This means the British haven’t completely abandoned us, I realize.

  I ask them how it’s done.

  They won’t explain and instead say I can see for myself, if I show them the quickest way to Balos Beach. They won’t take me on any trips where they expect to fight, but they’ll take me on this one, they say, because the point of this trip is to avoid the Germans.

  I nod.

  I know exactly how to get to Balos, of course, and it’s not too far from our camp and we leave as the sun is sinking so once we’re no longer in the mountains, which are ours, and safe, we’ll be travelling under cover of darkness. I lead them west. I lead them past where Chania would be if we went just a few kilometers north, then I show them the way out of the mountains. We skirt the Maleme airfield that of course belongs to the Germans, and we keep going. We pass the town of Kissamos, and it’s just on the other side of Kissamos that the main road ends. We still continue, though, even when it does. It’s just a small path that we’ll take, one that only I know, or perhaps another local, and the British and Germans don’t. The path takes us even farther west and a bit north, out onto the narrow Gramvousas Peninsula that juts up into the Sea of Crete. That’s where we are when the sun begins to rise. It’s alright, though; there won’t be any Germans here because vehicles won’t be able to cross the rough, rocky, and mountainous terrain once the road ends, and they wouldn’t know where they were going anyway. There are no signs, or markers, or anything else on this path. We see wild goats, looking curiously from their places perched on sides of cliffs around us that descend down into the sea. I look into the distance and towards the water and see the sharp-peaked island that’s there, and that’s how I know we’ve reached the place I’ve been trying to reach.

  There’s another path I show them.

  It takes us precariously down the side of a cliff, where we climb carefully, then when we reach the beach and sand below, that’s when the light finally comes.

  I see them take it all in, the sand giving way to the translucent azure of the Cretan waters, the sun reflecting off it.

  It’s perfect.

  It’s a perfect beach and even more than that, it’s completely secluded from the outside world and only reachable by boat except to those, like me, who know exactly how to find it.

  It’s paradise.

  Well, normally it’s paradise, but now it’s something else.

  Until this is over, there is no paradise here anymore.

  The heat begins to come, too, when we reach the beach and the sun climbs even higher and we have to wait until darkness again, they tell me, so as it gets hotter and hotter, the men strip off clothes, down to their shorts, and go into the water.

  I sit on the beach with William and watch them.

  Peter.

  Walter.

  Evelyn.

  Charles.

  Owain.

  Abdel.

  Tane.

  They laugh and dive, jumping over waves, wrestling, throwing water at each other. Abdel, who is from Palestine, and Tane, who is Maori, have darker skin than their more pale English and Welsh counterparts, who will easily burn in this sun if they’re not careful, and as I watch them, I can feel William watching me.

  In another life, it could be a perfect day.

  But it’s not another life.

  It’s this one.

  We sit in silence until the others come back and William turns from me as they lay on the sand in front of us, the ones with paler skin letting themselves dry in the sun for just a few moments. They dry in no time at all, of course, then dress once more and we eat some dried and canned food we’ve brought, then wait in the nearby caves above the beach where the others smoke cigarette after cigarette, until soon it’s dark once more.

  When it is, they put their cigarettes out, and keep their eyes peeled.

  It’s not long until we see it: a small, flashing light in the distance, in the water.

  Once the light flashes, they stand and run down to the beach and I follow after as Peter takes a flashlight from his pocket and turns it on. He cups his hand over the top of it, obscuring the light it brings, then letting it shine, covering it, letting it shine, and it’s creating specific patterns of long and short intervals.

  “What’s he doing?” I whisper, asking William next to me.

  “Morse code,” William answers.

  I turn back.

  After the message is sent, Peter turns off the light for good, then I realize what I’ve been seeing, and what’s been answering him: there’s a submarine that’s out there in the shallow bay.

  The sea is still.

  Then it’s not, as I see the ripple of waves where there should be none and realize the waves aren’t being made by wind or current, but something else.

  The submarine comes closer.

  It comes close enough that it’s nearly to the sand, then the top opens and two British soldiers poke their heads through the opening before they climb out and jump into the waist-deep water and walk the rest of the way towards us.

  “What have you got for us today, Your Royal Highness?” Evelyn asks with a grin.

  “Everything you asked for, Mr. Shakespeare. Perhaps even just a little bit more, too.”

  “Oh goodie,” Walter rubs his hands together.

  This new British soldier is tall with high cheekbones, sharp blue eyes, bright blond hair, and takes a cigarette from Owain then leans close as Owain strikes a match and lights it for him. Beyond us, Peter, Evelyn, Abdel, and Tane walk towards the submarine. When they get closer, up to their chests in the water, there are more British soldiers still inside that start handing them zipped duffels to bring back to the beach, carrying them above the water and on shoulders to keep them dry.

  “And who is this newest addition?” I hear, then turn back to the blond soldier with the bright eyes.

  “Maria,” William answers.

