“Ah,” she said, dripping rainwater onto the tiles, “what is this? Two Sideris sisters—what a piece of luck.”
Dafni, reflected Katerina, always seemed to be on the verge of laughter, though she’d never once shared what amused her. Now her beady gaze was fixed on the display of Leni’s maza loaves, still warm from that morning’s baking.
“Giorgos has been on the boat and brought home a big swordfish,” she told them, not without pride. “There is too much for us alone—why don’t you come to eat with us later?”
Katerina perked up. A meal with Dafni and her husband signaled an opportunity to talk about something other than chores, goats, and the various merits of raisins.
“Is it true that Giorgos fought in the Great War?” she asked.
Dafni’s face immediately fell.
“Yes,” she said hesitantly, “although he does not like to speak about it.”
“Will he fight in this war?” Katerina went on, ignoring a stern look from Leni.
Dafni bent her head to remove a few coins from her purse.
“He is not young anymore,” she said, which was not strictly an answer. “The army needs young men, strong men.”
“But surely he wants to join them,” Katerina persisted.
“Éla re,” Leni admonished, wrapping one of the loaves in wax paper but refusing the woman’s money. “Please,” she said, “take it—an apology for my sister’s rudeness.”
“How is it rude to ask a simple question?” Katerina demanded.“It is a fact that if the line cannot be held or if the Germans join with the Italians, then all the men will have to go.”
“Stop this,” Leni said, her tone harsh. Katerina stared wide-eyed. Her sister never raised her voice, let alone to shriek at her in this way. Her cheeks had turned bright red, as if it were her, not the spanakopita, that had been cooking over the wood fire.
“All this talk of war,” Leni hissed. “It is as if you enjoy it, the thought of it. You sound as if you are sick.” She tapped furiously on her forehead. “There is something wrong with you.”
Dafni no longer looked as if she wanted to laugh. Katerina took a single defiant breath.
“At least I am not pretending,” she said. “If the enemy arrives on Folegandros, what will you do, eh? Hide away like a turtle in its shell?”
“Éla,éla,” Dafni soothed. “Do not fight. You are family.”
Katerina threw up her hands, though there was truth to the older woman’s words. If Baba could see her now, he would bring his hand hard across her face. Leni had begun to cry silently, her jaw rigid and shoulders hunched.
“I will tell you something I know about war,” Dafni said, darting a warning glance at Katerina when she began to interrupt. “Éla, listen to me—you had not yet been born the last time there was a war such as this one. You do not know what it was like for us, those who fought and those who did not. The Giorgos who came back to me was not the same man who left. He has not ever been the same, and I cannot help him. I cannot take away the horrors that he saw, the violence and the death. War is not glorious, it is barbaric.”
“I do not believe that it is glorious,” Katerina protested, “only that it is coming. I want to be ready if it does. I want all of us to be ready.”
With a sudden gasp, Leni ran back to the kitchen. Katerinafollowed, Dafni close behind, all three crying out in dismay as the spanakopita, blackened beyond saving, was pulled from the oven. For a moment, nobody spoke. Smoke trailed up toward the ceiling. Outside, the rain beat steadily against the windows.
Dafni laid a hand on Katerina’s arm, her skin as papery-thin and fragile as the phyllo pastry smoldering before them.
“There is no way to prepare for war,” she said. “The only thing you can do is try to survive it.”
Twenty-two
Three weeks after arriving on Folegandros, Skye experienced her first Greek storm.
The morning had begun in stillness, the mountains standing sharp against a backdrop of clear blue. By the time she had scraped the last of her breakfast from the bowl—yogurt, fruit, and honey, eaten while standing at the open back door, having become a quiet ritual—the light had shifted. A wind rose out of nowhere, wild and impatient, rattling what remained of her shutters and sweeping grit across the kitchen floor.
Andreas appeared not long after she had finished washing up, pausing in the front yard with his arms folded and chin tipped to the sky. His hair was damp, the dark curls brushed back but already at the mercy of the wind.
“Are you attempting to have a staring match with those gray clouds?” Skye asked.
Something close to a grin tugged at his mouth.
