His.

  I normally meet him in the village, when I’ve come before, but this is the first time I’ve gone higher.

  We go inside.

  It’s wide and deep, and he takes a match and lights the candles he has placed in each corner so it’s no longer dark. Then, when light comes, I see what else is in the cave: there are marks on the walls where those who came before us drew pictures, their stories, which I’ve already seen, when I was a child. And below them there’s now an entire pile of both German and British rifles and ammunition. I know where these weapons have come from, and what they are, exactly what they are. New stories. They are new stories, our stories, now, next to the ancient ones etched above. I keep looking and also see the Zundapp KS 750 motorcycle Demetrios took from the Germans on the road to Rethymno, propped against the far wall, as well as a low, homemade bed he’s recently constructed near a small table where I assume he takes his meals when he’s alone.

  He walks towards me, then stands in front of me, and I can smell him.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I breathe. “Absolutely nothing.”

  I stand on my toes so my lips find his lips, then I reach and unbutton his jacket, which slides off.

  I pull his shirt up and over his head.

  My hands find the thin leather belt that holds his black trousers, and I uncinch it, then his pants fall and everything else is gone, too, and it’s just us again.

  I take my clothes off.

  He doesn’t help me.

  He stands as close as he can and his eyes don’t leave my eyes, which look back into his, and when I’m done, he moves even closer still so his skin touches my skin and I don’t only smell him, I feel him, then he takes me and lays me down on his bed and moves so that he’s on top of me. We will survive, like our ancestors did, and we will love like they did, as well, and maybe they survived because they loved, just the same as this, and perhaps even in this very cave. That’s what I’m thinking as it begins. Then, once it does, all I think of is him. All I think of is this man I waited for my whole life, first once, then again, and now here he is, in my arms, in our cave of stories and flickering candles, casting their fractured light that dances across our naked and intertwined bodies, and fills our once-empty but now full-again souls.

  10 JANUARY 17, 1942

  After the wedding, the women all go back down to our two villages, the men of fighting age remain in the caves above Skiafos, and things for the most part return to what normal has been since the German invasion. Or perhaps more accurately, things return to normal for everyone but me. In the moments before the German paratroopers arrived, nine months ago, when I thought I had lost Demetrios, I felt a change in myself and both who I was and thought I should be. Once Demetrios returned, though, that faded and I went back to being a wife and fulfilling the role in my family that young wives fulfill. But if there’s anything that’s been made clear, it’s that these times are not normal. The incident in the village and seeing the young widow wearing black has changed me, also. The men have all changed themselves into someone new, who they are during war, rather than peace. There’s a new and different person I can turn myself into as well, isn’t there?

  Of course there is.

  And I have a plan.

  When we return, I make an excuse to go back down to Chania, telling Giannis and Angeliki I have more olives to sell. I tell my parents the same thing as I load olives into a cart that will be pulled by the donkey, then begin the trek north and to the coast. Giannis and Angeliki want to send Tasos with me, but I tell them it’s more risk than anything else, and they know I’m right, so I’ll go on my own.

  I reach the town, but don’t walk to the agora.

  Instead, I go past the harbor, and kastro, and all the German soldiers standing on the streets, and walk straight to Cassia’s apartment. I tie the donkey outside her building before going up the stairs, letting myself in, and when I go to her room, I find her still sleeping.

  I don’t wake her.

  I sit down, pick up a newspaper that’s on the table, and scan the headlines.

  The German offensive in Russia—“Operation Barbarossa,” as it’s been called—has failed, and the Russian counteroffensive has gained ground and the writer calls it the first Allied victory in the whole war. I smile wryly, not because of the paper itself, but because of course this isn’t the first Allied victory in the war because that was in Greece, and won by my husband and so many others in the Albanian mountains, fighting against the Italians. Even though this British reporter is wrong, I’m still glad to see what we’ve done; I’m still glad to see the Greek resistance did indeed give Russia time to prepare their defense and deploy their ultimate weapon, the harshness of their winter. It’s the only way they could’ve defeated the Germans, and so we’re the reason, I realize, the reason the Allies are still fighting and not yet conquered, and we’re the reason the world still has a chance to win and be free. I scan the paper further then smile even more, without any wryness this time, because there’s another headline: the American president has pledged more supplies to the Allied cause, it says, and there’s a picture of Franklin Roosevelt having just given a speech at his annual State of the Union address.

  “Maria?” I hear. “What are you doing here?”

  I look up to see Cassia coming from her room, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  “I need to ask you something.”

  I stand and put a pot of water on to boil.

  When it does, I make two strong cups of malotira I’ve brought with me—malotira from our village, and our mountains—and then we sit on her balcony overlooking the harbor, each with a cup in our hand, and she smokes a cigarette. I tell her what happened, and what I’ve come to request and ask. I tell her I can pay, of course, but she just stares back at me when I say this, then tells me that even though she no longer lives there, it’s of course still her village, and always will be, so she’ll do what I ask for free.

