Burning Island: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Page 3

  ‘Yes, do,’ James said. ‘Remember how we tried to beat the uni Curry Club phaal challenge and you chickened out after only one mouthful?’

  Ben laughed. ‘How could I ever forget? No amount of water or lager could quench that fire. But one night in London’s enough for me, thanks. I only came up here to see you guys. Too many journeys on that stinking Tube and I’ll be heading back to the airport like a shot.’

  Of course, that only encouraged me to repeat my complaints about longing to escape the stifling Underground, delayed trains, bad weather and germ-laden passengers.

  ‘Then why don’t you both do what I did?’ Ben said. ‘I could never go back to commuting in London after living in Corfu. So why not get away from it all? You should come and work with us for a season or two.’ He helped himself to another pancake and packed it with duck and crispy seaweed. ‘You could see if you liked the island and give yourselves time to look for a place of your own.’

  ‘We’re going to need more pancakes,’ I said, nudging James, who was already waving at the waiter and ordering another round of Tsingtao beers. I needed a second or two to think about this proposition, but it already had its attractions when I looked at the icy sleet outside, beating at the steamy windows.

  ‘Are you serious?’ James asked, when Ben repeated his offer.

  ‘Totally,’ Ben gave a vigorous nod of his head as he rolled himself another fat duck pancake. ‘I know you guys really well and trust you, and we could do with a couple more Brits in the business, given how most of our clients come from here. It’s manic though, especially in the height of the season. You’ve got to be prepared to turn your hand to everything. You could be answering the phone one minute, meeting guests at the airport the next or updating the website and helping out in the restaurant.’

  I looked at James. He was smiling. ‘What do you think?’ I asked.

  ‘It sounds great. Could be just the opportunity we’re looking for.’

  I caught sight of my reflection in the mirrored wall, engraved with bamboo groves and flights of birds, opposite our table. In the half-light of the restaurant the hollows under my eyes and in my cheeks seemed deeper than ever, my complexion looked dull and grey. Such a contrast to Ben, whose golden skin and bleached-blond hair were clear evidence of the many long, hot summers he had enjoyed.

  Ben was smiling back at us. ‘I could really do with some reliable help next year. With another baby on the way, Eleni isn’t going to be able to work half as much next season and the business is growing fast.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want us to commit to working with you long-term,’ I said. ‘Though it would be a great help to start with, so one summer might be all right.’

  James hugged me. ‘I agree. And you know how I’ve always been mad about cooking.’ I could see he was feeling he needed to justify his reasons for leaving his present job and turn this opportunity to his advantage. He hesitated, then went on, ‘And I’ve often talked about doing it for a living one day… well, I was thinking… so how would you feel if I worked some of the time in your kitchen as well? Not permanently, mind, as eventually I’d like my own place. But would you have a problem with that?’

  Ben laughed. ‘The kitchen’s Eleni’s domain, so you’d have to contend with her. But it’s fine by me, as long as you don’t set up shop next door to us.’ He gave James a playful punch. ‘And there’s plenty of scope for higher-end restaurants now. We’re getting more sophisticated visitors year after year, who demand more than the same old Greek salads and moussaka. The locals don’t always take to us pushing in, but you should go for it, mate. It’s a great idea and I’ll help you find premises, if you like.’

  ‘Just somewhere to live, at first,’ I said, ‘James’s restaurant dream might have to wait for a while, till we’re absolutely sure.’

  ‘Oh, I can help you with a place to stay, no problem. We’re already doing up some apartments ready for next season. If you don’t mind a bit of decorating as well, you can have one of them. Or you can camp out in some of the villas, when they’re not occupied.’

  I think it was the first time in our lives we had made an impetuous decision. And I remember we toasted our future in beer, then laughed about two high-flying professionals packing it in to work odd jobs for Ben. There would be so many new skills to learn, but little did we know then how much more we would learn about ourselves.

