The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [30]
“You are in Paleachora.”
“Paleachora?”
“Yes. Two hundred kilometers north of Athens.”
“North? But—but—I was in Southern Greece. I don’t understand?”
“You were found on the outskirts of Nauplion.”
“But Nauplion is in Southern Greece.”
Christos offered Mike some wine but he refused it.
“Many of you Englezos soldiers jumped off the prison train,” Christos said. “The people knew it would be only a matter of a day before the Germans searched the place. Most of the other British soldiers moved into the hills.”
“Go on, please.”
“Fortunately, a member of my crew happened to be visiting the house in Nauplion when you came. You were unconscious and unable to move. You were put aboard my boat. I brought you here.”
“Boat? You are a fisherman then.”
“I, Christos, am sole owner of the mill in Paleachora,” he announced with much pride. “I keep the boat for—er—trading—and other purposes.” Christos winked slyly to indicate his boat was engaged in some sort of business not generally accepted as legitimate practice by the law.
Christos waved aside the thanks Mike tried to offer. “My duty,” he said. “How do you feel? The doctor comes again in four or five days. You will rest.”
“But—but I’ve got to get to Athens.”
“We talk of that later. Come, Eleftheria, we let our friend Jay sleep.”
The next few days were pleasant and restful. A steady flow of good food helped restore Mike’s normal appetite. The assortment of aches and pains diminished a little.
Mike was grateful for the luck that brought him to Paleachora. Certainly Konrad Heilser wouldn’t be looking for him in Northern Greece. At first he worried about being discovered but he learned that many British soldiers were hiding out in the hills. The Greek villagers greeted them with open arms. In fact, they deemed it an honor to harbor an escapee. Two Britons were already being concealed in Paleachora and others who had escaped en route to the Salonika Stalag passed through daily.
The Stergiou list tormented Mike constantly as did the recollections of the past weeks. The name of Dr. Harry Thackery did not leave his mind for a moment. But it was impossible to plan a move until he was on his feet. He examined his assets. Two pistols, a roll of drachmas and a valuable friend in the impish Christos. His passing as Jay Linden, soldier from New Zealand, went unquestioned.
The girl, Eleftheria, was close at hand during the day, weaving or spinning or working in the adjoining kitchen. She was terribly shy, too shy, in fact, to indulge in conversation. But a lifted eyebrow by Mike would send her flying to comply with his merest whim. She was so submissive that he fully expected her to throw herself across the bed and cry, “Beat me, master!” Eleftheria was pleasing to watch as she sat by the loom or flitted about on chores. Mike was too ill and too indebted to Christos and far too worried about the Stergiou list to entertain any ideas about the girl. None the less, Eleftheria possessed the natural qualities that could become disturbing to a man.
During the daylight hours, Mike saw little of anyone save for Eleftheria and Christos’ lusterless old wife, Melpo. He didn’t know if Melpo could even speak.
The village priest, Father Paul, stopped by now and again for a minute’s conversation and every so often some male villager would poke his head into the room unceremoniously for a quick, “How are you feeling?”
Most of the women were of Eleftheria’s variety. Well put together and, for the most part, lovely, but all were terribly shy. Once in awhile Mike would see a girl peek through his window but any attempt at conversation would send them scurrying down the road, giggling.
Mike looked forward to the evenings. Christos would return from the mill or from his numerous activities. A table would be placed near Mike’s bed and they would share a candlelight dinner and talk for hours on end—about Christos. Other men would drift in and linger over a bottle of krasi. Christos’ speech was always impassioned and punctuated by the slapping of his bald dome, hand wringing and arm waving while the