea of Crete.
When I see them, I call out.
“Ikaros!” I shout, as I keep running. “Tasos!”
They hear my voice and when they see me, hurrying towards where they stand on ladders with shears in their hands, heads and bodies amongst the branches they’re trimming, they jump down with concern in their eyes and when I reach them, I tell them what’s happened, and what I’ve found. As soon as they hear, the trees are immediately forgotten. Ikaros and Tasos both were too young to go to the mainland when the young men of this island were volunteering to fight, but they’re still old enough to wish they’d been allowed to and do their part to help defend our country from those that would come once again and try to take it from us.
Especially Ikaros.
He was only fifteen when Demetrios and the others left, but he’s nearly sixteen now, just a few months shy of his birthday, and he’s devoured every single letter that Demetrios has sent to me; he’s pored over maps of mountains near the northern border, drawn lines by candlelight representing troops and movements, studied strategy and logistics and battles along with listening to every radio broadcast from both Athens and the BBC. Now, in front of me, he runs to the donkey that carries the buckets of water slung over its back—a bucket on each side of the animal, connected by a piece of thick rope to balance them—and tosses the buckets from the donkey and to the ground.
“Let’s go,” he says.
All three of us turn and run towards Chryssi Akti, pulling the donkey behind, and when we get to the beach, I see the soldier hasn’t moved. No one else has come, either. We run to where he lays on the sand, where I pulled him from the sea and waves, and when we get to him, I take him under one shoulder, Tasos takes him under the other, and Ikaros grabs his feet. We lift and spin his body so he’s face down, then lift him again, higher this time, and drape him across the donkey’s back. The donkey is used to carrying dozens of buckets of water and olives that together weigh more than one British palikari, so it’s not an unexpected or too-heavy burden for the animal as we quickly start back up the path again, and towards the village. I think about taking him to Chania, and the British garrison that’s there, but it’s too far; our village, and the doctor that lives near us, is much closer.
“Do you think he was in the war?” I hear and turn to see Ikaros looking at me.
His brother is looking at me, too, and I glance at the soldier’s wounded head, his leg, the bullet-sized hole that’s there in his uniform and the blood still on the fabric that’s around it.
“I don’t know,” I tell them, but without conviction.
Because the truth is obvious: of course he was in the war.
“How do you think he got separated?”
It’s Tasos that asks this time.
I turn and look at him, as we keep walking.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “But I’m not sure how much time he has, so if we want to find out, run ahead and make sure Doctor Papadakis is ready and then maybe you’ll be able to ask him yourself.”
Tasos looks at me for another moment.
Then he nods and starts to sprint up the path.
I watch for a moment, his young and skinny legs expertly picking their way between small rocks and not seeming to tire at all—not when there’s a task at hand as important as this—and as he heads into the distance, I turn and look behind us for a moment. I look at the beach, then out at the sea: at the gentle and familiar waves and small island that’s there. I think of the last time I was there, on the island. I also think of the first time I was, both of which were with my husband, and memorable, but for different reasons, and then I look at the waves again and I know what they’ve brought to us, and I wonder, what else will they bring? What else could they bring? Where is the fighting now that it’s no longer in the north, and what has happened in Greece to bring this man to our shores? Where is Demetrios in all this? If a British palikari was able to cross the Aegean, then what about my husband, a Greek palikari? Will he be able to cross, too, and in the same way? And what about the others, all the other brave men who have left to go and fight? Will they also return? Will the sea also bring them back, back to us, back to this ancient and beautiful island where we’ve made our homes for more generations than can be counted? They say that Knossos, in the eastern part of Crete, is the oldest city in all of Europe, and while I don’t know if that’s true, or if it’s typical Greek embellishment and storytelling, I know what I believe, and what I hope, and what I’ve prayed for. I normally only pray at night, right before I close my eyes for the day, but I now let myself whisper one more prayer, and I whisper it in the light. I pray for my husband. I pray for him, and our future, and our island. Then when the prayer’s finished, I turn back to Ikaros, who walks steadily next to me, and the foreign soldier that we carry back towards our ancient village and the doctor that’s there that might be able to save his lost and brave life.