  “Geia sas, Kyria Maria,” the soldier says in perfectly accented Greek.

  I look back at him, wondering who he is and how he speaks our language the way he does.

  “Geia sas,” I answer.

  William takes a piece of folded paper from his pocket and hands it to him.

  “There are less troops in Chania now, and more in Rethymno,” William tells him. “We still don’t have a number for Irakleio or Knossos, but that’s where most of them are. It’s all written out there, along with how frequently we’ve seen movement on the roads between cities.”

  “What about the mountains?”

  “The mountains are still ours.”

  “And the south coast?”

  “Just a few patrols that make their way once or twice a month, no garrisons or anything permanent, so the south coast is still very much wild, and contested.”

  “Very good,” the blond soldier says as he hands William a piece of paper in return. “Very good, indeed, Ryder, and there’s something else in there to make sure it stays that way.”

  “Much appreciated, as always,” William nods.

  “We’ll see you again just then,” the blue-eyed soldier winks at me before finishing his cigarette, dropping it in the sand, then shaking William’s hand and mine before he turns and starts to walk back out into the water and towards the submarine. He gets there and climbs up onto it, then he and the other British go back inside and lower the door and seal it as the vessel starts to submerge again. Within a few seconds, they’re completely gone, just that quickly, as if they were never there, leaving not even the smallest wake on the surface or anything else to give away where they’ve been.

  I look out, for one more moment.

  Then I turn and look at what they’ve brought us.

  Fifteen stuffed and zipped duffels.

  “What’s in them?” I ask.

  “A bit of this and that,” Owain answers.

  “A bit of everything, really,” Tane nods, agreeing.

  “Everything… like what?”

  “Weapons,” Peter says as he counts on his fingers, “food, intelligence, and liquor of course.”

  “They better have sent the bloody good stuff this time,” Evelyn adds. “I can’t abide the shit from Liverpool, from the last visit.”

  “And even some correspondences from home,” Peter smiles.

  “Is that right?”

  “As fun as we might seem,” Evelyn winks at me, “it’s not unmarried men that you’re looking at.”

  “Some of us are!” Charles laughs.

  “Yes, and that’s why you don’t get any letters,” Walter pushes him, and Charles pushes him back, and they both laugh.

  “We still do get letters,” Abdel adds. “It’s just they’re from our mothers, mostly.”

  “So don’t listen to them,” Charles speaks to me and Abdel now. “Because they’re just jealous of all the fun we have, and that we’re able to do whatever we please.”

  “Oh, yes,” Owain waves his hand. “All the fun, alone and high up in the mountains.”

  “We need to get going,” William cuts them all off. “We need enough darkness to get home.”

  “Of course, of course,” Peter nods, the leader of the group.

  They all grab duffels, each man carrying two, and Tane goes to grab a third, but I take it from him.

  “No,” he shakes his head, not letting me.

  “I can carry it.”

  He looks at me for a moment.

  Then he looks at William, who nods, very small, and once he does, Tane finally lets me take the duffel. I sling it over my shoulder and we all begin back the way we came. The others lead and go first, knowing the way up the cliff now, and across the desolate, rocky, and uninhabited Gramvousas Peninsula. Behind them, I walk with William, and as we do, I turn to look at him.

  “Those are some strange nicknames,” I finally say.

  “Which ones?”

  “Mr. Shakespeare?”

  “Evelyn’s a bit of a writer.”

  “What type of writer?”

  “A novelist. And quite successful, too. Peter’s a writer, also, and so is his brother, so the Mr. Shakespeare name is actually quite general in this group, rather than being specific.”

  “Peter has a brother?”

  “Yes, Ian.”

  “He’s not stationed here, though?”

  “He’s in intelligence back in London, or at least that’s where he is as far as we know. But as it’s intelligence, and all very secretive, he wouldn’t be as good as he is if we knew more than that, or really anything at all.”

  “And the soldier?”

  “Which one?”

  “You called him Your Royal Highness. He spoke Greek well. Is he a writer, too?”

  “No, he’s not a writer.”

  “Where did his nickname come from?”

  “It’s not a nickname. That was Prince Philip of Greece.”

  I pause and look over at William, my eyebrows raising in surprise.

  “What?” I ask him. “Are you serious?”

  “Indeed,” he nods.

  “Strange,” I say, as we keep walking.

  “It’s not, really. He’s the fifth child of a seventh child, so in line to inherit nothing. He’s not an heir, so I’m sure they’re not too worried about the succession, if anything happens to him.”

  But that’s not what I’m talking about.

