He’d waited a moment.

  He’d waited, looked back at me, my eyes, deep into my eyes.

  Then he’d nodded.

  Entaxei, his eyes had said to mine, and after a moment, they’d said it again. Entaxei, Maria-mou. Entaxei.

  13 MARCH 13, 1942

  I think it will happen sooner, but things such as this take their own time, I learn, as winter turns to spring and it’s many weeks until I see Demetrios again. I still work in the olives with Tasos, but our work is different now. We put the pruning shears away and mix buckets of slaked lime and water. With the changing seasons, it’s time to paint the bottoms of the trees once more, to protect them from the insects that will soon hatch and destroy them if they aren’t painted. We work in the sun, as days begin to get hotter, and I wonder more about Tasos, and where he goes at night and who he might see. I don’t ask him, though. He saw how it turned out for his brother, so I’m sure he thinks and hopes it will turn out the same for him. I’ll let him have that hope, as we all should have, and won’t make him speak about it or anything else before he wishes to speak about it, or tell us.

  Outside the olive groves, life in the village goes on pretty much as normal.

  We see more of the Magarakis family as Kyriaki’s belly grows, and she’s begun to show now, too, in a way that no amount of clothing can hide. I continue traveling to Chania, also, and staying with Cassia. We don’t have fresh olives this time of year, so instead I bring the wool I help my father sheer from our sheep and sell it to the weavers and tailors of the city that come looking for material to make shirts, bags, gloves, scarves, and all sorts of other things. We work during the week, all of us. Then we enjoy ourselves on Saturdays, and Sunday we go to the small church in the village to listen to Father Thiseas.

  That becomes our routine.

  I wonder about Petros Varalakis, because he hasn’t been seen in Elaionas for some time now, even before I found out what he’d done, and his father Nikos hasn’t been there for some time either. Before they’d left, though, Nikos had said they were going to Elounda, on the eastern side of the island, to help care for his uncle who lived there and was in poor health. No one in Elaionas knew he had an uncle, but they’d wished him and his son well, and a safe journey. They asked what Petros would do, as a fighting-age male who’d fought with the 5th and Nikos had said Petros would stay in the mountains outside the village, while he was with his uncle, and they’d make it work. After the information I brought to Demetrios, men from Elaionas had gone to Elounda and asked for Nikos Varalakis or anyone with the Varalakis name, but the people in Elounda said there was no one in their village called Varalakis, and they’d never heard of either Nikos or Petros. So the men from Elaionas went to Plaka and Agios Nikolaos, and no one in either village had heard of anyone named Varalakis, or seen them there, or in any other neighboring villages. It confirmed their guilt. It confirmed everything Cassia had found out about what Petros had done. The problem now, though, was where had they gone? Demetrios, Giannis, Anastasios, and all the other men had asked everyone they knew—every relative and friend, spread across all the villages of the island—but no one had seen or heard of anyone that matched their description.

  So we had to wait.

  Then one night, while I slept, I heard a whisper.

  “Maria…” I could hear Demetrios, softly, in our bedroom.

  I knew it was him before I opened my eyes because the way he’s always said my name, the “M” sounding deeper when he says it than when others do. And I could smell him, too.

  I open my eyes.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Get dressed and follow me,” he says, still quietly. “And put on something warm.”

  I stand and quickly dress in as many layers as I can find, as he waits, then when I’m done, we leave the bedroom together and go outside. We walk past the tall cypress at the edge of our yard, then go farther, and into darkness. There isn’t much light from the moon tonight, so we move and walk by memory. Our feet find the path we know so well, the one that leads south, towards the mountains, and as we walk, his hand reaches and takes mine.

  I look down at it.

  We don’t stop, though.

  We keep going.

  Soon we leave the path and begin to climb, straight up, needing to use our hands and feet to scale sheer rock faces that reach towards a bluff I know is there, above us, the highest point around and also the hardest to get to. “Just a little farther,” he says, from his place beneath me, protecting me in case I slip or start to fall.

  I won’t.

  Soon I get to the final rock, pull myself up, and then I’m there.

  I look around as Demetrios pulls himself up after me, onto the top of the rocky bluff where we now stand, and I see all the others gathered: Giannis, Anastasios Magarakis and his sons, as well as Ikaros, and all the other fighting-age men from our village, and Baba, too. Even Father Thiseas is here with them. Across from them, I see more men from Elaionas, and one group of them holds Petros Varalakis. His lip is split and his face cut and smeared with blood. There’s one eye that’s swollen shut, and one that’s still open and blazes in anger and defiance. Across from him, another group holds Nikos Varalakis, who seems to be more whole than his son, and less harmed.

  They see us.

  Petros Varalakis’s lip turns into a sneer when he does.

  “What is she doing here,” he asks, when he sees me. “I would say she’s a whore, but you’re the one that’s a whore, Magarakis,” he spits. “Marrying your daughter to our enemy.”

  Ikaros walks forward with a raised fist.

  He’s about to hit Petros for what he’s said, but Anastasios comes and stops him.