  Chapter Six

  7 June 1944

  Doctor Batas is normally a cautious man. He knows that he is risking his life. This is not a decision to be taken lightly. He and Isaac Nikokiris have talked about this moment many times, ever since he delivered Isaac’s youngest daughter, Anna, three years ago. And when the Germans invaded the island in the autumn, imprisoning and executing the Italian troops who had occupied Corfu for over two years, their conversations took on an even more serious tone. The Italians hadn’t complied with the German deportation policy and had told the Jews to escape while there was still time, but the community refused to believe that the Germans would ever come to the island and make them leave. They had always lived harmoniously with their Greek neighbours, but gradually, when they saw how the island’s mayor collaborated with the Germans and news filtered through from other parts of Greece, their fears grew.

  ‘Perla and I cannot thank you enough,’ Isaac says when he and his wife finally bring the sleeping girls to the doctor’s house in darkness. ‘You are a brave man to take such a risk. We hope we will return to repay you, but if we do not come back, then surely you will be repaid in Heaven.’

  ‘There is no time for speeches,’ Batas says. He is fully aware that he would be shot for helping this innocent family, shot for depriving the Germans of just two little Jewish children, shot for depleting their tally of Jews. ‘I have been afraid it would come to this, ever since we heard what happened in Salonika last year. They took everyone, promising work, but they have not been heard of since. If the rumours are true, there is no time to waste. I must leave immediately, while the children are sleeping.’

  He is sure he can deliver his special cargo safely to Georgiou further up the coast, as long as he isn’t stopped. The children are fast asleep. Perla has dosed them as instructed, so they shouldn’t make a sound for several hours. But what if his car is searched? The Germans have some respect for his profession, but following the recent bombing by the Allies, the guards are more nervous and there are patrols all around the island. He will have to say he is on his way to a serious accident at a village the other side of the mountains, and that he must be allowed to proceed without delay or there will be consequences.

  He daren’t take the straight and easy coast road to the north, so he heads out of Corfu Town in a westerly direction, away from the port where most of the troops are gathering to ensure the frightened people don’t escape from the island on fishing boats. He knows this is his only chance to get the girls away. Once they wake, they might cry for their mother – they wouldn’t understand why they have been spirited from their bed in the middle of the night and are trapped in the boot of a car.

  The roads along the west coast are the most likely to have patrols, watching for signs of Allied planes and ships arriving from Italy, so he drives along the back roads, passing fields of maize and wheat that have not yet been seized by the Germans. But he has only got as far as Gardelades when he sees lights ahead of him. Two guards step out into the middle of the road, guns pointed towards the car. ‘Halt!’ they shout, advancing on him.

  Batas winds down his window but keeps the engine running in the hope that if the children stir, the slightest sound will be masked by the rattling of his old car. He holds out his authorisation from Mayor Kollas, permitting him to drive anywhere on the island to save lives and limbs.

  ‘Guten Abend,’ he says. ‘I have been summoned to Ano Korakiana. There has been a serious accident at the olive press there. I must attend as a matter of urgency, to ensure they can continue with the pressing of oil. Supplies are running short at the garrison in Corf
u Town.’ The Germans know nothing of the island’s seasons; he is sure they don’t realise olives are harvested and pressed in late autumn, they just greedily recquisition supplies wherever they find them, leaving nothing for the local people. Corfu is lucky, with its abundant winter rainfall ensuring good crops, but in the city of Athens and on other less fertile islands, people are starving to death on the streets and in their homes because of the invaders’ demands for resources.

  The soldiers both study the permit. Most of it is printed in Greek, which he guesses they probably can’t read, but they recognise the signature of the mayor and their commandant and wave Batas on his way. He resumes his journey slowly so they won’t suspect his heart is beating so fast he feels breathless. Then once they are out of sight, he begins to drive faster, praying he won’t be apprehended again.

  Having given the guards a false destination, he judges it safest to head in that direction, then take the winding mountain roads through Sokraki and down through the village of Spartilas, where people used to gather in the old days for the walnut festival under its ancient trees. The hairpin bends of these hilly tracks will cost him valuable time, but then he can risk picking up the less-watched coastal road past Barbati and Nissaki to speed his journey to the north-east corner of the island, where Georgiou is waiting for this very special delivery.