  What’s strange is I’ve gone my whole life without ever meeting, seeing, or being near a single member of any royal family and now I’ve met two, in the course of as many years. But that’s what war does, I suppose, and the war here on our island has brought together so many to fight against evil, both royal and common alike. We soon leave the Gramvousas Peninsula and once we do, and come back to the main road again, we’re silent, so that no one that might be near will hear our voices. We speak again when we reach the mountains, then when we’re to our camp, we’ll each go to our tents to sleep the day away and regain the rest we’ve lost by marching through the night. Before we do, though, we sit around a small fire and the men take out the contents of the duffels: red wine, scotch, and brandy, first, followed by dried beef, cans and tins of coffee, and cartons of cigarettes, as well as piles of grenades and more bullets for the weapons we already have. Then come the letters. The men all start to read them as they drink and laugh and share news from home as the sun rises. I feel something soft, light, and wet that lands on my cheek. I look up to see snowflakes slowly starting to fall from the clouds above. It’s unusual for April, in the mountains, but of course still not unheard of.

  I look down.

  I look at William, through the snow that’s started to fall.

  I notice there are no letters that arrive for him, and he sits by himself.

  He has his secrets, I suppose, and that’s alright because I have mine, too, and I haven’t told him or anyone else the real reason why I’m here, sleeping in a tent on the ground and sharing all the pathways and mysteries of my island.

  They will know.

  They will know soon enough.

  But not yet. Not yet.

  19 MAY 4, 1943

  Friedrich-Wilhelm Muller and Hannes Koch.

  These are the two names that haunt my dreams.

  Koch is the soldier who recognized me, and Muller is the officer who killed my husband and ordered our village destroyed. Those are the two men I’m now searching for, and I’ll stop at nothing until I find them and make them pay for what they’ve done. It’s the only way there might be peace for me. I’m still not sure there ever will be, even when retribution comes, but it’s the only thing I can think of to try to search for at least some peace, so I will. It’s what men do, right? And does it work for them? I don’t know, but perhaps it will work for me. I ask Cassia to use the connections she has amongst the Germans in Chania, and she’s the reason I know their names. She’s also the reason I know they’ve been sent away from Chania. Since I know their faces, of course the others in the city do, too, and saw or heard what they did, and that’s the reason they’ve been transferred: so as not to incentivize revolts among the locals who know what they’ve done. And while Cassia finds out they’ve been sent away, she doesn’t, however, find where they’ve been sent. It’s something too dangerous to ask and risk any Germans wondering why she asks, and what she might do with the information. She’s bought a lot of goodwill with the Germans she now lives amongst, and needs to keep it that way.

  So I’ve decided to start the search on my own.

  That’s why I’m here, in the mountains.

  William and the men I’ve taken up with tell me I still can’t join them on trips from the camp where they expect there will be combat, and instead, when those mornings come, to stay at camp and cook for them while they’re gone, and I tell them I will not.

  “Why?” Peter asks.

  “Because that sounds like a job for a wife.”

  “And what are you?”

  “A palikari now, just the same as anyone else. Just the same as we all are.”

  They just smile and shake their heads and I can tell they still don’t take me seriously, not even William, until one trip when they leave to intercept a German convoy bringing supplies from Irakleio to the garrison at Rethymno, along the northern coast. The plan is to eliminate the Germans before they get to Rethymno, and the British don’t know the best way to the coast without being seen on the main roads. So they tell me they need me, just this one time, and I lead them east through the mountains until we come to the Arkadi Monastery, nestled on a soft plateau high amongst the peaks. I know the monks there will give us shelter and food, because it’s what they’ve always done for those who fight for freedom, for many hundreds of years. When we arrive, I speak to the monks in Greek, telling them who we are, and they welcome us inside and as we go past them, and walk through the monastery, I can see the others taking it all in: the beauty, the size, the history. I tell them how this monastery has been a symbol of Cretan resistance for years, and how during the Turkish Wars nearly a thousand men, women, and children—though it was mostly women and children—had left their villages and hid here. Then when the Turks came and laid siege to the monastery, they fought against them. They fought and fought, but when it became clear the resistance of so few against so many would end in defeat, they made other plans, and when the Turks finally breached the walls and flooded inside they lit all their barrels of gunpowder and munitions at once, creating a massive explosion that killed them and destroyed parts of the walls and buildings, but destroyed the Turks, too. I show them the exact spot; I show them where the remnants of the explosion can still be seen, near the walls and chapel, and they take it in. I show them the inscriptions that commemorate it, in the crypt where the gunpowder was kept and lit and I read them the words that are there, the ancient words of the Archbishop of Crete Timotheos Veneris of Rethymno, from 1933:

  The flames which lit the depths of this crypt

  Were a godly flame in which

  The Cretans perished for freedom.

  William looks at me in darkness, as we go back up and leave the crypt, back into the light, and the courtyard.

  “None of this is really new for any of you, is it?” he asks.

  “No,” I tell him, and shake my head. “Unfortunately it’s not.”

  We go through the cloisters and past the chapel and I cross myself when we walk in front of the chapel door, and I do so in the Orthodox way, the ancient way, to my right shoulder first, then left. I then walk out the gate of the monastery and they follow after and I show them the memorial that was erected for the dead, near the cliff on the northern side of the plateau, opposite the route we took to get here. I read them the inscription that’s there, too.