  “Is that all?” Anastasios asks, turning from Ikaros back to Petros.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought you’d at least deny it, beg for your life, or offer some excuse or explanation.”

  “There is no Varalakis who begs.”

  “Very well, then,” Anastasios says.

  He turns and nods to Father Thiseas.

  The priest comes forward and says a prayer for Petros Varalakis, raising his hand with three fingers together—his thumb, index, and middle finger of his right hand—then makes the sign of the cross three times over Petros’s body. When he’s done, he reaches into his robes and takes out a small vial of oil to wipe some across Petros’s forehead, giving him last rights.

  Then Father Thiseas turns.

  He backs up, and returns to us.

  “Is there anything you would like to say?” the priest asks him.

  Petros glares back.

  He looks at the priest, then Anastasios and Giannis, the power in our villages, then he looks at their sons, and especially Ikaros, the son from the hated village on the far side of the valley who married the girl that he loved.

  And then, he finally turns, and looks at me.

  He waits, just for a moment, and I wonder why.

  Then he shakes his head.

  “Oxi,” he says.

  Ikaros goes to walk forward again, but Anastasios stops him.

  Next to me, Demetrios takes my hand.

  “He insulted me, my wife, and my sister,” Ikaros says, his eyes burning as he looks back at his father-in-law.

  “This isn’t revenge,” Anastasios tells him.

  “Then what is it?”

  But Anastasios ignores him and moves him to the side, then goes forward himself and stands in front of Petros.

  He takes a pistol from his belt.

  It’s Bulgarian, left over from the first war.

  When Petros sees it, he shakes his head.

  “At least give me the dagger,” he spits through clenched teeth. “At least do it with something that’s ours.”

  Anastasios pauses for a moment.

  Then he puts the pistol away and takes his carved Cretan dagger from his hip.

  He walks closer to Petros.

  I can see Petros close his eyes as Anastasios leans his lips close to his ear and whispers: “You betrayed your ancestors and your village. I hope you find the salvation you’re looking for.”

  Petros opens his eyes.

  “You’ve stood in the way of love,” he says, very loudly, so all can hear. “It’s your salvation I’ll pray for, Anastasios Magarakis. It’s your salvation, as well as hers, and all the rest of you that stand in false judgment because I found what I was looking for, then had it taken.”

  There’s a moment, one last moment.

  Then Anastasios flexes and thrusts.

  The dagger plunges into Petros’s stomach and underneath his ribs and even though I’m not a doctor, I of course know all the vital organs that are there.

  At first, there’s nothing, just an inhalation of breath.

  Then the blood starts to come and when it does Anastasios quickly pulls the dagger back, and even more comes, bright and red on Anastasios’s arms, staining and covering his sleeves. But before there’s a scream, or more pain, or anything else, Anastasios pushes Petros in the chest, once, very firmly, so he’s shoved backward and falls from the side of the cliff.

  His body tumbles and twists.

  It flies through air and night until we hear the distant thud of it landing and breaking on the rocks that are below.

  I don’t look away.

  I think I will, but I don’t.

  I’ve done this.

  It’s me that’s made this happen, and I’m glad I have, because of what he did, and since it was me that took his life, shouldn’t I also watch it be taken? I need to see what I’ve done. We all need to, always, and next to me as he holds my hand, I can feel that Demetrios understands that, too.

  This is serious business.

  This is the most serious business.

  “And what of you?” Anastasios asks, turning now to Nikos.

  “What of me?”

  “Do you denounce your son’s actions, and do you wish to remain part of the village?”

  “My son is my flesh and blood, just as yours are. I denounce nothing except you. You’re a traitor, Anastasios Magarakis, and while I honor my blood, you do the opposite and betray your own.”

  “How?”

  “You heard my son. You know who she married.”

  “That’s your final answer?”

  He doesn’t speak again.

  He just stands and stares at Anastasios, his eyes burning, or at least trying to, as Anastasios then motions for the men holding Nikos to release him and move away, which they do.

  “Would you like the pistol or the dagger?”

  In response, Nikos Varalakis speaks his final words.

  “May the Germans kill you all,” he says.

  Then he turns and starts to run, covering the space on the cliff and when he gets to the edge, he launches himself off.

  His body begins to plummet.

  Down, down.

  He sails through night and darkness, just the same as his son did, until there’s another thud as he lands on the rocks that have already broken one body, and now they break another, too.

  There’s silence.

  For a moment, there’s nothing but silence.

  Anastasios turns to me.

  “Efcharisto,” he says.

  I nod.

  We all stand there, then there are more nods as Demetrios and Giannis go to Anastasios and shake his hand, and I go to Ikaros and embrace him and whisper into his ear.

  “She’s doing wonderful,” I tell him.

  “Efcharisto,” he says, too, and I can feel him smile.

  “She is wonderful.”

  “She is, isn’t she?”

  “She’ll be the best mother.”

  “Nai.”

  “So stay alive, so that you see it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No flying too close to the sun, like your namesake.”

  “That’s just a story.”

  “And what are stories?”

  “I don’t know. What are they?”

  “A future that’s already happened.”