  And she’ll be happy to do it.

  She nods to the paper.

  “What’s going on outside this island?”

  “Do you recognize him?” I ask, showing her the photo, then she smiles when she sees what I see: the familiar face of James Roosevelt standing near the president’s left shoulder.

  “I hope he’s able to convince his father.”

  “I do, too. But his father is wise, and good, so I don’t think it’s his father he needs to convince.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s his father that needs to convince the people who vote for him.”

  “They’re so young,” Cassia shakes her head, and it’s her turn for a wry smile now. “They’re so very young in America.”

  “They are, just as we were once.”

  “And so it goes.”

  “So it goes.”

  “Do you think it was simpler then?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her, then stand. “I don’t think so, but I also don’t know.”

  I thank her again, give her a hug, then I leave.

  I go back down to the donkey and cart with the olives I’ve left outside her building.

  I start walking and go to the small kafeneio that’s just past the apartment, one of the many where the old men sit outside and drink coffee while twirling komboloi. There aren’t as many men here as before the war, but there are still some, dressed in their suits and the way men dress in the city, not the way we dress in the village. I take a bucket that’s near one of the tables and go back to the donkey. I pour the olives I brought into the bucket, then bring it back and set it on the table. They all look at me curiously as they spin their komboloi, expertly catching the beads in their palm, clack clack, clack clack, then spinning them again.

  “On the house,” I tell them.

  Then I turn and go home.

  11 FEBRUARY 7, 1942

  A month passes and I make excuses to return to Chania again.

  Cassia told me she can come to the village once she finds what I’ve asked for, but I tell her if she does, then people will know how I’ve gotten the information, so I’ll return to Chania instead, as it’s better if information of this sort and where it’s been procured from is kept secret.

  It’s better if it’s kept very secret.

  “What if I haven’t been able to find out by the time you return?” she’d asked me.

  “Then I’ll come back as many times as it takes, until you have.”

  We needn’t have wasted our words, though.

  The next time I go she’s already gotten what I need, then asks what will happen next.

  “I’m not sure,” I tell her.

  “That’s not true.”

  “You’re right.”

  “It’ll be blood, won’t it?”

  “It will.”

  “He’s going to die?”

  I pause for a moment, thinking.

  “Yes,” I nod slowly. “One way or the other, I suppose he’s going to die.”

  “Good,” she says.

  I stand looking at her and I’m silent for another moment, then I nod again. “Yes,” I tell her. “It will be. It certainly will be.”

  * * *

  When I get back to the village, I don’t tell anyone what I’ve learned.

  Then the news I have is overshadowed by other, more joyous news.

  Since the wedding, Ikaros has been borrowing Demetrios’s motorcycle and coming from the mountains under cover of darkness, as a young groom might be expected to do, to spend as many nights as possible with his new bride. The longer the occupation has gone on, we’ve become more bold. Even though we take as many precautions as possible, our lives are still our lives, and they must be lived in the very short time they’re ours and that we’re here, right? We’re all only here a very short time, so that’s what Ikaros has done, with Kyriaki, and I’m surprised when I see him in daylight, walking towards our village with a rifle slung over his back. I’m even more surprised when I see Kyriaki with him, as well as the large figure of Anastasios Magarakis, behind his daughter, along with his other sons and daughters, her siblings.

  They walk to our house.

  Giannis and Angeliki come out to greet them.

  Their eyes flick from their middle son to their new daughter-in-law, back to their son again, then the rest of the entire Magarakis family that’s accompanied them.

  “What is it?” Giannis asks. “What’s happened?”

  Kyriaki gently puts her hand over her stomach.

  Ikaros looks very proud.

  “I’m pregnant,” she tells us.

  And the news brings such joy.

  Angeliki runs and kisses her new daughter, then her son, and Giannis does the same, too, and shakes hands with Anastasios. It’s their first grandchild. For both of them, it’s their very first grandchild, and as I watch them it’s amazing how a blood feud that’s lasted more than six hundred years can now truly and suddenly be a distant memory simply because of the pending arrival of a long-awaited child and the growth of a family.

  But such is the way it is on our island, and amongst our people.

  Even in war, such is the way it is.

  Math comes to my mind, and I think of the date of the wedding, and the date of the announcement, and I’m sure now I know what Ikaros was doing on the nights he wasn’t in his own bed in the barn, but they’re married, so it doesn’t matter and I’m sure everyone else can do the same math I can, but no one cares.

  He’s a young man.

  She’s a young woman.

  They love each other, and it’s as it should be.

  It’s as simple as that.

  We don’t celebrate the news until dark.

  But then, when light departs, my parents come from the farm, and Demetrios comes from the mountains, and Angeliki has made another feast with my mother because not only will there be a new child coming, but also, this is the first time a Magarakis has eaten in this village in a hundred years, Anastasios says, as he toasts the future health of his grandchild as well as the unborn child’s parents, and all those gathered, all those that are now family.