  Chapter Seven

  March 2006

  Amber

  Rain was still falling on the flagstones of the town’s narrow alleyways and pouring from bulging awnings and balconies, but it wasn’t cold and grey like English rain; it was fresh, bringing the promise of new growth as the island came back to life after the winter. We ran between the high tenements, laughing, dodging the torrents that splashed us every time a broom emptied the stretched wet canvas above us.

  It was early March when we arrived in Corfu, and at first James was afraid I might grow despondent in the damp weather, but while only a short time ago I had been cursing the English winter, here, despite the rainstorms, I was optimistic. It wasn’t really cold, there was no snow and I’d been told the island’s winter rains are a vital part of Corfu’s life cycle – to be celebrated, not bemoaned.

  We had driven into Corfu Town on one of the wettest days that spring, to visit an estate agent recommended by Ben. ‘I want lemon trees and a pool, at the very least,’ I told James, as we drove along the coastal road overlooking tiny Mouse Island, with its white chapel and tall dark cypress trees.

  ‘Absolutely, and we want a terrace where our guests can eat under a shady vine in the summer,’ James said, ‘as well as a view of the sea.’ We had high hopes of finding the perfect property after seeing some of the beautiful homes Ben managed and let out to holidaymakers. And when we reached the estate agent’s office, slightly damp and breathless from running through the rain, we found the windows full of bright pictures of white villas draped with vines, lush with grapes and garlands of purple bougainvillea, cushioned sun loungers arranged around sparkling pools overlooking the deep blue sea. But our hopes fell when Katarina, the plump but glamorous proprietor, handed us a dog-eared list of less impressive properties, once we had told her our budget.

  ‘You English are responsible for the prices,’ she laughed, brushing her shoulder-length bleached hair aside with a waft of heavy scent and a clatter of bangles. ‘It used to be known as the Durrell effect,’ she added, in reference to the author of My Family and Other Animals, as she rummaged in her filing cabinet to find more particulars. ‘Now it’s often called Kensington-on-Sea, because of the number of well-to-do English visitors who come every year.’

  ‘But that’s just along the north-east coast,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard the south of the island is on a par with Faliraki, isn’t it?’

  Katarina frowned. ‘In parts, it would seem so. And you English certainly don’t help! We are very shocked at the outrageous behaviour of some of your young people, especially the girls, who drink as much as the boys. But the older visitors and the families who have been coming for years, those we like.’ Her frown then changed to a smile. ‘And I am sure we can find you just the kind of property you want.’

  We looked through the details of various houses and existing businesses, none of which were as splendid as the spacious villas displayed in the window. Anything within walking distance of the sea, especially near the popular resorts, was wildly expensive, even the properties that were only half built. Most houses further inland didn’t have the potential for us to develop both the restaurant and guest accommodation, and many were owned by families unwilling to fully relinquish control of their property.

  We had also noticed, on our frequent drives from Corfu Town along the north-east coast, how many of the older buildings were interspersed with concrete foundations sprouting rusted scaffolding. When we asked Katarina about those sites, she waved her hands with their heavy gem-set rings. ‘The owners, they build when they have money and when they don’t, the work just stops. Some of them will stay like that for years, but they’ll never sell up. They like to keep it in the family.’

  ‘Now is perhaps not the best time to look,’ she added, when she had finished running through the properties currently available. ‘You will have to be patient. Owners want to make the most of the summer lettings and at the end, especially if they have had a poor season, they may be more willing to part with their property. Late September, October, there will be more choice, I am sure. In the meantime, you should get to know the island thoroughly, explore the areas away from the tourists.’

  We left the office feeling a little deflated. We had left London with such high hopes of finding our perfect place in the sun quickly, and even though we knew we would have to work for a while before we could open the restaurant, we had been quite convinced it wouldn’t take very long.

  ‘Let’s get a coffee before we head back,’ I said. ‘We don’t have to do any more painting straight away.’ On Ben’s instructions, we were giving The Lemon Grove’s bedrooms a fresh coat of white paint, obliterating the stencilled patterns the owner had thought would enhance the rooms.