  He looks back at me, then nods, understanding.

  “She goes to Chania to see the doctor tomorrow,” he says, as he moves away and smiles even wider now. “Tell her I’ll see her tomorrow night, and will be in Elaionas waiting when she gets back.”

  I look at the joy that’s there in his face, the anticipation.

  It’s beautiful.

  It’s so beautiful, and so are they.

  “Of course,” I tell him. “Of course.”

  14 MARCH 14, 1942

  Demetrios comes back with us to the village, but he leaves again before the sun comes up. I’ve spent the entire night with his arms wrapped tightly around me, holding me, and haven’t closed my eyes since we returned because I want to feel and remember every moment he’s here; the size of his hands and roughness of his palms, the way he smells and how he feels with my head resting between his chin and his shoulder, where I can smell so much of him. Sometime before dawn, though, his arms unwrap from around me and he stays like that, just for a moment, in the bed, then stands. Once he does, it’s immediately cooler. I wrap the blanket tighter around my body as in front of me he begins to dress again: pulling on his trousers, his cummerbund, then his shirt from the place he has left it on the chair. His belt is last, with his Cretan dagger on one end, and a holster that holds a British pistol given to us by William on the other. He pulls the belt around his waist then tightens it, takes his jacket from the back of the chair, before finally reaching for the rifle propped in the corner, which he slings across his back.

  He’s ready.

  I stand from the bed and dress quickly, too, before the cold comes.

  He watches, and once I’m done, I adjust my dress into place, along with the jacket I wear over it, and go to him.

  One more moment.

  That’s what I want: one more moment here with him.

  I stand on my toes and tilt my head, and he holds me again, one hand on my waist, the other on my neck, and he guides my lips up and towards his.

  They linger there.

  So do his.

  Then we hear a rooster and the moment’s gone because the morning means it’s time for him to leave, so I open the door and walk out to find the house empty. With such a late night, I’m guessing Giannis and Angeliki are still sleeping, so we walk quietly through the house and go outside.

  Mist rises.

  We walk through it, down towards the barn.

  We get there before the sun really comes up and go to where Demetrios keeps his motorcycle, hidden behind the bales and under the loose straw.

  When he gets there, though, he stops.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “It’s not here.”

  “What?”

  “It’s gone,” he says, turning back to me.

  I look over his shoulder and see where the motorcycle would be, where he always keeps it, but now nothing’s there. Panic rises. I turn and run from the barn and he calls after me, to wait, but I don’t listen, so he follows. I run to the house and go inside. In the kitchen, my mother is putting freshly-made dolmades in a bag for Baba to take to the mountains for lunch. I turn and see Baba coming from their bedroom, adjusting his jacket over his shirt, then looking at me with surprise in his eyes.

  “Maria? What’s the matter?”

  “Has anyone been in the barn?” I ask, with more urgency than I’ve ever asked anything before.

  “I don’t know, probably just me,” Baba shrugs. “Why?”

  “The motorcycle’s gone.”

  And there it is.

  I see the panic come to their eyes, too, knowing what this could mean, all the awful things it could mean then Baba pushes past me and we all follow him outside. We run towards the barn and he looks around, just as we did. Then he looks down at the ground. He’s looking for tracks that might help solve or figure out what’s happened, and I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. There’s been too much coming and going, though, and anything that might have been in the dirt and straw has been stepped on too many times and won’t be able to help us.

  We look at each other.

  Then I turn and look east towards where the sun is beginning to rise above the mountains, and the light that’s soon to come.

  “You need to get back,” I say to Demetrios, very quietly.

  “I’m not leaving,” he says. “You could be in danger. There could be another traitor, or someone else that knows what was here, and has told them.”

  “Or it could be nothing.”

  “Nothing?” he says, louder now. “How could it be nothing?”

  “Where’s Tasos?” my mother asks, quietly, from behind us.

  “What?” Demetrios turns to her.

  “Where’s your brother?” she asks, louder now. “Has anyone seen him?”

  We stand there and all think back to the last time we saw him, or at least we try to.

  Had he been in his bedroom when we left the house?

  I don’t know.

  Then after I think of that, the same as I’m sure Demetrios is thinking, too, I then think of him coming home through the mist, early in the morning, after being out late at night and the panic rises again. This time it’s Demetrios that begins to run.

  He sprints up and towards his house, and I’m right behind him, and he runs inside and Giannis and Angeliki are up now and they see the look in their oldest son’s eyes, the terror.

  “You’re still here?” Angeliki asks him.

  “Have you seen Tasos?”

  They look at each other as I go to his room and push the door open and I already know it’s going to be empty before I look and see that it is, and that he didn’t sleep here last night.

  “What’s happened?” Giannis turns back to Demetrios.

  “My motorcycle’s gone.”

  Angeliki puts her hands to her mouth.

  “Oh my goodness,” she breathes.

  “Let me think,” Giannis says. “Let me just think.”

  “He’s been going to see someone at night,” Demetrios tells them, giving away his brother’s secret, but this isn’t betrayal because it could be his life that now hangs in the balance.

  “Who?” Giannis asks.