He should know about this, be kept in the loop.
But Andreas didn’t answer. She hung up before the voicemail could finish, stowing her phone as Victoria rejoined the group.
“The cops can’t be here until tomorrow,” she said. “They told me to make sure the grave is covered up and that nobody should touch the bones.”
“Fine by me,” Dusty said. She already had her hands in her pockets.
“We can use the old tarp at mine,” Skye said. “I’ll go and fetch it.”
Nobody had gone into the house while she was in Chora. The kitchen was still a disaster area, the blood-stained cushion abandoned on the floor where Martyn had fallen.
Instead of going straight into the garden, Skye went upstairs and was immediately confronted by a pile of rubble. The hollow where part of the landing wall had fallen in was a little above head height. Skye stood on her tiptoes and felt around inside.
There was something there. More letters, perhaps?
She stretched farther, her fingers closing around a small, lightweight bundle. It came free easily. The pouch was made from coarse sackcloth, its top tightly cinched with twine. Hands clumsy with anticipation, Skye worked at the knot, then slowly eased it open, tipping the contents into her other hand. There were two items: a gold cross pendant on a fine chain and a slim, rectangular metal tag, around the size of a matchbox.
Skye squinted at the inscription. There was a series of numbers, below which was punched a name: MUTI, GIULIO. Not German, like the swastika-stamped medal, but Italian. Dog tags.Could both have belonged to an occupying soldier? And if so, why had they been hidden here, sealed inside her wall?
Her phone began to vibrate. Skye slipped the items back into their pouch, her heart lifting as she saw Andreas’s name.
“You called me,” he said.
“I did,” she agreed. “I probably shouldn’t have. I know you’re busy.”
“I am with the police.”
“Oh. Is everything— Are you all right?”
“It is not the best time to talk now,” he said. “But you are well?”
“I’m fine,” she said, the words sounding empty. “How about you—are you OK?”
“Éla, I have to go.”
“Of course. Sorry, I—”
But Andreas had already hung up.
Forty-five
September 1941
Katerina was beginning to show.
In war, she had learned, possessions were no longer something that belonged to you. They could be taken at any time and frequently were, the occupiers on her island grasping always for more. Precious jewelry was traded for bags of grain, animals taken and slaughtered to fill the bellies of an idle army, families ripped from their homes with only the clothes on their backs.
It was for these reasons that Katerina did not wish to share the news of her pregnancy. The baby was hers, and it was Stefanos’s. She cherished the comfort of knowing their child was there, growing inside her. A secret she must keep for as long as possible, even from those closest. Though in a community where food was scarce and becoming more so, the protrusion of her stomach would not go unnoticed for much longer. Katerina was, for once, eager to bid farewell to the summer. She looked forward to cooler days that would warrant thicker layers of clothing.
Life had settled into a routine of sorts, one that saw her rise each day before the dawn. She and Leni had so far been permittedto keep their one remaining goat, though the soldiers were first in line when it came to any milk the nanny produced. The bakery was still open, though Leni prepared only the most basic breads, substituting ingredients and adjusting the size of loaves so that everyone could get their fair share. Katerina ate more for the life inside her than to satiate her own hunger. She foraged for wild herbs as she wandered the hillsides, scouring the edges of walls for fallen fruit.
Leni barely seemed to take a morsel.
“There are others who need it more than me,” she would say, nibbling half-heartedly at a tomato. “Many who do not have my health or youth.”
The school in Chora had been closed, its building taken over as a military barracks. Leni, having sought permission from the officer in charge of their village, had converted the grain store at the rear of her house into a classroom. The island’s children were welcome to come and go as they pleased, encouraged to read or draw or merely escape the watchful eyes of their captors for a few hours each day. Katerina was no scholar, though she was able to teach the basics of farming, while Dafni took care of the rest. When she was not tending to her oven, Leni also helped.
“The children give me a purpose,” Leni told Katerina. “When I am around them, watching them play, it does not feel as though we are at war.”