* * *
When we arrive, people have come from their houses to get a glimpse of this strange man that’s been brought to their village. They’ve all heard what’s happened on the mainland, of course, with Athens falling to the Nazis and now they wonder, the same as I do, what will be next: will the Germans come here, to Crete, or will they stop at the capital and leave the islands alone? The entire village has been able to talk of nothing else for the last days and weeks but now, with the arrival of this soldier, the future seems to have finally intruded into our lives in a way we haven’t been able to imagine yet or comprehend.
Eyes follow us as we go.
We hurry down uneven cobblestone streets—Ikaros, myself, and the donkey, with the soldier draped across its back—then finally come to our house at the northern edge of both the village and valley, with the white-capped peaks in front of us and just a little farther south.
Doctor Papadakis is waiting at the door.
Tasos stands next to him, and Giannis and Angeliki are there, too, Demetrios’s parents and my mother and father-in-law. The doctor comes forward when he sees we’ve arrived, and so do Giannis and Tasos, and they help me and Ikaros pull the soldier from the donkey’s back and carry him into the house. It’s a large house where we live, in comparison to the others in the village, with a living room, kitchen, and three small bedrooms. We take him to the smallest of the bedrooms, which Tasos and Ikaros normally share, and gently lay him down on Ikaros’s twin bed where Doctor Papadakis starts to examine and see if he might be able to save a life this morning.
“There’s a wound,” I say, as I point. “On his leg.”
“Has he been shot?” Tasos asks, his eyes wide.
I look at Giannis and Angeliki and they push the two boys towards the door, and when they’re gone, I turn back to the doctor.
“Do you think he’ll live?” I ask.
“It looks like he’s lost a lot of blood, but the saltwater probably helped, at least a little.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there’s likely no infection, so we’ll sew him up, do everything we can, then the rest will be with God and we’ll see if he wakes in a day or two.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then he’ll starve and die.”
I stand there for another moment, looking at the doctor.
Then I nod, understanding.
I go back out of the room as he begins his work, through the house and outside again to where Giannis and Angeliki wait with Tasos and Ikaros, under the shade of the great olive trees that grow here, too, with tall and pointed cypress scattered around and between them.
All four of them turn and look as I come to stand in front of them.
We’re silent for a moment, all of us, each with our own thoughts.
Then Angeliki speaks, softly and carefully.
“We heard on the radio while you were in the city that the king’s gone to a village near Knossos, and the government’s on its way here.”
“Here?” I ask, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“To Chania.”
“They must think it’s safe here, then,” I say, and speak a little louder than I normally would to make sure the boys hear, too, and they do.
Tasos smiles.
Ikaros frowns.
“What about Demetrios?” he asks, the question that’s been on all our minds, the one I’ve only dared whisper when no one else is listening, when no one else is there to hear or remember except the wind and gnarled trunks and ancient branches of the olives that we tend.
“There wasn’t any mention of our troops,” Angeliki says to her middle son, then swallows.
That’s why she’s spoken softly, and we can’t go down that path.
“I’ll take the boys to my parents,” I say instead, because their bedroom is now being occupied by the British palikari, and Giannis nods, then Angeliki, and after a moment, the boys do, too, both at the same time.
We turn and we go, and bring the donkey with us.
We walk through the rest of the village and towards the farm where I grew up, which is not far beyond the last of the buildings, just a little bit farther south, through the valley and away from the main part of town. The sun’s beginning to set and shadows reach down and crisscross in shapes and patterns across our path. As we get closer to the farm, the wind picks up and brings with it a strong scent of cinnamon. There’s almond, too, that I smell on the breeze along with the cinnamon, and I know that means Mana is baking paximathia. My mother’s the best cook in the village, a gift that somehow hasn’t passed to me, and the secret ingredient in her paximathia that gives away what she’s making is always the extra cinnamon. The boys smell the cookies, too, but I take them to the barn first, on the far side of the house and near the fields. They put the donkey back into his stall and pour him a cup of grain, exactly as my father has shown and taught them, then Tasos takes the bridle off the donkey’s head and hangs it on a nail. I show the boys where they can sleep. The barn is where our sheep are kept at night, in addition to the donkey, and I show them where there are blankets and the small cot from when I was their age and decided I wanted a room of my own and moved out of the house and to here, with the animals, after Demetrios had finished building it, so many summers ago. We weren’t married then, but it’s how we met, or at least how we first began to spend time together because everyone in our village knows everyone else and it was during that time building this barn that we began to fall in love, before we even really knew what that was, or what it was that we were feeling.