  “That’s right,” Giannis looks back at him. “Not since your grandfather came and killed my grandfather, and tried to steal our sheep.”

  “And now it doesn’t matter,” Anastasios laughs, and I find it a strange time and reason to.

  “Why?” Giannis asks.

  “Because now all our sheep, whether mine or yours, at some point… they’ll all be his,” Anastasios says, and points to his daughter’s stomach. “So there will be peace in this valley.”

  “Yes,” Giannis finally nods, slowly. “There will, finally, be peace.”

  “Once we’ve killed the Germans,” Ikaros adds.

  “Of course,” Anastasios nods. “We need to kill the Germans first.”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course.”

  I’m glad for Ikaros.

  I’m so glad for him, and both of them.

  “Can I take you somewhere?”

  The words are whispered into my ear.

  I turn to feel Demetrios behind me, watching me watch all this, as he puts his arms around my waist, his lips on my neck now.

  “Where?” I ask, then turn to look at him.

  He kisses me.

  I kiss him in return.

  That’s my answer, he knows, so he takes my hand in his and we slip out and into the night, together.

  * * *

  We walk through moonlight.

  The path is familiar and there’s so much light from above, even though it’s the middle of night, but even if there wasn’t light, we’d still be able to find our way. We’ve taken this path so many times. We’ve taken it together more times than either of us can count, and we go north. We go down the road and towards our olives that will need to be trimmed soon, then continue on past them, and soon leave the main road. We take a smaller and more hidden path, one that can only be walked, and that Germans or anyone who isn’t from this island would never know about. We were young here, though, and this is our island, so we do. We get closer to the city. I can see the light and outline of buildings in the distance, the tall ones that hug the limani, so there’s a chance Germans could be near, but we don’t go all the way to Chania. Instead, we turn west, and I smile when I see where he’s taken us.

  Chryssi Akti.

  We walk towards the beach, and as we come from shadows, I look at the sand and sea and remember the exact spot I found William. I look at the place and remember what his body looked like lying there, and not knowing whether he was alive or dead. I’m glad. I’m glad he lived, because he saved us, and is that perhaps why I saved him? Is that why he was placed into my path, in the way that he was? I wonder. I wonder a little bit more, then nod, because then I’m sure. I look farther and see a boat in front of us, near the spot on the beach where I found him; it’s a small kaiki and it’s anchored in the shallows of the bay, bobbing gently on soft waves.

  We go to it.

  We wade into the water, which is freezing this time of year, and when we reach the boat, Demetrios helps me over the edge then jumps up himself on the edge as he swings a leg over, then the other, and climbs in next to me. He takes the oars that are in the boat and starts rowing, dipping them into the sea to push us over the small waves and towards the island at the entrance to the bay that blocks the larger waves. I smile as he rows. So many of those who are in love talk about first dates, which is different in a small village like ours than it is for most, and this was ours. I’d known Demetrios since we were young, and we’d played with other children, all together, often. Then when we were older, that’s when he’d come to my family’s farm to help build the barn where his father would keep the sheep my father would watch for him. Those were the long and hot days when we really began to notice each other, and began to grow closer. But the first time we did something that was away from our house and our families and their watchful eyes, we’d come here. We’d been to the beach many times as children, of course, but on one particularly hot afternoon when we were working together, he asked if I wanted to come with him the next day, which was a Saturday, down to the beach.

  “Just the two of us?” I’d asked.

  “Yes,” he’d nodded.

  I thought for a moment, realizing what he was asking.

  Then I’d nodded my head, too.

  “Nai,” I’d told him. “I do.”

  The next day he came to my house and spoke with Baba, first, then after Demetrios nodded, and Baba nodded, we’d left together and gone to the beach. The other kids were already there. Normally we all played together, as a group. We didn’t that day, though. Instead, that day, we went to a spot farther west and to where there are trees and some shade, and we’d sat there together. He’d packed us spanakopita that his mother made, along with some fresh mountain water mixed with honey to sweeten it. His mother’s spanakopita wasn’t as good as my mother’s, but I smiled and didn’t tell him as we ate it. I wondered if he’d asked her to make it. I wondered if he’d asked her to make it special for that day, and if he’d told her why. We sat there together as the other kids played, and we chewed and ate, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he wanted to join them; if he wanted to run and play with his friends in the waves, rather than this, and just sitting there and watching them.

  So I’d asked him.

  “Oxi,” he’d said. “No.”

  “Really?”

  “Nai.”

  I’d waited for a moment.

  “Do you want to swim out to the island?”

  He turned and looked at me.

  “It’s too far,” he spoke slowly. “I don’t think you’d make it.”

  “Can you?”

  “Can I what?”

  “Make it to the island.”

  “Of course,” he’d said, as he sat a little taller.

  “And you’ve done it before?”