  ‘And then I want to stop off at the market,’ James said. ‘I want to try cooking lamb with prunes. I think it will be similar to that Moroccan dish you like with the dried apricots.’

  ‘Sounds good. At least you’re not going to force me to eat rabbit again.’ I grabbed James’s arm as we began running through the narrow, wet alleyways in the old quarter of the town. We were beginning to find our way through the maze of back streets, crumbling doorways and arches and knew where to find the best butcher, an old bakery with a flaking green door and the pharmacy. The festering odour of dank drains, overflowing from the rain, was punctuated by the pungent cleanliness of doorsteps freshly scrubbed with bleach.

  In the warren of high stuccoed buildings, painted terracotta, yellow and green, shops that would soon open for the hordes of summer tourists were still quiet and shuttered, but we could hear the life of the town all around us – children laughing as they ran home from school, mothers calling to each other from doorways, a lone scooter spluttering towards the main square and a caged bird trilling from a window far above us. At one point, we lost our bearings in the narrow alleyways. ‘I think this is the old Jewish quarter,’ I said as James was trying to find the way to our favourite cafe looking out towards the town’s main square, where Ben said cricket was played in summer.

  We found our way there again, and few of the outside tables on the sheltered Liston Terrace were occupied on that rainy day, but there were several people inside sipping the strong Greek coffee. ‘Actually, I don’t really mind the rabbit,’ I said, once we’d ordered. ‘I’m just not convinced it’s something you should have on the menu.’ I couldn’t bear the sight of the skinned bodies, still with their heads, ears and paws, lying on the butcher’s slab, awaiting the crash of a cleaver. I thought many English tourists would feel the same way.

  ‘Menu?’ James shook his head. ‘There won’t ever be a menu if we don’t find a site for the
restaurant. All I’ve got at the moment is ideas. I’m just exploring what’s seasonally available and tweaking it to suit modern tastes. Rabbit is something the islanders would traditionally have hunted and cooked, and it’s such an underused meat these days. It might become a regular feature, or it might not.’

  I held his hand. ‘I know, darling. I understand what you want to achieve. And you will do it, eventually.’

  James smiled at my concern and, as he stroked my hand while he talked, I noticed tiny flecks of white paint sticking to his cuticles and knuckles. ‘I think we’ve got to be different to the hundreds of tavernas all offering the same fare,’ he said. ‘I don’t want us to be yet another anonymous place dishing out moussaka with pizza, steak and chips and fried calamari on the side. I want us to really celebrate the produce of this beautiful place, like the local lamb, the tremendous variety of fish and the wonderful fresh vegetables. Remember the taste and colour of those big tomatoes Eleni served the other night? They could never make their way into a supermarket in England. Far too misshapen for our customers, much too tasty for English housewives.’

  ‘Enough, James, enough. You don’t need to lecture me, of all people. I understand exactly what you want to achieve and I’m wholly in favour. Modern Macedonia. Ideal Ionian. Whatever you want to call it, I’m with you, one hundred per cent.’

  That night, despite our lack of house-hunting success, Ben was exuberant. ‘Limoncello,’ he cried. ‘We must toast your new career with limoncello.’ He waved the frosted glass bottle above the table and poured shots into four glasses, which we all had to toss back in one quick gulp.

  It wasn’t fiery like Metaxa, the Greek brandy, nor did it taste of cough mixture like the local ouzo; it was strong, but sweet and fresh like the whole island, which had been revived, after the scorching heat of summer, by the heavy rains of winter. We sat at a table on the terrace of the family restaurant, shielded from the cold wind blowing in from the sea by the waterproof rain shield that enveloped the building all winter, just like one of those clear plastic rain capes sold at music festivals. Inside this rattling raincoat, we could see and hear the choppy waves breaking onto the beach, still littered with driftwood and debris from several months of wintry storms. Soon the restaurant would reopen for business and throughout the whole summer every table would be booked for lunch and dinner by visitors who had heard of Eleni’s prowess as a chef, but during the winter it was only open at weekends, when local families left Corfu Town to visit the beach and the countryside.